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which was preached on the 30th of March 1828, and was the cause of nearly 1207, being added to the stock. The alms collected at the altar were proportionally increased, so that in the course of this season about 1200 dollars (2701. ) were distributed in monthly relief: and this, independently of private donations, in some special cases, which did not appear upon the charity books. The rumour of English munificence now ran through the habitations of misery, the Parish priests were assailed for their official signatures to the numerous petitions, which set forth, in all the varied eloquence of the Italian language, the miseries of poverty and disease. The successful candidates extolled too highly the almsgiving nation," and gave the less fortunate false notions of its eleemosynary deeds. The rule to be observed by the administrators of the funds was simple. It was to calculate how many families might be effectually relieved during the winter months, and then make the selection from such recommendations and knowledge of the cases, as made out the best title to their consideration, the names already on the list having of course the first claim to investigation; but since written recommendations were sometimes too easily

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procured, the chaplain, whose business it had now become to dispense the charity of his congregation, could hardly discharge the duty conscientiously without a personal verification of the varied pretensions ; to accomplish which task it was necessary to visit one hundred and fifty abodes of poverty. In this manner the charity books were made conformable to the increased resources, and, by a careful distribution, the whole was adequate to the relief of about two hundred and thirty families. This may suffice, without entering into "the annals of the poor," or the affecting narratives of decayed nobility, to give the reader an idea of the nature and extent of British charity at Rome. Let him not say that it " begins at home;" for this will not add one gift more to the domestic "treasury," and it might take one from the "poveri vergognosi:" let him lament (if it seems reasonable) the temporary absence of his fellowcitizens; but if the Samaritan does "journey in the wilderness," it is better not to imitate the priest and the Levite and if it be expedient for a strange community, enjoying the advantages of a foreign country, and receiving the hospitable protection of its government, to make any return, there can be none more suitable than when partaking of the local privileges, to share proportionally the burden of alleviating the local distresses.

In the year 1828-9, the sum-total of the charity fund fell a little short of the preceding year, and since that period it has, from unavoidable circumstances, decreased, nor can it over be expected to exceed the year of the first charity sermon, if even it ever reaches an equal amount. But it has already procured the only recompense which was at all desirable for a Protestant congregation-a number of grateful souls have come to the conclusion, that the English must really be Christians; nor is it one of the least remarkable things, that the Jews should be admitted to a share of this charity. A learned rabbi, encouraged by the impartial benevolence of the English congregation, represented to the author the misery and poverty of the Ghetto, and wondered whether the despised Jews could ever find a drop of pity in the breast of a Christian. Upon being told, that in the dispensing of the English charity there was no distinction of persons, and that the superior claim only came from the greater weight of misery, the Israelite rejoiced, and considered the sum of five pounds given during the week of the Passover as an ample confirmation of "the good report:" this was

philosophical reader, who has contemplated the spirit of a Hildebrand, or even the precocious tolerance of a Ganganelli, will rather see in it this maxim, that neither kings nor priests have power against the general opinion of mankind: concession to that opinion may be mere expediency, whilst the principle of opposition to it remains the same; but such expediency is, in matters of state-policy, wisdom; and, in religion, becomes-toleration. The object of this memoir is to acknowledge the latter in four successive Pontiffs of Rome. Under these impressions, the author will not run the risk of offending either Rome or her "partisans." He will only express a hope, that the emulation which has been excited in the vicinity of the English congregation may never go beyond the only legitimate means of opposition, viz. argument and persuasion: nor will it, on the other hand, ever be expected to restrain the weaker portion of a community from gratifying an innocent curiosity.

ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.

NO. LXIX.-THE BATTLE FOR THE BRIDES.

6

[Ts is the story upon which Mr Rogers has founded one of the elegant narratives in his volume of Italy.' War never looked more amiable. It is Mars with a bunch of lilies in his hand. We take it from two

agreeable, and, let us add, most pleasantly portable volumes (no mean comfort to one who reads much)," intitled Sketches from Venetian History,' published by Murray, and containing, among other illustrations, an interesting bird's-eye view of the most extraordinary of cities.]

Under Candiano II (Doge of Venice in the tenth century), occurred one of those events which vividly depict the manners of the age to which they belong; and which, though affecting individuals rather than a nation, excite, nevertheless, very powerful interest, and almost connect History with Romance. According to an ancient usage, the marriages among the chief families of Venice were celebrated publicly. The same day and the same hour witnessed the union of numerous betrothed; and the eve of the Feast of the Purification, on the return of which the

Republic gave portions to twelve young maidens, was the reason of this joyous anniversary. It was to Olivolo, the residence of the Patriarch, on the extreme verge of the city, that the ornamented gondolas repaired on this happy morning. There, hailed by music and the gratulations of their assembled kindred, the lovers disembarked; and the festive pomp-swelled by a long train of friends, richly clad, and bearing with them, in proud display, the jewels and nuptial presents of the brides-proceeded to the cathedral. The pirates of Istria had long marked this peaceful show, as affording a rich promise of booty; for, at the time of which we are writing, the Arsenal and its surrounding mansions were not yet in existence. Olivolo was untenanted, except by priests; and its neighbourhood was intirely without inhabitants. In these deserted spots, the corsairs laid their ambush the night before the ceremony; and while the unarmed and unsuspecting citizens were yet engaged in the marriage rites before the altar, a rude and ferocious troop burst the gates of the cathedral. Not content with seizing the costly

ornaments which became their prize, they tore away also the weeping and heart-broken brides, and hurried them to their vessels. The Doge had honoured the festival with his presence, and, deeply touched by the rage and despair of the disappointed bridegrooms, he summoned the citizens to arms. Hastily

pletion. The memory of this singular event was kept alive by an annual procession of Venetian women on the Eve of the Purification, and by a solemn visit paid by the Doge to the church of Santa Maria Formosa. The trunk-makers (carsellari) of the island on which the above-named church stands, composed the greater part of the crew hastily collected on this occasion; and Candiano, as a reward for their bravery, asked them to demand some privilege. their island. "What," said the Prince, "if the day should prove rainy ?" heads; and

They requested this annual visit to

"We will send you hats to cover your if you are thirsty, we will give you drink.’

To commemorate this question and reply, the Priest of Santa Maria was used to offer to the Doge, on landing, two flasks of malmsey, two oranges, and two hats, adorned with his own armorial bearings, those of the Pope, and those of the Doge. The Marian Games (La Festa delle Marie), of which this andata formed part, and which lasted for six days, continued to be celebrated until they were interrupted by the public distress during the war of Chiorra. They were renewed, two hundred years afterwards, with yet greater pomp; but of the time at which they fell into total disuse we are unable to speak.

THE WEEK.

MEN.

PERSONAL PORTRAITS OF EMINENT FILIPPO MARIA VISCONTI, DUKE OF MILAN. [FROM the same source as our Romance' of the present week. Perhaps we ought to apologize for putting such a being among our Eminent Men;' but eminent he was, in the literal sense of the word, and counted wise, too, as far as a bad-blooded and unhappy man could be so; and the account of him is very curious.]

THE personal habits of this last Duke of the house of Visconti (who died in 1447) have been drawn with singular minuteness, by one accurately qualified for the task, Pietro Candido Decembrio, a son of the private Secretary of Giovanni Galeazzo, and who himself filled more than one high office in the court. of Filippo Maria. The character which he has described, presents an odious mixture of cunning, superstition, and cowardice; paralleled, in many instances, by one whose biography has been almost as closely recorded, the detestable Louis XI of France.

The person of Filippo Maria was most forbidding, and extreme meagreness in youth was succeeded, as life advanced, by a more than proportionate obesity. His eyes were large, fiery and piercing, ever wandering with a restless glare, as if unable or unwilling to continue long fixed in repose on a single object. From weakness in his legs, he always employed a stick, and, during his whole reign, no one ever saw him walking without the support of an attendant.. Although choice in the richness and fashion of his clothes, he was negligent, even to uncleanliness, in the processes of shaving and combing. In other persons he abhorred any splendour of attire, and forbade those who used it from approaching his presence: insomuch, that when, on one occasion, Amadeus, a Piedmontese Prince, connected with him by marriage,

repeated in subsequent years, and the English assembling such gallies as were in the harbour, they presented himself at an audience, in a fantastic mode

bounty was dispensed, in unleavened bread, through the squalid habitations of this unprivileged people. If the incidents here related appear trifling, the result is at least extraordinary-a Protestant cemetery, a Church of England service, and a charitable

fund, dispensed at a reformed altar, to the devoted

subjects of the "Sovereign Pontiff."

Those who are curious about the signs of the times, will easily admit these into the number; but the

profited by a favourable wind, and overtook the ravishers before they were extricated from the Laquore of Caorlo. "Candiano led the attack, and such was its fury, that not a single Istriote escaped the death which he merited. The maidens were brought back in triumph; and, on the evening of the same day, the interrupted rites were solemnized with joy, no doubt much heightened by a remembrance of the peril which had so well nigh prevented their com

borrowed from the French, and at that time very prevalent among personages of distinction, the Duke of Milan ordered his Forester to bring up some hounds strapped in those doublets which were worn

for protection in the wild boar chase, and pointed in derision to the leathern-girt dogs as fitting mates for his tightly apparelled visitor. In his diet he was most whimsical: turnips and quails were among his

chief luxuries; yet, such was his detestation of fat, that every morsel of it was carefully pared away from the latter before they were dressed. But the livers of all animals formed his choicest dainty, and his cook was frequently summoned in the dead of night to kill a calf and prepare that favourite repast. The fowls destined for his table were generally plucked in his presence. His chief amusements were fieldsports, and so retentive was his memory on subjects connected with the kennel and the stable, that he could tell the breed of a puppy but once seen, and knew accurately the number of bridles which he ought to find in his harness room. Many of his dogs were imported from Britain; yet, however passionately fond he might be of them and of his horses, to each he was a capricious and, sometimes, a cruel master: thus, if a hound committed a fault, he would dismount and flog him savagely with his own hand; if a horse neighed unseasonably, he would mutilate his tongue; and if the poor animal champed the bit, he would pull out his teeth. Within doors he occasionally employed himself in reading, for all the Visconti cultivated literature; and he had the good taste to prefer Livy, Dante, and Petrarch to most other writers. Yet not a few of his leisure hours were devoted to the inspection, perhaps to the actual management, of a puppet-show, upon which toy he had expended the great sum of 1,500 pieces of gold.

For the most part, however, he lived in close seclusion; and even his pages underwent a long discipline of tuition to qualify them for the moroseness and asceticism of their future master. They were separated from their families during two years, and exercised in silence and solitude under fitting governors, till they became accustomed to the melancholy court which they were about to enter. Clinging strongly to life, and contemplating its termination with alarm, Filippo Maria daily recounted to his physicians, with the minutest particularity, all circumstances affecting his health, listened with trembling anxiety to their reports in answer, and yielded implicit obedience even to their most frivolous prescriptions. All conversation which might bring death to mind was carefully avoided in his presence; and if the discourse at any time happened to involve any allusion to mortality, he shrank from it with manifest uneasiness. Even when bodily infirmity increased upon him, and when in his latter years he was afflicted with almost total blindness, so unwilling was he to expose that defect to observation, that his attendants were instructed to warn him secretly of all objects or persons near at hand, so that he might not inadvertently betray his want of sight. If he walked abroad, he appeared absorbed in incessant devotion, repeating prayers in a low voice, and counting them on his fingers; insomuch, that religion seemed with him not an acknowledgment of God's goodness, but a laborious propitiation of the divine wrath; and whenever his daily sum of prayer was in any part forgotten or curtailed, he endeavoured to compound for the omission by a proportionate excess of almsgiving, prompted not by charity, but by terror. sleep was so uncertain and disturbed, that he frequently changed his couch thrice in the course of a single night, lying not in the ordinary manner lengthwise, but across it; or he rose and paced his chamber for many hours successively, with some of the attendants, who always watched in an ante-room. If his dreams had been evil, he prayed in tones scarcely audible, turning, at intervals, to each of the four cardinal points; and in order that the silence which he dreaded in his dark hours of sleeplessness might be broken, many night-birds were confined in the palace courts, whose screams were more grateful to his ears than uninterrupted stillness. A belief in judicial astrology was prevalent in his times, and he may be forgiven for addiction to a folly by which even the wise have been enslaved. It but little, therefore, surprises us to hear that he was a rigid Fatalist; that during conjunction, opposition, sextile, square and trine, he shut himself up in his cabinet, and denied audience even to his ministers; that he struck a golden medal, impressed with planetary cha

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racters, as a talisman against lightning; that he raised a double wall in his bed-chamber to protect himself against thunder; and that, during storms, he fell prostrate in a remote corner before an image of Santa Barbara. In those points he but shared superstitions common to his age; but we regard with equal astonishment, contempt, and pity, a Prince who thought it unlucky if he fastened his right shoe on his left foot; who on Friday dreaded the encounter of persons who were unshorn, and forbore on the same day from handling any bird, especially a quail; who would not mount a horse on the Feast of John the Baptist, nor wear any suit but green on the 1st of May; and who refused to eat on one occasion, till the dishes had been removed and replaced, because the sewer, while decking the table, had unwittingly approached it with the wrong foot foremost. Such, however, were a few of the anilities recorded of one who has been esteemed the most politic sovereign of his time; and who, if the wisdom of kings is to be graduated by no other scale than that of the mastery which they attain of simulation and dissimulation, abundantly merited the unenviable distinction which he coveted and enjoyed.

CHARACTERS OF SHAKSPEARE'S
PLAYS.

BY WILLIAM HAZLITT.

NO. XVI.-KING LEAR.

[Concluded from last week.]

THE scene in the storm, where Lear is exposed to
all the fury of the elements, though grand and terri-
ble, is not so fine, but the moralising scenes with
Mad Tom, Kent, and Gloster, are upon a par with
the former. His exclamation in the supposed trial-
scene of his daughters, "See the little dogs and all,
Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see they bark at me,"
his issuing his orders, "Let them anatomize Regan,
see what breeds about her heart," and his reflection
when he sees the misery of Edgar, "Nothing but his
unkind daughters could have brought him to this,"
are in a style of pathos, where the extremest re-
sources of the imagination are called in to lay open
the deepest movements of the heart, which was pecu-
liar to Shakspeare. In the same style and spirit is
his interrupting the Fool who asks, "whether a mad-
man be a gentleman or a yeoman," by answering
A king, a king!'

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The indirect part that Gloster takes in these
scenes where his generosity leads him to relieve
Lear and resent the cruelty of his daughters, at the
very time that he is himself instigated to seek the
life of his son, and suffering under the sting of his
supposed ingratitude, is a striking accompaniment to
the situation of Lear. Indeed, the manner in which
the threads of the story are woven together is almost
as wonderful in the way of art as the carrying on the
tide of passion, still varying and unimpared, is on
the score of nature. Among the remarkable in-
stances of this kind are Edgar's meeting with his old
blind father; the deception he practises upon him
when he pretends to lead him to the top of Dover
cliff" Comes on, sir, here's the place," to prevent
his ending his life and miseries together; his en-
counter with the perfidious Steward whom he kills,
and his finding the letter from Gonerill to his bro-
ther upon him which leads to the final catastrophe,
and brings the wheel of Justice "full circle home
to the guilty parties. The bustle and rapid succes-
sion of events in the last scenes is surprising. But
the meeting between Lear and Cordelia is by far the
most affecting part of them. It has all the wildness
of poetry, and all the heartfelt truth of nature. The
previous account of her reception of the news of his
unkind treatment, her involuntary reproaches to her
sisters, "Shame! ladies, shame!" Lear's backwardness
to see his daughter; the picture of the desolate state
to which he is reduced, "Alack, 'tis he; why he
was met even now, as mad as the vex'd sea, singing
aloud," only prepare the way for and heighten our
expectation of what follows, and assuredly this ex-
pectation is not disappointed when through the
tender care of Cordelia he revives and recollects her.

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"CORDELIA. How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty!

LEAR. You do me wrong, to take me out o' the
grave:

Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.

CORDELIA. Sir, do you know me?

LEAR. You are aspirit I know: when did you die?
CORDELIA. Still, still far wide!
PHYSICIAN. He's scarce awake; let him alone
awhile.

LEAR. Where have I been? Where am I?

Fair daylight?.

I am mightily abused.—I should even die with pity,
To see another thus.-I know not what to say.-
I will not swear these are my hands:-let's see;
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assur'd
Of my condition.

CORDELIA. Oh, look upon me, sir,
And hold your hands in benediction o'er me :-
No, sir, you must not kneel.

LEAR. Pray, do not mock me :

I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourscore and upward;

Not an hour more, nor less: and, to deal plainly,
I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
Methinks I should know you, and know this man ;]
Yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant
What place this is; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night: do not laugh at me;
For, as I am a man, I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.

CORDELIA. And so I am, I am !"

Almost equal to this in awful beauty is their consolation of each other when, after the triumph of their enemies, they are led to prison.

"CORDELIA. We are not the first,
Who, with best meaning, have incurr'd the worst.
For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down;
Myself could else out frown false fortune's frown.—
Shall we not see these daughters, and these sisters?
LEAR. No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to

prison:

We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage:
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down
And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,
And

pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues
Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too-
Who loses, and who wins; who's in, who's out;-
And take upon us the mystery of things,
As if we were God's spies: and we'll wear out,
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,
That ebb and flow by the moon.
EDMUND. Take them away.

LEAR. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,
The gods themselves throw incense."

The concluding events are sad, painfully sad; but their pathos is extreme. The oppression of the feelings is relieved by the very interest we take in the misfortunes of others, and by the reflections to which they give birth. Cordelia is hanged in prison by the orders of the bastard Edmund, which are known too late to be countermanded, and Lear dies brokenhearted, lamenting over her,

"LEAR. And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no,
no life:

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath at all? Oh, thou wilt come

no more,

Never, never, never, never, never!
Pray you, undo this button: thank you, sir."-

He dies, and indeed we feel the truth of what
Kent says on the occasion--

"Vex not his ghost: Oh, let him pass! he hates
him

That would upon the rack of this rough world
Stretch him out longer."

Yet a happy ending has been contrived for this

play, which is approved of by Dr Johnson and con. demned by Schlegel. A better authority than either,

on any subject in which poetry and feeling are concerned, has given it in favour of Shakspeare, in some remarks on the acting of Lear, with which we shall conclude this account.

"The Lear of Shakspeare cannot be acted. The contemptible machinery with which they mimic the storm which he goes out in, is not more inadequate to represent the horrors of the real elements than any actor can be to represent Lear. The greatness of Lear is not in corporal dimension, but in intellectual; the explosions of his passions are terrible as a volcano : they are storms turning up and disclosing to the bottom that rich sea, his mind, with all its vast riches. It is his mind which is laid bare. This case of flesh and blood seems too insignificant to be thought on; even as he himself neglects it. On the stage we see nothing but corporal infirmities and weakness, the impotence of rage; while we read it, we see not Lear, but we are Lear;-we are in his mind, we are sustained by a grandeur which baffles the malice of daughters and storms; in the aberrations of his reason we discover a mighty irregular power of reasoning, immethodised from the ordinary purposes of life, but exerting its powers, as the wind blows where it listeth, at will on the corruptions and abuses of mankind. What have looks or tones to do with that sublime identification of his age with that of the heavens themselves, when, in his reproaches to them for conniving at the injustice of his children, he reminds them that " 'they themselves are old!" What gesture shall we appropriate to this? What has the voice or the eye to do with such things? But the play is beyond all art, as the tamperings with it show it is too hard and stony: it must have lovescenes, and a happy ending. It is not enough that Cordelia is a daughter, she must shine as a lover too. Tate has put his hook in the nostrils of this Leviathan, for Garrick and his followers, the showman of the scene, to draw it about more easily. A happy ending!-as if the living martyrdom that Lear had gone through,—the flaying of his feelings alive, did not make a fair dismissal from the stage of life the only decorous thing for him. If he is to live and be happy after, if he could sustain this world's burden after, why all this pudder and preparation why torment us with all this unnecessary sympathy? As if the childish pleasure of getting his gilt robes and sceptre again could tempt him to act over again his misused station,-as if, at his years and with his experience, anything was left but to die."*

:

Four things have struck us in reading Lear :1. That poetry is an interesting study, for this that it relates to whatever is most interesting reason, in human life. Whoever therefore has a tempt for poetry, has a contempt for himself and humanity.

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2. That the language of poetry is superior to the language of painting; because the strongest of our recollections relate to feelings, not to faces.

3. That the greatest strength of genius is shown in describing the strongest passions: for the power of the imagination, in works of invention, must be

in proportion to the force of the natural impressions,

which are the subject of them.

4. That the circumstance which balances the pleasure against the pain in tragedy is, that in proportion to the greatness of the evil, is our sense and desire of the opposite good excited: and that our sympathy with actual suffering is lost in the strong impulse given to our natural affections, and carried

EPIGRAM, BY PTOLEMY.

Οἶδ' ὅτι θνατός εγὼ καὶ ἔφαμερος· ἀλλ ̓ ὅταν ἄτεων

Μαρίνω πυκινὰς ἀμφιδρόμος έλικας, Οὐκ ἔτ ̓ ἐπιψαύω ποσὶ γαίης, ἀλλὰ παρ' αὐτῷ Ζανὶ διοτρεφέος πίμπλαμαι ἀμβροσίης"

I KNOW that I am mortal, and belong

To the vile sod I tread; yet when I raise My thoughts to heaven, and mingle in the throng Of worlds that labour in close-ravelled maze,— No longer then with the base earth I link, But am with Jove indeed amid his ways,Share the same skies-from the same fountain drink.

FINE ARTS.

E. W.

cordingly; and thus, many are the shillings which that one offered up to Apollo has sent you.

The collection this year is exceedingly good; the number of beautiful pictures that follow each other in close succession is truly surprising. The wonder of the set is Copley Fielding's picture of Bow Hill, Sussex' (151). With a pleasant painstaking, Mr Fielding has inserted the following full account of the place in the Catalogue:-"At Stoke, near Chi. chester, is a deep hollow in the Downs, immediately under Bow Hill, in the centre of which stands an ancient grove of venerable yews, so old, that many of them are supposed to have been growing long before the Conquest. Near this place a battle was fought between the Saxons and Norwegian ravagers, led by the Vikingr; and on the brow of the Downs are seen some large barrows, called the Tombs of the Sea Kings, who were slain in the conflict, remembrance of the event being perpetuated in the name

Exhibition of the Society of Painters in Water Colours, of Kingly Bottom,' by which this little valley is

latter.

Pall Mall East.

Ir water colours have not the force, the vigour, and the richness of oils; if they are incapable of the same size, and depth, an exhibition of pictures in the former material has the advantage of being more easily made compact, and lying well for the eye; and of being without the oppressive scent of the It is like park scenery, compared to the varying and larger grandeur of untamed Nature: if not so impressive, it is more easily attainable; if never so fine, it is more constantly pleasing, and more conveniently to be enjoyed. For these reasons, in one little room, with no very large pictures in it, is contained one of the best and most satisfactory of the London exhibitions.

Of all in London, the Water Colour Exhibition is the daintiest; small, select, conveniently hung, well arranged, with a running accompaniment of bench with a spacious back, well lighted, it is the pleasantest of places in which to spend a couple of quiet, cheerful hours; ay, and to return to more than once. It is the temple of the most refined luxury-here are the beauties of England, France, Germany, and of happy Italy, brought into one little room. Here, with half an eye, may the townbound man of business cast his weary eyes over the scenes of distant lands, and, in one smiling, cheering morn, obtain for his smoke-dimmed sight, the essence of a tour on the continent. The lawyer, engaged all day, with half-troubled indifference in stranger quarrels, the dry-working banker, the heated politician, the anxious capitalist,-may all come here to cool their dried-up brains among Nature, and original beauty;-here is fitting ware for the gold of the man of taste;-here, may the bothered blockhead spend his ineffectual wealth, and not be told to repent it. Therefore, dear blockheads, and respected men of taste, hasten to Pall Mall East, and

see,

if among the pictures as yet unboasting of that wished-for token that marks them as "sold," there is not something, that seeing, you admire, admiring desire to keep, a constant solace for your "precious eyesight," as those who have lost always designate it. Go, all ye who struggle, and gain and lose money, and feeling, and happiness in this vast black city,and as you go into that little room, see if you do not extend the contracted mouth, and draw a breath of

satisfaction anticipatory of the pleasure to come. And, departing, mark if you do not carry with you, laid up in the deep recesses of your mind, a world of things to think of, to talk of,-to send others to see, to see again; and though you are ever parted from the beloved shilling, do you not triumph in the consciousness that you have had its full worth in return? nay, if you are a man of business, you are, perchance, a thousand per cent gainer. That refreshing shower of Cox's has moistened your

away with the swelling tide of passion, that gushes brain; bathing in the vigorous sea of Fielding, you

from and relieves the heart.

• See an article, called 'Thessalia,' in the second volume of the Reflector,' by Charles Lamb.

have braced your nerves; basking in Barrett's sun, has warmed your wits; laughing at Hunt's humour has enlarged your philosophy, and given you an insight into character; altogether, you are put in fine condition, and your next bargain flourishes ac

known." This vast and kingly tomb is represented in full in Mr Fielding's picture, and a most beautiful picture it is. The dark and solemn grove of yews is relieved by the bright and soft hill; a gentle calmness is spread over the scene; the effect is broad and simple; but, from the truth and beauty of the colouring, the feeling, the sentiment of the treatment, and the force of the effect, it is one of the sweetest and finest pictures of the sweetest of water-colour painters. A pair of sea-pieces of his (64 and 74) are wonderful for the representation of the stir and mighty ferment of the elements. Hunt has some of his extraordinary and humorous fac-similes (79), an aspiring young artist, who has been drawing the figure of a man on his slate, when he should have been studying figures far different, and (86) the same boy, more exemplarily engaged in his proper work, are delightful for the truth, the fun and gusto, of the subject, merry and jolly, and of the unsurpassable artist. A Sailor Boy' (11), is a serious portrait, and full of very nice feeling, and skilful

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Apple-blossoms' (307) and Grapes' (321), by the same, are very beautiful. There is a boy with a shrimp-net too;-by the by, is this arithmetical, laughing philosopher, our old friend, the vanquisher of that fair, and stout-walled pie, of last year, with a twelvemonth's growth added to his stature?

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we fancied we recognized his face Morning-Reaping - Plain of Stirling' (43), and Evening, Harvest-home, - - Plain of Stirling' (105); the landscapes by Barrett, the figures by Tayler, are charming. The rich and glowing sun, the peaceful and cheerful scene of the landscape painter, are well seconded by the brightly coloured and spirited figures of Tayler. A host of sunny pictures from Barrett's pencil enrich the walls. Excepting that we must, as usual, enter our protest against repeated and unsuccessful attempts to paint the naked and unendurable sun in the middle of a picture, they struck us as very clever and beautiful. Tayler's Crossing the Mountain Brook' (247), and Girl and Highland Stot-Scotch Rebellion ' (268), are his best ;-the former is very fresh and lusty, and freely drawn; the latter all life and frolic; both, like most of this artist's figure-pieces, are pleasantly coloured; though he is apt occasionally to fall into mannerisms.

To be continued next week.

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REMARKS ON THE

MODE OF HARNESSING HORSES ON THE CONTINENT.

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(By the Author of Bubbles from the Brunnens of Nassau.')

MANY years have now elapsed since I first observed that, somehow or other, horses on the continent manage to pull a heavy carriage up a steep hill, or along a dead level, with greater ease to themselves than our English horses. Let any unprejudiced person attentively observe with how little apparent fatigue three small ill-conditioned animals will draw, not only his own carriage, but very often that overgrown vehicle, the French diligence, or the German eil wagen, and I think he must admit, that somewhere or other, there exists a mystery. But the whole equipment is so unsightly, the rope-harness so rude, the horses without blinkers look so wild, that far from paying any compliment to the turn-out, one is apt to condemn the whole thing, and, not caring a straw whether such horses be fatigued or not, to remark that in England they would have travelled at twice the rate with one tenth of the noise. But neither the rate nor the noise is the question I wish to consider. The thing I want, if possible to account for, is, how such small weak horses do manage to draw one's carriage up hill, with so much unaccountable ease to themselves.

Now in English, French, and German harness, there exist, as it were, three degrees of comparison in the manner in which the head of the horse is treated; for, in England, it is elevated by the bear ing rein; in France, it is left as nature placed it (there being, in common French harness, no bearing rein), while, in Germany, the head is tied down to the lower extremity of the collar, or else the collar is so made, that the animal is by it deprived of the power of raising its head. Now, passing for a moment the French method, which is the state of nature, let us consider which is best, to bear a horse's head up, as in England, or to pull it downwards, as in Germany. In my humble opinion, both are wrong; yet there is some science in the German error, while ours goes directly against all mechanical calculation.

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In a state of nature, the wild horse has two gaits, or attitudes. If man or beast come suddenly on him, up goes his head, and as he first stalks and then trots gently away, with ears erect, snuffing the air, the feelings of doubt, astonishment, and hesitation rein him, like troophorse, on his haunches; but attempt to pursue him, and how completely does he alter his attitude! Down goes his head, and from his ears to the tip of his tail, there is in his vertebræ an undulating action which seems to propel him along, and the privation of which would manifestly diminish his speed. Now, in harness the horse has naturally the same two gaits or attitudes, and it is quite true that he can start away with a carriage, either in the one or the other, but the physical powers which he calls into action are essentially different, for in the one attitude he works by his muscles, in the other by his weight. In France, and particularly in Germany, horses do draw by the weight, and 'tis to encourage them to raise their backs, and lean downwards with their heads, that the Germans, with a degree of rude science, tie down the horse's nose to the bottom of his collar; and that the postilion, at starting, speaking gently to him, allows him to get himself into a proper attitude for his draught. The horse, thus treated, leans against the resistance he meets with, and the balance of draught against weight being in his favour, the carriage follows him without much more strain or effort on his part, than if he were idly leaning his chest against his manger. It is true the flesh of his shoulder may become sore, from severe pressure, but his sinews and muscles are comparatively at rest. Now, anyone who observes a pair of English post-horses dragging, a heavy weight up a hill, will see at once that the poor creatures are working by their musc'c:, and that 'tis by main strength the resistance is everco ne: but how can it be ot! crwise? for their heads are consider

ably higher than nature intended them to be, even when walking, unincumbered, and at liberty. The balance of their bodies is, therefore, absolutely turned against, instead of leaning in favour of their draught, and thus cruelly deprived of the mechanical advantage of weight which everywhere else in the universe is appreciated, the noble spirit of our high-fed horses induces them to strain and drag the carriage forward by their muscles; and, if the reader will but pass his hands down the back sinews of any of our stage-coach or post-chaise horses, he will soon feel (though not so keenly as they do) what is the fatal consequence. It is true that in ascending a very steep hill, an English postilion will occasionally unhook the bearing reins of his horses, but the poor jaded creatures, accustomed for years to work in a false attitude, cannot in one moment get themselves into the scientific position which the German horses are habitually encouraged to adopt; besides this, we are so sharp with our horses—we keep them so constantly on the qui vive, or, as we term it, in hand, that we are always driving them from the use of their weight to the application of their sinews. That the figure and attitude of a horse working by his sinews are infinitely prouder than when he is working by his weight, I most readily admit, and, therefore, for carriages of luxury, where the weight bears little proportion to the powers of the two noble animals, I acknowledge that the sinews are more than sufficient for the slight labour required; but to bear up the head of a poor horse at plough, or at any slow heavy work, is, I humbly conceive, a barbarous error, which ought not to be persisted in; for laughing, as we all do, at the German and French harness, sneering, as we do, at their ropes, and wondering out loud, as we always do, why they do not copy us, it is rather mortifying to find out, that, in spite of our fine harness, for slow heavy draught, it is better to tie a horse's nose downwards, like the German, than upwards, like the English, and that the French way of leaving them at liberty is better than either.

TABLE TALK.

REMOVAL OF STAINS FROM BOOKS.

Nearly all the acids remove spots of ink from paper, but it is important to use such as attack its texture the least. Spirits of salts, diluted into five times or six times the quantity of water, may be applied with success upon the spot, and after a minute or two washing it off with clear water. A solution of oxalic acid, citric acid, or tartaric acid is attended with the least risk, and may be applied upon the paper and plates without fear of damage. These acids taking out writing-ink, and not touching the printing, can be used for restoring books where the mar gins have been written upon, without attacking the text-When the paper is disfigured with stains of iron, it may be perfectly restored by applying a solution of sulphuret of potash, and afterwards one of o.xalic acid. The sulphuret extracts from the iron part of its oxygen, and renders it soluble in diluted acids. The most simple, but at the same time very effectual method of raising spots of grease, wax, oil, or any other fat substance, is by washing the part with ether, and placing it between white blotting paper. with a hot iron press above the part stained, and the defect will be speedily removed. In many cases, where the stains are not bad, rectified spirits of wine will be found to answer the purpose.-[From Bibliopegia, or the Art of Book-binding,' by J. A. Arnett (R. Groombridge); a very complete little work, worth the attention of the lover of books, as well as the bookbinder.]

CURIOUS RECORD IN THE CHURCH BOOKS AT BARKSTON, LEICESTERSHIRE.

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until his memory failed him as to the precise time; he had registered Ellen Dun in the year 1689, and finding it wrong, had copied it out, and put it in 1690.-History of Parish Registers.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

We must devote an "article" to the Shakspeare dinner at Stratford. It cannot be dispatched in a "paragraph."

The book of musical criticism mentioned by our friend R. A. (from whom we were glad to hear) has not yet reached us.

We are sorry we cannot inform Σ where a copy of the version of Redi is to be found; though perhaps we ought to be glad; for owing to the translator's absence in another country at the time, it was one of the most incorrectly printed books that ever issued from the press. The house that published it, is no longer in business. The story our Correspondent speaks of, is in the Decameron.' Miss S., with whom we sincerely condole, is informed that it is our full intention to publish the paper referred to, written by her late lamented sister, when the season comes round. We shall have double pleasure in doing so, since we learn that such was her particular wish.

M. S. R. is not so good this time. She rightly reverences the olden style; but she must not let its antiquity stand her instead of her own living feelings.

We doubt not there is some mistake in the line mentioned by W. S. and others; and we will look at the manuscript, which at present does not happen to be by us, and correct it. Next Wednesday, if W. S. will be good enough to send for it to the Publisher's, we shall be ready with our answer respecting his manuscript.

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"Hints for Table Talk, No. IX." in our next. Next week, more answer to "Hans Sachs of Dover," whose letter unfortunately reached us a day too late for the answer which he wished.

We are gratified at being reminded by INCOGNITA of the passage in the Bubbles,' for we had marked it for extracting, at the time of our first perusal of the book. But what of Auld Lang Syne?' They are magical words, and we should be glad to hear more about them.

A CONSTANT SUBSCRIBER is informed, that the first part of the Autobiography of Heinrich Stilling' has been translated into English, and published by Hamilton and Adams.

On the Faded Beauty of a Beloved One' is a beautiful title; and happy is J. C. to feel it to be such, and to write as he does upon it. But a thousand productions of a like merit would start up to complain of us for non-insertion, if we gave them

insertion.

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We should be glad to insert the remarks of A; but the subject, we fear, would excite controversy.

Also the lines intitled Goethe and Scott,' but for the the last line. Why put such a "fear" in the heads of those who never felt it?

Part, if not all, of the remarks on the Thames shall be inserted. We recommend the author to to dash a little more boldly at his subject, and not care how "familiar" the points are, provided they are not familirr to the reading public.

LONDON: Published by H. HOOPER, Pall Mall East, and supplied to Country Agents by C. KNIGHT, Ludgate-street. From the Steam-Press of C. & W. REYNELL, Little Pulteney-street.

LONDON JOURNAL.

T ASSIST THE ENQUIRING. ANIMATE THE STRUGGLING, AND SYMPATHIZE WITH ALL.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 13, 1835.

BEGGARS' LODGING-HOUSES.
SIR THOMAS DYOT, &o.

We make no apology to our Readers for whisking
them, like the Devil on Two Sticks, from the fairest
to the squalidest scenes,-from spring-flowers and the
beauties of woman-kind, to miserable allies and the
wretchedest of their sex. "The blue sky bends over
all." The object of the LONDON JOURNAL is to encou-
rage a boundless consideration,-to find out whatever
is lovely in things loveable, and to suggest a charit-
able and ameliorating thoughtfulness in behalf of
Its Readers are not
things that appear hateful.
the people to quarrel with their fellow.creatures,
because they have been less educated or fortunate

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than themselves.

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A small book, called The Dens of London Exposed,' has just appeared, written by a shrewd but uneducated man, and certainly not fulfilling the expectations raised by its title; for instead of showing us a variety of these dens, it confines itself to the description of a single one, a lodging-house for beggars in St Giles's. This, however, is well done, and in the present times is to be considered a novelty; for our living writers (with rare and qualified exceptions) do not deal with these regions, as their predecessors did in the last century. Our moralists are all theorising, or else take care to confine themselves to such "respectable walks" of description, as shall in nowise put their shoe-leather in danger from the contact of a little common earth, and render them objects of stare and astonishment to drawing-rooms that arewell to do;' and our novelists are so prodigiously "genteel," and at the same time appear to think their gentility so fragile, that unlike those strange men of birth, Fielding and Smollett, they "can't come for to go for to think" of the very existence of any street or house except in Belgrave or Grosvenor squares,—always excepting the admirable 'Paul Clifford' of Mr Bulwer, and occasional evidences of a like universality in the writings of Mr James, who is a gentleman in the right sense of the word, and in spite of a somewhat intolerant breeding in certain respects, has address enough (for that is half the secret) to sympathize with some of the nicest perplexities of the social condition, the most delicate not excepted.*

The author of the book before us professes (and we doubt not, with truth.) to draw his description of the Beggars' House from life. Indeed there are strong evidences, in his style, of his being acquainted with what he describes,—somewhat too strong, perhaps, for giving his book the circulation he hopes for among delicate people; for it is one thing to show a knowledge of a subject, and another to seem to take a superfluous pleasure in the knowledge; and he might have told us a great deal more, with less apparent relish. However, to be over-scrupulous, whether in writer or reader, would show an extreme of a worse kind; and accordingly with the occasional omission of a few sentences, we proceed to give one or two of his most striking extracts. The first is a sketch of this kind of establishment in general, and of the kind of board as well as lodging to be met with in it :"The Common Lodging House, as the reader no * See the beautiful close of his latest and best novel (best among all good) The Gipsy;' where he ventures, and with perfect propriety, to make a lady the first to declare her regard for a gentleman.

[From the Steam-Press of C. & W. REYNELL, Little Pulteney street.]

No. 59.

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doubt understands, is a house of accommodation for all classes-no matter what may be their appearance or character-only provided that they can procure, when required, the necessary quantity of coins. In every considerable village in the kingdom there is a lodging-place called the Beggars' House;' and in every town, more or less, according to its size or population. In London there are hundreds and thousands of houses of this description, from the poor tenant of a room or cellar, with its two or three shake-down beds upon the floor, to the more substantial landlord with his ten and twenty houses, and two or three hundred beds. Among these the house. less wanderer may find shelter, from a penny to threehalfpence, two-pence, threepence, fourpence, and sixpence a night, on beds of iron, wood, and straw, or on that more lofty couch a hammock; and some (that is, the penny-a-night lodger) have often no softer resting-place than the hard floor. mon lodging-house business is a thriving trade; only small capital is required; for an old house will do, no matter how the rain beats in, or the wind whistles through, in a back street or filthy lane, for the more wretched the neighbourhood, the better; old bedsteads and beds, clothes of the coarsest description, with a few forms, and a table or so, for the kitchen,

This com

are all that is necessary for the concern. The front
room, or what is usually termed the parlour, is gen-
erally fitted up into a shop, or, when this is not the
case, there is always some accommodating neigh-
bour, who has the following articles for sale:-viz.
bacon, butter, cheese, bread, tea, coffee, sugar,
tobacco, potatoes, red and salt herrings, smuggled
liquors, and table-beer. Some add the savoury pro-

fession of the cook to that of the huckster, and dish
up a little roast and boiled beef, mutton, pork, vege-
tables, &c.

The whole of these, the reader may be
assured, are of very moderate quality; they are
retailed to the lodgers at very profitable prices, and
in the smallest quantities, such as a halfpenny worth
of butter, bacon, cheese, tea, coffee, sugar, tobacco,
&c.; and, for the trifling sum of one penny, the
poor epicure may gratify his palate with a taste of
beef, mutton, and so on. Very little credit is given
in these creditable places, and that only to those who
are well known; they who have not that advantage,
often are compelled to take the handkerchief off their
necks, the coat, and even the very shirts off their
backs, to give to the cautious housekeeper, before
they can procure a night's lodging, or a morsel of

food."

So much for the Beggars' House in general. Now
follows a particular description of one, No. 13
street, St Giles's. He does not mention the name of
the street, perhaps Dyot, or as it is now called, (in
defiance, we believe, of a legal proviso to the con-
trary,) George street for it is understood that Sir
Thomas Dyot, an admirable good fellow in the reign
of the Stuarts, left his property in this street, for
ever, expressly for the use and resort of the houseless
poor, who "had not where to lay their heads," and
upon the condition of its retaining his name; and
how the parish authorities came to have a right to
alter the name, we know not, and should like to know.
It is a singular instance, we grans, of the effect of
circumstance in human affairs, that a name so excel.
lent, and worthy to be had in honouring remem-
brance, should become of infamous sound in connex-

PRICE THREE HALFPence.

ion with this street; and perhaps the authorities might vindicate themselves on that score, and ask whether Sir Thomas could have calculated upon such a vicissitude? But we say he could, and very likely did; for he knew of what sort of people the houseless were likely to be composed, and

he

was prepared, like a thorough-hearted friend, to take all chances with them, and trust to more reflecting times to do justice to him and them. Or if he did not think of all this, his instinct did; or did not care for anything but playing the kind and manly part, and letting a wise Providence do the rest. He was a right hearty good fellow, whoever he was, for we know nothing else of him,— —a little wild, perhaps, in his youth, otherwise he might not have become acquainted with the wants of such people; but ever, be sure, honest to the backbone, and a right gentleman,-fit companion for the Dorsets and Drydens in their old age, not for the Charles the Seconds. Here's a libation to him in

this dip of ink,-in default of a bumper of Burgundy.

But to our extract:

"As this is the first attempt," says our author, "that has been made to describe a Cadging House, we perhaps may be excused in being somewhat particular. The outside of this dwelling was more cleanly and decent than we had been led to expect. The window of the low front room, which was large, and rather bowed, but still retained the remains of its former shop-like appearance, was modestly screened in the inside by a green curtain; and the step of the door was nicely scoured and sanded.

"On entering, we were struck with the establishment-like appearance of the room. Rows of common tin tea-pots were ranged along the dresser. As for the shelves, they literally lined the walls, well filled with plates, dishes, and tea-ware. The landlady came forward to meet us, a tall, genteel woman, with the manners of one apparently used to better society. After putting down our groat, and giving into her hand a certain garment wrapped in a handkerchief, in case of accidents, we were told that the men's kitchen was in the next house, the first door on the right hand side, in the entry. By this, we found that the threshold on which we then stood, was no less than the high quarters set apart for the barrack-master himself. Accordingly, we sallied out for No. 12; but, before going in, we took the liberty to make a survey of this Vagabond's Home;' and, in troth, it did well deserve that name.

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"The low front room or parlour, whose fate it was now to be the Cadger's Kitchen, had certainly the same shop-like appearance as that of No. 13The door which led but there the likeness ended. into the street, instead of having the clean, welcome, and open look of its neighbour, was fast nailed up.

The door-light-the window above the door-had been taken out, or, what is more likely, knocked out, and its place supplied with a wooden shutter, which was raised up during the day, to let in the light and air; and, as for the window itself, with the exception of a few panes of glass in the centre, here and there patched with brown paper, it was almost wholly made up with squares of woodgiving ocular proof that glass was of a very brittle nature in St Giles's.

"After satisfying ourselves thus far, we proceeded

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