that wi' the Glenhaw folks and us thegither, we'll mak a braw party, I guess."

"Weel, there's naething like haeing yer step out in yer young days," said Menic, “for I mind weel the time whan I hae danced awa as daft as ony o' ye; but these days are lang bye noo! Be sure Hugh, ye dinna keep that thochtless lassie owre late, for it's no very chancy being out at e'en, but least ava on that Glenhaw road. Ay, there hae been queer sichts seen there! an' it's no richt, ye ken, to throw anesel in harm's way."

"O never mind, aunty," quickly interrupted Annie, "we'll look at a' the sichts we see, and hae some braw fun besides."

"Whisht, Annie, whisht, an' dinna talk o' things ye ken naething about," said Menie, an air of solemnity instantly overshadowing her smiling features; for of all subjects, this was the last on which she could bear to hear any doubts expressed. "It's no a thing to be lichtly talked o', for even in my day, there hae been deeds dune, and sichts seen in the glen there, ayont the brae as ye gang down to Glenhaw, that mak's ane's bluid rin cauld wi' very horror to think o'. Ye baith hae heard o' the puir lady that was murdered there, an if Annie was na sich a glaiket lassie, I would maybe tell ye anither story o' the glen, but I'm feared it would dae nae guid, sae it's best to let it alane." This was too favourable an opportunity to let pass unimproved, so Hugh at once besought of her the recital of her story, pledging himself to be her humble and most attentive listener. The request seemed highly to flatter the worthy woman, and at once restored the smiling expression to her countenance. After a few words of admonition to her niece, she prepared to relate the history with all due emphasis;-Annie, the while, bestowing on Hugh a look of peculiar meaning-a look that seemed at once to say, "I'll listen; but faith! I'll hae some fun ere a' is dune." Fortunately, the look escaped the observation of her aunt, otherwise there is no saying what might have been the result. With Hugh, therefore, disposed in the attitude of an attentive listener, and Annie seemingly solely engrossed in the anticipation of the marvellous history she was about to hear, Menie thus commenced her story.

"On a wee grassy hillock, as ye gang down to Glenhaw, there's an auld ruined tower wi' naething but the bare wa's standin'. It has been the same e'er sin I could mind, only there are mair trees an' bushes about it noo. It's but a wee bit frae the road, an' the trees surroundin' it sae closely maks it as lanely a place as ony I ken. An' weel may it be ca'd a lanely place, for weel awat, there hae been mony queer sichts seen there, an' mony awfu' deeds dune tae! It's perfect fearsome to pass that after gloamin. Even in daylicht, the place is gloomy an' lanely eneugh, for the sun comes glintin through amang the trees wi' little power, an' the only sound a body hears, is the croodlin sang o' the cushat doo.

་

"In aulden times, the Muntsire Tower was unco famed for its hospitalities, an' the lairds o't were considered the first in a' the kintra side. But time gaed by, an' every succeedin' laird fand himsel warse aff than the last, till in the end, Rough Rab,' the last o' them, had little else but the auld tower to boast o'. But little cared Rab for that, an' he followed the hounds as brawly, an' kept as muckle company as if he had had mony a braid acre to back him. He was a rale chip o' the auld block,' an' seemed to inherit mair than a common share o' his forbears' recklessness. As lang as he had a peice o' grund to sell, or could get siller barrow'd on't, he cared na a preen for onything but makin' a' things flee wi' a liberal han'.

"The laird had lang been a married man, but it was weel kent that his wife an' he were on onything but guid

terms thegither. She, puir ledy, had been in a manner forced to marry him whan he was but a young man, to please her freends, wha thocht it an unco guid match at the time. But in a wee while, the Laird, wha never liked her overly weel, began to neglect, an' sune to despise her. The quate temper o' his bonny wife didna suit his ava, an' he did naething but gloom an' glunch on her on every occasion. Neer did she compleen o' this treatment, but bore a' his taunts an' roughness wi' the greatest meekness; an' like a true woman that she was, aye sought to win back his love wi' gentle deeds, although he only reviled her the mair for it. Weel, things gaed on in this way for mony a year, till at last the puir ledy's heart was fairly broken, an' she couldna mak the least answer to ony o' his cruel jibes.

"The sort o' life the laird led couldna last lang, sae it didna mak great surprise whan it was rumoured that the auld tower was a' that Rough Rab had to ca' his ain. Folk said he had got to his tether length noo, an' in his poverty he got unco little sympathy. But he was a changed man, an' weeks, an' months, gaed by without seein' him in his auld haunts. But he was changed to the warst, an' his temper got mair sour an' sullen than it e'er had been. He dismissed a' his servants, an' wouldna let ony ane, not even his ain cronies, enter the door. Whiles, some folks walking by on the road, would see him paradin' up an' down afore his door, wi' a moody expression of face, buried in thocht, but he neer by ony chance exchanged words as he had used to dae. His dress tae, began to get shabby, an' he let his beard grow to sich a length as made him a perfect fricht to look on. Every ane noo was feared to gang near him, although mony wished to see, or hear tell o' his puir ledy, wha he ne'er would let without the door. "Weel, it happened on a fine simmer nicht, at a pretty late hour, that ane o' the Killstane folk was coming hame frae the market-I think it was the miller, if I mind the story richt-whan jist as he was riding through the woods at Muntsire, an' had come within sicht o' the tower, a loud shriek made his bluid rin cauld to his heart. On looking up, he saw a female at ane o' the highest windows, strugglin' wi' some ane within. Her cries were the maist piteous he ever heard, an' afore he had time to think, she was cast frae that dismal height, an' fell a corpse at his feet. She was the ledy o' Muntsire! He stopped na langer whan he saw this, but set spurs to his horse, an' ne'er slackened his pace till he got to Killstane. The next morning the ledy's mangled body was fand by the auld tower, but search as they micht, the last laird o' Muntsire

was ne'er mair seen nor heard tell o'.

"Frae that time to this," said Menie, bringing her story to a close, "on ilka moonlicht nicht, the puir ledy's ghaist taks its station, whiles at the high window, but aftener on a green hillock at the corner o' the house, an' is to be seen wringin' its hans, an' kneelin', as it were for mercy. Mony, mony a time has it been seen, even in my day, an' ne'er will I forget the nicht I got sich a fricht wi' seein' it mysel! It's a tall, tall ledy, dressed in pure white, an' waes me! what a look! even noo I canna think on't without a shudder. Lang may we a' be preserved frae seein' sich sichts! an I would advise ye baith, ne'er to be late in passin' that spot, for it's as true as ye're there, the ghaist still haunts the auld tower."

(To be concluded in our next.)

THE HUSBAND'S COMPLAINT.

I HATE the name of Berlin wool, in all its colours bright,
Of chairs and stools of fancy work I hate the very sight;
The shawls and slippers that I've seen, the ottomans and
bags,

Sooner than wear a stitch on me I'd walk the streets in rags.

I've heard of wives too musical, too talkative, or quiet,
Of scolding and of gaming wives, and those too fond of riot;
But yet of all the errors known, which to the women fall,
For ever doing fancy work I think exceeds them all.
The other day, when home I came, no dinner got for me,
I asked my wife the reason, she answered, One, two, three;
I told her I was hungry, and stamped upon the floor,

She never even looked at me, but murmured "one green more."

Of course she makes me angry, she does not care for that, But chatters, while I talk to her, "one white and then a black."

Seven greens and then a purple (just hold your tongue, my dear,

You really do annoy me so, I've made a wrong stitch here.) And as for conversation, with her eternal frame,

I speak to her of fifty things, she answers just the same; "Tis "yes, love," five reds, then a black, "I quite agree with

affairs,

I dare not even use a screen, a stool; and as for chairs,
"Twas only yesterday I put my youngest boy on one,
And until then I never knew my wife had such a tongue.

Alas for my poor little ones, they dare not move or speak,
"Tis "Tom, be quiet, put down that bag; why, Harriette,
where's your feet?"

"Maria standing on that stool, it was not made for use, Be silent all, three greens, one red, a blue, and then a puce." Oh, the mis'ry of a working wife, with fancy-work run wild, And hands which never do aught else for husband or for child;

Our clothes are rent, and minus strings, my house is in disorder,

And all because my lady wife has taken to embroider.
I'll put my children out to school, I'll go across the sea,
My wife's so full of fancy-work, I'm sure she won't miss me;
E'en while I write, she still keeps on her one, two, three, and
four,

I'm past all patience, on my word I'll not endure it more.
Nottingham Review.
DE FACTO.

THE SABBATH.

(From a Volume of Poems by Sir E. L. Bulicer, just published.)

FRESH glides the brook and blows the gale,
Yet yonder halts the quiet mill;
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,
How motionless and still!

Six days' stern labour shuts the poor
From nature's careless banquet-hall;
The seventh, an angel opes the door,
And, smiling, welcomes all!

A Father's tender mercy gave
This holy respite to the breast,

To breathe the gale, to watch the wave,
And know-the wheel may rest!
Six days of toil, poor child of Cain,
Thy strength thy master's slave must be;
The seventh, the limbs escape the chain-
A God hath made thee free!

The fields that yester-morning knew
Thy footsteps as their serf, survey;
On thee, as them, descends the dew,
The baptism of the day.

Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale,
But yonder halts the quiet mill-
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,
How motionless and still!

So rest, O weary heart!-but, lo,

The church-spire, glist'ning up to heaven, To warn thee where thy thoughts should go The day thy God hath given! Lone through the landscape's solemn rest, The spire its moral points on high,O soul, at peace within the breast, Rise, mingling with the sky! They tell thee, in their dreaming school, Of power from old dominion hurl'd, When rich and poor, with juster rule, Shall share the alter'd world.

Alas! since Time itself began,

That fable hath but fool'd the hour; Each age that ripens power in man, But subjects man to power.

Yet every day in seven, at least,

One bright republic shall be known;
Man's world awhile hath surely ceas'd,
When God proclaims his own.

Six days may rank divide the poor,
O Dives, from thy banquet-hall-
The seventh the Father opes the door,
And holds his feast for all.

New Books.

COMIC NURSERY TALES: BLUE BEARD.

66

BY F. W. N.

BAYLEY, AUTHOR OF THE NEW TALE OF A TUB." SUNDRY and manifold are the matters of taste in which we are copying our neighbours; but, probably, in no in stance is the sequitur more evident than in the light literature of the day. It is true that our London publishers set the example in their Fenny Magazine, as might be expected from their utilitarian propensities; but the Parisians soon succeeded in producing a lighter ware, with filagree embellishment, but still an imitation of our oracle of copper such is the Magasin Pittoresque. In humour of the broad caricatura style, the French artists and publishers have long maintained the lead, in cheapness as well as taste; and, although "penny literature" may have originated in England, it has been matured in France. What have we in London to compare with the Physiologies now publishing in Paris, either as regards literary excellence or spirit of illustration; and where in our whole "penny" range can you see reflected the truly "pittoresque" woodcuts of the Parisian press? why! even our twopenny patriarchal oracle appears to have had all its silvering rubbed off by time, and to have taken up the speculation of illustrating shop-fronts and newspaper advertisements in the same profitable page. In our own Engravings, we confess to have been disappointed; and to have had most of our searches after novelty but ill seconded; so that we have resolved, in future, to regard illustrations as incidental to the design of our work, and otherwise to appropriate our front page; and we trust our readers will not have cause to regret this change in our tactics.

Meanwhile, we are selfishly forgetting our old friend Blue Beard, whose peccadilloes Mr. Bayley has smartly turned into verse of "infinite jest" and humour. Nevertheless, the illustrations of this very summery production are, with one exception, of French execution; and they

To

are the climax of drollery and grotesque fun. describe them were impossible, as George Robins would say; so that we pass to the poem itself of "Blue Beard, his property, appearance and beard :”—

"In former times,

In the warmest of climes,

A gentleman gloried in several crimes;
Several crimes men said he had done,

And they thought that murder was probably one :
For six of his wives

Had got rid of their lives,

In the darkest of manners under the sun;
Unless it be quite Irish to say,

That aught can be dark on a sunshiny day!

Well, this gentleman grew very rich,
Or, at least, was reported as "sich ;"
Houses he had that were not very bad,
Lands beside that were very wide;

A great big horse that he rode bestride,
And a palace in which he was wont to abide!
This palace was beautiful quite to view,
Handsomely furnished through and through;

But the only thing not handsome there,
Was perhaps the boy who was born its heir!
Heir to all the remarkable things!
Heir to the trinkets, and heir to the rings!
To the riches he bore,

To the breeches he wore;

Heir to marbles and money galore!"

Of his name, "BLUE BEARD:"

"It was n't the duty

Of Blue Beard's beauty

To save his bacon;

And what need I more say,

Except that for D'Orsay,

He ne'er was mistaken;

For this cause 'mong the rest,
Which is good as the best,

That D'Orsay-a gentleman now in his prime-
Did n't live for the ladies in Blue Beard's time!
His beard we said was thoroughly blue,
And nothing that woman or man could do;
Shave without, or invention within,

Could change the colour of Blue Beard's chin!
Rowland's Macassar, or Fox's dye,
Each it was vain for him to try;
Mechi's razors, or Warren's jet,
Another colour he could not get;

He lathered it over, with intense delight,
Hoping that soaping would make it white;
And then again he lathered it back,
Hoping that soaping would make it black:
Then he shaved it, again and again,
But it would n't do, the thing was plain;
Uncommonly plain that it would n't do,
For the beard continued undoubtedly blue!
Blue belles before,

We have known a score,

Hall and Norton, Trollope and Gore,
And Lady Morgan, all to the fore!
Holborn has got its own Blue Boar;
Other things, too,

We have known a few,

And people who looked remarkably blue:
We've watched the revels of many blue devils:
But a Beard of Blue!-Well, did we ever?
Certainly not!-Oh, no! - We never !"

In these stanzas there is abundance of drollery and mirth-moving fun, for one line seldom or never prepares you for its sequitur; and this we take to be the mainspring of laughter, and the very bathos of burlesque. Here is another specimen in the charms of the future Mrs. Fat. and her sister:

"As fair as any dame in our mother-land,

And almost as fair as the Duchess of Sutherland!

(That beautiful Duchess, who once did assemble All London's élite to hear Adelaide KembleAdelaide Kemble, who ravished their souls, By singing there, all for the sake of the Poles On a fine summer's day, when that Duchess so nice, Was so kind to her guests, by Lord Dudley's advice, As to warm them with music, and cool them with ice!") Next, Blue Beard's courtship "spread:"

"And did n't he give her a feast and a ball?

And was n't there eating and drinking-that's all?
And did n't champagne

Fall as plenty as rain!
And cakes, and wines!

And jellies, and pines!
And all kinds of sweets!
And all kinds of meats!
Hens gravyry!
Cocks savoury?

(Not Thomas Cox Savory, close to Cornhill, The mighty watchmaker;

But cocks that I take her

Good taste to have fancied more savoury still,)
And puddings and pies!

Oh, my eyes! Oh, my eyes!
Not Gunter, nor Verey!
O deary! O deary!
Nor Ude-

Soup-imbued,

Not he; nor even the famous Kitchiner,

Surpassed what Blue Beard's board was pitchin' her;

She never before had things so rich in her!

And did n't she gobble, and did n't she stuff, And was n't she sorry when she'd had enough!!" There is an intensity of illustration in this last couplet which is truly delightful: how Saxon, how vernacular is the language-how Miltonic the sublimity-yet how Wordsworthian the simplicity! Then, its concentration: here are no windy words to distract the reader's head-no spinning of thoughts or hammering out of ideas-but the image falls plump as an over-weight sovereign: every child in every nursery in the kingdom will acknowledge the force of this glorious picture of repletion, with its loudest laugh; and every alderman in her Majesty's dominions, (including even those of Whig creation,) will chuckle over this masterpiece of every-day humour!

The marriage is consummated, the honey-moon wanes, and Blue Beard quits the chateau, as in the original tale, leaving Mrs. Fat. and her friends to enjoy themselves at leap-frog and other lady-like fun, in describing which occurs an exquisitely felonious simile: "They danced and sang

66

Till the chamber rang;
And every joke,

Each fair one spoke,

With spicy wit was peppered;

It was larking, rollicking, frisk and play,
With Nix my dolly, pals, fake away!'

Like Ainsworth, or Jack Sheppard!" Thus our poet is a sly wag, and onward he roves from the Old Bailey to Westminster for his illustrations. Here is the trial with the fatal key:

Lady Blue Beard slinks away,

Leaving the guests at their leap-frog play,
No moment now she lingers:

But rushes on to the lonely room,
With a face uncommonly like Lord Brougham,
And the key between her fingers!
Rushes on to the lonely room,

With a face uncommonly like Lord Brougham;
So fast as she goes

She twitches her nose,

And all the rest of her lively face with it,
No Daguerréotype could e'er keep pace with it;

A Photogenic, if ever so quick,

Could n't make those varying features stick;

A man, whose skill were ever so ripe,

Could n't match them with an Electrotype;
A Mesmerist's power,

Though tried for an hour,
That inexhaustible twitching upon,
Would fail if ever so forcible;

It was wonderful how it ever got on,
But to take it off were impossible!
Now, after every pace is strained,

At a speed that some call break-neck,
At last, the gallery door is gained—

Not the Adelaide door in the Lowther Bazaar,
Nor yet the Polytechnic ;

But a door she had better avoided by far,
For, ready to drop,

She has come to a stop

At Blue Beard's 'Old Curiosity Shop;' And by and by she will have to declare, What the Dickens could she want there!" The climax of the closet:

"It is n't a case of' tit-tat-toe,'

And three jolly butchers all of a row,'
But oh,... oh,. . .!!!

It's a double case of tit-tat-toe,

AND SIX DEAD WOMEN ALL OF A Row."

The murder mania is brought in by way of illustrating poor Fat.'s terror:

"She thought upon every horrible work,

The eloquence? no-but the murders of Burke ;
The wicked Bishop, who joined in the deed,
When May and Williams made victims bleed;
She thought of Thurtell in her despair,
Whose neck was so much the worse for Weare;
Greenacre's horror came to her view,-
Greenacre, who was n't wiseacre too;

But whose hanging made our criers noisier,
She even thought of the dog Cur-voisier:
And finally crowned her vision of blood
With a hasty glance at the bad Mr. Good.

Here were eight vile murderers marked on the wall, But her monster, Blue Beard, was worse than them all." The blood-stained key is engraved to the life, or rather death, and the following rivals Lady Macbeth's "damned spot:"

"The blood keeps disdaining both friction and lather, And it sticks to the key like a child to its father!" The explanation of the stain is excellent:

"You have opened the door,-dash my wigs!-and you knows it,

You have opened the door of my beautiful closet; You have seen my six wives, ma'am, the worst and the best of them,

So I'm going to swing you along with the rest of them!" We cannot resist the following, especially its logical, epigrammatic conclusion. Fat. tells her sister to hie to the castle-top, and look out for her brothers:

"Keep the telescope close to the rail,
Balance it, love, on the sliding scale;'

And sister Anne,

If you should twig a man,

Do bring him as near as the telescope can! And see if my brothers are coming this way, For I expected them both to-day;

And I should be,

In the greatest glee

If they killed my husband before he killed me!" Here we must halt, and leave the rest for "the curious to construe," with a couplet of consolation from "the Moral," addressed to all wives:

"If you're obedient, loving and true,

You'll manage his beard, if ever so blue!"

Not a syllable of commendation need be added to this half-crown piece of legitimate fun; and, if its successors be equally comic, it will be strange, indeed, if they do not succeed. By the way, there are certain original appropriations of our vernacular tongue in this little tome, which are very ludicrous: their absurdity will be abundantly amusing to children of every growth; and the series, like the cat in the farce, will have a pretty long tail, we warrant ye! of Comic Nursery Stories.

LETTERS FROM ITALY TO A YOUNGER SISTER.

BY CATHARINE TAYLOR.

WE are glad to find that this truly interesting work has so far met with the public approbation as to have reached a second edition, in-comparatively speaking, for a book of travels, a very short space of time. Though much has been said and written of late about Italy, and hence the question, as Miss Taylor anticipates, may naturally be asked "Can anything new be said of Italy ?"-yet scarcely any, perhaps none, of her predecessors in the same path, have adopted exactly the same plan and manner of writing about that delightful and interesting country. Her book, while it is expressly suited to young readers, is also calculated to instruct and entertain "children of a larger growth." It is not a mere gossiping diary, telling us about little trivial incidents on the road, and there leaving us; but every thing remarkable in the various localities through which she travelled is noted, and the occasion is seized of introducing, by way of illustration, the most striking points they suggest in history, biography, or art. Thus, the authoress not only gratifies us with a personal narrative, but superadds much of a more impor tant, because instructive, nature. The result is a highly attractive, agreeable, and interesting production. In our opinion, Miss Taylor has chosen the proper method of writing a book of travels; she has been at some pains to gain and impart knowledge and information to her readers, thus treating them rationally; and to her young readers more especially, the work will serve as a pleasing introduction to studies of a more grave and serious character.

Miss Taylor begins with her departure from Geneva, entering Italy by the pass of Mont Cenis, and proceeding by Susa and Turin, to Genoa. After sojourning for a short time at this last city, of which she gives us an interesting account, she goes on to Pisa. Of the Campanile, or Leaning Tower, at Pisa, the object of so much curiosity, she has this remark:

"The Campanile, which first attracted our attention, consists of eight stories; the highest one appears to have been added at a later period than the others, and is supposed, from its inclining in a direction opposite to that of the tower, to have been designed to balance it. It was during his residence in Pisa, that Galileo made many curious experiments from this tower on the fall of bodies to the earth: and it is an interesting coincidence, that Sir Isaac Newton, who subsequently discovered or determined the law of gravitation, was born the very year in which Galileo died. It was also in the cathedral of this city that the latter philosopher first

conceived the idea of measuring time by the stroke of the pendulum, whilst watching the vibration of a lamp suspended from the ceiling. These facts, simple in themselves, but so important in their results, lend a charm to this spot; it is something to stand upon the same pavement which Galileo once trod."

From Pisa, our fair traveller goes to Florence-"Firenza la bella." After a brief account of the most remarkable facts in Florentine history-of the factions of the Guelphs and Ghibellines-of Dante, and the revival of literature under the Medici,-of Savonarola, and the fall of the Republic, we are introduced to the existing monuments of Florentine renown. Miss Taylor is a connoisseuse in art, and some of the most attractive portions of her work, are her remarks upon those paintings of the old masters that fell under her regards. She dwells instructively on the architecture of Florence, and then takes a brief review of the history of Art, as it rose from the dark ages. Of its earliest cultivators may be mentioned the names of Cimabue, Giotto, and Fra Angelico Da Fiesole, as belonging to the Florentine school. "How touchingly beautiful," says Miss Taylor, "is the character of Fra Angelico, chastened by a holy simplicity and purity of feeling which seem to belong more to heaven than earth! He was perhaps the most unsullied representative of the early christian school of art, in which no earthly passions mingled, no jarring rudeness, or unhallowed thought, ever sullied the sanctity and beauty of faith." How pleasingly coincident with the tenor of these observations is the view which Mr. Reeve takes of the character of the same artist, in the little work* which we have already noticed in these pages! Under the painter's name are these lines: "How calm and beautiful, when Art was young, The seraph-sisters o'er the painter hung,

Ere his deep power was strained by passions rude,
Or scattered in delicious lassitude!

Pure as the lily in her own long hauds, Bent like some humbler flower, the Virgin stands, Whilst by the grace which from her forehead shone, The Church made Art's great progeny its own." Our authoress lingers con amore over the great masters and their works deposited in the Florence Gallery, especially the statue of the Venus de Medici. "I could not help laughing," says she, "to see a gentleman, (an American, I believe,) after gazing in speechless delight at the statue, turn to leave the room, and on reaching the curtain which covers the entrance, look back and kiss his hand to her, uttering at the same time a gentle "Addio!" Want of space forbids our dwelling on this very interesting portion of the work, but we cannot resist quoting, before we leave it, one very excellent passage:

"I can pretend to little knowledge of the rules of art, and

must be content to look at the works which are presented to my notice with an unpractised eye; a fervent love of the beautiful must compensate for want of scientific knowledge. A passage quoted from Plato which I met with the other day pleased me: In beholding daily,' says he, the master-pieces of painting, sculpture, and architecture, full of grace and purity in all their proportions, we learn to observe with accuracy what is lovely or defective in the works of nature or art, and this happy rectitude of judgment will become a second nature to our souls.'-I cannot describe the effect which painting and sculpture produce on my mind; it is strange, and almost overpowering, and awakens thoughts and feelings which are as novel as they are delightful. He who walks throu-h the world with no love of art, or perception of its power and influence, may well be said to have one sense asleep, and to lose a source of pure and exalted pleasure. God has implanted in our nature the love of the beautiful, and as we meet with nearer and nearer approaches to its perfec

"Graphidae, or Characteristics of Painters." By Henry Reeve, Esq.

tion, in character, in form, or in the various combinations in which beauty is presented to us, our hearts glow in proportion with delight, and our thoughts rise to Him who is the source of all that is true, and beautiful, and good. Art appeals to the feeling of truth within us; through the feelings it speaks to the heart, and awakens our noblest faculties. In saying this, I look at what its tendencies might be, more than what they actually are; in proportion as the pursuit of art is followed in a spirit of trade, for the wealth that it procures, rather than the mental delight which it so richly affords, its character must decline. There is, however, a pleasure in reflecting that although artists may vary at different periods in excellence with the shifting influences of society, ART remains unchanged, its powers immutable, its purposes pure and noble."

At Florence, Miss Taylor's party engaged a Vetturino to convey them to Rome, travelling at about the rate of thirty miles in seven hours! They stopped for an hour at Sienna, and then proceeded on to Montefiascone, travelling her account of them at this place is worth where they encountered some of the miseries of foreign quoting:

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house, half stable, I mounted by a steep narrow staircase to Following my dear friends through a place half coach. our saloon, which, with its high-sounding name, we would gladly have exchanged for a clean English kitchen. The first glimpse I caught of it was enough, and I think we should have retreated very quickly to the carriage could we have had horses to take us on; but there were none, and those of our Vetturino were too much tired to proceed further. Patience, therefore, was our only remedy; so ordering a fire, we sat down to await the slow advent of dinner, with all the comfort of four doors and as many windows blowing on us, with the addition of volleys of smoke from the wide chimney, a stone floor, (uncarpeted of course,) and chill blasts which nothing could keep out. At length came il pranzo,-hot water soup, with cheese grated into it, a rough chicken which no knife could penetrate, one pigeon, and five larks!-these, with two wretched chops, furnished forth our feast: you may suppose how soon it was dismissed. The fame of Montefias. cone rests upon the reputation of its wine, and the inhabitants seem to despise so simple a luxury as milk, we at least could get none, and waited for our coffee in vain. To our beds at last we were driven, cold, hungry, and weary, but the less said of them the better."

Arrived at Rome, the remainder of the first volume, by far the greater part of it, is taken up with a description of "the eternal city." authoress sets before us of the most interesting objects The various pictures which the that here engaged her attention, are in all respects so truly instructive and clever, that we are puzzled which to prefer. We shall, therefore, with this general commend ation, leave this portion of the work, and proceed to the second volume. From Rome our traveller goes to Naples, the general route, passing through Velletri, Terracina, Mola di Gaeta, and Capua Her allusion to the brigands

who infest these parts is interesting:

"We now entered the wild mountainous country which extends far to the south of Terracina, and has become famous as the scene of the daring exploits of bands of brigands who infest this region. These attacks have of late years decreased in number, but they are by no means at an end. The police, though more effective than they were some years

* It is related that an ecclesiastical dignitary was once journeying from Germany to Rome; and being an excellent lover of good wine, he sent a servant on before him to taste the wine in each town they passed through, desiring him to inscribe the word "Est" on the door of those inns where he should find good wine. The eyes of his reverence sparkled with joy when on arriving at Montefiascone he saw "Est!Est!!- Est!!!-(much as to say, "good-better-best!") written up. Unhappily it was only too good for the traveller he stopped, tasted, drank, and died.