primis, it acts like oxygen gas on the system of the performer, rapidly increasing the circulation, and communicating, even to the fair sex, a manly developement of muscular energy, indicated by the vigorous stamp of the foot, according to the ancient adage, ex pede Herculem. It increases remarkably the power of vision, as is evident from the expansion of the pupil, and the brilliant sparkling of the iris. But its action on the moral powers is still more valuable. It imparts a wonderful acuteness in the perception of character, so that those faults of the scoldee, which had formerly been impenetrable to the mental eye, now stand forward in prominent relief, for him that scoldeth to read. It is absurd to argue, that such faults may be entirely imaginary creations of the scolder. Is it to be denied, that his more refined optics, "in a fine frenzy rolling," may pierce those darker recesses of our moral frame, that are impervious to the common gaze, and give, to what may heretofore have been "airy nothings," a "local habitation and a name?" If, then, a vast majority of human follies confessedly proceed from an inability to appreciate the faults of our companions, how invaluable must be that talisman which the scolder possesses! He has only to subject a given individual to his favourite discipline, and, presto, his once invisible failings are conjured up in dread array, under the ghastly light of circumstantial evidence, more than sufficient to sway the susceptible mind of a juryman. Again, this exercise of the tongue fortifies the virtue of perseverance amidst obstacles. It is well known, that any attempt of the scoldee to recriminate, or even to defend himself, only serves to call down a heavier infliction of eloquence on his devoted ears. By virtue of the judicial infallibility which doth hedge the scolder, his case is, as a matter of course, prejudged. To endeavour to prove an alibi, or bring evidence of character, is but an insane contempt of court, which inevitably leads to one sole result, that of enhancing the punishment. Such habitual practice of the virtue aforesaid, cannot fail to benefit the scolder on the received principle of―perseveranti dabitur. But, while this operation is so beneficial to the agent, it is, perhaps, no less so to the patient operated on. It invigorates, by exercise, the virtues of patience and resignation. A philosophic estimate of his position, in which the usually detached acts of indictment, trial, conviction, sentence, and execution, are simultaneously blended, and compressed into a single scene, must convince him, that any resistance to the presiding genius of that scene would be to dam the mountain-torrent with a cobweb. A faint hope, too, may intervene, that his meek, resigned demeanour, may soften the stern organ, from which his fate is issuing with such resistless explosion. Besides, it accustoms him to appreciate the importance of occasional taciturnity. When he witnesses, too, that display of eloquence, which he can never hope to equal, he learns a modest diffidence in his own powers of oratory. We have hitherto limited our views to what may be called scolding-singular, in which only one party scolds, the other being merely the scoldee. But it cannot be doubted that scolding-dual is infinitely superior in its advantages to each party, who now combines the characters of scolder and scoldee in one contemporaneous union. The exercises of patience, resignation, and taciturnity, are indeed now excluded; but, in lieu thereof, the far nobler virtue of emulation is called into play,-that virtue to which every thing sublime in the developement of human character is referable. But the discussion of this, and the remaining variety, namely, scolding-plural, must "be left as the subject" of another paper, in which this interesting, and hitherto untrodden path of enquiry, shall be illustrated by characteristic sketches. LORMA. ORIGINAL POETRY. TO JULIANA. AWAY! away! my fancy goes Like joyous sea-bird through the air, Sometimes in light, sometimes in shade, But boldly wandering everywhere; Now dipping all its snowy plumes Within the ocean's yielding breast,— Now gleaming, white and beautiful, Above the dark cloud's thund'ry crest,— Now screaming o'er a drowning crew,— Now lost in heaven's far vault of blue. Away! away! my fancy goes Like broad stream bounding down the glen, Romantic vale, and castled steep; Away! away! my fancy goes Like wild-deer up the mountain's side, Fleetness and strength in every limb, And on its antler'd brow of pride The beauty of a crowned king; And ye may mark that regal crest Where the proud eagle builds his nest, Away! away! my fancy goes Like star that shoots through boundless space, And leaves a sparkling train behind, By which alone its course you trace,— The wanderer of the universe! But the bold sea-bird has its home Upon some well-known sea-girt isle ; To Him by whom its light was made; My fancy turns, where'er it flee. It loves full well the venturous flight Of which the meaner soul ne'er dreamt, With thee, its wild aspirings o'er, That rippling comes to kiss the shore,— With thee, dear girl, in love and rest, Dreaming soft visions on thy breast! H. G. B. STANZAS WRITTEN WHILE ABROAD. I WILL wake my harp when the shades of even When thoughts that wear the hues of heaven Are weaning my heart from this world away,— And my strain will tell of a land and home Which my wandering steps have left behind, Where the hearts that throb and the feet that roam Are free as the breath of their mountain wind. I will wake my harp, when the star of vesper That a dewdrop falls, or a breeze hath birth,- Will oft be the theme of my lonely lay, I will wake my harp when the moon is holding For my soul will then, from its thrall set free, And gather each sigh that she breathes for me. Thus, still, while those pensive hours are bringing But the dearest bliss we on earth can gain, Is to come, after long sad years, in peace, And be join'd with the friends of our youth again! On! what a world of breathing love there lies Like clouds that tint the summer's gorgeous skies! All that the heart can feel, and dares not tell, I would gaze on them, but I turn away, Birmingham. SINGLE BLESSEDNESS. To the Editor of the Edinburgh Literary Journal. [SIE, I was much struck with the good sense of a LADY who writes under the above title, in last number of the Journal. Assuredly, Mr Editor, there is great scope for improvement in FEMALE EDUCATION among all ranks-more especially among the daughters of gentlemen farmers and tradesmen, who have, at the best, nothing higher to expect than decent "matches" in their own very respectable station. In this class of society, the ornamental has been so much cultivated of late years, to the neglect of the substantial and practical, as to give an honest yeoman occasion to make a remark which spoke volumes,-" We've really a hantel o' Leddies now-a5 days, Lord kens whare a' the Lairds are to come frae that will marry them P-The following "Sang" was written fourteen years ago, and was sung to Mr Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, a year or two thereafter, at a dinner given to him, along with the freedom of our sacient burgh of Gandereleugh. The Shepherd observed,-" I have heard mony a waur sang than that, and a deevilish deal waur sung; it has a moral in't, forbye."-Ever your obedient servant, JED. CLEISHBOTHAM.] SIX WEEKS AFTER MARRIAGE. AN EXCELLENT NEW song. To" Bonny Dundee,” or any tune that fits it better. Он, dule on the day I adventured to marry! For wedlock is no what I took it to be; And neither, in troth, is my ain gallant Harry The lad I supposed when he caught my young ee: He seem'd o' gude nature the very quintessence, His words were like hinney new fa'n frae the kame; We're married, wae's me! and I'm bound to keep silence, But a something aye whisper'd I shouldna leave hame. My curse light on novels, and aught that imposes On youth's glowing fancy-they've poison'd my brain; They throw over Nature a mantle o' roses, Too fine to be worn in the breeze or the rain; They bid ye be happy, ye sigh to get buckled; Is bliss to be found but in wedlock's gay team? The kitchen, oh fie! I wad never gang near it, But what's waur than a', be I e'er sae unhappy, I spak to my mither, she ca'd me a tawpie London, July 2, 1830. SIR,-It is not for the Author of the "Lay of the Desert" to contravene the critical authority of the Edinburgh Literary Journal;' the propriety is no more to be doubted than the elegance of the observations in the number of that periodical for Saturday last, in reference to the said author and his work:-"It is a melancholy fact, that some men will think themselves poets, though they are no more poets than chin-choppers. Mr Henry Sewell Stokes is one of this kidney." Should Mr Stokes be inclined to substitute the word "critics" for "poets," and that at all in allusion to the Editor of the Edinburgh Literary Journal, the insolence could not but be apparent and insufferable-that is, to all those (would it to any but those?) whose oracle of taste the periodical in question is. The elegance and propriety of the censure has already been noticed; the humour is not less remarkable. The falling of the wig in the thunder-storm is truly ludicrous. Bowing with all due deference to the mustachoed critic, Mr Stokes addresses him with the object of having set right a misquotation, which, of course, arose not from will but inadvertency,though it is wonderful how frequently misquotations the most ridiculous occur in adverse criticism:-for the "unwieldy tear," supposed to have been shed on the death of Canning, by the as much chin-chopper as poet, will you, Mr Editor, please to let it be "unwilling tear," and so let it appear in the next Number of your most invaluable Literary Journal, and thereby add to the obligation already conferred by your notice, on your very humble servant, HENRY S. STOKES. P.S. Your Journal, I perceive, offers "freedom to him that would write;" but that its pages are so precious, perhaps this epistle might find a place upon them. [We are happy to give a place "upon" our pages to the epistle of Mr Henry Sewell Stokes. It has afforded us great amusement, and will no doubt be equally enjoyed by many of our readers.-ED.] * Mr Henry Sewell Stokes has no doubt some mysterious meaning in the strange word "mustachoed," which to us is unintelligible.— ED. THE MAGAZINES FOR AUGUST.- Black wood has published a double Number, in which there are several able articles, particularly the review of Sir Thomas Lauder Dick's work on the Floods, the Origin of the Fairies, by the Ettrick Shepherd, and the Noctes Ambrosianæ.-Fraser is less personal than formerly, and consequent. ly more respectable, yet withal a little dull.-The New Monthly for August is so very like the New Monthly for July, that we are not quite sure which is which. Why does not the New Monthly take a lesson from us, and study variety ?-The Monthly is nearly as good as Mr Baylis can make it, which, we regret to say, is not altogether good enough.-The Family Magazine continues to be a safe and creditable production.-The United Service Journal is a periodical not unworthy the high character belonging to the British army and navy.-La Belle Assemblee contains a portrait of one of the female nobility, four coloured figures, and "contributions from writers who have distinguished themselves in the world of letters." Mr St John announces a new work, under the title of the of Society. from first to last, been locked up, and only shown to their owners by way of conferring an immense favour, has puzzled and damped the ardour of almost every institutional writer. It could be wished that a parliamentary enquiry should be instituted on this subject, as the custodiers of the papers are perhaps not to blame in at present acting as they do. The French government furnishes an example of splendid generosity, or rather justice, in permitting the freest unpaid investigation into archives and books suited to the purposes of lite rature; and it is a pity that in this country the rights of the people, quoad public establishments, are still so undefined.-Chambers' Book of Scotland. CHIT-CHAT FROM LONDON.-His Majesty is sitting to Chantrey for his bust, as a model for a new coinage.-A new coach, loyally named after the Queen, has begun to run, of which the announcement is whimsical enough, being as follows:-" The Queen Adelaide! starts from the King's Arms every morning at eight o'clock.” Anatomy-The weather has been very hot, the town is getting very empty, and the Westminster and City elections have been settled without any contest in the course of a forenoon. Mr Hazlitt is about to publish a series of Conversations on various subjects of Art and Literature, including those he has held with the venerable academician, Northcote. We understand that Sir Walter Scott's forthcoming work on Demonology will appear in the form of a series of letters addressed to his son-in-law Mr Lockhart. Another fashionable novel is in the press, to be published under the name of Mothers and Daughters. The second volume of the Juvenile Library is to consist of Historical Anecdotes of France. A geographical and topographical work on the Canadas and the other British North American Provinces, with extensive maps, by Lieutenant-Colonel Bouchette, the Surveyor-General of Lower Canada, is in the press. An historical sketch of the Danmonii, or ancient inhabitants of Devonshire and Cornwall, by Joseph Chattaway, is announced. The Book of the Seasons, by William and Mary Howitt, is nearly ready. The eighth volume of Dr Lingard's History of England, which will bring down the work to the epoch of the Revolution, is now in the press. Dr Jamieson announces the Elements of Algebra, designed as an Introduction to Bland's Algebraical Problems. EDINBURGH ACADEMY.-The public examination of the young men attending this Institution took place on the 30th of July. We have since had an opportunity of looking over the prize list, and the various English and Latin exercises, in prose and verse. They appear to be alike creditable to the teachers and pupils. The gold medal in the seventh and highest class was gained by Mr John Murray, whose classical attainments must be of the first order. In the sixth class, Mr W. S. Daniel distinguished himself as a young poet of much promise. Judging by the specimens that have been printed, his English verses are greatly above mediocrity. We are happy to understand that the Academy, under the able superintendence of the Rector and other Masters, continues to prosper in no common degree. MATHEMATICS AND THE LANGUAGES.-Our readers will find an advertisement in to-day's Journal from Mr Johnston, announcing his intention to give private instructions in Edinburgh in Mathematics and Languages. We can confidently recommend Mr Johnston to their patronage and attention. We have had opportunities of ascertaining his enthusiasm as a student of science and languages: and we are aware that, besides Latin and Greek, he has a more than competent acquaintance with French, Spanish, Italian, and German. We have also seen testimonials of the most honourable kind regarding his character and general abilities. We may farther add, that, under the signature of Lorma, Mr Johnston has contributed several ingenious and clever articles to the Literary Journal. We have little doubt that all who avail themselves of his assistance will have good reason to be satisfied with their progress. STATE PAPERS OF SCOTLAND.-Though, from untoward circumstances, the State Papers of Scotland, and other documents having a connexion with the chief institutions in the country, are of a modern date, in comparison with the records which slumber in the repositories of the Tower, the Roll's Court, the State Paper Office, or either of the two English Universities, they might, nevertheless, be of immense advantage, if freely exposed to the examination of historians, and others whose literary tastes lead them to search for authentic information among materials so pregnant with matter for amusement and instruction. At present, none but very favoured individuals are permitted to mine in such a rich quarry. The fountain of knowledge is shut: little else is exhibited of the books but their backs; and, but for the empty boast that the nation possesses the archives we mention, they might almost as well be not in existence. While those records applying to private property are laid open for money, those referring to governmental policy, or similar subjects, are preserved in dignified seclusion. Why this is the case we do not know. The reason why the public papers in the different offices, both in England and Scotland, (those in the British Museum excepted,) have, CHIT-CHAT FROM DUNDEE.-It has been matter of marvel to the numerous readers of the Literary Journal in Dundee, that a corner is not occasionally allowed them, as well as the far-away inhabitants of Oban. The Dundee people are not a people to be despised. Though some persons, that shall be nameless, have been rather severe both on our philosophers and poets, we are nevertheless possessed of much shrewd sense, and are not to be sneezed at with impunity. Nor is education behind among us, for we have infant schools and juvenile academics of all sorts, albeit somewhat addicted to burgh politics, harbour bills, and steam projects. We are going to build a new high school, and it would be a very desirable thing if some Edinburgh architect could give us, along with a good plan, a good site. We cannot agree upon this subject at all. But as my present epistle is merely introductory, and by way of seeing whether you are disposed to take the hint of attending a little to Dundee affairs, I shall reserve the rest of my information for a future opportunity. Theatrical Gossip.-Lalande, who has not been the fashion in London, had a very poor benefit at the King's Theatre a few nights ago.-At the Haymarket, a farce, called " Honest Frauds," from the pen of a Mr Lunn, and at the Adelphi Theatre a "dramatic foolery" -a new term-called "Pop, or Sparrow-shooting," have been brought out successfully.-Leopoldina Neumann, a child just ten years of age, has been delighting the cognoscenti at Vienna with her inimitable performances on the violin.-Beeches and other forest trees have been introduced in propriis personis on the stage at Vienna and Berlin, and have given great satisfaction, it is said, to the spectators, both by their fragrance and by their looking fully as well as those executed by the scene-painter. The celebrated Elephant is at present performing at the Caledonian Theatre here. We have seldom met with a more amusing specimen of managerial eloquence than the following, which we copy from one of the play-bills:→ "Triumphant success of the Elephant of Siam, which was received the last two nights with acclamations never exceeded in the walls of a theatre. Indeed, it is impossible to convey an idea of the magical effect the wonderful performance of the stupendous Elephant produced; the dresses, decorations, and the paraphernalia, are on all hands admitted to present a coup d'œil unexampled in the annals of the Scottish drama. The splendid and gorgeous drama was received with shouts of applause, and the termination of the second act with three cheers. The sagacity and docility (unattended with coercion of any kind) of the talented and colossal Mademoiselle d'Jeek fully entitles her to the appellation bestowed on her in Berlin, Moscow, Paris, and London, of the Wonder of the Age." TO OUR CORRESPONDENTS. "Judgment CLIFF" is in types.-We are afraid that the tale entitled "The Early Doomed," is too long for our pages.-The paper on "Erolites, or Meteoric Stones," is more adapted for a Scientific than a Literary Journal;-the author's views are corroborated by those of Murray, in his " Treatise on Atmospherical Electricity.”— "The Anecdotes by G. T. N." of Aberdeen will not suit us.-We shall be glad to attend to the commission of our correspondent in St Andrews. "A Tale of the Carnival," by our friend in Birmingham, shall have a place if we can possibly find room for it.-We shall not overlook the communications of our poetical friends in Forfar, Cupar Fife, Glasgow, and West Houses.-The" Sabbath Landscape," and "Thoughts on my Bridal Night," may perhaps appear when we next put on our SLIPPERS.-The author of the various translations from the German, Italian, and other languages, has our thanks; we shall make use of some of them ere long.-We regret that we shall not be able to make room for the following pieces:-" The Christian Mother's Lullaby,”—“ The Genius of Scotland, a Vision,"— "The Sailor's Children,"-" The Flooded Findhorn," by " M. F. B." of Forres,-" A New Sang till ane Auld Tune,” by O. P. Q.” of Inverness, and the two Ballads by "V. H." of Dumfries. LITERARY CRITICISM. Fifty-Six Engravings illustrative of Italy. A Poem. By Samuel Rogers, Esq. London. Jennings and Chaplin. 1830. (Unpublished.) Pompeiana, or Observations of the Topography, Edifices, and Ornaments of Pompeii. By Sir William Gell, F.R.S., &c. New Series. Parts 1, 2, 3. London. Jennings and Chaplin. 1830. "THE fatal gift of beauty!" Fatal indeed, rich Italy, for it has lured the spoiler now from the icy shores of the Baltic, and now from the sunburnt deserts of the south. The fierce Arab and the rude Goth, in their eagerness to lay hold of so fair a portion of the earth, have met upon their encountering paths, and contended for possessions amid the flames of cities, and over the bodies of men. In their rude grasp, the delicate and fragile existence of beauty was laid low. Yet, spiritual and eternal in her essence, she parted to re-unite ;-like the air, she closed again behind those intruders, who rushed recklessly through her; and while barbarian after barbarian has passed from the earth, as though he had never been, her presence still rests upon, and diffuses a charm over, her own land. Yes, Italy, thou art still Beauty's home! Fenced from the bleak north by the circling rampart of the mighty Alps, rising in green and undulating loveliness from the silver-gleaming seas which lave either shore, thou treasurest in thy bosom the fragments of ancient genius, united by kindred spirits into new and fairer groups, while the eternal sun casts down upon thee his most dazzling beams, and all the powers of vegetative nature cluster luxuriantly around the creations of man. Italy remains in our day, what she has been for ages, the especial home of the arts. There the mind of man, catching inspiration from the exuberant charms of nature, seems most fitted to receive the delicate impressions of form and colour, and to mirror them back with added loveliness. Other lands have outstrode her in the path of science; institutions as free and more enduring have given security to some nations; generous affection and moral power are the peculiar portion of others; but where shall we seek for a country where art has been so exclusively, so successfully, and so enduringly worshipped? The feeling of beauty has stood the Italian instead of religion and of morals. Although, in his land, Superstition, and her sister, practical Atheism, have taken up their head-quarters; and although he is of too boiling a temperament to subject himself to a reflective and self-denying morality; yet, deficient as he is in the two great and elevating principles of morals and religion, he has had their place all but supplied, and has been saved from degradation, by that sense of the beautiful, which informs his mind with a vitality unknown in other regions, and keeps the ethereal spark within him from being altogether submerged in the quagmire of sense. A journey to Italy is a journey to that fairyland where beauty and romance have built their palace. In Italy, time is not. We live at once in the days of Vir PRICE 6d. We are gil, Petrarch, Raphael, Tasso, and Alfieri. brought into immediate communion with the glorious dead. We tread their favourite haunts; we are sur rounded by the same fair objects their souls loved; we can scarcely refrain from expecting to see their forms crossing us at every turn. Let us depart then this instant for Italy, if not in the body, at least in the spirit, and leaving behind those thunders which, as we write, shake our walls, and that rain which is lashing without, let us range through sunny fields, conversing with the mighty spirits who still sway the moods of men. What better guides can we ask for such a journey, than those whom we have selected? There is Rogers, the patriarch of our age's poetry-amiable, accomplished, tasteful, and not deficient in power. There is Stothard, the Rogers of painting. There is Turner, daring and original, over whose faults no one could exult with a senseless triumph, unless incapable of feeling his power. Though last, not least in our dear love, there is "classic Gell." In gallant company we set out for the land of song and painting, and invite all who love the sunny sparkle of its waters, to make one of our party. And, lo! already we are in Switzerland, and thus speaketh Rogers: "Who first beholds those everlasting clouds, A something that informs him 'tis a moment 'Tis just, old Bard, and therefore we take, with thee, the only legitimate road to Italy-over the Alps. Aided by thy verse and Turner's pencil, we gaze on the placid beauty of the lake of Geneva, and advance past the wilder scenery which surrounds Tell's Chapel and St Maurice, up to the topmost summit of the Great St Bernard. And here we are somewhat at a loss to determine which has succeeded best—the painter, in bodying forth to us the wild and frozen crags, the massive convent walls, the dead dark lake—or the poet, in animating this stern outward show, by his homely but hearty picture of the convent's inhabitants and their occupations. One thing is in favour of the latter, it is easier to transplant his verse into our pages, than Turner's designs : "The Bise blew cold; And, bidden to a spare but cheerful meal, I sate among the holy brotherhood At their long board. The fare indeed was such But might have pleased a nicer taste than mine, And sheds a grace on all. Theirs, time as yet Nor was a brow o'ercast. Seen as I saw them, A dog howls loud and long, and now, observe, other moral imposthumes, are gendered by the hot and crowded atmosphere. Let us seek the Campagna, where the first object that presents itself is the villa where dwelt the " starry Galileo." And here we stop a moment to pay homage to the genius of Turner, which has so poetically handled this subject. In the foreground, to your left hand, is a group, consisting of a globe, a telescope, and other astronomical instruments. Behind them rises the villa, in simple and severe elegance. The sky above is light, sprinkled with fleecy clouds. To the right we see the moon dimly struggling through a dense mass of vapour. Thus, by the assemblage of these simple and inanimate objects, with the addition of Galileo's name, we are presented at once with his pursuits and his fortunes-his persecutions and mental serenity, and with the thrilling eternity of his fame. We pass on, and what does our enchanter offer next? A nameless villa, whose deep-shaded pillars and arches look jetty in the soft moonshine, while, behind it, moving figures traverse the garden's arcades in the mystic light. What know we of the place or its inhabitants? Nothing; and yet we have a vague sympathy with their joys, which makes it happiness to gaze at them! Onward! This is Rome! That huge round mass is the Castle St Angelo-that cupola is St Peter's. That But who descends Mont Velan? 'Tis La Croix; Away, away! if not, alas! too late ; Homeward he drags an old man and a boy, Faltering and falling, and but half awaken'd, Asking to sleep again.' Such their discourse." Having thus prepared ourselves for the pilgrimage to Italy, by leaving all our tramontane recollections among the sterile and stupendous scenery of that portion of Europe which lifts its head highest into heaven, we are ready, like sanctified novices, to commence our downward journey. Passing the same path along which Na-wide plain is the barren Campagna—a dreary level ;—on poleon and Hannibal marched to victory, we descend through Martigny to the lake of Como; and after indulging in the luxuries of the vintage, we embark for Venice. There she rises on the canvass of Turner, square-built and magnificent above the sapping wave; and there Stothard has given additional life to her fair canals, by introducing that galley sweeping along, with the twelve noble and lovely brides rescued from the corsair, casting a glory on her walls as they sail along; and there the pencil of Titian himself has fixed for ever the transient pageant of a Doge's funeral. Nor does the descriptive power of the poet approve itself less happy : "From the land we went, By many a pile in more than Eastern splendour, As though the wealth within them had run o'er.". But away from this amphibious beauty, over the Apennines, and down upon the vale of Arno, where Florence sits embowered in woods, like some fire-eyed bird of prey, enthroned in her lone eyry. Let us stand with the painter awhile beside these tall poplars, and view the city of palaces, softly shining through the sunny haze. Let us advance, and roam through its streets, gazing with old Stothard, to whom his age and art have lent the unearthly power of seeing the spiritual shadows which past actions leave on the place of their event, as in the case of the Buondelmonte, still reining up his steed before that fatal and seductive door. Or, let us enter the walls of the Medici Palace, and see where the art of Vasari still preserves in life the counterfeit of the boy Cardinal and his brother. Theirs was a fearful tale-horrid as ever the Grecian tragic muse embodied in her sounding strains. The brothers rode together to the chase, but only one returned. At nightfall the corpse of the other was brought home. At midnight the father roused the survivor from his bed, and led him to a lonely room. Where was his brother? He knew not. Cosmo snatched aside a veil, and the convicted criminal could only stammer out,"Twas in self-defence!"-" Wilt thou belie him too?" cried the father, and stabbed him to the heart. Let us escape from the city walls. one side, a fragment of a ruined tomb,-on the other, the shattered arches of an aqueduct, stretching out into infinity; in the far distance, low-browed hills, indicated through the ground haze the rising sun shining dimly through the misty air-a few gambolling goats the only living tenants of the scene. Not the most musical of Italy's rich voices could tell us more sweetly or more mournfully-" Roma! Roma! non é piu come era prima !” And yet, how much more touching these mouldering fragments of Earth's great mistress, thus separated from living nature by a deserted waste! Who goes to Rome, goes to visit the past; and busy, joyous traffic would be impertinent and discordant. It is a solecism in breeding to devote our attention exclusively to one person in company, and therefore we turn a moment from Turner's fascinations to attend to the severer taste of Stothard. There is a fine enthusiasm in "The Death of Raphael." The subject has warmed the old man's heart, and he has treated it with the ardour of a boy. The body of the immortal lies rigidly extended on a couch; immediately over him his own "Ascension" gives light to the whole of the composition; the learned, the pious, the lovely, and the powerful, cluster around his bed; and one fair female figure— his Fornacina-in all the abandonment of grief, hangs by his pillow. Turning from this lofty theme, our friend next directs our attention to those every-day beauties which haunt and waylay us in this pleasant clime,—fair children gathering shells beside the sunny waters, fairer girls carrying their pitchers on their heads from fountains of a younger world. where mutilated sculpture still speaks of the glorious men William Gell offers himself as cicerone. He introduces Our journey has now reached a new district, and Sir himself to our notice, and explains the peculiar difficulties which attend his office in the following terms: "With such an accession of new materials, the author of the present work has thought it advisable to lay them be culably diminish the freshness of those objects, which, when fore the public without delay, aware that time will incalstripped of their external coats by the rains of winter, or the burning suns of summer, lose by far the greater portion of their interest and identity. "Another motive for the immediate publication of whatever can be collected, is the great and increasing difficulty of obtaining permission to draw and measure the newlydiscovered antiquities, by which a foreigner is reduced to snatch from eternal oblivion only such morsels as a favourable moment may enable him to delineate. An astonishing are pent within such close limits, hatred, malice, and number of interesting objects is annually and hourly de Wherever men |