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meet with in this state part of the Castle. But this would be no matter -or but little in many instances-if we could depend on their likeness to the originals. But I am afraid they will not bear us out in this. The above, at all events, is entirely different from two or three old engravings that are extant of that accomplished scholar, courtier, wit, poet, and gentleman.

Passing through the chapel, we reach "The Crimson Drawing-room," in which there are several pictures of various degrees of merit ; but none first-rate. Some of them which bear first-rate names are evidently copies; and others have been greatly injured by time and accident. Upon the whole, the pictures in this room, though they are more numerous (with the exception of portraits) than those collected in any other apartment, do not call for particular mention.

The only other works of art necessary to be named in this part of the Castle are a set of copies, by Mytens, of the Cartoons of Raffaelle. These are capable of giving a general notion of those sublime works to such as do not choose to seek the originals; but to such as are acquainted with the latter, or ever intend to be so, they had better be passed over with a mere cursory look. It is scarcely possible to copy the general grouping and arrangement of those works without producing a certain grandeur and solemnity of effect; but the detail (in which more than half their power consists) must be contemplated in the originals alone: and those who do not see these, had, in fact, better not see any imitations or hints of them, but keep the mere name of "The Cartoons of Raffaelle" to produce their own impression on the imagination. The above-named copies occupy an apartment called "The Cartoon Gallery." The only other apartment belonging to the state or show part of the Castle is "The King's Bedroom." It does not contain any of those objects of which we are immediately in search; but as we are to pass through it, it may be worth while to mention what many will consider as more than an equivalent for their absence. Here is the bed of gold and silver tissue, made exprés, at a cost of eight thousand pounds, for the monarch (James I.) to pass a night in-here are tables and looking-glass frames formed entirely of that fine rich old chased silver which gives such a splendid antique effect to some of the rooms in Windsor Castle-and above all, here is the identical key used by Charles Earl of Dorset, when Lord Chamberlain to William the Third; and that used by Edward Earl of Dorset, when holding the same post in the court of Charles the First. I have always thought it childish enough to feel any interest in the mere sight of relics of this kind. The name has always seemed to me quite as good as the thing. The idea of more tangible objects of this kind answers all the purpose that the sight of them can be made to do, by calling up all the associations connected with them just as effectually. And yet I question whether the most determined philosophiser on such subjects as these ever entered the room containing the above objects without not only looking at them with a feeling of interest and curiosity, but without taking them up and handling them so much, by another species of association, does the sight and touch seem to bring home to one, ideas, images, and feelings, that can be compassed in no other way. And, in fact, the seeming is in this case every thing: so that it is but a spurious philosophy after

all, and what is worse,,an affected one, to endeavour or pretend to do without any of those aids which nature (or habit, which is the same thing) has placed in our way in cases of this kind. Let every visitor, then, to this curious old apartment-young or old, gentle or simple, rich or poor,-take up these keys, and make them, if he can, serve as the "Open sesame !" to the doors of by-gone times; and while he turns them in his hand, and hears in imagination the bolts fly back which answered to them, let him, if he pleases, fancy himself in the actual presence of those in whose presence they have frequently been.

The remaining apartments in this fine old monument of antiquity, are those which the family occupy. They are only remarkable generally for the delightful air of comfort which breathes through them, arising from the total absence of all pretensions at modern ornamental splendour, which cannot by any art be made to blend consistently with the real results of antique taste. The only objects of fine art to which I shall refer in this part of the Castle, are those which I alluded to in the commencement of this paper; namely, a collection of portraits, which, in point of extent at least, is perhaps unique. In order to avoid a mere enumeration of these (which their extent will not admit of in my limited space), it may be said that there is scarcely a celebrated name belonging to the last three hundred years, connected with literature, science, and the fine arts, whose effigy may not be found in this most interesting collection. I will add, that if the mansion of Knowle Park had contained no other objects of art than these portraits, they alone would have entitled it to be noticed among our British Galleries.

THE LAST MAN.

WRITTEN BY T. CAMPBELL.

ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,

The sun himself must die,

Before this mortal shall assume

Its immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep

Adown the gulf of Time!

I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!

Some had expir'd in fight,—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some!

Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead

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ON THE ART OF SINGING SONGS.

GOLDSMITH, I think, says, that he seldom heard a young man attempt to sing in company without exposing himself; and it is too true that, owing to various causes, few people of any age can sing a song without grieving their friends. Yet, songs are the delight of mankind. Among ruder nations they are employed to animate heroism or to express sentiments for which common language is too poor; and among people of the greatest refinement they often make an important part, or, as it were, the completion and consummation, of social enjoyment. Old gentlemen, who used to sing, are always delighted to find that vocal music is not yet extinct; old ladies, who used to be sung to, at, or of, are reminded by a skilful voice of the days when they and the world were young and happy; middle-aged people of the smallest pretensions to feeling, both men and women, love a song; and the young, who like pleasure in every shape, never object to it in this its most barmonious and seductive shape of all. There is no part of the country in which singing is not held in estimation. In the southern counties of this island, from the moisture of the air and the fatness of the soil, singers are not abundant, but singing is, perhaps, prized the more on that account. In the central parts, and generally on what is called by geologists London gravel, a voice is more common, but scarcely less admired. In the eastern parts, among marsh-water, reeds, willows, wolds, and rabbit-warrens, singing is a patent of nobility; whilst in Yorkshire and other wild parts of the country it is considered a very exalted proof of gentle breeding;-but among the mountains of Wales, in the glens and by the river sides in Scotland, in the depths and passes of the Highlands to the very remotest parts, and in every nook and corner of Ireland, singing is valued to a degree which less romantic people, and those who live in the plains, must strain their faculties to understand. The Welsh themselves sing tolerably, but with a certain monotony peculiar, I think, to mountaineers, and which haunts you too in Scotland, and is painfully recognised in the long-drawn and twanging close of an Irish ditty. The natives of Scotland, to speak without partiality, do in general sing in a manner unutterably frightful; but then you occasionally meet some fair-haired lovely woman in that country, one who might personate the loveliest heroine of Scottish poetry or the Scottish novels, who sings you into the third heaven. The Irish, strange to say, though exquisitely endowed with taste, and excelling on instruments of all kinds, and passionate to excess in all their feelings, are very deficient in vocal music; insomuch that it was acknowledged, in all the four provinces of that kingdom, that one great advantage of the exchange of militias was the importation of singers and songs from England. The French have some of the prettiest songs in the world, if they knew how to sing them; their street-singing is exquisite; and it is a fine thing to hear a whole regiment of their dragoons -officers, sergeants, corporals, privates, "pioneers and all," singing, as they are wont on a march, some grand national air; but on ordinary occasions their nasality is absolutely alarming, and they sing, as Rousseau used to say, as if grievously afflicted with the cholic. As this is not intended to be a treatise on music, it is unnecessary to go on to Italian singing. My present object is to treat especially and particularly of

domestic, festival, and after-supper singing,-an art little known on the Continent, but much cultivated in many parts of this country.

I suppose no man who has ears to hear will deny that singing is a great advantage to any man. People are often supported through all the formalities of reception at an evening party, and endure all the meagre hospitalities of the occasion, and the arrangement of the cardtables, and the intense heat, and the abortive attempts at sprightly and continuous conversation, and all that must be undergone on these occasions, for hours, in the hope of hearing some vocal gentleman sing a favourite song at last: and as singers are every where scarce, the singing gentleman is feasted, flattered, coaxed, seduced from the whisttable, and, above all, entreated by all the lovely voices and faces in the room to sing that sweet song which he sung at Mrs. So and So's. Blushing, and delighted, and palpitating, he seems averse to begin, when, in fact, his heart pants for that breathless silence of sweet tongues, without which no man of any vanity can venture, in cold blood, to begin a cherished and valued song. At last the general pause takes place, and that sun-flower conversion of all eyes upon the singer, during which even those who hate him must force their faces into an expression of delighted expectation. This is a moment fatal to the inexperienced, but to a practised and familiarised singer worth six weeks of common existence. Dinner companies also are occasionally collected together, of which, unfortunately, ladies form no part; and after a certain hour in the evening, there being no summons to the drawing-room, a good song is worth its weight in gold. How delightful it is in such circumstances to find that a man who has been sitting next to you, and who ate heartily and drank freely, but was withal heavy, mute, and unimaginative, starts at once into a delightful companion, and, whilst he sings at least, is as good as the rest of the company! To say the truth, however, this seldom happens: the true singer, the man with a voice of various power, and with well-chosen songs, is a man of soul and feeling, and talks as much or more than the other guests: every thing interests him, every thing animates him; a thousand things rouse him into vinous eloquence, a thousand things affect him; and what an advantage has such a man, at an hour when the party feels little interest in any thing, and can scarcely be roused by any thing, when eloquence itself is powerless, when wit is exhausted, all activity of mind at an end, and all the softer affections in a state of lethargy, who, by the simple power of his voice and by the aid of song, can call up from the depths of sleepiness all the lively feelings of his hearers, and can kindle them into enthusiasm or soften them into sentiment as he chooses. This the singer can do with ease; for he is master of a divine art which can throw enchantment over much that would be otherwise mean and insignificant. With what complacent and reviving countenances do the people turn to him! with what re-animated and glistening eyes regard him! acknowledging the mighty supremacy of his harmonious and irresistible accomplishment. There are, besides, such things as supper-parties, petits soupers of agreeable people, nearly exploded, it is true, in the economical rage for those unsocial and lower-extremity-fatiguing things called Stand-up suppers, but still in existence, after which a song is always desired, often requested, and ever received as a favour of the highest value. And what a reward it

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