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landscape by Cuyp-next to the principal one at Dulwich, beyond com parison the most exquisite I have ever seen. I have said that I was disappointed in this gallery. I was so-but not dissatisfied. I should have been content to have gone all the way from London to see it, if it had consisted of this picture alone. It represents a perfectly open country, without either dwellings, human figures, or even foliage-except a few trees that rise at the extremity of the right-hand side. The only actual objects on which the eye is called upon to rest in particular, are two cows lying side by side on the right-one drinking on the leftone looking forth from the middle distance, and apparently lowingand three others in the second distance standing close together. How is it possible to extract an effect as of enchantment, from a scene like this--where there is a total absence of the interest arising from either beauty of form, association of ideas, variety of object or of action, contrast of colour, or any of those adventitious aids on which so much usually depends, even in the finest efforts of Art ? I know not-but so it is, that, from the most unpractised to the most cultivated and fastidious eye, none can look upon this picture without feeling riveted to it, by a charm, the nature of which few of them will pretend to expound. Not I, for one. Thus much I will say, however—that there must be something in it more than a mere reflection, even the most perfect, of mere nature. The scene itself here represented, could under no circumstances call forth the feelings that this representation of it calls forth. Not but every point of its detail is absolutely true to nature, and will bear the minutest examination in this respect. But there is a something infused into every part of it, and spread over it as a whole, which can neither be described nor seen, but only felt; and which, if it is not nature, is true and responsive to it, as the needle is to the Pole

-we know not why. It is, in fact, nature seen through the halo that is cast about it from the mind of genius ; and like many a piece of pure description from the pen of a poet, it affects us more vividly, and touches us more nearly, than the actual scene described could do under any circumstances. The splendid vision of natural beauty, in all its. richness and variety, that presents itself to the eye on looking from the windows of the room where this picture hangs, does not affect the mind more, and will not dwell upon the memory longer, and be recurred to oftener, than this simple representation of a bare open space of ground, with a few cows feeding, a group of trees, and a sunshiny sky. A volume might be written on the causes of this, and the reader of it no nearer to a solution of the problem at the end. The shorter and the better way is, to admit at once the miraculous power of genius, and bow down before it in token of a confiding and admiring love.

From the delightful room containing the above pictures, we pass into the library, which offers nothing of sufficient importance to be particularly described ; though it is perhaps the most merely entertaining portion of the collection, from the number of small cabinet gems it includes. Among these there is a sweet Magdalen, by Carlo Dolce, an interesting portrait of Anna Boleyn, and several very pleasing pieces of the Dutch school.

In an anti-room adjoining to this, we meet with two very interesting portraits: one of Sir Isaac Newton, by Kneller, and another of Edward VI. by Holbein; and in the large state dining-room which follows this, we have a most capital one of Harry VIII, by the same extraordinary

artist,—who could produce—and in fact has produced in the instance before us--the most admirable force and spiritedness of general effect, not only in spite of, but by means of, an infinite minuteness of particular detail. The bluff, bold-faced, impudent, and swaggering tyrant was never represented in a more characteristic manner than in this picture of him.

Besides the pictures in this Gallery, there are many pieces of ancient sculpture ; but I cannot think them of a character to merit a particular and detailed examination. They consist chiefly of single figures, most of which have been greatly mutilated, and restored by modern hands; and when this is the case, the whole of that interest which arises from their antiquity is lost. To attempt to restore the missing parts of a fine Greek statue, is worse than idle--it is impertinent. The merest fragment is more valuable in itself than any restoration of this kind can render it: for, however cleverly the work may be performed, so far from feeling satisfied that we see the object in the state in which the original artist left it, we feel certain that nothing can ever place it in that state. But if it cannot be in the same state, it may be in a better ?-So much the worse ! For we want to see, not what Phidias and Praxiteles did not produce, but what they did. Let us see the fragments as you find them, and we have this wish gratified to a certain extent; but, add to them, and you must alter them, at all events. It is on this principle that the Elgin Marbles, and the Venus Victrix, are the most interesting and affecting pieces of sculpture in the world. If another Phidias were to arise among us, and attempt to restore them to what even he should deem their pristine state, he would utterly destroy their value. Let him try to rival them, if he pleased ; (which he could not do, however, in our days, though he were twenty Phidiases :) but let him not touch and tamper with them.

There is one piece of sculpture in the collection at Petworth that struck me as being exceedingly valuable and fine. It is a group of Pan and a young Apollo; the latter with a set of pipes in his hand, as if learning to play. This group, in some respects, resembles Annibal Caracci's noble picture, on a similar subject, called Silenus and Apollo. The graceful awkwardness of the youthful god is very happily conceived, and executed with great truth and spirit.

LINES TO SPAIN.
Fair Land, of whose romantic bowers

The Arab in his desert dreams,
Where chiefless halls and Moorish towers

Hang mouldering o'er thy silent streams;
By them seen rolling to the sea
In many a bright and varied maze,
As they have view'd the tide of days

Lapse down into eternity!
No more upon their summits hoar

War's standard towers sublime;
Where battle's pennon stream’d of yore,

Waves thy green banner, Time!
of thraldom banish'd from the land,

Proud monuments—those voiceless donies,
And later wrecks like rivals stand,

Oppression's graves, and Freedom's homes.

There Ebro's waters as they flow
Steal on the ear like voice of woe,
As if the scenes that tinged its flood
So silvery bright with hues of blood

Dwelt there for evermore !-
As if the shades of perish'd hosts,

That imaged in its bosom lay,
Like the pale forms of Stygian ghosts,

When Zaragoza pass'd away-
When round her shatter'd walls sat down
The legions of the Iron Crown,

Still haunted its sweet shore.
Few years have pass'd with years that be
Beyond the hills-beyond the sea,

The earth and ocean o'er,
Since her pale ruins told too well,
How long she fought-how late she fell;
When the last thunders peal'd her knell,
And thrice ten thousand souls' farewell

Her passing breezes bore.
Her's is a tale that cannot die,

Eternal as the day and night;
It shall be heard when men shall sigh

In hopelessness to guess her site.
Vain would this feeble strain essay
Thy forms of beauty to pourtray ;.
To speak of eyes beneath whose light
The bosom heaves, as heaves the breast
Of ocean to the Queen of Night,

When winds have wander'd to their rest,
Beneath whose beams the heart doth beat

Offering the incense of its sighs,
In days of old as music sweet
From Memnon's statue rose to greet

The day-star in the skies.
Go—with thy pencil try to trace

In hues of earth the light of Heaven,

But deem not to thine art is given The gleams of soul on beauty's face With brightest tints of earth to paint

Those lights of feeling undefined, So softly-beautifully blent

Into a rainbow of the mind.
Oh! may thy foes be as the rack

Before the rising tempest's sway!
Thy sons—the whirlwind at their back
To
scourge

them from thy clime away!
Be silent, vale and orange-grove,
Long, long the peaceful haunts of love !
When day is in its ocean grave,

And fast the pale-grey twilight fades,
And starlight trembles on the wave,

Be heard thy pensive serenades
That steal on beauty's bower of rest,

Soft as the melody that flow'd
Down Eden's steeps—when in the West

Love's star in lonely brightness flow'd,
And man held converse with his God!

G. M.

He sees

TABLE TALK. NO. VII.

On Londoners and Country People. I do not agree with Mr. Blackwood in his definition of the word Cockney. He means by it a person who has happened at any time to live in London, and who is not a Tory-I mean by it, a person who has never lived out of London, and who has got all his ideas from it.

The true Cockney has never travelled beyond the purlieus of the Metropolis, either in the body or the spirit. Primrose-hill is the Ultima Thule of his most romantic desires ; Greenwich Park stands him in stead of the Vales of Arcady. Time and space are lost to him. He is confined to one spot, and to the present moment. every thing near, superficial, little, in hasty succession. The world turns round, and his head with it, like a roundabout at a fair, till he becomes stunned and giddy with the motion. Figures glide by as in a camera obscura. There is a glare, a perpetual hubbub, a noise, a crowd about him; he sees and hears a vast number of things, and knows nothing. He is pert, raw, ignorant, conceited, ridiculous, shallow, contemptible. His senses keep him alive; and he knows, inquires, and cares for nothing farther. He meets the Lord Mayor's coach, and without ceremony treats himself to an imaginary ride in it. He notices the people going to court or to a city-feast, and is quite satisfied with the show. He takes the wall of a Lord, and fancies himself as good as he. He sees an infinite quantity of people pass along the street, and thinks there is no such thing as life or a knowledge of character to be found out of London. “ Beyond Hyde Park all is a desert to him.” He despises the country, because he is ignorant of it, and the town, because he is familiar with it. He is as well acquainted with St. Paul's as if he had built it, and talks of Westminster Abbey and Poets' Corner with great indifference. The King, the House of Lords and Commons are his very good friends. He knows the members for Westminster or the City by sight, and bows to the Sheriffs or the Sheriffs' men. He is hand and glove with the Chairman of some Committee. He is, in short, a great man by proxy, and comes so often in contact with fine persons and things, that he rubs off a little of the gilding, and is surcharged with a sort of secondhand, vapid, tingling, troublesome self-importance. His personal vanity is thus continually flattered and perked up into ridiculous selfcomplacency, while his imagination is jaded and impaired by daily misuse, Every thing is vulgarised in his mind. Nothing dwells long enough on it to produce an interest; nothing is contemplated sufficiently at a distance to excite curiosity or wonder. Your true Cockney is your only true leveller. Let him be as low as he will, he fancies he is as good as any body else. He has no respect for himself, and still less (if possible) for you. He cares little about his own advantages, if he can only make a jest at yours. Every feeling comes to him through a medium of levity and impertinence; nor does he like to have this habit of mind disturbed by being brought into collision with any thing serious or respectable. He despairs (in such a crowd of competitors) of distinguishing himself, but laughs heartily at the idea of being able to trip up the heels of other people's pretensions. A Cockney feels no gratitude. This is a first principle with him. He regards any obliga

tion you confer upon him as a species of imposition, a ludicrous assumption of fancied superiority. He talks about every thing, for he has heard something about it; and understanding nothing of the matter, concludes he has as good a right as you. He is a politician; for he has seen the Parliament House : he is a critic; because he knows the principal actors by sight-has a taste for music, because he belongs to a glee-club at the West End; and is gallant, in virtue of sometimes frequenting the lobbies at half-price. A mere Londoner, in fact, from the opportunities he has of knowing something of a number of objects (and those striking ones) fancies himself a sort of privileged person; remains satisfied with the assumption of merits, so much the more unquestionable as they are not his own; and from being dazzled with noise, show, and appearances, is less capable of giving a real opinion, or entering into any subject than the meanest peasant. There are greater lawyers, orators, painters, philosophers, players in London, than in any other part of the United Kingdom: he is a Londoner, and therefore it would be strange if he did not know more of law, eloquence, art, philosophy, acting, than any one without his local advantages, and who is merely from the country. This is a non sequitur ; and it constantly appears so when put to the test.

A real Cockney is the poorest creature in the world, the most literal, the most mechanical, and yet he too lives in a world of romance-a fairy-land of his own. He is a citizen of London ; and this abstraction leads his imagination the finest dance in the world. London is the first city on the habitable globe; and therefore he must be superior to every one who lives out of it. There are more people in London than any where else; and though a dwarf in stature, his person swells out and expands into ideal importance and borrowed magnitude. He resides in a garret or in a two pair of stairs' back room; yet he talks of the magnificence of London, and gives himself airs of consequence upon it, as if all the houses in Portman or in Grosvenor Square were his by right or in reversion. “ He is owner of all he surveys.” The Monument, the Tower of London, St. James's Palace, the Mansion House, White-Hall, are part and parcel of his being. Let us suppose him to be a lawyer's clerk at half-a-guinea a week : but he knows the Inns of Court, the Temple Gardens, and Gray's-Inn Passage, sees the lawyers in their wigs walking up and down Chancery Lane, and has advanced within balf-a-dozen yards of the Chancellor's chair :—who can doubt that he understands (by implication) every point of law (however intricate) better than the most expert country practitioner? He is a shopman, and nailed all day behind the counter : but he sees hundreds and thousands of

welldressed people pass--an endless phantasmagoria—and enjoys their liberty and gaudy fluttering pride. He is a footman-but he rides behind beauty, through a crowd of carriages, and visits a thousand shops. Is he a tailor? The stigma on bis profession is lost in the elegance of the patterns he provides, and of the persons he adorns; and he is something very different from a mere country botcher. Nay, the very scavenger and nightman thinks the dirt in the street has something precious in it, and his employment is solemn, silent, sacred, peculiar to London ! A barker in Monmouth Street, a slop-seller in Ratcliffe-Highway, a tapster at a night cellar, a beggar in St.

gay,

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