picture, or the attitudes of the figures. Perhaps (for now-a-days one is expected to be able to account for every thing)-perhaps this has arisen from the absorbing effect of one particular point in the picture, which fascinated my senses at the time, and has dwelt upon my memory ever since, to the exclusion of all the rest. This is the back of the Juno; which, as a piece of painting of human flesh, kindling with all the internal glow of health, and the external bloom of youth and beauty, surpasses any thing I ever saw. No Nature itself was ever finer; and, what is more, it is no finer than Nature is. In fact, it is to all intents and purposes the same as Nature, as far as regards the faculty of sight. It differs from the rest of the flesh in these pictures, in having more carnations mixed with it than they have. Probably this heightening was an after-thought of the painter-being rendered necessary by the patch of pure white which he had introduced into the centre of the picture, in the form of the cow's head (Io)—which intervenes between Jupiter and Juno. There is in this, as in most of the others, a Cupid above; and there is a blue drapery below-perhaps to balance the effect of the white on the one hand, as the carnations in the flesh do on the other.

The last picture in this collection represents Neptune and Amphitrite. The female figure is here, as usual, by much the finest part; and wonderfully fine in this instance it is. It is instinct with imaginative passion in every portion of it. She is but partly seated on the knees of Neptune, while her long arms are earnestly stretched out above him at a distance, as if anxious, yet afraid, to let them fall round him. Her hair flows loosely down her back; probably to correspond with this flowing and outspread attitude. On the ground, at their feet, there is a Cupid and a dolphin. The general harmony and particular truth of colouring in this picture, are, I think, equal to most of the others; and may rank, upon the whole, as among the best.

it

I have little to add in the way of general observations. The most obvious that occurs to me is the immeasurable superiority of the female figures, over the males, in these pictures. The latter, with the excep tion of the Cupid and the Apollo, seem to be introduced chiefly as foils to set off the charms of the former. They are in no instance made so inferior as to produce a positively bad effect, even as it regards themselves alone; but they are all (with the exceptions I have named) kept in complete subservience to their companions. I question whether this is, upon the whole, to be regarded as a judicious mode of treating individual subjects of this kind; though, perhaps, it is the only one which ensures the success aimed at by the artist in these works, namely, of fixing and concentrating the attention to one point, as to a focus. If Titian had thrown as much of his genius and skill into the male figures as he has into the female, the works would have been finer in themselves; but their effects, individually and collectively, on the spectator, would have been very different from what they now are, and, in proportion, less what they were intended to be. Titian was the least in the world of an egotist-in his works I mean. He sought to exhibit and impress the merits of his subject, not of himself ; and his subject, in the present instance, was the influence of female beauty-not the beauty of the human form, but of the female form: and those who can visit these pictures, in however cursory a manner,

and not carry away the sting of that beauty in their minds, there to remain for ever, are not made of "penetrable stuff."

Parts of these pictures are the most eloquent commentary that ever was written on the maxim that "Beauty is Truth-Truth Beauty." They put to flight in a moment the endless jargon about the ideal, and leave nothing to be said on the subject.-The ideal, if it has any meaning at all, means the perfection of the true. It is, not what may be, but what has been, or what is. And it may safely be said to have never yet equalled its prototype. Probably there are existing at present, and have been at any given time, forms and faces that are more beautiful than any the pencil or the chisel ever produced.

The only other observation that it occurs to me to make is, that the artist has, in these pictures, balanced the charms of expression and of colouring more fairly than he usually did in works of this nature. He generally made one or other of these entirely predominate; witness those two splendid and unrivalled pieces of colouring at the Cleveland Gallery-the Diana and Acteon, and Diana and Calisto. In those pictures the expression goes for almost nothing. They are appeals to the senses alone. You can actually, as it were, taste the flavour of them on the palate. And if you remember them at all in absence, it is as a kind of harmonious chaos of colour, "without form and void;" or like a chord in music-one sweet sound made up of many-harmony without melody. But the works before us appeal equally to the senses and the imagination; like a melody and a harmony united. Whether they are the more or the less valuable on this account, I shall not determine. Certain it is, that by appealing to both in an almost equal degree, they do not act so strongly and permanently as they might otherwise do on either. The relative value of each style remains to be measured by the sum of pleasure it produces.

I understand it has been said that these pictures are not painted by Titian! If so, they are even more extraordinary works than I take them to be; for they prove that we have had as great a painter as Titian in the world, without knowing it: for if they are not by Titian, they are not by any one else that we have ever heard of.

SONNET FROM PETRARCH.

"I'vo piangendo i miei passati tempi."

I MOURN the wreck of years untimely spent
In the concerns of base mortality,

Without a wish to rise, though Heaven had lent
The wings, and given a soul and strength to fly.
Thou who inhabitest eternity,

Immortal and invisible-present

Aid to my weakness, to my wants supply,
And guide my spirit wandering and o'erspent.

If I have lived in tempests, let me die

In peace, and in the harbour-if my stay
Were vain, more noble let my parting be;
And let thy gracious hand be ever nigh

Through the short remnant of my sinking day;
My hope, thou know'st, is fix'd alone on thee.

THE HOUNDS DITCH ALBUM.

Third Letter from Miss Hebe Hoggins.

The Conversazione.

CADMUS had not greater difficulty in civilizing his Boeotians, than I have found in introducing a comparative gentility to our domestic circle in Houndsditch, although I have finally succeeded, as far as the nature of the obstacles will admit. An unconditional assent has been given to three articles in which I was personally interested; I am to put on a white gown every day, not to go to afternoon church on a Sunday, and never to wear pattens. My father, after a severe struggle, has consented to exchange his bob-wig for a fashionable crop; and my mother has conformed to all the external modifications I could wish, though she remains incurably afflicted with that infirmity of speech to which Mrs. Malaprop was subject. Upon questions of grammar we are perpetually at variance, for I am so often in the accusative case that Mrs. Hoggins cannot keep out of the imperative mood, and not unfrequently interrupts me with exclamations of "Psha! child, don't worret one so; I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself; I knew nothing of genders and conjunctions when I was your age, but I thinks girls talks of every thing now a-days." As to mending her cacophony, (as my Lord Duberly says) it is a hopeless attempt; silence is the only corrective, and to this alternative I was particularly anxious to reduce her last night, when I obtained her consent to my giving a literary conversazione, which I am happy to say passed off with the greatest possible success and éclat.

Exclusively of the members of our society, some of the most celebrated characters in the world of letters honoured our coterie. The gentleman who wrote the last pantomime for one of our minor theatres, distinguished himself by some excellent practical jokes, which he played off with infinite adroitness. Mr. Grope, index-maker to one of the first publishers in the Row, astonished us by the alphabetical accuracy of his genius; Mr. Grub, who inserted in the Gentleman's Magazine a most interesting account of a Roman tooth-pick, dug up at the mouth of the Thames, was profound in antiquarian research; Miss Sphinks, who writes all the charades and rebuses for the Lady's Pocket-book, captivated the company with some capital conundrums; while we were all highly delighted with the caustic satire and biting irony of Mr. Fungus, a young man of great future celebrity, who, not having completed his studies, has not yet attained the art of writing books, and therefore contents himself for the present with reviewing them.

It is well known that absence of mind has been an invariable accompaniment of genius, and it is therefore not without complacency that I record a ludicrous incident arising from one of those fits of literary abstraction to which I have been recently subject. While presiding at the tea-table I inadvertently substituted a canister of my father's snuff for the caddy, infusing eight large spoonfuls of the best Lundy Foot into the tea-pot; nor did I discover my mistake until the wry faces, watery eyes, and incessant sneezing of the company, were explained by

Papa's angry exclamation-" Why, drat it! the girl's bewitch'd—I'll be hang'd if she hasn't wasted half-a-pound of my best Lundy Foot upon these confounded --." A violent fit of sneezing fortunately prevented the completion of the sentence, and as I made good haste to repair my error by tendering him a cup (which he will persist in calling a dish) of genuine souchong by the time he had done wiping his eyes and blowing his nose, he suffered himself to be pacified. Dispatching as rapidly as possible this repast of the body, I hastened to the feast of reason, which I began by reciting a little song of my own composition, entitled

Forgetful Cupid.

A ROSE one morning Cupid took,

And fill'd the leaves with vows of love,
When Zephyr passing fann'd the book,
And wafted oaths and leaves above.

Seizing his dart, the god then traced
Pledges to Psyche in the sand,
But soon the refluent tide effaced
The fleeting record of his hand.
Quoth, Psyche, "From your wing I'll take
Each morn a plume, and you another,
With which new pledges we will make,
And write love-letters to each other."

Cries Cupid," But if every pen

Be used in writing oaths to stay,
What shall I do for pinions, when

I want them both-to fly away ?"

I frankly admitted that I thought the flow of these verses somewhat Moore-ish, and observed that they adapted themselves happily to one of the Irish Melodies, when I overheard Miss Caustic whisper to her neighbour, that if I was correct as to the metre, there wanted nothing but different words and sentiments to make it really very like Moore. Envy does merit like its shade pursue," and we all know Miss Caustic's amiable propensities. If I were to require her to write a better, before she presumed to criticize my production, I fancy she would be condemned to a pretty long silence.

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Mr. Scribbleton, a multifarious operator for the theatres, particularly in getting up farces, next favoured us with a comic song, which he assured us was the easiest thing in the world to compose, as it was only to take a story from Joe Miller, versify it, and add a little nonsense by way of chorus, and he had never known the experiment fail. He relied confidently on a double encore for the following, inserted in a forthcoming piece, put into the mouth of a Yorkshireman.

The Smoky Chimney.

GRIPE'S chimney were smother'd wi' soot and wi' sinoke,
But I won't pay for sweeping, he mutter'd;

So he took a live goose to the top-gave a poke,

And down to the bottom it flutter'd.

Hiss, flippity! hiss, flappity!
Flippity, flappity, hiss!

Wauns! how cruel, cries one-says another, I'm shock'd—
Quoth Gripe, I'm asham'd on 't, adzooks:

But I'll do so no more. So the next time it smok'd,

He popp'd down a couple of ducks.

Quaak, flippity! quaak, flappity!
Flippity, flappity, quaak!

At my earnest solicitation, Mr. Schweitzkoffer next recited some farther extracts from "The Apotheosis of Snip." This hero is conducted to the Dandelion Tea Gardens, formerly established in the vicinity of Margate, where he delivers a political harangue, which a part of the company receive in dudgeon while others supporting the orator, a pelting of stones and general combat ensue, of which the particulars are thus humorously detailed.

Not with more dire contention press'd
The Greeks and Trojans, breast to breast,
When, brandish'd o'er Patroclus dead,
Gleam'd many a sword and lance,
And from their flashing contact shed
Light on his pallid countenance,
Than did these Dandelion wights,
Rivals of Greek and Trojan knights,
Who all as thick and hot as mustard,

O'er Snip, the prostrate, fought and bluster'd.
Nor was that combat so prolific

Of doleful yells and screams terrific

For Trojan stout and stubborn Greek,

Tho' wounded, scorn'd to whine or squeak,

While those who were from wounds most safe

Did here most clamorously chafe.

Mothers, aunts, sisters, nieces, grannies,
Always more voluble than man is,
Might here, by their commingled gabble,
Have stunn'd the chatterers of Babel,-
As if the warriors made their doxies
Their vocal deputies and proxies;
And by their better halves confess'd
The feelings they themselves suppress'd-
As when a bagpipe 's squeezed behind,
It squeaks by pipe to which 'tis join'd.
Questions, calls, cries, and interjections,
Were intermix'd in all directions ;-
Where's Jacky, Harry, Ned, and Billy?-
Coom hither, Tummas, or they'll kill ye-
Good gracious! where is Mr. Wiggins?
Mamma, we can't find uncle Spriggins.
Dear me! that lady's in a swound :-
Well, ma'am, you needn't tear one's gownd.
Jacky, do you take care of Polly.
O heavens! there's another volley!
O Mr. Stubbs! what shall I do?
Has any lady found a shoe?
Sally's lace veil is gone, I vow-

I'll take my oath 'twas here just now.
Why do you stare at me, good madam ?
I know no more of it than Adam.
Why, see, you thoughtless little fool,
You popp'd it in your ridicule.