far from being peculiar to the Spring, that I am doubtful whether it has any place in my record of its pleasures. I have been, however, particularly struck by the appearance of some individuals among the groups collected round the itinerant musicians, who are to be met with about the streets of London; and I believe, much of what has thus interested me is to be ascribed to the influx of strangers,-consequently, is more remarkable in the Spring than at any other time. A genuine Londoner, high or low, has a sort of pride in showing his superiority to these attractions: he will rarely allow himself to be struck, pleased, or affected by common sights or sounds, while walking along the busy and crowded mart. He rather wishes it to be understood that he has something better to do than to give way to the feelings of nature at these times. Consequently, with the exception of here and there an individual whom affliction may have placed above or below the sense of degradation, you will find these groups generally composed of people who come to London they hardly know why, and look as if they would be away from thence did they but know how. When the beautiful air of Rousseau's Dream, or a German, or Irish, or Scotch melody, has been played by one of those sweet-toned barrel-organs which we meet with at different stations, it is really an affecting sight to watch the countenances of the listeners, as they linger and linger, unwilling to leave the region enlivened or hallowed by these beautiful sounds. I have speculated, sometimes in prose, sometimes in verse, on the variety of associations which this one strain may be awakening in the minds of different individuals. Mr. Wordsworth's little poem, "At the corner of Wood-street," is probably as natural as it is touching. In some hearts, perhaps, there may be less of tender feeling than, of remorse-and in that one word how much have we included! There is the remorse of the boy, lightly thought of by hard and callous natures, but no small and trifling burthen to him who carries it-of the boy, I say, who some time ago left a pure and happy home, with an unsullied conscience, and feels that he has taken into his mind images and thoughts of evil which he dreamt not of before-who recollects the days of generous feeling, the season of young devotion, and feels that he now sees but the utmost "skirts of glory, and far off adores ;"-the remorse of the female, who has fallen a victim to the arts of seduction, and would fain return and live ;—and the stronger and deeper anguish of the aged sinner, who has outlived those passions which led him to the commission of crime, and now feels a sort of infantine longing after the scenes in which he once lived happy and virtuous. It is possible, also, that among those who stand within those charmed circles of sound, there may be minds of a higher cast, young poets who have been entrapped into the fatal error of making the Muse a pander to courtly authority, who have tainted the Castalian spring by a mixture of the waters of corruption;-these few natural notes are enough to make them scorn their worse than Egyptian bondage, and abjure, for a moment, all the gloss and glitter which Art has thrown over the face of society-other hearts, other feelings.Beautiful and salutary is the transient developement of natural emotion which takes place in the minds of the gay and young who come to London for enjoyment's sake, and leave it full of its pleasures without sharing in its pollutions. Even these are reminded of things worth remembering, and feel themselves the better for the strain. To them they bring a thought, like balm, If such should now be passing "a Spring in London," perhaps they will feel for themselves what I have imperfectly described. B. son The monarch grieves his favourite son "Oh, Absalom! would for thee I had died on the battlefield Jaob hath won Oh! would I had died for thee!" No victor's shout was heard that day, No train of triumph borne; But the warriors in silence march'd on their way Nor sounded trump or horn. Joab their chief hath sought the king, Secluded at the gate, Where in garb of woe, and in suffering, He melancholy sate. "Now hear, O Israel's monarch, hear! What all thy people say, They saved thee and thine from the rebel In the heat of battle-fray spear, They cry, In vain their blood they pour'— That thou grievest the loss of the rebels more Than thy subjects perish'd there. To their dwellings they go in shame; Thou, king, art left alone; And the evil that threatens thy house and name Will overwhelm thy throne. Forget, O king, thy from ill-timed woes, The hour is now full late." And the king put on, as he mournful arose, The purple of his state. He is gone heart-sick to the hall— He bids his people come, And they shout-but their shout is a funeral call The knell of Absalom! 1. BRITISH GALLERIES OF ART.-NO. v. The Titian Gallery at Blenheim. I PROPOSE to offer a separate notice of these extraordinary works; partly, because it is impossible to do any thing like justice to them in the very limited space that could be allowed them if they were included in a general notice of the pictures at Blenheim; but chiefly for the purpose of calling the public attention to a set of works, which, as a set, are only second in power and value to the Cartoons, and which yet are almost as little known and visited as if they were of no value at all. This has probably arisen partly from the nature of their subjects, and from their being, on this account, not shewn to the casual visitors of Blenheim.* But it must be attributed chiefly to the fact of their never having been adequately described, and the nature of their various merits estimated and pointed out; for if this latter had been done, the former reason for their neglect would not have existed for there is nothing in the least degree exceptionable in the treatment of any of the subjects-certainly much less than is to be found in the Danäes, Venuses, &c. that form a part of almost every great collection. If I venture to attempt furnishing something like this desideratum now, it is not because I feel myself capable of doing it adequately or effectually, but because no one else seems disposed to do it at all; and a fruitless attempt to do a good thing not unfrequently calls forth a successful one, when nothing else would. I shall say little of these pictures generally, except that they are all of exactly the same character, though of different degrees of merit ; that they seem all to have been executed much about the same time, and with reference to each other as a regular set of works; and that they include (what Titian's highest productions not always did) both those kinds of merit for which he was nearly unrivalled; namely, his matchless truth and harmony of colouring, and his intense power of expression-not of restricted and individual expression only, the expression of parts-but general unity of expression breathing forth from each work as a whole. There are eight of these pictures, all on subjects from the Greek mythology; or rather all on one subject; namely, the loves of the immortals of that mythology. They are all of the same dimensions; and each picture represents a couple nearly the size of life and yet there. is not the slightest similarity in either the attitude, air, or individual expression, of any two of them, or the slightest feeling of monotony excited by seeing them all in the same room. This "infinite variety" alone may be looked upon as an evidence of high genius. I shall begin my separate notice of them with the Mars and Venus ; which, together with the Cupid and Psyche, occupies the end of the room opposite to that at which you enter. This is not one of the best of these works, and it appears to me to have been the most injured by time, cleaning, &c. Venus is seated on the knee of Mars, but turned away from him; and while one of her hands passes behind his head, with the fingers delicately pressing on the back of it, in the other hand she * They do not shew them unless you ask to see them. holds a glass, in which she is contemplating his image andher own at once. There is an imaginative voluptuousness in this idea which strikes me as being exceedingly fine and characteristic. It is noť enough for her to see the object of her passion; but she must go out of herself, in order to see herself at the same time. She endeavours, in this way, to heighten his attractions, by looking at them through an atmosphere that is cast about them from her own. A dazzling effect, in the way of contrast, is produced by the mode in which the limbs are arranged-one of the sunburnt arms of Mars passing right across the back of the Venus, and the lower limbs illustrating each other in a similar manner. The Mars is designed with considerable grandeur, as well as force; but there is little elevation of mental character about it. The head in particular is fine, but somewhat coarse; and there is an individualized and somewhat modern air about it that produces a bad effect. The God of War looks, at best, like a Roman centurion. The air and attitude of the Venus are also exquisite; but the colouring is not good, when compared with that of some of the other females in these pictures. Perhaps the contrast in the colouring of the two figures is more abrupt than Titian's notions of harmony usually permitted him to adopt; the one being of a rich sunburnt brown, and the other of a dazzling fairness. But there is a little Cupid lying on the ground, of celestial rosy red," on which the eye rests almost unconsciously, and the two extremes are thus in part blended together. a The next picture, of Cupid and Psyche, is one of the finest in the set. It is not the usual subject, of Psyche gazing on the sleeping god; it is the immortal gazing on the mortal maid, as she lies dreaming of him. The effect of the great brooding wings of the Cupid outspread above the sleeping beauty, as a protecting canopy, is very grand. He is standing on the ground, leaning over and intently gazing on her; but they, while they shade her, seem to bear him up from pressing too closely to the earth, to which he does not belong. (I should like to know who it was that first thought of imping the human form with wings. Whoever it was, he deserved to be the first to wear them; for it has given rise to the highest thoughts and the finest images that ever peopled the human mind.)—The head, arms, and shoulders of the Psyche, as they lie pressed into the pillow of her couch, are exquisite. They seem to communicate a softness to each other, and to breathe forth on all about them an atmosphere of love. And the head and face of the Cupid are as intense and poetical as any thing in art. He seems to be kindling with desire as he stands gazing upon her, and to pour forth his spirit into her's from his immortal eyes with a force and depth of passion that is prodigious. There is a bit of sky-blue drapery about the neck (I think) of the Cupid, which produces a singular effect. It looks like a little fragment of the heaven from which he may be supposed to have just descended-as if the very element itself had clung to him in fondness, and would not be shaken off. The old man who shews you the pictures told me, that this bit of drapery was added by the artist who was employed many years ago to clean and put them in order. I can scarcely believe this. He might have found it nearly defaced, and restored it. But if he added it, its happy success excuses its boldness: unless, indeed, I am attaching an interpretation to it that it will not bear. And yet I cannot think that I am; for there is no denying that it has suggested this idea to me; and a hint of this kind cannot be said to be not calculated to suggest, what, in point of fact, it does suggest. The next picture, proceeding round the room to the left hand, is on the subject of Apollo and Daphne. The moment chosen is that when the god has just overtaken the flying nymph, and is stretching out his arms to seize her; while she, no longer able to fly from his dreaded embraces, is in the act of changing into the laurel. The leaves are sprouting from the tips of her fingers as she makes a last effort to slip from his touch. There is an effect of motion in both these figures, which is equal to what Rubens would have given in a similar case. The Apollo, in particular, is rushing right onward like a wind on a sunbeam, and you shrink for the modest nymph, lest he should attain her before the change is completed. The form of the Daphne in this picture is not by any means fine, and the head and face are totally bad. I cannot account for this; unless it was purposely done in order to aggrandize the effect of the Apollo-which, in point of expression, is prodigiously fine. Nothing can be more passionately conceived, or executed with a greater force of gusto, than the head, face, and attitude of the Apollo. The colouring, too, of the body is exceedingly fine; for, mixed with all the truth and life of real flesh and blood, I seem to see a kind of marbly hardness and brightness about it-as if the painter had chosen (as a tribute of admiration to the kindred spirits of ancient times) to mix up in this figure a something that should call up those divine associations which they have clustered round this favourite object of their art. The form of this figure is, however, altogether different from any thing that they have left us representing the ideal of human beauty. It is the profile of the figure that we see; and a most ungainly, and, indeed, unnatural effect is produced, by the manner in which the back is made to bend in, and the lower part of the body to protrude forward. Neither is there any elevation or refinement of character in the face and head. They are highly poetical, from the intensity of passion displayed in them; but they are in some degree coarse, and vulgar, in one sense of the word, from the same cause. They in some respects resemble those of the Cupid in the preceding picture; and the tone of colouring given to the flesh is nearly the same; while that of all the other male figures in the collection is of a dark, deep brown. In these two pictures the male and female forms blend and harmonise with each other; in all the others they contrast; and it is remarkable accordingly, or rather, perhaps, I should say it is not remarkable, that in all the other pictures a little rosy Cupid is introduced, to unite the two tones together; while in these two there is none. ར་ It may here be observed that there is nothing in the slightest degree ideal about Titian's style, either in his colouring, his drawing, or his expression. His bodily faculties enabled him to pierce deeper into the actual truth of things than any other painter that ever lived; and he was satisfied with what he found, perhaps on that very account, and sought no farther. Probably it was the want of this power, in an equal degree of perfection, which led other painters to seek for that out of Nature which he was enabled to find in it; and this may in some degree account for the prevalence of the ideal style in minds of an inferior |