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part which I have visited, though under the same latitude, is divided into regions of different climate and produce. On leaving Buenos Ayres, the first of these regions is covered for one hundred and eighty miles with clover and thistles; the second region, which extends for four hundred and fifty miles, produces long grass; and the third region, which reaches the base of the Cordillera, is a grove of low trees and shrubs. The second and third of these regions have nearly the same appearance throughout the year, for the trees and shrubs are evergreens, and the immense plain of grass only changes its colour from green to brown; but the first region varies with the four seasons of the year in a most extraordinary manner. In winter the leaves of the thistles are large and luxuriant, and the whole surface of the country has the rough appearance of a turnip-field. The clover in this season is extremely rich and strong; and the sight of the wild cattle grazing in full liberty on such pasture is very beautiful. In spring the clover has vanished, the leaves of the thistles have extended along the ground, and the country still looks like a rough crop of turnips. In less than a month the change is most extraordinary: the whole region becomes a luxuriant wood of enormous thistles, which have suddenly shot up to a height of ten or eleven feet, and are all in full bloom. The road or path is hemmed in on both sides; the view is completely obstructed; not an animal is to be seen; and the stems of the thistles are so close to each other, and so strong, that, independent of the prickles with which they are armed, they form an impenetrable barrier. The sudden growth of these plants is quite astonishing; and though it would be an unusual misfortune in military history, yet it is really possible that an invading army, unacquainted with this country, might be imprisoned by these thistles before it had time to escape from them. The summer is not over before the scene undergoes another rapid change: the thistles suddenly lose their sap and verdure, their heads droop, the leaves shrink and fade, the stems become black and dead, and they remain rattling with the breeze one against another, until the violence of the pampero or hurricane levels them with the ground, where they rapidly decompose and disappear-the clover rushes up, and the scene is again verdant.

A French Commissionnaire.

what was said of his speech-and what the world thought of things in general.

The Electric Wires, and Tawell the Murderer. Whatever may have been his fears-his hopes-his fancies-or his thoughts-there suddenly flashed along the wires of the electric telegraph, which were stretched close beside him, the following words: A murder has just been committed at Salthill, and the suspected murderer was seen to take a first-class ticket for London by the train which left Slough at 7 h. 42 m. P.M. He is in the garb of a Quaker, with a brown greatcoat on, which reaches nearly down to his feet. He is in the last compartment of the second first-class carriage.' And yet, fast as these words flew like lightning past him, the information they contained, with all its details, as well as every secret thought that had preceded them, had already consecutively flown millions of times faster; indeed, at the very instant that, within the walls of the little cottage at Slough, there had been uttered that dreadful scream, it had simultaneously reached the judgment-seat of heaven!

On arriving at the Paddington station, after mingling for some moments with the crowd, he got into an omnibus, and as it rumbled along, taking up one passenger and putting down another, he probably felt that his identity was every minute becoming confounded and confused by the exchange of fellow-passengers for strangers that was constantly taking place. But all the time he was thinking, the cad of the omnibus-a policeman in disguise-knew that he held his victim like a rat in a cage. Without, however, apparently taking the slightest notice of him, he took one sixpence, gave change for a shilling, handed out this lady, stuffed in that one, until, arriving at the bank, the guilty man, stooping as he walked towards the carriage-door, descended the steps; paid his fare; crossed over to the Duke of Wellington's statue, where pausing for a few moments, anxiously to gaze around him, he proceeded to the Jerusalem Coffee-house, thence over London Bridge to the Leopard Coffee-house in the Borough, and finally to a lodging-house in Scott's Yard, Cannon Street.

He probably fancied that, by making so many turns and doubles, he had not only effectually puzzled all pursuit, but that his appearance at so many coffeehouses would assist him, if necessary, in proving an alibi; but, whatever may have been his motives or his thoughts, he had scarcely entered the lodging when the policeman-who, like a wolf, had followed him every step of the way-opening the door, very calmly said to him-the words no doubt were infinitely more appalling to him even than the scream that had heen haunting him-Haven't you just come from Slough?' The monosyllable 'No,' confusedly uttered in reply, substantiated his guilt.

The policeman made him his prisoner; he was thrown into jail; tried; found guilty of wilful murder; and hanged.

In Paris this social luxury has been so admirably supplied, that, like iced water at Naples, the community could now hardly exist without it. Accordingly, at the intersection of almost all the principal streets, there is posted by the police an intelligent, respectablelooking man-there are about twelve thousand of them-cleanly dressed in blue velveteen trousers, and a blue corduroy jacket, on the breast of which is affixed a brass ticket, invariably forfeited by misconduct, bearing his occupation and number. The duties of this commissionnaire are not only at various fixed prices to go messages in any direction, and at determined rates to perform innumerable other useful services, but he is especially directed to assist aged and infirm people of both sexes in crossing streets crowded with carriages, and to give to strangers, who may inquire their way, every possible assistance. The luxury of living, wherever you may happen to lodge, within reach of a person of this description, is very great. For instance, within fifty yards of my lodgings, there was an active, honest, intelligent dark-blue fellow, who was to me a living book of useful knowledge. Crumpling up the newspaper he was usually reading, he could in the middle of a paragraph, and at a moment's notice, get me any sort of carriage-recommend me to every description of shop -tell me the colour of the omnibus I wanted-where I THOMAS CHANDLER HALIBURTON (1796-1865), was to find it-where I was to leave it—how I ought to long a judge in Nova Scotia, is author of a series dress to go here, there, or anywhere; what was done in of amusing works illustrative of American and the House of Assembly last night-who spoke best-colonial manners, marked by shrewd, sarcastic

A few months afterwards, we happened to be travelling by rail from Paddington to Slough, in a carriage filled with people all strangers to one another. Like English travellers, they were all mute. For nearly fifteen miles no one had uttered a single word, until a short-bodied, short-necked, short-nosed, exceedingly respectable-looking man in the corner, fixing his eyes on the apparently fleeting posts and rails of the electric telegraph, significantly nodded to us as he muttered aloud: Them 's the cords that hung John Tawell!'

T. C. HALIBURTON.

remarks on political questions, the colonies, slavery, domestic institutions and customs, and almost every familiar topic of the day. The first series-which had previously been inserted as letters in a Nova Scotia paper-appeared in a collected form under the title of The Clockmaker, or the Sayings and Doings of Samuel Slick of Slickville. A second series was published in 1838, and a third in 1840. Sam Slick' was a universal favourite, and in 1843 the author conceived the idea of bringing him to England. The Attaché, or Sam Slick in England, gives an account of the sayings and doings of the clockmaker when elevated to the dignity of the 'Honourable Mr Slick, Attaché of the American Legation to the court of St James's.' There is the same quaint humour, acute observation, and laughable exaggeration in these volumes as in the former, but, on the whole, Sam is most amusing on the other side of the Atlantic. Mr Haliburton has also written an Account of Nova Scotia, 1828; Bubbles of Canada, 1839; The Old Fudge, or Life in a Colony, and Letter-bag of the Great Western, 1839; Rule and Misrule of the English in America, 1851; Yankee Stories, and Traits of American Humour, 1852; Nature and Human Nature, 1855. We must do our publishers the justice to say, that the first periodical in Great Britain which noticed Mr Haliburton's works was Chambers's Journal.

Soft Sawder and Human Natur.

In the course of a journey which Mr Slick performs in company with the reporter of his humours, the latter asks him how, in a country so poor as Nova Scotia, he contrives to sell so many clocks. Mr Slick paused,' continues the author, 'as if considering the propriety of answering the question, and looking me in the face, said, in a confidential tone: "Why, I don't care if I do tell you, for the market is glutted, and I shall quit this circuit. It is done by a knowledge of soft sawder and human natur. But here is Deacon Flint's," said he; "I have but one clock left, and I guess I will sell it to him." At the gate of a most comfortable-looking farmhouse stood Deacon Flint, a respectable old man, who had understood the value of time better than most of his neighbours, if one might judge from the appearance of everything about him. After the usual salutation, an invitation to alight was accepted by Mr Slick, who said "he wished to take leave of Mrs Flint before he left Colchester." We had hardly entered the house, before the Clockmaker pointed to the view from the window, and addressing himself to me, said: "If I was to tell them in Connecticut there was such a farm as this away down east here in Nova Scotia, they wouldn't believe me-why, there ain't such a location in all New England. The deacon has a hundred acres of dike"*Seventy," said the deacon-" only seventy." "Well, seventy; but then there is your fine deep bottom; why, I could run a ramrod into it. Then there is that waterprivilege, worth three or four thousand dollars, twice as good as what Governor Cass paid fifteen thousand for. I wonder, deacon, you don't put up a carding-mill on it the same works would carry a turning-lathe, a shingle machine, a circular saw, grind bark, and ""Too old," said the deacon-"too old for all those speculations." "Old!" repeated the Clockmakernot you; why, you are worth half a dozen of the young men we see nowadays." The deacon was pleased. "Your beasts, dear me, your beasts must be put in and have a feed;" saying which, he went out to order them to be taken to the stable. As the old

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*Flat rich land diked in from the sea.

gentleman closed the door after him, Mr Slick drew near to me, and said in an undertone: "That is what I call soft sawder. An Englishman would pass that man as a sheep passes a hog in a pasture-without looking at him. Now I find" Here his lecture Flint. "Jist come to say good-bye, Mrs Flint." "What! on soft sawder was cut short by the entrance of Mrs have you sold all your clocks?" "Yes, and very low, too, for money is scarce, and I wished to close the consarn; no, I am wrong in saying all, for I have just one left. Neighbour Steel's wife asked to have the refusal of it, but I guess I won't sell it. I had but two of them, this one and the feller of it, that I sold Governor Lincoln. General Green, secretary of state for Maine, said he'd give me fifty dollars for this here one-it has composition wheels and patent axles; it is a beautiful article-a real first chop-no mistake, genuine superfine; but I guess I'll take it back; and, beside, Squire Hawk might think it hard that I did not give him the offer." "Dear me," said Mrs Flint, "I should like to see it; where is it?" "It is in a chest of mine over the way, at Tom Tape's store; I guess he can ship it on to Eastport." "That's a good man," said Mrs Flint, " jist · let's look at it." Mr Slick, willing to oblige, yielded to these entreaties, and soon produced the clock-a gaudy, highly varnished, trumpery-looking affair. He placed it on the chimney-piece, where its beauties were pointed out and duly appreciated by Mrs Flint, whose admiration was about ending in a proposal, when Mr Flint returned from giving his directions about the care of the horses. The deacon praised the clock; he, too, thought it a handsome one; but the deacon was a prudent man: he had a watch, he was sorry, but he had no occasion for a clock. "I guess you're in the wrong furrow this time, deacon; it ain't for sale," said Mr Slick; "and if it was, I reckon neighbour Steel's wife would have it, for she gives me no peace about it." Mrs Flint said that Mr Steel had enough to do, poor man, to pay his interest, without buying clocks for his wife. "It's no consarn of mine," said Mr Slick, "as long as he pays me, what he has to do; but I guess I don't want to sell it; and beside, it comes too high; that clock can't be made at Rhode Island under forty dollars.-Why, it an't possible!" said the Clockmaker, in apparent surprise, looking at his watch; why, as I'm alive, it is four o'clock, and if I haven't been two hours here-how on airth shall I reach River Philip to-night? I'll tell you what, Mrs Flint: I'll leave the clock in your care till I return on my way to the States-I'll set it agoing, and put it to the right time." As soon as this operation was performed, he delivered the key to the deacon with a sort of serio-comic injunction to wind up the clock every Saturday night, which Mrs Flint said she would take care should be done, and promised to remind her husband of it, in case he should chance to forget it.

"That," said the Clockmaker, as soon as we were mounted, "that I call human natur! Now, that clock is sold for forty dollars-it cost me just six dollars and fifty cents. Mrs Flint will never let Mrs Steel have the refusal-nor will the deacon learn until I call for the clock, that having once indulged in the use of a superfluity, it is difficult to give it up. We can do without any article of luxury we have never had, but when once obtained, it is not in human natur to surrender it voluntarily. Of fifteen thousand sold by myself and partners in this province, twelve thousand were left in this manner, and only ten clocks were ever (returnedwhen we called for them, they invariably bought them. We trust to soft sawder to get them into the house, and to human natur that they never come out of it."'

THOMAS MILLER-W. HONE-MISS COSTELLO.

Among the littérateurs inspired - perhaps equally-by the love of nature and admiration of the writings of Miss Mitford and the Howitts, was THOMAS MILLER (1809-1874), a native of

Gainsborough, one of the humble, happy, industrious self-taught sons of genius. He was brought up to the trade of a basket-maker, and while thus obscurely labouring 'to consort with the muse and support a family,' he attracted attention by his poetical effusions. Through the kindness of Mr Rogers, our author was placed in the more congenial situation of a bookseller, and had the gratification of publishing and selling his own writings. Mr Miller was author of various works: A Day in the Woods, Royston Gower, Fair Rosamond, Lady Jane Grey, and other novels. Several volumes of rural descriptions and poetical effusions also proceeded from his pen.

The Every-day Book, Table Book, and Year Book, by WILLIAM HONE (1779-1842), published in 1833, in four large volumes, with above five hundred wood-cut illustrations, form a calendar of popular English amusements, sports, pastimes, ceremonies, manners, customs, and events incident to every day in the year. Mr Southey has said of these works: 'I may take the opportunity of recommending the Every-day Book and Table Book to those who are interested in the preservation of our national and local customs: by these very curious publications their compiler has rendered good service in an important department of literature.' Charles Lamb was no less eulogistic. Some political parodies written by Hone led to his prosecution by the government of the day, in which the government was generally condemned. Hone was acquitted and became popular; the parodies are now forgotten, but the above works will preserve his name.

A number of interesting narratives of foreign travel were published by MISS LOUISA STUART COSTELLO, who died in 1870; she commenced her literary career in 1835 with Specimens of the Early Poetry of France. Her principal works are A Summer among the Bocages and Vines, 1840; A Pilgrimage to Auvergne, from Picardy to Le Velay, 1842; Béarn and the Pyrenees, 1844; The Falls, Lakes, and Mountains of North Wales, 1845; A Tour to and from Venice by the Vaudois and the Tyrol, 1846; &c. Miss Costello was also one of the band of lady-novelists, having written The Queen Mother, Clara Fane, &c.; and in 1840 she published a series of Memoirs of Eminent Englishwomen, commencing with the reign of

Elizabeth.

MRS JAMESON.

On subjects of art and taste, and generally in what may be termed elegant literature, the writings of MRS ANNA JAMESON (1797-1860) occupy a prominent place. They are very numerous, including The Diary of an Ennuyée (memoranda made during a tour in France and Italy), 1826; Loves of the Poets, two volumes, 1829; Lives of Celebrated Female Sovereigns, two volumes, 1831; Characteristics of Women, two volumes, 1832; Beauties of the Court of Charles II. (memoirs accompanying engravings from Lely's portraits), two volumes, 1833; Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad, two volumes, 1834; Winter Studies and Summer Rambles in Canada, three volumes, 1838; Rubens, his Life and Genius, translated from the German of Dr Waagen, 1840; Pictures of the Social Life of Germany, as represented in the Dramas of the Princess Amelia of Saxony,

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1840; Hand-book to the Public Galleries of Art, two volumes, 1842; Companion to Private Gaileries of Art in and near London, 1844; Memoirs of the Early Italian Painters, two volumes, 1845; Memoirs and Essays on Art, Literature, and Social Morals, 1846; Sacred and Legendary Art, two volumes, 1848; Legends of the Monastic Orders, 1850; Legends of the Madonna, 1852; Commonplace Book of Thoughts, Memories, and Fancies, 1854; Sisters of Charity, a lecture, 1855; The Communion of Labour, a lecture, 1856; with various communications to literary journals. In such a variety of works, all, of course, cannot be equal-some bear the appearance of task-work; but generally we may apply to Mrs Jameson the warm eulogium of Professor Wilson: she is one of the most eloquent of our female writers; full of feeling and fancy; a true enthusiast with a glowing soul.' On the subject of art, her writing is next to that of Ruskin; to intense love of the beautiful, she adds a fine discriminating and cultivated taste, with rich stores of knowledge. Mrs Jameson was a native of Dublin, daughter of Mr Murphy, an artist of ability. Having married a barrister named Jameson, who accepted an official appointment in Canada, she resided there for some time, but her marriage proving unhappy, a separation took place, and Mrs Jameson returned to England, and devoted herself to literature-especially the literature of art. Her latest work (which she did not live to complete, but which was finished by Lady Eastlake) was an account of the Scriptural and Legendary History of our Lord, as represented in Christian Art.

Counsel to Young Ladies-An Eastern Apologue. It is a common observation, that girls of lively talents are apt to grow pert and satirical. I fell into this

danger when about ten years old. Sallies at the expense of certain people, ill-looking, or ill-dressed, or ridiculous, or foolish, had been laughed at and applauded in company, until, without being naturally malignant, I ran some risk of becoming so from sheer vanity.

The fables which appeal to our high moral sympathies may sometimes do as much for us as the truths of science. So thought our Saviour when he taught the multitude in parables. A good clergyman who lived near us, a famous Persian scholar, took it into his head to teach me Persian-I was then about seven years old— and I set to work with infinite delight and earnestness. All I learned was soon forgotten; but a few years afterwards, happening to stumble on a volume of Sir William Jones's works-his Persian Grammar-it revived my orientalism, and I began to study it eagerly. Among of those traditions of our Lord which are preserved in the exercises given was a Persian fable or poem-one the East. The beautiful apologue of St Peter and the Cherries, which Goethe has versified or imitated, is a well-known example. This fable I allude to was something similar, but I have not met with the original these forty years, and must give it here from memory.

'Jesus,' says the story, 'arrived one evening at the gates of a certain city, and he sent his disciples forward to prepare supper, while he himself, intent on doing good, walked through the streets into the market-place. And he saw at the corner of the market some people and he drew near to see what it might be. It was a gathered together looking at an object on the ground; dead dog, with a halter round his neck, by which he appeared to have been dragged through the dirt; and a viler, a more abject, a more unclean thing, never met the eyes of man. And those who stood by looked on with abhorrence. "Faugh!" said one, stopping his

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nose; "it pollutes the air." "How long," said another, float away unregarded like morning vapours, which the "shall this foul beast offend our sight?' "Look at his beam of genius has tinged with a transient brightness; torn hide," said a third; "one could not even cut a but let the heart be once touched, and it is not only shoe out of it." "And his ears," said a fourth, "all wakened but inspired; the lover kindled into the poet draggled and bleeding!" "No doubt," said a fifth, "he presents to her he loves his cup of ambrosial praise; she hath been hanged for thieving!" And Jesus heard tastes-and the woman is transmuted into a divinity. them, and looking down compassionately on the dead When the Grecian sculptor carved out his deities in creature, he said: "Pearls are not equal to the white-marble, and left us wondrous and godlike shapes, ness of his teeth!" Then the people turned towards impersonations of ideal grace unapproachable by modern him with amazement, and said among themselves: skill, was it through such mechanical superiority? No; "Who is this? this must be Jesus of Nazareth, for only it was the spirit of faith within which shadowed to his He could find something to pity and approve even in imagination what he would represent. In the same a dead dog;" and being ashamed, they bowed their manner, no woman has ever been truly, lastingly deified heads before him, and went each on his way.' in poetry, but in the spirit of truth and love.

I can recall, at this hour, the vivid, yet softening and pathetic impression left on my fancy by this old Eastern story. It struck me as exquisitely humorous, as well as exquisitely beautiful. It gave me a pain in my conscience, for it seemed thenceforward so easy and so vulgar to say satirical things, and so much nobler to be benign and merciful, and I took the lesson so home, that I was in great danger of falling into the opposite extreme-of seeking the beautiful even in the midst of the corrupt and the repulsive.

Pictures of the Madonna.

The Studious Monks of the Middle Ages.

But for the monks, the light of liberty, and literature, and science, had been for ever extinguished; and for six centuries there existed for the thoughtful, the gentle, the inquiring, the devout spirit, no peace, no security, no home but the cloister. There, Learning trimmed her lamp; there, Contemplation 'pruned her wings;' there, the traditions of art, preserved from age to age by lonely studious men, kept alive, in form and colour, the idea of a beauty beyond that of earth-of a might beyond that of the spear and the shield-of a Divine sympathy with suffering humanity. To this we may add another and a stronger claim to our respect and moral sympathies. The protection and the better education given to women in these early communities; the venerable and distinguished rank assigned to them when, as governesses of their order, they became in a manner dignitaries of the church; the introduction of their beautiful and saintly effigies, clothed with all the insignia of sanctity and authority, into the decoration of places of worship and books of devotion-did more, perhaps, for the general cause of womanhood than all the boasted institutions of chivalry.

Of the pictures in our galleries, public or private-of the architectural adornments of those majestic edifices which sprung up in the middle ages (where they have not been despoiled or desecrated by a zeal as fervent as that which reared them), the largest and most beautiful portion have reference to the Madonna-her character, her person, her history. It was a theme which never tired her votaries-whether, as in the hands of great and sincere artists, it became one of the noblest and loveliest, or, as in the hands of superficial, unbelieving, time-serving artists, one of the most degraded. All that human genius, inspired by faith, could achieve best-all that fanaticism, sensualism, atheism, could perpetuate of worst, do we find in the cycle of those representations which have been dedicated to the glory of the Virgin. And, indeed, the ethics of the Madonna It is this all-pervading presence of light, and this worship, as evolved in art, might be not unaptly likened suffusion of rich colour glowing through the deepest to the ethics of human love: so long as the object of shadows, which make the very life and soul of Venice; sense remained in subjection to the moral idea-so long but not all who have dwelt in Venice, and breathed her as the appeal was to the best of our faculties and affec-air and lived in her life, have felt their influences; it is tions-so long was the image grand or refined, and the influences to be ranked with those which have helped to humanise and civilise our race; but so soon as the object became a mere idol, then worship and worshippers, art and artists, were together degraded.

The Loves of the Poets.

Venice-Canaletti and Turner.

the want of them which renders so many of Canaletti's pictures false and unsatisfactory-to me at least. All the time I was at Venice I was in a rage with Canaletti. I could not come upon a palace, or a church, or a corner of a canal which I had not seen in one or other of his pictures. At every moment I was reminded of him. But how has he painted Venice! Just as we have the face of a beloved friend reproduced by the daguerreotype, The theory which I wish to illustrate, as far as or by some bad conscientious painter-some fellow who my limited powers permit, is this, that where a gives us eyes, nose, and mouth by measure of compass, woman has been exalted above the rest of her sex by and leaves out all sentiment, all countenance; we canthe talents of a lover, and consigned to enduring not deny the identity, and we cannot endure it. Where fame and perpetuity of praise, the passion was real, in Canaletti are the glowing evening skies-the transand was merited; that no deep or lasting interest parent gleaming waters-the bright green of the vine was ever founded in fancy or in fiction; that truth, in shadowed Traghetto-the freshness and the glory-the short, is the basis of all excellence in amatory poetry dreamy, aërial, fantastic splendour of this city of the as in everything else; for where truth is, there is good sea? Look at one of his pictures-all is real, opaque, of some sort, and where there is truth and good, there solid, stony, formal; even his skies and water-and is must be beauty, there must be durability of fame. Truth that Venice? But,' says my friend, 'if you would have is the golden chain which links the terrestrial with the Venice, seek it in Turner's pictures!' True, I may celestial, which sets the seal of Heaven on the things of seek it, but shall I find it? Venice is like a dream-but this earth, and stamps them to immortality. Poets this dream upon the canvas, do you call this Venice? have risen up and been the mere fashion of a day, and The exquisite precision of form, the wondrous beauty of have set up idols which have been the idols of a day. detail, the clear, delicate lines of the flying perspective If the worship be out of date, and the idols cast down, -so sharp and defined in the midst of a flood of brightit is because those adorers wanted sincerity of purpose ness-where are they? Canaletti gives us the forms and feeling; their raptures were feigned; their incense without the colour or light. Turner, the colour and was bought or adulterate. In the brain or in the fancy, light without the forms. But if you would take into one beauty may eclipse another-one coquette may your soul the very soul and inward life and spirit of drive out another, and, tricked off in airy verse, they | Venice-breathe the same air-go to Titian; there is

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more of Venice in his 'Cornaro Family,' or his 'Pesaro Madonna,' than in all the Canalettis in the corridor at Windsor. Beautiful they are, I must needs say it; but when I think of Enchanting Venice, the most beautiful are to me like prose translations of poetry-petrifactions, materialities: 'We start, for life is wanting there!' I know not how it is, but certainly things that would elsewhere displease, delight us at Venice. It has been said, for instance, put down the church of St Mark anywhere but in the Piazza, it is barbarous :' here, where east and west have met to blend together, it is glorious. And again, with regard to the sepulchral effigies in our churches-I have always been of Mr Westmacott's principles and party; always on the side of those who denounce the intrusion of monuments of human pride insolently paraded in God's temple; and surely cavaliers on prancing horses in a church should seem the very acme of such irreverence and impropriety in taste; but here the impression is far different. those awful, grim, mounted warriors and doges, high over our heads against the walls of the San Giovanni e Paolo and the Frari !-man and horse in panoply of state, colossal, lifelike-suspended, as it were, so far above us, that we cannot conceive how they came there, or are kept there, by human means alone. It seems as though they had been lifted up and fixed on their airy pedestals as by a spell. At whatever hour I visited those churches, and that was almost daily, whether at morn, or noon, or in the deepening twilight, still did those marvellous effigies-man and steed, and trampled Turk; or mitred doge, upright and stiff in his saddle fix me as if fascinated; and still I looked up at them, wondering every day with a new wonder, and scarce repressing the startled exclamation, 'Good Heavens! how came they there?' And not to forget the great wonder of modern times-I hear people talking of a railway across the Lagune, as if it were to unpoetise Venice; as if this new approach were a malignant invention to bring the syren of the Adriatic into the 'dull catalogue of common things;' and they call on me to join the outcry, to echo sentimental denunciations, quoted out of Murray's Hand-book; but I cannot-I have no sympathy with them. To me, that tremendous bridge, spanning the sea, only adds to the wonderful one wonder more; to great sources of thought one yet greater. Those persons, methinks, must be strangely prosaic au fond who can see poetry in a Gothic pinnacle, or a crumbling temple, or a gladiator's circus, and in this gigantic causeway and its seventy-five arches, traversed with fiery speed by dragons, brazen-winged, to which neither alp nor ocean can oppose a barriernothing but a commonplace. I must say I pity them. I see a future fraught with hopes for Venice

Twining memories of old time With new virtues more sublime!

CHARLES WATERTON.

Mr

The Wanderings and Essays of CHARLES WATERTON (1782-1865), a Yorkshire squire, form very interesting and delightful reading. Waterton set out from his seat of Walton Hall, Wakefield, in 1812, to wander through the wilds of Demerara and Essequibo, with the view to reach the inland frontier fort of Portuguese Guiana; to collect a quantity of the strongest Wourali poison; and to catch and stuff the beautiful birds which abound in that part of South America.' He made two more journeys to the same territories-in 1816 and 1820-and in 1825 published his Wanderings in South America, the North-west of the United States, and the Antilles. His fatigues and dangers were numerous.

In order to pick up matter for natural history, I have wandered through the wildest parts of South

I have attacked

America's equinoctial regions. and slain a modern python, and rode on the back of a cayman close to the water's edge; a very different situation from that of a Hyde-Park dandy on his Sunday prancer before the ladies. Alone and barefoot I have pulled poisonous snakes out of their lurking-places; climbed up trees to peep into holes for bats and vampires; and for days together hastened through sun and rain to the thickest parts of the forest to procure specimens I had never seen before.'

The adventures of the python and cayman-or the snake and crocodile-made much noise and amusement at the time, and the latter feat formed the subject of a caricature. Mr Waterton had long wished to obtain one of those enormous snakes called Coulacanara, and at length he saw one coiled up in his den. He advanced towards it stealthily, and with his lance struck it behind the neck and fixed it to the ground.

Adventure with the Snake.

That moment the negro next to me seized the lance and held it firm in its place, while I dashed head foremost into the den to grapple with the snake, and to get hold of his tail before he could do any mischief.

On pinning him to the ground with the lance, he gave a tremendous loud hiss, and the little dog ran away, howling as he went. We had a sharp fray in the den, the rotten sticks flying on all sides, and each party struggling for the superiority. I called out to the second negro to throw himself upon me, as I found I was not heavy enough. He did so, and his additional weight was of great service. I had now got firm hold of his tail, and after a violent struggle or two he gave in, finding himself overpowered. This was the moment to secure him. So while the first negro continued to hold the lance firm to the ground, and the other was helping me, I contrived to unloose my braces, and with them tied up the snake's mouth.

The snake, now finding himself in an unpleasant situation, tried to better himself, and set resolutely to work, but we overpowered him. [It measured fourteen feet, and was of great thickness.] We contrived to make him twist himself round the shaft of the lance, and then prepared to convey him out of the forest. I stood at his head and held it firm under my arm, one negro supported the belly, and the other the tail. In this order we began to move slowly towards home, and reached it after resting ten times.

On the following day, Mr Waterton killed the animal, securing its skin for Walton Hall. The crocodile was seized on the Essequibo. He had been tantalised for three days with the hope of securing one of the animals. He baited a sharkhook with a large fish, and at last was successful. The difficulty was to pull him up. The Indians proposed shooting him with arrows; but this the Wanderer' resisted. 'I had come above three

hundred miles on purpose to catch a cayman uninjured, and not to carry back a mutilated specimen.' The men pulled, and out he came— Mr Waterton standing armed with the mast of the canoe, which he proposed to force down the animal's throat.

Riding on a Crocodile.

By the time the cayman was within two yards of me, I saw he was in a state of fear and perturbation; I instantly dropped the mast, sprung up and jumped on his back, turning half round as I vaulted, so that I

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