some time, been imported by Ackermann, and some others, but in very small numbers indeed. Mr. Wilks, of Regent-street, in the year 1831, however, made large purchases both of patterns and working materials, direct from Berlin. He also imported the best examples in tapestry, from Paris, with an assortment of silks of those exquisite tints which, as yet, France only can produce; and by inducing French artists, educated for this peculiar branch of design, to accompany him to England, he succeeded in establishing here this elegant branch of art."

FIELDING THE NOVELIST.

(Concluded from page 376.) AMELIA was in her grave when poor Fielding drew this delightful portrait of her: but, with all his faults, and extravagancies, and vagaries, it is not hard to see how such a gentle, generous, loving creature as Fielding was, must have been loved and prized by her. She had a little fortune of her own, and he, at this time, inherited a small one from his mother. He carried her to the country; and, like a wise, prudent Henry Fielding as he was, who, having lived upon nothing very jovially for some years, thought £5,000 or £6,000 an endless wealth, he kept horses and hounds, flung his doors open, and lived with the best of his county. When he had spent his little fortune, and saw that there was nothing for it but to work, he came to London, applied himself fiercely to the law, seized upon his pen again, never lost heart for a moment, and, be sure, loved his poor Amelia as tenderly as ever he had done. It is a pity that he did not live on his income, that is certain; it is a pity that he had not been born a lord, or a thrifty stock-broker at the very least; but we should not have had Joseph Andrews if this had been the case; and, indeed, it is probable that Amelia liked him quite as well after his ruin, as she would have done had he been as rich as Rothschild.

The biographers agree that he would have been very successful at the bar, but for certain circumstances. These ugly circumstances always fall in the way of men of Fielding's genius: for, though he amassed a considerable quantity of law, was reputed to be a good speaker, and had a great wit, and a knowledge of human nature, which might serve him in excellent stead, it is to be remarked that those, without a certain degree of patience and conduct, will not insure a man's triumph at the bar; and so Fielding never rose to be a Lord Chancellor, or even a judge. They say he used to come home from a supper-party, and, after tying a wet cloth

round his head, would begin to read as stoutly as the soberest man in either of the Temples. This is very probable; but there are still better ways of keeping the head cool, which the author of Tom Jones seems to have neglected. In short, he had ruined his constitution; had acquired habits that his resolution could not break through; and was paying, with gout and a number of other ills, the price of his debaucheries as a young adventurer on the town, and his dissipations as a country gentleman.

His days of trouble had now begun in earnest; and, indeed, he met them like a man. He wrote incessantly for the periodical works of the day; issued pamphlets; made translations; published journals and criticisms; turned his hand, in a word, to any work that offered; and lived as best he might. This indiscriminate literary labour, which obliges a man to scatter his intellects upon so many trifles, and to provide weekly varieties as sets-off against the inevitable weekly butcher's bills, has been the ruin of many a man of talent since Fielding's time; and it was lucky for the world, and for him, that, at a time of life when his powers were at the highest, he procured a place which kept him beyond the reach of weekly want, and enabled him to gather his great intellects together, and produce the greatest satire, and two of the most complete romances, in our language.

Let us remark, as a strong proof of the natural honesty of the man, the exquisite art of these performances, the care with which the situations are elaborated, and the noble, manly language corrected. When Harry Fielding was writing for the week's bread, we find style and sentiment both careless, and plots hastily worked off. How could be do otherwise? Mr. Snap, the bailiff, was waiting with a writ without--his wife and the little ones asking wistfully for bread within. Away, with all its imperfections on its head, the play, or the pamphlet must go. Indeed, he would have been no honest man had he kept them longer on his hands, with such urgent demands upon him as he had.

But as soon as he is put out of the reach of this base kind of want, his whole style changes; and, instead of the reckless and slovenly hack-writer, we have one of the most minute and careful artists that ever lived. Dr. Beattie gave his testimony to the merit of Tom Jones. Moral or immoral, let any man examine this romance as a work of art merely, and it must strike him as the most astonishing production of human ingenuity. There is not an incident, ever so trifling, but advances the story, grows out of former incidents, and is con

nected with the whole. Such a literary providence, if we may use such a word, is not to be seen in any other work of fiction. You might cut out half of Don Quixote, or add, transpose, or alter any given romance of Walter Scott, and neither would suffer. Roderick Random, and heroes of that sort, run through a series of adventures, at the end of which the fiddles are brought, and there is a marriage. But the history of Tom Jones connects the very first page with the very last, and it is marvellous to think how the author could have built and carried all this structure in his brain, as he must have done, before he began to put it to paper.

His

For his vices and imprudence no man paid more dearly: ruined fortune, and all the shifts and meannesses consequent upon extravagance, ruined health, and the miseries attendant on it, were the punishment that he paid for his errors: they dogged his whole life, and hunted him in the prime of years to his grave. Want, sorrow, and pain subdued his body at last; but his great and noble humour rode buoyant over them all, and his frank and manly philosophy overcame them. generous attachment to his family comforted him to the last; and, though all the labours of the poor fellow were only sufficient to keep him and them in a bare competence, yet, it must be remembered, to his credit, that he left behind him a friend, who valued him so much as to provide for the family that he had left destitute, and to place them beyond the reach of want. It is some credit to a man to have been the friend of Ralph Allen; and Fielding, before his death, raised a monument to his friend, a great deal more lasting than bronze or marble, placing his figure in the romance of Tom Jones, under the name of Alworthy. "There is a day, sir," says Fielding, in one of his dedications to Mr. Allen," which no man in the kingdom can think of without fear, but yourself -the day of your death." Can there be a finer compliment? nor was Fielding the man to pay it to one who he thought was undeserving of it.

Never do Fielding's courage, cheerfulness, and affection forsake him; up to the last days of his life he is labouring still for his children. He dies, and is beholden to the admiration of a foreigner, Monsieur de Meyrionnet, French consul at Lisbon, for a decent grave and tombstone. There he lies sleeping after life's fitful fever. No more care, no more duns, no more racking pain, no more wild midnight orgies, and jovial laughter. Of the women who are weeping for him, a pious friend takes care. Here, indeed, it seems as if his sorrows ended; and one hopes and fancies

that the poor but noble fellow's spirit is, at last, pure and serene.

INDIA JUGGLERS.

A MAN who, in 1828, seated himself in the air, without any apparent support, excited as much interest and curiosity as the automaton chess-player who astonished all Europe a few years previously. Drawings were exhibited in all the India papers, and various conjectures formed respecting the secret of his art; but no very satisfactory discovery was made of the means by which he effected an apparent impossibility. The bodies of the Madras jugglers are so light and supple as to resemble those of serpents rather than men. An artist of this kind will place a ladder upright on the ground, and wind himself in and out through the rungs until he reaches the top, descending in the same manner, keeping the ladder, which has no support whatever, in a perpendicular position. Some of the most accomplished tumblers will spring over an enormous elephant, or five camels placed abreast; and in rope-dancing they are not to be outdone by any of the wonders of Sadler's Wells. Swallowing the sword is a common operation, even by those who are not considered the most expert; and they have various other exploits with naked weapons, of a most frightful nature. A woman (for females are quite equal to men in this kind of feats,) will dip the point of a sword in some black pigment; the hilt is then fixed firmly in the ground, and, after a few whirls in the air, the artist takes off a portion of the pigment with her eyelid. A sword and four daggers are placed in the ground, with their edges and points upwards, at such a distance from each other as to admit of a man's head between them; the operator then plants a scimitar firmly in the ground, sits down behind it, and, at a bound, throws himself over the scimitar, pitching his head exactly in the centre between the daggers, and, turning over, clears them and the sword. Walking over the naked edges of the sabres seems to be perfectly easy; and some of these people will stick a sword in the ground, and step upon the point in crossing over it. A more agreeable display of the lightness and activity which would enable the performers to tread over flowers without bending them, is shewn upon a piece of thin linen cloth, stretched out slightly in the hands of four persons, which is traversed without ruffling it, or forcing it from the grasp of the holders. The lifting of heavy weights with the eyelids is another very ingenious exhibition. Some of the optical deceptions are exceedingly

curious; and inquirers are, till this day, puzzled to guess how plants and flowers can be instantaneously produced from seeds. PARSEE.

A VENETIAN STORY.

(Concluded from page 374.) AFTER shortly deliberating with the other members, the president informed Albano, that enough had been said before the Council to satisfy them that he had not only transgressed one of the fundamental laws of Venice, but acted in so questionable and mysterious a manner, as to render it indispensable for him to account for his conduct, and disclose its motives; to explain the real cause of his visits to the French minister, and ingenuously confess the reason of his industrious endeavours to conceal them :-that he had incurred very severe penalties by the fact which he had admitted; but that, in consideration his former services, they were inclined relax the rigour of the law, provided he would impart to them the true inducement to his secret visits; from which they should otherwise conclude that something inimical to the Government had been intended.

Albano thanked the Council for their lenity and proffered favours, at the same time declaring he could not, with the approbation of his own heart, explain the particular circumstances of his conduct. In the most animated language, and in the most solemn manner, he disdained any design against his country; and ended with assuring the assembly, that, be the issue what it might, no power on earth should wrest from him his motives; on that subject he would preserve the profoundest and most invincible silence. It is scarcely possible to describe the grief and astonishment of the whole assembly, on hearing this declaration; the cool tone, and determined manner in which it was made, left them no hope that anything would ever shake the resolution he had just expressed.

Albano was ordered to withdraw. The Council, after examining his conduct in every point of view, discovered in it much to blame, and more to suspect. His refusal to enter into any explanation of it, seemed to confirm the opinion of all, that something very criminal must be attached to it. Whatever their first prepossessions might have been, they did not now hesitate to impute to him the crime of plotting against the safety of the State. The Council had already departed widely from the general practice on similar occasions; and had, in consequence of his virtues and services, displayed a clemency seldom, if

ever, exercised by the Venetian Govern

ment.

Under that famous square in Venice, known by the name of St. Mark, are dungeons so deeply sunk, as to be considerably below the sea; through an apartment at the top, the wretched victim of State suspicion is let down, never more to return; through this, his miserable and scanty food is conveyed; through this alone, the air, sluggish and damp, from the massive and enormous arches raised over the opening, with difficulty works its way to support the hated existence of the devoted victim below.

Thus immured, carefully and cruelly prevented from availing themselves of all means of putting a period to this indescribable state of horror-in total and almost palpable darkness-for ever cut off from the world-without the faintest or most distant hope of ever again seeing their friends, their families, their dearest connexions, nay, of ever more beholding any object on earth, these victims of suspicion endure torments far more agonizing and exquisite than the most terrific death.

In one of those dreary cells was Albano condemned to pass the remainder of his days. The decree, once past, was irrevocable; the execution of it followed close; and without being permitted to bid adieu to his relatives, his expecting family, his anxious friends; without any preparation for so dreadful an event, was this unhappy nobleman conveyed to those scenes of horror and of darkness; and, in the flower of his age and the vigorous exercise of the most brilliant faculties, buried alive, and for ever shut out from the voice and sight of human kind.

Notwithstanding the secrecy and dispatch with which this business was transacted, the populace of Venice soon felt the absence of their patron, their benefactor, their friend. Bred up in submission the most humble to their rulers, they dared not clamour for and demand their protector, or even to murmur against those by whose means they had the strongest reason to suppose they were deprived of him. But their sorrow was not less poignant or sincere, because it was silent; the whole city ceased not to lament and deplore his fate.

The stern patriotism even of Friuli could not support him under the grief excited by this dreadful sentence. He contemplated with horror the situation to which he had reduced his much-loved friend. The picture was too shocking for him to look on; the emaciated countenance of Albano, wherein were marked the deep lines of hopeless expectation, and the traces of

approaching dissolution, constantly appeared to Friuli's imagination; the despair of his eye, the faint sweat on his brow, the convulsion of his altered features, and the just though gentle reproof from his dying lips, all passed in terrible review across his agitated mind, and forbad him to enjoy either repose at night or tranquillity by day. His health impaired, and his spirits worn down by increasing sorrow and remorse, he survived but a short time; and, by his death, proved that his friendship equalled, in strength and sincerity, his love and zeal for his country.

How long the ill-fated Albano dragged out his miserable existence in these regions of woe cannot be known. The most profound silence was ever preserved on this occasion, and no one dared to inquire after the fate of the prisoner, or ventured even to name him.

About eighteen or twenty years subsequent to the period of Albano's confinement, a priest was called to administer spiritual consolation to a lady at Paris, in her last moments, and perform those offices which her religion taught her to require. Amongst other matters which the dying Adelaide disclosed to her confessor, was the following incident; that nearly twenty years before, she had resided at Venice, in the house of the French ambassador, accompanying his wife thither, to whom she was related, and whose friendship she had possessed from her earliest age; that, during her abode there, she became acquainted with a young Venetian, of whose title she was ignorant, but of superior birth and quality; that his personal accomplishments, united with the charms of his conversation, subdued her heart; and though she had unwarily yielded up her honour, yet every succeeding day seemed to add to their passion, and strengthen their attachment; that, as he could not unite himself to her by bonds of marriage without degradation, the most private mode of visiting her was adopted, and through the assistance of a faithful domestic, he was constantly introduced into the house at the hour of midnight; but suddenly, without any information whatever, ceased to come to her that, distracted by a thousand conjectures and fears, her health began daily and visibly to decline; upon which it was thought advisable that she should return to her native country, where she at length regained her health, though never her tranquillity.

Adelaide, faint and exhausted by the recital, had scarcely received the absolution which she implored, and by her sincere penitence seemed to deserve, when she breathed her last sigh.

Hence it became most apparent, that the unfortunate Albano was innocent of every crime against his country; and that his visits, which were construed as proof of his machinations against the State, were made to a beautiful and beloved mistress. He preferred enduring the miseries of perpetual confinement in a dungeon, (so horrible that the humane Howard was not allowed to explore it,) to the risk of exposing to the reproachful voice of the world, her whom he adored. In the admiration of his honourable spirit, his ardent love, his unshaken fortitude, we may be allowed to forgive the indiscretions of Albano, or, if we blame him for an error, to drop over his ashes the tear of sympathy and commiseration.

WORTH, ESQ. PART IX. [A CAPITAL Number, as we have no difficulty in proving. First, we have the Trial and Pardon of Dudley and Lady Jane; next, Jane at Sion House; thirdly, a chapter full of humour-"How Xit was imprisoned in the Constable Tower;"

and how he was wedded to the "Scaven

ger's Daughter;" and, lastly, "How Xit escaped from the Constable Tower; and how he found Cicely." It will be seen that the interest is so various as to suit all tastes. We have only quoted two passages, which are admirably characteristic :]

The Bloody Tower.

The gateway of the Bloody Tower, is, perhaps, one of the most striking remnants of ancient architecture to be met with in the fortress. Its dark and gloomy archway, bristling with the iron teeth of the portcullis, and resembling some huge ravenous monster, with jaws wide-opened to devour its prey, well accords with its ill-omened name, derived, as before stated, from the structure above it being the supposed scene of the murder of the youthful princes. Erected in the reign of Edward III., this gateway is upwards of thirty feet in length, and fifteen in width. It has a vaulted roof, supported by groined arches, and embellished with moulded tracery of great beauty. At the period of this chronicle, it was defended at either extremity by a massive oak portal, strengthened by plates of iron and broadheaded nails, and a huge portcullis. Of these defences those at the south are still left. On the eastern side, concealed by the leaf of the gate when opened, is an arched doorway, communicating with a flight of spiral stone steps leading to the

It was square-shaped, with a deep roundarched recess on the right of the entrance, at the farther end of which was a small cell, surmounted with a pointed arch. On one side, the wall was decorated with thumb-screws, gauntlets, bracelets, collars, pincers, saws, chains, and other nameless implements of torture. To the ceiling was affixed a stout pulley, with a rope, terminated by an iron hook, and two leathern shoulder-straps. Opposite the door-way stood a brasier, filled with blazing coals, in which a huge pair of pincers were thrust; and beyond it was the wooden frame of the rack, already described, with its ropes and leavers in readiness. Reared against the side of the deep dark recess, previously mentioned, was a ponderous wheel, as broad in the felly as that of a wagon, and twice the circumference. This antiquated instrument of torture was placed there to strike terror into the breasts of those who beheld it-but it was rarely used. Next to it was a heavy bar

of iron, employed to break the limbs of the sufferers tied to its spokes.

[The Illustrations eclipse their predecessors. First, is the long promised View of the Tower in 1553, a very interesting plate; next, Wyat dictating to Queen Mary, the accessories in which are very cleverly managed; and, lastly, Xit in the torture-room, "wedded to the Scavenger's Daughter."

Scientific Facts.

PRESERVATION OF BOTANICAL SPECIMENS.

Ar a late meeting of the Botanical Society of Edinburgh, Professor Christian presented some cbservations on the preservation of fruits and other botanical specimens in a moist state; and remarked, that after numerous experiments, made for a series of years, with various fluids, he had found none which served so well to preserve both the consistence and colour of fruits, leaves, and flowers, as a concentrated solution of common salt. Numerous specimens were exhibited, which had been preserved, in this way, for one, two, three, and five years; among which were