school. So long ago as 1785, her success in needlework led to her being invited by Queen Charlotte to exhibit her pictures to the royal family at Windsor; and she afterwards had a select exhibition to the nobility in London. By perseverance, her works were soon multiplied beyond the capacity of a private house, and being importuned by public curiosity, she resolved, in 1798, to open a public exhibition in London; and the Hanover - square rooms, where her works were displayed, were, for several seasons, the resort of all persons of taste. At length, her term in these rooms having expired, she engaged others in Leicester-square; and, for nearly twenty years, no foreigner visited England, or stranger the metropolis, without viewing this unparalleled assemblage of the works of one hand, and, in every respect, the most pleasing public exhibition of its time.

Sir Richard Phillips, writing in 1828, says: "Leicester and Miss Linwood, and Miss Linwood and Leicester, have been associated for nearly half a century. Genius, virtue, and unparalleled industry, render the affinity a trophy to Leicester more splendid than many towns can boast of."

OBSERVANDA.

GRATTAN employed a most pathetic and appropriate image to describe his relation towards Irish independence; when alluding to its rise, in 1782, and its fall twenty years later, he said "I sat by its cradle -I followed its hearse."

Lord Norbury's puns were innumerable. One of the best was as follows:-When the subject of removing Paine's bones to England was in agitation, and he was asked for his opinion, he said that they would be very good to make a broil! [What might one say of Napoleon's ?]

Curran, on one occasion, when pleading a cause, made frequent use of the word nothing. The judge, jokingly, asked for its definition. "Nothing," replied Curran, "in my opinion, defines it better, than a footless boot without a leg, or a bodiless shirt without neck or sleeves."

When interrupted, at midnight, in his defence of Bond, by the volunteers clashing their arms, as if threatening defiance at his invectives, Curran sternly rebuked them, by exclaiming-" You may assassinate but shall not intimidate me."

There is, perhaps, no figure to be found so striking as that of Curran, when declaiming against the spies, brought up, after the rebellion of 1798, from prisons: "Those catacombs of living death, where the wretch, that is buried a man, lies till his

THE JOURNEY-BOOK OF ENGLAND: BERKSHIRE.

MANY years since, the series of "Topography of England and Wales," published by one Cook, enjoyed a much higher reputation than it merited. The series extended to as many volumes as counties: they were generally meagre in their topographical details, inaccurate in their historical sketches, and full of gossiping and generalizing “accounts," upon which little reliance could be placed. Many a traveller must these mendacious guides have misled: some looking for a castle that had long since crumbled to dust; and others seeking for characteristics of the country which never existed but in the author's shallow conception. Still, as Cook's work was a publisher's hash, its sale was, for many years, very extensive: bad was the best; yet it was accepted by the kind public for want of better. A few years since, the whole set was announced as having been revised and enlarged. Some fireside tourist, more familiar with housetops than mountains, took upon himself to pick and new van the precious materials; and well do we remember the specimen of his handiwork in the Topography of Surrey, for which he had sliced off pages upon pages from our Promenade round Dorking, and placed them, like sippets, in his own dish. Great was our mortification to find ourselves in such equivocal company, and to see our title sported in numberless footnotes, and a true labour of love treated so day had not then grown dry in the march unconscientiously. The compilers of the of intellect, for they were poor, spiritless creatures at starting.

Topography is a rambling subject; and the reader will pardon this digression. The Journey-book before us will, doubtless, put him in better humour; for it is, unquestionably, a great advance upon Cook's ways: it is much cheaper than his misleading little books; and it rises many degrees above them in literary pretensions. "The present volume, (the Editor states,) is the first of a series which it is intended to publish, under the general title of The Journey-book of England.' The entire series, if completed in a manner answerable to the wishes and intentions of the publishers, will form a Topographical Description of all the English Counties, permanently useful for general reading and reference as a library work; while each separate volume is intended to serve

as an accurate guide to particular localities." The description of each county will be arranged, for the most part, in the order in which each place presents itself on the chief lines of communication-as railways. Thus, the volume before us, not only describes Berkshire, but is a companion to that large portion of the Great Western Railway which runs through forty-five miles of the county. It is candidly stated, in the prefatory notice, that the topographical articles of the Penny Cyclopædia will be the substrata of the Journey-book, with large additions, to bring up the information to the most recent period. This duplicate employment of materials is a recommendation: the geographical and topographical department of the Penny Cyclopædia being so complete and accurate as to have received the especial commendation of the President of the Royal Geographical Society, in one of his annual addresses.

The arrangement of the Journey-book of Berkshire is cleverly executed. The new features of our social system-as savingsbanks, railways, &c., are duly appreciated; the most important antiquities are not forgotten; and, throughout the work, there is a spirit of neatness and comprehensive ness which few minor topographical works possess. The Illustrations are, twenty-three engravings on wood, and an illuminated map of the county. The wrapper is of characteristic design, tastefully executed by Mr. Knight's illuminated process. It should be added, that one of the greatest attractions of the Journey-book is a "Full Description of Windsor Castle," which is very satisfactorily drawn up.

THE PASTON LETTERS.-KNIGHT'S MISCELLANIES.

FOR Some time past had we been anxiously looking for a reprint of the Paston Letters, from one of the numerous Societies recently formed for the diffusion of retrospective literature-when the announcement of the present republication attracted our attention. This instance of individual enterprise getting the start of associated interest merits especial encouragement, which we sincerely hope the publishers will receive.

The Paston Letters, it may be as well to state, present a very interesting picture of domestic life in England in the fifteenth century; which is, in many respects, one of the most attractive epochs of our history. These Letters were written by, or addressed to, the Paston family, during the reigns of Henry VI,, Edward IV., and Richard III., by various persons of rank or consequence they contain many curious anecdotes, relative to that turbulent and

age.

bloody, but, hitherto, dark period; and elucidate, not only public matters of state, but, likewise, the private manners of the These valuable records were originally edited and published, in four volumes, by Sir John Fenn, about fifty years since, and a fifth volume so lately as 1823. The cost of this edition is eight guineas, a price which makes it a sealed book to many, unless they are prodigal of time at our public libraries. This consideration has led to the reprinting of these volumes at less than one sixteenth of the above price, with the additional advantage of a revision of the entire series, by Mr. A. Ramsay, who has abridged the less important letters, digested the whole in chronological order, and added to the notes of the original editor. Prefixed is an introduction of some dozen pages, in which there is an untiring spirit of investigation into the literary history and value of these Letters, duly illustrating their historical worth.

We regret not to have space to quote a specimen of the Letters, and the editorial neatness displayed in this new arrangement, which must be considered as a service to our popular literature.

The edition is neatly printed, in small quarto, and liberally embellished with portraits, seals, and autographs. wrapper is of very novel design.

THE THAMES AND ITS TRIBUTARIES. (Concluded from page 380.)

The

[WE promised to return to this work, but find it impracticable to notice its innumerable inequalities of matter and manner. We must, therefore, be content with a few more specimens. Chelsea, we are told, has "an air of antiquity and sobriety about that portion of it which is seen from the river, that is highly pleasing :—the solemn, unassuming church, the sedate houses," &c. Has our tourist taken this flight of fancy from the numerous schools at Chelsea, or from its aquatic fame? We see no mention of Chelsea buns, notwithstanding a contemporary was pleased to designate the removal of the Old Bunhouse as one of the most interesting events of modern times! Yet, oddly enough, are we told, that "Chelsea abounds in reminiscences." Poor, crazy, old creature; its memory must be nearly worn out. Here is a piece of confusion: "When he (Sir Joseph Banks) was a young man, and resided at Chelsea with his mother, he used to spend the early morning, from five to eight o'clock, when others, less intent on self-improvement, were in bed and asleep, in trying experiments on various aquatic and other plants." The churches on the river

side are very amiable: thus, Chelsea is "unassuming," and Battersea is " unpretending." It is to be regretted that Mr. Mackay's reminiscences of Putney are so indistinct it is of little interest to be told that Gibbon was born, and Pitt died, there, without the precise locality being pointed out.

The following is, probably, as accurate a page of description as any in the work; indeed, a more distinct reference to the age of Mickleham church, and the omission of the assertion that the village offers few attractions to those who delight in the past, would have made this description unique. Our tourist must, surely, have been content with a glance at Mickleham church from the road side; for it is, perhaps, one of the most ancient ecclesiastical edifices in the kingdom.]

The village of Mickleham, at the foot of Boxhill, is a sweet rural spot, with a modest and venerable church. To the man who delights in recollections of the past, it offers few attractions; but to the man who wishes to enjoy the present, there cannot be many more attractive spots in all England. Norbury Park, adjoining, is one of the finest seats in the county. The river Mole runs through the grounds; and although occasionally, in very hot weather, its channel is almost dry, it generally contains sufficient water to be the most pleasing ornament of the landscape. The views from the windows of the dwellinghouse are exceedingly beautiful; and the walls of the saloon, painted by Barrett, are so managed as to appear a continuation of the prospect. About three miles to the south-east rises Boxhill, nearly 500 feet above the level of the Mole, and from whence the windings of the river may be traced for many miles. Just below is seen the solemn-looking town of Dorking, with the commanding eminence of Leith Hill, about six miles beyond it. To the right, the range of hills leading to Guildford and Farnham, and on the left, Betchworth, Reigate, and all that beautiful country.

The stranger at Dorking will find much to interest him; the walks in the neighbourhood are fine, and the air bracing. But the ramble among the hills over the Hog's-back, to Guildford, is the most delightful of all. We now lose sight of the Mole, and approach its pleasant sister the Wey; less beautiful, it is true, and passing through a country less picturesque, but still worthy of a visit, and offering many reminiscences to the man who takes pleasure in local histories and traditions. The distance is not above eight miles between the Mole and the Wey, and the road is, for the most part, on a beautiful ridge, from

which, at every turn, some pleasant view may be obtained. Guildford is situated upon the Wey, and its antiquities, alone, afford ample materials for a volume. It has a solemn and venerable air-a demure grace about it, which bespeak it as a place that was once of historical importance.

a

[The epithet of solemn-looking, though Cockneyism, conveys an idea of the effect of Dorking in the prospect: it has certainly an air of stillness and even solemnity, notwithstanding its low tower has given place to a spire of carpenter's Gothic. It is this felicitous choice of characteristic epithet that constitutes the main charm of minute topography. Many a time and oft have we felt the still aspect of the little town, so successfully referred to by our Author, as we have luxuriated in the prospect from the majestic hills amidst which it lies embosomed.

Our commendation of the above passage must, however, be qualified by notice of an omission by the Author, notwithstanding that it has already been pointed out by a very competent critic. We refer to John Evelyn's own dear Wotton," lying between Dorking and Guildford, being passed over in silence. Evelyn is not only one of the worthies of Surrey, but one of the finest portraits of an English gentleman that has been preserved for our admiration. It is true, that Wotton Place lies at some distance from the Guildford road, but within the compass of a ramble. It is, beyond comparison, the most interesting estate in Surrey; and had our tourist visited this " proper house and home," he would, probably, have extended his walk to Leith Hill.

Our task is now ended. To have produced an unamusing book from the fand and water Mr. Mackay has journeyed over, would have been next to impossible; to have produced a better book than that before us would have been no difficult matter; and this Mr. Mackay would have accomplished, had he relied more upon his own impressions and less upon the faulty records of the guide-books of the day. Yet we are altogether grateful for his imperfect labours.]

VON RAUMER'S ITALY AND THE ITALIANS, [THE following is a very picturesque account of the Author's

Ascent of Etna.]

I had represented to myself the cultivated region of the mountain as a paradise of oranges, figs, grapes, fantastic habitations, charming females, &c. This was an egregious mistake: you ascend mostly between walls, now and then get

ting a glimpse, sometimes of trees, at others of lava; nothing beautiful, nothing picturesque. The woody region succeeds. Noble trunks of very ancient oaks, but despoiled of their crowns, applied, like willows, to every sort of unworthy use, and headed down. More and more of these witnesses of antiquity are annually felled, and the selfish improvident race never thinks of planting even a single tree, so that the desert at top will soon completely conquer the middle region. After the most laborious efforts, we reached the Casi dei Inglesi, and the question naturally was, whether we were to climb to the summit on the following morning. Of course — you will say, from your sofa. We came to a different conclusion. Respiration became very difficult at this height, the eyes sinarted, the lips were swollen and painful, the hands purple, the face still darker, and in two days we had twice to endure a variation of 30°, that is to say, from 5° to 35° Reaumur (68° F. from 43° to 111°.)

On rising we were quite stiff, and unanimously of opinion that it would be better to watch the sun rise from some promontory of the mountain, and to obtain a view of three-fourths of the circle, than, by climbing higher, to knock ourselves up, or, at any rate, increase our sufferings more than our pleasures. The summit of the mountain was, moreover, enveloped in clouds, and afforded no promise of a view.

For the rest, I found what I have so often said about bird's-eye views, and what I had asserted the day before, com

pletely verified. That from Etna may, it is true, be the most extensive and the most remarkable of all; and it may justly be objected that I have seen but three-fourths of the whole prospect, and not seen the shadow of Etna either in the air or stretched over the land. But, at a greater height, objects become more indistinct and more fore-shortened. You see, as behind a curtain, a lighter or darker patch, a speck of green, or a speck of yellow, and then you are told, That speck is Catanea, and that other, of the size of a sixpence, Syracuse, &c. How if we were to shew a man a beautiful woman at such a distance, and then desire him to fall down and worship? If the devil ever means to tempt me, he must not shew me landscapes in bird's-eye perspective, and as if on a map. That the artist cannot avail himself of such views is a proof that they are not the most beautiful, and to Etna, the Brocken, the Schneekuppe, &c., I very far prefer Vesuvius, the Rigi, Salzburgh, Edinburgh, Bamberg, the Camaldoli, &c. You have there, in general, something above, something

else facing, and something different again below you; or you see composition, outline, colour, light, shade, much more diversified and beautiful.

Accordingly, after we had seen the sun rise like a globe of fire, without the accompaniment of splendid clouds, and had viewed Sicily through the veil of misty vapour, we went to the Valle dei Buoi. Figure to yourself a Swiss valley, burnt up so that not a tree, not a shrub, not a blade of grass, not a drop of water, not a human being, not a house, not a brute animal, is left upon it, and you will have a picture of that valley. I wrote to you about the deserts of Radicofani and Pellegrino: they are but a thimbleful in comparison with the masses of Etna. There you see, at least, rocks, stones, forms, colours, crystallizations; in this kitchen of the devil, on the contrary, everything appears shapeless and colourless. It is chaos, but not the undeveloped matter of all forms; it is the death of all living things; a repulsive negation of nature and of mind. Fire-worshipping naturalists may commit idolatry with these firevomiting mountains; to me they appear rather as vents, by which nature strives to eject excrementitious matter. Let those who please examine it, reverence it, carry it about them, like that of the Dalai Lama; it is no vocation of mine.

well;

Shewing his Greek up so, is not known very
Many think Barnes, others Mitchell, some Merivale;
But it's scarce worth debate,
Because from the date

Of my tale one conclusion we safely may draw,
Viz.-'twas not François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix!

[A theatrical battle :]

What a fine thing a battle is !-not one of those Which you see at "the Surrey" or Mr. Ducrow's, Where a dozen of scene-shifters, drawn up in rows, A dozen more scene-shifters boldly oppose,

Taking great care their blows

Do not injure their foes,

And alike, save in colour and cut of their clothes, Which are varied, to give more effect to "tableaux."

[Next, for the reality :]

Yes! a battle's a very fine thing while you're fighting, These same ups-and-downs are so very exciting.

But a sombre sight is a battle-field

To the sad survivor's sorrowing eye,
Where those, who scorn'd to fly or yield,
In one promiscuous carnage lie;

When the cannon's roar

Is heard no more,

And the thick dun smoke has roll'd away,
And the victor comes for a last survey
Of the well-fought field of yesterday!
No triumphs flush that haughty brow,-
No proud exulting look is there,-
His eagle glance is humbled now,

As, earthward-bent, in anxious care
It seeks the form whose stalwart pride
But yester morn was by his side!
And there it lies !-on yonder bank
Of corses, which themselves had breath
But yester morn-now cold and dank,
With other dews than those of death!
Powerless as it had ne'er been born
The hand that clasp'd his-yester morn!
And there are widows wand'ring there,

That roam the blood-besprinkled plain,
And listen in their dumb despair

For sounds they ne'er may hear again!
One word, however faint and low,-
Ay, e'en a groan,-were music now!
And this is Glory!-Fame!-But, pshaw !
Miss Muse, you're growing sentimental;
Besides, such things we never saw ;

In fact, they're merely Continental.
And then your Ladyship forgets
Some widows came for-epaulettes.
So go back to your canter; for one, I declare,
Is now fumbling about our capsized Mousquetaire.
A beetle-brow'd hag,

With a knife and a bag,

And an old tatter'd bonnet, which, thrown back, discloses

The ginger complexion, and one of those noses
Peculiar to females named Levy and Moses,
Such as nervous folks still when they come in their
way shun,

Old vixen-faced tramps of the Hebrew persuasion.

[Captain Chamier, in a very lively paper, "A Sailor's Trip up the Rhine," narrates a version of the recent émeute of Prince Louis at Boulogne, whom he sarcastically styles "his Majesty the Emperor." Capt. Chamier witnessed the whole of the affaire bien grave, and some of his details are new thus, he tells us that the fortysecond regiment, the very finest in France, listened to the Prince, and never attempt ed to act against him. Some of the incidents are painful to read-as the firing of twenty shots upon seven insurgents, and the murder of a military sub-intendant, "by a miserable fellow, named Simeon Pringie, a mason." Faure, (the sub-intendant,) finding himself pursued, surrendered his sword to this man, who then cooly and deliberately shot him! The following is by no means a caricature of the French :] There was a fair at Boulogne at this time, and it lost nothing of its attraction in con

A

sequence of this émeute. The French are as gay as they are frivolous, and they are more easily gulled than any nation under the sun. Ask a Frenchman if he is free? he will answer you that France is the land of freedom. Pretty freedom, forsooth! If you are sick, and require a sea-water bath, you must obtain an order from the mayor before you can obtain the saltwater out of Neptune's great pond. You cannot even obtain a bottle of salt-water without danger of being insulted by one of the coast-guard, who believe that if you diminish the quantity, there will not be enough for Boulogne harbour. Frenchman cannot move without being questioned; cannot change his abode without notice to the police; cannot stir an inch in freedom; any gendarme in the kingdom may demand his business. He cannot go out of his country without a permit d'embarkation! A domiciliary visit may be made at discretion; and he is made to convict himself of the crime of which he may be accused. But, under all this, they laugh and sing; and the theatre does not close, although the blood may be flowing like a river in the streets. They are living contradictions; they seem enchanted with life, and yet commit suicide with a sang froid perfectly marvellous. When Louis Napoleon, however, had done all he could to save his life, even at the risk of drowning, and was lugged into the boat, he called out "Laissez moi plutôt mourir." If he had stood still, the bungling National Guard might have hit him.

[The nouvellettes of Colin Clink and Stanley Thorn contribute to the gaiety of the Number.]

EDINBURGH REVIEW. NO. CXLIV.

(Concluded from page 270.)

[WE concur in the justice of the following acute observations on the effect of recent Constitutional Changes on the character of the British people. The rationale of their conduct on the day of the Queen's coronation is ably placed before the reader for, doubtless, that day presented one of the most delightful exhibitions of public feeling that has been witnessed in this country for many years; honourable, in the highest degree, to our national character. Assuredly we are a more sensible and stable people than it is the interest of alarmists to represent. The Reviewer shrewdly remarks:]

Intelligent and acute travellers, too, have visited our island, and been enabled to report, as the result of personal observation, that the lamp-posts of our streets are used for gas-lighting, and not for executions; and that the First Commissioner of Woods and Forests has not,