A LONDON SPRING.

Or all seasons the season of Spring is my favourite, and of all places the neighbourhood of London is the place in which I best love to enjoy it. It is impossible, I believe, for any one to know how pleasant an English Spring may be, if he has never happened to spend that season in London and its environs. While the inhabitants of other parts of the kingdom are cringing over their fires, or creeping out in their wintry habiliments, the Londoners are enjoying an early summer. Their country villas are gay with flowers; their meadows are as green as the eye can desire; their hedgerows are full of bud and bloom. It is a curious reflection, that they are thus enabled to beat the country people at their own game; but so it is. The empire of fashion, we know, is speedily extended. A few days will enable a country milliner, dress-maker, or tailor, to transport the most exquisite novelties from London to the remotest parts of the kingdom. The bonnet that attracted all eyes and won all hearts in Bond-street on Wednesday, may grace the head of some belle at the Land's End on the following Sunday. But of the garb of Nature it may be said that no power can enable the inhabitants of the country thus speedily to clothe their landscapes in the bright liveries every where visible around the metropolis. They must wait patiently till the hour of their revivification comes.

I am no Londoner myself, yet I have felt like one during occasional Spring visits to the busy world; and the days thus added to existence were some of the sweetest in my life. Never at any time did the meadows look so green, the aspect of Nature so beautiful, as when from time to time, a few days generally intervening, I marked her progress in excursions from London to the neighbouring country. The rapidity with which vegetation appeared to advance, the new creations every where taking place, beheld in contrast with the eternal sameness of our city dwellings,-all this gave me a greater relish for the country than I had ever experienced before.

They, indeed, are not the most observing of mortals who expect to find the lovers of nature among country residents. From experience I have learned to look for them in "populous cities." The gentlemen of the Lakes may smile, and whisper "Grub-street;" but sure I am, that few of those who spend their lives in the midst of rural beauty know any thing of the deep delight that fills a Londoner's heart, and dances in his eye, when, after a week of ceaseless toil, he catches a glimpse of his rural villa at Hampstead,-when, after long familiarity with the dingy and murky atmosphere of the metropolis, his eye rests upon the short green turf, the scattered trees, and the undulating hill,-lovely in themselves, loveliest of all when we consider how near their refreshing beauties are brought to the ken of the inhabitants of this mighty city. Yes! smile as you please, gentlemen of the Lakes? you know not much of this. You that talk in raptures of childish purity and heavenly intercourses-that think you can look directly from your own lakes and mountains into the mansions of the blest-you know not what it is for a man that has spent his long day toiling for no unworthy purpose, in the heat and turmoil of London, who has seen in that "mighty heart" something to hate, but something to pity, to pardon, and to love,you know not what it is for such a man, after doing what he can to make that world better, to go and repose himself in the pleasant shades VOL. V. No. 29.-1823.

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of his country dwelling. How is it possible that such a man should view what he there sees of Nature with a dull and stupid eye? He may be too busy to write sonnets; but depend upon it he has a poetical spirit within him. He carries into his retirement a daily portion of rational concern in the interests of society. He has the hopes, the fears, the thoughts, and purposes of a man among men. This is the food upon which sense, talent, public spirit, and soundness of intellect have ever been nourished. And he is a good man too, full of kind projects, mild and just designs, yet not avenging the disappointments his benevolence may have met with in one quarter by callous misanthropy in another. I say such a man as this will love the country the better for his love of society. He is the man

" to drink at every pore

The spirit of the season."

-And let no one scoff when I speak of country within a very few miles of Temple-bar. What! are aristocrats to deny us the credit of enjoying the country, because we have it not in solitary lordly enjoyment? Are we to see no beauty in our flowers and trees, the meadow, and the hill behind our dwelling, because our front windows present to our view many edifices like our own-in other words, because our fellowcreatures have a fellow-sentiment, and come like us to breathe untainted air, without any of that troublesome fastidiousness which makes children quarrel with their pudding because it is not pie?

But Spring is pleasant in London also. To say nothing of our more equivocal sources of amusement, our plays, our exhibitions, our various resorts of fashion and gaiety, there is something very exhilarating in a London morning's walk in Spring. You are sure to meet with some country friend or other, one, perhaps, whom you had not seen since your childish years, and never might have met again but for the overwhelming attractions of this "resort and mart of all the earth." And this is also the season of London benevolence. Every society formed for the relief of suffering humanity is holding its meetings; and our excellent and gentle-minded friends, the Quakers, are abroad, pouring in upon us, to remind us of our debts of charity, and open our hearts and purses to the relief of our brethren. A true member of the Society of Friends may be regarded as a second conscience on these occasions. The very sight of these gentle beings, who seem to have stepped into a world with which they have no fellowship, to remind us of our duties, has a happy influence on the mind. It may be feeling, no doubt-it may be fancy; but this apparition of Friends always make me breathe more cautiously, walk more circumspectly. How is it possible to look at the rigid simplicity of their costume, and not repress the rising desire to make one's self the proud possessor of some new and fashionably indispensable article of personal expenditure? When we think, too, that so many pure feet are treading our polluted ways, it touches the heart, and makes us anxious at least to do what we can to put away evil from their walk. Primitive times-primitive feelings thoughts that claim kindred with Heaven, gather about us. Well, peace be with the Quakers! and as long as London remains, so long may they continue their annual visitations.

I will mention but one more among the sources of attraction with which the metropolis is filled at this season of the year; and that is so

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,
Of Home, and Love, and nearer ties
Of Friend and Neighbour, and the calm
Of undistracted sympathies."

If such should now be passing" a Spring in London," perhaps they will feel for themselves what I have imperfectly described.

B.

DAVID.

ALONE Judea's sovereign seeks

His chamber at the gate,

And tears fall fast from his royal cheeks,
He weeps his offspring's fate.

He weeps for Absalom his son

"Oh, Absalom! would for thee

I had died on the battlefield Joab hath won-
Oh! would I had died for thee."

There is silence in the palace hall,

There is grief on every face,

And the lightest step from the marble wall
In echoes the ear may trace.

All move by token, look, or sign

Hush'd is the pomp of state

And the gilded rooms made for mirth and wine
Look sad and desolate.

The monarch grieves his favourite son-
"Oh, Absalom! would for thee

I had died on the battlefield Joab 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 spear,

In the heat of battle-fray—

They cry, In vain their blood they pour'—

They witness with despair,

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 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!

I.

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,