and not carry away the sting of that beauty in their minds, there to remain for ever, are not made of "penetrable stuff.”

Parts of these pictures are the most eloquent commentary that ever was written on the maxim that "Beauty is Truth-Truth Beauty." They put to flight in a moment the endless jargon about the ideal, and leave nothing to be said on the subject.-The ideal, if it has any meaning at all, means the perfection of the true. It is, not what may be, but what has been, or what is. And it may safely be said to have never yet equalled its prototype. Probably there are existing at present, and have been at any given time, forms and faces that are more beautiful than any the pencil or the chisel ever produced.

The only other observation that it occurs to me to make is, that the artist has, in these pictures, balanced the charms of expression and of colouring more fairly than he usually did in works of this nature. He generally made one or other of these entirely predominate; witness those two splendid and unrivalled pieces of colouring at the Cleveland Gallery-the Diana and Acteon, and Diana and Calisto. In those pictures the expression goes for almost nothing. They are appeals to the senses alone. You can actually, as it were, taste the flavour of them on the palate. And if you remember them at all in absence, it is as a kind of harmonious chaos of colour, "without form and void;" or like a chord in music-one sweet sound made up of many-harmony without melody. But the works before us appeal equally to the senses and the imagination; like a melody and a harmony united. Whether they are the more or the less valuable on this account, I shall not determine. Certain it is, that by appealing to both in an almost equal degree, they do not act so strongly and permanently as they might otherwise do on either. The relative value of each style remains to be measured by the sum of pleasure it produces.

I understand it has been said that these pictures are not painted by Titian! If so, they are even more extraordinary works than I take them to be; for they prove that we have had as great a painter as Titian in the world, without knowing it: for if they are not by Titian, they are not by any one else that we have ever heard of.

SONNET FROM PETRARCH.

"I' vo piangendo i miei passati tempi."

I MOURN the wreck of years untimely spent
In the concerns of base mortality,
Without a wish to rise, though Heaven had lent
The wings, and given a soul and strength to fly.
Thou who inhabitest eternity,

Immortal and invisible-present

Aid to my weakness, to my wants supply,
And guide my spirit wandering and o'erspent.
If I have lived in tempests, let me die

In peace, and in the harbour-if my stay
Were vain, more noble let my parting be;
And let thy gracious hand be ever nigh

Through the short remnant of my sinking day;
My hope, thou know'st, is fix'd alone on thee.

THE HOUNDSDITCH ALBUM.

Third Letter from Miss Hebe Hoggins.

The Conversazione.

CADMUS had not greater difficulty in civilizing his Boeotians, than I have found in introducing a comparative gentility to our domestic circle in Houndsditch, although I have finally succeeded, as far as the nature of the obstacles will admit. An unconditional assent has been given to three articles in which I was personally interested; I am to put on a white gown every day, not to go to afternoon church on a Sunday, and never to wear pattens. My father, after a severe struggle, has consented to exchange his bob-wig for a fashionable crop; and my mother has conformed to all the external modifications I could wish, though she remains incurably afflicted with that infirmity of speech to which Mrs. Malaprop was subject. Upon questions of grammar we are perpetually at variance, for I am so often in the accusative case that Mrs. Hoggins cannot keep out of the imperative mood, and not unfrequently interrupts me with exclamations of "Psha! child, don't worret one so; I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself; I knew nothing of genders and conjunctions when I was your age, but I thinks girls talks of every thing now a-days." As to mending her cacophony, (as my Lord Duberly says) it is a hopeless attempt; silence is the only corrective, and to this alternative I was particularly anxious to reduce her last night, when I obtained her consent to my giving a literary conversazione, which I am happy to say passed off with the greatest possible success and éclat.

Exclusively of the members of our society, some of the most celebrated characters in the world of letters honoured our coterie. The gentleman who wrote the last pantomime for one of our minor theatres, distinguished himself by some excellent practical jokes, which he played off with infinite adroitness. Mr. Grope, index-maker to one of the first publishers in the Row, astonished us by the alphabetical accuracy of his genius; Mr. Grub, who inserted in the Gentleman's Magazine a most interesting account of a Roman tooth-pick, dug up at the mouth of the Thames, was profound in antiquarian research; Miss Sphinks, who writes all the charades and rebuses for the Lady's Pocket-book, captivated the company with some capital conundrums; while we were all highly delighted with the caustic satire and biting irony of Mr. Fungus, a young man of great future celebrity, who, not having completed his studies, has not yet attained the art of writing books, and therefore contents himself for the present with reviewing them.

It is well known that absence of mind has been an invariable accompaniment of genius, and it is therefore not without complacency that I record a ludicrous incident arising from one of those fits of literary abstraction to which I have been recently subject. While presiding at the tea-table I inadvertently substituted a canister of my father's snuff for the caddy, infusing eight large spoonfuls of the best Lundy Foot into the tea-pot; nor did I discover my mistake until the wry faces, watery eyes, and incessant sneezing of the company, were explained by

Papa's angry exclamation-"Why, drat it! the girl's bewitch'd—I'll be hang'd if she hasn't wasted half-a-pound of my best Lundy Foot upon these confounded -"A violent fit of sneezing fortunately prevented the completion of the sentence, and as I made good haste to repair my error by tendering him a cup (which he will persist in calling a dish) of genuine souchong by the time he had done wiping his eyes and blowing his nose, he suffered himself to be pacified. Dispatching as rapidly as possible this repast of the body, I hastened to the feast of reason, which I began by reciting a little song of my own composition, entitled

Forgetful Cupid.

A ROSE one morning Cupid took,

And fill'd the leaves with vows of love,
When Zephyr passing fann'd the book,
And wafted oaths and leaves above.

Seizing his dart, the god then traced
Pledges to Psyche in the sand,
But soon the refluent tide effaced

The fleeting record of his hand.

Quoth, Psyche, "From your wing I'll take
Each morn a plume, and you another,
With which new pledges we will make,
And write love-letters to each other."

Cries Cupid," But if every pen

Be used in writing oaths to stay,
What shall I do for pinions, when

I want them both-to fly away?"

I frankly admitted that I thought the flow of these verses somewhat Moore-ish, and observed that they adapted themselves happily to one of the Irish Melodies, when I overheard Miss Caustic whisper to her neighbour, that if I was correct as to the metre, there wanted nothing but different words and sentiments to make it really very like Moore. "Envy does merit like its shade pursue," and we all know Miss Caustic's amiable propensities. If I were to require her to write a better, before she presumed to criticise my production, I fancy she would be condemned to a pretty long silence.

Mr. Scribbleton, a multifarious operator for the theatres, particularly in getting up farces, next favoured us with a comic song, which he assured us was the easiest thing in the world to compose, as it was only to take a story from Joe Miller, versify it, and add a little nonsense by way of chorus, and he had never known the experiment fail. He relied confidently on a double encore for the following, inserted in a forthcoming piece, put into the mouth of a Yorkshireman.

The Smoky Chimney.

GRIPE'S chimney were smother'd wi' soot and wi' smoke,

But I won't pay for sweeping, he mutter'd;

So he took a live goose to the top-gave a poke,

And down to the bottom it flutter'd.

Hiss, flippity! hiss, flappity!
Flippity, flappity, hiss!

Wauns! how cruel, cries one-says another I'm shock'd—
Quoth Gripe, I'm asham'd on 't, adzooks:

But I'll do so no more. So the next time it smok'd,
He popp'd down a couple of ducks.

Quaak, flippity! quaak, flappity!
Flippity, flappity, quaak!

At my earnest solicitation, Mr. Schweitzkoffer next recited some farther extracts from "The Apotheosis of Snip." This hero is conducted to the Dandelion Tea Gardens formerly established in the vicinity of Margate, where he delivers a political harangue, which a part of the company receive in dudgeon while others' supporting the orator, a pelting of stones and general combat ensue, of which the par ticulars are thus humorously detailed.

Not with more dire contention press'd

The Greeks and Trojans, breast to breast,
When, brandish'd o'er Patroclus dead,
Gleam'd many a sword and lance,
And from their flashing contact shed
Light on his pallid countenance,
Than did these Dandelion wights,
Rivals of Greek and Trojan knights,
Who all as thick and hot as mustard,

O'er Snip, the prostrate, fought and bluster'd.

Nor was that combat so prolific

Of doleful yells and screams terrific ;

For Trojan stout and stubborn Greek,

Tho' wounded, scorn'd to whine or squeak,

While those who were from wounds most safe

Did here most clamorously chafe.

Mothers, aunts, sisters, nieces, grannies,
Always more voluble than man is,
Might here, by their commingled gabble,
Have stunn'd the chatterers of Babel,-
As if the warriors made their doxies
Their vocal deputies and proxies ;
And by their better halves confess'd
The feelings they themselves suppress'd-
As when a bagpipe 's squeezed behind,
It squeaks by pipe to which 'tis join'd.
Questions, calls, cries, and interjections,
Were intermix'd in all directions ;-
Where's Jacky, Harry, Ned, and Billy?—
Coom hither, Tummas, or they'll kill ye-
Good gracious! where is Mr. Wiggins?
Mamma, we can't find uncle Spriggins.
Dear me that lady 's in a swound :-
Well, ma'am, you needn't tear one's gound.
Jacky, do you take care of Polly.
O heavens! there's another volley!
O Mr. Stubbs! what shall I do?
Has any lady found a shoe?

Sally's lace veil is gone, I vow

I'll take my oath 'twas here just now.
Why do you stare at me, good madam?
I know no more of it than Adam.

Why, see, you thoughtless little fool,
You popp'd it in your ridicule.

OI shall ne'er survive the squeedge!
A smelling bottle would obleege.—
I vow I feel quite atmospheric :-
Salts! salts! she's in a strong hysteric!
Ŏ that a person of my station

Should be exposed to such flustration!
You haven't, madam, seen Sir John?-
Where is my stupid coachman gone?-
Well, goodness me, and lackadaisy!
I'm sure the people must be crazy.
What do you mean, ma'am, by this riot?
Mean?-why you 've almost poked my eye out.
Those parasols are monstrous sharp.—

Ma, that's the man as play'd the harp.
Well, this is Dandelion, is it?

I shan't soon make another visit.

George Crump, the inspired carman, of whose original Muse I have already furnished interesting specimens, having completed a poem entitled "The Skittle ground," with the exception of the introductory stanzas, applied to me for that difficult portion; and as I was very sure that he would never imitate the discourteousness of Dr. Darwin, who received a similar contribution from Miss Seward, and prefixed it to his Botanic Garden without the smallest acknowledgment, I resolved to gratify his wish, running over in my mind the opening lines of the most celebrated epics. Virgil's "Arma virumque cano"-Tasso's "Canto l'arme pietose"-Ariosto's "Canto le Donne e' i Cavalieri" -Milton's "Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit," with many other initiatory verses, occurred to my recollection; but Mr. Crump, having intimated at our conversazione that he had himself hit upon a happy exordium, I obtained silence, when he recited the following four lines as his proposed commencement, assuring us that the fact corresponded with his statement, which he considered a most auspicious augury.

While playing skittles, ere I took my quid,
The Muses I invoked my work to crown;
"Descend, ye Nine!" I cried,-and so they did,

For in a trice I knock'd the nine-pins down!

It was my intention to have furnished some farther poetical flowers from the literary garland woven at this interesting Symposium, but the recollection of an incident which occurred towards the end of the entertainment actually paralyzes my faculties, and makes the pen flutter in my hand. My father, who is passionately fond of whist, had stipulated for a table in one corner of the room; and for the purpose of tenanting it had invited four or five humdrum neighbours, who could only be called men of letters in the postman's sense of the phrase, although they were perfectly competent to go through the automatical movements of shuffling, cutting, and dealing. After the rubber had been played once over in fact, and twice in subsequent discussion, they prepared to depart, and I heard the announcement of their servants arrival with a pleasure that I could ill conceal." Mrs. Waddle's maid and umbrella!" sounded up the stairs, and the corpulent old lady slowly obeyed the summons. "Miss Clacket's pattens stop the way!" was the next cry; and her shrill voice, still audible from below,