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tional punishment; and the internal broils, the distract ed councils, and civil wars of that unhappy country may be an expression of Divine displeasure for the unexampled cruelties and oppressions practised by Spaniards in South America.

There has flowed a crimson tide in Peru, for which all its splendour cannot atone. An accusing cry has gone up from Mexico to heaven, that all its gold cannot arrest!

Tens of thousands of the people of these countries were ruthlessly pillaged, and savagely slaughtered, in what is called “the conquests of Spain.” No marvel that our poet laureate, when indignantly reflecting on the butcheries of Pizarro, should have proposed for a monument at Truxillo, words similar to these :

“ Pizarro here was born! A greater name
The lists of glory boast not : toil, and want,
And danger, never from his course deterr'd
This daring soldier. Many a fight he won:
He slaughter'd thousands; he subdued a rich
And spacious empire.
Such was Pizarro's deeds, and wealth, and fame,
And glory, his rewards among mankind.
O reader! though thy earthly lot be low,
Be poor and wretched; though thou earn’st thy bread
By daily labour: thank the God that made thee,

That thou art not such as he !" It becomes us not, sinners as we are, to indulge in bitterness against those who are the most heavily laden with crimes; but to pass by deeds of relentless atrocity in silence, because they have been gilded over with earthly splendour, will manifest little discrimination, and still less humanity. It is by preserving a tender conscience, by keeping our minds in a state of shrinking susceptibility to the sins of covetousness, oppression, and cruelty, that we may hope, through the Divine bless

ing, to escape their hardening influence, and hateful contamination.

Spain owes to South America a debt of ten thousand talents, let us, as far as we have ability, help to pay a part of the great account; let us pay her with goodwill, with deeds of kindness, with Bibles, with missionaries, with religious publications, and with our prayers.

It is time now to peep at the Lago Maggiore. These panoramas are sources of much gratification. Many pleasures which are ardently sought after, are attended with inconvenient expense, and will not bear an after reflection; a dissatisfaction, a regret, and sometimes a reproach, follows them as a shadow; but this is not the case when we visit a panorama.

It is a long way to the top of this staircase, and the infirm must find these resting places very agreeable. Time has been when I should have skipped on from the bottom to the top without a pause; but I must not complain, for I can manage the matter now quite as well as most of my neighbours.

The Lago Maggiore is a sweet scene, a constellation of beauties, wherein art and nature are beautifully blended. Buildings, gardens, wood, water, mountain, and sky, are all attractive.

And is it no just cause of thankfulness that the most interesting scenes of different parts of the world are thus brought within our reach by the pencil of the painter ? I think it is. It is a privilege to gaze on the northern regions without having to contend with icebergs, hunger, and cold; on Thebes and Jerusalem, without the pirates of the Archipelago, the Bedouin of the desert, the lion of the forest, and the crocodile of the river ; on Lucknow, and on Ceylon with its elephants, without

snakes and mosquitoes; on Lima, without earthquakes : and on the Lago Maggiore, without fear of the Italian bandit.

Since entering the circle in which I am now standing, the exclamation, “Beautiful !" has reached my ears in twenty different voices. We really want a new importation of exclamations wherewith to express our emotion in such a situation as this. If a word can be worn out, the word “beautiful" must be getting the worse for wear.

This scene is really enchanting. Let others discover that the lake and mountains are a little too blue; that the ugly post-like support of that sculptured Pegasus, that winged horse on the Isola Bella, is not exactly what it ought to be; I have no other inclination than to admire the galaxy of pleasurable objects around


Of the three celebrated lakes of Lombardy, the Lago Maggiore, as its name implies, is the largest. The Isola Bella, or Beautiful Island, forms the attraction of the panorama.

It has long been classed among the wonders of Italy. The palace, the garden, the

pyramid of terraces, the orange, lime, and citron trees, rise, as by enchantment, from the surface of the glassy lake. The place once was a barren rock, but industry has made it fertile, and now hedges of myrtle, bowers of jasmine, cypress, and laurel trees, some nincty feet high; grapes, olives, peaches, and pomegranates, adorn the spot in profusion. Regard the mingled foliage rising among the tasteful erections on the island. Look at that blooming aloe advancing towards the spectator from the brink of the water. Gaze on the mountain clothed to its very summit with luxuriant vegetation

Turn which way you will, the lake with its rafts and vessels, the islands and towering eminences, all conspire to heighten your enjoyment.

For sweetness and repose, nothing can exceed our own country scenes. The cottage with the blue smoke under the wood; the magnificent oaks and noble elms, that adorn the grassy meadows; the upland lawn, the sequestered glade, and the rippling brook, have a character of their own that is balm to the bosom of an Eng. lishman; but, for all this, having the opportunity, I would not willingly forego the gratification of gazing on a scene like that of the Lago Maggiore.

“I dearly love to trace

Through nature's varied page,
God's goodness and his grace,

The same in every age.
O grant that I may faithful be
To gospel light vouchsased to me!"



This exhibition of needle-work speaks loudly in praise of the industry and perseverance of Miss Linwood. I would that I had arrived half an hour earlier, for then the good lady herself was here; and now, as she is upwards of eighty-seven years of age, and visits London but once a year, it is hardly likely that I shall ever see her. When she is beckoned away from the

world, may her grey hairs go down to the grave in peace, and her spirit enter on the life eternal.

It would be too much to expect from the needle the softness, the delicacy, and truthfulness of the pencil. Worsted-work, though well adapted to represcnt clothing, and still better suited to counterfeit the skins of wild beasts, is not all a fit medium to portray the


the beauty, and intellectual expression of the human face. Seen at a distance, these performances have a pictorial effect, and in some instances possess an advantage over oil-coloured paintings, but they will not endure the scrutiny of an eye ardently awake to nature's perfections, and quick to discover a departure from truth. They must be regarded with indulgence, bearing in mind not only the real merit they possess, but also the difficulty encountered and overcome in making them what they are.

The exhibition commends itself, especially to females, and no doubt affords them, as excel. lent specimens of needle-work, a fair share of gratification.

Among the collection are not only fruit, birds, ani mals, and portraits, but also familiar scenes and histori cal representations. Raphael's Madonna Della Sedia, Carlo Marratti's Nativity, Jephtha's rash vow, from Opie, and David with his sling, from Carlo Dolci, are among them; together with Gainsborough’s Shepherd Boy, Morland's Farmer's Stable, Barker's Woodman, Westal's Gleaner, Ruysdael's Waterfall, and many others. The Judgment upon Cain is one of the largest pieces: “When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth. And Cain said

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