SIR CHARLES BARRY

And the Houses of Parliament. URING the last seventy years the architectural world

general attention was the Travellers' Club House, Pall Mall, erected in 1832, the garden at Carlton Terrace, the front of which excited high admiration. This club house, the first of these palatial edifices erected in this Metropolis, has been surpassed by its more magnificent neighbour, the

fever, by turns; not to mention an occasional dalliance with the Egyptian, Roman, Italian, Elizabethan, Swiss, Indian, Saracenic, and Chinese styles of the modern nondescripts called Castellated and Rustic Architecture, or Cottage ornée. No favoured style was made the instrument of real design; yet there was always just enough of latent dissatisfaction with the existing condition to allow of an excursion in any eccentric direction.

For some years great attention was given to the Greek architectural details; yet to the same general period, belongs the Pavilion at Brighton, where the highest art consisted in putting forms of dragons into every imaginable position and contortion. The Greek precedent was applied to an extent even beyond what public buildings would lead us to suppose, and we must look to the porches and door-ways of ordinary houses, to acquire an idea of its actual prevalence. The portico or rather the prostyle, was, however, the acme of the modern Greek art. It was attached to any sort of front, and was itself shorn of the accessories - the depth of shadow, the internal columns, the steps and the sculpture, most conducive to the original effect.

Although some of the chief branches of study were not so far advanced amongst architects thirty or forty years ago, as they are at the present day, the difficulties in connection with opposite prevailing styles were due to the. public demand, in great measure, as they are now. The precedent of Sir Christopher Wren has not protected a living architect

works, built some fifteen years later; but the Travellers' still continues to be one of the most pleasing structures of its class in London.

One of the first buildings by which Mr. Barry evinced his high professional attainments was the fine Gothic Church of St. Peter's at Brighton, notwithstanding which he has been called upon to erect fewer churches than most others among the most eminent of his contemporaries.

Of the scholastic buildings which Sir Charles has designed the spacious pile known as King Edward's Grammar School at Birmingham, a really grand and imposing structure in the Tudor Collegiate style; and the new buildings

from being denounced as one who can "paganize" in the universities; and in the case of Wilkins connected with the universities of Cambridge, yet by inclination and learning drawn to the endeavour after Grecian art, it was scarcely possible, without abandoning practice altogether, to avoid the difficulty in the pursuit of different systems, on which many a reputation has been wrecked. Few there are who, like Sir Charles Barry, succeed in establishing a successful practice, in what are fields of study, really hard to reconcile with each other.

Sir Charles Barry is the architect of the New Houses of Parliament, and from this circumstance and the little that is generally known of his performances, we have selected him to occupy an early biographical place in our columns. He was born at Westminster, not far from the structure that will perpetuate his glory, in 1795. Passing through the ordinary course of scholastic and professional education, and making the usual architectural tour of the continent, he entered on his career as an architect in London, and soon distinguished himself by the graceful finish of his structures, particularly those in the Italian style, for which he has always evinced a decided predilection. Of these, the one which first attracted

in the same style at University College, Oxford, may be especially noticed as belonging to this class of buildings; the Athenæum at Manchester may be mentioned as one of the happiest of his Italian designs.

The list of private mansions built or renovated

by Sir Charles Barry

would extend to a considerable length. It will suffice for our purpose to name the elegant villa erected for Earl Tankerville at Walton-on-Thames as one of his earlier, and Bridgewater House, by the Green Park, erected for the Earl of Ellesmere, as one of his latest, and perhaps in all respects, the finest as well as the most costly of his Italian palatial structures. He has also effected many beautiful improvements in the princely residences of the Duke of Sutherland.

Sir Charles has likewise remodelled some well known public buildings; and that his alterations have, in some instances, really been improvements, the Treasury buildings at Whitehall, originally erected by Sir John Soane, are sufficient to show.

Important as many of these works are, however, that by which the architectural status of Sir Charles Barry will be ultimately determined is the New Palace of Westminster, the largest, most significant, and by far the most costly edifice which this country has erected for centuries. The old Houses of Parliament were destroyed by fire on October 16, 1834; and the first stone of the present building was laid on April 27, 1840. Since that time the structure has been proceeding without intermission, the design continually enlarging itself, and the cost increasing in proportion. From a recent parliamentary return it appears that the sum already expended has been 1,663,9447, Sir Charles Barry having been called upon to state what additional works he proposes beyond those already sanctioned, has sent in a series of magnificent plans, which, if adopted, will make the total cost of the New Palace 2,595,5111. exclusive of the cost of constructing the Law Courts elsewhere, as he proposes to pull down the present edifice, and to transfer the

Courts to Lincoln's Inn; he also proposes to pull down the block of houses on the north side of New Palace Yard, and to construct a new line of palatial buildings for committee rooms, &c., along the north and west sides of New Palace Yard, which would thus be converted into a new quadrangle, having at the north-west corner an entrance gateway and tower of rich and massive design. This line of building would be continued on the side where the law courts now stand until it joined St. Stephen's Porch, opposite to Henry VII.'s Chapel, thus forming a magnificent façade, extending from Bridge Street to Victoria Tower. He also proposes to alter the

it will worthily sustain in the judgment of posterity, the reputation of the architect and of the age.

We may fairly presume that, in after ages, every object connected with the Houses of Parliament will command a certain degree of interest, consequently the great Bell for the Clock Tower must not be forgotten to be noticed in connection with them. This immense instrument of sound was founded by Messrs. Warner and Son, and recently conveyed on a low truck, drawn by sixteen horses, and safely deposited in Palace Yard. Mr. Quarm, clerk of the works of the new Palace, superintended the arrangements, and Professor Taylor and Sir Charles Barry were both present. It was

front of Westminster Hall, raise the roof 25 feet, and construct a new porch; to pull down St. Margaret's Church, and rebuild it near Tothill Street; to pull down the houses in Abingdon Street, opposite the Victoria Tower, and to make a small oblong enclosure in Old Palace Yard, containing shrubs, trees, and a statue of the Queen, under whose auspices the New Palace has been built. These additional buildings, he says, might be completed within a few years, and would afford valuable accommodation as additional committee rooms and public offices, and give a unity and completeness to the whole building.

Until these arrangements, if they are to be realised, are completed, the whole effect of the New Houses of Parliament can hardly be fairly judged. The building, so far however, as was certain to be the case, has undergone much severe and not a little malevolent criticism; but the opinion seems to be steadily gaining ground, that whatever are its faults,

then tested once or twice, and having been pronounced entirely free from crack or flaw of any kind, it was propped up with timber to take the immense strain off the chains by which it is suspended, and so left to repose in silence after its journey. All Bells, we believe, are christened before they begin to toll, and on this occasion it was proposed to call our King of Bells "Big Ben," in honour of Sir Benjamin Hall, the President of the Board of Works, during whose tenure of office it was cast.

Sir Charles Barry arrived somewhat slowly at academical honours. He was elected an associate of the Royal Academy in 1840, and an academician in 1841. In 1849 he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society. Sir Charles is, also, a member of the Institute of Architects, London, of the Academies of the Fine Arts at Rome, Brussels, Stockholm, Berlin, and St. Petersburgh. He received the honour of knighthood in 1852.

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF

YOUR

BEETHOVEN.

BY FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.

YOU know that Beethoven was born in a house in the Rheingasse (Rhine Street), but at the time I made his acquaintance, he was lodging over a humble little shop near the Ramerplatz (Roman Square). He was then very poor -so poor that he went out only in the night time, on account of the dilapidated condition of his wardrobe. Still he had a piano, pens, paper, ink, and a few books, and, notwithstanding his privations, sometimes enjoyed a moment's happiness. He was not yet deaf, and could enjoy at least the harmony of his own compositions-a consolation which was afterwards denied him.

One winter evening I entered his room, for I wished to take him out to walk, and afterwards to sup with me. I found him seated at the window in the moonlight, without fire or candle, his face hid in his hands, and his whole body shivering with cold, for it was a sharp, frosty night. I roused him from his apathy, persuaded him to accompany me, and exhorted him to shake off his sadness. He went out with me, but he was gloomy and desponding that evening, and rejected all my encouragement.

"I hate the world!" said he, vehemently. "I hate my self! No one understands me, or troubles himself about me. I have genius, and I am treated like a Pariah. I have a heart, and no one to love. I would that all were ended and for ever. I would that I were sleeping tranquilly at the bottom of yonder river. There are moments when it costs me struggle to resist the temptation of casting myself into it." And he pointed to the Rhine-the broad Rhine-whose frosty waves glittered in the moonbeams. I made no reply. It was useless to argue with Beethoven, and I allowed him to go on in the same tone. He did not cease till we reentered the city, and then he fell into a mournful silence. We were passing through a narrow street near the Coblentz gate; suddenly he stopped.

"Hush!" said he, "what noise is that?"

I listened, and heard the feeble accents of an old harpsichord proceeding from a neighbouring house. It was a plaintive melody, and, notwithstanding the ingratitude of the instrument the performer imparted to the piece a great tenderness of expression.

Beethoven looked at me with a sparkling eye. "It is from my symphony in F!" said he. house. Listen!-how well it is played!"

"Here is the

The house was small and humble; a light shone through the chinks of the shutters. We stopped to listen. The playing went on, and the two following phrases were rendered with the same fidelity and expression. In the midst of the finale there was a sudden interruption, the silence of a moment. Then we heard a stifled sob.

"I cannot go on," said a feminine voice. "I cannot do more, this evening, Frederick!" "Why, sister?"

I

"I hardly know why, except that it is so beautiful that feel my entire incapacity to play it properly. Oh, what would I give to go this evening to Cologne! There is a concert at the Kaufthaus there, and all sorts of fine music a concert must be so delightful!"

"Ah, dear sister," said Frederick, sighing, "one must be rich to command this pleasure. What use is it to form regrets when there is no help? We can hardly pay our rent-why think of things which are beyond our reach?" "You are right, Frederick. And yet for a moment when I am playing, I long to hear once in my life good music-well executed. But it is useless-useless!

There was something singularly touching in the tone and repetition of these last words. Beethoven looked at me. 'Let us go in," said he abruptly. "Go in!" I cried.

How?-why?"

66 •She has

"I will play for her," he replied, with vivacity. feeling, genius, and intelligence. I will play for her, and she will appreciate me."

And before I could prevent him, he had placed his hand on the door; it was merely latched, and opened immediately. I followed him into a dark entry towards a low door on the right; he pushed it open, and we found ourselves in a low, naked room, with a little stove at one end, and a few rude pieces of furniture. A pale young man was seated at a table working on a shoe. Near him, leaning sadly on a harpsichord, was a young girl, over whose face fell a profusion of beautiful blond hair. Both were decently, but very poorly clad, and both sprang to their feet and turned towards us as we entered.

"Pardon me," said Beethoven, with much embarrassment, “pardon me, but I heard music, and I was tempted to enter. I am a musician."

The young girl blushed, and the young man assumed a severe, almost irritated expression.

"I also overheard some of your words," continued my friend. "You wished to hear-that is to say-you would like-in a word, do you wish me to play something for you?

There was something so strange, so odd, and so abrupt in the whole affair, and something so amusing and eccentric in the manner of the speaker, that the ice was broken in a moment, and our hosts smiled involuntarily.

"I thank you," said the cobbler; "but our harpsichord is a poor one, and then we have no music." "No music!" repeated my friend. fraulein-"

"How then did the

He paused and blushed, for the young girl had just turned towards him, and by her sad and dimned eyes he had discovered that she was blind.

"I beg you will pardon me," he stammered; "but I did not notice at first-you play from memory, then?" "Entirely."

"And where did you hear this music, since you do not go to concerts."

"I heard a lady who was our neighbour when we lived at Bruhl, two years ago. In the summer evenings her window was always open, and I used to walk in front of the house to hear her."

"And you never heard any other music?" Never, except street music."

She seemed somewhat intimidated, so Beethoven began to play. Never did I hear such energy, such passionate tenderness, so many infinite gradations of melody and modulation. He was truly inspired, and from the moment his fingers began to move over the harpsichord, the notes of the instrument seemed to become smoother and smoother.

We remained seated listening breathlessly. The brother and sister were mute with astonishment, and as if in ecstacy. The former laid aside his work; the latter, her head bent slightly forward, had drawn near the end of the harpsichord, both hands pressed against her breast, as if she feared the beating of her heart would interrupt accents of such magical sweetness. It seemed as if we were the prey of a strange dream, and our only fear was to awaken too abruptly. Suddenly the flame of the single candle vacillated. The wick, burned to the end, fell and went out. Beethoven stopped. I opened the shutter to admit the rays of the moon. It grew nearly as light as before in the room, and the rays were brightest on the musician and the harpsichord. But the accident seemed to have broken the chain of Beethoven's ideas. His head inclined upon his breast, his hands were placed on his knees-he seemed plunged in profound meditation. We remained thus for some time. At last the young cobbler arose, approached him, and said in a low and respectful tone:

66

Wonderful man! Who are you?"

Beethoven raised his head and looked at him with an absent air, as if he had not understood the sense of the words. The cobbler repeated his question. The composer

AN AMERICAN DIVER'S STORY. [The collision which suddenly sunk the Steamer Atlantic, with a large number of passengers on board in 1852, will be in the recollection of some of our readers. An American diver has recently descended to where she is lying, and has found everything in the same position as it was when the ship went down. "When he alighted on the deck," he says, "he was saluted by a beautiful lady, whose clothing was well arranged, and her hair cleoscillation of the head, as if gracefully bowing to him. She was standing erect, with one hand grasping the rigging. Around lay the bodies of several others as if sleeping." It is this passage which has suggested the following lines.]

He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The rays of the moon came brilliantly through the curtainless window, and irradiated his massive and severe brow.

"I am going to improvise a sonata to the moonlight," said he, with a sportive air. He gazed for a few moments on the sky studded with stars; then his fingers touched the keys, and he began to play in a low, sad, but infinitely sweet tone. Harmony flowed from the instrument, sweet and equal as the light the moon pours on the shadows of the earth. His delicious prelude was followed by a light, gay, capricious movement, a sort of burlesque interlude, like a dance of fays at midnight on the green sward. Then came a rapid agitato finale-a breathless, tremulous, precipitate movement, describing flight and uncertainty, which carried us away on shuddering wings, and left us at the close moved and astonished.

"Farewell!" said Beethoven, abruptly, pushing back his chair, and moving towards the door, "Farewell!"

"You will come back!" said both our hosts in a breath. He paused and looked at the blind girl with an air of compassion, almost of tenderness.

"Yes, yes," he replied hurriedly. "I will return and give the fraulicn some lessons. Farewell I will soon return."

They accompanied us as far as the street door in a silence more eloquent than words, and remained standing on the threshold till they could no longer see or hear us.

"Let us make haste home," said Beethoven in the street, "that I may note down this sonata while it is yet fresh in my memory."

We went to his room, and he remained writing till daybreak. Such is the history of the "Moonlight Sonata" we all admire so warmly. Beethoven never set foot again in that humble house. The excitement passed, the interest inspired for the blind girl faded away; and although the brother and sister doubtless expected him for a long time, he thought no more of them, unless, perhaps, when his eyes fell on the pages of this sonata. Is not this a too frequent occurrence, and are not promises generally forgotten when made under the influence of excitement ?

DERIVATION OF THE WORD "FILIBUSTERS."-The title of Filibusters is a mere corruption of the English word freehooters-a German term, imported into England during the Low Country wars of Elizabeth's reign. It has been erroneously traced to the Dutch flyboat; but the Jesuit traveller, Charlevoix, asserts that, in fact, this species of craft derived its title from being first used by the Filibusters, and not from its swiftness. This, however, is evidently a mistake, as Drayton and Hakluyt use the word; and it seems to be of even earlier standing in the French language. The derivation from the English word freebooters is at once seen when the s in the Filibusters becomes lost in pronunciation.

A VILLANOUS NAME.-In the French news of one of the daily journals, lately, we were astonished by reading that"The Emperor yesterday received at the Palace of St. Cloud, Count Vilain the fourteenth, Belgian Minister of Foreign Affairs." Vilain the fourteenth!-fourteen Vilains -a long line of Vilains, truly; illustrious perhaps for their actions; but certainly of rather ill name. A Vilain, however, should be a good ambassador, according to the timehonoured definition of one-"a man sent abroad to lie for the good of the state."

"You ask me to tell," said the old sad man,
As the ship skimm'd over the sea;
"You ask me to tell when I in the van

Of all divers used foremost to be;
What it was that I saw in the Pelican barque,
Two hundred feet down in the deep sea dark.

"List, then, unto me," said the old sad man,
And I'll tell you some scenes that I saw;"
He paused for a moment, before he began,
The crew's whole attention to draw,
And his own scatter'd thoughts to arrange in his mind,
As the ship sailed silently on with the wind.

The face of the list'ners grew sober with thought,
And expectant, some looked on the deck;
And the fancies of others, already had wrought
Strange pictures of tempest, and wreck,
When the old sighing man began thus to say,
What he saw in the deep where the Pelican lay.

"Two hundred feet down in the calm grey sea,
For 'tis calm as the Heavens are, there;
'Mongst monsters marine, that were frightful to me,
I sank, every peril to dare;

And I saw, as I sank, fish of wondrous size,
That look'd me all round with their strange bright eyes.

"On the deck of the Pelican soon did I stand,
And timid I felt and amazed;
When a beautiful lady appeared with her hand
Extended, as at me she gazed;

And the motion I made in the dull grey sea,
Made her bow like a being of life to me.

"Her garments were white, and a shawl round her neck, Was folded and broached on her breast;

And she stood as she was at the time of the wreck,
When the hapless ship sank to its rest;
And one lily hand to the rigging yet clung,
As it did when the sea o'er the Pelican sung.

"At her feet lay some others, as hush'd in their sleep,
And dress'd as they were when in life;
Two children with faces that seemed to weep,
And a husband embracing his wife;
And babes in the arms of mothers were there,
And the chaplain as if he were rapt in prayer.

"By the forecastle hatch an old mariner stood,
With his 'bacco-pipe fast in his lips;
Whilst his nails were infix'd in a billet of wood,
And his fingers were broad at their tips;
So strong was the clutch which that mariner gave,
When he found himself sinking away to his grave.

"In the cabin, the furniture still was the same
As it was when the vessel yet sailed;
And two gentlemen sat, as if having a game
At chess, and with pleasure regaled;
For one of them clasp'd a decanter of wine,
The other to move, was just making a sign.

"Such were a few of the scenes I behield,
Far down in the dull still deep;
And ever since then, has my spirit rebell'd,
'Gainst the harvest a diver might reap;
For my bosom yet bleeds when I think of the day
That I sank to the spot where the Pelican lay."
ARTHUR SEAT.

HE

A BOY'S STORY.

EAR me, children! I will tell you something. Near us lives old Martin; you know how he totters about with his stick; he has no longer any teeth, and he cannot see or hear much. Now when he sits at the dinner-table, and trembles in such a manner, he always scatters much, and sometimes something falls out of his mouth again. This disgusted his son and his daughter-in-law; and therefore, the old grandfather was, at length, obliged to eat in the corner behind the stove. They gave him something to eat in an earthen dish, and that often not enough to satisfy him. I have seen him eating, and he looked so sad, after dinner, and his eyes were wet with tears! Well, the day before yesterday, he broke his earthen dish. The young woman scolded him severely, but he said nothing; only sighed. Then they bought him a wooden dish for a penny, and he was obliged to eat out of it yesterday, for the first time. Whilst they were sitting thus at dinner, their little boy, who is three years and a half old, began to rattle little boards together on the floor; young Martin said to him, "What art thou doing there, John?" "O," said the boy, "I am making a little trough, out of which, my father and mother shall eat when I am grown up." Young Martin and his wife looked at each other awhile; at length they began to weep, and immediately, fetched the old grandfather to the table, and let him cat with them.-(A Fact.)

WHAT INDUSTRY CAN DO.-At a late meeting of the Agricultural Association of Villeneuve-sur-Lot (Lot-et Garonne), the president, M. Fabre, gave a striking example of what may be done by intelligence and industry: A simple farm labourer, named Foussat, having by great economy, saved up 525 f., purchased seven years ago, a piece of waste land of two hectares in extent (the hectare is about 24 acres) in the village of St Antoine. The earth was literally full of stones, but he diligently extracted them all; it also required draining, and he constructed drains by means of the smaller stones. With the larger stones he managed to build a house for himself and family. He then brought soil and manure; and having enclosed his little property with a hedge, proceeded to plant vines and fruit trees. These have prospered greatly, and now yield an annual revenue greater than the original cost of the land. The association granted this man the first premium.

BRIBING CHILDREN.-The following incident deserves the attention of parents. A bright-eyed boy numbering four or five summers, the pet of the household, and unanimously voted the drollest little mischief alive, had on Saturday night been bribed to keep the peace, and retire an hour earlier than usual, with the promise that on the morrow he might go with the family to church. On Sunday morning it was found inconvenient to put the youngest through the regular course of washing and dressing necessary for his proper appearance at the sanctuary, and the family slipped off without him. They had not, however, more than become comfortably seated in their pew, when in walked the youngest with nothing on but a night-wrapper and a cloth cap. "You forgot me," said he, in a tone loud enough to be heard all over the church. The feelings of the parents can be more easily imagined than described.—Lafayette (Ind.) Journal.

A SUGGESTION TO THE PARISH AUTHORITIES.-Why not mark upon the kerb-stones, or lamp-posts, of the main streets the distances from the principal positions of the metropolis; or continue the milestones from the country roads into the city? This plan would settle many a cab dispute, and would enable the public to engage a cab from one mile to another, without the fear of being bullied by a cabby, or of hearing the fare even civilly disputed. There is an additional reason why this, or something of the like should be adopted. Many of the tables at the various stands are so defaced that they cannot be read, and at night, of course, they are quite useless.

FAREWELL TO EDINA.

What feelings arise midst thy dark, cloudy grandeur,
Edina! whose soil I have worshipp'd of yore!
Since then I have wander'd, and far yet may wander,
But still would I stray where I love to adore.
The parent that bore me can call me her own,
And may talk in her age, with some pride, of my lore;
But, parent Edina! 'tis thou that alone

Can make my heart's tide louder beat on its shore.

Farewell, then, in tears! May your untarnish'd glory
For ever keep fresh as the grass of the field;
And though I, your sad born, am lost in your story,
Still may it be thine better children to yield!
To thee and to thine, then, a long, sad adieu!
No more may my footsteps be traced on thy plains;
Yet, yet, will this breast, that to thee is aye true,
Still pray to preserve thee from danger and chains!
Edinburgh.

A. S.

AN EXTRAORDINARY MAN.-The meaning of an extraor dinary man is, that he is eight men, not one man; that he has as much wit as if he had no sense, and as much sense as if he had no wit; that his conduct is as judicious as if he were the dullest of human beings, and his imagination as brilliant as if he were irretrievably ruined. But when wit is combined with sense and information; when it is softened by benevolence and restrained by principle; when it is in the hands of a man who can use and despise it; who can be witty and something more than witty; who loves honour, justice, decency, good nature, morality, and religion ten thousand times better than wit; wit is then a beautiful and delightful part of our nature. Genuine and innocent wit like this is surely the flavour of the mind. Man could direct his ways by plain reason, and support his life by tasteless food; but God has given us wit, and flavour, and brightness, and laughter, and perfumes, to enliven the days of man's pilgrimage, and to charm his pained steps over the burning marle.

The time origi

HOW THE LATE CZAR PROPOSED. nally fixed for the expiration of the grand duke's stay at the Prussian court had come, and he was seated at supper on his last evening, next to the Princess Charlotte, when he abruptly told her that he must leave Berlin the next day. He hoped to surprise her into some demonstration of feeling on the occasion, but her maidenly pride withheld her from more than some very say-nothing remark in acknowledgment. The grand duke thereupon soon assumed another plan of operations; knowing that however little the eyes neighbour, they were, nevertheless, the object of general of the company might be actually fixed on him and his fair observation, he commenced telling her, but in an apparently while, that he had devoted himself during his short stay unembarrassed manner, and playing with a ring of his the there to making himself acquainted with her character and disposition, &c., and that he had found in her every quality that he believed best calculated to make him happy in wedded life, &c.; but as they two were at that moment the object of scrutiny to many present, he would not press her for any reply to his overtures, but if it was agreeable to her that he should prolong his stay at her father's court she would, perhaps, have the goodness to take up the ring he had in his hand. This ring he then, apparently while playing with the two objects, thrust into the roll of bread lying on the table before him, and went on, seemingly in sang froid, with his supper.

With an equal appearance of unconcern the princess presently put out her hand, and took up the roll, as if mistaking it for her own bread; and unnoticed by the company, withdrew the ring, and put it on her own hand. The rest requires no narration.