all these as we do, are we for that reason traitors to the beauties of our own country? or do we not rather the more admire the charmers that are nearest to us, and that perpetuate the train of living images of grace and affection which runs through the whole existence of any loving observer, like a frieze across the temple of a cheerful religion?

And yet all this does not hinder us from wishing that the generality of our countrywomen walked better and dressed better, and even looked a little less reserved and misgiving. A Frenchman is not bound to wish the generality of his countrywomen plumper, because he admires them for other beauties, or sees plumpness enough in his friends. A Spaniard may reasonably wish his a little more red and 'white, if it be only for the sake of their health; and if a jovial table-loving Viennese desired after all a little less plumpness in his adorable, for the same reason (and in himself too), we should not quarrel with his theory, however we might object to his practice.

The handsomest female we ever beheld was at Turin: she was a maid-servant, crossing a square. The most ladylike-looking female in humble life was a French girl, the daughter of a small innkeeper. We heard one of her humble admirers speak of her as having the air d'une petite duchesse (of a little duchess). But the most charming face that ever furnished us with a vision for life (and we have seen many) was one that suddenly turned round in a concert-room in England, an English girl's, radiant with truth and goodness. All expressions of that kind make us love them, and here was the height of material charmingness

added. And we thought the figure equal to the face. We know not whether we could have loved it for ever, as some faces can be loved without being so perfect. Habit, and loving-kindness, and the knowledge of the heart and soul, could alone determine that. But, if not, it was the divinest imposition we ever met with.

305

SUNDAY IN LONDON.

No. I.

T is astonishing what a deal of good stuff, of some sort or another, inherent or associated, there is in every possible thing that can be talked of; and how it will look forth out of the dullest windows of commonplace, if sympathy do but knock at the door.

There is that house for instance, this very Sunday, No. 4, Ballycroft-row, in the Smithy did you ever see such a house, so dull, so drearily insipid, so very rainy-bad-Sunday like? Old, yet not so old as to be venerable; poor, yet not enough so to be pitied; the bricks black; the place no thoroughfare; no chance of a hackney-coach going by; the maid-servant has just left the window, yawning. But, now, see who is turning the corner, and comes up the row. Some eminent man, perhaps? Not he. He is eminent for nothing, except among his fellow-apprentices for being the best hand among them at turning a button. But look how he eyes, all the way, the house we have been speaking of, see how he bounds up the steps, with what a face! now cast down the area, and now raised to the upper windows, he gives his humble, yet impressive knock; and, lo! now look at the maid-servant's face, as she darts her head out of the window, and instantly

draws it back again, radiant with delight. It is Tom Hicks, who has come up from Birmingham a week before she expected him. The door is opened almost as soon as the face is seen; and now is there love and joy in that house, and consequently a grace in the street; and it looks quite a different place, at least in the eyes of the loving and the wise.

This is our secret for making the dullest street in the metropolis, nay, the squalidest and worst, put forth some flower of pleasantness (for the seeds of good find strange corners to grow in, could people but cultivate them) and, if our secret is not productive to everybody, it is no fault of ours, -nay, for that matter, it is none of theirs; but we pity them, and have reason to think ourselves richer. We happened to be walking through some such forlorn-looking street with the late Mr. Hazlitt, when we told him we had a charm against the melancholy of such places; and, on his asking what it was, and being informed, he acknowledged, with a look between pleasure and sorrow, that it was a true one. The secret came home to him; but he could have understood though he had not felt it. Fancy two lovers living in the same street, either of whom thinks it a delight to exist in the same spot, and is happy for the morning if one look is given through the window-pane. It puts your thoughts in possession of the highest and most celestial pleasure on earth. No "milk-white thorn, that scents the evening gale," is necessary to it, though it is a very fitting accompaniment. The dullest street, the dullest room, upon earth, is sufficient, and becomes a spot radiant beyond the dreams of princes. Think of George the

Fourth, in the midst of all the splendor of Windsor Castle, and then of this poor maid-servant, with her health, her youth, and her love, looking in the eyes of the man she is fond of, and hardly able to speak for gratitude and joy. We grant that there is no comparison, in one sense, between the two individuals, - the poor old king, with his efforts at being fine and happy, and the poor young girl, with her black worsted stockings and leaping bosom, as happy as her heart can make her. But the contrast may serve to remind us that we may attribute happiness wrongly in fine places, and miss it erroneously in common ones. Windsor Castle is sufficient beauty to itself, and has poetical memories; but, in the commonest street we see, there may be the richest real joy.*

Love is not peculiar to London on Sundays. They have it even in Edinburgh, notwithstanding what a fair charmer in "Tait's Magazine" tells us, with such a staid countenance, of the beatitudes of self-reflection into which her countrymen retire on that day. Otherwise, out of love alone, we might render our dulllooking metropolitan sabbath the brightest day in the week. And so it is, and in Edinburgh too; and all the sabbath-day world over: for though, seriously speaking, we do not deny the existence of the tranquil and solitary contemplations just alluded to, yet assuredly they are as nothing compared to the thoughts connected with every-day matters; and love, fortunately, is an every-day matter, as well as money. Our

* There is now, thank God, love as well as splendor in Windsor Castle. One may fancy the graces of Mr. Keats's "Eve of Saint Agnes" realized there, without the troubles of it.