unamiable soul-narrowing processes of saving it. To the professional man marriage, if not a necessity, is at least a convenience; and he too frequently lays the foundation of a large family long before he has laid the foundation of a large fortune. The wives of young practitioners are therefore of necessity condemned to practices of economy, and to a close attention to domestic duties, which are incompatible with much intellectual and imaginative indulgence. Shut up within four walls, with no better prospect than the opposite side of a gloomy street, the females in this walk of life pass their time in a solitude, occupied chiefly with the needle, and rarely broken save by the conversation of cooks and nursery maids. They read little, and often think less. In the very hours of social converse, the men avoid their society; and linger over the bottle to shorten the interval of insipidity, which occurs between dinner and bed-time. The females, thus left to themselves, are rarely conversational; their ideas roll in a small circle, and they are essentially bad company. Years roll on in the practice of duties eminently respectable, and of virtues truly praiseworthy, but in habits closely allied to torpor and totally divested of that excitement which is supposed to make the charm of a metropolitan existence of a " Life in London." In the exact opposite scale, but equally removed from real enjoyment, is the life of a class of beings not quite so respectable or so useful; who, possessed of an easy fortune, are yet tormented with the itch of living in what they conceive to be good company; and who inflict upon themselves all the ills of poverty and dependence, in order to cultivate those who are above themselves in the hierarchy of fashion. The thorough-going representative of this class will enter into a deeper diplomacy to entrapa Baronet, or a nabob, into her visiting list, than would go to recognizing the independence of South America; and she will be more miserable, if, in balancing her account at the end of the season, she has not crept on a step in great life, than if her whole family were laid up with the scarlet fever. A rheumatic hypochondriac watches not with a more trembling anxiety the variations of the barometer than this sensitive being follows (at a respectful distance) the changes of the bon ton. All her efforts go to be at the proper place in the proper time, and to be seen in those rendezvous of resort, which though open to all, are sometimes frequented by people of fashion. The fashionable movements in the corners of the London papers, are to her the law and the gospel. Her dinner parties are so arranged, not as that agreeable persons, and such as mutually understand each other, shall meet, but so as that certain persons, seeing others of their own description at her table, may infer that she is indeed one of themselves, and fairly entitled to partake in all the privileges of the coterie. The fear of being left out in any party forces her to accept of every invitation; and the nightly drudgery of working her passage from assembly to assembly is harder work than that of a coal-porter. Like the hind wheel of a chariot, however rapid her movements, or great the dust she raises, she must always lag in the race; and though she ruin her fortunes, her health, and her peace of mind in the effort, she will never win her way into the exclusive assemblies of an aristocracy, all whose energies are exerted to keep themselves safe from the approaches of intruders, and to maintain the quiet order of the gods undisturbed by the "fumum, opes, strepitusque" of commercial prosperity.

Another class of metropolitan strugglers, who "let 'I cannot' wait

upon 'I would,' like the poor cat i' th' adage," is found in the numerous club-houses which of late years have so extensively multiplied in the vicinity of Pall Mall. The devotee to this species of existence is ordinarily a man addicted to sensual indulgence, and ambitious of figuring in the gay circles, but by some peculiar circumstance of birth, parentage, education, or fortune, is precluded from "carrying on the war" on the grand scale, or of pushing his way in good company. Not that there is wanting a sufficient number of club-going men of real bon ton to give an air of high fashion to such establishments: but these only use the club-house as a relief to their other pleasures, to dine there when not better engaged, or to drop in for an hour in the course of their other amusements. Such men are not the main props and stays of the institution. The true club-man is one who looks to the club rather as an ordinary where he can dine better and cheaper than at home. To this description of person (the balloting-box once passed) a club-house operates like a patent washing-machine. It saves coals, saves candles, saves (no, it does what is better, it loses) time, saves labour, to say nothing of pens, ink, and paper, coffee-house expenses, and gratuities to waiters, which last are happily in the club-house "strictly forbidden." Thus can a man rub his skirts against lords and members of parliament (in the language of a tailor's advertisement), " in the most fashionable style and at the lowest prices," and keep himself constantly in evidence without the charges of ostentation. To all this there is but one objection; namely, that to a man of any sensibility a club is in the long run -a dead bore. Life without affections, dissipation without amusement, isolation of heart without the tranquillity and independence of solitude, are not congenial to the English character. The fashion, therefore, of this mode of "Life in London" will most likely prove but of ephemeral duration.

The true possessors of "Life in London" are those who in their class and sphere can avail themselves of the superior civilization and concentrated advantages of the capital. In London, literature, science, and art have fixed their head-quarters; and from the Royal Society to the "free and easy songsters," associations subsist for the culture of every modification of taste, and the enjoyment of every variety of pleasure. The substantial and opulent inhabitants, sua si bona norint, have the command of luxuries, facilities, and comforts, of which the proudest emperors of antiquity had no notion; and the splendid harems of the East, the marble palaces of Rome, were poor and unprovided in all that respects actual enjoyment, when compared with the boudoir of a London lady of fashion. Not even in Paris, the metropolis of all Europe, is to be found such a constellation of genius and talent as illumines the horizon of the polished circles of the British capital; and the freedom of the political atmosphere in England, more than compensates for the better tact of the Parisians in the arrangements and forms of society. But to enjoy "Life in London" in all its intensity, riches alone will not suffice. How few of those who can command whatever is best in London are capable of relishing its real pleasures. How few are there to whom its intellectual resources are not a matter even of terror, and who do not exclaim "blue stocking" at the bare mention of an eminent name. Even that spiritual converse which would naturally arise out of the high average of attainment in the upper classes, is suppressed beneath an affected languor and indifference. No strong expression of feeling

or of opinion is tolerated; and as an established creed is laid down for implicit reception on all points, from a religious dogma to a top-knot, discussion of any kind cannot easily arise: for where no one dares avow his dissent from fashionable orthodoxy, the "right-thinkers," (as they are called) have it all their own way; and social intercourse is confined to plain matters of fact, which are delivered in a tone rarely elevated above a whisper. Nay, the very physical enjoyments of the metropolis are but ill understood; and the sensual pleasures of a London life are often defeated by the bungling attempts of those who strive to realize them. The upper classes of society, when their secret is penetrated, åre for the most part found to exist in a state of appalling distaste for all around them. An apathy, bordering on despair, accompanies them in their most splendid indulgences. Of all the forms of human woe, this is the most sickening. Poverty, disease, and heart-breaking labour, are calamities evidently arising out of the scheme of human nature; and they form so necessary and inevitable a part of the great whole, that though they excite commiseration for the sufferers, they do not revolt the imagination. But misery seated upon the throne of pleasure, and sufferings arising immediately out of the plenitude of indulgence, seem so perverse and so unnatural a dispensation, as to exasperate the spectator against his species, and against the general condition of things, which can admit of such a combination. The wild frolics of the "Tom and Jerry" school have excited ridicule and disgust to such a degree, that no animal possessed of a grain of sense will dare to appear in this character before the public; but it may reasonably be doubted whether the error of the Corinthians is more gross than that of their betters, respecting all that contributes, really and substantially, to the full enjoyment of a "Life in London." Philosophers have said that prosperity is more difficult to bear than adversity; and most true it is, that to steer one's way through the intricate navigation of a London season, and to determine (as the mathematicians would say) the maximum of pleasure derivable from the given quantity of London excitements, with the least possible expenditure of fortune, health, and reputation, require as much sense, spirit, and power of bearing and forbearing, as to struggle with misfortune, and from abject poverty to arrive at opulence.

If the number of those who, without the concurrent operation of mere luck, have been the architects of their own fortune, could be compared with those who, possessing a fortune, have known how to spend it like gentlemen, with advantage to their own pleasures and respectability, and for the general benent of the community-the result would prove that the art of enjoying life is among the last and best refinements of civilized existence.

M.

THE FALSE ALARM.

CLOE proclaims full oft, she fears
The near approach of forty years.
Content thee, maiden; for in sooth,
If parish registers tell truth,
That fatal age, their pages say,
Becomes more distant every day.

BARTOLINI THE SCULPTOR.

BARTOLINI may, in one respect, be compared to Sir Thomas Lawrence. He has reached the highest fame which a painter or a sculptor of portraits can reach-a fame necessarily limited, and which will shrink into a narrower compass hereafter. Mr. Croker attempted the other day, in the debate on Mr. Haydon's petition, to prove that a portraitpainter has more right to the title of an historical painter than any other description of artist. But this is merely playing upon words. It is undeniably true that the portraits of men who belong to history are historical, in its usual sense; but the term, as applied to painting, has a widely different signification. It has always been received to convey originality-invention-creation,--qualities which are not needful to a portrait-painter. In the present state of the patronage of the arts, especially in England, it is very conceivable that men of genius must stoop-for in forty-nine cases out of fifty, it is stooping-to paint portraits. Sir Thomas Lawrence has gained great distinction, while Mr. Haydon has his pictures seized by his creditors. But it is infinitely to be lamented that such men should, for any consideration of greater gain, confine themselves to portraits wholly. If Sir Thomas Lawrence have the regard for his permanent fame, which one can scarcely believe him to be without, he will execute at least one work of a higher order than those which his line has yet permitted him, to prove to the world what he might have done had he lived in days more favourable to art. If he do not, it is to be feared that a suspicion will be entertained that he wants the power as well as the will. His portraits are the perfection-the impassable Thule-of what can be done in that line; but a portrait-painter, though superior to a copyist, inasmuch as copying nature is superior to copying art, can never rank in relation to an original artist, higher than a translator does in comparison with an original writer.

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Bartolini feels this-for, having, by the lavishness which is common to the indulgence of personal vanity, put himself above the necessity of constantly working for profit, he is now beginning to work for fame; and, if I can presage from two or three things in an imperfect state, fame he will acquire. He has, at present, nearly finished what, though still in some measure a portrait, soars indisputably into a higher branch of art-a colossal statue of Napoleon. The figure itself is seven and a half braccia high, and the attitude is very striking and imposing. The body is perfectly upright, being rested on the left leg, while the right knee is slightly and easily bent. The right arm is a little extended from the side, and the hand holds a scroll representing the Code Napoléon. The left is extended and raised, being in a horizontal position from the shoulder to the elbow, and thence elevated in about an angle of forty-five degrees. In the hand is part of the handle of a spear. The head (for which Napoleon sat soon after he became Emperor) is wreathed with laurel after the manner of that in David's picture of the Coronation, and of the busts which are taken from it. The whole of the upper part of the body is bare, to display that beauty of chest and shoulder for which Napoleon was so remarkable. Bartolini told me that he had taken peculiar pains in the modelling this part, which, likewise, he did from nature. The drapery, which

is flung over the raised arm across from the right hip, is peculiarly beautiful both in disposition and detail. It has that lightness which it is so difficult to give to marble, and which is so great a beauty when given. At the side is an eagle, resting on the bolts of Jove, which, again, rest upon a globe-typical, I conclude, of the extent of Napo leon's dominion. A live eagle was there, chained to a perch, sitting, I suppose, for the last finish to his marble portrait. The poor bird, which had been brought from the Apennines near Carrara, sat motionless and melancholy: it required very little stretch of fancy to conceive it to be mourning over the fate of him who made his effigy the emblem of his glory over nearly all the civilized world. That fate, Bartolini told us, was figured on the pedestal (which, I think, he said was at Leghorn) in four reliefs representing Toulon-the Coronation-Waterloo-and the tomb;-the commencement and the completion of his power, his downfall, and his death. If I had any fault to find with this vigorous and masterly work, I should say that the features, especially the nose and forehead, had a hardness and squareness of outline, which, though perhaps inseparable from colossal sculpture, is certainly a drawback from the delicacy of execution, and the ultimate likeness and effect of the whole.

This immense figure was originally cut from one block of marble; but when the left arm was nearly finished, its weight of unsupported position caused it to break, and another has been since supplied with proper precautions against a similar accident. But, with this exception, it is one piece.

Bartolini spoke with a good deal of interest concerning the disposal of this statue, in which, naturally enough, he seemed to take considerable pride. In the first place, he assured me that it had actually cost him 40007.; but it was more with reference to fame than profit that his anxiety seemed to consist. It was the largest statue, he said, ever executed of Napoleon, and was modelled from nature at, perhaps, the time of life when his person was the finest-namely, about sixteen years ago. Whatever might be its present worth, he added, fifty years hence such a piece could not fail to be of great interest and value-as we now attach them to a Vespasian or an Adrian which we dig out of the earth. It was to England, he said, he must look for its purchaser; on the Continent he could not hope for one. His desire, he told us was, that it should be placed in some park, for which its size and subject well fitted it. The Duke of Devonshire, Mr. Hope, or some one equally rich and equally fond of art and favouring to its professors, might buy it. We hinted to him, that our climate, where the month Pluviose lasts all the year round, would never permit its exposure to the atmosphere; but we said that there were large halls in the country-houses of our grands seigneurs capable of receiving it. He consulted us on sending it in the first place to London for exhibition, of which he had heard favourably. We strongly recommended this; for though we could not but say that all such things were attended with some risk, yet we felt and expressed ourselves confident that such an exhibition must succeed.

It was but this year that all the world flocked to see David's picture -an object as a work of art, which is universally thought lightly ofbut the subject rendered it one of unfailing interest and attraction. Of late years, the English have attached strong interest to every thing