The new Novel of Woodstock costs its publishers £6,000. in hard cash. We rather suspect that Sir Walter will have to lower his prices a little in future; for the difficulties which now overwhelm so many respectable bookselling firms must, of necessity, eventually extend to the manufacturers of books. It must require very excellent management to make Woodstock reimburse its publishers.

From papers which have been read by Mr. Ellis, of the British Museum, at the Antiquarian Society, and from other sources, we gain that Cromwell, heretofore the beau ideal of historical virtue, was the most artful of knaves; that Anna Boleyn's elder sister, was seduced by the licentious king, and that she absolutely lived in concubinage with him after his marriage with Anna. We have not heard the name of the work in which the proofs of the authenticity of these statements will eventually be published.

Mr. Boaden's Life of Mrs. Siddons is, we are informed, nearly ready for publication. There is something very indelicate in publishing a big volume of anecdotes of a woman still living. It must either be personally offensive to her, or else be filled with fulsome compliments, having neither truth nor impartiality to recommend them. There are thousands of incidents, trivial in themselves, which it cannot be pleasing to Mrs. Siddons to see blazoned forth in print; admitting, as we are most ready to do, the perfect respectability with which she has passed through three score years of active and most arduous exertion. Mr. Boaden is an inveterate gossip.

Among the private collections now open in London, there is none more interesting than that of Messrs. Woodburn's, in St. Martin's-lane, who have issued a select number of tickets of admission to it. It consists of about 70 pictures, by the first masters of the Florentine, Venetian, Roman, Dutch and Flemish schools; and of each school there are specimens from its earliest productions, down to the period of its utmost perfection and refinement, so as to form a complete history of the arts. The grand gem of the collection is a first-rate Leonardo de Vinci-a Holy Family. In colour, grouping, sentiment, every thing, it is absolutely perfection. There is also a fine historical picture by Albano, of the Marriage of Joseph with the Virgin Mary; a matchless Jan Steen-Dives and Lazarus; and numerous specimens of the finest class, of Claude, Titian, Poussin, Raphael, Wouvermans, Paul Potter, &c.

Messrs. Whiting and Branston, printers, in the Strand, appear to have been impressed with the truth of Burke's definition of the sublime, and have accordingly commenced the largest newspaper ever printed,' under the very apposite nomenclature of the Atlas. It is to be composed on the principal of a goose-pye, of which goose is often the least inviting ingredient. By a new plan, for which the proprietors would seem to have an exclusive patent, all the articles they select from other journals are (to employ the words of their prospectus) to 'have for each reader the value of originality. The Atlas guts new books on the most copious and approved principle, but has no politics of its own; in short, little or nothing of its own, save its plan and its professions. It is withal a very amusing journal, and will, we doubt not, succeed.

There seems to be quite a mania for authorship now a days. The Hon. George Agar Ellis is among those fashionables who have been bitten, and he has accordingly just printed A true history of the Iron Mask,' which is, in short, nothing more than a translation and abridgment of a well-known French work, upon the subject. Coming, as the English version does, from such a source, it will, no doubt, be pronounced a work of great importance, labour and and research, and Mr. Murray will accordingly sell off the impression. The substance of the book will be found, in an excellent article, in a late number of the Monthly Review, the honestest and most impartial critical publication of the day.

The thirty-seventh anniversary of the Literary Fund, was celebrated on the 10th of last month, at the Free Masons' Hall. The attendance was slender, but the speeches were tolerable, the dinner better still, and the wine (for tavern wine) really excellent. Mr. Fitzgerald insisted on inflicting his annual dose of couplets on the much enduring company. The healths of the Poets of Great Britain were subsequently proposed, and after some very pretty coquetting between Mr. Moore, the Rev. Mr. Croly, and Mr. Sotheby, it was decided that there were no poets present who felt it incumbent upon them to return thanks for the toast. Mr. Moore's health was afterwards proposed, when the bard of kisses,' blisses,' 'flowers,' and 'bowers,' returned thanks in the following pretty Emerald Islander:Mr. Moore,

commenced by declaring, that he felt that he ought to apologize for not having returned thanks when the health of the poets of Great Britain was drank; but it would not have become him to have intruded himself upon the company, when men of such eminence and distinguished talent as Mr. Croly, and Mr. Sotheby, whose translation of Oberon was as much distinguished by historical research as by true poetical taste, and who was second to no poet now living, were present. He could not but feel himself highly honoured by the distinguished mark of favour which had been bestowed upon him by such a company. No tribute was more grateful to the soldier than that which came from his brothers in arms. The sailor rejoiced in the applause of those who had shared with him the perils of the main, and the dangers of the battle; and the man of letters felt still more profoundly the praise of those who had laboured with him in the same vineyard; it was the highest honour and the most gratifying reward which he could receive. To the honourable baronet who had given his health in such a flattering manner, he knew not how to return his thanks. He was afraid that he owed much of the complimentary address with which it had been prefaced to the magical influence of the social glass. He did not mean, when he said this, that they had already arrived at that stage, when the exhilarating influence of the cup made those who had partaken of it see double; but it was universally acknowledged, that the cup could not long circulate with freedom without inclining those who paid their devotions to it, to assign a greater elevation to objects than properly belonged to them. There was a curious circumstance attending the history of printing, which connected conviviality with literature-the first printing types were afterwards formed into drinking cups, to celebrate the invention. There was also another cup, which had been described by a wicked wight, since deceased, as like those used by the warriors in the halls of Odin. He said that booksellers drank their wine out of the skulls of poets. But, to be sure, that observation did not apply at the present period, for the booksellers' banquet was over, and lately they had had the worst of it, Authors, however, were exposed to the ills and calamities of a more peculiar, trying, and melancholy nature. They became exhausted with time their fine powers, like precious perfumes, in communicating delight to others, wasted themselves. Age, time, and sickness, dimmed the divine particle within them, and left them nought but the painful sensibility of the man of letters, which rendered them a burthen to themselves, and an object of compassion to all who could enter into their sorrows, or comprehend their griefs; and when to these were added a broken spirit, desolution, and indigence, from without, there were surely none to whom the helping hand of charity could be more properly extended. This was the object of the institution, whose anniversary they were now commemorating; and if it served to relieve but one case of that hopeless and melancholy termination of human genius to which he had adverted, it would call down a benediction on all who had been concerned in it. The high and the noble might praise the labours of the man of letters; the easy and the opulent might assist him; but there was no tribute so acceptable as that of him who had no other inheritance but that fatal spark of genius with which it had pleased God to endow him-and none half so heartily given as that of him who lives in the bitter uncertainty, that the miserable fate which he had been describing might not one day be his own. This oration called forth immense applause, and when it had subsided, Sir John Malcolm, we believe, proposed the health of the Rev. Mr. Croly, and complimented him on his dramatic powers. The reverend gentleman, who although a first rate poet is only a second rate dramatist, did not seem to relish this bye-blow overmuch. Considering the sum at present in the hands of the association, namely, £21,851, it is somewhat singular that they dribble out their tardy relief to distressed literary men, by five and ten pounds at a time. It is rarely that a literary person will consent to receive elemosynary relief, thus doled out in a paltry pittance by a public institution; and even when his distress does so far overcome feelings of shame, as to admit of his applying for it, he can derive but very little assistance from such a sum as it is their custom to advance. As a convivial meeting, the anniversary dinner of this institution is excellent; as for the charity we know but little of its benefactions, but they ought, if the subscriptions of the public are properly applied, to be splendid. There is, we fear, a good deal of humbug in the affair. We had nearly omitted to mention that the Duke of Somerset presided on the above occasion, supported by Lord Glenorchy, Sir John Swinburne, Sir John Malcolm, Sir J. Wrottesley, Lord Brandon, Sir William Clayton, Mr. T. Moore, Mr. Sotheby, Mr. Allan Cunningham, &c. &c. &c.

MR. D'ISRAELI, junior, is, as many of our readers are probably aware, the son of the very respectable collector of the "Curiosities of Literature," the "Quarrels of Authors," and other useful and entertaining compilations. That the younger aspirant should have manifested his ambition to share the notoriety of his excellent father is by no means remarkable, although the course he has adopted in order to arrive at the accomplishment of his wishes may well surprise those who do not consider it worth their while to sacrifice their characters as gentlemen, and their possible chance of future reputation as authors, for the sake of a little factitious popularity,-a popularity acquired by the meanest and most revolting artifices, and the total disregard of all honourable feeling; and sustained (until the cheat is discovered and exposed) by the disinterested eulogiums of a "spirited" and "energetic" publisher of "works of permanent interest," and of the "first importance," in his elaborate and ingeniously-devised newspaper panegyrics. With the assistance of such a coadjutor; a bold disregard of the decencies of life; an intimacy with a pretty tolerable number of the footmen, abigails, and under-butlers of persons of fashion about town; and five pounds worth of half-crowns to slide into the palms of such of them as he happens to have no personal interest with; the veriest dunce of the age might in the space of from three weeks to a month concoct a novel calculated to make no inconsiderable noise in the world of fashion; the more especially if he " whispered," in some score of avant-couriers, that the hero was a sort of " prose Don Juan, who was to become acquainted with every literary and fashionable character in existence." No matter how contemptible such a production might be, the puffs preliminary would be certain of securing for it a large share of public attention. If the "hit" were a decided one, the author would have the opportunity, by promising additional volumes, of extorting, with little chance of detection, pecuniary compensation from some poor nervous scion of quality, for what he would modestly entitle the suppressio veri. He might, in that spirit of liberal courtesy, which distinguished the famous epistle of Harriette Wilson to Mr. Ellice, give his victim the option of buying himself out of his would-be satirical hotchpotch. Here then would be a source of profit open to the adventurer,

B

new

For

we are confidently informed, offered to him in the first instance. the present we take our leave of the " Unknown." It is no part of our object to attract notice to our pages by personality; but to apply the language of Lord Byron to the foregoing remarks, "what else was to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by lying and slandering, and slake their thirst with evil speaking." As yet, however, we have by no means settled our account with him, as he may discover to his cost by the first of next month. Till then we bid him farewell.

LEAVES FROM A JOURNAL.

"

THE Florentines have very obliging and even caressing manners; in matters of business or treaty, however, they are positive, and will make use of brief and sarcastic sentences. I have reason to think they are very falsely accused of want of kindness to foreigners; and a peculiar grace embellishes their manner of doing a good office. The generality of women make personal appearance and dress exclusively the subject of their conversation, and flatter each other without scruple, obviously, however, in the hope of a return. Sometimes they will come to the point at once:-"Ne trouvez vous pas tres pâle et sans couleur aujourdhui? Ah! je suis bien assurée que mes yeux manquent de leur feu ordinaire! N'est ce pas ma chère?" or "le petit fichûe, me convient il. Il me semble qu'il a l'air très gentil.' At first this is extremely amusing to a new Englishwoman. One evening a very beautiful and fascinating Italian had beguiled me in this way of many a compliment clumsily enough delivered, when she began to think I should expect some equivalent. She examined my dress, it was neither costly nor fashionable, she could find nothing to her purpose; she had next recourse to what was still more hopeless, my face. At length, not to be foiled, "Ah," cried she, " que vos cheveux sont jolis! Votre chevelure est à merveille. C'est la chataigne foucée." This compliment loudly uttered, and in presence of a whole crowd of slaves, discomposed my gravity, and at the same time a little confused me, my beautiful hair being very visibly a wig. I should have suspected an Englishwoman, and been quite sure that a Frenchwoman was quizzing me, but I should have wronged the amiable Parmesanne had I ascribed to her any other motive than the desire to make me contented with her and with myself.

One evening, when she had devoted herself with even unusual success to the pleasing cares of the toilette, and sat triumphing in the homage of adorers of various nations, her serenity was somewhat troubled by observing that a young German, who formed part of the group, said nothing : at length her patience quite failed, and she resolved to conquer this uncourteous silence ;-alluding to some flattering sentence which had just been delivered, she turned to me, with, "Et qu'est ce qu'en dit Monsieur le Baron?" "Et que voulez vous ma chère?" replied I,

"Monsieur le Baron dit, avec tout le monde, que vous êtes une Ange.— N'est ce pas Monsieur le Baron?" In fact, I suspected the German of being a little cynical, and amused myself with the thought of defeating his saturnine humour; but he was too adroit for me; for when the general idol lifted her fine eyes upon him, expecting a confirmation of my words,—“ Sans doute," said he, very gravely, Madame sera une Ange quand elle habitera les cieux-mais j'espère que cette heure est encore bien loin."

Idleness and love of pleasure seem the leading features of the Italians, a taste greatly fostered by the frequent festivals of their church. You are less disgusted in Italy by working and open shops on Sunday, than in other parts of the Continent; yet this does not apparently proceed from greater reverence for the day, but from an eagerness to dedicate as many days as possible to amusement. In the part of Italy with which I am acquainted, all the individuals I have conversed with concur in openly ridiculing the rites, and even the doctrines, of their religion. I suspect they incline to go farther, and disgusted with the glaring absurdities to which they are accustomed, would consider all religion, except pure deism, mere priest-craft: in this opinion they always expect to find congeniality in a Protestant, and when they discover you to be less liberal than themselves, are much surprised; though unwilling to offend your notions, they will dexterously and politely recede.

The ecclesiastics, white, brown, and black, swarm about Florence; the Franciscans have credit for carrying on many an intrigue, and even for being, not seldom, principally concerned in them; many of them are strikingly fine objects, with elegant figures, set off to advantage by their picturesque costume, and heads worthy of the study of a Guido. The greater number of monks, meanwhile, do not by their appearance impress one in favour of the fraternity;—their swollen, rubicond faces, and unwieldy en-bon-point, added to a certain cast of countenance, favour the suspicion that these brethren are far from having renounced the good things of this world. I have often asked my way, or other such casual information, from the monks, and was always secure of an answer couched in the most courteous terms, and delivered in dolci accenti with the utmost suavity of manner. The most graceful male I conversed with in Italy was a Dominican friar, who brought me a letter from the beautiful Parmesanne.

A Florentine of ancient name and high rank, will confine himself and family to a few miserable rooms in his extensive Palazzo, denying himself the common comforts of life, whilst he is the possessor perhaps of pictures or sculpture worth 40 or 60,000 scudi; but he would rather starve than sell them: fire or bougies he cannot afford himself, but a box at either the Pergola or Cocomero is essential; that he must have, and then whatever calamity of nature or fortune may fall upon him, he must, as a matter of course, go every evening.

They are certainly a very good natured race; their quarrels generally exhaust themselves in loud and pompous exclamation; blows are very rare amongst them; I have seen a man give another what we call a slap, with the hand open, but a blow with the closed fist, a la mode Anglois, is a brutality of which they have no notion. The stilletto is, I fancy, a weapon much fallen into disuse, at least in Florence; during