poet, whose works survive them, and through which their spirit may still shine and be the companion and instructer of many coming generations. When we lament the departure of Malibran, we more lament the utter extinction of her power to create delight,-to do good. It is as if with Raphael's body, had likewise been swept away all his immortal productions.

Music is, to be sure, not the highest of human departments; but to me it seems to be the highest of human pleasures merely. And when I look over Europe, and see its millions flinging away hours, and days, and years on pleasure alone, and on pleasures too, whose paths are degradation, I look up with singular gratitude to that art which strives to raise higher the standard of those pleasures, and with no affected emotion, do I set down these small memorials to her whose walks in that art have been so useful and so glorious.

VOL. I.

74

VII.

SIGHTS AND SOUNDS IN LONDON-THE PRESS.

I was this morning awaked by passing and repassing sounds beneath my window, that convinced me I could be in no other than a vast metropolis. Sounds they were, running through the whole compass of the voice, guttural and screaming, double and triple, now coming from men, then from women, and again from children. I could make of them little or nothing. There was one tone that oftener attracted my ear than any other. It was a monosyllable. It was intensely guttural. It had nothing human. It was more like the solitary note of your hoarse bullfrog, sometimes heard on a summer's evening. What that monosyllable was, I could not conjecture. Opening my window, I perceived it came from a man with an aquiline nose, piercing black eyes, long curled hair and a bag over his shoulders. I recognised the Jew, and he immediately hailed me on the subject of worn-out garments.

Here again was another voice that perplexed me exceedingly. It came forth in three syllables. Its regularity of utterance was truly clock-like. It was hoarse and grating, and recalled more than any thing else, those dreary notes oftentimes heard from a wheel, moaning as it were for relief. I could not for a long time make out its meaning, and yet it was only

a simple announcement of fine lobsters.' Then here were other notes,-two deeply bass, followed by two piercingly tenor. They proceeded from a little woman, who would fain have one buy her 'water-cresses.' She was walking tranquilly, but behind her stormed a boy with a huge basket on his shoulders, ringing a little bell continually, and crying out with most money-making impatience, 'hot muffins, muffins all hot.' I confess that I was exceedingly interested and amused, as sitting by my window, I now listened to these and some hundred other like announcements. They awakened many juvenile memories, and verified that wonder and delight of all boyhood, the London Cries.'

As I wandered out, I had additional occasions for amusement at the curious modes here established for spreading information. Before me was an enormous one-horse vehicle,—a sort of house twenty feet high,— a locomotive advertiser, all over whose sides were notices of departing coaches and steamboats into every quarter of the kingdom,—and from morning till night, does this travel through the principal streets of the city. Then every moment I came into contact with persons bearing upon their shoulders enormous guide boards, giving the direction where only can be purchased the unrivalled 'gossamer hats, the imperceptible Zephyr ;' or announcing thus ;- Sold, on oath, the pure grease of a fine large bear,' or thus,-The industrious Fleas, patronized by their Royal Highnesses, the Duchess of Kent and the Princess Victoria, may now be seen at No. 100, Piccadilly;' or again,- Repair your tailor's

bills by going to the cheap Clothes Warehouse, No. 15, Strand,' or still worse,- Awful disclosures of what was done in the Charlestown Convent, Massachusetts, have just been published,' &c., and beneath this notice is the picture of a priest choking a woman. Then there are men, sheepish, not to say guilty-looking beings who, standing at every frequented corner, slyly insinuate out towards you a bit of paper on whose top are the words, To the afflicted.' Then here are others, advertisers ambulatory, leisurely stalking through the streets, with hands thrust independently into their pockets, while around their hats are curved largelylettered placards on which may be read, To Paris, 30 shillings.' And here again is an individual seemingly yoked within two immense placards, one falling down over his breast and the other declining upon his back. He walks with mournful gravity along. His expression is more truly gallows than any you have yet seen. His placards announce, Warm baths at reduced prices-vapor, sulphur, shampooing,-all for two shillings.' These men are generally able-bodied. They look healthy and fit for active labor, and the stranger is anxious to know more of that social organization, whereby so much vigorous bone and muscle are consigned to such comparatively idle vocations.

But here is a cluster of anxious citizens. They stand before a large lot of newspapers pasted against the wall. Some of these contain the daily news, and others announce what 'Bell's life in London' will contain on the coming Sunday. You are startled at the

greedy rage with which these sheets are devoured; and as you walk on, meeting every now and then some walking reader of the Times, or chance into Newsman's Hall where, morning and evening, the London Journals are distributed to hundreds of venders, you are ready to swear that this people actually live and banquet on news. Doubtless of such material is the aliment of their intellectual frame. For sustaining that frame, it seems to have become quite indispensable. What would become of the Englishman without it? Suppose the full-flowing channels of information under this government, suddenly dammed up, and in their stead the meager droppings vouchsafed by Absolutism. Imagine the Neapolitan, the Pontifical, or the Austrian system of publishing, miraculously transplanted hither. Fancy it suddenly substituted for that which at present exists. Instead of reviews and magazines poured monthly forth on all those topics of philosophy, science and government, which can engage the intelligent mind, imagine now and then appearing a little badly-printed volume on the Druidical Antiquities. Instead of these hundred thousand mammoth sheets sending forth, each morning and evening, intelligence on all matters from all parts of the world, and boldest speculations on the rights and destinies of man, fancy in their place, some half a dozen petty journals eight inches by twelve, announcing the barrenest facts about distant lands, or containing some vain movement of a court favorite. Instead of a hundred voices proclaiming aloud through every street all kinds