caves, in the mean rooms of cities, in desert solitudes where the cells of hermits, gathering other cells around them, formed the nuclei of populous convents. But when there arose out of the simple arrangements of the apostles, a hierarchy composed of secular as well as religious princes, when the symbolical crook became a kingly sceptre that made the world tremble, and when Christianity grew into a mystery too holy and too awful for vulgar eyes to contemplate-then was there reared a shrine fitted for the majestic worship-a shrine rising frequently from the ruins of heathen temples; then pinnacle upon pinnacle pierced the yielding sky; then gorgeous processions rolled along amid groves of sculptured stone,

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swelled the note of praise.

For a Roman Catholic cathedral,' continued Robert, 'no architecture is so well adapted as the Gothic; but when the reform of Luther let in upon the religious gloom a portion of the light of day, a modification was demanded which, so far as I know, has not yet been supplied.'

Then,' said Claudia, who saw with some discontent what was coming, 'you would have a new style for every form of belief?'

'I would have the genius of bodies of men give way to their impulses and convictions in art as in religion, and cease to copy forms that for them have lost life and meaning.'

"Then suppose you take the lowest sect, composed of worshippers who gather round the pastor with no more ceremonial than the literal sheep round their shepherd-what tabernacle would you devise for them?'

'Art is beautiful even in its austerest forms, because so is the nature it worships. Even the original shrine of the faith you allude to-a lonely nook among the hills, where it was born of persecution, and nourished with blood, and where the devotees listened to the word of life with their Bible kept open on their knees with their naked swords, was not wanting in this quality. For these I would revert to the classical model, but of an era prior, as we might suppose, to the time when the stern and simple superstition submitted to the elegant adornments of poetry. I would have the portico composed of Tuscan columns rising naked out of the earth, like the trunks of forest trees; the pediment either entirely blank, or inscribed only with a text of Scripture in the black austere characters termed grotesque, that are like the rudiments of Roman letters; and the external walls either wholly plain or strengthened more than adorned with Tuscan pilasters.'

'Well done!' cried Sir Vivian-' that is a good idea.' 'But why limit the classical model to a service like this? If we discard it for the less simple forms of Christianity, are there not purposes in which poetry is the presiding feeling, apart from religion, and where elegant repose is the grand essential? Could anything be finer or more harmonious than a Greek temple consecrated to works of painting and sculpture? For a gentleman's seat, set down in the midst of a tree-garden in an undulating and picturesque country, the abode of wealth and taste, and in itself a gallery of art, no model could be imagined better adapted than the classical villa. On the other hand, a country abode perched on a rocky height, and surrounded by natural woods, would demand the Gothic form; and so likewise would the simple hamlet and the solitary hut. But imagine a whole street-a whole town of this architecture-in which the multitudinous variety is confined to details, with the same unvarying character pervading the whole! It would be almost as bad-if anything could be almost as bad-as our present rows of stone or brick boxes, with oblong holes in the walls for the inhabitants to look through and indulge themselves with the sight of rows

of boxes on the other side of the way, the counterpart of their own.'

'But the age and the men, my good sir!' cried Claudia-' would you not have architecture adapted to the circumstances that give it birth? and are not we Goths, to take that as the generic name, just as the classic builders were Greeks and Romans?'

'No: we are no more Goths than we are Greeks or Romans. We are the result of the collision which took place when the fresh and vigorous barbarians threw themselves headlong upon the senile refinement of the Empire, and gave a new character to the genius of Europe. The retrograde movement was changed for one of progress-for there is no point of rest for the human mind. The present age is merely one of a moral series which then commenced; and our grand distinction is an enlightened eclecticism, which gathers to itself the true and the beautiful wherever they are found, in the past or in the present, and hands them on in triumph to the future. To make the architecture of such an age exclusively Gothic, or exclusively classic, to bind down its pictorial art to the medieval or the revival, is, I venture to think, a dream that can be realised only when the effect of the collision of races is worn out and lost, and the downward movement begins anew.'

In such conversations a great part of the forenoon passed away; and when the artist at length took his leave, Claudia confessed to herself that she had enjoyed a novel kind of amusement, in listening to the opinions of one who spoke thus plainly and zealously without reference to the rank or sex of the company. This was an enjoyment she had not experienced till now since girlhood, and a dim picture rose upon her dream of a new social world, invested with such colourings of romance as are thrown by the imagination upon strange and distant lands.

'You are interested by this young man?' said her father, who observed her reverie.

'Yes; he speaks as if he thought, and that is much. Whether his thoughts are just or not is another question. I like him, too, because he looks you full in the eyes both when he speaks and listens.'

And, upon my word, the eyes are very handsome with which the young fellow does look !'

"That may be of some moment to him: it is nothing to us. But one thing is clear-that he will never be a painter. He thinks too much and too subtly of the theory of art to become great in the practice; for practical art is an instinct, the achievements of which may be followed, but cannot be preceded by theory. No; he has no more chance of becoming a painter in this way, than he would have of becoming a poet by learning to manufacture rhymes at the university. But he writes too. He has had an article accepted by a quarterly review; and I think we should see that. He is not vain, not selfish, not mercenary, and his feelings chance to be with the party now in ascendancy. Do you not see my thought? As a secretary without the name, and without consciousness on his own part, he might render you important service. You have retrograded of late, as he calls it, and you must renew the onward movement.'

'You are right, Claudia; I see it all. But why wait, since we know that he has words and ideas?'

But we can only guess that he has the art of writing, that he has an elegant pen, and a logical head to direct it.'

'Well, be it as you will, but don't lose sight of him. I am now for the club.'

There were no introductions, and he heard no names. The coup-d'œil presented by the dining-room was magnificent, but he thought the quantity of plate almost, if not quite, overstepped the modesty of taste. The dinner was a more prolonged repast than he thought had been customary in this country, and he had time to observe his neighbours. These had no great distinction of aspect. One was a very fat, good-humoured-looking old man, jovial and hearty in his manner-just the person to have been vulgar to the last extreme, if not saved by a perfect savoir faire, and an air of gentlemanly ease which could have been the result only of life-long habitude. Another was a little, meagre, unwholesome, elderly man, looking marvellously like a journeyman tailor suffering from the consequences of an intemperance he now kept in check by means of the pledge. He, too, was obviously to the manner born, and withal tenderly, and not ungracefully, assiduous in his attentions to a pompous goodlooking, middle-aged dame, the matron of the feast, whose neck, arms, and fingers glittered with diamonds. Another younger lady belonged to that class of women who have no character at all, and could be described only as having a sweet, insipid face, and as constantly saying: What a love!'-'Those dearest children!''How I do dote on that aria!'-'My darling Mrs So-andso!' Robert sat next to this youngish lady, and turned away with a cloyed appetite from the sweets when they came upon the table. The remaining guest belonged, like himself, to the class of 'clever people.' He had only recently come into notice, and was a candidate for one of certain commissionerships which, from his services to the government and his literary reputation, he was considered sure of obtaining. He had taken reasonably well to the manners of the circle where he was now noticed, although born himself only in the respectable middle class, but had not entirely got rid of the feeling of novelty, and appeared to have every now and then a spasm of exulting surprise as the idea occurred to him of his present position and expected good-fortune.

The dinner passed quietly and agreeably away; the beautiful hostess dealing her lightning flashes with perfect impartiality round the table, and every now and then, with an admirable tact, quite distinct from the obtrusiveness of former days, contriving to attract the attention of any one who seemed to have fallen aside out of observation. When the ladies at length retired, there was some social and even merry chat; but little wine was taken, little time consumed, and Robert by and by found himself for a minute or two tête-à-tête with Claudia in the drawing-room. From her he learned, with some surprise, that the fat, jovial old man was Lord Luxton; that the elderly journeyman tailor was the Earl of Tassletop, the husband of the fashionable countess; that the sweet, youngish lady was the scion of a ducal family; and the pompous matron the wife of a wealthy parvenu, but herself allied to some of the highest families in the kingdom.

Our adventurer, on going home that night to his three-pair back, suffered from a little confusion of mind. His wonder was, how it was all to end-what was to become of the anomalies of his position-whether he was actually to be a top-sawyer, or subside into the pit? It wanted some time yet to the publication of the next review, and it was with something like alarm he remembered a feeling he was by no means accustomed to-that after his sumptuous fare of to-day, he had to look to the chances of the world for to-morrow's dinner. His case was the more perplexing, that Miss Falcontower seemed to have cooled upon the business of the portrait. So far from being in any hurry to get it finished, she was evidently protracting the time. At the dinner-table, while bringing out the other clever man in his peculiar walk, she had suffered him to remain the great unknown. She had not even redeemed

her promise of introducing him to her uncle. Was it not obvious that art had failed him, and that he was to receive a new trial in literature-at some indefinite time?

In considerable perturbation of mind, but with a stern resolve to trifle no longer with his fortunes, he sought his patroness the next morning. He saw at once that a shade had passed over the beautiful face, though without rendering it less beautiful.

'Mr Oaklands,' she said, 'I am glad you have come, for it is so formal to say adieu in writing, and I have hardly time for it even in speech. Papa has received a summons to his brother's bedside, Lord Luxton having been taken suddenly and, I fear, dangerously ill, and we shall be out of town for at least a month. Before we return, we shall have seen your article, and I feel sure that I shall have something pleasant to say on the subject. The portrait'-following his eyesmust wait. It is of less consequence to you than the other; and, in fact, the two professions, or accomplishments, would clash. Good-by, Mr Oaklands,' and she extended her hand. Her voice softened as she pronounced the last words; and her fingers-could it be a gentle pressure which sent that sudden thrill through his frame? Robert did not know; his breath came quick, his eyes dazzled: she was gone.

'So,' thought he, fetching a long breath as he left the house, it is over-over-over! Friendless, penniless, hopeless in this walk of life, I must now try another.' But for all that, he walked straight to Jermyn Street, thinking, in spite of himself, that something would turn up, some honest job from the picture-dealers, or some expectant sitter, with a guinea in his pocket. Worse and worse. Driftwood had vanished; the contents of the studio were seized for rent, and the door was locked. It was hard that he, who owed nothing, should lose his painting materials, few and of trifling value as they were; but remonstrance was of no avail, and he turned from the house with a bitterness of spirit he had never felt before.

He knew what must be done, but he would not do it till the evening; for although a common, it seemed to him, from its associations of vice and misery, a degrading expedient. In the meantime he walked swiftly away in the direction of the nearest boundary of the wilderness of streets. He felt the need of air, for he was choking: the mist of the common was settling upon him. But as he walked, he grew more tranquil, for he looked his fortunes steadily in the face, and became accustomed to them. That evening he would collect a sum to pay the rent of his lodgings, and suffice for his support for the few days that might pass before he obtained employment. The financial object he could attain only in one way: by the hypothecationa very short time before he would have said pawningof his dress-clothes; and as for mechanical work, there was no risk of failure in the quest for that, since he had already, with a view to some such emergency, made acquaintance with a person whose trade was the finer kind of cabinet-making, and who would be very glad to accept his services, having formed a high opinion of his taste and inventive ability.

It must not be supposed, however, that in becoming more calm he became more cheerful. The crisis that had occurred was indeed a painful one; for, setting his new acquaintance out of the question, it interposed a gulf between him and the old. It postponed indefinitely his prospects of revisiting the Lodge-of seeing again the generous and true-hearted captain-the philosophic Elizabeth-the one whom he had never thought of for a long time after his exodus without a feeling of terror, but who had gradually assumed in his waking dreams the appearance of a faint and distant star, the only light he saw in the heavens.

When he had reached the utmost verge of London, his thoughts were drawn anew to the profession that

and certain markings on the body do not participate in the general changes of colour.

The box in which Mr Turner's chameleon was kept was of deal, with a glass at the top, and a piece of flannel laid at the bottom, a small branching stick being introduced by way of a perch. He introduced at various times pieces of coloured paper, covering the bottom of the box, of blue, yellow, and scarlet, but without the slightest effect upon the appearance of the animal. Considering that these primary colours were not such as it would be likely to be placed in contact with in a state of nature, he next tried a piece of green calico, but equally without result. The animal went through all its usual changes without their being in any way modified by the colours placed underneath it. The general tints approximate, as may readily be observed, to those of the branches of trees, just as those of most animals do to the places in which they dwell; but Mr Turner did not observe the faculty of changing called into play with any apparent object. It is only when the light is removed that the animal assumes a colour

which absorbs but little of it.

Thus the popular notion, that the chameleon takes the hue at pleasure of the objects near it--a notion cherished by us all from infancy, recited in every little 'book about animals,' and constantly used by the poet among his choicest illustrations-is now shewn to be erroneous. We look to the same science which has destroyed our illusion, to replace it with the true explanation of the phenomenon; and we hope we shall not long have to look in vain.

BRITANNIA'S SCENTED HANDKERCHIEF.

The wealth of England is aptly illustrated by shewing what Britannia spends, and the duty she pays to the Exchequer for the mere pleasure of perfuming her handkerchief. As flowers, for the sake of their perfumes, are on the continent principally cultivated for trade purposes, the odours derived from them, when imported into this country in the form of essential oils, are taxed with a small duty of 1s. per pound, which is found to yield a revenue of just L.12,000 per annum. The duty upon Eau de Cologne imported in the year 1852, was in round numbers L.10,000, being 1s. per bottle upon 200,000 flacons imported. The duty upon the spirits used in the manufacture of perfumery at home is at least L.20,000, making a total of L.42,000 per annum to the revenue, independent of the tax upon snuff, which some of the ancient Britons indulge their noses with. If L.42,000 represents the small tax upon perfuming substances for one year, ten times that amount is the very lowest estimate which can be put upon the articles as their average retail cost. By these calculations -and they are quite within the mark-we discover that Britannia spends L.420,000 a year in perfumery.-S. Piesse, in Annals of Chemistry.

THE WRITERS FOR THE TIMES.

Went with Barnes to his own room, and drew up my paragraph, while he wrote part of an article for next day. Says that he writes himself as little as possible, finding that he is much more useful as a superintendent of the writings of others. The great deficiency he finds among his people is not a want of cleverness, but of common sense. There is not one of them (and he included himself in the number) that can be trusted writing often or long on the same subject; they are sure to get bewildered on it.-Moore's Diary.

ITALY WITHOUT A NATIONAL AIR.

Alas! Italy, thou land of song! thou outcast of the nations of Europe! Ten thousand operas, and not three notes of a national hymn! Out of so many fathers of melody, not one who can find the motive that will sink to thy children's heart and dwell there; France has her ça ira; the Alpine people their cow-gathering; England her loyal anthem; Germany her fatherland toasts. In Italy alone nationality is mute. The sorry dittay that popular

outbreak calls forth to-day, dies to-morrow amidst the yawns of thy listless populace. Proscription itself cannot secure a patriotic air against the fickleness of fastidious fashion. Strange to say, our composers have, in several instances, supplied less gifted people with the music that never fails to send a thrill through their hearts, that leads them to battle, that serves them as a rallying-point against all chances of future dispersion; and not a miserable chorus, not a paltry march, for home consumption !Castellamonte; Italian Life during the Insurrection of 1831.

her walls;

While glory crowned her palaces and Freedom's flag was there,

And perfumes from the Orient came through the summer air.

Fair Venice in her palmy days, bright, beautiful, and free! Oh, then to view that pageantry, her bridal with the sea, To mark the graceful gondolas the flowing streets along, While the plashing of the boatmen's oar kept time with Tasso's song!

O marble in the starshine! O mansions gleaming white! How dazzlingly your columned roofs reflected back the light;

The answ'ring chime of voices sweet came fluting down the breeze,

Like tones of fairy minstrelsy amid the forest trees.

Still, Venice, still the deep blue wave is trembling at thy feet,

And echoes of departed songs the list'ning spirit greet. O glory's fading splendours! your requiem comes to me, Like music sweeping mournfully athwart the azure sea.