In spite of its dinginess of effect, we hold this to be an admirable picture-admirable for the study and appreciation of character, the genuine humour, and striking fidelity to Nature which it displays. The hard-working boy, at his writing, with his head down on the paper; the idle boy asleep on his hat and play-box; the stupid boy blundering through his lesson, under the rigid inspection of the schoolmistress; the master leaning solemnly back in his chair while he nibs a pen, are all equally real and life-like. There are some twenty-eight scholars-boys and girls-in the composition, every one representing some different shade of character, and every one perfectly true to Nature. Persons the most ignorant of Art can appreciate this picture; for they are sure to understand if they have ever been to school.

Not so fast, my valued French friend! Before you go into the next room, you must look at the Chandos portrait of Shakespeare! You are not required to admire it as a picture-nobody would-but, as the most genuine likeness extant of the world's greatest dramatic poet, as a copy of the face of the man who wrote HAMLET; what an inestimable treasure now hangs before us! Monsieur Jules politely pauses at my appeal; listens with a great appearance of interest, while I trace, or endeavour to trace, the indications of a mighty mind in the forehead and features of the Chandos portrait; tries hard to be as enthusiastic about the subject as I am, to love and reverence the memory of William Shakespeare, as much as I do; finds that he cannot quite succeed to his satisfaction in the effort; and gently draws me away into the second room, muttering as he goes something about the difficulties of the English language, the sublimity of Le grand Corneille," and the refinement of the classical drama.

Once in the second room, a magnificent portrait of an old "Burgomaster," by Rembrandt, immediately attracts us. The simple dignity in the position of the figure; the masterly firmness of the drawing; and the depth, richness, and brilliancy of the colour, combine to make this one of the most striking pictures in the collection. We remember no nobler example of the genius of Rembrandt as a portrait painter. Close by this work hangs another sea-fight, by Vandervelde, representing the same naval engagement as that which forms the subject of the picture we have already seen in the first room. Here, however, a different period of the day is taken; and the sky and sea, especially, are more finely and freely painted in the production now before us, than in the former example of the master's powers. A picture, by Geritz Van Harp, of a "Company of Six Persons assembled in a room, playing a Concert," is the next work which particularly claims our attention. The little episode in the domestic scene, formed by a boy who is teasing a dog by showing the animal a piece of meat hanging from the ceiling, far out of reach, is most humorously conceived, and most admirably executed. Not forgetting to look attentively and admiringly at two more portraits by Rembrandt-one of himself; the other of a lady; both equally magnificent as pictures-let us now examine the celebrated landscape by Ruysdael, known far and wide, in the world of Art, under the title of "The Charcoal Burners."

This is certainly a superb piece of landscape-painting. The stream dashing among rocks, and eddying along into the foreground, seems

to move as we look at it. The forest, near the outskirts of which are a man and a woman occupied in charring wood, is deep and solemn in colour, and, in its details, finely studied from Nature. Indeed, the poetry and grandeur of effect in this picture are attained throughout without any sacrifice of truth-it is in this respect, especially, one of the greatest triumphs of the school to which it belongs. Totally different in the aspect of Nature depicted, but equally admirable in many parts, as a work of Art, is the neighbouring scene near a grove, by Cuyp (No. 189). The atmosphere in this picture is a marvel of lightness, purity, and warmth; and effectually exposes the feebleness of tone and falseness of painting in the landscape, by Wynants, which hangs next to it, representing a sandy road in salmon-colour: and displaying some foreground bushes utterly out of proportion with all the objects around them. We turn, with pleasure, from this picture to a " View in Holland," by Ruysdael (No. 197,) the sky and distance of which are particularly noticeable for their exquisite beauty. No. 198 is "An Interior, with two Ladies and a Gentleman," by Terburg, and is a wonderful achievement in surface and execution. We remember no more perfect piece of drapery painting by any Dutch master, than the white satin gown which clothes one of the ladies in this picture.

Monsieur Jules, whose bearing has exhibited unwonted tranquillity for the last five minutes, suddenly becomes excited again, at the sight of a "View on the coast of Naples," by Joseph Vernet. Rejoicing over the picture as the work of a "compatriot," he exultingly points it out to me. Although the foreground part of the scene strikes me as rather feeble and conventional, I am enabled to satisfy my friend's nationality by sincerely admiring the painting of the foggy atmosphere that hangs over the water in the distance, and the large ship dimly looming through the mist. Here, Monsieur Jules, your countryman has produced a fine effect—an effort of art infinitely truer and better in every way than anything I can find in this black patchy picture, by Berghem, which hangs beneath the sea-piece by Vernet, and is called "A Grand Landscape" in the catalogue. A grand landscape, indeed!-too grand to look at all like humble simple Nature! Let us leave it, and see what real landscape painting is, by looking at that wonderful picture of Cuyp's, hanging at the opposite side of the room.

The scene is on the Maes, near the town of Dort-the effect, that of a fine summer morning-the incident represented, the landing of Prince Maurice. Craft of all kinds occupy the river. A large passage-boat, crowded with people, slowly approaches on one sidethe prince's barge, bearing a brilliant company, with trumpeters at the bows sounding their instruments, occupies the opposite part of the composition. Ships are firing salutes; ranges of trading vessels extend all along the front of the picturesque old town; and the whole of the bright, gay scene is exquisitely contrasted by the long unbroken hill which terminates it in the distance, just visible through the glowing sunlight and the last exhalations of the morning dew. The effect of this picture is nothing short of marvellous-the warm golden air-the calm water-the delicate varieties of light and shade on every object-the clear mellow atmosphere, faintly fading into softness and haziness in the far distance, are all before us, not as skilful imitations, not as specimens of this or that style of art, but

as realities. Monsieur Jules tries in vain to trace the peculiar process by which Cuyp has produced his effect-that perfect art which conceals Art is too much for him, here and he ends by agreeing with me, that never was picture painted which less reminds the spectator of pallette and brushes, or more graphically reproduces the very atmosphere and aspect of Nature before his eyes, than this "Landing of Prince Maurice at Dort," by Albert Cuyp.

After delaying a little longer, to look at some more works of the Dutch School, which hang on the window side of the room, and are in many cases of a high order of merit, we pass into another apartment, the last of the range opened to the public. Here my French friend leaves my side, and hurries off immediately to a large picture, which I cannot very well see in the light in which I stand. Leaving him to pursue his own devious course, I proceed methodically, in my way, round the room. A Frost-Scene," by David Teniers; "A Marine View," by Turner; two "Landscapes," by Hobbema; "Portraits of a Family of Distinction," by Sir Joshua Reynolds; and a "Bird's-eye View in the neighbourhood of Haarlem," by Ruysdael, particularly attract my admiration. These works duly examined, I look after Monsieur Jules. He is still standing before the large picture. I look at the large picture. The subject is the "Soldiers of the Parliament offering insults to Charles the First ;" the painter is Paul de la Roche.

My friend explains himself, as I join him. His national feeling is now wrought up to the highest pitch of delight; he sees the glory of the modern French School of Painting gloriously represented at Bridgewater House; he sees the work of a contemporary and a friend admitted to this magnificent collection, holding its place bravely and honourably among all these magnificent pictures; and he triumphs in the sight. Does this seem vainglorious, to me, a sedate son of foggy Albion? If it does, he is ready to ask ten thousand pardons; and then, with my permission, he will be vainglorious still. By all means, Monsieur Jules; you may well triumph in the picture before you. It tells its story eloquently and pathetically; the expressions of the faces are conceived and executed with striking dramatic power; the drawing is vigorous and masterly; and though I do not always appreciate the colouring of the French School, I appreciate it here. Admire this picture with all your heart; I can admire it warmly too. Nay, more, I will be vainglorious in my turn, and ask you to look at that Sea-Piece (No. 251) by Turner, an English painter, still living. It was produced fifty years ago, as a companion to the Sea-Piece by Vandervelde (No. 196), in the next room; and, in my opinion (Who is most vainglorious now?)—it is the finer picture of the two. The effect of Turner's work is stormy and grand, without any of that appearance of blackness which I discern in the Vandervelde. The water is in every respect fully equal to the water in the older Sea-Piece, and that streak of fitful light falling upon the man of war on the extreme horizon, and rendering the ship mysteriously visible in the midst of the murky gloom frowning over the rest of the scene, is a touch of poetry and nature of Turner's own, unrivalled by any similar quality in the picture by the Dutch master.

THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO.

A LEGEND OF CASTILE.

You've all of you heard, or you've all of you read,
Of a little old cobbler whose dwelling is said

To have been nothing more than a stall or a shed,
Where he could n't stand up without bumping his head;
But which still, as the choicest authorities say,
Both served him for kitchen and salle à manger.

This same little cobbler-so fickle is Fame-
Has never yet figured in rhyme with a name;
And even the place of his birth or "location,"
His life, death and actions, his language and nation,
Are all alike left to our imagination.

Yet, he lived and he died;

He'd a language beside,

And a mother of whom he was haply the pride.

I've traced them all out with much trouble and pain,
And I've taken a journey expressly to Spain

To search all the archives-I hope not in vain,

As I found that this maker of shoes for "the million,"
Was born at Toledo-a thorough Castilian.

Toledo's a city renowned through all ages,
In clerical tomes and historical pages,
For bishops and warriors, princes and sages,
And sword-blades, which even in these modern days
(When we 're giving up fighting and choleric ways)
Are confess'd to be matchless in "temper"-a rarity
Scarcely more known to our peace-men than charity.

In one of the streets of this city of steel-
This Sheffield and Birmingham store of Castile-
Stood a gloomy old mansion, with windows so few,
And so closely barred up, how the light could get through
Was a puzzle to all who beheld them the more,
As the street was so narrow and dismal before,
That no ray of the sunlight had ever been known
To wriggle its way down and burnish one stone.

Like a little excrescence below this great hall
Projected a queer little, black-looking, stall,
Whence the sound of a hammer assail'd you, together
With odours of beeswax and blacking and leather.
And if you look'd in,

In the midst of the din,

And the gloom and the smell-
And the dirt, too, as well-

You might see a small body, a very big head,
Two eyes very bright, and one nose very red,
Two hands very large and as grimy as soot,
And not the least sign of a leg or a foot.
Don't fancy, I beg,

That there wasn't a leg

But merely their owner, a cobbler at work,
Tuck'd them quite out of sight as he sat à la Turk.
And this is "the cobbler who lived in the stall
Which served him for kitchen and parlour and all:"
And this is the cobbler-Pedrillo by name-
Whose wonderful story my verses proclaim.

One day, as Pedrillo sat mending the sole

Of a shoe that its owner had worn to a hole,

And stitching, and waxing, and pegging, and thumping,
And filing, and smoothing, and "clicking," and "clumping,"
He somehow got thinking on all sorts of things

And all sorts of persons, from cobblers to kings.
Pedrillo was not a philosopher, nor

Had he ever much practised at thinking before;

Or, at least, I much doubt till that moment if ever he
Had made the remotest approach to a reverie.

Yet, how charming a reverie is

When the mind and the heart are at rest,
When we shake off the clay of the world
And we dream of some land of the blest!

How pleasant to loll at one's ease

Arms a-kimbo and eyes on the ceiling-
And shut out, in an opium trance,

(If we can) ev'ry earthly-born feeling!
But we're apt to do just the reverse—
Begin thinking of every evil-
Our pains, and our debts, and our sins,
Our long balance-sheet with the devil.
Ah, Life thou 'rt at best but a dream!"
Is a saying each dreamer well knows-
And oh, what a deuce of a nightmare

Doth trouble some mortals' repose!

How we fret, and we fume, and we snore,

How we kick off the clothes, how we quake

How we fight with the phantoms we raise :
And how stupid we look when we wake!

Yes we 've taken a great deal of trouble
To suffer a great deal of pain;
And when we awake to our folly,

We turn round and act it again.