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I never shall forget meeting my rascal,―I mean the fellow who officiated for me,-in London, last winter. I think I see him now,-in a waistcoat that had been mine, smirking along as if he knew me

In some parts of Germany, that fellow's office is by law declared infamous, and his posterity incapable of being ennobled. They have hereditary hangmeu, or had at least, in the same manner as they had hereditary other great officers of state; and the hangmen's families of two adjoining parishes intermarried with each other, to keep the breed entire. I wish something of the same kind were established in England.

But it is time to quit a subject which teems with disagreeable images-

Permit me to subscribe myself, Mr. Editor,

C. Lamb.

Your unfortunate friend,

PENSILLIS.
The Reflector.

A DAY IN MADRID.

I WAKE 'tis four o'clock in the morning! The whole broad street of Alcali is spread before me with all its churches, palaces, and convents; while, at the further end, the shady walks of the Prado form a sublime sight, baffling description. The matin bell announces early mass, the streets become more animated; veiled women in black, men in long brown cloaks, with cedissalas, wearing their hair in a kind of net-work, hanging low down their back. The doors of all the balconies open, and water is sprinkling before every house.

Now the goat-keepers, with their little herds, enter the gates, crying, "Milk, milk! goat's milk! fresh and, warm!" There I saw market-women pass by with their asses loaded with vegetables; bakers with bread, in carts of Spanish reed; water-carriers and porters hastening to commence their day's work; while, with a hoarse voice, two consequential-looking alguazils proclaim thefts committed in the preceding night. By degrees,

all the warehouses, shops, and booths, are opened. The publicans (tabernecos) expose their wine-cups; the chocolate women get their pots ready; the watercarriers begin to chant their "Quin bebe?" (Who'll drink?) and the hackney-coach and chaise drivers, with muleteers, take their stands. Soon the whole streets resound with numberless cries-" Cod, white codle! Onions from Garcia! Walnuts from Biscay! Oranges from Murcia! Hot smoked sausages from Estremadura! Tomatos, large tomatos! Sweet citrons! Barleywater! Ice-water! A new Journal! A new Gazette! Water-melons! Long Malaga raisins! Olives from Seville! Milk rolls, fresh and hot! Grapes! Figs, new figs! Pomegranates from Valencia !" It strikes ten; the guard mount; dragoons, Swiss regiments, Walloon guards, Spanish infantry; and the universal cry is, "A los ples vin Donne Manuela!" (Let us go to mass.) All the bells are ringing, all the streets are covered with rock-roses, rich carpets hang from every balcony, and altars are raised in every square under the canopies of state. The procession sets out. What a number of neat little angels, with pasteboard wings, covered with gilt paper! Images of saints with powdered bob wigs, and robes of gold brocado! What swarms of priests! and how many beautiful girls, all looking pleasant, and all mixed in groups. The clock proclaims noon. We return through the square of the Puerto del Sol. All their ifas (raffles) have begun, all the hackney waiters are busy, and the whole square thronged with people.-One o'clock-we are called to dinner; a great deal of saffron; many love apples; plenty of oil and pimento; but then, wine from La Mancha; all of Xeres and Malaga! What a fine thing is Spanish cookery! La Siesta! La Siesta! Senores! Ă deadly silence is in all the streets; all the windowshutters are put up, or the curtains let down; even the most industrious porter stretches his length on his mat, and falls asleep at the fountain with his pitcher behind him. At four o'clock every body repairs to the bull-fight, to the canal, or to the prado; all is gaiety

VOL. II.

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and merriment; one equipage after another at full speed to those places of diversion. The Puerto del Sol becomes as crowded as before, and the water-carriers and orange-women are as busy as bees. Thus passes the afternoon, until the dusky shades of the evening close in at last. Then all the bells again ring, and every Spaniard says the prayer of salutation to the Virgin. Now all hasten to the tertulias and theatres, and in a few minutes the rattling of carriages once more resounds in every street. The lamps before the images of the Virgin are already lighted; the merchants and dealers have illuminated their houses and shops, and the sellers of ice-water and lemonade their stalls. Every where are seen rush-lights and paper lanterns on the tables of fruit-women and cake-men. Meanwhile the crowd in the square has prodigiously increased, and it is soon full. In one part you hear the soft sound of the guitar, or senu filla; in another a female balladsinger tells in rhyme the tale of the last murder committed; in a third, a thundering missionary attempts to move the hearts of obdurate sinners, while the lightfooted Cyprian corps carry off his audience by dozens. Soon passes the rosary and tattoo with music, and the equipages return from the theatres. It grows still later; the crowds begin to disperse-by one o'clock in the morning all the streets are still and quiet, and only here and there resounds a lover's solitary guitar, through the more solitary gloom of the night. All else sleeps in the quiet repose which even Nature herself enjoys at night. Anonymous.

ARMED AT ALL POINTS.

Extracted from a letter of the celebrated Politian to Petrus Medicis, in Creswell's Life of Politian.

AMONG SO many discordant opinions of those who write, or who give rules for writing letters, I do not

despair of finding an apology. One will say, for instance, these letters are very unlike Cicero's.' I shall answer, not without good authority, that Cicero is not to be regarded as a proper model in epistolary composition. Another will pronounce me the mere echo of Cicero. To him I shall reply-that I feel myself highly gratified in being deemed able to express even a faint resemblance of such an original. A third could wish I had adopted the manner of Pliny, the orator, whose taste and judgment are so highly spoken of. My answer will be, I entertain a thorough contempt for all the writers of Pliny's age. Does my style, in the opinion of a fourth, savour strongly of that very author? I shelter myself under the authority of Sidonius Apollinaris, an authority by no means to be despised, who assigns to Pliny the palm in letter writing. Is it discovered that I resemble Symonachus? I blush not to imitate one, whose brevity and frankness are admired. Am I thought unlike him? It is because I object to his dryness. Some of my letters will, perhaps, be pronounced too long. Plato wrote long letters, so did Aristotle, Thucydides, Cicero. Others, on the contrary, are too short. Here I shall plead the examples of Dion, Brutus, Apollonius, Marcus Antoninus, Philostratus, Alciphron, Julian, Libanius, Symmachus and moreover of Lucian, who is commonly, but falsely, supposed to have been Phalaris. I may perhaps be censured for the choice of subjects, illadapted to an epistolary style.-I plead guilty to the charge, provided Seneca be included. Is my short sententious manner disapproved of? I shall appeal again to Seneca. Am I not sufficiently abrupt and sententious? Let Dionysius speak for me, who argues for a looser form in epistolary composition. Is my diction too plain? Philostratus recommends plainness. Is it thought too obscure? Cicero is obscure in his letters to Atticus. Is it found negligent? A graceful negligence is the most pleasing ornament of a letter. But it is too exact-How then! on letters, which are designed as presents to our friends, is it possible that too much

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care and pains can be bestowed? Is there an appearance of too great nicety of arrangement? I shall be vindicated by the Halicarnassian. No arrangement at all? Artemon must defend me.

As the Latin language has moreover what may be termed its "Atticisms;" if my language is deemed not sufficiently Attic-so much the better, for what was Herod, the sophist, censured?—but that being born an Athenian, he affected to show it too much by his language. But do I atticise too much?-Let me urge the example of Theophrastus, in whom, though no Athenian, an old woman could detect this foible. In fine, is my manner thought too serious? I am pleased with gravity. Not grave enough? I love to indulge in sportive flights of fancy. Is my language too figurative? As letters approach very nearly to conversation, figures are to them what graceful action is to the latter. Is it destitute of figures? This want of figures is precisely what characterises a letter. Does the letter betray the genius or character of the writer? This openness is recommended. Does it conceal them? It is because a composition of this nature should be without ostentation. Has the whole an appearance of roundness in its finishing? This is the Grecian manner. Is it without that kind of polish? Philostratus would have it so. Loose and unconnected? Aquila approves this. Has it measure and nerve? Quintilian professes himself pleased. Is it not sufficiently dramatic? A letter is not a dialogue. Too dramatic? It is in its nature as nearly allied to dialogue as it is possible. But you express yourself on common topics in common terms, and on new topies in new terms? Then my language is exactly adapted to the subject. Nay-but you express new ideas in common terms, and common ideas in new. Very right; it is because I am mindful of the old Greek proverb, that precisely recommends this.

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