of and indifference towards our country which I was told to expect in England. The only things which cause me to bite my lip occasionally, with merriment, not vexation, are a certain display of geographical knowledge, which puts me to my trumps, and an overplus of patronising praise. Yet a gentleman did say to me lately, in the coolest manner possible, "Has not civilization advanced farther in the New England than in the other states of your Union?" It was quite a new sensation to find myself classed as "an outside barbarian;" for I was obliged to acknowledge that I was no New Englander. I must say that I am not altogether pleased by the manner in which American slavery is spoken of here. People either darkly allude to it, as though fearfully touching on some family disgrace, in your presence, or come down upon it, and all concerned in it, with merciless execration, and seem to think it might be done away with easily, speedily, with all its evils and enormities; that it is but an ugly excrescence on the social life, which may be quietly lopped off at pleasure, and not what we know it to be, a deep-seated cancer, near the vitals of the Union itself-difficult and perilous to eradicate, though more perilous far if left alone. Such as at home consider me a fanatic would smile to hear me in England, not defending slavery or slaveholders,-Heaven forbid !-but demanding that simple justice should be done, and patience exercised, towards us as a nation; and reminding our judges that a like evil and sin is not a half century's remove from their own doors. Yet I would not have you think that this subject is always or often treated in a way to give me pain. There are many who have brought great powers of thought to bear upon it, as one of the deepest problems of the age-who give us their most generous sympathy and magnanimous judgment; and comparatively few are they who err in this matter, through want of reflection, or from "zeal without knowledge."

One day last week I joined some friends in a pleasure excursion on the Thames, got up by some of the city authorities-Mr. Francis Bennoch presiding. We went up the river on a beautiful barge, moving to fine music, as far as Twickenham, where we were for some hours moored opposite Pope's villa. We had dancing, a sumptuous dinner, toasts, sentiments, and speeches-altogether a charming time.

The shores of the Thames are beautiful, not for any remarkable picturesqueness of natural scenery, but for their admirable cultivation, and a succession of noble country seats. Richmond Hill is the finest point I saw, and that commands one of the finest views in England. But every spot in sight had been rendered classic ground by the genius of Pope, Thomson, and indeed of nearly all the elegant English writers of the last century and a half. It stirred up old memories to glance into the shadowy grotto of Pope. I almost looked to see the crooked and gallant poet come forth, handing out the lovely and mocking Lady Mary. I would hardly have been startled to have seen the brilliant trifler, Walpole, walking daintily across the lawn, or Thomson lounging lazily

under a tree at Richmond, or the charming Kitty Clive driving past.

I have been visiting in Chelsea for the week past, for the sake of quiet and repose. Here it is almost as quiet as the country at night, and would be during the day, but for the usual suburban superabundance of noisy infancy next door, and an hourly liability to the visitations of pertinacious "Punch and Judy" men and hopeful hurdy-gurdy women below the front windows. Near us is a large warehouse of second-hand furniture, where I yesterday observed a downy-bearded David and his blushing Dora making their prudent purchases. There one can buy everything-from frying-pans to mirrors, from kitchen chairs to family portraits. Ay, they will most irreverently knock you down, venerable gentlemen in perukes and powder, and stately dames in ruffs and farthingales. There are plenty of these worthy old people to be had at various depôts of this kind in London; so when you go to housekeeping you can easily furnish yourself with a few ancestors, at a very moderate price, and warranted respectable.

Tuesday afternoon and evening were spent with a delightful party at Mr. B's pleasant place, Blackheath. Among the guests were the Croslands, the Mackays-the hearty, generousspirited poet and his beautiful wife-Miss Pardoe, a very charming person, Sir Henry Bishop, the composer,-Dr. Kinkel, the German patriot, and his wife, who played an heroic part in his escape from Germany-an interesting and accomplished lady, who touches the piano with rare skill, and sings with peculiar sweetness, though with tones of mournful meaning, and all the vain home-sickness of the exile sighing through her voice.

This morning I went again to the Bridgewater Gallery, chiefly to see my blessed St. John and the beautiful child Jesus. This afternoon I have been listening to the grand, inspiring talk of Mazzini; and with a prayer that the glorious land of the divine painter and the patriot hero may yet be free, I go to my sleep.

August 6.

On Monday evening last, my passion for horse-flesh and some mirthful recollections of Bon Gaultier's ballads of the ring led me to suggest Astley's to the kind friends who were enquiring what we should have next in the way of amusement. The building is very fine for the purpose, but the audience on this night was neither large nor select; indeed, it was the lowest and noisiest house I ever looked down upon and up at, for the pit and gallery held nearly all. It was an odd sight to me to see baskets of cakes and oranges, and cans of beer carried about between the acts; to see old men and women, such as with us are never seen out, except it be at church or prayer-meeting, young men in their working dress, and their wives and babies in arms, all eating and drinking, and having a jolly laugh or a cosy gossip with their cronies.

The spectacle "Peter the Great"was very beautiful, and much of the acting fine, though nature was everywhere sacrificed to stage effect. We saw some magnificent riding, under the

direction of that illustrious personage of a mysteriously uncertain age, Mr. Widdicombe.

On Wednesday I visited, with Mr. B and our charming friend, Miss D, the immense wine-vaults and tobacco warehouses at the Docks. These vaults extend over acres, and are richly stored with the genuine juice of the grape, piled, pipe on pipe, on either side of innumerable and seemingly interminable passages the delightsome paths of Bacchus, the pleasant longas vias of old Silenus and his crew. Without a guide one might easily be lost in this subterranean labyrinth, and wander for hours in this wilderness of wines, find himself quite at sea, though not far from Port and just off Madeira. What a horrible place of torment in which to confine some ancient inebriate, without the means of helping himself to that which his soul loveth-wine, wine on every side," and not a drop to drink."

From the Docks we went to the Tower. This I found far from being the gloomy and venerable building I had expected to see. The larger portion is of light gray stone, showing much white mortar. This, and some repairs lately made, give the whole structure a modern and cheerful appearance, which it requires all the dark splendours and tragic terrors of old memories and historical legends to over-shadow and render venerable.

Escorted by a warden in the costume of the yeomen of the guard of the time of Heury the Eighth, you enter the horse armoury at the south-west corner of the White Tower. Here you see the effigies of the kings, from Edward the First to James the Second, with many of their distinguished knights and nobles, all mounted and clad in the very armour they sported, or rather supported, at tourney and fight. Francis Hastings bears up gallantly under a suit weighing upwards of a hundred pounds. The beautiful suits of Elizabeth's lovers, Leicester and Essex, are quite in character with the courtly splendour of those ill-fated favourites.

Perhaps the most magnificent, though one of the least ancient suits, is that of Charles the First. It is gorgeously gilt and ornamented in arabesque. This gallery also contains countless curiosities of war, all varieties of arms, and glorious trophies of battle and conquest. It is a place for English hearts to beat high and swell with national pride. Queen Elizabeth's armoury is the gallery of greatest interest. It contains an equestrian figure of Her Virgin Majesty in the costume in which she went to St. Paul's to return thanks for the destruction of the Spanish Armada. Here are many curious weapons, very ancient and awful; such as the "Military Flail," the "Catchpole," the "Glaive," the " Poleaxe," the "Lochabar Axe," and most horrible of all, for the infernal mockery of its name, the "Morning Star," or "Holy Water Sprinkler." The first name comes from its form, a ball of wood set with spikes, and fixed on the end of a pole; the "holy water" was the blood and brains it scattered around when it was swung by a strong arm in the thick of the battle. I stood with a sick heart by the instruments of torture, laid my hand upon them, studied the atrocious ingenuity of their contrivance, yet could not

believe the revolting truth, that in the reign of a queen, a very woman, one would say, regarding her weaknesses, human forms had writhed within them, human bones and sinews cracked under them, human hearts burst with excess of pain, true human souls grown wild and shrieked out false confessions. Oh! as I longer gazed on these dread implements, with what unspeakable reverence, I thought of them who had "endured unto the end," till with lips stiffened, and eyes impurpled with suppressed anguish, till bathed with the blood and sweat of extremest torture, and old with ages of agony compressed into one mortal hour, the panting life crushed out, the senseless body grew deathly still, and the faithful spirit rose serene above its merciless tormentors, above its gloomy prison-house, to rest on the bosom of the Crucified !

Opening out of Queen Elizabeth's armoury is the dungeon wherein Sir Walter Raleigh was confined for more than twelve years, and where he wrote his "History of the World." You feel, while standing in that dark and most gloomy cell, a singular mingling of admiration, indignation, wonder, and pity. Oh! the unimaginable humiliation, pain, and weariness of such a life to him, the princely courtier, the brave adventurer, the statesman, philosopher, and poet!

Just before Raleigh's cell stands the beheading block; not the one used at his execution, but the one on which Lords Balmerino, Kilmarnock, and Lovat, suffered the penalty of treason. The marks of the axe are deep upon it. Their Lordships' headsman must have been a sturdy fellow, who struck steadily, heavily, and but once. The beheading axe, which stands near this block, is rusty and blunt, by no means a formidable-looking implement; yet it once went gleaming down on to the neck of the princely Essex, and sent the rich young blood of Anna Boleyn spurting into the face of the headsman.

Within the Church of St. Peter, under the pavement, lie the ashes of Sir Thomas More, Anna Boleyn, Rochford, Catharine Howard, Essex, Northumberland, Lady Jane Grey and her husband, and of many others whose names are crimson illuminations through page after page of English history.

The Council Chamber of the White Tower is a place of great interest, as having been the scene of the impeachment of Lord Hastings by Richard of Gloucester.

The building in which the young princes were suffocated is called the "Bloody Tower;" that in which Clarence was drowned the "Bowyer Tower." We were shown the remains of a tree planted by Nell Gwynn over the young princes. The "Traitor's Gate" is a gloomy arch; and the church and the "Brick Towers," the prison of Lady Jane Grey, are melancholy-looking buildings. But aside from these, the old palace prison of England is outwardly neither stern nor sad of aspect.

The regalia is a magnificent sight, almost blinding one with the blaze of its costly splendour. The great diamonds seem to throb with living radiance, like stars; the rubies seem melting in an effulgent glow, and the emeralds dissolving in liquid light.

VOL. XXXV.

Y

THE CRUISE OF THE JEMILI.

HOW SHE SAILED OVER THE BLACK SEA, AND HOW SHE BLEW UP AT SINOPE. AN EPISODE OF THE PRESENT WAR.

BY LIEUT. THE HON. FREDERICK WALPOLE, R.N.

CALL the watch,-rapidly the noble craft shot a-head, each sail trimmed, each rope coiled, the breeze quietly freshening and drawing aft, as, standing from the land, she caught its true direction. The watch below jumped down, glad to be released from work; the watch on deck disposed themselves to rest, tired with the anxious toil of the last few days. All was quiet; and, dismissing the officer of the watch, I walked the solitary deck. Astern, the lofty land loomed darkly through the haze of the fastclosing evening; bright lights twinkled on the mountain-side, but the rapidly-increasing distance soon drowned them in the ocean. The pretty "Jemili" speeds on her way, pettishly thrusting aside the tiny waves, as her sharp bow cuts their waters. High swelled my exile heart; bright hopes were stirring within me. Captain of a vessel of war, albeit only second, still all virtual command was mine; for the captain knew little, and cared lessso no blame rested on him, he was content. Well were my exertions repaid; months of drill and management had worked up the raw material of which the crew had been composed, into fair efficiency; and they were perfect at least in the first lesson— obedience to command. By care and attention their prejudices had been overcome; their bigotry directed, and fanaticism led, until each deemed the Capitaine, all Giaour though he was, their kind friend and steady protector. No crew had so much pay, or such full rations; few such hard work, certainly, but none so much rest; and though the rule was of iron, it pressed evenly, and their leader never spared his own toil. Long familiar with the coast and islands of the Sultan's whole dominions, I had known each man's home, and won his heart by describing it to him. Sharing their toils, a bond grew up between us; sympathising with their griefs, prophesying their success, exciting their patriotism, they adored me, and the vessel now was worthy of any leader, even were he, as I am, a son of Venice, a descendant of the great Dandolo. Proudly my eye glanced along the deck, scanned the battery, each gear in order, ropes taut,-all shipshape; and, come what might, my duty had been done, and pride whispered loud, that the hour of action would be one of glory. Slowly rose the young crescent moon, so palely bright, so softly beautiful, tinting the mountain peaks with mellow light, as it lingered on their summits, and that orb is the Ægis of our cause, beneath which the exile trusts to conquer-this, the emblem of the only