fane or vulgar expression fell from the lips of an individual. Of the vast throng there, there was not one who exhibited the least sign of intoxication, but all were sober, respectful, and devoted to rational enjoyment. Each had a proper respect for the rights of others, and each revelled intellectually in the feast to which he was admitted. The intelligent mechanics and tradesmen of London are a refined people, and they appreciate the favor they have of visiting Hampton Court on the Sabbath, and never abuse it. Their enjoyment of the day at the old palace, and in its glorious grounds, is not a desecration, but both a harmless and beneficial use of the time. They feel when there that life has a sweet draught mixed with its bitterness, and if many of them do not hold to a religious observance of the Sabbath, they welcome it as a glorious boon from Heaven, a day of rest from toil and a release from confinement.

The palace is built in the quadrangular form, and is of vast extent. The entrance to the first court-yard is adorned with busts of Tiberius, Vitellius, Trajan, and Hadrian, all of which were sent to Wolsey from Rome by Pope Leo the Tenth. A large hall to the left of this entrance contains some fine tapestry embellished with splendid designs, and a glorious window with the red hat of a cardinal conspicuously marked on its glass of gay colors; while around are the coats of arms of deceased monarchs and queens, and halberts, pikes, and banners. The apartment is said to have been used as a theatre in the reigns of Elizabeth and James, and that the play of Henry the Eighth, or the Fall of Wolsey, was represented in it first on the very spot which had witnessed the prelate's greatest power and splendor.

The presence chamber contains seven cartoons of great merit, by Carlo Cignani, and the galleries and various apartments are literally lined with masterpieces of art. There are "Countesses mature" in robes and pearls, by Kneller, and beauty speaks from out the canvas. Sweet girls and capricious belles, by Sir Peter Lely. Here shines a Titian in all its glories; there young Palma stains the canvas with the blood of martyrs; before you a Vandyke wooes the sight, and at your right a gloomy Tintoretto. Here a Saint, by Parmigiano, pleads and begs you to release him from the pain he suffers, while glorious Rubens calms you into peace! There's old Jordaens, there a Snyders, there a golden and celestial Claude, and here a rich and sweet Murillo. There's a Giorgone black as night, and here a very gem of Guido; while around you shines a world of triumphs by a hundred artists. Here the genius of Caravaggio left its impress, and there sublime Angelo holds the vision captive. Spagnoletto stained this form with sainted gore, and gloomy Spada colored that St. John. Paul Veronese, Leonardo da Vinci, and matchless Ricci, crowned the place with all the holy! Here's a rich Ferrato; and a warrior by Guercino scowls from yonder frame, as if he meant to step down and slay the gaping gazers. There's a Rembrandt dark as Hades, yet as light as day. Here a Venus by Albano and at its side a faultless masterpiece of old Teniers. And even West, he of the bloodless palette from beyond the far Atlantic, here shines in glory and vies with all the masters of the olden time in his lights and shadows, splendid forms, and rich celestial coloring. I'll give him praise for once, dash away my prejudice, and own he WAS AN ARTIST. But, over all the throng, triumphant and sublime, unapproached and unapproachable, stands the youthful artist, glorious and immortal Raphael. The others' pictures are but shadows when compared with his cartoons-the very perfection of design. I shall never think of Hampton Court without summoning up a lengthened and imposing throng of painters, who, with noble air, shall pass in file before me; and at the head and front of all will be the form of Raphael with that calm face of his, so full of art and genius!

The Vernon Gallery, at Marlboro' House, is composed almost exclusively of the productions of modern English artists. Some of the works are remarkable, but none exhibit the soul that glows in the picture of the artists of the Flemish and Italian schools. The pictures have the appearance of having been done to order, and it is an established fact that no painter ever yet produced a masterpiece when he painted solely for lucre. The idea of working in art for money drives the inspiration away, and the result is a senseless unfeeling effort of the pencil; rich it may be in coloring, and possessing decided mechanical merit, but wanting most certainly the poetry and soul-elevating characteristics of the works of those whose labor in art was a religion, those who painted from a beief in what they did and a faith in their chosen profession. The pictures of Gainsborough are the best in the collection, and evidence the superiority and sincerity of the artist. The Hogarths, in the same building, stand pre-eminent for their truthfulness to nature and character.

One of the great resorts of sight-seers in London is Madame Tussaud's exhibition of wax figures, and scarcely a night passes that the place is not densely thronged with gaping and admiring humanity. The untravelled countryman and his rustic daughters there see the sovereign in regal robes, and her descendants represented in yellow wax, and look with admiring wonder on the stupid show. Wretched figures of more wretched kings and queens are judiciously disposed for exhibition, and the tin spangles on their faded robes glitter in the gas-light, and astonish the delighted and loyal crowd. A whole host of the line of Brunswick stand around like wooden men and women, with eyes agape, staring upon the throng who stare again at them. Miserable caricatures of Napoleon, Washington, Cromwell, Shakspeare, and Byron occupy niches, and the soul sickens at the contemplation of the figures, they so outrage humanity. Each one looks as if ophthalmia were a distemper of the atmosphere, and all suffer from the sad disease. Shakspeare is represented as a modern dandy, "who cultivates his hair;" and Byron as a Greek, with a belt around the waist containing a whole arsenal of arms. One naturally enough concludes, after viewing that caricature, that his lordship is admirably prepared for a Cuban expedition, and

"Was the mildest mannered man

That ever scuttled ship, or cut a throat,"

and took delight in nothing short of murder. Other figures are arranged throughout the apartments, and some of them even move. A Chinese lady nods her head most vehemently at times, and after the lacqueys wind up Cobbett, that worthy old gentleman twists his neck determinedly until the weights run down, when he very wisely keeps himself quiet until put in motion again by the machinery. There are some miserable pictures around the walls, and several plaster casts of female forms, none of which are remarkable for beauty.

But this is not all. The "room of horrors" invites attention next, as if there were not enough of horrors in the first apartments to horrify any decent, well-disposed individual. The difference between the two sections is, I suppose, that the first contains the murdered, the last the murderers, as every one who sees the figures in both must acknowledge.

The chamber of horrors is rich in the wonderful of the criminal world; and there the enlightened and intelligent can see Mrs. Manning, and others equally distinguished, who have added to the Newgate literature of England. Every exertion has been made to cause the poor wretches to look as rascally as possible; and the artist is not even content with that, but must call them, in the catalogue, all the "diabolical" names to which he can contort his classical tongue. Burke, the Edinburgh miscreant, is represented as a fiend incarnate, and his face is well calculated to frighten children to death. Napoleon's carriage is in the apartment; but I could not ascertain what crime that unfortunate vehicle had been guilty of to entitle it to a place in that horrible chamber of horrors. It surely did not commit murder; and yet, why is it there? So much for Madame Tussaud's exhibition of wax figures, the resort of the curious, and a sham to please or alarm children. It is, without misrepresentation, the most abominable abomination in the great city, and the very audience-hall of humbugs. Barnum ought to have it.

CHAPTER XXII.

JEWISH QUARTER-PUBLIC STATUES PECULIARITIES.

THERE is a street in the Whitechapel section of London called Petticoat Lane, a long, narrow avenue, almost entirely occupied by a set of low, thieving Jews. It is a carriage-way; but in consequence of being filled with goods, but few vehicles enter it. With Houndsditch, another similarly inhabited, though better conditioned thoroughfare in the neighborhood, it comprises the Jewish quarter of the metropolis. Both sides of the narrow, filthy alley are lined with shops, filled with trumpery of every kind. Old clothes (and no one will doubt their being old), broken china, shabby furniture, rusty iron, dirty children, slatternly women, and vagabond-looking men crowd the place. At one side, the curious wight who enters the avenue is almost forced into a shop to buy a hat better than new; while, at the other, an opposition dealer insists that you purchase of him, and declares his neighbor will cheat you. The centre of the lane is occupied with stands, on which is exposed for sale a conglomeration of such trumpery as only Jews would collect or offer to sell. The whole of the inhabitants look like professional thieves, from the children up, and it is the presence only of the police that prevents a man being robbed in broad daylight. No one can be mistaken in the people. All possess the indisputable nose that characterizes the tribe of Judah; and the sharp, penetrating black eye, and sinister, dishonest, avaricious expression of countenance exhibited by all, induce the visitor to make a hasty retreat from Petticoat Lane. I thought the very atmosphere of the place thick with villany; and when I reached my lodgings took my coat off and aired it, so as to get rid of the infection. Talk about the Five Points! Pshaw! In gaming phrase, Petticoat Lane will beat it, and give it a thousand start.

The public statues of persons of distinction in London are numerous. Wellington has at least two, both of which are equestrian. The best is in front of the Royal Exchange and the Bank. The other is over the triumphal arch at Hyde Park corner, and opposite Apsley House. There is a very fine bronze figure of George the Third, mounted, in Cockspur Street; and one of Charles the First, at Charing Cross, immediately before the Nelson Pillar, on the top of which stands a colossal figure of the great naval captain. George the Fourth had a statue of himself placed on one of the pedestals in Trafalgar Square, at his own expense, and it remains to this day as a monument of his vanity. There is a very fine pedestrian figure of the sailor king, William