his escape. But his career was now ended. After a long time spent in collecting the necessary evidence, he was at length brought to trial, and condemned to die by strangulation (el garrote vile). On the 27th of October last this sentence was executed.

This man's fate inspired none of the compassion usually felt even for great criminals, when they are about to expiate their misdeeds by a shameful death. The ferocity of his countenance excited disgust; his small and hollow eyes gleamed with extraordinary brightness; and his whole deportment was marked with that brutal indifference, which showed that he was capable of committing every enormity without emotion and without remorse.

His deportment in his last hours was marked by several characteristic traits. When his sentence was read to him in prison, he continued smoking with great calmness, and heard it to the end with indifference. When it was finished, he declared that his name was not Beltran Labrador, but Jose Perez; that he was no Frenchman, but a Spaniard, born and baptized at Orense. Some moments afterwards he appeared to be suddenly excited, and uttered several indecent and blasphemous expressions, but almost immediately resumed his usual quiet and careless manner. He was visited by a priest, who began to exhort him to penitence and amendment. " Amendment!" cried he, laughing; "what is the use of resolving on amendment ? I shall not sin any more; they won't give me time for that now." The priest endeavoured to rouse him by describing the eternal tortures of the damned. "I hope," was his answer, "that I shall get a discount of the two years I have been kept in prison; for there," he added, laughing again, “I have been in hell to all intents and purposes, and have seen the very devils themselves. They came to me every Saturday, in the shape of officers and alguazils — a set of as ugly devils as there are in hell!"

The day before his execution he was in a somewhat better frame of mind. He confessed his crimes, and recounted a fearful tissue of enormities. The priest endeavoured to persuade him to marry a woman who had lived with him a long time, and by whom he had a daughter, sixteen years old. He obstinately refused, till he was about to proceed to the scaffold, when he gave his consent. A delay of a few hours was obtained, a notary was sent for, the marriage ceremony was performed, and the certificate drawn up and signed. This solemnity seemed to have some effect on the ruffian's mind; and he now declared that his real name was Bertrand Bué, and that he was a native of a small village in France.

When the moment of his departure for the scaffold was come he walked with a firm step, and an air of the utmost composure. He took leave of his companions in prison with some appearance of feeling, requesting them to pray for him, and to say a "salve" to the Virgin for the repose of his soul. When he was mounted on the ass (according to the usual manner in which criminals in Spain are conveyed to the scaffold) he adjusted himself carefully in his seat, and then, turning to the escort, said to them, "Now, gentlemen, let us move on, if you please." He maintained the same demeanour to the last, and, without the slightest change of countenance, yielded his neck to the executioner.

This man met his fate with a semblance of courage and firmness worthy of a martyr to some great or holy cause. His very jocularity

actually brings to mind the last moments of Sir Thomas More. How little is to be gathered from mere manner! A monster, whose life was stained with the blackest and basest crimes, and whose mind must really have possessed the cowardice which is constantly allied to cruelty, could not have had a glimmering of the sentiments which have enabled so many of the best and bravest of men to conduct themselves, in outward show at least, precisely as he did. In this, as in other things, extremes may meet, and brutal insensibility may assumet he semblance of exalted virtue.

THE FOREST TREE..

HAIL to the lone old forest tree,
Though past his leafy prime!

A type of England's past is he,-
A tale of her olden time.

He has seen her sons, for a thousand years,

Around him rise and fall;

But well his green old age he wears,

And still survives them all.

Then long may his safeguard the pride and care

Of our children's children be;

And long may the axe and tempest spare

The lone old forest tree!

The Norman baron his steed has rein'd,
And the pilgrim his journey stay'd,
And the toil-worn serf brief respite gain'd
In his broad and pleasant shade:

The friar and forester loved it well;
And hither the jocund horn,

And the solemn tone of the vesper bell,
On the evening breeze were borne.

Friar and forester, lord and slave,
Lie mouldering, side by side,

In the dreamless sleep of a nameless grave,
Where revelling earthworms hide:
And Echo no longer wakes at the sound
Of bugle or vesper chime;

For castle and convent are ivy-bound
By the ruthless hand of Time.

But gentle and few, with the stout old tree,
Have the spoiler's dealings been ;

And the brook, as of old, is clear and free,
And the turf beneath as green.

Thus Nature has scatter'd on every hand

Her lessons, since earth began,

And long may her sylvan teacher stand,

A check to the pride of man.

And long may his safeguard the pride and care
Of our children's children be;

Long, long may the axe and tempest spare
The lone old forest tree!

London.-JUNE 1838,

J. B. T.

A VISIT TO HOLKHAM HALL.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "A PARISIAN SABBATH."

Here Holkham rears in graceful pride
Her marble halls and crested towers,
And stretches o'er the champaign wide

Her lengthen'd suit of social bowers. Roscoe.

"You will not leave this part of the country," said a fellowtraveller, "without seeing Holkham Hall."-"And be assured," added another, "your reception will be gratifying. There is not a house of equal hospitality in the kingdom. Strangers or acquaintances,-none are neglected. Ah, and the proprietor is a nice old gentleman-eighty-three years old, and still hearty as a man of fifty. Thirteen years ago he, childless, married a lady aged nineteen. He has now five children."

The grounds, including gardens, and park, and forest, and meadows, and fields of corn, are bounded by a circumference of ten miles. Within this circumference is an artificial lake, regarded by many as the most superb in England. Walks and rides intersect these grounds in every convenient direction. Here you move under a triumphal arch; before you arises soon a lofty obelisk; upon your right spread out five hundred acres of barley; and anon you enter Lady Anne Coke's beautiful flower-garden, planned by the taste of Chantrey. Sheep, whereof here are twenty-two hundred of the veritable South Down breed; cattle, of which there are three hundred belonging to the stock of Devon; milch-cows, whereof thirty constitute the dairy; horses, whereof fifty enjoy stalls at Holkham; tenantry, of whom two hundred are happy to acknowledge this excellent landlord; and labourers, of whom two thousand are said to be continually employed by him, meet your eye wherever it is turned; and nearly in the centre of this circumference stands the House of Holkham-a magnificent pile. It was erected about eighty years since by the Earl and Countess of Leicester. It consists of a large central building with four wings, and you are informed that, "measuring closely by all the angles," it is just one mile in circumference. The house is open for public inspection on two days of each week; and well may it thus be opened; for it contains treasures in tapestry, sculpture, and painting, that richly repay the visiter for his time and trouble. In this respect, as a repository of art, Holkham is one of the many valuable houses in England. There is in England no Louvre. England is truly rich in works of art; but they are scattered,—a Claude here, a Titian there, and distant a hundred miles or more, amidst sculpture both ancient and modern, may be found a Salvator Rosa and a Raphael.

Of all sight-seeing in England, that which includes statuary and painting is the least satisfactory. If haply you have an acquaintance with a possessor of worthy products of art, and hence enjoy free and frequent admission to his collection, it is all very well. If, however, like a thousand other travellers, you must content yourself with a single visit, that visit will afford little pleasure, and less instruction. You will by pampered servants be hurried hastily through the halls; and when at length you leave them, the master-pieces just seen are scattered here and there through your memory, in as much disorder

as they are throughout the kingdom. Blenheim House suggests a very apt illustration of this. But far better is Hampton Court. "I' should be happy to see the cartoons of Raphael," you mildly say to a youthful portress sitting at the door. "Will you please to wait a moment sir?" asks the damsel insinuatingly. Now you are requested to wait this moment, sometimes a rather long one, in order that other company arriving, the course of the attendant through the rooms may be a profitable one. She takes with her a key, and so soon as the door leading into one apartment is opened, that through which you have passed is closely locked. Hence you must keep close at the heels of the inexorable guide. This guide walks onwards enumerating rapidly, "This is by Sir Peter Lely, this is by Holbein, this is a Rubens,-here is a Weenix." It is contrary to all regulations for you to remain behind, in admiration of a particular work, and you are thus constrained to hurry along with the hurrying attendant and the stranger party. A little surprised to find that you have despatched fifty or more paintings of the masters in less than ten minutes, you resolve that the cartoons at least shall be properly seen and enjoyed. Vain resolution! The party in whose company you unfortunately chance to be a visiter of the rooms, caring little perhaps for these productions, are now anxious to get out; and certainly you cannot be so ungenerous as to detain them all, merely for the sake of gratifying your own private curiosity. Raphael is, of course, left behind with the others; and you find all at once that you have made the entire circuit of the apartinents, and, moreover, that you enjoy therefrom just that degree of satisfaction which one derives from walking through a large library, and hearing the title of the books composing it announced. You rejoice, however, that you know what pictures may here be seen; although that knowledge might be furnished as completely by a catalogue, as a visit of thirteen miles from London to Hampton Court. As the establishment is hardly a private one, if, while you are depositing the consideration within the damsel's palms, you do not pronounce this system of exhibition a disgraceful humbug, be assured it is because your sensibility to art is for the moment quite overcome by your sensibility to a very good-looking countenance before you. I could never imagine why these rooms were not left open somewhat like those of the Borghese palace at Rome, where the visiter might linger at his pleasure, and stand some chance of having his love for art in some degree gratified. The stranger who desires to visit merely the apartments at Holkham House may meet, as he enters the magnificent Egyptian Hall, a portly dame in most aristocratic turban and white gloves, who is no less, nor indeed no greater, than next to the mistress of the whole establishment. She has the true quiet of English good breeding; and when you consider that, out of the sixty servants belonging to the hall, twenty-six of the females are subject to her single control, you can understand why authority sits not merely in her eye, but in all her motions. Nothing, however, can exceed the civil grace with which she conducts you through thirty-one apartments, remarkable either for architecture, paintings, sculpture, or tapestry. I paused some time in the rooms composing part of the "Stranger's Wing." There were the" red and yellow bed-chamber," and the "blue and yellow bed-chamber," and the "crown bed-chamber," and appended to them were "dressing-rooms," all furnished in most costly style,

and adorned with numerous paintings; while in the story above were many similar rooms, designed for a similar purpose, to which the mere visiter has not access. That purpose, as the name indicates, is the accommodation of numerous strangers, who, at any season of the year, may sojourn beneath the hospitable roof of Holkham Hall, and of the private and noble friends of its proprietor, who, in the shooting months of October and November, throng hither from many parts to enjoy their favourite sport. The "brown dressing-room' is curious, as containing a goodly number of original sketches with the pen, and in white, black, and red chalk, by such masters as Michael Angelo, Raphael, Perugino, Carlo Maratti, the Caracci, Lanfranco, and others.

I was next extremely interested in the statue gallery, its tribune, and vestibule. This gallery is more than one hundred feet in length, and contains twenty-eight antiques, of which many are full-sized statues. I was pleased with one of Diana. It is conjectured to have been the property of Cicero. It was purchased by the Earl of Leicester at a great price, and secretly sent out of Rome. For this offence the earl was arrested, but soon released, at the solicitation of the Grand Duke of Tuscany. It is of Parian marble, in excellent preservation, and is infolded in that drapery, that glorious drapery, which could have come from none other than the Grecian chisel. There is likewise here a very pretty specimen of art by Chantrey, the model of which I had seen in the artist's studio in London. Sir Francis, whose shooting feats have given the name of "Chantrey hills" to certain rising grounds near the triumphal arch, happening on one occasion to bring down two woodcocks at a shot, in commemoration of the event transferred them into marble, and presented them to Mr. Coke. Nothing can exceed the sweet delicacy of this composition. And then so natural! The birds are done not indeed to the life, but truly to the death.

The landscape-room, as it is called, gave me much pleasure. The ceiling and chimney-piece are exquisitely wrought, and the walls are hung about with richest crimson embossed Genoa velvet. It contains, among others, a landscape by Salvator Rosa, another by Domenichino, three by Caspar Poussin, and seven by Claude Lorraine. Of this last master there are thirteen productions at Holkham; a number altogether extraordinary for a private collection, and most of them possess extraordinary merit. Having fully enjoyed these admirable landscapes, and caught a glimpse through the window of one still fairer without, we walked into the manuscript library.

Here is a full-length portrait of the celebrated Roscoe. To this gentleman's taste and zeal are the eight hundred volumes of manuscripts in this library indebted for many excellent literary notes, and for numerous facts respecting their age and value. This collection is extremely curious, and such as I hardly expected to find in the possession of one who, while he has served fifty years in Parliament, has never been particularly devoted to literature. What particularly excites attention and admiration is, the marvellous beauty with which some of these manuscripts are executed. Here are Latin copies of the four Evangelists on vellum, preserved in covers of gold and silver, adorned with coloured stones, and richly illuminated. These are more than six hundred years old. And yet what clear and polished beauty is in the material! how distinct is the hand! how surprisingly brilliant are the illuminations! I was likewise attracted