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formed upon too low a scale. He is too well aware of those considerations, founded upon the practical detail of parliamentary business, which render it necessary, or at least highly desirable for him and his colleagues to get over the early part of the session unembarrassed by the active hostility of a powerful opposition, not to wish to prolong as far as possible the tranquil confidence of his political antagonists. The experiment is, at all events, worth trying, If he intends to propose any measures in the nature of those to which we have already adverted as the favourite schemes of his present supporters, in the event of the success of the experiment he is now making, the approaching end of the session (to which he will no doubt defer them) will narrow the field of hostile operations. Excuses will not be wanting for his having so long delayed to bring forward measures of such importance, or numerical majorities to carry them through the legislature. If he intends to persevere in a system of inaction; if he intends to trust the tranquillity of Ireland to the chapter of accidents, and the continuance of his own power to fortune, the great desideratum of such a scheme of policy is attained. Time is gained. The evil hour is, at least, put off. And should the experiment fail, should the liberal party (as we sincerely trust and believe they will) manifest a determination to be no longer satisfied and silenced by mysterious nods and ambiguous sentences, but to make use of that superior aptitude for parliamentary warfare wbicb, as compared with ministers and their supporters, they individually and collectively possess, in harassing the operations of government, a change of policy-hazardous as the manæuvre may be-is still an expedient absolutely beyond the reach of the premier. He may still turn to the right about'; and their leader, in his abandonment of his former opinions, may drag after him the amazed, confounded, and helpless anti-Catholics,-or may leave them, if they are obstinate, and place his last remaining hope in the support of their opponents. But, considering that by such a proceeding he would incur the danger of dissolving his administration, and the certainty of converting many of his present supporters, deceived and insulted as they would feel, into exasperated enemies, it is not to be expected that it should be contemplated by the Duke of Wellington, otherwise than as a resource to be thought of in the extremity of difficulty. In such an extremity he can only be placed by the cordial union and cooperation, and by the early and active exertions of that numerous and influential party which is composed of the true friends of civil and religious liberty.
We write this word as the newspaper-advertisements have it, without any very distinct perception of its meaning. Whether the large circular building, with a massive Doric portico, in the Regent's Park, be named after the Coliseum at Rome, to which it does not hear the slightest resemblance; or whether its sponsors have a crotchet that they may construct a noun, Colosseum, to express something vast and colossal, we will not undertake to say. Our business is to describe the uses to which the building and its appurtenances are to be applied, as far as we can form an opinion from their present unfinished state.
The origin of this edifice is singularly curious. Mr. Horner, a meritorious and indefatigable artist, and as it should seem a man of great force of character, undertook, at the time of the repair of the ball and cross of St. Paul's, to make a series of panoramic sketches of London, from that giddy elevation. That he might overcome the difficulties which the smoke of the vast city ordinarily presented; he invariably commenced his labours immediately after sun-rise, before the lighting of the innumerable fires which pour out their dark and sullen clouds during the day, and spread a mantle over this wide congregation of the dwellings of men, which only midnight can remove. On a fine summer morning, about four o'clock, London presents an extraordinary spectacle. The brilliancy of the atmosphere,—the almost perfect stillness of the streets, except in the neighbourhood of the great markets,-the few living beings that pass along those lines which in the day are crowded like some vast mart, such as the drowsy watchman, the traveller hurrying to his distant starting place, the labourer creeping to his early work, or the debauchee reeling to his late bed—all these circumstances make up a picture which forcibly impresses the imagination. Wordsworth has beautifully painted a portion of this extraordinary scene in one of his finest sonnets. The freedom from interruption-the perfect loneliness in the heart of the busiest spot on earth-give to the contemplative rambler through London at the hour when
“ All that mighty heart is lying still,” a feeling almost of fancied superiority over the thousands of his fellow-mortals whose senses are steeped in forgetfulness. But how completely must Mr. Horner have felt this power, in his “lofty aëry”! Did the winds pipe ever so loud, and rock him to and fro in his wicker-basket, there he sat in lordly security, intently delineating, what few have seen—the whole of the splendid city—its palaces and its hovels, its churches and its prisons,—from one extremity to the other, spread like a map at his feet. Gradually the signs of life would be audible and visible from his solitary elevation. The one faint cry of the busy chapman swelling into a chorus of ardent competitors for public patronage—the distant roll of the solitary wain,
echoed, minute after minute, by the accumulation of the same sound, till all individual noise was lost in the general din-the first distant smoke rising like a spiral column into the skies, till column after column sent up their tribute to the approaching gloom, and the one dense cloud of London was at last formed, and the labours of the painter were at an end ;-these were the daily objects of him who, before the rook went forth for his morning flight, was gazing upon the most extensive and certainly the most wonderful city of the world, from the highest pinnacle of a temple which has only one rival in majesty and beauty. The situation was altogether a solemn and an inspiriting one ;-and might well suggest and prolong that enthusiasm which was necessary to the due performance of the extraordinary task which the painter had undertaken.
Upon the outer circle of the Colosseum, rising perhaps to a height of about seventy feet, is spread Mr. Horner's panoramic view of London. The spectator ascends a flight of steps in the centre, till he arrives at an elevation which corresponds in size and situation with the external gallery which is round the top of the dome of St. Paul's. Not many persons, particularly ladies, can reach this elevation at the Cathedral, for the ascent is perilous, by dark and narrow ladders, misappropriately called staircases, amidst the timbers which form the frame-work of the dome. At the Colosseum the ascent is safe and easy; indeed, a luxurious contrivance has been made to raise the company to a height corresponding with the ball, by the aid of machinery : but this part of the plan is not yet in operation. Well, then, we have landed in the gallery, and are looking down Ludgate-hill (the height of this gallery in the original is two hundred and ninety feet, and the extreme height of the building three hundred and sixty-five feet *); immediately beneath us is so much of the external dome as is visible from the gallery; and, beyond, are the great western pinnacles, executed with surprising truth. At present the verisimilitude of the picture is not entirely perfect, for there are unfinished parts, and artists still at work upon them; but wherever the panorama is complete, nothing is wanting to the most satisfactory identity. We are looking down Ludgate-hill. How the streets are filled with the toil and turmoil of commerce! Turn to the right, the struggle is there going forward; turn to the left, it is there also. Look from the west to the east, and let the eye range along the dark and narrow streets that crowd the large space from Cheapside to the Thames-all are labouring to fill their warehouses with the choicest products of the earth, or to send our fabrics to the most distant abode of civilized or even of uncivilized man. Look, beyond, at the river crowded with vessels—the docks, where the masts show like a forest : and when you have called to mind the riches which are here congregated—the incessant toil for the support of individual respectability and luxury—the struggles with false pride--the desperate energy of commercial adventure--the spirit of gambling which brings down the proud to sudden poverty, and raises the obscure to more
We take these admeasurements from Gladwin's North Elevation of the Cathe dral, a print comprising accuracy and beauty in a remarkable degrée ; and for the production of which the artist was at once surveyor, draughtsman, and engraver.
dangerous riches-and, above all, amidst this accumulation of wealth, when you consider how many are naked, and starving, and utterly forsaken of men,-you may, perchance, think, that better social arrangements might exist, which would leave mankind more free to cultivate the higher attributes of their nature, than the desire of gain ; and, without destroying the ordinary excitements to emulation, relieve society of some of its frightful inequalities. This prospect, however, is probably Utopian. At any rate, this going to and fro of the sons of commerce-the din of all this barter and brokerage is a better thing than the hurrying to the fight of the armed legions of the olden time. What a contrast is this activity of London to the turmoil of the Parthian city of Milton :
" He look'd, and saw what numbers numberless
The city gates outpour'd, light-armed troops,
Of archers." These are the glories of the half civilized state of man ; and savages only should be proud of them. It is for us to subdue the earth by an interchange of benefits; and thus does the activity of commerce carry the seeds of knowledge and truth into the most distant regions. Count not, therefore, these cranes and waggons, and “the din of all this smithery," as vulgar things. They are accomplishing the purposes of Providence, slowly and surely: and when we have done our work, other nations will roll forward the ball of civilization, when our barbours shall be choked up and our streets desolate, and London shall be what Carthage is.
Do you see that dark-looking building, and its narrow inner courts, a little to the right of the north-western pinnacle of the Cathedral ? Did you think Newgate was such a straitened place ? And yet three thousand prisoners have passed into its dreary walls, and the greater number have passed out to banishment, and a few to death, during the last year. Four-fifths of these wretched persons have been cut off from the freedom of the social state, for stealing. It is the constant accession to the quantity of exposed property, forming, of course, a constant accession to the amount of temptation, which works this evil. It is a consequence of our riches. Well; society has a debt to discharge to the poor and the ignorant for placing these temptations in their way. It must instruct them—moralize them-and, above all, not shut its ears to their cries, when they are in want and imploring succour.
Look to the North of Cheapside, where there is a huddle of miserable hovels. That is Spitalfields. Every now and then the thousands who labour that their richer fellow-creatures may be softly and gaudily clad, find their employ by which they earn their daily bread suddenly stopped. Then they clamour (as who will not clamour when starvation unlocks the lips ?) against those principles of commerce which, when fully carried into effect, can alone prevent sudden depressions or sudden exaltations. Assuage their miseries as well as ye can, ye that have the means of doing good. Enable them to go through their season of privation, till the happier period arrive; and, when human beings are to be the victims, do not listen to those half taught political economists, who confine their talk to the relative proportions of supply and demand, as if there were no nerves to feel and hearts to be broken in the world.
You would think it unnecessary to talk of the duties of humanity, when you look upon those numberless towers and steeples, whence the divine lessons of charity and good-will towards men are duly preached. But it is necessary. Men go punctually to prayer, and yet their hearts are hardened; and their very piety is sometimes to them an excuse for their forgetfulness of the duties to their fellows which necessarily spring out of a real love of God. The blight of pride and avarice is upon them; they make clean the outside of the platter. And yet London is full of noble institutions for the relief of suffering, and for the nurture of the poor and unfriended. Do you see those spacious Courts near Smithfield ? They form St. Bartholomew's Hospital. There are a dozen similar establishments, as large and as amply endowed, scattered over London. Close by its side—the buildings almost touch-is Christ's Hospital, for the education of parentless children. Almost out of number are such institutions (less splendid and rich, but still highly useful) in this metropolis. But they are less numerous than they ought to be. And why? You see that procession-these are not
“ Prætors, proconsuls to their provinces
Hasting, or on return, in robes of state,
Lictors and rods, the ensigns of their power ;": these are the Lord Mayor, and Aldermen, and Companies of the City of London. Almost unbounded is their wealth ; and they hold high festival on all needful or needless occasions of solemnity or mirth, where the golden vessels run over with the perfumes of the East, and every sense is stimulated into an imaginary refinement, to divest repletion of its grossness. Vast are their Rent-rolls; for when the piety of our ancestors meant to endow an hospital or a school, it selected these worthy and honourable Societies to be the securities for the due performance of these hallowed purposes. To them, then, were given, at periods when houses and lands were not worth a twentieth part of their present nominal value, many acres and many tenements, in trust that they should pay to certain poor persons, or for education, or for mitigating the evils of sickness, a particular number of pounds sterling annually, and for ever-probably the then rent of these acres and tenements, leaving something