badly ventilated shops. This amount, as we have heard, is increased by sub-letting to L.8000. Among the tenants there is one who pays L.175 a year, and another L.195 each for his one little shop.

One thing Lord George did not do-build wholesome habitations for his servants; for anything more dismal than the underground apartments cannot well be imagined. That any domestics should ever have consented to pass their days therein, is a marvel; but now there is a change. The Board of Works, by a small outlay, have turned the dungeons into habitable rooms.

The Cavendish family retained possession till about three years ago, when they sold the Burlington House estate to government for L.140,000. The house stood empty for a few months; then an exhibition of drawings and paintings, and another of designs for cavalrybarracks were held in it; then, to make room for the registrar-general, the university was transferred from Somerset House to Burlington House. In 1856, the Royal Society, as already stated, accepted the offer of a home further west; preparations for their reception were commenced; the university was shifted once more into the east wing; and in May of this year the Royals held their first meeting in the new hall; and there we leave them in occupation of their new home, with our best wishes for harmonious action with their fellow-lodgers, and that they may continue to advance science, and advocate her claims as worthily and as independently as heretofore.

It was during the long vacation of 1856, while repairs were going on, and before the societies entered into occupation, that an incident occurred, with which it seems to us good to close our article on Burlington House. The reader must be good enough to imagine a certain porter who was on duty at the time, giving an account of it to a certain professor.

'Sir,' says the porter, 'there came in a brisk-looking oldish gentleman, with a sprig in his mouth; and seeing him look about, I made bold to go up to him and ask his name.

"My name is Lord Palmerston. Who are you?" "The porter of the -, my lord;" and I made his lordship a bow.

"The very man I want to see. Come and shew me over the house."

'So,' continues the porter to the professor, 'I went, sir, as his lordship asked, and shewed him the house, and told him which rooms was for the Royal Society, which for the Linnæan Society, and which for the Chemical Society. And his lordship asked a good many questions, and seemed to want to know all about the societies, and I answered him as well as I was able. And so, after we had been all over the house, his lordship wanted to go out into the grounds behind, and I unlocked the door, and his lordship walked about and asked more questions; and then he talked about the societies again, and he said: "What is the Linnæan Society? What do they do?"

'And his lordship didn't know, sir, nor I didn't know!'

VERY LIKE A WHALE. ONE of the greatest luxuries we possess in these luxurious days, is the power of enjoying the startling novelty, exciting adventure, and magnificent scenery of foreign climes, without stirring from the comfortable arm-chair in our library, or, at all events, without greater exertion than is necessary to obtain possession of the well-padded stall of some exhibition-room in Piccadilly or Leicester Square. In this way, with the assistance of Mr Burford, we witnessed the capture of the Malakoff, and were present at the Moscow coronation. In this way, we have ascended Mont Blanc with the facetious Albert Smith, and slain lions and hippopotami in company with the adventurous Gordon Cumming. With Dr Livingstone, we

have explored the interior of Africa; and, disguised as true and mahogany-coloured followers of the Prophet, we have penetrated with Captain Burton to Mecca and Medina. Through the instrumentality of the Abbé Huc, we have made the acquaintance of those ridiculous Chinese; we have got very near the North Pole with Dr Armstrong; we have journeyed round the world with Madame Pfeiffer-in fact, there is not a spot on the face of the globe that has been described by book, lecture, or panorama, that we have not visited, and do not know almost as much about as the authors, lecturers, and artists themselves.

In the course of these sedentary wanderings, there are certain favourite scenes and incidents that we have seen with our mind's eye on so many occasions, that they have become as familiar to us as if we had actually witnessed them. They appear to be standard subjects that age cannot wither, and whose infinite variety custom cannot stale. For instance, how often, as we have been sitting before our fire with our legs up on a chair, have we felt awestruck and insignificant as we gazed upon the glories of Niagara. How many times on a cold December night, with the curtains comfortably drawn, and the kettle singing cheerily on the hob, have we, panting with heat and blinded by the glare of the desert sun, been assisted by semi-nude Arabs up the steps of the Great Pyramid, and drank imaginary bottled beer when we got to the top; and, to come to the subject more particularly in hand, how often, as we indolently lounged in our dressing-gown and slippers, on our favourite sofa, have we thoroughly enjoyed all the dangers and excitements of whalefishing.

It is related of Colonel W-s, the historian of British India, that when he was told that the author of Lalla Rookh had never been in the East, he said: 'Well, that shews me that reading D'Herbelot is as good as riding on a camel.' On the same principle, there are few readers who, by studying Herman Melville's volumes, and other works of the same oleaginous nature, are not as well acquainted with the modus operandi of capturing a whale, from the cry of "There she spouts!' of the man in the cross-trees, to the stripping off the blubber at the ship's side, and boiling it down in the ship's coppers, as if they had spent the greater part of their lives cruising about the Arctic Ocean with harpoons in their hands. Supposing the reader, therefore, to be theoretically a first-rate whale-fisher, I shall not waste time and paper by dilating on the perils of icebergs, of boats set fire to by the friction of the rope, or stove in by the monster's tail, or any other of the moving accidents and hairbreadth 'scapes incidental to this most exciting of pursuits, but shall come at once to what I consider its antithesis-namely, duck-hunting.

No reader of this Journal, it is to be hoped, has ever been present at a duck-hunt. It is a barbarous exhibition, although not a bit more cruel than foxhunting, or any other sport in which a poor defenceless animal struggles gallantly for its life, till from sheer exhaustion it falls an easy victim to its relentless persecutors. The only difference between them is, that the fox has the honour of being chased to death by well-bred hounds with sleek dappled coats, and wellmounted gentlemen in red ones, while the instruments of the duck's destruction are generally ragged boys and a scrubby terrier. The first, therefore, is a manly and noble sport, belauded by poets and followed by all the high and mighty in the land; and the latter is, equally as a matter of course, a low and degrading pursuit, for which the young rascals engaged in it ought to be well whipped, and their cur hung.

The essentials for duck-hunting are-a good-sized pond, a tough old mallard, an amphibious terrier, and boys ad libitum. If the duck is sharp enough to dive when the dog makes a snap at him, he escapes;

direction of the head-boatman, whose advice, in the excitement of the hat-chase, they had previously scorned. Silence is enjoined, and an agreement entered into between the shooters that, for fear of accidents, only one shot shall be fired at a time, and that one is to be by the individual nearest the bird. This rule is, of course, broken on the very first opportunity, when all four blaze away at the game, in utter recklessness of consequences. This does not happen, however, for some time. At first, on being approached, the grebe is wild, and dives a long way out of distance. The boatmen, judging from the direction he takes, row to the spot where they expect he will reappear. He is too cunning for them, however, and comes to the surface some hundred yards from where they had calculated to see him. Away they go in pursuit; but long before the eager gunners can get within shot, down goes his head, up goes his tail, and away he paddles on his subaqueous expedition, to come up again to breathe in a more unexpected quarter than ever. Perseverance is at length rewarded, and the rowers make a lucky cast. The grebe ascends within twenty yards of the boat, but finding his mistake, hey, presto! he is down again like lightning; and the only result, caused by the contents of four barrels fired recklessly in his direction, is a very near approach to the capsize of the boat, and a few bubbles floating on the surface of the water. Unfortunately for the poor bird, his respiratory organs are so constituted that an occasional mouthful of fresh air is one of the necessaries of his existence, and his late summary proceeding obliges him to expose himself again before he can get out of range. A severe peppering is the consequence; but he is still so active, that a white tail in the act of disappearing is the only mark he presents to the random shots of the excited sportsmen. The contest, however, is too unequal to last. Tired and wounded, the grebe's attempts to escape become more and more feeble, till, after repeated volleys, a lucky shot administers the coup de grâce, and the party in the boat sit down to luncheon.

Having seen them bag one bird, it is not necessary to follow them any further on their aquatic expedition. Their subsequent achievements may be briefly expressed by the musical term da capo, a phrase which I have been given to understand is synonymous with the English one of 'ditto repeated.'

My object is gained if I have made good my title, and proved to everybody's satisfaction, that the Lake of Geneva and the Arctic Ocean are in some respects similar; and that the grebe-to say nothing of the duck-is, as far as the manner of his capture is concerned, extremely like a whale.

RELIGIOUS OBSERVANCES IN ITALY. SOME impressions of a winter I spent on the shores of the Adriatic have been already offered to the readers of this Journal. Nor would any further delineations of an Italian interior have suggested themselves to my mind, had not the great events of the present moment given a fresh interest to the countries most likely eventually to be affected by them, and awakened a desire to learn, more thoroughly, what is their actual condition, and determine how far Central and Southern Italy, retaining their former mode of government and institutions, can challenge a comparison with that northern state of the peninsula where progress and reform are the order of the day.

It is the prevailing impression on the continent that no part of Europe will be sooner subjected to some violent convulsion and up-rooting of all existing things than the kingdom of Naples and the papal dominions. To the reader of Italian journals, the attentive listener in Italian political circles, the evidence is unmistakable that the tide of popular feeling is setting in anew in

favour of a constitutional government; and the hope of rationally and peacefully realising the dream of 1848, of a united Italy, with Piedmont as its head, is daily gaining ground. Even among conscientious Catholics, the project of a speedy separation of the temporal from the spiritual authority of the pope, is openly discussed, and by many considered as their only safeguard from the torrent of anarchy and revolt to which the oppressions and corruptions of its rulers are hastening the country.

But of these questions, in their wide political bearings, abler pens are treating; my task is simply to complete the picture of the customs, the amusements, the domestic life, the religious ceremonies, the environs of one city in the Roman States, which I have enjoyed better opportunities of studying than are generally accorded to an English traveller; and from which, depicted with the most conscientious veracity, the unprejudiced reader can form his own deductions. Though the austerities of Lent have ceased to be observed, even in the faithful diocese of Ancona, to any very mortifying extent, the ancient rites of the church are still kept up, and towards the close of the Holy Week, the whole population becomes compulsorily devout. The parochial clergy go round to every house in their jurisdiction, taking down the names and ages of the inhabitants, and delivering to all a ticket filled up with their name, requiring them to repair, within a given period, to the parish church, for confession and communion. Any freewill-offering, any spontaneous act of grace in these religious duties, is thus lost; and with the young men especially, prender Pasqua, as it is termed, becomes a most irksome task, which they endeavour to shuffle over, or resort to every expedient and deception to evade altogether. The government, however, is very strict in enforcing this ordinance, with the political view of maintaining its fast-waning influence through the confessional, going even the length of refusing pontifical subjects their passports, if they require to travel, when it can be proved that they have neglected their Easter duties; but this is an odious abuse of authority, tending to bring religion into contempt.

I remember hearing of the astonishment and indignation of some members of the V-family-Poles by birth, but French by education-with whom we were intimate, the first year they passed in Ancona, when the priest, having taken the statistics of the household, and ascertained that they professed the Roman Catholic faith, handed to each of them in succession a printed ticket, requiring them to conform to this law. In France, they declared, they had never heard of such a measure; and they could not, even before us, forbear from expressing their disgust. It required all their mother's persuasions, and the example of her unquestioning submission to whatever emanated from priestly authority, to stifle the murmurs of the young ladies, and enforce their obedience.

On Holy Thursday, after mid-day, an unwonted silence seemed to fall upon the town, unbroken till the same hour on Saturday. No bells were tolled, no matins or vespers rung, no mass celebrated in the churches; while the streets were filled with people hastening to the sepolcri, or sepulchres, of which seven must be visited by the faithful. Each church has its sepolcro, varying in the details, but agreeing as to the general characteristics of the representation. The highaltar is divested of its usual ornaments, in token of mourning; and on the platform immediately before it, surrounded by all the emblems of the passion, is a figure in wax of life-size of the Saviour, as if just removed from the cross. All around, and on the steps leading up, are a profusion of natural flowers and tapers; and sentinels with arms reversed are stationed at intervals to keep back the crowd.

In some churches more figures are introduced-such

as Joseph of Arimathea, the beloved apostle, the three Maries; others have a greater display of flowers and wax-lights, but the pervading effect in all is invariably the same. The complete stillness; the ceaseless, noiseless swaying of the crowd, as those who occupy the foremost places, after a few minutes' admiring inspection, and a few muttered prayers, quietly give room in their turn to fresh comers; the indiscriminate blending of rich and poor, as the lady in her silken robes kneels on the pavement beside the tattered beggar; the motionless forms of the Austrian soldiers in all the glittering panoply of war, surrounding the marred and blood-stained effigy of the Prince of Peace; the saturnine matter-of-fact faces of the attendant priests and sacristans, who hover about, relighting any taper that is accidentally extinguished, or adjusting any of the arrangements that may be displaced; the air heavy with the scent of flowers mingling with the exhalations of the vaults beneath, where moulder the remains of those who in their day have gazed upon this spectacle, for centuries repeated, for centuries unchanged: all this has struck each stranger in his turn, and is but a feeble transcript of the varied impressions it produces.

On Good Friday, there is always a procession through the principal streets of the town, which, without any of the devotional accessories of the sepolcrithe time-worn churches, the subdued light, the hushed voices-cannot fail painfully to impress the English spectator who has not been inured to sights of this description.

By the people it was eagerly looked forward to as a pleasant variety in the monotony of their lives, an opportunity of sauntering about, of looking out of the windows, of nodding to their acquaintances, and furthering some flirtation or intrigue. Any idea of investing the pageant with a religious significance seemed foreign to the minds of the great majority of the assembled throng.

When the muffled drums were heard announcing that the procession was approaching, and a detachment of troops began to line the street under our windows, I remarked a thrill of excitement, but certainly not of awe, as every head was impatiently turned in the direction from whence the torches and banners of the confraternity of the Passionisti first came in view. Men of all classes belonged to this compagnia, all similarly dressed in loose robes and cowls of gray linen, which concealed the features, a crown of thorns round the head, and a girdle of knotted cords; the difference of rank being discernible only by the whiter feet of some amongst them, and the evident pain with which they trod the sharp uneven pavement. I must, however, pause to observe here, that a bent head and hoary hair would be the general accompaniments to these marks of gentle birth, were the drapery in which they are enshrouded to be suddenly thrown aside.

Next came friars and priests, all walking according to established rule and precedence-Capuchins, Franciscans, Carmelites, Dominicans, Augustinians, carrying lighted tapers and chanting litanies. Following these were more Capuchins, to whom was especially delegated the office of carrying all the objects belonging to the crucifixion; and thus they passed on, whitebearded tottering old men, bearing successively an emblem of this day's great sacrifice, profaned by being paraded, like some mummery of old, before the idle crowd, who gazed, and sneered, and talked, indifferent to the awful event thus commemorated. The crown of thorns, the purple robe, the scourge, the nails, the dice with which the soldiers had cast lots, the spear, were all carried slowly along; the sacred form itself, in the utter prostration of death, stretched upon a bier, coming next in view. A few knelt here, not one in twenty though; the rest all listless, unthinking, or unbelieving.

Some paces behind, upon a sort of platform, appeared a huge image of the Madonna, considerably above the size of life, dressed in violet robes, with long brown ringlets, and pierced through with seven daggers-all the spiritualised beauty with which the blessed among women' should be invested, lost in the vulgarity of this most material representation. This, with the dignitaries and magistrates of the town walking two and two, closed the procession; after which marched more soldiers, those who had been stationed along the streets falling into the ranks, and the band performing a funeral-march-the same the Austrians always play after the interment of any of their comrades. I have not exaggerated this description. To some enthusiastic poetic minds, to whom such things seem beautiful in the abstract, I know my account will prove distasteful. But thus it always is: a close insight into the countries where these time-honoured traditional ceremonies are still maintained, strips them of the mysterious charm with which, to a foreigner, they might seem to be invested, and accounts for the levity with which they are witnessed by those familiarised to them since their earliest childhood.

As another instance : there was the custom of blessing the houses on Easter Saturday, which I had heard of long before visiting Italy, and imagined must prove equally edifying and impressive. But when I saw a very dirty priest in his alb-I think that is the name-a sort of linen ephod worn over the black gown, attended by a still more dirty little boy carrying holy-water, walk hastily through the house, muttering a few unintelligible words on the threshold of each room, only pausing a little longer in the kitchen to crack a few jokes with the servants, without the least semblance of devotion on his side or of reverence on theirs and gratefully accepting a few pauls sent out to him by the family-why, I fell from the clouds, and my cherished illusions were dispelled. It seemed almost as hollow as blessing the horses on the 17th of January, the festival of St Anthony, the patron of animals, which had previously greatly astonished me.

All the post and vetturino horses, all those belonging to private families, were taken on that day, gaily decked out with ribbons, to a square in front of one of the principal churches, where priests, standing on the steps of the portico, sprinkled them with holywater, and pronounced a formula of benediction. A small gratuity was given for each horse, and in return the donors were presented with a little wax-taper and a small loaf of bread, by which the grooms, rather than the poor quadrupeds, were the gainers. There was a favourite cat in my uncle's establishment-a cat of great size and beauty, and of doglike sagacity—which the servants were in vain desirous he would send to be blessed, though prompted by no other motive than the pleasure of dressing it up, and of joining in the crowd of idlers before the church.

Generally, however, it would appear as if some vague idea of averting ill-luck, of deprecating some sinister influence, must linger in the hearts of the coachmen and postilions who still adhere to this custom; which is practised by the priests-so Young Italy will tell you-solely to maintain their hold upon the superstitious fears of the lowest ranks of the populace.

But stay-I am wandering from my more immediate subject, although all the church-bells let loose, and ringing their merry peals, proclaim it is noon on Holy Saturday, and that Lent is over! There is something very heart-stirring in this rejoicing: I wish we had the same custom in England to usher in the triumphant glories of the Easter morn. Why it should be anticipated here by twelve hours, and the bells give forth their jubilee, and salvos of artillery be fired, at mid-day, instead of mid-night, I do not exactly know: I think I have somewhere read an