MY DEAR AUNT,

that with the luxurious enjoyments of

People now rail who never railed before,
And those who always railed now rail the more,

London does, at this present writing, shine forth in all the beauty and grandeur and fashion of the "full season." They say that on the average of the year, about three thousand strangers come into London every day, and a number considerably less in the aggregate, but only a very little less in each day's account, leaves it. At this season, however, the influx must be prodigious, for nine-tenths of the regular visitors of London who come for pleasure merely, come here I think in the month of May, when the opera has its best singers and dancers; and concerts abound, morning and evening, and all the shops have their most splendid "spring assortments," and the carriages of the nobility and gentry block up Bond-street on the week days, and the straight road called The Ring," in Hyde-park, on Sunday afternoons when every thing that enormous wealth and luxurious habits, unceasing toil, unrivalled skill, and the matured spring and delicious sunny weather, can afford to delight those who have the means of enjoying them, are brought together and poured forth abundantly.

It is a common-place saying "how can people think of going to London just when the country becomes so delightful-they ought rather to think of leaving London for the country." No such thing, my dear Aunt, I assure you. I have lived in this great metropolis at all seasons, and I must aver upon my own experience, that so far at all events as a “ West end” residence is concerned, this is the "properest" time of all the year for enjoying London. It is true that the god of the London world is WEALTH, to which even rank and fashion, and amusing talent, are but subordinate deities; and it is very true,

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merated, he who hath not good store of money in his purse, can expect to have but little to do, except (if he lack experience and wisdom,) to envy their possession by others—

"For to the world no bugbear is so great As want of figure, and a small estate" f

Even beauty (alas! that I should say it,) turns away its smile,

"Scared at the spectre of pale porerty:

For

And as for consideration in any other quarter, political, literary, scientific, or philanthropic, he who has not wealth of his own, or the means of getting it from or for others, must be very inexperienced, or an idiot, who expects it. But, notwithstanding all this, a man with a sound mind in a sound body, with enough to eat and drink, though turtle and champaigne be strangers to his palate, and with some leisure to move about, and see, and hear, and enjoy, what may be seen, heard, and enjoyed for nothing, would still do well to visit London at this very season, which, although it be summer by the almanacs, is in our metropolitan voca bulary denominated "spring." now, instead of scowling skies, and dirty streets, through which the poor pedestrian wends his way with draggled great coat clashing about his legs, and wearisome umbrella held overhead, every now and then encountering another, and getting smack into his face a little shower from the concussion-instead of this, he may go forth even as he sits at home, save the addition of hat and gloves, with a clear sky above him, and clean dry footing underneath, and though he will find the watering carts manufacturing gutter where they were intended only to lay the dust, yet he will console himself with the sight of the gushing water which is generally clear before it falls, and with the

sensation of coolness which the wetness affords. But, better than this instead of desolate, comfortless-looking ponds, and squares, and gardens, with their black leafless branches, or poor stunted evergreens, he cannot now walk quarter of a mile, without coming upon the view of trees and shrubs, and flowers, waving in the pride of Spring beauty, for, ever within the pre#cincts of the town, leaves and blossoms are beautiful; and to those who can feel their beauty, will continually ? suggest pleasant thoughts. It is an excellent thing in London, that squares and other open spaces so much abound, and it is pleasant to see the care which is generally taken of them, and to find a shrub or a tree even in places where you would scarcely expect to meet with them.

!

I thank heaven, it is not in the power of Whigs or radical Reformers, to overthrow, or to alter the course which God has appointed for the seasons and the things that be subject thereunto. The lilacs and laburnums will put forth their flowers, and the sycamore and ash, and elm, their leaves, even as they did in the "unenlightened" times of our ancestors, and thus much, if nothing else, we may be sure will be left to us.

I have no doubt, that a Whig committee if they undertook the consideration of these matters, would discover that they were ill-arranged, and required a Reform; but, happily, the power is not theirs, nor can be acquired by the fraud of the few acting upon the violence of the many; so we shall still have trees and flowers, no matter what madness possesses our rulers, or what folly governs the voice of the populace. If, indeed, the Crown lands which include our beautiful and healthful Parks, be seized by the public and sold to the highest bidder, in order that taxes may be reduced, I shall tremble for my now pleasant walks; but, in the mean time, I shall try to enjoy them, as I have a good right to do, for they are things to be enjoyed by a Londoner in May.

You must remember St. James's Park, though you have not seen it, with its interior, so beautifully laid out as it is now, with clumps of shrubbery, and a fine piece of water so skilfully arranged, that at various points the eye gives no information of its limited extent, as it winds out of sight, round points Vol. I.

fringed with drooping willows. The walks are arranged so as to pass, here and there, under the shade of the old trees of the park; and in one place I have observed that the old branches meet across the walk, so as to form, at a little distance, the appearance of a perfect gothic arch, to which the pendant leaves seem a festooned drapery. From almost all parts of the interior of this park, are seen shooting up beyond the trees, and the red-tiled roofs that one catches glimpses of through the trees, the exquisitely beautiful towers of white stone, built by Sir Christopher Wren, at the western extremity of Westminster Abbey. I don't know whether you remember these, but there is absolutely something almost touching in their quiet faultless beauty, as they stand before you, lifting up their exquisite proportions towards the blue sky; sometimes only partially visible, and sometimes, strikingly and fully apparent above the line of the leafy tree-tops. The " Mall" and the " Bird Cage Walk," although much altered, are still in their general effect, such as you must remember them, with their long rows of elms which are now in the first freshness of their young green leaves, and which look particularly beautiful contrasted with the stems and branches, that town smoke has made completely black. The leaves, I grieve to say, will soon feel the same influence, and then woe to the inexperienced wight who takes refuge from a pelting shower beneath their branches, for each leaf, as it is struck by a heavy drop, flings out a little sprinkle of soot in its rebound, and this descending with the drop that had disturbed it, daubs, with most inhospitable smuts, the shelteree beneath. But even six weeks of London atmosphere, though it does much to spoil the daylight freshness of those trees, does not prevent them from being very beautiful in a moonlight night. How strange and (to me) affecting, is the sudden contrast, when, in half a minute's walk from paved Pall Mall, with its many people and its noise of carriages, you get into this park with a serf of leafy branches above your head, and the pale moonlight struggling through.

But St. James's is the lowest (I mean nearest the earth's centre) of all the Parks, and so far, the least agreeable. To describe Hyde Park, would

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require a complete letter for itself; with a postcript, nearly as long as the letter, devoted to Kensington Gardens. Hyde Park is, indeed, a noble expanse; and the breeze sweeps down into it "fresh and strong," as long as a breeze is to be had any where for love or money; and with its galloping horsemen and ladies, and gay equipages, the Park is full of images of life and activity. How striking, here too, is the contrast, when you pass through the little door in the wall, which divides this Park from Kensington Gardens: How instantaneously, you feel to have passed from the region of air and exercise, to that of close shade and extreme tranquillity. I speak not of company days, when

crowds and gaudy dresses make all places alike, but on week days, in the morning or forenoon, or towards evening, when you may have Kensington Gardens, with their long walks, and quiet seats, and deep shade, all-to yourself. When you may sit, with nothing to disturb the general silence but the singing of birds, and reflect that within a mile or two is the mighty living, moving mass of London-the greatest of cities-the most astounding aggregation that the world ever saw of all that is mightiest in wealth, and power and grandeur of all that is most hideous and humiliating in vice and misery, and crime! Here may you sit in meditation, or with your book, and say to yourself—

But I must not omit to tell you of the "Regent's Park," also, the beauty and grandeur of which have grown into existence since you were a sojourner in London, and knew the situation as certain fields, called Marylebone Park. The position of this beautiful place, with the rising grounds of Hampstead and High-gate, forming a charming view beyond it, is the most favourable of all the London pleasure grounds. To a taste not very fastidious about purity of architectural design or indignant at more outside show than in-door stability, this neighbourhood must seem beautiful beyond compare. The noble terraces of superb houses, with porticos, pillars, and pilastres, (most of them built of old brick and covered with stucco in imitatation of stone), the gardens and flowering shrubs, with large trees in the distance, the sheet of water, and the shaven lawn, with groups of beautiful children disporting thereupon, and sheep, (which you need not remember are to be made mutton of next morning); all this is, I assure you, very delicious; and, in the evening, when lamps are lighted in all directions, and reflected from the water in a thousand points of dancing light-when a band or two is playing, and groups of beautiful women are taking there after-dinner lounge about the grounds, there is a something in the matter very much

calculated to intoxicate a man of observation and sensibility, the rather if he be a leetle intoxicated beforehand with claret. I do not, however, mean to recommend this preparation for a proper appreciation of beauty in sight or sound, to any gentleman, and much less, lady of our acquaintance; and inindeed, I must beg, in this particular to be understood as speaking from other experience than my own. What I have been describing, is all very pleasant when one is in the humour to be pleased, but it all depends upon that; and to me, the whole effect has sometimes been lost by exhibitions of puppyism which I could not stomachfellows who seemed manufactured by their tailor's-creatures

“like Apes,

With foreheads villainous low." talking loud nonsense, and poisoning the pleasant evening air with tobacco smoke, the odour of which offendeth me :-this and other the like nuisances, will sometimes, nay oftentimes, come between the solitary felicity-hunter and his enjoyment of the evening in the Regent's Park.

But after this long discourse.on Parks, you will perhaps cry out"what are they all, to our Park-the Phoenix Park, of Parks the Phoenix!” Nothing, absolutely nothing, I admit as regards extent and natural beauty.

The variety of hill and dale-of thick wood and deep ravine, and above all, the delightful view, as you look towards and beyond the Liffey, in the Park drive, from Island-Bridge gate, to Chapelizod, are such things as we Londoners have no idea of; yet, to the quiet rich citizen's eye, your Park might appear too huge and rugged for a pleasure ground, and he might prefer the more contracted spot upon which art has lavished all its power of exquisite ornament, and placed it within the compass of a single view-the limit of one little walk. I do not think, however, that the people of Dublin are as sensible as they ought to be to the wondrous advantages of situation which their city enjoys, or if they are, they do not take the pains they ought to celebrate them. No one can have read .many books and periodicals of the day, without learning something about London localities; and the beauties of Edinburgh (1 do not mean the "lasses O!") have been said and sung in thousands of ways and places, with a fervour of national pride regarding their "own romantic town," which does the Scotch much credit; yet I question very much whether Edinburgh, although more striking and picturesque within the immediate limits of the town, can boast any thing like such beautiful scenery in its near neighbourhood, as Dublin can. The memory of these scenes is not so distinct in my 'mind as it once was; but I still think of a drive which I took, a long time ago, on a beautiful summer's morning, shortly after sunrise, to a commanding point of view, called "Mount Anvil," or some such smith-like name, and from thence beheld a view, so glorious -ly beautiful, of sea and land-of farstretching bay, and rugged "promontory"—of rich cultivated land, and distant mountain, and leafy wood-all bathed in the gladsome light of the morning sun-Ah! I shall not see its like again, or if I do, not with such feelings-not with the freshness of young imagination, revelling in the beautiful, and thinking of nothing else. I remember too, the rich solemn beauty of the quiet summer evenings, when from that noble avenue of elms-that succession of beautiful terraces, formed by the banks of the broad canal from the bridge on the great western road, down to the Saint James's Reservoir; I

have watched the sun set behind the hill of Castleknock, which seemed all on fire, and have gazed upon the rich masses of "piled clouds" while their streaks of fiery gold slowly faded into darkness. Never since, have I seen anything more beautiful; and I have often wished that such scenes were celebrated as they deserve to be. Now that Dublin has got a Magazine of its own, which is read far and near, I hope that the subject of Dublin localities will not be forgotten, and that I may recognise in poetry or poetic prose, the "whereabout" of my youth, of which I feel so much more than I can describe.

But, it is ours-ours here in London, to enjoy the gorgeous splendour, and the finished excellence of art. I shall not speak of our noble collections of paintings-of those by the ancient masters, some of them the finest in the world, which may be seen every day, and all day, in Pall Mall, for nothing; or of the galleries of modern pictures, to which one may obtain admittance for a shilling. I am no artist, and cannot describe these things; but, I must say something of our Italian Opera, however inadequate I may be, to write about it, as one more gifted with musical science might. This huge and splendid theatre, has been well filled, since this month commenced, and has well deserved to be so, for I do not remember to have seen before, such an assemblage of first rate singers. At present, we have as principal female singers, Pasta, Cinti Damoreau, and De Meric; and we are still better off, in male singers, Rubini, Tamburini, Donzelli, and Zuchalli. There are not four such singers as these, in all the world besides, nor is there upon the face of the earth, such another operatic performer as Pasta. Rubini, has an ugly, angry countenance, which gives the stranger little reason to hope for the exquisite delicacy of voice, and soft brilliancy of execution, with which he sings. His style is florid-full of ornament, but ornament in which there is no labouring, no appearance of difficulty. His falsetto, which he uses continually, scarcely seems a falsetto, so clear, and sweet, and delicate, yet, so well articulated, that even in the remotest part of that vast theatre, not a note is lost. In the execution of his complicated