see me again." The amount of the fine, and of the confiscated property,

was sent.

Where there is no resistance, Jayme generally inquires whither his victims are bound, and says, "You will require so much money for your journey: there it is." He values himself on his expertness and sagacity. A party of his people lately fell in with two travellers, one of whom, before he entered on his journey, had concealed a pretty large sum in one of his boots. All the robbers could find was taken from the two men ; who congratulated them selves, however, on having secured a part of their treasures; but they were soon stopped by another company, headed by Jayme himself. "Your money."-" It has been all taken from us by Jayme's people, from whom we are just escaped." "I like those boots," said the chief, "they would fit me." The money was of course discovered. Jayme whistled, and his band collected round him. "Look there," said he, "block heads Vosotros no sabeis robar!-you don't know how to rob!" He is said to avoid the shedding of blood, and to have dismissed one of his followers who had cut a Frenchman's finger whom they had attacked. One of his fellows was lately killed by a peasant while eating at table; within a few days he got possession of that peasant's son, and sent immediate notice, that unless 500 dollars were instantly sent to such and such a spot, he would murder the boy there. The money was immediately deposited, and the boy restored.

Jayme formerly belonged to a band which spread desolation and terror throughout Valencia, and left it when its excesses of cruelty and murder either disgusted or alarmed him. He said one day, that he had shed the blood of none, but of a man who murdered one of his party when he slept: and, it is notorious, that when he had wounded an officer in a skirmish, he took him to the mountains, attended him with the greatest kindness, and sent him down cured to rejoin his troops.

The history of the banditti just mentioned is of a more dreadful cast, but singularly illustrative of Spanish character-they were headed by three brothers, called Mogica,

whose limbs I remember to have seen afterwards suspended in different parts of the province.-Though not very numerous, no less than four thousand armed men were engaged in pursuit of them, and when escape was impossible, they destroyed themselves. The elder brother was discovered in an innhe could not escape-he barricadoed the door, shut up the landlord and family, and presented himself at the window, whence he fired for a long time upon the troops, and, at last, bid the officer approach. "It is over with me," he said, "my cartridges are exhausted; the two last are for Mogica." They burst the doors, and found his brains scattered over the ceiling-the first fire had carried away his jaw-he had loaded again, and his skull was blown to pieces. His second brother was pursued like a wild beast-a solitary wanderer among rocks and caves-a shepherd's boy saw him enter a deep cavern, and informed the commanding officer of his hiding-place. The boy led the way into the cavern, and groping about, put his hand upon him-he had got into a small hole at the extremity. The lad was frightened, and immediately cried out "He is not here." Coming out of the cavern, he divulged the place of his retreat, and from the cavern's mouth they fired upon their victim-he escaped by some unknown aperture, and they found by after-discovered marks of blood, that he was severely wounded

they were enabled to track him the following day, and he was seen sitting by a brook washing the most dreadful wounds. "You are our prisoner," they cried. "Your prisoner! never!" and he drew his weapon, and gave himself ten mortal stabs in his bosom. The third brother was taken alive-shot, and his body exposed in quarters in the neighbourhood of Orihuela. These men had a brother, who is still living in a presidio (place of banishment): he was a young lad at the time of the above-cited events. One day he went to the house of the commander of the troops who were acting against his brothers, and, as the officer entered, he fired at him-the ball passed through his hat. Astonished at such an act from the unfortunate youth, the commander asked what he meant and the boy boldly an

swered, "To kill you; do you think I meant it for a salute of honour? My name is Mogica." "For your bravery and your honesty, you shall not die," was the reply of the brave

soldier.

A man who was plundered by Jayme's band, mentioned that when one of the bandits said to him, "Give up your money, ladron," (robber) Jayme immediately reprehended him. "What do you mean by such insolence? You and I are robbers (ladrones). This gentleman is, for aught you know, an honest man. It is enough for him to lose his money. Do not make him suffer your brutality in addition.”

The brother of a peasant from whom I heard the anecdote-a lad of fourteen or fifteen-once saw a man sitting by the side of a rivulet, whose course he was mournfully contemplating, and throwing every now and then a stone into it, as if in absence of mind. The man called the boy to him, and asked his name." My name," said he, is Macia. "I knew your parents," replied the other," they were good and honest people. Do you strive to be like them, and mind their advice, and you will be happy. I had good and honest parents too I did not mind their advice, and I am-what I am-Jayme the robber! -you will tell nobody that you have seen me." All this while tears were rolling down the cheeks of the bandit. It was twelve months after this circumstance that the lad first mentioned it, and then he was at his daily labours, with the peasant I spoke of; and, in passing near the spot, he

Madre mia, aquel pajarillo que canta en el ramo verde rogalde vos que no cante pues mi niña ya no me quiere. Decid que por darme gusto deje el contento que tiene que causa dolor á un triste ver que los otros se alegran. Que deje los verdes ramos y que á su mesa se asiente y si sabe de amor

en mi pastora escarmiente.

said, "On that rock I saw Jayme," and he related what I have recorded above.

Jayme's term is probably drawing to its close-he no longer trusts even his companions with the secrets of his nightly haunts; and he has been in such extremity, as to have petitioned for a morsel of bread, protesting he had tasted no food for three days. Every day he is pursued, and has been, in truth, for some years, but he has already been abandoned by some of his party, who have joined the troops that are in search of him. He believes himself to be the child of fatality, and has often said, "When my hour is come, an infant may put fetters on me;" and when he was urged to leave his old haunts, he replied, "No-God, when he is out-wearied with my sins, will have me punished in the place where they were committed." There are men who tell us that the best of human hearts are all corrupt and worthless; but for me, and the conviction is full of soothing consolation-even in the heart of this daring bandit I fancy I perceive more good than evil. There are some who stand upon the pinnacle of worldly reputation, who are more vile than he; even among those who fast twice a week, and give great alms.

I confess that the recollections of such men and such scenes have an interest for me which is most painfully vivid. I am almost glad to get rid of them, and to fly to those romances from which I have been wan→ dering so long.

Dezid que con su armonia tanto el alma me entristece que pienso que está haziendo las exequias de la muerte.

Que no si dé tanta priesta que por agora lo deje que querrá Dios que algun dia el esté triste y yo alegre.

Pero si con todo aqueso acaso cantar quisiere rogalde vos que no cante pues mi niña ya no me quiere. Romancero de 1614

THIS palace is a very magnificent one, and, we think, has been undeservedly neglected. It is Dutchbuilt, of handsome red brick, and belongs to a class of houses, the taste for which appears to have been naturalised in this country along with the happy introduction of the Houses of Orange and Hanover. The approach to it through BushyPark is delightful, inspiriting at this time of year; and the gardens about it, with their close-clipped holly hedges and arbours of evergreen, look an artificial summer all the year round. The statues that are interspersed do not freeze in winter, and are cool and classical in the warmer seasons. The Toy-Inn stands opportunely at the entrance, to invite the feet of those who are tired of an unintentional walk from Brentford or Kew, or oppressed with thought and wonder after seeing the Cartoons.

Besides these last, however, there are several fine pictures here. We shall pass over the Knellers, the Verrios, and the different portraits of the Royal Family, and come at once to the Nine Muses, by Tintoret. Or rather, his Nine Muses are summed up in one, the back-figure in the right-hand corner as you look at the picture, which is all grandeur, elegance, and grace. We should think that in the gusto of form and a noble freedom of outline, Michael Angelo could hardly have surpassed this figure. The face too, which is half turned round, is charmingly handsome. The back, the shoulders, the legs, are the perfection of bold delicacy, expanded into full-blown luxuriance, and then retiring as it were from their own proud beauty and conscious charms into soft and airy loveliness

Fine by degrees, and beautifully less. Is it a Muse? Or is it not a figure formed for action more than contemplation? Perhaps this hypercritical objection may be true; and it might without any change of character or impropriety be supposed, from its buoyancy, its ease, and sinewy elas

ticity, to represent the quivered Goddess shaping her bow for the chase. But, at any rate, it is the figure of a Goddess, or of a woman in shape equal to a Goddess. The colour is nearly gone, so that it has almost the tone of a black and white chalk drawing; and the effect of form remains pure and unrivalled. There are several other very pleasing and ably-drawn figures in the group, but they are eclipsed in the superior splendour of this one. So far the composition is faulty, for its balance is destroyed; and there are certain critics who could probably maintain that the picture would be better, if this capital excellence in it had been deliberately left out: the picture would, indeed, have been more according to rule, and to the taste of those who judge, feel, and see by rule only! Among the portraits which are curious, is one of Baccio Bandi-" nelli, with his emblems and implements of sculpture about him, said to be by Correggio. We cannot pretend to give an opinion on this point but it is a studious, powerful, and elaborately painted head. We find the name of Titian attached to two or three portraits in the Collection." There is one very fine one of a young man in black, with a black head of hair, the face seen in a three-quarter view, and the dark piercing eye, full of subtle meaning, looking round at you; which is probably by Titian, but certainly not (as it is pretended) of himself. It has not the aquiline cast of features by which his own portraits are obviously distinguished. We have seen a print of this picture, in which it is said to be done for Ignatius Loyola. The portrait of a lady with green and white purfled sleeves (like the leaves and flower of the water-lily, and as clear!) is admirable. It was in the Pall-Mall exhibition of the Old Masters a short time back; and is by Sebastian del Piombo. The care of the painting, the natural ease of the attitude, and the steady, sensible, conversable look of the countenance, place this in a class of pictures, which one feels a

wish to have always by one to refer to, whenever there is a want of thought, or a flaw in the temper, that requires filling up or setting to rights by some agreeable and at the same time not over-exciting object. There are several soi-disant Parmegianos; one or two good Bassans; a Battle Piece set down to Julio Romano; a coloured drawing (in one corner of a room) of a Nymph and Satyr (very fine); and some of Polemberg's little disagreeable pictures of the same subject, in which the Satyrs look like paltry bits of terra cotta, and the Nymphs like glazed China-ware. We have a prejudice against Polemberg, which is a rare thing with us!

The Cartoons occupy a room by themselves-there are not many such rooms in the world. All other pictures look like oil and varnish to these we are stopped and attracted by the colouring, the pencilling, the finishing, or the want of it, that is, by the instrumentalities of the art but here the painter seems to have flung his mind upon the canvas; his thoughts, his great ideas alone prevail; there is nothing between us and the subject; we look through a frame, and see scripture-histories, and are made actual spectators of miraculous events. Not to speak it profanely, they are a sort of revelation of the subjects of which they treat; there is an ease and freedom of manner about them, which brings preternatural characters and situations home to us, with the familiarity of common every-day occurrences; and while the figures fill, raise, and satisfy the mind, they seem to have cost the painter nothing. The Cartoons are unique productions in the art. They are mere intellectual, or rather visible abstractions of truth and nature. Every where else we see the means; here we arrive at the end apparently without any means. There is a Spirit at work in the divine creation before us. We are unconscious of any details, of any steps taken, of any progress made; we are aware only of comprehensive results, of whole masses and figures. The sense of power supersedes the appearance of effort. It is like a waking dream, vivid, but undistinguishable in member, joint, or limb; or it is as if we had ourselves

seen the persons and things at some former period of our being, and that the drawing certain dotted lines upon coarse paper, by some unknown spell, brought back the entire and living images, and made them pass before us, palpable to thought, to feeling, and to sight. Perhaps not all is owing to genius: something of this effect may be ascribed to the simplicity of the vehicle employed in embodying the story, and something to the decayed and dilapidated state of the pictures themselves. They are the more majestic for being in ruin: we are struck chiefly with the truth of proportion, and the range of conception: all the petty, meretricious part of the art is dead in them; the carnal is made spiritual, the corruptible has put on incorruption; and, amidst the wreck of colour, and the mouldering of material beauty, nothing is left but a universe of thought, and the broad, imminent. shadows of " calm contemplation and majestic pains!"

The first in order is the Death of Ananias; and it is one of the noblest of these noble designs. The effect is striking; and the contrast between the stedfast, commanding attitude of the Apostles, and the convulsed and prostrate figure of Ananias on the floor, is finely imagined. It is much as if a group of persons on shore stood to witness the wreck of life and hope on the rocks and quicksands beneath them. The abruptness and severity of the transition are, however, broken and relieved by the other human interests in the picture. The Ananias is a masterly, a stupendous figure. The attitude, the drawing, the expression, the ease, the force, are alike wonderful. He falls so naturally, that it seems as if a person could fall in no other way; and yet of all the ways in which a human figure could fall, it is probably the most expressive of a person overwhelmed by and in the grasp of Divine vengeance. This is in some measure, we apprehend, the secret of Raphael's success. Most painters, in studying an attitude, puzzle themselves to find out what will be picturesque, and what will be fine, and never discover it: Raphael only thought how a person would stand or fall naturally in such or such circumstances, and the pic