gallery is No. 7, The Departure of the Israelites out of Egypt, by Mr. Roberts. In the performance of this work, the painter has evidently endeavoured to imitate Martin's compositions. The picture, viewed at a little distance, is certainly grand and imposing; on a near inspection, however, we look in vain for the exquisite finish, and the characteristic expression so universally admired in Mr. Martin's works. We advise Mr. Roberts, if he pursues this class of painting, to unite finish with his bold effects—for attention in this respect will prove the denouement of his pictures. No. 188, Erle Stoke Park, the seat of G. Watson Taylor, Esq. M.P. by Mr. Stanfield, is a very delightful picture, being remarkably chaste and clear in the colouring. No. 404, Mattock High Tor, by Mr. Hotland, and No. 440, A Party crossing the Alps, by Mr. Egerton, are works of high merit; as are the performances of Messrs. Wilson, Blake, Glover,⁵ Knight, Nasmyth, Farrier, Gill, Novice, Stevens, Turner, Holmes, and Pidding.

The engravings and sculpture are likewise very creditable to the institution this season. Mr. Quilly has executed an excellent print from Stanfield's fine picture, The Wreckers, which was exhibited last year at the British Institution.

Among the busts in the sculpture-room we notice those of Lord Eldon, Sir F. Burdett, Sir H. Davy, the late Lord Bishop of Salisbury, &c.

G.W.N.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

(Concluded from, page 254.)

"N'importe!" exclaimed Stubbs, gaily; "there are more admirers, in this world, of the ridiculous than of the true, that let me tell you. But I must to my studies, for the night approaches. Next Monday—and this is Thursday—and I am by no means au fait yet in my part. So good morning—let me see you soon again—and meanwhile adieu! adieu! remember me!"

Mr. M'Crab departed; and Mr. Henry Augustus Constantine Stubbs prepared to go through the soliloquy of "To be—or not to be," before a mirror which reflected the whole of his person.

Monday came, and oh! with what a flutter of delight Mr. Stubbs cast his eyes upon that part of the paper, where the play for the evening was announced, and where he read, "This evening will be acted the tragedy of Hamlet: the part of Hamlet by a gentleman, his first appearance on any stage."

His carriage was at the door—and he told the coachman to drive down —— street, that he might see in passing along, whether the crowd at the pit and gallery doors, would obstruct his progress. It was not quite so large as to stretch across the carriage road; but he was sure there were some hundreds, though so early, and he thought they must have heard who the "gentleman" was, that was then rolling by. He would not be positive, too; but he could almost swear he heard an huzza, as he passed along. There were above a dozen persons collected round the stage door; and he plainly perceived that they drew back with respectful admiration, as the new Hamlet stepped out of his carriage.

He hastened to his dressing-room, where he found his friend, the manager, Mr. Peaess, who shook him by the hand, as he informed him that they had an excellent box-book. Stubbs smiled graciously; and the manager left him with his dresser, to attire himself in his "customary suit of solemn black." Mr. Stubbs had kept his intention of stuffing the character a profound secret, fearful lest any technical objections should be made by Mr. Peaess, and desirous also of making the first impression in the green-room. When he entered it, therefore, in the likeness of a chubby undertaker, ready for a funeral, rather than in that of the "unmatched form and feature of blown youth"—in short, the very type and image of poor Tokely in Peter Pastoral,—his eyes and ears were on the alert to catch the look of surprise, and buzz of admiration, which he very naturally anticipated. He was a little daunted by a suppressed titter which ran round the room; but he was utterly confounded when his best and dearest friend, Mr. Peaess himself, coming up to him exclaimed,—"Why, zounds! Mr. Stubbs, what have you been doing? By ——, the audience will never stand this."

"Stand what?" replied Henry Augustus Constantine Stubbs.

"What!" echoed the manager; "why this pot-belly, and those cherub cheeks."

"Pooh! pooh!" replied Stubbs, "it's Shakspeare's, and I can prove it."

"You may pooh! pooh! as much as you like, Mr. Stubbs," rejoined the manager; "but, by ——, you've made a mere apple-dumpling of yourself."

"Do you think so," exclaimed Stubbs, glancing in one of the mirrors—"Well; I do assure you it is Shakspeare, and I'll prove it. But what shall I do?" and he looked imploringly round upon the broad, grinning countenances of the other performers.

"Do?" ejaculated Mr. Peaess; "you can do nothing now—the curtain has been up these ten minutes; Horatio and Marcellus are coming off, and you must go on."

At this moment the ghost of Hamlet's father entered the room, but before he had time to look upon his son, the call-boy's summons was heard for the King, Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, &c., to be ready, and forth sallied poor Mr. Henry Augustus Constantine Stubbs, to prove, if he could, to the audience, that his rotundity was perfectly Shakspearian.

The awful flourish of drum and trumpet was sounded;—their majesties of Denmark, attended by their train of courtiers, walked on. There is a pause! All eyes are bent in eager gaze to catch the first glimpse of the new Hamlet—all hands are ready to applaud. He appears—boxes, pit, and gallery, join in the generous welcome of the unknown candidate. He revives—hastens to the foot-lights—bows—another round of applause—bows again—and again—and then falls back, to let the business of the scene proceed. He looks round, meanwhile, with the swelling consciousness that he is that moment "the observed of all observers," and tries to rally his agitated spirits; but just as he is beginning to do so, his wandering eye rests upon the ill-omened face of M'Crab, seated in the front-row of the stage-box, who is gazing at him with a grotesque smile, which awakens an overwhelming recollection of his own prediction, that he "would be horribly laughed at, if he did make Hamlet a fat little fellow," as well as a bewildering reminiscence of the manager's, that, "by ——, the audience would not stand it."

It was soon evident they would not, or rather that they could not stand it. But it was not alone his new reading in what regarded the person of Hamlet, that excited astonishment. Mr. Stubbs had so many other new readings, that before he got to the end of his first speech, beginning with, "Seems, madam! nay, it is," they were satisfied of what was to follow. When, however, Mr. Stubbs stood alone upon the stage, in the full perfection of his figure, and concentrated upon himself the undivided attention of the house—when he gathered up his face into an indescribable aspect of woe—but, above all, when, placing his two hands upon his little round belly, he exclaimed, while looking sorrowfully at it,