likely to deter a man from committing murder. Death we know to be terrible, not only as a punishment, but because it is a plunge into the dark. The other: let us go and observe a string of men enslaved for life; the labour is not more than that of the husbandman, and is less felt; for to the convict it is an inevitable misfortune, to the husbandman a work, that fear of starvation and a winter store of warmth, renders one of anxiety as well as necessity. The convict has a house provided for him, plenty of food and good drink, clothing, fire; the poor man has to provide them. The convict goes to his work as a beast to his burden; the labourer has the cares of the world oppressing him. The mind of the convict soon loses, in the inevitableness of his condition, much of its acuteness; and he who watches him forgets the vague report of some old crime in compassion; is led in time, from constant observation, to view his condition with indifferenceperhaps to compare it with his own, and reason himself into a belief that it is better. Where is the terribleness of perpetual slavery? Besides, it is necessary to make perpetual slavery a punishment for less offences; and thus, again, it is inadequate. Feelings, it seems to us, are here allowed to interfere with the course of justice. But where they would, they are false, and ought not to be indulged: the consequences must be evil. For where justice is trifled with, the incentives to crime increase.

Of course, in thus endeavouring to shew that the punishment of death is just and necessary, it is understood that the acts of idiots, madmen, and others, whose actions are beyond the control of reason (the cause of that want of control being no voluntary production), can only subject such beings to superintendence, to a loss of personal freedom, &c.

Palliative or exaggerating circumstances must also frequently occur with regard to all crimes. No general rule can be applicable; but certainly it is best to name the punishment analogous to the simple offence, and leave the executive to restore the analogy where it is rendered imperfect.

Paley has said there are two sorts of judicature:

1. Assigns capital punishments to few offences, and invariably inflicts them;

2. Assigns capital punishments to many offences, and inflicts them on a few examples only of each kind.

The second of these is that on which the criminal jurisprudence of this country has been conducted. Its fail

ure is to be attributed to its want of accordance with the principle of analogy. The first, which the legislature has been recommended to adopt, is à nearer approach to a rational system; but, unless the principle of analogy be adopted, the invariable infliction of capital punishments cannot be just. It would, as Paley has said, make the execution of the law more sanguinary than is either necessary or endurable. In 1837, had the recommendation of the commissioners been carried into effect, four hundred and fifty-six executions must have taken place in this country; as it was, there were only eight.

The true system of judicature may thus be defined :-One that assigns capital punishment to those offences only to which it is analogous, and never inflicts them where the analogy is rendered incomplete. Now, from what we have said, death can only be inflicted where there is loss of life, or loss of life intended; and in cases of high treason of a parricidal kind. The law, therefore, has yet to be much altered, if it be advisable to make the latter conformable to just practice.

We must now conclude. We have sought to elucidate the true theory of punishments, to reduce it to that geometrical precision which the mists of sophistry, the seduction of eloquence, and the timidity of doubt, are unable to resist." The application of the theory to practice, though a difficult, is not an insurmountable labour; and, if philanthropy be the mainspring of legislation, that labour must be a pleasure to those of whose duties it forms a principal part. Our principal reason for writing was to remove, if possible, the prejudice existing against the punishment of death. We fear that prejudice has already caused much evil, and if we shall have succeeded at all in that object, our gratification will be great.

CHAP. I.-LONDON SHOPS.

A VERY high authority-even no less than John Britton, F.S.A., &c. &c. himself-assures us, at least has assured her majesty, that art, science, literature, and almost every thing else, are all" approaching to a fulness and altitude which cannot fail to astonish even human wisdom." Some may be of opinion, that it does require

much to astonish the kind of wisdom referred to. Be that as it may, John's oracular speech has a deeper meaning than it first appears to possess; indeed, at first, it appears to have no meaning at all. For a long time, it strangely perplexed even that portion of human wisdom which has fallen to our lot, till a ray shot through the intellectual fog of mystic style, and revealed to us the actual meaning. The plain English of the matter is, that art, and every thing else, are going up-hill; yet as such an ordinary expression would have been quite out of place in a dedication to royalty, with inimitable felicity of invention does Mr. Britton clothe it in all due pomp and dignity, translating it into "approaching an altitude." Any child knows the meaning of "going up-hill," whereas " proaching an altitude" is a delightfully poetical phrase. However agreeable the discovery we have made, the solution which, Edipus-like, we have given to Mr. Britton's enigmatical language carries with it by no means the most cheering information. After all we are, it seems, only approaching an altitude; consequently, there is a very great deal of up-hill work for us to perform before we arrive at the top of it. As for Art, poor soul, she appears to lag sadly behind, and seems likely, for some time to come at least, to remain at the bottom of the hill, until some one shall kindly undertake to help the old dame forward, and give her a lift. After all, too, who will assure us that we shall

ap

not have other and steeper hills to scale, when we have ascended the "altitude we are now only approaching?"Hills climb o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise."

However, that is Mr. Posterity's affair; consoling ourselves, therefore, with saying "Après nous le déluge,” we will just take a look at one or two things, that appear to be in the van of the march of civilisation, and to be within a few steps of the summit of that same altitude to which our English sphinx* so decorously alludes.

Many of our modern London shops appear already to have reached their climax that ne plus ultra altitude, where the possibility of further advance is denied. We may venture to assert that, in comparison with several of them, the palaces of our ancient sovereigns cut a sorry figure. How little would Alfred the Great feel himself, could he take a peep at the splendours of such shops as those of our Everingtons and Holmeses! How would the haughty Wolsey feel abashed, could he compare his own littereddown state-chambers, with the wellcarpeted floors on which he might walk as the customer of a tradesman! We ourselves may be a nation of shopkeepers; but as for our shops, many of them rival palaces in the luxury and costliness they display. Surpass would be a more correct expression than "rival," since in some things they certainly exhibit a prodigality exceeding every thing of the same kind elsewhere-at any rate, in the article of plate-glass, which is frequently displayed in such amplitude of expanse, as to exceed the dimensions of a usual-sized sash square, as much as an atlas folio does a pocket duodecimo. Neither is it in windows alone that this display of glass takes place, it being very often applied in the form of mirrors with equal lavishness. Two

Nor

centuries ago, the use of looking-glasses was never dreamed of, except for the toilet; and when it did begin to be introduced among the furniture decoration of rooms, it was in such little bits, that a person could scarcely obtain a view of his whole face in one. does decoration stop here: mahogany, bronze, gilding, scagliola, papier-mâché ornaments on walls and ceilings, are applied with unsparing hand. And, then, what a perfect blaze of light do all the superior shops emit of an evening!

Were it not a matter of every day, or, rather, of every night occurrence— were it but as rare as a public illuminationall London would be out of doors to gaze and wonder at the radiance, the glare and glitter, compared with which the splendour of Vauxhall is dinginess, murkiness, and gloom; whereas now people pass unconcernedly along, scarcely deigning to glance a second time at what they would else run miles to behold.

There is no rule without an exception, for even that which is generally considered to admit of none, and therefore flatly to contradict the rule itself, has many exceptions to it; since, though at first it may appear a downright truism to say that in London nothing can be seen for nothing, without unloosing your purse-strings, such, in this matter, is not the

case.

Tout au contraire, exhibitions are provided gratuitously for all who choose to make use of their eyesight in looking at them-from the extremity, we were going to say, of Whitechapel to Hyde Park Corner, but certainly from Cornhill to Bond Street. You are not merely permitted, but every means short of actual compulsion are employed, in order to persuade you to stop and gaze at the marvels that lure your attention on each side of the way. And marvellous it truly is to contemplate and reflect upon the countless myriads of objects that there present themselves, from articles of utility and necessity, to those of prodigal luxury and the most ingenious imaginable uselessness; from those which entice by their extraordinary cheapness, to others which entice still more by their fascinating dearness. The man who can walk unassailed by a wish

or a consummate philosopher. At every step he takes he is reminded of a want; and of those most insatiable of all wants, the cravings of vanity. Many a one who could pass a butcher's or poulterer's shop, those well-stored museums of anatomical and ornithological specimens, unmoved, finds all his prudential resolutions suddenly thaw and give way as he stands before the "too, too solid" crystal, from behind which temptation shoots forth its keenest darts from diamond-rings and golden snuff-boxes.

Never should we have done, were we to attempt to recount all the stars that compose this galaxy of exhibitions: all, therefore, that we can take upon us to do is to note one or two of them. Let us begin with a note of admiration, coupled with a caution. The admiration is justly due to the wonderful skill with which the ne plus ultra perfection of nature is imitated; the caution, to the danger attending such sirenlike deceptions. There can be no harm, you will say, in looking at a perruquier's shop-window: yet, should you happen to have a susceptible heart and a lively imagination, your peace of mind may be ruined for ever. You gaze on one of the loveliest countenances you ever beheld-one of the most ravishing complexion-literally, lilies and roses -with a bloom beyond all compare; rendered still more ravishing by the raven tresses that encircle that snowy brow. We have often heard of people dying for love; but the only case of the kind which we can positively vouch for is that of poor Sir Dilberry Mopus, who was smitten with the tender, or tindery passion, while (being on the look-out for a fashionable wig) he heedlessly looked in at a window in Bond Street. Poor man! not being a second Pygmalion-consequently, unable to charm his charmer into life-he pined himself to death. His friends gave out that he was disappointed in love-as well, indeed, he might be, seeing what was the object of his affections; but that was only a very leetle bit of the truth, for had a coroner's inquest sat upon his body, they would have been justified in returning a verdict of “unwilful" murder, and have fixed a shilling deodand upon the block. The matter was hushed up by the family, and nothing

than a

cause Sir Dilberry and the lady were both arrant blockheads.

Turning over Sir Dilberry to the first novelist who may be in want of a pathetic, sentimental, and strikingly original subject, we must hurry on. Hurry on!-that's impossible: all the stores of Golconda and Peru seem treasured up behind this transparent wall of plate-glass. Surely, Aladdin must have been at work here with his lamp. Truly, it would seem that gold and diamonds cost jewellers and goldsmiths no more than they do poets, but are as plentiful in reality as they are in fiction. A few steps further, and porcelain in every variety of the most brilliant dies, or the costliest products of Indian looms, demand our wonder. You behold shawls that one would imagine no one less than an Eastern sultana could afford to wear, lavishly expanded to view. Displayed with the most nicely calculated negligence and disorder, they frequently present studies for the artist, which would exercise the mastery of his pencil. What bravura of colouring in these "still-life" subjects, where the most delicate hues, or the richest and most gorgeous dies, are intermingled-here, sparkling and flickering in light, there, lost in obscurity and shade! Can the gayest parterre or bouquet of flowers affect the vision more enchantingly? Some one will here interrupt us, by asking how we can reconcile it to our conscience thus to put the works of nature and those of men-ay, even of handicraftsmen and artisans-upon the same level.

Were we at a loss for better argument, we might justify ourselves by examples from poets innumerable, who, without either intending or being suspected of irreverence, have tricked out Nature herself in the finery of mercers' or milliners' shops, describing landscapes composed of velvet lawns, embroidered meads, silver streams, grass strewed with pearls, and other whimsical curiosities of that sort; yet all the while have the assurance to vapour about the simplicity of their taste, their abhorrence of the artificial, and their admiration of Nature divested of all meretricious ornament. Meretricious ornament!modest creatures, when they themselves paint Nature's face an inch thick at

least. Whether they have intended to delude others or not, certain it is that

luded themselves, when they represent the natural and the artificial as being utterly distinct, and even opposite. Among the rest is Cowper, who with most quaint antithesis tells us —

"God made the country, and man made the town."

Yet what is the artificial itself but a modification of nature? Man makes absolutely nothing. He fashions, indeed, and combines, according as nature will permit: more than that it is impossible for him to achieve. Should there, however, be any hardy enough to dissent from this proposition, it is for them to prove that the carpenter makes timber, and the cook and butcher manufacture beef and mutton. In one sense, nothing either is or can be perfectly artificial-not even the most complex contrivance imaginable; and so far "artificial" is merely a conventional term, though, at the same time, one to which well-meaning persons attach a vague idea of something little short of rebellious against nature.

Whether contradicted or not, we certainly incur the risk of being reproached for digressing from our professed subject: and, truly, were we to give the rein to our fancies, there is no saying how far they might carry us. Fortunately, we are not altogether so John-Gilpinish, but that we can pull up our steed, if needs must be. Therefore, resisting the manifold lures and temptations which, sirenlike, would woo us from our course, we, after the example of De Vaux, when,

"Calmly and unconcern'd, the knight Waved aside the treasures bright,"

resolutely pass on, without stopping to expatiate upon the stores of art so prodigally displayed at the windows of print-shops; where, among other wonders of the pencil, the various portraits of her majesty astonish by their perplexing poly- or heteromorphism, and almost make us fancy that, in person at least, our queen must be a female Proteus. We will not even glance at the myriads of cabinet pictures which, in the form of snuff-box lids, convert almost every tobacconist's window into the counterpart of the exhibition-room of the Royal Academy; with this dif ference, however, that while the portraits at the latter place are mostly those of mere nobodies, those at the first-man

renowned" characters, Napoleons, Wellingtons, and others of that lofty sphere. Let no man say that art is not popular among us, or that it stands in need of patronage, when it is patted every day by the fingers of nearly the whole snuff-taking population. We intend at some future time to write the Storia Pittorica of this delightful Tabby branch of the fine arts; which we shall contrive to render a history of Europe, and a sort of cyclopædia into the bargain, being now taking lessons in bibliopaia, for that purpose, from a very eminent book-maker.t

With similar forbearance do we turn aside from those very enticing architectural studies, which are to be seen at the shops of those ingenious artistes styled confectioners, who, with a noble disdain of Vitruvian and Palladian rules, instinctively work out their own ideas most "sweetly," and that, too, with far greater originality than they care to take credit for. Our forbearance, in passing over the various fabrics executed by them, is all the more praiseworthy, because the subject itself is quite a virgin theme, not having yet been treated of by any one, while it would also be found no less curious than novel. But we have said quite enough to convince even the most incredulous, that, whatever may be the case with the contemplative body, the contemplative mind may find abundant food-that is, the pabulum of reflection -in the streets of London. A man may moralise better by the side of a gutter than by that of a brook. all events, it is generally allowed that a person of a speculative turn of mind

At

can find no better field for his talents than this our great metropolis.

The curious reader-for the incurious one has hardly accompanied us thus far has now reached that turning in our article which suddenly brings us to the more matter-of-fact part of our subject, namely, to the architecture of our London shops and shopfronts, which, if in several respects better than formerly, are certainly capable of much improvement. One alteration, greatly for the better, which has taken place, is that the windows, instead of being curved, or otherwise jutting out, as is still the case with some of the older shops in the lessfrequented streets, are now invariably made quite flat, without projecting at all. And, certainly, this is by far the more rational mode, because, to say nothing of the encroachment on the foot-pavement, and the strangely lumbered-up appearance given to the sides of the streets by those mean-looking excrescences, the old-fashioned curved shop-windows were in themselves by no means so well calculated to shew goods to advantage as those now adopted. On the contrary, in passing by a bowedwindow of the kind once in vogue, you would see only half, unless you stopped and turned your head to look at the side turned from you as you came up to it. If, besides, you wish to stop and examine any thing placed at one corner of it, you could not do so without squeezing yourself into a cranny-perhaps up against a spout— between that and the window of the adjoining shop; for, in those days, the door was generally in the centre,