the model must have been very considerable, since the most minute points are attended to, and the streets rise, as the old historian Josephus tells us, while all presents a finished aspect to the eye. The walls, however, convey the idea of being rather too low in some parts when compared with the height of the houses. This, however, may not suggest itself to others. The Temple in which Christ taught, that from which he expelled the money changers, the path up which he carried the Cross, the spot where he was crucified, all teem with associations sanctified from our youth upward. We seem to see all the circumstances enacting before us, every spot, every building, every corner almost is endeared to us by some Scriptural recollection, and we feel ourselves in imagination transported to the place where our Saviour suffered. It is impossible to contemplate with indifference even this faint representation of the spots rendered so sacred in our eyes; and that all more or less experi ence, in visiting the model, some influence from the ascociations connected with Jerusalem, is evident from the deep respectful attention with which the explanation and ac.. count of the city is listened to by the asembled crowd. The deepest hush prevails through the room; and scarcely the rustling of a garment, or the drawing of a breath is heard. The interest of such an exhibition must instead of abating increase in proportion as it becomes more widely known; and we strongly advise our readers not to lose the opportunity offered them of witnessing this beautiful aud highly interesting model, which does great credit to Mr. Brunelli's patient perseverance and talent. THE POLYTECHNIC INSTITUTION. In noticing this exhibition it is of course, in the short space to which we are confined, impossible to convey any idea of what it contains, or what are the thousand curiosities which constitute its attraction. It would require a number of our magazine properly to deal with a place which so prominently deserves the warmest support from all classes of the public. Here they will find animated specimens of the most elaborate works of art, from the humble spinning machine, up to the intricate processes of printing and steam locomotion. One short visit will only bewilder the visitor's mind, he must therefore return again and again to the investigation of the curiosities here contained, unless he has rendered himself in some sort familiar with them. The greatest practical good of this exhibition is to incite young people to a wish to become acquainted with a great many departments of very necessary know ledge, with which it is desirous they should be familiar to a certain extent. Not the least interesting portion of the exhibition is the lecture upon electricity, which is delivered in the afternoon, with this we were extremely gratified, because the experiments succeeded entirely with one exception, and that a very slight one. The passing of the electricity through long glass tubes, containing as it were chains of metal wound round in a circular form round the inside, with the room meanwhile in total darkness, is excessively fine. The almost deafening hissing of the steam as it rushes forth from the boiler, the sharp click of the wires, the dashing of the blue stream of electricity through the glass, the darkness of the room inspire one with the notion that we have suddenly been transported into one of the private workshops of the very mischievous individuals in old myth, depicted making thunder and lightning, to torture the inhabitants of this world. The only fault in this lecture, however, is that it was scarcely long enough. What is given is most interesting, and we are sure that those persons who could visit the Polytechnic Institution, and fail to to derive both amusement and instruction from the hours spent there, do not deserve to have entertainment supplied them at so moderate a rate. COSMORAMA, REGENT STREET. We have been exceedingly gratified by a visit lately paid to this interesting exhibition, which certainly deserves to meet with encouragement from all those who would wile away a pleasant hour in contemplating beautiful reproductions of splendid natural landscapes. The person who goes with an intention of really relishing the entertainment presented to him, must not pass hurriedly from one to another, casting a cursory glance at each, and then depart and say he has seen all. He must on the contrary stand a short time, and look on every picture until memory brings up her store of varied associations connected with each spot; of one we have read, of another we have heard this tale, of another, that. In one perchance we have ourselves been, or some friend has lately visited it. We must suffer our imagination to carry us to the regions and countries, parts of which are presented to us, and fancy that we are gazing from a window upon the scene itself. In some instances the illusion is complete. Mont Blanc, with its snowy peaks glistening in the sunbeams, which seem now to reappear, now to disappear, as the orb is concealed behind clouds (so admirable is the management of the fanciful sun), is a beautiful picture. Then again we are transported to Siberia, those regions of eternal snow, and through the pearl-strung boughs of the trees, the patches of snow upon the fallen timber, the huts at the hedge side, in which every attempt at comfort has been made-cannot fail momentarily to engage our attention; all is lost in the contemplation of the volcano, which, pouring upward a red column of fire and clouds of smoke, seems to cast on the whole scene a faint lurid glare-the effect of which is really sublime. The Cathedral of St. Guddel at Brussels is a fine painting, but inferior in effect to the scene in Siberia, the reason of which is obvious-we come immediately from contemplating a landscape, in which life appears to be active to one cold and devoid of movement. We cannot reanimate the figures; we feel that we are gazing upon a picture. The worst in the collection is the representation of the accident which lately occurred upon the Great Northern Railway in France. The artist shows himself incapable of his subject, which, to say the best, however, is a frightful one; the effect upon the mind of the looker-on is not so fearful as it would have been, had the position of some of those escaping been less ludicrous. The bank is almost perpendicular, and yet women and men are seen, not scrambling, but walking up, as one would up the side of Primrose Hill. The Ruins of Palmyra must not be omitted, though the eye does not reconcile itself so readily to them; yet, on the whole, it is a striking picture. We have no space to enter here into detail. We strongly advise our readers to visit this exhibition which contains much that will afford them real gratification. DIORAMA, REGENT'S PARK. The two new pictures now exhibiting here, are well worthy the attention of the pleasure-seeking public. They surpass, or at least equal, any we have seen exhibited at the Diorama. Tivoli, with its numberless associations, promises a rich attraction for the lover of Italian scenery. The present view is taken from the terrace of the Temple of Vesta, commonly called the Temple of the Sibyl. From this point the place may be beheld in all its primeval beauty, where the water of the Teverone (the ancient Arno), being confined between the hills as it approaches Tivoli, is driven with increased velocity over the rocks which it there encounters, and falling from an immense height, forms the great cascade, and is afterwards precipitated down a narrow channel, into the abyss called the Grotto of Neptune. The artist has been most successful in reproducing, with startling reality, the aspect of the miniature scenery on the very edge of the stream. The fragments of ancient walls projecting towards the waters, and cover. ed with creeping plants in their tangled masses, the colour of the verdure, the green weeds mingling with other plants below, all seem to be reproduced as vividly as though we were gazing upon the spot itself, leaning, plunged in meditation, over the balustrades round the terraces of the Temple of Vesta. Each blade of grass seems distinguishable; the mild serenity of a summer night broods over the scene, the glow of an Italian sky rests upon all. At length the dawn clears into day, and the soft music breaking upon us ushers it in joyfully. We feel assured that such of our readers as may be tempted to seek amusement here will not be disappointed. The motion of the little cascade is admirably imitated, and the surrounding scenery soft and beautiful in the extreme. The effect of St. Mark's upon the mind is wholly different. At Tivoli we are won upon by the gentle loveliness of the landscape, in St. Mark's we are struck at the grandeur of the picture we are contemplating. The old church must be remembered by all who have visited Venice. It is one of the most splendid of which Italy can boast, and took nearly a century to complete the building. The decorations in mosaic were chiefly accomplished by Greek artists. The artist has succeeded in displaying before us an admirable reproduction of the interior of the church, with its splendid decorations in marble and gɔld, the great cross, and the magnificent screen. The eye never wearies with gazing upon the picture, but wanders again and again over it in search of new beauties, and is not disappointed. By day the whole is natural and striking, but soon the scene changes to night, and we find ourselves once more in the church, but now beneath the influence of the spell thrown over us by the consciousness that a mimic service has commenced, our senses are taken prisoner. The cross presents a brilliant aspect, glowing with mellowed light; afar in the dim recesses burn the wax-tapers; near the altar are kneeling forms, while the pavement of the church is all occupied with men and women, mostly in the attitude of prayer. The evening service has begun; and up through the aisles, and down the colonnades, and through the naves, and up to the dome and cupola, swells a sad rich music, which form a faint low murmur in the distance, rises into a grand and glorious peal of sacred melody. This is the aspect under which, again and again, we could wish to view the picture, and such of our readers as delight in grand and effective specimens of art, must as suredly visit the Diorama. Jenny Lind; or, the Edolatry of the Voice. Nothing could possibly be more superfluous than a technical criticism on the performances of Jenny Lind. Our intention accordingly is to write no such criticism. The thing is done daily by a hun. dred writers, who appear to be at considerable pains to vary their phraseology, in the hope of imparting freshness to their terms of admiration. This effort of theirs exhibits human nature in an agreeable light, illustrating the facility with which the self-love of a thousand humble individuals may, without entirely losing its own gratification, be rendered subservient to the self-love of one more adventurous and aspiring. With Miss Lind's merits as a singer or an actress, about which, as we have said, so many rhapsodies are delivered every day, we, on the present occasion, have nothing to do. Our inclination is not likely to betray us into a controversy on such points. Let us, therefore, be supposed to concede to her admirers all they contend for-namely, that she is the first singing woman of the age; and what then? Will that circumstance justify the ludicrous excitement just now prevalent in what is called society? We did not need the testimony of recent experience to prove to us how empty the heads of most people are, and how necessary it is for their diminutive happiness that one trifle after another should come to put their childish sensibilities in motion, and make them conscious as it were of their own vitality. But the unspeakable frivolity, the immeasurable littleness, the systematic and entire absence of all self-respect, which a large portion of NO. 1337. [1847. the public now seem eager to display, very much exceed the degree of absurdity which we have been accustomed to give the world credit for. Don't let the reader exclaim, “Ah, I see you are not musical; you have no relish for a fine voice, no partiality for the opera, no appreciation of those mimetic talents the exertion of which we denominate acting." On all these points the reader who should make such observations would be wrong. No man living has a more genuine relish of music, especially of that sweetest of all music the female voice, or experiences greater enjoyment from witnessing a fine opera or play. What we object to is the excess, the extravagance, the ridiculously false appreciation of things. We would make use of some reserve in applying the word "artist" to a cook or a singer-to the person who gratifies your palate or your ear-who produces a deli-` cious ragout, or sings a fine song. Art, however, in all its modifications, is a noble thing, and we are not at all disposed to withhold this praise from the art of singing. It is really a great achievement to sing well, because, through the instrumentality of the senses, it accomplishes, to a certain extent, the purpose of all art— the pleasurable excitement of the mind. But the inferiority of music to the other arts consists in this, that while painting, sculpture, and, above all, poetry, amelio. rate the soul, and produce permanent impressions which become, as it were, part and parcel of our experience, music terminates in mere delight, as fleeting as that occasioned by the smelling of perfume. 45 VOL. XLIX. Perhaps it may be said that the tendency of the effects produced by all kinds of beauty is nearly the same-namely, to soften and relax the mind, to diminish its energy, by supplying it at once with that which it is the object of all energy to attain-pleasure or happiness. But he must have studied his own sensations with little diligence or accuracy, who can confound the results of music with those of poetry, sculpture, or painting. Of all our enjoy ments, that of music is the most immersed in sense. It does not directly touch the intellect at all. It is a sort of titillation of the nerves, which it causes to vibrate agreeably, after the manner of all other pleasurable sensations, and in this way acts upon the mind. While the flood of sound fills, if we may use the figure, all those receptacles in our nature which may be said to have been prepared for it, our faculties appear dilated and enlarged, as they do under the pleasing influence of wine, the fumes created by which strongly resemble the delight of music. But when the ebb follows, as follow it must, there immediately succeeds a lassitude which diminishes gradually the vigour of the mind, renders it fastidious and effeminate, and ultimately induces that debility which, when widely prevalent, constitutes national degeneracy. But, in an age of selfishness, this consideration will have but little weight. People are not in search of that which might strengthen and elevate the national character, but of that which will administer pleasure to themselves. If, therefore, they are gratified, it is enough; and, to a certain extent, they no doubt are gratified by the prevalent idolatry of the voice. People nevertheless are full of fallacies and contradictions; and if they experience little delight in the thing which happens to be in vogue, the delight is by no means little which they have in seeming to agree with their neighbours. If one man begin with the positive, another is sure to rise to the comparative, while a third leaps at once to the superlative. The vulgar have no moderation in anything. They love or hate, without rhyme or reason, to excess; and many who were meant by nature to rise above the vulgar, sink far beneath them by affecting follies which they do not feel, and cultivating weaknesses from which nature originally made them free. Everybody knows that, as a nation, we are not musical, any more than we are anything else in particular. There is a talent in this country for everything. We can govern ourselves, we can conduct the loftiest processes of civilisation, we can found colonies, we can clothe, house, instruct, and regenerate the most barbarous races of the earth, we can send forth irresistible fleets, manufacture steam-engines and railways, and give birth to poetry which the most literary and refined nations of ancient or modern times might regard with envy-but we are not a musical people, neither are we architectural, cr in any other sense of the word artistic. We understand the two master arts of politics and poetry, and, properly speaking, are great in no other. Least of all are we singers or fiddlers. As a people, we resemble the Turks in this, that we relinquish the practice of all such effeminate arts to foreigners, whom we hire for our amusement. The descendants of the Romans who once led their conquering legions to Britain now come hither humbly in search of cash; and the barbarians of the north, the Scandinavians, the Gauls, the Germans, the Iberians, and even the offspring of the fierce and ferocious Huns, flock to London to fiddle, dance, and quaver, for the amusement of the imperial race which has hitherto prided itself in the knowledge of one science onlythat of subduing and governing mankind. But from numerous indications daily becoming more and more striking, we fear it must be acknowledged that our superb and haughty islanders are succumbing to the enervating tastes of the rest of Christendom, and cultivating the inclination not merely to rival' the professors of amusement of other lands, but to degenerate into absolute idolators of the mere instruments of pleasure. It is a tendency in human natu'e, too obvious to be insisted on, to invest a favourite pursuit with undue importance. The man who correctly imitates the crowing of a cock, thinks there is no accomplishment like that of crowing. He will, through excess of liberality, allow there may be some merit in writing a book, or governing a kingdom, or sculpturing a great statue; "But these things," he will observe, "require much less arduous application than crowing." Crowing, therefore, is the great thing. Just so is it in matters gas tronomical. To invent a new dish is more difficult than to write a new epic; so that your successful cook soars naturally far above your poet. They are both useful, in their way; but as men would grow wonderfully thin on chopped lyrics, so the man who administers skilfully to our primary wants, and gives its proper dimensions and rotundity to our physical system, is to be preferred before the mere musical arranger of syllables and the dealer in metaphors and fancies. All this while, however, we obviously run the risk of being misunderstood. We admire music, and respect those who cultivate it; but we desire to keep our admiration and our respect within due bounds. Hear a singer, if you please, and yield frankly to the influence of the delight which his or her powers of voice may be able to inspire. Do not, however, lose your reason on the occasion. Preserve carefully that which distinguishes man from the inferior animals, and do not run about bleating like a calf, because a young woman of Sweden happens to be gifted with a fine voice, and to have cultivated it with care and success. To a man who has been all day immersed in politics or business, it is a pleasant thing to sit idly in an opera-box, in the company of handsome women, breathing pleasure and perfume, and to listen, perfectly at your ease, to an indefinite series of sweet sounds. Moderately indulged in, this is an enjoyment which recreates and refreshes the mind, and when you return home there is no harm in describing to others who may have been differently, and, perhaps, better engaged, the entertainment you have experienced. And this, in fact, is what rational folks do. It is only the weak, the frivolous, the silly, the mere empty coxcombs, who have not two ideas of their own, who, conjointly with women as ridiculous as themselves, get up a buz in the world about the Swedish Nightingale, the marvel of Scandinavia, the new vocal phenomenon, and so forth. With great propriety people call this sort of feeling the “rage.” It is just that. But who that possesses a grain of sense or self respect, would like to be found under the influence of such a rage? Who would be silly enough to carry about, for example, a Jenny Lind handkerchief in his pocket, or to stick her portrait over his mantel-piece, or to be perpetually repeating her name in all the circles into which he is admitted? Every creature has ears, the least intellectual often the most capacious, and the exercise of the sense of hearing is, we dare say, productive of gratification to all animals. Several species of brutes have some perception of music, because it addresses itself rather to the organic sensibilities of our physical nature, than to those mental faculties peculiar to man. We, therefore, by no means blame the search after mușical pleasure, which we enjoy in common with birds and beasts, but in common, also, with the highest intelligencies of which we have any knowledge. But intense enjoyment of all kinds is silent. Happiness fills the heart almost to overflowing, but he who feels it sounds no trumpet to call together witnesses of his pleasure. The true lovers of music, therefore, are not they who fall ostentatiously into raptures, who deal in exclamations, who ransack and torture language, in order to find expressions for their foolish enthusiasm. There are pleasures far sweeter and more exquisite than those imparted by music. But they are enjoyed silently in the hush and retirement of nature, where the unheard harmony within is infinitely more delicious than any possible combination of external sounds. And yet for these sensations language has no name and nature no voice. The noisy trumpeters of their emotions are they who feel least. He in whose mind music finds a large echo, equal to its greatest force and expansion, gives vent, perhaps afterwards, in melodious language to his delight, when memory strives to collect and link together those fragments of emotion which time has shattered, like a beautiful vase, wasting all the precious perfume it contained. Small and shallow capacities are always running over and pointing to what constitutes their misfortune, as to an evidence of their mental wealth. It is little fancy or sensibility that they possess; but their minds are too narrow to contain even that, so that they must be prating and revealing their helpless feebleness to the world. We always smile when the name of Jenny Lind is brought up in conversation, for it has become quite as bad as the weather, on which people daily hazard original remarks. When the sky is as |