of the present generation thank their stars THAT tragedy is put out
of their way. Miss Linwood's was worsted-work. Your grandmother or
grandaunts took you there and said the pictures were admirable. You saw
"the Woodman" in worsted, with his axe and dog, trampling through the
snow; the snow bitter cold to look at, the woodman's pipe wonderful: a
gloomy piece, that made you shudder. There were large dingy pictures
of woollen martyrs, and scowling warriors with limbs strongly knitted;
there was especially, at the end of a black passage, a den of lions,
that would frighten any boy not born in Africa, or Exeter 'Change, and
accustomed to them.

Another exhibition used to be West's Gallery, where the pleasing figures
of Lazarus in his grave-clothes, and Death on the pale horse, used to
impress us children. The tombs of Westminster Abbey, the vaults at St.
Paul's, the men in armor at the Tower, frowning ferociously out of
their helmets, and wielding their dreadful swords; that superhuman Queen
Elizabeth at the end of the room, a livid sovereign with glass eyes, a
ruff, and a dirty satin petticoat, riding a horse covered with steel:
who does not remember these sights in London in the consulship of
Plancus? and the wax-work in Fleet Street, not like that of Madame
Tussaud's, whose chamber of death is gay and brilliant; but a nice old
gloomy wax-work, full of murderers; and as a chief attraction, the Dead
Baby and the Princess Charlotte lying in state?

Our story-books had no pictures in them for the most part. Frank (dear
old Frank!) had none; nor the "Parent's Assistant;" nor the "Evenings
at Home;" nor our copy of the "Ami des Enfans:" there were a few just at
the end of the Spelling-Book; besides the allegory at the beginning, of
Education leading up Youth to the temple of Industry, where Dr. Dilworth
and Professor Walkinghame stood with crowns of laurel. There were, we