the yet unburied corpses, and blackened walls of Palermo testify against him, his fate might awake some little sympathy in the hearts even of those who had suffered from the cruelty and bigotry of his father. What a destiny it was to be born the summer king of that lovely land, where the blue waters of the Mediterranean wash the rocks upon which the orange trees grow; where the air is so delicate and light that one draws in contentment and happiness with every breath. So very easily ruled are the people in this southern paradise, that it was not necessary to be a great, nor a wise, nor a good king; but simply to abstain from the most violent forms of tyranny and wickedness. From the days when old Tiberius fixed his last abiding-place on the summit of Capri, till those when Ferdinand II. filled his dungeons in Ischia and Procida with state prisoners, the Southern Italians have been well broken in to masterful rule. They would not have been shocked at trifles. By religion, by temperament, and by tradition they were accustomed to acquiesce in the guidance of a strong hand, and were not ready to challenge any exercise of power so it did not drive them to desperation. The Neapolitan Bourbons, however, have tired out the patience of this people, and it needs but the presence of the deliverer to drive the young sovereign from that splendid throne, which he might have held throughout a long life, had he simply abstained from walking in the steps of his father.
The march of Garibaldi from Reggio to Naples, will probably be as the march of our own William from Torbay, or the march of Napoleon from Cannes. When the Neapolitan “difficulty” is disposed of, we shall probably hear that the Pope, in his temporal capacity, is melting away like a snow-figure in the sun-shine—afterwards, what? Let us trust that the Italians will retain moderation in the midst of their triumphs, and not be too ready to invoke a contest with a coalition, which now seems to number in its ranks the united Powers of Germany and Russia. Providence is too apt to be on the side of the best drilled grenadiers. The condition of Italy since 1815 is a convincing proof of this lamentable fact.
THE NATIONAL MUSEUMS.
What a pity it is that all our National collections of pictures, of statues, of antiquities, of objects of Natural History, should be shorn of half their value from the meanness of the various buildings in which they are exhibited to public view, and from the confused manner in which they are huddled together. We have, in London, but one room which is really worthy of the purpose to which it is devoted, and that is the new Reading-room of the British Museum. This, indeed, is a magnificent apartment—a credit to the country, and a great boon to all men engaged in literary pursuits. It was well-nigh impossible to work out any literary task in the room formerly set aside at the British Museum for the use of students. The Museum head-ache had become a by-word. How was it possible to extract, from the over-tasked brain, the due execution of the daily task, when the atmosphere in which the labour was performed was little better than a foul and unwholesome stench? This blot, however, has been removed, and Englishmen may now point, with honest pride, to the home which has been prepared for their students. Almost equal praise must be given to the manner in which the book-department of the Museum generally is conducted, under the careful and intelligent management of Mr. Panizzi. There is not a more useful public servant to be found.
Here, however, there must be an end of praise. In the Museum we have the finest collection of Greek sculpture in the world,—but in how paltry a manner it is displayed. The continental traveller—and everybody is a continental traveller in these days—thinks with shame upon the difference between the arrangements which he finds at Rome, Florence, Paris, and elsewhere, and those which are deemed good enough in London for the exhibition of the noblest works of antiquity. No doubt, in magnitude and in numbers, the Roman collections are superior to our own; but even at Rome, there is nothing which we would receive in exchange for our own Elgin marbles. In the Vatican they would be enshrined in a magnificent temple, worthy of such precious relics of the genius of by-gone days. The sculpture-room at the Louvre may well put us to shame, although the Parisian collection is not to be mentioned by the side of our own English treasures in marble. Even the little collection at Munich is shown to such advantage that it is doubled in value. Passing from the works of the ancients to those of modern artists, is it not wonderful that English sculptors can be induced, year after year, to exhibit their works in that dismal little hole at the Academy, which is thought good enough for the reception of the fruits of their annual toil? The portrait-busts, in particular, are so arranged that they would be almost ridiculous if light enough were admitted into the apartment to permit of a judgment upon the general effect.
It is the same with regard to our pictures. Let us be frank—the National Gallery is a national disgrace. Of course, as far as the number of pictures is concerned, we cannot yet boast of being upon an equality with some of the continental nations, but we possess many pictures by the hands of the old masters which are of the very highest merit. Our national collection is small, but in the main it is good. There is not in it, even comparatively speaking, anything like the same amount of inferior pictures as may be seen, for example, in the great gallery of the Louvre. The rooms, however, in which the English pictures are hung are, in every way, contemptible, and unworthy of the purpose to which they have been assigned. If a suitable frame serves to bring out the beauties of a picture, so also does a suitable room serve to bring out the full beauties of the pictures when framed. Light is, of course, a vital question. Even the light at the National Gallery is admitted in an insufficient way. It is easy enough for Londoners to appreciate the difference which good hanging and good light may make in the apparent value of pictures. Not so long since, the magnificent collection of his own works, bequeathed by Mr. Turner to the nation, was exhibited in the dull,