230 LETTER XLVII. TO THE SAME. ANOTHER of the great morning lounges has its seat in a shop, the character of which would not at first sight lead one to expect any such thing-a clothier's shop, namely, occupied by a father and son, both of the name of David Bridges. The cause and centre of the attraction, however, is entirely lodged in the person of the junior member of the firm, an active, intelligent, and warm-hearted fellow, who has a prodigious love for the Fine Arts, and lives on familiar terms with all the artists of Edinburgh; and around whom, in consequence of these circumstances, the whole connoiseurs and connoisseurship of the North have by degrees become clustered and concentrated, like the meeting of the red and yellow stripes in the back of a tartan jacket. This shop is situated in the High-Street, not above a couple of hundred yards from the house of my friend W, who, as might be supposed, is one of its most frequent visitors. I had not been long in Edinburgh before I began to make some enquiries concerning the state of art in Scotland, and W immediately con ducted me to this dilettanti lounge, saying, that here was the only place where I might be furnished with every means of satisfying all my curiosity. On entering, one finds a very neat and tasteful-looking shop, well stocked with all the tempting diversities of broad-cloth and bombazeens, silk stockings, and spotted handkerchiefs. A few sedate-looking old-fashioned cits are probably engaged in conning over the Edinburgh papers of the day, and perhaps discussing mordicus the great question of Burgh Reform; but there is nothing either in the place or the company that at all harmonizes with one's notions of a great portioτnpior of Gusto. After waiting for a few minutes, however, the younger partner tips a sly wink across his counter, and beckons you to follow him through a narrow cut in its mahogany surface, into the unseen recesses of the establishment. A few steps downwards, and in the dark, land you in a sort of cel lar below the shop proper, and here by the dim and religious light which enters through one or two well-grated peeping-holes, your eyes soon discover enough of the furniture of the place, to satisfy you that you have at last reached the Sanctum Sanctorum of the Fine Arts. Plaster -- of Paris casts of the Head of the Farnese Hercules, the Dancing Faun,—the Laocoon,—and the Hermaphrodite, occupy conspicuous stations on the counters; one large table is entirely covered with a book of Canova's designs, Turner's Liber Studiorum, and such sort of manuals; and in those corners where the little light there is streams brightest, are placed, upon huge piles of corduroy and kerseymere, various wooden boxes, black, brown, and blue, wherein are locked up from all eyes save those of the privileged and initiated frequenters of the scene, various pictures and sketches, chiefly by living artists, and presents to the proprietor. Mr Bridges, when I asked him on my first visit, what might be the contents of these mysterious receptacles, made answer in a true technico-Caledonian strain,— "Oo, Doctor Morris, they're just a wheen bits -and (added he, with a most knowing compression of his lips,)-let me tell you what, Dr Morris, there's some no that ill bits amang them neither." The bit that attracted most of my admiration, was a small and exquisitely finished picture, by William Allan-the subject, Two Tartar Robbers dividing their Spoil. I shall not describe this piece, because I have since seen a masterly etching of it in an unfinished state, executed by a young Scotch engraver of the name of Steuart, which I have ordered to be sent me as soon as it is completed, so that you will have an opportunity of judging for yourself. The energy of the design, however, and the inimitable delicacy of the colouring, made me very curious to see some of the larger productions of the same artist; and I had no sooner hinted so much, than Bridges proposed to carry me at once to Mr Allan's atelier. The artist, he said, was extremely unwell, and confined to his room; but he could assure me of a kind reception. I needed very little pressing, so we proceeded immediately quá data via fuit. We had no great distance to walk, for Mr Allan lives in the Parliament-Close, not a gun-shot from where we were. After climbing several flights of a stair-case, we were ushered into the house of the painter; and Mr Bridges, being quite at home, conduct ed us straight into his painting-room-the most picturesque painting-room, I fancy, in Europe. Mr Allan returned about two years ago to Edinburgh, (the place of his birth,) from a residence of many years in various regions of the East, and his apartment is decorated in a most splendid manner with the trophies of his wanderings. The wainscot is completely covered with rich clusters of military accoutrements, Turkish scimitars, Circassian bows and quivers, hauberks of twisted mail from Caucasus, daggers, dirks, javelins, and all manner of long unwieldy fowling-pieces,-Georgian, Armenian, and Tartar. These are arranged, for the most part, in circles, having shields and targets of bone, brass, and leather for their centres. Helmets, of all kinds and sizes, are hung above these from the roof, and they are interspersed with most gorgeous draperies of shawls, turbans, and saddle-cloths. Nothing can be more beautiful than the effect of the whole; and indeed I suppose it is, so far as it goes, a complete fac-simile of the barbaric magnificence of the interior decorations of an eastern palace. The exterior of the artist himself harmonized a good deal with his furniture; for he was arrayed, by way of robede-chambre, in a dark Circassian vest, the breast |