1829.] Affairs in General. 416 
the happy man. As to the lordly coxcombs about the Foreign Office, 
we have too high an opinion of Sontag’s taste, clumsy little flageolet as 
she is, to suppose that she would recognize their existence. Is our 
beloved Prince Leopold the happy husband after all? And is he laying 
out his money in the savings bank, to make a pretty retiring allowance for 
himself and his wife, when she shall sing herself of the stage, and be a 
prima donna no more? 
_ The Kemble Family.—<We hear that this admired work of poor 
Harlowe is missing at the present moment; whither it has fled, nobody 
ean tell ; but it is not among the treasures left behind by Rowland 
Stevenson ; and Mr. Walsh declares that he is inconsolable about it.” 
The whole affair of Rowland Stephenson’s escape, property, and 
accomplices, is still nearly as much a mystery as ever. We give the 
Banker credit for, at least, his dexterity ; and only regret that he did 
not remain in his legislatorial post, to place the last laurel on his brow 
by ratting. As it is, Sir Thomas carries it against him, and the banker 
inust be content with mutilated honours. 
In the whole career of “ appropriation,’ no more effective example 
than the banker’s is on record. The auctioneers have thriven on him 
ever since. Plate of the most recherché kind, as Mr. Robins says ; jewels, 
equipages, furniture, prize pigs, marble Venuses, and Ormolu clocks, 
found in him a most dashing bidder ; and, as he paid with other people’s 
money, or with very handsome promises, no man could come between 
him and the favourite of his fancy. How much Mr. Tom Welsh lost 
by him, or how much he gained, has not yet come to the publiceye. We 
think that the Banker’s tears and implorations to Welsh, were merely 
to squeeze from his very costive friend the last sixpence that he could 
squeeze on this side of the Atlantic. Other people say other. things. 
But, however the picture of the Kemble family came to leave Welsh’s 
own wing, we should like to know what has become of it. It was the 
finest performance of one of the cleverest painters that England has 
produced since Lawrence. As a memorandum of the most extraordi- 
nary theatrical family of our time, it had a singular value, and as a work 
of art it was admirable. If Stephenson swindled Welsh out of this pic- 
_ ture, he was doubly black ; if Welsh let him have it for a “ considera- 
tion,” we should like to know of what nature. In short, we look with 
prodigious interest on the remaining feats of a man of genius in the art 
of knavery ; who, though now in a land where he will find a good many 
clever persons, will probably not meet his match until he meets him in 
_ the finisher of the law. 
> 
_. “ Mr. Martin—A large and handsome gold medal was presented to 
this celebrated painter a few days ago, on the part of the king of France, 
in acknowledgment of a copy of Mr. M.’s engravings, which his most 
christian majesty has been graciously pleased to accept. The medal has 
a bust of the king on the one side; and on the other (in French), 
‘ Presented to Mr. John Martin by the King of France.’ The medal is 
very weighty, and the intrinsic value of the gold alone cannot be less 
than twenty guineas.” 
This is an honour, no doubt ; yet ifthe king of France were to go on 
with this pleasant species of interchange, he would make a fortune in a 
very short time. The king’s medal is worth twenty guineas—a set of 
