whom learning or science has honoured,-a poet, a monk, or a philosopher ;-perhaps one, even, whom love has made immortal. We once saw such a one-there he was, with nobility on his forehead, and sadness in his eye, the humbled inheritor of a proud name-the impoverished master of thousands! Can one help pitying such a sufferer ? We see him, and pass on: we see another and another-and another: but he still remains fixed in our memory ("hæret lateri lethalis arundo),” and we turn back, after viewing all the rest, once more to sympathize with him alone. We say, "Rich one! are you there still, still pale, and dumb, and melancholy? Had the foul fiend so seized upon you, that not even the flattering painter could take the sorrow from your eye,— the sting that had ran, piercing through your heart? 'Faith, you are fallen indeed!"

Let not the reader suppose, from what we have said, that we are wanting in a due respect for the illustrious painters who have conferred honour upon art. We love or admire them all. We can pore over a book of prints, even, and forget ourselves among the old masters of the Italian school of painting. We can begin with Giotto, and go on untired, to the last of the school of the Caracci.

There is great fervour, and (so to speak) devotion of spirit in some of Giotto's works :- -(did the reader ever

see his two saintly heads, in the possession of Mr. Rogers the poet)? There is great skill, and some grandeur in Massaccio, and infinite beauty in Perugino.

Then,

there are the quaint loveliness of Leonardo da Vinci-the frowning power of Michael Angelo-the splendours of Giorgione and Titian-the suavity of Correggioand the life, and spirit, and beauty-the grace and intelligence, and unequalled propriety of Raffaelle! There, too, are Guido's pale heads, and Domenichino's divine expressions—the stern realities of Annibal—the touching looks of Fra. Bartolomeo-the halcyon skies of Claude-and the stormy landscapes of Salvator Rosa. In a word, all that beauty and power, or the spirit of religion and love have dictated—all that great Nature herself has taught, are therein assembled, to delight whoever has the taste to value them. The most radiant visions open themselves upon us;—the grandeur of the old world—the fantastic elegance of the new-the creation of Adam—the visage of Cæsar— Cleopatra and her asp-Roman temples-Egyptian pyramids-angels, and hierarchs, and prophets-warriors of all times-women, lovelier and more variable than the rainbow-all are brought back before us, by a power, greater than that of Prospero's wand. And can we refuse our homage?— No: we gaze, and acknowledge that, even in its degradation and decline, Italy had still some spirits able to perpetuate her glory, and, in some degree, even to elevate her name!

The great painters to whom we have adverted (for the purpose of recording our respect for art in general), were painters of history or landscape. But they could at

times abandon their professed employment, and sketch the likeness of their mistress, or of their friend-or of some excelling beauty of their age and nation; such as artists (above all other people) delight to honour. The Transfiguration was done by Raffaelle for the sake of eternal renown (which it has won); but the Fornarina was a work of love; and the artist's own portrait (more than once painted by himself, and given to his friend or patron), is well worthy the double commendation that men have conspired to bestow upon it. It is a masterly deed, twice honoured, for its own merit and for the principle of gratitude in which it had its origin.

Few of the great Roman artist's pictures have been more admired, than his portraits of Leo and Julius the Second. There is so much of integrity in the design, so much truth in the detail, that no one who gazes can for a moment doubt but that they are true representations of those famous men. Raffaelle's life was employed on works of imagination, such as no one else has equalled; but he could descend from the "dignity of history," as it is called, and submit to transcribe a faithful lesson of nature, like one of a less gifted intellect.

We can scarcely imagine a thing much more pleasant indeed, to an artist, than to be brought face to face with some famous person, and permitted to examine and scrutinize his features, with that careful and intense curiosity, that seems necessary to the perfecting a likeness. must have been to Raffaelle, at once a relaxation from his

It

ordinary study, and a circumstance interesting in itself, thus to look into faces so full of meaning as those of Julius and Leo-and to say, "That look-that glance, which seems so transient, will I fix for ever. Thus shall he be seen, with that exact expression (although it lasted but for an instant), five hundred years after he shall be dust and ashes!"

This was probably the feeling of Raffaelle; and it must have been with a somewhat similar pride that our excellent artist, Mr. Leslie, accomplished his portrait of Sir Walter Scott, which the reader will have already admired in this volume. It is surely a perfect work. No one, who has once seen the great author, can forget that strange and peculiar look (so full of meaning, and shrewd and cautious observation—so entirely characteristic, in short, of the mind within) which Mr. Leslie has succeeded in catching. One may gaze on it for ever, and contemplate an exhaustless subject—all that the capacious imagination has produced, and is producing,-the populous, endless world of fancy.

Let the reader look, and be assured that there is the strange Spirit that has discovered and wrought all the fine shapes that he has been accustomed to look upon with wonper-Claverhouse, and Burley, and Bothwell,-Meg Merrilies and Elspeth—the high and the low-the fierce and the fair-Cavaliers and Covenanters, and the rest-presenting an assemblage of character that is absolutely unequalled, except in the pages of Shakspeare alone. There is no other

writer, be he Greek, or Goth, or Roman, who has ever astonished the world by creations so infinitely diversified. The mind of the author appears so free from egotism, so large and serene, so clear of all images of self, that it receives, as in a lucid mirror, all the varieties of nature. It was thus that the greatest and rarest of all poets was enabled to perform his wonderful task. Thus free from egotism and turbid vanity was Shakspeare himself. And thus, we may prophesy, must every author be, who shall succeed in stirring the hearts of men by dint of example only.

WYBURN.

Nor far declined from his meridian tower
The sun already sinks beneath the mound
Of long continuous rocks in gloom that lower,
Dusking the crystal of the lake's profound,
While, opposite, Helvellyn's verdant steep
Shines with a thousand silver streams that bound
In wild precipitation to the deep
Lugubrious grandeur of the vale below,
Backed by the snowy altitudes where sleep
The demons of the storm on Skiddaw's brow.
Peace is in every sound: the murmuring air,
The distant eagle's cry, the torrent's flow,
Lure from the heart each sublunary care,

And leave the temple free to penitence and prayer.

H.