Wouvermans, in this room, particularly the one with a hay-cart loading on the top of a rising ground. The composition is as striking and pleasing as the execution is delicate. There is immense knowledge and character in Wouvermans' horsesan ear, an eye turned round, a cropped tail give you their history and thoughts but from the want of a little arrangement, they look too often like spots on a dark ground. When they are properly relieved and disentangled from the rest of the composition, there is an appearance of great life and bustle in his pictures. His horses, however, have too much of the manége in them-he seldom gets beyond the camp or the riding school. This room is rich in masterpieces. Here is the Jacob's Dream, by Rembrandt, with that sleeping figure, thrown likea bundle of clothes in one corner of the picture, by the side of some stunted bushes, and with those winged shapes, not human, not angelical, but bird-like, dreamlike, treading on clouds, ascending, descending through the realms of endless light, that loses itself in the infinite space! No one else could ever grapple with this subject, or stamp it on the willing canvas in its gorgeous obscurity but Rembrandt! Here also is the St. Barbara, of Rubens, fleeing from her persecutors; a noble design, as if she were scaling the steps of some high overhanging turret, moving majestically on, with Fear before her, Death behind her, and Martyrdom crowning her:-and here is an eloquent landscape by the same master-hand, the subject of which is, a shepherd piping his flock homewards through a narrow defile, with a graceful group of autumnal trees waving on the edge of the declivity above, and the rosy evening light streaming through the clouds on the green moist landscape in the still lengthening distance. Here (to pass from one kind of excellence to another with kindly interchange) is a clear sparkling Waterfall, by Ruysdael, and Hobbima's Water-Mill, with the wheels in motion, and the ducks paddling in the restless stream. Is not this a sad anti-climax from Jacob's Dream to a picture of a Water-Mill? We do not know; and we should care as little, could we but paint either of the pictures.

Entire affection scorneth nicer hands. If a picture is admirable in its kind, we do not give ourselves much trouble about the subject. Could we paint as well as Hobbima, we should not envy Rembrandt: nay, even as it is, while we can relish both, we envy neither!

The CENTRE ROOM commences with a Girl at a Window, by Rembrandt. The picture is known by the print of it, and is one of the most remarkable and pleasing in the collection. For clearness, for breadth, for a lively, ruddy look of healthy nature, it cannot be surpassed. The execution of the drapery is masterly, There is a story told of its being his servant-maid looking out of a window, but it is evidently the portrait of a mere child.-A Farrier shoeing an Ass, by Berchem, is in his usual manner. There is truth of character and delicate finishing; but the fault of all Berchem's pictures is, that he continues to finish after he has done looking at nature, and his last touches are different from hers. Hence comes that resemblance to tea-board painting, which even his best works are chargeable with. We find here one or two small Claudes of no great value; and two very clever specimens of the court-painter, Watteau, the Gainsborough of France. They are marked as Nos. 184 and 194, Fête Champêtre, and Le Bal Champêtre. There is something exceedingly light, agreeable, and characteristic, in this artist's productions. He might almost be said to breathe his figures and his flowers on the canvas-so fragile is their texture, so evanescent is his touch. He unites the court and the country at a sort of salient pointyou would fancy yourself with Count Grammont and the beauties of Charles II. in their gay retreat at Tunbridge Wells. His trees have a drawingroom air with them, an appearance of gentility and etiquette, and nod gracefully over-head; while the figures below, thin as air, and vege tably clad, in the midst of all their affectation and grimace, seem to have just sprung out of the ground, or to be the fairy inhabitants of the scene in masquerade. They are the Oreads and Dryads of the Luxembourg! Quaint association, happily effected by the pencil of Watteau! In the

Bal Champêtre we see Louis XIV. himself dancing, looking so like an old beau, his face flushed and puckered up with gay anxiety; but then the satin of his slashed doublet is made of the softest leaves of the water-lily; Zephyr plays wanton with the curls of his wig! We have nobody who could produce a companion to this picture now: nor do we very devoutly wish it. The Louis the Fourteenths are extinct, and we suspect their revival would hardly be compensated even by the re-appearance of a Watteau.-No. 187, the Death of Cardinal Beaufort, by Sir Joshua Reynolds, is a very indifferent and rather unpleasant sketch of a very fine picture. One of the most delightful things in this delightful collection is the Portrait (195) of the Prince of the Asturias, by Velasquez. The easy lightness of the childish Prince contrasts delightfully with the unwieldy figure of the horse, which has evidently been brought all the way from the Low Countries for the amusement of his rider. Velasquez was as fine a portrait-painter as any now living-almost as fine as any that ever lived! In the Centre Room also is the Meeting of Jacob and Rachel, by Murillo -a sweet picture with a fresh green landscape, and the heart of Love in the midst of it.--There are several heads by Holbein scattered up and down the different compartments. We need hardly observe that they all have character in the extreme, so that we may be said to be acquainted with the people they represent; but then they give nothing but character, and only one part of that, viz. the dry, the literal, the concrete, and fixed. They want the inspiration of passion and beauty; but they are the finest caput mortuums of expression that ever were made. Hans Holbein had none of the volatile essence of genius in his composition. If portrait-painting is the prose of the art, his pictures are the prose of portrait-painting. Yet he is "a reverend name" in art, and one of the benefactors of the human mind. He has left faces behind him that we would give the world to have seen, and there they are-stamped on his canvas for ever! Art is Time's Telescope. Who, in reading over certain names, does not feel a yearning in

his breast to know their features and their lineaments? We look through a small frame, and lo! at the distance of three centuries, we have before us the figures of Anne Boleyn, of the virtuous Cranmer, the bigotted Queen Mary, the noble Surrey-as if we had seen them in their life-time, not perhaps in their best moods or happiest attitudes, but as they sometimes looked, no doubt. We know at least what sort of looking-people they were: our minds are made easy on that score; the "body and limbs are there, and we may "add what flourishes of grace or ornament we please. Holbein's heads are to the finest portraits what state-papers are to history.

The first picture in the FOURTH Room is the Prophet Samuel, by Sir Joshua. It is not the Prophet Samuel, but a very charming picture of a little child saying its prayers. The second is, The Education of Bacchus, by Nicolas Poussin. This picture makes one thirsty to look at it-the colouring even is dry and adust. It is true history in the technical phrase, that is to say, true poetry in the vulgate. The figure of the infant Bacchus seems as if he would drink up a vintage-he drinks with his mouth, his hands, his belly, and his whole body. Garagantua was nothing to him. In the Education of Jupiter, in like manner, we are thrown back into the infancy of mythologic lore. The little Jupiter, suckled by a shegoat, is beautifully conceived and expressed; and the dignity and ascendancy given to these animals in the picture is wonderfully happy. They have a very imposing air of gravity indeed, and seem to be by prescription 66 grand caterers and wet-nurses of the state" of Heaven! Apollo giving a Poet a Cup of Water to drink is elegant and classical; and The Flight into Egypt instantly takes the tone of Scripture-history. This is strange, but so it is. All things are possible to the imagination. All things, about which we have a feeling, may be expressed by true genius. A dark landscape (by the same hand) in a corner of the room is a proof of this. There are trees in the fore-ground, with a paved road and buildings in the distance. The Genius of antiquity might walk here, and feel itself at home. The large

leaves are wet and heavy with dew, and the eye dwells "under the shade of melancholy boughs." In the old collection (in Mr. Desenfans' time) the Poussins occupied a separate room by themselves, and it was (we confess) a very favourite room with us.-No. 226, is a Landscape, by Salvator Rosa. It is one of his very best-rough, grotesque, wild-Pan has struck it with his hoof-the trees, the rocks, the fore-ground, are of a piece, and the figures are subordinate to the landscape. The same dull sky lowers upon the scene, and the bleak air chills the crisp surface of the water. It is a consolation to us to meet with a fine Salvator. His is one of the great names in art, and it is among our sources of regret that we cannot always admire his works as we would do, from our respect to his reputation and our love of the man.. Poor Salvator! He was unhappy in his life-time; and it vexes us to find that we cannot make him amends by thinking him so great a painter as some others, whose fame was not their only inheritance! 227, Venus and Cupid, is a delightful copy after Correggio. We have no such regrets or qualms of conscience with respect to him. "He has had his reward." The weight of his renown balances the weight of barbarous coin that sunk him to the earth. Could he live now, and know what others think of him, his misfortunes would seem as dross compared with his lasting glory, and his heart would melt within him at the thought, with a sweetness that only his own pencil could express. 233, The Virgin, Infant Christ, and St. John, by Andrea del Sarto, is exceedingly good.-290, Another Holy Family, by the same, is an admirable picture, and only inferior to Raphael. It has delicacy, force, thought, and feeling. "What lacks it then," to be equal to Raphael? We hardly know, unless it be a certain firmness and freedom, and glowing animation. The execution is more timid and laboured. It looks like a picture (an exquisite one, indeed), but Raphael's look like the reality, the divine reality!-No. 234, Cocles defending the Bridge, is by Le Brun. We do not like this picture, nor 271, The Massacre of the Innocents, by the same artist. One reason is that

they are French, and another that they are not good. They have great merit, it is true, but their merits are only splendid sins. They are mechanical, mannered, colourless, and unfeeling.-No. 237 is Murillo's Spanish Girl, with Flowers. The sun tinted the young gipsey's complexion, and not the painter.-No. 240, is The Cascatella and Villa of Mæcenas, near Tivoli, by Wilson, with his own portrait in the fore-ground. It is an imperfect sketch; but there is a curious anecdote relating to it, that he was so delighted with the waterfall itself, that he cried out, while painting it: "Well done, water, by G-d!". No. 243, Saint Cecilia, by Guercino, is a very pleasing picture, in his least gaudy manner. No. 251, Venus and Adonis, by Titian. We see so many of these Venuses and Adonises, that we should like to know which is the true one. This is one of the best we have seen. We have two Francesco Molas in this room, the Rape of Proserpine, and a Landscape with a Holy Family. This artist dipped his pencil so thoroughly in Titian's palette, that his works cannot fail to have that rich, mellow look, which is always delightful.-No. 303, Portrait of Philip the Fourth of Spain, by Velasquez, is purity and truth itself. We used to like the Sleeping Nymph, by Titian, when we saw it formerly in the little entrance-room at Desenfans', but we cannot say much in its praise here.

The FIFTH ROOM is the smallest, but the most precious in its contents.

No. 322, Spanish Beggar Boys, by Murillo, is the triumph of this collection, almost of painting. In the imitation of common life, nothing ever went beyond it, or, as far as we can judge, came up to it. A Dutch picture is mechanical, and mere stilllife to it. But this is life itself. The Boy at play on the ground is miraculous. It is done with a few dragging strokes.of the pencil, and with a little tinge of colour; but the mouth, the nose, the eyes, the chin, are as brimful as they can hold of expression, of arch roguery, of animal spirits, of vigorous, elastic health. The vivid, glowing, cheerful look is such as could only be found beneath a southern sun. The fens and dykes of Holland (with all our respect for them) could never produce such an

epitome of the vital principle. The other boy, standing up with the pitcher in his hand, and a crust of bread in his mouth, is scarcely less excellent. His sulky, phlegmatic indifference speaks for itself. The companion to this picture, 324, is also very fine. Compared with these imitations of nature, as faultless as they are spirited, Murillo's Virgins and Angels, however good in themselves, look vapid, and even vulgar. A Child Sleeping, by the same painter, is a beautiful and masterly study.-No. 329, a Musical Party, by Giorgione, is well worthy of the notice of the connoisseur.-No. 331, St. John preaching in the Wilderness, by Guido, is an extraordinary picture, and very unlike this painter's usual manner. The colour is as if the flesh had been stained all over with brick-dust. There is, however, a wildness about it which accords well with the subject, and the figure of St. John is full of grace and gusto. No. 344, The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian, by the same, is much finer, both as to execution and expression. The face is imbued with passion.-No. 345, Portrait of a Man, by L. da Vinci, is truly simple and grand, and at once carries you back to that age.-Boors

Merry Making, by Ostade, is fine; but has little business where it is. Yet it takes up very little room,-No. 347, Portrait of Mrs. Siddons, in the character of the Tragic Muse, by Sir Joshua, appears to us to resemble neither Mrs. Siddons, nor the Tragic Muse. It is in a bastard style of art. Sir Joshua had an importunate theory of improving upon nature. He might improve upon indifferent nature, but when he had got the finest, he thought to improve upon that too, and only spoiled it.-No. 349, The Virgin and Child, by Correggio, can only be a copy.-No. 332, The Judgment of Paris, by Vanderwerf, is a picture, and by a master, that we hate. He always chooses for his subjects naked figures of women, and tantalises us by making them of coloured ivory. They are like hard-ware toys.-No. 354, a Cardinal blessing a Priest, by P. Veronese, is dignified and picturesque in the highest degree.-No. 355, The Adoration of the Shepherds, by Annibal Caracci, is an elaborate, but not very successful performance. -No. 356, Christ bearing his Cross, by Morales, concludes this list, and is worthy to conclude it.

W. H.

more.

Exactly at twelve last night his queer spirit departed, and the bells of Saint Bride's rang him out with the old year. The mournful vibrations were caught in the dining room of his friends T. and H.; and the company, assembled there to welcome in another First of January, checked their carousals in mid-mirth, and were silent. Janus wept. The gentle Pr, in a whisper, signified his intention of devoting an Elegy; and Allan C- -, nobly forgetful of his countrymen's wrongs,

vowed a Memoir to his manes, full and friendly as a Tale of Lyddal

cross.

To say truth, it is time he were gone. The humour of the thing, if there was ever much in it, was pretty well exhausted; and a two years' and a half existence has been a tolerable duration for a phantom.

I am now at liberty to confess, that much which I have heard ob jected to my late friend's writings was well-founded. Crude they are, I grant you-a sort of unlicked, incondite things-villainously pranked in an affected array of antique modes and phrases. They had not been his, if they had been other than such; and better it is, that a writer should be natural in a self-pleasing quaintness, than to affect a naturalness (so called) that should be strange to him. Egotistical they have been

pronounced by some who did not know, that what he tells us, as of himself, was often true only (historically) of another; as in his Fourth Essay (to save many instances) where under the first person (his favourite figure) he shadows forth the forlorn estate of a country-boy placed at a London school, far from his friends and connections-in direct opposition to his own early history, If it be egotism to imply and twine with his own identity the griefs and affections of anothermaking himself many, or reducing many unto himself-then is the skilful novelist, who all along brings in his hero, or heroine, speaking of themselves, the greatest egotist of all; who yet has never, therefore, been accused of that narrowness. And how shall the intenser dramatist escape being faulty, who doubtless, under cover of passion uttered by another, oftentimes gives blameless vent to his most inward feelings, and expresses his own story modestly?

My late friend was in many respects a singular character. Those who did not like him, hated him; and some, who once liked him, afterwards became his bitterest haters. The truth is, he gave himself too little concern what he uttered, and in whose presence. He observed neither time nor place, and would e'en out with what came uppermost. With the severe religionist he would pass for a free-thinker; while the other faction set him down for a bigot, or persuaded themselves that he belied his sentiments. Few understood him; and I am not certain that at all times he quite understood himself. He too much affected that dangerous figure-irony. He sowed doubtful speeches, and reaped plain, unequivocal hatred. He would interrupt the gravest discussion with some light jest; and yet, perhaps, not quite irrelevant in ears that could understand it. Your long and much talkers hated him. The informal habit of his mind, joined to an inveterate impediment of speech, forbade him to be an orator; and he seemed determined that no one else should play that part when he was present.

He was

petit and ordinary in his person and appearance. I have seen him sometimes in what is called good com

pany, but where he has been a stranger, sit silent, and be suspected for an odd fellow; till some unlucky occasion provoking it, he would stutter out some senseless pun (not altogether senseless perhaps, if rightly taken), which has stamped his character for the evening. It was hit or miss with him; but nine times out of ten, he contrived by this device to send away a whole company his enemies. His conceptions rose kindlier than his utterance, and his happiest impromptus had the appearance of effort. He has been accused of trying to be witty, when in truth he was but struggling to give his poor thoughts articulation. He chose his companions for some individuality of character which they manifested.Hence, not many persons of science, and few professed literati, were of his councils. They were, for the most part, persons of an uncertain fortune; and, as to such people commonly nothing is more obnoxious than a gentleman of settled (though moderate) income, he passed with most of them for a great miser. To my knowledge this was a mistake. His intimados, to confess a truth, were in the world's eye a ragged regiment. He found them floating on the surface of society; and the colour, or something else, in the weed pleased him. The burrs stuck to him-but they were good and loving burrs for all that. He never greatly cared for the society of what are called good people. If any of these were scandalised (and offences were sure to arise), he could not help it. When he has been remonstrated with for not making more concessions to the feelings of good people, he would retort by asking, what one point did these good people ever concede to him? He was temperate in his meals and diversions, but always kept a little on this side of abstemiousness. Only in the use of the Indian weed he might be thought a little excessive. He took it, he would say, as a solvent of speech. Marry-as the friendly vapour ascended, how his prattle would curl up sometimes with it! the ligaments, which tongue-tied him, were loosened, and the stammerer proceeded a statist!

I do not know whether I ought to bemoan or rejoice that my old friend is departed. His jests were beginning to grow obsolete, and his stories