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weakness, yet if we look to the direct origin of it, we shall find more occasion to blame the country than the painter. His ambition has been, and we trust, still is, to rise in and cultivate his art to the utmost bound of human capability, and to found a school of historical painting; at least to diffuse a taste for that style, with out which painting is but a mechanical art, and patronage misapplied generosity. West, under the immediate eye and protection of his king, was enabled to devote his long life and great talents to historical painting, and he went a great way to the cultivating his country's taste in that line. He was a quiet genius, he was never agitated with those violent bursts of passion which were continually breaking forth from the breast of Barry; nor did he ever take up the pen of controversy and satire, and thunder out truths, that startled his enemies and jobbers in the art. West was conscious of his powers, but he possessed not the strength of mind sufficient to defend them with the spirit of Barry nor Haydon.

Barry's nature was highly sensitive, mingled with vast powers of intellect, and refined imagination.

Fuseli was more wild in his conceptions than Barry, and though the latter was not endowed with that exaggerated idea of grandeur of form and invention, he possessed a refinement of thought and composition which the former wanted, while the ambition of both was to become masters in the department of history. Barry brings before the spectator beings of a classic age, arrayed in the simplicity and grandeur of ancient art; he loved to depict the life, actions, and abode of gods. Fuseli revels in all that is wild, vast, and terrible; nature is ever in a chaos of confusion; the lightning's flash, and tempestuous skies, with an unearthly bluegreen tint, pervades his works; his forms are always in action, violent and distorted, while imps, hags, wizards, monsters, and devils, fill up the measure of his style; yet he is ever grand, imposing, sublime, and oftentimes beautiful.

Haydon has an energy of mind, which under any difficulty supports him. This has been brought to the test, painfully so; while his towering ambition, his ardent wish to arrive at distinction, and to be ranked among the few historical painters in this country, will ever hold him dear in the memory of his friends, and an object of admiration to future greatness. His misfortunes may be attributed, first, to his devotion for historical painting, which, while it increases the fame and powers of the artist, makes him a beggar in fortune, not in the abundance,

nor abstract meaning of the word, but a beggar, even for mere daily pittance; second, to his independant spirit, partak ing of the sensibility and bitterness of Barry, which cannot brook offence, nor bear to find his works torn and divested of beauties, and accusations made depreciating his best attributes, by persons who are totally unacquainted with every principle and feeling for the arts, and without a particle of generosity and liberality. The current of his thoughts, wishes, and dearest hopes, have been thwarted, blasted, and destroyed by ignorance, prejudice, and the iron chain of custom. And can we be surprised that his spirit should break forth in loud invectives against his ungrateful country ?against that body from whom ought to emanate every encouragement for the art,

the Royal Academy-now emerged into a shameful and degraded monopoly, a monopoly of the honors and profits of

the art.

But

A poor, timid spirit, doubtless, would succumb to all this, but the mind of Haydon burns with indignation at such pitiful conduct, and he comes forth to uphold and assert the dignity of his art in the train of human accomplishments. while admitting that his talents have not been duly appreciated, and that he has some foundation for his grievances, we must not let his merits blind our judg ment, nor lean to the partial side, but confess his faults, both as an artist and a man, are glaring; but they are the blemishes generally attendant on aspiring spirits: his faults as an artist are more than balanced by his merits-his conception is grand and comprehensive, his invention fertile and unmannered ; he strikes us more by the stupendous and gigantic airs of his figures, than by their dignity or beauty; his ideas of female grace and loveliness are rather coarse and masculine, wanting that easy grace of Corriggio, and the divine look and air of Raphael. His male figures are masterly paintings, but have not dignity of expres sion; his children are beautiful and natural. His colouring is rich and harmonious; his draperies well painted, the folds broad and easy; his chiaro scuro is broad and massy, devoid of violent contrasts, and therefore the more natural his drawings in general exact; his execution free and bold, but he is apt to be careless in the details, and substitutes coarseness for freedom. His fancy and humorous pieces partake of the florid style of Rubens, while in his large historical paintings, a rich but solemn tone adds to the beauty and impressiveness of the subject; for instance, his Judgment

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of Solomon, and Christ's Entry into Jerusalem.

Before entering into a criticism of his works now exhibiting, we will detail the imperfections which beset him as a man, an ambitious one; and in reciting the character of Haydon in this respect, we' cannot do better than quote the following from the Spectator, and written by Addison, it is so perfect an illustration of our subject: The desire of fame naturally betrays the ambitious man into such indiscretions as are a lessening to his reputation. He is still afraid lest any of his actions should be thrown away in private, lest his deserts should be concealed from the notice of the world, or receive any disadvantage from the reports which others make of them. This often sets him on empty boasts and ostentations of himself, and betrays him into vain fantastical recitals of his own performances. His discourse generally leans one way, and whatever is the subject of it, tends obliquely either to the detracting of others or to the extolling of himself. Vanity is the natural weakness of an ambitious man, which exposes him to the secret scorn and derision of those he converses with, and ruins the character he is so industrious to advance by it. For though his actions are never so glorious, they lose their lustre when they are drawn at large, and set to show by his own haud: and as the world is more apt to find fault than commend, the boast will be censured when the great action that occasioned it is forgotten.'

This article has led us further than we at first anticipated, therefore the notice of Eucles, Punch, &c. &c. must be deferred to form another speculation. C. I. H.

THE CONSCRIPT BROTHERS;

A TALE OF WATERLOO.
Continued from p. 181.

WITH the gay and thoughtless, time passes unmarked. It was nearly a year after the battle of Waterloo, when De Lancey was travelling through the little village in which he had been introduced to the Landlord of "The Plucked Hen." He stopped to pay him a visit, but the host was changed. The room, the table, the seats, all remained the same, and so forcibly called up the recollection of his promise to the brothers, that his conscience smote him for the delay. He went immediately to visit Edward's grave. He had taken the precaution to identify it by two Lombardy poplars, which he had planted opposite, and twisted into an arch over the grave. They were twigs that he had cut from a neighbour

The

ing tree, but they had taken root, and
were now covered with foliage.
grass had grown over the grave with a
luxuriance that made the spot striking
from the desolation that still remained
around it.

By sunrise De Lancey had proceeded many miles on his way to Patière, where Jean de Castellon resided. It would have been a long and weary foot journey for one with less health and muscular strength; but it was his favourite way of travelling, and, he was fully of opinion, much less fatiguing than riding. And then, too, he could stop when he pleased and converse with all the good humoured pleasant people he met, and make acquaintances where he thought they were worth making. Nothing, in fact, could be pleasanter than De Lancey's mode of travelling. He was too much accustomed to his knapsack to find it any burden, and he had provident virtue enough to secure himself means for every comfort a foot traveller could desire. His little modicum had increased during the past year, and, though in the thoughtless benevolence of his heart, he sometimes gave a few francs injudiciously, yet he always said, in some way or other, they brought back their full interest.

When he entered Patière he inquired for the house of Castellon, and was directed to a white washed cottage surrounded by venerable tress. It was in the month of June, and every shrub and flower was in its first fragrance. old man was sitting on a bench before the door. De Lancey approached him with a respectful air, and, taking off his hat, said, "Monsieur de Castellon ?"

"The same," he replied.

An

"I would ask," said the soldier, hesitatingly, "for Philip."

"And why for Philip?" said the old man, sternly, " why not for Conrad, my eldest born, and Edward, my youngest?'' De Lancey made no reply. 66 Come," said he, "with me, and I will show you all I know of them."

He arose from his seat and walked slowly to a little wicker gate. He entered it and proceeded by a foot path to a hillock planted with trees. The soldier followed in silence. It was the family burying ground. Three simple gravestones, with the names of the brothers inscribed on each, were placed side by side. De Lancey's question was answered. Philip had never returned from the battle of Waterloo.

"I knew," said he, with emotion, "the fate of Conrad and Edward; but I had hoped Philip had escaped."

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"Not one," said the father, clasping his hands, "not a remnant was left.' "I was a fellow soldier," said De Lancey. "I was quartered with them the evening before the battle."

"A soldier in Buonaparte's army?" said the old man, extending his hand. "Then you too are a Conscript?"

"No," said De Lancey, "I was no Conscript. I enlisted voluntarily." The father withdrew his hand and turned coldly away.

"I have a commission from your son Conrad," said De Lancey, "but it is for your daughter, and I must deliver it to her."

As they approached the house, Alice met them at the door. The sight of a soldier revived painful recollections, and a cloud came over her bright and blooming countenance.

De Lancey started at the strong resemblance she bore to her twin brother. There was the same tranquil expression of sweetness and innocence that had lingered on his face, even after his death. He put his hand into his bosom and withdrew the miniature. "This," said he, "I promised your brother Conrad to deliver to you if I was the survivor." Alice took it, gazed upon it for a moment, and rushed into the house.

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The Father, with an air of authority, desired De Lancey to come in. The soldier proceeded to inform him of all the circumstances which related to the deaths of his two sons. Of Philip," said he, "I know nothing. When I last saw him he had received no injury, but was in the heat of battle, and fighting with a bravery worthy of Napoleon himself."

"No more of that," said the old man, with bitterness. "You say," continued he, "Conrad died in your arms.

"He did," replied the soldier, "and he had every comfort, and the best of medical advice; and as for attendance, it would not be becoming for me to say much about that, but I never left him, night or day, as long as he lived. I could not have done more for him had it have been the Emperor himself."

The last words were uttered in a low voice, and seemed to have escaped him without his consent. The father, however, did not remark them.

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"Not one-not a limb of them," said the soldier.

De Castellon was a Swiss, and entertained a horror of the Roman Catholic religion.

"You say," said he, "that my poor Conrad died like a Christian. Then he confessed his sins to his Maker, and died in the fear of God."

"I don't know," said De Lancey, "what he might confess, for that was an affair between his Maker and himself; but as to fear, I saw nothing that looked like it, for when he was dying he said, 'I did not expect to meet my dear Edward so soon, but I am going home, after all.'"'

"You must stay with us a few days," said the old man, his heart melting at the thoughts of his sons.

"Most willingly," said De Lancey, "if you will give me some employment. I do not love idleness, and about a place like this, a pair of hands can't come amiss."

It was amusing to see with what facility the soldier adopted the habits and employments of the farmer. His services grew every day more and more important to De Castellon. A treaty of amity seemed to be formed between them, and Buonaparte was never alluded to on either side. A sentiment of delicacy had prevented De Lancey from delivering the letter of the brothers, for he knew the contents, and that they related wholly to himself.

To

The intercourse between Alice and the soldier was friendly and confiding. He learned from her how he could best assist her father in his labours, and how he could be most useful to herself; and they soon ceased to regard each other as strangers. His present mode of life was to the soldier like a new existence. exchange the noise and bustle of a camp for the serenity and stillness of the country; to feel his time and his mind occupied without the feverish excitement of contest, was alone delightful. But when, added to this, he felt for the first time the power of woman, her innocent and affectionate smile, the sanctity of her virtue, her habitual sacrifices in the arrangements of domestic life, and her habits of temperance, of order, and of purity, he shrunk from the recollection of past scenes. This feeling he expressed to Alice, whom he sportively called his pet lamb, with his usual frankness.

"What a forlorn creature," said he, "have I hitherto been! I have had nothing to love or to watch over-I can but just remember my mother. - and yet, when my head has been throbbing with

pain, I have sometimes wished I could lay it in her lap as I used to do when I was a child. But this was only the thought of a moment, and I banished it as unmanly, for I only considered myself ennobled by the ferociousness with which I fought for my-country."

"Well," said Alice, smiling, "I suppose you would fight again if you could find a leader."

"No," he replied, "not if I can find employment any other way. My views are changed. I have a thousand associations which are new to me. I think I am going back to childhood again. The flowers have the same fragrance that they used to have when I was a boy, and the world seems to me to be just created. I desire no greater happiness than to live with you and your father as I do now, and you have only to say the word, and I will turn my sword into a pruning knife."

It was by such language, uttered almost without thought, that the young couple began to promise endless faith to each other.

"But I am afraid," said Alice, after an impassioned burst of feeling from her lover, "that my father will never consent to our being married."

"And why not?" said the sanguine Fortunatus. "Where can he find a more devoted son-in-law-one that will do a harder day's work or raise a finer crop of wheat? Besides, Alice," said he, smiling affectionately, you have been bequeathed to me. I never would have told you about the thing if you had not voluntarily given me your heart, but now you shall know the whole."

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It was the first time he had alluded to the letter. Alice listened to the explanation, without participating in his sanguine expectations. She knew her father was tenacious of his projects, and that he favoured the suit of her cousin Pierre. To be continued.)

LECTURES ON POPULAR

ANATOMY.

We have had much pleasure in attending several lectures delivered, by Professor Dewhurst, at the Infant's School House, Vincent Square, Westminster, on the structure and functions of the human body, compared with those of animals; in which, as far as he has gone, Mr. Dewhurst has succeeded in conveying information on a subject hitherto considered incapable of public demonstration. The last lecture (on Friday, March 26) "On the mechanical struc

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ture of the human skeleton,' was ably considered; the subject of the discourse being entirely divested of uncouth techninical terms, which often render many sciences unintelligible to the middling classes of the community. The Lecturer's observations were familiarly illustrated by a splendid series of preparations, drawings, skeletons, &c. We understand they will be continued every Friday evening, until the course is completed; and we can assure such of our readers as wish to obtain some information on the anatomy of man, that they may reap amusement and instruction from attending the remainder.

Notices of New Books.

"THE OPENING OF THE SIXTH SEAL," Engraved by G. H. Phillips, after the Original Picture by F. Danby. 1830.

It is with no ordinary feelings of exultation that the pleasing duty devolves upon us of paying a tribute to the talents of Mr. Danby, whose name, as a painter, is now permanently enrolled among those of the most distinguished men connected with Art, who ever flourished in Great Britain, The magnificent composition which forms the subject of these cursory remarks, has been exposed to the criterion of public approbation, and has triumphantly withstood the test, long enough to supersede any thing like detail of description on the present occasion. One of the most masterly characteristics among the many combined within the limits of this truly astonishing work, is the gran deur, the expanse, and the decision of that rugged mass of clouds which, intensely contrasting with the burst of celestial light wherein the destroying angel, in the very perpetration of his divine mission, together with the emblem of Redemption to the Faithful, stand revealed, -seem fearfully to roll, still onward and onward, as though they were fraught with thunderings and lightnings, and storms of eternal wrath, over which the natural co-operation and re-action of atmospheric elements would vainly seek to exercise their customary controul. Then, again, that picture of suffering humanity in the foreground below!—what an impressive lesson to the wicked who now walk the face of this earth, hitherto rejoicing in their deeds of iniquity and darkness. There stands the bondsman, his manacles severed, and himself erect, not in native majesty, but in the terrific attitude of a wretch supplicating prompt annihilation to himself as well as to the

potentates and oppressors of the land, and that too as an especial act of supreme mercy. Nor does the awful prayer ascend unheard: that avenging flash, which gleams downward athwart the face of insulted Heaven, scattering and rending asunder the pyramidical pile of rocks to the right, utters a response of tremendous import. Scattered far and near, around this conspicuous figure, we behold groups of prostrate and forlorn women; each and all,-even in this, their hour of desolation, when every aspect is either overshadowed with gloom, or writhing with distortion, from the secret but stern pangs of inward contrition,-evincing the absolute sway that such forms and such aspects were calculated to usurp over the infatuated sons of recklessness and riot, in the day of fancied serenity. In short, to the heart of the imaginative beholder —and an imaginative beholder he ought to be, who dares to scrutinize a composition so sublimely imaginative, to the heart of such a beholder, then, does every look, every gesture of the simple, miserable, fallen and perishing children of mortality depicted here, blended with the tremendous and supernatural agency of Omnipotence, vibrate with the agonising thrill of Despair.

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We have only to add our congratulations to the public on the occasion of so rare and so valuable an acquisition-certainly the most astonishing specimen of the mezzotinto style of engraving ever yet produced, and one that cannot fail of greatly adding to the high and wellmerited fame of Mr. Phillips-to their repositories of works belonging to the Fine Arts. Equal congratulations, together with unqualified acknowledgment of admiration, are likewise due to Mr. Danby, on the very high station among his brother artists, which this chef d'œuvre alone were all-sufficient to have attained for him, even though he had not previously by any other effort of his genius, so eminently signalised both himself and his nation. We can assure our readers so much have our thoughts been occupied with this extraordinary performance under review, that our ideas on the subject have, almost spontaneously, concentrated in the following attempt at rythmical Latinity :

Lux, velut astrorum, mirantia lumina stringit:

Nimborum tenebris nox per opaca tumet. Plena ruunt fato cœlestia VINDICIS arma: Heu scelus-heu, gentes -jam patet ira Dei.

Anglia, sis felix, debitamque innecte coro

nam:

Splendida Musarum dona fatetur opus.

The Naturalist.

THE BRAZILIAN CAYMAN.

Drs. Spix and Martius, in their travels in Brazil, thus describe this obnoxious animal, which is found in the wet districts of this southern clime::-"There is no animal to which nature has given so horrible an appearance as this beast. They increase with amazing rapidity, each female annually lays sixty or eighty eggs, of the size of hens' eggs, on the sand, and several females build these with alternate layers of mud into pyramids six or eight feet high, and then leave the hatching to the effects of the sun and fermentation. Pliny remarks, that the crocodiles of Egypt always lay their eggs at the edge of the inundation; and it is therefore worthy of mention, that in Brazil also the heaps of the Cayman's eggs are taken as marks of the extent of the floods. A female generally watches close to this precious charge, and many Sectanejos, who have approached too near, have paid for their imprudence by the loss of a foot. At the approach of an enemy the lazy guardian quickly starts up, her nostrils open, her small glowing eyes roll, her red jaws are distended, aud with a darting motion she reaches her prey, which she never quits before she has bitten off a limb.

THE PIRANHA.

This fish, which contends for the dominion of the waters of the Brazilian portion of South America, is one of terrible voracity: there is hardly any animal that ventures into the water but what suffers from its attacks. The victim of the Piranha is generally surrounded by large shoals or swarms of them; they may be justly compared to a nest of water hornets. Horses and cattle do not venture to drink of the water below the surface, lest their snout should be bitten off,-an accident which, however, sometimes befalls them. The Cayman himself is forced to fly before this terrible enemy, and turns his unprotected belly towards the top of the water; the otter alone, whose hairy skin deadens the force of the bite, is proof against their attacks."

The Note Baok.

I will make a prief of it in my Note-book.. M. W. of Windsor.

MODE OF CATCHING THE TURTLE.

A turtle is a very lethargic animal, and may frequently be surprised in its watery slumbers. The balsa is placed nearly perpendicularly over one of these unsug

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