flush of various yet harmonious sweetness. Its effect on the eye is like that of a rich harmony on the ear. That appearance of motion, too, in the production of which Rubens so much excelled, is very remarkable in this picture. The different actions seem as it were going on; we feel as if we were watching their progress, not merely observing their present state. The costume of the females, consisting of the silks and satins of Rubens's own time, are sufficiently open to criticism; and no doubt they spoil the general effect of the picture, as a work of art appealing to the imagination as well as the senses. But if we would enjoy the operations of genius, we must submit to the freaks in which it will sometimes indulge itself. If Rubens had been compelled to deny himself the use of this anachronism, he would probably not have painted the picture at all; and should we have been better off then?-Assuredly not. If we cannot accept it as a true and classical representation of the scene that it bears the name of, let us receive it as an appeal to the senses alone-and be content. The rich harmony of its colouring, and the spirit of motion that every where pervades it, make it as good a thing to look upon as a bed of garden-flowers blown about by the wind.

I cannot but think that the other picture by this artist is not much more consistent than the above in costume, without being so fine a piece of colouring, or any thing like so rich a composition.

Let us turn now to what is, as a single picture, perhaps, the chief pride and ornament of this collection: I mean, The Raising of Lazarus, by Sebastian del Piombo. This must not only be regarded as the finest work of the master, but as capable of bearing a comparison with the very finest works of other masters of still more distinguished reputation. The vigour and spirit of the design is worthy of Michael Angelo; and perhaps this it is which has given rise to the opinion that he actually did design it for I believe there are no very satisfactory proofs as to the fact. The figure of Lazarus, in particular, is a perfect and admirable example of the great style, not only in design, but in colouring and expression. The bodily action is that of bursting and escaping from the grave-cloths that bind his limbs-so that every muscle of the frame is in action; and the expression is made up of the wonder and awe that may be supposed to take possession of his mind on waking from the sleep of death, mingled with impatience at finding himself thus imprisoned in the apparel of the tomb. The female figure in the centre (Mary, the sister of Lazarus) is also exceedingly intense and poetical. Solemn wonder and eager anxiety share her fine uplifted countenance between them; but there is no weakness, or incredulity, or fear. Next to these two, the most striking objects are an old man kneeling behind the Saviour-a fine intellectual profile in the back-ground, in a style exactly similar to that of the female figure I have noticed above-and a most extraordinary head immediately behind the Saviour's, and seemingly intended to contrast with that. The draperies in this picture are in the same grand style as the figures, and they include several patches of white in different parts, which give a fine sepulchral effect to the scene; which effect is aided by the solemn gloom that pervades the whole of the background, the sky, &c. Expression-depth and unity of expression, and grandeur of general effect, seem to be the characteristics of this noble composition. In the former of these respects, it

may, perhaps, claim to rank with some of Raphael's very finest works; and certainly, for solemn grandeur of effect, it is surpassed by none.

The only other pictures I shall notice at any length are the Claudes; which, after all, form the grand staple of this collection. And how shall I contrive to speak of these in words that shall express my feelings about them, and yet keep within those sober and subdued limits provided for such occasions?-But I write for those who have either seen these pictures, or intend to see them; and who have also seen enough of Nature to be capable of loving her in and through them: so that I need not fear. There are no less than five of these exquisite works; four of which are not only first-rate, but, as far as my experience extends, the four finest works of their author. I do not envy the judgment of those who can, after a due deliberation on the subject, determine which of these four pictures is the best. It seems to me a kind of impertinence in any one to attempt this-unless it be a picturedealer. As some one has said of the Scotch Novels, that is the best which happens to be before you. Three of these pictures bear a striking resemblance to each other in subject, style, and general effect; being all views of some ideal sea-port, with classical buildings on each side, the sea occupying the whole of the centre, and stretching away into the dim distance, with the sun shining full upon it from near the horizon, and ships at anchor, with their bare masts shooting up into the kindling sky, and crossing the light so as to relieve its otherwise too brilliant effect. The fourth is a lovely expanse of country, bounded by scarcely visible hills; with a broad glassy water in the centre, to which the effect of motion is given by breaking it all across by a slight fall, and by permitting the eye to trace its source up into the beautiful hills that occupy the left side of the picture: this imaginary effect of motion, and consequently of coolness and freshness, is completed by a mill which is placed in the fore-ground. No one equalled Claude for the unity of expression that he contrived to preserve in his pictures. If this mill had been any thing but precisely what it is, it would have ruined the effect of the scene, standing so conspicuously as it does in the centre. But the mill is formed out of what has been the ruin of some classical temple; and to correspond with this, and continue its effect throughout the scene, ruined arches and broken columns are scattered about in the distance here and there, but so dimly seen as scarcely to create a consciousness of their presence: they act, and are intended to act, on the imagination alone. It strikes me that these kind of scenes, when painted by Claude in his best manner, bear exactly that kind of resemblance to similar scenes in Nature, which the echo of a musical sound bears to the sound itself; and that they affect us in a similar manner: they have the same exact truth of intonation, if I may use the phrase, added to the same dim, distant, aerial, impalpable effect. Though I think it an impertinence to inquire which is the best of these delicious works, yet there is no harm in determining which one would like best to be the possessor of. And even this would be a puzzling question to decide on, if one actually had the choice. For my own part, I should not choose either of the celebrated Altieri pictures-the Landscape with the Mill, and the Embarkation of the Queen of Sheba; nor the Embarkation of St. Ursula and the Virgins-which is, I believe, the most general favourite, and

is, indeed, beautiful beyond expression. I should pitch upon the one that hangs in the left corner of the inner room, making a sunshine in a shady place." And yet, without very well knowing why, unless it be that it pours from every part of it a flood of light and warmth into the very depths of the heart; at once soothing the passions of earth to an unearthly stillness, while it makes the blood seem to dance and sparkle within us to the music of its dancing and sparkling waters. To stand before that picture, is to be happy, whatever one's lot may be; and to leave it, is to leave looking into the very heart and soul of Nature.

That I may not pass over any pictures of the old masters in this choicest of all collections, I will mention that there are two capital landscapes by Gaspar Poussin, one of which in particular (The Sacrifice of Isaac) possesses all his truth, purity, and richness of effect; a portrait of Philip IV. of Spain and his Queen, by Velasquez, which might be mistaken for Vandyke; one picture by Vandyke himself, of which there is an exact repetition by Rubens, which latter has been engraved unless the engraving has been made from this very picture, and Rubens's name attached to it; a landscape by Cuyp; and finally, an admirable portrait, by Raphael, of Pope Julius II.-I regret being obliged to pass over these capital productions (for they are all first-rate, particularly the last) by merely naming them; but my limits compel me to bring this paper to a close. Before doing which, if I mention Wilkie's "Alehouse Door," it must be less to admire its miraculous truth, than to express a half-regret at finding it here, among these high and solemn effusions of the mighty dead. There is a place, as well as "a time," for all things; and this is not the place for a work, the merit of which (great as it is) depends solely on its developing the lowest and least ideal of the passions, habits, and accidents to which our nature is subject. I cannot conclude without adding, that the above objection is in no degree applicable to Hogarth's admirable series of The Marriage à la Mode, which are also here, but which it is not part of my plan to notice in detail. Different as these are in object and character from those works of the old masters which I have described, they are no less intellectual than the latter, and scarcely less ideal.

THE GENIUS OF SPAIN.

"Paz con Inglaterra, con todo el mundo Guerra."
On that steep ridge beyond Bayona's hold,
Methought a Giant figure did appear
Sunburnt and rough-he on his limbs did wear
Bright steel and raiment fairer than of old,
But yet uncouth in speech-"I nothing fear

Yon braggart threats," quoth he in accents bold:
"Let recreant France her fine-spun plots unfold,
And come with train Barbarian in her rear,

Croat or Muscovite.-My native pride

Wither'd such hosts, when mightier Captains led:
Cæsar, Napoleon, ill with me have sped!

And shall I crouch now Freedom is my bride?
No! the young offspring of that heavenly bed,
Stand England firm, shall 'gainst the World make head."

December, 1822.

NAPOLEON'S MEMOIRS, AND LAS CASES' JOURNAL.*

THE very titles of these works supersede the necessity for stating that they are deeply interesting and important. Napoleon now speaks for himself, and speaks directly, though not in the first person. What we have hitherto had in the shape of narratives of his life, or descriptions of his character, may, in some instances, have been authorized by himself; but the seal of his sanction and authority has never been so distinctly stamped on any former work. Here we peruse what has been printed from MSS. written from his own dictation and corrected by his own hand:-a volume of "Memoirs," dictated to General Gourgaud, and a volume of "Historical Miscellanies," dictated to the Count de Montholon, present us with the most momentous elements of history, delivered, and commented upon, by the most illustrious actor in the historic scene. The other work, "Las Cases' Journal," &c. contains a great many records of Napoleon's conversations about political and military events; but what may be called the public history of Napoleon is, upon the whole, more systematically digested in the other publications. Las Cases' book, however, intermingles matter which we believe will be more attractive to the bulk of readers— namely, the personal and private history of the great individual whom. our author, of course, knew much more intimately, than either of the English writers who have given us anecdotes of the voyage to St. Helena and of Napoleon's captivity on the rock. As to pure impartiality and perfect credibility, it may be alleged that persons sharing in Napoleon's sufferings were still farther removed from the chance of exhibiting those qualities in their testimony, than even those Englishmen whom the captive fascinated to become his personal admirers. It behoves us, however, to listen to the testimony, such as it is, and then to make our own calculation of the consistency or the improbability of facts alleged and submitted to us. Las Cases' account is peculiarly interesting, because it carries us back to events in Napoleon's last catastrophe preceding the voyage and exile: namely, to his arrival in Paris, when he entered covered with dust from the battle of Waterloo. This writer accordingly supplies a sort of first act to the drama of our modern Prometheus, and he is himself a person in the tragic scene. Whatever curiosity the public may now cherish respecting Napoleon, if it should be an useless feeling of interest, it cannot be a pernicious one. The constitutions of Englishmen are not likely to be inoculated with any dangerous enthusiasm for a dead hero whose character, whether from choice or necessity, was despotic. If our country should ever be pregnant with a hero fated to rule her destinies, she is not likely to have any longings of imagination that shall impress his exact features on the glorious bantling. Admirers among us he, no doubt, has, and some persons think them dangerous and insidious-certainly they are insidious, for they have so marvellously

"Memoirs of the History of France during the reign of Napoleon, dictated by the Emperor at Saint Helena to the Generals who shared his captivity; and published from the Original Manuscripts corrected by himself."-Volume I. dictated to General Gourgaud, accompanied by a First Volume of Historical Miscellanies, dictated to the Count de Montholon.

"Mémorial de Sainte Hélène-Journal of the Private Life and Conversations of the Emperor Napoleon at St. Helena."-Parts I. and II.

concealed their numbers as to have made it constantly appear, whenever the power of the warrior threatened us, that he had an hundred bitter enemies in the country for one friend. How very few exceptions there were even to the poorest patriots reviling him. The poor, it is true, are from their low habits addicted to dissimulation; but they, at least, affected the pious decorum of believing in the unmixed diabolism of his character; and no vulgar sceptic called in question the Imperial monster's having lain with his own sister and poisoned the sick at Jaffa. Even Ireland resounded with the song of "Oh, the rogue, the thief, Bonaparte! in your distress he will not leave a copper t'ye." After the battle of Leipsic, did not radicals and all rejoice? On that occasion a song was written, (it was believed, at the Admiralty,) commencing, "It's all up with Boney, and the King of Saxony." Yet the rhyme became popular, the only one from the same quarter that ever did; and was chalked by apprentices on the ale-house walls.

It is clear, then, that this belief in the unqualified worthlessness of Bonaparte has fairly served its purpose as a belligerent principle. Two questions now naturally suggest themselves. In the first place, would it threaten us with any frightful political evils, if it were suspected that a single ray of real greatness ever penetrated into the black and unfathomable abyss of his character? In the next place, supposing it safe to trust ourselves with truth on the subject, may it not be the fact, that he is a man whose vices we have graven on brass, whilst we have written his virtues on water? On the former head let us be cautious, for there is no falsehood so impertinent as a truth out of season. Even after his commitment to St. Helena, the cloven hoof of his vulgar admirers began to shew itself. If he could have swum to Glasgow or Manchester, there is no saying how many starving weavers might have rallied round him in order to exact reform and a rise of wages. But there is now no chance of his ever encamping on the plains of Peterfield, or the fells of Campsie; for his thread is cut and his web is finished. This is more than some of us timid alarmists ever believed to be possible: it was at one time thought that we should never get rid of him. An honest German once hearing in his own country that he was dead, shook his head and said to his informant, "Bonaparte dead! ah, you don't know him." Now to a certainty, however, he is not only stone dead, but so long dead, that if Dr. Ure were to go to St. Helena with all his Galvanic apparatus, he could not twitch a single feature of his countenance. speak of him, then, at least with self-possession, and not be so longeared to his accusers as to kick the dead lion. Our oldest women and youngest children are agreed, that though he was a great coward for not killing himself at last, he was the next greatest General in the world after the Duke of Wellington. He can affront our patriotism no more, and, perhaps, though he has done us much evil, he may have been the means of doing us some good. Did he not render us at one time a sublimely devoted, volunteering, and sharp-shooting nation? Has he not afforded us the mystically connected, though seemingly incongruous, pleasure of believing at one and the same time that he neither durst nor could invade us, and yet of arming, and enjoying the imaginary pathos of our own glorious death-bed on our

Let us