down stairs, and sternly ordered that all larking should cease, and likewise that there should be no more smoking. By and by a rustling of silks was heard, and the landlady ushered in three or four ladies and as many gentlemen. After the usual ceremonies, a hymn was sung, and most of the inmates joined with as much ease and freedom as if they had not been unaccustomed to attend Methodist or dissenting chapels. A prayer followed, and then the 11th chapter of John was read, beginning with these words, "Now a certain man was sick, named Lazarus;" the history of which was very applicable to many who were present, and was listened to with considerable attention. At the conclusion another hymn was given, and for the sermon was selected the 8th verse of the 4th chapter of James: "Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh to you: cleanse your hands, ye sinners; and purify your hearts, ye doubleminded." A text equally good, and well the lecturer worked it up. He explained to his hearers the necessity of drawing close to so pure a Being, and might have hinted in broader terms of the danger of soiling their hands with other people's property. He exhorted them most fervently on the advantages of a clear conscience. But whether it was that they had heard such exhortations before, or that some other cause operated upon them, certain it is that several of the congregation began now to give indications that if their ears still received the sound, they were fast losing the power of conveying the sense. who had their eyes open, could control herself no longer, for a suppressed tittering was already heard. Pushing forward, she seized the unsteady mortal by the arm with a gripe that could have been none of the gentlest, for the man was up in a moment, and as wide awake as ever he was in his life. Every sleeper was in an instant erect, and even the fellow in the corner, who had been so determined on a snoose, awoke with a stare, and was made aware by certain digs in the side that he, too, was not to be allowed that indulgence. The effect of the landlady's wrath was almost magical. It put me in mind of a country parson, who one sultry Sunday afternoon observing that the whole of his hearers had dropped asleep, roared out, "Fire! fire! fire!" The people began to rub their eyes and cry, "Where? where? where?" "In h—," he shouted, "for sleepy hearers." It may be supposed that there was no more sleeping, neither on the former nor on the present occasion. The lecturer, seeing that the landlady was doing all she could to rouse the attention of his hearers, made an effort to second her exer tions. He became a little more animated, and finally related an anecdote of a workhouse-boy, who, feeling a desire to learn to read, intimated his wish to the mistress of the establishment. The lady, like a true bastile governess, refused to encourage so laudable a disposition. The boy, however, was determined, and running away one Sunday afternoon to a Sunday-school, fell on his knees before a clergyman who was there, told his story, and begged his assistance. The gentleman was charmed with the boy, and the result was that the lad was encouraged and the mistress severely reprimanded. This anecdote, well-timed, was listened to with great attention. One of the deputies now lighted the candles, which contributed not a little to the cheerfulness of the place, and certainly presented a scene that was altogether singular. At the head of the parlour, a long, low-roofed, under-ground room, sat the clergyman, with his pulpit-like desk before him, covered with crimson cloth, and the lighted up. branch - candlesticks on each side On his right were As for the comfortable gentleman in the corner, he had for some time been as happy as Mr. Morpheus could make him. First, one began to nod, and then another, snore followed snore, till one half of the noses in the room piped a kind of an irregular concert in all the variety of sound-treble, base, and tenor, with an occasional snort. The noise, at last, became so loud as almost to drown the speaker's voice, which was none of the loudest. One man kept bobbing and jerking forward his head, so as not to leave a doubt but that he would shortly salute the floor in the Hindoo fashion. The landlady, who had for some time been making signs to two or three several ladies and gentlemen; on his left stood Mrs. Belch, with two or three of her chief domestics; and in the back-ground were a motley crowd of thieves, cadgers, navigators, tramps, sailors, disbanded soldiers, and vagabonds of every descriptionas fine a congregation of sinners as any man need wish to preach to. Nothing farther occurred during the sermon; but in singing the hymn which is usually given at the conclusion, I thought several raised their voices with a feeling something akin to that which boys are apt to shew after they have listened to a long spiritual exhortation, and are in the expectation of an immediate emancipation. After the singing, a tall, old gentleman, who had been in the habit of frequenting this place for a number of years, got up to give, as he said, a few parting words. He chatted away in the most familiar style, as if most of the listeners and himself were old acquaintances, and related an anecdote or two of his adventures when he was with General Elliot at the siege of Gibraltar. The stories had often been heard before, indeed the old gentleman, like most individuals of his age, was withal rather garrulous, and fond of talking over the scenes of his youth; and was listened to, therefore, as if an old favourite. In the prayer at the close of the service the poor wanderers were not forgotten, nor was the landlady thought unworthy to be remembered for the care she took in providing spiritual food for the souls of her lodgers. After the universal prayer for all, this singular meeting ended. The landlady now escorted the visitors to the door. MODERN PAINTERS, ETC." THE motives of a literary author, whose subject especially involves matters of taste and feeling, are generally of a mixed character; i.e. of a character which is not less conciliatory than corrective; not less obedient to fashion than opposed to fallacy. Many capable of advancing the cause of unqualified Truth have yet become in a great measure, and perhaps unconsciously, the disciples. of a mere conventional orthodoxy ; and they achieve popularity and remunerative success rather by the policy of affording additional reasons for the justness of general opinion, than by the more daring work of exposing popular error. A modest adherence to all the leading canons of timehallowed decision is, at least, safe and respectable: a radical inclination to subvert those canons is unquestionably dangerous and presuming. Not, however, that we assert the assured propriety of a totally unrestrained submission to catholic custom. A delicately hesitating movement against the errors of a system, assumed to be good in the main, is, perhaps, more politic than obstinate conservatism; because it wears the expression of a candid perception of defect, and, therefore, of a legitimised appreciation of merit. Some necessity for correction must be admitted, to justify the writing of a book; this having been manifested and met (though it bear no greater proportion to the mass of the subject than Falstaff's half-pennyworth of bread to his abundance of sack), the rest is as easy as- "lying." Occasionally, however, an author will arise, either merely bold in presumption, or really potent in truth, who, scorning to chase away the scattered outposts of conventionality, advances determinately against the very heart of" mountainous error," and exclaiming with Hotspur, " Oh, the blood more stirs to rouse a lion than to start a hare," at once makes the breach and enters it. Such is now the admirable peril of 1844. the Oxford graduate's situation. He His motives are severe in their singleness; his object, unconciliating correction. He hates the more the fallacy which is fashionable, and seems to have industriously freed his mind from every conventional bias. Ile prefers the "forlorn hope" of confronting popular error, to the easy fame of orthodox championship. He prefers speculating on his presumption, to the insipid security of trusting to his modesty. He prefers radicalism on principle to unprincipled expediency. He does not coquet with Reform; can be scarcely said to woo her; but proclaims her his mistress whether she will or no. He will neither be so merely serviceable as to pioneer for others, nor so cautiously advantaged as by others to benefit. His book originates in what he conceives to be a great and crying necessity, and, under the strong impulse of that conviction, he has written it. His object, in brief, is this, viz. to bring us to a confession of the fact, that we have been taught to admire the old masters before we had learned our duty to their older mistress, Nature; and, further, that we have allowed impressions, so made, to prevent or distort the truthful imagery which, otherwise, Nature might have projected on the clear mirror of our unsophisticated eye. We shall at once proceed to give as brief a digest as possible of the remarkable work before us. Modern Painters, &c. By a Graduate of Oxford. Second Edition. London, Our author first admits that nothing is consecrated by time without possessing in a high degree some sterling excellence. But what is really great never addresses itself to uncultivated faculties. The world, therefore, now admires what the few in the first instance appreciated, when men in general thought nothing of it. Therefore one person may see merits in a modern painter which the many see not. Er. gr. the Oxford graduate may perceive what the newspaper critics cannot perceive. But he has learned to feel with them in respect to the great historical painters; and, in this communion of thought so far, he claims the privileges of a partnership in natural sensibility. He believes, however, that his love exceeds theirs in this particular; and that, if it did not, it might equal theirs in respect to the old landscape-painters. But the study which led him to the feet of Michael Angelo and Da Vinci has ended in the comparative alienation of his admiration for Claude and Gaspar, and in stimulating his regard for the landscape-painters of his own day. He honours the dead for that on which their greatness is founded; but feels it a duty, no less than an impulse, to manifest that gratitude which can only be for the living.-Pp. 7 and 8. He then proceeds with his developement of the principles of high art, and disposes of mere imitation by a course of reasoning, of which the following is the substance: He who can represent an object faithfully has only learned the lunguage of painting. He is a grammarian and versifier, but not yet a poet. It is not the mode of speaking, but what is spoken, that makes the great poet or painter.-Pp. 10, 11. Most Dutch pictures are but admirable exhibitions of speech, while the early efforts of Cimabue and Giotto (full of thought, but wholly wanting in executive power) are as the stammered prophecies of infants." Though perfect language be necessary to perfect eloquence, yet the highest thoughts are the least dependent on language, and three penstrokes by Raphael are better than the finished works of Carlo Dolci. He is the greatest artist who embodies the greatest number of great ideas. Where imitation is so finished as to claim prominent regard, either the observer is incapable of appreciating the higher merits of the picture, or the picture has none to be appreciated. The sources of pleasure derivable from art are thus enumerated :Ideas of Power, of Imitation, of Truth, of Beauty, of Relation. 1st. Ideas of Power.-These are chiefly excited in men of practical knowledge, who can estimate a certain executive ability apart from the subject treated. 2d. Ideas of Imitation.-Our author makes no distinction between copying and imitation. Here he merely differs from many of us in the meaning of the words. It is enough for the argument to know, that by "imitation" he means 66 copying;" that is, making a resemblance of visible material things; and he curiously (but we think truly) attributes the pleasure derivable from this source, to the object not being what it closely resembles. This he regards as the least worthy effect of art, because the mind rejects the address of the thing represented, and only reflects on the representation not being what it seems to be. 3d. Ideas of Truth.-Truth seems to be used by the writer in the sense which many attach to imitation. It, of course, involves the imitation of visible and material objects; but it has reference to emotions, impressions, and thoughts (truths of our eternal being), which elevate the mind above the contemplation of mere resemblance.-P. 52. 4th. Ideas of Beauty.-These he seems to place in the second rank. The love of beauty is inherent in us, and affects our moral being; but, as we cannot account for its influence, it is not an intellectual property. These 5th. Ideas of Relation. he appears to estimate highly, as the sources of pleasure, which, at the instant of their perception, require an active exertion of the intellect to deduce from the type the sentiment to which it relates.-P. 36. Having detailed the sources of pleasure derivable from art, he proceeds to consider what should be the great ends of the landscape-painter. to These, he says, are two:1st. To promote a faithful conception of any natural objects; and, 2dly, to guide the spectator the most WORTHY of them, by informing him of the thoughts and feelings with which, in the mind of the artist, they are associated. The former is more generally effected than the latter. All can appreciate, to a certain extent, the faithful portraiture of natural objects; but many remain incapable of being guided to selection, or of being especially addressed by the mind of the artist. At the same time, the second great end cannot be attained without the accomplishment of the first. The more intellectual property is absolutely necessary to the perfection of the picture; but no power of imagination or intellect can make amends for a departure from the truth of nature. He asserts (in opposition to the popular opinion) that even pictorial truth is not easily discernible. Only the commonest general truths of nature impress common observers. Thus, all have a notion of blue sky, white and grey clouds, green grass and trees, brown earth, &c.; and, at particular times, they may have seen more than this; but, not having reflected upon it, so as to make it permanent in their memory, they recognise in the picture only the commonplaces of Nature, while the representation of her occasional effects is either overlooked or pronounced unnatural. One man, in his habit of casual and heedless observation of nature, sees only the broad physical facts of form and colour, light and shade; another, in his constant and devotional worship, sees a thousand rarer beauties; and, requiring all that the ordinary spectator perceives, demands at the same time much more than the latter can comprehend. We surely must concur with our author, when he pronounces it a great mistake for people to suppose that "they know when a picture is like nature." It may represent the amount of nature with which they are acquainted; but that amount may be so small (in comparison with Nature's vast variety), that it may be almost said they know nothing of nature, and, therefore, nothing of what is like it.-P. 65. /He lays it down as a principle, that particular truths are more important than general truths; rare truths more important than frequent ones. The artist's judgment is shewn in the selection of the highest opportunity for truths particular and rare. Every truth is valuable in proportion as it characterises the thing affirmed; but a truth, which should be fully detailed, if it be the only one to be exhibited, should not be so detailed if it come in connexion with another truth more valuable. Thus, in a Madonna, there are the face and the drapery. The first should exhibit particular, the other general truth; the one should be detailed as much as possible, the other as much as possible generalised. To his grand principle, that the landscape-painter is a TEACHER OF NATURE we must assent, unless we can regard art as higher than the artist, and place patronage above genius. It is the high province of the painter, not to be always repeating the resemblance of every-day scenes and effects, which are common to common observers; but to inform us of those occasional beauties or grandeurs which he is ever on the watch for, to communicate to us those truths which Nature has manifested in the most peculiar and striking way. Recurring again to the principles of practice, he says, truth of colour is inferior to that of form. Colour ever varies with the season, or with tance; but form being permanent, is its situation in light, shade, or disalways characteristic. The artist, therefore, who forgets form in his fondness for colour, sacrifices a definite to an uncertain property. he regards as above that which is Form, explained by light and shade, however, denounces the tricks of deexpressed by tone and colour. He, project from the canvass, as the ceptive chiaroscuro, making objects lowest of truths, because sacrificing all others. The next principle we select is not only valuable, but interesting in its novelty. "Truths," says he, "which speak more of the past and future |