which though now partially disused, and regarded by many as a mark of rusticity, is one of those relics of antiquity the observance of which, even in its imperfect state, I should be sorry to see entirely abolished.

This custom is constantly alluded to both by Greek and Roman authors: from Plutarch we learn that it was usual for the master of the feast to drink to each of his guests according to their rank, and we also find that the most ancient mode of doing this was to take a full cup of wine, saying at the same time Xape, your health, together with some short compliment, he to whom it was addressed drinking the same quantity in return. As in Homer"Hail to Achilles! happy are thy guests,

of

Not those more honoured whom Atreides feasts."

Iliad, 9th

In after times, as Athenæus informs us, it was customary to drink part cup to the health of any of the company, sending the remainder to the same person, who returned the compliment by drinking the other half: this seems to approach nearest to the modern form of taking a glass of wine with any friend at table.

They also had the same custom as ourselves of drinking round, the toast or health commencing with the master of the feast and passing from him to his right-hand neighbour; to this Virgil has the following reference in the first Eneid :

"She sip'd the wine and gave to Bitias' hand:
He rose, obedient to the Queen's command,
At once the thirsty Trojan quaff'd the whole,
Sunk the full gold and drain'd the foaming bowl.

Then thro' the peers, with sparkling nectar crown'd,
The goblet circles, and the health goes round."

After the health of all present had been drunk, those of absent friends and others whom they might think worthy of remembrance, were then given, allusions to which are made by various writers: thus Horace calls upon the brother of Megilla to toast his mistress :

"Here's a bumper to midnight; to Luna's first shining;
A third to our friend in his post of divining."

Numerous other proofs of the antiquity of this custom will occur to such of your readers as are familiar with the classical authors. They will also recollect, amongst other particulars, that on some occasions it was not uncommon to fill as many bumpers as the name toasted contained letters, an usage which some of the moderns would have less repugnance implicitly to

follow, than the ancients had care not to toast any but those whom they really wished well to.

It may not be impertinent to remark that the ancients during their feasts were crowned with flowers, and that a rose was usually placed over the table; the reason for this practice is given in a beautiful epigram, with which I shall conclude these desultory observations, and which I shall be glad to see translated by some of your poetical correspondents.

"Est rosa flos veneris, cujus quò facta laterent,

Harpocrati, Matris dona, dicavit Amor.

Inde rosam mensis hospes suspendit amicis,

Conviva ut sub eâ dicta, tacenda sciat."

Wakefield, 9th May, 1818.

S. I. LAW.

REMARKS UPON MR. HOFLAND'S PAINTING OF JERUSA-
LEM AT THE TIME OF THE CRUCIFIXION
BY W. CAREY

THIS sublime composition produces a powerful first impression, and the eye passes from it to Alston's epic conception of the Archangel Uriel, with congenial feelings. Technically considered, even without a reference to the sacred history, it fills the mind with an indescribable sense of elevation. The time, and the scene, are alike equally important. The foreground losing its terminations in appalling darkness, and heaving in the convulsions of an earthquake, is rendered more awful by a reversal of the law of nature in the moment of a stupendous miracle. The aqueducts and august edifices of a magnificent city, ascending above each other in lofty perspective, form an imposing spectacle in the middle ground. These buildings stretch along the bold part of a hill, contrasting the majestic proportions of Grecian and Roman architecture with more ancient and heavy Asiatic structures-they are crowned by a superb temple struck with thunder; a part of its roofs and front is concealed by a descending cloud, from which the flashing lightnings mark the present manifestations of Divine anger. Behind the city hills rise above hills, topped by the commanding brow and long continued line of a mountain, whose bare head is exposed to the war of the elements above.

Somewhat beyond the centre of the prospect to the left, the bold outline of this mountain descends precipitantly, and a glimpse of the dark bluish sea in the distance, extends to the lurid reflexions which gleam in sullen reddish lines along the horizon. Its shores are skirted by clusters of buildings and villages, dimly illumined, and partly intercepted from view by a mountainous steep abruptly projecting between them and the foreground. The heavens are shaded by portentous clouds rolled into long drawn volumes. Between the black wings of darkness in the sky, an opening beams with the portentous splendour of supernatural illumination. This phænomenic light appears to stream from some object on the brow of the highest mountain, so diminished and dimmed by remote distance, as to be at the first glance scarcely

discernible. They seem like minute lines; but on a second view, are discovered to be three crosses, upreared in shadow against a pallid glory in the firmament.

From the impressions of this first general view, the mind recovers sufficiently to notice particular objects of grandeur, and mark the vigorous combinations by which its powerful effect is produced. The centre of the foreground is a wide road to a bridge over the brook Kedron; to the right lies a burial place: to the left its broad masses of rock, mounds of earth and foliage mingle in blackness, and lose their outlines in the dark profound into which a mountain-torrent tumbles immediately beyond. The gloomy depths are undiscernible, and only relieved by a few glimmering touches of foam from the water breaking midway on a projecting rock, and by the white wings of some wild birds screaming over the troubled gulph.

The broad middle space of the foreground is a stony and earthy grey halftint, which seems to give more force to the surrounding masses of darkness. Its level is only diversified by a small hollow with a plash of water, and the earth thrown up beside it. Its centre is occupied by three figures; two old men in loose drapery are in conversation; one, in a back view, points with his extended arm towards the preternatural light and cross in the distant mountain (Calvary), intently remarking upon them. A young female, covered with a brownish yellow mantle, and wearing a white under garment, kneels near them, devoutly bending her head in awe and thanksgiv ing. A chasm in the earth is seen immediately before her; and from this to the right edge of the picture, the terrific effects of the subterraneous convulsions are visible. Loosened clumps of wooded earth, rifted stones and shattered tombs are heaving in shadowy confusion. The lines of these broken objects take an accidental direction towards an immense breach, or sepulchral opening, in the huge projecting steeps which overhang the place of graves. The jagged fissures in the rock above and below this opening, give it a threatening appearance; it comes upon the eye with all its dismal eircum stances of time and place, as the extended jaws of a devouring abyss, whose black throat fills the mind with fearful imaginings from another world. A cold murky vapour of a dark bluish cast, issues slowly from this unknown passage. At a little distance in front the " grave gives up its dead," and a horrible form is seen ascending. An extension of the arms in dread astonishment is indicated through the cearments of this visionary appearance; its shadowy and evanescent forms delude the eye, and melt insensibly into the surrounding darkness.

The moment which the painter has chosen is that of the rending of the veil of the temple by the thunder. In the middle distance, the resurrection of the dead on the foreground, and the struggle between the preternatural light from the cross and the dun obscurity occasioned by the eclipse of the sun. There is a sense of grandeur in the whole conception, a magnificenee in the composition and devotional sublimity in the sentiment, to which I regret I have not leisure to do justice. I contemplate it with awe and admiration, as one of the noblest inventions in historical landscape which ever issued from the British pencil.

Mary-la-bonne-street, April 4th, 1818.

THE following Anecdotes of eminent Artists, which I have transcribed from my common-place book, may, if admitted into your instructive Repository, come to the knowledge of many persons with the charm of novelty. Yours, &c.

Deal, 6th May, 1818.

H. BASDEN. FRANCESCO FRANCIA, a painter of Bologna, struck with the fame of Raphael conceived a violent desire of seeing some of the works of that oelebrated artist. His great age prevented him from undertaking a journey to Rome; he resolved therefore to write to Raphael, and to inform him how great an esteem he entertained for his talents, after the character which had been given of him. Reciprocal marks of friendship passed between these two artists, and they carried on a regular correspondence by letter. Raphael having about that time finished his celebrated painting of St. Cecilia, for the church of Bologna, he sent it to his friend, begging him to put it in its proper place, and to correct whatever faults he might find in it. The artist of Bologna, transported with joy at seeing the work of Raphael, began to consider it with attention; but he had no sooner cast his eyes upon it than he perceived the great inferiority of his own talents to those of Raphael; melancholy took possession of his heart, he fell into a deep despondency, and died of grief, because he found that he had attained only to mediocrity in his art, after all his labour.

MICHAEL ANGELO was a man of great abilities: he wrote excellent verses with much facility, and his replies were generally bold and witty. The Emperor, Charles V. having asked him one day what he thought of Albert Durer, an eminent German painter and a man of letters, Angelo is said to have replied thus:" I esteem him so much, that if I were not Michael Angelo I would much rather be Albert Durer than Charles the Fifth."

Michael was in love with the celebrated Marchioness of Pescara, yet he never suffered his pleasures to interfere materially with his more serious pursuits. He was one day pressed to marriage by a friend of his, who, amongst other topics, told him that he might then have children to whom he might leave his great works in art: I have already, replied he, "a wife that harasses me; that is, my art, and my works are my children."

He had so great a fondness for those statues that are seen at Rome in the court of the Belvidere, that he went once a day to survey them, and when old age prevented him from walking, he made himself be carried to the place where they were. Though he became totally blind towards the close of his life, he never omitted these visits. He would feel for several hours those antique statues which he could not contemplate, and he never quitted them until he had tenderly embraced them.

TITIAN painted the portrait of Charles V. three times, which made the Emperor say that he had thrice received immortality from the hands of Titian. This artist having finished a large picture representing all the illustrious characters of the house of Austria, Charles V. begged of him that

he would do him the favour to introduce himself into the piece. As he could not well refuse, Titian with great modesty placed his own portrait in the most obscure part of the painting; but the Emperor, not contented with this mark of distinction, and being desirous of rewarding him in a more splendid manner, enobled him and all his descendants; he afterwards bestowed upon him the order of St. James, and created him a Count Palatine.

While he was painting for the third time the portrait of his august protector, who had always treated him with the greatest respect, Titian let fall his pencil, which the Emperor hastened to take up; the artist, upon this, throwing himself upon his knees, cried out, "Sire, I am unworthy of such service." Charles replied, “a Titian deserves to be served by a

Cæsar.

REMBRANT, like most people of great talents, was of a very whimsical and capricious temper. One day, while he was employed in painting a whole family in one piece, and when his work was on the point of being finished, some one came and informed him that his monkey was dead. Much affected by this loss, he ordered it to be immediately brought him; and, without paying any regard to the persons whom he was painting, he drew the portrait of the animal upon the same canvas. This singularity, as might be expected, gave much offence to the family for whom the picture was intended; but he refused to efface it, and chose rather to run the risk of not being paid for his labours.

DONATELLO, a celebrated sculptor, when he was giving the last stroke with his mallet, called out to the statue, "speak!"

The paintings in the dome of the cathedral at Parma, in which CORREGIO has displayed all the beauties of his art, were not approved by the canons who had ordered the work. Although the price agreed on was very moderate, it appeared to them far above the merit of the artist; having, therefore, brought it as low as they desired, they fixed it at length at the sum of 200 livres, which they had the meanness to pay all in copper. The unfortunate Corregio, bent under the load he had received, set out with the intention of returning to his own habitation, which was at the distance of two or three leagues from Parma. The weight of his burden, the heat of the day, the length of the road, vexation, disappointment, and the anxiety he was under for his family, added to his drinking cold spring water when he was extremely warm, all conspired to bring on a pleurisy, which soon put a period to his life and misfortunes.

OBSERVATIONS ON THE PREVAILING CUSTOMS, DRESS, &c. OF THE INHABITANTS OF GREAT BRITAIN.

Propria quæ maribus.-

A POPULAR writer of the present day has very justly observed, "that the nation seems to have divided itself into two great bodies, almost as distinct from each other as the patricians and plebeians of ancient Rome." It may, perhaps, be found a matter of considerable difficulty to draw the line