cess; but there is a point of view in which it may be highly detrimental to genius, which, being but a power over materials, must collect with pains and labour, and acquire a facility of drawing. Now, it is manifest that, if the artist can lay up a store of objects without the (at first very tedious) process of correct drawing, both his mind and his hand will fail him; the mind will not readily supply what it does not know practically and familiarly, and the hand must be crippled when brought to execute what it has not previously supplied as a sketch. Who will make elaborate drawings from statues or from life, if he can be supplied in a more perfect, a more true manner, and in the space of a few minutes, either with the most simple or the most complicated forms? How very few will apply themselves to a drudgery, the benefits of which are to be so remote, as an ultimate improvement, and will forego for that hope, which genius may be most inclined to doubt, immediate possession? But if genius could really be schooled to severe discipline, the new discovery, by new and most accurate forms, might greatly aid conception. If this view be correct, we may have fewer artists; but those few, who will "spurn delights and live laborious days," will arrive at an eminence which no mo dern, and possibly no ancient master has reached.

But, in the merely imitative walk, and that chiefly for scientific purposes, draughts of machinery and objects of natural history, the practice of art, as it now exists, will be nearly annihilated -it will be chiefly confined to the colouring representations made by the new instruments-for it is not presumed that colour will be produced by the new process. Our mere painters of views will be superseded, for our artists have strangely dropped the wings of their genius, and perched themselves, as if without permission to enter, before the walls of every town and city in Christendom, and of some out of it; so much so, that aftergenerations, judging of us from our views in annuals and other productions, may pronounce us to have been a proscribed race, not allowed to enter within gates; pictorial lepers, committed to perform quarantine without, and in the face of the broad sun, if possible, to purify us. These mere

view-makers will be superseded; for who, that really values views, will not prefer the real representation to the less to be depended upon? We have so little taste for these things, that we shall say so much the better, if it does not throw many worthy and industrious men out of employment. Yet who is allowed to think of that in these days, when the great, the universal game of "beggar my neighbour" is played and encouraged with such avidity? Then it remains to be considered,-will taste be enlarged by this invention? Do we not despise what is too easily attained? Is not the admiration of the world at once the incitement and the reward? Has it not greatly, mainly, a reference to ourselves? It is what man can do by his extraordinary manual dexterity that we are so prone to admire.

People prefer a poor representation of an object made by a human hand to the beauty of the thing itself. They will throw away a leaf, a flower, of exquisite beauty, and treasure up the veriest daub, that shall have the slightest resemblance to it. We suspect our love-our admiration of art arises, in the first place, because it is art, and of man's hand. This is a natural prejudice, and one designed, probably, to bring the hands nature has given us to their utmost power. There are things so exquisitely beautiful, and at first sight acknowledged to be so by all, that it is surprising they are not in common use. For instance, the camera obscura-how perfectly fascinating it is! Yet, how unsatisfied are people with it, because it is not of a human hand, and how seldom do people, even of taste, return, as it might have been expected they would, to the exhibition of it? We are afraid something of this indifference will arise from the new invention. However beautiful may be the work produced, there will be no friend to be magnified, no great artist for the amateurs to worship with all the idolatry of their taste, or of their lack of it. The love of imitation, innate though it be, and so determinate in infant genius as it has ever shown itself, will undoubtedly be checked as mere idleness; and, in lieu of improvement by practice, the young genius will be surfeited with amusements which he has had no share in creating, and for whose excellence he has had no praise. If this view be

correct, it may be presumed that the number of artists will be greatly lessened, and that a few will attain greater excellence.

Another question arises, will painters and engravers be equally affected? In the present view of the matter, for we have not seen any announcement of a power of making impressions ad infinitum, though in certain cases of fixed objects, and with fixed light and shade something of this kind may be looked to; yet, for practical purposes, it is probable that the engraver will even more than ever be in demand. We hope it may be so, for it is in this way practice in drawing will still be required; and without practice in drawing, we can have no painters. Yet, when one thinks of the possible power of copying pictures-in having fac-similes, in all but colour, of Raphael and Correggio, one cannot but dread, in the midst of hope of the rich possession, the diminution of so admirable an art. We should not have written this paper at all, had we not been led to it by the contemplation of the effects of this new discovery on engraving, though we have not come very direct to our object. We had been disgusted beyond measure, with the vile, trashy, flashy, and presuming things, so impudently staring out of our printsellers' windows, and had retired home to refresh our eyes and taste with a recent purchase, Burnet's cartoons. We began to speculate on what would be the difference between these and transcripts from the new invention. If we are to have the true handling of Raphael, we must be satisfied but it is difficult to persuade our selves that we have it not in these prints of Burnet. Their freedom is delightful -no further finish is wanted; we could not look at the elaborate hair-splitting engravings of these cartoons, after these bold expressive plates; and here, the world may have before them for a few shillings excellent representations of the finest things by the best of masters-so cheap, and, at the same time, so very good, that to be without them, having seen them, will argue a lack of feeling of the best art. Now, that no one may think this a puff for the benefit of Mr Burnet, we positively declare it is not, that we know not, and never saw that eminent engraver in our lives; but we have long known his works, and valued his knowledge of art, which he has indefatigably endeavour

ed to engraft upon the public; we have often purposed to review his works, and probably to question some of his theories, rather as imperfect, however, than wrong. But that is little to the purpose; we thank him for these fine specimens of his art, and think the public greatly indebted to him. The four plates are now before us: Christ's Charge to Peter, Elymas the Sorcerer struck Blind, Paul Preaching at Athens, and the Miraculous Draught of Fishes.

It is one

The Cartoons are too well known to require description or criticism at any length. There is nothing more remarkable about them than their simplicity. They are so perfectly unassuming in themselves, so destitute of all pretension of art, and yet so full of all its reality, that you look at them long, without thinking anything can be said concerning them. They have the most matter-of-fact air-yet is their arrangement, notwithstanding, of wondrously artful accomplishment. The perfect union of part with part, and preservation of the whole as one subject (we speak of each separate picture), shows the highest skill; but were this visible at first, the naturalness would have been injured. Here is Christ's Charge to Peter. subject; the charge to Peter, and the other disciples are included in the group as in the injunction. There are two parties in this command, Christ and his sheep-Peter and his brother disciples. They are accordingly so grouped, that there can be no mistaking their separateness, and yet the oneness of the subject is preserved. On one extremity are the sheep, the heavenly charge; on the other extremity, the boat and water, the worldly and present occupation of the disciples. There is a peculiar sanctity in Christ standing apart; the pointing of one hand to the sheep connects them with him; the other hand and extended arm, nearly touching the key in St Peter's hand, connects our Lord with the disciples. The arrangement, even in minutiæ, is more nice and artificial than one could at first suppose; for instance, if (omitting even the consideration of the subject) the hand of Christ, in dark shade, was not so distinctly extended over the sheep, the whole figure would be isolated, and the whole passage from the figure to the end, including the sheep, super

fluous; and so at the other extremity of the picture, were there a too marked and abrupt outline of the terminating figure, the picture would, somewhat hardly, end there; but the group must be connected with their employment, and that is artificially done by the drapery of that figure breaking the line which would otherwise terminate it, and carried beyond and immediately over the projection of the boat. And this not only answers the purpose in either case, but by the very sameness, almost repetition of the manner of doing it, even when the art is discovered, impresses the mind with the simplicity of the whole. Another very striking thing in the arrangement is, the distance from Christ to St Peter, being as if measured from Christ to the end of the picture, which includes the sheep; so that (if we may so speak) the two parts in the covenant are clearly, at first view, set forth; and then, that the whole of the disciples may be one group, and equally connected with Peter, their head in this instance, and Christ, the larger mass, those pressing forward, are admirably united with the rest, by the upright central figure, and one of that part of the group mentioned, with the head turned towards him. Even in the very back-ground, the parts are not without object; the tall building over the heads of the last-mentioned figures directs the eye to them, and from them to either side, and so to them jointly as a whole. Du Bos has been censured, for too easily, in this picture, distinguishing the character of Judas, who had hanged himself and could not have been present, and there are certainly but eleven disciples,-yet the character of the figure, evidently alluded to, must, we think, strike every one as of a sinister cast, and it is remarkable that the figure is grasping a bag.

The same clear arrangement is made in that of Paul Preaching at Athens. St Paul perfectly stands alone, although the figures are all about him,— and so his audience, though of several parts, are one group. The figure standing up, facing St Paul, is the key of that whole group; and the figure behind him, and those in the opposite corner, bring the whole subject, as it were, round in a circle, and make it one, by connecting all its parts. We could dwell at great length on these sort of arrangements, which are infinite,

to show that, though they appear so

simple, there is in them the most consummate skill. Here, again, is Elymas the Sorcerer. Nothing can be more distinct than the two parts-even as in a court of justice: on the one side Paul, on the other Elymas,-you see nothing at first but these two-the one to utter the awful punishment from God, the other at the same instant to feel it. The accessaries are but accessaries, and attest it. And mark how they are connected with the principal figures. The effect upon Sergius Paulus was to be told; how open, then, is the space between him and Saul and Elymas-and how very remarkably are all the hands in this picture connected, and all finally tend to the denunciation, or rather the marking, the instant effect of the denunciation, on the sorcerer. The hand of Saul uttering the curse is in strong light, it reaches, not in perspective but in fact, to the right hand of Sergius Paulus, whose left is towards Elymas, and thence all the hands are directed to the sorcerer but one, that of a woman, whose finger points to Saul-and thus, here again, one extremity of the picture communicates with the other: nor are the hands of the sorcerer himself to be forgotten, which connect the proconsul with the apostle. There is precisely the same compli cated arrangement and apparent simplicity in the Miraculous Draught of Fishes. Christ is still apart the worker of the miracle. The group, though in separate boats, is still one group, they are connected by one figure, which, in the arrangement belongs to both; the very light and shade is made subservient to this object, and hence the great simplicity. We know these remarks may be considered technical, and do not reach the greater merits of these wonderful pictures-they are intended to be so, because, if they are technically true, they are of value to those who may not have made similar observations; and may lead them to make others of the kind, by which we are quite sure their admiration will be increased. And we cannot but add, that, in the prints of the day, beautifully executed and very costly, you will scarcely ever see this art of arrangement practised. It is often hard to say what is the subject-what the principal figure, where there are many claimants-what is the character of beauty designed, where the stern and the meretricious are blended in confusion.

THE lives of actors are entitled to all the natural value that can belong to variety and vivacity of adventure, to pleasantry adopted as a profession, and to an habitual intercourse with all that is strange, showy, and original in society. They sometimes have another and a higher use. If they, in their darker instances, exhibit fine faculties abused and brilliant opportunities sacrificed to personal vices, they also, and not seldom, exhibit manliness and self-control, steady perseverance under severe difficulties, and the comforts, and even the honours of old age, achieved through impediments which might have broken down the integrity, or wearied the fortitude of many a prouder name.

Within these few years, "Lives" of the principal performers of the last half century have appeared. It is not to be doubted that they have made a very pleasing addition to our biographical stores. They have recalled the shapes and voices of a race of men, whose memory is proverbially fleeting; they have largely added to the gay and harmless anecdotes of private life; and they have unquestionably supplied many a picture of the past, which could have been preserved in no other keeping, and which will be received with interest and use by the future. JOHN BANNISTER was born at Deptford, May 12, 1760. He was singularly fortunate in his whole career. Thrown on the stage in boyhood, he continued the especial favourite of that very fickle mistress, the English public, for five-and-thirty years-grew in reputation from year to year-saw no rival in his own delightful stylesuffered no reverse of personal success, and no personal casualty-retained his fine perceptions, and acquired skill until the time, and long after the time, when the stage required them no more-retired in the midst of public regret-in his retirement lived in competence, quiet, and respectability and at the age of seventy-six, in full possession of his faculties, his goodhumour, and the respect of all who

had ever known him, died without a pang. Old wisdom will say that there was a reason for all this. His grandmother, immediately on his birth, had snatched a silver spoon from the sideboard, and put it to the infant's mouth. The old proverb has seldom been more strictly verified.

Fate seems to have marked him for the theatre. His father Charles was an actor, and, like himself, an especial favourite. Charles was the son of an officer in the victualling department at Deptford. A company of strollers tempted his young ambition to try the stage. His fine figure, handsome face, and buoyant spirits, were strong qualifications. He offered himself to Drury Lane-was rejected by the manager-again made the circuit of the country-and attracting the notice of Trote, by that eccentric yet remarkable wit, was brought back to London. The life of the stage is memorable for the mistakes made by clever men relative to their own powers, and the circumstances which finally point out where their talents lie. Charles had conceived himself to be born for tragedy; and, during some time, he played tragic heroes of all ranks, from the Richards and Romeos, down to those humbler victims of love and ambition, who die without having the honour of breaking hearts or subverting dynasties. Accident discovered to the tragedian that he could sing, and that he had a remarkably sonorous yet sweet voice. Singing was then the delight of the day in private life; mimicry has always been the enjoyment of the people in public. Charles had a fine voice, a fine taste, and a copious recollection of traits and tones. His song became an imitation, sometimes serious, oftener burlesque, of the principal singers of the period. In both he was excellent. Garrick once took Giordini, the famous violinist, to hear his imitations of Tenducci and Champneyo. The violinist declared the imitation perfect; sarcastically remarking, however, that "it had one fault, the voice of

volumes.

By John Adolphus, Esq.

In two

the mimic was better than that of either of the originals."

It was once the habit of all actors, with, perhaps, the single exception of the greatest among them-Garrick, to be in debt. They habitually lived like butterflies, or any other glittering creation which was made for a summer, and never thought of any thing beyond the day of sunshine. This has passed away with other fashions of the last century, and some of our contemporaries have even exhibited the miser as faithfully off the stage as on. But we have never heard of a wit, ancient or modern, whether in the days of our fathers or our own, who had not "his distresses like a lord." Whether it is that wit is the antipodes to prudence that the expenditure of the fancy runs away with all of the brain that belongs to calculation-that the organ of pleasantry withers the organ of pounds, shillings, and pence; or that nature, in giving this most brilliant of all qualities, balances her bounty by subtracting common sense, the fact is certain, that no wit ever escaped being embarrassed in his circumstances. Charles Bannister gave his share of evidence to the maxim. He was a capital wit, and he was always in difficulties. A pleasantry of his told both. At the time when all the world were talking of the death of Sir Theodosius Boughton, in 1781, who was poisoned by laurel water—“ Poh,” said Charles, "don't tell me of your laurel leaves; I fear none but a bay-leaf!” (bailiff.)

His wit was so redundant, that he could afford to throw it away even upon his son. John, when a mere lad, had exhibited a singular fondness for drawing, and used to sketch heads cleverly, for each of which Charles gave him a shilling. On some occasions the young artist wanted the shilling without having the head to produce. He would make some alteration in an old performance, and present it for the customary reward. Charles, rather dunned in one of those instances, and surprised, perhaps, to find that he had created the dun in his own family, exclaimed, "Why, hang it, Jack, you are just like an ordinary; come when you will, it is always a shilling ▲ HEAD."

But Jack was a seedling of the same stock, and knew how to throw back the pleasantry fresh pointed. Once, when he had caused his father some

slight irritation, the offence was marked by "Jack, I'll cut you off with a shilling." "I wish, father," said Jack, "you would give it to me now." His father, delighted at the kindred spirit, gave him much more than he had asked.

The ruling passion sometimes developes itself slowly, but sometimes bursts through all circumstances. Young Bannister had been intended for a painter, and sent to study at the Royal Academy, but there he made himself remarkable by practical jokes. As Nollekens afterwards observed, he used to frighten old John Moser terribly with his tragedy tricks. Moser was the keeper of the Academy. The more regular artists were said to be glad when he left them. His facetiousness put them out of their way, but he was probably a favourite; and, when he had fully abandoned the profession, old Moser himself took a whole box to patronize his first appearance on the stage. The theatre, of course, was to Bannister not what it is to so many others, a new world. He had constantly followed his father to the green-room, where his handsome face and lively manners had already obtained for him the soubriquet of Cupid. Even managerial majesty had for him but few alarms. From his boyish days he had been a carrier of messages from his father to Garrick, and had been accustomed to see that singular person in all his variety of moods. Garrick seems to have been the actor in a more entire sense than any man within the memory of the stage. He was acting in every thought and gesture, in every hour and occasion of life. When the boy brought the letter, the manager would sometimes put on a frowning countenance, and affect anger; at others affect deafness; at others lose his articulation and hesitate, or suddenly throw every feature into grotesque convulsion; and then, when he found his young spectator on the point of laughing in his face, he would finish the farce by a burst of unrestrained merriment. Bannister was but eighteen when he commenced his theatrical life. Nature had been liberal in her gifts: he was of good height, well formed, with a remarkably brilliant though small eye, and a voice, which, though not musically effective, was at once clear, and sweet, and speaking. Dancing was