Historical and Topographical Guide to the Isle of Wight, containing every Information necessary to the Antiquarian, Botanist, Geologist, Historian, and Tourist; with a Biographical Account of Eminent Natives, &c. By W. C. F. G. Sheridan. London: Mitchell.

WE have been amused by this little Manuel de Voyage. It gives us an accurate, a full, and withal an entertaining account of the attractions which draw visitors from every portion of the United Empire, to view the picturesque scenery in which the Isle of Wight is so well known to abound. Every object worth notice is pointed out; reference has been made to the best authorities; and, in a useful point of view, the various interests of this beautiful island have

been alluded to in a spirit of justice and impartiality, which does credit to the writer.

Lives of Eminent Missionaries. By John Carne, Esq. London: Fisher & Co. THIS volume is now published, and is one which we can safely recommend for the sober reading of English families. To the valuable biographies, from which we heretofore quoted, may be added several others, and an account of much interest of the Moravian Missions.

Initia Latina. Pars Prima, et Pars Secunda. For the Use of the School at Lewisham. London: B. Fellowes.

THE simplification of knowledge always merits praise, and we, therefore, gladly bestow our meed of applause on these little works, which contain in a few pages as much elementary instruction in the Latin language as is within the level of a school-boy's capacity. How great a boon is thus conferred on junior students, those will well appreciate who remember what sorrows the old Latin grammars brought in their youthful days.

ORIGINAL PAPERS

A PASSING GLANCE.

SHE sat within a summer room,
And seemed retired from human sight;
And o'er her face of healthful bloom
Passed smiles like morning light.
And when her settling features sought
The usual pensive grace they wore,
There lived in them as happy thought
As in the smiles before.

"'Tis thine," I cried, "the bliss to know,
One happy, unpolluted breast-
Thy breast as pure as mountain snow
On which the sunbeams rest."

And I did bless her as I went,

That in me she did strongly stir, With air and features eloquent,

Some thoughts of some like her.

Such youthful Shakspeare's bride might be,
And Milton's mother, calmly fair,
The infant poet on her knee,

Of amplest fame the unconscious heir.
Such Lady Russell, ere she stood

Before the dread, determined few, Who thirsted for the only blood

To which her heart's affection grew.

All graces of the form and face

That nature can to woman give-
All inward and exterior grace
Did in my spirit live.

Of Mary did I think, who gave

The Great, the Just, to mortal birthTo Christ, who came the lost to save,

And walked in glory through the earth,

Black despair,

The shadow of a starless night, was thrown
Over the world.

This event, upon which I could wish to throw a veil, was the death of his wife under the most distressing circumstances. Her fate was a dreadful misfortune, to him who survived, and her who perished. It is impossible to acquit Shelley of all blame in this calamity. From the knowledge of her character, and her unfitness for self-government, he should have kept an eye over her conduct. But if he was blameable, her relations were still more so; and, having confided her to their care, he might consider, with many others similarly circumstanced, that his responsibility was at an end. That he did not do so, his compunction, which brought on a temporary derangement, proves; and yet was it not most barbarous in a reviewer to gangrene the wounds which his sensitive spirit kept ever open? How pathetically does he, in a dirge not unworthy of Shakspeare, addressed to whom I know not, give vent to his agonized heart :

That time is dead for ever, child-
Drowned, frozen, dead for ever;
We look on the past,

And stare aghast,

At the spectres, wailing, pale and ghast,
Of hopes that thou and I beguiled

To death on Life's dark river.

"Até does not die childless," says the Greek dramatist. A scarcely less misfortune, consequent on this catastrophe, was the barbarous decree of the Court of Chancery, unhappily since made a precedent, by which he was deprived of his children, had them torn from him and consigned to strangers.

The grounds upon which this act of oppression and cruelty, only worthy of the most uncivilized nations, was founded,—

Plato on the subject of wedlock is clear, from a letter addressed to Sir James Lawrence, who had sent him his ' History of the Nairs.' Shelley says, "I abhor seduction as much as I adore love; and if I have conformed to the usages of the world on the score of matrimony, it is that disgrace always attaches to the weaker sex." An irresistible argument.†

His short residence at Marlow has been already described. There he led a quiet, retired, domestic life, and has left behind him a character for benevolence and charity, that still endears him to its inhabitants.

He became about this time acquainted with Keats; and Shelley told me that it was a friendly rivalry between them, which gave rise to Endymion' and the Revolt of Islam,' -two poems scarcely to be named in the same sentence. Shelley was too classicalhad too much good taste-to have fallen into formas of that perverse and limited school. the sickly affectation-the obsoletas scribendi The Revolt of Islam' must be looked upon as the greatest effort of any individual mind, (whatever may be its defects,) in one at the same period of life. I do not forget Milton, or Chatterton, or Pope, when I It occupied him only six months. The this. dedicating lines lose nothing in comparison

say

+ Has a woman obeyed the impulse of unerring nature, society declares war against her-pityless and unerring war. She must be the tame slave; she must make no reprisals: theirs is the right of persecution, hers the duty of endurance. She lives a life of infamy. The loud and bitter laugh of scorn scares her from all return. She dies of long and lingering disease; yet she is in fault. She is the criminal-she the fro ward, the untameable child;-and society, forsooth, the pure and virtuous matron, who casts her as an abortion from her undefiled bosom.-Shelley.

Nothing is more ridiculous, than a running commentary, wherein an editor apologizes for, or dis sents from, the opinions of a writer in his own paper. Occasions, however, may arise to excuse, if not to justify, such disclaimer; and for self-satisfaction we enter our protest on this occasion. We go as far as Captain Medwin in admiration of Shelley; but as far as Shelley-" infallible," says the Captain, " in his judgment of the works of others"-in admiration of Keats. Shelley was a worshipper of Truth-Keats of Beauty; Shelley had the greater power-Keats the finer imagination: both were single-hearted, sincere, admirable men. When we look into the world,-nay, not to judge others, when we look into our own hearts, and see how certainly manhood shakes hands with worldliness, we should despair, if such men did not occasionally appear among us. Shelley and Keats were

equal enthusiasts-had the same hopes of the moral improvement of society-of the certain influence of knowledge-and of the ultimate triumph of truth;--and Shelley, who lived longest, carried all the generous feelings of youth into manhood; age enlarged, not nar rowed his sympathies; and learning bowed down his humanity to feel its brotherhood with the humblest of his fellow-creatures. If not judged by creeds and conventional opinions, Shelley must be considered as a moral teacher both by precept and example: he scattered the seed of truth, so it appeared to him, every where, and upon all occasions,-confident that, however disregarded, however long it might lie buried, it would not perish, but spring up hereafter in the sunshine of welcome, and its golden fruitage be garnered by grateful men. Keats had naturally much less of this political philosophy; but he had neither less resolution, less hope of, or less good will towards man. Lord Byron's opinion, that he was killed by the rethe angry feelings of his friends, might seem to counte viewers, is wholly ridiculous; though his epitaph, and nance it. Keats died of hereditary consumption, and was fast sinking before either Blackwood or the Quarterly poured out their malignant venom. Even then it came but as a mildew upon his generous nature, injur.

ing the leaves and blossoms, but leaving untouched the heart within, the courage to dare and to suffer. Keats (we speak of him in health and vigour,) had a resolution, not only physical but moral, greater than any man we ever knew it was unshakable by everything but his affections. We are not inclined to stretch this note into an essay, and shall not therefore touch on the 'Endymion' further than to say, that Captain Medwin cannot produce anything in the Revolt of Islam' su perior to the Hymn to Pan; nor in the English language anything written by any poet at the same age with which it may not stand in honourable comparison. -Ed. Athen.

with Byron's to Ianthe; and the structure of his Spenser stanzas, in harmony and the varied flow of the versification, may serve as a model for all succeeding writers in that

metre.

Early in the spring of 1818, various reasons induced Shelley again to quit England, with scarcely a hope or wish to revisit it. The breach between himself and his relatives had been made irreparable. He was become fatherless he was highly unpopular from the publicity given to the trial-from the attacks of the reviewing churchmen on his works; and his health was gradually becoming worse. The vegetable system which he followed, as to diet, did not agree with his constitution, and he was finally obliged to abandon it. That he was a Pythagorean from principle, is proved by the very luminous synopsis of all the arguments in its favour, contained in a note appended to Queen Mab.' He was of opinion, and I agree with him and the disciples of that school, that abstinence from animal food subtilizes and clears the intellectual faculties. For all the sensualities of the table Shelley had an ineffable contempt, and, like Newton, used sometimes to inquire if he had dined-a natural question from a Berkleyist.

But to follow him in his travels-a more interesting topic. He passed rapidly through France and Switzerland, and, crossing the Mont Cenis into Italy, paid a visit to Lord Byron at Venice, where he made a considerable stay.

:

Under the names of Julian and Maddalo, written at Rome some months afterwards, Shelley paints himself and Byron in that city. The sketch is highly valuable. He says of Byron, at this time, "He is cheerful, frank, and witty: his more serious conversation a sort of intoxication; men are held by it as a spell" of himself, that he "was attached to that philosophical sect that assert the power of man over his own mind, and the immense improvements of which, by the extinction of certain moral superstitions, human society may be made susceptible." I shall enter more at large hereafter on Shelley's particular theories, though they are somewhat subtle and difficult of analysis.

Venice was a place peculiarly adapted to the studious life Shelley loved to lead.

The town is silent-one may write
Or read in gondolas by day or night,
Unseen, uninterrupted. Books are there-
Pictures, and casts from all the statues fair,
That are twin-born with poetry; and all
We seek in towns; with little to recall
Regrets for the green country.

In the autumn we find Shelley at Naples. Fortune did not seem tired of persecuting him, for he became the innocent actor in a tragedy here, more extraordinary than any to be found in the pages of romance. The story, as he related it to myself and Byron, would furnish perfect materials for a novel in three volumes, and cannot be condensed into a few sentences, marvellous as the scenes of that drama were. Events occur daily, and have happened to myself, far more incredible than any which the most disordered fancy can conjure up, casting "a shade of falsehood" on the records of what are called reality. Certain it is, that Shelley, as may be judged from his Lines written in Despondency,'

in

must have been most miserable at Naples. No one could have poured forth those affecting stanzas, but with a mind, as he says the 'Cenci,' hovering on the devouring edge of darkness. His departure from Naples was, he said, precipitated by this event; and he passed the ensuing winter at Rome. There is something inspiring in the very atmosphere of Rome. Is it fanciful, that being encircled by images of beauty-that in contemplating works of beauty such as Rome and the Vatican only can boast-that by gazing on the scattered limbs of that mighty colossus, whose shadow eclipsed the world,— we should catch a portion of the sublime become a portion of that around us?

Certain it is, that artists produce at Rome, what they are incapable of conceiving elsewhere, and at which themselves, are most sincerely astonished. No wonder, then, that Shelley should have here surpassed himself in giving birth to two of his greatest works, so different in themselves, the 'Cenci' and the 'Prometheus Unbound.' He drenched his spirit to intoxication in the deep blue sky of Rome. His favourite haunts were the ruined Baths of Caracalla, or the labyrinths of the Coliseum, where he laid the first scene of a tale which promised to rival, if not surpass 'Corinne.' Like Byron in Childe Harold,' or Madame De Staël, he meant to have idealized himself in the principal character. This exquisite fragment he allowed me to copy; and during the twelve months I passed at Rome, I read it as many times, sitting, as he says, on some isolated capital of a fallen column in the Arena, and each time with an increased delight.

Shelley's taste and feeling in works of ancient art were, as might be expected, most refined. Statuary was his passion. He contended, "that the slaughter-house and dissecting-room were not the sources whence the Greeks drew their perfection. It was to be attributed to the daily exhibition of the human form in all its symmetry in their Gymnasia. Their sculptors were not mere mechanicians: they were citizens and soldiers animated with the love of their country. We must rival them in their virtue before we can come up to them in their compositions." The hard, harsh, affected style of the French school and Canova, he could never endure; and used to contrast what are considered the masterpieces of the latter with those of the age of Pericles, where the outline of form and features is, as in one of Sir Joshua Reynolds's paintings, so soft as to be scarcely traceable by the eye. He considered the Perseus, which Forsyth so ridiculously overpraised, at bad imitation of the Apollo; and said, after seeing the great conceited figurante of the Pitti, "go and visit the modest little creature of the Tribune."

Shelley used to say that he did not understand painting,-not meaning that he was insensible to the beauty of the pictures-(of the incomparable Raphael, for instance, whom I have often thought Shelley much resembled, not only in face, but genius, though it was differently directed,)—but that he did not know the style of different masters--the peculiarities of different schools. This he thought only to be acquired by long experience and observation, a retentive memory of minutiæ, the faculty of comparison: whereas sculpture requires no previous study; and of which the Roman peasant is perhaps

as good a judge as the best academician or

anatomist.

From Rome, in 1819, Shelley returned to Florence. The view from the Boboli Gardens he thus describes: "You see below, Florence, a smokeless city, with its domes and spires occupying the vale, and beyond, to the right, the Apennines, whose base extends even to the walls; and whose summits are intersected by ashen-coloured clouds. The green vallies of these mountains, which gently unfold themselves upon the plains, and the intervening hills, covered with vineyards and olive plantations, are occupied by the villas, which are, as it were, another city-a Babylon of palaces and gardens. In the midst of the picture rolls the Arno, now full with the winter rains, through woods, and bounded by aerial snowy summits of the Apennines. On the right, a magnificent buttress of lofty craggy hills overgrown with wilderness, juts out in many shapes over a lovely valley, and approaches the walls of the city,

"Cascini and other villages occupy the pinnacles and abutments of these hills, over which is seen, at intervals, the ethereal mountain line, hoary with snow, and intersected by clouds. The valley below is covered with cypress groves, whose obeliskine forms of intense green pierce the grey shadow of the wintry hill that overhangs them. The cypresses, too, of the garden, form a magnificent foreground of accumulated verdure: pyramids of dark green and shining cones, rising out of a mass, between which are cut, like caverns, recesses conducting into walks."

Shelley, while at Florence, passed much of his time in the Gallery, where, after his severe mental labours, his imagination reposed and luxuriated amid the divine creations of the Greeks. The Niobe, the Venus Anadyomine, the group of Bacchus and Ampelus, were the objects of his inexhaustible and insatiable admiration. On these I have heard him expatiate with all the eloquence of poetic enthusiasm. He had made ample notes on the wonders of art in this Gallery, from which, on my leaving Pisa, he allowed me to make extracts, far surpassing in eloquence anything Winkelman has left on this subject.

In this city, also, he saw one of those republics that opposed for some time a systematic and effectual resistance to all the surrounding tyranny of Popedom and despotism. The Lombard League defeated the armies of the despot in the field, and until Florence was betrayed into the hands of those polished tyrants, the Medici, "freedom had one citadel where it could find refuge from a world that was its foe."

To this cause he attributed the undisputed superiority of Italy, in literature and the arts, above all its cotemporaries-the union, and energy, and beauty, which distinguish from all other poets the writings of Dante--that restlessness of fervid power, which surpassed itself in painting and sculpture, and from which Raphael and Michael Angelo drew their inspiration.

Here Shelley would probably have taken up a permanent residence, but that the winds that sweep from the Apennines were too keen for his nerves. After passing some months at Leghorn and the Baths of Lucca, he finally fixed himself at Pisa, where, in the tenderness of affection and sympathy of her who partook of his genius, and could appre

ciate his transcendent talents, he sought for that repose in domestic retirement, which the persecutions of fortune, and a life chequered by few rays of sunshine, had as yet denied him.

[To be continued next week.]

THE MOB SONGS.

In these uneasy times, common men use strong language, and indulge in many wild speculations concerning natural rights and wholesome rule. Our nobles have expressed their notions concerning their own immunities; our commons have done the same; nor have the middle and well-educated classes been silent-in truth, their most sweet voices have been heard rather loudly of late, and they seem to think that they are the alpha and omega of the land. But the voice of that vast multitude, who, in the scale of public respectability, sink below ten pounds, has either not been heard or not listened to: no one has spoken for them, petitioned for them, fought for them, nor sung for them. With

a sense of this injurious neglect upon him, a bard of the mob-some nine-pounds-nineteenshillings-and-eleven-pence-three-farthings rogue has penned the following rude lines. He calls them chaunts, in which the feelings of humble men are set forth with more plainness than elegance. We differ from the rhymester a little in these matters: we wish the chivalrous feelings of our nobles were blended with the more work-day world sentiments of our humbler classes, and that both would unite in raising our peasantry and mechanics from the low and sad estate into which they have fallen :—

The Poor Man's Song.

CHAUNT FIRST.

The following chaunt is in a similar strain; there is the same intrepidity of expression, and the same plain unvarnished language: The Poor Man's Song.

CHAUNT SECOND.

I heard a rich man vaunting thus:
"In Britain's glorious land,
How blest the poor, for they can rise
To glory and command!

"The church throws wide her doors, and sits
With honours on her sleeve;
Adjusts her mitre, takes her tithe,

Nor asks a monarch's leave.
"The army opes its plumed ranks
To every stirring spirit;
The law keeps room on every bench,
For learning and for merit."
Words, splendid words, and hollow all-
I've proved and found them vain;
List, titled men! to ragged Truth,
She sings a sterner strain.

O freedom is a blessed thing,
And born in Britain's isle!
Men say-I never heard her voice,
And never saw her smile.

I have a bold and dauntless boy,
And he will to the war;.
But who in Britain leads or rules,
Born under Labour's star?
Heroic worth and virtue grave
Can nor be bought nor sold;
But all heroic are and brave,
Who have enough of gold.
I have another son, and he
Delights in holy things;

His eloquence mounts like the dove
With sunshine on its wings.
Whoso is poor and has no friend,
Is thrust aside, to see

earthly unearthliness, one in which diabolism is rather an acquired than an inherent virtue; the man looks, in fact, like one in league with the devil, rather than like the devil himelf. Mais brisons là. One of the things I want to say is, that I was struck with the propriety and decorum of our audienceworthy members of our national guards, their wives, daughters, fathers, mothers, and friends; and national, nay, (I admit it anonymously, and on paper, though I never have, and never will do so by word of mouth), prejudiced as I am, against the land of the Gaul, I could not help making a comparison between French and English of the same grade, in a public place, which did not redound, (and I was angry with myself for the admission,) much to the credit of my dear countrymen and countrywomen. I called to mind a concert in London, where I had been as much entertained by the want of common quietness in a portion of my fellow audience, as I had been interested by the excellence of the performance. It was a morning concert, and I went early with my party, to secure good places; consequently I had leisure and opportunity to make my observation on those around me. I select one little group, the nearest at hand. Two soi-disant young ladies, with a chaperone, whom in due time I found to be their aunt, occupied seats just before us, and they had the gift of their own tongues, if not of apostle Irving's. In very audible terms, they harangued each other upon the pleasure they anticipated from what was coming on; and obliged those in their neighbour hood with criticisms on piano-forte music, and music in general, which was meant to prove their habitual attendance on "lots of concerts;" but which, however, went on to indicate, in spite of them, that they had not gained much by that mode of spending their money. Occasionally, their discourse was interrupted with wondering if "Ma" was come. "Perhaps she can't see us-Ameliar, you had better get upon the bench, and look -do-there's a dear"-and Ameliar mounted up accordingly, much to my annoyance, which I signified as gallantly as I could; but which was taken no notice of. "La! I don't see her nowhere!-how stoopid of Ma! We cannot help thinking that truth min--take care, Mariar, if you keep a pulling of gles with these rude and bitter strains; we are, however, no politicians, and our object in laying them before our readers, is for the purpose of showing that our peasants and mechanics still cherish a sort of rustic minstrelsy, in which they express, besides their domestic feelings, a sense of their condition in life.

as

Base wealth raise up its mitred head,
Where genius wont to be.

Ten thousand pound is sense and worth-
An hundred thousand odd
Is virtue-count but thrice as much,
And man is more than God.
John Russell says, Give man ten pounds,
And he is fit to rule;

One farthing less, adds wise Lord John,
And man's both knave and fool.
Proud men our birthright reap-the husks
They yield us as a boon;
And call it charity to feed

Men with a parish spoon.

My cottage hearth no fire has,
And there no crickets cry;

Hot toil has lost its hope-but shall

I cast me down and die?

Did God give me these vigorous limbs,
And pour through vein and nerve
Desire of freedom like a flood,
That I might moan and starve ?
With hands prepared for a hard task,
And with a resolute brow,
I'll step among those lofty ones,
And show what man can do.

DEMOCRACY AND MANNERS.

ABOUT a year ago, I was at a concert given by The Wonder, at a town in France. Most of the audience were French, though the place abounded with English, and, of those who came under my observation, none were of the higher classes-if, indeed, such an order "the higher classes" can be said yet to exist among our neighbours. Bons bourgeois had arrived from adjacent towns to witness the supernatural feats of the Mephistopheles of the fiddle-by the way, an inappropriate cognomen he appears too harassed and hagridden, for the witty, satirical, gay, enlivening, "laughing devil" of Goethe: his appearance, I admit, is unearthly, still, it is an

me so, I shall fall!"

At last, as much to my satisfaction as to hers, I heard her exclaim-"Ah! there's Ma! I'm so glad!-'twould have been such a pity, after buying of the ticket!

Ma! here we are! come this way!" Ma, not quickly recognizing, or even hearing the voice of her progeny, kept poking and hustling about, in search of them, disturbing everyone in her way; at last, she heard Mariar's tones, calling "Ma! Ma!" in a stagewhisper, and turning her head in its direction, she saw Ameliar perched on the bench, beckoning to her, and off set Ma toward us, full trot, treading on dozens of gouty gentlemen, and of dandies, and young ladies who wore tight shoes. Being of that rotundity of proportion, which she would herself designate "stout," she was followed to her goal by smothered execrations, and audible "dear me's!" and her only consolation could have been, that her arrival in one end of the room, was hailed with as much satisfaction by her children, as was her departure from the other end, by scores of victims to the of

progress

her fat heel. And now the whole family talked in a breath; and Ma, in answer to many inquiries concerning her long absence, explained, that just as she was about to leave home, such a crowd came into the shop, that she was obliged to stay to "help serve them;" and, after all, her share of them, purchased "nothink at all-how particlar provoking!" and then Miss Ameliar reminded Ma, that she ought not to say "shop, shop," for ever, when establishment," was now the word; and, turning to her sister, she regretted that they had prevailed on Ma to follow the Paris custom, of attending in the establishment herself; "'cause, when other ladies don't do the like, people don't know how to treat ladies."

66

The very inharmonious preparations for harmony began; and, for a while, they stopped speaking, but soon resumed. Miss Mariar did, as Ma let us know, "play most beautiful on the pianor;" it was especially for her pleasure and improvement, that the tickets had been purchased, that morning; and, Now, my dear," said Ma," "directly Mr. C. comes, you get up on the bench, and mind his fingers, 'cause 'tis all along of his fingers, he plays so particlar beautiful"—the lady alluded to the well-known position of the hand on the instrument, for which the performer was so much admired. Miss Mariar hesitated "Why, my dear, what should make you more ashamed than Ameliar?" -“Oh, cause, Ma— there's a hole in my stocking."

With such conversation I was entertained, even after the concert began; and not only on the part of my friends before me, but on that of others behind, and at either side of me. The performance ended; and on my way out, I overheard the following scrap of dialogue, between another lady and another gentleman

"So, this is a concert, my dear?" "Yes, my dear, don't you like it?" Why, I'd like it well enough; only I

couldn't make no toon out of it."

"Toon out of a concert! Why, bless my heart," and he gave a little chuckling laugh, "a concert never has no toon! that's the meaning of a concert; every one plays out of his own head, and doesn't mind nothing what the others are a doing of."

Now, what is the reason that French people, of the same class as those I have been speaking of, are not vulgar and ridiculous at a concert, or other public places? Nay, more; what is the reason that the gradation, between the different classes in France are so softened down, as to be, at a superficial view, almost imperceptible? Are the French, after all," a century behind us in everything" -as I have heard Englishmen so often say on their way home after a flying visit to Paris? Are differences always inferiorities, according to the same travelled and observant men? When next we import their corps de ballet, their curls, their bonnets, or their silks, we might as well, at all events, order over, at the same time, a little of their generally-diffused bienséance-yes, and a little of their equally well-diffused knowledge and taste in those arts and sciences which adorn, soften, and add to the happiness of mere existence -in dancing, in pleasing address, and bodily motion, in civil phraseology and civil looks, in poetry, painting, music-for, after all the pretensions and chatter of Miss Mariar at

my English concert, her pendants at Paganini's concert in France knew more of the thing, at the same time that they behaved themselves incomparably better.

But

Democratic institutions in France are not revolting to you, for reasons deducible from what I have been saying. You can endure, if not enjoy, association with the people, no matter how aristocratic you are. you draw back from it in England. And may not the unwillingness of our aristocracy to fraternize with their own people, in some cases, at least, be as much owing to a dread of contact with vulgarity, as from a spirit of injustice or ill-will? "Tis true, good foreign manners are more easily caught up than English high-breeding, which consists a good deal in negatives-rather prohibiting what you should not be, than prescribing what you should be-whereas, the politeness of the French gentleman is more pronounced, and his manner more distinctly coloured. Be that as it may, I implore our highly-respectable, but oftentimes disagreeable people to try to imitate, as closely as they can, the upper classes, upon whose heels they are now treading so closely. Attention to my request would do good to all parties in case democracy should predominate among us more than it does at present. I am neither dandy boroughmonger, nor unwashed man; therefore I may be listened to. Let others improve the political condition of my countrymen; all I would aim at is to mind their manners, in order to fit them for such a change; and, in that good cause, I cry out as vehemently as ever did the most soiled mob from the Faubourg St. Antoine-A bas la vulgarité! L'ignorance à la lanterne ! et que la politesse soit mis à l'ordre du jour!

LIVING ARTISTS.-No. XV.
GEORGE JONES, R.A.

JONES is a painter of varied powerspoetic history, real history, scenes of humble life, and landscape. He first made himself known to the world by his pictures of 'Vittoria,' 'Borodino,' and 'Waterloo,' which were of such merit as attracted the notice of his late Majesty--no mean judge in art;— while his Coronation scene, for Lord Liverpool, made him a favourite with those courtiers who love to be seen in birth-day dresses, and who say, in the spirit of the lady in the satire of Pope,

that attack on the key of their position which gave him the victory. This we remark as something new in painting; and to it he

has added much that made earlier works of that class attractive. Amid all the regularity and accuracy of combination, to which we referred, there is enough of actual strife, and commotion, and slaughter, to satisfy all those who insist on visible bloodshed and havoc ; and such life and reality as make us imagine the real action is passing before our face.

Jones has lately surprised us with works of a very different character, of a higher kind--pictures, in short, of feeling and imagination. For these he is indebted to the inspiration of Scripture; but it requires something of a kindred mind to grapple with the high imaginings of the Apostles or Prophets of old; and we may be allowed to remark, that few painters, save those of the Catholic faith, have at all equalled the great argument which they attempted to illustrate. The Church of Rome was with them the chief patroness of art: through painting she revealed her miracles and her mysteries to the world, and by it endeavoured to reconcile the nations to her saints and her legends. With a daring only equalled by the poets of old, the artists of Italy invaded the sanctities of heaven: they presumed to limn the presence of God—to personify immortal spirits

and they can scarcely be said to have failed: the forms which they created are all but divine. In the characters of saints, in embodying legends, or in forming a magnificent image from some fine passage in Scripture, they were without rivals, and probably will ever remain' so. It is high praise to say, that the scripture pieces of Jones, in conception at least, remind us of some of those noble works: his 'Mordecai' and the Three Children,' are works of a high order and great promise; and other sketches which we have seen are of equal merit: we mention this with sincere pleasure, for the English school by no means abounds in artists with genius of a poetic kind; nor is the nation quick in encouraging their speculations. We may add Jones to the well-known names of Hilton, Howard, Wilkie, and others, who have achieved fame in historic compositions.

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There are many, however, who prefer his more homely scenes to either his scripture, history, or battle pictures; and it cannot be denied that they are touched with great spirit and truth. To him, a ruined town, a One would not look quite horrid when one's dead. howlet-haunted bigging," an old edifice In these martial pictures there were consider- tottering to its fall, are matters of deep inable powers displayed. Painters have hitherto terest; he tenants them at will with strollgrouped warriors in action with more regarding gipsies, wandering mendicants, or a to the picturesque in art, than the scientific in war; and, with some exceptions, the most of our battle scenes are but splendid riots, with a favourite hero or two, sword in hand, working wonders in the foreground. This kind of magnificent hurly-burly may pass muster with those who never saw armies in action. Jones has not only been a spectator of war, but an actor in its scenes: he sawfor he could not but see-that science ruled the whole, and that victory was achieved more by mathematical combination than by personal prowess. This principle has formed the groundwork of his historic paintings: it is visible in that of Vittoria' and Waterloo,' and more so in that of the 'Borodino,' where the whole Russian army appears to the spectator, and Napoleon in person is directing

busy peasantry; and his human nature is not the least attractive part of the picture. A country town on a market day, seems a favourite topic for his pencil: the ancient city of Chester, certainly one of the most picturesque in the island, has supplied him with materials for some of his fairest pictures; nor has he passed through St. Albans without an eye to its peculiar beauties. In truth, an antique house, which no one without wings like a bat or an owl, would think of living in, is like the bowers of Paradise to a painter; he loves its clouterly and dilapidated looks; he rejoices in its ruin; and the ivy and the long grass streaming from its crevices, are better for him than lighted casements and displayed banners.

His colouring is harmonious and glowing;