tle trouble, be considered by those whose good opinion is not worth having as a great judge of character.

It is said that the hasty and rapacious Kneller used to send away the ladies who sate to him as soon as he had sketched their faces, and to paint the figure and hands from his housemaid. It was in much the same way that Walpole portrayed the minds of others. He copied from the life only those glaring and obvious peculiarities which could not escape the most superficial observation. The rest of the canvas he filled up, in a careless dashing way, with knave and fool, mixed in such proportions as pleased Heaven. What a difference between these daubs and the masterly portraits of Clarendon.

There are contradictions without end in the sketches of character which abound in Walpole's works. But ife were to form our opinion of his eminent contemporaries from a general survey of what he has written. concerning them, we should say that Pitt was a strutting, ranting, mouthing actor, Charles Townshend an impudent and voluble jack-pudding, Murray a demure, cold-blooded, cowardly hypocrite, Hardwicke an inso lent upstart, with the understanding of a pettifogger and the heart of a hangman, Temple an impertinent poltroon, Egmont a solemn coxcomb, Lyttelton a poor creature whose only wish was to go to heaven in a coronet, Onslow a pompous proser, Washington a braggart, Lord Camden sullen, Lord Townshend malevolent, Secker an atheist who had shammed Christian for a mitre, Whitefield an impostor who swindled his converts out of their watches. The Walpoles fare little better than their neighbours. Old Horace is constantly represented as a coarse, brutal, niggardly buffoon, and his son as worthy of such a father. In short,

eggs to eggs, who look out from the middle wigs of Kneller. In the Memoirs, aga sneers at the Prince of Wales, afterwards Third, for presenting a collection of bod the American colleges during the Seven and says that, instead of books, His R ought to have sent arms and ammunitio ought to suspend all study and all educa it was the business of the Prince of W the colonies with military stores out of h We have perhaps dwelt too long on thes we have done so because they are speci pole's manner. Everybody who reads attention, will find that they swarm v foolish observations like those which w observations which might pass in conve hasty letter, but which are unpardonable liberately written and repeatedly correct

He appears to have thought that he into men; but we are under the necessit dissenting from his opinion. We do not he had any power of discerning the fir character. He practised an go easy and even vulgar, ol it the reputation of dise ple out of a hundre

on every action t bear, "spelt Lady appl

the irresistible charm, of sists, we think, in the art

He never convinces the ion, or touches the heart; he reader constantly attenained. He had a strange

wn, an ingenuity which apn his building, in his gardenhe matter and in the manner ere to adopt the classification, ification, which Akenside has f the imagination, we should e and the Beautiful Walpole that the third province, the main. The motto which he of Royal and Noble Authors d with perfect propriety over his house, and on the titlebooks; "Dove diavolo, Meste tante coglionerie?" In is a museum; every piece of ere is something strange in here is a long story belongwander among a profusion ic value, but so quaint in ich remarkable names and letain our attention for a ough. Some new relic, carved work, some new instant. One cabinet of an another is opened. writings. It is not ir auty, that their attrac"ks of great historians

if we are to trust this discerning judge of human nature, England in his time contained little sense and no vir tue, except what was distributed between himself, Lora Waldgrave, and Marshal Conway.

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Of such a writer it is scarcely necessary to say, that his works are destitute of every charm which is derived from elevation or from tenderness of sentiment. When he chose to be humane, and magnanimous, for he sometimes, by way of variety, tried this affectation,—he overdid his part most ludicrously. None of his many disguises sat so awkwardly upon him. For example, he tells us that he did not choose to be intimate with Mr. Pitt. And why? Because Mr. Pitt had been among the persecutors of his father? Or because, as he repeatedly assures us, Mr. Pitt was a disagreeable man in private life? Not at all; but because Mr. Pitt was too fond of war, and was great with too little reluctance. Strange that a habitual scoffer like Walpole should imagine that this cant could impose on the dullest reader! If Molière had put such a speech into the mouth of Tartuffe, we should have said that the fiction was unskilful, and that Orgon could not have been such a fool as to be taken in by it. Of the twenty-six years during which Walpole sat in Parliament, thirteen were years of war. Yet he did not, during all those thirteen years, utter a single word or give a single vote tending to peace. His most intimate friend, the only friend, indeed, to whom he appears to have been sincerely attached, Conway, was a soldier, was fond of his profession, and was perpetually entreating Mr. Pitt to give him employment. In this Walpole saw nothing but what was admirable. Conway was a hero for soliciting the command of expeditions which Mr. Pitt was a monster for sending out.

What then is the charm, the irresistible charm, of Walpole's writings? It consists, we think, in the art of amusing without exciting. He never convinces the reason, or fills the imagination, or touches the heart; but he keeps the mind of the reader constantly attentive and constantly entertained. He had a strange ingenuity peculiarly his own, an ingenuity which appeared in all that he did, in his building, in his gardening, in his upholstery, in the matter and in the manner of his writings. If we were to adopt the classification, not a very accurate classification, which Akenside has given of the pleasures of the imagination, we should say that with the Sublime and the Beautiful Walpole had nothing to do, but that the third province, the Odd, was his peculiar domain. The motto which he prefixed to his Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors might have been inscribed with perfect propriety over the door of every room in his house, and on the titlepage of every one of his books; "Dove diavolo, Messer Ludovico, avete pigliate tante coglionerie ?" In his villa, every apartment is a museum; every piece of furniture is a curiosity: there is something strange in the form of the shovel; there is a long story belonging to the bell-rope. We wander among a profusion of rarities, of trifling intrinsic value, but so quaint in fashion, or connected with such remarkable names and events, that they may well detain our attention for a moment. A moment is enough. Some new relic, some new unique, some new carved work, some new enamel, is forthcoming in an instant. One cabinet of trinkets is no sooner closed than another is opened. It is the same with Walpole's writings. It is not ir their utility, it is not in their beauty, that their attraction lies. They are to the works of great historians