painted, as one may say, by experiment rather than syllogism, and attempted to portray things as they are, not as they ought to be; he would have been content with actual Nature, and not tried to dress her up or refine her in some impossible metaphysical crucible. "Not to speak it profanely," Bewick is no man to attempt to improve upon God Almighty, as some seem to do. It is not his way to chop logic with Nature, being modest enough to attend to what she says, in preference to lecturing himself. Our geniuses now-adays appear to be proud to have, as they call it, "made a picture." Bewick probably would have been proud to have made you forget that his was a picture. If you took it for plain reality, he would not have been offended. Such humble ideas some people have.

All this, however, to own the truth, would have been no objection to us. Far from it. We are quite serious, Messieurs Academicians. Let us not, however, be misunderstood. We do not say that highly-wrought pictures are not to be painted; we only say we are apt to distrust those who paint them. When we hear the jargon of "contrast," "warmth," "keeping," and "repose,' and all the other technical slang of what is called virtu, we confess we have an instinctive dread of mischief.-We cannot help it. Dr. Johnson used to insist, that he who would make a pun, would pick a pocket." Now, we don't go so far. But when we see a man perpetually insist upon displaying Nature in such lights as never were before, and never will be again-who must always have her in full-dress-and that a new suit-" always at the top of her bent," one way or other-ever in extremes-we say we shrewdly suspect such a man can have no very violent objection to -what shall we call it-colour a little-or, as the editor of the Wonderful Magazine hath it, "indulge a falsity." "Magnas est verity," we exclaim with thee, wonderful soul. Thy Latin may be bad, but thy sentiment is sound, in painting as well as morals.

The overstrained taste for what may be called the extreme of the picturesque, whether in design or colouring, has always appeared to us a most dangerous one. It is a sort of dram-drinking at the eye. How often are we told, "True, sir, the place is very beautiful; but it won't make a picture!" Won't it? and why? Why should that which is confessedly beautiful in itself, become not so if faithfully transferred to canvas? "Your most exquisite reason," Monsieur. This is unintelligible refinement; and is not the exclusive cultivation of this taste the readiest way to open a way for all manner of exaggeration? We repeat, we have seen pictures, and heard them praised too, that imitated humanity as abominably as Hamlet's ranting actor ever did. A picture may strut as well as a player, whatever some people may think to the contrary. There is no doubt that Nature sometimes produces combinations the most singularly beautiful, and mingles her tints with a gorgeous profusion that seems akin to the preternatural; but are we to stick exclusively to this? Are we to make the exception the rule? and deduce canons of art, not from the common

law of appearances, but from occasional deviations? Probably a natural rock that is perfectly square may be found: are we, therefore, to paint nothing but square rocks? The grand evil of this system is, that it teaches us to think that nature, in her every day and common guise, is not beautiful. This is a sad mistake. The flattest landscape that Salisbury Plain ever produced, if painted by a master-hand, would be worth looking at. We admire Dutch and Flemish pictures of pots of beer, tobacco-pipes, cabbages, Frows, and Boors. Is not this inconsistent? Is not the most common life-piece of scenery always better than a Dutch cheese? We recollect--we shall not easily forget it-a water-colour drawing-we have forgotten by whom, perhaps it might be by Fielding, no matter-it represented the encampment of a gang of gypsies about night-fall, or, as Burns would say, "the gloaming.' The fire was just lighted, and the tent up. The place was a plain, flat, unpretending, dark, grass-green field. The hedge ran in a straight line along the top of it, parallel with the horizon, a few ill-grown, scrubby-looking trees growing out of it at intervals. The sky was in the dull gray of twilight, merely gloomy, with a few dingy, mean-looking clouds, the advanced guard of night, passing over it. Nothing could be more common; and yet so true to nature was the whole, that nothing could be more admirable. That picture of all the rest won our heart; being common, it was rare-in "the exhibition." And what would any man have gained by improving this sketch, as he would call it? by planting trees where trees were not, or raising hills where all was level? He would only please at last;-and is there no risk in thus tampering with reality? Nature is the best of gardeners. When we find certain things absent or present, we may be sure there is a reason for it. How are we to know what egregious incompatibilities we may sometimes ignorantly produce by capriciously tampering with natural arrangement? Every body would see the absurdity of painting a Norwegian pine amidst the sands of Africa, or of putting an iceberg under the line. But who can say how far this principle may be carried? who has ascertained where it stops? We must, however, conclude, and conclude with Bewick.

Arrived at that period of life when many men become averse to new undertakings, Bewick is busy with a projected History of Fishes. This might be expected from the strong and knotty character of his mind. A full-bodied vintage will improve in raciness for forty years. The oak grows for three centuries. We have been favoured with a sight of some of the cuts for this work, and can answer for their partaking, to the full extent, of the marked characteristics of his earlier works. We noticed, especially, two or three angling scenes, which might make the heart of a fisher leap at the recollection. Never were the mountain streams of Northumberland given as Bewick gives them. The Cockneys, to be sure, will not understand them, but that is of little import.

Mr. Bewick is said to have noted down, from time to time,

memoranda of his own life. We hope it is true. If we are not mistaken, it will prove one of the best presents to the art that artist ever made. Let him put down his beginnings and progress, his feelings, his conceptions, his conclusions, his difficulties, his success; in short, the mental formation and growth of his skill, and the record is invaluable. Above all, we conjure him to write from himself. Let him jot down his ideas as they rise, without clipping or straining them to suit any set of conceited rules of composition. Let the book be of Thomas Bewick altogether, and only. Let him shun, as he would the plague, all contact with the race who commonly style themselves grammarians and critics; and if he does not publish in his lifetime, we think he may as well, unless he has a particular reason to the contrary, not make Thomas Moore, esq. his executor. There may be little danger in this case; but one really would not wish any Christian book, much more that of a man of genius, like Bewick, to run even the remotest risk of being put into the parlour fire to please "The Ladies." [Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine.

SELECTED FOR THE MUSEUM.

DREAMS.

OH! there is a dream of early youth,
And it never comes again;

"Tis a vision of light, of life, and truth,
That flits across the brain:

And love is the theme of that early dream,

So wild, so warm, so new,

That in all our after years I deem,

That early dream we rue.

Oh! there is a dream of maturer years,

More turbulent by far;

'Tis a vision of blood, and of woman's tears,

For the theme of that dream is war:

And we toil in the field of danger and death,
And shout in the battle array,

Till we find that fame is a body less breath,
That vanisheth away.

Oh! there is a dream of hoary age,

'Tis a vision of gold in store

Of sums noted down on the figured page,

To be counted o'er and o'er;

And we fondly trust in our glittering dust,
As a refuge from grief and pain,

Till our limbs are laid on that last dark bed,
Where the wealth of the world is vain.

And is it thus, from man's birth to his grave-
In the path which all are treading?
Is there nought in that long career to save
From remorse and self-upbraiding?
O yes, there's a dream so pure, so bright,
That the being to whom it is given,
Hath bath'd in a sea of living light,-

And the theme of that dream is heaven.

VOL. VII. No. 39.-Museum.

R. G. [Blackwood's Mag.

2 H

SELECTED FOR THE MUSEUM.

SWIFT'S MEAN AND GREAT FIGURES.

THE perusal of Apsley Honeycomb's records of Pope and the other celebrated men of that time, has made me look through their works again with a new zest. Something or other is sure to occasion me this pleasure at little intervals of time. The smallest additional light thrown upon the mind of a favourite author, makes me go over the whole picture afresh, and find something new to be delighted with. Of Pope enough has been said in our last number. I will invite the reader to peruse with me an article of Swift's upon Mean and Great Figures made by several Persons. The whole of it shall be repeated, because it is small, full of variety, provokes a comment, and I think is very characteristic of the author without being hackneyed in point of notoriety. It would be desirable to see many lists of this kind from different pens. They would afford good evidence of people's moral and political tastes.

" OF THOSE WHO HAVE MADE GREAT FIGURES IN SOME PARTICULAR ACTION OR CIRCUMSTANCE OF THEIR LIVES."

"Alexander the Great, after his victory (at the straits of Mount Taurus) when he entered the tent, where the Queen and the Princesses of Persia fell at his feet."-This was great in one sense of the word, but not in the greatest. It was prodigious, if we consider how Persia had threatened the Greeks, and from what a summit these royal persons fell, at the feet of the young Macedonian. But after all it was royalty against royalty, pride against pride. It is very dramatic and conquering, but inasmuch as Alexander was not Epaminondas, it wants moral grandeur.

"Socrates, the whole last day of his life, and particularly from the time he took the poison, until the moment he expired." This is moral grandeur triumphant; triumphant in defeat. Alexander, great as he was, had something in him which could not bear disappointment. Here the very want of success is only victory in another shape.

"Cicero, when he was recalled from his banishment, the people through every place he passed meeting him with shouts of joy and congratulation, and all Rome coming out to receive him."-This ought to have been one of the greatest situations in the world. If I venture to think it somewhat injured in the person of Cicero, my excuse must be that I have lately read the panegyrical life of him by Middleton; an author, who has the art of making his hero unheroical.

"Regulus, when he went out of Rome attended by his friends to the gates, and returned to Carthage according to his word of honour-although he knew he must be put to a cruel death, for advising the Romans to pursue their war with that commonwealth."-An old effeminate lord of my acquaintance, who was

accounted a great wit in his time, used to say of patriots of this description, "Stubborn dogs! all out of the spirit of perverseness and obstinacy." Thus he would undo, at a jerk, the whole Roman commonwealth. A modern American fared as ill with him.

"Scipio, the Elder, when he dismissed a beautiful captive lady presented to him after a great victory, turning his head aside to preserve his own virtue."-This is curious from Swift. I confess I do not see so much in it, considering Scipio's education, and that the lady had a lover. But Swift was apt to be common and implicit enough, over his Greek and Latin.

"The same Scipio when he and Hannibal met before the battle, if the fact be true."-How time and history exalt even a scene like this! The whole world seem to be looking on.

"Cincinnatus, when the messengers sent by the Senate to make him dictator, found him at the plough."

66

Epaminondas, when the Persian ambassador came to his house, and found him in the midst of poverty."-His whole life was a great action.

"The Earl of Strafford the day that he made his own defence at his trial."-What a falling off is here! It was a striking and pathetic situation, inasmuch as Strafford was a proud man fallen, sensible of his fall, and yet behaving himself at once with sorrow and manliness. But he had done villanous things, and deserted a great cause for a king's favour. Strafford behaved himself with capital good sense, and extricated his situation wonderfully well from the awkward and most humiliating part of it: but greatness never accompanied an action of his life. Even the famous letter to the king, according to his friend Hume, was written with a view to its not being acted upon. Much nobler situations might have been selected from both sides of the question.

"King Charles the Martyr, during his whole trial, and at his death."-His behaviour in the latter instance was dignified, but not great. It required more, both past and present, to make it amount to that. So did his trial. But the epithet of the Martyr shows the spirit in which Swift estimated his conduct.

"The Black Prince, when he waited at supper on the King of France, whom he had conquered and taken prisoner the same day."-This never appeared to me to be great or delicate conduct; nor the same prince's behaviour in riding a little horse, while his captive rode a large one. Besides, royalty has an instinct in this sort of behaviour. The Black Prince was a mere soldier, and could behave with great cruelty to whole multitudes of plebeians. See some remarks on his conduct in France, in Mr. Godwin's Life of Chaucer.

"Virgil, when, at Rome, the whole audience rose up, out of veneration, as he entered the theatre."-The homage paid to mind, especially by great multitudes, is always unequivocal; and forms a pure glory.

"Mahomet the Great, when he cut off his beloved mistress's