to find his Villa and all his neighbours' domains reduced to powder, alternating from red to white heat; the slightest shake, and all will sink like ashes into a shapeless nothing, and is very near it already. Poor Cicero! whose Villa, he fondly thought, would have yielded him a green and shady repose: and there he stands, having dipped his head and arms into a vermilion pot, as red-hot as a salamander, with his slave behind him, that cannot help him to a drop of water to plunge them in! How lucky it is their garments are asbestos; but he must lose his head and arms, they are turning to red cinders: and, looking closer, we see down below that such must have been the fate of his domes tics, for they seem to have leaped upon the inverted flower pots from the earth in its conflagration, and there they stand-vitrified tadpoles. Are they meant for statues? Poor Cicero! his Villa vanishing before him, and he crying out, uncertain which will vanish first, he or his Villa, "Fumus et no, not "Umbra sumus," for there is no shadow-crying out, his red-hot poker arms uplifted in his agony to heaven and earth-no, not that; it would puzzle geologist, architect, and horticulturist to say what is there neither heaven, earth, nor any known element. And this is Cicero's Villa! If it is come to this, let not man hereafter take pride in any thing. Now, is this either nature or art? and such confusion-such fuzzy unmeaning execution! it looks scratched in with old broken combs, not with painters' brushes. And this is that height of taste which we have not yet attained. We sincerely hope we never may! But that is an argument that sets aside all reasoning, and under which any thing may stand for any thing. And here we have Ancient and Modern Rome, both alike in the same washyflashy splashes of reds, blues, and whites, that, in their distraction and confusion, represent nothing in heaven or earth, and least of all that which they profess to represent, the co-existent influence of sun and moon. It is too painful; and we stay our hand in disgust and in sorrow.

Nor is Turner the only one that plays strange vagaries. Why will not Sir David Wilkie let his genius shake hands with better judgment? We have before had occasion to find fault

with his wet, his dripping textures, and drab colours; but he can and ought to attend to expression. He is very kind in the catalogue to tell us what Sir David Baird is doing in his great picture, for we should not have found it out; never was there a figure less like a hero, insignificant, in the middle of the picture. Yet in this picture, so deficient as a whole, are beautiful parts, especially in grouping, though, we think, colour is wanting. But, is it possible that 503, Portrait of "Master Robert James Donne," can be by Sir David Wilkie? It is most childish and weak-hard dots for eyes, and scratches for nose, and mouth, and hair! Straw dipped in mud!! Wondrously bad. He must have scratched it in joke, and exhibits it to win a wager. We can easily imagine that a painter from working too much upon one picture, may not only lose his correct judgment with regard to that picture, but temporarily in art generally. The eye, by intensity of observation, loses its nice perception of colour. This may partly account for the eccentricities of great men in art.

There is a sad story in one of Balzac's Tales (le chef d'œuvre) of an old painter, who had devoted years of his life to one picture, meant to represent perfect female beauty. The old man's fame, and the real learning and knowledge of art shown in his conversation, led to the most extravagant expectations of the perfection of the picture, which he had never shown to any eye, and which he always declared to be yet unfinished. Daily did he shut himself up with his wonderful work, adoring his own creation. At that time, Nicholas Poussin, being in Paris, a young man, with his newly married beautiful wife, is induced, after being delighted with the scientific conversation of the old painter, to suffer his wife to sit to enable the old man to complete his work. The inducement to Poussin is, the permission afterwards to see the picture, now, as the painter said, complete, all but one foot. Poussin is admitted. He sees a canvass daubed over and splashed with colours, without form; at the bottom of the canvass there is to be seen one beautiful foot-this was the part the enthusiast had not completed. Doubtless, all the rest had been equally well painted, the impression of the figure

permanently fixed in the mind of the artist, not thence to be obliterated when he had destroyed it on the canvass. He saw and pointed out eloquently beauties which only existed in his own imagination.

We knew an artist of great talent who had thus overworked himself, and, from being the most modest of men, became impatient of every remark in which praise was not the principal ingredient. On looking at a picture he had painted a few years before, he told the possessor he could greatly improve it; permission was given, and he brought his palettewith his palette knife he plastered little white clouds all over the sky, and called in the possessor with pride, to show how he had improved his picture by "peopling the sky with angels!"

Maclise has great power of drawing, and is master of character; and very original. He should pay more attention to his colour and chiaro scuro. His scene from "Midas," his "Robin Hood," and his "Gil Blas," are deserving of great praise, and are full of the best characteristics of his style. 103,"Christ blessing little children." There is a female and child in the corner very lovely, and worth all the rest of the picture; we will venture to suggest to Mr Eastlake, that a little more vigour in the handling would not hurt the subject. It is, however, a very sweet picture; we should have preferred the children if more varied in size. 129, The Sonnet and its Companion" are very beautiful, by Mulready; somewhat too hot, but they are gems. 138, "The Rising of the Pleiades." This is the oddest fancy of Mr Howard, of being for ever among the stars. We cannot imagine the Pleiades, who have their heavenly duties to fulfil, to be in the least like these women in the clouds, with their lower extremities so bundled up in bags. This is their rising would they would set, and for ever! Leslie's "Dulcinea del Toboso" is capital; but is it the character? Perhaps Mr Leslie's conception of it is right. 204, "A Protestant Preacher," H. Scheffer. This picture has some capital heads-the black back of the principal figure is rather unfortunate. 210, Much as we admire the grouping and drawing of Mr Uwins, we cannot reconcile our eyes to the hot colour, which so preposterously abounds in

his pictures. This, of the Bay of Na. ples, and Peasants, is of that character. Mr Uwins is, with some others, of the school of one Peter Schlemel, who sold his shadow. We see pictures now-a-days, which, in that respect at least, have been sold, and sold again. 221, "Calvin on his Death-bed," T. Hornung; admirably painted, has some very fine heads, perhaps Calvin's the least good. 241," Pluto carrying off Proserpine," W. Etty. There is very striking beauty here. The car and horses are worthy of the management of Dis; but has not Mr Etty made a mistake in Pluto? We do not remember ever to have heard that he was a native of the coast of Guinea. Who can wonder at Proser

pine's objections to a subterranean Nigger? Is not one of the attendant nymphs, with an extraordinary bosom, out of drawing? His models were probably nipped in the waist by tight stays. The picture is well coloured, and of poetical conception altogether. 264," Rhyme of Ancient Mariner," J. Severn. This is admirably ima gined, and the colour keeps up the awful mystery perfectly. 351, "Van Amburg and his Animals," Landseer. Landseer is here quite himself, and fully keeps up his reputation in all his pictures this year. This picture has been animadverted upon, as a tasteless order. We are quite of another opinion. The subject is surely in itself good. This extraordinary and true friendship between man and the most savage beasts. The velvet texture of the creatures is admirably preserved; to speak of their character would be superfluous. He is the poetpainter of animals. His human figures in comparison with them, are failures. We wish we could prevail upon this great painter to discard or moderate his drab colour, of which he seems so fond. It makes all his ground, which should be substantial, a disagreeable surface, and frequently very washy. 377, "Quentin Matsys, the blacksmith of Antwerp," R. Redgrove. done, Mr Redgrove! The story is told excellently well. The admiration of the old man, the suspense and anxiety, yet not without hope, of the maiden, and the manly expression of the patient lover, confident that he had performed his task, are proofs of very high talent. 389, "Lady Jane Grey at the place of Execution," S.

Well

A. Hart. This is surely a very fine pic ture; the figure and expression of Lady Jane Grey perfect. It is near being well coloured; a very little more would make it so. This picture raises English art in the line of history. We are scarcely less pleased with his "Edward and Eleanor," 187. These are subjects of deep pathos, the painter may congratulate himself upon such choice; may he find substantial reasons for pursuing them. 471,"St Dunstan separating Edwy and Elgiva," W. Dyce. This is another specimen of our advance in the historical line; it bespeaks great promise; the energy of the principal figure is admirable; if there be a failure, it is, perhaps, in a deficiency of grace and of feeling in Elgiva. But there is no failure here in that respect in 505, "Olivia's return to her Parents from the Vicar of Wakefield." How beautiful, very beautiful, are the two sisters! Perhaps the Vicar and Mrs Primrose are less true, but we can only think of the two loveliest of sisters, and congratulate Mr Redgrove, and hope it is no great sin to say, we covet his picture. The story of Columbus asking Bread for his Child," William Simson, 519, is another proof of our advancement of improvement in painting, as well as subjects. We like 524, "Invocation to Sabrina," J. Wood; not that we think it quite successful; the attempt is one of difficulty; it has the merit of poetical thought. We said there were no landscapes, what shall we say then of Lee? What is his river scene, Devonshire, 13? It is good, at first sight very pleasing; but we look for what it does not but should give, more of the brilliancy of such a scene; in lieu of which we have conventional, loose execution, to represent, not to be, the sweet, green, and jewelled leafage

that loves to look into nature's mirror. We doubt if the cottage is not an intrusion, and, besides, dislike its colour. This style of subject wants more substance, and rich substance of paint; it is too flimsy and conventional. Are we hypercritical? What will Mr Lee think? Still we want landscape. 428, "The Bride of Lammermuir," R. S. Lauder. To this very expressive picture, we returned again and again. It is highly pathetic-the story could not be better told. The Master of Ravenswood is quite a masterpiece. The character could not have been more perfectly conceived; we augur that Mr Lauder will do great things. How many must we pass over that are in our note-book; but not 394, "Othello relating his adventures," D. Cowper. It is broad and simple, and admirably painted, with good expression: if we doubt at all, it is if Othello should express any wonder at his own tales; we think he does, more particularly in the hand. It is, perhaps, out of our province to say much of portraits. There are so many, and some of them so hideous; sometimes the fault of sitters, and sometimes of painters, that, after seeing a few, we generally pass over the rest. There are two that struck us as the best. 301, Portrait of "Author of the City of the Sultan," H. W. Pickersgill; and 498, Portrait of "Robert Peel, Esq.," J. Linnell. We take our leave of the Exhibition with the greatest hopes of the English schools; and repeat that, however severe we may appear to have been upon some works

and, we believe, we have been only just-there is so much excellence pervading the Exhibition generally, that the country may be proud of British Artists.

THE Persians are coming,

The Persians are come ;
The banners are flying,
And thunders the drum ;
And bright as a sunbeam
Rides forth in the van,
The king of all kings,
Kouli Khan, Kouli Khan!
The hills and the valleys

Of corpses are full;
There lies the pale Tartar,
There lies the Mogul.
There the elephant bleeds

From his forests afar; For the arrows of Persia Have finish'd the war. And now with his omrahs

He sits on his throne, With kings for his captains, The East for his own. The gems on his turban, The gems on his shawl Flash fire-but his glance Flashes brighter than all. There, proud Aurungzebe!

Stand thy princes in chains, But, though fallen, they remember Thy blood in their veins : With toil and with battle

Their faces are wan; But their frown is as haughty As thine, Kouli Khan. Then gazed the dark Sultan, His bosom heaved high, For he ponder'd the thoughtShall they live? shall they die? "Let them die"-from its scabbard

His dagger outsprang ;

"Let them live"-in the scabbard 'Twas dash'd with a clang. Then the herald came forth,

He thrice bow'd to the throne:
Like a pillar of topaz

He gloriously shone.
He thrice blew the trumpet,
The heavens gave reply;
Then proclaim'd to the captives,
"Thus live, or thus die :-

"The Shah asks three questions :

If answer'd, ye stand; If unanswer'd, ye fall

Each head and each hand On the ramparts of Delhi Shall bleed to the sun; This moment is yours

Now, be saved, or undone !" All was silent as midnight,

Then out broke the words"Hear, princes of Cachmire! Hear, Delhi's proud lords! The manes of your steeds

Are like banners unfurl'd; But what hours would it cost you, To ride round the world? "Next, reckon the wealth

Of the king of all kingsHis crowns and his sceptres, His arms and his rings. Last, tell the high thought,

That now beams in his eye. Or your death-lot is drawn,

There your corpses shall lie." Then the squadrons of archers

Wheel'd round, wing to wing, And a thousand keen arrows

Were laid on the string.
Yet there stood the princes,

Though fetter'd and lone,
In their ranks still and stately,
Like statues of stone.

"They must die." But a yell Pierced thro' heart and thro' ear, And wild as a leopard

In sprang a Faquier :

His visage was ebon,

His beard to the ground, Wrath burn'd in his glance

As it darted around.

"Kouli Khan! thou art conqueror, Sheath thy red sword; Kouli Khan! take thy choice,

To be cursed or adored!" All gazed in strange wonder, And dagger and spear Were aim'd at his breast,

But loud laugh'd the Faquier.

"I will answer, dark Sultan,

Thy questions of blood." His staff swept a ring

Round the spot where he stood. Then he pour'd out a goblet, And mutter'd a name; To the gold-sculptured roof Sprang a column of flame. Then his voice spoke in thunder: "What hours shall it take To ride round the world?— Dark Sultan, awake! -Take the wings of the morning, And ride with the sun, In a day and a night

Shall thy journey be done!
"Then, what is thy wealth?

Were it mountains of gold,
'Tis not worth one true heart-
Now, two questions are told.
Hear the third. Is it evil,

Or good to forgive?—
Know that Hell gives us death,

But Heaven bids us live."
Then loud swell'd the trumpet,

And high clash'd the spear, And a purse fill'd with diamonds Was flung to the seer. And to hail him the omrahs

And chieftains all ran, And none look'd on the throne Though there sat Kouli Khan. But one, and the proudest,

Dared pluck his white beard: The Faquier shot a glance,

Not a murmur was heard! But one grasp at his throat; And the Omrah lay low; And the whole jewell'd circle Recoil'd from the blow. "Still the axe," said the Sultan, "Must smite the Vizier, For the blood of my bravest Has reek'd on his spear." "What, tiger! more blood? Well, what prize shall be mine, If he stand on this spot

Ere yon sun shall decline ?" "Take the half of my throne!" -"Mighty Shah, he is here!" -The beard was cast off,

But there stood no Faquier. For the form bow'd to earth,

And the forehead so pale, There stood in his beauty

A youth sheathed in mail.

Still brighter and brighter
He grew, while they gazed ;
Still loftier his stature,

His eye keener blazed.
In his hand was the sword,

On his brow was the plume. -Is he come from the skies,

Is he come from the tomb? "I am Uriel," he spake

From sultan to slave, All were bow'd to the dust, All was still as the grave"I am sent from the heights

Of the star-studded throne, The Angel of Mercy,

To save the undone.

"They are saved-Thou art saved!
For each drop of their gore
Would have burn'd on thy soul,
Like the red molten ore.
Now, farewell, and be wise,
Thou son of the worm!"
-He upsprang, and the sound
Was like ocean in storm.
And the rolling of chariots,
And clanging of bows,
Of the warriors of heaven
Were heard as he rose :
And voices of sweetness,

And sweepings of strings;
And the gleamings were seen
Of tiaras and wings.
And the perfumes of Paradise
Fell in a stream;
And their senses were steep'd
In delight, like a dream!
Then all woke.-For a year
The dagger was sheathed,
The hand of the bride,

In the bridegroom's was wreathed.

And the vine hid the cottage,

The sheep fill'd the fold,
And the merchant was safe
With his silk and his gold.
And the infant was glad,
And the man without fear,
And age met the tomb,

Like the corn in the ear.
But then came dark Eblis,

The tempter of kings, And the Sultan was wrapt

In the shade of his wings; Wine madden'd his soul,

The fiend fill'd the manThou'rt a corpse in thy tent,

Kouli Khan, Kouli Khan!