civilization fo barbarism had been made; and cruelty, cupidity, selfishness, and all the other original stains of the savage, which had been for a while concealed by the arts of politics, were beginning to make themselves awfully visible in the heart. The brutal was in arnis against the godlike part of our nature, and hurrying on those atrocious processes, by which reason was at length dashed from its pedestal, and cast into the foul den of superstition and bigotry. Every man hastened to do evil. The waves of the moral deluge, which was soon to overwhelm, if not destroy, the arts and glories of life, were already beating against the outworks of civil society, and operating their ruin. The combining principle had lost its power. The elements of society began to separate themselves from each other, or to run, like a shattered globe of quicksilver, into numerous smaller spheres, each having a centre of its own. There was no community of sentiment, no vast mass of opinion, irresistible from its dimensions; no general soul, no patriotism.

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While reading Tacitus, more especially that portion of his works denominated the History,' the soul seems to be shaken by a perpetual earthquake, so violent and unremitting is the excitement. Having followed one current of events to their issue in Europe, we are forthwith thrown off from the busy centre of motion to the East, and here again to pursue the breathless rapidity of fortune towards the capital. Now the eagles glitter in the warm vallies of Syria, or upon the sacred hills of Zion; and anon we behold them gleaming, like golden meteors, amid the interminable fens, and humid forests of Germany. Scenes, splendid and varied as the face of nature, rise before the eye. A few magical words create a landscape; a single epithet characterizes it. A sentence transports us from one extremity of the Roman world to the other. Yet, in all this abrupt movement, sudden shifting, and amazing contrast, no trace of hurry or confusion is visible in the author's manner. Whatever happens, seems to arise spontaneously from the nature of things, and we accustom ourselves to it as we do to the sunshine, the storms, the snows, and other sublime phenomena of physical nature. In many writers we are pained at beholding a feeble genius halting beneath the weight of a subject too ponderous for its powers; but in Tacitus, on the contrary, we have a man equal, perhaps superior, to the majesty of human affairs. Like those mighty spirits in Milton, who could compress or dilate their dimensions at pleasure, he always rises with the grandeur of his subject, but calmly, without effort, and by a mere impulse of nature; and even then, when his theme towers most ambitiously into the regions of the sublime, he still seems to regard it from a superior height, and never, on any occasion, to experience the necessity of putting forth all his strength. Such is the glorious prerogative of genius!

'But sombre indeed is the general picture of human nature which the pages of this historian present to us. Everywhere the same daring, the same proneness towards crime, the same lapsing into sudden remorse, the same series of boasting, panic, terrors, and rapid returns to over-weening confidence. Heaven appeared to have poured the spirit of inconsistency into their souls. Virtue had taken her leave of Rome, perhaps for ever, and no man stretched forth his hand to detain her. On the contrary, her departure was beheld with joy, and accelerated by a thousand artifices.Shouts of drunken triumph burst forth as she disappeared from their eyes; and turning round, as if relieved from the presence of a hateful spectre,

they rushed with delight into the embrace of the painted harlot, who, when virtue is banished, invariably occupies her vacant throne.

But it is easy to speak in general terms of the merit of Tacitus. None but a few feeble sophists, tormented by the itch of paradox, deny it. The rest of the world are agreed upon the subject. He is, we are informed' the most statesmanlike of historians, the most philosophical of politicians; he is the most vigorous, the most majestic, the most original of profane prose writers. But let us be just. In pomp, and harmony, and majesty of language, he is inferior to Livy; in rough fiery eloquence, to Thucydides; in easy flowing ingenious narrative, to Herodotus; but in one thing he is superior to them all,-and that is, in the power of diving into the human heart, and of infallibly divining the characters of men from the slightest and least palpable indications. Here he stands alone. In another quality, also, he surpasses all other historians, whether ancient or modern, -in the invincible power of inspiring a love of liberty and virtue. His contempt appears to wind itself, like a boa-constrictor, round the vices of humanity, and to strangle them in its might. His vigilance in the cause of virtue is indefatigable. If at any time, the wicked, by the accidental splendour of their actions, appear likely to gain upon the good-will of the reader, a reflection, brief, bitter, and startling, is thrown in, to awaken the soul, and put it on its guard against the speciousness of iniquity. He never indulges in indiscriminate censure of the times, or lets slip an opportunity of eulogizing a virtuous action. No touch of satire at any time escapes from his pen; he records the actions of men as a being exempt from the frailties of humanity would have recorded them-heaping praises on the good, infamy on the wicked, and alluding to the failings of the weak with compassion. In speaking of the policy of certain courses of conduct, he affects not to be wiser than other men. Standing upon a vantage ground, which to the men of past times had been hidden by the mists of futurity, and looking back upon events, the issues of which were then known, he saw where his predecessors had erred, and how they might have avoided it; but he assumed no airs of superiority upon that account. He knew that to discover his relationship to the mortals whose errors he was surveying, he had but to turn round towards the dread cloud which for ever hovers, like a vision and a mystery, over the onward course of humanity. Looking in that direction, he found that he could not see a single step before him, and that, like all other men, he must be content to be led through that obscure region, by the hand of Destiny. Or if, from the superiority of his intellectual vision, he could pierce a short distance beyond the present moment, into the shadowy land of the future, it was only in such glimpses as we obtain of a strange scene by night, when the stars are unveiled for a moment, and again hidden from our eyes by the passing clouds. Tiberius, we are told, secretly flattered himself that he could look into the seeds of time, and imagined that from the lofty rocks of Capreæ, he was watching the Fates at work in weaving the destinies of the world. Vanity and absurdity! He saw the phantom of a diadem upon the brows of Caius and Claudius, and his vision ripened into reality. But did not the reality proceed from the vision? Hints and whispers rapidly find their way out of palaces, and, like solid bodies falling from on high among the multitude, produce an impression proportioned to the height from which they descend.'-vol. ii. pp. 100-106.

This extract will afford a fair idea of Mr. St. John's general manner. Having evidently read a great variety of books, he is full of ideas, but they are flighty; they want depth, and solidity, and arrangement. Although the essay, from which we have quoted the above passage, is entitled 'The Character of Tacitus,' yet a great part of it is devoted to the leading personages whom that great writer has immortalized; and when we conclude, our imagination is full of a great many things, with which the character of Tacitus had little or nothing to do.

"Beauty" has been a favourite theme with abstract writers. We have here a dissertation of some pages upon its Theory, which ends in these words. Beauty, consequently, (for the author draws a conclusion from his previous reasoning,) is an object of science; and if this be the case, the most perfect idea of beauty is likely to exist among those who philosophize most upon the subject. Nevertheless, not only are we ignorant of what beauty is, but we do not as yet appear to have discovered the proper method of conducting our researches concerning it.' Thus his own example contradicts his theory. He had just been philosophizing about beauty; he was consequently most likely, according to his argument, to form a most perfect idea of it. Nevertheless, not only does he confess himself ignorant of what Beauty is, but he acknowledges, that he cannot even conjecture how he is to set about acquiring accurate information upon the subject! This is theorizing with a vengeance!

ART. IX.-The Sixty-third Exhibition of the Royal Academy. 1831. London: Clowes.

THE works of art in the present exhibition are fewer in number, by about forty, than those which were collected at Somerset House last year. It loses, however, no part of its interest on that account, as, in our opinion, a very great proportion of the miniatures, the architectural models and designs, and, indeed, all the objects in the Library, might have been left out with advantage. In the catalogue of the first exhibition, which took place in 1769, the total of the contents did not exceed 136; in 1770, they amounted to 245; in 1771, to 276; in 1772, to 324; in 1773, to 385; in 1774, to 364; in 1775, to 401; in the following year they fell back to 379, since which they have gone on regularly increasing, never having been under 1000 since the year 1817. The number for 1830, was 1278, and for the present year it is 1234, and of these 478 are Portraits. We do not think that the new exhibition is by any means the best that we have seen. Considering the very crowded state of the walls, there is a remarkable deficiency in the proportion of brilliant paintings; every body misses those female beauties, of whom four or five annually graced the rooms, from the pencil of Sir Thomas Lawrence. Nevertheless, we do not mean to insinuate that there VOL. 11. (1831.) No. II.

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has been any real falling off in the progress, which the art has been gradually making for the last half century in this country. On the contrary, several of the paintings now suspended in the Academy, shew that that progress has been steadily sustained, and if it does not quite keep pace with the general march of the sister arts,especially those connected with the practical purposes of life,—it does not lie at any very dangerous distance behind them.

The President, Sir M. A. Shee, has but four paintings in the collection, all of which are portraits. He has no Lavinia this year, no fancy subject, in which we might trace the free display of his genius. The portrait of Mr. Pascoe Grenfell, is, however, well entitled to be considered as a masterly, and, we might almost say, a general work of art, from the exquisite perfection with which all the details of the dress are finished. The likeness is flattering as to age, as it makes Mr. Grenfell some ten years younger than he is; but with this abatement, which may easily be excused, it must be allowed that the artist has succeeded admirably in fixing upon the canvass, not the features only, but the very peculiar and not unpleasing expression of countenance, for which that once eminent member of Parliament is distinguished. We perceive in the lineaments, those of a mind filled with a manly independence of spirit, habituated to the pursuit of business, and frank, prudent, and honourable in his conduct. The portrait of Miss Eliza Cooper is scarcely inferior in execution to the one, of which we have just spoken. Though not remarkable for nymph-like beauty, the young lady has an air distingué, which serves in place of it to recommend her to attention.

Wilkie has but two works in the exhibition. Strange to say, both these are portraits, and one of them is the very best in the exhibition-that of Lady Lyndhurst. We remember the portrait of this beautiful woman which was painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, and exhibited in 1828, and we must say that, in point of resemblance and expression, it was much less worthy of the original than this now under our consideration. The dress, we believe fancied from the Maltese costume, in which Wilkie has represented her ladyship, is peculiarly suited to the style of her head and complexion, which are those of a most lovely gipsy. The eyes sparkle with animation, and seem to be directed towards the spectator from whatever side he looks upon them. The colouring is superb, and reminds us of the ancient masters. The other portrait by Wilkie, is a whole length of Lord Melville, painted for the University of St. Andrews. It is not by any means a satisfactory picture. There is a heavy gloominess about the figure, which makes us feel as if it were about to tumble from the place it occupies. As a likeness, it is a decided failure. But instead of criticising the latter work too nicely, let us rather admire the varied resources of the artist, who, having shone for many years above all rivals in one departmentof his profession, has lately diverged into another with

so much success.

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The most attractive picture in the principal room, and which, deservedly, occupies the central spot, devoted in former years to the domestic scenes of Wilkie, is that of "The dinner at Mr. Page's house, supposed to take place in the first act of the Merry Wives of Windsor," painted by Leslie. Though not the best of that celebrated artist's productions, it is, nevertheless, worthy of his reputation in many respects. The party consists of Falstaff, Bardolph, Dr. Caius, Page and Ford, Ann Page, Master Slender, and the Merry Wives. One of the latter is engaged in bantering the old fat knight, and so expressive is her whole attitude, that we can almost imagine the raillery which she is pouring forth, without remorse, upon her victim. Her companion manifests, with as little pity for his sufferings, the delight which she feels in listening to invectives, which she encourages with all her heart, though she seems too good natured to be able to rival them. They are both standing near Falstaff, who is sitting at the table, his face turned backwards towards the Merry Wives, beneath whose double fire of talk and laughter, he is writhing in an agony of impatience and wounded vanity in the presence of his friends. Opposite to him, at the end of the table, sits the demure Ann Page, who beholds, with unmoved and maiden coyness, the scene between the Wives and Falstaff, utterly neglecting Master Slender, whom no politeness seems to have succeeded in attracting from a side table, at which he is seated near her. The nose of Bardolph is there in all its glory, shining with more than usual lustre after his dinner. Ale jugs and glasses are on the table, and a handsome boy is pouring out some of the genial liquor for one of the party. A cup is offered to Master Slender, but he takes no notice of it, or of any thing; there he sits with his long hair combed carefully down upon his forehead, the very model of a gawky. If there be any fault in the disposition of the dramatis persone who occupy the canvass, we think it is in the too prominent place which is filled by Slender-the very last place he would have chosen for himself, and, therefore, out of keeping with his character. He is stationed there by the artist evidently to be looked at, and, as it were, to be made fun of; this, indeed, is the object for which he is introduced at all; but the spectator would have preferred to find him in a less conspicuous position, in mercy to his own invincible shyness, as well as because he breaks in, not a little, upon the unity of the painting, by dividing the interest which Falstaff and the Merry Wives would seem to claim as principally their own. The accessaries in the picture bestow upon it a rich and characteristic effect. The windows, though trellised with the woodbine and rose, admit a mellowed sun-light, which is diffused over the room with the happiest effect.

Leslie's second work is a representation of that roguish scene in Tristram Shandy, between Uncle Toby and Mrs. Wadman. "I protest, Madam, I can see nothing whatever in your eye."" "It is