Sir George Staunton's Narrative of the Embassy; and Mr. Alexander also published a splendid work entitled the Costume of China. On the formation of the royal military college at Great Marlow, he was appointed teacher of drawing in that seminary, but resigned the place on being chosen, not long after, to the office of keeper of antiques in the British Museum. Here he made numerous drawings of the marbles and terracottas for the work published by Mr, Taylor Combe, in three quarto volumes. Mr. Alexander died in 1816.

"BUNBURY, Henry William. He was the youngest son of Sir William Bunbury, of Mildenhall, Suffolk, and was educated at Westminster school, from whence he removed to Catherine Hall, Cambridge. He distinguished himself at an early period of life by his attachment to the arts, particularly in caricature painting, in which he became very popular by his Directions to Bad Horsemen, and other published works of considerable humour. Sir Joshua Reynolds said of one of these pictures, that it exceeded, in drawing, every thing of the kind he had ever seen. Mr. Bunbury died in May, 1811, aged about sixty-one, near Keswick, in Cumberland.

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'CARTER, George. This singular character was born of poor parentage, at Colchester, in Essex. After receiving an ordinary education in the free-school of his native town, he became shopman to a mercer in London. In a few years he was taken into partnership, but the concern failing, Carter turned painter. He next travelled to Rome, Petersburgh, and Gibraltar, and lastly made a voyage to the East Indies. Though a very indifferent artist, he contrived to realize a fortune, with which he retired to Hendon, where he died in 1795. He presented a picture for an altar-piece to the church of St. James, at Colchester, the subject of which is the Adoration of the Shepherds, but it is a wretched performance. In 1785, he made an exhibition of his own paintings in PallMall; and, in order to push himself into notice, he published some engravings from those paintings. He affected likewise to be an author, and printed a Narrative of the Loss of the Grosvenor Indiaman, in the title to which he styles himself historical painter.

'CATTON, Charles. This English artist was born at Norwich, and served his time to a coach-painter in London. Afterwards he became a student in the academy in St. Martin's Lane, where he acquired a good taste in drawing the human figure. He was the first herald painter who introduced a good style in that branch of the art, particularly in the manner of designing the supporters to the coats of arms. A collection of animals was engraved and published from his designs. At the foundation of the Royal Academy he was chosen one of the original members. In 1784 he became master of the company of painter-stainers. Mr. Catton died in 1798. His son, Charles Catton, was also a good artist, and painted landscapes, but never followed that or any other branch of the profession. About the year 1800 he went to New York, and died there in 1819.

"DAYES, Edward. This artist was the scholar of William Pether, and, in the early part of his life, painted in miniature. He also scraped in mezzotinto, but afterwards practised landscape drawing, and was appointed designer to the Duke of York He was much employed in taking views for the booksellers; but being embarrassed in his circumstances, he put an end to himself in May, 1804. The year following came out a volume, called The Works of Edward Dayes, containing an excursion through Derbyshire and Yorkshire, with professional sketches. At the time of his death he had in the exhibition a pleasing view of Shrewsbury. His principal work was a picture of the royal procession to St. Paul's, after the late king's illness, in 1789; of which Sir Joshua Reynolds thought highly.

"MORLAND, Henry Robert. He was the son of a painter in St. James's Square, by whom he was instructed : he painted portraits both in oil and crayons, besides which he scraped in mezzotinto, and was much employed as a picture cleaner. In 1760 he exhibited a boy's head in crayons, which was one of his best performances. By embarking in picture-dealing he ruined his affairs, and became a bankrupt. The common subjects of his pencil were conversations, and servants employed in domestic purposes. He died in December, 1797, aged about seventy-three. He was the father of that extraordinary artist, George Morland, who was born in 1764, and died in 1804.

"PARSONS, Francis. This artist lived in London, where he practised as a portrait painter, and in 1763 exhibited at the Spring Garden rooms, two pictures, one of the Indian Cherokee, who was then in England, and the other of Miss Davis, a celebrated singer, in the character of Madge, in Love in a Village. These portraits, however, were indifferently executed, though M'Ardell engraved the first. Parsons afterwards turned picture dealer and cleaner. He died in 1804.

"PEARSON, Margaret. This ingenious lady was the daughter of Samuel Patersoan an eminert book auctioneer. She discovered early a fine taste for the arts, and on Crit. Gaz. Vol. 1. No. 6.

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marrying Mr. Pearson, a painter on glass, she devoted herself to that branch of the art, in which she attained peculiar excellence. Among other fine specimens of her skill in this line were two sets of the cartoons of Raffaelle, one of which was purchased by the Marquis of Lansdowne, and the other by Sir Gregory Page Turner. She died February 14, 1823.

• SMITH, John Raphael. He was the son of Thomas Smith, the landscape painter, of Derby, from whom he received instruction in drawing; but losing him at an early age, he had no other teacher. He practised portrait painting in crayons, and rose to pre-eminence in that line, as appeared in his whole lengths of Charles Fox and Earl Stanhope. He also became distinguished as a mezzotinto engraver, and scraped a great number of fine prints from the works of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Among his scholars were the two Wards, Hilton, and De Wint. Mr. Smith was the first who brought into public notice that eccentric genius, George Morland. He died in 1812."

We forbear to transcribe the article on the late highly-gifted Dr. Wolcot, because we regard it as an instance of ingratitude on the part of any editor of Pilkington, knowing, as we do, that he rendered this work very important services. "In 1798 he was employed to superintend a new edition of this Dictionary, which, instead of improving, he spoiled by introducing splenetic remarks and coarse ribaldry." Now we know that he was not employed—that his task was performed con amore—and that his fine taste on every subject enabled him to improve the original work throughout.

We do not mean, however, to withhold our praise from the present edition, which is portable, printed with care and neatness, and abounds in marks of editorial vigilance. Such a guide to the art was much wanting, and the undertaking deserves, and will doubtless receive, suitable patronage.

Some Account of the Life of the late Gilbert Earle, Esq. Written by Himself.-3 vol. 8vo.

THIS is one of the most deeply interesting narratives we ever remember to have met with. We do not know whether it be a real autobiography, or whether it be chiefly, or in part, the invention of the writer. Nor, indeed, is it necessary to enquire. We are too well acquainted with the numerous finesses of authorship, to credit implicitly the usual prefatory assertions about manuscripts, confidential packets, private history, &c. &c.: but still there is an air of reality and bon foi about the work, which invests it with the appearance of genuine occurrence. We recommend it confidently. as a work of extraordinary talent; no reader of the least refinement can fail to take a deep interest in its details, less on account of the ground-plot of the story, which developes little variety of incident or singularity of ad venture, than because the tone of deep pathos and profound thinking pervades it, and of the natural and vigorous eloquence in which it is conveyed. Its imagery is vivid without being meretricious; there is no visible effort in its intellectual grasp; and it sounds and searches the depths and well-springs of feeling, without bathos, without attitudinizing artifice, and without straining after the production of effect. In short, the Life of Gilbert Earle exhibits, as in a mirror, the prominent features of that susceptible spirit, and those strong impulses, which characterize this eventful age: which, in part, result from it, and, in part, re-act upon it; an age distinguished above all its predecessors by the splendour of external things; but still more so by the

power and energy which these have reflected on the intellect and imagination of its children. We lay the following extract before our readers, as an example and proof of the high literary rank we have assigned to the talented author :

"About two years ago, I was witness to a scene of deep and dreadful affliction, which left a very strong impression on my mind. A most intimate and dear friend of mine was going to be married to a woman whom he loved with the extremity of allengrossing affection-to one who, as I heard, was every way worthy of such love from such a man, and who returned it with all that additional fondness and fervour, which the perfection of love in woman always possesses over and above the perfection of love in man. I was to be present at their marriage ;--but shortly before the time for which it was fixed, I received a letter from a relation of my friend, entreating me to set out to join him without delay-as he was in a most alarming state, from the shock he had sustained by the sudden death of his betrothed. It appeared that she had burst a bloodvessel, and died in a few hours.

"The letter which conveyed to me this intelligence did not reach me for some days later than it should have done--in consequence of my having been a short time absent from my usual place of residence. The instant I did receive it, I set out for the house of the father of Miss, which was where she had died, and where my friend then was. I arrived there on the morning that the funeral was to take place. Stranger as I was to the whole family, I was received with the utmost earnestness,--for the condition in which L was, was so appalling, that they almost feared the removal of the body would be fatal to him; and as I was supposed to have more influence over him than any and than all, my arrival was greeted with joy. Heavy and crushing as the blow was to the parents, the witnessing such affliction as L- 's served to relieve and dissipate their own,-by making them dread, that the loss of him who was a son to their hearts, would be added to that of her who was their daughter in blood as well as in affection. It compelled them to make exertion for him, and we all know that that is the strongest of all medicine for recent sorrow.

"I went to Limmediately. He was in the room with the corpse; and was sitting beside it when I entered. The moment he beheld me, he fell upon my neck and - wept for the first time, as I was afterwards told, since the catastrophe had happened. He wept long, very long. At last he seemed relieved;-he raised himself—took me by the hand, and led me to the coffin.

"I had never seen her during life--but even now she was surpassingly beautiful, Cold, marble-pale, and rigid, she looked like one of those beautiful sculptures which are placed upon old tombs, in effigy of those who sleep below. The delicate and extreme clearness of the skin was become sheet-white-partly, as I believe, from the common effect of Death, and partly from the nature of her particular malady. The face alone was uncovered-long grave-clothes closely enveloped the whole frame to the neck-and a napkin was over her brow. So smooth and softly white was the flesh, that it could scarcely be distinguished where the one ended, and the other began. From beneath this, however, one long tress of hair escaped, which, passing across the cheek, rested upon the shroud. This struck me more than all, for this gave the contrast of life with the perfect deadliness of all else. So still in the stillness of peace,-so calm in the calmness of purity, was this corpse of loveliness and virtue, that one scarce could think that the King of Terrors had claimed it for his own. It looked, as I have said, more like the figure on a pale sarcophagus-or, perhaps, more like one in a deep, a very deep, sleep-than the soulless wreck of passed humanity. But this one tress of bright hair, shining on the white skin-like a fling of golden sunlight upon snow-recalled the terrible truth at once, The hair is the latest portion of the human frame to betray the consequence of death. While the eyes become glazed, and the nerves fixed, and the flesh grows colourless and icy cold,-the hair is the same that it was when it added so much beauty to beautiful life-when it waved in the wind, or gleamed in the sun, as the quick motion of youth might influence.

"Yes, she was, indeed, lovely!-and what was this loveliness now ?-almost already touched by that decay, though we know it to be invariable, our nature causes us to shrink so sickeningly Sad, indeed, is it to gaze upon a face we love, beaming in all the brightness of beautiful youth, and reflect that that flesh will moulder, and finally become dust,-that those eyes will cease to be, and nought remain but an hideous and revolting bone, undistinguishable from that which formed the head of the coarsest or most brutal. What, then, must it be to look upon a countenance thus beau

tiful, and thus loved, when this terrible and disgusting process has nearly begun ?—But this is a part of the subject too horrid to be dwelled upon.

"There is, however, another idea, which has always risen within me, with a revolted feeling, when I have gazed on one thus about to be placed in the grave. I mean all the preparation (I might almost say decoration) which the senseless clay has undergone, to be laid to its fellow-earth. Why that livery of death—that uniform of the grave, in which all are equally wrapped? The ruling passion even of Narcissa is not strong AFTER death ;— we then, surely, need no adornment. The dress in which we chanced to be habited when the spirit passed, might, one would think, suffice to decorate the physical body which is left behind. But this coffin, into which I looked, was, besides all this, quilted throughout with satin, and a pillow of the same material supported the head,—as if the fair cheek could now taste its softness! Alas, alas, how paltry do these mockeries appear to us at such a moment!

"I had ample time to gaze my fill, and to think of all these things, and many more; -for Lplaced himself at the head of the coffin, and remained there, with his head bowed in his hands upon its edge. Low deep groans struggled from him at intervals-and the cold sweat was clammy on his brow. At length they came to fasten down the coffin. I wanted him to go with me from the room, but the paroxysms of his despair were so terrible, when I strove to draw him towards the door, that I thought it better to desist.-He flung himself upon the body, and fastened his lips upon her'snow so damp and rigid.-There he lay, as if he would have lain for ever;-at last, I gently raised him up, and signed to the men to replace the lid. They did so at once. L gazed at them as if he were changed to stone ;-but when he heard the grinding sound of the first screw, as it was driven down into the wood, he uttered a loud and terrible shriek, and fell senseless into my arms.

"I was afterwards glad that it was so for all was over before he came to himself. It was, indeed, several days before he left his bed. After a short time, I took him home with me,-where he staid nearly three months, recovering very slowly. At the end of that period, he went abroad, for change of air and of scene, and I have not seen him

since."

I last week received a letter from him, from Naples, to inform me-he was going to be married! I can scarcely say the blow this has given me. Is this the duration of human love-of human sorrow ?-Do two short years suffice to root out from the heart of all that has grown there so long, and, one would think, so deeply?—Is love, then, a mockery, that it vanishes so soon into air?-Is grief a deceit, that it so soon is converted into joy?--Alas, alas, it is witnessing things like these that sours the milk of humanity in our hearts-that stifles all yearnings of kindliness towards our fellows, and makes us doubting and distrustful of them all. L is, however, ashamed,—and he writes to me as though I were wronged, as if apology were due to me. And I am wronged, and apology is due to me. I was no way connected with her whom he lost-- I never even saw her during her life, and grieved for her only for his sake. But to find the chosen friend of my youth and heart thus fickle and shallow,-to see hopes, and affections, and sorrows, thus wiped from his heart at once, as a schoolboy spunges from his slate the accounts of the past week,-to learn from him, of all men, the lesson of how light are all earthly loves-how speedily even the dearest and deepest are forgotten-these are things which are wrongs-these are things for which apology is indeed due.

"He says, the very violence of his grief caused its comparatively short duration,-as the fiercest fire is the most speedily burnt out. He talks of the state of dreadful isolation and vacuity in which he found himself, when he was first restored to calmness of mind —of the besoin d'aimer implanted within us all—of the well-known fact, that the most wounded hearts are the pronest to love again. He then proceeds to say, that just at that moment, when his heart most needed something to cling to, he met with one who, &c.

He talks, in a word, in the way that a man always does, when he is about to do a thing he knows to be wrong, and yet is determined to do it-when he is lowered in his own esteem, and is conscious that he shall be so in that of his friend. He strives to deceive both himself and me.

"It is true, indeed, that such grief as his was could not last ;-the human heart, the human frame, could not bear a continuance of such sorrow-it must have ceased, or he must have died. But it should not have passed away thus-like a storm in June, leaving every thing gay and brilliant as before. It should have been succeeded by that deep, inward feeling, which is more calm than sorrow, less clouded than melancholywhich rests itself in holy fixedness upon its loved cause, and which is not only not fled from, but is so cherished, that it would be punishment as well as sacrilege, to seek to replace it by any lighter and more recent affection.

"But, after all, why should I be angry with L- -? It is thus always;-this, in very truth, is the way of the world.'-Oh! what a hollow, heartless, evil-hearted world it is!-Like the fabled apples of the East, it is without, all bloom and beautywithin, foulness and ashes. Its sun shines and looks bright, that it may scorch your brain-its breezes blow, that they may chill you to the bones. It is shallower than a summer stream, and more rocky at bottom;-colder than the winter's ice--and, like it, faithless and fragile. The man who trusts to it may be assured that he is leaning upon a rotten staff, that will not only break beneath his weight, but pierce him to the heart as he falls."

From the preceding extract, it will be seen, that the tale of Gilbert Earle is one of those narratives of blighted affections and disappointed hopes, which have acquired so popular a hold on the imaginative taste of the age. It is almost entirely of the dark cast, with little of what is called poetical justice in its denouement; for the good and the repentant die in their misery and regret, and the bad are invested with qualities calculated to attract our sympathy in the midst of our distaste. Its morals are marked by the age's unquenchable craving for deep excitement. Its incidents, though few, as we have said, and occasionally wrought up into too romanesque a fashion, are, on the whole, probable, and extremely pathetic.

Some Account of the Life of Richard Wilson, Esq. R. A. &c. &c. By T. Wright, Esq.-4to. pp. 275. Îl. 7s.

THE life of an artist, or an author, is not calculated to supply many of those strange incidents, chances, or opinions, which form the most stimulant portion of ordinary biography. Some curiosity may be excited, to know something of a mind which has produced works capable of attracting or receiving public favor. But, generally, the biography of such individuals can scarcely be expected to be any thing more than a catalogue of their works.

The subject of the present memoir appears to have participated in the usual mishap of the whole irritabile genus:

"R. Wilson was the third son of a clergyman, and born in Montgomeryshire, in 1713. He displayed an early predilection for drawing, and was placed under a painter of the name of Wright, in Covent Garden, by whom he did not profit much. He went to Italy, and there displayed the true bent of his genius for landscape painting. After residing six years in that country, and obtaining a deserved celebrity, he returned to England in 1755. From London, not meeting with the pecuniary success which genius hardly earns, but seldom gains, he retired into Wales, where he became possessed of a slight independency, left him by his brother a few years before his death, which happened in 1782.

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Wilson," says his biographer, "was somewhat above the middle size, of robust make, and rather corpulent, his head at the same time being in larger proportion to the rest of his figure. During the latter years of his life, his face became red, and was covered with blotches: he had a remarkably large nose, and was much displeased if any one appeared to observe it. This, perhaps, may be attributed, in a certain degree, to his fondness for a pot of porter, to which it was his custom not unfrequently to resort, and which, at all times, he preferred to the more expensive beverage of wine, even though it might be placed before him. He wore a wig tied or plaited behind into a knocker or club, and a triangular cocked hat, according to the costume of the time.

"Depression and mortification, awakened by neglect, could not fail, it may naturally be supposed, to operate on such a mind as Wilson's, in which that sensibility so necessarily allied to a refinement of taste must have predominated in a very high degree: the consequence of this was that he became negligent of himself both in person and manners. Mr. Northcote's impression of Wilson was, as the author has been credibly informed, that his mind was as refined and intelligent as his person and manners were coarse and repulsive; and that discernment and familiarity with him were necessary to discover