rate a statesman, at once inspires the wish that the skill had been employed on a worthier object. Lord Rockingham was, in this respect, equally fortunate. So was the Right Honourable Charles Townshend, who, by his mismanagement during Lord Chatham's illness, was the unintentional promoter of American independence. Later political celebrities are also commemorated. The portrait of Curran, by Lawrence, is associated with the singular story that the rather ordinary features of the sitter so discouraged the artist, that he was inclined to give up the work in despair. At last some casual circumstance caused Curran to show his great and varied ability in conversation; his eyes brightened, the rough-looking ordinary man flashed out with all the inspiration of genius. I never saw you till now,' said the painter, 'you have sat to me in a mask; do give me a sitting of Curran the orator.' Curran's features, redeemed from harshness only by their expression, confirm the correctness of this anecdote. The mild incapacity of Addington is well represented in a very clever picture. Of Canning, the brilliant orator, the great humorist, the bold statesman, there is unfortunately only a very inadequate representation.

In passing along the galleries, one feels how imperfect such notice as this must of necessity be. How many are the pictures from one point of view or another deserving mention! How vast is the list of noteworthy men! A mere list of the most distinguished names would more than exhaust our remaining space. The long line of distinguished men of letters is headed with Steele, Addison, and Congreve, all painted by Kneller: either the long flowing wigs cause the three to look like members of one family, or else Kneller's frequently vapid pencil failed to mark the individuality of the men. Yet, even as thus represented, we may trace the greater refinement of the sprightly face of Addison: and Steele's burly form is sufficiently indicated. At the foot of the staircase is another group. Conspicuous among them are several portraits of Alexander Pope. The skill of the painter has disguised the deformity which distressed the poet during life, and even added bitterness to his naturally acrid disposition. The hard lines, like small cords, as described by Reynolds, surrounding the mouth, in No. 136, announce both sickliness and satire. No. 154, with the dog' Bounce' by his side, is more pleasant; perhaps the presence of his canine companion had soothed his master's temper. Near are two other friends, who devoted much of their time to the endeavour to brighten the poet's days, Martha and Teresa Blount; pretty bright girls, they look kindly from the canvas as they did by the river at Twickenham. It was to Martha Blount that Pope gave the fan which he painted with a design of his own composition from the story of Cephalus and

Procris, decorated with the motto Aura Veni.' Close by, hangs the portrait of another lady better known to fame-far worse treated by her poetical lover-Hester Johnson, more frequently known as ' Stella.' The picture is hung near that of Swift, the cause at once of her unhappiness and her celebrity. The early portrait of the Dean appears well authenticated, as far as its pedigree goes, but it possesses but little character. The picture from the Bodleian Library possesses the stamp of more power. Neither, however, fully represent that natural severity of face' -the description is by a contemporary writer-' which even his 'smiles could never soften, or his gaiety render placid and se'rene,' but both portraits are greatly dashed with sadness-that sadness well-deserved, much of it self-inflicted, which gathered in deepest gloom round the later days of this powerful yet miserable man. Was the motive taken from his own self-consciousness, was it melancholy or remorse, which dictated the lines

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'For such a fool was never found,

Who pulled a palace to the ground,
Only to have ruins made

Materials for a house decayed?'

It is pleasant to turn to the portraits of a very different person. Few men of mark of any age, few men of letters of any age, are better known to us than Samuel Johnson. The vast abilities, the vaster erudition, the kindliness of heart, the surly manner, the great scope of mind which occasional narrownesses only appear to enhance, all are portrayed to the life in the Chronicle of Boswell. Familiar in our mouth as household words' are the dicta of the 'Doctor,' and if we occasionally laugh at the eccentricities of the man, if we catch ourselves smiling at the trivialities by which his judgment was sometimes warped, we never fail to close the volume which records alike his greatness and his failings without an increased feeling of reverence. Several portraits are exhibited here. No. 556 representing him devouring a book, and 557 seated at a table, possess perhaps the most generally received ideas of the man; but the most interesting, to our mind, is No. 564, giving the noble contour of the head without the disfiguring wig; the gesture, the raised face, and bent fingers, as if speaking, show the eager disputant. The portrait of Boswell, the Doctor's' biographer, is ap propriately hung close by; his wife and children surround him. Near also are many of the well-known men of the age. Chambers, the architect of Somerset House: the ability shewn in the river front of that building will, it is hoped, be better appreciated when it is better seen, from the new embankment. Goldsmith, by Sir Joshua Reynolds, showing how well the

painter understood the poet's character, with his clever forehead and weak chin, the very portrait of

'Oliver Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll,

Who wrote like an angel, and talked like poor Poll.'

Doubts are thrown on the authenticity of the other portrait of Goldsmith, said to be by Hogarth. It is possible that it may be the work of that artist, and the features resemble the poet; the action also, the haste and hurry with which he is at work, the cap pushed awry in the fury of composition, all appear likely to be traits recorded by an acute observer. Not far off is the portrait of Edmund Burke, an early work of Opie, and not without that roughness of manner which characterizes this painter's earlier works. The portrait is marked by vigour; yet it is impossible to regard it without a feeling of regret-of regret over a mind which time appears rather to have narrowed than matured-to which experience brought rather the inferior art of discovering difficulties, than the manner of surmounting them of the man in short

'Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.'

The picture of Edmund Burke's brother Richard, painted by Reynolds, is near his better-known kinsman. Yet, though the fame of the elder brother is more widely spread among us now, Richard Burke had many friends in his day. The bright gay face enables us fully to understand this. It fully bears out Goldsmith's description of his powers and misfortunes :

'What spirits were his! what wit, and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb;
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball,
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all.'

We must close our catalogue; yet the doing so feels like leaving a party of our best friends.. We know the pleasant remembrance will abide with us, but the pleasant attraction of their society draws us to them. How reluctant we are to turn away, and how varied the company is! There are the arch features of Mrs. Gwyn, poor Goldsmith's Jessamy Bride' and her yet lovelier sister, Mrs. Bunbury. There is Wilkes with his daughter in the open air: the father sits-the daughter (her looks favour 'papa') stands holding his hand. The celebrated cast in his eye is disguised by the look being turned upwards. How surprised Wilkes would be if this picture caused him to pass in this generation, which has forgotten his factiousness, almost forgotten his wildness and follies, as a domestic man. This picture is by Zoffany. We must not forget to notice the brilliant Romney of Gibbon, which looks, however, far more the militia

officer than the man of letters. We may fairly ascribe also to this artist the very clever portrait (unmarked by a painter's name) of E. W. Montague, the wild son of the celebrated Lady Mary, who is represented here as well. There is Horace Walpole, with his diletant look; Churchill, the now almost forgotten satirist, once perhaps the most prominent writer of his day, sleek and sensual; Hook, the musical composer in the palmy days of the Vauxhall Gardens, with a cheery twinkle, reminding one of the present Dean of Chichester.

Bentley and Dolland represent classes of men, patient and hard-working, to whom our country owes more than is usually conceded; and the pleasant homely Teutonic face of the first Herschel, records a family now happily naturalized among us, with whom ability seems hereditary. We see the clever face of Baretti, Johnson's friend, whose dictionary we have often so gratefully turned over; and notice how the artist (Sir Joshua) has marked his shortness of sight without making it painfully prominent. We seem to join the gifted family of William Sharp, gaily gliding in their barge down the Thames, then unpolluted with filth, undisturbed by the paddles of perpetual steamers a river which people could take their pleasure on. We may look on the elegant face of Mrs. Hallam, the mother of the well-known historian, and mark how his noble manly features yet bore to latest life the stamp of that sweetness here portrayed by Gainsborough. To us, and we doubt not to many more, the carrying on thus the past history of our country into present times has been a source of lively pleasure. We feel how one generation links itself to another, how the influence of the past connects itself with the present, and we bear away with us, as we gaze on the faces of those remembered for great abilities, ennobled by great deeds, the hope, the belief, that the banner of our country will yet be marked with even greater names, in times that are still to come.

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ART. III.-Emanuel Swedenborg: his Life and Writings. By WILLIAM WHITE. Two volumes. London: 1867.

THIS book is not pleasant reading in the dog days. To be repeatedly lifted up to Heaven and thrust down into hell, with a ponderous and prosy mystic for a companion, is fagging work; yet it is what the readers of Mr. White's corpulent octavos must endure. Few persons, we suppose, have had this experience, for it is not likely that 1,230 pages of dreary matter, which these volumes contain, can have had many readers resolute enough to persevere through their tedious length. We do not, however, blame the author for the dulness of his book, we rather thank him for his praiseworthy efforts to relieve it by the vivacity of his own style. The fault lies with its subject. Swedenborg led a most insipid life, and the few facts that are known of him give no cause for wishing that we knew any more. Antecedently we should have supposed angels and devils to be rather exhilarating society; but under Swedenborg's introduction they turn out to be flat and common-place to the last degree, and this is all the more disappointing when we are informed that the angels and devils walked the earth as apostles, princes, and popes the princes and popes, oddly enough, being chiefly angelical, while the apostles are for the most part diabolical.

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If, however, Mr. White has failed to produce an entertaining biography, we must give him credit for having written a candid and conscientious book. He is an admirer of Swedenborg, but his way of manifesting his admiration is such as to hold up Swedenborg to the contempt rather than to the admiration of others. He is not a Swedenborgian, and he treats the sect which is called by that name with pitiless ridicule. He says in his preface that, with a few exceptions, Swedenborg has undergone no criticism. He has been cursed without reserve, and he has been blessed without reserve, but he has been rarely appreciated. All this, however, will be changed now. Looked at through Mr. White's disenchanting medium, few will think Swedenborg worthy either of blessing or cursing. As regards the appreciation, the estimate cannot range very highly of a sect which traces its order of ministers to a fraudulent ticket trick, and whose founder kept a mistress and never washed his face. But we are anticipating.

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Emanuel Swedenborg was the second son of Jesper Svedberg, who was the son of Daniel Isaksson, a coppersmith in Fahlun. This