come forward as the disciple of a particular school; his academy was the field and the cottage, the poem ánd the romance. It is much to be lamented, that he left many fine works incomplete. Of these, "Salvator Rosa among the Banditti" was partly finished in oil. The great painter appears in captivity: his portfolios of designs are scattered about; a single brigand guards him, while the others sleep in picturesque groups around. There is much of savage Rosa's" own light and darkness and dash about the work. He exchanged a sketch in oil of "Edie Ochiltree" with his friend David Roberts for an exquisite architectural drawing: he did the same with several other artists: a sketch of "Slender and Anne Page" he gave to an intimate friend. He was not only a lover of art, but a zealous admirer of all the eminent artists of his day.

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He remained in London during the year 1831, till summer was far advanced: he had several meetings with the Duke of Devonshire, who interested himself in his fortunes, and requested to have other works from his hand. He had received some attentions from Etty; he returned this civility by calling on him twice: he ventured a third visit without having been favoured with a call, a condescension not common to him. He found the academician at his easel he spoke, but did not move, or cease to paint; upon which Liverseege said, "I fear I am interrupting you, sir, so good morning." Surprised at this, Etty laid down his palette, requested his visiter to stay, and said, “You do not at all interrupt me. All would not do: he continued going; and, when at the door, said, "This is my third visit to your one, Mr. Etty," and away he went. "However, shortly after," says a friend, "his spirit was appeased by the academician calling upon him." He always had a scolding ready for those acquaintances who neglected visiting him for two days at least. He was subject to very sudden fits of illness, and was

attacked several times when last in London; and when any one neglected calling on him, he would, at first, be very angry; but he would soon grow cheerful, and used to wind up his rebuke by exclaiming, "Sir, you would leave one to get ill, and die and be buried before coming to see them." He was not one of those artists who feel damped and dismayed in the presence of paintings of the highest excellence. One day, he paused before Wilkie's "Village Festival," and, pointing out to a friend the high merits of the work, said, "I would stake my reputation on the production of a picture of similar character; and if any one would commission me to do it, I would rest my name on it alone, and care not if I never painted more." He had such knowledge of human nature, such skill in delineating the manners and businesses of humble life, and such mastery over his materials, that there is no doubt he would have produced a work well worthy of being admired.

He

Liverseege, during the last six months of the year 1831, was observed, at times, to be melancholy and drooping these dark fits were followed by sudden gleams of joy and gladness, when he discoursed of art with much enthusiasm and knowledge. loved the company of his brethren in art, and proposed, when in London, to set apart one day in the week for meeting them, in a room to be fitted up with old-fashioned furniture, carved oak work, curious armour, and ancient weapons. He had an edition of Shakspeare in one large volume, which he called his work-day Bible, and always reckoned himself well in health when he could enjoy it without weariness. He was conscious of the weakness of his body; he avoided all ungentle exercises, took great care of himself, and loved to hear his friends quote the old proverb, "a rickety hinge holds longest together." He was continually on the lookout for singular heads and curious characters to suit him

for models in designs which he had made. He began a painting of “ Christopher Sly and the Landlady," from Shakspeare, but was long before he could find such a cobbler as he desired. At length he found a man he imagined would suit; and, having placed him in his studio, set down a bottle of strong gin beside him, saying, "Drink whenever you please." The liquor vanished in a short time, the spirit of the cobbler refused to stir, he sat as sober as a judge on the circuit; another bottle of gin was brought; it went the same way in course of time, and the son of Crispin sat steady as ever. "Begone," cried the painter in a passion, “it will cost me more money to make you drunk than the picture will fetch."

After his return to Manchester, little was heard of Liverseege for some months; it seems, that fits of more than his usual sadness came upon him, and, though he did not consider himself worse than usual, he was observed to be restless and irritable more than was his wont. Of death he loved to speak. "I care not," he said, "for what is called dying, for I have no enjoyment in life save what is derived from success in my pursuits; yet I should not like to die until I had done some great work to immortalize my name-to be remembered after death is, indeed, a great consolation." Though ailing and complaining during the winter, he continued to paint with his usual enthusiasm. He sketched a picture of Falstaff, and expected from it an increase of reputation; for he looked upon it as superior to all his other efforts. Shakspeare lay beside the easel, and Cervantes and Scott were there too; for he admired them, and called them his "friends." He began to alter in his looks about the middle of winter, seemed to consider that "death was with nim dealing," and said so to some who sought to cheer him. He was not seriously unwell for more than two or three days, and never so ill as to be unable to sit up and converse: he had desired at

night that Shakspeare might be laid on his breakfasttable; and no one felt alarmed till he was seized suddenly, and expired on the morning of the 13th of January, 1832.

Liverseege was five feet five inches high, thin and spare, slightly deformed in the left shoulder, and of a pale complexion; his looks were inquiring and suspicious; his eyes had a glance of unceasing anxiety, and his mouth expressed nervous irritability. Much of this arose from long illness; for his natural disposition was open and generous, his sentiments elevated, and his manners courteous and winning. He had a strong consciousness of genius upon him, and often alluded to it; but he never rendered it offensive. He admired the talents of others, and loved to speak of the merits of the chief leaders of the English school: his idols were Reynolds and Lawrence; but he preferred, it seems, the latter, because his minute marking assimilated more to his own style. In his dress and appearance he was neat and gentlemanly, and though he was not a little vain, his vanity was not at all of the kind to give offence.

As an artist, the excellence of Liverseege lies in dramatic representation of human life, and the delineation of character. He had a fine eye, a clear head, and a cunning hand. He loved to paint scenes where visible life and imagination meet; nor can it be determined whether he excelled most in seriousness or humour: his wild caverns, filled with wild banditti, may be compared with his Cobbler reading Cobbett; and his Grave-diggers may be placed by the side of his Hamlet or Don Quixote. Some of his heads are, perhaps, too singular for the subject; and we frequently find ourselves wondering over these breathing oddities, when we should be arrested by the sentiment of the picture. He has been compared to Bonington. I see little resemblance. In dramatic character Liverseege is much superior.

We think of the groups of the latter as individuals with distinct characters; of the individuals of the former as of groups in a landscape. His style seems his own, his manner of handling is masterly, and his colouring deep, rich, and harmonious. His imagination was not apparently of a high order; he had little of that almost divine faculty of shaping his pictures in air, and commanding the splendid visions to abide till he invested them with form and colour. Hence his continual anxiety for models, not of body so much as of look and sentiment: he poured out his gin with the hope of obtaining a tipsy representative for Shakspeare's Sly. A friend sat to him for the "Knight of the Woful Countenance," though any one familiar with the Don of Cervantes, cannot but feel that the character is one essentially poetic, and that the looks must correspond. He found a model, one who required no stuffing, for his Sir John Falstaff. It is not Sir John's corpulence, but his wit, which the poet presses upon us :

"A fair round belly with good capon lined,"

is easily hit off; but who can hope to be a model for the humour which made the prince laugh "till his face was like a wet cloak ill folded up?"

BURNET.

ART has its early victims, as well as poetry. Chatterton and Kirke White gave no greater promise of excellence in verse, than did Bonington and Liverseege in painting. To these names we may add that of James Burnet, a young landscape painter of no common powers. He was born at Mussel burgh in the year 1788, and was the fourth son of