"March 15th, 1742. * "My lord,—I have this day had the pleasure of receiving your letter and Mr Pope's, which gave me a great deal of You pleasure, notwithstanding all your jokes upon me. are pleased to call me the head of the school of philosophy, and very obligingly press me to give you opportunities of improving yourselves. I think you may very well give me that title, since I immediately found out, that what you desired of me was reasonable to think would fix me stronger in my opinion, that there was nothing so good for me as retirement; and if I could receive letters from you and Mr Pope, as you had leisure, I would never come to town as long as I live. In that way of conversing, I should have all the pleasure that I can possibly propose, without the disappointment when Mr Pope falls asleep, nor the dread of your taking leave because you were weary. In this way of conversing, I can make the visits as long as I please, by reading them over and over again, and, by staying here, avoid all that is disagreeable to my temper in London, where I must go in a very little while; and when I am there, I shall see you sometimes, uncertainly, which is not a delightful thing, for I cannot be of the opinion, that expectation makes a blessing dear; I think it seldom or ever pays one for the trouble of it; but I shall always be pleased to see your lordship and Mr Pope, when you will be so bountiful as to give me any part of your time. In answer to the honour you do me in calling me an oracle, I cannot value myself at all upon thinking, as I did, of some that you were disappointed in, because for a long time I was so well acquainted with them as to know it would end as it did; for when any of my acquaintance has to my own knowledge done a very base thing, or a very foolish one, 1 never imagine such people are to be relied upon. As for my dear friend Socrates, I believe we have no such men in this country; and yet I am not perfectly satisfied even with him; for I think, being unconcerned at dying was more reasonable at a great age, and being quite weary of the world, which could give him no pleasure, no more than it can me, than for the reasons he gives for not complying with his friends in going out of prison, because he died according to the law. That is just as if I, if I cared to live, should choose to submit to death, when I could escape, because the sentence was given by a majority of robbers, who had broke the laws to condemn me; but, notwithstanding this, I like him better than any of the other philosophers. As for his showing such spirits as he did in the conversation, after he had taken the poison, I imagine that it was an easy death, that came by degrees; and he could talk, and died much easier than our physicians treat us, when they blister us, and put frying-pans upon our heads, after it is demonstration we cannot live. I find you are as ignorant what the soul is as I am. But though none of my philosophers demonstrate plainly that, I do think, there must be rewards and punishments after this life; and I have read lately some of my dear friends the philosophers, that there was an opinion that the soul never died; that it went into some other man or beast. And that seems, in my way of thinking, to be on the side of the argument for the immortality of the soul; and though the philosophers prove nothing to my understanding certain, yet I have a great mind to believe, that kings and first ministers' souls, when they die, go into chimney-sweepers. And their punishment is, that they remember they were great monarchs, were complimented by the Parliament upon their great abilities, and thanked for the great honour they did nations in accepting of the crown, at the same time that they endeavoured to starve them, and were not capable of doing them the least service, though they gave him all the money in the nation. This, I think, would be some punishment, though not so much as they deserve, supposing the great persons they had been, and the condition they were reduced to. What gave me this thought of a chimney-sweeper was an accident. My servants, that are very careful of me, were fearful that, having a fire night and day four months together in my chamber, thought I might be frightened, when I could not rise out of my bed, The duchess herself, at her evening conversations, occa sionally covered her head with her handkerchief, and was then supposed to be asleep. She was in that state one evening, at a time at which she was much displeased with her grandson, then Mr John Spencer, for acting, as she conceived, under the influence of Mr Fox, whose name being mentioned, she exclaimed, "Is that the fox that stole my goose + Sic in origin. The sense will be right, if the word thought is omitted. if the chimney was on fire, and persuaded me to have it "Sarah Duchess of Marlborough to Hugh Earl of Marchmont. "Wednesday, One o'clock. "I am but just awake; and they bring me the melancholy message your lordship sent me of poor Lord Marchmont, which, as he has been so long ill, I am not so much surprised at, as I am sorry; and I really think, in so disagreeable a world as this is, since the stroke must be given some time or other, when it is over, it is better for those that are gone, than for friends that remain after them. Your lordship will remember, that I had a great mind once to have given you my legacy, which I had desired you to accept of at my death, in my lifetime, which, I thought, was not improper; but I found you did not like it, and therefore I dropped it; but now I hope you will not take it ill, since I believe upon this sad occasion you may want money immediately, that I offer to send you a thousand pounds, which is half the legacy; and, if you please, you may call it so much money lent, to which I can see no manner of objection; and if it be of the least use to you, it will very much oblige me, who am, and ever shall be, with the greatest esteem imaginable, your lordship's most faithful and most humble servant, S. MARLBOROUGH." Icones Filicum; or, Figures and Descriptions of Ferns, Würtz. London. Ir was the opinion of Lady Mary Wortley Montague, after having familiarized herself with the beauties who frequented the baths at Constantinople, that were it the custom for ladies to adorn themselves in accordance with the poet's imagination—which means, depriving themselves of all adornment whatever in the vulgar acceptation of the word-the beauty of the figure would An observation of the captivate before that of the face. same kind may be applied to the vegetable kingdom. It is the general harmony of outline, the delicacy of colour, the tracery of foliage, which pleases. The most glorious corolla will not charm in the same degree if placed upon an ungainly stem. Let us not, however, be misunderstood; we are not speaking of the peculiar beauty of adaptation, which may influence indefinitely any or every part of the vegetable structure, and which must be ad mired by every one who has thought and feeling, but simply of that general beauty which renders the vegetable creation pleasant in the eyes of the general admirer. The flower, in many cases, is a secondary object; and even where the plant may be said to be nearly all flower, something more is generally required to delight than mere colour. The tulip, in spite of his gorgeous cup, is only the pet of the tulipomaniac; is he not regarded with a sort of half contempt by most sober people? Even the sunflower, with his magnificent proportions and blaze of colour, is voted only half genteel, and rejoices himself more in the cottage garden than in the pleasure-grounds | of the rich. Perhaps there is no tribe of plants in the world, possessed of more exquisite beauty than the ferns. Destitute of flower, and exhibiting but little variety or intensity of hue, their claims rest altogether upon their elegant outline and graceful flexibility. Yet where is the individual who does not admire even our common species? and where is the artist who does not dearly love their rich tufts as they hang like a fringe of green light over the mouth of some dark cavern, or as, under the shadow of some huge rock, they relieve the broad foreground of a moorland prospect? rected which had passed through successive editions without detection. The English has very properly been freed from those violations of the grammar and idiom of the language, which ought not to be allowed to deform the pages of an elementary work at the present day. Two Vocabularies are appended, one English and Latin, adapted to the English exercises under each rule, and intended to facilitate and direct the labours of the scholar in his first attempts at Latin composition: the other, of proper names, which is drawn up with the usual accuracy and elegance of the editor; but which might, perhaps, have been somewhat curtailed, without diminishing its usefulness. Upon the whole, we can safely recommend the present as the most useful edition yet published of this long established school-book. We may add, that it is printed in a very convenient form, and with great accuracy and neatness. MISCELLANEOUS LITERATURE. THE TWO DRAGOONS. WIDE-SPREAD and luxuriant pasture fields, with cattle fattening upon them, and gentle, plump horses wandering about, or peeping through the apple-tree hedge-rows, -the vineyards of Normandy; a sky glowing with the sun's rays, which seemed to relent as they slept upon the verdant grass; a small hill, across which stretched a road yellow with dust; a troop of young Normans singing merrily and out of tune as they marched along,—this is, as near as we can depict it, the scene which we request our reader to represent to himself. And yet it was no holyday-some men, hoeing in a field by the roadside, stood erect from their labour to eye the merry band as it passed by. Their Sunday clothes In the work before us, the authors have already made us acquainted with two hundred species, nearly the whole of which have been figured for the first time. In looking over the plates, nothing strikes us so much as the variety in the form of these beautiful and delicate plants; hardly any two resemble each other, and yet there is such a family likeness, that every one at all acquainted with the subject, must see that all are ferns. An equally remarkable feature is the wonderful difference in regard to size. At Plate 17, we have a creeping species-the Trichomanes apodum from Barbadoes-not rising more than half an inch above the ground; while, in the forthcoming part, we understand that three plates will be devoted to their hats decked with variegated ribbons-perhaps it the illustration of a tree-fern from Jamaica, twenty-five was a marriage? There was no bride among them. A feet in height. Almost every part of the world has con- drum supplied the place of the violin: and in the middle tributed its treasures. Many very interesting species, of each bunch of ribbons was a small piece of paper with from the continent and islands of India, have been trans- a number inscribed upon it. The leader of the troop mitted by Dr Wallich and the East India Company, carried an immense cane, the only lingering remnant in whose liberality in the distribution of their collections our days of the pedantic soldatesca of the close of the cannot be too highly praised; then we have also many seventeenth century. In short, they were conscriptsspecies from the West India Islands, the South Sea all of them either drunk, or taking advantage of every Islands, and the continent of New Holland. A solitary village inn they met to help them onward to that state of individual from the shores of Igloolik, has been presented blessedness. "Intoxication," they said, "is a bad thing by Captain Sir Edward Parry; and another is a remi- for savages, who do not need it, because they are free; niscence of the arduous expeditions of Captain Franklin. but when the villager quits his hut and his mistress, to Some most remarkable species are from the Andes, grow-be subjected to a corporal, wine becomes useful, he can ing at an elevation of 15,000 feet. A few represent the United States, Southern Africa, and the solitary Tristan d'Acunha. Two more fasciculi will terminate the work; but we are glad to hear that it is likely to be succeeded by another upon a somewhat similar plan, and that a complete Historia Filicum is also contemplated by the same gentlemen. In regard to the execution of the present work, we have only to say, that the plates are beautifully engraved and coloured, and the descriptions every way worthy of its distinguished editors; than whom, with the single exception of Robert Brown, we know no living botanists of higher name, either in our own country, or upon the continent. Mair's Introduction to Latin Syntax. A New Edition, &c. By the Rev. Alexander Stewart. Edinburgh. Oliver and Boyd. 1831. MAIR'S Introduction to Latin Syntax, notwithstanding the numerous competitors it has to encounter, still maintains its ground in our Scottish seminaries; and the judicious labours of Mr Stewart are calculated to uphold its popularity. The examples illustrative of the different rules have been carefully revised, and several errors cor not drink too much of it." Two young peasants lagged a little behind the rest One was short and slender-pale-and in tears; the other tall and stout-his hair yellow-his cheeks round and red as the fruit of his native province--his eyes large, lively, and blue; but a slight shadow of sadness was for the moment cast over this jolly figure. He leaned towards his comrade, whom he held by the hand, endeavouring to console him. "Do not weep, Thibaut: what good does it do? What have you to regret? You are an orphan: and do we not march together? I do not dislike war-nor do you either. You are young enough, it is true, but you have a heart-suppose now you saw me in need of assistance! You are thinking of that girl at Girard? See you, she does not deserve you. There's I myself now, if I had but wished But what of that? I had one of my own. Come, come! God save the Emperor-King I mean-for it seems the other is really dead. But we will take care to live, I warrant you." it was champaign. There were shouts, and broken glasses, toasts, glees, and chorusses-plenty of those popular songs which are the psalms of honest men who do not understand Latin. Norbert was a maker of extempore songs-less rich in rhymes, it must be owned, than in rustic humour. Every sally of his muse called forth full-throated laughter. Norbert was not one of those who watch jealously the effect produced by his good things, but with the tail of his eye he saw Thibaut was laughing, and he felt happy. The two young Normans had been drafted into a regiment of dragoons stationed in Alsatia. Norbert was just the man for this service, which is a medium between the cuirassiers and the light cavalry. People once spoke slightingly of the dragoons; but they made themselves talked of in 1814. Nor is it yet forgotten how these old troops, hardened in the Spanish campaigns, flew to defend their country, and made the northern hordes leave some additional carcases to fatten our fields and dogs. Norbert petitioned earnestly not to be separated from Thibaut. "If you do not allow us to remain together," said he to his recruiting officer, "I beg your pardon, my captain, but I give you my word of honour, that I will desert." The officer was young, he understood his man, and Thibaut became a dragoon. One Sunday evening, about two months after he had joined the regiment, he was seated beside a table in a public garden, a common resort of the soldiers. His helmet was placed on the table beside a pot of beer and two enormous glasses. He waited impatiently for Norbert. A dragoon, known by the soubriquet of the Parisian, entered the garden-a dangerous man, fierce, of unquestionable courage, and famous for some twenty duels, all fatal to his antagonists. The Parisian marched forward, followed by two soldiers and a girl. All the tables were occupied. He advanced towards that at which Thibaut was placed, and sweeping it with his sheathed sabre, dashing beer, glasses, and helmet to the ground, cried,-" Make room for older soldiers, conscript! Do you understand me?" Thibaut, astonished at this unexpected assault, looked at him in silence. "Begone!" said the Parisian, giving him a rude push. Thibaut hesitated, and the word “brutal”-- But the other had drunk to excess; the blood rushed to his brow; and two blows resounded on the face of the young soldier. All the company turned to look at the affray. Thibaut was no coward, but his inexperience, his want of strength, the terrible reputation of the Parisian, and the looks of mockery which surrounded him on all sides, fairly overwhelmed him.' The girl had thrown herself between him and his adversary. He snatched up his helmet, and rushed from the garden, but not without casting an angry glance at the Parisian, not without a thought of vengeance, although shame and chagrin were uppermost in Iris mind. His first thought was of Norbert; he sought him on chance, and as by instinct. At last he found him walking quietly on the rampart, with his arm round the waist of a strapping, handsome peasant, who laughed in chorus with him, and, bending towards the handsome soldier, pressed her lips to his epaulet. Heaven knows how they could make themselves mutually intelligible with their Alsatian and Norman jargons. Two months of service had made an accomplished cavalier of Norbert; and when the cheek-pieces of the helmet enclosed his animated countenance, the brass visor reflected the glance of his bold eye, and his smile parted his young mustache, it is no wonder that he pleased the eye of a fair Alsatian. any one insulted you, Thibaut ?" he went on, stooping his head, and folding the boy in his left arm. I know not what presentiment crossed him. "Yes," stammered Thibaut, "the Parisian "Norbert turned pale as death. The sight of this man had been enough to make him hate him; the sound of his name "He has struck you? Thousand have you struck the hound dead? It is my fault," he continued, stamping" it is my fault. I promised to meet you there— I broke my appointment; but do not be angry with me, |· Thibaut.' He pressed his friend's hands; tears started into his eyes. "I will avenge you.-Come."—" I must fight him, Norbert; you must be my second, and I will do my best."-" You fight him!" cried Norbert, shrugging his shoulders; " you have not strength. I know if you saw me in a scrape-but to-day it is my turn. When we were children, Thibaut, I was your champion. I am so still, and I have a sword by my side now. You would not give me pain ?-Come." Thibaut followed him in a state of mind which cannot be described. Norbert had always a great ascendency over him. The young girl followed them with her eyes, no longer recognising in Norbert's altered mien her gay and gallant cavalier. He pushed swiftly on; his air was that of a young soldier; not a trace of the regimental bravo was there. His blue eyes darkened; his voice sounded harshly through his grinding teeth; his hand played with the hilt of his sword; the blade rattled in the sheath. He entered the garden. The Parisian sat with his back to him, but he recognised him at once. He sprung before him, and, overturning the table with every thing on it, struck the soldier three heavy blows on the face. The hand of the Parisian flew mechanically to his sword, but an iron grasp was fixed upon both his arms. "Listen!"' said Norbert. "I am come to kill you. Make no noise, rascal. I am a soldier of yesterday, and know nothing of your guards and passes. But I fear you not, fencing-master. Nor you either," he continued, fixing his eye upon those who had been attracted to the spot by the tumult. "The Parisian is a coward; he has insulted a child without cause; and you are cowards, who allowed him to do it. Back, poltroons!" and with his left hand he flung away his scabbard. 66 66 "Come, stripling," said the Parisian, choking with rage, your mustache shall not grow much longer.— Follow me."" I go foremost," said Norbert, pushing him back; you follow whither I choose to lead. Choose a second-one only. I wish to kill you tête-à-tête, old rascal. My second is Thibaut. His arm is not so stout as his heart; but he is dear to me, and shall be treated with respect."—" Tamer spirits than the Parisian might have been stirred up by such taunts," said a dragoon to his neighbour. "That conscript is a bird of his own feather." "Be quiet, Thibaut, be quiet," reiterated Norbert, as they went along. "You are a child; it is my business. Perhaps I ought to have chosen an older second, but it will flesh you. Never fear; I will do for him. Only look how I shall tickle him. Holy Virgin! should he kill me, do not send word home immediately. And if you meet the girl again-console her as you best may. We are brothers, you know—our money is in my portmanteau. Get your discharge, if you can, and return to Normandy. It is a good country," he added, with a tremulous voice, and stopped. "I give you all that I have left there.” "So! It is here that you wish me to let you blood," said the Parisian, as he overtook them. Norbert anThey were laughing; and but for an occasional kiss, swered with a gesture expressive of contempt. The daytheir laughter was unintermitting. As Thibaut approach-light was about to disappear, and its last ray gleamed ed, Norbert looked up. "What is the matter?" he cried, quitting the young peasant abruptly. Thibaut, weeping, threw himself into his arms; and this embrace moved Norbert more than all the caresses of his mistress. "Has upon the helmet of the young dragoon as he raised it from his head. The evening gale bore its black crest against his cheek; but even this did not show any paleness. After he had stripped to the waist, even the cold searching glance of his adversary could not detect the beating of his heart. His glance was more firm, more bright than ever. He was about to place himself on guard, and was giving a preliminary flourish, when his eye was arrested by the distracted air of his friend. He paused; Thibaut threw himself upon his neck. "Will you soon have done mouthing each other?" cried the Parisian. "On guard! coward!" Norbert drew the buckle of his waistband more tight, felt the point of his sabre, removed with his foot some pebbles which lay scattered about the ground he had taken. All this he did with the utmost self-possession, within two paces of the Parisian; then suddenly springing backwards, he fell into his position, looking steadily at his antagonist. A tremendous oath, and a sabre blow, parted at the same moment from the mouth and hand of the duellist. He was disappointed. Men of true courage have not unfrequently a cool self-possession and instinct, that serve them instead of experience. Norbert knew that he was lost, if he attempted to encounter his enemy according to the rules of art. Taking his sabre in both hands, he used it like a quarter-staff, a weapon he could use right well. The circling flashing of the blade, dazzled his antagonist. It was as a wheel of fire between the combatants, each point of which was a guard for the Norman, and a blow to the Parisian. But the Parisian was an intrepid enemy, cool and vigorous. He soon recovered himself, and found in the treasures of his long experience resources against this new mode of attack. Still the advantage was on the side of Norbert. The duellist foamed with rage; he looked pale, as if his antagonist's sabre had already drunk all his blood. Instead of the insulting language which used to herald his attacks, nothing was heard but the grinding of his teeth. The clash of their blades fell as incessant on the ear as the gallop of a horse-and in the distance was heard the merry noise of a feast. who was known to Thibaut. "It is Norbert; see how they have treated him."" And who has done this?" Thibaut dropped the body, and bounded away without answering. "Who has done this?" muttered Thibaut to himself, as he ran towards his quarter. "It was I! it was the Parisian! it was I! it was the Parisian!" These words floated confusedly through his mind, He entered the sleeping apartment. His comrades were in bed. The Parisian had not returned. Thibaut plunged into the bed which he and Norbert had occupied. He heard the dragoons speak of the duel. He heard the Parisian enter, joking with his companion; he heard him lie down, and in a short time breathe deeply as if asleep. Thibaut drew himself into a ball, at the head of his bed, like a panther about to spring upon its prey. The night seemed endless. He wept, sobbed, and writhed about the wide bed like a worm. In the morning the réveille was no sooner blown, than Thibaut approached the Parisian with a smile that might have appalled the boldest. "You killed my friend like a brave man that is nothing—but you gave me a base and coward blow, and must make reparation."-" Ha, ha!" replied the dragoon, "these days are doomed to be fatal to the Normans. But go thy ways, conscript; I am not in the humour just now."-" You will not fight with me?" said Thibaut, joyfully, and turned to seek his carbine. "If you insist upon it. Any thing to please you. But take care, Remember the lad of yesterday.”—“ That is the quarrel," cried Thibaut. "The lad of yesterday. Let us begone!"" Are you in such a hurry? Whi ther, younker ?"—" To the place of yesterday," screamed Thibaut, in a voice that chilled the heart of the duellist. "That is a strange fancy," said the latter, with a vain attempt to force a smile, "and thy second?"" The lad of yesterday," repeated Thibaut. "Come, kill me too, or after to-day you will kill no one."-" Gently, gently, it will not take long to bleed a white chicken like thee." And in truth Thibaut was pale-but not with fear. This time the fight did not last long. "Your com The combat had lasted for some minutes, growing instantly more dreadful, for the issue could not long be delayed. The minutes are long, when every second is noted by the clash of a sabre blow, which may give a death-rade," said the duellist, "did not understand how to mawound. As yet, no blood had been drawn but from the Parisian. A large wound gaped on his left shoulder. “Enough, enough!" cried his second. Thibaut was about to spring between the combatants, when he saw Norbert's sabre fall with force sufficient to cleave his foe to the chin. The blow was warded off, and next moment he saw his friend, pierced through the heart, fall to the ground a stiffened corpse. The duellist leaned his back to a tree, looking intently at his victim. Then suddenly recovering his sabre, which hung dangling, and dropping red blood upon the ground, he addressed Thibaut with a ferocious look:"Coward! if you had acted like a man, I should only haye killed a dog like you." Thibaut heard him not. The second of the Parisian forced his principal from the spot, saying," Come: all is over." Thibaut heard him not. He stood motionless, with clasped hands, looking intently at the spot where Norbert had stood when he first crossed swords with his enemy. He turned at last, and threw himself upon the corpse of his friend. He turned the body, raised it from the ground, let it fall, dragged it along by the arms-" Norbert! Norbert!" His friend was dead, deaf, dumb,—an object of terror to him. The young! the brave! A dog might outrage him with impunity, a child snatch the sabre from his hand. Despair has strange impulses. Thibaut snatched the sabre from. Norbert's hand, gathered hastily his helmet, coat, stock-every thing. He then lifted the corpse upon his other arm. One would have thought the strength of his deceased friend had been added to his own. Thus loaded, he ran towards the hospital, their two sheaths rattling on the stones as he hurried along. It was dark. "Who goes there demanded a sentinela Norman nage a blow at the head. See how I set a patiGuard your head!" It was of no avail. Thiban only opposed his left arm to the sabre, and while the kṣen blade bit to the bone, he buried his sword twice in the belly of the Parisian. The sword remained in his body; he drew it out, and turned a glance of defiance upon his conqueror. A first murder is horrible, even to the most unfeeling, bat Thibaut thought of Norbert. He assisted in raising the dying man, but it was only to have an opportunity of watching more narrowly his last convulsive struggles. The shock which Thibaut received from these events, and the emotions which they excited, has completely changed his nature. He is himself become a duellist, and formidable, but only to bullies. He is the protector of the young and inexperienced. His aspect is pale and troubled. On account of the blood he has shed? Oh no; Norbert died in his defence, and he has no one to supply his place. EXHIBITION OF THE SCOTTISH ACADEMY. KNOWLEDGE of colouring and grouping are the chief requisites in a landscape painter. Individual form goes for nothing in a finished picture, however useful a severe attention to it in preliminary studies may be. All details ought to be indicated rather than expressed; but, at the same time, all mistiness ought to be carefully avoided. Exact portraits of any scene in nature, however pleasing in a sketch, rarely make a good picture. If they are ever to be tolerated, it is when they are taken merely as the medium through which to express some transient effect of elementary commotion. The artist must ever keep in view that he works at a disadvantage, when he attempts to vie with nature,—he addresses himself to the eye alone; while she has access to the heart of man through the avenue of every sense. He must endeavour to compensate his limited sphere by the exquisite perfection of his creations. The landscape-painter cannot address our human sympathies but by associations—nevertheless, a wide field is left open to him, over which he may breathe a soul of poetry. The effects of the storm-wind and the thunder-cloud-the deep mystical tints of twilight-the recesses of forests, and of the eternal hills-all these, in the hands of a man of genius, may be made to work with overwhelming power upon the soul. Landscape-painting is in its origin, and from the necessity of its nature, an article of domestic luxury. Less fitted than representations of human form and action to adorn public buildings, it is the best ornament of an apartment. It reminds us, amid the din and smother of populous cities, of the freshness of nature. A good land-. scape is as dear to us, as familiar a household thing, as a good book. But we must turn to our artists, after thus delicately hinting to our readers the propriety of completing the furniture of their favourite apartment, be it boudoir or study. Thomson has only two pictures in this exhibition, but they are both, and especially No. 147,-an upright composition of Inveresk Castle,-worthy of the artist. It is deliciously cool and fresh; the water dances along, part in light, part in the shadow of the overhanging trees a shadow like that in nature which not only rests upon the earth or the stream, but visibly interpenetrates the atmosphere, piece. “Craigmillar from the Dalkeith Road,” (48,) "Appin a Dhu," (221,) "Doune Castle before a Thunderstorm,” (287,) and "Tarbert, a Fishing Station," (294,) are all good pictures. There is considerable power in the manner in which the swell has laid hold of the boat in the painting last named. We beg leave to suggest to our friend the propriety of using cleaner colours. D. O. Hill has disappointed us this year. There is talent and feeling in most of his pictures but he has run quite wild with his forced and exaggerated effects of colour. If he will just take the trouble to compare his little sketch of "The Vale of the Garry,” (260,) with his large picture of the same scene, (280,) he must himself be sensible of the truth of this remark. He must take care-he is setting out in a false direction-an error, the danger of which is increased in proportion to the talents of the artist. 66 Ewbank has some very pleasing landscapes done in a style peculiar to himself, He is apt, however, to repeat his good things. His "Moorland Scene," (30,) his “Muirland Scene," (47,) and his “ Ben-Nevis,” (145,) are all in a great measure repetitions of the same idea. A piece of deep brown, and some water in the foreground, and bleached hills stretching away in the distance, are what produce the effect in the whole three. They are, notwithstanding, clever pictures, particularly No. 47; and we merely mention this circumstance, in order to show Mr Ewbank the danger he runs of becoming a mannerist. "The Mouth of the Frith of Forth" is extremely happy. The Nasmyth family may be dispatched in one brief paragraph, for they paint so much alike that the sentence passed upon one, applies to all. They are not unfrequently happy in their selection of subjects. In this matter they evince both feeling and judgment. But what Sir Walter Scott said of the old gentleman's portrait of Burns, applies to the landscapes of the whole family-they look like nature seen through an inverted telescope. There is, moreover, no atmosphere in their world—no shadow beneath their trees. William Simpson continues to advance. In all that regards the picturesque, his landscapes may now be considered almost faultless. His "Solway Moss" (167) is a beautiful and daring picture. The deep-toned foreground, with the cows in all that enjoyment of repose, which these animals alone seem to enjoy in its full extent -the water, reflecting a light which has deserted the solid ground—the undulating surface in the middle distance, reflecting each its peculiar effect of light and colour-the distant hills, disappearing in brightness-are so harmo- We must make short work with the rest of our landniously and effectively arranged, as to leave nothing far-scape-painters. Somerville has a beautiful landscape, (6,) ther to be wished. Only inferior to this work is the same artist's" Scene in Glen-Tilt," (46.) We have seldom felt more pleasure than in following with our eye the undulating line by which we are led from the deep forest shade, over the huge rock in the foreground, down upon the dazzling stream, or in allowing it to rest upon the elegant trees which hang their feathery branches over the water. The two small pictures, "Morning," (182,) We and "Salmon Fishers," (302,) are also excellent. have said that Simpson's pictures are faultless in all that regards the picturesque. This restricted expression we have used advisedly; for we find in them no traces of that poetry which imbues every picture of Turner and Thomson. Mr Simpson's remaining pictures will come under our review in a subsequent notice. We next turn our attention to Crawford, for he paints so excessively like the artist we have just been discussing, that we have ere now "mixed their pictures" as Looney MacTwolter did the billets-doux. We should like to know which of these gentlemen imitates the other. "A View on the Esk," by Crawford, (105,) is, although unequal, on the whole an excellent picture. There is in one part of it a want of atmospheric effect, which makes the trees upon the high bank look as near the spectator as the foreground. The distance and the sky are beautiful. The "View near Moffat," is a fine and spirited picture, executed in a style more the artist's own. with a fine aerial distance. J. F. Williams is in great force this year. His "View of the Solway" (55) is a harmoniously arranged picture, "The Bridge of Dochart" (118) is also pleasing. "Windsor Castle" (130) is in a style of colouring which we have never before seen in any of this artist's pictures there is poetry in this little but we shall have an opportunity of discussing the merits of this rapidly-rising artist in a subsequent number. Barker has a clever wood-scene, (328.) Shiels has two really good landscapes—“ The Bleaching Green," (5,) and " Fawside Moss,” (19.) The sky of the latter is excellent. LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETIES OF SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES. Monday Evening, 28th Feb. 1831. SIR HENRY JARDINE in the Chair. THERE were presented to the Society by the Barons of Exchequer, a number of Scottish and English coins, chiefly silver, in good preservation, and a very fine and rare gold coin of Antoninus Pius;-all found in this country at the places mentioned in an accompanying letter from the King's Remembrancer in Exchequer, There were exhibited, by permission of a Lady, who brought them from the Continent, five very fine Greek coins of Sicily and Rhodes, two of them gold, and three silver-all in the highest state of preservation ;-a number of interesting Italian antiques from Rome and Naples, and a very beautiful and undoubted specimen of the workmanship, in gold and enamel, of the celebrated BENVENUTO CELLINI. The Secretary then read part of a very interesting paper, by Mr D. Laing, entitled "Some Remarks upon the State of the Fine Arts in Scotland, during the 15th and 16th centuries." We shall probably make some observations on this |