else, it is largeness of style that characterises him.

In variety, his essays surpass any others with which we are acquainted. Politics, from the dawn of history downwards; history, in every age and country; painting, medieval and modern; architecture, from ancient Athens to modern London; poetry, in all its masterpieces; the drama in all its ages; and last, not least, the fascinations of the stage-the splendid but fleeting triumphs of the tragedian.* All these subjects he treats with exquisite freshness of thought and simplicity of manner. The merest tyro can understand his criticism; for it is based on no conventionalisms or subtle system, but on the feelings of the heart-on principles common to all mankind. "No man," says Augustus Schlegel, "can be a true critic or connoisseur without universality of mind, without that flexibility which enables him to adapt himself to the peculiarities of other ages and nations, and, what ennobles human nature, to recognise and duly appreciate whatever is beautiful and grand under the external accessories which were necessary to its embodying, even though occasionally they may seem to disguise and distort it."

This universality and flexibility are possessed by Alison. He does not set out with a Procrustean code, by which to gauge the varying works of art: we behold his principles growing under our eye, building themselves up in simple grandeur.

Of

course, from the nature of the Essays, his art-principles cannot be found assembled and arranged in any one place; they must be sought for through a dozen different articles; but even the greatest economist of time will have no reason to regret the extended perusal. He takes the monuments of art that have pleased men in all ages, he shows us the causes of that universal admiration, and presents as deductions the general principles of art.

Mr. Alison takes little pleasure in abstract speculations, and nowhere does he discuss the much-agitated

theory of Beauty; but we may gather, from the nature of his criticism, that he does not coincide with his father's views on this subject. That eminent writer on Taste held that Beauty depended entirely upon association, though he wavered a little on some points of detail. Lord Jeffrey adopted his principles, and subsequently carried them out vigorously and to their full extent, in his very clever but superficial essay on Beauty in the "Encyclopedia Britannica." According to this doctrine, the universal celebrity of the masterpieces of Grecian art-say its architecture, for example-arises from the associations of strength and costliness, and of the noble race by whom they were built, which they excite in the beholder; and from the fact that mankind, for two thousand years, have been accustomed to admire them, and that we have been educated in the belief of their excellence from our cradle. Jeffrey even maintains that whatever a man thinks beautiful, is so; and that the Hottentot, who judges of beauty by bulk, shews as much taste in admiring an obese, thick-lipped negress as the Greek in extolling the proportions of his Venus. In fact, according to him, there can be no degrees, no standard of taste; every man is a law unto himself; and, as a corollary, he advises every artist of original genius to have two standards of excellence, one for himself, another for the public; to work at the former for his pleasure, but only at the latter for fame! Theorists are proverbially deaf to the whispers of experience, but certainly, to the eye of common sense, this looks very like a reductio ad absurdum. Happily, artists of original genius will not thus be led astray: the voice within them will be more powerful than the sophistry from without; the divine afflatus will keep them right. But Jeffrey's doctrines were calculated to startle men, and make them reconsider the subject; and now, unless we err greatly, the current of opinion has set in strongly the other way. No champion has yet entered the lists to throw down the old phantoms of error. A writer in

the Westminster Review lately assailed Jeffrey's theory of beauty, but he evidently halted between two opinions, and only proposed changing the theory of Association for the equally unten able and not very explicit one of Interestingness; but they are losing their hold on the public eye; and the remarkable experiments of that enthusiast in art, D. R. Hay, have practically demonstrated their worthlessness. To us the matter appears clear enough; the sense of beauty is entirely analogous to the moral sense of right or wrong-Conscience. And the theories of Association, Fitness, Interestedness, advanced in regard to the one, may be aptly paralleled by the Selfish, Útilitarian, and other systems broached in regard to the other.

With that spirit of generalisation of which we have already spoken,-that power of grasping the grand features of a subject, while rejecting its perplexing details; of discriminating the inherent from the accidental; of seizing the permanent amidst the ephemeral, which is the peculiar characteristic of genius alike in the speculations of philosophy and in the arts of beauty, Mr. Alison traces the charm of all high art to a few great principles; though deficient in some of which, certainly beauty may still exist, but only in a lesser degree. In Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered," for instance, the unity of interest, as he remarks, is perfect; the whole characters and action of the poem are in harmony; the rescue of the Holy City from the Infidel is felt as the supreme object throughout. In Ariosto's "Orlando Furioso," on the other hand, the interest is broken and lost in a mazy history of the adventures of errant knights: there is great beauty still, but it is beauty of parts rather than of the whole_the electric chain of interest is broken, and nothing can supply its place. In like manner he admires the witching dramatic creations of Metastasio, which appeal rather to the fancy than to the heart of the audience; but he tells you, notwithstanding, that they will never reach the fame of Shakspere's dramas, in which the interest is ever and entirely human, in which the actions and passions are those of real life. In this most interesting and delightful form of

the Critical Essay-in this grand comparative style of criticism (if we may so call it)-Alison is as unrivalled as Professor Wilson is in profound and beautiful analysis.

As a specimen of this style of criticism, we extract the following antithesis of Dante and Homer:

"Dante had much more profound feelings than Homer, and therefore he has painted deep mysteries of the human heart with greater force and fidelity. The more advanced age of the world, the influence of a spiritual faith, the awful anticipation of a judgment to come, the inmost feelings which, during long centuries of seclusion, had been drawn forth in the cloister, the protracted sufferings of the dark ages, had laid bare the human heart. Its sufferings, its terrors, its hopes, its joys, had become as household words. The Italian poet shared, as all do, in the ideas and images of his age, and to these he added many which were entirely his own. He painted the inward man, and painted him from his own feelings, not from the observation of others. This is the great distinction between him and Homer; and this it is which has given him, in the delineation of mind, his great superiority. The Grecian bard was an incomparable observer: he had an inexhaustible imagination for fietion, as well as a graphic eye for the delineation of real life; but he had not a deep or feeling heart. He did not know it, like Dante or Shakspeare, from his own suffering. He painted the external symptoms of passion or emotion with the hand of a master; but he did not reach the inward springs of feeling. He lets us into the character of his heroes by their speeches, their gestures, their actions, and keeps up their consistency with admirable fidelity; but he does not, by a word, an expression, or an epithet, admit us into the inmost folds of the heart. None can do so but such as themselves feel warmly and profoundly, and paint passion, emotion, or suffering from their own experience, not from the observation of others. Dante has acquired his colossal fame from the matchless force with which he has pourtrayed the wildest passions, the deepest feelings, the most intense sufferings of the heart. He is the refuge of all those who labour and are heavy laden of all who feel profoundly, or have suffered deeply. His verses are in the mouth of all those who are torn by passion, gnawed by remorse, or tormented by apprehension; and how many are they in this scene of woe!"*

In the following sentences on Michael Angelo and Raphael, there is

scarcely a word that is not equally applicable to himself and Macaulay :

"Michael Angelo may truly be called the founder of Italian painting, as Homer was of the ancient epic, and Dante of the great style in modern poetry. . . Notwithstanding all this, he had some defects. He created the great style in painting-a style which has made modern Italy as immortal as the arms of the Legions did the ancient. But the very grandeur of his conceptions, the vigour of his drawing, his incomparable command of bone and muscle, his lofty expression and impassioned mind, made him neglect, and, perhaps, despise, the lesser details of his art. Ardent in the pursuit of expression, he often overlooked execution. The bold neglect of Michael Angelo is very apparent. Raphael, with less original genius than his immortal master, had more taste and much greater delicacy of pencil; his conceptions, less extensive and varied, are more perfect; his finishing is always exquisite. He is the Virgil of painting.'

In his History, the descriptions of the countries through which his narrative passes, and of the most remarkable cities which they contain, are admirably done, and impart great additional interest to the work; but for an illustration of his pictorial powers, we turn in preference to the less known pages of his Essays. The passage extracted (of which we can only find room for the beginning and end) exhibits a series of pictures-a moving diorama of some of the finest scenes in Europe, drawn from his personal recollection of their features, and redolent of the youthful ardour which filled his soul on first beholding them. He adds, in a note, that the impressions are still fresh on his memory as if he had seen them but yesterday; the vividness of his delineations makes the note superfluous. The passage occurs in an able essay on the British School of Painting, in which, after pointing out the marked inferiority of our artists to the Claudes and Poussins of former days, he asks-Are the beauties of the physical world worked up? Has Art already taken entire possession of Nature? Has not one of her charms been left unrifled is there no scene still untrodden by the foot of the artist? Is there no feature, no expression, of her ever-shifting countenance yet to be pourtrayed?

"Ascend yonder rocky eminence, on whose embattled summits the gigantic columns of former days still stand, as if imperishable amidst the revolution of ages. The setting sun throws a flood of liquid gold over the exquisite remains; every niche in the cornice, every flute in the pillars, every projection in the sculpture, stands forth as sharp as if the sun shone for the first time on the inimitable work. Dim descried through the purple glow which the setting luminary throws over the distant landscape, the slopes of Hymettus catch his parting rays; gleaming through projecting mountains, the Gulf of Salamis is resplendent with light; while on the verge of the horizon the citadel of Corinth, the mountains of Peloponnesus, stand forth like giants in that sea of glory.

"Climb to the summit of that lofty peak, the grisly Craon, on the southern side of the valley of Aosta. It is the hour of noon: silence deep as death prevails in those lofty solitudes; not the flutter of an insect, not the wing of a bird, is to be heard in the dread expanse. Right opposite, face to face with the pinnacle on which you rest, stands the hoary summit of Mont Blanc: a precipice ten thousand feet in depth, furrowed by innumerable cliffs, bristling with innumerable peaks, descends from its snow-clad heights to the glacier of the Allée Blanche, which lies spread like a map at your feet. In still and awful solitude, the monarch of the mountains rears his head into the dark blue vault of heaven; a glittering mantle of snow covers his shoulders; the eternal granite has spread a rugged girdle round his breast; in peace and silence the summer sun sleeps on his bosom; even the thin clouds of an Italian sky hover at a distance from the resplendent throne. Drink! drink deep of the admiration at the matchless spectacle life has scarce another similar moment of heaven-born rapture to bestow!"

Trust

"Switzerland! Switzerland! is your grandeur, then, surpassed by the rival beauties of the Tyrolese or Styrian Alps? yourself to that frail skiff, and approach the foaming abyss where the Rhine is precipitated with matchless violence down the cliffs of Schaffhausen. St. Paul's would in an instant be swept away by its fury. The waters which have passed the descent are tossed in wild and seemingly frantic agitation; even at a great distance, your bark trembles and cracks as it approaches the awful gulf; down, down comes the mighty mass of waters, shaking the earth with its fall, rending the air with its spray: thunder would not be heard at its foot; embattled nations would be scattered by its force.

"Is this the sublimest scene in Europe, and has water borne away the palm from fire in the production of sublimity? Ascend at night

fall that black and scorched mountain, down whose sides the streams of recent lava have furrowed far and deep into the cultivation of man: you toil, you pant, as, amidst the stillness of a Neapolitan night, you painfully ascend the scorched and blackened steep. But hark! the mountain shakes, a rending sound succeeds, a report like the discharge of cannon is heard, and instantly the dark vault is filled with innumerable stars; and, as you pause at the fearful spectacle, a sharp rattle on all sides announces the fall of burning projectiles for miles around. Still advance, if your courage does not fail, and you may reach the summit of the steep ascent ere another explosion. Watch! watch!— the dark cone in the centre of the rugged summit, on whose sides the red embers are still glowing, begins to shake; it heaves-it bursts! A frightful volume of smoke is driven forth into heaven; right upwards does the fiery discharge spread from the gaping furnace; the Pyramids would be blown into the air by its violence. A thousand rockets are bursting in the heavensperfect stillness for a few seconds succeeds; and then on all sides is heard the roar of falling stones over the dark and desolate slopes of the mountain."

These are the tableaux of a poet: they are conceived in the true idealising, eclectic spirit of the highest landscape painting. All that is grand and beautiful is exquisitely portrayed-all that is common-place is eliminated. Not a word could be changed for the better, except, perhaps, one. The immense, awe-inspiring, snowy expanse of the glacier spread out like a map, does not please us-it is a common-place in the midst of grandeur-like a frozen sea would be better. Moreover, as in all high art, the elements of these enchanting pictures are few and simple: the dullest reader can easily figure them to himself. Mr. Alison could not paint in the minute and sentimental style of Lamartine

:

to realise the scenes described; and makes their perusal as hard a task for the imaginative, as a book on inductive science is for the logical faculty. Mr. Alison's temperament would not let him paint thus, and we do not regret it. When used frequently, it cloys like a surfeit of jellies in a novel, ninety-nine out of every hundred skip it over. It requires the interest to be well warmed before it is successful; it requires a strong human interest to carry one through minute descriptions of nature, even though these be the exquisite delineations of Lamartine. In this, as in criticism, as in history (and we cannot repeat it too often), it is grandeur of style that is natural to our author.

We have said that Mr. Alison is aware of the blemishes of detail that may be found in his works, and that these are attributable only to the rapidity of his execution, not to any deficient knowledge or erroneous views in regard to the principles of high art. His Essays furnish redundant evidence of this. We select the following passage, out of many, because it also exhibits the felicity and picturesqueness with which he illustrates his opinions. It is to be remembered, that, in all the fine arts, the grand principles of composition are the same:—

"The defect which runs through modern paintings, and renders them unfit to bear a comparison with the masterpieces of the Italian school, is, that they are either too general or too special-in technical language, breadth or detail has too exclusively riveted the artist's attention. They want that combination of minuteness of finishing with generality of effect, which characterises the scenes of nature, and is to be seen in the productions of all the artists who have risen to durable eminence in imitating her works. .

There is a depth of shade, a minuteness of finishing, a perfection of detail, and, at the same time, a generality of effect about these old portraits, which rivets admiration through every succeeding age.

"Draw near to that inimitable portrait by Vandyke; it is a nobleman of the seventeenth century, a compeer of Charles I. The dark curls of the hair hang down on either side of the manly, but melancholy visage; handsome features, a Roman cast of countenance, an aristocratic air, bespeak the object of lady's love; armour glances beneath his rich cloak, a broad ruff surrounds his

neck, a brilliant scarf adorns his breastevery object in the whole piece is finished with the pencil of the finest miniature painter; while, over the whole, genius has thrown the broad and uniform light of its own illumination. You are captivated by that fulllength portrait of a celebrated beauty in the galaxy of Charles II. The auburn locks, with playful grace, descend upon the exquisite neck and sholders; the laughing eyes, the smiling lip, the arched eyebrow, tell the coquetry of youth and beauty; the envious veil half conceals, half displays, the swelling bosom; the delicate waist, clad in satin stomacher, tapes almost beyond what modern fashion can imitate, or modern beauty desire; the rich Brussels lace is pourtrayed with inimitable skill on the shoulders; every fold of the satin dress still shines with the lustre of day; the drapery behind, whose dark shade brings out the figure; the rich Turkey carpet; the white satin slipper and slender ancle, resting on a velvet stool; the little lap-dog, in the corner of the piece; the gorgeous jewels on the bosom ;-are all delineated with the skill of the greatest master of still-life: it tells you that the fame of Sir Peter Lally stands on a durable foundation."*

No jealousy of another's fame ever stains the pages of Alison. In the Essays, as in his History, friend and foe are treated with equal justice, equal generosity. He has no bigotry of party, no prejudices but those of truth. He never claims for his own party any exemption from human frailties, never ascribes such frailties as the prevailing character of his opponents. It is not any superior disinterestedness of one party over another that he assumes as the basis of his opinions on Government-it is a balancing of interests; and when he lauds the old constitution of England, it is because under it ALL classes in the empire were duly represented-because the three powers of the Executive, Aristocracy, and Democracy were then strong enough each to arrest the abuses of the others,

but not to usurp their powers; because under it Property was the ruling, Numbers the controlling power; and thus foresight was imparted to the national councils, and the interests of the many permanently arrayed to watch the abuses of the few; while his objection to Democracy is, that popular leaders are forced, by the short-sighted passions of the multitude, to sacrifice lasting future prosperity to fleeting

present advantages-and that, when Numbers are the governing power, selfishness is unchecked, and abuses accumulate, because the majority then benefit by them. The oldest of Tories, as the Americans have called Mr. Alison, few men have maintained so inviolate as he the principles of their earlier years; and this argues either the very highest powers of intellect, or the lowest either the glance of the eagle, which looks through the dazzling darkness of the sunbeams and discerns the aspect of the veiled orb of light; or the pitiable blindness of the owl, which shuts its eyes against the glorious sun, and cries at noon-day, Where is it ? To which of these classes the gifted historian of Europe belongs, we need not say. We only allude to his own remarkable consistency, in order to point out more effectively his liberality in this respect towards others. He never charges an opponent with inconsistency, save when selfishness, not conviction, has dictated the change; never but when expediency, not principle, is the ruling motive. He never employs the paltry weapons of party warfare; never fixes clamorously on the unguarded phrase of an opponent; never condemns a lifetime for an action, a party for an individual. With true knightly honour, he scorns to triumph in a poisoned lance, or even to take advantage of a broken girth. His combats are with sword and lance in the open lists and in the eye of day; he will not draw bow from an ambuscade.

He differs diametrically from the popular opinion of the past and present age in regard to the Perfectibility of mankind through the extension of knowledge and the amelioration of government; and from the prominence which he gives to his opinions on this subject, and the vital importance he attaches to them, he has made this antagonism to the spirit of the age one of his most remarkable characteristics. Granting the superiority of the present age in all material interests, in all the appliances of comfort and luxury, and that "a British tradesman is now better clothed, fed, and lodged than a Plantagenet baron"-granting that civilisation has progressed immeasurably since the days of the Crusades,