imagination, without in any degree satisfying it. It carries us out of ourselves, as if for the purpose of shewing us ourselves; and yet places us in a scene where the forgotten Past and the unknown Future are so strangely blended together, that the Present becomes obliterated or changed, and we know not even what we are, still less what we have been or shall be. If I clearly know what gusto is (of which I am by no means certain, for I hold it to be a matter of sentiment entirely, altogether undefinable, and, moreover, a wholly unconscious quality on the part of the artist who is capable of exercising or producing it), it is to be found in this picture, both in the general and particular expressions, and in the colouring. The landscape part, in particular, is full of it.

In the right-hand corner of this room there is an admirable cabinet picture (26) by Domenichino, filled with rich and various character and expression, and displaying a grandeur of style that he has not surpassed in his larger works. Every part of it is finished like a miniature, and yet every part bears the spirit and the force of a happy sketch. The expression of the Saviour, sinking to the earth beneath the weight of indignities-his mere body yielding to them, but his spirit bearing up against them with a mild yet firm patience-is very fine. Among the other figures, all of which are capital, is one of an old man in a skull-cap, which is admirably natural and true.

There is a picture in this room, by Salvator Rosa, (41) which claims particular attention, on account of its being strikingly uncharacteristic of that singular artist's style. It is a landscape, with water, figures, &c. as clear and soft, as airy, graceful, and elegant, as some of Claude's; and yet it has "that within". which immediately bespeaks the hand of Salvator. It is very interesting, as well as instructive, to see a man of genius thus quitting for a moment his chosen and favourite path, and striking into a directly opposite one. This has scarcely ever been done without at once aggrandising our notions of genius, and extending our insight into art. Though this work is, in its general style and detail, altogether different from Salvator's, yet it is such a one as none but himself could have produced; for every part of it is instinct with that suggestive and imaginative character which no landscapes but his possessed in an equal degree.

But I must hasten from this part of the collection, or I shall linger in it till the space I am enabled to allot to the whole is exhausted. I cannot, however, quit this room without noticing one little picture, which would perhaps generally be passed over, but which seems to me to present a striking example of the truly creative power of genius-of its facility in falsifying the maxim of "Ex nihilo nihil fit :" I mean the Mule, by Correggio (100). The picture consists of a laden mule and two miller's men, seen in a small oblong landscape. Let the reader tax his imagination to invest a scene like this with any thing approaching to grandeur of expression:-he cannot do it; if he can even unvulgarize it (which is difficult), the utmost he can do is to make it call up pleasing associations connected with rural life. Let him now look at this curious work, and say if the artist has not thrown the spirit of his genius into every part of it, and thus invested it with an air of power and grandeur which no opposite associations can destroy. This little picture is, in fact, as evidently a work of high genius as any thing

Correggio ever painted. It is said to have been done for the sign of a little Inn, where the artist had contracted a debt that he could not otherwise pay; but I believe there is no very good proof of the authenticity of this story. The work, however, whatever may have been its origin, is most curious and interesting. It formed part of the selection from the old masters, which was exhibited at the British Gallery last

season.

Passing from this central part of the Gallery to the inner rooms at the west end of it, we find ourselves first in a large square apartment, chiefly filled with the choicest cabinet gems of the Italian school, and also enriched with four exquisite Claude's-three of them about the usual size of his best pictures, and one much smaller. If this latter (39) is the most carefully and curiously finished of these, perhaps the one representing Moses and the Burning Bush (50) is the most valuable and characteristic. With the exception of the historical part, which occupies one corner only, and is one of those interpolations which Claude was either so fond of, or, what is more likely, was so often obliged to introduce, in compliment to the want of taste of the public for whom he painted-with this exception, nothing can be more elegant, tender, and delightful than the landscape before us-nothing more easy, sweet, and natural. The high tree in the centre is a model in its kind, for truth and richness of effect.-The Apulian Shepherd (43) is not so good. It is less soft, airy, and graceful, and the figures are wretched. No. 58, the view of a Bay, with dark columns on one side and trees on the other the sea stretching out to the horizon in the centre, and the sun shining on it—is a charming specimen of this numerous class of his works. This last picture is surrounded by smaller gems, of the first class, for the beauty of their character and the perfection of their preservation. I can only mention a small Virgin and Child (8) by Raffaelle, exquisite for its grace, elegance, and sweetness, and not unworthy to hang near the one I have described before; a rich piece of sunny colouring, by Correggio, (No. 50); and one of Leonardo da Vinci's female heads, probably a study, but for truth, depth, and intensity, reminding me of that unrivalled head of Mona Lisa, by the same artist, now at the Louvre. In this room we also find some admirable portraits,-in particular a very spirited one by Il Morone, of a Jesuit (254), and a capital one (57) by Old Palma, of a Doge of Venice. This latter breathes forth an air of grand repose; and strongly reminds one of Raphael's noble portrait of Pope Julius II. in Mr. Angerstein's collection. There are numerous other works in this room which are well worthy particular notice and attention; but I am compelled to pass on to matter even still more attractive,-only mentioning the names of a few, and commending them to the student's especial admiration, viz. a grand stormy landscape, by Gaspar Poussin (299)—an exquisite infant Christ sleeping on his cross (36), by Guido-a small, but fine and curious specimen of Albert Durer (63)—the Vision of St. Francis (67), by A. Carracci— the same subject, by Domenichino (64)—and a fine Adoration of the Magi, by P. da Cortona (33).

Passing out of this rich cabinet of gems, through an ante-room, into another large apartment similar to the one we are leaving, we stand before two of the finest pictures in the world, in their particular class: I mean the Diana and Acteon, and the Diana and Calisto, by

Titian. As appeals to the simple sensations of the human mind, by means of the external attributes of natural objects-as rich, eloquent, and harmonious pieces of colouring-these pictures have probably never been surpassed, even by Titian himself. Certainly, in England we have nothing else that can compare with them, in this particular respect. And if it should be admitted, as perhaps it may, that it is as pieces of colouring alone that these works are valuable, it must be regarded as the mere cant of criticism to attempt to depreciate them on this account, or to pretend that they are only partially admirable because the design and the expression of them are not equal to the colouring. They were never intended to be so, any more than the play of Romeo and Juliet was intended to excite the same sensations as that of Hamlet

was, or this latter as Macbeth. To unite the highest possible perfection of design, expression, and colouring, in one work, so that each of them shall produce the strongest effect of which it is capable, is, perhaps, physically as well as morally impossible; and it would not be desirable if it were possible. We can only enjoy fully, and to their utmost extent, one set of sensations at a time. This is the constitution of our nature; and if we attempt to alter or improve upon it, we shall at best lose in one way what we gain in another: but the chances are, that, in taxing our faculties beyond their power, we shall be losers altogether. The cup can but be full; and let it be remembered that the last drop which causes it to run over displaces considerably more than its own bulk. Applying this to the admirable works before us, if the expressions and forms of which the subjects are susceptible, had been as fine in their way as the colouring is in its way, the pictures would not have affected us so powerfully as they now do, and consequently would not have been so valuable. This is of course supposing that the perfection of expression and form is to be found elsewhere. If it were not, the case might be different; though I scarcely think it would. I do not deny that the beauty of expression is of a higher kind than that of colouring; but I doubt whether, in a grand work consisting of various parts, (like these in question) the highest degree of the two kinds of beauty can be advantageously united. What but this doubt, or a certainty on the subject, prevented Titian from uniting them? For that he was capable of so doing, few will deny who are acquainted with his best works. What is the Pietro Martire but one piece of expression-not only in the faces and forms, but in the clouds, the trees, the very stones of the ground? What can be finer in the way of expression, what more intense and poetical, than some parts of those admirable works forming what is called the Titian Room, at Blenheim? What are his portraits, but expression itself? I cannot doubt that Titian expected and intended the predominant effect of these pictures to arise from their colouring, just as he intended expressioa to be the chief ingredient in the Pietro Martire; and he constructed the different works accordingly. The one moves and delights us on the same principle that a finely acted tragedy does, and the others affect us nearly as a splendid autumn sunset does; and if the one set of impressions are more valuable than the other, it is simply because they are more permanent. In fact, their want of permanence is the chief characteristic of those impressions which appeal to the senses alone, as those arising from colours do. But I am far from admitting

that this evanescence diminishes their value. It is absolutely impossible to remember the smell of a rose, or the sound of an Æolian harp; but do we not long for these, and recur to them more than we should otherwise do, on that very account? For my own part, I declare, that though I am able, generally speaking, to recall at will any picture I have once seen that made a great impression on me, and can see it as vividly and distinctly as if it were actually before me, yet of these pictures by Titian, which I stood gazing on for an hour last week, now that I am absent from them I have no more recollection as to their details than if I had never seen them: I do not even recollect the attitude of a single figure, except the principal one in each picture,and this probably on account of these particular figures being chiefly remarkable for their expression, and not their colouring. And yet I never saw any pictures that I have so strong a desire to see again and again. I feel that this subject is susceptible of a very clear and interesting developement; but I dare not trust myself to go farther into it here, or I shall exhaust my space before I have noticed half the firstrate works in this princely collection. I must therefore take leave of these two charming pictures, by recommending them to the admiration of the lover of Art, and the study of the artist, as two of the most rich, glowing, mellow, and harmonious pieces of colouring that ever proceeded from the pencil.-There are two other very fine pictures in this room, which are worthy of a much more detailed notice than I can afford them these are, the Woman taken in Adultery, by Pordenone, and a Holy Family, in a fine landscape, by Old Palma.

Returning to the small ante-room through which we passed into this chamber, we find a few works of very singular, and indeed first-rate excellence. Let those who doubt the power of Titian to mix the highest degree of expression with the highest perfection of colouring, when it suited his views so to do, look at the Venus rising from the Sea (94) It is a most exquisite picture, possessing that wonderful truth in the expression of the flesh, which no one else but him ever gave in an equal degree. The character, too, of the whole figure, floating and undulating in every part, like the element of which it is born, is altogether delightful and appropriate.-Underneath this picture hangs an admirable example of Vandyke's portraits (189), as fresh and blooming in colour and as free in touch as Rubens, but with more truth and firmness, as well as more delicacy and nature.

To the right of the last picture, a little above, hangs a delightful head by Guido (28). It is a Madonna-full of a sweet divinity, added to a graceful yet touching air of humanity, which are to be found united in but few works from any other hand than his. Guido's Madonnas are unlike any other heads that we see, either actual or ideal; and the character they represent requires that this should be the case. They blend natural and supernatural attributes, the looks of heaven and of earth, so delicately together, that while both are apparent, neither predominates; or rather, both are so distinguished that we may make either predominate, just as the mood in which we contemplate them requires. There is a great deal of talk about "ideal beauty," but with very little meaning in it. Perhaps the beautiful Madonnas of Guido have more of the "ideal" in them than any thing else in Art— more of something that belongs not to the earth-more of "the light

that never was on sea or land." And this is the only kind of beauty that claims the name of ideal.-One of the most curious and elaborate pictures in this collection is the Last Judgment, by L. Bassano, (86) also in this room. Among the innumerable figures which this small picture contains, many are understood to be portraits, which are assigned places in the scene corresponding with the estimation in which they were held by the painter. Though not without gross faults in the design and detail of many parts of it, this is a work of very great merit, considering the extraordinary difficulties that have been overcome in it. The upper part of the picture, in particular, is very finely managed.The last work I shall notice in the Italian portion of this collection is a most charming one by Parmegiano, Cupid cutting his Bow (16). It is in a small inner-room, or passage, leading out of the centre gallery. For airy grace, and rich and harmonious sweetness, both of expression and colouring, this picture might have been painted by Correggio; but there is a lofty freedom of manner, and a decision of outline, together with an antique and poetical character, which Correggio was apt to sacrifice to something less poetical perhaps, if not less imaginative. Nothing was ever more deliciously bland and captivating than the air and attitude of this lovely boy. There are two antique statues, now in the British Museum, each of which in a striking degree resembles this picture in attitude and expression, and in the age of the Cupid. Each is a single figure of Cupid bending his bow; and one or other of them had probably been seen by Parmegiano before he painted this work. It evidently became a favourite subject with him; for there are several repetitions of it in different galleries of Europe. The two heads which are introduced at the bottom of the picture, of a laughing and a weeping child, are, in my estimation, any thing but an improvement to the picture. They disturb that unity of effect which results from the principal figure when looked at by itself.

At the east end of the central department of the Gallery is a room containing the celebrated series of the Seven Sacraments, by Nicolo Poussin, from the Orleans Gallery. These are unquestionably a very valuable and complete set of pictures; but it was not by painting such pictures as these that Poussin acquired and deserved that reputation which places him among the first of the old masters, in the first class of Art. If we forget that Poussin belonged to the French school, it is in virtue of his Deluge, at the Louvre, his Education of Bacchus, at Dulwich, his Bacchanalian Scene, at Mr. Angerstein's, his Orion, &c. These proclaim him a great painter; while those before us, as well as many others of the same class that I have seen, only bespeak him a painter of great pictures. I do not by any means desire to depreciate the larger works of Poussin; of which these perhaps offer some of the very best specimens extant. But I think that he should never have painted large works at all. His genius required confinement, and seemed to delight in it, both with respect to size and subject. He had so trained it to tread in the steps of the antique, that it felt at home no where else; he had so accustomed it to move in fetters, that it could move in them with more ease and grace, as well as more spirit, than when free. Give Poussin a simple subject requiring a unity of effect, a very limited number of figures, and a small space, and he could do wonders; but give him an acre of canvass, a crowd of figures, and a