at least free from many vices which luxury and refinement entail as curses upon the former; and it must be confessed that the horrible enormities and outrages, the singular pitch of refinement to which vice is carried, and the monstrous shapes it appears in, in our own country, the details of which are so studiously daily blazed abroad, to the destruction of morals, the increase of crime, the utter subversion of female delicacy and purity, are as rare in Morocco as in other parts where civilization has made equally slow advances.'-vol. ii. pp. 135—139.

After the completion of his short tour in Barbary, Sir Arthur returned to Spain, which he introduces again into his journal, with a copious and elaborate, and most unnecessary, history of Gibraltar, from the period when it was first invaded by the Arabs, until that of its memorable capture by our forces, in the year 1779. Perhaps we should not have used the epithet " unnecessary," as, in point of fact, these superfluous details would seem to have been requisite for making up a decent proportion of matter to fill the second volume. We have also a full account of the Sierra de Ronda, which, however, the reader will not deem superfluous, as that part of Spain has been seldom visited by English travellers, and it is a mountainous country, pregnant with romantic interest, and diversified by picturesque scenery. Numerous small towns and villages hang sometimes midway up the precipitous slopes of the Sierra, sometimes they are perched, as if dropped from the sky, upon a lofty crag, forming a striking contrast, as they glisten in the sun, with the dark evergreens intermixed with palm-trees, amid which they are seated. These signs of cultivation are succeeded by barren and desolate tracts, upon which not a habitation or human being is to be seen for many miles. The town of Ronda is itself a great curiosity. It is built along the edge of a tremendous cliff, perpendicular as a wall, at the base of which, several hundred feet below, the Guadiaro dashes wildly along, after intersecting it in its course. The cliff has been cleft by some strange convulsion into two parts, forming the divisions known by the name of the old and new town, and which are connected by a modern bridge, no less remarkable for its architecture, than for the extraordinary chasm across which the bold ingenuity of man has thrown it. From this the eye looks down with sudden astonishment, and even horror, on a dark, narrow, winding gulf, at a most fearful depth beneath, at the bottom of which it just distinguishes the foaming water of the Guadiaro, forcing itself between black gigantic masses of rock. On the opposite side of the bridge the rocky chasm widens, and the Guadiaro, far below the spectator, forms a succession of falls, and turns several small mills in its headlong course.' The inhabitants are a jovial, light-hearted, manly race, partaking in some degree of the spirit of Alpine independence.

Proceeding by Malaga, Sir Arthur Brooke paid a visit to Granada, and explored the far-famed Alhambra. He also went to see the Duke of Wellington's estate in the neighbourhood. It is called the Soto de Roma, a royal demesne, which, in the time of

the Moors, was a favourite retreat of the sovereigns of Granada. The author speaks in terms of high praise of its extensive and finely-wooded grounds, which are watered by several beautiful streams. The mansion is a very plain building, full of cracks, from the earthquakes by which this district has been frequently afflicted. The farms attached to the estate are said to be as well cultivated as any in England.

The wonders of Cordova, and of the other towns upon the road to Madrid, subsequently of the capital itself, the Escurial, Vittoria, and the Pyrennees, are all as succinctly related by Sir Arthur, as if he had been the earliest of English travellers in all that region of the Peninsula. And finding out that these common-place topics had not been sufficient for his purpose, he has added to each of his volumes, a most copious appendix of notes, which few readers, we fear, will take the trouble of consulting.

ART. VII.-The Life and Correspondence of Sir Thomas Lawrence, Knight. President of the Royal Academy, &c. By D. E. Williams, Esq. In two volumes. 8vo. London: Colburn and Bentley. 1831.

OUR readers may recollect that, at the time of Sir Thomas Lawrence's decease, we protested, in strong terms, against the indecent haste with which it was publicly and actively announced, that Mr. Thomas Campbell was already engaged in preparing memoirs of the life of that eminent artist. To the enterprize in itself, if conducted with a proper regard to feeling, we, of course, had no thought of objecting; but we did think it most disgraceful to the character of our literature, that, before the remains of a distinguished person should have grown cold, the events of his past career should have already been openly made the subject matter of a trading speculation. It was, to say the least of it, a most heartless proceeding, and not a little aggravated by the earnestness, with which the seizure and pre-occupation of the subject was proclaimed in all the usual channels of advertisement. We deeply regretted to see the name of Mr. Campbell, connected with such an extraordinary insult to the memory of the dead.

It would now appear, however, that the name of the poet was put forward on the occasion, merely for the purpose of deterring from the destined prey, the minor vagrants of the forest. It might serve, moreover, to attract communications from relatives and friends, who would have no difficulty in confiding to the discretion of so respectable a man, papers of a confidential nature, from which useful information might be extracted, without wounding the delicacies of family privacy, or exposing more than the world had a justifiable interest in knowing. But the merits of a painter's career Mr. Campbell was certainly unfit to discuss. He has never shewn the slightest critical knowledge of the art, and of all men

he would have been, from habitual indolence, the least inclined to wade through the pile of materials, from which the Life and Correspondence of Sir Thomas Lawrence were to be elicited, and licked into a popular form. Accordingly, from the very beginning, a coadjutor was appointed, whose business it was to collect and digest the various documents that were to be used in the fabrication of this work; and when he had accomplished his labours,—when, to use the language adopted by himself, he had performed the part of the "humble pioneer of literature, doomed only to remove rubbish, and clear obstructions from the paths through which learning and genius press forward to conquest and glory, without bestowing a smile on the humble drudge that facilitates their labours,"-it was found that the said "learning and genius" would not "press forward;" that it sought not the "conquest" and disclaimed the "glory;" and that, in truth, it was incapable, either from indolence, or from incompetency, or from the nature of the subject, to make any thing out of the materials, better than that which the "pioneer" had already arranged ready for the printer's hand.

This we believe to be the true state of the case. Mr. Campbell's name was first put forward as at once a beacon and a lure; when the materials were collected, he found his task too troublesome; he discovered that there were in it no points which he could work up into a grand literary monument of his own genius; that if he edited the Life,' it would be compared unfavourably with the similar labours of Moore; and, in the mean time, disputes arising between him and his publishers upon other matters, he threw up the project, partly in despair, partly in a pet, ashamed, most probably, as well he might be, that he had at all connected himself with it in the manner which we have already mentioned.

Hence, we have now to deal, not with a complete and well digested memoir of Sir Thomas Lawrence, but with a great mass of anecdotes, letters, criticisms, lists of paintings, and other documents, from which it was intended that such a memoir should have been composed. If Mr. Williams had entitled his work, after the modest and appropriate manner of the French, "A collection of documents intended to illustrate the Life of Sir Thomas Lawrence,' we should have had but little to censure in the execution of his undertaking. Taking it even as it is, we are disposed to treat it with every indulgence. If he had been originally apprized that the work was to receive no other polish, than that which he should give to it, we think that he would have passed through the ordeal with more success. The obvious faults in the production, which must strike every reader, may be easily enumerated; characteristic traits of Sir Thomas Lawrence are placed in juxta-position, without any regard whatever to the order of time; those of the man are mingled with those of the child; we are told of his size and appearance when advanced in life, before we learn any thing of his personal figure when a youth. Events are constantly anticipated;

and when we arrive at the period at which they should most properly be introduced, we are referred back to the pages in which they have been, without any sort of reason, disposed of out of place. In the early part of the work, we have a great many puerile dissertations upon common subjects, which would belong as much to the life of a soldier or a mechanic, as they do to that of a painter. We have also very many unnecessary references to the lives of other artists, which shed no light whatever upon the topic in hand, and are altogether unconnected with it. On one or two occasions the compiler introduces documents wholly foreign, not only to Sir Thomas Lawrence's memory, but to that of any other artist, and merely with a view to gratify some associations of his own. We allude particularly to the insertion of the letter of Henry Sheares, one of the two brothers who suffered death in Ireland, in 1798, which has no more in common with the subject of this memoir, than it would have with an account of Loo Choo. The style of the author's dedication to Sir R. Peel is too pedantic. In general, his composition is far from being correct; for instance, he concludes the dedication just mentioned, neither in good taste, nor good language, by saying to Sir Robert-Like yourself, I can claim one of the most exalted and inestimable of distinctions-an inflexibility to aught but conviction, and an indifference to any thing that I do not deem integral and right.' The word integral' has only one meaning, "a whole made up of parts;" consequently, the dedicator tells his patron that he 'has an indifference to any thing that he does not deem a whole made up of parts,' which is a truly ridiculous boast. He speaks of Sir Thomas Lawrence as an artist whose similar you seldom meet with,' and of Fuseli, as launching the torrent of his indignation' against some French picture cleaners. Fuseli was certainly an extraordinary man, but we never knew that he, or any other human being, could launch a torrent. Many improprieties of phrase, worse even than these, we might cite, if we did not think that the whole merit of this work consists in its matter, and very little indeed in the manner of its execution.

The leading facts connected with the life of Sir Thomas Lawrence, may be comprised within a narrow compass. He was a native of Bristol, where he first saw the light in the month of May, 1769. Some foolish friends have attempted to trace his lineage to a Sir Robert Lawrence, who attended Richard Ceur de Lion to the Holy Land. The destined President of the Academy had no claim whatever to any such distinction. His father was an innkeeper, and, in some respects, an ecccentric character, who had a smattering of classical learning, wrote verses occasionally, and was fond of spouting Shakspeare and Milton; his mother was the daughter of a clergyman. They first kept the White Lion at Bristol, but not being fortunate in that situation, they removed to the Black Bear at Devizes, where they lived for many years. It was the fortune

of their son Thomas, the youngest of a large family, to become a prodigy of genius even in childhood. Before he was six years old, he was so great a proficient in that art, in which he was afterwards to shine so pre-eminently, that he could take likenesses with wonderful rapidity and truth. It is related as a fact well authenticated, that the late Lord Kenyon and his lady, having stopped one evening, in the year 1775, at the Black Bear, on their way to Bath, had an opportunity of putting to proof the precocious talents of the juvenile artist. The bill of fare was scarcely discussed, when the fond Boniface, according to his usual fashion, held forth in praise of his son. "The boy," said he, "is only five years old, but he can take your likenesses, or repeat to you any speech in Milton's Pandæmonium." The guests, rather fatigued by their journey, were much disinclined to endure what they expected to be an insufferable annoyance, and were about to forbid his appearance, when the little urchin, uninvited, galloped into the room riding on a stick. His beauty and sprightliness did away at once with all objections. As soon as he could be prevailed upon to give up his amusement, the lady asked him if he could take her husband's likeness. Young Lawrence immediately assented. A chair, table, pencils and paper were quickly arranged, and, in a few minutes, an astonishing likeness of the great lawyer's face was produced. The artist was next asked if he could perform a similar act of kindness for the lady. "Yes" he replied, "that I can, if she will turn her side to me, for her face is not straight," an observation that was strictly true, and shewed the lively perception which the boy even then had acquired of the elements of beauty. The latter portrait was in existence in 1799. It was about five inches broad, and delicately shaded; the indecision and feebleness of the contour alone betrayed the "prentice hand."

Young Lawrence's education seems to have been extremely limited, doubtless in consequence of the inability of his parents to extend it, and also, perhaps, from the early display of those natural talents, which his father deemed all sufficient for the security of his future fortune. He was altogether at school no more than two years. His love for his pencil seems to have given him, from the beginning, an indifference for all other pursuits; though under the tuition of his odd father, he made considerable progress as a reciter of verses. So much was this the case, that some of his biographers have stated that he was regularly prepared for the stage, and that for some time he figured upon the provincial boards. It is, however, denied in the present work, that he ever acted in any other than a private theatre, and that even in this sphere, his exertions have been limited to the Priory at Stanmore. It would seem that in painting he received no instruction whatever. Generally, when reading the lives of distinguished artists, we have to trace their career first under a proper master, and next, after having established a character for superior abilities, we follow them over the Alps to