of the fifteenth century, Johan Fouquet de Tours, painter to King Louis XI. In regard to the admirable, spirited invention, which betrays a great master, as well as the finished execution, they rank uncommonly high.

"An antique bust of a youth, in Carrara marble, which, in form and expression, resembles the eldest son of Laocoon, is in a very noble style, uncommonly animated, and of admirable workmanship. In particular, the antique piece of the neck and the treatment of the hair are very delicate. The nose and ears are new; a small part of the chin, too, and the upper lip, are completed in a masterly manner in wax.

"A candelabrum in bronze, about ten inches high, is of the most beautiful kind. The lower part is formed by a sitting female figure holding a wreath. This fine and graceful design belongs to the period when art was in its perfection. This exquisite relic, which was purchased for Mr. Rogers in Italy, by the able connoisseur, Mr. Millingon, is, unfortunately, much damaged in the epidermis.

"Among the elegant articles of antique ornament in gold, the earrings and clasps, by which so many descriptions of the ancient poets are called to mind, there are likewise whole figures beat out in thin gold leaves. The principal article is a golden circlet, about two and a half inches in diameter, the workmanship of which is as rich and skilful as could be made in our times.

"Of the many Greek vases in terra cotta, there are five, some of them large, in the antique taste, with black figures on a yellow ground, which are of considerable importance. A flat dish, on the outer side of which five young men are rubbing themselves with the strigil, and five washing themselves, yellow on a black ground, is to be classed with vases of the first rank, for the gracefulness of the invention, and the beauty and elegance of the execution. In this collection, it is excelled only by a vase, rounded below, so that it must be placed in a peculiar stand. The combat of Achilles with Penthesilia is represented upon it, likewise, in red figures. This composition, consisting of thirteen figures, is by far the most distinguished, not only of all representations of the subject, but, in general, of all representations of combats which I have hitherto seen on vases, in the beauty and variety of the attitudes, in masterly drawing, as well as in the spirit and delicacy of the execution. It is in

the happy medium between the severe and the quite free style, so that in the faces there are some traces of the antique manner."

The estimation in which the venerable poet is held, as a judge of art, may be inferred by the following extract from a letter addressed to him by Sir David Wilkie, under date of Constantinople, 30th December, 1840:

"Without any claim for this invasion upon your valuable time, other than being in this distant capital in presence of so many objects which your knowledge of life and materials for art would so enable you to appreciate and put upon record, you will yet, perhaps, excuse the few ideas I try to put together, wishing only that I had your eyes to see, with your taste and judgment to select what were best to note down, and what most worthy to remember."

After condoling with him on the loss of Lord Holland, whom he had last met in company with Moore and Rogers, Wilkie proceeds: "Could I see you in quiet, as in Brighton and in St. James' Place, and in a suitable frame of mind for lighter subjects, what a deal the journey we have made would suggest for discussion! Mr. William Woodburn, who is with me, frequently speaks of you; and your name was often mentioned, as we passed in review at the Hague, Amsterdam, at Munich and at Vienna, the richest stores of European art; among which we saw in those places two great masters, almost in their greatest triumphs-Rubens and Rembrandt; and we scarcely know any one who could better judge of their splendors than yourself."

It should not be forgotten that Rogers was one of the few who stood by Sheridan in his last days; supplying his pecuniary needs to a great extent, and manifesting a timely sympathy towards him. It was discovered, after Sheridan's death, that sums of money which had been supposed to come from other high quarters to minister to his by no means slender wants were in reality contributed by Rogers. From an article entitled Gore House, published in the New Monthly Magazine, in 1849, we transcribe a passage of gossip, that may pass for what it is worth:

"The number of guests was not yet complete. They arrived in the following order:

66

Slowly, with the foot of age, his head bent forward and his hands extended, came Mr. S R endowed alike with the

gifts of Plutus and Apollo, and enjoying, perhaps, a higher reputation for the possession of each than he deserved. If the couplet ascribed to Lady B be really hers, her ladyship seems to have thought his most celebrated poem somewhat over-praised; it ran thus:

Of Rs's Italy, Luttrell relates

That it would have been dished were it not for the plates.'

In this opinion I do not, however, coincide, believing some of his Ausonian fragments—above all, those descriptive of Venice—to be the finest he ever wrote, and worthy, of themselves alone, to place him high amongst poets. Of the peculiarities of which I had heard so much, but one was strikingly exemplified — his fondness for female admiration. Other men have been anxious to engross the attention of a beautiful woman, before it fell to the lot of Mr. R to attempt it; but very few, I imagine, have tried to turn it in the same direction. Like a young Frenchman whom I formerly knew in Paris, his motto has been, not comme je l'aime!' but comme elle m'adore!' Goldsmith is said to have been jealous if a pretty woman attracted more notice than himself; and it was no uncommon thing for R. to sulk for a whole evening, if the prettiest woman in the company failed to make much of him."

We have the curtain agreeably lifted from the social converse of Rogers, in the following little passage from Mr. Bryant's account of his visit to the veteran bard: “There are not," says Mr. B., "many more beautiful lines in the English language, — there are certainly none so beautiful in the writings of the author, -as those of Mrs. Barbauld, which the poet Rogers is fond of repeating to his friends, in his fine, deliberate manner, with just enough of tremulousness in that grave voice of his to give his recitation the effect of deep feeling:

Life! we've been long together,

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather.
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear;

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

Say not good-night, but, in some happier clime,

Bid me good-morning.'

It makes the thought of death cheerful to represent it thus, as Life looking in upon you with a glad greeting, amidst fresh airs and glorious light. The lines, we infer, were written by Mrs. Barbauld in her late old age, and I do not wonder that the aged poet, who some years since entered upon the fifth score of his years, should find them haunting his memory."

Long may it be before the decease of the venerable poet may open to the world the rich stores for his biography, which must, no doubt, exist in his correspondence and commonplace books! Till that time comes, we must be content with the memoranda which are scattered here and there through the literary history of the century, imperfect and unsatisfactory, but furnishing an index to what remains behind.

But now we cannot bring this sketch to a more acceptable conclusion than by copying the latest notice we have seen of a spot that will long remain classic ground, from the pen of an American traveller. Mr. Tuckerman has been speaking of St. James' Park, and its various associations, which could not long withdraw the literary enthusiast from the bit of green-sward before the window of Rogers, which every spring morning, before the poet's health sent him into suburban exile, was covered with sparrows, expectant of their food from his kindly hand. "The view of the park," he adds, “from this drawing-room bow-window instantly disenchants the sight of all town associations. The room where this vista nature in her genuine English aspect opens, is the same so memorable for the breakfasts for many years enjoyed by the hospitable bard and his fortunate guests. An air of sadness pervaded the apartment, in the absence of him whose taste and urbanity were yet apparent in every object around. The wintry sun threw a gleam, mellow as the light of the fond reminiscence he so gracefully sung, upon the Turkey carpet and veined mahogany. It fell, as if in pensive greeting, on the famous Titian, lit up the cool tints of Watteau, and made the bust found in the sea near Pozzoli wear a creamy hue. When the old housekeeper left the room, and I glanced from the priceless canvas or classic urn to the twinkling turf, all warmed by the casual sunshine, the sensation of comfort, never so completely realized as in a genuine London breakfast-room, was touched to finer issues by the atmosphere of beauty and the memory of genius. The

groups of poets, artists and wits, whose commune had filled this room with the electric glow of intellectual life, with gems of art, glimpses of nature, and the charm of intelligent hospitality, to evoke all that was most gifted and cordial, reässembled once more. I could not but appreciate the suggestive character of every ornament. There was a Murillo, to inspire the Spanish traveller with half-forgotten anecdotes; a fine Reynolds, to whisper of the literary dinners where Garrick and Burke discussed the theatre and the senate; Milton's agreement for the sale of Paradise Lost,' emphatic symbol of the uncertainty of fame; a sketch of Stonehenge by Turner, provocative of endless discussion to artist and antiquary; bronzes, medals and choice volumes, whose very names would inspire an affluent talker, in this most charming imaginable nook for a morning colloquy and a social breakfast. I noticed, in a glass vase over the fireplace, numerous sprigs of orange-blossoms in every grade of decay, some crumbling to dust, and others but partially faded. These, it appeared, were all plucked from bridal wreaths, the gift of their fair wearers, on the wedding-day, to the good old poet-friend; and he, in his bachelor fantasy, thus preserved the withered trophies. They spoke at once of sentiment and of solitude."