STATUE OF SIR DAVID WILKIE, BY JOSEPH, IN THE VESTIBULE OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY, LONDON.

they returned dispirited towards home. The admission however was afterwards procured through the favourable word of a neighbouring nobleman, and the result soon showed the mistake committed in his rejection.

After a little more than two years' study, he returned to his home and commenced in earnest the business of life. He painted many portraits of his father's friends and neighbours, and also the picture of a neighbouring fair (already referred to), in which were introduced the portraits of many well-known characters, constant attendants at the returning festival. It excited the wonder of all the good people, and produced the offer of what everybody in that vicinity regarded as a munificent price-twenty-five pounds. Thus enriched, he collected in his outstanding debts for portraits, &c., and with sixty pounds in his pocket, departed for London.

Having procured admission as a student in the Royal Academy, he laboured with his characteristic perseverance, and by it attracted the notice of the veterans of the Institution. His purse, however, at the end of a year was rapidly emptying, and no commissions came, nor the prospect of any, wherewith to replenish it. Poverty and neglect stared him in the face, when an accident threw him in the way of success, and fame and fortune were secured. He had before leaving Scotland prepared the

sketch of "The Village Politicians," which he brought with him, and on its being shown to Lord Mansfield by one whose acquaintance he had chanced to make, an order for a painting was the result. The price agreed on was fifteen pounds, although twice that was paid; but the picture was worth hundreds. It was sent to the exhibition of the Royal Academy, and was at once pronounced to be the star of the collection; thus was its author, at the age of twenty-one, placed in the very front rank of his profession.

An order from Sir George Beaumont followed, for whom was painted the "Blind Fiddler," a work unsurpassednay unequalled in its way. The innumerable engravings of this inimitable work, have rendered it familiar to everybody. The price received for this was a considerable advance on that of the former commission, but ridiculously small compared with its intrinsic value. Benjamin West, on seeing it, said, "Never in my whole experience have I met with a young artist like Wilkie: he may be young in years, but he is old in the experience of art: he is already a great artist." This picture is now part of the national collection of England.

Commissions were now poured in upon him plentifully, and invitations freely tendered to paint them at the country residences of his employers, that the advantages of rural exercise and fresh air might aid in the restoration of his health, now somewhat shattered. Thus had our artist, who, but a short time before, thought himself fortunate in the commission of a twenty shilling portraitoverstepped a formidable barrier, and found himself domesticated for as many weeks as he pleased in one palace after another, and-the morning of delightful labour over, spending his evenings amidst society the most elegant and accomplished. In five years after the exhibition of his first picture he was unanimously elected a Royal Academician; this was at the age of twenty-six. He was a man of method, and applied himself closely to the regular routine of his daily employment. However, in 1812, he revisited the place of his birth, and saw his father for the last time, who died the following winter. In 1814 he accompanied Haydon to Paris to see the then wonderful collections of art in the Louvre, and in 1817 returned once more to Scotland. He now visited Abbotsford; and Scott's friend, William Laidlaw, accompanied him through the valleys of Ettric and Yarrow, and introduced him to James Hogg, the poet. After a short time the nature of the conversation led the Shepherd to exclaim, “Laidlaw! this is no' the great Mr. Wilkie?" "It's just the great Mr. Wilkie, Hogg," said the other. "Mr. Wilkie,” cried the poet, seizing him by the hand, "I cannot tell you how proud I am to see you in my house, and how glad I am to see you are so young a man.” When Sir Walter Scott was told of Hogg's reception of Wilkie, "The fellow!" said he, "it was the finest compliment ever paid to man!"

The class of pictures in which Wilkie excelled, and that secured his fame, was that of domestic scenes in humble life; of representations that reflected the manners, customs, and feelings of the people. He carefully avoided the coarse vulgarity and indecencies of the old Dutch painters, while he more than equalled them in their skill. He finished elaborately and yet maintained a firm decision of touch, carefully painting everything from nature. That which strikes us as extraordinary, is the mastery displayed in his management of a picture as a whole, the grasp of mind in arranging so many small objects in reference to the unity of all in one extended composition of forms, and light, and shade, and colour. For this nothing can surpass the "Blind Fiddler." To read the dull details of his diary, one would expect anything but this, for he describes his progress over a picture, as if it were a mosaic pavement being laid in, stone by stone. We will take for instance a well-known picture, "The Cut Finger."

"Dec. 1st. Put in the tongs and poker by the side of the fire.-2d. The only thing I did to-day was the chair in the corner of my picture. Haydon approved of the pewter

basin very much.-5th. Painted from ten till four, and put into my little picture the small ship on the chair, and finished the floor and small pieces of wood upon it.-7th. Began to paint at ten, and continued till four, interrupted only by a call from Seguer. Put in the flower-pot in the window of my picture, with the shining of the sun on the wall.-8th. Painted from ten till four; put in the blue handkerchief of the tallest girl, the ribands of her cap, and touched the petticoat of the old woman.-10th. Went to the Academy: the only thing I painted at home to-day was the pinafore of the boy which I am not sure but I must rub out.-11th. Rubbed out to-day what I had done yesterday to the pinafore, and painted it again of a bright yellow colour, which with the dark-coloured trowsers improved the look of the picture greatly.-12th. Haydon came to breakfast; approved of the boy's clothes, but objected to the blue apron of the old woman, on account of its being too cold for that part of the picture. When he was gone I finished the cap of the old woman, and put in the cat at her feet."

He continued to paint in the line of art on which his future fame must rest, until his departure from England, in 1824, for Italy and Spain. After an absence of about three years, during which time he had painted several pictures (mostly during his sojourn in Madrid), he returned, bringing with him the new fruits of his observation of the old Italian and Spanish masters. He was charmed with the broad and noble method of treatment displayed in the works of those artists, and tempted to adopt it as far as he could in his own future practice; partly because of the prospect of increased gain which the change would necessarily bring; for he could produce half a dozen of these in his later style in the time that a single picture had formerly occupied. He was usually slow in making up his mind, but a conclusion once arrived at, he adhered pertinaciously to it. The results of these three years' travel were well calculated to confirm in his new choice one so fond of money: he received 4620 guineas in all, nearly 3000 of which was for the six pictures purchased by George the Fourth.

It may be interesting to glance at the prices paid him for a few of the pictures most familiarly known, bearing in mind, however, that the earlier works are not to be regarded as inferior because the sums paid were so much less than in after years. There is no better investment of money than that spent in the encouragement of youthful artists of real genius and talent. It is only mediocre works, or those but little above mediocrity, that depreciate in value. "The Reading of the Will," for which the King of Bavaria paid Wilkie four hundred pounds, was at his death sold at auction (being personal property), and commanded three times the price. The picture by him, engraved for the present number of this magazine, cost but thirty pounds, and is now worth twenty or thirty times as much. Multitudinous are the instances of the like increase that might be quoted from the history of art on both sides of the Atlantic. The original price of Cole's "Course of Empire" was 2500 dollars, and see what they are worth now. If this known principle were only borne in mind by those possessed of the means, many a young artist here in our American cities, now lingering heartsick with hope deferred, would be cheered to hopeful labour, and the dying flame of genius fostered into brightness, reflect hereafter beams of glory on the country: for,

"Who can tell how many a soul sublime

Has felt the influence of malignant star, And waged with fortune an unequal war?”

But, to Wilkie's prices. He received, in 1813, from the Prince Regent (afterwards George IV.), five hundred guineas (2500 dollars), for the "Blind Man's Buff." In 1815, from the British Institution, for "The Distraining for Rent," six hundred guineas. For the "Penny Wedding," 1819, five hundred guineas from George the Fourth. In 1822, "The Chelsea Pensioners Reading the Gazette of the Battle of Waterloo," painted for the Duke of Wellington,

twelve hundred guineas. "The Visit of George the Fourth to Holyrood," finished in 1830, sixteen hundred guineas, and the "Preaching of John Knox at St. Andrew's," finishin 1832 for Sir Robert Peel, 1200 guineas.

Wilkie kept a keen eye after the "siller," was curious about the relative value of stocks, anxious about even the smallest gains, descending into meanness sometimes, or what looks a little worse. In reply to a letter from his brother, which informed him that a picture had been well sold during his absence, he expressed himself delighted with the bargain, but says that if nothing had been expressly agreed about the gilt frame in which the purchaser had seen it, it would do to put a wooden rim round it instead, before sending it home. After the death of his father, he invited his mother and sister to come to London, and make their home with him, stating that he had never gone to housekeeping, chiefly because he had no furniture, "but as my mother may now be able to provide me with that, there will no longer be any difficulty." His letter to his sister then goes on to say-"I know you will regret selling many things, but I do not think there will be any great loss, as the same money will nearly purchase as good ones here. Of the kitchen furniture I do not know that you should bring any, except the old brass pan for making jelly, and anything else that you may consider of value. There is an old Dutch press in one of the closets, that my mother got from Mrs. Birrell; what state is that in? If it were not an article of great weight, might not that be brought?" I once knew a person who had occasion to be conveyed in a cab from one part of Philadelphia to another, having in his company his lady sweetheart and her friend. Having paid the driver his own fare, and observing no similar movement on the part of the ladies, he said, "If you happen to have no money with you, I'll lend it to you." One can almost imagine Wilkie doing the like.

He was always, especially in early life, diffident and silent, and extremely reverent to great people (that is to say, the aristocracy), which did not diminish on more familiar acquaintance. He never acquired ease of manners in company, and many amusing anecdotes are told which place him in a ridiculous light. Washington Irving relates a rich story of having been with him at a masked ball at Madrid. The painter had assumed the character of Grand Turk, but forgetting his part on entering the room, made his salaams with his turban under his arm in all humility. Again,-being on a visit for a few days at a great house near London, some neighbouring gentlemen, who had been invited to dine, entered the reception-room with gloves and hats in hand. Sir David started off in great confusion, and presently reappeared from his bedroom with hat and gloves.

A story is told of his having accompanied a Royal Academic friend, Stewart Newton, the eminent American artist, to a dinner party. The conversation between the two on their way home will suffice as an illustrative specimen of the conversational powers of the subject of our notice.

Newton.-"Well, we have had a pleasant evening,

Wilkie."

Wilkie." Raily."

Newton.-"But you were very silent."
Wilkie.-"Raily?"

Newton." In fact, you said but one word."
Wilkie.-"Raily?"

Newton." There it goes again. Why, Dawvid, you never do say anything but raily!"

Wilkie.-"Raily!"

On the death of Sir Thomas Lawrence, who had succeeded Benjamin West as President of the Royal Academy, the King gave unequivocal indications of his wish that

* When he was applied to for a whole-length picture of Daniel O'Connell, he hesitated to undertake it, for fear of giving offence in certain quarters; but on privately con. sulting his Magnus Apollo, Sir William Knighton, the absurdity of carrying politics into such matters was pointed out to him, and the commission was accepted.

Wilkie should succeed him; the artists gave him but one vote, and elected Sir Martin Archer Shee by a very large majority. Wilkie was evidently disappointed, although he ought to have known that he was unsuited to the position, which requires a scholar and a gentleman. In 1836, William the Fourth conferred the order of knighthood upon him; and in 1840, he left England once more, to visit Palestine, and other Eastern scenes. At Alexandria, he felt the admonitions of internal disease, and hastened to embark for home, without ascending the Nile for Cairo and the Pyramids, and on reaching Gibraltar died from a stroke of palsy, at the age of fifty-six, and was buried in the sea. His will showed him to have acquired about thirty thousand pounds.

He was unquestionably one of the very best artists England ever produced. The marble statue of him-a representation of which is given in this article-was erected to his honour by public subscription, and placed on the stairway of the National Gallery at London.

BOOK NOTICES.

J. S.

SAINT LEGER, OR THE THREADS OF LIFE. New York: George P. Putnam. In this bookselling age, when almost every work issued is made for the express purpose of disposing of a certain number of copies, or for achieving a certain amount of literary notoriety, it becomes particularly grateful to the almost extinct race of old-fashioned readers, now and then, to light on a volume which owes its birth to the overflow of a true creative imaginationand to that alone. Such a volume is "Saint Leger." He who opens it with the hope of finding in it the usual wind and buckram monstrosities of our every-day literature, will be grievously disappointed. Our author starts with a full view of the course he is to pursue, and with his eyes fixed on a predetermined end, from which-however discursive he may be-he never wavers for an instant. All the episodes of his story-and they are many and beautiful -are introduced for the sole purpose of illustrating the main idea; nothing is inappropriate, nothing is forced forward with the mere design of exciting interest. Herein we perceive a vast difference between "Saint Leger" and the generality of modern books. Instead of a loose, vague, unconnected array of notions and incidents, without affinity or relation, we have a harmonious series of ideas and events, arising naturally from that process of cause and effect which ever marks the creations of a healthy imagination.

No man who has ever asked himself the three startling questions-whence am I? what am I? whither go I?-can fail to sympathize with the principal character of our author's story. Our chief interest in the hero lies in tracing the progress of his individual mind, from its first consciousness to maturity, and in noting the effects which are produced on his moral and intellectual nature, by a life full of passion and adventure. We see all passing circumstances from the centre of his spiritual being. We seldom feel like lending him an arm, to protect him from outward troubles, but often like dropping into his mind a thought to save him from the evil influence of doubts engendered by the workings of such troubles on his inner

nature. This manner of telling a story is certainly a bold and novel one; but, at the same time, one which rivets our closest attention, and attaches our warmest sympathy.

When the hero, Saint Leger, first becomes conscious of thought, we find him a prey to a shadowy throng of vague but overpowering superstitions, which forcibly tend to the premature development of a highly sensitive nature. He leaves his home and sallies out into life. Gradually his superstitions vanish, but not without leaving their traces behind; and, in the place of childish terrors, arises a more dangerous band of temptations and doubts, which assail his thoughts, and, in the end, completely prostrate his last stronghold of blind faith. He becomes a sceptic; but his is a nature which must have a faith of some kind, or perish in the effort to attain it. He wanders round the whole circle of modern metaphysics, from the pantheism of Spinoza, until through Kant, he almost touches the enticing idealism of Fichte. No system satisfies, nor even gives him a moment of repose; each is a labyrinth without issue-without the hope of issue. There is nothing tangible in all his metaphysical bewilderings; nothing on which the soul can rest composedly, saying, This is my trust; by this I will live and die. Here, in the darkest part of the hero's career, the profoundest point of the whole lesson is taught, through the partial instrumentality of one of the most beautiful womanly creations in the whole range of English fiction. Theresa, the embodiment of the spirit of intuitive truth and simple faith-a type of uncorrupted humanity -and Wolfgang Hegewisch, the embodiment of desperate philosophy and hopeless scepticism-a type of humanity suffering through its own sins, and through the sins of others-are the two opposite agents of Saint Leger's salvation. Although, at the close of the story, we are still left in doubt, as to the precise state of the hero's mind, we are yet hopefully impressed with the idea that he must end in a faith founded on nature and reason-a faith as far above blind belief, as free-will is above instinct.

Around the central character of Saint Leger, during his mental struggles, there is continually passing a series of rapid and startling events, which seem to arise, like the chain of circumstances in the doctrine of the Necessitarians, for the purpose of hurrying the hero to some fated end. The manner in which Saint Leger's inner nature, and the course of outward events act and react on each other, is managed with a masterly hand.

So subtile and intimate is the union of the two states of existence, and yet so distinct is the preservation of each, that the reader turns from the one to the other with equal pleasure; never becoming so absorbed in the hero's mental movements as to lose sight of the story, nor so carried away by the story as to forget his sympathy with the silent workings of Saint Leger's mind.

All the characters that aid in the development of our author's plot are drawn with a strong dramatic distinctness, and have something more than their mere names to distinguish them from each other. Another excellencea rare one in this age-is, that there is no incongruity between the actions and characters in the story; each act appears to be the natural result of the actor's temperament, and not to be forced on him by the course of the plot. This dramatic beauty, of making plot subservient to character, will not, perhaps, be understood by many modern novel-readers;-by those who are in the habit of seeing a certain quantity of heterogeneous impersonalities forced into the stiff mould of an author's high-wrought plot, without regard to fitness or unfitness; for there is little doubt that the mass of every-day novels would excite their readers quite as much by the bare story, without the flimsy intervention of a single so-called character. Those who are familiar with our earlier poets and dramatists, will give the author of "Saint Leger" the credit of having passed beyond one of the most glaring errors of his own time, into a region of purer and higher invention.

In concluding, we beg our readers to understand that we have not mentioned half the merits of this remarkable

Whoever the author of "Saint Leger" may be, we heartily welcome him; feeling assured that whenever he may choose to write, the better class of readers will be ready to receive him, and afford him that appreciation which no mind such as his would exchange for the huzza of mere vulgar popularity.

POEMS FOR THE SEA; WHISPER TO A BRIDE; and LETTERS TO YOUNG LADIES; by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. For the author of these volumes we have been taught to entertain a feeling of profound respect, amounting almost to veneration. This feeling has not been lessened by the new fruits of her industry now presented. One of these works, the "Letters to Young Ladies," has been already for many years before the public, and therefore need not be particu larly dwelt upon, except to remind our readers of its existence, and to assure them that a more appropriate book to put into the hands of a young lady is not to be found in the language. The other two books are new. The "Whisper to a Bride" breathes, in a tone soft and gentle as an angel's, words so full of wisdom that the heart rises up in honour of the author at the close of every kindly period. Would that the exquisite little volume might find its way to every young American wife. "Poems for the Sea" are a grateful addition to the means of those who would improve the sailor by opening his heart to the softening influences of Christian charity. No sailor could fail to see in this volume thoughts that would be attractive from their subject, would please by their beauty, would benefit by their goodness. As a last gift from a mother or a sister to a departing sailor-boy, what could be more appropriate? We join most heartily with the writer in her hope that "in the dim forecastle, it may be as a sunbeam, brightening the memory of home and its loved ones, and the hope of that better home, where no storm shall drive the bark astray or divide the true-hearted."

ANNE BOLEYN: A Tragedy. By George H. Boker. Philadelphia: A. Hart. We cannot agree with a respected contemporary, the critic of the Saturday Post, in thinking that Mr. Boker has greatly misconceived the character of King Henry VIII., or that he has displayed more true genius in "a poem which appeared some time ago in Sartain's Magazine,” than in "Calaynos" and "Anne Boleyn," both together. The poem here alluded to was, we presume, the "Song of the Earth." We have always regarded this as a poem of extraordinary merit, remarkable equally for its originality and its power. It is difficult to say what the author of such a poem might not do. But as a thing done, an actual addition to American letters, the "Song of the Earth" is no more to be weighed with "Calaynos," or "Anne Boleyn," than is Cleopatra's Needle with the Pyramid of Cheops.

As to the character of Henry VIII., Mr. Boker seems to us to have interpreted it in consistency, not only with the facts of history, but with itself, and with a true theory of human nature. No man ever yet committed a crime without seeking to satisfy his conscience by some excuse. As self-love is the umpire at this tribunal, it is not necessary that the excuse, in order to its acceptance, should be perfectly logical. It is quite in keeping with this principle of human nature, that Henry is represented as troubled with scruples of "conscience," even when plotting what seem to us the most barefaced villanies; and we can readily conceive him to have been in downright earnest, when upbraiding Sir Henry Norris for ingratitude, in refusing to perjure himself to shield the king's adulterous purposes. Henry let his mind dwell upon the favours which he had bestowed upon this Norris, and upon the obligations thereby created, until he quite forgot his own meditated crime, and he clearly thought himself the aggrieved party, "more sinned against than sinning." It is the plea of the outlaw, the bandit, the pirate, of criminals of every dye, who have always some such secret salvo for a troubled conscience. Henry was not a hypocrite, and

him. As a mere hypocrite, he would have had little interest for the reader. It is the skilful mixture of good and bad in his character, that makes it at once true to history and true to human nature.

"Anne," however, and not Henry, is the leading character of the play-the point from which all the other parts must be seen to be rightly comprehended. In this respect, Mr. Boker has observed with the utmost rigour, the true and only rational unity of the Drama. Everything is subordinated to the one purpose of developing the tragical end of "Anne." She herself is represented as a rather better woman, perhaps, than the historical facts would warrant. But the exigencies of the play demanded it. To feel the proper interest in her, we must see her to be worthy of it. The part which she played in the death of Katherine is accordingly blinked. On the other hand, her zeal for the "suffering Protestants," her patronage of Wyatt, her high sense of personal honour, her heroic constancy, her devoted and most unselfish attachment to the king, and her many other right queenly and right womanly qualities are brought out into high relief.

That Mr. Boker has the true dramatic power, there can now be no doubt. His first play, "Calaynos," notwithstanding the attempted superciliousness of certain would-be cri tics, has been eminently successful, as a reading play on this side of the Atlantic, and as an acting play in England. "Anne Boleyn," which has followed in such quick succession, and which is written with a more direct eye to the stage, is a great advance upon Calaynos. It is a work of greater power, whether judged as a poem, or as a drama. The very first act rises to a height of dramatic force, which in the former play was hardly reached in the fifth. From this bold and energetic beginning, there is no falling off in the following acts, but a continual elevation to the very close. The characters, as in the former play, are conceived with a wonderful degree of distinctness. Even those persons introduced most casually, as Mrs. Cosyns, and Lady Boleyn, have a perfect individuality. This play abounds in fine passages, many of which, in reading, we had marked for quotation, but find ourselves obliged to forego that pleasure.

One thing is observable in all of Mr. Boker's writings. He never sacrifices at the shrine of conceit. His thoughts are true, and his expressions natural. In diction he is almost a purist, never indulging in cant, and uniformly dealing very largely in words of Anglo-Saxon stock. Evidence of this may be seen by opening the book anywhere at random. We so open it now, and find our eye resting on the following passage. To show the force of our remark, we print in italics the words of Saxon stock.

"I had rather fight

'Gainst nature for the boon of endless life,
And hope to turn God's purpose upside down-
Chase the horizon till I found the spot

Where heaven meets earth, and, with that blissful kiss,
Rains joy celestial on the duller land--
Run down the rainbow to the golden spring
Of its bright arch--believe a poet's dreams-
Do any shallow thing, but set sound wits

Upon a chase for phantom happiness."-Page 183. Here the words of home growth, the natives, are to those of foreign stock as sixty-six to eight. Even of these eight, one, "celestial" had to be used on account of "heaven" in the line preceding; another, "horizon," is a technical term whose place could not be supplied; and a third, "boon," is very much disguised, so as to have quite an honest, homebred appearance. With a writer of less taste or less care, we would have had “prefer" for " had rather,” “contend" for "fight," "perpetual" for "endless," "vital princi ple" for "life," "Deity” for “God,” “subvert” for “turning upside down," "felicitous” for “blissful," "coincides with" for "meets," and so on to the end of the chapter.

We can only say in conclusion, and as a general expres sion of opinion, we greatly prefer "Anne Boleyn" to "Calaynos," as we did that tragedy to anything Mr. Boker