Calavar remember, gentle natures must be enchanted; and their dominion is the softer and holier passions. They do not agnize a prompt alacrity in deeds of hardness;' their oracle is Affection, and the heart their shrine. An energetic and beautiful writer has long since observed that it is human nature, and human passions, after all, that form the true sources of interest;' and the marvels which surround them serve no other purpose than to fix the attention on those workings of the heart, and those energies of the understanding, which alone command all the genuine sympathies of human beings, and which may be found as abundantly in the breasts of cottagers as of kings, knights-templars, or heroic captains, in either hemisphere, or any age.

There are very few of the large number that will read this article, who will not have seen other eulogies of Calavar, equally honest and fervent. Let them be believed ;-let the work be sought by those who have it not, and commended by its possessors. This is the way to admire. It is a kind of admiration that gives to lofty, yet self-distrustful minds, a just confidence in their own powers, that stimulates their imagination, and that TELLS with 'THE TRADE.'

HISTORY OF THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF THE ARTS OF DESIGN IN THE UNITED STATES. By WILLIAM DUNLAP, Vice-President of the National Academy of Design, Author of the History of the American Theatre,' 'Biography of G. F. Cooke,' etc. In two vols. 8vo. pp. 915. New-York: Published by the Author.

Mr. DUNLAP's reputation as an artist, is not alone founded upon his efforts as a painter-celebrated as he may be, at his esel and pallet. His pen is a powerful pencil, and the colors, the light and shadow, which it imparts, are as plain to his readers, as the finished conceptions of his art are to the beholder. It might be inferred from the title, that the work is confined to the subject matter which it designates. But the author has not bound himself down to the dry details of the history of the arts of design in this country, nor to a mere outline, in the biographies of the numerous artists, whose course he has traced. A singular aptness in the arrangement of facts and incidents, and an unexpectedness in the introduction of pleasing occurrences and amusing anecdote, form a striking feature of the volumes before us. Add to this, a facility and grace of expression, and the reader has the source of Mr. Dunlap's popularity as an author. The work is by no means an easy one for the purposes of a reviewer. He reads and pencils as he goes along, important facts, entertaining digressions, amusing anecdotes, and instructive comments, and lo! when he has finished his task-if that may be termed a task, which is a source of perpetual enjoyment-he finds that little less than half the contents of the volumes are marked for insertion. Such, at least, has been our experience; and we can only select from our collection of passages a few of the many interesting facts and anecdotes which they embrace. The facts stated as from the personal knowledge of the author, we are informed, 'defy contradiction or controversy,'—and the various information from the numerous other sources may be relied

on, as equally authentic. We make an extract or two from the notice of Benjamin West, as embracing facts which we have never before seen in print. The subjoined paragraph describes the author's introduction to the great artist:

"In the month of June, 1784, the writer of this memoir arrived in England, for the purpose of studying the art of painting, having assurances of the aid of Mr. West, before leaving New-York. When introduced to the painter, he was working on an esel-picture for the Empress Catharine of Russia. It was Lear and Cordelia. The impression made upon an American youth of eighteen by the long gallery leading from the dwelling-house, to the lofty suite of painting-rooms-a gallery filled with sketches and designs for large paintings-the spacious room through which I passed to the more retired attelier-the works of his pencil surrounding me on every sidehis own figure seated at his esel, and the beautiful composition at which he was employed, as if in sport, not labor;-all are reclled to my mind's eye at this distance of half a century, with a vividness which doubtless proceeds in part, from the repeated visits to, and examination of, many of the same objects, during a residence of more than three years in London. But the painter, as he then appeared, and received me and my conductor, (Mr. Effingham Lawrence, an American, like himself of a Quaker family, and no longer a Quaker in habits and appearance,) the palette, pencil, esel, figure of Cordelia, all are now before me as though seen yesterday. Many of the pictures for the Royal Chapel of Windsor were then in the apartments; particularly I call to view the Moses receiving the Law."

Mr. Dunlap relates the following anecdote, upon the authority of Mr. Morse, President of the National Academy:

"On one occasion when he entered Mr. West's painting-room, long after the death of George the Third, he found the artist engaged in copying a portrait of that king, and as he sat at his work, and talked according to his custom, The picture' said he, 'is remarkable for one circumstance; the king was sitting to me for it, when a messenger brought him the Declaration of American Independence.' It may be supposed, that the question How did he receive the news?' was asked. 'He was agitated at first,' said West, then sat silent and thoughtful: at length he said, 'Well if they cannot be happy under my government, I hope they may not change it for a worse. I wish them no ill.' If such was George the Third, we find no difficulty in reconciling his attachment to Benjamin West, with the American's honest love of his native land."

We have remarked, in many works which treat of West, that he is termed Sir Benjamin West,'-and indeed, it was for a long time a common appendage to his name in this country. It appears, however, that he was never knighted. Our author says:

"The Duke of Gloucester called on West from the king to inquire if the honor would be acceptable. No man,' said Benjamin, entertains a higher respect for political honors and distinctions than myself, but I really think I have earned greater eminence by my pencil already than knighthood could confer on me. The ch ef value of titles, is to preserve in families a respect for those principles by which such distinctions were originally obtained; but simple knighthood to a man who is at least as well known as he could ever hope to be from that honor, is not a legitimate object of ambition. To myself, then, your royal highness must perceive the title could add no dignity, and as it would perish with myself, it could add none to my family.'"

Mr. Dunlap's work will go far to alter many received opinions, concerning Mr. West. He was not the Quaker in the outward man, which his biographers have described him to be. While he lived, his enemies represented him as selfish and morose, but numerous and various are the tributes to his genuine liberality and unostentatious kindness of heart. We pass, as better known to the general reader, the history and descrip

tion of his eminent labors, and the account of his early successes. West died in March, 1820, aged eighty-two years. He was buried with pomp beside Reynolds and Opie, in St. Paul's Cathedral. The subjoined anecdote will illustrate the general kind bearing of this American apostle of the Arts :'

"On one occasion, a Camera Lucida, then a new thing, had been left with him for inspection: it was the first he had ever seen, and Stuart coming in, West showed it to him, and explained its use. Stuart's hand was always tremulous. He took the delicate machine for examination, let it fall, and it was dashed to fragments on the hearth. Stuart stood with his back to West, looking at the wreck, in despair. After a short silence, the benevolent man said, 'Well, Stuart, you may as well pick up the pieces.' This was of course in early life, but old age made no change in him."

From the entertaining history of the career of Gilbert Stuart-a history replete with humor, anecdote, and interest,— -we have only room for the following extracts. The first, under the head of 'Stage-coach Adventure,' gives the reply of Mr. Stuart to some inquisitive fellow-passengers in a stage-coach, who desired to elicit from him the nature of the business he followed:

"To the round-about question, to find out his calling or profession, Mr. Stuart answered with a grave face, and serious tone, that he sometimes dressed gentlemen's and ladies' hair, (at that time the high craped pomatumed-hair was all the fashion.) You are a hair-dresser then?' 'What!' said he, do you take me for a barber?' 'İ beg your pardon sir, but I inferred it from what you said. If I mistook you, may I take the liberty to ask what you are, then?' 'Why I sometimes brush a gentleman's coat, or hat, and sometimes adjust a cravat.' 'O, you are a valet then, to some nobleman?' 'A valet! Indeed, sir, I am not. I am not a servant-to be sure I make coats and waistcoats for gentlemen.' 'Oh! you are a tailor! Tailor! do I look like a tailor?' 'I'll assure you, I never handled a goose, other than a roasted one.' By this time they were all in a roar. What the devil are you then?' said one. 'I'll tell you, said Stuart. Be assured all I have said is literally true. I dress hair, brush hats and coats, adjust a cravat, and make coats, waistcoats, and breeches, and likewise boots and shoes at your service.' 'Oho! a boot and shoe-maker after all!' Guess again, gentlemen, I never handled a boot or shoe but for my own feet and legs; yet all I have told you is true.' We may as well give up guessing. After checking his laughter, and pumping up a fresh flow of spirits by a large pinch of snuff, he said to them very gravely, 'Now, gentlemen, I will not play the fool with you any longer, but will tell you, upon my honor as a gentleman, my bona fide profession. I get my bread by making faces.' He then screwed his countenance, and twisted the lineaments of his visage, in a manner such as Samuel Foote or Charles Mathews might have envied. When his companions, after loud peals of laughter, had composed themselves, each took credit to himself for having, all the while suspected that the gentleman belonged to the theatre,' and they all knew that he must be a comedian by profession; when to their utter surprise, he assured them that he never was on the stage, and very rarely saw the inside of a play-house, or any similar place of amusement. They now all looked at each other with astonishment.

"Before parting, Stuart said to his companions, 'Gentlemen, you will find that all I have said of my various employments, is comprised in these few words: I am a portrait painter. If you will call at John Palmer's, York-Buildings, London, shall be ready and willing to brush you a coat or hat, dress your hair a la-mode, supply you, if in need, with a wig of any fashion or dimensions, accommodate you with boots or shoes, give you ruffles or cravats, and make faces for you.'

While taking a parting glass at the inn, they begged leave to inquire of their pleasant companion, in what part of England he was born; he told them he was not born in England, Wales, Ireland, or Scotland. Here was another puzzle for John Bull. Where then?' 'I was born at Narraganset.' 'Where's that?' Six miles from Pottawoone, and ten miles from Poppasquash, and about four miles west of Connecticut, and not far from the spot where the famous battle with the warlike Pe

quots was fought. In what part of the East Indies is that, sir?' 'East Indies, my dear sir! It is in the state of Rhode Island, between Massachusetts and Connecticut river.' This was all Greek to his companions, and he left them to study a new lesson of geography.'"

The second gives us a specimen of cool impudence and injustice, and its proper punishment:

"When I lived at Germantown,' said Stuart, 'a little, pert young man called on me, and addressed me thus,-You are Mr. Stuart, sir, the great painter!' 'My name is Stuart, sir.' Those who remember Mr. Stuart's athletic figure, quiet manner, sarcastic humor, and uncommon face, can alone imagine the picture he would have made as the intruder proceeded: My name is Winstanley, sir; you must have heard of me.' 'Not that I recollect, sir.' 'No? Well, Mr. Stuart, I have been copying your full length of Washington; I have made a number of copies. I have now six that I have brought on to Philadelphia; I have got a room in the statehouse, and I have put them up; but before I show them to the public, and offer them for sale, I have a proposal to make to you.' 'Go on sir.' 'It would enhance their value, you know, if I could say that you had given them the last touch. Now, sir, all you have to do, is to ride to town, and give each of them a tap, you know, with your riding-switch-just thus, you know.'

"Stuart, who had been feeding his capacious nostrils with Scotch snuff, shut the box, and deliberately placed it on the table. Winstanley proceeded: And we shall share the amount of the sale.' Did you ever hear that I was a swindler?' 'Sir! Oh, you mistake. You know-' The painter rose to his full height. ‘You will please to walk down stairs, sir, very quickly, or I shall throw you out at the window.' The genius would have added another 'you know; but seeing that the action was likely to be suited to the word, he took the hint, and preferred the stairs.”

We intended to have copied largely from the autobiography of the author, one of the most interesting sketches of the volumes-but our limits will not permit. The memoir of Jarvis,-whose career was brilliant, but dimmed latterly, by his addiction to a vice, with which genius is too often associated,-is exceedingly clever. The following passages will not be without interest to the numerous friends and acquaintances of their subject in this city, under whose notice these pages will fall :

"Some southerners having arrived, to whom he wished to return civilities and do honor, the painter invited several gentlemen of note to meet them. This was before his marriage with the lady above named. He then had his rooms in Wall-street, and Pierre Van Wyke, the Recorder of the city, had his office below, in the same house. With Van Wyke, as with most of the gentlemen of the city at that time, he was intimate; and among others, Van Wyke and G. C. Verplanck were invited to meet the strangers. They sat down to a table profusely covered with every good and costly viand the market could afford: venison, pheasants, and canvass-back ducks tempted the appetite, although knives with broken handles, and forks with one prong made the operations of carving and eating somewhat awkward and difficult, and excited no little surprise among the guests who were not aware of the painter's habits. Wine was as plenty and of as great variety as the meats, and the wine glasses of various sizes, but principally of the largest calibre and most profound depth, such as would not allow of the repetition of Sam Foote's pun-however old the liquor-Your glass of wine is very little of its age,' would not apply here. The mode of opening a bottle (decanters there were none) was by breaking off the top of the cork and thrusting the remainder down the neck with a greasy fork—a cork-screw would have smacked too much of order.

"Jarvis,' said the Recorder, 'I want some small drink-here's nothing but wine.' 'Give the Recorder the brandy bottle!' 'No, no, give me some small beer, or some water. We don't know such things-there is porter and ale.' 'Some ale then.'

Tom! give the Recorder some ale. After a pause, Van Wyke says, ‘Jarvis, where is this ale of yours?' Tom! why don't you give the Recorder some ale?' 'There's no tumbler, sir.' 'No tumbler!' 'No, sir.' 'Well, throw the soap out of my shaving cup.'"

The singular eccentricities of the man may be gathered from the amusing incident which follows:

"It is said, that on seeing a tall, melancholy looking Frenchman walking very solemnly down Broadway, with a very large cigar box under his arm, Jarvis placed himself immediately behind, imitated his funeral step; and as he saw an acquaintance likely to join in the fun, he would by signs bring him to follow in the train; until he got a string of some length, walking in solemn procession. The bearer of the box, upon turning a corner, looked round and saw that he had a suite of attendants, of whose motives he could form no notion. He stopped-the procession stopped.'Gentlemens, vat you mean? Vat you mean, gentlemens?' Jarvis answered, Seeing that you were a foreigner, sir, and no friends to assist you at the burial of your child, we thought to show our respect by attending the funeral.'"

We are reluctantly compelled to omit passages from the pleasing histories of Copley, Trumbull, Dunlap, Vanderlyn, Peale, Alston, Inman, Leslie, Wier, and numerous others, who have built up for themselves an honorable fame. But are not all these things written in the book?' We heartily commend these volumes to our readers, with the assurance that they will prove an abundant source of instruction and amusement.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII: by the author of 'Pelham,' 'Eugene Aram,' etc. Two vols. 12mo. New York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

IN a preceding number we gave a notice of this powerful production with reference to its literary excellence. The work is before the public; and the justice of our encomiums is ere this widely acknowledged. We are glad that the character of the volumes enables us to repeat the notice, by referring to a higher quality, and one not often met with in a novel-its moral excellence. Bulwer has, with equal severity and justice, been condemned for the immoral tendency of the greater part of his writings; and, whether in consequence of critical admonition, or of a change in his own views and feelings, we are glad to find his later works very much amended in this particular. In the present one, especially, he has laboured to recommend, and advantageously exhibit, the principles of the (then new) Christian religion; and we give a few extracts to show the spirit and power with which he treats a subject of which most of his admirers have been wont to consider him ignorant. The following is taken from a dialogue between Olinthus the Nazarine, and Apœcides, a Priest of Isis:

"I do not wonder, Apæcides, that I distress you; that I shake all the elements of your mind, that you are lost in doubt, that you drift here and there in the vast ocean of uncertain and benighted thought. I wonder not at this, but bear with me a little; watch and pray, the darkness shall vanish, the storm sleep, and God himself, as He came of yore on the seas of Samaria, shall walk over the lulled billows to the delivery of your soul. Ours is a religion jealous in its demands, but how infinitely prodigal in its gifts! It troubles you for an hour, it repays you by immortality.'

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Such promises, said Apæeides, sullenly, are the tricks by which man is ever gulled. Oh, glorious were the promises which led me to the shrine of Isis!' "But,' answered the Nazarene, ask thy reason, can that religion be sound which outrages all morality? You are told to worship your Gods. What are those gods even according to yourselves? What their actions, what the attributes of their divi