is, and is to come." Ideal beauty is a contradiction in terms, as it respects the human imagination, and refers to the expression of the human form; and it means less than nothing, where it does not mean an image of real remembered beauty: combined and assorted, indeed, but not invented. In fact I conceive that art departs from its due and appointed course, where it attempts to create any thing but combinations alone.

I have next to speak of the Gladiator (262), in the hall of that name. This statue is perhaps upon the whole the most valuable in the present collection, both on account of the style and character of its execution, and the perfect state of preservation in which it remains. In fact, it is little if at all inferior to any thing of the kind in existence. It represents a naked warrior, in the act of at once receiving and returning a blow, which, if not warded, must evidently be mortal on either side. By the peculiar attitude of the figure, the imaginary enemy must either be on horseback, or in a war-chariot. For admirable skill and truth in the anatomical details, this work may rank with the noble fragment named the Ilyssus, from the Parthenon; and for characteristic spirit and force in the general effect, as a single figure engaged in a certain action, and expressing a certain moral and physical purpose, it is no less admirable and perfect. It tells its own story better than any inscribed words could do for it. In its living features, we read, as in a book, added to the consciousness of comparative safety arising from superiority of skill, the knowledge of impending danger, the collected will to meet it, and the cautious preparation to return it tenfold on the bringer. As a single figure, this excellent work claims to rank in the same class with the Dying Warrior, or Gladiator, of the Capitol; and it also in many respects resembles the celebrated Discobolus, which is the chief ornament of our own collection at the British Museum. This statue possesses the additional interest of having the sculptor's name (Agasias of Ephesus, the son of Dositheus) engraved on it; and it may perhaps be considered as the most ancient one claiming this distinction.

Having been led to devote more space than I at first intended to a few of the principal works in this noble collection, I find that my limits compel me to pass over the remainder with a very slight notice; and I regret also that I have little room left to speak of the many admirable pictures which still grace the gallery above stairs. I can merely name a few of the principal objects which enrich the halls that we have not yet passed through. In the hall of Pallas there is a statue of Polymnia (306), curious from the uncommonly clever manner in which it has been restored or rather created, from a mere hint of the original fragment. No part of it is antique but the drapery round the lower part of the body and feet. The colossal Pallas (310), which gives name to the hall, is also well worth study and attention. Its style and character are similar to those of the grand figure of Melpomene (348), which is the chief ornament of the next hall. in the hall of Isis, which joins to that of Melpomene, we find three most curious and interesting objects: a statue of Isis (359), in black marble, of admirable workmanship, in which the Greek and Egyptian styles are singularly blended together; a statue of Egyptian workmanship (361), probably the best specimen we possess of the state to which art had reached before it arrived at absolute perfection among the Greeks; and a magnificent

Altar (378), dedicated to the Twelve Gods, in very low relief, and in a style scarcely inferior to that of the great work formerly enriching the cella of the Parthenon.

In the three following halls we meet with several charming statues, and some admirable bas-reliefs, but nothing calling for very particular notice, except the Hermaphrodite (461), in the hall of Hercules. This fine and singular work is a repetition or imitation of that in the hall of the Caryatides; and they are both equally worthy of admiration. The last statue I shall notice is the Faun and Infant (706), (called Silenus and Bacchus) in this last department of the sculpture. In its way I conceive that this statue cannot be surpassed. Added to an inimitable degree of ease, elegance, and graceful repose, there is a rich racy spirit of joyous exhilaration, exuding, as it were, from every part of the work, which is truly wonderful, considering the material of which it consists. It has more of the rich nut-brown effect of one of Titian's figures (some of those, for example, in his Bacchus in Naxos), than of a cold marble statue. The anatomical details, too, are inimitably fine and true.—I cannot quit this hall without expressing the delighted admiration that never fails to seize and wrap me all about, whenever I gaze on that exquisite work, the Borghese Vase (711,) which so nobly occupies the centre of this chamber. It is the finest anacreontic that ever was written: and moreover it transports us to the "Bella età del' oro," with more expedition, and in a fitter condition to appreciate and enjoy it, than all the labour of Sir Philip Sidney can, added to all the voluptuous ease even of Tasso himself.

I the less regret having left myself little space to speak of the collection of pictures belonging to this Museum, as, notwithstanding the magnificent effect it produces as a coup-d'œil, the gallery which contains them is the worst adapted for its purpose of any that ever was erected. In fact, on account of the lights all coming from side windows, not more than one picture in four can be seen at all; and none can be seen with any thing like their full effect. Besides which, this gallery, though it possesses many admirable pictures, and some few that are first-rate, and even unrivalled, is far from being either a very agreeable collection, or a very complete one. There is, moreover, a strange and incongruous mixture of old and modern masters, which produces an effect altogether displeasing and French.-The finest picture in this collection is unquestionably the Deluge, by Poussin (120.) There is a depth and a truth of imagination infused into every part of it, which give it a character of power and sublimity, that its small size and the high finish of its execution cannot take away. There is not a person introduced in the picture who is not felt to be dying many deaths instead of one; and nothing can be more impressive, and at the same time more natural and judicious, than the means by which this effect is produced. Though this is one of the smallest, it is perhaps the very finest of all Poussin's works. It exhibits all the good qualities by which his pencil was distinguished, and not a single one of his faults. Here are some admirable portraits by Titian, and some others of his pieces; but the portraits are incomparably the best. Among the finest of the latter are those of Alphonso d'Avalos and his mistress (1126); of Francis I. of France (1125); of the Cardinal Hypolito de' Medici (1124); and one, inimitably fine, of a man dressed in black (1127).-Among several

other admirable pictures by Leonardo da Vinci, there is one (982) (said to be a portrait of Monna Lisa, the wife of a gentleman of Florence) which, for intense sweetness and depth of feminine expression, I have never seen equalled. There is also a portrait of Bacio Bandinelli (1103), by Sebastian del Piombo, which is perfect in its kind, and in no respect inferior to the best of Titian's. Leaving the Italian school, of which there are few other works that struck us as possessing a surpassing degree of merit,-it only,remains for me to notice the Flemish and Dutch works contained in this gallery.-By Rubens we have the whole of the Catharine de' Medici pictures, from the Luxemburg gallery: a series of pictures too well known to need description. They have been taken from their much more appropriate situation in a gallery exclusively their own, and placed here among more than a thousand other pictures, where their peculiar merits can neither be seen nor felt. -By Van Dyke there are several noble pictures, chiefly portraits, in his very finest and richest style. In Rembrandts the gallery is very poor, except in a few cabinet works, one of which (579) (Jesus breaking bread with his Disciples at Emaus) is curious as well from its other merits, characteristic of this extraordinary artist, as from its being finished equal to Gerard Dow.-By the Flemish landscape-painters here are few works claiming particular notice, except a lovely Paul Potter (565), sweet and bright as nature itself, and three most exquisite gems by Cuyp (354, 5, 6), glowing with light and life, and equal to any of his works.

In concluding this slight notice of THE LOUVRE IN 1822, I cannot but feel how inadequate must be any thing I have said, or could have said, to satisfy the feelings of those who have visited this magnificent emporium of Art, or to convey a just notion of its splendours to those who have not but it should be remembered, that all I have attempted or hoped has been, to recall to the former of these what cannot be too often present with them, and to enable such of the latter as may only have an opportunity of taking a cursory view of this vast collection, to fix at once upon those portions of it which are, as it seems to me, the most worthy of their attention and admiration.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

I SAW, while the earth was at rest,
And the curtains of Heaven were glowing,

A breeze full of balm from the west

O'er the face of a sleepy lake blowing:

It ruffled a wave on its shore,

And the stillness to billows was broken;
The gale left it calm as before ;-
It slept, as if never awoken.

Not thus with the dull tide of life:

One cheek may be furrow'd by weeping,
While, free from the breezes of strife,

Another in peace may be sleeping.
The wave once disturbed by the breeze
Can tranquilly sleep again never

Till destiny chill it, and freeze

The calm it had broken for ever.

HYPOCHONDRIACS.

Egrescitque medendo."-ENEID.

ONE half of mankind appear to be constantly devising means for throwing away their lives, whilst another, and far from inconsiderable portion, are occupied in endeavours to prolong their mortal leases. Here we see the flame extinguished by carelessness, there it burns faint from constant fanning. The former class seem to suppose that they bear a charmed life, that the better part of Kehama's curse is upon them, that heat will not injure, nor cold chill, nor water drown them; and that, like Major Longbow himself, they cannot die if they would. The latter, on the contrary, love "the pomp, pride, and circumstance" of sickness, and have a strong natural taste for physic, flannel, and barley-water: they weigh their meat, drop their wine, feel their pulse till it flutters, are hourly examiners of the tints of their tongues, know every symptomatic shade of red, white, and brown, and consider those as the best-employed moments of their existence in which they are sipping water-gruel, taking alteratives, or promoting gentle perspiration. These unfortunate creatures, if asked how they live, might answer, like the victims of the Mal-aria, "We die ;" for they eat, speak, and act as if they saw the sword of Damocles constantly suspended above their heads. We allude not, of course, to those who are really ill, and to whom care and caution are duties, but to that tolerably large class of invalids who, if they did not think of their ailments, would have no ailments to think about. "When the head's void, the body 's delicate," and food for the mind would in some cases be more beneficial than physic for the body. Single women without lovers, and married ones without children, if they have not a party to prepare for, a flounce to embroider, or a new novel to read, are sometimes obliged to lie on a sofa, do nothing, and think of their nerves. It has been said, "Te felice, o pastorella, che non sai che cosa è amore." But I would translate this as follows:

"Blest above her sex the lady

Who knows nothing about nerves."

The less these sensitive cobwebs are thought about, the better it is for the peace of their owners: ignorance of them may, indeed, be called a blissful ignorance.

In our climate, intellectual discipline and exertion are particularly required in order to counteract the effects of the varying pressure of the atmosphere. This will, in a few hours, increase from one hundred weight to half a ton, and what can become of the head which has only a vacuum to oppose to so enormous a pressure? The busy may complain of the day, but have no time to think of its effects; while the idle remark every slight sensation in their frames, smell to ether, drink camphor julap, and threaten themselves with fever, asthma, or apoplexy.

"Et je sais même sur ce fait

Bon nombre d'hommes qui sont femmes." One might as well be in an apothecary's shop or a dissecting-room as in company with one of these malades imaginaires: so much chewing of magnesia and ipecacuanha lozenges, so strong a smell of peppermint and ether, so much said about the various secretions and operations

of the human body. They talk of bile till their hearers are sick; praise rhubarb, camomile, and asafoetida, as if nastiness were the pledge of wholesomeness; are always qualmish or feverish; have a strange throbbing in their temples, or an alarming palpitation of the heart, and perhaps make one feel their pulse, or look down their throat in search of an ulcer or an elongated uvula. They would think it a disgrace to say they were well, and apparently would reverse the Italian proverb, "Chi ha la sanità è ricco e non lo sa." The society of a real invalid is much more agreeable than that of one of these fanciful people. The former describes the symptoms and treatment of but one complaint, but the latter cannot condescend to have less than a complication of disorders. A Fezzan proverb says, "Give a Morzoukowi your finger, he will beg first the elbow, and then the shoulder-bone as keepsakes;" and of a hypochondriacal patient one may with truth affirm, "Grant him a cold in the head, and he will make you pity him for pleurisy or peripneumony." In real illness, too, there is often a resignation and reserve, a sort of shrinking from pity and disclosure; while the fanciful draw on your compassion till you are wearied, and describe circumstances and effects till minuteness excites disgust. Strange, indeed, it is that any should voluntarily clothe themselves with infirmity! Alas! there is enough in a sick chamber to lower the pride of the proudest, the vanity of the most vain Terrible is the tax there paid to the mortal part of man. There the mind quails under the power of the dust it tries to despise; there delicacy suffers martyrdom, energy faints, fortitude is overcome, genius extinguished, temper lost. There strength and independence are propped on pillows and fed by another's hand; there heroism learns to weep, and patience to complain; the philosopher is surprised at the superiority of opium to reasoning; the Christian starts at his own unwilling murmurs. There all that once pleased becomes wearisome; the imagination loathes music, mirth, and feasting; the memory flies from scenes of wild joy and laughter, of splendour, gaiety, and show, and lingers round those calm resting-places which once perhaps seemed dull and cheerless; there lessons are learned in an hour, which a long life had failed to teach.

I went lately to see a friend in Northamptonshire, with whom I had been at college. We had not met for many years, but, being in his neighbourhood, I wrote to announce my intention of paying him a visit. I received a friendly reply, in which Mr. B. requested me to spend a few days with him, begged me to excuse the habits and hours of an invalid, and informed me that he dined at two o'clock. At Oxford he was gay, stout, and healthy, and I was grieved at the sad change which his letter indicated. I arrived at his house about one, and was shewn into a drawing-room, full of the insignia of sickness: sofas, foot-stools, easy-chairs, in more than customary profusion; a few phials and pillboxes on the mantelpiece; a wine-glass and spoon, a tea-pot, a baked apple, and some orange-chips ranged on a small table, and a red silk night-cap on one of the cushions of the sofa, which stood near this collection of invalid necessaries. The only things that appeared inconsistent with the general style of the apartment, were some battledores and shuttlecocks, a skipping-rope, and a pair of dumb bells which I observed in one corner of the room. On a cabinet lay a few books,