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good or bad, which the painters of a so-called classical age have left to us. Argument in such a case is thrown away; it is as unnecessary as, for the purpose of producing conviction, we fear, it would be useless.

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An absolute and entire denial is the best method of meeting such assertions. Claude's limits are, as Sir A. Alison rightly says, very narrow indeed. It is false to assert that he is anything like perfection, in the narrow cage wherein he has chosen to coop himself. With regard to Turner's power of execution, it must first be stated whether we refer to his oil paintings, or his watercolour drawings; but, in any case, it is a matter of indifference whether the surface of a picture in oils be as smooth as the alabaster skin' of Sir A. Alison's actress. The question is, whether the painter has succeeded in conveying some true and beautiful lesson which he has learnt from the works of God,-whether he has conveyed it in all its fulness, with an equal regard to every truth in all its infinite variety; not whether he has embodied some one portion of its teaching, to the utter loss of every other. To assert that Claude does thus convey the truth of nature's lessons, in faithful translations of its breadth, and its endless variety of detail, is obviously false. If a man will profess to discover, in the canvas of Claude, the poor home of at best one or two ideas, we will not say, the rich and exuberant truth of Turner, but the indefinitely greater faithfulness of even our average recent painters,-if he will delude himself into the thought, that the pitchy blackness of Nicolo Poussin is radiant with the light of Roberts, or of Stanfield,-if he will assert, that Salvator and Rubens are more varied in their effects, more beautiful in their colouring, than Landseer or Copley Fielding, -nothing more can be done than to leave such an one to his own devices, like the mole to its earth, and the bat to its darkThe wonderful and ever-varying beauty of nature is spread out before him in vain: these deep thoughts of God he has no soul to understand. The unwise man cannot well consider them, nor can he discern who is a faithful student of nature's touching loveliness, or the copyist of some one of its prominent characteristics, which he stereotypes for almost every picture.


But we may leave the National Gallery to answer any question respecting Claude's perfection, and Turner's inferiority, only remarking that it is unfortunate that Sir A. Alison seems to have a peculiar knack of saying of a particular book or thing, the very reverse of what would be said by others. Mr. Ruskin, in one most important branch of art, has done very great and good service; nor do we think that, in respect of landscape painting, his 'ingenuity has been exerted in an inde

fensible cause;' but we are as far from thinking that his Seven Lamps of Architecture' is 'one of the most profound and original books of the kind in the language.' It would be mere absurdity to assert this of a work, in which architecture is defined to be the introduction of unnecessary and useless ornaments on the necessary form of a building. There is little extravagance in his work on Modern Painters:' in the others there is much more. To Sir A. Alison's vision, the tree seems to be less fruitful in proportion to its luxuriance.

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But the reader may be wearied with a longer catalogue of fallacies, as much as the critic may be bewildered in his effort to select from such an exuberant harvest some which stand out more glaringly than others. If our judgment appear harsh, it is because an affectation of universal knowledge, and a selfopinionated dogmatism, are not to be suffered to establish an undisputed supremacy; and it is our deliberate conviction, after a most careful and patient examination of the volume, and especially of this chapter on Art and Literature, that a more extraordinary farrago of trite common places, of reflections obvious to a school-boy, of antiquated and obsolete maxims, has rarely been presented to the English public. Such an attempt to lord it over the whole realin of knowledge is as sure to be unsuccessful as it is to be resisted. Sir A. Alison may think himself monarch of all he surveys, but he will find no lack of antagonists to dispute his right. We have but endeavoured to root up a few of the weeds which have appeared to us to multiply the longer we have looked on them. To describe fully their wonderful fertility we frankly confess to be altogether beyond our powers. We have not spoken of the learning, which mentions Socrates as a writer along with Sophocles and Thucydides. Not being aware of the discovery of MSS., which boast of the husband of Xantippe as their author, we are reluctant to suppose that Sir A. Alison has confounded him with the ecclesiastical historian of another era: we have not paused to note his comparison of Sir Bulwer Lytton to a horse, when he attributes to him chivalrous feelings which never perhaps exist in such purity as in those, who, like the Arab steed of high descent, can trace their pedigree back through a long series of ' ancestors' we have not admired the discrimination which perceives in Miss Strickland excellences similar to those of Macaulay we have not dwelt on the taste which speaks with such relish of entertainments, whereat Lady Holland and Sir James Mackintosh, Macaulay and Landseer, Jeffrey and Chantrey, were to be met at dinner, where Moore sang his bewitching melodies with still more bewitching right honourables in the evening.'

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History, indeed, has a work to perform, the sacredness of which none can describe in terms too forcible: the present work might almost make us blush that any writer of the present day could entertain so poor a notion of its dignity. Sir A. Alison's second volume has just been given to the world: it cannot be expected to refute all the fallacies, and remove the erroneous impressions of the first; we can only hope that it may not contribute to multiply and heighten them. Some lessons certainly there are which he may learn from Arnold and Macaulay: some possibly from what may be to him the unknown labours of Thirlwall and of Merivale.


ART. VI.—1. Theological Essays. By FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE, M.A. Chaplain of Lincoln's Inn, and Professor of Divinity in King's College, London. Cambridge: Macmillan.


2. Grounds for laying before the Council of King's College, London, certain Statements contained in a recent Publication, entitled "Theological Essays, by the Rev. F. D. Maurice, M.A. Professor of Divinity in King's College. By R. W. JELF, D.D. Principal of King's College, and Canon of Christ Church. Oxford and London: Parker and Rivingtons. 1853.

3. The Word' Eternal,' and the Punishment of the Wicked. A Letter to the Rev. Dr. Jelf, Canon of Christ Church, and Principal of King's College. By FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE, Chaplain of Lincoln's Inn. Cambridge: Macmillan.

THE publication of these Essays has, as our readers are well aware, led to the removal of Mr. Maurice from King's College. His removal, whatever reasons have compelled it, is the loss to that institution of a man of great ability, energy, zeal, and disinterestedness, who has lived above worldly motives, and devoted himself to public interests, religious, moral, and social; and who, as a theological professor, has imparted life and interest to a subject too often abandoned to technicality, and made dry and distasteful to students by its mode of treatment. We cannot, however, after reading these Essays, own to much surprise at such a result, however we may regret it, or consider Mr. Maurice a safe guide to theological students. He will himself readily allow, that there are other qualifications which a divinity professor ought to have, besides high personal character, or animation as a lecturer and writer, though he will differ from us, and from the authorities of King's College, as to what those qualifications We will at once say, with whatever sorrow we have arrived at such a judgment, that the opinions advanced in these Essays unfit him for the position of a theological teacher in any Church of England college.


But we will defer these critical points for the present. We had rather meet Mr. Maurice, to begin with, on more general subject matter, such as can be discussed and commented on, without any charge affecting orthodoxy being involved. The Essays are highly discursive, and embrace much material belonging to ordinary philosophy and thought. And though a

taste for philosophy does not necessarily make a philosopher, Mr. Maurice's taste for this department is such as to give an interest to his reflections and speculations in it, and to claim a respectful examination of them,-a task which is attended, indeed, often with considerable difficulties, in the case of a writer whose strength is that of vehemence rather than accuracy, and who thinks less like a reasoner than a rhetorician; who employs, to prove his conclusions, rather a determination of the will than the ordinary instrument of argument, and is too generally almost as obscure as he is emphatic; but a task, at the same time, which will not be without its reward, as bringing us into contact with a mind of considerable gifts and resources. It is fortunate for the world, in the long run, that all the men who come forward to instruct and enlighten it are not cast in the same mould, and that some, according to their natural bent, reason, and others prophesy. There is a depth of mind which explains itself, and unfolds its ideas in regular order; and there is also a depth which asserts itself, which throws out its contents, to produce their impression and make their way as such. The former is the more perfect method humanly; the latter is more divine. It is a kind of inspiration, and has an authoritativeness from the absence of art. Indeed, in proportion as minds are full of an idea or ideas, it is difficult for them to arrange or methodise them, or put them in the order of proof as addressed to other intelligences. Luther is little better than a chaos; Jansen the same. Even S. Augustine disguises much involved repetition of himself, under the charms of an antithetical and highly worked style. The reason is, these men were exceedingly full of the ideas to which they respectively devoted themselves. The consequence was, that they could not afford to adopt that stationary attitude of mind toward them, which was necessary to see them in their argumentative place. It may be pretty safely said, that no one can see clearly except he stands still. But the act of standing still is exceedingly distasteful to minds under the impulse of particular ideas. To go forward is their natural bent; the instant they feel themselves stopping, they are as uneasy as passengers in a quick train. Quiescence, however short or provisional, is to them stagnation, torpor, and death. They feel a total cessation of their inner life, the instant the active office of putting forth and expressing stops: they are tormented by a sense of barrenness and shame, as if they were idle and vain portions of the universe. They consequently never get one fair look at the idea which is impelling them, so as to examine it, and see on what it rests. To minds cast in a critical mould, on the other hand, the attitude of rest and examination is comparatively easy. Mr. Maurice will, we are sure,

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