The Sun.
London, England, 1861-01-10 00:00:00

"In the meantime, Mr. 'West has dug up Procter, and
been to his lodgings in Maiden-lane. Hefindshim cower-
ing over a heap of clay, in the obscure lodging, in a deplor-
ably reduced state—weak, helpless, and desponding The
well-dressed, comfortable inan looks at him with eyes of
pity, relieves him, invites him to dinner, offers him letters
of introduction to Roman friends, and determines to send
him as tutor to his own (West's) son to Rome. He leaves
him, brushing his cocked hat, and blandly expressing his
regret at Procter's genius having been so long neglected.
He shakes him by the hand, and wishes him ' good
night.
"The next morning dawns hepeful and bright, and with
it, to the humble door opposite the Cider Cellar in Maiden-
lane, comes Riding. He pushes back the dirty, careless
drudge, who knows nothing about Mr. Procter—he is up-
stairs in a moment ; he thrusts open the bed-room door—
no answer ; he calls anxiously ; he shouts his gcod tid-
ings—no response; he runs to the bed, draws down the
tawdry, tuoked-in curtains, pulls back the sheet—there is
the great black fell of hair on the pillow, but the face pale,
and the jaw sunk. The man of promise has died before he
became a man of performance."
At the conclusion of the first volume we have a
series of sketches in dramatic form not strictly be-
longing to the work. They are styled" Last Hours
of the Painters," and are not restricted to the death-
beds of our insular celebrities. Brauwer, the
Edgar Poe of another Art, is there, dying in the
Antwerp hospital ; Fra Angelico, the saintly,
closing his blameless life in the chapel of the Vati-
can ; Beaujean, the follower of Watteau, rashly
ending his own existence in the stormy days of
the Reign of Terror ; and the fervid young Italian,
whose graceful pencil loved to perpetuate the
evanescent glory of the flowers, perishing, also
self-slain, in angry impatience of his fate. At the
end of the work we have several chapters of criti-
cism on the various Schools of Art—Grecian,
Moorish, Gothic. A knowledge of the outward
forms of art, as well as an appreciation of its subtle
inner spirit is apparent, however much the reader
may be disposed to differ from occasional
theories. In one page, speaking of the
new school of painting which has lately become
so famous, the writer expresses a truth that the
votaries of every Art would do well to bear in mind,
if they would touch the hearts and sway the
thoughts of their fellow-men. " They will learn,"
he says, " when they once get out of the hot air of
clique flattery, that the great public have no sym-
pathy now for knights in gilded tinsel, in mystic
ladies of Shalotte, in nuns digging graves, or in
melancholy princesses sitting at twilight windows
with golden cushions on their laps ; they will find
that all that antiquarian frippery suits only the
drawing-room and student race, not the wide
corduroy world. The large world want the old
heart-ache painted, mothers parting from children,
death-beds, lovers joining hands, and all the old
humours and passions of the abstract man. A great
picture should translate into every language, and
require no book comment to eke out its meaning."
In his chapter on the English caricaturists he pays
a genial and well-merited tribute to him whom he
styles in affectionate admiration—King Cruikshank
—certainly a worthier claimant of the regal dignity
than many another King George. But what does
Mr. Thornbury mean by his allusion to the author
of " The Tower of London ?" " Peace to his
manes," he says, "he is forgotten, so after a
fitful fever he sleeps well." Whether this
is meant in the usual acceptation of the term, or in
a literary sense it is equally untrue, and the mis-
take incomprehensible. But notwithstanding this
slip of the pen the author has evidently
bestowed far more care on these volumes than
on most of his later works. He often,
it is true, entangles himself and the reader
in interminable sentences, and in trying to be too
smart and effective in his manner, is sometimes only
stilted and strained, But whatever its occasional
deficiencies, the , work is graphic in design and
brilliant in style, and can scarcely fail to find
favour with the lovers of British literature as well
as of British art.

Studies from Life. One vol. By the Author of
" John Halifax," &c. Hurst and Blackett.
This is a collection of different essays and erticies,
by the gifted authoress of so many delightful works.
They are for the most part written with the
greatest skill and care, and cannot but prove
attractive to the general reader. There is a good
deal of variety in the style of these papers, and
therefore they can suit different tastes. An amus-
ing sketch is that of "Going out to Play." It is
always interesing to dwell upon the sports and
pastimes of childhood. This sketch informs the
reader of the desire that dwelt in the minds of a
set of children to go out and play by moonlight.
In order to accomplish this, they went to bed in
their clothes, but were unhappily prevented from
accomplishing their design. " Alas ! we were igno-
miniously discovered, and made to undress and go
to bed properly, like good children ; and though,
since then, we have, each and all of us, kept many
a night-watch, sleeping roofless under foreign
stars, or seeing the English dawn break mourn-
fully from sick-room windows, never, never have
we been among the number of those fortunate
little boys and girls, who came out to play when
the moon did ' shine as bright as day." " Silence
for a Generation" contains some striking truths on
the folly of overwriting, and the evil :ffects that
ensue therefrom. It begins by quoting a sentence
of Dr. Johnson's :—" Sir," said he, " the one thing
wanted in the world is silence. I wish all the
talkers had their tongues cut out, and all the
writers had their pens, ink, and paper, tools and
manuscripts, thrown into the Thames, and
there were silence for a generation." It
would be well for themselves and for others
if the authors of the present day, who will
write to a degree painful to their own feelings and
prejudicial to their fame would deeply ponder on
these words of advice. " Providence allows to
every intellect only a certain amount of develop-
ment, limited by certain laws, spiritual and physical,
known or unknown, yet not one which can be
broken with impunity. The brain is like a rich
quarry, you may work it out in a year, and you
may, with care and diligence, make it last a lifetime,.
but you cannot get out of it more than is in it ; and
work as you will you must get to the end of it some
day. So does our author, but still he writes on."
Further on, there is an eloquent passage de-
scriptive of the rare gifts of the author's genius,
and the supremacy he holds over the feelings and
passions of his fellowmen, " whether .the sound be
small or loud, clear or harsh, he is the living voice
of the world. Then in God's name let him dare
not ever to open his mouth unless he has something
to say." " Want something to -Read," furnishes
hints as to the propriety of children having a
variety of entertaining books to instruct them in
the path of usefulness, and to afford them that
self taught information which the learning by rote
of schools and the precepts of teachers can never im-
part. The writer gives an amusing account of the
early days at home, and tells of their dawn of
literature. In that time children's books were not
as they are now, and in recent days some childisr
sketches have been found coarsely printe!_yxforaapoer_
covers with " cuts" instead of " platesc.:
dinary cuts some of them were, Jao, sitting at
it was half
table with the ugliest of giants, wh
but bless you
feared, might " frighten"
us'thin of
we were never frightened at any h g.b_ that sort.
We had no nursemaid to tell,us orri le tales of
Man,' —all we ever heard
" Bogie" or the " Black.
or learned for the early years of our lives came
direct from the fountain-head, the fountain of all
tenderness, and safety, and loving kindness, whose
incessant guardianship made our poverty more
blessed than if we had been heirs to—
"All the wealth that fills the breeze',
When Coromandel's ships return from Indian seas."
“Literary Ghouls" is another suggestive article
Which will repay perusal. It relates to a high and
ho,ir theme, and calls attention to a solemn strain
of thmight. Some just strictures are passed on the
publicity that has of late been given to the private
doings of ceiebrities. " Suppose," it says, " that
we had been aware that upon us living a greedy
biographer would seize, rake up all our doings,un-
doings, and misdoings in various incorrect forms,
in which we have no power to set right, every
careless and foolish word we said, with an apparent
motive for saying it, we should have doubted our
nearest and &areal and retired in disgust from the
. .