template a romantic Achilles, a picturesque Troy, that does not disgust

us?

For ourselves, if we derive any advantage from age, it consists-and we thank Heaven for it!-in our having lived before the days of embellishment; and our having had heroes and heroines, and historic scenes, and the glowing descriptions of classic poetry, pictured upon our hearts without a hint from the palette or the pencil; and the more we see of the conceptions of skilful and able artists, the more we cherish the unproduced and intangible creations of our own brain, which, hung around the gallery of our memory, preserve their forms fresh as in first chilhood, their glowing colours unfaded as the hues of the rainbow from which they have been caught. We are not to be understood as going the length of closing against the artist the leaves of poetry, history, or romance. He may, and he ought to study and illustrate them; but this Siamese wedlock between the words of the author and their representation, -this arbitrary interference with the right of imagination-this forcing upon the sight what has been intended originally for the ear and the heart-this officious and meddling interposition of art, prompted by mercantile convenicnce alone, and aimed directly at the play of the fancy and feelings, is to us a melancholy instance of the decay of public taste, and a proof, if proof were wanting, that the improvement of the times has not extended to every object and every pursuit, and that the rise of one branch of the arts has not taken place without the proportionate depression of higher and nobler perfor mances. But this is allowed, by all authorities, to be the midnight of literature. There is a relache in the theatre of public excitement, as regards great works of imagination. We must be amused, tickled, rather than astonished, moved. We need the picture to the eye, rather than to the heart. We prefer the "picturesque" to the "sublime." Whether the alteration in the hopes of genius, lately wrought out by disinterested zeal and perseverance-the higher stimulus given to talents by extending the ownership of high thoughts

still farther beyond the period at which they are communicated to the world, may mark the commencement of a new era, and bring back the attention of the multitude to literature by evolving great things from its votaries, we do not stop here to inquire; the melancholy truth is too apparent to be overlooked or denied, that the tide has ebbed away from the steps of the temple of learning, and overflows other shores and other shrines.

How far the efforts of such investigators as Sir Uvedale Price and Sir Thomas Lauder to philosophize taste may affect this "tidal wave," it would be difficult to say; or whether they could be expected to affect it at all: but thus much is certain, that to prove the reasonableness of what we admire can never be wholly useless, and to offer to the sentimentalist and student of romantic nature a reason for the love that is in him is surely as rational, on the one hand, as the attempt of Cervantes on the other, to sober down the wild "romanesqueness" of his countrymen, and that of Rowlandson by his Syntax to cure the assectators of the "pseudo-picturesque" in our own. That is ever useful which tends to restrain silly mankind from extremes: the worst is, that the very act of saving him from Scylla throws him upon Charybdis; and we may yet perhaps have to do as Canning, Frere, and Ellis, in the case of the Germanic mania, and allay the fever, not only for the picturesque, but for taste, genius, and literature, just as our formerly intemperate countrymen must now be coaxed to take a little white wine negus for a cold.

Let such a dread be before us-we willingly court it; and shall find it, we believe, much easier to allay the excitement than to raise it. Could we help to create a fervour for what is sublime, beautiful, refined, and "picturesque" in our own land, and teach our countrymen to carry out the innate poetry of their nature into consistent practice, we should deem our time well spent, independent of what advantage and pleasure we have individually gained over the volumes of Lauder and Roscoe.

MURMUR not at the length of the motto, most excellent reader! It is Shakspeare's-it is good philosophyand it is applicable to the subject of my sketch. Of all the men of his "order,' the Bishop of Exeter is perhaps best entitled to take rank, upon general grounds, as "a public man." His reputation is not confined to matters ecclesiastical. In such matters (than which none can be more important) he is undoubtedly a leading man; but he is something more. He has been for ten years one of the most powerful speakers in the Upper House of Parliament, and his voice has been heard in almost all the great questions which, during that eventful period of political change, have occupied the public mind. Having stated this, it is almost superfluous to add, that the bishop has been the subject of much obloquy. This is the price which every public man must pay for serving his country with activity; and the more honest and ardent he is, and the less he is in the habit of fencing, and trimming, and of softening down stern truths, and taking care not to arraign this man's error, nor to offend that man's prejudice, the more surely will he be the mark of obloquy and abuse. There are, however, even in these days of coldness, of compromise, and of perpetual caution, men, who may say with Cicero, "hoc animo semper fui, ut invidiam virtute partam, gloriam, non invidiam puVOL. XX.-No. 116.

tarem"-and of these men the Bishop of Exeter is one. Or if he should be disposed rather to quote poetical English, than oratorical Latinity, he might

say

"I am that I am, and they that level

At my abuses, reckon up their owne, I may be straight, though they themselves be bevell,

By their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be showne."

Our good bishop is, perhaps, not at all times so guarded as he might bemen who are very ardent, even for good, seldom are-but he is true as steel, and like that metal, takes a high polish. If he assails, he makes no rugged wound, but handles his weapon with a certain grace, even when he strikes home.

The Bishop of Exeter is about the middle height-a well-made man, of compact form, and active movements. His face is sallow, and strongly marked with the lines of thought. Placidity is not the character of his mind, and the throes of thought are visible upon his countenance. His eyes are large, surmounted with rather heavy brows, and a spacious forehead. His hair is now grey, and instead of being covered with the formal-looking, but generally becoming episcopal wig, is suffered to have its own way, and roam at large rather more freely than is consistent with crinial neatness. In speaking,

he possesses a subdued manner, and a soft silvery voice, which strangely contrasts with the remarkable vigour of his expressions. This manner is no doubt the result of strong self-control, for if he gave loose to the fire within, the passion of the orator would most assuredly be witnessed in loudness of voice, and vehemence of action. But his oratory is without gesture, and his voice is gentle, (though exceedingly distinct,) even when his argument is full of fervour, and his language of strength. He likes referring to documents, and when he makes a set speech, he generally has a great many papers on the table before him. But he is not, perhaps, sufficiently scrupulous as to the authenticity and perfect trustworthiness of the documents with which he is supplied. He will sometimes deliver a speech, the argument of which is perfectly irresistible, supposing the allegations upon which he proceeds to be perfectly true; but when he has concluded it will be found by some one on the other side, that the allegations are erroneous, or at all events questionable, and that equally strong documentary evidence may be brought forward to a contrary effect. This has happened more than once in respect to Irish affairs. I have the most profound respect for all the excellent qualities which abound in the "Emerald Isle," but strict accuracy, and precision of statement, especially as to certain matters of complaint, where some party spirit comes into play, cannot, I fear, be numbered among them. The good bishop does not always make sufficient allowance for the vivacity or luxuriance of Irish imagination, which is apt to display itself even upon very formal occasions, and he has been led sometimes to adopt as fact, that in which there was no small tincture of romance.

Another defect, if I may presume so to speak, in the mode or style of the bishop, is a too great courtesy of submission which sometimes gives an air of insincerity where really there is none. Thus he will speak of "the humble individual who now addresses your lordships," when he knows right well that he is a match, or more than a match, for any of them. Again, in the famous second letter to Canning, he says, "not to dwell in my own feeble language on the subject," when

he had been using through eight-andtwenty pages the most powerful and overwhelming language that had been used in a similar way for fifty years. This is a trick of style, admired and imitated I know by some: but if it were not a manner adopted unconsciously, I should say that it showed want of sincerity, which certainly is not the general character of the Bishop of Exeter.

The subject of my sketch, Doctor Henry Philpotts, is, I believe, a native of Gloucester, or of its neighbourhood. At all events, he received his early education at what is called the college school of that town, and he very early in life exhibited those superior powers of mind to which he owes his subsequent advancement. In the year 1791, when only in his fourteenth year, a scholarship fell vacant at Corpus Christi College, Oxford. For this scholarship he was one among six candidates, and though considerably the youngest among them, he was successful. In short, when he was in years but a mere boy, he became a member of the University -a circumstance by no means so usual in England as in Ireland-and about the age at which it is usual to enter, he took his degree of B. A. This was in the summer of 1795, when he was only eighteen ; and the same year he obtained the Chancellor's prize for an essay on the influence of religious principle, and was elected a Fellow of Magdalene College. I do not know in what year he took orders; but his age did not entitle him to full orders until 1801, and until 1804 he was still a Fellow of Magdalene. He then married, and thereby abandoned his fellowship, after which he was nominated by the Chancellor of the University to the headship of Hertford College, upon the recommendation of the well-known Doctor Cyril Jackson, Dean of Christchurch. This office, although he was desirous of having, he found he could not consistently undertake, owing to the necessary preliminary of taking an oath duly to observe the statutes of the college, which statutes it is generally understood that he found upon examination to be in his judgment utterly absurd. Here we find an act of conscientiousness, much to the credit of a young man to whom, at the time, such a post would have been very desirable.