friend found it so at the start. He must have taken leave of Upcott, of Croker, of Pickering, of his goodly company of artists, of Evans the printseller, who commanded his treasures, with much regret. But he kept up his intimacy with his friends by correspondence, and never lost an opportunity of sowing in the minds of his new acquaintances over the water the seeds of his favourite connoisseurship. Seconded in his tastes by his accomplished wife, an estimable lady, skilled in the labours of "Pen and Pencil," the title given to a publication of her writings and drawings, to the artistic decoration of which her husband brought all the resources of his portfolio to bear, the home of Balmanno in America—a cottage first at Geneva on the Seneca lake, and, in his later days, a house in Brooklyn, New York-assumed the appearance of an elegant museum. Everywhere, in this constant seat of a generous hospitality, according to the full measure of the host's opportunities-on the walls, on the book-shelves, in cabinets-there was food for the eye and the mind. Here hung a choice impression of an original engraving of one of the paintings of Reynolds; there a proof of a favourite portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence, selected by the artist himself; here was his illustrated "Chatto"-he would allow no other title to the book published as "Jackson's Wood-Engraving"-two goodly volumes, enriched with scores of rare wood-engravings, ancient and modern, bearing the impress of the handiwork of genius; here were his "Albert Durers"; his quaint coloured designs by the visionhaunted Blake; his casts of antique gems, in the manufacture of which he was a proficient; his tributes of devotion to the two great idols of his worship, Burns and Shakespeare; and here, duly arranged for ready reference, was his portfolio of Autographs. The letters which he had received from friends, distinguished at the time, or whose eminence had afterwards been acknowledged by the world, were pleasant reminders to him of the graceful employments of his youth, and imparted an interest to his old age in the eyes of his new acquaintances. Nearly all of his correspondents, like himself, have left the world; so, too, for the most part, the others whose letters he collected, so that it will probably not disturb any living eye if we bring into the light of the BROADWAY of both hemispheres a few scraps of these curious mementoes.

The Artists, out of regard for the prominent tastes of our Virtuoso, shall have the preference. What have we here in these disjecta membra―these quaint bits of cacography scrawled on fragments of coarse-ribbed paper, or broken envelopes of letters, written up and

down, lengthwise, cornerwise, all sorts of ways, some in Greek character, all in a large somewhat shaken hand-querulous sometimes in expression, but always direct and forcible in meaning where it can be deciphered-nothing but what is in some way suggestive of character in the writer? These are the friendly notes and scant remains from the writing-desk of Henry Fuseli. He was a brave old fellow of the last generation of R.A.'s, with his learning and science, full of grand imaginations, lecturing or painting, striving, indeed, at times after the unattainable, hitting and occasionally missing the sublime, never content with commonplace, overflowing with an abounding personality which even these crossed, jagged penmarks witness to. It was a timely visit our Virtuoso paid to the artist's widow, at the rooms of her recently-departed husband at Somerset House, where he held the position of Keeper of the Royal Academy. He came at an opportune moment, as a heap of the correspondence of Fuseli was being consigned to the flames. A servant was transferring in apron-loads a quantity of the torn manuscripts to the kitchen fire. Balmanno, detecting illustrious names on the fragments, of course interposed. The "rubbish was at his service"; what was left was recalled for his use; and he bore away in triumph, as happy a man probably that hour as any in London, a goodly bundle of these unconsidered trifles. Amongst the items were two "glorious" letters from Robert Smith, the architect, written while on his travels in Italy, which were given to Sir Thomas Lawrence at his request. These are not in the present collection; but there are notes of Fuseli's friend and patron, the Countess of Guilford, and others, which we shall pass over for a pithy word or two in the scattered sentences plucked from the burning. Here, suggested by somebody's picture which had engaged the artist's attention, is a morsel of professional criticism on the proper physical portrayal of a Jew. "The characteristic given by the English painter," writes Fuseli, "is that of vulgar observation. A Jew may be picked out of a number of people-let his nose be aquiline, flat, or turned up-and by a distinctive mark which is independent of any osteologic difference from other nations, by a kind of glittering, sweaty appearance on the skin, which remains after washing, and is not produced by perspiration." That might serve as a note to a curious chapter on the subject in Sir Thomas Browne's "Vulgar Errors."

Edmund Kean must have ruffled the temper of the old Kemble admirers by his brilliant success-the triumph of the romantic over

the classical in acting. At least we may think so from this biting criticism in a memorandum of Fuseli on the back of a letter, dated November, 1818, written by the Countess of Guilford: "I saw," he says, "K. and Mrs. West in O. and H. [doubtless Othello' and 'Hamlet'], and I wish to see them no more. What could excite the public rapture in his part I am at a loss to guess; if his figure be not absolutely irreconcilable with the character, his action and expression are; balanced between the declamation of Talma, the raving of a Bedlamite, and sometimes the barking of a dog. Mrs. W. is something of a slender Grecian figure, tall, and a face not unlike Mrs. Marigny. She was well dressed, she has a good voice, but no rule of it, and tore her part to tatters in one uninterrupted fit of raving." A dangerous fellow this to a manager, for a theatrical critic-quite a bull in a china-shop. Fuseli's scraps of Greek in these fragments recall the service he rendered to Cowper in revising the text of his "Iliad "; while one of his notes to Mr. Balmanno reminds us of the strange, peculiar fondness of the artist for the study of insects, his favourite reading being books on that department of natural history. "Those I wished most for are the papilio and the moth; the beetle is of no sort of consequence."

Northcote was another of the substantial verities of the Academy of the days of our fathers, one accustomed to have his say in the same downright manner, of which we have a humorous instance in a manuscript note to Haydon the painter, who had borrowed a print of the writer, and -a weakness not unknown to borrowers-failed to return it. The "old man eloquent" was not disposed to acquiesce in this unprofitable trifling, and in loud tones, pictured in his large masculine handwriting, demands the missing property. He rises, it will be observed, to general principles, humorously detecting in the remissness of his irregular friend the seeds of the dissolution of Society itself. There is a growl of the British lion in this note: "Sir, I am surprised at not hearing anything from you for so long a time, after you had so solemnly promised to return me the print of the Jael and Sisera. Do you think it possible that Society among mankind can go on with such a mode of conduct when promises go for nothing. I wish much to see you to know what you have to say, and when it is that I am to expect the return of the print. Till then I remain your friend, J. NORTHCOTE." This pungent note is dated Argyll Place, July 21, 1824.

Poor Haydon. He paid too severe a penalty for the irregularities

of a disposition which nature had implanted in him, to visit his memory with reproach. It is to be hoped that the print of Jael and Sisera after the usual delays reached its owner. Haydon was dreadfully troubled with "impecuniosity." He borrows ten pounds one day from our Virtuoso, as we learn from this pictorial passage in one of the autograph notes, where he pictures the pounds as so many avoirdupois weights. No wonder the sensitive artist occasionally felt uneasy as to his position in society. He was punctilious on that point, as a note to Balmanno proves. Haydon has evidently been invited to one of the annual dinners of the Artists' Benevolent Fund, with which his correspondent, as secretary, had much to do, and is determined not to be below the salt on the occasion. "Do, if you can, my dear Balmanno, get me a good place. I think Campbell will second you. At public dinners I have no penchant to be slopped with porter, elbowed by waiters, or have a dish of hot soup poured over my shoulders, which is generally the case if you have not a friend at court. Talents are nothing: if a man has no apparent palpable rank officially so in England, he is nobody, and treated as such. I have no palpable rank, I am nobody, and generally treated with all the honour which nobody is entitled to whenever I dine in public."

There is an interesting letter from the late John Gibson, R.A., the eminent sculptor, whose recent loss the world of art is now lamenting. It is written shortly after his arrival at Rome, in the spring of 1818, and records his first vivid experiences of the Eternal City. Hastening on his way through Florence, he says: "I saw nothing but the streets and the bronze horses of Ghiberti. I counted the last milestones that pronounced my distance from Rome with hasty and anxious curiosity. When I entered, I felt disappointed with the general view, deservedly, for having gazed too often at those engravings which bring into one view all the remains of very Rome. At first I did not like the dulness of the place, the filth, nor the moaning solicitations of the numerous wretches that creep about; but now I am familiarized to all this, and I am familiarized to see the sky beautifully clear, and to see all the fountains of Rome playfully spouting their waters in the sunbeams, and to see the stars of night more sparkling and bright than they are ever seen in England. I wish to stay here for years. I am all alive, surrounded by art and by artists." Canova gave him a very friendly reception, introduced him to the life studies of an academy under his protection, gave him the use of his studio, encouraged all his efforts, and bestowed upon him

the benefits of his instruction and advice. "The other day the Marquis," writes Gibson, "introduced me to a lady. She was rather tall, slender, animated, and penetrating in her looks. Canova paid me compliments in her presence, at which I was not a little confused, for, from her tremendous equipage, I knew she must be some great signora. I was not a little pleased to find that it was the Duchess of Devonshire. It seems that her Grace has been telling all that Canova said of me to an English gentleman, a Mr. Tempest, who is here. Blundell's monument, which I executed at Liverpool, was erected at his expense. The Marquis (Canova) has just finished a group of the Graces for the Duke of Bedford, and also a Nymph for our Prince Regent, which I think will be greatly admired. She is lying on a lion's skin, quite naked. An English gentleman, whose admiration seemed to increase the longer he gazed on this naked girl, young, beautiful, her cheeks faintly tinged with red, as if blooming gradually into life, at last exclaimed, involuntarily, 'I wish she was alive.' What will his Highness say? The other subject executing for him is Mars and Venus." We learn, also, from this pleasant letter, the exact position, illustrated by a pen-and-ink drawing, in which the Princess Borghesi, "one of the most beautiful nymphs in Rome-she has a sweet face"-sat, not stood, to Canova, for a statue of Venusrevealing the bust and waist.

From the artists we pass to the men of letters, and here we have much to choose from. For more reasons than one we will give the preference to the venerable Nestor of the literary circles of London, who could boast of friendships with three generations of the genius of England-the poet Samuel Rogers. This is a letter of unusual interest, in length, probably such as he seldom wrote, extending to four well-filled quarto letter pages. It is addressed to Edward Everett, who had recently returned to America at the conclusion of his residence in England as Minister Plenipotentiary, and is dated in April, 1840, from Holland House, where, says the writer, "I am now enjoying the first burst of spring." It is full of Rogers' best courtesies

"Cicero, the friendly man,

To Atticus his friend,"

was never more endearing. "I can only tell you how much we regret your absence-how often we talk about you, and how earnestly we long to see you all again. If to wish was to have, how soon should we have you once more among us, and how soon should I be by your