doing, have anticipated the impressions they will receive from it, but only have prepared the way for those impressions, and thus rendered their effect more certain and more lasting. And yet it is presumptuous in me to reckon on being able to accomplish this. The utmost I can hope to do is to furnish another "Yarrow unvisited" to those who will never see Petworth but in hope and intention;-that is to say, those who hope to see it, without intending; and those who intend to see it every summer, till the winter comes, when it is too late.

And here let me premise, that, as the beauties of Nature more than divide the palm of admiration with those of Art, on this enchanting spot, it is but fair that they should meet with their due share of notice in this description. The truth is, that the latter have as much fallen short of the expectation I had previously formed respecting them, as the former have surpassed it; and I propose to let the one make up for the deficiency of the other, to the reader, as it has done to me.

In an obscure part of Sussex, on the Chichester road, about fifty miles distant from London, stands the most uncouth and unsightly of villages, named Petworth; consisting of dwellings (houses, the inhabitants probably call them)-seeming to have been constructed in every age since the invention of the art, except the civilized ones; and apparently adapted to every purpose but the one they are intended for; the largest looking like prisons for the confinement of malefactorsthe smallest like sheds for the shelter of animals-and all seeming to have been contrived and arranged for the express purpose of shutting out or destroying all ideas connected with and dependent on the beauties of external nature and "the country"-all closely and confusedly huddled together, as if to prevent the intrusion of any thing in the shape of a tree or a patch of grass, and barely room enough left between them for the passers-by to wind their way along.

Let the reader fancy himself placed over-night in the midst of this barbarous and outlandish spot-at the Swan Inn, perchance-having arrived there too late to judge of the kind of place he is in, and fancying that, as he has been travelling all day from London, he must by this time be in the country. When he wakes in the morning, and finds himself in the kind of spot I have described, his first impulse, of course, will be to wander forth in search of something different from what he sees about him; and, nothing natural or pleasant presenting itself to him spontaneously as if to court his admiration, he will probably at once enquire" the way to the Park Gate?" It is a chance if he finds any one to answer his question civilly or intelligibly; for the inhabitants of a village like this are generally as rude and uncouth as their houses, and imagine that any one who does not know "the way to the Park Gate," (which they know so well) must be little better than a natural. But when he does find the object of his search, let him pause for a moment before he enters, and recall to his mind the different objects that he has just been winding his way among, and the general scene that he is leaving-thus turning them to the only good they are susceptible of, by unconsciously making them serve as a foil and a contrast to what he is presently to behold. On entering the gate nearest to the back of the Swan Inn, I need not call upon him to dismiss from his mind all memory of that which has just been occupying it; for the scene of enchantment and beauty that will now

burst upon his delighted senses is not of a nature to permit any thing else to interfere with it ;-like a lovely and beloved bride on her bridal day, it must and will hold and fix, not only his feelings and affections, but his fancy-his imagination-his whole soul undividedly. Oh! there is a set of chords in the human mind which cannot choose but vibrate and respond to the impressions which come to them from external nature-which cannot choose but do this independently of all previous knowledge, of all habit, of all association! Take a savage from his native spot-who has never seen any thing but his own cabin, the glen in which it stands, the mountain stream where he slakes his thirst, and the eternal woods through which he pursues his prey; and place him in the presence of such a scene as that which will greet the spectator when he has entered a few paces within the walls of Petworth Park; and if he be not moved, rapt, and inspired with feelings of delight, almost equivalent to in degree, and resembling in kind, those instinctive ones which would come upon him at the first sight of a beautiful female of his own species, then there is no truth in the knowledge which comes to us by impulse, and nothing but experience can be trusted and believed. I speak, however, of a natural savage, not one who has been made such by society and custom. I can easily conceive, for example, that half the boors and clowns in Petworth itself pass daily through the scene I am about to describe, without ever discovering that it differs in any thing from the ploughed field where they are going to work, or the dusty road that runs through a corner of their village.

Let the spectator enter the park from the gate I have mentioned above, and turning to his right hand on entering, and passing under a few limes irregularly planted, he will emerge (still keeping to his right hand) in front of the mansion-house belonging to this beautiful domain. It is a building of great extent, perfectly uniform, and of singular plainness, without portico, columns, wings, ballustrades, towers, spires, domes, or any thing that can be supposed to have been placed about it for mere ornament-nothing that makes any pretension to vie in attraction with the scene of beauty in the midst of which it stands. On the contrary, it seems placed there, not to rival, still less to overlook or command that scene-but merely to complete and form a consistent part of it. Or, perhaps, it is still better adapted to convey to one the idea of a perpetual spectator fixed for ever to the spot, in silent admiration of a scene that, but for some one thus to admire it, would not be quite complete. Without going into a particular description of this nobly simple structure, but merely adding that its general character, and the appearances it has borrowed from time and the elements, bespeak it to be neither ancient nor modern, but holding a station exactly between the two,-without the unwieldy grandeur of the one, or the fantastical common-place of the other,-let us turn at once to the lovely scene on which it looks forth. Standing immediately in front of the mansion, a level lawn extends before you to a very considerable distance in the centre, and bounded there by a bright water stretching irregularly all across; aud on the right, by a rich sweep of rising ground, reaching nearly to the mansion itself, and crowned by a dark grove of beeches and chesnut-trees. From the edges of this water on either side, and from small islands within it, rise groups of trees, in twos, threes, and fours, and here and there a single one-all

so disposed as to bear a half-conscious, half-unconscious reference to each other, and all possessing a relative beauty, both of form, situation, &c. which heightens and is heightened by the positive one. Leaving for a moment out of view the left side of this scene, let the eye now pass across this narrow break of water, and rest on what extends beyond it. Immediately from the opposite bank the ground rises, not abruptly, as it does on the right hand on this side, but softly, and in a way that is perceptible only from its effect on the objects which rest upon it. It rises in this way for a considerable distance again, in a rich semi-circular sweep of lawn, with only one clump of firs and larches placed at about the middle of it, surrounded by a regular white fence, and looking like a single jewelled brooch placed on the forehead or the breast of a rural beauty. This sweep is also crowned by a dark diadem of trees, and forms the first distance of the view-above and behind which rise, and intersect each other, two more distances of bright green hills, the furthermost of which is also crowned with rich trees, of that peculiar kind of growth which gives them the form of clouds rolling and clustering over each otherdark green clouds clustering over and embowering open spaces of light green sky. From a point of this distance towards the left, where the trees seem to open for a space to admit it through, rises a lovely Gothic spire; and at another point considerably higher, and on the right, a grey antique turret looks forth from out the dark foliage. The reader has now before him the whole of this delicious view, with the exception of the left side; all the distant part of which, however, he must consider as just within that distance which "lends enchantment to the view," without in the least degree impairing the distinctness of it, or even taking away its home look-that look which gives it a connexion with the more immediate parts. When he has given life and finish to all this portion of the scene, by peopling the turf on this side of the water with herds of deer, dark, dappled, and white; the water itself with swans and wild-fowl; and the rising hills on the other side with flocks and cattle; he may pass his eye onward, across the whole left side of the scene, and let it rest on an expanse,-evidently beyond the precincts of the domain itself, yet seeming virtually to form a part of it, than which nothing was ever seen more perfectly adapted to give the needful crown and finish to the whole, by inviting the imagination to wander sufficiently far to give it exercise and employment, and yet not leading it far enough away to dissipate the unity of effect which is the chief charm in sights of this kind. This expanse consists of an extensive rising plain, terminated by the range of hills which form the boundary to the sea on this coast; the whole brought into that kind of cultivation which gives an appearance quite peculiar to English scenery-an appearance as of a natural garden, no spot of which is without the most perfect cultivation, and yet on no spot of which can the actual marks of the cultivator be distinguished;an appearance which gives the best notion we can possibly gain of the distant views our first parents might be supposed to contemplate in Paradise.

Such is the picture which presents itself to the spectator from the principal windows of Petworth. From various other points of view in this magnificent domain (the enclosing wall of which extends for four miles along the high road) others offer themselves to the sight,

scarcely less complete in their detail, and all of the same elegant and graceful character. But I must content myself with offering this one to the reader's notice, as an example of what he will meet with among the natural objects which claim his attention here, and turn at once to my more immediate subject-the Works of Art.

The interior of Petworth is on a scale of grandeur and magnificence commensurate with its external character; being scarcely inferior in extent and splendour to many royal palaces. Indeed the grand hall and staircase a good deal resemble those of Hampton Court; the walls, ceiling, &c. being ornamented in a similar manner, with allegorical paintings on an immense scale, by Sir James Thornhill. These we shall pass by at once, as not coming among the objects of our search; and proceed to name a few of the principal works of the old painters: premising, however, that the chief riches of this collection consist in portraits, and those chiefly by Vandyke.

The room you first enter at the right-hand corner of the Hall, called the Square Dining-room, is among the richest and most interesting. Here is what may undoubtedly be considered as one among Vandyke's choicest masterpieces in the way of portraiture-The Earl of Strafford. There is a sober solemnity in the colouring of this admirable work, which he did not always duly attend to where it was needed; in the air and attitude there is a mixture of conventional nobility, and of conscious natural power, which is finely characteristic; and the head is inimitably forcible and consistent with the rest of the figure. This is truly an historical picture, and may be perused and studied with as much reliance on its authenticity as any written portrait that we possess in history. Vandyke's and Titian's portraits of known historical characters are in this respect not less interesting and less worthy of study than those of Tacitus or Lord Clarendon-if indeed they are not more so, in proportion as men can hide and disguise their characters more easily in their words and actions than they can in their looks. A fool never looked like a wise man yet-though many a score have passed for such; and a knave can no more put on the personal appearance of an honest man, than he can be one.

The portrait of Henry, Earl of Northumberland, when confined in the Tower, by the same artist, is scarcely inferior to the foregoing in character and importance; and there is also a nobly rich, yet sombre tone of colour spread over it, which gives it a most impressive effect, There are several other portraits in this room, by Vandyke also, worthy of the highest admiration and the most careful perusal and study, but which cannot be described in detail with any good effect. I will mention in particular an exquisite one of Lady Rich, another of the Earl of Newport, and one containing three persons, one of whom is another* Earl of Northumberland.

The other works in this room that call for particular mention are a curious portrait of Oliver Cromwell, in which the bent brow and compressed lips finely bespeak the character of the close and determined usurper; two very pretty rural Hobbimas; and an execrable picture of Macbeth in the Witches' cave, by Sir Joshua Reynolds-which seems to me to evince a total want of sentiment, imagination, taste, and even execution. If Sir Joshua had discoursed no better about historical painting than he practised it, his lectures would have enjoyed a somewhat less degree of reputation than they do; and they enjoy too much

as it is. In fact, a permanent and adequate treatise on this Art is still a desideratum in our literature; and it is but too likely to remain so: for where shall we look for a union of that knowledge, practical skill, and ability to develope these, which such a task requires? There is but one person among us in any degree qualified for the office; and he has neither the industry nor the will to undertake it.

In another dining-room, which I think adjoins to the above-named, will be found a most curious and elaborate work, apparently by Breughel, of a Turkish Battle; and also one or two excellent seapieces by Vandervelde. But we must pass on from these, through a room containing some of Charles's Beauties-all-alike-by Kneller and Lely; and fix our attention to incomparably the richest and most charming room in the gallery. It contains five more of the Beauties of Charles's court, painted by Vandyke,—which, for a certain courtly and exclusive air, added to a perfect simplicity, naturalness, and truth of expression, surpass any thing of the kind I have ever seen. The colouring, too, is delicacy itself-mixed with a clearness and richness, the effect of which is perfectly magical. Nothing can be more striking than the difference between these pictures, and those professing to represent the same class of persons by Lely and Kneller, in the preceding room, and indeed wherever else they are to be found. The latter painters had but little, if any perception of the peculiar characteristics which the habits of a court life cast over the external appearance of those who constantly partake in them-or rather, which they did cast over it in those days; and Vandyke had a more perfect and intense perception of this than he had of any thing else in nature or art. And, accordingly, the one represents his persons as they never were seen but in a court, and the others as they never were or could be seen in any court in existence. The one knew that a court beauty, while she remains innocent, is likely to be, and in fact is, one of the purest and most innocent of human beings; and he has represented them as such accordingly; witness the divine portrait of the Countess of Devonshire, in this room. The others knew of no difference between a court-beauty and a courtesan, and represented them accordingly ;witness almost every picture they ever painted. Pass backwards and forwards from one of these rooms (which are adjoining) to the other, and you will at every glance perceive, that, though each set of portraits profess to represent precisely the same class of persons, there is as much difference between them, generally, as well as in every particular, as there is between Polly Peachum and Suky Tawdry in the Beggars' Opera.

The ladies whose presence (for it is like their actual presence) beautifies this room, must allow their names to grace my page also, in order that the immortality they owe to Vandyke-or rather, which he repaid them in return for that which they bestowed on him-may not be entirely confined to the frames which contain their pictures. Incomparably the loveliest of them-for a certain natural innocence, sweetness, and purity, added to an inimitable court air and grace-is the one which I have named above-the Countess of Devonshire. The others are the Countesses of Bedford, Leicester, Sunderland, and Carlisle.

There is another picture in this room, which, notwithstanding the total dissimilarity of its subject, will bear to be characterized by exactly the same phrases as I have applied to the above lovely portrait. It is a