"af

from feeling their accuracy, opinions already expressed. "The wish of a deceased friend," says Hayley, "whose professional merit was eminent, would be alone sufficient to animate a biographer; but I have an additional motive to prepare a life of Romney: a memorial of my friend has appeared, which I could not peruse without feelings of indignation; for though it bears the signature of an author of great and of deserved celebrity, it is in truth a coarse misrepresentation of the man whose memory it is my duty and my delight to defend, as far as justice can allow me to proceed in his defence." No doubt Hayley imagined that the life which he composed would extinguish that of the dramatist; and as he had collected much of his information from the painter's own lips, and undertaken the task at his own fectionate desire," the world were disposed to be satisfied with his performance. The life of Romney, by his son, has, however, thrown doubt and suspicion upon that written by the poet. These are the reverend biographer's words:-"He saw, with mortification, that all the accounts which had been given of Romney and his works were either defective, false, or injurious his scruples arising from diffidence soon yielded to a more powerful impulse; and he should have deemed himself guilty of very culpable indifference if he had not endeavoured to dispel the malignant cloud that hangs over his father's memory, and to place his character in its true light." To place his character as a man and a painter in its true light, is also the wish of the present writer; and he will endeavour to

avail himself of the labours of all his prede

cessors.

It is much the fashion in the north country, among people of substance, to give the eldest son of the family a fine education, in order that the paternal name may be maintained with honour in the land, while the junior branches are less carefully dealt by: and the humbler orders have mimicked the example. It is not unusual to see the younger sons of our farmers or peasants holding the plough or watching the sheep, while the elder-born are in the church, the army, or the law. Something like this happened in the family of John Romney. William, the eldest, was instructed in classics, in which he excelled; “but George," says his son, "not making much progress in school learning, and being moreover of a sedate and steady disposition, was taken from school in his eleventh year, to be employed at home, where his services were wanted."- "Having discovered," says Hayley, 66 soon after he had attained the age of twelve years, a great passion for mechanics, he employed himself in a variety of devices, particularly in carving small figures in wood, to which he was led by the ardour of early uninstructed genius. He was enthusiastically fond of music, and passed much time in experiments to make violins of various shapes and powers. In advanced life he took great delight in recollecting the ingenious industry that he exerted as a boy. He carefully preserved the favourite violin of his own construction; and has been heard to play upon it in

the house which he filled with the productions of his pencil." This skill in the carving of wood, and the construction of fiddles, speaks, however, of a more intimate acquaintance with the handsaw and the plane than Mr. Hayley seems willing to acknowledge; and on this head Flaxman gives direct evidence: - "Romney (says he) was brought up to the business of a cabinet-maker :and this employment, which to a common observer would seem little better than an ingenious mechanical drudgery, led his inquisitive mind to contemplate the principles of mathematical science, and to acquaint himself with the elements of architecture." There were, however, other pursuits, and of a curious kind, in which he was presently deep.

There lived at that time in Dalton one Williamson, a watchmaker, a singular enthusiast. He was fond of music, an admirable performer on the violin, skilful in the uses of the camera obscura, not unacquainted with drawing, and above all, a professor of the exploded science of alchemy a love of which, after being expelled from London, lingered late, here and there, in the provinces. Young Romney was this man's almost constant companion; with him he fiddled, planned, drew, and moreover dipped into the mysterious science of the transmutation of metals. Nor were they idle dreamers, who only sat and amused themselves with strange imaginings; they had a furnace and crucibles, if not all the apparatus with which tradition or history sets up the alchemist:

Your stone, your medicine, and your chrysospherma,
Your sal, your sulphur, and your mercury,

Your oil of height, your tree of life, your blood,
Your toad, your crow, your dragon, and your panther,
Your sun, your moon, your firmament, your adrop.

Time, labour, and money, were expended in such pursuits, and preparations were made for one grand and crowning experiment which was expected to end in a shower of gold. As the hour drew nigh, the anxiety of the alchemist increased; the fire which had been kept burning for nine months, showed flame of a promising colour -the contents of the crucibles assumed a yellowish hue-and the projector saw in imagination riches rivalling the dreams of Sir Epicure Mammon. It seems his wife, on that fated day, was entertaining a select coterie of gossips; and knowing that workers in fire loved to taste the cup, summoned her husband to make merry. Romney, in relating the story, said, "Now Williamson in vain represented that the moment of fate was at hand; his wife's entreaties or remonstrances prevailed; and as he took his seat and drank, his furnace, with all that it contained, blew up." His wife was in consternation. "Never was conjugal complaisance more unfortunate," says Hayley, "save in the case of our first parents." He hastened

to his study; on looking at the scene of ruin, one of his companions comforted him with words like those of Face in Ben Jonson

O, sir, we are defeated! all the works
Are flown in fumo, every glass is burst,
Furnace, and all rent down! as if a bolt
Of thunder had been driven through the house;

Retorts, receivers, pelicans, bolt-heads,
All struck in shivers.

Romney was ready with his sympathy. The alchemist, however, refused to be comforted; and his rage went a bitter length. He conceived a permanent hatred against his wife-left his home forsook her for ever, and associated with another woman:- 66 an evil example," says Hayley, with ludicrous affectation, "which was not without its influence on Romney in a future day."

The story of Williamson made, however, a strong impression on Romney's fancy. In his declining years he amused himself with the idea of sketching a melodrama, "representing," says his son, "the progress of an alchemist in quest of the philosopher's stone. The sanguine expect ations of the philosopher were to have been heightened in every scene; but as he approached the crisis of the discovery, and was about to reap the golden recompense of all his toils, an ill-timed and prying curiosity in his wife, ignorant of his sublime pursuits, made frustrate, by one single interdicted act, the consecutive experiments of years. A tremendous explosion then took place; the devil himself appeared; but instead of gold, there remained nothing but broken crucibles; and all those glittering visions which had so long figured in his imagination vanished at once in smoke." Such a succession of dramatic scenes is much too complicated for the pencil. A story which enchains, when related or written, may, nevertheless, want those picturesque points so necessary in a painting. The keenest wit and the rarest humour often have nothing in common