of Banks, he had less difficulty in prevailing with his daughter to permit skilful tracings to be made of those fine drawings. The whole, or the greater part, were sent to him; "All of which he scrupulously returned,” says Mrs. Forster, "save some by Albert Durer, which, at my request, he selected to keep. In return for this, he gave me last summer a most lovely portrait of my eldest daughter, drawn in his finest style. He told her it would be the last he should ever attempt, for he found it injurious to his eyes to draw objects much less than the size of life. He also sent me, with an engraving from his picture of Mr. Locke's son-a very small drawing of his own-done when he was about eight years old. Under it was written, in a child's hand, "Thomas Lawrence, Devizes"-and in his own hand, at the time of sending it, "Done when three weeks old, 1 believe."*

* "Of Sir Thomas's opinion of those drawings," continues our sculptor's daughter, "you will like perhaps to know something. In a letter dated 21st of April, 1826, he says, To live in the past is, I suppose, the common destiny of advanced life; but I can truly say, that from the very earliest days of youth (I might almost have said childhood) these relics of the great masters have had attractions for me, and at fourteen the study of the large prints of Georgio Mantuano's, from Michael Angelo, led me to make drawings of colossal size from 'Paradise Lost,' in which, unless I greatly err, I should even now find some degree of merit. But I am writing to one who needs no explanation of the origin of feelings which she herself shares with me, and which are part of the legacy of genius left her by her lamented parent, of whom we often talk with the just admiration of his powers, and as deep regret at the too slight encouragement extended to them. The drawings have arrived safe. The three which perhaps I most admire are a drawing of a couple of Torsos by Michael Angelo, with some of his writinga drawing (profile) of a female head with pen by Raffaele, with at the farther side of the drawing a study in chalk of drapery. These, with a sheet of limbs by Michael Angelo, are what I chiefly like-' covet' not being a word in our vocabulary. The finding of Moses by Pharaoh's Daughter' is rather, I think, a copy from one in my possession, from which the print was taken. A very good drawing is assigned to Titian, which, I believe, is by Annibal Carracci. Several of the drawings are very interesting. The Raffaele, with a group from the cartoon of The Draught of Fishes,' accompanied by a print, which, I believe, is by Battista Francois, is, I fear, not the original drawing-where that is I know not. It has been very popular, for I have now seen three copies of it. One from the Duke of Alva's collection was offered to me

The merits of Banks, as an artist, are very high. He was the first of our native sculptors whose aims were uniformly lofty and heroic, and who desired to bring poetry to the aid of all his compositions. The proofs of his genius, however, must not be sought in those magnificent tasks called public monuments, where the subject-matter is prescribed, and where perhaps the most that talent can hope for is to escape censure; those who would have access to his happier inspirations must study his sketches-rough, it is true, and somewhat repulsive to those fastidious about delicacy of finish, but full of heroic feeling, and marked with a vigour and serenity of sentiment akin to the wondrous marbles of Greece. In these the man comes fully out: we see that he had surrendered his whole soul to those happier days of sculpture in which the human frame was free and unshackled, and the dresses as well as deeds of men were heroic; that the bearing of gods was familiar to his dreams-and that it was not his fault if he aspired in vain to be the classic sculptor of his age and nation. But the cold welcome which his poetic groups and statues received from his country pre

about three years ago, and with the print. I have forgotten to mention a drawing of heads in red chalk by Michael Angelo, which I like very much, and a small drawing by Raffaele of a virgin and child. There are others very good, but not all, I fear, by the masters to whose names they are assigned. Drawings by Raffaele, Michael Angelo, and Parmegiano are now become very scarce: there are some drawings of theirs here of the finest character-but all are not, I apprehend, by those great masters that are marked. I was gratified to learn that your mother, Mrs. Banks, had improved in health, and was still with you. I fear I am hardly enough acquainted with her to offer my respects to her, but you will, I know, convey them, if my high esteem for her daughter and admiration of Mr. Banks give me a claim to that extent. Alas for Bonnington!-your presage has been fatally verified-the last duties have been paid to him this day. Except in the case of Mr. Harlowe, I have never known in my own time the early death of talent so promising, and so rapidly and obviously improving. If I may judge from the later direction of his studies, and from remembrance of a morning's conversation, his mind seemed expanding every way, and ripening into fui. maturity of taste and elevated judgment, with that generous ambition which makes confinement to lesser departments in the art painfully irk Come and annoying.""

vented him from expanding them into the size of life, and working them in enduring materials. The page of the poet-even the canvass of the painteris immortal-compared to the clay or plaster sketches of the sculptor. Too tender to brook handling, they loose a beauty at every touch, and a finger or a head at every removal; and when the hand which made them can protect them no more, they are scattered by auction among a thousand people, and disappear gradually from the mantelpiece and the gallery.

I wish that Banks had turned from the poetry of Greece to that of England, and found subjects in the pages of Spenser, Shakspeare, or Milton: he might not even then have become, in the usual sense of the word, popular; but he would have obtained a wider approbation, and left works behind him sure of forming the delight of some more tasteful generation, yet unborn.

JOSEPH NOLLEKENS.

THE life of Joseph Nollekens has been written at great length by an ungentle executor; but justice requires a story more honourable to his memory. His father was Joseph Francis Nollekens, a native of Antwerp, and a painter by profession; his mother's maiden name was Mary Anne Le Sacque; he was born on the 11th of August, 1737, in Dean Street, Soho, London, and baptized at the Roman Catholic Chapel, in Duke Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields. He was the second of five children, and came of a race of artists; his grandfather, a painter of some note in his day, visited England in his youth, and finally settled in France; and his father was so far successful in his profession that his paintings are still distinguished by his name, and bring no discreditable price at public sales. "Old Nollekens," for so his father is called by Walpole and by auctioneers, was an avaricious man-reputed rich; and being a foreigner, and of the old faith, his house, during the rebellion of 1745, attracted the notice of a devout mob, who, proclaiming a crusade against all opulent Catholics, were with difficulty diverted from attacking and plundering the painter. He made his escape with his treasure, and dying soon after, left his son, Joseph, to the affection of his widow. But the lively Frenchwoman growing weary of her weeds, presently bestowed her hand on a Welchman, who carried her away to his native mountains.

The early death of his father, and the hasty marriage of his mother, were unfavourable to the education of young Nollekens. He was always an in

different reader-had no notion of spelling or grammar; all that adhered to him of his boyish lessons was arithmetic; wherein, indeed, no one ever suspected him of being deficient. He went early to the study of sculpture-attended the drawing-school of Shipley, in the Strand, where the Society of Arts held their first meetings-and in his thirteenth year was placed in the studio of Scheemakers, in Vine Street, Piccadilly. By whose counsel he was sent there cannot now be known-the studio of Roubiliac would have been a far preferable place.

Nollekens was considered in those early days a civil and inoffensive lad-devoted to his profession -enthusiastic but not very bright-and so honest that Mrs. Scheemakers, a vigilant housewife, declared she could even trust him to prepare the raisins for her pudding. He was passionately fond of drawing and modelling, and laboured early and late to acquire knowledge in his profession-yet he was so free of all pride, or so obliging by nature, that he would run on any errand-nor did he hesitate to relate, in the days of his wealth and eminence, how he used to carry pots of porter to his master's maids on a washing day, and with more success than Barry when he treated Burke, "for," said he, "I always crept slowly along to save the head of foam that the lasses might taste it in all its strength!" Such traits as these, however, I cannot consent to set down as incontrovertible proofs of a mean and vulgar spirit; nay, they often keep company with real loftiness of nature.

Joseph rose early, practised eagerly, and as his powers expanded, became a candidate for the prizes offered to rising genius by the Society of Arts. This has been imputed to his avarice; but there are few artists who have not contended for premiums or for medals, and how shall we estimate motives? Is it noble emulation in one, and a sordid thirst of gain in another? Whatever his motives were, of his sucVOL. III.-K