he Orion,
which I have here taken occasion to descant upon, is one of a collection
of excellent pictures, as this collection is itself one of a series from
the old masters, which have for some years back embrowned the walls of
the British Gallery, and enriched the public eye. What hues (those of
nature mellowed by time) breathe around as we enter! What forms are
there, woven into the memory! What looks, which only the answering looks
of the spectator can express! What intellectual stores have been yearly
poured forth from the shrine of ancient art! The works are various,
but the names the same--heaps of Rembrandts frowning from the darkened
walls, Rubens' glad gorgeous groups, Titians more rich and rare, Claudes
always exquisite, sometimes beyond compare, Guido's endless cloying
sweetness, the learning of Poussin and the Caracci, and Raphael's
princely magnificence crowning all. We read certain letters and
syllables in the Catalogue, and at the well-known magic sound a miracle
of skill and beauty starts to view. One might think that one year's
prodigal display of such perfection would exhaust the labours of one
man's life; but the next year, and the next to that, we find another
harvest reaped and gathered in to the great garner of art, by the same
immortal hands--

Old GENIUS the porter of them was;
He letteth in, he letteth out to wend.--

Their works seem endless as their reputation--to be many as they are
complete--to multiply with the desire of the mind to see more and more
of them; as if there were a living power in the breath of Fame, and in
the very names of the great heirs of glory 'there were propagation to
year; to have one last, lingering look yet to come. Pictures are
scattered like stray gifts through the world; and while they remain,
earth has yet a little gilding left, not quite rubbed off, dishonoured,
and defaced. There are plenty of standard works still to be found in
this country, in the collections at Blenheim, at Burleigh, and in those
belonging to Mr. Angerstein, Lord Grosvenor, the Marquis of Stafford,
and others, to keep up this treat to the lovers of art for many years;
and it is the more desirable to reserve a privileged sanctuary of
this sort, where the eye may dote, and the heart take its fill of
such pictures as Poussin's Orion, since the Louvre is stripped of its
triumphant spoils, and since he who collected it, and wore it as a
rich jewel in his Iron Crown, the hunter of greatness and