.

One interesting portrait was that of Duncan of Camperdown. He stands in
uniform beside a table, his feet slightly straddled with the balance of
an old sailor, his hand poised upon a chart by the finger-tips. The
mouth is pursed, the nostril spread and drawn up, the eyebrows very
highly arched. The cheeks lie along the jaw in folds of iron, and have
the redness that comes from much exposure to salt sea winds. From the
whole figure, attitude and countenance, there breathes something precise
and decisive, something alert, wiry, and strong. You can understand,
from the look of him, that sense, not so much of humour, as of what is
grimmest and driest in pleasantry, which inspired his address before the
fight at Camperdown. He had just overtaken the Dutch fleet under Admiral
de Winter. "Gentlemen," says he, "you see a severe winter approaching; I
have only to advise you to keep up a good fire." Somewhat of this same
spirit of adamantine drollery must have supported him in the days of the
mutiny at the Nore, when he lay off the Texel with his own flagship, the
_Venerable_, and only one other vessel, and kept up active signals as
though he had a powerful fleet in the offing, to intimidate the Dutch.

Another portrait which irresistibly attracted the eye was the
half-length of Robert M'Queen, of Braxfield, Lord Justice-Clerk. If I
know gusto in painting when I see it, this canvas was painted with rare
enjoyment. The tart, rosy, humorous look of the man, his nose like a
cudgel, his face resting squarely on the jowl, has been caught and
perpetuated with something that looks like brotherly love. A peculiarly
subtle expression haunts the lower part, sensual and incredulous, like
that of a man tasting good Bordeaux with half a fancy it has been
somewhat too long uncorked. From under the pendulous eye-lids of old age
the eyes look out with a half-youthful half-frosty twinkle. Hands, with
no pretence to distinction, are folded on the judge's stomach. So
sympathetically is the character conceived by the portrait-painter, that
it is hardly possible to avoid some movement of sympathy on the part of
the spectator. And sympathy is a thing to be encouraged, apart from
humane considerations, because it supplies us with the materials for
wisdom. It is probably more instructive to entertain a sneaking kindness
for any unpopular person, and among the rest, for Lord Braxfield, than
to give way to perfect raptures of moral indignation against h