stamps the ground at every step, and at the same time twists his
body a little. He was dressed that day in a green coat, turned up with
a dirty white, &c. &c. &c. His neck is short, his shoulders very
broad, and his chest open * * * *

"His features are remarkably masculine, regular and well formed. His
skin is coarse, unwrinkled and weather-beaten, his eyes possess a
natural and unaffected fierceness, the most extraordinary I ever
beheld: they are full, bright, and of a brassy colour. He looked
directly at me, and his stare is by far the most intense I ever
beheld. This time, however, curiosity made me a match, for I
vanquished him. It is when he regards you, that you mark the singular
expression of his eyes--no frown--no ill-humour--no affectation of
appearing terrible; but the genuine expression of an iron, inexorable
temper."

We have only to remark that the picture appears to us exceedingly well
drawn, and equally coloured. Objection has been made to the large size
of the epaulettes, and the colouring of the sea. To the first opinion
we may subscribe, but doubt whether the objection ought to extend to
the latter, especially if we remember the great height of the cliff on
which Napoleon stands, and the usual sombre appearance of the
ocean towards the last minute of sunset. The lower part of the figure,
particularly the left leg, half advanced, is admirably drawn.

The effect of the picture, on the spectator entering the room, is one
of the most extraordinary character. Its general outline--Napoleon
standing on the crest of a tremendous cliff, with his back nearly
turned to the spectator, the vast Atlantic, and the parting glow of
the sun--the figure too, the size of life--will, in some measure,
prepare him for this effect, which we confess ourselves at a loss to
describe. Its very grandeur impresses us with awe, and our
afterthought becomes tinged with melancholy from associating the fate
of the illustrious original with the towering cliff,--the vasty
sea,--the dying splendour of the sun, and the specky sail of the guard
ship fluttering in its last light. Yet how delightful is it to reflect
that such effects are within the span of a few square yards of
canvass, and how ennobling is the recollection that genius,
(ill-fostered as it has been in the case of the painter before us)
enables one man to produce such sublime and agreeable impressions on
his fellows. To step from the busy _pave_ of New Bond-