exhibit the same delicacy, purity, and precision of drawing which characterise the best works of the period. The authenticity of this portrait of Raffaele has been questioned; but the proofs adduced by Mr. Dennistoun, in his Appendix, seem to us to establish its genuineness. It bears the interesting epigraph, "Rafaello Sanzio Anni sei nato il d: 6 Apr. 1483. Sanzi Padre dipinse." The countenance expresses great earnestness, thoughtfulness, and modesty. The hair, which is very fine and fair, is smoothed over the head, descending nearly to the eyebrows, and below the nape of the neck, in a thick covering; a style of head-dress which gives a remarkable and characteristic effect to this, as well as to the other portrait, by the elder Sanzi, of the young Guidobaldo. These are two of the most pleasing of the numerous engravings with which Mr. Dennistoun's volumes are enriched. The public are too familiar with the name and leading features of the life of Raffaele, to justify our following Mr. Dennistoun in his biography; but of his three styles, and their respective claims to admiration, we may take this occasion to make some remarks.

We

In the Brera gallery at Milan, may be seen one of the earliest and best known examples of Raffaele's early style, in the "Marriage of the Virgin.' dare say most of our readers may have seen the engraving of this beautiful composition, which, since the tastes for the earlier styles of painting, have of late been pretty frequent in the windows of the printsellers. An airy, octagonal, temple-like building forms a symmetrical back-ground; and the principal actors in the scene are arranged in symmetrical groups in front. Perhaps the first impression made by the composition on a candid mind is, that so much symmetry is unnatural : and so, in truth, it is; but that formalism was part of the system, and in it, much of the claims of the first school consist. It reminds you that you are not looking on merely human transactions, and that the eye of the spectator, as well as the imagination of the artist, must submit to discipline. This constitutes part of the charm, and instead of regarding the arrangements of the figures as unnatural, the enthusiast in this school will say supernatural should be the word. The Assumption of the Virgin," in the Vatican gallery, is

another, and, to our eye, a much more lovely example of the same style. In both, as in all the good works of this period, the drawing is quite perfect; the stiffness we speak of is in arrangement, and a certain restraint that can hardly be called stiffness, pervades the figures. But the countenances are of heavenly

sweetness.

Between his works of this period, and what are considered the grand and final triumphs of his art in the Hampton Court cartoons, and " Transfigu ration," in the Vatican, Raffaele painted a series of less formal pieces, but still preserving more or less of the conventionalism of his early studies, and these have been grouped by connoisseurs under the designation of his second style.

With the grand compositions of his third and matured style, we are all familiar. The consenting voice of the last century pronounced the "Transfiguration" the noblest effort of the human pencil-the greatest picture ever painted. Classical beauty had been imported into Christian art. The last trammels of Byzantine formalism had been broken; and the painter indulged his imagination in casting his groups into every combination of posture, and of drapery or nudity,that could most delight the senses of form and colour. This is all true; and for an heroic subject or a pagan subject, it would all have our assent. But in the "Transfiguration" of Raffaele, Christ is a glorified man; in the same subject, in his earlier style, He would have been a glorified being; the scene would have been a mystical place, and the accessories not of the every day-earth. In the great picture, as it exists, everything is beautifully heroic, but nothing of the sentiment of religious painting is there; and religious men's eyes turn to rest with actual refreshment on the staid, clear, and symmetrical beauty of the Assumption," hanging hard by.

66

For Apollo on his Mount," or "Achilles on the Wall," sending his terrible shout through the dismayed ranks of the Trojans, while Minerva shakes above his head the bickering terrors of the Ægis (as Cornelius has so heroically painted the scene in the Trojan hall of the Glyptotheke at Munich), the third style is all that art could aspire to; but for truly divine subjects, subjects mystical and awful, such as the representation of

events in the mission of the Redeemer, if addressed to the eyes of believers, ought to be, we must unhesitatingly give the preference to the earlier styles of Raffaele. Though we desire not their reproduction, and are satisfied that these triumphs of mystical and religious art should remain with their own periods and places.

We do not regret the barrenness of our own age in this respect. Inde. pendently of the risk of idolism, our churches are better without pictures of

that which is inexpressible, except by barbarian conventionalisms of form. In a word, we must be content, in this age of the world, with painting nature; and if we would see the supernatural painted, must be satisfied to go back amongst those who lived when the world was younger; and for those who desire such a peregrination, there cannot be a more pleasant guide than Mr. Dennistoun, in the truly delightful volumes before us.

IN these memoirs of my father, I have either derived my information from the verbal accounts of his friends and contemporaries, or taken it from his own letters and papers. Many things have I omitted, as irrelevant to his story, which, in themselves, might not have been devoid of interest; and of some others, the meaning and purport being somewhat obscure, I have abstained from all mention. I make this apology for the incompleteness of my narrative; and the reader will probably accept my excuses the more willingly, since he is spared the infliction of my discursiveness on topics, only secondary and adventitious.

I now, however, come to a period the most eventful of his story, but, by an unhappy accident, the least illustrated by any record of its acts. MacNaghten, my chief source of information hitherto, is here unable to guide or direct me. He knew nothing of my father's movements, nor did he hold any direct intercourse with him. Whatever letters may have been written by my father himself, I am unable to tell -none of them having ever reached

me.

My difficulty is therefore considerable, having little to guide me beyond chance paragraphs in some of Fagan's letters to his daughter, and

VOL. XLI.-NO. CCXLII.

EVIDENCE.

some two or three formal communications on business matters to my mother.

There is yet enough even in these scattered notices to show, that Fagan's hopes of realising the great ambition of his life had been suddenly and unexpectedly renewed. Not alone was he inclined to believe that my father might become the political leader of his own peculiar party, and take upon him the unclaimed position of an Irish champion, but further still, he persuaded himself that my father was not really married, and that the present conjuncture offered a favourable prospect of making him his son-in-law.

The reader has already seen from what a slight foundation this edifice sprung-a random word spoken by my father at a moment of great excitement-a half muttered regret, wrung from him in a paroxysm of wounded self-love.

He was not the first, nor will he be the last, who shall raise up a structure for which the will alone supplies material; mayhap, too, in his case, the fire of hope had never been totally extinguished in his heart; and from its smouldering embers now burst out this new and brilliant flame.

It was about an hour after midnight, that a chaise, with four horses, drew Q

up at Fagan's door; and, after a brief delay, a sick man was assisted carefully down the stairs, and deposited within the carriage. Raper took his place beside him, and, with a speed that denoted urgency, the equipage drove away, and, passing through many a narrow lane and alley, emerged from the city at last, and took the great western road.

Fallrach, even in our own day of universal travel and research, is a wild and lonely spot; but at the time I refer to, it was as utterly removed from all intercourse with the world, as some distant settlement of central America. Situated in a little bend or bight of coast, where the Killeries opens to the great ocean, backed by lofty mountains, and flanked either by the sea, or the still less accessible crags of granite, this little cottage was almost concealed from view. Unpretending as it was without, its internal arrangements included every comfort; and my father found himself not only surrounded with all the appliances of ease and enjoyment, but in the very midst of objects well known and dear to him from old associations. It had been in our family for about a century; but up to this moment my father had never seen it, nor was he aware of the singular beauty of the neighbouring coast

scenery.

At first, he could do no more than sit at an open window that looked over the sea, enjoying, with dreamy languor, the calm influences of a solitude so thoroughly unbroken. To an overwrought and excited mind, this interval of quiet was a priceless luxury; and far from experiencing weariness in his lonely life, the days glided past unnoticed.

Raper was not of a nature to obtrude himself on any one; and as my father neither sought nor needed a companion, they continued to live beneath the same roof almost without meeting. While, therefore, there was the most scrupulous attention to all my father's wants, and a watchfulness that seemed even to anticipate a wish on his part, his privacy was never invaded nor disturbed. A few words each morning between Raper and himself provided for all the arrangements of the day, and there ended their intercourse.

Leaving him, therefore, in the indulgence of this placid existence, I must now turn to another scene, where

very different actors and interests were engaged.

The death of Barry Rutledge had created the most intense excitement, not alone in Dublin, but throughout the country generally. He was almost universally known. His acquaintanceship embraced men of every shade of opinion, and of all parties; and if his character did not suggest any feelings of strong attachment or regard, there were social qualities about him which, at least, attracted admiration, and made him welcome in society.

Such men are often regretted by the world more deeply than is their due. Their amusing faculties are frequently traced back to some imaginary excellence in their natures, and there mingles with the sorrow for their loss a sort of tender compassion for the fate of abilities misapplied, and high gifts wasted. This was exactly the case here. Many who did not rank amongst his intimates while he lived, now affected to deplore his death most deeply; and there was a degree of sympathy felt, or assumed to be felt, for his fate, widely disproportioned to his claims upon real regard.

The manner of his death still remained a profound mystery. The verdict of the coroner's jury was simply to the effect, that he had died of wounds, inflicted by a person or persons unknown," but without an attempt at explanation. The witnesses examined deposed to very little more than the state in which the body was found, and the prints of footsteps discovered in its vicinity. These, indeed, and other marks about the spot, seemed to indicate that a struggle had taken place; but a strange and unaccountable apathy prevailed as to all investigation, and the public was left to the very vaguest of speculations, as they appeared from time to time in the columns of the newspapers.

Amongst those who accompanied Rutledge into the street, there was a singular discrepancy of opinion, some averring that they heard him called on by his name, and others equally posi tive in asserting that the provocation was uttered in the only emphatic monosyllable, "a lie." They were all men of standing and position in the world; they were persons of indisputable honour; and yet, strange to say, upon a simple matter of fact, which had occupied but a few seconds, they could

not be brought to anything like agreement. The most positive of all in maintaining his opinion was a Colonel Vereker, who persisted in alleging that he stood side by side with Rutledge the whole time he was speaking -that he could swear not only to the words used by the unknown speaker, but that he would go so far as to say, that such was the impression made upon his senses, that he could detect the voice were he ever to hear it again.

This assertion, at first uttered in the small circle of intimacy, at last grew to be talked of abroad, and many were of opinion it would one day or other give the clue to this mysterious affair. As to Vereker himself, he felt that he was to a certain extent pledged to the proof of what he had maintained so persistently. His opinions had gained currency, and were discussed by the press, which, in the dearth of other topics of interest, devoted a large portion of their columns to commentary on this event.

Any one now looking back to the pages of the Dublin Express or Falkner of that date, will scarcely fail to find that each day contributed some new and ingenious suggestion as to the manner of Rutledge's death. Some of these were arrayed with great details, and the most minute arrangement of circumstances; others were constructed of materials the least probable and likely. Every view had, however, its peculiar advocates; and it was curious to see to what violence was carried the war of controversy upon the subject.

By the publicity which accompanies such events as these, the ends of justice are mainly sustained and aided. Discussion suggests inquiry, and, by degrees, the general mind is turned with zeal to an investigation, which, under ordinary circumstances, had only occupied the attention of the authorities.

To any one who has not witnessed a similar movement of popular anxiety, it would be difficult to believe how completely this topic engrossed the thoughts of the capital; and through every grade of society the same intense desire prevailed to unravel this mystery. Amongst the many facts adduced, was one which attracted a large share of speculation, and this was the track of footsteps from the very opposite corner of the "Green" to the fatal spot, and their issue at the little wicket gate, of which we have already spoken. These

traces were made by a large foot, and were unmistakeably those of a heavy man, wearing boots such as were usually worn by gentlemen. One peculiarity of them, too, was, that the heels were studded with large nails, rarely worn save by the peasantry. A shoemaker who served on the inquest was heard to remark, that a very few country gentlemen still persisted in having their boots thus provided, and that he himself had only one such customer, for whom he had just finished a new pair that were then ready to be sent home.

The remark attracted attention, and led to an examination of the boots, which, strange to say, were found exactly to correspond with the tracks in the clay. This fact, coupled with another, that the person for whom they were made, and who had been impatient to obtain them, had not even called at the shop, or made any inquiry, since the night of Rutledge's death, was of so suspicious a nature, that the boots were taken possession of by the authorities, and the maker strictly enjoined to the most guarded secrecy as to the name of him by whom they were ordered.

With every precaution to secure secrecy, the story of the boots got noised about, and letters poured forth in print to show that the custom of wearing such heels as was described, was by no means so limited as was at first assumed. In the very thick of discussion on this subject, there came a post letter one evening to the bootmaker's house, requesting him to send the boots lately ordered by an old customer, J. C., to the "Blue Balls," at Clontarf, addressed, "George J. Grogan, Esq.”

The shopkeeper, on receiving this epistle, immediately communicated it to the authorities, who could not fail to see in it another circumstance of deep suspicion. From the first moment of having learned his name, they had prosecuted the most active inquiries, and learned that he had actually been in town the evening of Rutledge's death, and suddenly taken his departure on the morning after. The entire of the preceding evening, too, he had been absent from his hotel, to which he returned late at night, and, instead of retiring to bed, immediately occupied himself with preparations for his departure.

As the individual was one well known, and occupying a prominent

position in society, it was deemed to be a step requiring the very gravest deliberation in what manner to proceed. His political opinions, and even his personal conduct, being strongly opposed to the Government, rather increased than diminished this difficulty, since the Liberal papers would be sure to lay hold of any proceedings as a gross insult to the National party.

The advice of the law officers, however, overruled all these objections; a number of circumstances appeared to concur to inculpate him, and it was decided on issuing a warrant for his arrest at the place which he had named as his address.

Secrecy was now no longer practicable; and, to the astonishment of all Dublin, was it announced in the morning papers, that Mr. Curtis was arrested the preceding night on a judge's warrant, charged with the murder of Barry Rutledge.

Terrible as such an accusation must always sound, there is something doubly appalling when uttered against one whose rank in society would seem to exempt him from the temptations of such guilt. The natural revulsion to credit a like imputation is, of course, considerable; but, notwithstanding this, there were circumstances in Curtis's character and habits that went far to render the allegation not devoid of probability. He was a rash, impetuous, and revengeful man, always involved in pecuniary difficulties, and rarely exempt from some personal altercation. Harassed by law, disappointed, and, as he himself thought, persecuted by the Government, his life was a continual conflict. Though not without those who recognised in him traits of warm-hearted and generous devotion, the number of these diminished as he grew older, and, by the casualties of the world, he lived to fancy himself the last of a by-gone generation, far superior in every gift and attribute to that which succeeded it.

When arrested, and charged with the crime of wilful murder, so far from experiencing the indignant astonishment such an allegation might naturally lead to, he only accepted it as another instance of the unrelenting hate with which the Government, or, as he styled it, "the Castle," had, through his life long, pursued him.

"Who is it," cried he, with sar

castic bitterness, "that I have murdered ?"

"You are charged with being accessory to the death of Mr. Barry Rutledge, sir," said the other. "Barry Rutledge ! the Court jester, the Castle mimic, the Tale-bearer of the Viceroy's household, the Hireling scoffer at honest men, and the cringing supplicant of bad ones. The man who crushed such a reptile would have deserved well of his country, if it were not that the breed is too large to be extirpated."

"Take care what you say, Mr. Curtis," said the other, respectfully; "your words may be used to your disadvantage."

"Take care what I say! Who are you speaking to, Sirrah? Is the caution given to Joe Curtis ? Is it to the man that has braved your power, and laughed at your Acts of Parliament, these fifty years? Are you going to teach me discretion now? Hark ye, my man, tell your employers not to puzzle their heads with plots and schemes about a conviction; they need neither bribe a witness, corrupt a judge, nor pack a jury. Familiar as such good actions are to them, their task will still be easier here. Tell them this; and tell them also, that the score they must one day be prepared to settle would be lighter if Joe Curtis was the last man they had sent innocently to the scaffold."

As though he had disburthened his mind by this bitter speech, Curtis never again adverted to the dreadful accusation against him. He was committed to Newgate, and while treated with a certain deference to his position in life, he never relaxed in the stern and unbending resolve, neither to accept any favour, nor even avail himself of the ordinary means of legal defence.

"Prison diet and a straw mattress !" cried he, "such you cannot deny me; and they will be the extent of the favours I'll receive at your hands."

As the day fixed for the trial approached, the popular excitement rose to a high degree. Curtis was not a favourite even with his own party; his temper was sour, and his disposition unconciliatory; so that even by the Liberal press, his name was mentioned with little sympathy or regard. Besides this feeling, there was another, and a far more dangerous one then