For disgusted when a young officer bought the regimental lieutenant-colonelcy over his head, that he declared but for the necessities of his family he would not serve one hour longer. His health was somewhat improved, though by no means robust; and he felt that a week's Indian sun might 'tip him over again.' The time, however, had come when, leaving his wife and children, Havelock must rejoin his appointment in India. some reasons he was not sorry to turn his back on England. 'Remember,' he wrote to a friend about to return from India to England, 'Remember, England is as coxcombical as ever. Nobody knows anybody without an introduction; and the first thing is the purse, the second the tailor, and the third the address on your card.' Declaring that England was only tit for millionaires, and that all others lose caste the moment they touch its shores, he carried his family to Bonn, and looked forward to end his days in some cottage in Switzerland or the Tyrol. England, he declared, was beyond him. And so with a sad heart, in December, 1851, he landed once again in Bombay. Before following him thither, I am tempted to ask why a man of such simple tastes, such self-denying habits, as Havelock, should have determined that he must give up England and end his days in Germany or Switzerland as soon as he could return from India? Why did he complain so bitterly and so constantly of the purseproud and exclusive habits of his own countrymen? There are thousands of families in England who would have welcomed a man of so much intelligence, such varied experience, and sterling worth. To the clergy, for instance, a character so devout and yet so practical would have been a treasure. If he had not unhappily taken up prejudices against the Church in which he was brought up, I cannot doubt but Havelock would have found in that society men of cultivated minds and simple tastes, who, caring little for money or rank, would have loved him for his own sake. Unhappily, he seems not to have sought for friends amongst the very men who could best have appreciated his worth. Hence his preference for the isolated and comparatively aimless life of an Englishman in Germany or Switzerland; a life for which his active mind quite unfitted him. However, as I have said before, after leaving wife and children at Bonn, Havelock landed once again in Bombay. In 1854 he was made QuarterMaster-General of the Queen's troops in India-an appointment of little work, with a salary of nearly £3000 a year. The more important post of Adjutant-General was before long vacant, and Lord Hardinge, with a supreme regard for merit, at once selected Havelock to fill it. The old soldier who had been in twenty-two Indian fights, including four of Gough's smashing combats, was at last in his sixtieth year placed in a post of honour and emolument. On the 1st November, 1856, the Governor-General in India declared war against Persia. Havelock, as usual, was wanted wherever there was a chance of a fight. With his friend Sir James Outram he led a division against the Persians, under the command of their Shah-zada or Prince. Never was he more cheery. The work,' he wrote, 'inspires and animates me, and God is with me.' When this campaign had been crowned with success and peace concluded, Havelock returned to India. On reaching Bombay at the end of May, he was astounded to hear that the Bengal native army had at many points broken into open mutiny, and that the fortress of Delhi was in the hands of the mutineers. Havelock at a glance perceived the gravity of the situation, and declaringThis is the most tremendous convulsion I have ever witnessed,' set off at once to place himself at the disposal of the Governor-General in Calcutta. (To be continued.) OUR FRIENDS' FACES. A VISIT TO THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY. OUR friends—as surely as Southey taught us, 'Our thoughts are with the dead;' for how many of those who have moulded our lives by their burning words or shining examples are now past away from earth! It is perhaps the greatest difference made by education that the cultivated person has an infinitude of friends in the past, while the untaught one lives but in the present. And thus it is, that the Portrait Gallery now presented to our view is as it were a series of introductions to friends whose words and characters have been familiar to us for many years, but whose faces we see for the first time. There they are— -the real great and the little great-the lights that shone in the dark, and the shadows that darkened light-those who won a name, and those who disgraced the name they inherited-all hang impartially together for us to gaze upon; from the half-finished James II., interrupted by the Revolution, back to the earliest dawn of English portraiture— except in coins, effigies, or needlework. 'How beautiful brains are!' is one of the first reflections to which a sight of the later rooms gives rise. It is the men of thought whose faces always attract even before their names are seen. The 'beauties' pale before them. The Castlemaine, with arched eyebrows and exquisite oval face, leans on a pillar; la belle Louise de Querouaille uplifts her peony cheeks and black eyes, as when poor Henrietta of Orleans brought her here to delude Charles II. out of his most sacred engagements; Nell Gwynne's face looks full of wistful simplicity; Lucy Waters displays a 'black a vised' picture of her son, Monmouth; Arabella Churchill wears her brother Marlborough's refined features, with a disappointed aspect; but none of these keep the eye for a moment with any real interest. No, not even the ladies of purer fame, the fair plump belle Hamilton, or the much becurled Frances Theresa Stewart of Blantyre. The only beauty who does really attract the eye in the lower rooms is the little Lady Alice Egerton. She is one of those snowily fair creatures, with deep . still quiet blue eyes, and flaxen curls, and oval pensive faces, that are still sometimes to be seen where the purest old English blood exists-as often among the West Saxon peasantry as in noble families. There she sits, looking down so calm and pure, that it might almost seem as if the very sight of her face would have inspired into Milton the vision of the Lady in Comus. How well the fair little maiden must have looked her part, spell-bound in her chair, with all the wild crew of revellers around her! But she has led us away. We were going to say that let beauty reign as it might in its own day-yet its pictured face cannot compare with those countenances that have been moulded by the inmost soul. Jeremy Taylor would, if he had been nothing else-be the beauty of the collection. His black coif, instead of hiding, gives the most perfect indication of the noble form of his lofty brow, his keen dark eyes shine out full of thought, and the perfectly formed features, fresh clear complexion, and long delicate hands, remind one of Manzoni's beautiful words about that purity of old age that is even lovelier than virgin purity. Beneath him hangs Judge Morton, by Vandyke, another memorably beautiful painting, with one of the same fine and delicate brows, and a deep speaking blue eye. eye. Bishop Cosin, and Brian Duppa, Bishop of Winchester, are of the same powerful and beautiful style of painting. Archbishop Sancroft, with a clear, calm, dark eye, does not fall far short; but unfortunately, 'holy Ken' has not had justice done him. His painter was most diligent in depicting his wavy lock of grey hair, and the light on his velvet cap; but the dark eyes, though evidently beautiful in themselves, are dull and meaningless-not by their own fault, but the painter's. Bishop Trelawney, big and burly, wears his Garter mantle, as if it were much more congenial to him than the lawn sleeves beneath it. Then Queen Anne's tutor, Bishop. Compton, looks thoroughly the high-bred gentleman and courtier. And that, alas, is just what Archbishop Laud does not—and verily it has often seemed to us that his not being of gentle blood and breeding, accounted for much of his unpopularity. Matters that came by nature to a less conscientious man were to him the work of earnest principle, and many of his offences were those of manner, which, for want of breeding, looked obsequious to the great, and imperious to the little. Claverhouse is the most misrepresented person. He appears as a large unwieldy man, devoid of all the grace and beauty for which his Abbotsford portrait is so remarkable, and with which every page of Old Mortality is imbued. It cannot be a matter of age-and it is evident that 'Bonnie Dundee' only has here a spurious portrait. But after all, the age of Lely and Kneller was a fall after the age of Vandyke, Rubens, Oliver, and Jansen. Scarcely a picture in those times but is memorable for the sake of the countenance or the artist. Some series are perfectly a history in themselves-such as those of the Earl James of Derby, and his Countess, Charlotte de la Tremouille. Here is Charlotte as Rubens painted her when very young; a bright dark-eyed merry girl, smiling as she turns her head back over her shoulder, in her white satin jacket, and plumed hat, full of French grace and liveliness; looking ready for any amusement or frolic, and a superabundant amount of spirit and energy in her bright eyes. Then Vandyke paints her again, as the still young and happy, but portly, sobered looking countess, with no cares beyond her housekeeping. And the companion picture of the Earl shews him spirited and hopeful, pointing over the sea to the kingdom of Man. Then again, the Earl holds his helmet in his hand, and looks out of the heavy dark eyes, as though the shadow of civil war had fallen upon him. And at last we have her in her widow's garb, sad and grave, and the once undeveloped energy now turned to the resolution that defended Latham House, and held out the Isle of Man. Her fellow heroine, Blanche Somerset, Lady Arundel of Wardour, only appears in her youth as one of Vandyke's white handed, delicately featured ladies, and Anne, Lady Fanshawe, has an honest, sensible, affectionate face. The portrait of Hampden with the helmet, does not look genuineand Lord Falkland's youthful and intelligent countenance is all eagerness, and shews no foreboding of that which was to come. Strafford is seen several times, with keen but sad large black eyes, and stern resolute lips, his very hair determined in its curl, and the beautiful hand that Henrietta Maria admired, outspread as if waving on to victory. Prince Rupert stands first as a quick-looking hazel-eyed boy, and then as the graceful lad who galloped to join the King at Nottingham. Both he and his brother Maurice have a peculiarly gentle and refined appearance. It is that gentle expression which is apt to be consonant with the most fiery natures-and the same thing is curiously notable in the soft sleepy blue eye of Colonel Penruddock. Charles himself is first shewn as a brown eyed, delicate looking little boy; then, as Vandyke loved to paint him, either on horseback, or with his children about him, always with the same dignified melancholy, and at the last in a deep mourning suit, only relieved by his blue ribbon, with the hat he refused to take off as he sat before his judges-a picture that leaves a lasting impression of the unbroken majesty still asserting itself in the prison-wasted features, grief-marred complexion, and deep-sunk eyes beneath their dark arched brows. Marie Antoinette, on her way to execution, in Lamartine's description, makes somewhat the same impression of melancholy dignity. Lenthall, Bradshaw, many of the rest of his judges are here, even Sir Henry Mildmay, lying dead upon his bed, as he lay at Antwerp, and was represented by a friend, who desired thus to counteract the popular belief that no Regicide would die in his bed. It is a ghastly picture, with its undertaker's details of velvet pall, lace pillow, and night-cap-infinitely more so than the two other posthumous portraits, both by Vandyke, one of Sir Kenelm Digby's lovely Venetia, the other of George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, after he had been stabbed by Felton. The manly beauty and dignity of his bloodless face are unspeakably pathetic, and both this and his living portraits give one the impression that such a countenance must have been moulded by a character that had something in it worthy of the affection of Charles and of Laud. Cromwell himself is not well represented. There are only four portraits, of which by far the best and most spirited is a crayon head with grey hair, by Cooper. His favourite daughter, Mrs. Claypole, is either badly painted, or must have been a little pink and white doll. Fleetwood has a fair open sensitive face; Andrew Marvell is once caricatured, and once shewn with a deeply poetic face. Fairfax looks dull, and his wife's spirited spoilt-child face seems ready to say, 'He has more wit than to be here.' There is a fine series of Milton, too much scattered, but always with a beauty that wins the eye and the respect even before the name is read on the frame-and among great men should be noticed a portrait of Harvey-he of the circulation-by himself; so exquisitely painted, that it is plain that he could have been as great in art as he was in medicine. But we must hasten backwards from that subjects, or we shall occupy too many pages. will many of them see for themselves. We court paradise of painters and of And we hope our readers must go on to Elizabeth's 'Where gorgeous dames and statesmen old, The most gorgeous of all the dames may be traced from her first meek appearance at sixteen, through her chrysalis state as the intelligent, thin, anxious girl, to her full glory in her robe of eyes and ears, with her serpent sleeve, and toy rainbow-and then through her progress in jewels and in gold to the mournful picture where her head bends on her hand, Time falls asleep, Death grins over her shoulder, and an angel bears away her crown. Her well known countenance never varies: it always has those delicate features that are characteristic of the sandy complexion, but in her case they are ennobled by the brow that was the casket of high and prudent resolve, and the majestic bearing and steadfast eye, 'the lion port and awe commanding face' that once fairly gazed down the intended assassin. Magnificent men were those whom she reigned over. There is Shakespeare, with that perfect oval head peculiar to himself; Spenser, vivacious and brisk; Ben Jonson, rugged and shrewd; Burleigh, in bearded solemnity riding on a mule; Drake, rough and weather-beaten, holding his globe. Noble brows and thoughtful eyes seem as if they had been the endowment of all just then. Even Sir Christopher Hatton's beauty is of a grand and manly cast, that might well 'Win the stout heart of England's Queen, Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.' Leicester always takes one by surprise by his aged look. He was really of the same age as the Queen, but he always appears as a large, bald |