edition daubed over with Indian ink. In the second edition the block is altered. The second volume of British Birds, consisting of the Water Birds, was not published until 1804. Lastly, in 1818 were published Select Fables of Æsop and others, collected and embellished by Thomas Bewick. It may be interesting to some to know, that the tail-piece at p. 162 of the first edition of this work bears the date of his mother's death; and that at p. 176 of his father's. The final tail-piece is a view of Ovingham churchyard, in which is the family burying-place. Such is the brief outline of the life and principal works of Bewick. The external history of genius is in general easily told.
That Thomas Bewick has been the great improver of the art of wood-engraving, it is needless to say. He may indeed be called the father of the art; and his fame has, more than anything else, been the cause of the attention which has ever since been paid to this species of engraving. It cannot be doubted, however, that, in the mere mechanical excellence of his craft—in fineness of line—in sharpness and in smoothness, he has been outdone by some of his pupils. Bewick's excellence is not of the mechanical sort. He will esteem this no left-handed compliment. His fame does not rest upon this. It is his graphic tact—the truth of his conception and delineation of nature, that will carry him down to posterity. He is in reality, in essence, as one may say, a Painter; and his fame rests upon a foundation similar to that of other painters. It is true he uses the graver, not the pencil. It is true he has limited his range of subject. But the great—the captivating excellence of Bewick is, nevertheless, pictorial. He is great as an admirer and faithful exhibitor of nature; not as a cutter of fine lines, and a copyist of the designs of others.
Of Bewick's powers, the most extraordinary is the perfect and undeviating accuracy with which he seizes and transfers to paper the natural objects which it is his delight to draw. His landscapes are absolute fac-similes; his animals are whole-length portraits. Other books on natural history have fine engravings,—they are coloured or uncoloured; copper or wood,—but still, to use a common expression, they "are all tarred with one stick," Neither beast nor bird in them has any character—like a servant who has never been at place—not even a bad one. Dog and deer, lark and sparrow, have all airs and countenances marvellously insipid, and of a most flat similitude. A flock of dandies would not have a more unintellectual likeness to each other, a more deplorable proximity of negation. They are not only all like each other, but not one of them like anything worth looking at. A collection of family portraits, all "tenth transmitters of foolish faces." This is no joke. You may buy dear books or cheap books, but if you want to know what a bird or quadruped is, to Bewick you must go at last. Study Bewick, and you know a British bird as you know a man, by his physiognomy. You become acquainted with him as you do with Mr Tims, to whom you were introduced last Wednesday. You can make him out even at a distance, as sailors say, by "the cut of his jib." There is no need, as in other cases, of counting primaries and secondaries, or taking an inventory of his tail before you can identify him. You may admire him, as a novel heroine sometimes admires the hero, altogether for his je ne sçais quoi—and this is the very quintessence of refinement in bird-fancying.
It needs only to glance at the works of Bewick, to convince ourselves with what wonderful felicity the very countenance and air of his animals are marked and distinguished. There is the grave owl; the silly wavering lapwing; the pert jay; the impudent over-fed sparrow; the airy lark; the sleepy-headed gourmand duck; the restless titmouse; the insignificant wren; the clean harmless gull; the keen rapacious kite—every one has character. There are no "muffin faces." This is far beyond the mere pencilling of fur or feathers. It is the seizure and transfusion of countenance. In this, Bewick's skill seems unapproached and unapproachable by any other artist who has ever attempted this line. Were he to take the portraits of our friend James Hogg's present flock of sheep, we, Christopher North, would bet a thousand guineas that the shepherd should point out every individual bleater by his "visnomy," and this is something. Sir Thomas Lawrence could do no more for the Royal Yacht Club, and the Congress of Verona.
Bewick's vignettes are just as re-
