“Never was such a scene seen! as soon as the soldiers recovered something like reason, a trophy on a heap of stones and shields, was erected.  The army descended the Colchian Mountains, and reached Trapezus, the modern Trebizon, after a march of 1,155 leagues, during two hundred and fifteen days, where they embarked for their native country.

“The moment I have taken is when Xenophon seeing the sea has rode forward to shout it to the army.  He is waving his helmet with one hand, and pointing to the sea with the other, mounted on a skew-bald charger.

“Below the army are rushing up—­in the centre is an officer, on a blood Arab, carrying his wife.  A veteran soldier on his left is supporting an exhausted youth who has sunk on his shield, and pointing out the path to the army.  On the right, is a young man carrying up on his back his aged father who has lost his helmet—­the trumpeter lower down, is blowing a blast to collect the rear guard which are mounting behind him, while near the mare’s head is the Greek band with trumpets and cymbals encouraging the men.  The army is rushing up under an opening of the rock to the left, while the advanced guard of cavalry are trotting down the shelving top of a precipice, the horses excited and snuffing up the sea air with ecstasy.”

It would, however, be difficult to convey, by description, the overpowering energy and mighty struggle of the scene before us, or the masterly skill with which the painter has brought within a few square feet of canvass, one of the most astounding events in the history of man.  Its moral tendency should be a lasting lesson of the secret spring of honourable success in life—­decision of character and well-directed energies to accomplish great ends—­though applicable to every station of life, however humble.

Xenophon is a distant figure in this effective picture:  his action, as well as that of the cavalry, about him is admirably expressed:  he appears on the pinnacle of triumph; his charger snuffs the very gale of glory, and the uncurbed energy of exultation seems to animate those immediately around him.  The eye descends to the checkered toil beneath:  the brawny soldier bearing the delicate form of his lovely wife, which is well contrasted with the bold, muscular figure of the former:  the exhausted youth, and the veteran directing the army, but especially the former, are finely drawn and painted:  the bare head of the aged man, with his few last locks fluttering in the wind, contrasts with the burly-headed trumpeter, whose thick throat and outblown cheeks denote the energy which he is throwing into this last inspiring call to victory over difficulty.  The head of the soldier’s blood Arab is one of the finest studies of the group:  you almost see the breath of his nostrils; the hinder parts and tail of the horse are not quite of equal merit.  These are but a few of the points of excellence in the picture:  its colouring is censurable for its roughness, especially by those who enjoy the smoothly-finished productions of certain British artists; but we may look to such in vain for the powerful drawing and forcible expression which characterize this, the finest of Mr. Haydon’s pictures.