sport of his imagination, and the earnest of his actions; imprint in all sensible and spiritual forms; and cast it silently into everlasting time." A truce to thought. Return we to the Great Room. We turn, instinctively, to the catalogue, for the productions of William Etty. But why consult the book, when there is The Rape of Proserpine, a bold, dashing picture? Who can doubt the artist? In whatever he does, the Poet, the Painter, and the Critic, will each recognise that which is calculated to delight him." Read Spenser," we once heard Etty say, " and you are immediately carried into a world of your own." Look at Etty's picture is it not the same with you? Beauties and faults blend in the work before you. The grouping and colouring are unsurpassable; but the figures are defective in finish. Wandering in the painter's paradise, if we find fault with things so exquisite, believe us, that it is only in the jealousy of love. A main column of the state of creative Art-of poetic Painting-we admire Etty's masterly facility of execution; but it sometimes seduces the Artist into a rather too ostentatious display of this excellence, to the damage of that careful completion which his character demands from him. Sometimes, as in his Endymion, he is both common-place in design, and negligent in execution. Sir David Wilkie's great picture is a capital performance. Our heart leaps up at it, as when we behold a rainbow in the sky." The subject of it is the discovery of the body of Tippoo Saib by Sir David Baird. It is the chef d'œuvre of the present exhibition. There is a poetical point in the picture which is carefully indicated in the catalogue. Below the feet of General Baird, there is a grating in the parapet wall, which the artist supposes to give light to the dungeon in which Sir David Baird had been for nearly four years immured by Hyder Ally and his son,that same Tippoo Sultaun, whom, by a remarkable dispensation of providence, he now finds prostrate at his feet, bereft of his crown, his kingdom, and his life. Well on such an occasion, might the hero of the picture stand in a proud and triumphant attitude; his bosom visibly swelling with emotion, and his eyes directed to heaven in grateful wonder. He has no thought of the body beneath him-he looks not at it; that poor office is left for a Scotch soldier, who is peering at it with curious and anxious speculation. The thoughts of Sir David Baird are abstracted from all such objects, he thinks only of the moment, its greatness, a moment, which, in one point of time, has blended the present and the past; the memory of evil, and the spectacle of retribution-and he exults; yet, we would fain believe, as a Christian hero, not as a heathen warrior. Produced for the lady of Sir David Baird, the historical department of the picture is subordinated to the personal; and, besides, offers a striking instance that modern costume is no hindrance to the display of heroic actions. On the whole, it is the largest and grandest work yet completed by this celebrated artist. Turn we now to Turner. Ah! Turner! wizard--or wizard's demon! Who recollects not thy modern Italy? Here have we thy Ancient and Modern Rome two pictures unintelligible to sumphs, a world of intelligence to thee. In the former, Agrippina is landing with the ashes of Germanicus, the Triumphal Bridge and palace of the Cæsars being restored "The clear stream, Aye-the yellow Tiber glimmer'd to the brim, In the latter-O Turner's Modern Rome! "What!" you exclaim, "sugarcandy columns, a golden coliseum, a snowy foreground, and a burning distance; verily, the moon is up, and yet it is not night,'-and, 'by the starry hosts, it is not day !"' Peace, scorner! Great artist! "with all thy faults we love thee still!" Faults! Show us the true critic that dare mend them. Would to heaven we could commit such! Then too there is Cicero's Villa-O visionary, a dream-like Eden! Would you find realized the most exquisite pictorial imagery, the highest charm of landscape, of light and air? Consult the pictures of Turner. Utterly inadequate is the pen to describe the wonders of the pencil. Amid those glowing wonders, Turner moves alone. Within that circle none dare walk but he. He it is who culls the beauty of every clime, snatches every happy and appropriate incident; and then refining and refining these within the furnace of his own more than ethereal spirit, pours them forth again, and through his canvas medium faintly indicates, yet as strongly as may be, the boundless stores of a genius only not almighty. He is the prince of imitative art. There is a difference between imitative and creative art. Etty, George Patten, Howard, are creative artists; M'Clise is inventive; Turner is imitative. Howard's picture some years back, of the Man-child saved from the Dragon, struck us as poetical, sublimely and lovelily poetical. His Rising of the Pleiades, in the present exhibition is chastely so. M'Clise's Robin Hood, is a picture in his usual style; technical to excess; full of action, life, vigour! It has more unity than the Vow of the Peacock, or Christmas Revels; and is altogether a brilliant specimen of the romantic. Birds, beasts, armour, men, women, throng the canvas. Brilliant, however, as it is; from the want of breadth in the lights and shades, it has the appearance of a composition for a tea-tray. The minute details are all equally of importance, a circumstance excitive of vulgar admiration, which a great artist should be too proud to conciliate. In contrast with the preceding work, Severn's Rhime of the Ancient Mariner, is stern, bold, and imaginative. The artistic treatment equals the subject. Devoid of meretricious grace, it appeals at once to the highest feelings. How would "the old man eloquent," have recognised here the realization of his marvellous conception. But in his high reason was an ideal still beyond form and colour. Hart has a great picture. The Lady Jane Grey at the Place of her Execution is a noble thing! There is exceeding beauty, purity and devotion, in the countenance and attitude of the heroine. As a refined and gentle spirit, though a mere copyist of nature, let us welcome Eastlake. His Christ blessing little Children, is tender and sweet, but without elevation. La Svegliarina is touching and affectionate, a true symbol of maternal sentiment. It is pleasing to hail a new candidate, if worthy. Redgrave is almost an unknown student, yet his Olivia's Return to her Parents, and his Quentin Matsys are works of extraordinary feeling and expression, with much skill in composition and effect. The Brides of Venice by Herbert, is another work by a youthful aspirant, and betokens much ability and delicate handling. Minute in its details, it is yet pleasing in its results. Who can this be? by Leslie, is both republican and courtly. How this is, the reader must ascertain himself by looking at the picture, which he will find deserving his investigation, for its humour, character and point. Uwins has eight pictures in his customary manner; exquisite in feeling, but feeble in conception and execution. Mulready's Sonnet, and Open your Mouth and Shut your Eyes, are two bijoux-the foreshortening of the youth in the former picture is admirable. Scheffer's Protestant Reader and Hornung's Calvin on his Death Bed are chaste and finished pictures, free from all meretricious attempts at modern flashiness of effect. The countenances in both pictures are singularly expressive. Hollin's Margaret at her spinningwheel, is evidently a portrait-but sweetly done. The pictures in this year's exhibition are remarkable for chastity of colouring. It is, we suspect, a calumny, that asserts there is a tendency in modern art to gaudy combinations. On the contrary, we have found reason, in general, to wish that pictures were at first more brilliantly coloured. They decay soon enough. But this, we know, is a point on which, in consequence of the prejudices of amateurs, our English Artists are peculiarly timid. Take our word for it, however, that it is not to imitate the old artists, to colour in tones too subdued. Sir Martin A. Shee well remarks on the popular error, respecting "the difference of tone or general hue which appears invariably to distinguish old pictures from the more modern productions of the pencil." "The former" he says, "are generally sombre, dark and heavy; but rich, mellow and harmonious. The latter seem glaring, crude, and violent; but bright, animated and vigorous. The gloom of the one is always viewed by the critic with favour,-the glare of the other as generally regarded with disapprobation. To form a just estimate of both requires the full exercise of judgement and common sense. We should not allow ourselves to be so far influenced by the impression which almost invariably prevails amongst persons of taste, as to mistake that darkness of hue which characterises the work of the Old Masters, for a merit of their Art, which is really a defect of their age. Time is as great an enemy to beauty in Art as in Nature; and pictures, like most other things, are seldom the better for being old. "The great colourists of the Venetian School," the President proceeds, "would hardly recognise the splendours of their palette in the dingy hues to which they are now reduced by the joint operation of time, dust and varnish. Titian would be disposed to disclaim his Venus, if he were to behold the gipsy glow of her carnations in a modern collection; but, fortunately, enough remains of their original lustre to justify the verdict which has been pronounced in their favour. We acquire by degrees, a conventional taste, which enables us to penetrate the veil in which time tries to involve the beauties of art; we see the bloom of the rose in the faded flower, and trace, even in the ruin, the perfection of the finished work. But, in exercising a judgement thus arbitrary and peculiar, we must take care that the acquired relish does not prevent the natural palate: we must clearly distinguish that which habit has rendered agreeable, from that which nature has established as true. The faults of a bad picture may in some respects be improved by time to defects less offensive; and if old pictures are generally found to be harmonious in effect, it is because their harshness has been softened, and their discordant hues subdued under one general gloom. "It is principally on this subject-the effects of time on the productions of the pencil,-that the judgement of the Artist, and that of the Amateur appear to be so much at variance, and so difficult to be reconciled. The Amateur may be said to live surrounded, either in his own collection or in the galleries of his friends, with the best productions of the Ancient Schools. At home or abroad, his studies of art have been pursued amongst such works: whatever may have been their brilliancy when fresh from the easel, they have long been subdued, by age and the process of the picture-cleaner, to a depth of tone amounting not only to darkness, but in many cases, to absolute blackness. Those works, nevertheless he knows to be of the highest merit, and regarded with general admiration. Necessarily more conversant with pictures, than with the objects which they represent, his standard of comparison is derived from Art rather than from Nature, and he judges of the model by the imitation. The sombre hues of the Old Masters become associated in his mind with all his conceptions of excellence. Under the influence of these impressions, he enters an exhibition of modern works, and naturally desires to find there an aspect of art similar to that upon which he has been accustomed to bestow his admiration. He is disappointed; every picture appears to him to be crude and inharmonious; his eye is offended by the contrast; he exclaims against the gaudiness of the Modern School, and turns with distaste from what he considers as violent and vulgar glare. "The Artist, on the other hand, in constant communication with Nature, and taught to regard her as the sole test of truth and beauty, is dazzled by the sudden splendours of her aspect. To him she appears all light and lustre : he finds no colours on his pallette rich enough for her radiance, or brilliant enough for her bloom. He searches eagerly through the whole chromatic scale,-he exhausts every combination of hue, and tries every artifice of light and shade; but all his efforts are vain, his model rises before him in unapproachable effulgence. Like the Amateur, he admires the works of the Old Masters. He is, indeed, the more sensible of their excellence, in proportion as his studies have taught him to appreciate the exertions by which such merits have been attained. But their darkness he feels to be their defect; he, however, judges what they were, by what they now are, by the day's decline he estimates the meridian glow, and acknowledges the splendour of Nature though in eclipse. If "Starting, thus, from opposite points, and each using a measure of merit which has been the result of a process so different, it is not surprising that some disagreement should prevail between the Artist and the Amateur in their estimate of modern works. Candour, however, will perhaps acknowledge that both parties are somewhat in error. the eye of the amateur, accustomed to the sombre character and sober dignity of Ancient Art, requires, in a modern production, a depth of tone which may be said to anticipate time, and to be inconsistent with the bloom and freshness of Nature,-the Artist, in his eagerness to secure these captivating qualities, is not unfrequently found to venture upon a scale of colouring which his materials are incompetent to sustain. Commencing in too high a key, he strains his power beyond their strength, and in a vain struggle after brilliancy, becomes raw, violent and exaggerated." These remarks of the venerable president are admirable. With much judgement he recommends to the student a middle course; and, we are bold to say, that, with very few exceptions indeed, his advice has, in the present exhibition, been observed. We have but short space left for our remarks on the Sculpture Room. We were particularly struck by a colossal statue in marble, of the late Thomas Telford, the celebrated engineer, by Baily. A deeply impres sive and dignified repose, bespeaks an elevated and meditative genius, and corroborates the high opinion that we have always had of this distinguished sculpture's great talent. A group of the Children of Sir Francis Shuckburgh, is an admirable work, full of sentiment, but too rarely exhibited. Gibson's Love Cherishing a Soul while preparing to torment it, is a veritable poetic effusion in marble; light, agile, beautiful; the purest sentiment in the loveliest form. Venus Verticordia, by the same artist, gives an elevation to sculpture, by which it almost reaches the Divine in beauty. It is impossible for a rightly constituted mind, to contemplate such works without feeling sacred emotions. Legrew's Ajax is energetic, and Coffee's Two Sleeping Children delicious. Gott's Clytie, though small in dimensions, is a thing of infinite grace and loveliness. On reviewing what we have written, we find that we have neglected the landscape department, in which, however, the usual contributors do not appear. Stanfield, Roberts, and Sir A. W. Calcott, have retired. Frederick Richard Lee, however, has five subjects which will sustain his reputation. The miniatures are also deserving of some consideration-they are numerous, if few be of great merit. Among these, we remarked Ross's, Robertson's, and Chalon's portraits; some water-coloured drawings by Miss Corbaux; and many that will repay the trouble of inspection. Among the architectural designs, our attention was particularly called by Jones' View of the Alcove at the upper end of the Hall of the Two Sisters in the Alhambra. The Arabic inscription on the walls, rightly describes this picture and its original. "I am the Bower; truly, I appear decked out in beauty. Shouldst thou survey attentively my elegance, thou wilt reap the advantage of a Commentary on Decoration." R. U. MAXIMS FOR MOTHERS. MOTHER! thy love unto thy child, Mother! if thou thy child dost love As a mere child of dust, The earthly nature will appear To greet thy earthly trust. |