father) a design which looks as if it ought to be in Raffaello's Bible! "No matter!" said Mr. Hobson. But come, my charming young ladies who "doat on Lord Byron," here is a picture painted on purpose for ye (Manfred and the Witch of the Alps, 108). A very chaste and carefully finished composition; of course more in the gusto of Rome than of Venice, though the tints are clear, and bear more transparence than is usual with Mr. Howard. The fountain spirit has great beauty of shape and features-the attitude of the guilty misanthrope is natural and characteristic, and the Alpine scenery, rocks, and wild-flowers, the torrent and its spray-begotten Iris, make up a vehicle for the actors extremely -picturesque, rich, and inviting. With regard to his Ariel released by Prospero (72) I confess I was somewhat disappointed. The magic duke is here depicted as compelling two earthy spirits to do his bidding:-I concede that their difficultly foreshortened dusky bodies are drawn with science and feeling; they rive the pine forcefully; but now I must doubt whether a greater impression of power would not have been conveyed by causing the earth-bound tree to gape and yield up its airy kernel under the thrilling impulse of his mighty and intense w willing:-the awful eye bent in fascinating immoveability, and the mystic rod raised, as if to pour forth its sympathetic potency, would indicate this plainly enough to the spectator, as several inventions of Michel Agnolo can testify and certainly the great secret of strength, both in writing and design, is condensation-to employ just exactly so many figures and words as will do your business-and no more." The above objection, or rather suggestion, is merely my notion of the scene, instead of Mr. Howard's; whose method of relating, with eloquent dumb show, the harassing lets and annoyances inflicted on Caliban (76) cannot to my feeling be easily surpassed in vividness and intelligibility. I wish the tasteful secretary would look into Mr. Soane's translation of Undine; he would find much to his mind, which might in turn create much to our mind. Perhaps one of his friends may see this and tell him of my hint. Don't you wish you were rich enough to purchase that Devonshire landscape, by Collins? (Buckland in the Moor, 89.) I do, with all my heart, and with all my soul, on which it would act like balm. And I wish I had Turner's exquisite little gaiety, (What you Will. 114.) And I wish I had Cooper's Battle of Strigonium. (120.) And I wish Mr. Etty had made a large fortune, and gave away his delicately and masterly executed gems to poor but ardent amateurs.-Alas! alas! Why is the will to encourage genuine merit so seldom accompanied by the means? When I look at this gentle group (Maternal Affection. 121.) so correctly drawn, so splendidly coloured, and so lightly touched, I long-1 languish - "I cannot withdraw, but turn back at every step.I sigh, and in sighing exclaim, unfortunate being that I am! it is thus that all-powerful Painting keeps me under her dominion-then gaining strength I proceed, reflecting on the treasure I have quitted." Mr. Etty has as yet given us little or no specimens of his powers in sterner stuffbut why should he? His manner is peculiarly his own, and will always enamour by its tender selection of attitudes and expressions, and the genial warmth of its hues. Perhaps a greater force of legitimate chiaroscuro would add variety to his style, his effects at present depending nearly, if not entirely, on the opposition of colours. I cannot take leave of this most meritorious artist without expressing my sincere admiration of the amorous and yet modest languor infused into the bright eyes and fair lids, drooping with thick lashes, of his females. The St. Catherine,' and Psyche,' in the last Exhibition at the British Gallery, owed to this beautiful trait more than half their attraction. Let us now sit down and feast our eyes on Hilton's gallery picture (Meleager, Atalanta, and the Boar of Diana. 128.) How finely coloured, how very rich, exuberant, and juicy-how well made up-how painterly! This last tack has brought him nearer to the gorgeous port of Venice than any before. How glowing without foxey * It is a pity Janus's preaching and practice do not agree. ness: how brown and mellow, yet pure and clean! How much nature and suppleness in the drawing, without vulgarity!-and how much correctness without rigidity! How cleverly brought together, and how effectual are the cold steel and the perspiring flesh! What a fierce pencil in the animals and the Tizianesque trees! how pulpy and delicate in the carnations! how artfully easy are the grouping and the arrangements of the parts; and what an air of unity the whole possesses! -This in my opinion is Mr. Hilton's congenial style; the style of Vecelli-the picturesque, in its proper and highest sense; and it is a million of pities he should ever wander in a vain search after the antagonistic and essentially inimical graces of Parma and Rome -the result of such unchemical alliance has been, and ever will be, neutralization. From those who do not comprehend "the reason of his style," Mr. H. must expect to hear many objections, mighty sound in themselves, but travestied into absolute nonsense by their inapplicability to the point in question. I hold that no work of ability can be tried otherwise than by laws deduced from itself;-whether or not it be consistent with itself. If this theory be true, the onus laid on the conscientious critic is almost equal to the author's. In our good England, however, this burthen would seem but featherweight, judging from the spanking pace at which our periodical scalpers get over the ground:-perhaps consciences are too high in price for their pockets.* But I don't like to be hurried along in this way; I have seen pictures enough for to day, and I won't have them put out of my head! "Sweet Janus, but three more!"Well, Sir! which be they? "Why first here is Chalon's Precieuses ridicules, (162) one of the very best things he ever enchanted the fashionable world with. Can art and taste go beyond his triumph over the most preposterous costume that ever caricatured human habiliments? How pungent, how effervescent is the countenance of the rose-coloured Beauty!-I mean the beauty dressed in crackling satin couleur de rose. How fierce are those shoe-ties, how awful that wig! Would any one be lieve that Mr. Chalon was not born and bred in the court of Louis Quatorze, instead of being at this present time alive, and in great request with the ladies, at No. 11, Great Marlborough-street, London? Tell me, Mr. Weathercock, if you would not give some of your scarcest Bonasones to be able to put that-that-bottle of Champaigne for the eyes into your Boudoir?" Why it is not easy for me to answer that question, because Bonasones I have none, (they are all sold, poor dears! to pay for themselves) - and as to Boudoir, I cannot persuade Vinkbooms to deliver it up -I suppose he has it-I can't recollect that ever I had!-But in sober truth, I must decline farther use of my article eye. It would appear an insult to notice Mr. Thomson's strik ing and poetical work of Prospero and Miranda (172.) in a slight and incomplete manner: and the same may be said of the excellent Lear of Briggs (198.) who is this year placed where he should be, viz. in the great room. Mr. H. P. Bone has an historical subject, in the School of Painting, (The Death of Priam. 273.) embodied with considerable force of tone and expression. It is very much in the feeling of the princes of the French school, Poussin and Le Sueur; with a little dash of West-finished very honestly; and I hope, for the credit of London, will meet with a purchaser. The Venus and Adonis, by his brother, seems, as well as my dim eyes will inform me, to be placed aloft in a very unworthy situation. Both of these gentlemen work very perceptibly onwards. I must now bid you adieu, my kind companions-but let me entreat you first to admire again and again Jackson's very characteristic, and therefore bewitching, portrait of our Stephens-it is drawn con amore, and is by far the best of this brilliant artist's female heads. Among the marbles, Flaxman, Westmacott, and Baily, maintain their accustomed dignity, and keep alive * Paley once said "that he could not afford to keep a conscience!!!" This declaration was honest at any rate! with their strenuous breath the populace-neglected embers of historic art. Westmacott's Psyche is affectingly simple-a pure bashful relying creature, who could live but in the breath of the Heavenly Love. The War Angel of the elegant-minded Flaxman is extremely noble-no man understands the action and powers of the skeleton better than Mr. F.; which knowledge is the primum mobile of grace and motion. I wonder he does not favour the public with some more of his harmonious outlines. The romantic Apollonius would furnish an interesting series, which might be lithographized by some of his pupils. J. W. P. S. Give my respects to your Mr. Fine Arts, and request him to write a panegyric on Wilkie's chefd'œuvre (for so it certainly is, both in conception, composition, colour, drawing, grace, and expression; this is, indeed, fetching up lee-way with a wet sail,) with one of his most superb quills. Tell him also I shall look sharp after his critique on Mulready's "Convalescent;" it is a touchstone of sympathy and feeling. Mackenzie should write it, or Allan Cunningham! I desire that Mynheer Van Stinking Brooms will keep his herring-defiled paws from it-I hate that fellow most particularly. Fumigate him out of the concern! Our friend Mr. Weathercock has omitted to notice Mr. Leslie's "Rivals." With some defects of execution, nothing can be more expressive than this admirable little picture; if his former productions were more attractive from their connexion with our national habits and associations, this is equally meritorious in genuine unforced humour. Nothing can excel the spirited and graceful way in which the story is told. ED. SONG. The morning hours the sun beguiles, But suns must set with dewy eve, And flowers must with the summer leave, So I and Mary parted. 2. O Mary, I did meet thy smile, When passion was discreetest; 3. Those eyes that then my passion blest, Sad ceaseless thoughts about thee, POLYHYMΝΙΑ.. BY JAMES MONTGOMERY. * It can no longer be a complaint of this age that English songs, without their music, are senseless and inanimate things; for within a very short. period of time the most celebrated of our poets have contributed to this delightful species of poetry; and a young lady at her piano may with the turning over but few leaves chuse for her voice a song of Moore's, or Byron's, or W. Scott's, or Campbell's. To be sure, Moore's morality and Byron's piety are two for a pair;-but in the light Scotch words of the two latter, there is all that is unexcep tionable; and even in the two former, a want of meaning is certainly their last sin. It is with very sin cere pleasure that we can now add the name of Montgomery to those of the illustrious lyrists we have just mentioned; and who that has read the Wanderer of Switzerland and the minor pieces of this poet, can for a moment doubt his power to be great in song? The present little work is composed of seven very beautiful songs written to foreign airs, and as we have the author's permission to publish them in the LonDON MAGAZINE, we shall take them at his word, and let them assert their own beauty:-certainly, to our taste, they have that exquisite union of tenderness, melancholy, and truth, which makes a good song perfect. The first piece is entitled Reminiscence; it is exceedingly plaintive and unaffectedly pathetic. REMINISCENCE. Where are ye with whom in life I started, Dear companions of my golden days ? Ye are dead, estrang'd from me, or parted; Flown, like morning clouds, a thousand ways. Where art thou, in youth my friend and brother, Yea in soul my friend and brother still? Heav'n receiv'd thee, and on earth none other Can the void in my lorn bosom fill. Where is she, whose looks were love and gladness? Love and gladness I no longer see; She is gone, and since that hour of sadness Nature seems her sepulchre to me. Where am I? life's current faintly flowing, Brings the welcome warning of release. Struck with death; ah! whither am I going? All is well, my spirit parts in peace. The air is remarkable for sweetness and pathos. The accompaniment presents only chords repeated in regular succession, supporting, but not disturbing the supporting, voice, while the short symphonies are full of expres siveness. Youth, Manhood, and Age, the next piece, is of another character; and though one in which the author is eminently successful, perhaps it is not the most fitted for song. YOUTH, MANHOOD, AND AGE. Youth, ah! youth, to thee in life's gay morning, New and wonderful are heav'n and earth; Health the hills, content the fields adorning, Nature rings with melody and mirth. Love invisible, beneath, above, Conquers all things; all things yield to love. Time, swift Time, from years their motion stealing, Unperceiv'd hath sober Manhood brought; Truth her pure and huinble forms revealing, Tinges fancy's fairy dreams with thought; Till the heart no longer prone to roam, Loves, loves best, the quiet bliss of home. Age, Old Age, in sickness, pain, and sorrow, Creeps with length'ning shadow o'er the scene; Life was yesterday, 'tis death to-morrow, The music is a fine motivo, exalted a little from its tone of deep feeling by an accompaniment of more motion and variety than the last. These things almost rise to the level of some of Haydn's Canzonets (the most exqui site things of the kind ever written), and may claim a place in the memory with his Despair, ir, and The Wanderer. Polyhymnia, or Select Airs of Celebrated Foreign Composers, adapted to English Words, written expressly for this Work, by James Montgomery. The Music arranged by C. F. Hasse. The War Song (the words of which were given in our last No. page 456) is remarkable for strength, simplicity, and expression; mixing, however, no small portion of melody with its more animating qualities. The symphonies and accompaniments are characteristically plain. Meet Again, is the subject of all subjects for music. It is almost a song that sings of itself! MEET AGAIN. Joyful words, we meet again! Love's own language comfort darting Through the souls of friends at parting; Life in death to meet again! While we walk this vale of tears, Far in exile, when we roam, Happy they, whose spirits soaring, This is set for three voices, with a solo, and a return to the trio. There is an admirable spirit and beauty in the following. VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS. Night turns to day, when sullen darkness lowers, And heav'n and earth are hid from sight; Cheer up, cheer up; ere long the op'ning flowers Toil brings repose, with noontide fervors beating, When droop thy temples o'er thy breast; Cheer up, cheer up; grey twilight, cool and fleeting, thy story; Wafts on its wing the hour of rest. Death springs to life, though sad and brief Thy years all spent in grief and gloom; • Look up, look up; eternity and glory Dawn through the terrors of the tomb.. The music is of an intense but darker character in its opening; the reverse of the movement of which Meet Again consists. This air has a similar, but more marked division. Here also the composer, or the adapter, has shown his knowledge of effect in the accompaniment. Thehome truth of The Pilgrimage, which follows, is delightful. We could wish that English songs should be distinguished by, and valued for, this character. THE PILGRIMAGE OF LIFE. How blest the pilgrim who in trouble And binds their beauties in a wreath. More dear to him the fields and mountains, When with his friend abroad he roves, Rests in the shade near sunny fountains, Or talks by moonlight through the groves; For him the vine expands its clusters, Spring wakes for him her woodland quire; Yea, though the storm of winter blusters, 'Tis summer by his ev'ning fire. In good old age serenely dying, " I follow soon," to his " adieu :" It is a bass sostenuto song, expressive and elegant. The passages are cast into the best parts of the voice. It reminds us of the Qui sdegno of Mozart, though the resemblance is in the style, not in the melody. There is a second part for two tenors, which adds a variety to its intrinsic beauty. The last piece, Aspirations of Youth, is the call of Genius to Glory, |