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purity, innocence, and grace! With visions like the patriarch's dream, where angel's foot just touched and blessed the earth, from that ladder whose highest step was in the glory of heaven! Thinking thus highly of the present Exhibition in comparison with any former, we shall not be the less critical where we think there are great aberrations from the sound principles of taste; nor the less lament the almost entire deficiency in Landscape. There is not, properly speaking, a single landscape in this Exhibition. Views, indeed, there are, and river scenes, but not many; and some very clever garden-scenes, somewhat in the style of Watteau, though in many respects better-but Landscape, for its own sake, for the poetry it contains and imparts, there is none. There is no view of this earth, but such as the uncultivated clown sees it. It is un

visited by genius, and its old divinity hath left it. And why is this? We will venture to give one reason. There is a modesty in nature that is averse to rivalry and glare. Even the superhuman power of nature is something subdued-a mystery partly veiled; but the taste of the day is to attract, and be conspicuous. The landscape painter is not the idler who may say, "Flumina amem sylvasque inglorius." He may indulge his passion for woods and rivers; and, inspiring others with the same love, acquire a fame worthy his ardent ambition. We could wish that greater temptation were held out to this deserted walk of art, by devoting one room solely to it-nor would it be a bad practice, as much as may be, to concentrate the portraits, that, by their largeness, they may not overpower, as they do generally, all that is beneath and about them. We might partly have attributed this lack of landscape to the eccentricities of so great a name as Turner's; but we do not see that he has many precise imitators now. Yet he has too many admirers, blind in their admiration, who strangely reconcile themselves to his entire abandonment of all the known principles of art. We should have passed him by, in our remarks, with sorrow, were it not that the conspicuous places he holds upon the walls too strongly demand the public attention, and show that the able professors yet bow to a name, where little else is left, and that we know the evil influence he

still exercises over the public taste. It is an idle thing to argue with his worshippers. They take high ground, and tell you, you have not yet arrived at sufficient knowledge of art to admire Turner-inferring, of course, that they have. We can understand what the education of the eye means, but that is subservient to the educa tion of the mind. The great rules of poetry, are rules of all art, of every branch. Where these are defied, we ought not to be pleased; or we are children delighted with gewgaw, the tinsel and beads in a glass, that look very pretty, and mean nothing. We suspect, however, that there must be some defect, some disease in Mr Turner's eyes, or it would be next to impossible that he should commit to canvass such infant efforts of colour and execution, such a sick man's dream"Cujus velut ægri somnia, vane

Fingentur species; ut nec pes nec caput uni

Reddatur formæ."

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If we really have not reached the proper point of taste to discern beauties in Turner's pictures, we ought to be ashamed to tell so plain a truth, as that for any pleasure we can extract from them, we would not purchase them at twopence the dozen. What the illegitimate sons of taste see, we cannot tell; but there are so many on our side who have spent not very short lives in the legitimate studiesthat have led them up to the admiration of the great masters, of Raphael, of Titian, of Coreggio, and in landscape to the admiration of Claude, and Poussin, and Berghem, and others, whose works the world still earnestly seek for, and purchase at large sums, and yet have not come up to Turner-that we feel ourselves sufficiently numerous to set up for ourselves, and to protest against the inference. We have stood before Turner's pictures at this Exhibition with one of his worshippers, one of the initiated, and were quite astonished at all he saw, not an iota of which crossed our vision. Fancy goes a great way but all that! it is truly wonderful!-are we legitimate in taste? Let us speculate by a tale. Oelen Spiegel, in one of his adventures, came to a prince who was very ostentatious, and was then em. ployed in building a palace to increase the splendour of his court. He credulously received all who flattered himand complimented him on his magnificence. Being ambitious to engage celebrated artists, Oelen Spiegel made up to the court, and introduced himself to the Prince as a distinguished painter. He offered him the painting of a grand hall, which the pretended artist readily undertook, and proposed to the Prince a design of many wonderful things, triumphal processions, palaces, gardens, rivers, fountains, cascades, mountains, valleys, suns, moons, and stars, in wondrous variety of effects, yet all in the best order of arrangement. But he made it a condition that no one should be admitted till the painting was finished, and the Prince himself had inspected the performance, excepting, as it might be, some few of his nobles, who might be qualified to give him some advice. Oelen Spiegel locked himself into the hall, where none should see him work, and where the best fare, the richest viands, were taken to him, and there he occasionally splashed and daubed a few splatches of any colour that happened to be near him, on the walls. After some time, great impatience was expressed to see this work of art, which the long shutting himself up, and secret working, had led the imagination to conjecture to be far above all that had ever been done before. Oelen Spiegel then selected the most foolish and vain of the courtiers, and informed them that those who were base-born would not be gifted with the power of seeing the picture-his art having been acquired from an alchymist whose colours were peculiarly compounded, and possessed properties different from all others, so that the work could only be visible to those who were not base-born. Oelen Spiegel then took them into the hall, and, pointing to the daubed and disfigured walls, desired them to observe, here the Prince on his throne-there warriors-there philosophers-there groups of ladies_there palaces, terraces, gardens, fountains, rivers, mountains, valleys, sun, moon, and stars; and all in the best order of arrangement. After some time lost in this complication of bewilderment, they acknowledged that they saw, and ad

mired all that he said, privately convinced that there were some flaws in their birth; and so away they went, and expressed to the Prince their astonishment at the wonderful work and genius of the painter, reckoning up, without the omission of an item, all the beautiful things Oelen Spiegel had enumerated to them. After this, others were admitted, who acted in the same manner; and last of all the Prince came. At first he doubted how he should act, but determined very wisely - declared that Oelen Spiegel was the greatest of painters, and rewarded him most amply; and all the courtiers vied to confer honour upon him, and concluded that their Prince was the most, if not the only, legitimate prince in the world.

What, then, must be said of No. 43. Here is a Turner; "The Fighting • Temeraire,' tugged to her last berth to be broken up. 1838." "" The flag which braved the battle and the breeze,' no longer owns her." Is this, then, one of the dozen held so cheap? No; we retract. It is very beautiful -a very poetical conception; here is genius. But we think it would have lost none of its beauty, had it been more true. The unsubstantial and white look of the vessel adds nothing to the feeling rather removes it; and the sky, glorious as it is, would not be less so, if the solemnity were kept up on both sides. It is, however, a work of great effect and feeling, and worthy of Turner when he was Turner. How painful is it to turn from such a picture as this, and look at 360, "Pluto carrying off Proserpine?" Here we have a redhot Pluto frying the frigid Proserpine. Fire hissing in contact with ice. Why is all the ground (how unlike the plains of Enna) an iceberg ? but that fire may blaze to represent the passion of the god, and that heaven and earth should personify the unmelting heart of the cold goddess. But here is something very miraculous. Here are red-hot stones, and clothes upon them unburnt. Turner's draperies are all asbestos: and here are figures that look like sulphureous tadpoles. It is really detestable and childish in colour, composition, and in every thing belonging to it. And here, 463, "Cicero at his Villa"-of the same character. Poor Cicero! - leaving the

"Fumum, et opes, strepitumque Romæ,"

to find his Villa and all his neighbours' domains reduced to powder, alternating from red to white heat; the slightest shake, and all will sink like ashes into a shapeless nothing, and is very near it already. Poor Cicero! whose Villa, he fondly thought, would have yielded him a green and shady repose: and there he stands, having dipped his head and arms into a vermilion pot, as red-hot as a salamander, with his slave behind him, that cannot help him to a drop of water to plunge them in! How lucky it is their garments are asbestos; but he must lose his head and arms, they are turning to red cinders: and, looking closer, we see down below that such must have been the fate of his domes. ties, for they seem to have leaped upon the inverted flower pots from the earth in its conflagration, and there they stand-vitrified tadpoles. Are they meant for statues? Poor Cicero! his Villa vanishing before him, and he crying out, uncertain which will vanish first, he or his Villa, "Fumus et " no, not "Umbra sumus," for there is no shadow-crying out, his red-hot poker arms uplifted in his agony to heaven and earth-no, not that; it would puzzle geologist, architect, and horticulturist to say what is thereneither heaven, earth, nor any known element. And this is Cicero's Villa! If it is come to this, let not man hereafter take pride in any thing. Now, is this either nature or art? and such confusion-such fuzzy unmeaning execution! it looks scratched in with old broken combs, not with painters' brushes. And this is that height of taste which we have not yet attained. We sincerely hope we never may! But that is an argument that sets aside all reasoning, and under which any thing may stand for any thing. And here we have Ancient and Modern Rome, both alike in the same washyflashy splashes of reds, blues, and whites, that, in their distraction and confusion, represent nothing in heaven or earth, and least of all that which they profess to represent, the co-existent influence of sun and moon. It is too painful; and we stay our hand in disgust and in sorrow.

Nor is Turner the only one that plays strange vagaries. Why will not Sir David Wilkie let his genius shake hands with better judgment? We have before had occasion to find fault

with his wet, his dripping textures, and drab colours; but he can and ought to attend to expression. He is very kind in the catalogue to tell us what Sir David Baird is doing in his great picture, for we should not have found it out; never was there a figure less like a hero, insignificant, in the middle of the picture. Yet in this picture, so deficient as a whole, are beautiful parts, especially in grouping, though, we think, colour is wanting. But, is it possible that 503, Portrait of "Master Robert James Donne," can be by Sir David Wilkie ? It is most childish and weak-hard dots for eyes, and scratches for nose, and mouth, and hair! Straw dipped in mud!! Wondrously bad. He must have scratched it in joke, and exhibits it to win a wager. We can easily imagine that a painter from working too much upon one picture, may not only lose his correct judgment with regard to that picture, but temporarily in art generally. The eye, by intensity of observation, loses its nice perception of colour. This may partly account for the eccentricities of great

men in art.

There is a sad story in one of Balzac's Tales (le chef d'œuvre) of an old painter, who had devoted years of his life to one picture, meant to represent perfect female beauty. The old man's fame, and the real learning and knowledge of art shown in his conversation, led to the most extravagant expectations of the perfection of the picture, which he had never shown to any eye, and which he always declared to be yet unfinished. Daily did he shut himself up with his wonderful work, adoring his own creation. At that time, Nicholas Poussin, being in Paris, a young man, with his newly married beautiful wife, is induced, after being delighted with the scientific conversation of the old painter, to suffer his wife to sit to enable the old man to complete his work. The inducement to Poussin is, the permission afterwards to see the picture, now, as the painter said, complete, all but one foot. Poussin is admitted. He sees a canvass daubed over and splashed with colours, without form; at the bottom of the canvass there is to be seen one beauti

ful foot-this was the part the enthusiast had not completed. Doubtless, all the rest had been equally well painted, the impression of the figure

permanently fixed in the mind of the artist, not thence to be obliterated when he had destroyed it on the canvass. He saw and pointed out eloquently beauties which only existed in his own imagination.

We knew an artist of great talent who had thus overworked himself, and, from being the most modest of men, became impatient of every remark in which praise was not the principal ingredient. On looking at a picture he had painted a few years before, he told the possessor he could greatly improve it; permission was given, and he brought his palettewith his palette knife he plastered little white clouds all over the sky, and called in the possessor with pride, to show how he had improved his picture by "peopling the sky with angels!"

Maclise has great power of drawing, and is master of character; and very original. He should pay more attention to his colour and chiaro scuro. His scene from "Midas," his "Robin Hood," and his "Gil Blas," are deserving of great praise, and are full of the best characteristics of his style. 103, "Christ blessing little children." There is a female and child in the corner very lovely, and worth all the rest of the picture; we will venture to suggest to Mr Eastlake, that a little more vigour in the handling would not hurt the subject. It is, however, a very sweet picture; we should have preferred the children if more varied in size. 129, "The Sonnet and its Companion" are very beautiful, by Mulready; somewhat too hot, but they are gems. 138, "The Rising of the Pleiades." This is the oddest fancy of Mr Howard, of being for ever among the stars. We cannot imagine the Pleiades, who have their heavenly duties to fulfil, to be in the least like these women in the clouds, with their lower extremities so bundled up in bags. This is their risingwould they would set, and for ever! Leslie's "Dulcinea del Toboso" is capital; but is it the character? Perhaps Mr Leslie's conception of it is right. 204, "A Protestant Preacher," H. Scheffer. This picture has some capital heads-the black back of the principal figure is rather unfortunate. 210, Much as we admire the grouping and drawing of Mr Uwins, we cannot reconcile our eyes to the hot colour, which so preposterously abounds in

his pictures. This, of the Bay of Na. ples, and Peasants, is of that character. Mr Uwins is, with some others, of the school of one Peter Schlemel, who sold his shadow. We see pictures now-a-days, which, in that respect at least, have been sold, and sold again. 221, "Calvin on his Death-bed," T. Hornung; admirably painted, has some very fine heads, perhaps Calvin's the least good. 241, "Pluto carrying off Proserpine," W. Etty. There is very striking beauty here. The car and horses are worthy of tlie management of Dis; but has not Mr Etty made a mistake in Pluto? We do not remember ever to have heard that he was a native of the coast of Guinea. Who can wonder at Proserpine's objections to a subterranean Nigger? Is not one of the attendant nymphs, with an extraordinary bosom, out of drawing? His models were probably nipped in the waist by tight stays. The picture is well coloured, and of poetical conception altogether. 264, "Rhyme of Ancient Mariner," J. Severn. This is admirably imagined, and the colour keeps up the awful mystery perfectly. 351, "Van Amburg and his Animals," Landseer. Landseer is here quite himself, and fully keeps up his reputation in all his pictures this year. This picture has been animadverted upon, as a tasteless order. We are quite of another opinion. The subject is surely in itself good. This extraordinary and true friendship between man and the most savage beasts. The velvet texture of the creatures is admirably preserved; to speak of their character would be superfluous. He is the poetpainter of animals. His human figures in comparison with them, are failures. We wish we could prevail upon this great painter to discard or moderate his drab colour, of which he seems so fond. It makes all his ground, which should be substantial, a disagreeable surface, and frequently very washy. 377, "Quentin Matsys, the blacksmith of Antwerp," R. Redgrove. done, Mr Redgrove! The story is told excellently well. The admiration of the old man, the suspense and. anxiety, yet not without hope, of the maiden, and the manly expression of the patient lover, confident that he had performed his task, are proofs of very high talent. 389, "Lady Jane Grey at the place of Execution," S.

Well

A. Hart. This is surely a very fine picture; the figure and expression of Lady Jane Grey perfect. It is near being well coloured; a very little more would make it so. This picture raises English art in the line of his tory. We are scarcely less pleased with his "Edward and Eleanor," 187. These are subjects of deep pathos, the painter may congratulate himself upon such choice; may he find substantial reasons for pursuing them. 471, "St Dunstan separating Edwy and Elgiva," W. Dyce. This is another specimen of our advance in the historical line; it bespeaks great promise; the energy of the principal figure is admirable; if there be a failure, it is, perhaps, in a deficiency of grace and of feeling in Elgiva. But there is no failure here in that respect in 505, "Olivia's return to her Parents from the Vicar of Wakefield." How beautiful, very beautiful, are the two sisters! Perhaps the Vicar and Mrs Primrose are less true, but we can only think of the two loveliest of sisters, and congratulate Mr Redgrove, and hope it is no great sin to say, we covet his picture. The story of " Columbus asking Bread for his Child," William Simson, 519, is another proof of our advancement of improvement in painting, as well as subjects. We like 524, " Invocation to Sabrina," J. Wood; not that we think it quite successful; the attempt is one of difficulty; it has the merit of poetical thought. We said there were no landscapes, what shall we say then of Lee? What is his river scene, Devonshire, 13? It is good, at first sight very pleasing; but we look for what it does not but should give, more of the brilliancy of such a scene; in lieu of which we have conventional, loose execution, to represent, not to be, the sweet, green, and jewelled leafage

that loves to look into nature's mirror. We doubt if the cottage is not an intrusion, and, besides, dislike its colour. This style of subject wants more substance, and rich substance of paint; it is too flimsy and conventional. Are we hypercritical? What will Mr Lee think? Still we want landscape. 428, "The Bride of Lammermuir," R. S. Lauder. To this very expressive picture, we returned again and again. It is highly pathetic_the story could not be better told. The Master of Ravenswood is quite a masterpiece. The character could not have been more perfectly conceived; we augur that Mr Lauder will do great things. How many must we pass over that are in our note-book; but not 394, "Othello relating his adventures," D. Cowper. It is broad and simple, and admirably painted, with good expression: if we doubt at all, it is if Othello should express any wonder at his own tales; we think he does, more particularly in the hand. It is, perhaps, out of our province to say much of portraits. There are so many, and some of them so hideous; sometimes the fault of sitters, and sometimes of painters, that, after seeing a few, we generally pass over the rest. There are two that struck us as the best. 301, Portrait of " Author of the City of the Sultan," H. W. Pickersgill; and 498, Portrait of "Robert Peel, Esq.," J. Linnell. We take our leave of the Exhibition with the greatest hopes of the English schools; and repeat that, however severe we may appear to have been upon some works _ and, we believe, we have been only just there is so much excellence pervading the Exhibition generally, that the country may be proud of British Artists.

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