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sea, quietly anchored, as it were, along the island-shore of Venice, with the brimming ocean tranquil as a lake, reflecting bridge and crumbling palace on the water's verge. Of the works of Creswick, Stanfield, and Roberts, the world will never tire. They outlive the changes of a day, and, like Nature, with her cool refreshing shade, and smiling sunshine, and ocean of dashing wave and playful breeze, seem to make both mind and body the healthier and the happier.

Our English school, as we all know, has made itself famous for the painting of animals, no less than for the treatment of landscape and marine subjects. In Belgium, Verbockhoven is renowned for sheep, and in France, Troyon for cattle; but Landseer rules above all, king over the brute creation; and our own Cooper, we believe, has never been surpassed as a shepherd among flocks. Last year we were among the few who ventured to pronounce Sir Edwin Landseer's "Flood in the Highlands" a falling-off, and therefore it is with greater pleasure that we now declare at least his drawings in the present Academy, as a return to his former self. "The Shrew Tamed"--a high-bred horse of soft silken coat, dappled with play of light and shade as on velvet -subdued by a "pretty horsebreaker," is certainly unfortunate as a subject. This picture has been made the more notorious by "The Belgravian Lament," which took the well-known rider as a text whereon to point a moral. We hope it will now be felt by Sir Edwin Landseer and his friends that the intrusion of "pretty horsebreakers" on the walls of the Academy is not less to be regretted than their presence in Rotten Row. Landseer, however, regains his innate refinement in his three beautiful drawings, "Deer in the Highlands." His poet-eye for beauty, his deep sympathy for the animal creation, into whose soul of sorrow and sense of joy he enters with tenderest intuition, is best seen in these crayon

sketches taken from "The Marquess of Breadalbane's Highland DeerForest." In a companion-drawing— "The Fatal Duel"-the monarch of crowning antlers stands over his fallen foe, sinking into the snowfield with glazed eye and gored nostril. These studies are marvellous for facile, dexterous executionthe rough texture of the deer-coat given by a mere dusty drag of the crayon; the drawing, and even the anatomy, of head and limbs, indicated by a few strokes firmly put in just where wanted. Passing to Mr Ansdell, his picture of the year comes as a contrast to the Landseer refinement. His manner is uniformly loud and melodramatic. Last year he tore passion to tatters in his treatment of "The Lost Shepherd;" this time he intends to be still more heart-rending in the horrors of "Slaves Hunted" by bloodhounds. There is, it must be confessed, a rude, telling force in all that he paints. His pictures are free-spoken: they seem to exclaim, "Murder will out, the more blood the better; here goes for the whole truth at its very worst; he who shrinks is a coward." There is to us something brutal in all this, and we think that Lord Raynham, without much stretch of his wellknown sentimental charity, might include artists of these fierce propensities in the next bill for suppressing cruelty to animals. Landseer himself, we are sorry to say, would not be safe against indictment. We will conclude the present paragraph with a notice of the picture in which Mr Cooper follows up the success of last year. The first work wherein he exchanged the sunny fields of summer for the snow wastes of winter will be long remembered―


Crossing Newbiggin Muir in a Snow-Drift, East Cumberland." In this second picture, equally impressive, "Drovers Collecting their Flocks under the Fells," he is still in a snow-drift, and once again in East Cumberland. It were indeed hard upon artists to inhibit the telling of a story twice over. Of

trouble of analysis. Incontinently he wanders through his subjects, without caring for symmetry or system, till his pictures often take on the aspect of a detached episode cut out from a larger work, so that the spectator is tempted, as it were, to turn round the corner, or look to the other side, for the further continuance of a half-told story. This assumption of carelessness, or rather of incompleteness, is part of the present reaction against the classic school, which was studious, perhaps even to excess, in all that pertained to balance and proportion.


the first work we spoke in full; we shall not venture so far to imitate the painter as to repeat our thoughts for a second time. One thing, however, did strike us, which we did not record on the former occasionthe value of mere black and white as a cool retreat for an eye suffering from the satiety of colour. white winter of Mr Cooper is forced up by the gay summer-flowers of the Misses Mutrie hanging side by side; and in the same room is seen the golden autumn of Mr W. Linnell. In the loud clash of orchestral sounds which, in modern exhibitions, are not always concords, pictures such as these by Mr Cooper have the value of "brilliant flashes of silence."

Treating of colour, it is not easy to escape the immediate mention of two consummate masters in the art, Mr Hook and Mr William Linnell. All that is superlative in terms of praise has been lavished upon these names, as if critics determined to outvie in written words the intensity of the painted picture. Mr Hook has long sought to translate Venetian hues into the dusky tones suited to our clouded skies. The boatmen on our English coasts he dresses in russet shades, compatible with the rough work of northern British tars, yet not wholly repulsive to the refined intuitions of a southern eye. The class of subjects in which he glories is well indicated by the titles chosen for two among his present works-the one, "Compassed by the Inviolate Sea," the other, Sea Urchins." He loves to stand on the rocky walls of our wave-worn shores, and to paint the sun-burnt tenantry who dwell upon their waters. Rude humble life he subdues into quiet refinement, and the shadowed face of deadening toil and care he illumines by the warm glow of affection. And yet in his art there seems no artifice, and his compositions, even to a fault, are guileless in simplicity of arrangement. In this, indeed, his works are singular, and well reward the



Among works supreme in colour, perhaps the most intense and the most successful is Mr W. Linnell's Collecting the Flocks." There is, necessarily, some sameness in the landscapes which proceed from the father and the two sons in this gifted family. But we are glad to note from time to time the bold attempt to solve some new and difficult problem: each master-work bears indeed the mark of studious thought. In the landscape of last year, entitled "Atop of the Hill," Mr J. T. Linnell swept across the horizon a deep-blue range of mountains, which he treated in the manner of a Titian distance. In the present work, his brother introduces a bank of purple heather, which, likewise, has the value of an emphatic passage-gathering, by force of contrast and harmony, all surrounding colours to a climaxpassage in exact complimentary balance to the golden orange clothing Arcadian peasants, placed precisely in the spot where the weight of contrasted colour was wanted. To all students of art it becomes as instructive as it is pleasurable to mark the profundity and the exactitude of the science which, in such compositions, is brought to bear on a complex, and yet apparently simple, result.


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genius of Francis Danby, who is now for ever lost to the realms of art. But his works, as a treasured life beyond life, have within them an immortality. "The Opening of the Sixth Seal," "The Deluge,' 'The Evening Gun," and other pictures of the same noble purpose, were almost unexampled for the boldness of their imagination, the beauty of their colour, and their depth of refined emotion. They belong to a school which is now, unfortunately, all but extinct. With Francis Danby, we regret to think, has died the poet's eye which could look into the soul of nature; the hand which swept across the lyre, attuning grove and lake and river to sweetest harmonies.

severe censure, and serves to show the line of demarcation that should ever separate pictures of light surface-sentiment from sacred topics, which, by elevation and severity in treatment, must be raised above the level of common life. But it still remains the province, and indeed the privilege, of the multiform art of which we now treat, to take the world just as it is, in its joys, its tears, and its laughter, to delight by playful pleasing incident, to move through sympathy, to amuse by satire. Mr J. Clarke's two small pictures in one frame, "The Wanderer," and its sequel, "The Little Child Restored," are good examples of the pretty points which, in this class of subjects, please and tell so well. Mr G. Smith, on the other hand, in his

We now propose to throw into one general division those miscellaneous pictures of life and manners so successfully handled by our English school; a class of works which, in French art, has, for want of a better term, long been designated genre, as belonging to a certain, or rather, perhaps, to an uncertain, kind. Such pictures are necessarily varied, and usually admit of further subdivisions: there is the picture de societé, as, for example, when Mr Calderon paints, with point, delicate sentiment seasoned with sly satire, worthy of any Frenchman, "La Demande en Mariage." Mr Gale, likewise, in "The Father's Blessing;" Mr Lawless in "A Dinner-Party" and "Waiting for an Audience;" and, emphatically, Mr Hicks, in his sparkling little picture, "Life's Sunshine," all taking Meissonier and his school for their example, paint genre with a truly French relish. Mr Rankley, again, in "George Stephenson teaching the Misses Pease, in the garb of their sect, the art of embroidery, paints the Quaker genre. And worse still, Mr Horsley, with a text of Scripture in his mouth, renders the parable of the Prodigal Son into genre of the lowest kind, though his subject demanded the grave dignity of sacred art. Such a work, in our judgment, calls for

Seven Ages," in seven pictures, ranging from first to second childhood-a worn-out subject treated without novelty has sunk into merest genre, when he might, with advantage, have risen to the higher realms of poetry. Mr F. Stone, too, is unfortunate in his subjecthackneyed, and smacking of stage sentiment-"Claudio deceived by Don John, accusing Hero;" but inheriting a well-known name, we are glad to give him welcome, and to award to his picture the praise due to first-rate execution. Mr Rossiter's "Puritan Purifters,” zealous iconoclasts strenuously working destruction in a church, is, on the contrary, a good subject poorly painted. But fortunately it is not difficult to find works which are commendable equally in theme and in execution. Mr Phillip's sunburned beauties of Andalusia, "Gossips at a Well," are just of the style in which both painter and public have long delighted. "The Drinking-Fountain," by Mr Dobson, a similar subject, yet as widely different as London streets and English clothes are from Seville waysides and Spanish costumes, makes a pleasing picture, barring, of course, all association with those detestable monumental or sanitary



or teetotal designs, which the proverbially bad taste of town councils have inflicted upon the chief cities of the country. Mr Crowe gives us another form of genre, capital in its way, "Slaves Waiting for Sale in Virginia," broad in marked character, awkward in attitude, truth pushed to the verge of the grotesque. Let us end the present series with one or two works seasoned by comedy. Mr E. Nicol is a master in this line, and his two subjects, "Toothache" and "They Talk a Power of our Drinking, but never think of our Drought," speak loudly for themselves. It is, we presume, the merit of such pictures that they are painted with broad Paddy grin. Mr Marks rises to a higher level. His "Toothache in the Middle Ages," "We all came in with the Normans," and "Dogberry's Charge to the Watch," will not easily be forgotten. In his present pic ture, "The Francescan Sculptor and his Model," painted with mock solemnity, in grotesque guise of medieval times, he surpasses, we think, all like efforts. We have seldom seen wit, or rather humour, sustained on a scale so large and imposing, or the ridiculous exalted by so much gravity and mock dignity. It is a picture of originality and power, and so earnest and honest is its purpose, that the subordinate class to which it expressly belongs, is forgotten as we stand in the presence of a master work.

There are other pictures which, though falling under the general class of genre, demand more deliberate notice. The style of Mr Hicks has much of the sparkle and smooth outside sentiment of the French. In previous years this artist obtained renown by his "Rush to the Post-office five Minutes before Six," and his "Crowd at the Bank-Counter-Dividend Day;' and he now again indulges in a crush, this year still less select "The Fish-Women in the Market of Billingsgate !" The crowding of a canvass is not necessarily the composition of a picture, and

to excite curiosity is not always to secure approval; still, perhaps, we are fortunate, in the absence of Mr Frith, to obtain even this instalment on behalf of the sharp spicy school, addicted to pleasing trivialities. From a like want of concentrated composition, Mr O'Neil's picture of the year barely escapes falling into a disordered uproar of widows and mothers, and sister and brothers, and lovers, and tears, and sobbings, with appliances of white handkerchiefs, and all that is heartrending. Mr O'Neil, if he do not stop at once, will completely run down and ruin the good idea which some three years ago bore him on the crested wave of high success. His "Eastward, Ho!" followed by "Home Again," were impressive and novel. His present picture is of these two works a direct repetition, and comes as a sequel of trite commonplace. His former compositions were "uprights;" this is in shape an "oblong," and herein consists the chief difference. We recognise the same well-known London models shedding the same spasmodic tears, the same waving of white handkerchiefs, the same poses and stage attitudes suited to the tenderly pathetic. Of course MrO'Neil cannot avoid being clever and forcible, but a man of one idea telling a thrice-told tale is in danger of becoming recognised as an admitted bore. Mr Brooks's "LifeBoat to the Rescue" is of the same conventional sentiment, only tenfold worse-clasped hands, dishevelled hair, and common nature refined only by weak execution. Mr A. Solomon is another clever artist who indulges in cheap stage-sentiment. No man better knows the way to harrow up the emotions of a crowded gallery by noisy clap-trap appeals of virtuous declamation. Sometimes, indeed, we have thought this painter destined in the Academy to the same high popularity which has rewarded the Colleen Bawn at the New Adelphi. Last year, "Drowned, drowned!" from Hood's "Bridge of Sighs," like another drowned, drowned of

sensation-drama notoriety, obtained a coarse success. This year the versatility of the artist's genius finds mitigated intensity in the rôle of lighter comedy. His "Malade Imaginaire" comes as a farce the slight extravagant afterpiece that chases tears by laughter.

Mr Goodall is an artist of whom we speak with all respect and seriousness. In his works for several past years we have marked steady progress and careful study. His "Felice Ballarin reciting Tasso to the People of Chioggia," followed by the" Arab Encampment in the Wilderness of Shur," were among the most remarkable pictures in the two last Academies. His principal work of the present year is "The First-Born". '—a Nubian mother, on scale nearly life-size, almost statuesque in pensive pose of mournful thought. The subject is rendered still more impressive by the artist's style of colouring, which, systematically elaborate in previous works, is here more than usually deep and solemn. The rich bronze of an Eastern complexion finds skilful contrast and resolved harmony in emerald greens, and orange golds, and deep-shadowed purples. In the subtle management of lustrous tertiary colours Mr Goodall is closely allied to Mr Poole, one of the grandest colourists in modern times.

By what is termed the exhaustive process, we have at length arrived at an unforeseen anomaly. We have gone through a number of names in succession, and now the only artists which remain under the present heading upon our list are Mr Pickersgill and Mr Holman Hunt, the one telling against the other with the force of antithesis. Mr Hunt is the well-known champion of the PreRaphaelites; Mr Pickersgill may be termed, in the jargon of the day, an anti-Pre-Raphaelite, and is generally selected by critics to point a tirade against the old school; and his works are supposed to afford proof positive of the evils inevitably attendant upon the obstinate


adherence to obsolete methods. The name of Mr Hunt is of course, with these writers, in itself deemed a spell and a triumph. We need scarcely say that we do not wholly accord with these opinions. We have indeed no desire to make an idol of Mr Pickersgill, or to use Mr Hunt as a butt against which to shoot all the hard words which might be pointed against his school. Suffice it to say-whatever be the general merits of the two men and their respective systems-that at least in the present year Mr Pickersgill has succeeded in exhibiting a good picture, and Mr Hunt a bad one. "The Pirates of the Mediterranean Gambling for their Prisoners," is truly Venetian in luxury of colour, and likewise Venetian and Italian in its forms and the witchery of its beauty. On the other hand, Mr Holman Hunt's "Lantern-Maker's Courtship" is little short of a burlesque, in its studied ugliness and awkwardness, upon love and all that is lovely. Why will these men mistake outraged taste for originality? Why will they, moreover, so studiously make figures too large for canvasses, heads and hands out of proportion with bodies, and commit all other kinds of enormity? Why do they indulge in all this? Simply, we cannot but think, to make the world stare. In the centre of the opposite corner of the same room is hung a little work by Mr Lewis, of an Arab or Turk in a bazaar, seated on a divan. Why does not Mr Lewis give himself to the same eccentricities? Simply, we think, because he does not need them. A work of first-rate merit requires not to be tricked into notice.

Before passing to more directly historic works, we would say a few incidental words on the portraits of the year. Mr Watt's picture of Miss Alice Prinsep at the piano, is the best. In richness and originality of colour, in high and refined treatment, it transcends every other portrait in the Exhibition. A Roman study of a well


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