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does not retain a single impression. If any very charitable reader, who may possess Mr. S.'s edition of the Spanish Don, would have the kindness to cut out the four frontispieces, and send them directed to Cornelius van Vinkbooms, care of Messrs. Taylor and Hessey,' I shall be duly thankful (always provided they be not retouched); as I am, and have been for some time, making a collection of engravings from Stothard, and have not at present more than 800; among which, however, are Mr. Weathercock's favourite series from Robinson Crusoe, by Medland! The smooth, spiritless, modern repetitions, with the name of Charles Heath, in Cadell's edition, I had; but have since turned them out.

Now look up to the top of the room, and tell me if the man who composed Lysander, Hermia, and Puck, (27, Singleton,) ought not to paint a thousand times better, and without such superabundance of manner and flimsiness? One year's occasional study from the antique, from the life, and from Ludovico Caracci, would restore all.

That is a very splendid picture of the modest Mr. Hilton's (Nature blowing bubbles); but I don't see why a fine plump young woman, lying under the shade of ardent sunflowers, on the sandy margin of a splashing fountain, and idly busied in bubbling water through a reed, should be dignified with the abstract title of Nature. However, it is not fair to try the ornamental style by the severe rules of the epic or dramatic. With Mr. H., the subject is merely considered as a vehicle for contrasted postures, and effects of colour: of course it would be ridiculous to censure the artist for fulfilling his own intentions:-these intentions he seems to have completely achieved. His attitudes are well chosen; his grouping and chiaroscuro are pleasing, if not striking; his drawing is correct; (I must except the face of the fair-haired child with the coronal of convolvoluses, which smells a little of Rubens;) the colouring at once clean and rich, gay and harmonious; his lights well impasted; his shadows transparent; and his execution airy, yet firm-delicate, yet bold. The in

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vention is certainly rather common place; and Mr. H. has a complete, disregard for harmony of lines. The folds of his drapery, and the forms of his wild plants and flowers, are awkward and stiff: they have been, dashed in quite at random: he has never thought about them: and the effect on an eye accustomed to the grace and scientific drawing of Giulio, Parmegiano, Bonasone, and our Lawrence, Stothard, and Edward Burney, is very disagreeable. Mr. Hilton will take the trouble to look candidly at G. Ghisi's large print of Cephalus and Procris, Bonasone's Vendanges de Venus, (Bartsch, vol. xv. No. 3,) or the arrangement of the curls in M. Antonio's Dance of Children, or his large Supper from Raffaello, he will instantly comprehend my objection. Whether he will condescend to pay any attention to this hint, I doubt; at all events, I have offered it with the most perfect good-will towards him, which I hope will excuse the freedom of the style. Those who, like myself, have closely observed this artist's progress, will no doubt join me in esteeming the flesh of his Nature as the finest he has yet produced. Her swelling breast palpitates.

I like J. Chalon's Green-stall (144) very much; it looks clean; there is such a pumpkin! as Grimaldi says. No. 145, Le Billet, A. E. Chalon, RA. is of course a most fashionable look ing scene: the arch expression of the young lady in the black satin Spanish dress is very bewitching, to my notions: and I wish that I had been the lucky man, instead of Mr. Chalon (it is a portrait); though very likely, for my own sake, it is just as well as it is. Heigho! but I must not be fickle, and forget Susanne.*No. 155, The Interior of a Stable, with Portraits, Agasse, is most naturally touched; and I am very glad that it has a place in this room. Howard has a poetical design from Spenser, The House of Morpheus (159); and Mr. Cooper a spirited Portrait of a Hunter (165); the sky background of which outrages nature, without gaining effect.

In the corner stands Sir Humphry Davy himself, by the President. The features are most scientifically and

A picture in the last Exhibition.

feelingly drawn; every shape is made out-nothing is blurred; yet the whole together is broad, light, dashing, and apparently even careless. Ward has a Horse, brilliantly painted, with great power of brush ;-and, next to it is the Eriphile, of the Keeper-a picture of much force in the actions, colouring, and chiaroscuro. The composition is extremely simple and severe, and is rather monumental than picturesque. I think the attitude of the traitorous wife has been hinted at in the antique; if so, Fuseli has made a noble use of it. In the murky veil which only half discloses the Furies pouring hot on the chase, the acute observer will

detect some admirable tones.

The venerable West, by Sir Thomas, is of sterling merit-the ease and character of the attitude; the breadth, richness, depth, and grand sobriety; show at once the pre-eminence of the style of Titian, over the too frequent blusterings and attitudinizings of Vandyke. The whole length of Viscountess Pollington and her Child (208) is a gentle and touching image of motherly tenderness; and, by possessing the power of exciting general sympathy, deserts the class of portraiture for that of history. It is worth a hundred of Carlo Maratti's Madonnas. Below this, is a very pretty Lady's Head, by Pickersgill, which would be better if it had more of Lawrence's spirit, without so much of his worst manner. Stothard has a large repetition of part of a smaller picture, exhibited some years ago, and which, I fancy, is engraving as a companion to the Canterbury Pilgrims. It represents a selection of Shakspeare's characters, from As You Like It, Lear, Macbeth, and The Tempest, together with Falstaff. It has, of course, great beauties; but wants fire, both in the conception and execution. Miranda is innocence personified; and the group of Lear and Cordelia is worthy of the artist's ancient name; but the Macbeth is feeble, mean, and mannered; which latter fault pervades the whole picture.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora, and the country green, Dance and provençal song, and sun-burnt

mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm south,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple stained mouth!

These beautiful lines, by the illfated Keats, are as beautifully embodied by Stothard, in his glowing design of The Vintage (20), on which I must dissert a little before I leave the room. Danby's Disappointed Love does his feeling and powers of judgment the highest credit. The whole scene is completely filled with the primary idea; but, at present, this artist may be compared to Mr. Wordsworth's poet, wanting the gift of verse; and his picture, to an ugly woman, with a beautiful mind. Mr. Danby has not apparently sufficient practice in oil colours, to paint his own pathetic conceptions; and there are but few observers who will give themselves the trouble to hunt for beauty of design, or invention, when the eye is discouraged by a forbidding execution. To point out particular faults, would be at present useless; another year of application will light me on my way more clearly. Leslie's May Day (8) is a very cheerful, pleasing picture; and, I believe, has enjoyed its full share of praise, though it is rather an object for one of Janus's sentimentalities, than for serious criticism-at least, I feel it so now, when I am tired to death of skipping from one thing to another-but, if I ever meet with it again, either in public or in private, I will try to do it more justice. There is a little too much of Smirke about it in the expressions and postures, to please me.

I fancy I may now proceed to the anti-room, where I find a very clever group, by Linnel-Lady Torrens, and Family. It is unequal; but parts are drawn with great skill and precision; witness the fore-shortened leg of the fine vigorous little creature on its mother's knees. The girl with the pallet is a most interesting figure; and the cast of features, hair, &c. reminds one not a little of Leonardo, or Luino; who, I shrewdly suspect, are as great favourites with Mr. L. as they are with me. Look at his charming portrait of Mrs. Brooks The tone of his flesh is too low to (307), and tell me if I am not right. appear with advantage by the side of Phillips, Jackson, and Owen; otherwise, I think his principal work should have had a place in the School

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of Painting, at least: Pickersgill's Morning (340) might have made way; or Mrs. Annesly's Mistake, entitled Satan, &c. Martin's Revenge (379) would furnish matter for a very poetical article, but I must be brief; therefore briefly, Mr. M. if you value your own fame, brush out the whole of your frittered, shingly, gaudy foreground, together with those execrably executed figures put it in again in a broad massy severe style, so as to set off the sublime distance, and you will have achieved a work to live in the recollections of our posterity, when not a thread of your canvas remains. Do not despise this advice, because the giver is unknown to you; it comes from the greatest master of effect that ever lived, Rembrandt van Ryn! and, for a proof of my assertion, I refer you to his Jacob's Dream, in the Dulwich Gallery; or his large etching of the Three Crosses; from which you will practically learn how materially terror is increased by obscurity. This is a truism; nevertheless it seems quite new to Mr. Martin. S. W. Reynolds, jun. appears to possess talent; therefore, I am sorry he does not strive to imitate nature, rather than the manner of Sir Joshua's faded pictures. This is not the way to rival his great namesake, but it is the way to draw on him a repetition of the contemptuous classification, which confounded among the servile crowd the names of Salviati, Leandro Bassano, Baroccio, Alessandro Mazzuolo, Jordaens, Bramer, Flink, and Eeckhout. See Reynolds's Works, Sixth Discourse. Over the door, we have a Hebe! by a gentleman of the name of Stroehling; and, I think, it can be safely set down, without flattery, as about the worst thing in the Academy. The President's West, and this, are the alpha and omega of modern portrait. Cat Grove, with the Winter Night's Fight between the Gamekeepers and Poachers (435, H. Corbould), has a great deal of merit-so have Nos. 366 and 421, by the Bones. Lane's Portrait of Dr. *(427) is not only well painted, as becomes a late pupil of Lawrence, but absolutely more like than the original.

Poor Relations, by Stephanoff, evinces very great and deep observation of nature. The expressions

are vigorous and true; the whole conception harmonized with a poet's power; that is, every thing about it tells the same story; it is pregnant with good sense (a great scarcity in modern art) and good feeling-it is a moral picture; it holds the mirror up to the world, and shows it the horrid deformity of its cold-blooded prejudices. We are all of us acting the part of this Old Lord Luxury in his easy chair, every day, and are not aware of it, in spite of Tom Jones and Mr. Stephanoff. I shall see the better for this couching as long as I live; so, I trust, will many more of us. This is being really a painter, not a mere ornamental colourist like Mr. ****. I have not time to point out all the variety of intelligence which is combined in this little picture; but I think that our Elia would manage it beautifully-let me suggest it to him. I must, however, before I go, compliment Mr. S. on the extreme modesty, freshness, innocence, and beauty, of the girl's head; a fair young rose from a drooping stock. I never saw a more interesting countenance. He was quite right in making her handsome, which is just as probable as that she should be the reverse; besides, his object was to strike at once on the sympathy; and beauty in distress will always excite pity, where deformity will create disgust!-There is still great room for improvement in the mechanical parts, especially mellowness of touch, and surface; but, these difficulties being overcome, Mr. S. will find himself at once in a higher rank than the delineators of bitten apples, cut fingers, and all the long list of the results of mere diligent observation and patient imitation of objects intrinsically worthless, and devoid of the genuine elements of either humour or pathos. I hope that Poor Relations is sold-if not, allow me to say, that 1507. could not be better laid out by a patron of art, than in the purchase of it. This is entirely my own valuation. I never saw Mr. S. in my life, and have no sort of communication with any one belonging to him; but I have casually heard a very high character of him for industry, and for struggling most worthily for fame and a livelihood, under truly disheartening_circumstances. To this moment, I be

lieve, he has never met with any thing like adequate reward. If this be true, I need say no more to an Englishman. Perhaps an effectual way of serving the artist, would be by causing a good engraving to be published at the risk of such individuals as may choose to enter into a subscription for that purpose, the profits to be handed over to Mr. S. I am too much occupied, and my name is too obscure, for me to appear as a leader in this scheme; but what I can, I will; my ten guineas (and I wish they were twenty) are ready when called for; and one line to Mr. Fine Arts, care of Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, shall produce them in the course of two hours from receipt of

notice.

Several excellent pictures still hang on my hands; among which are Stothard's Vintage, Callcott's Dover Castle, Etty's gorgeous Cleopatra, Clint's Scene from Lock and Key, the sketch (Jealousy) by the unwearied Keeper, the Landscapes of Sir G. Beaumont, Cooper's Decisive Charge of Cromwell at Long Marston Moor, Phillips's Lady Harriet Drummond, Captain Hastings's Storm off the Cape, the beautiful works of Mr. Constable, W. Daniel's tremendous

Sea in the Bay of Biscay (an admirable composition), Stark's View near Norwich, and The Quarreling Scene hetween Sampson and Balthazar, Romeo and Juliet, by the improving Briggs. Most of these demand a much longer notice than my limits will allow; but I regret the omission the less, as they are all able to stand by themselves without my feeble props. I promise myself the pleasure of recurring to those of Fuseli, Stothard, Daniel, and Etty, at some future period—till when, I bid farewell!

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P. S. Dear me! I've quite forgot the Masonry!

P. S. 2dus. Mr. Elton will have the goodness to accept my sincere thanks for his unexpected compliance with my wish. I take his compliment, addressed to the Editor, all to myself, I assure him. Could he not afford the public some more selections from Nonnus, or his favourite Apollonius? I suppose that Mr. E. has seen the note prefixed to some selections from his Museus, in the preface to Marlowe's Hero and Leander, edited by Mr. Singer.

BALLAD.

I DREAMT not what it was to woo,
And felt my heart secure ;

Till Robin dropt a word or two,
Last evening, on the moor.

Though with no flattering words, the while,

His suit he urged to move,

Fond ways inform'd me, with a smile,
How sweet it was to love.

He left the path to let me pass,
The dropping dews to shun;

And walk'd, himself, among the grass,-
I deem'd it kindly done.

And when his hand was held to me,

As o'er each stile we went,

I deem'd it rude to say him nay,
And manners to consent.

He saw me to the town, and then

He sigh'd, but kiss'd me not;

And whisper'd, "We shall meet again,"
But did not say for what:

Yet on my breast his cheek had lain ;
And though it gently press'd,

It bruised my heart, and left a pain
That robs it of its rest.

JOHN CLARE.

LETTERS FROM EDINBURGH.

No. III.

To Dr. L. M. Allan, Mortimer Street, Cavendish Square, London.

MY DEAR DOCTOR,-You will think it strange, but it is nevertheless true, that I am growing tired of this place; the charm of novelty has faded, and, as if in revenge for the preferable hold of my feelings which I allowed it to take at first, my old associations are now rising thick about me, in all the bitterness of retributive infliction. Your last letter helped greatly to aggravate their severity; and, in spite of all our laughing at the sentimentalists, there are times when we ourselves would be justly the objects of our own ridicule. You pretend to scout my lachrymose account, as you call it, of the desolation of almost every spot of ground where the happiest moments of our lives were passed; and I am glad you pretend it, for, God knows, although nobody will accuse me of an undue participation in the cant of sensibility, particularly of that arising from boyish recollections; yet, I should never have the regard for you, my dear Allan, which you know I have, if I thought you utterly dead to what, with all our sneers, we must admit to be our natural feelings.

What is less strange, though unfortunately equally true, is, that the place is getting tired of me:-My friends seem to have done with me: now that we have necessarily ceased to interest, or rather to excite the feelings of each other, by remembrances of the past time, we drop into the insipid monotony of a time, which, to both parties, is, indeed, the ignorant present: I have no pursuit or interest in common with those in whose friendship I have had, and have, a high place; and we draw along together, each wondering at the outre subjects that engross the attention of the other. I cannot get one of them to understand why I have a feeling of regret for the demise of Johnnie Dowies, and why I would now rather have had a bottle of the real Younger in his coffin, than wallow in the best Maraschino and Chateau-Margôt of the Royal Hotel.

Edinburgh, June, 1821. The striplings call me Crockery, (a personage who has travelled North as well as East,) and affect to join in my groans over the alterations of the Regent Bridge, County Hall, Jail, Nelson's Monument, &c.; and, if the truth were told, I have my private lamentations over every one of these stupendous works: they led to the demolition of many places which events endeared to me, and to one which is interesting to almost all Europe,-The Heart of Mid Lothian,-which, woe is me, I was too late to get a last look of; I have, however, possessed myself of a snuffbox made out of its door. Now if these railers would step to the East Indies for a dozen years or so, and, upon their return, find their Ambrose's, Royal Hotels, and other places of modern resort, demolished for the sake of a bridge or a tolbooth, of which they never felt the want, they would understand how an alteration may be lamented, although it is a visible improvement. This subject would lead me into an endless disquisition,-it seems to me (without having considered it deeply) that it is the same principle that makes the old man the laudator temporis acti; time, in his case, effecting what absence and change of circumstances have done in mine.

When one reads and hears of the unparalleled improvements made in the whole construction of Edinburgh, during the last twenty years of the eighteenth century, one would think it impossible that there could be any improvement in the first twenty years of the nineteenth; just as in the world at large, we cannot imagine what there is at this time to be improved, discovered, or invented; and yet we have only to compare two periods, to be abundantly satisfied, that neither the world, nor Edinburgh, has stood, or will stand still. What changes in manners, even after their total new cast in the twenty preceding years!-what extension of intercourse! Here, for example, twenty years ago, it was much more rare

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