FINE ARTS.

BIRMINGHAM EXHIBITION OF MODERN ART.

(Continued from page 203.)

HAVING engaged a franked seat out and home, on the 30th ult. I made another journey to Birmingham solely for the gratification of again committing to paper a few additional notes from the productions of the British pencil and chisel, now open to the public in the Academy of the Society of Arts. I spent the greater part of that and the succeeding day with unabated pleasure, and left the rooms with regret that my avocations did not permit me to make a longer stay. For, in plain truth, it would require very many days to examine and fully appreciate the various works of inerit in that splendid collection. I now submit the following remarks to your readers, with a hope of contributing my small share of aid, as a gratuitous volunteer, to keep the important subject of modern art stirring in the public mind. My restricted limits and ill health confine my pen, but the three local newspapers will, no doubt, feel an honest pride in furnishing regular critical notices, during the exhibition, and will give a well-merited support to those laudable efforts of their townsmen, and the genius of the British school.

But, first, let me observe that the 8th, 9th, and 10th lines from the bottom of page 202 in your last "Analyst," ought to have been thus:"In the sculpture room, there are two superb busts in marble, by P. Hollins, one of them the Hon. Mrs. Norton, the other John Bird, Esq. These, with a noble model of Wm. Hollins, Esq. and his marble statue of the daughter of Vincent Thompson, Esq., a production of exquisite taste and beauty, place this sculptor in the first class of his profession."

"138-Portrait of Mrs. Massenger"—a half-length, with a hand introduced, by T. Wyatt. The face is nearly in a front view; the head clear and well coloured, with a mellow freshness in the flesh tints, a great look of individual nature, and a spirited effect of light and shadow. It is painted with a strong, free pencil, sufficiently sharp and delicate in deciding the features and lighter parts of the dress.

The hero of "345," by R. T. Bone, is a youthful troubadour, of a genteel figure, with hat and feather, in the gay costume of the chivalrous ages, in search of adventures. A greyhound is crouched behind him, as he stands near the centre, in an appropriate attitude, bending respectfully down, relating his "moving accidents" in castle, hall, and bower, to three young ladies, and their mother. They are seated on the greensward, with refreshments beside them, under the umbrageous canopy of a lofty grove. The fair listeners are in the attire of rank, and agreeably grouped. Their positions are pleasingly contrasted; a back-view, a front, and a profile. The matron rounds the group, and a wide-mouthed page and ugly black boy, standing immediately beyond them in attendance, give it fulness. The landscape is well designed and freely painted, in a quiet, subordinate tone. The colouring is mellow; and, amidst much attraction, I see nothing to question but the red on the cheek of the lady in profile: it appears rather obtrusive, and wants something of the delicate clearness of nature.

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"338" by G. A. Vickers. The attention is here fixed at once. fishing vessel, in a bold, picturesque view, is making good her entrance

into Calais harbour. She is so near as to constitute a large fore-ground, or rather fore-water, object, occupying the centre, in, what sailors term, "the chops" of the haven, and within hail of the pier, which lies beyond her to the left, in the middle distance. The vessel and her crew are partially in broad shadow, or tender half-tints, well kept together, and having no sails set, she is finely relieved from a mass of white clouds rising above the horizon and beautifully flickered up the clear blue sky. The detached forms of these snowy clouds, as they ascend, like silvery fleeces, are painted with a lightness of pencil and sparkling lustre, which must suffer by any description. On the right side, shipping are under sail in the offing. The dark masses on the vessel, and those in gradation on the sea and pier, are large and effective; and the sailors in varied and spirited action, particularly the one, in a fore-shortened front-view, stooping down over the side.

This arrival is well chosen, and the artist has done it and himself ample justice. He has not crowded his canvass with a multiplicity of claims, and, thereby, lessened the interest of each. The objects are few and cleverly treated; a principal and subordinates, each setting off the other, and maintaining its proper distance and character. The waves are of an open, picturesque form; of a transparent hue, and in dancing motion. They remind me of a line of Dr. Young's, in his "Ode to Ocean," in which the waves "dance on, in measure, to the shore." The execution is of a standard quality, firm and solid, but sufficiently free, without the slightest tendency to that bane of art, a flourish of the pencil, to attract the ignorant by a false show of manual spirit. These tricks, like clap-traps from brainless actors in the theatre, are rarely resorted to by artists, who are conscious of better claims. The colouring is vivid, but the brightness of that lovely blue sky is so balanced and toned by transparent sober tints, or mellow shades on all beneath the horizon, that it presents the aspect of a fine summer day and a favourable breeze in shore, with a brilliancy, freshness, and truth, which are absolutely exhilarating. With all this beauty, it has a peculiar attraction in its pure originality of style. Not a touch reminds you of any ancient or modern master. As we stand before it, we think of nature, without any reference to art, but that which affords us so unalloyed a gratifi

cation.

"27-The Cow-yard," a small cabinet painting, by J. Linnel. On the left side, a cow is seen in a field, through an opening close to the upright trunk of a huge pollard. A man, carrying the milk pails, followed by his dog, is entering the yard. A woman, milking near him, is almost lost in shade, and, evidently, grown black, by a change in the colours. A white cow occupies the centre, and a man, beyond her, is busy at the door of the cow-house, which stands behind. These, with some cocks and hens, on the right side, form the principal materials of the picture. Every part is composed with great care, and elaborately finished. The works of this very clever artist are justly valued in many distinguished collections, and their fine truth of nature has often afforded me high pleasure. He has always evinced a strict attention to the details of close wood-land and farm scenery; and one could see that his sketches were selected in his walks with a discriminative eye. With what a simple charm he has painted, and can paint, the hoary elm scathed by lightning, or the aged oak, half-stripped of its bark, and branching out its giant arms in picturesque variety. Not many artists can paint with more fidelity an earthy bank, shaded by a few trees, enriched with mosses, herbage, clumps of stone, a fallen log from the woodman's axe, a plash of water for the cattle, and the cottage or farm-house, with its irregular hedges and half2 M

NO. IV.

ruined paling. These, with some rustic figures, the good man, his dame, and one or two chubby children; his dog, a cow, cocks and hens, an old ragged horse or ass turned out to graze in the green lane, or by the road side, formed his usual favourites. His gray, sober tints, his dark verdure, his adherence to truth, often reminded me of Ruysdael, Wynants, Hobbema, and other of the best Dutch and Flemish masters, and showed that he had closely studied their style, perhaps too much so, as it is possible for a man of genius to lose somewhat of the freshness of nature in looking too intently at the beauties of art. But no artist is equal in all his works; and we must not judge of Linnel, who has produced so many excellent pictures, by the one now under notice. I may be mistaken, but to me the cow-yard appears to be a very early performance, and changed through the effect of time. The white cow in the centre, is formal, and but ill connected with the other figures; the penciling is too much laboured, and the colouring somewhat dry and hard. There is, also, a want of gradation in the light and shadow, and of clearness in the effect, although all the parts are good in themselves. "23-Portrait of Wm. Hollins, Esq.," little more than the bust, by H. Room. This is a well-drawn head, warmly coloured, with a bold open breadth of light; a strong, unaffected look of nature, much freedom of pencil, and a mellow effect.

337-View in the Neighbourhood of Clifton, the Severn and the Coast of Wales in the distance," by J. J. Chalons. This justly admired prospect, which commands so great an extent and rich a variety of land and water, of level and mountainous country, affords a fine study. The artist has kept the colouring cool and chaste; but produced a bright, bold effect, by spirited shadows. The eye is carried over the remotest passages with felicitous illusion. In this difficult point of aerial perspective, he has been eminently successful, and the scenery has lost none of its romantic interest in his transcript. Á rough, white horse is grazing near the fore-ground; and on the same line, under some towering trees, a rustic man and woman, in a low cart, and a back-view, are driving up into the country. There is a magnificent breadth of light diffused over the sky, the river, and landscape; and the disagreeable hard manner of penciling, which, in some of this artist's pictures, offends the eye, is not noticeable here.

"470-The Quarrel of Adam and Eve," by H. F. Goblet, a large upright cabinet size, of great merit. Adam is in a posture of extreme agitation, turning away from Eve, and attempting to bury his face in his hand, as it were to hide himself from earth and heaven; his other arm is extended, in the act of repulsing her supplications. The action is vehement, but not extravagant; and his head, shoulders, chest, and all the upper part of his figure, are well designed; the hands and arms particularly so. The style, in which the muscular details are marked, is vigorous and in good taste; it shows that the artist has closely and successfully studied the living model. The general effect suffers, perhaps, a little, by the breadth of shadow across the middle of his person, but that is a point relative to the light and shadow; it does not lessen the merit of the drawing, expression, or action. He stands firmly. Eve is a good figure. She rests on one knee, with her arms extended, as if about to rise and prevent his abandoning her, by soothing him into forgiveness. In such an imploring attitude, it is very difficult to avoid an appearance of wildness in the limbs, or to prevent the light from being, in some degree, broken against a dark back-ground, by their extension. But there is much strong feeling and just conception in the design, and of elegance in her form. The colouring is not rich, but mellow, and of a sound his

torical tone; and the whole invention and execution are highly creditable to the powers of the artist.

"522-A design from the Revelations, c. xii. v. 7," by S. W. Arnald. -And there was war in heaven! Michael and his angels fought against the Dragon."-This is an upright study in chiaro-scuro; and, from the great number of groups, the variety of action, attitude, and expression, the difficult foreshortenings, anatomical science and copious invention, a description of it would require every page of "The Analyst.' Any limited attempt would be a great injustice to the artist. I am, therefore, very unwillingly, forced to content myself with calling attention to it as a most extraordinary production of an extraordinary genius: a mine of wealth, which may be visited every day for a month, and, still, afford fresh gratification. When I turn my eyes, from the grandeur of this composition, to "529," this artist's splendid model, the Murder of the Innocents, and consider the deep science and great style of both, I cannot help expressing an earnest wish that a genius, so compre hensive, may be speedily employed on some public work, to his own honour and emolument, and the glory of his country. The young mind, which could venture on such arduous undertakings, and display such powers in their execution, is a national treasure, and ought to be turned to account by the State without delay. His small model, "515-The Iron Age," strongly reminds me of the antique statue of the Gladiator. It is the very spirit of terrific violence personified, yet is there the collected method of a master in that destructive movement. There is much elegance and grace in " 500," his model of "The Golden Age,” but, apparently, not as scrupulous an attention to the forms.

R. Westall, R. A., in "400," has represented Cupid reposing in an embowered recess, in the mystic groves of Cyprus. The god of love slumbers on a splendid couch, with cushions of purple silk and a shadowy curtain of the same colour drawn up on the branches above. His head rests on his elbow, or rather on the raised hand, and the other is negligently stretched across before him. The position is not without a difficulty. The face and upper part of the person being in a front view; the lower limbs in profile. The brilliant effect of the rich and glowing flesh is heightened by the cold, clear purple and azure of his wings. The picture is much admired, and its surprising lustre attracts every eye; but, perhaps, some pearly half-tints would have sweetened the tone of the carnations without lessening their brilliancy. The sunbeams dart down, with a dazzling effulgence, on the golden autumnal foliage of the recess, in which he reclines; and this blaze of light is kept up by contrast with an impervious wood, which extends immediately beyond it, in a midnight depth of shadow. The combinations of colour are so surpassingly gorgeous that few pictures unless by colourists of Rubenesque power, would have any chance near it. We must suppose the amorous Deity is engaged, in his dreams, on some sly mission, for one of his wings is gently raised, as if about to take flight, and increase the number of his victims.

"360-Glad Tidings," by C. Landseer. A small three-quarter length of a young lady, seated with an open letter in her hand, which she is reading. Whether the chosen of her heart has escaped the carnage of battle; or, just landed in merry England, after a long absence; or, has written for leave to solicit her parents to name the day for their union; we are left to guess. But the flush of joy on her countenance and the bloom of seventeen, are heightened by the glowing reflections from her rosecoloured dress. These reflections are painted with an exquisite tenderness and truth, which far surpass any finishing of the most admired of the Dutch and Flemish masters in their characters from genteel life.

The artist has been eminently successful in the drawing, penciling, colouring, and expression; her face is a model of English beauty. It reminds me of Donne's admired lines. I think they are Donne's, and I quote them from a forty years' recollection, perhaps, not very correctly:

"Her pure and eloquent blood spoke in her cheeks and so divinely wrought, That it would almost seem her body thought."

The forms of her person are delicately rounded, and the air of elegance and fashion in her dress and manner, is chastened by an ineffable look of purity. Her hair and female ornaments are disposed with a graceful simplicity; and her beauty is rendered more beautiful by the temperance with which she appears to restrain the warm and overflowing emotions of her heart. The accessories and background are- -but, away with the accessories! With all their excellence, I cannot think of their merits just now; with that face, that form, that innocent, impassioned loveliness before me! Here we may throw down the gauntlet, England against the Continent. For the power of painting all that constitutes the grace and flower of polished life;-of painting sentiment, mind, passion, soul,-all the modest charms of virtue in a lovely form, Charles Landseer against them all! Let it be remembered, I, here, speak only of genteel life,- —as I have not seen any effort of his in the higher department of history.

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358-Sad Tidings," by the same painter; a chamber scene, also. This young lady is seated, with one arm extended listlessly down, holding on her lap, the fatal letter, which has, in a moment, for ever crushed the innocent hope of her first affection. That scroll has, at once, turned the world, and all its pomps, into a frightful void to her. One elbow rests on the table before her; the fair hand pressed against her drooping forehead, as if to restrain the agony of her throbbing temples. Her face is in profile, and her hair falling in negligent ringlets. But what a contour is there! How delicate! how lovely!-How deep! how intense! yet how still, the sorrow on those charming features! I have, already, observed, there is an unconscious listlessness in the fall of her arm; and the same is visible in the manner of her holding the letter, and in the drooping forward of her head, as if pressed down by the stunning weight of the blow.

A melo-dramatic designer would have looked into the green-room of some theatre for a model, and represented her with a violent action; her elevated bands clasped, or sawing the air; her dress in a flutter; her head thrown back; her eyes raised to heaven, and a flood of tears rolling down her cheeks. All this would be admired, in certain boudoirs, as very fine. But the more show off, the less sympathy. We would look on the Tragedy Queen with coldness or disgust, as on an impostor attempting to extort compassion under false pretences. How vastly superior this! Here is no attempt to make a scene ;-no forced artifice to attract or excite. Far from any show, she appears to have turned her eyes inward on herself, as if forgetful of every other being in existence; as if all had died with one! Her feelings, her mind, her soul, and every living faculty, are absorbed in one overwhelming thought. All else is hushed; all immovable as the grave. Yet how moving, (if I may use it without appearing to play upon the word), that immobility! Hers is a grief like that so forcibly described by Shakspeare. Here, again, I quote from a long recollection, and, perhaps, I mar the text;

"The grief, that cannot speak,

Whispers the o'ercharg'd heart, and bids it break."