Statistics and Topography are at the lowest possible ebb. Scarcely any topographical work can be depended upon, for the compilers, instead of examining for themselves, almost invariably copy from each other, till names, dates, and places, form one confused kaleidoscopical display, apparently good as a whole, but full of shreds, patches, and imperfections, when examined in detail. The Parochial History of Scotland, now publishing, forms a noble exception to this censure, and we do trust, a work of a similar nature will soon appear in England. We have been led to understand that the Statistical Committee of the Worcestershire Natural History Society have been engaged for the last two years, with unwearied assiduity, in the laudable undertaking of collecting and copying documents, records, inscriptions, and other details connected with the physical history, antiquities, topography, and population of the county, and in collecting every curious fact on the subject within their reach, with the ultimate view of submitting their labours to the world. To these gentlemen, then, we look with confidence for something like an approximation to what we have in our mind's eye-a really accurate parochial history of Worcestershire, and we trust it will not have to be said that they have slept at their posts. In parting with the "Family Topographer" it would be disingenuous not to say that his list of Gentlemen's seats is very good and correct. This has evidently been subjected to the revision of a resident, and had the same care been observed with the other departments of the work, our language instead of reluctantly being that of reproach and censure, would have been that of unmixed commendation. G. AM. ONAND. SPINA, G. E. THE RULING PASSION.-Alonzo Cano, a Spanish artist, may be literally said to have felt the ruling passion strong in death; for, when the priest, who attended him, presented the crucifix, he turned his eyes away, and refused to look at it, because the sculpture was so badly executed! but asked for a plain cross, which, being brought to him, he devoutly embraced and expired. Voltaire relates that Camoens was shipwrecked on the coast of Malabar, or Mecon (in Cochin China according to Mickle), but swam ashore, holding up his poem, which he had mostly written at sea, in one hand, which otherwise had been, perhaps, lost for ever. Curran's ruling passion was his joke. In his last illness, his physicians observing, in the morning, that he seemed to cough with more difficulty, he answered, "that is rather surprising, as I have been practising all night." The study of grammar was the great passion of the Abbé Dangeau; one day somebody was talking to him of the apprehensions entertained that some great revolution was about to take place in public affairs; "that may be,” said the Abbé, "but whatever happens, I am extremely rejoiced that I have in my portfolio at least thirty-six conjugations perfectly completed." Mr. Day, the eccentric founder of Fairlop fair, had a housekeeper, who had lived with him for thirty years, and was equally eccentric. She had two very strong attachments: one to her wedding-ring and garments, and the other to tea. When she died, Mr. Day would not permit her wedding-ring to be taken off; he said, if that were attempted, she would come to life again; and directed that she should be buried in her wedding suit, and a pound of tea in each hand; and these directions were literally obeyed. Monsieur Restant, the French grammarian, after spending four score years in settling the conjugation of the irregular verbs, is said to have expired with this observation, "je m'en vais donc, ou je m'en vas (car il n'y a rien de decidè la dessus) faire ce grand voyage de l'autre monde." FINE ARTS. BIRMINGHAM EXHIBITION OF MODERN ART. (Continued from page 270.) "155-Portrait of a Lady," by J. Partridge. We have here more of the youthful grace of a Hebe than the majesty of Juno; or to approach nearer to the divinities of mortal mould, more of a lovely Juliet than of a Lady Macbeth. The painter could not well have chosen a fairer face or more elegant model. The charming oval of her countenance, and the mild and unaffected play of her features; the delicate beauty of her neck, shoulders, and bosom, her slender waist and beautifully rounded arms, compose a form of no ordinary symmetry and attraction. The entire of her person partakes of this delicate beauty, and the lines of her taper fingers flow gracefully within each other as her hands rest gently clasped on her lap. The beautiful form of hands is a point of high excellence, on which all skilful draftsmen pride themselves. They consider it a supreme test of their taste and ability in drawing the human figure. In Vandyck's portraits and Guido's historical pictures, the hands are a peculiar beauty. To paint two fair and beautiful hands clasped, and to preserve their beauty of form and colour, and graceful flow of outline, are still greater difficulties. Indeed, the chances of failure are so great that few portrait painters have courage to make the attempt. It is an action which, in a lady's picture, must be a beauty or deformity. The words, "rosy-fingered morning"-" rosy-footed hours," are not merely poetical expressions referring only to an imaginary colouring. In Circassia, the country most celebrated for female beauty, this colouring is general; and, in our clime, the fingers of a beautiful hand combine delicacy of form with a soft roseate hue. In the best works of the greatest colourists this is observed; and Partridge, in this lady's hands, has blended the charms of form and colour, without ever passing “the modesty of nature." There are many specimens of admirable execution in this delicious picture, but none more beautiful than those slender fingers and beautiful hands. Her complexion unites the nearest approach to the transparent whiteness of the purest Carrera marble, with the warm carnations of youth and beauty. Some idea of it may be found in a stanza of Mason's Elegy on Lady Coventry, which I insert here from memory : "Yes, she was fairer than your fairest bloom, But even these lines furnish only a general idea. A truer one may be formed by those, who have ever seen any of the beautiful Madonnas painted by Sasso Ferrato, whose female heads are so prized for their dazzling fairness. "Tete de Vierge," No. 129 in the Louvre, by that master, is a perfect example; and I think if that were placed beside this by Partridge, the tints on the forehead of each would be found nearly alike. In this portrait the delicate complexion and soft tinge of the rose on the cheeks, are set off by the dark hair, which falls in easy ringlets on either side, and is turned up in a loose tasteful plait, without an ornament, on the top of the head. There is no endeavour to increase the dark mass by a profusion of hair, in order to give a more brilliant effect to the pure carnations of the face and neck. Her face is slightly raised, nearly in a front view, but somewhat turned to the right; her eyes looking up, and her mouth gently half opened, with an unaffected smile of courtesy, as if cheerfully conversing with some agreeable friend, standing close to her, but not introduced on the canvass. The chastened gaiety of good breeding, and the natural flow of a lively, good temper, light up every feature. The expression is infinitely charming. It reminds me of an impassioned description of a smile, in one of Sheridan's dramatic pieces. I repeat it here from recollection, with some uncertainty of the exact words and order of the metre, but no doubt of the thought: "Her mouth, which a smile, devoid of all guile, Is the bud of the rose, in the morning that blows, In poetry it is comparatively easy to express a smile by the general idea, and the mind adds the enchantment; but, on canvass, the particular mode and exact form, also, are to be painted to the eye; and it is so very difficult to avoid falling into an affected simper or smirk, that it has been very rarely attempted. I do not remember any essay of the kind in all the portraits, which I have seen by Titian, Vandyck, Reynolds, or LawBut their not having tried one of the most delightful expressions of happiness, is no reason why it should not be attempted by others. Many French painters, about the middle of the last century, exerted their skill and gallantry on this point, but without adding to the charms of their fair sitters. An instance of the trial and complete success is now before the public in this performance. rence. The open light is favourable to the fairness of the carnations. The clear, pearly half-tints subside insensibly into the warm, tender shades, which are but sparingly introduced, and only just sufficient to round the delicate forms. A crimson flower in her bosom, and a silk scarf of mellow red, yellow, orange, and purple, skilfully blended and toned, harmonise the flesh tints, and keep up the vivacity of effect. The execution is that of a master; the penciling sweet, and worthy the hand of a Guido. The artist has amply acquitted himself, and the fashion of the lady's costume, alone, presents some alloy. The puffed-out forms of her dress on the upper arms, are according to the most admired mode of the haut ton; but are, by no means, in every particular, favourable on canvass. They not only are unpicturesque and ungraceful in themselves, but they hide the beautiful forms of nature. In this painting they seem to fly out as if put in motion by the wind, or by a sudden movement of the person. This occasions, at first glance, some appearance of a flutter in the effect, and of a studied display in the disposition. I confess something of manner, of a want of repose, and simplicity, was the first momentary impression on my eye; but it was immediately removed by the various merits of the whole picture. One sees plainly that this artist has been in Italy; that he studied the best models, and that he has not forgot them. Sir Joshua Reynolds has remarked that the extreme of the sublime, not infrequently approaches the ridiculous, and the lines of grace sometimes fall into those of affectation; in all such cases, there will be differences of opinion. Nature is a jealous mistress. A British portrait painter, who has one of his lovely countrywomen before him for his model, must bend his whole attention to transfer to his canvass the freshness of life, lest, by having his mind just then too much occupied by the tints of Titian and Vandyck, the portrait of his fair sitter should bear a nearer resemblance to the beautiful colouring of an old Italian picture, than to the roses and lilies of a living English beauty. Partridge has, in this instance, steered clear of this rock; but he occasionally approaches near it, and there are some clever artists not always so fortunate as to escape. Graham, of Edinburgh, one of the best portrait painters, perhaps, now living, was not free from this manner, on his return from Italy, some years ago, but he soon quitted it, and the northern beauties, now in his show-room, may vie in grace and freshness with those of any of his most distinguished competitors. "31-Dead Game," by E. Coleman, is a first-rate of its class, and, from its size, admitted a fulness of subject favourable to the display of this artist's versatile powers. From two productions of his, a small picture of fish, in the late Worcester Exhibition; and a dead hare and birds, in a silversmith's collection in High-street, Birmingham, I entertained a very high expectation: but I confess this is superior to what I looked for. A piece of still-life, a magnificent sculptured vase, standing in the centre, is a principal object, and, with two pendant hares, some birds, vegetables, &c. is tastefully disposed in a picturesque composition. The mellow decision of his penciling, is a high excellence in his portraits; but that quality is seen here to more advantage, as having a greater variety in the fur of the animals, plumage of the birds, and texture, surface, and colour of so many different objects. He has been eminently successful in the lightness, firmness, and truth of his touch, and the harmony of his effect. From its compass, the diversity of its materials, and the happy intermixture of delicacy and spirit in the execution, this may be impartially pronounced an honour to the artist. The collectors of dead game need no longer look for the works of De Vos, Snyders, or Jan Fytt, when they have it in their power to obtain so capital a picture as this from the pencil of Coleman. But here the amateurs of the order just mentioned, and of every other description, have another opportunity of gratifying their most fastidious judgment. Let them only look at that clear, mellow, fine specimen, "24.-Dead Game" by T. Wyatt; a hare and birds painted with a taste and beauty of penciling, and a truth of texture, colour, and shadowy force, which need not fear competition, and may hang up with any thing of equal size and subject, and make good its claim of honour. "349-Rabbits," also by this artist, is a delicate little morsel of truth, the stillness and sobriety of which are very pleasing, but not so well calculated for the lovers of a bold effect of light and shadow. It is remarkable that in these two capital specimens in their class, the fine effect is produced without a strong, principal light, to round the composition, and relieve the different objects. Yet so skilfully have the artists worked, that nothing appears to be wanted. But I should like to see a companion to Coleman's splendid picture, with a striking breadth of light. Suppose, as part of the materials, a dead swan; a white dog, partially spotted, on the watch; birds of silvery and party-coloured plumage, in various gradations, to blend the principal light in mellow union with the broad shadows formed by the dark game, the still-life, and background. Add some fruit and vegetables, to diversify the character, and enrich the colouring. I merely advert to the principle of chiaro-scuro. None but an artist like Coleman or Wyatt, could arrange the composition, and execute the details. A painting like this would make a fine variety of effect from "No. 31," and a most appropriate pendant to it. Each would set off the other. "364—Westminster Bridge, from Vauxhall Stairs," by Thomas Creswick: a most magnificent piece of perspective. Perhaps this view, although, heretofore, delineated by so many able painters, has never been represented under so beautiful an aspect. The broad extent of the Thames, with nearly the whole of the sky, composes one commanding light, which shows off the distant bridge, in tender receding hues, that appear to melt in air. The buildings on the off bank, and all the different sized boats, and shipping; the watermen, with the various piles of houses, and the passengers, which, in picturesque irregularity, rise on the Vauxhall side, are seen in exquisite gradation of tone. The atmospheric transitions, in gentle succession, from those evanescent hues, which float on the distant horizon, to the dark strong shadows of the foreground masses, are painted with the purest chastity. This delicious effect is produced without any vivid tints; without an opposition of cool and warm colours, that powerful auxiliary of the sublime and beautiful, in every class of local scenery. The artist has successfully, but not often, made use of that aid, in some of his landscapes; but, here, there is not a tint, which can be considered blue, on the water or sky; yet, in the general effect, they seem to want no addition to their clearness. Nor is there a touch of terra-sienna, burnt or unburnt, of crome or Naples, or any other yellow; no borrowing of gold from the treasury of autumn, to warm and enrich the effect. All is unobtrusive, modest, and silvery: all in admirable perspective. Every one of those precious tiny boats, ships, houses, and animated little people, is a link in a chain, which unites and invigorates the whole; each supports and is supported: enchants the eye by its harmony; bears upon it the inestimable impress of genius, and is, as it were, clothed in unclouded light. It But that bridge!-that never-to-be-forgotten, miraculous bridge! seems an airy illusion, an architectural vapour, raised from the river by the wand of an enchanter, and ascending like a mist of the morning, ready to dissolve itself and escape the eye. How vague and indistinct, and yet how correctly defined! I stretch out my hand and touch it; it is within a few inches of me; and how very remote it appears. Let the purchaser of this tempting performance change its title to that of the Inquisition Bridge at Venice, and call it "the Bridge of Sighs;" for it has caused me, and no doubt many more, to sigh for its possession. Yes, the wand of enchantment, the pencil of art, has raised it; and Creswick is the magician to whom we are indebted for those pleasant longings. The penciling of this picture is what painters term crispy; sharp and decided, without any hardness in defining forms; sweet and mellow in the general handling. The genius of an artist is seen in the choice and composition of his subjects; his taste (I now advert to the manipulation, a subordinate but invaluable quality) in his mode of handling the pencil, and in expressing the texture, surface, and character of objects. Some of your "general-effect" men seem to despise delicacy, sweetness, and beauty of touch. They are for huge wholesale masses of black and white, or of light and darkness. Now, I, who am no painter, could produce, and any person of common understanding could be taught, in a month or two, to produce this sort of chaotic general effect. In nature there are not only commanding masses, and a magnificent breadth of general effect, but also an exquisite identity and details of colour, form and surface, which mark the generic character of all things. In nature, whatever is not sunk in shadow, or rendered uncertain by distance, possesses its distinct character to the eye. The error of the “general effect" here consists in mistaking an empty swagger of the brush for NO. V. 3 A |