Who did the Exhibition for the London Magazine last season? "Corn. Van Vinkbooms." Did he indeed? Why then let him do it again, as Vathek said to the Giaour. I'll none of it! Why should I get the ill-will of every exhibitor, both those I commemorate and those I do not?" Very true, dear W--but-hem! but-why you see that Cornelius has met with several little obstacles, which have hitherto prevented his attendance at the Academy-in short (I know I speak to a friend), Van Vinkbooms now lies in Horsemonger jail under sentence of death for a M. Antonio robbery in the British Museum!! Bandinelli's St. Lawrence avec les deur fourches was his bane. Love of art swayed him, not lucre (for often hath he offered a hundred pounds in vain), like the unhanged pilferer of Rembrandts; yet how different their fate!" Extremely unpleasant indeed, and turns up inconveniently both for him and me-mais-helas! he-bien-(This façon de Paris is very dry!) I must undertake it for you, I see! Look on it as done-some way or other.

There are 1049 works, as they are termed, occupying in their intitulation 49 pages 4to. To give anything like an account of a quarter of these would fill three of our Magazines. Let us count the notes of admiration in our catalogue-173! too many by 100! How many double crosses?-57! Still uncompassable! Thus then we sweat down the mass for our use. Portraiture attracts patronage enough, God knows; and that patronage runs in a good course, as the goodly trees it waters testify, Lawrence, Phillips, Owen, Jackson, Chalon, and Chantrey. Praise of mine would not gain four minutes' more attention to the grandeur of Turner, the chaste sobriety of Callcott, the amenity and poetical repose of Collins, or the delicate fidelity of William Daniell. What a work of supererogation to sound the trumpet for Ward and Cooper, the Snyders and Wouvermans of the day, who have deservedly as much as they can do. The futility of explanatory criticisms on the familiar scenes appears in the designation, and now what remains to me out of this immense show? The historical department, which, notwithstanding a respectable growth

:

since last year, may be held between my finger and thumb like this pinch of snuff. And, first, you are all much attracted, I hope, by the ve teran Northcote's sterling composi tion, entitled, "The Princess Bridget Plantagenet, fourth daughter of King Edward the Fourth, who, when very young, was consigned to the care of the abbess of the monastery of Dartford where she afterwards became a nun, and there spending her life in devotion and contemplation, was buried in that convent about the year 1517, eighth of King Henry Eighth." The expres sions in this picture are amiable without weakness, and pathetic without a shade of drivelling the unconscious air of the child, the warm grief of the mother, and the lofty. yet kindly serenity of the whiterobed abbess, are discriminated with a depth and precision which evidence equal feeling in the conception and judgment in the execution. The tone does not disgrace the invention, beaming with an even and sober light; the carnations are clean, fresh, and sanguine. Let us have a print of it from the brilliant and faithful hand of Scriven, not forgetting its admirable companion last year. As a pendant to this conventual incar ceration hangs The Burial of Christ by the same pencil; a worn out hackneyed subject, on which the creative genius of Michel Agnolo would now fail to elevate any struc ture which should arrest attention by novelty. That Mr. N. should have employed his time on it, was probably the result of a choice not his own. It is, however, well composed, and pos sesses breadth, depth, and strong re lief. The taste of colour is from the severer departments of the Bolognese school, so eloquently recommended by Sir Joshua and Fuseli as the legitimate vehicle of the dignified, the pathetic, and the awful. Between these two cool chastities is a fiery luxuriance (Cupid and Psyche, 18) by the now-in-oil-seldom-seen Westall, an artist who has touched every species of composition, and seldom failed to add some delicacy unknown before. If the various-styled Stothard, our Raffaelle, has been more successful in catching the evanescent graces of every-day life, he must yield to his rival in higher and more poetical inventions; Stothard could

Shakerly Marmion, the play-writer, is their author. If you like them buy the book! (Legend of Cupid and Psyche, edited by Mr. Singer, 1820) if not-let it alone!

Then in one hand she held the tremulous light,

And in the other took the sword, so bright As 'twould her beauty and the fire outshine; And she thus arm'd, became more masculine.

the lush vine under the which these three lie buried!" Extremely right, Mr. A

A- What d'ye call 'em! But is this all? "All-save a pair of small brass Bacchic cymbals." Ld have mercy on us! what a blind world is this, my masters! Why, thou featherless owl! thou short-nailed mole! descryest thou not clearly that this tablet having been originally painted some time

* When lo, Whether from envy, or from treachery, Or that it had a burning appetite To touch that silken skin that look'd so white,

The wicked lamp, in an unlucky hour,
A drop of scalding oil did let down pour
On his right shoulder.

Have you looked at this young lady, "who wears forth the odorous moisture of the flowers," with the warmth of her dainty body, bathed in the unseen dews of sleep? I say again, have you looked at her well? "Aye, truly I have!" Well, Sir! and what do you see? "I see a very handsome girl, with golden tresses, fast asleep with her pretty mouth open, and upwards; and I see a little impudent Cupid who seems extremely aware that her slumber is somewhat extraneous, and as it were rather induced by excess of stimulants, than excess of exhaustion, which to be sure is plainly enough implied in the discomposed straggle of her plump limbs; and I see a romantic white-haired goat with leering eye and upreached quivering mouth, cropping the sweet shoots of

or the something, has cracked Miss's skin like a dropsy, and that to hide these ravages SCUMBLING has been used!! Dost hear? ScUMBLING!!

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May be so; and what of that?"

Stop a moment, will you, my dear reader? I cannot get that interrogative down yet. I must drink this glass of Sherry exactly at three swallows, and take precisely-How precision is disregarded now to be sure! in drawing, in acting, in making up prescriptions, in taking them, in the position of dragoons' feet in the stirrups, in the make of breeches, in grammar, in pronunciation, in choice of words, in-in short-I don't know why I should begin my excellent work "On Precision," just here! so I put my finger and thumb into the box over which it has hovered for the last twenty-three seconds, and take precisely two seven-eighths pinches of Paris. I think I feel a little better now! nevertheless I do pronounce that phrase "what of that" to be the most vulgar, the most impertinent, unfeeling, malevolent, stupid, churlish, discomfiting, unanswerable query that Apollyon ever thrust in a man's head. It is as bad as a pail of water thrown over you, or a smack in the face!—And to meet with all this, in reward for as fine a piece of connoisseurship as you shall light upon between Vasari and Vinkbooms! fie on't, it's an ungrateful world! But for all that I will have my say, and I say that Stothard's picture is a good picture, and a loveable picture-go to! and a well-drawn,-and an expressive picture, and as good as a Poussin, and a great deal better altogether than you or I should make if we were to live, according to the Chinese wish, 1000 years, painting away all the time:-and if you come to that-so is his other little composition yonder (178. Jacob telling his dream to his

father) a design which looks as if it ought to be in Raffaëllo's Bible! "No matter!" said Mr. Hobson.

But come, my charming young ladies who "doat on Lord Byron," here is a picture painted on purpose for ye (Manfred and the Witch of the Alps, 108). A very chaste and carefully finished composition; of course more in the gusto of Rome than of Venice, though the tints are clear, and bear more transparence than is usual with Mr. Howard. The fountain spirit has great beauty of shape and features-the attitude of the guilty misanthrope is natural and characteristic, and the Alpine scenery, rocks, and wild-flowers, the torrent and its spray-begotten Iris, make up a vehicle for the actors extremely -picturesque, rich, and inviting. With regard to his Ariel released by Prospero (12) I confess I was somewhat disappointed. The magic duke is here depicted as compelling two earthy spirits to do his bidding:-I concede that their difficultly foreshortened dusky bodies are drawn with science and feeling; they rive the pine forcefully; but now I must doubt whether a greater impression of power would not have been conveyed by causing the earth-bound tree to gape and yield up its airy kernel under the thrilling impulse of his mighty and intense willing:-the awful eye bent in fascinating immoveability, and the mystic rod raised, as if to pour forth its sympathetic potency, would indicate this plainly enough to the spectator, as several inventions of Michel Agnolo can testify and certainly the great secret of strength, both in writing and design, is condensation to employ just exactly so many figures and words as will do your business-and no more.* The above objection, or rather suggestion, is merely my notion of the scene, instead of Mr. Howard's; whose method of relating, with eloquent dumb show, the harassing lets and annoyances inflicted on Caliban (76) cannot to my feeling be easily surpassed in vividness and intelligibility. I wish the tasteful secretary would look into Mr. Soane's translation of Undine; he would find much to his mind, which might in turn create much to our mind. Perhaps one of

his friends may see this and tell him of my hint. Don't you wish you were rich enough to purchase that Devonshire landscape, by Collins? (Buckland in the Moor, 89.) I do, with all my heart, and with all my soul, on which it would act like balm. And I wish I had Turner's exquisite little gaiety, (What you Will. 114.) And I wish I had Cooper's Battle of Strigonium. (120.) And I wish Mr. Etty had made a large fortune, and gave away his delicately and masterly executed gems to poor but ardent amateurs.-Alas! alas! Why is the will to encourage genuine merit so seldom accompanied by the means? When I look at this gentle group (Maternal Affection. 121.) so correctly drawn, so splendidly coloured, and so lightly touched, I long-I languish-"I cannot withdraw, but turn back at every step.I sigh, and in sighing exclaim, unfortunate being that I am!-it is thus that all-powerful Painting keeps me under her dominion-then gaining strength I proceed, reflecting on the treasure I have quitted." Mr. Etty has as yet given us little or no specimens of his powers in sterner stuffbut why should he? His manner is peculiarly his own, and will always enamour by its tender selection of attitudes and expressions, and the genial warmth of its hues. Perhaps a greater force of legitimate chiaroscuro would add variety to his style, his effects at present depending nearly, if not entirely, on the opposition of colours. I cannot take leave of this most meritorious artist without expressing my sincere admiration of the amorous and yet modest languor infused into the bright eyes and fair lids, drooping with thick lashes, of his females. The St. Catherine,' and

Psyche,' in the last Exhibition at the British Gallery, owed to this beautiful trait more than half their attraction.

Let us now sit down and feast our eyes on Hilton's gallery picture (Meleager, Atalanta, and the Boar of Diana. 128.) How finely coloured, how very rich, exuberant, and juicy-how well made up-how painterly! This last tack has brought him nearer to the gorgeous port of Venice than any before. How glowing without foxey

ness: how brown and mellow, yet pure and clean! How much nature and suppleness in the drawing, without vulgarity!-and how much correctness without rigidity! How cleverly brought together, and how effectual are the cold steel and the perspiring flesh! What a fierce pencil in the animals and the Tizianesque trees! how pulpy and delicate in the carnations!-how artfully easy are the grouping and the arrangements of the parts; and what an air of unity the whole possesses!-This in my opinion is Mr. Hilton's congenial style; the style of Vecelli-the picturesque, in its proper and highest sense; and it is a million of pities he should ever wander in a vain search after the antagonistic and essentially inimical graces of Parma and Rome -the result of such unchemical alliance has been, and ever will be, neutralization.-From those who do not comprehend" the reason of his style," Mr. H. must expect to hear many objections, mighty sound in themselves, but travestied into absolute nonsense by their inapplicability to the point in question. I hold that no work of ability can be tried otherwise than by laws deduced from itself; whether or not it be consistent with itself. If this theory be true, the onus laid on the conscientious critic is almost equal to the author's. In our good England, however, this burthen would seem but featherweight, judging from the spanking pace at which our periodical scalpers get over the ground:-perhaps consciences are too high in price for their pockets."

But I don't like to be hurried a long in this way; I have seen pictures enough for to day, and I won't have them put out of my head! "Sweet Janus, but three more!"Well, Sir! which be they? "Why first here is Chalon's Precieuses ridicules, (162) one of the very best things he ever enchanted the fashionable world with. Can art and taste go beyond his triumph over the most preposterous costume that ever caricatured human habiliments? How pungent, how effervescent is the countenance of the rose-coloured

Beauty!-I mean the beauty dressed in crackling satin couleur de rose. How fierce are those shoe-ties, how awful that wig! Would any one be lieve that Mr. Chalon was not born and bred in the court of Louis Quatorze, instead of being at this present time alive, and in great request with the ladies, at No. 11, Great Marlborough-street, London? Tell me, Mr. Weathercock, if you would not give some of your scarcest Bonasones to be able to put that-that-bottle of Champaigne for the eyes into your Boudoir ?" Why it is not easy for me to answer that question, because Bonasones I have none, (they are all sold, poor dears! to pay for themselves) and as to Boudoir, I cannot persuade Vinkbooms to deliver it up -I suppose he has it-I can't recollect that ever I had!-But in sober truth, I must decline farther use of my article eye.-It would appear an insult to notice Mr. Thomson's strik ing and poetical work of Prospero and Miranda (172.) in a slight and incomplete manner: and the same may be said of the excellent Lear of Briggs (198.) who is this year placed where he should be, viz. in the great room. Mr. H. P. Bone has an historical subject, in the School of Painting, (The Death of Priam. 273.) embodied with considerable force of tone and expression. It is very much in the feeling of the princes of the French school, Poussin and Le Sueur; with a little dash of West-finished very honestly; and I hope, for the credit of London, will meet with a purchaser.

The Venus and Adonis, by his brother, seems, as well as my dim eyes will inform me, to be placed aloft in a very unworthy situation. Both of these gentlemen work very perceptibly onwards. I must now bid you adieu, my kind companions-but let me entreat you first to admire again and again Jackson's very characteristic, and therefore bewitching, portrait of our Stephens-it is drawn con amore, and is by far the best of this brilliant artist's female heads.

Among the marbles, Flaxman, Westmacott, and Baily, maintain their accustomed dignity, and keep alive