Part 3

"Talking of pictures, by the way, what a marvellous falling off is there in Wilkie!--a misfortune arising, as I take it, from a struggle after novelty of style. There is a portrait of the King by him in Somerset House Exhibition, like nothing on earth but a White Lion on its hinder legs, and there was one a year or two since of George the Fourth in a Highland dress--a powerful representation of Lady Charlotte Bury, dressed for Norval. Look at that gem of art, his Blind Fiddler, now in the National Gallery, or at his Waterloo Gazette, or at the Rent Day, and compare any one of them with the senseless stuff he now produces, and grieve. His John Knox--ill placed for effect, as relates to its height from the ground, I admit; but look at that--flat as a teaboard--neither depth nor brilliancy. Knox himself strongly resembling in attitude the dragon weathercock on Bow steeple painted black. Has Wilkie become thus demented in compliment to Turner, the Prince of Orange (colour) of artists? Never did man suffer so severely under a yellow fever, and yet live so long. I dare say it is extremely bad taste to object to his efforts; but I am foolish enough to think that one of the chief ends of art is to imitate nature as closely as possible. Look, for instance, at Copley Fielding's splendid drawing in the Water Colour Exhibition, of vessels in a gale off Calshot; and certainly I have never yet seen any thing either animal or vegetable at all like the men, women, trees, grass, mountains, which appear in Mr. Turner's works.

"This is of course an individual opinion, but I think it may be expressed without any fear of incurring a charge of ill-nature, when one thing is recollected. Copley Fielding cannot be a bad artist; Prout cannot be a bad artist; Nash cannot be a bad artist; De Vint, Stanfield, Reinagle, Calcott, none of these can be called bad artists; yet not one of these gentlemen, eminent as they are, produce any thing like Turner's drawings. Now if they are all wrong, Mr. Turner is quite right; but it is utterly impossible _he_ should be so, if they are.

"Everybody knows the story of the sign-painter in the country, who could paint nothing but a red lion; and accordingly he advised every inn-keeper and alehouse-keeper in the neighbouring village, who applied to him, to have the sign of the Red Lion. This did very well for a considerable time, and the painter practised so successfully that not a hamlet or town, for ten miles round, that had not its red lion; until at length a new-comer, who, like Daniel of old, thought there were quite as many lions round him as were wanted, suggested to the artist that he should like to have a swan for the sign of his small concern. In vain the painter protested, Boniface was resolute. 'Well,' said the rural Apelles, 'if you will have a swan you must, but you may rely upon it when it is finished, it will be so like a red lion, you would not know the difference.' So Turner, if he were to paint a blackbird, it would be so like a canary when it was finished, you would not know one from the other.

"Among other sights, I was induced to go and visit the 'Fleas,' last Saturday. Never was there such an imposition; instead of being harnessed, they were tied by the hind legs, and the combatants, poor wretches! were pinched by the tails in tweezers, and of course moved their legs in their agony. Well, thought I, as I went out, I have been in Spain, and Portugal, and Italy, and have passed many a restless night, but hang me if ever I was so flea bitten in my life as I have been to day; and I thought of my shilling and the old proverb.

"There is a picture of Lord Mulgrave in the Somerset House exhibition, very like, painted by Briggs. The best portrait there, is Pickersgill's Lord Hill; as a likeness, it is identity; and I admire it the more, from the total absence of what the painters call accessories. It is simple, and though honourably decorated, is unadorned by what is considered 'groscape' drapery; and yet Mr. Pickersgill was at one time an unqualified admirer of cloaks; every hawbuck of a fellow who sat to him, was wrapped up in a cloak: this he has conquered, and we rejoice at it. The portrait of Lady Coote is a good picture; it is a pity that her ladyship had not sat a few years earlier; but that is no affair of the painter. A picture of Lady Londonderry, in the costume of Queen Elizabeth, by a Frenchman is amazingly like. There is a story about this dress which only proves the advantages of making experiments before any grand display. The petticoat of the Virgin Queen, as personated by her ladyship, was so thickly covered with diamonds, that the substratum of material could scarcely be seen; and nothing could be more splendid than the effect; but the diamonds glittered all round the dress, behind and before, and at the side; and so long as her ladyship paraded the magnificent suite of her apartments, all was well, and all shone brilliantly; but lo and behold, when her ladyship threw herself gracefully on her mimic throne, she found that she might as well be sitting in her _robe de chambre_ on a pebbly pavement, or a heap of flints just prepared for Macadamization. Stones, though precious, are still stones, and the jump the Marchioness gave when she first felt the full effect of her jewels, is described as something prodigious. So handsome a person, however, might easily dispense with such ornaments. A queen of hearts may always look down upon a mere queen of diamonds.

"And what are we to say of other representations? What a sensation (at any other period how much greater would it have been!) Mr. Sheridan Knowles' Hunchback has made: why Mr. Sheridan Knowles made his hero a Hunchback I cannot imagine. The play is an admirable play; and what is as strange a part of the affair as any, is the acting of the author. To say it is finished, or fine, would be to talk nonsense; but it is plain, straightforward, common-scene acting, which very much surprised us, more especially from an author, still more from an Irish author; and more still from an author, who in private life is a perfect enthusiast, and a fine phrenzied-eye orator. Fanny Kemble never appeared to greater advantage in public--in private, her charming conduct with regard to her brother, the young soldier, speaks volumes for her. They say she is going to marry a son of Keppell Craven's, Lord Craven's uncle. They met first, I believe, at the acting of Lord Leveson Gower's play of Hernani, at Bridgewater House, when Mr. Craven reaped much histrionic fame as an amateur. Of one thing we are quite sure, Miss Kemble will act well wherever she may be placed in the world.

"One of the best conundrums I have heard for a long time, is attributed to that excellent and agreeable fellow, Yates, who is amongst those who do credit to the stage. Whether it is his own, or not, is a question to rest upon his veracity. It is this--'When does an alderman look like a ghost?' Answer. 'When he's a _gobbling_.' This is surely a _jeu d'esprit_. By the way, Rogers begins to whistle now; not in fear, or harmony, or for amusement, but I am afraid from the effects produced by advanced age. I regret this--he is an excellent person, and a gentlemanly poet; and I never shall forget the patience with which he bore a most unintentional misquotation, made from his works, and in his presence, by a man of the name of Barton, who wanted to compliment him, by recollecting his verses. The story that he quoted was Rogers' pretty song of

"Dear is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and warbles there, Close by my cot she tells her tale, To every passing villager."

"Mr. Barton--who he was I never found out--having eulogized this little effusion with a superhuman ecstacy, repeated it right to a line--but not to a word. He gave it us thus--

"Dear is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and warbles there, Close by my cot she _shows_ her _tail_ To every passing villager."

"Not a muscle moved in Mr. Rogers' pale and placid countenance, you would hardly have thought he lived; but turning to Luttrell, whose mouth twisted and whose eye rolled at the fun of the mistake, he simply whispered, 'Non _tali_ auxilio, &c.' Barton survived it, and is still alive and merry.

"I perceive that there have been changes at the Admiralty. Dyer, Darch, and Riley superannuated. Hay takes Darch's place as reading clerk. This is right. Hay is a gentleman, and a man of business. Met Sir Francis--which Sir Francis, you would say, for there are two who frequent the Admiralty, the obtuse and the clever. I mean the clever. 'Well, Frank, how goes on the Vernon, and how did she go off the other day? No want of water, I presume.' 'No; thank _heaven_ for that! Why, she went off beautifully, but the lubberly mateys contrived to get her foul of the hulk, and Lord Vernon came out of the conflict minus a leg and an arm.'--'Who had you there?' 'Upon my honour I hardly know. I was so busy paying my devoirs to Lady Graham; she looked for all the world like a mermaid, as she stood by the bows and christened the vessel. Her hair hung down as straight as the lower rigging when first put over the mast heads.'--'I wish I had such a beautiful mermaid for a wife,' replied H----, who had joined and listened to our conversation. 'What a pretty creature is that Miss E----; she looked as fresh as if she had just come out of a shower bath.' 'Well, so she had.'"

* * * * *

"I went to the Opera on Tuesday to hear Mariani. She is splendid--confounded plain, but that's no consequence. That Grisi screams rather too much, although she acts well, and has a pretty person, if it was washed. I believe Brugnoli's toes are made of _cast iron_. _Toe_ K--g, could make no impression upon them. You know how K--g obtained that name. He is a little puffy fellow, who goes about town, making acquaintance with every body--is endured at watering places for his poodle qualities of 'fetch and carry:' he is very anxious to become acquainted with noblemen, and his plan is to sidle up and tread very lightly upon an aristocratical toe--then an immediate apology, and the apology is followed also with the wind and weather, and the leading topic of the day, a knowledge of his lordship's friends or relations, and a good morning. The next day when they meet, a polite bow from Mr. K--g, and if an opportunity offers he enters into conversation, and thus establishes his acquaintance.

"Such is his EXTREME method of introducing himself, which deserves credit for its ingenuity and exclusiveness. I once knew a man who had only one story, and that was about a gun. His difficulty was to introduce this story, and he at last succeeded, like K--g, by the use of his foot. When sitting after dinner he would stamp under the table and create a hollow sound. Then, God bless me! what's that--a gun? By the by, talking about guns--and then came his story."

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THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS._

* * * * *

THE MESSIAH.

_By Robert Montgomery._

The subsequent passages exhibit many of the beauties and few of the blemishes of Mr. Montgomery's new poem:

THE WILDERNESS.

Oh, when hath mind conceived Magnificence beyond a midnight there, When Israel camp'd, and o'er her tented host The moonlight lay?--On yonder palmy mount, Lo! sleeping myriads in the dewy hush Of night repose; around in squared array, The camps are set; and in the midst, apart, The curtain'd shrine, where mystically dwells Jehovah's presence!--through the soundless air A cloudy pillar, robed in burning light, Appears:--concenter'd as one mighty heart, A million lie, in mutest slumber bound. Or, panting like the ocean, when a dream Of storm awakes her:--Heaven and Earth are still; In radiant loveliness the stars pursue Their pilgrimage, while moonlight's wizard hand Throws beauty, like a spectre light, on all. At Judah's tent the lion-banner stands Unfolded, and the pacing sentinels,-- What awe pervades them, when the dusky groves, The rocks Titanian, by the moonshine made Unearthly, or yon mountains vast, they view! But soon as morning bids the sky exult, As earth from nothing, so that countless host From slumber and from silence will awake To mighty being! while the forest-birds Rush into song, the matin breezes play, And streamlets flash where prying sunbeams fall: Like clouds in lustre, banners will unroll! The trumpet shout, the warlike tramp resound, And hymns of valour from the marching tribes Ascend to gratulate the risen morn.

PATRIARCHAL TIMES.

A vision of that unforgotten prime, The patriarchal age, when Earth was young, A while oh: let it linger!--oh the soul It breaketh, like a lovely burst of spring Upon the gaze of captives, when the clouds Again are floating over freedom's head!-- Though Sin had witherd with a charnel breath Creation's morning bloom, there still remain'd Elysian hues of that Adamic scene, When the Sun gloried o'er a sinless world, And with each ray produced a flower!--From dells Untrodden, hark! the breezy carol comes Upwafted, with the chant of radiant birds.-- What meadows, bathed in greenest light, and woods Gigantic, towering from the skiey hills, And od'rous trees in prodigal array, With all the elements divinely calm-- Our fancy pictures on the infant globe! And ah! how godlike, with imperial brow Benignly grave, yon patriarchal forms Tread the free earth, and eye the naked heavens! In Nature's stamp of unassisted grace Each limb is moulded; simple as the mind The vest they wear; and not a hand but works, Or tills the ground with honourable toil: By youth revered, their sons around them grow And flourish; monarch of his past'ral tribe, A patriarch's throne is each devoted heart! And when he slumbers on the tented plain Beneath the vigil stars, a living wall Is round him, in the might of love's defence: For he is worthy--sacrifice and song By him are ruled; and oft at shut of flowers, When queenly virgins in the sunset go To carry water from the crystal wells, In beautiful content,--beneath a tree Whose shadows hung o'er many a hallow'd sire, He sits; recording how creation rose From nothing, of the Word almighty born; How Man had fallen, and where Eden boughs Had waved their beauty on the breeze of morn; Or, how the angels still at twilight love To visit earth with errands from the sky.

ISAIAH.

Terrific bard! and mighty--in thy strain A torrent of inspiring passion sounds-- Whether for cities by the Almighty cursed, Thy wail arose--or, on enormous crimes That darken'd heav'n with supernat'ral gloom, Thy flash of indignation fell, alike The feelings quiver when thy voice awakes!-- Borne in the whirlwind of a dreadful song, The spirit travels round the destin'd globe, While shadows, cast from solemn years to come, Fall round us, and we feel a God is nigh!

But when a gladness from thy music flows, Creation brightens!--glory paints the sky, The Sun hath got an everlasting smile, And Earth in temper'd for immortal spring-- The lion smoothes his ruffled mane, the lamb And wolf together feed, and by the den Of serpents, see! the rosy infant play.

THE SAVIOUR.

As o'er the grandeur of unclouded heaven Our vision travels with a free delight, As though the boundless and the pure were made For speculation--so the tow'ring mind, By inward oracle inspired and taught, The lofty and the excellent in mind adores. Then, Saviour! what a paragon art Thou Of all that Wisdom in her hope creates-- A model for the universe--Though God Be round us, by the shadow of His might For aye reflected, and with plastic hand Prints on the earth the character of things-- Yet He Himself,--how awfully retired Depth within depth, unutterably deep! His glory brighter than the brightest thought Can picture, holier than our holiest awe Can worship,--imaged only in I AM! But Thou--apparell'd in a robe of true Mortality; meek sharer of our low Estate, in all except compliant sin; To Thee a comprehending worship pays Perennial sacrifice of life and soul, By love enkindled;--Thou hast lived and breathed; Our wants and woes partaken--all that charms Or sanctifies, to Thine unspotted truth May plead for sanction--virtue but reflects Thine image! wisdom is a voice attuned To consonance with Thine--and all that yields To thought a pureness, or to life a peace, From Thee descends--whose spirit-ruling sway, Invisible as thought, around us brings A balm almighty for affliction's hour-- Once felt, in all the fullness of Thy grace The living essence of the living soul,-- And there is faith--a firm-set, glorious faith, Eternity cannot uproot, or change-- Oh, then the second birth of soul begins, That purifies the base, the dark illumes, And binds our being with a holy spell, Whereby each function, faculty, and thought Surrenders meekly to the central guide Of hope and action, by a God empower'd.

THE CRUCIFIXION.

A God with all his glory laid aside, Behold Him bleeding,--on his awful brow The mingled sorrows of a world repose-- "'Tis FINISH'D,"--at those words creation throbs, Round Hell's dark universe the echo rolls-- All Nature is unthroned--and mountains quake Like human being when the death-pang comes-- The sun has wither'd from the frighted air, And with a tomb-burst, hark, the dead arise And gaze upon the living, as they glide With soundless motion through the city's gloom, Most awfully,--the world's Redeemer dies.

* * * * *

SPAIN AND PORTUGAL.

We quote the following from the _Cabinet Cyclopaedia_ history of these countries:

_The Penitential Habit._

"From the fifth century," says Masden, "or from the beginning of the sixth, the custom prevailed in Spain of the infirm, when so heavily afflicted as to be in danger of death, piously assuming the tonsure and the penitential habit, and engaging to continue both through life, if God raised them up. As the use of this penance became common enough to throw discredit on the piety of all who did not thus undertake it, if the sick or dying man was unable to demand the habit, his relations or friends could invest him with it, and his obligation to a penitential life thenceforward was as great as if that obligation had been imposed, not by others, but at his own request, since, as he was charitably supposed to be thus piously inclined, he must of necessity wish to become a penitent. This continued in force until king Chindaswind, impressed with the abuses to which it had given rise, decreed that in such cases the obligation imposed by others should be void unless the patient should afterwards ratify it when in a sound state of mind. Penitents of this class might remain in their own houses, without seclusion within the walls of a monastery; but they were for ever compelled to wear the habit and shaven crown, to shun business and diversions, to lead exemplary and chaste lives: if single, they could not marry; if married, they could not enjoy the privileges of the state: hence, though they inhabited not the cloister, they were of the religious order, and consecrated to God."

"This penance was not merely assumed by such as were anxious to make atonement for some heavy sin; it was often voluntarily undertaken by individuals whose lives had been blameless, and who were anxious by this work of supererogation to increase their stock of merits. If the penitent died of his disease, the intention of his sacrifice was believed to be availing in the sight of Heaven; if he recovered, he became a monk. No less a doom than excommunication, and a rigorous penitential seclusion during life within the walls of a monastery, were hurled against such as married, or used their conjugal privilege, or laid down the habit. If, however, the married penitents were _very young_ at the time he or she entered on the monastic obligation, in case of recovery the bishop had power to permit the use of matrimony a certain number of years. This was called an _indulgence_ or _dispensation_, the _debitum conjugale_ being totally annihilated by the obligations of the new state.

"This custom is not yet extinct in Spain, though, like many others of a similar kind, its observance is daily weakening since the period of the French revolution, and of the increased intercourse between the two nations. Many of the greatest names in the Spanish annals voluntarily assumed the profession, and thereby ceased to be laymen. Among these was the author of Don Quixote."

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THE GATHERER.

CONCEALED SORROW.

(_From the portfolio of a Correspondent._)

There oft times dwells within the human breast, a grievous and a bitter sorrow; a sorrow once formed--seldom, if ever, entirely eradicated. Such sorrow hath borne down to the grave many a noble, though ill-fated, heart; there to seal up the remembrance of the degraded, the broken, feelings of its once fine nature, and for ever crush the spirit of its love. It is a sorrow that cometh not as the whirlwind's rushing blast, in the fury of the tempest, or as the lion's roar; but rather as the soft, still moan of the desert's poisoned breeze, or as the silent gnawing of a cankering worm: so comes it preying on our heart's fondest hopes till they gradually sink to ruin and oblivion. It is a grief that mortal eyes cannot see; it is only keenly felt; its tears are the wasting away of health, and its lamentation is the low beating of a sinking pulse. The loudest cry of its woe is but the dull, bitter sigh of its lonely unhappiness, engendered by the deep misery of the secret depression of its mental complaining, making the heart like a faded flower in a gloomy wilderness; like a blighted tree in a sultry waste. Weep! weep! and sigh from thy very soul; yet thy sorrows will not end; their root will still remain to spring and spread afresh. Unhappy they that such sorrows have! alas! for them! R.N.

_Pleasure Gardens._--Has it never occurred to any nurseryman that his garden might be made delightful and profitable promenades for the public, at a low charge for admission? In the neighbourhood of Philadelphia, we learn from a communication to the _Gardeners' Magazine_, there is a class of gardens very distinct from any in this country; those of plant-growers, who to a small nursery, and green and hot-houses, add the appendage of a tavern. The two principal ones of this description are kept by Mr. Arran, and M. d'Arras: the first has a very good museum in his garden; and the latter possesses a beautiful collection of orange and lemon trees, very large, but trimmed after the French fashion. These places are the resort of many of the citizens; Philadelphia having no park, or national gardens, for the purpose of recreation.

_American Prejudice._--Everything British creates a spirit of rivalry among the vulgar Americans. A great number of the workmen's anecdotes are directed against the aristocratical bearing of Englishmen: nothing gives greater delight to the rustics than to hear of the Honourable D.S. or Lord John P. having been the last served, or badly served, at an inn for being surly to the waiters, &c.

_Cheap Fruit._--In Philadelphia, peaches are 25 cents, (about a shilling) per bushel; pine-apples from the West Indies from 5 to 15 cents. (2d. to 6d.) each, and water melons cheaper.