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Mr. Hunt's Flood and Wind, nor would we prize it so highly as Mr. Hunt's work. It is, however, a fine picture, not unworthy of a name which will always be honoured by lovers of modern landscape-painting On the left is a wooded river-bank, crowned by a ruin, about which rooks are flying, and over which is the faint effulgence of yellow sunset. The river flows in front, and some cattle have come down the bank to drink. The feeling of the picture is true, and the foliage, touched partly with the brown of autumn, but, in general, merely the deep green of late summer is pleasing to the eye. Mr. Creswick has not pushed on to the vigorous realization of the young school, and there is a sense in which his picture is a relic of old days, on which it might not be gracious to insist. Mr. Brett's "Hedger," (360), is modern enough, but is illustrative of the defects as well as the merits of pre-Raphaelite landscape. The hyacinths droop, indeed, in the dim recesses of the hedge, and breadths of very actual primroses light the air. The red-faced hedger is a specimen of his class, about whom Mr. Barnes might give us one of his "whomely lays," and his small daughter, carrying his still smaller infant, and coming with father's dinner from the cottage, is very rustic and very natural. But the foliage around can with difficulty be accepted for the foliage of early spring it is too stiff. The pre-Raphaelites must remember that the character of foliage is airiness and grace, wayward freedom and infinite joyous picturesqueness, and that, if their sternness of finish is incompatible with this, they are, in one respect at least-and that, for the landscape painter, a most important respect-untrue to nature. Having seen Mr. Brett's "Val d'Aosta" of last year, we can hardly assert that he is unable to render foliage in its utmost freedom; and it may be that there are a few days in spring, the trees just struggling into leaf, when they look as stiff and uncomfortable as those in his present picture. But this fact, while vindicating Mr. Brett's execution, would not vindicate his choice of subject, except simply with a view to practice; and we cannot help warning the pre-Raphaelites against the danger of losing, in their laborious exactness of execution, the grace, freedom, and gaiety which must mark all correct rendering of Nature's foliage. We can notice but one other landscape, although there are several which will repay a careful examination. In "Pegwell Bay, Kent: a Recollection of October 5th, 1858," (141)-Mr. Dyce has satisfied all his own requirements of delicate feeling, exquisite finish, and pure and tender colour. The time is summer evening; the sun is beneath the horizon, but his last smile still rests, in soft glow of purple and crimson light, upon the slumbering ocean and the tranquil shore. In the foreground are two or three ladies engaged, as was to be expected in these days, in completing their conchological collections. On the right is a ridge of chalk cliffs, their glare subdued in the fading light; on the left, the placid levels of the sea stretch away to the horizon. In the middle distance, between sea and shore, are low, weeded rocks, over which the tide rises daily, and which are now encompassed by the still shallows of the ebb, into which the sunset falls. They

show like darker gems set in a plane of rubied light. This passage, rich and subtle in its beauty, is the finest in the picture. On the whole, this is a noble work, painted in love, the production of a fine mind and a tender imagination. But there is, we at first hardly know how, a drawback. We admire, we even wonder, yet we cannot help feeling that the impression made is not powerful. Is it that the cliffs lack majesty and strength, and have a niggled, shelfy look? It may be so in part. But principally, we have no doubt, the effect is interfered with by the conchological ladies. They are too prominent not to be particularly observed, and it is impossible to rescue them or their occupation from triviality. It is fashionable to be scientific at the coast; that we feel to be the whole account of their science. Their pursuit, therefore, is a mere pastime; and this impression is not in unison with the mellowed splendour of that sunset, with the solemn beauty of that ocean. The breadth, the unity, necessary to powerful and lasting impression, are wanting; the picture cannot be felt as a whole; it has the fatal defect of not being an imaginative harmony.

Sir Edwin Landseer's "Flood in the Highlands," (106), occupies the post of honour in this Exhibition, and no one will grudge the distinction to our vigorous and thoroughly English painter. Sir Edwin's right hand has not lost its cunning. Three of the dogs in this picture are worthy of his prime. We suppose it is hardly necessary to inform the reader that the dogs in question form part of a somewhat motley crew of refugees, the inmates or dependents of Alick Gordon's cottage in the Highlands, who, when the flood came roaring down from the hills, sought safety on the roof. There are the blind, old grandfather, the young wife and child, and two growing boys. The sheep have been dragged up, and the three collies have not been left behind. One of these last is squatted almost on the ridge of the roof high above the flood, and has a look of selfish doggedness, with little of keen alarm; another sits gazing on her puppy, held by one of the boys, and has evidently made up her mind to sit by it to the last; a third is in a state of total and cowering dismay, unable to lie down from agitation, and yet forced to stand still, from not knowing whither to turn. Each of these dogs is a separate and felicitous study. The human figures are sufficiently well-managed. The old man is stunned and stupified with dismay, and the expression of one of the boys is that of mere sheepish terror. But the other boy and the young mother gaze with frantic intentness into the valley, their eyes evidently fixed on some object struggling in the water. The name of Alick Gordon is conspicuous on the signboard of his cottage, and we cannot but miss him from the roof. Do his wife and son look with that maniacal eagerness, because they see him battling with the flood to reach them? An ox and goat are seen making helpless efforts to reach the roof, the eye of the ox bloodshot, his nostril red, his tongue protruded. In a back-water beside the lintel of the cottage, several ducks float calmly, the painter having brought his most tender skill to perfect their soft bright colours, and to show their happy unconsciousness of danger. The background of

the picture, if background it can be said to have, is the thick darkness of mist, and rain, and tempest, through which on the left the flooded torrent is seen rushing headlong from its mountain gorge, masses of loosened rock groaning and thundering in its bed, and the dim light of its tawny foam breaking from the gloom. This picture is not without its faults; certain of its incidents are ill-chosen, much in its perspective seems incomprehensible; but it is a notable and powerful work.


We can do no more than mention several works, which it would be pleasant, and not uninstructive, to describe at length. Mr. Goodall's Early Morning in the Wilderness of Shur," (295), the Arab encampment just breaking up for the day's march, shows that bright and cheerful moment in Arab existence, ere the dawn's rosy light has yet glowed into the flaming rays of noon, when the music breaks from Memnon's statue. The picture is alive with animated gesture and brilliant colour-the steel-pointed spear; the picturesque firelock; the stately camel, holding its head high to sniff the breath of morning; the turbaned, bright-robed Arab; the dark Ethiopian slave; the deep blue of the sea behind; and, on its farther shore, a range of noble hills suffused with the blush of sunrise. From an opening in this range of hills tradition affirms the children of Israel to have emerged, in order to pass between the cleft surges of the Red Sea; and the painter represents that sea as no rippling tide-course, which can be traversed at ebb, but a deep and heavy mass of waters.

Mr. Cooke, who loved to paint the flapping sail and the smooth sea, or who, at best, ventured to show the big boat of Venice bounding beneath Italian light, has this year surprised us with a picture of "H.M.S. Terror, in the Ice of Frozen Strait, April, 1837," (248). The vigour and originality of this choice deserve the highest applause; and Mr. Cooke has spared no toil in making his work true to nature. The vessel, hemmed in by the ice-floes, which are dashed and wedged together in huge angular masses, rests beneath the leaden sky of northern winter, while a dim suffusion of red light, from a sun below the horizon, glimmers overhead on the right. Ghastly stillness, and horror of infinite cold, the blue shadows of the ice-crevices flitting like spectres about the windingsheet of nature, seem to pervade the dusky atmosphere. Such is the scene of which the pursuit of truth, or the mission of love, have taught brave hearts, time after time, to front the terrors.

Mind and eye turn gladly from this pallid and deathly prospect to Mr. Phillip's "Marriage of the Princess Royal," (58). Here all is sweet play of variegated light, on silken robe, and stately plume, and blushing check. The daughter of England kneels before the altar, beautiful maidens wreathing out like a rose-garland behind. Her Majesty, queenly in dignity, motherly in grace and tenderness, is the foremost figure in the proud company; while the glistening eyes of the Prince of Wales, of Prince Alfred, and of the Princess Alice, show that, in looking on the bride, they think more of the sister than of the Princess. One of the most felicitous pictures of its class that was ever painted!

"The Black Brunswickers," (129), by Mr. Millais, exhibits the supreme technical power of this painter, but has no other merit. A black-uniformed Brunswicker is about to proceed to Waterloo, and urges his way past his ladye-love, who holds the handle of the door, and seeks to prevent his exit. The young lady and young gentleman do not appear perfectly to understand each other, much less could it be expected that we should understand them. Happily, we have not the smallest interest in their difficulty, and merely noticing the masterly drawing and powerful colouring of Mr. Millais, we pass to a picture of which the meaning is as plain as it is weighty.

Few pictures of the year are more remarkable for earnestness of purpose, and force and distinctness of effect, than Mr. A. Solomon's "Drowned! Drowned!" (478). A party of revellers, masked in various costume, return home, as the first streaks of morning are beginning to break upon the night, across Westminster Bridge. The light of a lamp not seen in the picture, beneath which the party are passing, is shed upon their forms and faces. A "gay" female, flushed, and laughing wildly, hangs on the arm of a profligate, who is first of the band. Suddenly he is arrested by a face which gleams upon him in the light of a policeman's lantern. It is that of a girl who had fallen his victim, and whose stiff and disfigured corpse has just been dragged from the bed of the river. The open mouth and sunken cheek of the corpse show ghastly in the yellow lamp-light, though a wan effulgence of beauty still lingers on the features. A dog, soaked and dripping, that has evidently been employed in recovering the corpse, looks up in the face of the seducer. The latter has started on seeing the face, and taken his cigar from his mouth. His expression, and the gesture of his right hand, are too demonstrative-we had almost said, theatrical; the paleness of suddenly-sobered guilt, the blank stare of a consciencestricken Cain, are what the mind seeks for the occasion. But his countenance is not without strong feeling, and the stern and literal truthfulness of the story gives to the picture a powerful general effect. An exceedingly tender pathos is added to the whole by the presence of a flower-girl, manifestly the sister of the deceased, who now tends two flower-baskets. The light from the lantern which falls on the face of the corpse touches also the cowslips in the basket by which she once stood!

The pictures in the Academy's Exhibition have occupied almost the entire space at our disposal, and we can add but a few words on two works which merit a far more ample notice. The first is Mr. Barker's "Meeting of Havelock, Outram, and Sir Colin Campbell," under the walls of Lucknow; the second, Mr. Holman Hunt's "Finding of the Saviour in the Temple."

Messrs. Agnew and Sons, of Liverpool and Manchester, deserve credit for having commissioned, and Mr. Barker deserves credit for the way in which he has executed, the noble national picture of the meeting of the Generals at Lucknow, on the 17th of November, 1857. It is national in the best sense. Panoramic in breadth and general

effect, it is yet founded throughout upon reality and truth. Sketches made by Mr. Egron Lundgren, a living artist, on the spot, have enabled Mr. Barker to set before us the blaze of Indian light as it really falls on stately palm and swarthy cheek-to show us costume as it is actually worn-and to convey no inaccurate idea of the palaces, and cupolas, and gold-touched minarets of the capital of Oude. In painting his figures, the artist has endeavoured to preserve the strictest truth of portraiture. The incident he commemorates is one which ought to be imprinted on the memory of the British nation. It is an incident of which fathers will tell their children centuries hence, when they wish to stir their nobler impulses by tales of "the brave days of old." Sir Henry Havelock, toil-worn and battle-stained-his brow and cheek pale with the anxiety and peril of that terrible advance from Cawnpore to Lucknow-is seen in the centre of the picture greeting Sir Colin Campbell. The rugged and stalwart veteran of the Crimea takes the right hand of Havelock in both his, giving him a genuine Highland welcome. General Outram, half-a-step behind, introduces Havelock to the Commander-in-Chief. Left of Havelock, from the spectator's point of view, are Sir John Inglis, Sir David Baird, and the roughlooking, gallant-looking Metcalfe. These all are on foot. To the right, on horseback, are General Sir James Hope Grant, Colonel Greathead, and Major Anson; while, still farther to the right, and on foot, are Horman, Mansfield, William Peel, and Adrian Hope. All these are recognizable; and we gaze long upon them there, as the fierce heat strikes on their foreheads, and the dust and sweat of the fight, which is even now going on, cling to their garments. Sir Colin Campbell's white charger, held by his Syce in picturesque garb of green, crimson, and blue, and Adrian Hope's dappled Arab, diversify the scene. The accessories are good. In the right corner, a sun-struck Highlander is ministered to by a native with water; behind is an elephant yoked to a gun, and one or two red-faced, rattling tars. On the left, a wounded soldier stretches in earnest affection towards Havelock; a camel lies screaming upon the ground; and some natives quarrel over spoil. Behind are the stalwart frames of Sikh horsemen. Red lines are seen in the distance, from which the roll of British musketry seems to fall upon the ear; and shattered buildings and burtsing flames speak the desolation and terror of war. Our country friends, visiting London, will do well to bend their steps to Waterloo-place, and have a long, steady look at this admirable picture.

Very different in kind, belonging to a far more rare and ethereal style of art, the first picture of the year, without a second in or out of the Academy, is Hunt's "Finding of the Saviour in the Temple." This, taken all in all, is the highest achievement yet wrought by the pre-Raphaelite school. It marks the time when all must acknowledge the promise-in which, at one time, few put trust-to have become magnificent performance. Shrinking from no severity of historical research, spending a year and a-half in Palestine in order to study costume and countenance in the ancestral land of the Jews, and

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