Not that every name that graces the list of our Academicians will be found amongst those who, with an admirable esprit de corps, have come forward to uphold the reputation of British Art. We hear, to our regret, that two of the sources of our annual enjoyment are this year closed. Neither Webster (who, we regret to say, has been prevented by indisposition) nor Mulready are to move us to mirth by their breadth of humour, or awaken our admiration by their true and natural interpretations. Our play is to have no comedy in it-no, not altogether, for we have several scenes of genuine comic power to speak of presently-but the two Academicians in whom the vis comica is most salient, are notto our certain loss-among the exhibitors.

We must console ourselves elsewhere, and, fortunately, the pictures that have been admitted are of a quality that readily offers the means of consolation. Of these it is our purpose to select a few of the most prominent, that the readers of the New Monthly may know the nature of the banquet which in a few days will be spread before them. In doing so, we take them, not according to their order in the catalogue, but rather in accordance with the interest attached to the subjects.

Maclise comes out this year with wonderful vigour and originality, developing, at the same time, a mastery over detail that is perfectly astonishing. The theme which he has chosen is of high interest in a general, and of the highest in a national, point of view. It is the first result in England of the newly-discovered art of printing-that discovery which has flooded the world with so much light! After long and anxious study, and three years of actual labour, William Caxton produced, in the old Almonry of Westminster, the first English book that ever was printed. It bore the following title: "The Game and Playe of the Chesse. Translated out of the Frenche and emprynted by me William Caxton. Fynilshid the last day of Marche the yer of our Lord God a thousand foure hondred and Ixxiiij." This work, whose publication forms an era so remarkable in his country's annals, is (in Mr. Maclise's picture) being shown by Caxton to King Edward IV. and his court on the very spot where it was completed, in the midst of the appliances of his mysterious art, and surrounded by the men who have shared in his ennobling toil. Beside an antique printing-press (copied from one of the period, and once, by a singular chance, the property of Jeremy Bentham) stands the great printer, in his furred gown of black velvet, with his thoughtful eye turned full upon the king, to whom the volume is being presented. On Caxton's broad and calm brow, in the silver hairs that strew his temples, in the lines that furrow his pale cheek, in the compression of his thin lips, are all the tokens of the man whose rare intelligence and patient labour have at length broken down the barrier which stood between ignorance and knowledge, and placed his name high amongst the benefactors of the human race. In the centre of the picture stands the king, gazing earnestly upon the greatest marvel that his realm contains; on his right hand we see his beautiful queen, Elizabeth Woodville; before him are his three children-the fair Rose, whose marriage in after days with Henry VII. united the rival houses of York and Lancaster, and "the two young princes," better known by that simple designation than by the lofty titles which they bore; behind the king appear, on one side, the handsome features of "false, fleeting, perjured Clarence," and on the other the dark countenance of "dissembling

Richard," full of an evil beauty, and fraught with intellectual power. The face of the Duke of Gloucester is one that strongly rivets the spectator, and we see in it, without the light of history, how much there was there to dread. That he is deeply interested in the subject which now occupies his attention is made manifest by the nervous action with which he is drawing a ring from his finger, it being a well-known trait of Richard, when deeply moved, to play with the jewels that adorned his person.

The treatment of the heads of the three royal brothers is very masterly, and affords the opportunity for strong contrast; and this principle is well sustained in the marked difference between the noble lineaments and courtly bearing of the young princes, and the animal life of the boy who holds the book before the king. We see at once the wide interval that separated the blood of the Plantagenets from the current that flowed in the veins of the " printer's devil" of the fifteenth century. Further removed from the central group, on the left hand of the spectator, are several nobles and churchmen. Conspicuous amongst the former, we see the pensive, intellectual features of the queen's brother, Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, the friend and protector of Caxton, and the translator of the "Moral Proverbs of Christine de Pisan," a work afterwards printed by Caxton, and concluding as follows:

Go, thou litel quayer, and recomaund me
Unto the good grace of my special lorde,
Therle Ryveris, for I have emprynted thee
At his commaundement, following every worde
His copye, as his secretaire can recorde;

At Westmistre of Feverer the xx daye,
And of K. Edwarde the xvii yere vraye.

Emprinted by Caxton

In Feverer the colde season.

Amongst the churchmen is one who hails the new invention with no emotion of pleasure, seeing only too clearly that it has robbed him of his occupation; a type of this feeling is shown in the shadow cast by the monk's head on the open page of the "Biblia Pauperum," a chained copy of which is lying on a small desk behind him. Beneath this group of courtiers and ecclesiastics, and forming the foreground of the picture on that side, are various workmen, all of whom have assisted in the pro-. duction of "the book." We see here the bookbinder, with his needle and vellum strings; the illuminator, or rubricator, with his pigments and painting implements; the woodcutter, with his sharp-cutting tools and pencils. One of the latter is engaged in cutting a small block; and, from the experimental proof that lies before him, we find that the chessknight is the subject that employs him. Of the marvellous fidelity with which all the implements are represented it is vain to speak; the sense of touch can alone convince the spectator that what he sees is not reality. To balance this mass of figures on the left hand, we have others employed in their different vocations on the right. Here are the compositors, deftly picking out the type from the boxes and filling their composing-sticks, the daggers which hang from their girdles attesting the privilege they enjoyed of carrying arms,-the tribute paid to learning by chivalry. Fine stalwart fellows are here also ready to feed the press, prepare the type for the forms, and assist in all that manipulation which was then so great a mystery and is now so familiar. But Caxton, it is

well known, was not only a printer but a type-founder also; and to the skill of the painter Mr. Maclise has added the accuracy of the antiquarian, presenting us with a copy of the original placard issued by Caxton, which informed the public that type was for sale in the old Almonry. Pasted against one of the pillars in the vaulted chamber, is a scrap of coarse white paper, on which may be read, by those familiar with black letter, the following sentence:

Ef it plese ony man spirituel or temporel to bye ony pies (pica) of two or three comemoracíos of Salisburi use enprynted after the forme of this preset lettre which ben wel and truly conect late him come to Westmonester into the Almonestye at the reed pale and he shall have them good there.

We might dwell at infinite length on the amazing facility with which Mr. Maclise has overcome every technical difficulty in dealing with this subject, but we must pass to the works of others. Let it suffice for us to say, that while he has shown a command of details, which have not been put on canvas with like force since the days of the early Flemings, he has exemplified, to the fullest extent, the power he possesses of affecting the mind by the loftier attributes of his theme. Before we leave him, however, we must add that he has painted two modern pictures, which will attract many a gazer's eye. These are-a full-length portrait

of that earnest labourer in the cause of literature, Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, and another of the great tragedian, Macready, whose public career was recently closed by so deserved a homage to his dramatic genius. Sir Edward is represented in his own ancestral hall of Knebworth: the likeness is very good, the attitude easy and unconstrained, and the ensemble extremely pleasing. The portrait of Macready exhibits him in the character of Werner, in that melancholy passage of his history where he utters those impatient words which sneering Scottish criticism has assailed for the alleged absence of poetical beauty:

Who would read in this form

The high soul of the son of a long line?

Who, in this garb, the heir of princely lands?
Who, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride
Of rank and ancestry? In the worn cheek
And famine-hollow'd brow, the lord of halls
Which daily feed a thousand vassals?

These lines may be rugged, but had they been other than poetical they would scarcely have suggested the noble picture which Maclise has painted. It is the most idealised, and yet the truest portrait that we have ever seen of the great actor.

From the repose of these subjects let us turn to one replete with vehement action. It is "The Battle of Roveredo," by Clarkson Stanfield, a work in which he has, in our estimation, exceeded all his previous efforts. This masterly production possesses every quality that can interest the beholder for harmony of composition, truth of expression, breadth and vigour of treatment, correctness of drawing, and force and purity of colouring, we have never seen its equal from Stanfield's pencil. The picture is a very large one, and affords scope for a great deal of very admirable detail. We have given the subject the title of "The Battle of Roveredo," but it is rather an episode of battle-a leading feature in that series of rapid movements fought in September, 1796, by which Bonaparte forced the passes of the southern Tyrol in succession, when he compelled the Russian army to retire upon Trent. In Stanfield's pic

ture the French troops have passed the town of Roveredo, which, with its large silk mills, occupies the middle distance, and are crossing the Adige, on their way, we may suppose, to force the difficult gorge of Caliano. It is impossible to imagine anything finer than the spirit and movement which animate the foreground, where the principal incidents of the fight are told. The retreating enemy have blown up the bridge,— one of that kind so frequent in mountain passes,—and amidst the charred and burning fragments, and a dropping fire of musketry, the soldiers of the youthful conqueror are crossing the rapid torrent. The most resolute courage is depicted on the countenances of the advancing troops, amongst whom every figure and every attitude tell a story. To particularise some of these, we may point to the tambours, who have been the first to cross the stream; two of them have gained the opposite side, and are beating a point of war as steadily as if they were on the paradeground; but the fire that dances in their eyes, and the grim smile that curls their lips, show that they feel there is no child's play here. Another tambour has crossed also, but his hour has come: a ball has struck him, and he staggers against the broken buttress of the bridge. A trumpeter has fallen too, after sounding the advance, and his instrument lies on the ground. Close to this spot stands a sturdy grenadier sheltering himself, like an old soldier, beneath a fragment of rock, while he coolly primes his weapon. Nearer to the spectator is a wounded man, mortally hurt, whom a kneeling priest is eagerly shriving,—and immediately in front, on the right hand, are two energetic figures of peasants, the rich and mellow colouring of whose dresses give strength and brilliancy to the foreground. On the left we see the long line of troops steadily advancing along the winding road from Roveredo, and here the figure of a grenadier who has just been hit attracts the eye. The wound compels him to stop; but, by the manner in which he dresses it with brandy from his flask, it is plain that he is all impatience to resume his march. Midway in the stream, but half in shadow, as if it were not his purpose to reveal him too distinctly, the painter has indicated the place of the leader of this gallant force, where his sword shines like a streak of light athwart the gloom : his features are somewhat indistinctly marked, and his garments are sombre; but there is enough in the pose of the figure to give the idea of the man who taught his soldiers to conquer wherever they went. All the accessories of the picture are good,-the retreating Tyrolese, the figures of the slain (so managed as to tell the story and excite sympathy without shocking the feelings by their obtrusiveness), and the beautiful effects of the mountain scenery, near and afar off. There is in the former a fine old red tower and wall standing boldly over a precipice, whose fine, rich hues blend well with the foreground; and these are well contrasted with the quiet tone which is spread over the lofty buildings of Roveredo, while in the extreme distance the eye is led upwards to the snowy peaks which come out in the clearest relief against the deep blue sky. Altogether, whether as battle-piece or landscape-whether animate or inanimatenature appeals to us from the canvas; the feeling raised is one of unalloyed satisfaction. If our German friends take an interest in the peaceful labours of the Westminster Almonry, assuredly our more warlike neighbours will be gratified by this most spirited delineation of one of the most striking scenes in their hero's great Italian campaign.

But Stanfield's mission would only be half executed if he did not also take us to the sea-shore. He has done so in a beautiful view on the

Adriatic, beneath the walls of Ancona, looking up the gulf towards Rimini, and remoter Venice. We find here in the breaking wave, in the boats and fishermen that occupy the foreground, in the lofty Roman arch, and in the distant mountains and faint outline of the horizon, the hand of the master who has made such scenes entirely his own. He gives us also a view on the coast of South Wales, near Swansea, where, daring the dangers of a stormy sea, some fishermen have been striving to save the wreck of a fine vessel, which is fast drifting on the rocks. The action of the men is admirably represented: all seem so in earnest, particularly the foremost, a spare, worn man, but with all the strength that is needful for his task; the shining sands are beautifully represented, as well as the shadowy heights in the distance. His fourth and last contribution to this year's show is a calm Dutch river scene of quiet beauty and repose.

Neither has the younger Stanfield neglected the art to which he lays hereditary claim. He has painted only one picture, but that is a very attractive one. It is a scene in the Highlands of Argyllshire, in one of the small bays of Loch Fine, where, on a narrow isthmus, stands the little town of East Tarbert-a place famous in epicurean annals, the connoisseurs saying that there only the Loch Fine herring is to be eaten in perfection. As the herrings are not attainable just now, we prefer the landscape, which is really most beautiful. The town, with its free kirk perched above it, lies bathed in sunshine, from a broad gleam that shoots between the lofty heights which skirt Loch Tarbert on the other side of the isthmus, and stretch away full forty miles towards the ocean. A fine grey feudal tower, with its broken gable and machiolated battlements, comes out well against the sky on the left hand, and the clear transparent water and bold masses of mossy rock on the right, complete a picture which is in all respects remarkably true to nature.

We are sorry to find that, from accidental causes, there is to be only one picture in the Exhibition by Hart. It consists simply of two figures -one of them, however, a personage of high renown-the celebrated Benevenuto Cellini. He has just completed his exquisite model of Perseus, which he is showing to his servant. On the head of Cellini Mr. Hart has evidently bestowed much time and thought, and his success has been proportionate to his endeavours. The genius and skill, the arrogance and boastfulness, the pride and wilfulness of the stormy, restless Florentine artist, whose works are still the wonder of the world, and whose personal reputation is so equivocal, are all represented with a master's power. We apprehend that Mr. Hart has not adhered to any single portrait, but has profited by the most striking characteristics of more than one. Let us add, that the drawing is excellent, and the colouring highly effective. There are two countries, very opposite in their characteristics, where Roberts finds himself at home-Syria and Belgium. He presents us this year with a scene in each. His most important picture is a view of the ruins of the Temple of the Sun, at Baalbec, with a sandy waste stretching beyond, and the snowy range of the Lebanon in the extreme distance. To relieve the monotony of the desert he has introduced one of those occurrences which travellers unfortunately discover to be only too frequent in that inhospitable clime-an attack on a caravan by a party of Bedoweens. By this device he has given animation to a scene which we should otherwise have only admired for the purity of its atmosphere, the general brilliancy May-VOL. XCII. NO. CCCLXV.

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