The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, June 1844

Magazine Writing.—We know not how we can better evince our appreciation of the kind and flattering comments of a Southern correspondent, who will at once recognize our allusion, than by citing the somewhat kindred remarks of an old and favorite contributor, now passed away from earth. It was a pleasing matter, he said, to sit down with the proper afflatus stirring within him, to write an article for a Magazine. ‘If the work has a general prevalence; if its fame is rife on good men’s tongues, the inspiration is the stronger. One says to himself, how many friends of mine will overlook these very lucubrations, perceive my initials, and recognize my name? How many pleasing associations will thus be awakened, and peradventure commendatory remarks expressed, concerning my powers? What a quid pro quo for wakeful nights, emendations of phrases, the choosing of words, and toilsome revision! The other day,’ he continues, ‘while reading the proof-sheet of my article in the last Knickerbocker, I fell into a train of reflection upon the large amount of care and labor which must be entailed upon the publisher and editor of an original Magazine. Some one has observed, that when we listen to an exquisite opera, or any elaborate and intricate piece of music, we think not how vast were the pains and attention bestowed upon every note and cadence; what efforts for perfection in a solo, what panting for a warble, what travail for a trill! Taken separately, and at rehearsals, in disjointed fragments of sound, how different are they from that volume of sweet concords which is produced when they are all breathed forth in order, to the accompaniment of flutes and recorders, in one full gush of melody! This is just like a Magazine. How many minds does it engage! Cherished thoughts and cherished feelings, polished or sublimated, there find utterance, and demand that honor and deference to which they are entitled. In his beautiful Introduction to the Harleian Miscellany, Johnson sets forth the necessity and benefit of similar writings, with reasons as conclusive as the language in which they are expressed is chaste and strong. In a country like ours, where the vast population move by common impulse; think promptly, are enlightened with ease, and turn to the best account that knowledge which is received with the greatest facility; are inspired with sacred and patriotic feelings from the bar, the senate, the pulpit, and the press; it is important and just that the readiest methods and means of instructive moral amusement should be the most esteemed and the best supported. I confess I never look into a Magazine, that I do not liken it to a large and pure reservoir of refreshing waters; derived from many streams, and prankt around its borders with the flowers and garniture of poesy; possessing qualities agreeable to every taste—the grave, the solid, the scientific, the light, the gay. It is a map of the higher moods of life. It conveys a sustenance with the relish of pleasure. All who favor it with their productions have different tastes and faculties of mind. Each one endeavors to do the best with his theme. He ornaments it in diction, or tasks his fancy, or explores the secrets of science, or illustrates the events and scenes of his country: he excites broad-mouthed laughter, by salutary jest and pun; he expatiates in pathetic sentences, or murmurs in the mellow cadence of song; or arouses interest by the embellishments wherewith history is refined, and which shed a light over the dim annals of the past, making them to smile,

——‘even as the radiant glow,
Kindling rich woods, whereon the etherial bow
Sleeps lovingly awhile.’

‘Now what I thought beside, while looking over my proof, was this: that a ‘circulating medium,’ through which so many minds communicated their thoughts, produced and clothed with befitting language in solitary labor; smoothed, strengthened, or harmonized by revision, and rendered impressive by those helps and researches of which every readable writer must avail himself; such a medium, I say, merits the esteem and respect of all. It deserves not to be taken up for judgment, at a momentary glance, by the undiscerning eye of careless inquiry. It should be read impartially, and spoken of, in all worthy points, with praise; in faulty ones, with tenderness. Our literature, I take it, is not yet a sufficiently flowery pursuit, to enable any of its votaries to sow its walks with brambles. By its influence, the country is to be mentally illustrated; the clanking shackles of transatlantic humbug are to be thrown off; and the establishment of wholesome feelings, and reliance upon our own intellectual resources, firmly effected. I love to see the general press engaged now and then in cheering onward the laborers in the more unfrequented and toilsome avenues of our literary vineyard. It sends a God-speed to the bosoms of those whose travails are more for their country than themselves; and who are content, in anonymous pride, to believe, that it heralds that bright day of mental refinement which will ere long, among the freest and noblest confederacy of nations on earth, irradiate the utmost borders of that holy circumference,

‘Our Native Land!’

A thrust with a two-edged Weapon.—We rather incline to the opinion that the ‘complainant below’ is infringing the law which forbids the use of concealed weapons; that are not the less to be guarded against, certainly, when as in the present case they cut both ways. But our readers shall judge: Dear Editor: The country, strange as it may appear, has peculiar and permanent inhabitants; neither dressing in skins, nor wearing their own feathers, but habited after the glimpses of fashion which reach them through their trees. As we have never yet met with a man who was so fortunate as to have no relations, we take it for granted that all city-zens, yourself among the rest, have country-cousins. Think of the countless multitudes that turn their longing eyes in the direction of a metropolis like this, yearning for a visit, and sending off by frequent Opportunities, never by mail, those remarkable epistolary compounds of hopes and wants which no other race of beings can compose in perfection: ‘Hope John is well, and Betsey will come and see us next summer; and want’—Lawson and Stewart! what do they not want? Every thing; from twenty yards of silk down to a penny’s-worth of tape. The letters run somewhat in this guise, though less poetically:

‘Cousin John, please to send down to-morrow,
At eight, by the Scarborough mail,
‘Claudine, or the Victim of Sorrow,’
Don Juan, two mops and a pail;
Six ounces of Bohea from Twining’s,
A peg-top, a Parmesan cheese,
Some rose-colored sarcenet, for linings,
A stew-pan, and Stevenson’s Glees;
A song ending ‘Hey-noni-noni,’
A chair with a cover of chintz,
A mummy dug up by Belzoni,
A skein of white worsted from Flint’s.’

Half the things that are sent for, they might buy at their own doors. Again and again we have known them put in commission and procure from an oppressed relative the identical productions of a manufactory within a mile of them. A singular virtue seems to abide in all that comes from the sunny side of Broadway.

‘You perhaps may not know what an Opportunity is. In love affairs you have undoubtedly experienced that it is every thing; but in rural affairs it is more. It is the common-carrier of a village. So soon as an inhabitant has expressed his intention of going to town, he becomes an Opportunity, and like a Chinese, liable to pains and penalties for leaving his native place. From every quarter pour in letters, bundles, and packages, which are to be carried with care and delivered with despatch. No thanks for his trouble, if they should reach their destination, and a general liability for the uncertain value of their contents if they should chance to be lost. So that an Opportunity’s advent in town ought to be announced in this way: ‘Arrived, Hiram Doolittle, from Connecticut, with m’dze to Legion and Company.’ The Opportunity not only transports, but acts as General Agent. Commissions are given him for a return freight. Hats, coats, dresses, are much wanted, which he is expected to select with taste, and to purchase cheap. Even the labyrinth of houses does not protect him from the Argus eyes of his consignees. They seek him out and insist upon his turning himself into a United States’ mail and a Harnden’s express. It is not a week since we heard a consignee’s friend’s friend request an Opportunity to carry home a loaf of sugar to his country correspondent.

‘Perhaps, Friend Knick., we are wounding your feelings all this time, tender by reason of many cousins and commissions; but we can assure you that we have an infinite respect for all relationship, and are rather blessed than bored by the requisitions of our own rural branches. We trust, however, that your rustic kith and kin do not come upon your house in the spring, in shoals like the shad. Unhappy editor, if it be so; for until the day predicted by Alphonse Karr, when connexions shall be cooked and côtelettes d’oncle à la Béchamel and têtes de cousin en tortue shall smoke lovingly upon the table, there is nothing for you but to submit to your Fates, or to give up your house-keeping. But with country cozens, those provincials who are not bone of your bone, and who nevertheless at every visit to town call upon you with an eager look and covetous smile, as if to say, ‘Ask us to dinner, we once invited you to tea,’ there is but one method to pursue; the cut—the firm, unwavering, direct cut. Do not pretend not to see them, or to look fixedly in another direction, but give them the vacant, absent stare, as if you saw around them, and through them, and the image before you excited neither attention nor recollection. There are no terms to be kept with them. Their Shibboleth is not yours.

‘In the ‘Absentee,’ a London fashionable lady, Mrs. Dazeville, goes to Ireland, and is hospitably received by Lady Clonbrony, stays a month at her country-house, and is as intimate with Lady Clonbrony and her niece Miss Nugent, as possible; and yet when Lady Clonbrony comes to London, never takes the least notice of her. At length, meeting at the house of a common friend, Mrs. Dazeville cannot avoid recognizing her, but does it in the least civil manner possible: ‘Ah, Lady Clonbrony! Did not know you were in England! How long shall you stay in town? Hope before you leave England you will give us a day.’ Lady Clonbrony is so astonished at this ingratitude, that she remains silent; but Miss Nugent answers quite coolly, and with a smile: ‘A day? certainly, to you who gave us a month.’ Miss Edgeworth evidently considers this a capital story; and we have no doubt that many stupid people who have read it consider it an excellent hit; but we can assure them that they know nothing of the woods and fields. It is a great favor to make people in the country a visit. It relieves them from the tiresome monotony of their rose-bushes and chickens; and by the active exertions in planning breakfasts and dinners, and making the one ride through the valley last for three afternoons, infuses if possible a certain degree of mental activity into their lives, which must be far from disagreeable to them. A cit too is in a certain degree a lion. The oldest town-jokes are as new in the country as last year’s ribbons; and the neighbors gather together to view with delight a face that they have not seen every Sunday for the last fifty-two weeks, and are only too happy to engage the Novelty at a ‘Tea.’ But when they come to town, what can you do with them? Who the devil wants to see them? Your friends care little enough for you, still less for your agricultural acquaintances. You cannot bring yourself to go to Peale’s Museum, or to see the talking-machine; and tickets at the opera are dear, unless you stand up. As we said before, you must cut them, or

‘If you are a little man,
Not big enough for that,’

you must try to have them arrested as soon as they arrive, as disturbers of domestic peace, and confined in the Tombs during the whole of their intended stay. If the Legislature sat in New-York instead of in a country city, they would pass some law similar to the South Carolina free-black law, confining all rural visitors, or at least making those liable to an indictment for false pretences, who claim acquaintance with the ‘people of the whirlpool.’

‘If it were only for once, one might ask all his rats des champs to meet one another at a Tea. This might be amusing, if the jest did not grow painful by repetition. There is no reciprocity in your dealings with such invitees. You will probably never again reach their Siberian settlement, whereas they come to town three times a year! It is not fair. It is a base cheat. How can they be so ungenerous and illiberal as to accuse you of neglect and ingratitude for not cultivating them when in the city? They might as well abuse you for not having a green-house! This doctrine of ours is so clearly reasonable, that all people of any breeding admit its truth, and act accordingly. You may stay a week at a country-seat, and need make no acknowledgments of any kind to the owner thereof in his town-house; whereas a dinner in the city is a debt of honor, which must be paid. This is a well settled law. Not that your obligation is by any means cancelled. It is not dead, but dormant. Next summer you will feel deep gratitude for the kindness you received during the last; but no such indebtedness is payable in urbanity. George Selwyn met in St. James-street, London, a man whom he had known very well in Bath, and passed steadily by him without a look of recognition. His acquaintance followed him, and said: ‘Sir, you knew me very well in Bath.’ ‘Well, Sir,’ replied Selwyn, ‘in Bath I may possibly know you again.’ Farewell.

Another ‘pellet’ from Julian.—Not a word is necessary by way of introduction to the ensuing passages from an epistle lately received from our esteemed friend and correspondent Julian. Happy husband of a happy wife and happier mother! Happy father! may his joy never be less: ‘We are in the country! When you write this way, say ‘To the care of – –, Esq.’, for we are designedly three miles from post-offices and newsboys. I have given warning that if any of the latter come within my grounds with his French things, I will souse him in the river, and hold him there till he shall be thoroughly chilled into a dislike of these parts. You will readily imagine why we are here. The excitements and distractions of city life for the last few months were too much for us, and there are some things that can only be enjoyed apart from the world. Here, we subside gradually and gracefully from that high and tense delirium from which I at least made my aërials, always coming back, however, to young Julian; who, by the way, is another occasion for country life, as I have great faith in first impressions, and I wish his to be bright and beautiful. Heaven preserve him from all darker colors; from the doubts, the glooms, the moral mistiness of your city atmosphere! Let no fog come between him and the bright sky, till he has well discovered that there is a heaven beyond, where there is neither cloud nor shadow, and up to which not one grain of all this dust and filth of the earth’s whirling shall ever reach. It is quite enough that we are in sight and hearing of your great Babels; the jarring of their daily strife and the smoke of their torments. A lively and dashing river rolls between us, going off at a hand-gallop among rocky islands, over which we see their spires pointing up like electric-rods to avert the wrath that might otherwise descend upon them; and mingling with the dash of waters, we hear now and then their petty alarms, their steamers and fire-bells, and the dozen other occasions upon which they see fit to make a great noise in the world; but the travelled sound has a courtliness that is rather pleasant than otherwise; and as a key-note to our mocking-birds, it is quite worthy of the sweet south that brings it up. Whenever there is any sudden ebullition that cannot be pared down to the common air, we are made aware of it by a cannonading that is doubtless very considerable down there, but for any thing so ambitiously meant, it sounds here very miserable; a wretched attempt at notoriety, of which the most noticeable is the smoke of their powder. And so with all their sky-flourishing and rocketing, which we look at as at a falling star; pretty, no doubt, but not in our way. Every morning a railroad train starts out, and approaching within a mile, disappears among the hills with a slight buzzing and squibbing, like the fly on the window; and then after it has gone, as we suppose, there is another squib, very smart and snappish, and we hear nothing more of it till the train comes down, frets a little again as it passes by, and goes on to discharge its contents in the great city. To all these things we say, ‘Pass on!’ the world is various, and must be amused; but for us, we respectfully withdraw. We have had enough of the intense; we now welcome the trifling, appropriating however as much of the serious as we care to admit in our still life. When the Sabbath comes round, there are seven bells that reach us, each with its separate voice; and these, with falling waters, and the morning incense going up from the hill-sides, are as much of ‘mass’ as we care to have in our worship. But we have a ready ear for all sweet sounds, and need no glasses to appreciate the beautiful. Sunrise and sunset; the grouping of clouds; the blue haze that now and then lies on the landscape, all one with my cigar-smoke; and the storms and lightnings of the young summer, so spitefully beautiful; all these, with whatever of glory there may be in the still watches of the night, find their place in our picture-gallery; but we leave them as God made them, and add no tint to their coloring.

‘You are aware that the sun rises as per almanac. This is common; and so common, so much an every-day affair, that he gets very little credit therefor; and yet, that he will rise with great exactness, aside from all human calculation, and go on traversing the sky with a wonderful regularity that nothing can stop, is a very pleasant fact touching the prospect of to-morrow; and so also, that every thing in nature will be wrought with marvellous beauty and harmonies of sound; and oh! most satisfactory of all, there will still be an air that properly inhaled fills the heart as well as the lungs. It is from a calm consideration of this fact, that we have done with the eagerness of pleasure. No daily counting of hours to see that all have been properly brimmed; no grasping at a dozen things at once; no draining of the very dregs, lest that may be the last bottle, and we die to-morrow. But thankful as we are for to-morrow, and especially grateful for to-day, we don’t care for noon-marks. We have kept no count lately, and for aught we know, Time may have stopped, but probably not. He is doubtless somewhere about, but we take no particular notice. Our watches have run down, and we care not to wind them again. The hours, if there are any, are all golden, and we have no occasion to note the passage one to the other; or if we start them, just to see the motion, they run on diamonds of the purest water; but mostly, whether it be morn, or mid-day, or the starry night, Sabbath or week-day, it is all one—all beautiful. Does it rain? It is quite proper. The earth needs it, no doubt, and it will look the more grateful therefor. Does it shine? Why then the birds will sing, and if they will come a little nearer, we will teach them that charming air from the last opera. Does a new star come out in heaven, or an old one disappear? The one will be an added glory, and the other not much missed; but they will little concern our astronomy. Expect no more rhapsodies, my friend, unless it be upon the wonderful ease with which every thing can be done without them. That we find all things pleasant, is the extent of our poetry. It is pleasant to wake; it is pleasant to sleep; it is pleasant to wake and sleep again; pleasant to watch the opening lid, and pleasant the smile that follows it; pleasant are kind words and tones, the touch of hands, and the touch of lips; the breath of flowers and those that love them; pleasant are the thousand infinitesimals, like the motes of the sun-beam, not less bright because of their minuteness; and pleasant the thought that sufficient as this heaven may be, there is another one above. And doubtless it is pleasant to breathe as usual, and feel the heart send round its currents with a touch of joy; but oh, pleasanter than all, to have no sigh or throb, to remind you that that breath must one day stop, and that warm blood turn cold. Oh! in the ‘time’ that is set apart ‘for all things,’ may heaven look kindly on and count these trifling hours!

‘Shall we ever leave this charming retreat? Certainly not, while these things last; but it is not impossible that we may return with the cold weather. Meanwhile, I have made a chalk-mark about the grounds, and as yet nothing with a bite or sting has passed over it. Mrs. Julian, as she now insists upon being called, has become highly contemplative; and if I did not know that she was never so happy before, I should think her sometimes a little sad; she is so quiet, so demure, and so eternally bewitched with that boy! Why Sir, she will sit for half a day over the fellow, amusing herself and him with I know not what varieties and wonders of invention; with lullabies and ditties and homœopathies of language; and if he condescend to sleep for a few moments, how divinely still must every thing be! What infinite care is there in pinning the screen; what fortifications are built round about him; and what a world of protection in every movement! And then, when all is complete, she must still sit there, with that strange upward look which she has acquired lately, seeming to reach quite beyond the stars. She is a strange woman! Yesterday, having dined rather late, I happened to forget myself for a few moments on the lounge; and on waking, I found her kneeling before me, and looking up in my face with an expression that to me is peculiarly embarrassing; not the quick, joyous look, followed as quickly by the touch of lips; not that, but something quite indescribable. Perhaps I am not as considerate as I ought to be on such occasions, for doubtless she knows what she would be at, but I confess I do not. Indeed, she is constantly bringing out new points and flourishes, which to me are all vowels of the Hebrew; no doubt very sweet and musical, and certainly very necessary to the sense of the reading, but they are past all finding out. When she dazzles me with these brilliants, I sometimes reply in the Tartar, and so we are quits.

‘Young Julian developes slowly. He has smiled once or twice, but in a manner so precocious, that it would be alarming, if he were at all delicate. Fortunately he is not. His utterance as yet is quite unintelligible, though no doubt he has his meaning. To Mrs. Julian it is all poetry. ‘Poeta nascitur’ may be quite true, but if he rhymes, which is quite possible to her ear, I am constrained to think that it is entirely accidental. I hope, at least, that he is not so viciously gifted. ••• Have I told you that she refuses a nurse, and that too pretty sharply? Well, that is not all; I can hardly touch the boy myself. She is so afraid I shall crush it! My raptures, she says, are not becoming; she even says that I ‘frighten the child!’ But she is the strangest of women! Last night, happening to wake some time in the small hours, I heard a slight noise in the room, and emerging from a dream, in which I remembered to have heard a good deal of crying and hushing, I listened intently for some moments, but couldn’t for my life guess what it could be. There was nothing moving in the room, and the sound appeared to arise from some slow and uniform movement, so that it couldn’t be the wind on the shutters; and if the mocking-birds had been sufficiently awake to swing, as they sometimes do, they would certainly have dropped a word or two, for they are great talkers. Now I often hear bells, fire-arms, and exclamations, and very often hear my name called, and questions asked, to which I reply in due form, all which I know at the time to be imaginary; but this sound, though it seemed to be familiar, I couldn’t make out. I was so drowsy, however, that I had half a mind to consider it a dream; but then what if any thing should happen? I should be responsible. Rising, therefore, very carefully, not to disturb Mrs. J., I discovered by the shaded light on the table that she was quite sound asleep; but what was wonderful, her right arm, outside the bed, was moving up and down with the regularity of a pendulum! What the deuce was all that? Well, Sir, I bent over breathlessly, and found she was pulling at a string! And what, O Editor! who ought to know every thing, what do you think she was pulling? Why, Sir, she was pulling at young Julian’s cradle. She was rocking the baby in her sleep! Oh!’

Apropos of ‘the baby’: an agreeable correspondent, from whom we shall be happy to hear ‘frequently if not oftener,’ intimates to us that our friend Julian, when the ‘lactiferous animalcule’ whose advent into this breathing world he lately described in such glowing terms, shall have reached a more mature babyhood, may find occasion to ‘change the paternal note;’ and he cites for us the following passage, from an essay by a sometime contributor to the Knickerbocker, ‘in justification of his fears:’

‘In my bachelor visitations to my married friends, I have often chuckled over the bashfulness, contending with love, which distinguishes the YOUNG FATHER. In the pride of his heart, perhaps, when his little man has first given evidence of that degree of mental exertion called ‘taking notice,’ he clasps the crowing baby in his arms; he rests its lily feet upon his knees; he endures with philosophic patience all the ‘gouging,’ and pulling, and kicking, with which the young hero may testify his triumph; and while the young mother stands by, her eyes beaming with mingled love and pride, he becomes warmer in his romps; makes faces, as the nerveless fingers of the little one seek, with more earnestness, his eyes, or pull with a greater effort at his lips; and amid screams of laughter, he chases the flying hours, until at length a ‘pale cast of thought’ flits over the baby’s face, like a cloud in a summer sky. This is the signal for immediate seriousness. The father grows grave—then frightened. He raises him gently from his lap, and with a single exclamation of ‘Take him mother!’ consigns the precious charge to her arms, and darting a hasty glance at his ‘pants’ he walks in silence from the room. Nor do we bachelors always escape with impunity. Anxious to win a smile from some fond mother, more than one of us may have dared to approach, with a kiss, the hallowed lips of her darling. But mark the quick wing of vengeance! Darting from its lurking place in the mouth, out flies the little doubled fist, and slams a well-beslabbered biscuit into the face of the intruder. He recoils, with his ‘reeking honors fresh upon him,’ and the little squab coos in triumph at his failure.’

National Academy of Design.—The growing interest felt in relation to the Fine Arts in this country, and the influence which the National Academy of Design has had in producing that interest, make it imperative upon us to notice the pictures which are annually sent to this exhibition. In passing through the Academy with this object in view, we have been at some loss to know where to begin. Finding however by chance at the end of the catalogue an alphabetical arrangement of the exhibitors’ names, we have adopted this as the best method of laying the merits of the several pictures before our readers. We therefore begin with:

V. G. Audubon, A.—Mr. Audubon exhibits four pictures this season: of these, No. 133, ‘Grove of Palm-trees’ in the Island of Cuba, we prefer. This picture appears to be a faithful representation of the scene, and is handled with a free and firm pencil. The trees are perhaps a little too literally represented, to be agreeable to the eye, consisting as they do of so many equally straight and unpicturesque lines. No. 237, ‘Moon-light Squall coming up,’ is a pleasing representation of one of Nature’s poetical moments. The light is clear and silvery, and the water transparent and truthful. The whole scene is interesting, and there is but little to find fault with; although perhaps parts would admit of more warmth of color.

J. D. Blondell has six pictures, the majority portraits. No. 80, ‘Portrait of a Lady,’ half-length, is a pleasing picture; warm in color and carefully painted, and gives evidence of rising talent. The head is perhaps slightly deficient in careful drawing; but few artists are competent to paint a lady’s portrait; and this gentleman should not feel discouraged, though his work be found slightly deficient in that grace which is so difficult of attainment.

Boddington, (London,) exhibits three landscapes, all in a style peculiarly belonging to the English school. They possess great charms; facility of execution, and delicacy of handling.

Bonfield.—No. 168 is perhaps the best of his productions. If it were not for the pinky hue of the sky, this would indeed be a charming picture.

F. Bayle.—No. 25; ‘Picture-Dealer.’ A deep-toned, carefully-painted picture, and evincing much promise in so young an artist. We are glad to perceive that it is purchased by the American Art-Union.

G. L. Brown.—No. 400; ‘View of the Tiber.’ Too much of an imitation of old pictures. In seeking this quality, the artist has lost sight of the truth and freshness of nature.

Chapman, N. A.—Mr. Chapman presents nine pictures this season, and all in his usual brilliant style. No. 116, ‘Peasant Girl of Albano,’ is exceedingly rich in color, and forcible in effect: a few cool tints about the head-dress would give perhaps still greater value to the warm tones. No. 189, ‘Hebrew Women,’ is this artist’s gem of the year. Well composed, pleasing in color, and carefully finished, it expresses the occurrence with fidelity and truth. No. 204, ‘Boy in Indian Costume,’ is an attractive picture; but No. 213, ‘On the Fence,’ is more to our liking. The story is well told; the city beau is carefully and truly represented; and the dogs are admirable. No. 263, portrait of Doctor Anderson, the father of wood-engraving in this country, is capital. No. 266, ‘Lazy Fisherman,’ is Laziness personified. No. 341, ‘Sketch from Nature,’ in water-colors, is an exemplification of this gentleman’s versatility of talent.

J. G. Clonney, A., has two pictures in the exhibition, Nos. 7 and 160. No. 7, ‘The New-Year’s Call,’ is decidedly the best. The negro is well painted. Mr. Clonney’s works generally evince great observation of nature in this class of subjects.

T. Cole, N. A.—Mr. Cole exhibits but one picture, and that comparatively a small one. It possesses however many of the admirable characteristics of his works, particularly his early ones. It would be difficult to find a middle-ground and distance surpassing those of this picture.

T. Crawford, (Rome.)—Mr. Crawford gives us two full-length statues, in which the charm of the marble is strongly apparent. Mr. Crawford, we grieve to say, is evidently too impatient in the finish of his works to produce that correctness which is essential to a high effort of art.

J. F. Cropsey.—No. 68, ‘View in Orange County,’ is a careful representation of nature, and has the appearance to our eyes of having been painted on the spot; a practice very rarely to be found in young artists. A continuance in this course will place this artist in a prominent position as a landscape-painter. The sky is faulty in color, being too purple to meet our views of nature; and there is a lack of delicacy in the more receding portions of the work. But the fore-ground is carefully painted, and full of truth.

Cummings, N. A.—Mr. Cummings has but one picture. It possesses however the careful finish, gentlemanly character, and general truthfulness, so characteristic of this fine artist.

T. Cummings, Jr., a young artist. No. 149, ‘The Ball,’ is his best work. In thus attempting a subject of great difficulty of execution, he evinces promise of future ability. The picture has many pleasing points, marked however with some errors, which time and practice, let us hope, will correct.

C. Curtis.—Mr. Curtis has two pictures in the exhibition, and both of merit. No. 196 is among the best heads in the collection.

J. W. Dodge, A.—‘Miniature Portraits.’ Those of Henry Clay and Gen. Jackson are the most prominent. The likenesses are good, and the pictures carefully finished; a merit in works of this character frequently unattended to. There is, however, a want of dignity sometimes to be found in Mr. Dodge’s portraits, which we could wish to see remedied: it would give an elevation to his paintings which they at present lack.

Paul P. Duggan.—‘John the Baptist’ is a model in plaster, which displays greater knowledge of anatomy than we are in the habit of finding in the works of even older artists. In this respect it possesses great merit. We understand it is his first effort in modelling. As such, it is truly a work of the highest promise.

Durand, N. A.—Mr. Durand has contributed largely to the present exhibition, in every sense of the word. His most prominent production is No. 36, ‘The Solitary Oak.’ For an exhibition-picture, perhaps it is not so striking as some of his previous works; yet it will bear examination better. Without any effort at warmth of color, it has that glow of sunlight which it is so difficult to express. A veteran tree, standing alone upon a gentle eminence, stretching forth its giant arms, that have withstood the storms of centuries, is truly a noble subject for an artist of Mr. Durand’s reputation; and most truly has he depicted it. The distance is beautiful, and the introduction of cattle seeking their evening shelter gives an interest seldom to be found in works of this class. Should we attempt to find a fault, it would be the want of a little more warmth and clearness in the dark parts of the fore-ground. No. 134, another charming landscape; true to nature, of a silvery tone, and most exquisite sweetness of color and delicacy of touch. Nos. 181 and 258 are two careful studies from nature, wherein special care has been given to the trunks of trees, a feature in landscape-painting upon which sufficient attention is rarely bestowed. No. 244, ‘Emigrant Family,’ is full of interest. The travelling family are encamped under the shade of the trees, and the kettle hung over the fire shows that they are evidently preparing to refresh themselves for farther toil and journeying. The foliage of the trees is elaborately executed; the distance is well preserved; and the whole possesses great truth to nature; perhaps however, like all ‘green’ pictures, it is less attractive in an exhibition than works of a warmer color. No. 163, ‘Portrait of a Gentleman,’ has great force, and shows the artist’s versatility of genius.

F. W. Edmonds, N. A.—No. 105, ‘Beggar’s Petition,’ is a spirited and faithful representation of the cold indifference to the wants of others, displayed in the miser’s disposition. The figures are of life-size, and well drawn. The female supplicating in behalf of the distressed, is graceful in attitude, and admirably contrasted with the hoarding miser. No. 205, ‘The Image Pedler,’ is an effort of a higher order; for the artist has attempted, and successfully too, to elevate the class of works to which it belongs. In short, he has invested a humble subject with a moral dignity, which we hope our younger artists, who paint in this department, will not lose sight of. An independent farmer has his family around him, apparently immediately after dinner, and a strolling pedler appears among them, to dispose of his wares; and this gives interest to the whole group. The grandmother drops her peeling-knife, and the mother takes her infant from the cradle, to gaze at the sights in the pedler’s basket. The husband, who has been reading in the cool breeze of the window, turns to participate in the sport; while the grandfather takes a bust of Washington, places it on the table, and commences an earnest elucidation of the character of the, ‘Father of his Country’ to the little children around him. All the figures are intelligent, and the whole scene conveys to the mind a happy family. In color, light and shade, and composition, it is masterly; and we see in it that minuteness of detail and careful finish are not incompatible with a broad and luminous effect.

C. L. Elliott has five portraits in the exhibition. His ‘Full-length of Gov. Seward’ is a prominent one, although not his most agreeable picture. No. 61 is we think the best, and is a well-managed portrait, both in drawing and color.

G. W. Flagg, H.—No. 63, ‘Half-length of a Lady,’ has considerable merit. It is rich and mellow in color, and better we think than many of Mr. Flagg’s recent works. No. 208, ‘The Widow,’ is a popular picture; pleasing in expression, and possessing more refinement of character than is observable in many of his other portraits. No. 102, ‘Bianca Visconti,’ we do not admire.

G. Freeman.—Miniature portraits, generally large, and highly finished. This gentleman has lately arrived from Europe, and is we believe a popular artist; yet we do not like his productions.

J. Frothingham, N. A.—Nos. 32 and 35: portraits exhibiting Mr. Frothingham’s usual bold and free style in this department of art; remarkably fine likenesses; true in color, and of pleasing general effect.

H. P. Gray, N. A.—Mr. Gray exhibits a number of his works this season. He seems to us to sacrifice every thing to color; and his color is not such as is generally seen in nature, but rather what he has seen in pictures. This we think a mistake, and one which we must be permitted to hope he will rectify. In the pictures which he formerly painted, a much closer attention to nature is observable. Mr. Gray has all the feeling of an artist, with no ordinary talent; and we regret to find that he wanders from the direct path. We were among the first, if not the very first, to call public attention to his merits, and it is with reluctance that we perform the duty involved in these animadversions. ‘Comparisons,’ Dogberry tells us, ‘are odorous;’ we cannot help remarking, however, that Mr. Gray’s old fellow-student, Huntington, is (longa intervallo) in the advance. We prefer, of our artist’s present efforts, the picture of ‘His Wife.’ It has a pleasing effect, and is more finished than usual, and more natural in tone than his ‘Magdalen.’