The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 376, June 20, 1829

102. Portrait of the Duchess of Richmond.—Sir T. Lawrence.

110. Cardinals, Priests, and Roman Citizens washing the Pilgrims' Feet.—D. Wilkie.—This ceremony takes place during the holy week, in the Convent of Santa Trinita dei Pelligrini; and Mr. Wilkie has infused a devotional character into this picture which is highly characteristic of Catholic solemnity.

127. Portrait of Jeremy Bentham—H.W. Pickersgill.—An admirable likeness of the veteran-patriot and political economist.

128. The Defence of Saragossa.—D. Wilkie.—The subject is so well explained in the Catalogue, that we quote it:—

"The heroine Augustina is here represented on the battery, in front of the convent of Santa Engratia, where her husband being slain, she found her way to the station he had occupied, stept over his body, took his place at the gun, and declared she would herself avenge his death.

"The principal person engaged in placing the gun is Don Joseph Palafox, who commanded the garrison during the memorable siege, but who is here represented in the habit of a volunteer. In front of him is the Reverend Father Consolaçion, an Augustin Friar, who served with great ability as an engineer, and who, with the crucifix in his hand, is directing at what object the cannon is to be pointed. On the left side of the picture is seen Basilico Boggiero, a priest, who was tutor to Palafox, celebrated for his share in the defence, and for his cruel fate when he fell into the hands of the enemy. He is writing a despatch to be sent by a carrier pigeon, to inform their distant friends of the unsubdued energies of the place."

In this part of the room are half a dozen excellent portraits, all by different artists.

149. The Soldier's Wife—W.F. Witherington.—This picture is from an anecdote of the late Duke of York. His Royal Highness, as he returned one day from a walk, observed a poor woman in tears, sent away from his house. On asking the servant who she was, he answered, "A beggar, some soldier's wife." "A soldier's wife!" returned his Royal Highness; "give her immediate relief: what is your mistress but a soldier's wife?"—An interesting picture, although we do not think the likeness of the benevolent Duke is very striking. However, the incident must have occurred a few years previous to his decease.

157. Lord Byron's Dream.—C.L. Eastlake.—A rich oriental landscape, and a most delightful scene of desert stillness.

172. Portrait of Robert Southey, Esq.—Sir T. Lawrence—We hope the president's portrait will please the laureate, for he has been rather tenacious about his "likenesses" which have been engraved. The present is, perhaps, one of the most intellectual portraits in the room, but is too energetic even for the impassioned poet.

181. Queen Margaret of Anjou, being defeated at the battle of Hexham, flies with the young prince into a forest, where she meets with robbers, to whose protection she confides her son.—H. P. Briggs.—This subject is by no means new in art, but is here cleverly treated, and the whole is very effective.

214. Othello and Desdemona.—R. Evans.—Why is Othello in armour? Let Mr. Planché, in his Costumes, look to this.

216. Portrait of Miss Phillips, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, as Juliet.—H. E. Dawe.—This picture is entirely devoid of flattery; and is by no means a good likeness of the interesting original.

224. Roman Princess, with her Attendant, washing the female pilgrim's feet.—D. Wilkie—An affecting picture of a truly devotional incident.

246. Camilla introduced to Gil Blas at the Inn.—G. S. Newton.—This picture is considered to be Mr. Newton's chef d'oeuvre. The landlord is entering the chamber with a flambeau in his hand lighting in a lady, more beautiful than young, and very richly dressed; she is supported by an old squire, and a little Moorish page carries her train. The lankiness of Camilla is somewhat objectionable, but the head is exquisitely animated. The sentimentality of Gil Blas too, is excellent.

293. The Confessional—Pilgrims confessing in the Basilica of St. Peter's.—D. Wilkie.—An interesting picture, though not equal to others by the same artist, in the present exhibition.

322. Hadleigh Castle. The mouth of the Thames—morning after a stormy night—J. Constable—The picturesque beauty of this scene is spoiled by the spotty "manner of the artist."

352. Coronation of the Remains of Ines de Castro.—G. St. Evie.—An attractive picture of one of the most extraordinary scenes in history. The remains of Dona Ines de Castro taken out of her tomb six years after the interment, when she was proclaimed queen of Portugal. This is an illustration of Mrs. Hemans's beautiful lines which we quoted in a recent number of the MIRROR.

455. Portrait of Mrs. Locke, sen.—Sir T. Lawrence.—A Reubens-like portrait of a benevolent lady, and which we take to be an excellent likeness.

592. Portrait of John Parker, Esq. on his favourite horse Coroner, with the Worcestershire fox hounds.—T. Woodward.—We can relate a curious circumstance connected with this picture. While in the room, a country gentleman and his lady inquired of us the subject—we turned to the number in the Catalogue, and gave him the desired information. "Ah," said he, "I was sure it was Parker, and told my wife the same, although I was not previously aware of his portrait being in the Exhibition." We should think the resemblance must be very striking.

The Antique Academy is almost covered with portraits, and the miniatures hang in cluster-like abundance—so that what with bright eyes and luxuriant tresses, this is not the least attractive of the rooms.

In the Library are several fine architectural drawings; among which is a view of Chatsworth, by Sir J. Wyatville, including, as we suppose, all the magnificent additions and improvements, now in progress there. Mr. Soane's Designs for entrances to the Parks and the western part of London, (which we alluded to in our No. 360,) are likewise here.

In the Model Academy, Messrs. Chantrey and Westmacott have some fine groups, and Behnes three fine busts—the Duke of Cumberland, Princess Victoria, and Lady Eliz. Gower.

It would be easy to extend this notice through the present and next number, but as other matters press, and as all the town go to Somerset House, we hope this notice will be sufficient; for it is not in our power to enumerate half the fine pictures in the Exhibition, much as we rejoice at this flourishing prospect of British art.

MULREADY'S "WOLF AND LAMB."

In a preceding number we stated that the copyright of this picture had been purchased for 1,000 guineas, and appropriated to the Artists' Fund, which a correspondent, and "a member of the Fund," informs us is not the fact. He assures us that the original picture was purchased some years since by his Majesty, who granted the loan of it to the society, at whose expense it was engraved; the sale of the prints producing 1,000l. to the Fund. Mr. Mulready has the merit of painting the picture and procuring the loan of it; but our version of the affair would make it appear otherwise. We copied our notice from the newspapers, where it was stated, as from the Lord Chancellor, at the Fund Dinner, that Mr. Mulready had relinquished his copyright to the picture for the benefit of the Fund, which had thus produced 1,000l.; but we thank our correspondent for his correction.

THE SELECTOR AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS

FIVE NIGHTS OF ST. ALBAN'S

This is a work of pure fiction, and is one of the most splendidly imaginative books we have met with for a long time. It is attributed to the author of the "First and Last" sketches in Blackwood's Magazine, some of which have already been transferred to our pages. No further recommendation can be requisite; but to give the reader some idea of the vivid style in which the work is written, we detach two episodal extracts.

THE IDIOT GIRL

When Peverell reached his own house, his man Francis met him with a strangely mysterious look and manner.

"Here is one within," said he, "that will not, by any dint of persuasion, go; though I have been two good hours trying my skill to that end."

"Who is it?" inquired Peverell.

"That, neither, can I discover," quoth Francis. "She knocked at the door—it might be something after eleven, perhaps near upon twelve—and when I opened it, she whips into the hall without saying a word, walks into every room in the house—I following her, as a beadle follows a rogue, till he sees him beyond the parish bounds—and at last takes possession of your low chair, and, without so much as 'by your leave,' begins to wring her hands, and cry 'Lord! Lord!'—What do you want, good woman?" said I. But I might as well have addressed myself to the walls, for 'Lord! Lord!' was all her moan."

Peverell hastened into the room, and there he saw poor Madge—her face buried in her hands, rocking to and fro, weeping most piteously, and as Francis had described, ever and anon calling upon the Lord, but in a tone of such utter wretchedness, that it pierced his very heart.

He spoke to her. She started up at the sound of his voice, looked at him, and then mournfully exclaimed, while she pointed to the ground—"They have buried her!"

"Then be comforted," said Peverell, in a kind and soothing voice; "your hardest trial is past."

"What a churl he was!" continued Madge, not heeding the words of Peverell; "I only asked him to keep the grave open till to-morrow, and he denied me! Only till to-morrow—for then, said I, the cold earth can cover us both. But he denied me! So I fell upon my knees, beside my Marian's grave, and prayed that he might never lose a child, to know that blessedness of sorrow which lies in the thought of soon sleeping with those we have loved and lost! It was very wrong in me, I know, to wish to call down such affliction on him—but he denied me—and I had to hear the rattling dust fall upon her coffin—ay, and to see that dark, deep grave filled up; as if a mother might not have her own child!"

"Poor afflicted creature!" exclaimed Peverell, in a half whisper to himself.

"Yes!" said Madge, drying her tears with her hands. "Yes! I have walked with grief, for my companion in this world, through many a sad and weary hour. But I shook hands with her, and we parted, at the grave of Marian. I buried all my troubles there. What is the hour?"

"Hard upon two," replied Peverell.

"Then I must be busy," replied Madge, in a wild, hurried manner, and smiling at Peverell, with a look of much importance, as if what she had to do were some profound secret. "You'll not betray me, if I tell you?" she continued, taking his hand—"Feel!" and she placed it on her heart. "One, two; one, two; one, two—and so it goes on; it cannot beat beyond two! Oh, God! in what pain it is before it breaks!"

She now returned to the chair from which she had risen, at the sound of Peverell's voice. He approached nearer; and (with a view rather to draw her gently from her own thoughts, than from any desire that she should leave his house,) he asked her "if she would go home?"

"Yes," she replied; "bear with me yet a little while, and I'll go. It is near the time I promised Marian, when last I kissed her wintry cheek, as she lay shrouded in her coffin; and I may not fail. Lord! Lord! what a troubled and worthless world this seems to me now! A week ago, and the sun, and the moon, and the stars, and the green earth, and all that was upon it, were dear to mine eyes; and I should have wept to look my last at them! But now, I behold nothing it contains, save my Marian's grave! You will see me laid in it, for pity's sake—won't you?"

"Ay," said Peverell, "but that will be when I am gray, and thinking of my own: so, cheer up. He that shall toll the bell for thee, now sleeps in his cradle, I'll warrant."

She beckoned Peverell to her, and taking his hand, she again placed it on her heart. A sad, melancholy smile played for a moment across her pale wrinkled face, and her glazed eyes kindled into a fleeting expressing of frightful gladness, as she feebly exclaimed, "Do you feel? One!—one!—one! —and hardly that—I breathe only from here," she continued, pointing to her throat. "Feel!—feel!—one!—one!—another!—how I gasp—see!—see—"

She ceased to speak; the hand which retained Peverell's relaxed its hold—her head dropped—one long-drawn sigh was heaved—and poor Madge resigned a being touched with sympathies and feelings not often found in natures of nobler quality, in the world's catalogue of nobility. If, among the thousand doors which death holds open for mortal man to pass through, ere he puts on immortality, there be one, the rarest of them all, for broken hearts, this hapless creature found it. A self accusing spirit bowed her to the earth, with the sharpest of all griefs—a mother's anguish for an only child—lost to her, as gamesters lose fortunes—thrown away by her own hand.

FITZMAURICE THE MAGICIAN

"I have lived three hundred years! In that time—in all that time, I have never seen the glorious sun descend, but followed still its rolling course through the regions of illimitable space. I have shivered on the frozen mountains of the icy north, and fainted beneath the sultry skies of the blazing east: the swift winds have been my viewless chariot, and on their careering wings I have been hurried from clime to clime. But, nor light, nor air, nor heat, nor cold, have been to me as to the rest of my species; for I was doomed to find in their extremes a perpetual torment. I howled, under the sharp, pinching pangs of the icy north; I panted with agony, in the scorching fervour of the blazing east; and when mine eyes have ached, with vain efforts, to pierce the darkness of the earth's centre, they have been suddenly blasted with excessive and intolerable delight.

"All the currents of human affection—all that makes the past delightful, the present lovely, and the future coveted, were dried up within me. My heart was like the sands of the desert, parched and barren. No living stream of hope, of gladness, or of desire, quickened it with human sympathies. It was a bleak and withered region, the fit abode of ever-during sorrow and comfortless despair. I was as a blighted tree, that perishes not at the root, but is withered in all its branches. Tears, I had none. One gracious drop, falling from my seared orbs, would have been the blessed channel of pent-up griefs that seemed to crush my almost frenzied brain. Sighs, I breathed not. They would have heaved from my bursting heart some of that misery, which loaded it to anguish. Sleep never came. I was denied the common luxury of the common wretched, to lose, in its sweet oblivion, its brief forgetfulness, the sense of what I was. Death, natural death, closed his many doors against me. All that lived, except myself—the persecuted, the weary, and the heavily laden of man's race—could find a grave! I, alone, looked upon the earth, and felt that it had no resting place for me! God! God! what a forlorn and miserable creature is man, when, in his affliction, he cannot say to the worm, I shall be yours! I might have cast away, indeed, the YENARKON—the Giver of Life—the elixir of the Sibyl—but that would have been to subject myself to a power of darkness, in whose fell wrath I should have suffered the casting away of mine eternal soul!