Limited space in our last number prevented our noticing any other than the
Sleeping Beauty; and, as there are many other humorous productions
possessing equal claims to our attention in the landscape and other
departments of art, we shall herein endeavour to point out their
characteristics--more for the advantage of future purchasers than for the
better and further edification of those whose meagre notions and tastes
have already been shown. And as the Royal Academicians, par courtesy,
demand our first notice, we shall, having wiped off D. M'Clise, R.A., now
proceed, baton in hand, to make a few pokes at W.F. Witherington, R.A.,
upon his work entitled "Winchester Tower, Windsor Castle, from Romney
Lock."
This is a subject which has been handled many times within our
recollection, by artists of less name, less fame, and less pretensions to
notice, if we except the undeniable fact of their displaying infinitely
more ability in their representations of the subject, than can by any
possibility be discovered in the one by W. F. Witherington, R.A. If our
remarks were made with an affectionate eye to the young ladies of the
satin-album-loving school, we should assuredly style this "a duck of a
picture"--one after their own hearts--treated in mild and undisturbed
tones of yellow, blue, and pink--and what yellows! what blues! and what
pinks! Some kind, superintending genius of landscape-painting evidently
prepared the scene for W.F. Witherington, R.A. It displays nothing of the
vulgar every-day look of nature, as seen at Romney Lock, or any other
spot; not a pebble out of its place--not a leaf deranged--here are bright
amber trees, and blue metallic towers, prepared gravel-walks, and figures
nicely cleaned and bleached to suit; it is, in truth, the most genteel
landscape ever looked on. Nothing but absolute needlework can create more
wonderment. Fie! fie! get thee hence, W.F. Witherington, R.A.
Just placed over the last-mentioned picture, and, doubtlessly so arranged
that the gentle R.A. should find that, although his bright specimen of
mild murder may be adjudged the worst in the collection, still there are
others worthy of being classed in the same order of oddities. Behold No.
19, entitled, "Landscape--Evening--J.F. Gilbert," and selected by Mr. John
Bullock from the Royal Academy. "What's in a name?" In the charitable hope
that there is a chance of this purchaser being toned down in the course of
time, after the same manner that pictures are, and, by that process,
display more sobriety, we most humbly offer to Mr. B. our modest judgment
upon his selection (not upon his choice, but upon the thing chosen). That
it is a landscape we gloomily admit; but that it represents "Evening" we
steadily deny. The exact period of the day, after much puzzling and
deliberation, we cannot arrive at; one thing yet we are assured of--that
it has been painted in company with a clock that was either too fast or
too slow. The composition, which has very much the appearance of the
by-gone century, is a prime selection from the finest parts of those very
serene views to be found adorning the lowest interiors of wash-hand
basins, with a dash from the works of Smith of Chichester, whose mental
elevation in his profession was only surpassed by the high finish of his
apple-trees, and the elaborate nothingness of his general choice of
subject. In the foreground of the picture, the artist has, however, most
aptly introduced the two vagabonds invariably to be seen idling in the
foregrounds of landscapes of this class--two rascally scouts who have put
in appearance from time immemorial; they are here just as in the works
alluded to, the one sitting, the other of course standing, and courteously
bending to receive the remarks of his friend. By the side of the stream,
which flows through (or rather takes up) the middle of the picture, and
immediately opposite to the two everlastings, is a little plain-looking
agriculturist, who appears to be watching them. He is in the careless and
ever-admitted picturesque position of leaning over a garden fence; but
whether the invariables are aware of the little gentleman, and are
consequently conversing in an undertone, we leave every beholder to
speculate and settle for himself. Behind the worthy small farmer, and
coming from the door of his residence, most cleverly introduced, is his
wife (we know it to represent the wife, from the clear fact of the lady's
appearance being typical of the gentleman's), who is in the act of
observing that the children are waiting his presence at table, and adding,
no doubt, that he had better come in and assist her in the
cabbage-and-bacon duties of the repast, than lose his time and annoy the
family.
We must now draw the spectator from the above-mentioned objects to a
little piscatorial sportsman, who, apart from them, and in the retirement
of his own thoughts upon worms, ground-bait, and catgut, lends his aid,
together with a lively little amateur waterman, paddling about in a little
boat, selfishly built to hold none other than himself--a hill rising in
the middle ground, and two or three minor editions of the same towards the
distance, carefully dotted with trees, after the fashion of a ready-made
portable park from the toy _depot_ in the Lowther Arcade--two bee-hives, a
water-mill, some majestic smoke, something that looks like a skein of
thread thrown over a mountain, and the memorable chiaro-scuro, form the
interesting episodes of this glorious essay in the epic pastoral.
* * * * *