In a a d s.
THE NATIONAL INSTITUTION.
It is a pleasure to announce a gathering of pictures at the Portland Gallery which shows sonic decided degree of revival from the morbid stupor of the last two years. Here are two or three productions which one can look at with pleasure and profit, and find that there is something in them. Of course, praise is comparative. In this case the terms of comparison are with the National Institution itself of late years, and with the one other exhibition of the present season yet opened. Matched with these, the collection may almost be called a good one. The Insti- tution, at its commencement, got a fair start, enlisting the services of some artists of distinction and several of promise. These ranks have been much thinned—chiefly, we incline to think, in consequence of the sprawling incapacity which characterizes the "proprietary members" as a body ; but we fancy that some amendment in that quarter would still succeed in attaching to the Institution much of the young and struggling talent of the day. The most remarkable contribution comes from a lady whose name was already honourably associated with art through literature—Miss Anna Mary Howitt. She has selected for treatment one of the most touching incidents in Goethe's Faust—" Margaret, having heard the harsh judg- ment of her companions at the city-fountain, returns home tortured by self-accusation " ; and has produced a work noticeable alike for delicate depth of feeling and for conscientious study. There is none of that ultra-Germanism in the picture which one might have been disposed to predict from Miss Howitt's Munich studies and enthusiasms, but, on the contrary, an unmistakeable adherence to the English Prseraphaelite practice, evidenced in the unconventional simplicity of the figure, the rendering of broad out-door sunshine, and the affectionate care bestowed upon the accessories—the rude old wooden porch with its ivy-clad poste and the quaint fresco in its shade, and the left background of interwoven trees looming blue behind the sun-gilded foliage which it relieves. Mae Hewitt has called up a vision of dim old-world beauty, and of the humafl heart-pang which is the same for all time, with that directness and life- likeness which belong only to the few. The sweet face of Margaret is full of a silent uncontending anguish ; her heart has sunk within her, and she presses her hand on her cold forehead. The whole picture breathes senti- ment without sentimentalism. To say that it is a first work, is to say that it is not free from executive deficiencies. Thus, the feet are too small, the relaxed grasp of the hand which holds the pitcher too lax, the space of leaf-chequered sky porcelainlike in its blueness, the purple colour of the skirt ill selected, as we think, for harmony with, the scarlet tunic, and the drapery generally wanting in crispness and beauty of fold. Perhaps the opacity of the mid-way grass is owing to the colour's having sunk. Still there is more than enough to show that in execution also Miss Howitt has only to practise and do excellently. The colour on the whole, and especially in portions of the foreground, is graceful and soothing, without any compromise of brilliancy, the sunlight true, and the reflec- tions from the foliage on the flesh, the roofing of the porch, and elsewhere, managed with a skill which would do honour to an artist of length- ened experience. It would be difficult to recall a first picture of more assured promise.
From the President, Mr. R. S. Lander, comes the best work he has ex- hibited for a year or two,—a "Portrait of a Lady," which is rather a picture than a mere portrait. The feeling for colour, which is Mr. Lauder's forte, appears here with a; chaste warmth very grateful to the eye; particularly in the white satin dress, with its golden trimmings, and the crimson velvet volume which is held against it. The back- ground of pale sky, increasing from the horizon in the depth of its azure, is also well chosen ; and the fair downward-looking face pure and wo- manly. One of the eyes is somewhat awry. "The Lady of Shalott" has a certain pearly charm of colour, and the pyramid of bastioned cloud reflected in the fateful mirror, with the emergent moon, hints of the ca- pacity which Mr. Lauder possesses for studies of the kind; but the pic- ture has no meaning in indication of its subject, and the face is vacant. The treatment is very like a previous one by the same painter, though not, we think, identical. "The Marys at the Sepulchre" is a mistake, which will not repay criticism, nor even abuse. It is painful to see an artist of ability persist in placing himself in a false position by such at- tempts. The flabby charms of "The Brunette and the Blonde," again, should not have been exhibited; and here Mr. Lauder has not even the excuse of a subject above his powers. The "Portrait of a Gentleman" (249) is one to which many frequenters of the exhibitions would be able to supply the name, though the likeness might well have been carried further. Mr. Eckford Lauder sends, in "The Ten Virgins," a compo- sition of which we have some previous remembrance. The colour and light are telling, though nothing higher than that ; the drawing feeble ; the conception common. "The Tambourine-Player," also, has some rather rich colour, but coarse ; and coarseness sinks into dirtiness in "The Bird and the Maiden." These two are evidently productions of some time back. "New-ha' Burn, Traquair," shows Mr. Lauder in that in which he succeeds perhaps the best—landscape. Mr. higan's "Fiery Cross" is a failure. The messenger of tbe inexorable clan-sum- mons is represented disturbing the harvest-labours of some orderly High- landmen and damsels, who don't seem exactly to know what to make of it, but "take it cool," as the best policy. As for the impetuousness of clan-fanaticism or martial ardour, there is none. Mr. Man knows better than this, and should do better. Mr. Glass recurs to a moonlight cavalcade for his theme in "The Flight of Mary Stuart from Lochleven- Early Dawn." The face of Mary is nicely delineated, though it has not any pawing expression ; and the action of Douglas, who advances his hand to ward off from her rather the idea of danger than danger itself, is well felt and conveyed. For skill in the moonlight effect and in the se- cret passage of a mounted company, Mr. Glass fully sustains his repu- tation. The introduction of scarlet draperies, however, in such a light, seems hardly judicious ; and the splashing of the sparkled water under the horses' hoofs is not so good, if we remember rightly, as in Mr. Glass's similar incident of last year.
Pronsphaelitism makes a second appearance at this gallery under the hand of Mr. H. S. Marks,—and this time in an uncouth form. "Ham- let, Horatio, and Osric," is the work of an immature artist, with consi- derable power of manipulation, a good eye for local colour, but not for combination of colour, and an intention to do right, which will result in doing right another time, if not now. The outlines are too cutting, and the figure of Osric assaults the eye both by obtrusive colour and by vul- garity in the embodiment. Horatio is a sensible, solid, but ordinary per- son ; Hamlet too old, and too feeble in his emaciation. These are faults in the rendering of character : yet, even in this respect, Mr. Marks dis- plays a certain independence, a perception that it is for him to conceive and represent the personage for himself, instead of borrowing the con- venient commonplace of some one else. We should add, that he appears to intend Hamlet for a madman ; and he would not be the first who has so read the character. The costumes are those of the time of our Henry the Fourth ; Mr. Marks having, not unreasonably, thrown up all attempt at correctness on this head. "The Royalist, 1660," by the same artist, is a careful well-managed study of one of Charles the Second's pot-house ad- herents—with less to object to, and less, though still plenty, to found hope upon. In Miss Gillies's " Farewell"—the parting of a Scotch lad from his lassie—the male figure is lackadaisical ; but the clasped hand and choking emotion of the girl have the right stuff in them. A bead of "A Gipsy" appears without any author's name to it : we are induced by the quality of the colour to ascribe it to a Scottish origin, and by the character in the face, and the bold though crude handling, to augur well of its producer. Mr. Pasmore, as usual, has sprightliness and point in his heads, and the hues of a kaleidoscope in everything else. Even Mr. Dukes becomes tolerable when he resolves, as in "The Mother," to paint something which he sees as he sees it—an incident, and not a masquerade. After a Passing word for Mr. Wyllie's torchlight scene of "Old Antwerp—Gate- way and Tower of the Inquisition," and for the plagiarizing pertinacity of Mr. George Wells, who, not content with imitating Mr. Pickersgill's style, must pounce upon his subject too, (3880 we take leave of the 4ms-department of the exhibition in mere speechlessness at Mr. .Rowan's "Sleep of the Apostles "; reserving the landscapes for next week.
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