"The rebels shall fly, As with shouts we draw nigh, Then safe from alarms, We'll rest on our arms, This is poetry to the purpose,-no rambling about groves and doves, lips and sips; no raving about sobs and sunflowers, and "victory's moon;" but proper words in proper places, and adapted to the capacity of volunteers. The whole corporation of the Pierides could not have done it better. This is followed by a long and worthy list of "Great George is King," (1745.) "Here's a health to our King," (1700.) Long live the King!'" "Long live Great George," (Dr Boyce, 1730.) "God preserve his Majesty," (Dr Blow, 1699.) It is painful to pass over the poetry which gave force to those fine melodies. But Here's a health to our King has an irresistible claim on our commemoration, from its having been a favourite of Swift, a name "unmusical to Volscian ears." The poetry is first-rate in its style. "Here's a health to the King, May the factious (the Whigs) be hanged, "Come, let us drink it while we've breath, And he that will this health deny, Down among the dead men let him lie. Yet it has competitors, and Dr Blow's renowned catch may rely on immortality, if such can be gained by pithiness of conclusion. "God preserve his Majesty, No. 11., written in 1700, has all the merits of the Augustan era. It is true, terse, triumphant, and Toryish. "Here's a health to the King, who has said from his throne, "And the Church, fixed by law, is resolved to maintain "Thus we need not to fear any danger to come, While our arms rule abroad, and our King reigns at home." But Harrington's Round distances all the rest. The sentiment is as old as the days of Alfred, and the phraseology was probably copied from the Runic. It is the true sublime. "A Toast for the Enemies of Old England. "Cobweb breeches, hedgehog saddles, Jolting horses, stony roads, And tedious marches, (in æternum.") The volume must now be left to its triumph, but a parting glance will fall from time to time on some fragment of touching and resistless captivation. What can be more native than the fine naval contempt of the beginning of "Fight on, my boys" ? "Ye rakes and ye beaus, that wear the red clothes, Come fight for your country, and conquer your foes; So fight on, my boys, we shall beat them," &c. The close of Jeremy Clarke's (1700) Song on "St George," is worthy of a Greek epigram. "All the world can't shew the like Saint. All the sacrifice that we expend, Is to drink fair, and to deal square, And to love our friend." No. 43.-"Come, my lads," should stand beside it in the Anthologia. It was written on a Spanish war. "Who cares a puff for France and Spain, Soup maigre in alliance! They'll soon be hang'd, as cross the main ; "The Monsieurs want some English beef; This is incomparably British; at once brave and benevolent, contemptuous and charitable. The idea of first feeding and then killing, could not have occurred to any other than a great nation, equally beef-eating and belligerent; the spirit of agriculture and ambition could go no farther. The praise of beef is, however, a subject at once so national and individual, that we are surprised at the editor's moderation, (to give it no more invidious name,) in limiting the glories of the matchless nutriment of British heroism to a single song. That one is, however, an apotheosis-The renowned "Roast Beef of Old England," (Leveridge, 1730.) The words have all the grace of fiction, and all the accuracy of history. King Edward the Third, for his courage renown'd, "The Henrys, so famous in story of old, The Fifth conquer'd France, and the Seventh, we're told, Oh the roast beef, &c. "When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne, The fortunate celebrity of the song almost prohibits quotation; and the Laus Kitcheneri must close; yet the "British Grenadiers' "detains the spirit still," and the reader shall have the parting delight of a few couplets from a composition whose mythology and music might have given new ardour to the troops of Leonidas, or reversed the fates of Chæronea. It is Greek in the highest degree, and breathes of a scholarship that must have made the author a phenomenon in the Guards. The British Grenadiers. "Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules, Of Conon and Lysander, and some Miltiades, But of all the world's brave heroes, there's none that can compare, None of your ancient heroes e'er saw a cannon-ball, Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades, The God of War was pleased, and great Bellona smiles, And all the Gods celestial, descending from their spheres, And all the Gods celestial, &c. Then let us crown a bumper, and drink success to those It is almost superfluous to say, that those words are set to the most animated and manly melodies. The vigour of the verse implies it. Though excellence of all music is its appropriateness, no man will suppose that words like these are conveyed to the ears of the earth in Sicilianas and affetuosos. But for boldness, loftiness, and a direct connexion of energy of sound, with energy of sense, they certainly have no superiors in the whole chronology of music. All the continent has been labouring to produce a God save the King, and all its efforts have failed. What are the Vive Henri Quatre, the Wilhelmus von Nassau, or the innumerable "God Save the Kings," "Electors," Emperors," &c." flooding out yearly from the German school, to our noble melody? The old English composers have fully established their claim to distinction; and when Doctor Kitchener, in the fulness of years and publication, shall descend to the elysium of painters, poets, and musicians, we predict that the shades of Blow and Green, Purcell and Leveridge, will be waiting at the entrance, deputed to lead him to the softest seat, and overwhelm his brows with the greenest laurel. "At dubium est, habitare Deum sub pectore nostro ? The Exhibition at Somerset-House. In this age of absurd scepticism, it has become the fashion to doubt the value of Exhibitions, as auxiliaries to the progress of the Arts. But we should first doubt the value of competition, of publicity, of purchase, of the comparison of styles, of public criticism, and of the assurance of a fair trial of merits. An exhibition on the scale of that at Somerset-House comprehends all those advantages; and to its annual display may be attributed at once the increased popular feeling for the Fine Arts, and the increased general excellence of the British School. Exhibitions do not create genius; but they cherish it; they give it the immediate power of attracting the public eye; they render it superior to cabal, and place in the first rank the man who deserves to stand in the first rank, without delay, and without difficulty. The English School has now thrown all those of the continent altogether out of competition. The French is learned, accurate, laborious, and meagre ; the Italian, dry, loose, and feeble; the German, a compound of the French and Italian; the English, in its vigour and simplicity of conception, its adherence to nature, and its command of colouring, has had no superior since the days of Titian. In the present Exhibition, there are about a thousand pictures. The great majority are portraits. These are, of course, almost beyond observation. Of the others, I mention only those which catch the general eye. No. 21.-The Solar System, by Howard. This artist has distinguish ed himself by the study of the more fanciful parts of fable, ancient and modern. His Pleiades, a delicious composition, first brought him into notice; and he seems never to have exceeded that early effort. His Solar System represents the planets by male and female figures, floating in a circle round Phœbus, and drawing light in urns from the Sun. The conception is from Milton, "Hither, as to their fountain, other stars Repairing, in their golden urns draw light." But the execution, partially beautiful, is partially embarrassed and unnatural. Phoebus sits in the centre, touching his lyre, but with the face of a fat milkmaid. The Sun is by his side, a clumsy reservoir of light; and the floating gatherers of the radiance seem perplexed between the double service of filling their urns, and sailing round their ring. The Sun lies beside Phobus, like a beer-barrel. Light and the God of Light should not have been disjoined. No. 22.-The Dawn, by Fuseli. The subject is suggested by the lines in Lycidas, "Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, What time the gray fly winds her sultry horn." A youth is asleep on the foreground. The air is filled with rolling mists; the grass is deep and dewy; a long pyrainidal flash of pale purple shoots up from the verge of the horizon. The youth is profoundly asleep, and the general expression of the picture is touching and true. No. 34. John Knox remonstrating with Queen Mary on her intended marriage with Darnley. This is one of the most spirited pictures in the room. Knox, with the Bible in his hand, and in an action of great force, bends towards the Queen. His countenance is remonstrative and imperious. At the opposite side of the picture stands Erskine, leaning over Mary in an attitude of conciliation. Mary sits at a table, with her head supported by her hand. She is in tears, and the youthful freshness of her countenance forms a striking contrast to the withered and acrid physiognomy of her persecutor. But Mary's face is the chief failure of the picture. It altogether wants the romantic and lofty beauty that tradition has given to the Queen. The breadth of the cheek is rustic and heavy, and the colour is neither the flush of indignation, nor the floridness of early beauty. The details of the furniture and architecture are minute and accurate; but the subject is, on the whole, repulsive. Mary's sufferings Such is our correspondent's opinion, and much may be said on both sides. Our own opinion is, that Allan is right throughout-that he has made her cheek-bones broad, because she was a Scottish Beauty, and because coins (better authority than vague tradition) give Mary the characteristic outlines of her country's physiognomy-and that Allan has not painted the Queen as in the full glow of natural passion, simply because he had adopted Dr M'Crie's belief, that, throughout the whole of this scene with Knox, she was acting a part. The picture of Archbishop Sharpe's death, however, is still the best that has been painted from the History of Scotland. C. N. are less forgotten than her errors, if she had any errors beyond those of inexperience, and the natural impulses of a confiding and loving heart. The Scotch Novels have made the Covenanters distasteful to the multitude, and, sincere as they might have been in their conventicles, the artist should look to other times and men for the most popular exercise of his genius. The days of Scottish magnificence and chivalry, her court celebrations, her huntings through her picturesque and mountainous districts, the adventures of the Bruce, the Wallace, and the Montrose, offer a succession of subjects of the richest character to an aspiring national artist. The world are weary of the bitter mixture of politics and religion. No. 78.-Portrait of the Duke of York, by Phillips.-The Duke is painted in the full robes of knighthood, the likeness is striking, and the arrangement of the robes at once stately and graceful. Phillips is one of our first colourists, and he has exhibited all his powers on this picture. No. 131.-Portrait of the Duke of York, by Wilkie-This picture is of the Cabinet size. The Duke is looking over some papers. The light is thrown from a window behind the figure, and the Duke's costume, and the furniture of the apartment, are admirably treated. But the face has escaped Wilkie, and the resemblance is lost in a mass of a heavy and featureless shade. No. 151-Arthur Lord Capel defending Colchester, in 1648, by Cooper-This artist has obtained reputation by painting battle-pieces of cavalry. He has spirit and general fidelity to nature and costume. But if he be emulous of the fame of Wouvermans, he must follow him in the selection of a noble and generous class of the horse. Cooper's horses are, almost without exception, the rudest models of their kind; the short hackney, or the rough and crabbed mountain horse, with more vice than blood, and more hair than sinew. His heavier chargers are mere dray-horses. In this picture his knights are stately, though clumsily mounted, and the attempt to express the stirring business of the time is nearly a failure. His battle as the composure and gravity of a pageant. No. 196.-Comus, with the Lady in the enchanted chair, by Hilton.-The VOL. XIV. Enchanter is offering the cup, the lady shrinks from him, and a whole host of fauns and satyrs are gambolling round them both. This picture is inferior to the Una of the same artist, though the manner is remarkably and injudiciously similar. The lady is a feeble and heavy figure, with a countenance totally the reverse of captivating. Comus is colossal, and thrown into an attitude of awkwardness and distortion. But the surrounding groups are highly animated, their general colouring luxuriant, and the depths and green alleys of the forest painted with a rich and verdurous beauty. No. 261.-L'Improvisatrice, by Pickersgill;-A rising artist who seems to possess a peculiarly fine conception of female loveliness, one of the rarest faculties of painting. The poetess is young and handsome, her dress is Italian, her hand is resting on a guitar, and her large eye and glowing countenance, fixed upon a brilliant southern sky, are full of inspiration. No. 272. Shakespeare's Jubilee ; with portraits of the performers of Covent-Garden, by Sharp.-This picture represents its groups forming a procession to the temple of Shakespeare. The arrangement is tasteful. But the merit of a work of this kind is to be looked for in the fidelity of the likenesses; and here lies the weakness of the picture. The portraits are traceable in general with difficulty, and in some instances they completely evade the eye. No. 135.-The Parish Beadle, by Wilkie.-The Beadle is arresting an Italian boy with a monkey; the whole family of adventurers are following him in great indignation; the father, a pale, nervous, strong-featured gipsy, is on the point of attacking the Beadle; the mother is in the full tide of scolding. A youth behind leads their bear; two boys of the rabble hooting at the Italians, complete the group. Wilkie has done nothing since his Rent-day, superior to this picture. The story is told with perfect clearness, the characters are fully sustained, and the colouring is probably the happiest effort of his pencil. Canova's Danzatrice is the principal sculpture, and is unworthy of his name; it curiously combines the vulgarity of a rustic, and the affectation of an opera girl. Haydon's misfortunes have been B |