by Leigh Hunt (?; uncredited).
Originally published in Tait's Edinburgh Magazine (William Tait) vol.3 #15 (Jun 1833).
This is unquestionably one of the most delightful exhibitions in the metropolis. As a depository of all that is excellent in that branch of art which they have made so peculiarly their own, it abounds with the most pleasing collection of paintings that can fascinate the eye, and administer to the cravings of pure and polished taste, while, as an elegant lounge, it has not the shadow of a rival, for we are sure of rubbing shoulders with the best society in the kingdom.
Our admiration of the productions of this purely English School, is always accompanied with regret at the destructible nature of the materials employed. With oil and canvass, genius is sure of something more than fleeting fame. With them a man has some chance of painting for eternity; but, in water-colour drawing, the days of an artist's glory must needs be numbered. Nothing has yet been contrived, by which water-colour pictures may resist the withering attacks of time, and a feeling of sadness comes over the mind whilst, as we contemplate their varied excellence, they seem to speak these melancholy words—We are all to perish in premature decay. Each pigment may be compounded according to the strictest rules of chemical science, and the paper may have been manufactured according to the soundest principles of human art—yet how slightly is the combination calculated to resist the spoliations of tear and wear, and air—that element of vitality and corruption! It might be supposed that all the energies of the Society were therefore directed to the accomplishment of some splendid device by which the ruinous encroachments of age might be repelled; that he who could invent some means by which their handiwork might be secured to after ages in perpetuity, would be received as a benefactor beyond all price, whom to name were to honour vehemently. Not a bit of it. The independent rogues seem to care no more for posterity, or for their own posthumous glory, than a porpoise cares for a side-pocket, It was but the other day that a certain clever fellow sought brotherhood with them, and would have gained it, but for one circumstance. The ambitious varlet was prone to dabble in varnish, and just because he aspired to push his pictures some score years or two further forwards into immortality, the unlucky dog was black-balled with merciless unanimity.
But as the members appear determined to be headstrong, we must even be content to let them have their own way, and let them "do what they like with their own." The least return we can make them for the delight which their wayward fancies distribute to the myriad, is to let them pursue their own eccentric courses unhindered, pay our admission fee, and wish them God-speed. If it be their ruthless will to build their glory upon elements so fragile, why even so then let it be: and when after generations shall marvel at what manner of men the Copley Fieldings, the Prouts, the Stephanoffs, the Austins of bygone days might have been—let them marvel!—why need the present sorrow for their loss?
The present is one of the most successful "Annuals" the Society has yet published. There are many very excellent pictures there, and very few bad ones; which is saying a good deal in these meretricious times. Copley Fielding shines out in his pre-eminence of course; he has got a "View from Fairlight Downs," that in execution and composition is glorious. Dewint, Austin, Prout, and Miss L. Sharpe, have among them many very clever pictures,—to the 'Ghost Story" of the latter of whom we would invite attention, were it not demanded by its own excellence. The exhibition of this year is very attractive, and, judging from the announced "sales," not a little profitable to many of the exhibitors.