Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 444 | Page 2

as if by magic.
They cluster in groups like corks in a basin of water, and then go
hobbling eagerly along, peering closely into the more promising works,
jerking their heads from side to side, so as to get the painting in as
many lights as possible; and full of talk--good critical talk--about the
productions in course of inspection. True, there may be something in
their observations speaking too much of the technical, and too little of

the more ideal faculty. They are greater upon flesh-tints and pearly
grays, middle distances and chiaroscuro, than upon conception,
expression, or elevation or magnificence of sentiment. Nevertheless,
they know thoroughly what appertains to a good picture. They give a
work its place in a moment, and assign it to its author by internal
evidence, with an unfailing accuracy, which speaks of long training and
constant familiarity with all the main studios of London. Perhaps you
observe one of our friends apparently fascinated before a particular
canvas: he dances about, so as to get it in every angle of light. Then he
shuffles off, and brings two other skilful old foggies, holding each by
an arm; and the three go through the former ceremony as to the lights,
and then lay their heads together; and then our original personage
glides softly up to the table where the secretary's clerk sits with pen and
ink before him, and whispers. The clerk smiles affably--turns up a
register: there are two or three confidential words interchanged; and
then he rises and sticks into the frame of the lucky picture a morsel of
card, labelled 'Sold;' and leaves the purchaser gloating over his
acquisition.
And where do these pictures go? Frequently to some quiet, solemn old
house in the West End, or to some grange or manor far down in the
country. The picture-gallery is the nursery of that house--its pride and
its boast. Year after year has the silent family of canvas been increasing
and multiplying. Their proprietor is, as it were, their father. He has
most likely no living ties, and all his thoughts and all his ambitions are
clustered round that silent gallery, where the light comes streaming
down from high and half-closed windows. The collection gradually
acquires a name. Descriptions of it are found in guide-books and works
upon art. Strangers come to see it with tickets, and a solemn
housekeeper shews them up the silent stairs, and through the lonesome
mansion to its sanctum sanctorum. At length, perhaps, the old man
takes his last look at his pictures, and then shuts his eyes for ever. It
may be, that within six weeks the laboriously collected paintings are in
a Pall-Mall auction-room, with all the world bidding and buzzing round
the pulpit; or it may also chance that a paragraph goes the round of the
papers, intimating that his celebrated and unrivalled collection of
modern works of art has been bequeathed by the late Mr So-and-so to

the nation--always on the condition, that it provides some fitting place
for their preservation. The government receives bequests of this kind
oftener than it complies with the stipulation.
In the beginning of March, the first of the galleries opens its portals to
the world. This is the British Institution, established at the west end of
Pall-Mall, and now in existence for the better part of a half century. The
idea of the establishment was to form a sort of nursing institution for
the Royal Academy. Here artists of standing and reputation were to
exhibit their sketches and less important works; and here more juvenile
aspirants were to try their wings before being subjected to the more
severe ordeal of Trafalgar Square. The idea was good, and flourished
apace; so much so, that you not unfrequently find in the British
Institution no small proportion of works of a calibre hardly below the
average of the Great Exhibition; while the A. R. A.'s, and even the
aristocratic R. A.'s[1] themselves, do not by any means disdain to grace
the humble walls of the three rooms in Pall-Mall. This year, the only
picture of Sir Edwin Landseer's exhibited--a wild Highland corry, with
a startled herd of red deer--is to be found in the British Institution. But
the merit of the works is wonderfully unequal. They are of all classes
and all sizes, in water-colour and in oils. Clever sketches by clever
unknowns, rest beside sprawling frescos by youths whose ambition is
vaster than their genius; and finished and accomplished works of art are
set off by the foils of unnumbered pieces of unformed and not very
promising mediocrity. Among them are the productions of many of the
more humble painters of genre subjects--the class who delight in
portraying homely cottage interiors, or troops of playing children, or
bits of minutely-finished still life--or