Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 444 | Page 4

natural
overgrowth of artists who prefer a speedy and favourable opportunity
for the display of their works in minor galleries, to waiting for years
and years ere they can work themselves up to good positions on the
walls of the Academy. Many of these gentlemen, however, exhibit both
in the smaller and the greater collection; but here and there an artist will
be found obstinately confining his contributions to one pet
establishment--possibly entertaining a notion that he has been deeply

wronged by the Hanging Committee of another.
Both of the exhibitions under notice are very various in merit; but each
generally contains some able works, and the specialties of one or two
painters distinguished by notable peculiarities. Thus the president of the
British Artists, Mr Hurlstone, has for several seasons confined himself
to Spanish subjects; Mr West paints Norwegian landscape; Mr Pyne
sends to this gallery only his very splendid lake-pictures; and Mr
Woolmer's curious sketches, which seem compounded of the styles of
Turner and Watteau, blaze almost exclusively upon the walls. The best
men of the National Institution contribute also to the Royal
Academy--as, for example, Mr Glass, with his capital groups of hunters
or troopers, so full of life and movement; and Mr Parker, with his
smugglers and coast-boatmen. In this exhibition--and, indeed, in all the
London exhibitions--a family, or rather a race or clan of artists,
connected at once by blood and style, and rejoicing in the name of
Williams, abound and flourish exceedingly. These Williamses are
dreadful puzzlers to the students of the catalogue; they positively
swarm upon every page, and the bewildered reader is speedily lost in a
perfect chaos of undistinguishable initials. Sometimes, indeed, the
Williamses come forth under other appellations--they appear as Percies
and Gilberts; but the distinguishing mark is strong, and a moment's
inspection convinces the amateur that the landscape before him,
attributed to Mr So-and-so, is the work of 'another of these everlasting
Williamses.'
But the first Saturday of May arrives, and with it many a rumour, true
and false, of the state of matters within the Royal Academy--of the
academicians who exhibit, and of what are to be 'the' pictures. From
early morning, St Martin's bells have been ringing, and a festival flag
flies from the steeple; no great pomp, to be sure, but it marks the
occasion. About noon, the Queen's party arrives, and Her Majesty is
conducted about the rooms by the leading members of the Academy.
Between one and two, she departs; and immediately after, the crowd of
ticket-holders for the private view cluster before the closed gratings.
Punctually as the last stroke of the hour strikes, the portals are flung
open, and a cataract of eager amateurs rush up the staircases, and make

their way straight to the inner room, or room of honour, all in quest of
the picture, to which the pas has been given, by its being hung upon the
line in the centre of the eastern wall of the apartment. The salons fill as
by magic; in half an hour, you can hardly move through a crowd of
dignitaries of all kinds--hereditary, social, literary, scientific, and
artistic. Perhaps, indeed, there is no muster in London which collects a
greater number of personages famous in every point of view. The ladies
of the aristocracy swarm as at a drawing-room. The atmosphere is all
one rustle of laces and silks; and it is anything but easy to make one's
way among the bevies of clustered beauties who flock round their
chaperone, all one flutter of ribbons, feathers, and flowers. And to the
Academy, at all events, come all manner of political notabilities: you
find a secretary of state by your elbow, and catch the muttered criticism
of a prime-minister. Ordinary peers and members of parliament are
thicker than blackberries. Bishops prevail as usual; and apropos of
ecclesiastical costumes, peculiar looped-up beavers and single-breasted
greatcoats, the odds are, that you will be attracted by the portly figure
and not very refined face of the Romish dignitary whose pretensions, a
couple of years ago, set the country in a blaze. The muster of literary
men is large and brilliant. Mr Hallam is most likely there as Professor
of Ancient History to the Academy; and Mr Macaulay as Professor of
Ancient Literature. Sir George Staunton puts in an appearance as
Secretary for Foreign Correspondence; and blooming Sir Robert Harry
Inglis, with the largest of roses at his button-hole, looks the most genial
and good-humoured of 'antiquaries.' The Academicians--lucky
Forty!--muster early. Happy fellows! they have no qualms of doubt, or
sick-agonies of expectation as they mount the broad flight of steps.
They have been giving hints to the Hanging Committee, or they have
been on the Hanging Committee themselves. Well they know that their
works have been at least provided