better advantage than ever before, and, if we should select from the whole range of his works one which marks the man, it would be his large picture, In the Woods," in the present exhibition. In sentiment, it appeals at once to our love of the wild and free, and leads us to a glade in the wilderness where, shut in by the eternal forest, whose giant children raise themselves around us, we see no light and hear no sound that remind us of civilization or humanity. Mouldering tree-trunks lie around us, with mosses and ferns thriving in the coolness of the shade, and a quiet brooklet welling out of the mould and winding its way among old tree roots. A squirrel crosses the stream on a prostrate tree, and on a beech tree a red-headed woodpecker is tapping. The picture might have been as carefully painted and still have only a botanical interest, but the summer has settled hazily among the trees, and the softened sunlight, falling down through the openings in the leafage overhead, breaks up the cool shade on the bolls of the trees, and warms the mossy ground with its gold. Follow the little stream into the further shade, and there, still more softened and dimmed, the light comes in with an occasional and then through an opening in the forest we catch a glimpse of an outer world, a blue lake set with bluer hills, over which again dreams the sunlight, struggling in its sleep with the summer haze. In that sunlight is the poetry of the picture; and, if in Durand we should select one quality as more glorious, more worthy our love than others, it would be his feeling for sunlight. ray; We are tolerably well acquainted with the works of all the modern masters in landscape, but we do not know a man who could have painted that picture with, at once, the truth, the technical power and the loftiness of feeling for the subtler beauty of Nature that Durand has manifested in it. There are men who would have shown more mechanical excellence, others who would have given the details with greater minuteness, but in the combination of admirable qualities, and in the enjoyment of the freedom of the scene, we do not believe there is a living artist who would equal him. In as far as our younger landscapists have followed the lead given by Durand, they deserve the most generous encouragement and the greatest forbearance on the part of critics. It is so easy to be superficial and striking, and so hard to be entirely true and faithful to nature, that it is a delicate task to deal with the imperfections of a conscientious artist, and one which the critic most competent to undertake would enter on with the greatest reluctance. It will often happen that qualities, in themselves far from agreeable, have resulted from a most determined effort to be true. A conspicuous instance of this in the exhibition is a landscape by an artist whose name we do not remember to have seen before, A. W. Warren, a "View in the Country." At first sight, one would be tempted to pass it by; it seems cold and lightless; but it is studied with a most manly sincerity and devotion to truth, the only present results of which are to make the picture hard and chilly, and scarcely any one but a painter would see through that to the intention. In Kensett's "October Day in the White Mountains," there is a mass of white stone partially veiled by herbage, with the white showing through in such a way that at first sight it might be mistaken for the blossoms of the blackberry bush. The effect is perplexing and injurious to the repose of the picture, otherwise very fine. Yet this is an honest attempt to render an actual phenomenon; and fails because it was not possible to render it more truly, perhaps. This picture is, however, one of Kensett's finest, if not the best he has painted. The autumnal haze in the sky, with the dreamy clouds, and the thorough painting of the distant mountains and the valley, through which winds the Saco, the literalness and general truthfulness of the whole scene, designate him as a man of the new school. His treatment is picturesque, his sense of color good, particularly in the grays and more quiet colors, and his light and shade artistic; but his perceptions are rather broad than minute. Church is, in most respects, the reverse of Kensett, though even more decidedly of the realist school. His perceptions are uncommonly minute, going down into the microscopic range, his execution fluent and vigorous, and his color inclining always to the excessive, manifesting itself in a love for sunset effects, and, as in the present exhibition, in the foreground of "The Cordilleras," by a profusion of gaily colored flowers and birds. His intensity of perception gives rise to an exuberance of material and fullness of detail which are rarely found. In no case does this avail so much as in his skies, where, for want of studying cloud-forms, most artists are deficient. Compare, in this respect, one of Church's skies with the old school generally-even with Cole. The masses of gray and pale yellow color which with the latter pass for cloud, though without distinct any form, sink at once into mere paint beside Church's carefully elaborated clouds. But this minuteness carries him away from repose and simplicity. Instead of the simple, grand skies of the English Stanfield, (whom, in many respects, Church resembles,) drifting and driving at the beck of the wind, we have often a sky filled with individual forms, lacking in unity and repose. In the simpler skies, as in that of "The Cordilleras,' this is not the case, and they are then very perfect. Church's great want is that of breadth,-his details too often start out of their place, and, unsought, claim our attention. His compositions too often lack the unity and singleness of interest proper to Nature. Study of the English artists, so generally ruinous to our painters, would benefit him much, by giving his works more largeness and simplicity in the arrangement of their masses. Cropsey is an example of the near approach of the old to the new school, bringing the sentiment which belonged to the former to the literalness of the latter. Compromises have everything to lose and little to gain; and so Cropsey, if he were entirely a realist, would be much more impressive than in dividing his force between story, or allegory, and pure Nature. Studio sentiment is a poor substitute for unadorned beauty of Nature, and what a landscape painter does not find in landscape, he had better leave where he finds it. His view of Mount Washington is, we think, his finest picture. There is a fine haziness about the clouds, and after-rain clearness in the atmosphere, with pure transparent shadows falling across the landscape. It is very artistic in its treatment, and fresh in feeling. In the "Mediterranean Sea-coast," there is some exquisitely truthful painting in the distance, including the gray, misty sky around the rising moon, and the distant water. It expresses the gathering of the evening under the moist, vapory atmosphere of the sea-coast, as perfectly as anything that we have ever seen. The enjoyment conferred by rich passages of truth, is much greater and more enduring than that which any story could give; for it always comes to the mind with the freshness of Nature itself, ever grateful, while the story, once told, wearies in the repetition. It is not our purpose, however, to criticise pictures, or even individual painters, but rather to indicate wherein our artists are fulfilling the requirements of a true school, and we have, we believe, said enough to point out the direction in which we should look for the signs of such fulfillment. Mount's pictures are so well known, that to criticise him by those of past exhibitions would be useless, and the examples of his talent, in this, are scarcely to be characterized as his. We believe it to be a great mistake, however, to class his pictures as humorous. They are, in fact, as serious and truthful as any pictures we have, and, it seems to us, painted without the slightest intention of perpetrating a witticism of any kind, with the exception, perhaps, of one or two pictures, which are among his least successful. He has drawn from life as he sees it, and in the most earnest feeling. It may be that the incident is in some degree laughable, as in the "Boys Raffling;" but it is still a passage of genuine life, and regarded, so far as the author is concerned, with the utmost seriousness of which he is capable. If he ventures from his proper feeling, he fails, as in the "Webster," where he has attempted something in what he felt to be a heroic vein-something ideal in some way. Thus, his failure is a witness of the truth of our position, that Art, to be successful now, must deal with things which the artist actually knows or sees, and that an endeavor to attain something only felt will fall without result. If Mount had learned the ways of the old school, he might have made a fine composition, and have succeeded as they succeed; but the picture would have been worth no more than now, since the subject was out of his range, and on the subject alone depends the essential value of the work. Darley, though not so natural in his perception of character, is, doubtless, the greatest triumph of American Art in power and subtilty of treatment. His drawing is accurate and refined to a high degree, and his perception of individual character most admirable. To compare him with any other artist would be unjust, since he is utterly unlike any other of whom we know anything. In our point of view, Darley demonstrates the vitality of the new school, in having attained, by his own perception, the very qualities in which the European academies endeavor to educate their pupils. It would not be strange to find an artist like Mount awake to all the peculiarities of the people, and, therefore, entirely national in his subjects; but Mount is not in a high degree pessessed of technical excellence; his treatment is palpable as might be expected from the youth of Art; for the technics of painting are supposed, and not without some reason, to be gained by training and study of that kind which men do not find alone, and for which they go to Düsseldorf, Munich and Rome. It is easy enough for a man who uses his senses properly, to find what to paint, but to learn how to paint it, which is all that is involved in the technics of painting, we think we must go to the great masters. Yet, here is an artist who, without the slightest aid from European teachers, has given his pictures a higher degree of excellence in drawing, light and shade, and composition, than any other in his line of art in America, and, if our judgment is good for anything, as high as any modern European artist. This, if true, is of great use to us, because, if the fallacy of a necessity that our students of art should go abroad can be entirely exploded, we shall at once fall back on our own undeveloped resources, and, by keeping them at home, prevent their national feeling for subjects from being corrupted, as it must be, by studying foreign material. This would be a great point gained towards the foundation of a national school. We may make this clearer by dividing art into its two great elements-subject, or what to represent, and treatment, or how to represent. But as we have before distinguished the old from the new school, by making the former to be based on treatment, and the latter on subject, it follows at once that the subdivisions of the new school must be marked by their nationality of subject, since treatment is the same always, or differing only by superficial qualities. This, which was, to a slight extent, true in landscape, is strongly so when we come to the representation of character. It is true, that none but an Englishman can understand an Englishman, and, of course, none other can paint one; and so the painters of our national character must be "to the manor born;" and how shall they understand Americans if their lives are passed among Frenchmen or Italians? But the only object to be gained by foreign study is, to learn the technics of Art; and if it can be shown that these may be cultivated as well here as abroad, there exists no pretext for destroying the nationality of our Art. We are aware that there is a great "ideal" school, which, recognizing no necessity for individuality in its subject, makes its greatness to consist in its grand method; but this, be it in sculpture or in painting, is but the rear guard of the school of the past, which at present we ignore. The de votees of this find themselves at home in Rome and Paris, because it matters not to them what or who they study, since the "grand style " is a cloak which they may throw over a manikin if they please. We may be narrow-minded, but we should prefer one of the vignette drawings, by Darley, in the present exhibition, to any picture we have ever seen sent home from Italy. Portraiture has not with us, or indeed with any modern school, the elevation of grand Art. We paint likenesses, but there we stop-the idea of making a portrait a work of Art, as well as a likeness, does not seem to be widely entertained. The aim, then, is subject to the exclusion of method, not so dangerous, but quite as false a condition as its reverse. We must not forget that there is a best way of telling any truth. We paint a likeness of our subject, and then stop, rubbing in a back-ground, and furnishing draperies as cheap as possible. All accessories are paint-nothing more. Gray's "Portrait of a Child" is the only exception in the exhibition; but Gray is an old-school man, as far as is possible to be, in portraiture. As an example of that school, this picture is admirable; but the method is too apparent, and throws the picture out of our present range. Hicks and Baker have, in their full-length portraits, made bold pushes towards the desired end; but we can only say, that they are the most successful attempts of our school at bringing system into portraiture. Baker's, particularly, deserves great credit as a bold attempt to give significance to the surroundings of his portrait. Yet, as likeness-painting, this branch of American art is good, perhaps, on the whole, better than that of any modern school; but every where it has fallen from the old elevation of Titian and Gainsborough, owing, we apprehend, to this very carelessness which has obtained in England and on the Continent as here; and now almost the only question we can ask respecting a portrait is, is it a good representation of the original? If it is, then it fulfills all that we demand of it; and, this settled, all interest in the picture ceases. This ought not to be so, for there is no man whose life has not some significance which might be expressed in his portrait with the same advantage that the study of his life would afford. No man stands alone in this life; but there are relations with all things around him, which the thoughtful artist will feel and desire to represent, doing which he reaches the ideal of portraiture. THE BIRTH-PLACE OF MOZART MY greatest surprise in Europe was at Salzburg. Would you believe it, that I had never heard of the beauty of the place, or, if I had heard, had forgotten it, so that when I walked out, the morning of our arrival there (we came from Linz in the night), I was perfectly overwhelmed by its sudden and splendid appearance. The vision was so lovely and striking on all sides that I rubbed my eyes lest it should be a dream. It seemed like one of the prettiest cities of Italy set down in the fairest valley of Switzerland. The sun and the skies of Italy were there; the red, flat-roofed houses, with their marble fronts to the streets, with their fountains, the old churches and their towers, all spoke of Italy; but the high rocky hills which encircled them, the sweet intervales and the distant snow-covered mountains, sending up their peaks into the clear blue air, told as plainly of the land of the Swiss. I shall not attempt to describe the place, because language could not do justice to it, and the pencil of a Claude or Turner only might convey to one who has not seen it a remote conception of its ever-varying charm of aspect. It is built on both shores of the prattling Salzach, which are connected by a single pretty bridge: on three sides it is shut in by immense spurs of rock, which rise directly over the town and are surmounted by fortresses and convents; and on the other side fertile plains, rich in vegetation and dotted with gardens and country seats, carry the eye to the gigantic ranges of the Noric Alps. All that is sweetest and grandest in natural scenery is combined in its position, which man has improved and hightened by all the graces of his art. The native writers have welltermed it the "Alpine rose in the garland of German cities." Its history, too, is a kind of epitome of the history of the world, furnishing us with barbarian memorials, Roman ruins, middleage structures, scenes of battles, and the birth-place as well as the gravestone of genius. In the most ancient times Salzburg was occupied by the warlike Tauriskers, a branch of the Celts, who were dislodged by the Romans, in the time of Augustus, when it was converted into the castle of Juvavia. The Emperor Hadrian, perceiving the rare beauty of the situation, founded a colony there, which soon grew into a considerable town, with a temple, a palace, streets and market-places. But, wave after wave of invasion dashed around its rocky base; it was successively desolated by the West Goths under Alaric, by the Huns under Attila, and by the Heruli under Odoacer. For more than a century, then, it lay in stillness and waste, trodden by wild animals, and covered with bushes and moss. In the seventh century, the Bavarian Duke Theodo gave it to St. Rupert, as a re ward for his services in converting him to Christianity, and Rupert built a convent on one of the hights, since named the Monchsberg. He also constructed a church, St. Peter's Kirche, and a chapel and a cloister for nuns, and thus laid the foundations of the modern town. Salzburg afterwards became a free ecclesiastical domain, the residence of a succession of archbishops, who also enjoyed the dignity of Princes of the Empire, exercising the jurisdiction of magistrates, maintaining armies, and at times exchanging the mitre and crosier for the sword. During the stormiest times of the middle ages they took a personal share in the wars of Austria and of Bavaria, and after the Reformation were among the bloodiest of the persecutors who sought to extirpate the new doctrines by fire and flame. Under the single reign of Archbishop Leopold von Firmian, no less than twenty-five thousand of the industrious inhabitants of the district were driven into exile, and their property confiscated, or, as a German writer has it, Firmian "nahm ihnen Weib, Kinder, Hab und Gut, und trieb sie aus dem Lande." In 1802 the archbishopric was secularized, and converted into an electorate for the Archduke Ferdinand. The Without waiting to breakfast, even, we hurried to the top of Monchsberg, to get a view of the country. ascent, by means of paths and steps cut in the rock, was not difficult; but had it been as difficult as the ascent of Mont Blanc, the view would have well rewarded us. In every direction, like the billows of a stupendous but motionless sea, the sunny ridges of the mountains rolled up one after another; between them lay the cultivated pastures and green meadows; the Salzach wound like a belt of white ribbon through the valleys; convents or castles, overgrown with ivy, crowned the lesser hights; while immediately under our feet rose the spires and pinnacles of the still shaded city. Our heads fairly reeled with an intoxication of delight, as, at every step, some new object, some new combination of mingled beauty and grandeur, met the eye. A rough path led us to another hight, called the Schlossberg, on which the fortress of Hohensalzburg is erected. It is near the site of the Roman Castrum Juvaviense, and was formerly occupied by the archbishops as a place of retreat and defense, in their wars with their enemies as well as with the people of the towns, their subjects, when they revolted. It is a massive and seemingly impregnable structure, commanding every access to the city, as well as every house in it, and though in the irregular style of the feudal ages, is vastly imposing. It is now somewhat dilapidated, and the once magnificent apartments of the priests are unfurnished and converted into barracks; but enough of the ancient decorations remain to show in what splendor the princely archbishops lived. Only three of the chambers are shown, but these, with their rich inlaid cabinets and lofty ceilings, ornamented in gold and ultramarine, serve to give you an idea of their former state. In a square tower, at one of the angles of the castle, is the torture chamber-an indispensable apartment, it would appear, in those times and the rock on which captives were raised to the wall and allowed to fall with weights on their limbs, still witnesses to the Christian charity of its old owners. Looking down upon Monchsberg, we saw that the whole summit was laid out in pleasure gardens, while the sides of the rock were escarped, and cut into vaults and cells. In the latter the monks probably performed their macerations, while they made amends for any excess of suffering they might inflict on themselves in the wholesome viands which they raised in the former. If tradition does them no wrong, the monks were good livers as well as very pious men. 66 At the foot of the castle-hill is the Nonnenberg, where a temple to Mercury stood in the days of the Romans, but which is now occupied by a small church of Benedictine nuns. Christian hymns and prayers are now heard," says the local guide-book-an excellent one, by the way-"where the priests of Jupiter formerly celebrated their pagan rites." The little church, built in the ancient German style, has been somewhat injured by frequent renovations and restorations, but the showy and wellpreserved glass-painting, behind the main altar, is an admirable specimen of the art of the fifteenth century. Images of the Virgin and of the original abbess, St. Ehrentrude, and statues of St. Rupert and St. Henry, adorn the entrance portal, which is an exquisite piece of architecture. |