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my home one summer evening, about 9 o'clock, after having been scamping about the streets, when two gentlemen accosted me in broken English, and asked the road to Dock, (now Devonport). I immediately con jectured they were French officers on parole. I replied, in French, that I would show them, and walk part of the way with them. They addressed me in French, and I found what I supposed they were, to be true. We proceeded, and commenced a lively conversation in their language. They inundated me, (a queer word that,) with compliments a la mode francoise, both on my politeness and proficiency in French; but John-Bull-like, instead of receiving this with a delicacy of feeling which should have prevented me from adverting to any irritating topic, I began to expatiate on the recent news from Spain, (we had just won a battle,) to eulogize the invincible bravery of our troops, and decry the courage of a Frenchman, at least by hints and insinuations. I saw their wrath was fast kindling, for they dropped the cognomen, in speaking to me, of mon petit monsieur, and called me un petit coquin. This was what I wanted; we had to pass a barrack on our road, and I now determined" to lash their anger into madness: " "Stop Messieurs," I said, you will now follow your nose as straight as you can go; but after all, Je n'aime pas les Francois, parce qu'ils sont tous des poltrons. Grammercy!" I pulled foot towards the barracks, as hard as I could go,-they after me. Some of the spectators wondering, and others laughing and cheering me on; at length, just as I had reached the sentry at the gate, the foremast gentleman overtook me, and with one smart application of his foot to my posteriori, he sent me flying a half dozen yards a head, with the speed of a velocipede in full motion, which made me think a horse kicked me. I picked myself up, and ran into a barrack room, told my tale to some of the soldiers there, and asked them for protection, for I was afraid to go outside the walls that night; you may be sure I was well jeered and bantered for being so frightened; however, I took my quarters up there, and doubted not, that when I told my father the story next morning I should be applauded for my patriotis and pittite-ism. I miscalculated, as the sequel will show. Some of the soldiers pressed me sedulously to en er for a drummer, assuring me that, in time, I should rise to the rank of a general. “No, no,” I said, "my father intends to get me made an Admiral if he lives long enough, and I would rather be like Lord Nelson than Lord Wellington.

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The next morning I returned home. I entered my house, not like the prodigal son, with shame and repentance on my brow, but with the victorious air of a Roman general returned from his conquests. "Where have you been Sir?" said my father, with a stern countenance which boded no good. "Ah!" thought I, see how soon I'll clear up that visage, and make you smile like a lambent sunshine through an April shower. I told my yarn with heart-felt glee, and "Oh! father." I said, "only think!! I told him that I thought all Frenchmen were cowards." "You did, did you! And how did he treat you?" "Why father, he kicked me. "Was that all?" "Yes, sir: and I think that was enough, for I feel the effect of it now." "Do you know where the gentlemen live." "No sir." So he up with his elephant foot and

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gave me a send which lifted me over the front rank of shrubs in his garden, and landed me in the very middle of his shrubbery; " you damned scoundrel," said he, "so that's the use you make of the language I have taught you. I wish to God I knew where they live, I would take you there and make them flog you soundly." I picked myself up, yelping like a cur-dog, and begged my father's pardon.

This concludes the present Chapter-and I shall have something interesting to insert in my next.

CALCUTTA EXHIBITION OF PICTURES FOR 1832*.

AT THE TOWN HALL.

B.

Though this is only the second year of the Exhibition, the members of the Brush Club have really done wonders. Their gallery is rich in works of genius, and the walls glow with life and beauty. Considering that the present collection contains no pictures exhibited on a previous occasion, we rust confess that our gratitude for their exertions is not unmingled with surprise at their success. It was feared that a sin

gle exhibition would almost have exhausted the pictorial resources of this City of Palaces. We rejoice that these apprehensions are now shown to have been unfounded, and congratulate the lovers of art upon the great treat which has been provided for them.

We shall proceed at once, without further preface, to give a cursory account of the most striking pictures. To begin at the beginning, though it is by no means our intention to go regularly through the catalogue, let us notice No. 1. and do justice to the artist by an acknowledgment of the genius and judgment with which he has handled a very difficult subject. It is entitled, Corn Reaping. The manner in which the yellow hue of a field of ripe corn, that occupies the greater part of the picture, is preserved without any approach to that broad and monotonous glare which an ordinary painter would have been unable to avoid, is one of those triumphs of skill that are always witnessed by the connoisseur with peculiar gratification. In the right corner of the back-ground is a small cluster of trees, in the very midst of which rests a brilliant rainbow. The effect of its bright hues, burning, as it were, amongst the dark foliage, is strikingly picturesque. The left distance has that watery and sparkling appearance so characteristic of a day of alternate rain and sunshine.

The Landscape and Cattle, by Warde, (No. 3.) has a bold and vigorous look of nature. The white cow is in the style of Cuyp, whose name reminds us that the collection is enriched with a specimen of his genius. We refer the spectator to No. 59. It appears to be a fragment of a larger picture, for the cattle look rather gigantic on so small a piece of canvas, and the landscape has an incomplete look that is ve

We take the above article from the Calcutta Literary Gazette,a journal under the same manage ment as the Calcutta Magazine. The getting up or an Exhibition of Paintings in Ca'cutta is a cir cumstance too interesting to pass unrecorded in a periodical of this nature.-Ed. Cal. Mag. & Lit. Gag.

ry unusual in the productions of this master. The cow sitting on the right foreground is admirable for the truth and nature of its attitude and aspect, and the animal standing near is also finely drawn and coloured, though it is, perhaps, not quite equal to the former, if we except the finishing of the head, which is wonderful. The eyes of both are perfectly alive, and the expression is miraculously characteristic. No. 113, Landscap' and Cattle, bears some resemblance to a Cuyp, in the grouping, the general design, and the colouring; but the costumes of the human figures, besides other circumstances of equal weight, are against its claims to originality. The only real Cuyp in the room is that which we have already noticed; and we have reason to be proud of even this small and solitary relic of so eminent a master. There is something inexpressibly moving in the assurance, that the work before us is the authentic production of a great painter. We gaze at, and even touch the identical canvas on which a hand that we have never seen or felt, and which has long since mingled with the dust, has laboured for immortality, and we seem to hold immediate communion with a spirit that has left his name floating over the earth, like a hallowed thing. We drink in the loveliness of the same scenes that enchanted the painter's eye. They still flash upon our souls as from a magic mirror; but alas! even the very hues and forms that kindled the artist's genius have passed away, and like himself, are but a dream! The hand that worked with such consummate skill, and the breast that panted with ambition, can be tasked and stirred no more! The picture itself is but an image of an image-a reflection of the past. How all things wear an unsubstantial and changeful aspect as we indulge in those thoughts and fancies that are suggested by gazing upon the labours of the dead! Berkeley's theory of the immateriality of the world never occurs to us with greater force than amidst our pictorial meditations. What phantasmagorial crowds of human beings disappear from the face of the earth without leaving even so frail a memorial of their existence as a picture!

There is a kind of personal interest in an original painting that is more impressive than a printed work. It comes more directly from the hand of genius. It is like an author's manuscript, and has something of that peculiar charm which so endears the gift of a friend or lover.

In this land of exile it is a pleasant thing to meet with the works of our celebrated living countrymen, and of those ancient masters who, perhaps, never anticipated in their most sanguine hours, that their productions would gleam beneath an Indian sky, and awaken the admiration of the Hindoo and the Mahomedan. The very first picture in this collection is the property of an Indian, and it contains many other contributions from Native gentlemen.

One of the most delightful pictures in the exhibition is from the pencil of Turner. It is a view of Shakespeare's Cliff. Though done in oils it has such a smooth brilliancy, that we, at first, mistook it for a glazed water-colour drawing. But though characterised by such delicacy and softness, these peculiarities are combined with great richness and power of effect. We suspect, from the tone of this painting, compared

with those lately sent by Turner to the London Exhibitions, that it was done some years ago, and before he changed his style of colouring, to the great grief and mortification of his numerous admirers. All his la ter pictures have the appearance of having been smeared over with the yoke of an egg. He seems now to look at nature through yellow spectacles. His designs, however, are just as magnificent as ever, and, therefore, his present pictures, when transferred to s'eel, exhibit no inferiority of taste and judgment. The fresh look of the painting before us would seem opposed to our opinion of its age, but an oil painting of which proper care is taken, will keep the gloss of newness for many years. How beautifully and naturally, and yet with what an audacious spirit, is the boat on the left placed on the very edge of that column of light which the sun throws upon the water! How much art is thus displayed by Turner in his magical chiaro-scuro, and how much nature in the general effect! His contrasts, though bold, are judiciously conducted, and his colours, though gorgeous, are by no means over charged or inharmonious. It is a strange error to suppose that nature can be flattered, like a female face, or her living hues excelled, in richness and intensity. We have often looked upon a little patch of weeds and water glittering in the setting sun that would defy the skill of the most exquisite colourist that ever lived. No painter has represented nature with too much splendour, though many inferior hands have produced gaudy and glaring effects that are not to be recognized in the original. There is such a thing as exaggeration in painting as there is bombast in poetry, though no language nor coloring has ever done full justice to the force of human passion, or the beauty of external nature. There is a certain unity of effect and harmony of tone in the appearances of the brightest day and the most resplendent scenery, and if the painter has the genius to preserve these qualities, he cannot be too rich or brilliant. There is a picture near Turner's which forms an admirable companion to it. It is marked in our catalogue No. 1431, and is called Lake Lugano, by Limerati. The very title is sweet and liquid, and suggests something poetical and picturesque. The lake is as smooth as glass, and glides away in quiet beauty between the distant cerulean mountains. On the right immediate foreground the hills rise abruptly, mantled with a drapery of the greenest and most graceful foliage. At the foot of these hills, almost buried in the trees, is a solitary convent, and a number of monks, walking two by two, and carrying a cross before them, are proceeding to their holy dwelling. A boat is stealing to the shore, and by slightly breaking the crisp smooth surface of the water, rather increases than interrupts that air of extreme tranquility which forms the pervading character of the picture. It is impossible to gaze attentively on a scene of this kind without imbibing something of its spirit; nor can we help wondering for a moment at that burning and never-satiated thirst of fame that leads men into the strife and tumult of the world, and makes them indifferent to the charms of peace and retirement. But "quiet, to quick bosoms, is a hell" and the mass of men are infinitely more fitted for the active scenes of life than religious austerities or elegant leisure and rural solitude. Nothing re

quires so much philosophy and force of mind to support it as an uffer exclusion from the world; and even Cowley, whose tastes were of so refined a character, soon grew weary of that serene communion with nature for which he had so often sighed amidst the busy hum of men.

The portraits this year are less abundant than they were in the first exhibition, but they make up in excellence for any deficiency in number. In the portrait of a lady, (No. 65,) Mr. Beechey has shown us how much a skilful painter can make of a fine subject. There is exquisite taste and great power in this enchanting picture. It has much clearness of colouring, great spirit and relief, and a happy combination of freedom of style with delicacy of finish. It is not only valuable as a work of art, and for the grace and poetry that pervade it, but for the merit of fidelity to the living original. We consider this portrait to be one of the best of Mr. Beechey's productions, and cordially congratulate him on his great success. We do this the more eagerly because we spoke harshly, but honestly, of some of his contributions to the first Calcutta Exhibition. The thoughts suggested to our minds by this picture are a proof of the artist's genius. It has led us to consider, for a moment, the comparative advantages of painting and poetry, and however much we are generally disposed to give the preference to the latter, we cannot look upon Mr. Beechey's labours without feeling an unu sual uncertainty as to the claims of the rival arts. It is true that the painter can represent but one moment and but one expression, but how much of human character may be condensed into a brief space of time and expressed in a single glance! There is a distinctness, a palpability, and a literal truth in a fine picture that no poet can pourtray in verse. The best poetical descriptions are so vague and ideal as to leave much to the apprehension of the reader. Two artists of equal skill would illustrate the same poen in very different ways. And yet, again, the etherial tone, the refinement and spirituality of genuine poetry we should be unwilling to exchange for the more obvious and more limited endowments of the Muse of Painting. Much, as Sir Roger de Coverly would have observed, could be said on both sides of the question, and a great deal more than we mean to trouble our readers with; for, after all, it is neither useful nor pleasant to insist upon such subtile and invidious distinctions.

Ah! Miss Drummond, we owe you an apology for having delayed a notice of your delightful little miniatures. Though the least they are not the last pictures in the collection. The worthy Burgomaster was justly laughed at when he pronounced his brother to be a great poet because he had written a great book, but his error was not more ludicrous and absurd than that which the vulgar fall into when they estimate a painter on a similar principle. These little concentrated images of the human face divine" are superior in interest and value to many an admired portrait that has covered several feet of canvas. They are liliputian in size but not in character and expression. Nos. 97, 98, 99, 100, 102, 103, are all exquisitely finished, but the care and minuteness of the workmanship have produced no appearance of a vague and effeminate smoothness, nor interfered with the requisite force and vigour of

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