progress of a noble art-who clears its path and leads it into the broad highway of truth and simplicity, is entitled to uni versal applause: to the gratitude of his country, nay, of the world-for the fine arts speak an universal language and are at peace with all nations for discover ing and opening new sources of pure pleasure and instruction: and to the particular veneration of those who profess his art, for raising its importance and increasing its attractions by adapt ing it to the taste, the philosophy, and feelings of the age. Such improvements have in our time been effected in the art of SCULPTURE; and we are indebted for them to CHANTREY.

The very high degree of excellence to which this art was carried by the Greeks is to be attributed to the universal demand for fine works of sculpture which, from various causes, existed amongst them. Their worship, their politics, their manners, and the state of other arts in those times, were all favourable to the increase and improvement of sculpture; and the works which were produced in those auspicious times are consequently characterized by those circumstances. They relate to ideas of which we are ignorant, to feelings with which we cannot sympathize, to superstition which to us appears contemptible, and to purposes which we effect more readily by other arts of modern invention. But the antient sculpture retains our admiration by the beauty of its execution alone. After the revival of the arts in Italy, the gorgeous pomp of the Roman Catholic worship called forth anew the powers of sculpture, and the discovery of many fine works of the ancients produced the taste to which we owe the works of Michelangelo and his disciples. Still it was in general to the eye only that sculptors thought of appealing; and they were as frequently employed on the figures of Venus, Cupid, and Mercury, as on those of the prophets and saints. By an easy transition this taste degenerated into the insipidities of Bernini and his followers, and the affected vagaries of the French school of the age of Louis the Fourteenth.

In our English cathedrals we find many beautiful statues, recumbent and kneeling figures, of a date earlier than the Reformation; some of which are known, and most are supposed to be, the work of foreign artists. The appropriate solemnity of these works is far superior to the vain flutter of clouds, cherubim, and seraphim, which was

subsequently imported; but they did not afford sufficient scope to develope the capabilities of the art. After the Refor mation, the pictures and images in churches were destroyed, and sculpture was thenceforth confined to monumental representations, in which every species of bad taste was abundantly introduced.

A new impulse was at length given to the arts by the discoveries made by the King of Naples, in clearing the ruins of Herculaneum and Pompeii, and the excavations which were afterwards eagerly prosecuted in Rome. These researches fortunately recovered from oblivion innumerable pieces of exquisite sculpture, which excited universal attention, and comparison of modern works with these relics of antiquity. Enormous prices were paid for these antiques, and for many wretched counterfeits of them; and while an important advance in taste and judgment was actually made, we must not be surprised that many wealthy men affected virtù, and readily paid whatever was demanded for a genuine antique, in the hope of being numbered among the cognoscenti. All this, however, brought in a new and severer mode of study among the artists, with a more diligent attention to nature and the antique, and has enabled some of them to exhibit performances much more on a level with the merit of those works than the insensible can feel, or the interested choose to own. The establishment of the Royal Academy settled a course of study both at home and abroad, which developed the powers of English genius, till then unknown to the natives, and denied by foreigners.*

But notwithstanding the respectable advance thus made by the English in art, it must be allowed that little progress was made by any of its numerous eminent sculptors towards adapting sculpture to our own times, by freeing it from the dull devices and frigid conceits which effectually separated it from all human feelings, until the appearance of the subject of this memoir; one whose only school was nature, whose course of study was acute observation and diligent labour, and who by the unassisted vigour of his own powers has changed the course into which the current of his

particularly Sculpture, in England, previCursory Strictures on Modern Art, and ously to the establishment of the Royal Academy in 1769. By Mr. Flaxman, R. A. The Artist, No. XII.

art had been misdirected, and conduct ed it into a new channel, in which it is recognized on all hands as a source of delight and benefit. We shall endeavour to trace the progress of this original genius, from the earliest consciousness of power and first ambitious wish to excel, to the enviable pinnacle of success and reputation on which he stands established by his meritorious exertions.

Mr. Chantrey was born at Norton, a small village on the borders of Derbyshire, on the 7th of April 1782. His ancestors were in respectable circumstances, and engaged in agricultural pursuits. He was very young when he lost his father, and being an only child, was brought up with great tenderness and care by his mother, (who is still living to rejoice in his success,) until he was old enough to adopt a profession, when that of the law was fixed upon, and it was resolved to place him in the office of a respectable solicitor at Sheffield. He had previously attended the school at Norton, and in his intervals of leisure had amused himself with modelling in clay. We never heard, however, that his works were then very wonderful, or that, like the late worthy president of the academy, he was accounted a prodigy in childhood.

On the day appointed for the commencement of those legal pursuits from which he has so providentially escaped, he arrived at Sheffield an hour before the time his friends had appointed for meeting him. In the course of his endeavours to pass this tedious, anxious hour, he stopped to look at some figures in the window of one Ramsay, a carver and gilder. Whilst he gazed on these, with simple admiration, he resolved to become an artist; and forgot in a moment the chancellor, his woolsack, and all the train of dignities with which the young fry of lawyers regale their imaginations. His determination was fortunate for his country, which has never wanted attornies, barristers, or judges, but really stood in need of such a sculptor. He was soon established with Ramsay as an apprentice, but the employment which he found in his service was little calculated to advance his progress in sculpture. His ardour was however indefatigable: all his leisure time was devoted to drawing and modelling, and he omitted no opportunity of studying from nature. Much of this study was necessarily secret, on account of the envy or ill humour of his master: the approbation of his mother was long

his only encouragement; but at length the merit of the groups and figures which he produced attracted some notice. He continued three years with Ramsay, and then purchased the remainder of his engagement; they separated with mus tual satisfaction.

By the advice of his more judicious friends, particularly of Mr. Raphael Smith, he came to London in 1802, and began to apply himself diligently to the study of sculpture. But in the same year he commenced an intended tour through Ireland and Scotland, which, however, extended no farther than Dublin, where his progress was stopped by a dangerous fever. Upon his recovery he returned to London, and recom menced his studies with renewed ardour. His application was rewarded with rapid and important attainments. Already he conceived those unerring principles of art on which his present reputation is so solidly founded. The bust of his friend Raphael Smith, one of his earliest productions, evinces, by its free and natural style, a hand guided by truth. The bust of Horne Tooke also belongs to this period, and is remarkable for its expres sions of acuteness and profundity. In 1810 Mr. Chantrey fixed his residence in Pimlico. The easy, natural, and expressive style of his busts immediately obtained for him extensive employment. In this department it is generally admitted that he stands unrivalled. He soon afterwards presented, in public competition, a design for a statue of the King, for the City, which was approved in preference to all the others; and he accordingly executed that fine statue now in Guildhall.

The county-committee for erecting a monument to commemorate the public services of the late Lord Nelson, having invited designs for a monument to be raised in the sea at Yarmouth, near the shore of the hero's native county, Mr. Chantrey furnished a design which evinces the boldness and originality of his genius. On the extremity of a winding mole, considerably advanced in the sea, he proposed to erect a colossal statue of the great admiral one hundred and thirty feet high. Beneath his feet, and so composed as to form an extensive base, were to be seen the prows of the ships taken by him from the enemy. The star on his left breast was to be illuminated during the night as a Pharos for mariners. The sublimity of these ideas was quite beyond the comprehension of the committee, who committed

pany with a group of the Graces from the chisel of Canova; an association which affords no inadequate estimate of the two artists. The Graces may attract our admiration, but the child will interest our hearts. We owe this most lively figure to the artist's determination to refute the puny critics who pretended to think he could not represent a child awake. The monument of the two children at Lichfield procured Mr. Chantrey several commissions for similar subjects. Perhaps no representation of a lost child can be so grateful to the eyes, so soothing to the heart of a mourning parent, as the sleeping figure, which records the melancholy separation of affectionate hearts in the gentlest manner, and suggests the consolatory hope that the beloved object shall hereafter awake to eternal happiness. A beautiful figure of this description, the infant daughter of Sir T. Acland, was this year exhibited at Somerset-house, and is noticed in our last volume, (p. 716.) We think it superior to either of the Lichfield figures taken separately; but there is a charm in the combination of these, a sentiment in their sisterly fellowship, their union in death, most propitious for the artist who knew so well how to avail himself of the ideas it suggested. The sleeping child of Mr. Boswell of Auchynleck, is another delightful personification of infant innocence, beauty, and repose. In all these recumbent figures, the attitudes are varied so judiciously, naturally, and gracefully, that when viewed altogether in the sculptor's room, nothing is farther from the spectator's mind than any impression of monotony or repetition. It was not till the year 1818, that this great artist was elected a Royal Academician. We know that great bodies move slowly, and that the mere act of incorporation frequently benumbs the faculties of individuals; otherwise we should find it difficult to account for the impolitic conduct of the academicians in neglecting so long to strengthen their corps (exposed as it has frequently been to annoying attacks) by such an accession of talents.

In 1818, he visited Rome, Venice, and Florence, and many other places in Italy, to examine the choice works of art which they contain. It is pleasing to observe the warmth of admiration with which he speaks of his great competitor Canova, who is said to be equally just to his English friend. "Above all modern art in Rome," writes Mr. Chantrey, "Canova's works are the chief at

tractions. His latter productions are of a far more natural and exalted character than his earlier works; and his fame is wronged by his masterly statues which are now common in England. He is excelling in simplicity and in grace every day. An Endymion, for the Duke of Devonshire, a Magdalen, for Lord Liverpool, and a Nymph, are his latest works, and his best. There is also a noble equestrian statue of the King of Naplesthe revolutions of its head have kept pace with those of the kingdom. A poet in Rome has published a book of sonnets on Canova's works; each production has its particular sonnet-of their excellence I can give you no information."

Our limits will not permit us to describe minutely the excellent statues of President Blair, Lord Melville, Dr. Anderson, Mr. Horner, and others, in which, relying on truth and nature, on characteristic resemblance, and dignified and easy attitudes, he has represented British dignitaries, statesmen, and philosophers, in their British dresses, without derogation from the dignity which other artists have imagined to be exclusively imparted by Greek and Roman costume. His monument in St. Paul's to Major-gen. Haughton is generally known; and he has others in great forwardness in memory of Generals Bowes and Gillespie, and Col. Cadogan, destined for the same national repository. Among his busts, those of John Rennie, the civil engineer, of Professor Playfair, and West, and his models for Wordsworth and Walter Scott, are selected by some connoisseurs as superior; but they are all so natural, easy, expressive, and characteristic, that we believe a preference can only be founded on the subject, not the manner in which it is executed.

Several commissions have been given to Mr. Chantrey for poetic groups and figures of his own choice, and we confidently anticipate from some of these, works which will rival the most famous performances of the ancient sculptors. Warned by our decreasing space, we reluctantly quit this subject; and if we have refrained from touching on the private character of this distinguished individual, it is because he is yet living, and will, we hope and believe, long remain amongst us. The public has little to do with the private lives of artists; but every spectator of Chantrey's works must feel that the artist possesses a heart, and many will own with us that it cannot be a bad one.

DRURY LANE THEATRE.

MR. KEAN'S FAREWELL PERFORMANCES (concluded from last month.)The next of Mr. Kean's performances after those which we noticed in our last was Reuben Glenroy in Town and Country. To the larger portion of this fantastical character his powers are decidedly unfitted. He has no majesty of person to shine through a coarse or a rustic garb-no pomp of utterance to give importance to trite sentiment-no dignity of manner which can preserve distinction to its possessor among the familiar scenes of modern existence. He cannot look like a deity in broadcloth-nor make common-place seem oracular wisdom-nor gracefully wave vulgarity aside-like the great actor for whom this part was written. Yet it has two scenes of terrific passion, and several little touches of real pathos scattered amidst its dull moralities, in which he amply vindicated the truth of nature, and his own intimate communion with her sanctities. Nothing could be more heart-searching than the manner in which he told the story of his wrongs to their author, or more affecting than his gentle way of stopping the elder Glenroy from making any inquiries which might touch on the cause of his own miseries. The piece-with the signal exceptions of Kean and Munden —was miserably cast; and has not been repeated.

Mr. Kean's approaching departure occasioned the revival of Macbeth-a tragedy seldom of late acted at this theatre. The idea of this play, as we first saw it acted, has a vaster space in our memories than that of any other, and we go to its representation with an ever-recurring yet ever disappointed hope of seeing again some dim image of what we remember. We contemplate the vast sweep of the green curtain, as we were wont to look on it with greedy eyes, and prepare ourselves for a visual gaze on that majestical crime and suffering-that iron majesty of the North in the olden time-which once awed and thrilled our souls. The curtain rises the blasted heath is discovered the music plays among the hills, approaching nearer and nearer, to usher in the hero and we feel our old sensations reviving. But the illusion is dissipated, at once, on the appearance of the principal actors. Except in Mr. Macready's Macbeth, which was unsupported by

any "worthy partner of his greatness," we have seen no performer in this play who did not shock all our recollections and sympathies, since that unforgotten night when Kemble and Mrs. Siddons last appeared together on the scene. The greater part of Mr. Kean's performance was butchery. There was nothing in him for supernatural solicitings to work on-no sensibility to unearthly impulses-no eye for things unseen by ordinary vision. The glory and the dream of the character were gone, and he was left a common murderer. He started at the air-drawn dagger, as if it had been real and wielded by a mortal hand; spoke of the "jump" from "this end and shoal of time" to "the life to come," as though it were a leap for harlequin; played tricks with the soliloquy on life; and fiercely contested with the ghost of Banquo, as with an enemy of flesh and blood. The scene after the assassination of Duncan is a noble exception to the general censure;

and, indeed, when we think on it, we are almost ashamed to have spoken slightingly of any piece of acting which includes so awful and tear-moving a picture. The voice heard on the stair-case half-choaked with guilt and terror, which we feel at once to be a recent murderer's-the wild eagerness of the entrance with the daggers-the frightful stupor in which he almost mechanically replies to Lady Macbeth's questions

the more frightful recurrence to sense, when agonizing recollections rush on him as he looks at his bloody handshis instinctive stopping at the word

prayers" in his description of the attendants, as though he felt his utter divorce from all holy things-and his bitter expression, "I could not say Amen, when they did say God bless us," every syllable of which seems to fall in strange distinctness on the soul-are unequivocal proofs of that genius which Mr. Kean, in his least successful efforts, never suffers to be doubtful.-Mr. Elliston's performance of Macduff highly pleased us. It was truly energetic, spirited, and affecting. As this old favourite has not of late been thought able to perform tragedy-in which he once divided public opinion with the best of the serious actors-we were extremely glad to see this idea so well refuted. There is nothing more pleasant than to find one whom we long have admired thus coming out, as it were afresh, to