“I have already,” said Dashall, “given you a general description of this building, and shall therefore confine my present observations wholly to the establishment of the Royal Academy for the encouragement of the Fine Arts, for the cultivation of which London is now much and deservedly distinguished; and to the progressive improvement in which we are indebted to that Exhibition we have already witnessed. This Academy was opened by Royal Charter in 1768; and it consists of forty members, called Royal Academicians, twenty Associates, and six Associate Engravers. The first President was the justly celebrated Sir Joshua Reynolds; the second, the highly respected Benjamin West; and the present, is Sir Thomas Lawrence.
“The Academy possesses a fine collection of casts and models, from antique statues, &c. a School of colouring, from pictures of the best masters. Lectures are delivered by the stated Professors in their various branches, to the Students during the winter season; prize medals are given annually for the best academy figures and drawings of buildings; and gold medals for historical composition in painting, sculpture, and designs in Architecture, once in two years; which latter are presented to the successful Artists in full assembly, accompanied with a discourse from the President, calculated to stimulate perseverance and exertion. Students have at all times, (except during the regular vacations,) an opportunity of studying nature from well chosen models, and of drawing from the antique casts.
“This Exhibition is generally opened on the first of May. The number of works of art, consisting of paintings, sculptures, models, proof engravings and drawings, generally exhibited, are upwards of one thousand; and are usually visited by all the gaiety and fashion of the Metropolis, between the hours of two and five o'clock in the day. The rooms are elegant and spacious; and I consider it at all times a place where a shilling may be well spent, and an hour or two well enjoyed.
“Some spend a life in classing grubs, and try, New methods to impale a butterfly; Or, bottled up in spirits, keep with care A crowd of reptiles—hideously rare; While others search the mouldering wrecks of time, And drag their stores from dust and rust and slime; Coins eat with canker, medals half defac'd, And broken tablets, never to be trac'd; Worm-eaten trinkets worn away of old, And broken pipkins form'd in antique mould; Huge limbless statues, busts of heads forgot, And paintings representing none knows what; Strange legends that to monstrous fables lead, And manuscripts that nobody can read; The shapeless forms from savage hands that sprung, And fragments of rude art, when Art was young. This precious lumber, labell'd, shelv'd, and cas'd, And with a title of Museum grac'd, Shews how a man may time and fortune waste, And die a mummy'd connoisseur of taste.”
On entering the rooms, Bob was bewildered with delight; the elegance of the company, the number and excellence of the paintings, were attractions so numerous and splendid, as to leave him no opportunity of decidedly fixing his attention. He was surrounded by all that could enchant the eye and enrapture the imagination. Moving groups of interesting females were parading the rooms with dashing partners at their elbows, pointing out the most beautiful paintings from the catalogues, giving the names of the artists, or describing the subjects. Seated on one of the benches was to be seen the tired Dandy, whose principal inducement to be present at this display of the Arts, was to exhibit his own pretty person, and attract a little of the public gaze by his preposterous habiliments and unmeaning countenance; to fasten upon the first person who came within the sound of his scarcely articulate voice with observing, “It is d——d hot, ?pon honour—can't stand it—very fatiguing—I wonder so many persons are let in at once—there's no such thing as seeing, I declare, where there is such a crowd: I must come again, that's the end of it.” On another, was the full-dressed Elegante, with her bonnet in one hand, and her catalogue in the other, apparently intent upon examining the pictures before her, while, in fact, her grand aim was to discover whether she herself was observed. The lounging Blood, who had left his horses at the door, was bustling among the company with his quizzing-glass in his hand, determined, if possible, to have a peep at every female he met, caring as much for the Exhibition itself, as the generality of the visitors cared for him. The Connoisseur was placing his eye occasionally close to the paintings, or removing to short distances, right and left, to catch them in the most judicious lights, and making remarks on his catalogue with a pencil; and Mrs. Roundabout, from Leadenhall, who had brought her son Dicky to see the show, as she called it, declared it was the 'most finest sight she ever seed, lifting up her hand and eyes at the same time as Dicky read over the list, and charmed her by reciting the various scraps of poetry inserted in the catalogue to elucidate the subjects. It was altogether a source of inexpressible delight and amusement. Tom, whose taste for the arts qualified him well for the office of guide upon such an occasion, directed the eye of his Cousin to the best and most masterly productions in the collection, and whose attention was more particularly drawn to the pictures (though occasionally devoted to the inspection of a set of well-formed features, or a delicately turned ancle,) was much pleased to find Bob so busy in enquiry and observation.
“We have here,” said Tom, “a combination of the finest specimens in the art of painting laid open annually for public inspection. Music, Poetry, and Painting, have always been held in high estimation by those who make any pretensions to an improved mind and a refined taste. In this Exhibition the talents of the Artists in their various lines may be fairly estimated, and the two former may almost be said to give life to the latter, in which the three are combined. The Historian, the Poet, and the Philosopher, have their thoughts embodied by the Painter; and the tale so glowingly described in language by the one, is brought full before the eye by the other; while the Portrait-painter hands down, by the vivid touches of his pencil, the features and character of those who by their talents have deservedly signalized themselves in society. The face of nature is displayed in the landscape, and the force of imagination by the judicious selector of scenes from actual life. Hence painting is the fascinating region of enchantment. The pencil is a magic wand; it calls up to view the most extensive and variegated scenery calculated to wake the slumbering mind to thought.
“——To mark the mighty hand That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres, Works in the secret deep; shoots steaming thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring; Flings from the sun direct the naming day; Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth; And as on earth this grateful change revolves. With transport touches all the springs of life.”
“Upon my life!” cried Bob, “we seem to have no need of Sparkle now, for you are endeavouring to imitate him.”