ng of graceful lines, in this one
figure, with much breadth, that give it a largeness of style, extremely
powerful. She luxuriates in pride, insolence, and beauty. The expression
is perfect; nor is it confined to her face--it is in every limb and
feature. The poor despised author bows low and submissive--and is even
looked at contemptuously by a pet dressed monkey, pampered, and eating
fruit: a good satire; the fruit to the unworthy--the brute before the
genius. There is the usual display, the usual elaborate finish; but it
is perhaps a little harder, with more sudden transitions from brown to
white than commonly to be found in Mr Maclise's works.

"Waterfall at St. Nighton's, Kieve, near Tintagel, Cornwall." A lovely
girl crossing the rocky bed of a stream--attended by a dog, who is
leaping from stone to stone. The action of the dog, his care in the act
of springing, is admirable, and shows that Mr Maclise can paint all
objects well. This is of the high pastoral: the lonely seclusion of the
passage between rocks, the scene of the "Waterfall," is a most judicious
background to the figure, which is large. It is most sweetly painted.

We are glad to see Mr Ward, R. A., again in the Exhibition. His
"Virgil's Bulls," is a subject poetically conceived. The whole landscape
is in sympathy, waking, watchful sympathy, with the bulls in their
conflict. Not a tree, nor a hill, nor a cloud in the sky but looks on as
a spectator. All is in keeping. There is no violence in the colour,
nothing to distract the attention from the noble animals--all is quiet,
passive and observant. A less poetical mind would have given a bright
blue, clear sky, and sparkling sunny grass; one more daring than
judicious, might have placed the creatures in a turbulent scene of storm
and uprooted ground; Mr Ward has given all the action to the
combatants--you shall see nothing but them, and all nature shall be
looking on as in a theatre of her own making. The subject is no less
grand on the canvas than in the lines of the poet.

We had fully intended to have omitted any mention of Mr Turner's strange
productions; but we hear that a work has appeared, exalting him above
all landscape painters that ever existed, by a graduate of the
University of Oxford. Believing, then, that his style is altogether
fallacious, and the extravagant praise mischievous, because none can
deny him some fascinations of genius, which mislead, we think it right
to comment upon his t