Frenchman and Italian to make their keys
turn smartly, and their drawers come forth
without sticking. We cannot greatly admire
such things as Buhl-work; elaborations of
brass ornaments upon dark grounds. We
prefer the inlayment of paintings, the
additions of bas reliefs, and the quaintest old
carvings of human figures, fruits, &c.,
provided they have any truth of expression.
Buhl is no company, has nothing to entertain
us with, but its unmeaning flourishes. Gilding
is something, for it is a kind of sunshine.
The jumble called Rococo is in general detestable.
A parrot seems to have invented the
word; and the thing is worthy of his tawdriness
and his incoherence. We confess,
however, to a sneaking kindness for the shepherds
and shepherdesses of the times of the
Pompadours and the Madame Dubarrys. They
were the endeavour of no feeling to get at
some feeling; to "assume a virtue, if they
had it not;" to play at lovers, though they
could only be gallants; nay, let us do our
best for them, and say, it was the endeavour
to conciliate the remnant of truth and
simplicity lurking in their hearts, and to
persuade themselves what a golden age kind of
people they were intended by nature to have
been, provided only they could have their
own way, and luxurious suppers instead of
bread and cheese.

Many of these extraordinary pieces of
furniture are nevertheless excellent of their
kind, those in the rococo style not excepted.
There are cabinets and coffers truly worthy
of holding treasure; tables, at which it would
be an elevation of mind as well as body to
sit: clocks, that symbolise the value of time
(and not seldom its heaviness) by the multiplicity
and weight of their ornamentation; and
chairs which sometimes render the request
"Not to touch " provoking; for how, otherwise,
are we to test the smoothness of the
"Genoa velvet," taste the pleasure of sitting
as sovereigns and beauties sate, or comfortably
contemplate the very objects before us,
considering that there are no seats in the
rooms for visitors, and that pleasure itself is
fatiguing.

Some interesting memories also are attached
to these costly moveables. There is a magnificent
writing table, ostentatiously recording
some of the projects of the famous busy-body
Beaumarchais, author of the comedy of Figaro;
a Buhl writing-table that belonged to the
De Retz family; a grand cabinet in pietra
dura (precious stones) made expressly for
Louis the Fourteenth; a carved Venetian
coffer, that was the property of Thomas, the
first Earl of Dorset, the poet, the worthy
precursor of Spenser; and another Venetian
coffer, adorned in wonderful alto relievo with
the story of Caesar crossing the Rubicon, most
life-like and masterly. The work is dated in
the catalogue "about one thousand five
hundred and sixty;" and the arms on the
escutcheon (a lion rampant, and a head in a cap)
are stated to be "unknown." We know not
the arms of Caesar Borgia, otherwise the
story is just like one of the allusions of that
energetic miscreant. Or might it have
illustrated some lawless exploits of the Malatesta
family, one of the most ferocious of whom
was a great patron of art?

We have indulged ourselves at such length
in these passing notices of art and manufacture,
that we must dismiss with a somewhat
unpatriotic brevity the other part of the exhibition,
the copies from originals and from nature,
sent in by students of the various Government
Schools of Art established throughout the
kingdom. Indeed, we could take no very
long view of them, and therefore must not
be understood as throwing any slur upon those
on which we are silent, when we say that
we were most struck with the Flamingo of
Miss Olden (No, 10); the Madre Dolorosa
(from Carlo Dolce?) by Miss Ganthorp (No.
24); the Magdalen, from Correggio, by Mr.
Bowen (No. 27); Moneygetter—we know
not from whom—by Mr. Collinson (No. 32);
Fruit, by Mr. Gibson (No. 47); the study of
Ornament in Colour, by Mr. Ellison (No.
101); and those after Cuyp and Crivelli—
each wrongly referred—by Mr. Armytage.
The Flamingo is admirably coloured; only
we wish he looked less like an ogre, with that
long beak of his, holding the eel. It is all
true to nature, no doubt; but why need
ornithological painters select only those
moments? The Madre Dolorosa is very dolorous,
and well done, but we have little faith in the
permanent dolour of those cheeks. This,
however, is the original's fault, and not the
copyist's. For the real, natural grief, the
amiable, surprised, and patient regret, in the
face of Correggio's Madonna, we are most
thankful, because we feel certain that it brings
the original before us—which cannot be said
of a late beautiful engraving of the subject,
—very lovely, but not at all sorrowful. The
Fruit is partly bruised with its own ripeness,
—very true and beautiful. The Ornament in
Colour is truly graceful and consistent; hangs
charmingly together; and the Cuyp and
Crivelli carry with them their testimony to
the fidelity of the copies. These works are
all upstairs; chiefly, we believe, in the
garrets. They look as if a parcel of artists had
fallen in love with the maid-servants, and
hung their dormitories with evidences of
their homage.

Little need be said of the grounds belonging
to Gore House. Turf and trees are good
things, with or without flowers; and the
grounds are of unexpected dimensions,
considered as appurtenances to a suburban
residence; but, as Johnson said of a dinner, that
it was a good enough dinner, but "not a
dinner to invite a man to," so it may be said
of the Gore House grounds, that they hardly
sustain the dignified announcement of being
"thrown open to the public;" especially too,
as this " throwing open " is confined to the