OUR MELBOURNE LETTER.

Evening Star, Issue 4160, 27 June 1876, Page 3

OUR MELBOURNE LETTER.

June .19, 1876.

Make a white mark behind the door! Look at-it often, for it shall signify a mighty wonder come to pass. The Ballarat protectionist party have actually settled the confectioner’s account for their grand tea meeting left unpaid for so many months, the theme of so many- newspaper gibes from their opponents. Great is the power of ridicule—greater than that of honesty—and much reason has that confectioner to bless it. ' For if it were the modem custom to hang up memorials as in the days of old, that confectioner wohld put a picture in the temple of Momus, but no ex voto would be seen in that of Justitia, paid for out Of his till.

The first great Stevenson case over a second was- begun on the day my last was despatched. like its forerunner it lasted a long time, brought out many contradictions, and ended against the Government, But unlike its predecessor it ended in the accnse4 getting costs—Ll6o—against the Erosecntors. A great deal of severe talk as arisen in the papers about the bench ; being packed. There is really nothing in it except,, perhaps, in the case of one J.P., and even that is improbable; but it would r not be wonderful if some change in magisterial arrangements were to be made (or at least attempted) by Government, in consequence of these prosecutions. It has often been complained that on particular k occasions J.P.’s “rush” the Bench, and the powers that be never paid any attention to the complaint beyofid giving a sham redress long ago in restricting magistrates to sitting in courts within their districts; but though many people have been loudly cry.ing for reform of the magistracy, 1 think they will moderate their voifces when they see that the answer may be such as to make the Government supreme in all the courts. Much to the surprise of many people the “religious” newspaper took sides in the matter, and declared itself against Stevenson. Not much harm in that per ae, for in many folks’ opinion there is little moral ddubt that some sharp practice has taken place; if it.be not exactly what the Commissioner of Customs alleges. But the ground on which the Southern Cross bases its. strictures is so new to Englishmen, and so subversive of every atom of liberty that I wonder the whole Press is not down upon it this morning in full hue and cry. The ’Cross ’ attacks the defendants because they did not come forward with proofs to establish their innocence. One would think that a paper which makes the name of % “ Rev. Dr.” conspicuous as its editor would at least have professed to act on the principle of charity—to think no evil—especially as that principle is likewise a principle of English law. For a newspaper editor—secular or. religious —to take such a tone is inexcusable under any circumstances. But though inexcusable it is not inexplicable. Dr Cameron is a fellowcountryman and a fellow-churchman of Sir James M'CuUoch’s—“backs him through thick and thin.” Voila tout. The Crown Prosecutor intends to have a review of both decisions of the Police Court on cases stated, but it is almost certain that be will take "nothing by the motion. There was a little more fun in the latter case than in the former one, but apart from the purely commercial interest of the matter, they were dull enough, no points either in the Customs law. or of the law of evidence arising to redeem them from the common run. The trial of Stevenson and bis employes for resisting the authorities is put down for next sittings of the criminal side of the court. The Rev, Charles Clark is advertised to five a series of shilling lectures before his eparture for California. The Town Hall will no doubt be crowded, as he is, with all his faults (and they are neither few nor small) it popular favorite.

At foijit was en the closing day—l have visited the picture exhibition of our local Art Academy. It is a decided improvement on last year, both in point of numbers and quality. Messrs Curtis, Ford, and Johnstone contribute the bulk of the good .paintings, of which Ford’s are more numerous than the other two put together If. only our artists would lay to heart their own motto (“cAi va piano va sano ’■) they would paint much better pictures. But I am not so sure that they would make so much money. I fancy I notice in the work of the better painters a tendency to monotone, and in general to make that monotone a cold one. Some of Jobnstone*s pictures particularly show this. Painted with scrupulous fidelity to nature—for which his training as a photographer admirably adapted him, there is sometimes a little of the stiffness that the photographic plate presents. A preference for calm air may be traced to the same training, though of this I am not at all|sure; for the same unnatural dead stiffness reigns in the paintings of men who have hot the same art history. In tbo whole room I do not remember to have seen a leaf stirring, or a branch tossed, or a bit of drapery rustled by the wind. By far the majority of the pictures convey the idea that Australia must be an awfully cold place—(not an untrue idea, by the way, for the last week since we have had such biting winds as suit a Dunedin rather than a Melbourne winter). Cold yellow sunset skies, with that clear hard look that we have before a nipping night are in favor, and rarely is there an attempt to give our warmer atmospheric effects. I only remember two—both same hand and both fairly successful—their highest merit being that while nve y idea they do not exaggerate it. The New Zealand views are numerous, but not successful. Even one of Gully’s water colors is much below his usual mark Some of the oils are nothing less than comical, A pair of views of mat Coast (Hokitika scenery) give the impression that that of the composed of long narrow

house-passages, with trees for walls, and S purling stream for floor-cloth, an Italian sky, and Mount Cook within arm’s length—so near that you could almost knock at the door when you get to the end of the lobby. Do your readers remember the story of the nigger, who, when he heard that a solar eclipse was at hand, exclaimed to bis comrades, “ Hallelujah! Boys, niggers’ times a como at last! We’s gwinc to hub a black sun! ” I suspect that the gentleman ■who painted two pictures (Otara Gorge and Arthur’s Pass, Canterbury) must have had a similar penchant for a blue luminary. According to his rendering, the universe must, at the time ho saw those S laces, have been in the hands of the launress, and at that particular stage of her treatment when the indigo bag is in active operation. She must, moreover, have had either an unsteady hand, or the misfortune to drop the color into the tub, and have been in danger of a severe reprimand from her mistress on the ground of waste. For these cerulean productions the modest sum of L 25 each is demanded.

There are very few figure studies, and, with one exception, I wished there were none. That exception was “ The Origin of Painting,” by Campbell—the old story of the Greek girl who traced her sweetheart’s profile from hia shadow on the wall. With some egregious faults, this is a pleasing picture. The traced profile is absurdly too big, and the girl’s own sbadou a ridiculous burlesque ; but the flesh is flesh, the grouping fair—though not perfect, the centre of gravity being out, not perhaps technically, but so it strikes an ordinary eye—and they are the only figures in the room that (as a lady remarked to me) “seem to be attending to their business- and not sitting for their I could not better hit off the peculiar excellence of this picture and the peculiar—and very offensive —fault of all the others of similar class. One gentleman, whose name and claims ought to have made him more careful, is a grave sinner in the matter of figures, and he attempts nothing else. He even grows worse. Last year he did pretend to give some idea of the texture and color of living skin; this year his beings are so far human that they are indeed made of clay, but then unluckily it is clay of a very dingy grey white, and perfectly raw. I would decidedly recommend him to present his next young ladies (he always paints young ladies) in the condition in which Charles Lamb said, when asked how he liked babies, that he preferred them—“ B-b-b-boiled, Madam ! ” That is, if he needs must present them at all. I am not ambitious to know more of them. Returning to the landscapes, I noticed two or three pictures by J. Paterson that were a pleasant relief to the prevailing cold, rather hard, tone. Warm browns and a rich harmony prevail through them, though there are woeful faults in drawing and perspective that I fear—judging from other indications —it is too late to mend. The warmth and natural tone of one of these was well brought, out by its position near to a “ Seaside Cattle Station —seemingly in Western Port district, but with a general atmosphere of latitude—well, say about 85deg., and with large herds of bullocks in a fearful state of disease—apparently scarlet fever. I don’t believe there are so many red cattle in all creation aa appear on that canvas. If there are, they must all be there, and there is not a single exception to their tint. r One of Ford’s pictures—small, and not in other respects worth much notice—is a boat off St. Kilda pier “going for a sail.” It has the best bit of water painting I have seen for a long timej; the clear olive green in the shadow of the craft is perfect, as transparent as Nature, and not the least muddy or heavy as so often painters make it. It was evidently intended to contrast with the light totally reflected from the surface just out of the shadow, but the light is a failure. One of the best pictures in the room is by a self-taught young lady—some shells, seaweed, and an earthen vase. The pearly tints and varied surfaces of the different shells and the vase are exquisitely done, though, as might be expected from an untaught hand, some of the shells are not so successful as the rest.

The Philharmonic Society gave “St. Paul ” last week. It was decidedly the worst performance I ever heard. Everybody was faulty—even Beaumont once missed half a beat—and the band Worst of all. The conductor, Mr Summers, composed a funeral march for C. E. Horsley, which was performed before the oratorio. It contained some pretty music, but I shall not cry if I be doomed never to hear it again. The concert was remarkable for being given without the great organ—an irreparable loss, due I suppose to the exorbitant charges made for its use by the- Town Council.