Star.
London, England, 1830-08-28 00:00:00

MARTIN, THE AR :IS T.

John Martin is original in his conceptions, both of sithj et and colour,
and surpasses all living painters in profuse splendour of imagination.
He seems to think nothing grand, save some convulsion of nature, and
nothing suitable for his supernatural hues leas titan a miracle. He dips
his brush in wizard light and darkness—in earthquake and eclipse, and
dashes us oft' timer judgments upon princes and cities till we tremble as
we look. We are astonished at his attempts, and are obliged to own
that be has at least painted as loftily as we imagine. This is merit of
the highest order. Yet it 1s not always well perhaps to seek to astonish,
—we wish to be pleased as much as to be dazzled. Subjects within
the rangt: of ordinary affection are safest for an artist desirous of mortal
approbation : and a man who hopes for bread mud fume in this grass
world must work for the worms which arc on it, and not for the gods.
We have lived beyond the era of 'Mucks and are hard of be-
lief ; a class of pictures of the highest order of imagination, and,
executed with all the magnificence of art, can only be sup-
posed to gain the approbation of the higher order of minds—all
lovers of windmills after nature, aral lap-dogs after life, will turn away
from the effulgence of the " Fall of Nineveh" or the " Doom of Ba.
bylon," and squander their approbation on the garbage of art. This is
what the artist probably expected, when he dedicated his pencil to such
splendid and superhuman tasks. To all men of poetic minds—a nu-
merous class—those historic landscapes are the most acceptable timings
which art has to offer;—poetic pictures arc, as Johnson says, of rare
emergence. Landscapes, indeed, ate common enough—scenes exhibiting
an acre of meadow, a tree in the middle, a crow flying over the top, and
a cow grazing at time bottom. Hut then, who reckons such common.
place things among true works of art? An artist should communicate
a soul to to his landscape, and embody what is grand or lovely—scenes
which awaken sublime emotions—the terrors of a tempest, and the glory
of the sunshine.

Martin, we have said, paints up to our imagination—we think the
grand imagery of scripture fairly embodied in the " Doom of Babylon,"
and in "Joshua commanding the sun to stand still." These are among
the very noblest efforts of the human mind—still they belong
more to the imagination than to the heart —we are overcome
so much with awe, that we have little sympathy with the human
actors. The very excellence of those nohle compositions is their
fault. They address themselves to imaginative minds ; the destruc-
tion of cities and of nations, now, is brought about in a way
not at all superhuman—it is effected by powder and ball— by man's
folly, and sometimes by woman's, but never by a miracle. Experience
affords us no scale by which we can measure the excellence of the artists',
isenceptins. In his " Fail of Nineveh," he has fairly surpassed all his
earlier works s—the magnificent city is falling a prey to the spoiler;
round its innumerable temples and palaces, the torrent of war is pour-
ing; and the startled grouper ofwomen with streaming eyes,and dishevel.
led hair, and men sternly contending with sword and with spear, lend a
an interest to the whole scene, which awakens our smpathies.
t y painters have equalled Martin in exhibiting "the current of a
• cal), fight," but we know of none who can match him in the terror and
sublimity of his landscape; in the boundless:glory of perspective, and
in the art of conceiving temples and palaces fit for the residence of arch-
angels and gods. The picturesque splendour of his architecture, is a
fine subject for study—London is but a city of brick.stacks, compared
with the meanest city on which the painter has laid his blush. We
wish he would make a design for a British palace, an elevation we
inean—we might then hope to see something worthy of the island ;—let
him drop his miracles, come out of his supernatural cloud, and do a
little work for the monarch and the country.
It is usual,• in art, to compare one man with another we hear daily
of Claud-like scenes—of Rembrandt-looking subjects, of some one
who has picked up a bit of the contour of Michael Angelo, and of
another who reminds the happy spectator of Raphael ; but who can be
compared with Martin ? he is original and alone. Feeling this and know.
ing it to be the opinion of many, we were not a little startled by an article
on the genius of Martin, in the Edinburgh Review, in which along and an
elaborate parallel was drawn between him and Sir T. Lawrence. They are
both good-looking men, kindly and courteous, and painters of high
name—and there the resemblance ends. ‘Vhat! the limner of ladies'
looks—the soft, the feminine Lawrence, like the painter of tempest and
storm—of the most august miracles of scripture—of the most terrible
judgment of lion !—who could have believed ity Here are winks exhi.
biting—we allude to Martin's designs front Milton—a gaping and
inexorable hell, peopled with majestic demons, whose heads reach
nigh the roof:, or who lie floating many a rood on the melted
lava—here are Works filled with an unearthly magnificence. with a su.
pernatural splendour with palaces fitter for demons or gods than for
men, and with human beings who, compared with the collossal splen-
dour around, are like grains of mustariteeed to the great globe itself:
yet an ingenious critic has discovered a resemblance between these pro-
ductions and the gentle dames and gentler gentlemen of the late Piesi.
dent ! The force of' comparison could go no farther. Out of regard—
we had nearly used a softer word—for the fair dame who penned the
article in question, we shall say no more than that it was ingenious and
unjust in nothing save the comparison which it drew. Many men are
and have been like Sir Thomas Lawrence—but John Martin,
None but himself can be his parallel !
He has other claims upon our regard ; he lays aside the brush and
lifts the graver, and uses it too with the happiest skill. We can hardly
trust our pen on telling the world how much we are obliged to him for
this. In speaking of his paintings, we kept the even tenour of our way
—or indeed leant rather to the severe side, and dealt hint a nab or two
to let hint feel the keenness of our weapon ; but in his engraving, there
is not one defect on which thecmiker-tooth of criticism can fasten ; ncy,
really, if there were any blemishes, we verily believe that we could not
be so bitter as to allude to them. We must explain our meaning. On
looking at his magnificent paintings, we said !o ourselves, these are fit
in splendour and in price for a monarch ; and where have we our hun.
deeds or our thousands to lay out on poetic art ? When, lo ! an en.
graving was laid before us, to which the artist, with his own hand, and
with unrivalled skill, had transferred all the enchantment of the ovi.
ginal. This was what we wanted—what we had longed toe, and what
we thought nothing short of a miracle could have supplied. There they
are—the Fall of Babylon—Joshua staying the Sun—the Deluge—and
better than any, the Fall of Nineveh—all framed and hung before us,
glowing with the touches of the artist's own hand, and bearing all the
value and merit of originals. We have thus become possessed of our
treasure cheap. We are encouragers of art, and must assume those
patronising airs which belong to men who stand in that imposing
attitude!

No human joy is perfect—this man's paintings want the academic
stamp of approbation. John Martin has no enigmatical letters sup-
porting his name—he is not numbered amongst the forty who have the
secret, the " open sesame," the mark through which worth is known,
and pure genius, like pure gold-, obtains instant circulation. How hap-
pens this ? he is en artist, and he is a mni worthy of ranking with the
best and the proudest that ever lifted brush or chisel. For several years,
indeed, we imagined him an Associate—we were deceived. A certain
Elias Martin, of fifty years standing, occupies the head of the list of
Associates ; and though some say he never lived, no one inquires t
and, dead or Jive, he is unknown to his brethren. Now Llias may be
a most excellent man, and we wish it to be distinctly understood, that
we give no opinion about him. Artists are a sensitive race ; and,
though of the fairest Ames in Nature, some of them make " damned
work," as Gay said Blackmon made. of " Redemption," we have no
wish but to say the handsomest thing of the whole Forty.: yet we wish
, they would dethrone Elias and put John In his stem/. Tkey have no
ides how much pleasure they would give—how many saystatme roman,
they would avoid ; and what bur they would do thempalses by ad-
mitting* wan of first-rate genius,,and in every thin‘a,ppitjeusen, into
the Royal Academy.