Chapter XV: Introduction: To an Account of Sir Joshua Reynolds’s Discourses (2)

Another authority, which has been in some measure discovered since the publication of Sir Joshua’s Discourses, is to be found in the Elgin Marbles, taken from the Acropolis, and supposed to be the works of the celebrated Phidias. The process of fastidious refinement, and flimsy abstraction, is certainly not visible there. The figures have all the ease, the simplicity, and variety of nature, and look more like living men turned to stone than any thing else. Even the details of the subordinate parts, the loose folds in the skin, the veins under the belly or on the sides of the horses, more or less swelled as the animal is more or less in action, are given with scrupulous exactness. This is true nature, and true history. In a word, we can illustrate our position here better than we could with respect to painting, by saying that these invaluable remains of antiquity are precisely like casts taken from nature.—Michael Angelo and the antique may still be cited against us, and we wish to speak on this subject with great diffidence. We confess, they appear to us much more artificial than the others, but we do not think that this is their excellence. For instance, it strikes us that there is something theatrical in the air of the _Apollo_, and in the _Hercules_ an ostentatious and over-laboured display of the knowledge of the muscles. Perhaps the fragment of the _Theseus_ at Lord Elgin’s has more grandeur as well as more nature than either of them. The form of the limbs, as affected by pressure or action, and the general sway of the body, are better preserved in it. The several parts in the later Greek statues are more balanced, made more to tally like modern periods; each muscle is more equally brought out, and highly finished, and is so far better in itself, but worse as a part of a whole. If these wonderful productions have a fault, it is the want of simplicity, of a due subordination of parts, which sometimes gives them more a look of perfect lay-figures put into attitudes, than of real imitations of nature. The same objection may be urged against the works of Michael Angelo, and is indeed the necessary consequence either of selecting from a number of different models, or of proceeding on a scientific knowledge of the structure of the different parts; for the physical form is something given and defined, but motion is various and infinite. The superior symmetry of form, common to the ancient statues, we have no hesitation in attributing to the superior symmetry of the models in nature, and to the superior opportunity for studying them.

In general, we would be understood to mean, that the ideal is not a voluntary fiction of the brain, a fanciful piece of patch-work, a compromise between the defects of nature, or an artificial balance struck between innumerable deformities, (as if we could form a perfect idea of beauty though we never had seen any such thing,) but a preference of what is fine in nature to what is less so. There is nothing fine in art but what is taken almost immediately and entirely from what is finer in nature. Where there have been the finest models in nature, there have also been the finest works of art. The Greek statues were copied from Greek forms. Their portraits of individuals were often superior to their personifications of their gods; the head of the _Antinous_, for example, to that of the _Apollo_. Raphael’s expressions were taken from Italian faces; and we have heard it observed, that the women in the streets of Rome seem to have walked out of his pictures in the Vatican.

If we are asked, then, what it is that constitutes historic expression or ideal beauty, we should answer, not (with Sir Joshua) abstract expression or middle forms, but consistency of expression in the one, and symmetry of form in the other.

A face is historical, which is made up of consistent parts, let those parts be ever so peculiar or uncommon. Those details or peculiarities only are inadmissible in history, which do not arise out of any principle, or tend to any conclusion,—which are merely casual, insignificant, and unconnected,—which do not _tell_; that is, which either do not add to, or which contradict the general result,—which are not integrant parts of one whole, however strange or irregular that whole may be. That history does not require or consist in the middle form or central features is proved by this, that the antique heads of fauns and satyrs, of _Pan_ or _Silenus_, are perfectly grotesque and singular; yet are as undoubtedly historical, as the Apollo or the Venus, because they have the same predominant, intelligible, characteristic expression throughout. _Socrates_ is a person whom we recognise quite as familiarly, from our general acquaintance with human nature, as _Alcibiades_.[19] The simplicity or the fewness of the parts of a head facilitates this effect, but is not necessary to it. The head of a negro, a mulatto, &c. introduced into a picture is always historical, because it is always distinct from the rest, and uniform with itself. The face covered with a beard is historical for the same reason, because it presents distinct and uniform masses. Again, a face, not so in itself, becomes historical by the mere force of passion. The same strong passion moulds the features into the same emphatic expression, by giving to the mouth, the eyes, the forehead, etc., the same expansion or contraction, the same voluptuous movement or painful constraint. All intellectual and impassioned faces are historical;—the heads of philosophers, poets, lovers, and madmen. Passion sometimes produces beauty by this means, and there is a beauty of form, the effect entirely of expression; as a smiling mouth, not beautiful in common, becomes so by being put into that action.

Sir Joshua was probably led to his opinions on art in general by his theory of beauty, which he makes to consist in a certain central form, the medium of all others. In the first place, this theory is questionable in itself: or if it were not so, it does not include many other things of much more importance in historical painting (though perhaps not so in sculpture[20]) namely, character, which necessarily implies individuality; expression, which is the excess of thought or feeling, strength or grandeur of form, which is excess also.—There seems, however, to be a certain symmetry of form, as there is a certain harmony of sounds or colours, which gives pleasure, and produces beauty, independently of custom. Custom is undoubtedly one source or condition of beauty, but it appears to be rather its limit than its essence; that is, there are certain given forms and proportions established by nature in the structure of each thing, and sanctioned by custom, without which there can only be distortion and incongruity, but which alone do not produce beauty. One kind is more beautiful than another; and the objects of the same kind are not beautiful merely as we are used to them. The rose or lily is more beautiful than the daisy, the swan than the crow, the greyhound than the beagle, the deer than the wild goat; and we invariably prefer the Greek to the African face, though our own inclines more to the latter. We admire the broad forehead, the straight nose, the small mouth, the oval chin. Regular features are those which record and assimilate most to one another. The Greek face is made up of smooth flowing lines, and correspondent features; the African face of sharp angles and projections. A row of pillars is beautiful for the same reason. We confess, on this subject of beauty, we are half-disposed to fall into the mysticism of Raphael Mengs, who had some notion about a principle of _universal harmony_, if we did not dread the censure of an eminent critic.

CHARLEMAGNE: OU L’ÉGLISE DÉLIVRÉE.

_The Champion_] [_December 18, 1814._

It seldom happens that the same family produces an emperour and an epic poet. So it is, however, in the present instance. The brother of Buonaparte may be allowed to take his rank among poets, as Buonaparte himself has done among kings. But the historian of Charlemagne does not appear to us to present quite the same formidable front to the established possessors of the seats of the muses, as the imitator of Charlemagne did to the hereditary occupiers of thrones. A self-will without controul, an ambition without bounds, a gigantic daring which built its confidence of success on the contempt of danger, were the means by which Buonaparte obtained and lost his portentous power; and by which he would probably have lost it on the borders of the Ganges, or among the sands of the Red Sea, if he had not been prevented by the snows of Russia.

Our poet is not the same monster of genius that his brother was of power. In the career of fame, he does not risk the success of his reputation by the unlimited extravagance of his pretensions. His muse does not disdain to borrow the conceptions of others, or to submit to the rules of art; and the boldest flights of his imagination seldom pass the bounds of a well-regulated enthusiasm. _Charlemagne_ is the work of a very clever man, rather than a great poet; it displays more talent than genius, more ingenuity than invention. It is more artificial than original. In saying this, we would not be understood to mean, that it is without considerable novelty, either of description or sentiment. Far, very far from it: almost every page presents examples of both, equally striking and elegant, which it would be difficult to refer immediately to any similar passages in other authors. But the whole wants character: it does not bear the stamp of the same presiding mind: no new world of imagination is opened to the view: we do not feel the presence of a power which we have never felt before, and which we can never forget.

The stanzas are all equally or proportionably good: but they are as good separately, as taken together: they do not run into one another; they do not make a poem. There is no strong impulse given, no overpowering grandeur of effect. In scarcely any part of the story does the mind look back with terror and delight at what is past, or hurry on with eager curiosity to what is to come. The art is too apparent. The author is too busy in managing his materials, in selecting, adorning, varying, and amplifying them to the best advantage: but they seem something external to him. His subject has not taken entire possession of his mind, and therefore he does not take full possession of his readers. Yet it is certain that all the materials of poetry are here;—imagery, incident, character, passion, thought, and observation—all but the divine enthusiasm of the poet, which can alone communicate true warmth and enthusiasm to others.

There is one praise which we most willingly bestow on this poem, which is, that it is not _French_. It is not another HENRIADE:—that is, it is not poetry devoid of all imagination, and of every thing like imagination. On the contrary, it abounds with variety and distinctness of conception, and is evidently written on the model of Italian poetry. We were a little surprised to find that the author had not adopted the common heroic French verse, but has borrowed the Italian Stanza with varying rhymes, and a little half verse in the middle, which has an agreeable effect enough in the lighter parts of the poem, but does not accord so well with the more serious and impressive. The following stanzas will give our readers an idea of the metre, and of the general style of description.—They represent Charlemagne traversing the Alps the night before a battle.

‘Au dessus du mont Jove, un mont plus escarpé
S’élance dans la nue, et sa cime effrayante
N’offre point des sentiers la trace rassurante.
Par les vents orageux sans cesse il est frappé.
Ici, plus de forêts, plus de germe de vie:
Sur la surface unie
L’ardente canicule en vain darde ses feux:
Des glaçons entassés (piramide éternelle!)
Etouffent la nature; et dans ces tristes lieux,
A sa fécondité la terre est infidèle.

C’est par là qu’aujourd’hui Charles s’ouvre un passage,
Les coursiers délaissés errent dans le vallon:
Et par mille détours le terrible escadron
Avance lentement sur la pente sauvage.
L’astre des nuits suivait son cours silencieux;
Les vents impétueux
Entrechoquant par fois les lances formidables,
S’opposaient vainement à ces audacieux,
Qui suivant de leur chef les pas infatigables,
Touchent enfin le sol du piton sourcilleux.

En cercles resserrés près du fils de Pepin,
Ses dignes compagnons au loin jettent la vue
Sur une ténébreuse et profonde étendue
De mobiles vapeurs, de nuages sans fin.
Appuyés sur leur glaive ils dominent la sphere
Où le bruyant tonnerre
S’allume par le choc des principes divers.
Le barde peint ainsi les ombres eclatantes
D’Oscar et de Fingal errant au haut des airs,
Et brandissant encor leurs lances flamboyantes.

Tels, auprès d’Ilion, les dieux enfants d’Homère,
Franchissant de l’Ida les sommets ébranlés,
Près du fils de Saturne en foule rassemblés,
Sont décrits préparant les destins de la terre.
Ces fantômes divins furent jadis des preux:
Les siècles ténébreux,
Osant de Jéhova dénaturer l’image,
Dressèrent des autels aux héros fabuleux:[21]
Et de l’idolatrie affirmissant l’ouvrage,
De ces guerriers obscurs[21] Homère fit de dieux

Ainsi les paladins, environnant leur roi,’ etc.
_Chant huitieme._

We might refer to many other passages equally picturesque, though perhaps to none so poetical. Such as the comparison of Roland taken from the scene of combat by Oliver, to a lion led off by an African, that still roars as he follows his well-known guide;—the first appearance of Armelie, the death of Wilfred at the altar, the vanishing of Adelard from the sight of Charlemagne, the forest of Eresbourg, the Druidical sacrifice, and the funeral rites of Orlando in the valley of Ronscevalles.

The language of the poem often bears a striking resemblance to the language of painting, or seems like a detailed description of some _chef d’œuvre_ of the art, rather than the creation of the poet’s fancy. We should have little doubt that the solitary church in the valley of Ronscevalles is copied from that in the back-ground of Titian’s _St. Peter Martyr_, and the massacre at the altar in the first canto is certainly taken from some picture of Raphael!

In the sentiments of this poem there is more feebleness, a greater number of Gallicisms, than in the imagery. We meet with such courtly expressions as these:

‘Les Francs à chaque instant voient de nouveaux guerriers
_Solliciter l’honneur d’embrasser leur defense_!’

The devil addresses the deity with the following piece of high-flown sentimentality:

‘Pour braver les remords, et la gêne et la flamme,
Je ne demande rien _qu’un seul rayon d’espoir_.’

We know, indeed, from whence the allusion is taken, and we wonder the more at the affectation implied in the alteration. It is like some of Pope’s refinements on Isaiah. In giving an account of the sorrow which prevails in heaven at the disasters of the church of Christ, the author has expressed a trite theological sentiment with more felicity than we recollect to have seen it expressed before:

‘On entend à ces mots toutes les voix célestes
D’une douce tristesse exhaler les soupirs.
La harpe ainsi murmure au souffle des zéphirs.
Les habitants du ciel n’ont point ces sons funestes—
Qu’ici-bas les malheurs arrachent aux humains.
Aux peines, aux chagrins,
Aux passions du monde ils ne sont plus en proie;
D’un amour sans mélange ils goûtent la douceur:
Leurs maux sont moins amers, plus purs que notre joie;
Et leur tristesse à peine altère leur bonheur.’

The conception of his Heaven is much more just than that of Hell, though the execution is (almost as a matter of course) less powerful. The two figures of Adam and Moses, in the former, are particularly fine:

‘Le père des humains voit sa nombreuse race,
Et calcule, pensif, le nombre des élus!
Moïse près de lui, d’un seul regard embrasse
Les enfants d’Israël en tous lieux répandus.’

Our poet has, very good-naturedly, (and we hope with the approbation of his holiness the Pope, to whom this work is dedicated,) set aside two stanzas for the secret conveyance of the souls of virtuous heathens and of little children, into the abodes of the blest.

The author of _Charlemagne_ has constructed his hell upon an entirely new and fanciful theory. We see no sort of reason why Satan should not, in strict propriety, sit upon a throne; nor why his followers should be degraded from the rank of fallen angels into modern French revolutionists. We like Milton’s account much better in all respects; and our author himself, as is the natural consequence of all affectation, flounders into contradiction in the very next verse, where he gives a most superb account of Lucifer. In the same spirit, he has made a more enlightened distribution of crimes and punishments; and established an entire new set of regulations and bye-laws in the regions of the damned. Alexander and the two Brutuses figure there with Cain and other murderers, while ‘the noble Cæsar’ is exempted. Now we have no notion of such a philosophical hell as our poetical casuist would carve out. This celebrated place is, we think, of all others the least liable to plans of reform. It is almost the oldest establishment upon record, and placed quite out of the reach of the progress of reason and metaphysics. We hate disputes in poetry, still more than in religion. At least, whatever appeals to the imagination, ought to rest on undivided sentiment, on one undisputed tradition, one catholic faith.[22] Besides, the whole account of the infernal regions is an excrescence, equally misplaced and improbable. None of the heroes of the poem descend there, but as Satan is brought thence to appear to Charlemagne in the shape of a lying priest, this opportunity is taken to describe the geography of the place according to the latest discoveries. There is one point in which we agree with the poet, _viz._ in his indignation against tyrants and their flatterers, though he does not go so far as honest Quevedo, who, when his hero wonders to see so few kings in hell, makes his guide reply sullenly, ‘Here are all that ever reigned.’

We shall conclude our remarks on this part of the poem with the author’s description of the punishment of Cain, which we think the most striking.

‘Ici rugit Cain, les cheveux hérissés,
Et portant sur son front la marque sanguinaire.
“Cain, Cain, réponds: qu’as-tu fait de ton frère?”
A cette voix du Ciel tous ses sens sont glacés;
Cain croit voir Abel éclatant de lumière;
Et d’un bras téméraire,
Il ose encor frapper l’objet de son courroux:
Il voudrait le priver d’une seconde vie:
Mais l’ombre glorieuse échappant à ses coups,
Redouble dans son cœur les tourments de l’envie.’

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED

_The Champion._] [_December 25, 1814._

The story of a poem is seldom worth a long description. It may be sufficient to say in the present case, that the danger to which the church was exposed, and from which it was afterwards delivered, arose from the second marriage of _Charlemagne_ with _Armelie_, the daughter of _Didier_, the King of the Lombards, who was exerting himself to depose Pope Adrian. Charlemagne had divorced his first wife, _Adelinde_, but he is warned in a vision to take her again to his bosom. He does so, and _Didier_ and his daughter consequently become the enemies of this Christian Emperor, who takes arms to defend the Holy See. After the usual casualties and fluctuations of fortune, the son of Pepin finally triumphs.

On a more careful examination, we see no reason to alter our first opinion of this poem. It has given us no strong impulse, nor left any permanent trace on our minds. It opens no new and rich vein of poetry, though certainly great talents are shewn in the use which is made of existing materials. Perhaps it may be said that this is all that can be done in a modern poem: if so, that _all_ is hardly worth the doing. There is no one who has borrowed his materials more than Milton, or who has made them more completely his own: there is hardly a line which does not breathe the same lofty spirit, hardly a thought or image which he has not clothed with the majesty of his genius. It is the same in reading other great poets. The informing mind is every where present to us. Who is there that does not know and feel sensibly the majestic copiousness of Homer, the polished elegance of Virgil, enamoured of its own workmanship,—the severe grandeur of Dante, the tender pathos of Tasso, the endless voluptuousness of Spenser, and the unnumbered graces of Ariosto? Even the mysterious solemnity of Ossian, and the wild romantic interest of Walter Scott, are something gained to the imagination. But in the present instance, we do not feel the same participation with the author’s mind, nor accession of strength to our own. So little is it in the power even of the most accomplished art to counterfeit nature. The true Florimel did not differ more from the Florimel which was made for the witches’ son, than true genius from the most successful and elaborate imitation of it.

We shall close these remarks with extracting two passages which in the opinion of our readers will perhaps be thought to amount to a complete refutation of our objections. The first is the description of the funeral rites of Orlando, in the thirteenth canto.

‘Gaiffre a suivi son guide au fond du précipice,
Un clocher solitaire a frappé ses regards:
Dans les jours du repos, les fidèles épars
Accourent au signal du divin sacrifice.
Ici du haut des monts descendent les pasteurs.
La vierge des douleurs
De ces mortels obscurs y reçoit la prière:
Sur un autel de bois on a sculpté ses traits;
Les nombreux ex-voto de la divine mère
Dans ces lieux écartés attestant les bienfaits.

Un son plaintif et sourd vient de frapper les airs;
C’est l’airain qui gémit pour les pompes funèbres.
Dans le temple le jour a fait place aux ténèbres;
Des signes de la mort les parois sont couverts.
Un saint pontife offrait la victime ineffable;
Et sa voix secourable
Invoquait pour nos preux le céleste repos.
Un simple sarcophage au milieu de l’enceinte
Retrace à tous les yeux la tombe du héros,
Et répand dans les cœurs une tristesse sainte.

Le prêtre des hameaux, suivant l’antique usage,
Dans l’Eglise chrétienne en tout temps révéré,
Trois fois avec l’eau sainte et l’encensoir sacré
Fait solennellement le tour du sarcophage.
“Dans le sein de ton Dieu sois heureux à jamais:
Roland, repose en paix.”
Du pontife telle est la fervente prière.
Ces mots ont terminé le sacrifice saint;
Et la foule se rend dans le champ funéraire
Ou gît, sous une croix, le corps du paladin.’

In the nineteenth canto, Lawrence and her children, after their escape from Bourdeaux, arrive at the castle of Melaric, an old christian knight, when the following example of perfect description occurs:—

‘La nuit envellopait les champs & les remparts;
Sur les murs menaçants de la salle gothique
Une teinte plus sombre & plus mélancholique
Couvrait les boucliers, les glaives, & les dards;
Le vent du soir soufflait des gorges du Pyrène;
Et sa fougueuse halcine
Des armures des preux entrechoquait l’airain.
Les lances, les cimiers rendent des sons funèbres:
Leur murmure plaintif ressemble au cri lointain
D’un guerrier qui succombe au milieu des ténèbres.’

The author in his notes gives us to understand that he is about another epic poem, the hero of which is Isolier, a native of Corsica, and which is to bear the same relation to Charlemagne, that the Odyssey does to the Iliad.

LUCIEN BUONAPARTE’S COLLECTION, ETC.

_The Champion._] [_January 22, 1815._

We have been able to obtain access to the almost inaccessible collection of the Prince of Canino. The liberality with which the collections of foreign princes are thrown open to strangers and the public is often boasted of; but this liberality, we suppose, ceases when the same collections are exposed in this country for sale. The pictures of Lucien Buonaparte, which are valued at £40,000, are kept in most ‘vile durance’; and even the ticket of admission, which we presented to a person who seems placed at the door to keep persons out, and not to let them in, was inspected and objected to with the same scrupulous jealousy as if it had been a bank-note presented in payment of the purchase-money of the collection. A cursory glance round the room was sufficient to explain the source of so much mystery and caution. The pictures are in general mere trash. Nor is the general dearth of attraction relieved by even a few examples of first-rate excellence. The only exception to these remarks which struck us was an exquisite female head by Leonardo da Vinci. It is one of the finest specimens we have seen of that great master, both for expression, drawing, the spirit and delicacy of the execution, and the preservation of the tone of colouring. There is in Leonardo’s female heads a grace and charm of expression, which is peculiar to himself—a character of natural sweetness and playful tenderness, mixed up with the pride of conscious intellect, and with the graceful reserve of personal dignity. He blends purity with voluptuousness; and the expression of his women is equally characteristic of ‘the mistress or the saint!’ His pictures are always worked up to the utmost height of the idea he had conceived, with an elaborate felicity. No painter made more a religion of his art! His fault is, that his style of execution is too mathematical; that is, his pencil does not follow the graceful variety of nature, but substitutes certain refined gradations both of form and colour, producing equal changes in equal distances, with a mechanical uniformity. Leonardo was a man of profound learning as well as genius; and perhaps transferred too much of the formality of science to his favourite art. In making this objection, we have had in our eye two of the most celebrated pictures, the _Jocunda_ in the Louvre, and the _St. John_ in the possession of Mr. Hope. The picture in the present collection has more flexibility and variety; as well as greater heightening of colour; and perhaps the latter effect may be the cause of the former. It is not impossible that a certain degree of monotony may have been sometimes produced by the rubbing off of the higher tints and finishing touches of the pencil, so as to leave little more of the picture than the general ground-work.

To return to the collection before us. The only remaining pictures which can excite any interest are, some curious specimens of the early masters, Ghirlandaio, Bellino, and others;—some small sketches of Titian; a finely coloured Holy Family by the same master; a portrait by Sebastian del Piombo; a sketch of Diana and Acteon, by A. Caracci; a landscape by Ruysdael; and a transfiguration, said to be by Vasari. Besides these, there is a Frenchified Salvator Rosa, coloured pink and blue, a copy of Domenichino’s head of St. Jerome, one or two pretended Claudes, and some _amatory_ pictures of the modern French school. To these shall we add the picture of Lucien Buonaparte himself? Nothing certainly can go beyond it in its way. It is the very _priggism_ of portrait-painting.

We have already said something of the French style of portraits, and we shall here add a few remarks in explanation, though we are aware that any hints of a want of refinement will be thrown away on a nation so entirely _spirituel_ as the French, and we are also afraid that some of our own artists may take credit to themselves for as many excellences, as we may charge their neighbours with defects.

The French systematically paint all objects as they would paint _still life_; and hence they in general never paint any thing _but still life_. It is not possible to paint that which has life and motion by the same mechanical process by which that which has neither life nor motion may be represented. Thus it is not possible to imitate the human countenance, which is moveable and animated, as you would imitate a piece of drapery, or a chair, or a table, in which the physical appearance is every thing, and that appearance always remains the same. The industry of the eye and hand will go a great way in giving the effect of a number of parts of any external object, arranged in the same order; but to give truth of effect to that which is always varying, and always expressive of more than strikes the senses, imagination and feeling are absolutely required. Whenever there is life and motion, life and motion become the principal things; and any attempt to give these, without a distinct operation or feeling of the mind as to what constitutes their essence, by a mere attention to the physical form, or particular details, must necessarily destroy all appearance both of one and the other. To instance in expression only. This can only be given by being felt. Take for instance the outline of part of a face, and let it be so placed as to form part of the outline of a rock, or any other inanimate object. A copy of this, done with tolerable care, will seem to be the same thing: but let it be known that this is really a part of a human countenance, and then it will probably be found to be quite different _from the difference of expression_. We distinguish all objects more or less by habitual knowledge; and this knowledge is always acute in proportion to the interest excited, that is, to the intensity of the feeling or passion which is combined with the immediate impression on the senses. Expression is therefore only caught by sympathy; and it has been received as a maxim, that no painter can succeed in giving an expression which is totally foreign to his own character. There are some painters who cannot paint a wise man, and others who cannot paint a fool: some who cannot give strength, and others softness to their works. It is the want of character, of flexibility, and transient expression, which is the great defect of French portraits. Without the indications of the mind breathed into the countenance and moulding the features, the whole must appear stiff, hard, mean, unconnected, and lifeless—like the mask of a face, not like the face itself—forced, affected, and unnatural. Another consequence of this mode of copying the letter and leaving out the spirit of all objects, is that the face in general looks the least finished part of the picture, for while the other parts remain the same, this necessarily varies, and the only way to make up for the want of literal exactness, must be by seizing the force and animation of the expression. A head that does not look like life, cannot look like any thing else.—The portrait of Lucien Buonaparte is a striking confirmation of these remarks. We do not know how to describe it otherwise than by saying that it looks as if the artist had first modelled the face in wax, oiled it over, painted the lips purple, stuck on a pair of artificial eyebrows, and inserted a pair of dark blue glass eyes, and then set to work to copy every part of this perverse misrepresentation, with tedious and disgusting accuracy. In a portrait of the author of Charlemagne, one has a right to expect some refinement of intellect and feeling, if not the marks of elevated genius. No such thing. The picture has just the appearance of a spruce holiday mechanic, with all the hardness, littleness, and vulgarity of expression which is to be found in nature, where the countenance has not been expanded by thought and sentiment, and in art, where this expression has been entirely overlooked. The French artists themselves, both men and women, seem to be aware of the dilemma to which they are reduced, and prefer copying from plaster casts, or lay figures, to painting from the life; which baffles the mechanical minuteness and ‘laborious foolery’ of their style of art. They set about painting a face as they would about engraving a picture. This cannot possibly answer. From the general idea of the liveliness and volatility of the French character one would be apt to suppose, that instead of the method here described, their artists would have adopted the happier mode proposed by Pope in describing his characters of women:

‘Come, then, the colours and the ground prepare,
Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air,
Chuse a firm cloud, before it falls, and in it
Catch, ere the change, the Cynthia of a minute!’

But the days of Watteau are over, and the plodding gravity of the Dutch has succeeded to the natural levity of French art. It is no wonder: for both proceed from a want of real concentration and force of intellect.[23]

There is another picture in this collection which we would recommend to the attention of all _whom it may concern_, as a most instructive lesson of the vanity of human pretensions, and the capriciousness of national taste. It is the historical picture of the return of Marcus Sextus, by Guerin, one of the most admired painters of the modern French school. This picture combines all the vices of that school in their most confirmed and aggravated state, and yet it drew, at the time when it was first exhibited in Paris, crowds of admirers, whose raptures were excited exactly in proportion as it flattered their habitual prejudices, and outraged every principle of common sense. It consists of three figures, that of the husband standing in front of the bed, the wife who lies dead upon it being behind him, and the daughter kneeling at his feet. Now all these figures seem as if they had been cut out of pasteboard, smeared over with putty to represent the shadows, and then stuck flat against the canvass to make a picture. This is not truth, nor invention, nor art, nor nature: but it is the French style of painting. Their pictures are sections of statues, or architectural elevations of the human figure. They have the effect neither of painting nor sculpture; for painting has colour, and the appearance of substance, sculpture has real substance without colour; but these have neither colour, substance, nor the appearance of it, but consist of mere lines. Whatever they may do, we cannot think this the highest style of history: because proceeding on arithmetical principles only, it wants two out of three of the physical requisites of the art of painting. The picture of Guerin is painted in strong contrast of light and shade, and ought to have proportionable prominence and relief. But from the habit of attending only to lines and detached parts, that is, of never combining the lesser masses into larger ones, or of contemplating the general appearance of nature, the whole effect is frittered away, and neither the prominent parts stand out, nor do the receding ones fall back. The same flat, imbecile, and dingy effect is produced, as by smearing white streaks upon a black ground, without knowledge or design, or reference to any actual object in nature. The drawing in this picture is equally characteristic of the general French style, and equally repulsive. It is not easy to explain the elaborate absurdity of the process: but it is in reality this. The painter has taken the figure of an antique statue for the figure of his hero. But finding that the position would not answer his purpose; he therefore gets a lay-figure made from a cast of this statue, and distorting it into the attitude he wants, places it against some object which props it up, with the two feet stretched out before it, as if it could neither move nor stand; and this the artist calls painting history, and copying the ancients. This is what no other nation dare attempt. The expression which is given to these mockeries of art and nature, is of a piece with the rest. It is either copied tamely, servilely, and without effect, from the model before them, or if any thing is added to it, all grace and feeling is instantly lost in the extravagance of grimace and affectation. The ambition of these refiners on nature is like that of Pygmalion to give life and animation to a stone, but no miracle has yet come to their assistance.[24] The French are incapable of painting true history, for they are a people essentially without imagination, and without a knowledge of the passions that belong to it. All that is powerful in them, is immediate sensation—the rest is either levity, or formality, or distortion. Take the picture of the deluge by Girodet. In this, a daughter is represented clinging to her mother by the hair of her head, the mother is clinging to the husband, he is at the same time supporting his father with his other arm, and is enabled to support the whole of this exquisite family groupe by taking hold of the branch of a tree which has just broken off by the weight. This effort of imagination almost equals the exploit of the clown in the pantomime, who contrives to balance a dozen men on one another’s shoulders. If Poussin or Raphael had been fortunate enough to study in the central schools of Paris, what a difference would this new principle of grouping have introduced into their pictures of the Deluge and the Incendio del Borgo.

Before we quit this subject of French art, we would notice that there are two pictures of the Emperor Napoleon to be seen at present, one in Leicester-fields, which is very bad, and another in the Adelphi, by Lefebre, which is tolerably good. The last is one of the best French portraits we have ever seen. The effect however is only good, very near, and is best when each part is seen through a magnifying glass. There is considerable character, firmness of drawing, and prominence in the features. Still it does not convey an adequate idea of the man. It is heavy, perplexed, and sullen, without sufficient fierceness or energy, and indeed without either the high or the bad qualities of the original. It has, notwithstanding, the appearance of being what is understood by a faithful likeness, and only wants that full developement of the workings of the mind, which every portrait ought to have, and which, in a portrait like the present, would be invaluable.

BRITISH INSTITUTION

_The Champion._] [_February 5, 1815._

The Exhibition of this year, which opens to the public on Monday, is said to be inferior to the last:—that was said to be inferior to the one before it,—that to the preceding one, and so on. This is the common cant respecting all Exhibitions; and the reason is obvious enough. We are naturally less struck by pictures of the same degree and class of excellence, by the same artists, on repetition than at first sight; and the art appears to be retrograde, only because it is not progressive. Perhaps, however, there is some foundation for the objection in the present instance. At least, we think there is a falling off in the historical department: though that is the department of the art which would least bear any kind of retrenchment. We do not know whether to lay the blame of the deficiency on those artists, who have been away this summer on their visit to the French capital, or on those who have remained behind. The picture in this branch of the art which pleased us the most on looking into it, and which we conceive has decidedly the greatest number of excellent parts, though the general effect is very far from striking, is ‘_Brutus exhorting the Romans to revenge the Death of Lucretia_,’ by C. L. Eastlake. The artist will excuse us, if we say that we think the principal figure, that of _Brutus_, by much the worst part of the picture. A more theatrical, and less impressive figure we have seldom seen. He is quite an orator of the modern stamp, and has nothing of the ‘antique Roman’ about him. He is not a bit better than any of the blustering, canting, vapid, Canning school, and is evidently an orator to be disposed of. We would advise Mr. Eastlake to take a hint from a high quarter, and get rid of him, at any rate. The effect of the attitude of this figure, which is represented pointing with a sword to the body of _Lucretia_, behind him, is almost entirely lost by the want of distinct foreshortening and prominent relief.[25] The figure of _Brutus_ seems in a line with that of _Lucretia_. Indeed, the same defect pervades the whole picture, which is laid-in like mosaic, and the general pale, stone-colour appearance of the drapery, and of the flesh, adds to this effect. No one figure comes out before the rest to the eye, till by tracing it down to the feet, you find where it stands. The dead figure of _Lucretia_ herself is a complete piece of marble. We wish to notice more particularly, because it is an excellence very rare in an English artist, that the attention to costume in the decorations of the bier on which the dead body lies, and in the other ornaments in the back-ground of the picture, gives an additional air of truth and consequently of interest to the scene. The peculiar merit of this composition is the great variety of distinct faces and characteristic expressions to be found in it. These, if not of a very high order, are at least much better than the pompous nonentities to which we are accustomed. There is very little of passion or emotion given or attempted, but we think the expression of attention in the surrounding audience is varied very happily, and with great truth of nature. The most picturesque and interesting part of the picture is the groupe in which a girl with a back-figure is supporting (we suppose) the mother of _Lucretia_. The expression of the countenance in the latter reminded us of Annibal Caracci, and we are always glad to be reminded of him. Certainly the same effect was not produced upon our minds by the boy in the foreground, with sandy hair and weak eyes, who is crying so piteously: still less did we like the figure of a man in the right hand corner, who is explaining the story to another with his fists clenched, and in a boxing attitude. The model for a Roman warrior is as little to be sought in a Fives Court, as of a Roman patriot in a debating society, or even (with leave be it spoken) in an English House of Commons. We have dwelt the longer on this picture, because its immediate effect on the eye is by no means in proportion to its real merit. The drab-coloured quakerism of the tone conceals it from observation almost as much as if it had a veil over it. We do not really understand the object of these sickly half-tints, which all French artists, and some of our own, affect. Nicolas Poussin, who had no relief of light and shade, had strong contrasts of colour: or even if he had had neither, the great distinctness of his outline, and his striking manner of telling the story, might still have formed a sufficient excuse for him. In short, the style of colouring adopted in this picture may, for aught we know, accord very well with some more artificial and recondite style of historical composition; but we are sure, it has nothing to do with natural expression, or immediate effect.

It has been said, that ‘a great book is a great evil.’ We think the same thing might be applied to pictures: or at least we should not instance the large picture in this collection of _The Burial of our Lord_, by C. Coventry, as an exception to the rule. We admit, however, that the face, dress, and figure of the old man holding the drapery over Christ, are picturesque, and in the fine manner of Rembrandt. The attitude and action of this figure are exactly the same as those of a similar figure in Mr. Bird’s picture of the same subject. This is rather a singular coincidence in two pictures exhibited at the same time, and which it is therefore improbable to suppose could have been copied one from the other. The other figures about Christ we cannot bring ourselves to admire: they resemble painted wood. The colour of the Christ is a livid purple, the worst of all possible colours. The women are better; though the fine turn in the waist of one of them is not in the best style of history, which does not profess to exhibit women of fashion.

Mr. Bird’s picture of _The Entombment of Christ_, is, we conceive, very inferior to his picture last year of _Job and his Friends_. The colouring is equally bad, and the composition is not equally good. There is one pretty figure of a girl, but her prettiness is not an advantage to the subject. In all things, ‘It is place which lessens and sets off.’ Mr. Bird constantly introduces the extremities of the hands and feet into his pictures, only to show how ill he can paint them. The picture of _The Surrender of Calais_ has been already before the public.

Among the historical pictures, we suppose from its name, we must rank that of the _Prophet Ezra_, by G. Hayter, though it does not appear to us to belong to the class. It is a fine, rich, and strongly painted picture of a man reading a book. The being able to copy nature with truth and effect is not history, though we think it is the first step to it. In this picture, which we believe is a first essay, Mr. Hayter has not redeemed the pledge he gave in his miniatures. If we could paint such miniatures as he does, we would do nothing but paint miniatures always; and laugh at the advertisements of great historical pictures in the newspapers. The _St. Bernard_, by the same artist, is very indifferent.

Mr. Harlowe’s _Hubert and Arthur_ is the greatest piece of coxcombry and absurdity we remember to have seen. We do not think that any one who pleases has a right to paint a libel on Shakspeare.

The generality of the historical pictures in the gallery are such as have been always painted, and as will always be painted, in spite of all that can be said to the contrary, and therefore it is as well to say nothing about them.

Miss Jackson’s _Mars subdued by Peace_ is a very pleasing composition. Both the face and expression of the figure of _Peace_ are those of a very beautiful and interesting girl, though from the tender pensiveness of the features she seems rather as if sending _Mars_ out to battle than disarming him; and as to the God of War himself, he does not look like one whom ‘deep scars of thunder have intrenched,’ but as if he had been kept a long time at home in a lady’s chamber. The Cupids (when Ladies imagine Cupids, what can they be less?) are very nice, little, chubby fellows.

There are two pictures of _The Sick Pigeon_ and _The Favourite Kitten_ by Miss Geddes, both of which we like, gallantry out of the question. The kitten in the last is exquisitely painted. You may almost hear it _purring_.

Among the foreign contributors to this department we ought to mention _Music_, by M. Messora, in the manner of the early Italian masters, and _Devotion_, a small picture by J. Laschallas, which is hung almost out of sight, and which, if it were hung a little lower, we suspect, would be found to be ‘a good picture and a true.’

To the scene from the _Marriage of Figaro_, by Chalon, no praise of ours could add the slightest grace or lustre. We wonder where he got the figure of his _Susan_, or how he dared to paint her!

In the domestic scenes, and views of interiors, &c. this exhibition is much like the former ones, except that we miss Collins, and find no one to replace him.

Of the landscapes, Burnett’s, Fielding’s, Nasmyth’s, Hofland’s, and Glover’s are the best. In Mr. Glover’s large picture of _Jacob and Laban_ (which we believe was exhibited and much admired in Paris), there is a want of harmony and lightness in the whole: but there is a groupe of trees in the foreground, which Claude himself would not have disdained to borrow. Mr. Hofland’s landscapes, without being much finished, have the look, the tone, and freshness of nature. The _View of Edinburgh_ is, we think, the best. Some of the others are too much abstractions of aerial perspective: they are naked and cold, and represent not the objects of nature so much as the medium through which they are seen. We will only add, in our professional capacity, that this gentleman’s pictures shew themselves, and that he need not be at the trouble of shewing them. Nasmyth’s pictures are not too much finished, but they want a certain breadth, which nature always adds to perfect finishing. Fielding is a new and most promising artist, of whom we mean to say more. Of the two Burnetts, we shall only remark at present, that they have made no addition to their live-stock since last year, which consisted then, as it does now, of one black, one yellow, and one spotted cow.

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED

_The Champion._] [_February 12, 1815._

_Cottage Child at Breakfast_, W. Collins, A.R.A. This is a pleasing little picture, but inferior to Mr. Collins’s general performances. The shadow cast on the wall is like plaster of a darker colour, nor should we have suspected it to be meant for shadow, had it not been pointed out to us. _Reapers_, by the same artist, is a still greater falling off. The mixture of minute finishing and slovenliness in the execution, and of blues and yellows in the colouring of this picture is to us very unaccountable.

_Devotion_, J. Laschallas. We wish that we could conjure this little picture out of its frame to have a nearer view. The drawing, expression, tone, and composition appear to us admirable.

_A Scolding Wife; her Husband having spent all his Money at the Fair_, L. Cossé. This is not a very pleasant subject, nor very pleasantly treated. The little child blowing the trumpet is the pretty part of the picture. There is one figure of a woman in a blue stuff gown, sitting by the fire-side, in an attitude of yawning, which both for the truth of the colouring and the action, is inimitable.

_A Country Scene_, by the same, has the hard brickdusty tone which there is in the faces of the other picture; but the expression is natural and good.

_A Colour-Grinder_, R. T. Bone, is a spirited and faithful imitation of nature.

_A Study from Nature_, J. Harrison, is a well-painted head. At the same time, there is something about it very unpleasant to us.

_Hebe_ and _Sunrise_, by H. Howard, R.A., were, we believe, in last year’s Exhibition at Somerset-house. There is a certain grace and elegance in both of them. The fantastic, playful lightness of the figures in the last is perhaps carried to a degree of affectation. The faces of the Pleiades are very pretty and very insipid.

_Conrade and Gulnare_, H. Singleton. We could neither understand this picture nor the lines from Lord Byron’s _Corsair_, which are intended to explain the subject of it.

_Brutus exhorting the Romans to revenge the Death of Lucretia._ Of this composition we find we have already said quite enough.

_View of Arthur’s Seat near Edinburgh_, P. Nasmyth, is a very nicely painted landscape. We like all this gentleman’s landscapes, except _A View of Edinburgh_, which is just like a painting on a tea-board.

_Breaking the Ice_, by James Burnett, is a very delightful picture. It has the effect of walking out in a fine winter’s morning. Many incidental associations are very happily introduced; the pigeons collected on the thatch of a shed, and the robin-redbreast perched in a window of an out house. The pigeons are, however, too small, and the colour on the breast of the robin is on fire. Perhaps these objections are too minute. The pigeon-house looks suspended in the air, and the sky and branches of the trees seen against it are painted with admirable brilliancy. _Peasants going to Market_, by the same artist, is of equal merit. The skirt of the drapery of the peasant girl looks as if the sun shone directly upon it. The docks in the foreground of the picture are very highly finished, and touched with great spirit, but we never saw this kind of plant of the lightish green colour, which is here given to it.