Part 18

We have been assured by those whose taste we know in other matters to be excellent, that Mr. Maclise is a great genius, a man of true imagination; and that his "Sleeping Beauty," his scene from Macbeth, and some others, are the proofs of this. We shall wait till we see them, and hope to be converted when we do; but, meanwhile, we suspect that his Imagination may turn out to be mere Fancy, which are as different, the one from the other, as word-wit is from deep humour, or as Queen Mab (a purely fanciful description) is from Miranda or Ariel. Fancy is aggregative and associative,--Imagination is creative, motive. As Wordsworth in one of his prefaces beautifully says,--"The law under which the processes of Fancy are carried on is as capricious as the accidents of things, and the effects are surprising, playful, ludicrous, or pathetic, as the objects happen to be appositely produced or fortunately combined. Fancy depends upon the rapidity and profusion with which she scatters her thoughts and images, trusting that their numbers, and the felicity with which they are linked together, will make amends for the want of individual value; or she prides herself upon the curious subtlety, and the successful elaboration, with which she can detect their lurking affinities. If she can win you over to her purpose, she cares not how unstable or transitory maybe her influence, knowing that it will not be out of her power to resume it on apt occasion. But Imagination is conscious of an indestructible dominion,--the soul may fall away from it, not being able to sustain its grandeur; but if once felt and acknowledged, by no other faculty of the mind can it be relaxed, impaired, or diminished. _Fancy is given to quicken and beguile the temporal parts of our nature,--Imagination to awaken and to support the eternal_." The one is the plaything, the other the food, the elixir of the soul. All great poets, as Homer, Shakspere, Milton, and Burns, have both faculties, and find fit work for each; and so have the great painters, Titian, Veronese, Albert Durer, Hogarth, Wilkie. We suspect Mr. Maclise has little else than fancy, and makes it do the work of both. There must be something radically defective in the higher qualities of poetic sensibility and ideality in any man who could, as he has done in the lately published edition of Moore's Melodies, execute some hundreds of illustrations, without above three or four of them being such as you would ever care to see again, or, indeed, would recognise as having ever seen before.

We would not give such sweet humour, such maidenly simpleness, such exquisite mirth, such "quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles," as we can get in most of the current numbers of "Punch," from the hand of young Richard Doyle (1846), with drawing quite as astonishing, and far more expression,--for this sumptuous three-guinea quarto. Have our readers six-and-sixpence to spare?--then let them furnish wholesome fun and "un-reprovèd pleasure" for the eyes and the minds of the small men and women in the nursery, by buying "The Fairy Ring," illustrated by him.

$THREE LANDSEERS.

|It would not be easy to say which of these three delightful pictures gives the most delight; only, if we were forced to name which we should best like to possess, we would say, "Uncle Tom and his Wife for Sale,"--one of the most wonderful bits of genius and its handiwork we ever had the pleasure of enjoying and being the better of.

The others are "The Maid and the Magpie," and "The Pen, the Brush, and the Chisel,"--the latter presented by Lady Chantrey to Her Majesty, and having for its subjects Chantrey's well-known bust of Sir Walter in the clay, with the sculptor's tools lying beside it, and his finger prints, fresh and soft, full of thought and will, giving a fine realization of work going on. The expression of the then Great Unknown is very noble--he looks like a mighty shade; beside the bust is a terrier, such as only Sir Edwin can give, with a keen look, as if he too smelt some one. Two woodcocks are resting in front in a fold of the table-cloth; doubtless the two famous birds which Sir Francis brought down at one shot, and immortalized in marble. At the corner of the picture, and stealthily peering from behind the table-cloth, is a cat's head, not yet seeing- the game, but nosing it. You can easily imagine the lively scrimmage when puss makes herself and her ends known, and when the unsuspected "Dandie" comes down upon her. The feeling and workmanship of this beautiful conceit is such as no one else could originate and express.

"The Maid and the Magpie" is a rustic tragedy told at a glance. It is milking-time, in a dreamy summer-day. Phillis,

"So buxom, blithe, and debonair,"

is filling her pail, her meek-eyed, lady-like cow--she is a high-bred Alderney--enjoying herself as cows know why during this process of evacuation and relief. Her glum, unsatisfied calf, who has been all the morning protesting and taking instruments, and craving extracts, and in vain, is looking and listening, hungry and sulky; he never can understand why he gets none of his mother's, of his own milk;--the leather muzzle, all bristling with sharp rusty nails, tells his miseries and his mother's too. Thestylis is leaning forward, awkward and eager, at the door, making love to Phillis in his own clumsy and effective way, whittling all the while destructively at the door-post with his knife. It is the old, old story. She has her back turned to him, and is pretending to be very deep in the milking, while her eye--which you see, and he doesn't --says something quite else. In the right corner are two goats, one a magnificent rugged billy. On the green beyond, in the sunshine, may be seen the geese making off on feet and wings to the well-known "henwife," who is at the wicket with her punctual mess. Among the trees, and up in the cloudless, sunny air, is the village spire, whose bells Thestylis doubtless hopes some day soon to set a ringing. All very pretty and innocent and gay. But look in the left corner,--as if he had this moment come in, he is just hopping into their paradise,--is that miscreant magpie, wrho, we all know, was a pilferer from the beginning, and who next moment, you know, will have noiselessly grabbed that fatal silver spoon in the posset-cup,--which Phillis can't see, for her heart is in her eye,--this same spoon, as we all know, bringing by and by death into that little world, and all their woe. We never remember the _amari aliquid_ coming upon us so unawares, ugly and fell, like that old Toad squat at the ear of Eve. The drawing, the expression, the whole management of this little story, is exquisite. Perhaps there is a little overcrowding and huddling together in the byre; but it is a delicious picture, as wholesome and sweet as a cow's breath. You hear the music of the milk playing in the pail; you feel the gentle, rural naturalness of the whole scene.

Of "Uncle Tom and his Wife for Sale," it is not easy to speak in moderation, as assuredly it is impossible to look at it, and keep from bursting into tears and laughter all at once. Anything more saturated, more insufferably overflowing with the best fun and misery, with the oddest, homeliest humour and despair, we never before encountered.

"Uncle Tom" is a small, old, dusky bull-dog, with bandy legs and broad chest, and an amazing look of a nigger. His eyes are crunched up in an ecstasy of woe, the crystal tears hailing down his dark and knobby cheeks, "which witness huge affliction;'' his mouth is open to the full, and one black stump is all we see of teeth; his tongue, out to the utmost, quivering with agitation and panting,--a tongue, the delicate, moist pink of which, like the petal of some tropical flower, is in wonderful contrast to the cavern--the jaws of darkness--out of which it is flung. And what is all this for? Is he in pain? No. Is he afraid? Not he; that is a sensation unknown to Tom. He is plainly as full of pluck, as "game" as was ever Crib or Molyneux. He is in this state of utter woe, because he is about to be sold, and his wife, "Aunt Chloe," the desire of his old eyes, may be taken from him, the mere idea of which has put him into this transport, so that he is written all over with lamentation, utterly _begrutten_, and done for. It is this touching combination of immense affection and ugliness, which brings out the pathetic-comic effect instantly, and to the uttermost. We never saw anything like it except Mr. Robson's _Medea_. Why is it that we cannot but laugh at this? It is no laughing matter with the honest and ugly and faithful old beast.

Chloe, who is chained to Tom, is, with the trick of her sex, sinking her own grief in sorrow for his. She is leaning fondly towards him, and looking up to him with a wonderful eye, anxious to comfort him, if she knew how. Examine the painting of that congested, affectionate organ, and you will see what true work is. And not less so the bricks which form the background; all represented with the utmost modesty and truth, not only of form and colour, but of texture.

$THE RANDOM SHOT.

|If any one wishes to know how finely, and to what fine issues, the painter's spirit and his own may be touched, how much of gentleness may be in power, how much of power in gentleness, let him peruse the "Random Shot" by Landseer.

On the summit of some far remote Highland mountain, on the untrodden and azure-tinted snow, lies a dead or dying hind, its large brown velvety ears set off against the pure, pearly, infinite sky, into whose cloudless depths the darkness of night is already being poured. The deep, unequal footsteps of the miserable mother are faintly traced in blood, her calf is stooping down, and searching for its comfortable and ever-ready drink, but finding none. Anything more exquisite than this long-legged, bewildered creature, standing there all forlorn, stupid and wild--hunger and weariness, fear and amazement, busy at its poor silly heart--we have never seen in painting. By the long shadows on the snow, the delicate green tint of the sky, the cold splendour on the mountain tops, and the- gloom in the corries, we know that day is fast going, and night with all her fears drawing on, and what is to become of that young desolate thing?

This is not a picture to be much spoken about; it is too quick with tenderness, and reaches too nicely that point which just stops short of sadness; words would only mar its pathetic touch.

Here is another by the same painter, which, though inferior and very different in subject, is not less admirable in treatment. It consists of the portraits of three sporting dogs. A retriever, with its _sonsy_ and affectionate visage, holding gingerly in its mouth a living woodcock, whose bright and terror-stricken eye is painted to the life. In the centre is a keen thoroughgoing pointer, who has just found the scent among the turnips. This is perhaps the most masterly among the three, for colour and for expression. The last is a liver-coloured spaniel, panting over a plump pheasant, and looking to its invisible master for applause. The touch of genius is over them all, everywhere, from the rich eye of the retriever to the wasted turnip-leaves. Yet there is no mere cleverness, no traces of handiwork; you are not made to think of work at all, till you have got your fill of pleasure and surprise, and then you wonder what cunning brain, and eye, and finger could have got so much out of so little, and so common.

We often hear of the decline of the Fine Arts in our time and country, but any age or nation might well be proud of having produced within fifty years, four such men as Wilkie, Turner, Etty, and Landseer.

$THE EXECUTION OF LADY JANE GREY.

|There is an immediateness and calm intensity, a certain simplicity and tragic tenderness, in this exquisite picture, which no one but Paul Delaroche has in our days reached. You cannot escape its power, you cannot fail to be moved; it remains in your mind as a thing for ever. It is the last scene of that story we all have by heart, of

"Her most gentle, most unfortunate."

That beautiful, simple English girl, the young wife, who has just seen the headless body of her noble young husband carried past, is drawing to the close of her little life of love and study, of misery and wrong. She is partially undressed, her women having disrobed her. She is blindfolded, and is groping almost eagerly for the block; groping as it were into eternity; her mouth slightly open, her face "steady and serene." Sir John Gage, the Constable of the Tower, is gently leading her by the left hand to the block, and gazing on her with a surprising compassion and regard--a very noble head. Her women, their work over, are aside; one fallen half-dead on the floor; the other turning her back, her hands uplifted and wildly grasping the stone pillar, in utter astonishment and anguish. You cannot conceive what that concealed face must be like. We don't rerhember anything more terrible or more intense than this figure. In the other corner stands the headsman, with his axe ready, still, but not unmoved; behind him is the coffin; but the eye gazes first and remains last on that pale, doomed face, beautiful and innocent, bewildered and calm. Let our readers take down Hume, and read the story. The cold and impassive philosopher writes as if his heart were full. Her husband, Lord Guildford, asked to see her before their deaths. She answered, No; that the tenderness of the parting would overcome the fortitude of both; besides, she said, their separation would be but for a moment. It had been intended to execute the Lady Jane and Lord Guildford together on the same scaffold on Tower Hill; but the Council, dreading the compassion of the people for their youth, beauty, innocence, and high birth, caused her to be beheaded within the verge of the Tower, after she had seen him from the window, and given him a token as he was led to execution. The conclusion by Hume is thus: --"After uttering these words, she caused herself to be disrobed by her women, and with a steady, serene countenance submitted herself to the executioners." The engraving, which may be seen at Mr. Hill's, is worthy of the picture and the subject. It is a marvel of delicate power, and is one of the very few modern engravings we would desire our friends to buy.

$NAPOLEON AT FONTAINEBLEAU BEFORE HIS ABDICATION.

|This is the first painting by Delaroche we have seen, though we have long been familiar with his works through their engravings. He is every inch a master. You get from his work that strange and delightful shock which asserts at once his genius and power. You are not struck, but you get a shock of surprise, of awe, and of pleasure, which no man who once gets ever mistakes for anything else. This picture, of

"Him--

Who in our wonder and astonishment

Has built himself a livelong monument,"

has this charm and power. You never before saw anything like it, you will never see anything like it again, and you will never forget it. It is no easy matter to describe what passes through one's mind on looking at such a bit of intense and deep genius. One feels more inclined in such a case to look, and recollect, to feel, and be grateful, than to speak.

Napoleon is represented as alone--seated hurriedly and sideways upon a chair--one leg of which has trod upon a magnificent curtain, and is trailing it down to ruin. He is dressed in his immortal grey coat, his leather breeches, and his big riding boots, soiled with travel; the shapely little feet, of which he was so proud, are drawn comfortlessly in; his hat is thrown on the ground. His attitude is that of the deepest dejection and abstraction; his body is sunk, and his head seems to bear it down, with its burden of trouble. This is finely indicated by the deep transverse fold of his waistcoat; one arm is across the back of the chair, the other on his knee, his plump hands lying idle; his hair, that thin, black straight hair, looks wet, and lies wildly across his immense forehead. But the face is where the artist has set his highest impress, and the eyes are the wonder of his face. The mouth is firm as ever--beautiful and unimpassioned as an infant's; the cheeks plump, the features expressive of weariness, but not distressed; the brow looming out from the dark hair, like something oppressively and supernaturally capacious; and then the eyes! his whole mind looking through them, --bodily distress, want of sleep, fear, doubt, shame, astonishment, anger, speculation, seeking rest but as yet finding it not; going overall possibilities, calm, confounded, but not confused. There is all this in the grey, serious, perplexed eyes; we don't know that we ever saw anything- at once so subtle, awful, and touching, as their dreary look. Your eyes begin soon to move your heart; you pity and sympathize with him, and yet you know all he has done, the havoc he has made of everything man holds sacred, or God holds just; you know how merciless he was and will be, how eaten up with ambition, how mischievous; you know that after setting at defiance all mankind, and running riot in victory, he had two years before this set his face against the heavens, and, defying the elements, had found to his own, and to his country's tremendous cost, that none can "stand before _His_ cold." We know that he is fresh from the terrible three days at Leipsic, where he never was so amazing in his resources, and all that constitutes military genius; we know that he has been driven from his'place by the might and the wrath of the great German nation, and that he is as faithless and dangerous as ever; but we still feel for him. Our soul is "purged by terror and pity," which is the end of tragic art as well as of tragic writing, and will be found like it one of the "gravest, moralest, and most profitable" of all human works. This is the touch "that makes the whole world kin."

This trouble in the eye--this looking into vacancy, and yet not being vacant--this irresolute and helpless look in one so resolute, so self-sustained, is to us one of the very highest results of that art which affects the mind through the eye.

The picture, as a work of art, is remarkable for its simplicity of idea and treatment, the severity of its manner, and the gloomy awfulness everywhere breathing from it. It seems to gather darkness as you gaze at it; the imperial eagles emblazoned on the wall are struggling through a sort of ruddy darkness produced by the deep shadow on the rich-coloured curtain. His sword is lying on a table, its hilt towards us.

But what impressed us most, and what still impresses us is, that we have seen the man as he then was, as he then was looking, and thinking, feeling, and suffering. We started at first as if we were before him, rather than he before us, and that we would not like to have that beautiful but dread countenance, and those unsearchable, penetrating cold eyes lifted up upon us.

No man need ask himself after this, if Delaroche is a great artist; but some of his other works display, if not more intensity, more variety of idea and expression. Their prevailing spirit is that of severe truthfulness, simplicity, and a kind of gloomy power--a certain awfulness, in its strict sense, not going up to sublimity perhaps, or forward into beauty, but lingering near them both. They are full of humanity, in its true sense; what he feels he feels deeply, and it asserts its energy in every bit of his handiwork.

It is remarkable how many of his best pictures are from English history, and how many are possessed by Englishmen. The following short sketch of his chief pictures may be interesting. His earliest works were on religious subjects; they are now forgotten. The first which attracted attention was the picture of Joan of Arc in prison, examined by Cardinal Winchester; this has been engraved, and is very great--full of his peculiar gloom. Then followed Flora Macdonald succouring the Pretender; the death of Queen Elizabeth, almost too intense and painful for pleasurable regard; a scene at the Massacre of St. Bartholomew; Death of the English Princes in the Tower; Richelieu on the Rhone, with Cinq Mars and De Thou as prisoners; Death of Cardinal Mazarin; Cromwell regarding the dead body of Charles I. This last is a truly great and impressive picture--we hardly know one more so, or more exactly suited for Art. The great Protector, writh his well-known face, in which ugliness and affection and power kept such strange company, is by himself in a dark room. And yet not by himself. The coffin in which Charles, his king, is lying at rest, having ceased from troubling, is before him, and he has lifted up the lid and is gazing on the dead king--calm, with the paleness and dignity of death--of such a death, upon that fine face. You look into the face of the living man; you know what he is thinking of. Awe, regret, resolution. He knows the full extent of what has been done--of what he has done. He thinks, if the dead had not been false, anything else might have been forgiven; if he had but done this, and not done that; and his great human affections take their course, and he may wish it had been otherwise. But you know that having taken this gaze, and having let his mind go forth in its large issues, as was his way, he would again shut that lid, and shut his mind, and go away certain that it was right, that it was the only thing, and that he will abide by it to the end. It is no mean art that can put this into a few square inches of paper, or that can raise this out of any ordinary looker-on's brain. What a contrast to Napoleon's smooth, placid face and cold eyes, that rough visage, furrowed with sorrow and internal convulsions, and yet how much better, greater, worthier, the one than the other! We have often wondered, if they had met a Liitzen, or at some of the wild work of that time, what they would have made of each other. We would lay the odds upon the Brewer's Son. The intellect might not be so immense, the self-possession not so absolute, but the nature, the whole man, would be more powerful, because more in the right and more in sympathy with mankind. He would never try an impossible thing; he would seldom do a wrong thing, an outrage to human nature or its Author; and for all that makes true greatness and true courage, we would not compare the one wTith the other. But to return to our artist. There is St. Amelia praying, very beautiful; Death of Duke of Guise at Blois; Charles I. in the Guard-room, mocked by the soldiers; Lord Strafford going to execution, kneeling as he passes under the window of Laud's cell, whose outstretched hands bless him. This is a great picture; nothing is seen of Laud but the thin, passionate, imploring hands, and yet you know what they express, you know what sort of a face there will be in the darkness within. Strafford is very fine.

There is a charming portrait of his wife as the angel Gabriel; a St. Cecilia playing; and a beautiful Holy Family, the Virgin, a portrait of his wife, and the child, a beautiful rosy creature, full of favour, with those deep, unfathomable, clear eyes, filled with infinity, such as you see in Raphael's Sistine Jesus.

$NAPOLEON CROSSING THE ALPS.