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mother, she, 'standing behind a large be, his divided hair falling in equal table, faces her enemies with the here- masses on his shoulders, the features ditary resolution of the Austrian race. calm, pale, and regular; he moves This keeps down the manifestation of erect and elastically, with a graceful terror; and she is haughtily self-pos- mien, the loose robes flowing about sessed enough, the inward dread show him as he goes, his head bare. The ing itself alone in her sunk features, and Virgin's head is covered with a eyelids that droop quiveringly. She has wimple ; her sorrow-stricken face deassumed the Republican cockade. The pressed, and head held sideways; her Dauphin sits upon the table's edge, dress massed about her. Behind is clinging to his mother, wearing the seen the new tomb, two sitting at its red cap of liberty. Leaning by the entrance: from the gate of the incloside is her daughter, whom she clasps sure two more depart; upon the horizon against her breast. Madame is nearer the sun of a summer dawn arises the window, far more terrified than she through a mass of purple cloud, throwwho is more in danger. Beyond the ing golden light upon the sepulchre ; table is a hot crowd of urgent and while Christ's mother and the “most shrieking women, and a few men, armed loved” pace away from its radiance into and unarmed. A withered hag vocife- the chilly shadow of the foreground. This rates loudly, snapping her lean talons at foreground is elaborately and delicately the Queen. The last has been im- wrought with weeds, grass, and herbage. pressed with the appearance of a younger The adoption of a system of execution woman who had been loudest of all. Re- like that of the early Italian school is monstrating, she demanded what harm not inapt to the subject. she had done the people, that they should “The Man of Sorrows,” by this hate her: “I was happy when you painter, shows Christ seated in the willoved me.” The woman addressed, who derness. This is an elaborately exehas a coarse beauty, moved by this, cuted work, displaying far more power desisted, and now looks half regret of colour than that above described. fully upon the Queen. A more brutal The landscape portion is delightfully girl rebukes such tenderness of heart faithful, and most tenderly treated; and urges further violence. The crowd but the artist has, probably from a desire sways, to and fro, jostling about, and, to show the universality of the motive screaming oaths of vengeance, seems he illustrates, chosen an English inbent on destruction. In front of the table stead of an Eastern view, for his backlies a gilded chair of state, broken to ground. All the herbage is English; pieces; the gilded crown shattered upon the sky, soft grey-blue, like an English its back. The whole picture is full of sky. It may be that the face of the action and commotion, displays great Redeemer lacks the dignity of resignavariety of character and expression, tion; but his action, seated upon a bank, and for execution is much superior to with head downcast and hands strongly anything the artist has yet produced. clasped upon his lap, is expressive, and

Contrasted to this in all respects is admirably apt. Mr. Dyce's “View of Mr. Dyce's “St. John leading Home his Pegwell Bay,” notwithstanding its exAdopted Mother.” After the entomb- treme delicacy and careful treatment, ment, it is related that the “beloved” from the want of due gradations of “ took her to his own home.” They tone and breadth of effect, pleases us move across the front of the picture, less than either of the before-named. St. John leading the Virgin,-no lacry- Bits of nature, seen especially in the mose beauty, but a worn woman, past foreground rocks, glittering pools of the prime of life, by the hand. His water, and shining, saturated sand, are face, notwithstanding a certain asceti- really delicious. cism of execution that makes it look The scene from “The Taming of peevish, is as beautiful as it should the Shrew," Petruchio overthrowing the table, by Mr. Egg, is admirably full of plates the impression on his brain action and character. The tamer has again and yet again, as that of a specsprung from his seat, plunged the carv- tacle that should never leave his sight. ing-fork into the joint of meat before Beside him, and all at length upon the him, holds it up so, brandishes the vessel's thwart, a woman leans back, carving-knife, and looks melo-dramatic her face upturned, regarding the sky thunders at the waiting-men. Poor vaguely and dreamily as that of one Katherine, bursting with wrath, and yet whose great dread was over, and now, dismayed at the outrageous conduct of exhausted with the suffering, yet feels her master, knits, her brows vainly, and a great happiness nigh within her grasp. would gladly escape. Her face is an Nearer to us, and facing them, so that her admirable study of expression, not at back is towards ourselves, sits a second all in the conventional style of character woman, also young, holding a Greek lyre in which she is often represented, but upon her knee, over whose strings from showing a fresh conception of the cha- time to time her fingers go, bringing racter altogether. The execution is a out a melancholy wail, like that of one little thin in some parts, as in the heads who, saved in person, had yet lost that of two servants that are opposed to the which was more than all. The lighted light of an open window. This picture gloom of night above and around, -stillexhibits extremely fine qualities of ness, the lisping of the sea chattering colour, of a deep and vigorous kind ; it by the keel! A few low notes of music, is rich, without being hot or tawdry. and the night-wind rustling in the sail !

Mr. John Phillip's “ Marriage of the This is Mr. Poole's picture of “Glaucus, Princess Royal” is a very fine work Nydia, and Ione escaping from Pompeii.” of its class. More has been made out of It is like a vision or a dream, the ecstatic the subject than was to be expected fancy of an opium-eater in his narcotic from the constraints and inconveniences sleep, just when the fervour of the drug under which it must have been exe- is slaked and the procession of imagery cuted. The portraits are excellently takes pathetic and mournful phases. The done, and the row of rosy bridesmaids wide and moonlit sea, and three escaping gives a peculiar charm to the work. A from a lava-burnt city; the darkness flood of rosy soft light seems to come of preternatural night that had been out of them, doubtless indicative of the instead of day. Thus they had left artist's intense satisfaction in dealing crowds, earthquake, fire, and falling with anything so charming and so rocks,—the ashes that made night, the natural.

crashing palaces, and the roaring, shriekA long warm tract of moonlight in the ing people,-to find themselves upon the sea, that goes rippling and gently heav- open, secret sea, alone and silent under ing to afar off, where it is lost in the the weight of awe. Such is the impresvapours of the mysterious horizon, oversion excited by this singularly poetical which the soft luminary's light casts a work. Its sole intention has been to radiant veil,—the sky calm and still, and create an impression of something slow clouds travelling athwart it! A vaguely beautiful, undefined, vast, and mild gentle wind like a sleeping pulse dreamy. The figures are almost formlifts the sail of an open boat, filling it less; the heads, technically speaking, in irregular puffs, but to collapse again, are ill-drawn; the hands disproporletting the cordage rattle softly. Three are tionate; the very colour itself, upon seated in the boat. A young man, with which the whole impression is founded, large gaunt eyes fixed in thought, leans will not bear examination or comparison forward in his place, the long robes of with the simple prosaic truths of nature. a Greek of the later time folded about Despite all this, the intense feeling of him, and his whole attitude bespeaking the artist has not failed to arouse a rethe feelings of one who had just seen a ciprocating sympathy in our own minds, great horror, so great that he contem- and there is no painter, not even Land

seer himself, whom we should miss more we are with the dreamer and unconfrom his place on the wall than Paul scious of ourselves and the dream ; or we Falconer Poole.

see the dream alone, and our imagination There is a great contrast to be found must be content with the dream : no in the manner of treating a poetic sub- presentiment of both can exist together, ject, on comparison of this picture of but is repulsive to the feelings and the the flight from Pompeii, by Poole, with taste. Thus Mr. Danby has failed. His that by the painter of the “Evening poetic Venus and cloud-realms above Sun,” Mr. F. G. Danby. “Phæbus rising go down before the hard sand of the from the Sea," by the lustre of his first shore and dash of the sea-waves, and we vivifying rays, through the drifting forms are brought to see the bad drawing of of a rolling wave, calls into worldly the goddess herself, and distortions of existence “The Queen of Beauty," which the nymphs. We actually rejoice, so wordy title is in itself against the picture. prosaic is the impression, that these The work is an attempt to express the queer females are near the shore, and antique classic feeling upon a represen- not like to be drowned. Mr. Poole tation of nature poetically conceived gives us nothing whatever of nature, It is dawn over the Greek sea,—a but the brain-impression of a poetic mass of golden clouds on the horizon instinct : we do not come in contact are modelled into the shape of Phæbus with substantial angles of fact, but drift and his car, and those attendants of with him into the region of fancy. the morning that ever dance before it. Placed upon the line, in a conspicuous Farther off, and just lighted by the position, is a picture by Mr. Solomon warm ray, is a cloudy Olympus, the Hart, R.A., entitled “Sacred Music,” gods sitting in council or banquet, for No. 176, showing three vulgar women, their whole forms are so vague and un- all of whose faces are out of drawing ; determined that it is difficult to deter- one singing, and two playing on manmine which. It is a mere cloud-phan- dolins. If such a picture as this is hung, tasm, such as the fancy feigns when idly what must have been those thousands gazing at the summer sky. The calm that are annually rejected. Or, turn sea of the morning flows softly to the to another of Mr. Hart's pictures. It shore, and breaks in the gentlest waves is considered imperative upon an arupon a shell-strewn beach. Overhead is tist, before he commences a picture, the argentine azure of day's new birth. if it contains architecture, to acquaint Venus seated in a shell and a group of himself with at least the leading prinnymphs are on the shallows of the ciples of the construction and ornamen-. shore. But Mr. Danby has ruined the tation of any style to be employed. If motive of his subject by treating it he paints from a particular locality, he prosaically. The cloudy Olympus looks must present us with something like a a sham beside the solid sand and multi- portrait of that place if existing ; if not tude of sea-shells. Apollo and his horses so, he must reconstruct it from authoaffect us not, because they come in con- rities as well as he can. There is hardly tact with the truthful and natural paint any building of the middle ages that ing of the sea. The contrast jars between could be more easily reconstructed than the realm of fact and that of imagina- old St. Paul's Cathedral; there are oceans tion. The artist must convey the in- of prints of it; descriptions and plans tended impression by means of one or abound. Its history could be traced the other alone ; they are not to be from decade to decade,—from complemixed with impunity—hence the total tion to ruin in the Great Fire of London. failure of all pictures of dreams, except Mr. Hart chooses a subject showing when ideally treated, as Rembrandt did the interior of this building, “ Archthat of Jacob. We cannot tolerate the bishop Langton, after a Mass in old St. figure of a sleeping man and a picture Paul's, conjuring the Earl of Pembroke of his dream stuck in the sky : either and the Barons to extort from John

the Ratification of the Charter of Henry bishop is a group of acolytes and several the First.” Here is the primate and the military vassals of the Church ; one of barons, here the most beautiful of Eng- the last is upon his knees, ardently lish cathedrals. Alas, Mr. Hart! is that kissing a reliquary containing bones. the glorious rose-window men raved If the neglect of the most ordinary rules about ; are these the piers of old St. of art shown in the treatment of the Paul's ? Indeed there is hardly one of architecture be not sufficient to convict them upright. Has the artist no more this painter of the utmost indifference eye for beauty than to “ do " them thus, to public opinion, let the spectators devoid of carving, or of ornament, of examine the mail worn by the knights proportion even ? Are those the arches and barons. Any one who knows the and that the groined roof above? The peculiarly beautiful and delicate configures may be better, let us hope; so, struction of this fabric will see at a look. Indeed, they are not quite so bad, glance that it is not the genuine mail, and might stand, which the columns but rather a coarse imitation of it, prowill hardly do ; we see what the dresses bably obtained at a costumier's, and renare meant for in every quality but tex- dered with a careless hand in the ture ; and, although there is bad drawing picture. This is but a type of the treatin every one of them, yet nothing like ment throughout. 80 palpable an offence to the observer's Let us turn from these to the taste as showing a cathedral without works of an artist who loves and carvings and without colours, and in the understands nature, and renders for us state to which the iconoclasts, and the all her beauties that the brush can white-wash brushes of centuries of Deans render. We refer to those of Mr. Hook, . and Chapters, have reduced the other four in number. Take, first, “ Stand

glories of English architecture. Not less clear !”—a fisherman's boat coming extraordinary and not less false is the ashore, leaping to the beach, as it flesh painting, or the surface of tinted were, the clear green sea's last wave chalk, for it is as dry as that, and as curving out under her stem in a long crude as a coarse system of handling can bright arch that comes gently hissing make it. Few of the faces are in better from the shingle to fling itself impadrawing in this picture than in the last tiently forward. “Stand clear!” is the Mr. Hart is Professor of Painting to the order to us on shore to avoid the rope Royal Academy, a post at one time held, that one of her crew casts to his mates or rather we should say filled, by Sir that they may make her fast by it. It Joshua Reynolds, whose mantle must be springs out of his hands in bold curves, too small for his successor. If this and leaps before the boat. The fishergentleman had never painted better pic- man himself, an old salt, stands up tures than these pretentiously placed furling the sail ; a boy sits upon the works, we should, notwithstanding his gunwale, just ready to drop into the eminent position, have passed him over water the instant she touches; another in silence. But Mr. Hart has done sits within, looking out for someone much better things than those he has amongst the bystanders. There is a exhibited of late years. A time was perfectly delightful expression on this when he did not offend the public with lad's face. No painter understands more ill-drawn and vulgar faces, and when at entirely the colour of a sea-bronzed face least he aimed at colour.

than Mr. Hook, or can give so well the In the picture to which we have salted briny look of an old sailor's skin, referred, the archbishop points eagerly or the tawny gold seen in that of a to the roll of the Charter held by an smooth-faced lad which has been subattendant. Some of the barons attestjected to the same influences. “Whose their devotion to the cause by pledging Bread is on the Waters" is the title of themselves to Heaven; one kneels kiss- another picture by this artist. A fishering his naked sword. Behind the arch- man and a boy are in an open boat,

sturdily hauling in a net that comes up loaded with fish, whose glittering silver scales, fresh from the sea, sparkle on the brown cordage of the net like lustrous jewels. The boy pulls with a will, setting his foot against the boat's thwart; the man, stronger and more deliberate, gives a “dead haul.” The sea is of deep fresh green, very different from the sea of painters generally, but sparkling and full of motion, intensely varied in colour, and displaying an amount of knowledge of nature that is delightful to contemplate, and one that all who love her will recognize with ever-increasing satisfaction. The way the waves rise and dash over, shows it is wind against tide, for their foamy little crests fall back into their own hollows; the turbulent tops of these waves, pettish as they seem to be, and hasty without force, and too small to be the cause of awe to us, shows a fine reticence of the artist's power. He does not care to bully our admiration out of us, but takes it captive with fidelity to nature. The sea, not angry now, is yet working up, and the sky above shows signs of a gale in its long-drawn clouds, purplish and deep grey. The brassy colour of the firmament, where the sun has just gone down, and a veil of shifting vapour above that melts the edges of the clouds into the luminous ether -- these last, drawn to streaks—are signs of wind to come,

The waters dash crisply and freshly in the last-named pietures, but the artist's illustration to Tennyson's “Break, Break, Break," — “O, well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay!"shows the calmest of calm seas, a silver sea, filled with subdued light, and seeming asleep in light, the long low billows that roll, not like waves that break and dash, but the heaving of a vast sheet of glittering waters, in shallow trenches, flat for miles, yet creeping and sweeping along in a restless heave, as the chest of one deep asleep moves gently to his breathing. Such the sea that is overhung with a misty veil ; not lifting, be

cause universal, and still, because there is not a breath of wind to find itself in this deep bay, whose air itself dozes over the waters at rest. The silent sleepy heat that holds the whole scene to this quiet, has drawn that dreaming misty veil from the sea, to overhang a hill ; it wraps also the high, deep-verdured cliffs in the same delicate shade. All is asleep, and a silvery silence reigns. By some piles in the front floats a boat and a boy in it singing, his sister leaning backwards upon the gunwale, paddling her arm over the side in the water, that burns beneath the little craft with a deep vivid green, of the sunlight contrasted and concentrated through the translucent waters. The reflections of the piles tremble upon the water that stealthily creeps about them, making ring within ring at every slow heave, as it ascends the solid timber. So silent seems it all, that one might hear the boy's voice (he pours it out in a low monotonous sea song) even far off on the mistveiled cliff. The bay is broken in two by a jutting point, telling of an estuary beyond, round which go the white glimmering sails of a barque, as she is borne in, not by the wind, for the canvas hangs useless from the yards, but by the tide alone that is setting inwards. The reader will see that our admiration for this picture is unbounded ; indeed the poetic feeling needed to express the theme supplied by the Laureate's verses, is exquisitely rendered, and that moreover in the most loyal way the task could be executed—which is representing natural thoughts, however refined, pathetic, and subtle they may be,—by the aid of most refined, pathetic, and subtle-meaning nature herself alone. A delightful pastoral, “The Valley in the Moor," is the remaining picture by this artist. It seems to us a little crude in green colour; but, notwithstanding, is very faithful as a portrait of nature.

E xcepting these, which from their class we may rank with the landscapes, the best representation of nature is Mr. Anthony's “ Hesperus," a large picture, showing a piece of open land under an evening sky, when the star named

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