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sion of delight and surprise at the sounds he produces is not to be surpassed. The only image we would venture to compare with it for inno cent artless voluptuousness, is that of the shepherd-boy in Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, " piping as though he should never be old!" A comparison of this sort, we believe, may be made, in spite of the proverb, without injustice to the painter or the poet. Both gain by it. The idea conveyed by the one, perhaps, receives an additional grace and lustre, while a more beautiful moral sentiment hovers round the other, from thinking of them in this casual connection. If again it be asked, Which is the most admirable?-we should answer-Both are equally exquisite in their way, and yield the imagination all the pleasure it is capable of and decline giving an invidious preference to either. The cup can only be full. The young shepherd in the Arcadia wants no outward grace to recommend him; the stripling God no hidden charm of expression. The language of painting and poetry is intelligible enough to mortals; the spirit of both is divine, and far too good for him, who, instead of enjoying to the utmost height, would find an unwelcome flaw in either. The SILENUS AND APOLLO has something of a Raffaellesque air, with a mixture of Correggio's arch sensibility-there is nothing of Titian in the colour though Annibal Caracci was in the ory a deserter from the first to the last two of these masters; and swore an oath, in a letter to his uncle Ludovico, that "they were the only true painters!"

We should nearly have exhausted our stock of enthusiasm in descanting on these two compositions, in almost any other case; but there is no danger of this in the present instance. If we were at any loss in this respect, we should only have to turn to the large picture of the RAISING OF LAZARUS, by Sebastian del Piombo;

and still walking under, Find some new matter to look up and

wonder.

We might dwell on the masterly breadth of the drawing, the gracefulness of the principal female figures, the high-wrought execution, the deep, rich, mosaic colouring, the airi

ness and bustle of the back-ground, We think this one of the best pictures on so large a scale that we are anywhere acquainted with. The whole management of the design has a very noble and imposing effect, and each part severally will hear the closest scrutiny. It is a magnificent structure built of solid and valuable materials The artist has not relied merely on the extent of his canvas, or the importance of his subject, for producing a striking result-the effect is pro duced by an aggregate of excellent parts. The hauds, the feet, the drapery, the heads, the features, are all fine. There is some satisfaction in looking at a large historical picture, such as this: for you really gain in quantity, without losing in quality; and have a studious imitation of individual nature, combined with mas culine invention, and the compre hensive arrangement of an interest❤ ing story. The Lazarus is very fine and bold. The flesh is well-baked, dingy, and ready to moulder from the touch, when it is liberated from its dread confinement to have life and motion impressed on it again. He seems impatient of restraint, gazes eagerly about him, and looks out from his shrouded prison on this new world with hurried amazement, as if Death had scarcely yet resigned his power over the senses. We would wish our artists to look at the legs and feet of this figure, and see how correctness of finishing and a greatness of gusto in design are compatible with, and set off each other. The attendant female figures have a peculiar grace and becoming dignity, both of expression and attitude. They are in a style something between Michael Angelo and Parme giano. They take a deep interest in the scene, but it is with the air of composure proper to the sex, who are accustomed by nature and duty to works of charity and compassion. The head of the old man, kneeling behind Christ, is an admirable study of drawing, execution, and character. The Christ himself is grave and earnest, with a noble and impressive countenance; but the figure wants that commanding air which ought to belong to one possessed of preternatural power, and in the act of displaying it. Too much praise cannot be given to the back-ground-the

green and white draperies of some old people at a distance, which are as airy as they are distinct—the buildings like tombs-and the different groups, and processions of figures, which seem to make life almost as grave and solemn a business as death itself. This picture is said by some to have been designed by Michael Angelo, and painted by Sebastian del Piombo, in rivalship of some of Raphael's works. It was in the Orleans Gallery.

Near this large historical composition stands (or is suspended in a case) a single head, by Raphael, of Pope Julius II. It is in itself a Collection-a world of thought and character. There is a prodigious weight and gravity of look, combined with calm self-possession, and easiness of temper. It has the cast of an English countenance, which Raphael's portraits often have, Titian's never. In Raphael's the mind, or the body, frequently prevails; in Titian's you always see the soul-faces "which pale passion loves." Look at the Music-piece by Titian, close by in this Collection-it is "all ear," the expression is evanescent as the sounds —the features are seen in a sort of dim chiaro scuro, as if the confused impressions of another sense intervened and you might easily suppose some of the performers to have been engaged the night before in

Mask or midnight serenade, Which the starved lover to his mistress sings,

Best quitted with disdain.

The ruddy, bronzed colouring of Raphael generally takes off from any appearance of nocturnal watching and languid hectic passion! The portrait of Julius II. is finished to a great nicety. The hairs of the beard, the fringe on the cap, are done by minute and careful touches of the pencil. In seeing the labour, the conscientious and modest pains, which this great painter bestowed upon his smallest works, we cannot help being struck with the number and magnitude of those he left behind him. When we have a single portrait placed before us, that might seem to

have taken half a year to complete, we wonder how the same painter could find time to execute his Cartoons, the compartments of the Vatican, and a thousand other, matchless works. The same account serves for both. The more we do, the more we can do. Our leisure (though it may seem a paradox) is in proportion to our industry. The same habit of intense application, which led our artist to bestow as much pains and attention on the study of a single head, as if his whole reputation depended on it, enabled him to set about the greatest works with alacrity, and to finish them with ease. If he had done any thing he undertook to do, in a slovenly disreputable manner, he would (upon the same principle) have lain idle half his time. Zeal and diligence, in this view, make life, short as it is, long.-Neither did Raphael, it should seem, found his historical pretensions on his incapacity to paint a good portrait. On the contrary, the latter here looks very much like the corner-stone of the historical edifice. Nature did not put him out. He was not too great a genius to copy what he saw. He probably thought that a deference to nature is the beginning of art, and that the highest eminence is scaled by single steps!

On the same stand as the portrait of Julius 11. is the much vaunted Correggio-the Christ in the Garden. We would not give a farthing for it. The drapery of the Christ is highly finished in a silver and azure tonebut high finishing is not all we ask from Correggio. It is more worthy of Carlo Dolce.-Lest we should forget it, we may mention here, that the admired portrait of Golvarcius was gone to be copied at Somersethouse. The Academy have then, at length, fallen into the method pursued at the British Gallery, of recommending the students to copy from the ÖLD MASTERS. Wellbetter late than never. This same portrait is not, we think, the truest specimen of Vandyke. It has not his mild, pensive, somewhat effeminate cast of colour and expression. His best portraits have an air of faded

We like this picture of a Concert the best of the three by Titian in the same room. The other two are a Ganymede, and a Venus and Adonis; the last does not appear to us from the hand of Titian..

gentility about them. The Golvarcius has too many streaks of bloodcolour, too many marks of the pencil, to convey an exact idea of Vandyke's characteristic excellence; though it is a fine imitation of Rubens's florid manner. Vandyke's most striking portraits are those which look just like a gentleman or lady seen in a looking-glass, and neither more nor less.

Of the Claudes, we prefer the St. Ursula the embarking of the Five Thousand Virgins-to the others. The water is exquisite; and the sails of the vessels glittering in the morning sun, and the blue flags placed against the trees, which seem like an open ing into the sky behind-so sparkling is the effect of this ambiguity in colouring-are in Claude's most perfect manner. The Altieri Claude (the sacrifice of Isaac) is one of his noblest and most classical compositions, with towers, and trees, and streams, and flocks, and herds, and distant sunny vales,

11

Where universal Pan, Knit with the Graces and the Hours, in dance, Leads on the eternal spring :

but the effect of the execution has been deadened and rendered obtuse by time or ill-usage. There is a dull, formal appearance, as if the different masses of sky, of water, &c. were laid on with plates of tin or lead. This is not a general defect in Claude: his landscapes have the greatest quantity of inflection, the most delicate brilliancy, of all others. A lady had been making a good copy of the Seaport, which is a companion to the one we have described. We do not think these Claudes, famous as they are, equal to Lord Egremont's Jacob and Laban; to the Enchanted Castle; to a green vernal Landscape, which was in Walsh Porter's Collection, and which was the very finest we ever saw; nor to some others that have appeared from time to time in the British Institution. We are sorry to make this, which may be thought an ill-natured, remark: but, though we have a great respect for Mr. Angerstein's taste, we have a greater for Claude Lorraine's reputation. Let any persons admire these specimens of his art as much as they will (and the more they admire them, the more we shall be gratified), and

then we will tell them, he could do far finer things than these!

There is one Rembrandt, and one N. Poussin. The Rembrandt (the Woman taken in Adultery) is prodigious in colouring, in light and shade, in pencilling, in solemn effect; but that is nearly all

Of outward show Elaborate, of inward less exact. Nevertheless, it is worth any money. The Christ has considerable seriousness and dignity of aspect. The marble pavement, of which the light is even dazzling; the figures of the two Rabbis to the right, radiant with crimson, green, and gold; the background, which seems like some rich oil-colour smeared over a ground of gold, and where the eye staggers on one abyss of obscurity after another,place this picture in the first rank of Rembrandt's wonderful performances. If this extraordinary genius was the most literal and vulgar of draughtsmen, he was the most ideal of colourists. When Annibal Caracci

vowed to God, that Titian and Correggio were the only true painters, he had not seen Rembrandt;-if he had, he would have added him to the list. The Poussin is a Dance of Bacchanals: theirs are not "pious orgies." It is, however, one of this master's finest pictures, both in the spirit of the execution, and the ingenuity and equivoque of the invention. If the purity of the drawing will make amends for the impurity of the design, it may pass: assuredly, the same subject, badly executed, would not be endured; but the life of mind, the dexterity of combination displayed in it, supply the want of decorum. The old adage, that "Vice, by losing all its grossness, loses half its evil," seems chiefly applicable to pictures. Thus a naked figure, that has nothing but its nakedness to recommend it, is not fit to be hung up in decent apartments. If it is a Nymph by Titian, Correggio's lö, we no longer think of its being naked; but merely of its sweetness, its beauty, its naturalness. So far art, as it is intellectual, has a refinement and extreme unction of its own. Indifferent pictures, like dull people, must absolutely be moral! We suggest this as a hint to those persons of more gallantry than

discretion, who think that to have an indecent daub hanging up in one corner of the room, is a proof of a liberality of gusto, and a considerable progress in virtù. Tout au contraire.

We have a clear, brown, woody Landscape by Gaspar Poussin, in his fine determined style of pencilling, which gives to earth its solidity, and to the air its proper attributes. There are, perhaps, no landscapes that excel his in this fresh, healthy look of nature. One might say, that where ever his pencil loves to haunt, "the air is delicate." We forgot to no tice a St. John in the Wilderness, by A. Caracci, which has much of the autumnal tone, the "sear and yellow leaf," of Titian's landscape compositions. A Rape of the Sabines, in the inner room, by Rubens, is, perhaps, the most tasteless picture in the Collection: to see plump, florid viragos struggling with bearded ruffians, and tricked out in the flounces, furbelows, and finery of the court of Louis XIV. is preposterous. But there is another Rubens in the outer room, which, though fantastical and quaint, has qualities to redeem all faults. It is an allegory of himself and his three wives, as a St. George and Holy Family, with his children, as Christ and St. John, playing with a lamb; in which he has contrived to bring together all that is rich in dresses, (black as jet, and shining like diamonds,) transparent in flesh-colour, agreeable in landscape, unfettered in composition. The light streams from rosy clouds, the breeze curls the branches of the trees in the back-ground, and plays on the clear complexions of the various scattered group. It is one of this painter's

most splendid, and, at the same time, most solid and sharply finished productions.

Mr. Wilkie's ALEHOUSE DOOR is here, and deserves to be here. Still it is not his best; though there are some very pleasing rustic figures, and some touching passages in it. As in his BLIND-MAN'S-BUFF, the groups are too straggling, and spread over too large a surface of bare fore-ground, which Mr. Wilkie does not paint well. It looks more like putty than earth or clay. The artist has a better eye for the individual details than for the general tone of objects. Mr. Liston's face in this "flock of drunkards" is a smiling failure.

A portrait of Hogarth, by himself, and Sir Joshua's half-length of Lord Heathfield, hang in the same room. The last of these is certainly a fine picture, well composed, richly coloured, with considerable character, and a look of nature. Nevertheless, his pictures, seen among standard works, have (to speak it plainly) something old-womanish about them. By their obsolete and affected air they remind one of antiquated ladies of quality, and are a kind of DuchessDowagers in the art-somewhere between the living and the dead.

Hogarth's series of the MARRIAGE A LA MODE (the most delicately painted of all his pictures, and admirably they certainly are painted) concludes the Catalogue Raisonnée of this Collection.-A study of Heads, by Correggio, and some of Mr. Fuseli's stupendous figures from his Milton Gallery, are on the stair

case.

MIDNIGHT.

Unfathomable Night! how dost thou sweep
Over the flooded earth, and darkly hide
The mighty city under thy full tide,
Making a silent palace for old Sleep;
Like his own Temple under the hush'd deep,
Where all the busy day he doth abide,

W. H.

Tomblood

And, forth at the late dark, outspreadeth wide His dusky wings whence the cold waters weep! How peacefully the living million lie!

Lull'd unto death beneath his poppy spells ;There is no breath-no living stir-no cryNo tread of foot-no song-no music-call,— Only the sound of melancholy bells

The voice of Time,-Survivor of them all!

Ꭲ,

A FEW WORDS ON "CHRISTMAS."

CLOSE the shutters, and draw the curtains together, and pile fresh wood upon the hearth! Let us have, for once, an innocent auto da fé. Let the hoarded corks be brought forth, and branches of crackling laurel. Place the wine and fruit and the hot chesnuts upon the table. And now, good folks and children, bring your chairs round to the blazing fire. Put some of those rosy apples upon your plates. We'll drink one glass of bright sherry" to our absent friends and readers," and then let us talk a little about Christmas.

And what is Christmas?

Why, it is the happiest time of the year. It is the season of mirth and cold weather. It is the time when Christmas-boxes and jokes are given; when mistletoe, and red-berried laurel, and soups, and sliding, and school-boys, prevail; when the country is illuminated by fires and bright faces; and the town is radiant with laughing children. Oranges, as rich as the fruit of the Hesperides, shine out in huge golden heaps. Cakes, frosted over (as if to rival the glittering snow) come forth by thousands from their summer (caves) ovens: and on every stall at every corner of every street are the roasted apples, like incense fuming on Pagan altars.

And this night is CHRISTMAS EVE. Formerly it was a serious and holy vigil. Our forefathers observed it strictly till a certain hour, and then requited their own forbearance with cups of ale and Christmas candles, with placing the yule clog on the fire, and roaring themselves thirsty till morning. Time has altered this. We are neither so good as our forefathers were-nor so bad. We go to bed sober; but we have forgotten their old devotions. Our conduct looks like a sort of compromise; so that we are not worse than our ancestors, we are satisfied not to be better but let that pass.-What we now call Christmas Eve-(there is something very delightful in old terms: they had always their birth in reason or sentiment) was formerly Madrenack, or The Night of Mothers! How beautifully does this recal to one's heart that holy talethat wonderful nativity, which the eastern shepherds went by night to gaze at and adore➡

(It was the winter wild, When the heaven-born child All meanly wrapp'd in the rude manger lay ;) a prodigy, which, had it been invention only, would have contained much that was immaculate and sublime; but, twined as it is with man's hopes and fears, is invested with a grand and overwhelming interest.

But to-night is Christmas Eve, and so we will be merry. Instead of toast and ale, we will content ourselves with our sherry and chesnuts; and we must put up with coffee or fragrant tea, instead of having the old Wassail-bowl which formed part of the inspiration of our elder poets. We were once admitted to the mysteries of that fine invention, and we respect it accordingly. Does any one wish to know its merits? Let him try what he can produce, on our hint, and be grateful to us for ever. The "Wassail-bowl" is, indeed, a great composition. It is not carved by Benvenuto Cellini (the outside may,

but it is not material), nor shaped by Michael Angelo from the marble quarries of Carrara ; but it is a liquor fit for the lips of the Indian Bacchus, and worthy to celebrate his return from conquest. It is made-for, after all, we must descend to particulars it is made of wine, with some water (but parce, precor, precor!) with spices of various sorts, and roasted apples, which float in triumph upon its top. The proportions of each are not important-in fact, they should be adapted to the taste of the drinkers. The only caution that seems necessary is to " spare the water." If the compositor should live in the neighbourhood of Aldgate, this hint may be deemed advisable; though we mean no affront to either him or the pump.

One mark and sign of Christmas is the music; rude enough, indeed, but generally gay, and speaking eloquently of the season. Music, at festival times, is common to most countries. In Spain, the serenader twangs his guitar: in Italy, the musician allures rich notes from his Cremona: in Scotland, the bagpipe drones out its miserable noise: in Germany, there is the horn, and the pipe in Arcady. We too, in our turn, have our Christmas "Waits," who witch us at early morning, be

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