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faint breath into the fragrant air,—there was the oblique bridge matchlessly drawn, the goats browsing heedless in difficult places; there was, in a word, singular truthfulness to nature, but there was something more—this gave us the shock of a new delight. It gave us new feelings, new thoughts, a new and a higher notion of what the mind of man can put into and bring out of landscape painting-how its representative and suggestive truth may be perfect, forming its material elements—its body; while at the same time there may be superadded, that fine sense of the indefinable relation of the visible world to mental emotion, which is its essence and vivifying soul. The painter tells us not only when he saw, but when he thought and felt. We cannot resist giving our readers the following description of the “ Slave Ship”—perhaps Turner's master-piece :

“ But, I think, the noblest sea that Turner has ever painted, and, if so, the noblest certainly ever painted by man, is that of the Slave Ship, the chief Academy picture of the Exhibition of 1840. It is a sunset on the Atlantic, after prolonged storm ; but the storm is partially lulled, and the torn and streaming rain-clouds are moving in scarlet lines to lose themselves in the hollow of the night. The whole surface of sea included in the picture is divided into two ridges of enormous swell, not high, nor local, but a low, broad heaving of the whole ocean, like the lifting of its bosom by deep drawn breath after the torture of the storm. Between these two ridges the fire of the sunset falls along the trough of the sea, dyeing it with an awful but glorious light, the intense and lurid splendour which burns like gold, and bathes liko blood. Along this fiery path and valley, the tossing waves by which the swell of the sea is restlessly divided, list themselves in dark, indefinite, fantastic forms, each casting a faint and ghastly shadow behind it along the illumined foam. They do not rise everywhere, but three or four together in wild groups, fitfully and furiously, as the under strength of the swell compels or permits them; leaving between them treacherous spaces of level and whirling water, now lighted with green and lamp-like fire, now flashing back the gold of the declining sun, now fearfully dyed from above with the indistinguishable images of the burning clouds, which fall upon them in flakes of crimson and scarlet, and give to the reckless waves the added motion of their own fiery flying. Purple and blue, the lurid shadows of the hollow breakers are cast upon the mist of the night, which gathers cold and low, advancing like the shadow of death upon the guilty ship as it labours amidst the lightning of the sea, its thin masts written upon the sky in lines of blood, girded with condemnation in that fearful hue which signs the sky with horror, and mixes its flaming flood with the sunlight,-and cast far along the desolate heave of the sepulchral waves, incarnadines the multitudinous sea.”—Vol. i., pp. 376-377.

We have no space for going over the remaining and greater

clearly, and it is that message which the mind takes from them and dwells upon, regardless of the language in which it is delivered. But the mind, in receiving an idea of imitation, is wholly occupied in finding out that what has been suggested to it is not what it appears to be : it does not dwell on the suggestion, but on the perception that it is a false suggestion : it derives its pleasure, not from the contemplation of a truth, but from the discovery of a falsehood.”—P. 23.

Ideas of Beauty.Any material object which can give us pleasure in the simple contemplation of its outward qualities without any direct and definite exertion of the intellect, I call in some way, or in some degree, beautiful. Why we receive pleasure from some forms and colours, and not from others, is no more to be asked or answered than why we like sugar and dislike wormwood. The utmost subtlety of investigation will only lead us to ultimate instincts and principles of human nature, for which no further reason can be given than the simple will of the Deity that we should be so created. We may, indeed, perceive, as far as we are acquainted with His nature, that we have been so constructed as, when in a healthy and cultivated state of mind, to derive pleasure from whatever things are illustrative of that nature; but we do not receive pleasure from them because they are illustrative of it, nor from any perception that they are illustrative of it, but instinctively and necessarily, as we derive sensual pleasure from the scent of a rose. On these primary principles of our nature, education and accident operate to an unlimited extent; they may be cultivated or checked, directed or diverted, gifted by right guidance with the most acute and faultless sense, or subjected by neglect to every phase of error and disease. He who has followed up these natural laws of aversion and desire, rendering them more and more authoritative by constant obedience, so as to derive pleasure always from that which God originally intended should give him pleasure, and who derives the greatest possible sum of pleasure from any given object, is a man of taste.

“ This, then, is the real meaning of this disputed word. Perfect taste is the faculty of receiving the greatest possible pleasure from those material sources which are attractive to our moral nature in its purity and perfection. He who receives little pleasure from these sources, wants taste; he who receives pleasure from any other sources, has false or bad taste.”—Pp. 25-26.

Lastly, Ideas of Relation. This term is used rather as one of convenience than as adequately expressive of the vast class of ideas conveyable by art, which are the subjects of distinct intellectual perception.

Such are the heads of his subject, and he proceeds to divide his work into three parts. The first (to which the whole of the first volume, containing upwards of 400_large, closely printed pages, is devoted) relates to Ideas of Truth, as con

veyable by art, and an examination of the relative powers possessed by the ancient and the modern painters, of rendering the truth of nature. The second volume is entirely devoted to the next department of the Ideas of Beauty; and though not so entertaining and lively as the first, is of a higher character in expression and thought, suitable to its higher subject. The third volume, yet unpublished, is to be set apart to the Ideas of Relation. We shall now give up any systematic following of the author through the first volume, and give a selection of doctrinal and descriptive passages. Speaking of the so-called grand style in landscape, he says :

“ There is but one grand style in the treatment of all subjects whatsoever, and that is based on the perfect knowledge, and consists in the simple, unencumbered rendering of the specific characters of the given object, be it man, beast, mountain, or flower; every change, or, as it is called, generalization,' is as destructive of true grandeur as it is of truth and beauty, and has its origin either in powerless indolence or blind audacity, in the folly which forgets, or in the insolence that desecrates, works which it is the pride of angels to know and their privilege to love.”—“ It is just as impossible to generalize granite and slate, as it is to generalize a man or a cow. An animal must either be one animal or another; it cannot be a general animal.”—“ We may, if we choose, put together certain monsters; but they must still be truly man truly horse, not a generalization of either or of both."“ There is a singular sense in which the child may be said to be father of the man.

In many arts and attainments, the first and the last stages of progress, the infancy and the consummation, have many features in common. In the mere child, his drawing is instinctive, his line broken, indistinct, inadequate; as he advances, it is firm, severe, decided. In the perfect artist, this peremptory severe line is exchanged for a light and careless stroke, differing only from those of his childhood by the consummate effect wrought out by the apparently inadequate means. So it is in matters of opinion. Our first and our last coincide, though on different grounds; the middle stage is farther from the truth. Childhood often holds a truth in its feeble fingers, which the grasp of manhood would destroy or lose, and which it is the pride of utmost age to recover. Perhaps there is no instance more remarkable than in the opinion we form upon the subject of detail in art. Infants in judgment, we look for specific character and complete finish ; we delight in the plumage of the well-known bird, in the truly drawn and coloured familiar flower. As we advance in our judgment, we scorn such detail ; we look for impetuosity of execution and breadth of effect. But perfected in judgment, we return in a great measure to our early feelings, and thank Raffaelle for the shells upon his sacred beach, and for the delicate stamens of the flowers beside his inspired St. Catherine."

How true and beautiful this is!

The following is the reason of the well-known fact, that sketches give often greater sensation of power than finished works :-“In all art, every touch in effect does individually less in proportion as the work approaches perfection. The first five chalk touches bring a head into existence out of nothing. No other five touches will ever do as much.” This, he shews, is true of the sensation of power, not of its intellectual perception, which is cognizant of higher excellence; so that there is in reality greater power in the completion than in the commencement. “ Therefore, in praising pictures for ideas of power, we must not look at the keenest sensation, but to the highest estimate of the whole mind.” He defines sublimity as being found wherever anything elevates the mind, wherein it contemplates and perceives anything above itself. The sublime is therefore not distinct from the beautiful or from other sources of pleasure in art; it is only a particular mode and manifestation of them; so that we may have a sublime beauty. “Burke refers sublimity to the sense of self-preservation, and gives, as an instance, death; and there are few things so great as death; it banishes all littleness in its contemplation; it is truly sublime; but it is not so by reason of our fear of it, but by our contemplating its real nature; not from an instinctive shudder and struggle, but our deliberate measurement of the doom. There is more sublimity in the words, though after this skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God,' than in their cry of terror to the mountains, ' fall on us, and to the hills, cover us.

“ The landscape painter must always have two great and distinct ends—the first to induce in the spectator's mind the faithful conception of any natural object,--the second to guide his mind to those objects more worthy of its contemplation, and to inform of the thoughts and feelings with which these were regarded by the artist himself.” Some painters do only the firstthe spectator is alone—“ the artist is his conveyance not his companion, his horse not his friend.” Turner, above all other men, fulfils in the highest degree both conditions. We were convinced of this before, but our author has given us the reasons of our conviction, and given us ready answers to all who ask us.

We shall never forget our delight when we saw the first excellent picture of this great master,-it was “ Palestrina." It illustrated perfectly all our author says—its material elements are exact. There was its airy fulness and freedom, its heaven and earth making one imagery,—its daylight, its sunlight, its magical shadows. Its city set upon a hill, the houses clinging to the rocks like swallows' nests—its waters murmuring on for ever, moving down and into the picture, and sending up their

faint breath into the fragrant air,—there was the oblique bridge matchlessly drawn, the goats browsing heedless in difficult places ; there was, in a word, singular truthfulness to nature, but there was something more—this gave us the shock of a new delight. It gave us new feelings, new thoughts, a new and a higher notion of what the mind of man can put into and bring out of landscape painting-how its representative and suggestive truth may be perfect

, forming its material elements—its body; while at the same time there may be superadded, that fine senso of the indefinable relation of the visible world to mental emotion, which is its essence and vivifying soul. The painter tells us not only when he saw, but when he thought and felt.

We cannot resist giving our readers the following description of the “ Slave Ship’-perhaps Turner's master-piece :

“ But, I think, the noblest sea that Turner has ever painted, and, if so, the noblest certainly ever painted by man, is that of the Slave Ship, the chief Academy picture of the Exhibition of 1840. It is a sunset on the Atlantic, after prolonged storm ; but the storm is partially lulled, and the torn and streaming rain-clouds are moving in scarlet lines to lose themselves in the hollow of the night. The whole surface of sea included in the picture is divided into two ridges of enormous swell, not high, nor local, but a low, broad heaving of the whole ocean, like the lifting of its bosom by deep drawn breath after the torture of the storm. Between these two ridges the fire of the sunset falls along the trough of the sea, dyeing it with an awful but glorious light, the intense and lurid splendour which burns like gold, and bathes like blood. Along this fiery path and valley, the tossing waves by which the swell of the sea is restlessly divided, lift themselves in dark, indefinite, fantastic forms, each casting a faint and ghastly shadow behind it along the illumined foam. They do not rise everywhere, but three or four together in wild groups, fitfully and furiously, as the under strength of the swell compels or permits them; leaving between them treacherous spaces of level and whirling water, now lighted with green and lamp-like fire, now flashing back the gold of the declining sun, now fearfully dyed from above with the indistinguishable images of the burning clouds, which fall upon them in flakes of crimson and scarlet, and give to the reckless waves the added motion of their own fiery flying. Purple and blue, the lurid shadows of the hollow breakers are cast upon the mist of the night, which gathers cold and low, advancing like the shadow of death upon the guilty ship as it labours amidst the lightning of the sea, its thin masts written upon the sky in lines of blood, girded with condemnation in that fearful hue which signs the sky with horror, and mixes its flaming flood with the sunlight-and cast far along the desolate heave of the sepulchral waves, incarnadines the multitudinous sea.”—Vol. i., pp. 376-377.

We have no space for going over the remaining and greater

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