Of the fine arts Sir A. Alison affects a special knowledge, and both in the way of allusion and of criticism, he lets fall æsthetic hints worthy of the sale catalogue of a provincial auctioneer. In SCULPTURE his taste is of the New-road monumental-urn style-Rule Britannia, without a crinoline, holding on to the mane of a very dolorous lion, whose tearful eyes a sailor in marble pantaloons is gently wiping with the meteor flag of England-this would form a group of exquisite pathos. In his opinion the monuments of the Peninsular heroes in St. Paul's "began that noble circle of sepulchral sculpture which now adorns that sublime cathedral, and which, having been commenced at a period when taste was comparatively pure,' is very superior to the conceit and bad taste' of Westminster Abbey.* As for CHANTREY, he has invented the pathetic in sculpture: 'in this he is unrivalled: above all Greek, above all Roman fame.' FLAXMAN Would have produced 'a frieze worthy of Phidias himself. Kis's Amazon combating the Tiger' (elsewhere called Kist's 'Amazon and Lion'), is equal to 'the finest Metopes of the Parthenon.' DANNEKER proves 'that it is in the north we are now to look for the successors of Phidias ;' and his stark strapping wench, taking her airing on an immense cat, has seduced Sir A. Alison into this remarkable judgment-'his Ariadne seated on the Panther" has all the delicacy and beauty of the antique, while at the same time it is quite original.' Decidedly Phidias, Praxiteles, Scopas, and Michel Angelo, (the last of whom, it appears, dealt in bizarre and sometimes grotesque conceptions') have fallen from their palmy states. Perhaps this catastrophe is not undeserved, for we are taught that the Greeks copied in the outset from the Persians and Egyptians; the marbles of Lycia and Egina preceded the Parthenon !'‡ The blunders of this sentence are too evident to need ventilation, but the delicious geographical logic is worthy of a special note. Sir A. Alison has outdone Fluellen

66

*Vol. i. p. 130. Vol. v. p. 136.

225

'There is a river in Macedon and a river in Monmouth'-there is an E in Egina and an E in Egypt.

ARCHITECTURE is another point to which Sir A. Alison has given his attention, and he has struck out at least one brilliant light before which Mr. Ruskin's lamps must pale their ineffectual fires. It is undoubtedly true that more effect will often be produced, at least in architecture, by the repetition of ugliness than the variety of beauty. Avenues of colossal TOADS might become sublime !'S On this showing, the Strand and the Edgware - road ought to be gorgeous streets, especially if one could add a mile or two of colossal toading, with additional toads on Northumberland House, on the Nelson column, and on the Marble Arch. Meanwhile it is satisfactory to know that St. Paul's is in the interior only second-in the exterior superior—to the fane of the Vatican, the dome of St. Peter's.' And let us no longer depreciate the sylvan beauty of Ulster-terrace, the varied pathos of the shop-fronts of Lewis and Allenby, and Cramer and Co., for Regent-street exhibited a splendid and varied scene of architectural decoration and mercantile opulence; Regent's - park showed long lines of pillared_scenery, surmounting its glassy lake of umbrageous foliage; and Waterloo Southwark, and London bridge. bestrode the floods of the Thames, with arches second to none in the world in magnificence and durability.'||

On the subject of PAINTING one would expect Sir A. Alison to agree with Dr. Johnson, who said, with his usual frankness: Sir! I would rather see a likeness of a dog that I know than all the allegories in the world.' But such a notion would be unfounded, for our author would fain be a Waagen in acumen, a Ruskin in paradox. He thinks that in landscape the German masters have attained an eminence beyond their contemporaries in any other country of Europe, and in some respects on a level with the finest remains of ancient art,' and that

+ Vol. v. p. 99. Vol. v. p. 162.

their manner is that of Claude, Poussin, Salvator, and Ruysdael. En révanche, Sir A. Alison absolutely ignores such great historical painters as Overbeck, Cornelius, and Kaulbach. In the same way we have a so-called resumé of modern French art, which contains an average amount of folly, and is limited to the mention of Vernet and Le Gros, to the exclusion of such men as Delaroche, Delacroix, Decamps, and Ingres. His notices of English painters are in the usual wind-bag' style, and though, for anything we know to the contrary, seriously meant, might pass for parodies of the fashionable criticism of the day, with its earnestness, its emotionalism, and its slang. Sir T. LAWRENCE's female portraits often resemble an angel peeping out of the clouds.' And, still more marvellous to tell, In minuteness of detail' Claude is before Turner, who again is behind Copley Fielding in polish of finishing,' on which rock it seems all our artists split when weighed in the balance with 'Poussin and Salvator.' SWINTON, however, represents female elegance so well, because, by living with it, he has learned in what it consists. Many of his portraits of the most lovely of our female nobility are beautiful pictures as well as

* Vol. iii. p. 662, 3. § Vol. i. p. 499.

striking likenesses.' WILKIE too has a most remarkable characteristic, for his paintings, even of the humblest scenes, may be looked on by the most delicate female without pain.' Mr. THOMSON and Mr. WILLIAMS are also highly spoken of, a dead silence being observed as to the merits of Brown and Robinson, with their compeers Stanfield, D. Roberts, Harding, Prout, Lewis, D. Cox, &c., and the preRaphaelites one and all. Then the great beast painter, Snyders, becomes Schneider, and Titian is made to advise that the greater part of every picture should be in mezzotint, and a small portion only in deep shade,' although Sir J. Reynolds is elsewhere said to observe that in Titian's painting, two-thirds is in shade and only onethird in bright light;' and again, that he would advise every young painter to take a brush dipped in deep shade and go over three-fourths of the figures in his picture.'S After such ludicrous misuse of simple technical terms, it is quite natural that Sir Joshua|| should not be spoken of as the painter of 'Nelly O'Briens' and 'Strawberry Girls,' but as an artist whose forte lay in the terrible and pathetic; of which style he is quoted as an example.

6

Vol. i. p. 482. Vol. v. p. 134.

1859.]

WHEN, enveloped in a cloud,

folded up by the tender care of his Goddess Mother, that pious hero Eneas, hidden from his friends, enjoyed the privilege of watching all their proceedings, he was tasting the pleasures of a reserved cha racter; they standing in the light to him and he in the dark to them. He knew all that they were about, and they knew nothing about him. Nay, they did not even know that they knew nothing; for though they were aware that their eyes did not behold him, they were not aware that he was near enough to them in the relations of space to admit of the possibility of his being seen. He was experiencing the delight without the danger of a reservation; for he was not suspected of withholding himself. Had he been suspected-had there entered into the mind of any one of that troop of friends the dimmest, remotest, faintest notion of the cloud that concealed him, what efforts would have been made to rend it, what cries, what clamours, what supplications to the goddess to unveil him before the appointed time; for human nature has a detestation of concealment-a detestation which proceeds from many causes. There

is curiosity, in itself a strong impulse; there is pride, and there is suspicion. Curiosity longing to peep behind the curtain, pride resenting the absence of confidence, and suspicion suggesting that where the lock is so rigidly secured, there must be some blue chamber with its unpleasant contents behind it. The reserved man, therefore, is an object of dislike and distrust; but he is also a subject of interest. He repels confidence, but he excites attention; and he has the whole enjoyment of his own individuality. He rejoices in the superiority of an unimparted knowledge. Is it not agreeable from a high window to survey the movements of a crowd below ?-dancing, laughing, leaping, fighting, crying, kissing-to analyse their agitations-to smile at their disturbances-to be yourself secure and still-a looker-on who is not

looked at-to be audience to a drama, and to criticise the actors who cannot criticise you?

This is the privilege of the reserved man.

He conceals his emotions, he buries his feelings, he masks his passions. He controls his features: every muscle is under his command; there is no such thing with him as a spontaneous movement. He revels in a continual victory. He baffles curiosity, he defeats expectation, he destroys hope. He wears his shroud before he is in his tomb. The inquisitive crowd will pluck at it, but will draw back shivering when they feel how cold it is.

They wonder, they fear, they admire-and they admire with good reason. The power of concealment is in itself worthy of admiration; the man who wears so strong an armour must needs be a strong man, and it is the consciousness of a valuable possession that suggests the necessity for a defence.

The habit of reserve has most often its origin in a disbelief in sympathy, in the existence of some qualities or some emotions with which those who are classed as fellow-creatures are not likely to have any fellow feeling.

There is in such characters, it may be, a sensibility fine and true, that sinks itself deep; too delicate to mix with vulgar streams. If you would taste the purity of this water you must dig laboriously for it. There is, it may be, a passionate power, fervent and concentrated; too full to dribble out; too strong to dissipate itself in petty phrases and agreeable expressions of sentiment; or perhaps an intelligence high and extended, to which views are granted infinitely beyond the horizon of the general eye.

She

Cassandra knew too much. was not reserved; and she was therefore thought to be mad. In her mental agony she struggled with the persecuting Phoebus.

Why didst thou send me here?
Here in this city of the blind to dwell,
With sight too darkly clear?

It was part of her penalty that she was obliged to express herself.

Men have been distinguished from beasts, say the loquacious, proudly, by the gift of speech. True; but have they not also been distinguished by the gift of silence? They are not constrained to purr, or to wag their tails when they are pleased, or to howl and caterwaul when they are in extremities; they are allowed to reserve their emotions. The human countenance, the most delicate indicator of feeling, the dial that may with its record fix the shadow of every flitting passion, can silence its indications at will, and become a mere blank. A decent gravity of expression may cover anger; tenderness may hide itself securely behind the wall of compressed lips; exultation may bury itself under downcast eyelids; a movement of joy may shelter itself beneath the wrinkles of the brow, or the whole features in combination may be ordered by the commanding officer to stand at ease in a position of total repose while the thoughts are full of war and tumult. No other creature but man has this power; it is a high privilege which must be used by all men more or less.

Those who use it the less are recognised as the frank and open; those who use it the more as the reserved and close.

The two characters are sometimes combined, and the skilful diplomatist is he who maintains his reserve under a free liberal semblance, whose smile is ready, whose hand is extended, whose words flow easily, but whose mind is locked up.

'Right humanitie,' says the wise Lord Burleigh in a letter to his son, takes such deep root in the minds of the multitude, as they are easilier gained by unprofitable curtesies than by churlish benefits.'

Now, the unprofitable courtesy is not incompatible with reserve, although the disposition of the reserved man will frequently incline him to the practice of its opposite. The very summit of exterior politeness may be reached without any revelation from within; and the Frenchman who in the bitterness of impending suffocation could not forget the polite phrase, and gasped

out to his host while he struggled with his mortal foe-'Sir, I have the honour to have a bone in my throat'-may have been as reserved in character as any Englishman. Reserve, indeed, is rather an aristocratic characteristic. The prince of darkness is a gentleman.' And it is the ill-bred, coarse-mannered man who is the most often garrulously given, who is glib and oily, who noises his sentiments and enters into the details of his domestic life, of his small afflictions, and of his personal history, as soon as he makes your acquaintance. Such a man will talk to you of his diseases and of his remedies, of his troubles with his servants, and of his quarrels with his wife, with unlimited and undesired freedom, if he do but meet you in a railroad-carriage. Such a man is too full of himself ever to doubt the full sympathy of his hearer.

It is not, however, with the mere gentlemanly civility that friendship can be satisfied-politeness belongs to the early stages of acquaintance, and the courtesies that friendship asks are of a different kind. Friendship will ask for a soothing, kindly tenderness; and when trouble comes, will claim some demonstration of gentle charity, some drops of sacred pity; but the reserved man will not give them. Much else he may give, but not that; and if you attempt in such a sort to draw upon his sympathies, your bill will be dishonoured.

As

His atmosphere is incapable of radiation: the heats of emotion may travel to his heart, but they will not flow back again; they will not pass out in either words or looks. lamps in sepulchres, they remain unseen; yet not, as those, useless. They will light the way to the act of sacrifice and self-denial; for the same man who is so much a miser in expression will be prodigal in action; will, with that noblest self-denial which denies its own existence, pour out his generous assistance. Let there be a definite, tangible good to give, and he will give it at any cost to himself. Devotion of time, of strength, of money, of thought; the sacrifice of his own pleasure, of his own comfort, his own desiresthe secret sacrifice-these things

may come from him in good measure, pressed down and shaken together and running over: he will shrink from no service but that of admitting an acknowledgment of his service. He is a friend in ambush.

In the moment of danger and anguish when you are about to be cut down, he starts from his hidingplace to your rescue. Your gratitude overflows, you fling yourself before him and pour it out; you lay at his feet the rich abundance of your love to have it kicked away. He will not stoop to pick it up; his glance is averted, and he turns his back upon you; disappearing again among those mists in which it is his pleasure to dwell, though for a moment he emerged from them, and stood in that clear light of affection which made him look so radiant.

But if it be his pleasure to shroud himself again, why should you complain? What just grievance have you? Is the very nobleness of his nature to serve as a plea against him? Because he has made one sacrifice are you to claim another? Do you give him your love and then exact a penalty in return, calling upon him to give up in exchange his dear impenetrability? Should affection be a matter of barter ?

Should you not rather check for him the fulness of your own utterance, and do homage to his virtue by your self-restraint?

229

There are certain crystals which contain within them a hidden fire. Cold and silent for long, long centuries they may remain, but if you subject them to the action of heat they will gleam with a quick light -and every particle will show like a glow-worm in the night. The fire within them is only elicited at a raised temperature; they must be warmed into life. So it is with some hearts. Their vitality is only to be recognised under the influence of a sudden glow-to be recognised only so, at least, by the general eye; but to the skilled and delicate observer, the symptoms of that vitality are to be detected even in their normal condition. The philosopher understands the secret sign, and through the subtle structure he discerns the mystery of that complex nature. He discerns it with a deep and loving wonder.

It is remarkable how the impulsive nature will cling to the controlled, how the eager and flowing will do homage to the superiority of a compressed calm.

Shakspeare's Horatio is an essentially reserved man, cool and constant in exterior-a man of few words. Hamlet, impulsive, eager, swayed by contending passions, amazed with doubts, and thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls, turns to him with trust, feels a security in his repose, a dependence on his quiet judgment.

of his sensibility are disclosed-the affections rise in revolt against the despotic rule-the emotions defy the master hand, and the man, distracted, clutches at the poisoned cup.

Hamlet arrests him :

To tell my story.