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picture of the "Release." The story is this: A wife, with her child in her arms, comes to the prison with a warrant for the release of her condemned husband. There is a dog and a jailerthe one playing the only really sentimental part in the picture, and the other the hard and unsentimental. Now, what would you imagine the woman's feelings to be on such an occasion, and how would she show them? Were you to order the subject, what directions, if you chose a painter that required any, would you give? You would say, Let her face be pale, as of one who had been long watching in weary sadness-let the joy even be tearful in the eye and quivering in the mouth. Let the thought of the jailer be altogether out of her mind; let her have a look of sadness habitual, and transport and joy breaking into it; and let her be lovely, tender, and such a one as would make the release to the man a happiness indeed. I am sorry to tell you, that if you had given such directions to Mr Millais, and this picture had been the result, you would woefully have wasted your breath and your sentiment. Her face, instead of being lovely, is plain to a degree; and if it be true that he had a certain model, this is really inexcusable, and is a proof that Mr Millais has no perception of beauty whatever. Indeed, Mr Ruskin in one passage inconsistently enough allows this, and yet makes the beauty of nature to be the field of his labours. The face, far from pale, is blotched with red, and the shadows stippled in with bilious brownish green. Instead of the eye dimmed even with a tear, it looks defiance, as if she had contested at some previous time the matter with the jailer, and looks a triumph, as much as to say, "I've won, and so pay me." Instead of tenderness, she is the hardest looking creature you can imagine. Her under lip-and both are as red as peonies-is thrust out to a very disagreeable expression. You would doubt before you would accept a certificate of her belonging to a temperance society. As to grace in her figure, you may not know that it is feminine, it is so huddled up in her clothes, and shapeless. The hand and arm which presents the warrant, of course is meant to be on the other side of

her husband: at first sight it seems to go through him; it does not look as if it went round him. There is not much to say of the child; but the cognoscenti in pre-Raphaelitism are taken wonderfully with its legs, which are life-like enough at a little distance; but the laborious stipple execution in them is painful. So is the work upon the dog, who is rather an awkward animal, and strangely sticks upright upon the canvass, like a blue-bottle perpendicular upon a window. If he was more substantial, you might expect him to fall back. Then there is the husband: It appears that he has been wounded-a Scot-probably a rebel-not the worse subject for a picture on that account now. He leans his head upon his wife's bosom, and unfortunately shows only the most unheroic portion of the human facethe jaw; as does also the jailer, and with him it is not amiss. But it is wrong so to exhibit the released man. The painter should have considered that he should be shown worthy a reprieve-that he was, after all, a fine manly fellow. As it is, you have little sympathy for him or with him. And a friend of ours said aloud, "I would rather remain in prison all my life, or even be hanged, than go out of prison to live with that woman; and for aught I know, the man thinks so, for you do not know that he thinks anything else; and that is a defect in his portraiture." The best painting is the soldier-jailer. There is a natural look about him, and that indifferent air which might have been a foil to sentiment, if there had been any elsewhere. There is one characteristic in these pre-Raphaelite pictures that people talk a great deal about, and it should seem because in oil-painting it is a novelty-the stipple miniature execution. To my eye it is perfectly disagreeable. It is called high finish—and miscalled. Neither Raphaelites nor pre-Raphaelites so painted. You would doubt, in looking into the work, if it be oil-painting at all. It looks like streaky, stipply, gum-painting. There is no vigour of execution, no power in it-all weak and laboured.

This artist has no proper conception of a story. There is the other picture, the "Cavalier," in the hollow of a tree

-in a most unheroic position-in a terrible fright-receiving a loaf of bread, as I suppose it to be-and with such a hand! A woman is giving him this relief-in appearance a Puritan. The accessories are said to be wondrously painted. Iexpected, therefore, to see true substantial drawing. The fern, I hear, has put some people into ecstasies; but I, who have really studied fern, did not know what it was. There is certainly a light sunshine in this part of the picture, but it is given at a sacrifice of other more important truth-the truth of drawing, and the proper substance of the things meant -and is most disagreeably gummy and gambougy. As to the tree and the ground under it, there is work enough there; but whether it represents bark of a tree, stones, dried sticks and leaves, or copper chips, I, for one, cannot tell. These things would be of minor importance if they had not the pretence of superlative truth. The best part of the painting is the woman's gown, because it is broad, and has more solid fair paint on it. Nor should I quarrel with her expression of countenance; but it would have been as well if she had used a face-lotion, to have got rid of those yellow and brown little stipples, that some bilious people have in reality, and that the pre-Raphaelites love to perpetuate in pictures. That the man in the hollow of the tree should have them, and pretty strongly marked, is quite agreeable to his position, and the sad terror he is in; but I do protest, in the name of the lovers of historical truth, against giving the good old cavaliers any such frightened character. That they knew what is the better part of valour, was consistent with their sense and their cause; but if any one did hide in the hollow of a tree, I am quite sure he never looked like that man. Even O'Brien very properly protested against being represented as hid behind a cabbage. A hero, with out-staring eyes, and like a rat in a hole, is sadly unheroised. The fellow looks as if he should rather be hunted out by terriers, than by a troop even of Puritan soldiers. Who would not, if he saw the terriers on the spot, bid 'em in, and turn out the caitiff? Would you not rather see the too great hardiness of a man, that

should make him step out with the dignity of a man, and say, "Here I am, do your worst," than the portrayed cowardice of a two-legged vermin in a hole? Ajax, in the Iliad, would not endure a cloud between him and death. —" Εν δε φαει και ολέσσον."Kill me, but let it be in the face of day." Raphaelites and pre-Raphaelites never forgot that men were men, and should be represented with proper manly actions, and not creeping, through fear, like reptiles, into holes. The sentiment of this picture is vile. It is so ultra-peaceable, that it ought to make the Peace Society ashamed, and take up the cudgels against it. Even Broadbrim, though a Quaker," would admit that there are circumstances under which "A man's a man for a' that." If the Fine Arts will set up their "Chamber of Horrors," for the credit of humanity I would have this picture exposed, in terrorem, to all future painters of such patches of history.

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Mr Ruskin not only admires, nay lauds to the skies, to his "cirri" of the skies, and far above them, these pre-Raphaelite gentlemen, for their "singular success in certain characters (a little ambiguous) and finish of detail," but also for their "brilliancy of colour." People have such different notions of brilliancy in colour, that it would not be surprising if Mr Ruskin should write a book to direct oculists how to reform, or somehow to sophisticate people's eyes, after the model of his own. An admirer of this school, and of the Graduate's writings, and who dabbles in art, said to me the other day, "Do come and look at my picture, and see if I haven't put light into it. I shall put more yet." A few days after, I met him, and asked him if he had succeeded in putting more light into it. "That I have," said he; "come and look at it; it will quite put your eyes out with the light in it now." Having no fancy for the operation, I waited for a very dull day. I think the Graduate would have been delighted with it, for it out-faced the sun, and took the shine out of the "rainbow" which Mr Ruskin saw upon Mr Turner's head, when he was pleased to fancy him to be the "Angel of the Apocalypse." You, and I, with our foolish post-Raphaelite prejudices,

like best that brilliancy of colour which is not all in a blaze-such a sober brilliancy as Titian loved. You would rather look at a precious stone in the shade, than with the hot sun directly upon it, to take away both its wondrous depth and its colour. I am certain you will not apply to the Graduate, as the sole and patent vendor of "Turner's cerate," or salve, to have your eyes rubbed therewith. You and I have walked over breezy downs with such eyes in our heads as nature gave us, and as she kindly gives to most people; but we never yet saw prismatic sheep, with blue-shaded faces bordered by pink, and the rainbow yellows, and the tops of their backs whitened with hair-powder. We never did, and I hope we never shall; for if ever it should happen, it would be best to apply to an oculist, for there must be something wrong. These sheep in Mr Hunt's picture in the Exhibition must be the sheep which "little Bo-Peep" lost; and are represented just in that condition in which it "made her heart bleed to find 'em." The colour in this picture is disagreeable throughout; it has no atmosphere. The grouping is unpleasant. The sheep's legs must have been drawn from the wire-legged models which are carried about the streets covered with real wool, and sold as playthings for children. And this is a specimen of pre-Raphaelite truth. If the price spoken of by everybody was really given for this, never were sheep sold in a better market. There is, however, a cholera-blue about them which indicates very bad mutton. The best of these pre-Raphaelite performances, in spite of some vulgarity in the character of Claudio, is the scene taken from "Measure for Measure," between Claudio and Isabella. The intensity of thought in Claudio is well expressed; and there is some dignity in Isabella, but her countenance suffers by being placed so near to the light. This picture makes the faults of the other appear wilful, and done in perverse defiance of the common truth of nature.

If any think these critical remarks upon the pre-Raphaelite school too severe, let them first consider if they be unjust. For, not doubting that the young men who have been instigated

to set up, or persist in trying to establish this their false, and, as I think, presuming school, are men of ability, and have perceptions of many truths of nature, I think it no unkindness, but, on the contrary, a true kindness, to show them, even by censure-which they may not like at the time-that they are making sad mistakes; that they mistell a story; that they are wrong in discarding beauty, and too often, in so doing, do not reach sentiment. That they may engage in the end a more safe public regard, I do not doubt; and therefore I strongly warn them, and remind them, that when the world is pleased with novelties and eccentricities, those who provide for such tastes are in the most danger of being discarded, and then are apt to meet with the treatment so well described by Lucian in his "Private Tutor;" and as criticism of this kind has been ascribed to malice, let them not scorn what is here said upon any suspicion of the kindfor I assure them that I know nothing whatever of them but through their works; but I grieve to see power misdirected, and in danger of being ruined by a gross and ignorant flattery.

My dear post-Raphaelite friend, it does not fall in with the answers you require to your questions, that I should in detail criticise the Exhibition. You would rather know something about the state of art and the public taste in this annus mirabilis. But I would say generally, that the Exhibition is not quite so good as usual. And I do protest seriously against such pictures as Landseer delights to paint. Mostly subjects of cruelty, what man that loves, as we all ought to love, all creatures that are not noxious, can take delight in such pictures as Landseer's Night and Morning scenes? In the first, two stags are fighting by moonlight, their horns interlocked; in the other, the morning breaks upon them, lying dead; and to render the scene more disagreeable, a fox and an eagle scent them. I suppose the pictures are unfinished, for it is difficult to say if the ground be sod or sponge; besides, excepting in the fox, there is a manifest want of finish. If the pictures are to be painted on, I think it would be as well if Landseer should consider

whether morning is ever of a greenish blue, or the summits of the mountains pink. It may be true of evening (and then, if true, the colours do not agreeare not pleasant); but I cannot think it true of morning.

I know not why, but there seems to be an academical enmity towards Sir C. Eastlake. Some criticisms upon his picture of Ruth at the feet of Boaz are most unjust. It is conceived with that artist's usual propriety, excepting the figure of Ruth. I could wish he would alter her position. Her face is of a beautiful innocence, but there is in it a little too much of the modern school-girl. The fixed look of Boaz, as of one receiving into his mind an intuition of a history to come, is very admirable; and this character is well sustained by the grandeur in the simplicity and largeness of the background, and the poetic colouring which envelopes it in a dream-like mystery, so suitable to the intention of the subject.

Every one is admiring a picture by Mr Sant, but no one can find it by its title "The Child Samuel." It is a very sweet picture of a child awake and rising from his bed, but it is not at all of that historical character such a subject should require. I will say no more about the Exhibition, but that I could wish the Hanging Committee would consider the cruelty of hanging small pictures out of sight. If they are not worthy to be seen, reject them; but it is really cruel to sacrifice either artists or amateurs to display, and to the merely furnishing the walls with gilt frames. I hope to live to see galleries built, in which pictures will be considered more than rooms. Fashion injures artists enough by throwing all its extravagance of patronage into a few hands; and I do not think the fine arts are at all advanced by the outrageous sums given for really unimportant and mediocre works, provided they be by certain painters; but this contemptuous hanging system is adding insult to injury, and deteriorates the character of the Academy Exhibition.

I have said enough to show you the difficulty of the task you impose upon me, to tell you what the public taste is. Lovers and patrons of art fall into classes, and all must have cater

ers. There is the refined, the educated taste, and the over-refined taste; and the people's privilege of being vulgar must not be overlooked. There are persons who will have a low, bad taste, if only to exercise that privilege, and to defy the better. Such are not contented with the Fine Arts they will have them extra fine.

There is a class of collectors who love pictures by their genealogies. The works they seek must have a history attached to them, and a mere accident will bring in a fashion for a school. There has been a demand of late years for Spanish pictures. Murillos must be had at any price. I attended the auction of Louis Philippe's Spanish pictures, and I confess to you that I was perfectly astonished at the sums given for very dingy performances professing to be religious, without any religious sentiment. Saints, whom not a purchaser would ever pray to, and saintesses, whom it is next to impossible to worship, are surprisingly up in the market. I was really like one in a dream. Can it be . possible, I said to myself, that I have been all these years studying art, and believing I knew something of its principles; and here I am, and would not give five shillings for that canvass which they say is from Murillo's easel? but to my eye is a dingy brown-andgrey, half-rubbed-out picture, without one touch of tenderness or of any sentiment, and which represents vulgarity; and if I saw it at a broker's shop, would not dream of purchasing at any price: and yet, making some such remark as this to one who knew the market, I was quietly told, "All you say may be very true, but that picture will fetch six or seven hundred pounds." The information was correct. Many I saw sold at very high prices, which I would not have accepted as a gift. Now, I wish you to tell me, my post-Raphaelite friend, what is the meaning of this? Whence this wondrous diversity of opinion?-nay, of feeling? Am I dead to merits? Or does fashion, fancy, or absurdity, invent merits which the painter never conceived? Do not think I am insincere when I tell you that I doubted myself; I was in a condition to be shocked either at my own or other people's ignorance, and I had not yet

graduated in impudence. It is true I did recover myself, after much questioning. I do think I know something about the matter; and there let it rest between myself and purchasers.

It so happened, that after quitting this public auction, I visited a collection of quite another character; it was like stepping out of the cloister into that which is supposed to be the antipodes to a cloister. Far from the dinginess I had left, all was brightnay, gaudy. The pictures were of the modern school, and of that meretricious character that has been, I think, too much in vogue of late years. If I objected to any, the ready answer was, they are allegorical; they were, in fact, academy figures allegorised, by way of excuse for indecencies. Not that I am puritanising away the admiration-nay, love of beauty-or I should publicly condemn the finest statues in the world; but I cannot bear to see beauty-especially female beauty, which ought to be pure and sacreddegraded, and set up, under the false name of an allegory, or under any other pretence, as a mark for ribald words, or for the indulgence of ribald thoughts.

They say the Fine Arts are now to be the national care. It should seem that there are many bundles of taste which it will be as well to burn. But who are to form the burning and who the preserving committees? The world goes on admiring and hating, rejecting and purchasing, after a very contradictory fashion. As if to return to the point whence I set out, there ought to be no disputing about taste. And is there, then, really no standard of taste in nature? It would be strange indeed if there were not. What if it should resolve itself into the question, Is there a standard in morals? How comes there to be such diversity of opinions?-how is it that reasonable creatures do not think alike? speak alike? nay, feel alike? Are all moral, good, and virtuous alike? Hinc lachrymæ rerum. He who corrupted the moral nature, with it corrupted the judgment, the reason. There must be a standard of taste; but how are we to

get it? The foundation of taste lies deep, but, if dug for, it may be found. I doubt not it lies in that truth, visible or less visible according to human progress towards perfection; and from whence arise in their proper beauty poetry, arts, and all the virtues-the morals of life. They all have common principles. To discover and to apply them is the difficulty, and will ever be the difficulty; for however we may advance towards, we never shall reach perfection in this world.

Well, then, something may be ascertained-some grain of a great truthin these forbidden discussions about taste. Be not alarmed-you dread this unlimited field, far too wide for present working in of a weary labourer.

There is to be a general, a national patronage of the Fine Arts, and of every art. I hope the fostering will be judicious, and that no Academy will be Ruskinised into pre-Raphaelitism. There is no lack of ability, but let Artists be encouraged to have a little higher aim than they have been allowed to have, with a hope of success. Dogs and horses, deer, foxes, and cattle, and cocks and hens, are very well in their way; but let them not run away with the capital prize of Art, especially if the painter can do better things; and I wish from my heart that cruelty in painting, as in life, could legally come under the cognisance of the society established for its suppression;-and the society for the suppression of vice, as I have shown, might have a little wholesome exercise of their calling.

Well, my post-Raphaelite friend, I have said my say, and, possibly, not in too flattering a humour. Do you solve my difficulty. Am I" Ignoramus," or must another wear the fool's cap? There are many, possibly, who can look farther into a millstone than you or I; but a man may exist, of such wonderful gift of sight and intellect, as to see so very far into a stone as to lose sight of it altogether, and never come out of the depth of its darkness.

Yours ever,

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