composition. A great portion of the picture is occupied with a poor, reedy, scrambling kind of─I know not what to call it, for it is not underwoodstock stuff, by way of stem and foliage for a bank-that agrees with nothing, unless it be with the vulgarity of the women washing their shifts. The majesty of woodland-that "severi religio loci"-had less power over him; he loved not to commune with "th' unseen genius of the wood."

"Towers and cities pleased him then,
And the busy hum of men."

I throw no blame upon him that he made his choice where his feeling lay; but do not let any run away with the notion that he alone painted everything. "Every landscape-painter before him had acquired distinction by confining his efforts to one class of subject. Hobbima painted oaks; Ruysdael, waterfalls and copses; Cuyp, river or meadow scenes, in quiet afternoons; Salvator and Poussin, such kind of mountain scenery as people could conceive who had lived in towns in the seventeenth century. But I am well persuaded that if all the works of Turner, up to the year 1820, were divided into classes (as he has himself divided them in the Liber Studiorum), no preponderance could be assigned to one class over another." If this means anything, it is this, that in their respective efforts, Turner successfully vied with all the above named, and immeasureably distanced the two last. Nay, even the firstnamed also; for thus speaks the author of Modern Painters: "A single dusty roll of Turner's brush is more truly expressive of the infinity of foliage, than the niggling of Hobbima could have rendered his canvass if he had worked on it till doomsday."

I said that Turner was deficient in high poetic feeling. In all his attempts at this kind of painting, there is for the foundation, imitation, melo-dramatised by exaggeration, and offensive vulgarities in the minor parts. Shall I make out my case by an examination of the picture which it may be presumed he considered to be his most, or one of the most, important of his works for he has bequeathed it to the National Gallery, and required

for it a place between the Claudes? It is a picture, also, even as regards the detail of which Mr Ruskin has enlarged upon the painter's epic power. The subject, "The Building of Carthage." At first view this is a striking work. It has power; there is much atmospheric light in it—perhaps not quite perspectively true to the actual distances. But, not to be too critical as to its pictorial effect, pray sit before it; study it as a composition: you will see the main idea of it, as a composition of lines, is taken from its neighbouring Claudes, with an exaggeration of pile upon pile of buildings, instead of the better simplicity of the model. Then for the sea in Claude, you have a river; and such a river! But of that hereafter. There is the same position of the sun, and of the water beneath it, and, as usual, his dark tree on the right; whereas Claude concealed much of his within his architecture. But passing by this borrowing of the lines of his composition, pray, my post-Raphaelite friend, look at it, both as a whole, and in its parts, which are supposed to make up the poetic sentiment, and what will you see? It belies history, it mars all poetical thought-for you perceive that Queen Dido, far from taking advantage of her marine position, built her city upon either side of a ditcha positively dirty narrow ditch. That the architects had so little taste, that instead of bringing their masonry down flush with the water, they left bits of dirty, scruffy, refuse-growing rocks, interrupting the masonry, and rendering more conspicuous, as they are also characteristic of, the city sewerage. The very leafage about these portions looks offensive, and Carthage is built on and piled up from this ditch. You learn also that the climate was of that dirty white fog which engenders fever, and such as would rather become a description of Sierra Leone, than Carthage, the rival of Rome. The air is of a pestilential heat-not an inch of pleasant azure to be seen; and in this he forgot Claude. But the pile upon pile, mounting to the very top of the canvass-if the day be hot-will pain you to contemplate how people are to reach such very high "frying-pan rows." There is not a pleasant level anywhere,

either for garden recreation, or for quays of commerce. The Carthaginians clung to their ditch. It must have been quite terrible to encounter, without possibility of escape, that fever sky, in that fever-breeding ditch. One-half of the city was cut off from communicating with the other; for although there is a bridge, it must have been scorching to cross it-and there was no electric telegraph in those days. As to horses and carriages, how could they, and where could they ascend? Did the painter wish to insinuate a new version of the tale of Queen Dido, that she committed suicide simply because the perfidious Trojan did not remove her from such a detestable spot? The "Infelix Dido," left in such a "ditchdelivered" Carthage! But the epic! It is an epic incident. It is a thought -and such a thought-as Mr Ruskin has thus described: "Such a thought as this is something far above all art; it is epic poetry of the highest order." Of course this grand thought ought to reconcile you to those few and otherwise main defects, which I venture, only for the sake of truth in criticism, to show. It is a thought-to tell you at a glance what is not, but what is to be-that fleet which, like the Armada, was invisible, and for the same reason. It is a thought pregnant with prophecy,

The

"Big with the fate (of Carthage or) of Rome." It is an incident which the Graduate pronounces "exquisite choice of incident, expressive of the ruling passion"- Of what? Boat-building — nothing more or less. If this be the bathos in the epic art, let your imagination rise out of the boat-building sewer ditch, if it can, to picture the maritime power of Carthage. incident is a boy sailing his paper boat. Now, my good friend, do you not think an epic incident of a much higher flight would have told as well, and one that may for a moment soar out of this pestilent ditch? And I will offer it, now I think of it, to Messrs So and So, the imitators, who love the sun in the middle of a foggy sky-and cities on each side of a river-and the tree, for variety's sake, on the left, instead of the right, to look like originality;

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-I will, I say, tell this great secret epic thought of higher aim than the boy and his paper-boat- and more expressive of that peculiar commercial greatness, which Carthage or any other city may be supposed to have reached, simply by the "flying of kites," a boy flying his kite. Messrs Pre-Raphaelites, adopt it, and you will have an essay upon your high and sublime epic from the pen of the graduate Ruskin, in which your fame will float and shine for ever in the "palpitating" light of a Chrysophrase" glory. Nevertheless, let me say, I do think the Graduate has been rather severe upon the leather trunks of Claude, which I humbly conceive to be as good an incident, as by their apparent weight they may have contained some such hundred and forty pounds' weight of nuggets as have been so packed from our Australia. The trunk may have contained the "Pygmalionis opes." I fear the author likes no wealth that comes not from the Turner diggings. Now, the fault I find with Mr Turner's works (and I admit his great ability, at least at one period, and a certain skill at all times) is, that he is ever repeating this one idea, for which he was originally, without doubt, indebted to Claude. Pray walk to Marlborough House, to the Vernon Collection; you will see there Turner's "Golden Bough"-a pallid white picture-almost ghost-like seen at a little distance, it is so faint: see it at such distance, for the study of the composition. There is the same sky, the same middle space beneath it-the mounting up each side-the particular tree on the right; and, as a whole, the picture is chalky and colourless. I would entreat Messrs - whom I will not name - not to imagine they can disguise an imitation, or a theft, simply by changing sides; for it really matters very little on which side the peculiar tree breaks the rising hill, nor on which side the guitarplayer is placed. Mr Turner was an eccentric man: some of his eccentricities of character are visible in his works. It would have been an agreeable task to have been able to say all pleasant things about his works, now that he is no more; but I do not acknowledge that such an event as the

what chemical preparation may be most safe. I would venture to say also, with all deference to the profession, that individual artists, be they Royal Academicians or not, are rarely the best judges as to methods of cleaning pictures of the old masters. Few of them have been able to devote their time to examine either the mode in which pictures were painted, or the vehicles used. But a competent knowledge on this point is very needful, before undertaking the cleaning and repairing of pictures. Some able and learned men have written much upon the subject:-in France, Merimée, De Burtin, and others; Sir C. Eastlake's researches will certainly give valuable information. But there is another objection to leaving the cleaning the pictures to the decision and judgment of any artist. It is well to ask what has been his own practice. Some painters glaze much, some scarcely at all. Now those who are of the latter practice are not likely to have a correct eye to discover all the glazings, and the positive drawings, made out by semi-transparent glazings, in many of the pictures of the old masters. Those who are accustomed to the use of oil alone, will not easily see the partly distemper-methods of the Venetian painters, whose pictures, when the varnish is removed, it is not very safe to wash. Then if the superintending artist be addicted to vivid, strong, and unmixed colours, the bluest blue, the brightest red, and crudest yellow-his eye is not likely to discover the niceties of those mixed colours whose compound hues have no name, and for whose beauty, by habit, he has little perception. Thus in cleaning a Claude, he will of course think, when he has come down to the raw colours, that he has brought the work to its primitive condition, and its best. To one who will examine with care, and without bias to any practice, it will not be very difficult to see, in the pictures of Claude, that much of the work was done, not by solid, but semi-transparent painting, and that over a previously solid working; for Claude did not, as Poussin and other Italian painters, leave his original ground to be seen, and he went over and over his picture till he brought it into a fine mellow tone, and

atmosphere, and brilliancy, and harmony-not the brilliancy of crude, positive colouring, but the brilliancy acquired by the process I have mentioned.

There is another thing I wish to say, while I am upon this subject: Ought there to be a necessity of entirely removing varnish? I think not, if pictures are properly varnished. The surface may be well washed-it will without doubt, especially in the atmosphere of a national gallery, acquire dirt; but it may be tolerably clean under, and this upper surface of the varnish may be very safely removed without coming near the paint. There are many methods of removal practised-friction with the finger, and solvents; but I conceive the safest to be one which, on first hearing of it, may frighten the connoisseur-nevertheless, it is the safest. A handful of common kitchen sand, thrown over the picture, and delicately rubbed over the surface-not dry, but with a good quantity of water-will remove so much of the varnish as it may be advisable to remove, and clean all. I have said delicately, rather for the sake of the fears of the reader, than from a necessity of the case; for even with pictures newly painted, and what is called tacky, the sand so used will be found not to touch the paint. And I say common kitchen sand; because some persons may suppose that, the finer the sand, the less chance of injury. But it is quite the reverse. The finest sand may be a flint sand, and may cut like diamond dust. The common red and yellow sand is soft, and will do no harm. And here I would throw out a hint for "modern painters," not to be found in the flattering volumes with that title. Oil, like port-wine, throws off-I will call it-its crust. A picture painted to-day, will a few days hence be greasy from this cause. Sand and water, as I have recommended its use, will at once remove this bad quality of the oil; but a few days after, exudation again takes place, and it is a long time before all the foul part of the oil is discharged, so that continual sanding with water, as described, may be required. But when after a lapse of time, upon applying a sponge with water, the surface is no longer greasy, the picture

may be varnished with safety, and will, I believe, never change afterwards, at least from any effect of the oil. And if this be strictly true, as from many years' experience I believe it to be, it follows that painters may be less afraid of oil than they are; and oil, if unchanging, certainly tends to enriching the picture. And even with a newly painted picture, if this practice be taken up, the artist will be quite surprised at the purity of the surface of his picture-the ungreasiness, to coin a word. For, in fact, by this constant removal, you do what time does, and what time has done, with those old works, which look so very different from the newly painted, from this cause alone. I hope these remarks will induce both artists, and those who have the care of pictures, to make trial of the method recommended. It may tend to the preservation of all pictures.

It is, however, time, my good friend, not forgetting that you are a postRaphaelite, and a Raphaelite too, to leave the National Gallery, which has given rise to the above thoughts, to the mercy of Mr Seguier's famous recipe-which, if it saves the pictures from chilling, is enough to make taste and genius shudder. Methinks I see aspirants for fame, looking one day to hang their shields in this temple of the Fine Arts. It is a bold thing for any living to approach the gates with such a desire. Thin-skinned or thickskinned, they will be sure to be flayed sooner or later. Mr Uwins and his men stand above the portcullis, with their boiled oil, ready to be poured upon the heads of all who attempt an entrance. And there I must be content to let them stand for the present; while one of Mr Ruskin's Lamps is suspended in another gallery, illuminating the public path that leads to it, and commanding all people to come and fall down before it and worship. That lamp, as you have seen by the quotation from Mr Ruskin's "PreRaphaelitism," is Joseph Everett Millais. There is the authority of Mr Ruskin that Mr Millais and his school call themselves pre-Raphaelite. The assumption of a title, and such a title, provokes criticism. I do not see why they, or their promoter, advocate, and defender should ascribe, with astonish

ing impudence-because their nonsensical dicta, by word or by paint, are not received by all-to malice the criticisms which they seek. They affect thereby to show the world what painting should be. Their chief advocate pours his contempt upon all the usual "idiot Londoners are doing, or causing to be done, and then with an affected eccentricity takes you, not to any picture of the new school, but to look at something quite different, and what probably few have beheld; and that as a drop-scene to the ridiculously mock-sentimental of really idiotic fine writing, which bids you break every fibre of your heart. Nay, if you doubt, you post-Raphaelite, read. Here it is-speaking of subjects-" Or mountain sceneries, with young idiots of Londoners, wearing Highland bonnets and brandishing rifles, in the foregrounds. Do but think of these things in the breadth of their inexpressible imbecility, and then go and stand before that broken bas-relief in the southern gate of Lincoln Cathedral, and see if there is no fibre in the heart in you that will break too." Now, any young Londoner would be guilty of inexpressible imbecility indeed, and something more, that should choose there and then to stand (if he could) and cut through his waistcoat into his heart, to look for his fibres, and only to break them. This is really "inexpressible imbecility." The man who writes about breaking his heart or his fibres over a work of art, has no heart to break about the matter. Shall we ever see a donkey break the fibres of his heart with his own braying? No one will give him credit for caring one farthing for the said bas-relief. He only wishes you to picture him standing there, for the notoriety of it. This is not the heart of a man, but fullbudded vanity bursting into expanded nonsense. Yet this is the self-constituted arbiter elegantiarum, who has too long had listeners or readers-writes bombastical confusion on what he knows nothing about, and misleads people by the ears. But, my postRaphaelite, I lend you my eyes, for a few minutes, while I attempt to describe what I see-the wonder of wonders to those led admirers who think not and feel not, Mr Millais's