Kitabı oku: «Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 331, May, 1843», sayfa 6

CHAPTER IX

Colonel Verkhóffsky, engaged in reducing to submission the rebellious Daghestánetzes, was encamped with his regiment at the village of Kiáfir-Kaúmik. The tent of Ammalát Bek was erected next to his own, and in it Saphir-Ali, lazily stretched on the carpet, was drinking the wine of the Don, notwithstanding the prohibition of the Prophet. Ammalát Bek, thin, pale, and pensive, was resting his head against the tent-pole, smoking a pipe. Three months had passed since the time when he was banished from his paradise; and he was now roving with a detachment, within sight of the mountains to which his heart flew, but whither his foot durst not step. Grief had worn out his strength; vexation had poured its vial on his once serene character. He had dragged a sacrifice to his attachment to the Russians, and it seemed as if he reproached every Russian with it. Discontent was visible in every word, in every glance.

"A fine thing wine!" said Saphir Ali, carefully wiping the glasses; "surely Mahomet must have met with sour dregs in Aravéte, when he forbade the juice of the grape to true believers! Why, really these drops are as sweet as if the angels themselves, in their joy, had wept their tears into bottles. Ho! quaff another glass, Ammalát; your heart will float on the wine more lightly than a bubble. Do you know what Hafiz has sung about it?"

"And do you know? Pray, do not annoy me with your prate, Saphir Ali: not even under the name of Sadi and Hafiz."

"Why, what harm is there? If even this prate is my own, it is not an earring: it will not remain hanging in your ear. When you begin your story about your goddess Seltanetta, I look at you as at the juggler, who eats fire, and winds endless ribbons from his cheeks. Love makes you talk nonsense, and the Donskoi (wine of the Don) makes me do the same. So we are quits. Now, then, to the health of the Russians!"

"What has made you like the Russians?"

"Say rather—why have you ceased to love them?"

"Because I have examined them nearer. Really they are no better than our Tartars. They are just as eager for profit, just as ready to blame others, and not with a view of improving their fellow-creatures, but to excuse themselves: and as to their laziness—don't let us speak of it. They have ruled here for a long time, and what good have they done; what firm laws have they established; what useful customs have they introduced; what have they taught us; what have they created here, or what have they constructed worthy of notice? Verkhóffsky has opened my eyes to the faults of my countrymen, but at the same time to the defects of the Russians, to whom it is more unpardonable; because they know what is right, have grown up among good examples, and here, as if they have forgotten their mission, and their active nature, they sink, little by little, into the insignificance of the beasts."

"I hope you do not include Verkhóffsky in this number."

"Not he alone, but some others, deserve to be placed in a separate circle. But then, are there many such?"

"Even the angels in heaven are numbered, Ammalát Bek: and Verkhóffsky absolutely is a man for whose justice and kindness we ought to thank heaven. Is there a single Tartar who can speak ill of him? Is there a soldier who would not give his soul for him? Abdul-Hamet, more wine! Now then, to the health of Verkhóffsky!"

"Spare me! I will not drink to Mahomet himself."

"If your heart is not as black as the eyes of Seltanetta, you will drink, even were it in the presence of the red-bearded Yakhoúnts of the Shakhéeds⁹ of Derbént: even if all the Imáms and Shieks not only licked their lips but bit their nails out of spite to you for such a sacrilege."

"I will not drink, I tell you."

"Hark ye, Ammalát: I am ready to let the devil get drunk on my blood for your sake, and you won't drink a glass of wine for mine."

"That is to say, that I will not drink because I do not wish—and I don't wish, because even without wine my blood boils in me like fermenting boozá."

"A bad excuse! It is not the first time that we have drunk, nor the first time that our blood boils. Speak plainly at once: you are angry with the Colonel."

"Very angry."

"May I know for what?"

"For much. For some time past he has begun to drop poison into the honey of his friendship: and at last these drops have filled and overflowed the cup. I cannot bear such lukewarm friends! He is liberal with his advice, not sparing with his lectures; that is, in every thing that costs him neither risk nor trouble."

"I understand, I understand! I suppose he would not let you go to Avár!"

"If you bore my heart in your bosom you would understand how I felt when I received such a refusal. He lured me on with that hope, and then all at once repulsed my most earnest prayer—dashed into dust, like a crystal kalián, my fondest hopes.... Akhmet Khan was surely softened, when he sent word that he wished to see me; and I cannot fly to him, or hurry to Seltanetta."

"Put yourself, brother, in his place, and then say whether you yourself would not have acted in the same way."

"No, not so! I should have said plainly from the very beginning, 'Ammalát, do not expect any help from me.' I even now ask him not for help. I only beg him not to hinder me. Yet no! He, hiding from me the sun of all my joy, assures me that he does this from interest in me—that this will hereafter bring me fortune. Is not this a fine anodyne?"

"No, my friend! If this is really the case, the sleeping-draught is given to you as to a person on whom they wish to perform an operation. You are thinking only of your love, and Verkhóffsky has to keep your honour and his own without spot; and you are both surrounded by ill-wishers. Believe me, either thus or otherwise, it is he alone who can cure you."

"Who asks him to cure me? This divine malady of love is my only joy: and to deprive me of it is to tear out my heart, because it cannot beat at the sound of a drum!"——

At this moment a strange Tartar entered the tent, looked suspiciously round, and bending down his head, laid his slippers before Ammalát—according to Asiatic custom, this signified that he requested a private conversation. Ammalát understood him, made a sign with his head, and both went out into the open air. The night was dark, the fires were going out, and the chain of sentinels extended far before them. "Here we are alone," said Ammalát Bek to the Tartar: "who art thou, and what dost thou want?"

"My name is Samit: I am an inhabitant of Derbénd, of the sect of Souni: and now am at present serving in the detachment of Mussulman cavalry. My commission is of greater consequence to you than to me.... The eagle loves the mountains!"

Ammalát shuddered, and looked suspiciously at the messenger. This was a watchword, the key of which Sultan Akhmet had previously written to him. "How can he but love the mountains?" ... he replied; "In the mountains there are many lambs for the eagles, and much silver for men."

"And much steel for the valiant," (yigheeds.)

Ammalát grasped the messenger by the hand. "How is Sultan Akhmet Khan?" he enquired hurriedly: "What news bring you from him—how long is it since you have seen his family?"

"Not to answer, but to question, am I come.... Will you follow me?"

"Where? for what?"

"You know who has sent me. That is enough. If you trust not him, trust not me. Therein is your will and my advantage. Instead of running my head into a noose to-night, I can return to-morrow to the Khan, and tell him that Ammalát dares not leave the camp."

The Tartar gained his point: the touchy Ammalát took fire. "Saphir Ali!" he cried loudly.

Saphir Ali started up, and ran out of the tent.

"Order horses to be brought for yourself and me, even if unsaddled; and at the same time send word to the Colonel, that I have ridden out to examine the field behind the line, to see if some rascal is not stealing in between the sentries. My gun and shashka in a twinkling!"

The horses were led up, the Tartar leaped on his own, which was tied up not far off, and all three rode off to the chain. They gave the word and the countersign, and they passed by the videttes to the left, along the bank of the swift Azen.

Saphir Ali, who had very unwillingly left his bottle, grumbled about the darkness, the underwood, the ditches, and rode swearing by Ammalát's side; but seeing that nobody began the conversation, he resolved to commence it himself.

"My ashes fall on the head of this guide! The devil knows where he is leading us, and where he will take us. Perhaps he is going to sell us to the Lezghíns for a rich ransom. I never trust these squinting fellows!"

"I trust but little even to those who have straight eyes," answered Ammalát; "but this squinting fellow is sent from a friend: he will not betray us!"

"And the very first moment he thinks of any thing like it, at his first movement I will slice him through like a melon. Ho! friend," cried Saphir Ali, to the guide; "in the name of the king of the genii, it seems you have made a compact with the thorns to tear the embroidery from my tschoukhá. Could you not find a wider road? I am really neither a pheasant nor a fox."

The guide stopped. "To say the truth, I have led a delicate fellow like you too far!" he answered. "Stay here and take care of the horses, whilst Ammalát and I will go where it is necessary."

"Is it possible you will go into the woods with such a cut-throat looking rascal, without me?" whispered Saphir Ali to Ammalát.

"That is, you are afraid to remain here without me!" replied Ammalát, dismounting from his horse, and giving him the reins: "Do not annoy yourself, my dear fellow. I leave you in the agreeable society of wolves and jackals. Hark how they are singing!"

"Pray to God that I may not have to deliver your bones from these singers," said Saphir Ali. They separated. Samit led Ammalát among the bushes, over the river, and having passed about half a verst among stones, began to descend. At the risk of their necks they clambered along the rocks, clinging by the roots of the sweet-briar, and at length, after a difficult journey, descended into the narrow mouth of a small cavern parallel with the water. It had been excavated by the washing of the stream, erewhile rapid, but now dried up. Long stalactites of lime and crystal glittered in the light of a fire piled in the middle. In the back-ground lay Sultan Akhmet Khan on a boúrka, and seemed to be waiting patiently till Ammalát should recover himself amid the thick smoke which rolled in masses through the cave. A cocked gun lay across his knees; the tuft in his cap fluttered in the wind which blew from the crevices. He rose politely as Ammalát hurried to salute him.

"I am glad to see you," he said, pressing the hands of his guest; "and I do not hide the feeling which I ought not to cherish. However, it is not for an empty interview that I have put my foot into the trap, and troubled you: sit down, Ammalát, and let us speak about an important affair."

"To me, Sultan Akhmet Khan?"

"To us both. With your father I have eaten bread and salt. There was a time when I counted you likewise as my friend."

"But counted!"

"No! you were my friend, and would ever have remained so, if the deceiver, Verkhóffsky, had not stepped between us."

"Khan, you know him not."

"Not only I, but you yourself shall soon know him. But let us begin with what regards Seltanetta. You know she cannot ever remain unmarried. This would be a disgrace to my house: and let me tell you candidly, that she has already been demanded in marriage."

Ammalát's heart seemed torn asunder. For some time he could not recover himself. At length he tremblingly asked, "Who is this bold lover?"

"The second son of the Shamkhál, Abdoul Moússelin. Next after you, he has, from his high blood, the best right, of all our mountaineers, to Seltanetta's hand."

"Next to me—after me!" exclaimed the passionate Bek, boiling with anger: "Am I, then, buried? Is then my memory vanished among my friends?"

"Neither the memory, nor friendship itself is dead in my heart; but be just, Ammalát; as just as I am frank. Forget that you are the judge of your own cause, and decide what we are to do. You will not abandon the Russians, and I cannot make peace with them."

"Do but wish—do but speak the word, and all will be forgotten, all will be forgiven you. This I will answer for with my head, and with the honour of Verkhóffsky, who has more than once promised me his mediation. For your own good, for the welfare of Avár, for your daughter's happiness, for my bliss, I implore you, yield to peace, and all will be forgotten—all that once belonged to you will be restored."

"How boldly you answer, rash youth, for another's pardon, for another's life! Are you sure of your own life, your own liberty?"

"Who should desire my poor life? To whom should be dear the liberty which I do not prize myself?"

"To whom? Think you that the pillow does not move under the Shamkhál's head, when the thought rises in his brain, that you, the true heir of the Shamkhalát of Tarki, are in favour with the Russian Government?"

"I never reckoned on its friendship, nor feared its enmity."

"Fear it not, but do not despise it. Do you know that an express, sent from Tarki to Yermóloff, arrived a moment too late, to request him to show no mercy, but to execute you as a traitor? The Shamkhál was before ready to betray you with a kiss, if he could; but now, that you have sent back his blind daughter to him, he no longer conceals his hate."

"Who will dare to touch me, under Verkhóffsky's protection?"

"Hark ye, Ammalát; I will tell you a fable:—A sheep went into a kitchen to escape the wolves, and rejoiced in his luck, flattered by the caresses of the cooks. At the end of three days he was in the pot. Ammalát, this is your story. 'Tis time to open your eyes. The man whom you considered your first friend has been the first to betray you. You are surrounded, entangled by treachery. My chief motive in meeting you was my desire to warn you. When Seltanetta was asked in marriage, I was given to understand from the Shamkhál, that through him I could more readily make my peace with the Russians, than through the powerless Ammalát—that you would soon be removed in some way or other, and that there was nothing to be feared from your rivalry. I suspected still more, and learned more than I suspected. To-day I stopped the Shamkhál's noúker, to whom the negotiations with Verkhóffsky were entrusted, and extracted from him, by torture, that the Shamkhál offers a thousand ducats to get rid of you. Verkhóffsky hesitates, and wishes only to send you to Siberia for ever. The affair is not yet decided; but to-morrow the detachment retires to their quarters, and they have resolved to meet at your house in Bouináki, to bargain about your blood. They will forge denunciations and charges—they will poison you at your own table, and cover you with chains of iron, promising you mountains of gold." It was painful to see Ammalát during this dreadful speech. Every word, like red-hot iron, plunged into his heart; all within him that was noble, grand, or consoling, took fire at once, and turned into ashes. Every thing in which he had so long and so trustingly confided, fell to pieces, and shrivelled up in the flame of indignation. Several times he tried to speak, but the words died away in a sickly gasp; and at last the wild beast which Verkhóffsky had tamed, which Ammalát had lulled to sleep, burst from his chain: a flood of curses and menaces poured from the lips of the furious Bek. "Revenge, revenge!" he cried, "merciless revenge, and woe to the hypocrites!"

"This is the first word worthy of you," said the Khan, concealing the joy of success; "long enough have you crept like a serpent, laying your head under the feet of the Russians! 'Tis time to soar like an eagle to the clouds; to look down from on high upon the enemy who cannot reach you with their arrows. Repay treachery with treachery, death with death!"

"Then death and ruin be to the Shamkhál, the robber of my liberty; and ruin be to Abdoul Moússelin, who dared to stretch forth his hand to my treasure!"

"The Shamkhál? His son—his family? Are they worthy of your first exploits? They are all but little loved by the Tarkovétzes; and if we attack the Shamkhál, they will give up his whole family with their own hands. No, Ammalát, you must aim your first blow next to you; you must destroy your chief enemy; you must kill Verkhóffsky."

"Verkhóffsky!" exclaimed Ammalát, stepping back.... "Yes!.... he is my enemy; but he was my friend. He saved me from a shameful death.

"And has now sold you to a shameful life!.... A noble friend! And then you have yourself saved him from the tusks of the wild-boar—a death worthy of a swine-eater! The first debt is paid, the second remains due: for the destiny which he is so deceitfully preparing for you"....

"I feel ... this ought to be ... but what will good men say? What will my conscience say?"

"It is for a man to tremble before old women's tales, and before a whimpering child—conscience—when honour and revenge are at stake? I see Ammalát, that without me you will decide nothing; you will not even decide to marry Seltanetta. Listen to me. Would you be a son-in-law worthy of me, the first condition is Verkhóffsky's death. His head shall be a marriage-gift for your bride, whom you love, and who loves you. Not revenge only, but the plainest reasoning requires the death of the Colonel. Without him, all Daghestán will remain several days without a chief, and stupefied with horror. In this interval, we come flying upon the Russians who are dispersed in their quarters. I mount with twenty thousand Avarétzes and Akoushétzes: and we fall from the mountains like a cloud of snow upon Tarki. Then Ammalát, Shamkhál of Daghestán, will embrace me as his friend, as his father-in-law. These are my plans, this is your destiny. Choose which you please; either an eternal banishment, or a daring blow, which promises you power and happiness; but know, that next time we shall meet either as kinsmen, or as irreconcilable foes!"

The Khan disappeared. Long stood Ammalát, agitated, devoured by new and terrible feelings. At length Samit reminded him that it was time to return to the camp. Ignorant himself how and where he had found his way to the shore, he followed his mysterious guide, found his horse, and without answering a word to the thousand questions of Saphir Ali, rode up to his tent. There, all the tortures of the soul's hell awaited him. Heavy is the first night of sorrow, but still more terrible the first bloody thoughts of crime.

REYNOLDS'S DISCOURSES. CONCLUSION

We omit any notice of the other written works of Sir Joshua—his "Journey to Flanders and Holland," his Notes to Mason's verse translation of Du Fresnoy's Latin poem, "Art of Painting," and his contributions to the "Idler." The former is chiefly a notice of pictures, and of value to those who may visit the galleries where most of them may be found; and in some degree his remarks will attach a value to those dispersed; the best part of the "Journey," perhaps, is his critical discrimination of the style and genius of Rubens. The marrow of his Notes to Du Fresnoy's poem, and indeed of his papers in the "Idler," has been transferred to his Discourses, which, as they terminate his literary labours, contain all that he considered important in a discussion on taste and art. The notes to Du Fresnoy may, however, be consulted by the practical painter with advantage, as here and there some technical directions may be found, which, if of doubtful utility in practice, will at least demand thought and reasoning upon this not unimportant part of the art. To doubt is to reflect; judgment results, and from this, as a sure source, genius creates. There are likewise some memoranda useful to artists to be read in Northcote's "Life." The influence of these Discourses upon art in this country has been much less than might have been expected from so able an exposition of its principles. They breathe throughout an admiration of what is great, give a high aim to the student, and point to the path he should pursue to attain it: while it must be acknowledged our artists as a body have wandered in another direction. The Discourses speak to cultivated minds only. They will scarcely be available to those who have habituated their minds to lower views of art, and have, by a fascinating practice, acquired an inordinate love for its minor beauties. It is true their tendency is to teach, to cultivate: but in art there is too often as much to unlearn as to learn, and the unlearning is the more irksome task; prejudice, self-gratulation, have removed the humility which is the first step in the ladder of advancement. With the public at large, the Discourses have done more; and rather by the reflection from that improvement in the public taste, than from any direct appeal to artists, our exhibitions have gained somewhat in refinement. And if there is, perhaps, less vigour now, than in the time of Sir Joshua, Wilson, and Gainsborough, those fathers of the English School, we are less seldom disgusted with the coarseness, both of subject and manner, that prevailed in some of their contemporaries and immediate successors. In no branch of art is this improvement more shown than in scenes of familiar life—which meant, indeed "Low Life." Vulgarity has given place to a more "elegant familiar." This has necessarily brought into play a nicer attention to mechanical excellence, and indeed to all the minor beauties of the art. We almost fear too much has been done this way, because it has been too exclusively pursued, and led astray the public taste to rest satisfied with, and unadvisedly to require, the less important perfections. From that great style which it may be said it was the sole object of the Discourses to recommend, we are further off than ever. Even in portrait, there is far less of the historical, than Sir Joshua himself introduced into that department—an adoption which he has so ably defended by his arguments. But nothing can be more unlike the true historical, as defined in the precepts of art, than the modern representation of national (in that sense, historical) events. The precepts of the President have been unread or disregarded by the patronized historical painters of our day. It would seem to be thought a greater achievement to identify on canvass the millinery that is worn, than the characters of the wearers, silk stockings, and satins, and faces, are all of the same common aim of similitude; arrangement, attitude, and peculiarly inanimate expression, display of finery, with the actual robes, as generally announced in the advertisement, render such pictures counterparts, or perhaps inferior counterfeits to Mrs Jarley's wax-work. And, like the wax-work, they are paraded from town to town, to show the people how much the tailor and mantua-maker have to do in state affairs; and that the greatest of empires is governed by very ordinary-looking personages. Even the Venetian painters, called by way of distinction the "Ornamental School," deemed it necessary to avoid prettinesses and pettinesses, and by consummate skill in artistical arrangement in composition, in chiaro-scuro and colour, to give a certain greatness to the representations of their national events. There is not, whatever other faults they may have, this of poverty, in the public pictures of Venice; they are at least of a magnificent ambition: they are far removed from the littleness of a show. We are utterly gone out of the way of the first principles of art in our national historical pictures. Yet was the great historical the whole subject of the Discourses—it was to be the only worthy aim of the student. If the advice and precepts of Sir Joshua Reynolds have, then, been so entirely disregarded, it may be asked what benefit he has conferred upon the world by his Discourses. We answer, great. He has shown what should be the aim of art, and has therefore raised it in the estimation of the cultivated. His works are part of our standard literature; they are in the hands of readers, of scholars; they materially help in the formation of a taste by which literature is to be judged and relished. Even those who never acquire any very competent knowledge of, or love for pictures, do acquire a respect for art, connect it with classical poetry—the highest poetry, with Homer, with the Greek drama, with all they have read of the venerated works of Phidias, Praxiteles, and Apelles; and having no too nice discrimination, are credulous of, or anticipate by remembering what has been done and valued—the honour of the profession. We assert that, by bringing the precepts of art within the pale of our accepted literature, Sir Joshua Reynolds has given to art a better position. Would that there were no counteracting circumstances which still keep it from reaching its proper rank! Some there are, which materially degrade it, amongst which is the attempt to force patronage; the whole system of Art Unions, and of Schools of Design, the "in formâ pauperis" petitioning and advertising, and the rearing innumerable artists, ill-educated in all but drawing, and mere degrading still, the binding art, as it were, apprenticed to manufacture in such Schools of Design; connecting, in more than idea, the drawer of patterns with the painter of pictures. Hence has arisen, and must necessarily arise, an inundation of mediocrity, the aim of the painter being to reach some low-prize mark, an unnatural competition, inferior minds brought into the profession, a sort of painting-made-easy school, and pictures, like other articles of manufacture, cheap and bad. We should say decidedly, that the best consideration for art, and the best patronage too, that we would give to it, would be to establish it in our universities of Cambridge and Oxford. In those venerated places to found professorships, that a more sure love and more sure taste for it may be imbedded with every other good and classical love and taste in the early minds of the youth of England's pride, of future patrons; and where painters themselves may graduate, and associate with all noble and cultivated minds, and be as much honoured in their profession as any in those usually called "learned." But to return to Sir Joshua. He conferred upon his profession not more benefit by his writings and paintings, than by his manners and conduct. To say that they were irreproachable would be to say little—they were such as to render him an object of love and respect. He adorned a society at that time remarkable for men of wit and wisdom. He knew that refinement was necessary for his profession, and he studiously cultivated it—so studiously, that he brought a portion of his own into that society from which he had gathered much. He abhorred what was low in thought, in manners, and in art. And thus he tutored his genius, which was great rather from the cultivation of his judgment, by incessantly exercising his good sense upon the task before him, than from any innate very vigorous power. He thought prudence the best guide of life, and his mind was not of an eccentric daring, to rush heedlessly beyond the bounds of discretion. And this was no small proof of his good sense; when the prejudice of the age in which he lived was prone to consider eccentricity as a mark of genius; and genius itself, inconsistently with the very term of a silly admiration, an inspiration, that necessarily brought with it carelessness and profligacy. By his polished manners, his manly virtues, and his prudential views, which mainly formed his taste, and enabled him to disseminate taste, Sir Joshua rescued art from this degrading prejudice, which, while it flattered vanity and excused vice, made the objects of the flattery contemptible and inexcusable. If genius be a gift, it is one that passes through the mind, and takes its colour; the love of all that is pure, and good, and great, can alone invest genius with that habit of thought which, applied to practice, makes the perfect painter. Castiglione considered painting the proper acquirement of the perfect gentleman—Sir Joshua Reynolds thought that to be in mind and manners the "gentlemen," was as necessary to perfect the painter. The friend of Johnson and Burke, and of all persons of that brilliant age, distinguished by abilities and worth, was no common man. In raising himself, he was ever mindful to raise the art to which he had devoted himself, in general estimation.

We have noticed a charge against the writer of the Discourses, that he did not pursue that great style which he so earnestly recommended. Besides that this is not quite true—for he unquestionably did adopt so much of the great manner as his subjects would, generally speaking, allow—there was a sufficient reason for the tone he adopted, that it was one useful and honourable, and none can deny that it was suited to his genius. He was doubtless conscious of his own peculiar powers, and contemplated the degree of excellence which he attained. He felt that he could advance that department of his profession, and surely no unpardonable prudential views led him to the adoption of it. It was the one, perhaps, best suited to his abilities; and there is nothing in his works which might lead us to suspect that he would have succeeded so well in any other. The characteristic of his mind was a nice observation. It was not in its native strength creative. We doubt if Sir Joshua Reynolds ever attempted a perfectly original creation—if he ever designed without having some imitation in view. We mean not to say, that in the process he did not take slight advantages of accidents, and, if the expression may be used, by a second sort of creation, make his work in the end perfectly his own. But we should suppose that his first conceptions for his pictures, (of course, we speak principally of those not strictly portraits,) came to him through his admiration of some of the great originals, which he had so deeply studied. In almost every work by his hand, there is strongly marked his good sense—almost a prudent forbearance. He ever seemed too cautious not to dare beyond his tried strength, more especially in designing a subject of several figures. His true genius as alone conspicuous in those where much of the portrait was admissible; and such was his "Tragic Muse," a strictly historical picture: was it equally discernible in his "Nativity" for the window in New College Chapel? We think not. There is nothing in his "Nativity" that has not been better done by others; yet, as a whole, it is good; and if the subject demands a more creative power, and a higher daring than was habitual to him, we are yet charmed with the good sense throughout; and while we look, are indisposed to criticise. We have already remarked how much Sir Joshua was indebted to a picture by Domenichino for the "Tragic Muse." Every one knows that he borrowed the "Nativity" from the "Notte" of Correggio, and perhaps in detail from other and inferior masters. His "Ugolino" was a portrait, or a study, in the commencement; it owes its excellence to its retaining this character in its completion. If we were to point to failures, in single figures, (historical,) we should mention his "Puck" and his "Infant Hercules." The latter we only know from the print. Here he certainly had an opportunity of displaying the great style of Michael Angelo; it was beyond his daring; the Hercules is a sturdy child, and that is all, we see not the ex pede Herculem. We can imagine the colouring, especially of the serpents and back-ground, to have been impressive. The picture is in the possession of the Emperor of Russia. The "Puck" is a somewhat mischievous boy—too substantially, perhaps heavily, given for the fanciful creation. The mushroom on which he is perched is unfortunate in shape and colour; it is too near the semblance of a bullock's heart. His "Cardinal Beaufort," powerful in expression, has been, we think, captiously reprehended for the introduction of the demon. The mind's eye has the privilege of poetry to imagine the presence; the personation is therefore legitimate to the sister art. The National Gallery is not fortunate enough to possess any important picture of the master in the historical style. The portraits there are good. There was, we have been given to understand, an opportunity of purchasing for the National Gallery the portrait of himself, which Sir Joshua presented to his native town of Plympton as his substitute, having been elected mayor of the town—an honour that was according to the expectation of the electors thus repaid. The Municipal Reform brought into office in the town of Plympton, as elsewhere, a set of men who neither valued art nor the fame of their eminent townsman. Men who would convert the very mace of office into cash, could not be expected to keep a portrait; so it was sold by auction, and for a mere trifle. It was offered to the nation; and by those whose business it was to cater for the nation, pronounced a copy. The history of its sale did not accompany the picture; when that was known, as it is said, a very large sum was offered, and refused. It is but justice to the committee to remind them of the fact, that Sir Joshua himself, as he tells us, very minutely examined a picture which he pronounced to be his own, and which was nevertheless a copy. Unquestionably his genius was for portrait; it suited his strictly observant character; and he had this great requisite for a portrait-painter, having great sense himself, he was able to make his heads intellectual. His female portraits are extremely lovely; he knew well how to represent intellect, enthusiasm, and feeling. These qualities he possessed himself. We have observed, in the commencement of these remarks upon the Discourses, that painters do not usually paint beyond themselves, either power or feeling—beyond their own grasp and sentiments; it was the habitual good sense and refinement of moral feeling that made Sir Joshua Reynolds so admirable a portrait-painter. He has been, and we doubt not justly, celebrated as a colourist. Unfortunately, we are not now so capable of judging, excepting in a few instances, of this his excellence. Some few years ago, his pictures, to a considerable amount in number, were exhibited at the British Institution. We are forced to confess that they generally looked too brown—many of them dingy, many loaded with colour, that, when put on, was probably rich and transparent: we concluded that they had changed. Though Sir Joshua, as Northcote in his very amusing Memoirs of the President assures us, would not allow those under him to try experiments, and carefully locked up his own, that he might more effectually discourage the attempt—considering that, in students, it was beginning at the wrong end—yet was he himself a great experimentalist. He frequently used wax and varnish; the decomposition of the latter (mastic) would sufficiently account for the appearance those pictures wore. We see others that have very much faded; some that are said to be faded may rather have been injured by cleaners; the colouring when put on with much varnish not bearing the process of cleaning, may have been removed, and left only the dead and crude work. It has been remarked, that his pictures have more especially suffered under the hands of restorers. It must be very difficult for a portrait-painter, much employed, and called upon to paint a portrait, where short time and few sittings are the conditions, to paint a lasting work. He is obliged to hasten the drying of the paint, or to use injurious substances, which answer the purpose only for a short present. Sir Joshua, too, was tempted to use orpiment largely in some pictures, which has sadly changed. An instance may be seen in the "Holy Family" in our National Gallery—the colour of the flesh of the St John is ruined from this cause. It is, however, one of his worst pictures, and could not have been originally designed for a "holy family." The Mater is quite a youthful peasant girl: we should not regret it if it were totally gone. Were Sir Joshua living, and could he see it in its present state, he would be sure to paint over it, and possibly convert it into another subject. We do not doubt, however, that Sir Joshua deserved the reputation he obtained as a colourist in his day. We attribute the brown, the horny asphaltum look they have, to change. It is unquestionably exceedingly mortifying to see, while the specimens of the Venetian and Flemish colourists are at this day so pure and fresh, though painted centuries before our schools, our comparatively recent productions so obscured and otherwise injured. Tingry, excellent authority, the Genevan chemical professor, laments the practice of the English painters of mixing varnish with their colours, which, he says, shows that they prefer a temporary brilliancy to lasting beauty; for that it is impossible, that with this practice, pictures should either retain their brilliancy or even be kept from decay. We do not remember to have seen a single historical picture of Sir Joshua's that has not suffered; happily there are yet many of his portraits fresh, vigorous, and beautiful in colouring. It should seem, that he thought it worth while to speculate upon those of least value to his reputation.