Kitabı oku: «Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 56, No. 346, August, 1844», sayfa 5
"THE SICK CHILD
"He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways."—PSALM xci.
"In a chamber, faintly crying,
With its mother o'er it sighing,
Lay a baby pale and wan;
Ever turning—restless turning—
Much she dreaded fever burning,
Sickness slow or sickness hasting,
Cough, convulsion, ague wasting.
Bitter tears there fell upon
The pale face of her little son.
"The evening chimes had ceased their ringing,
And the even song was singing
In the old kirk grey with years;
Through the air sweet words came welling—
Words of peace, unto that dwelling;
Hymns they sang, how angels shielded
Those who ne'er to sin had yielded:—
And her pale face lost its fears—
That lonely mother dried her tears.
"In her arms the babe soon slumber'd;
That little son, whose days seem'd number'd,
Smiled upon his mother sleeping.
The Lord indeed had sorely tried her,
But his angel knelt beside her;
Heavenly breezes cool'd the fever
Of her child—He shall not leave her!
And this mother ceased her weeping."
The "Expected Return" is quite in Redgrave's best manner
"Fancy, impatient of all painful thoughts,
Pictured the bliss should welcome his return;
* * * * *
And hope and memory made a mingled joy."—SOUTHEY
This is a lovely figure; a loving and lovable gentle creature! and many such have we seen by Redgrave's hand. Not Raffaelle himself could more truly paint the pure mind—that precious jewel, innocence, in its most lovely casket.
Severn has two plates, which may be called companions; racy and good are they, and of one vintage. We are not quite satisfied with either face or figure of the maiden in the "Roman Vintage." Hers is not a face of feeling; nay, we would almost beg Mr Severn's pardon, and pronounce her a bit of a fool. The "Neapolitan" is much better. They are executed in a very bold, broad, free style of etching, and effective. Horsley's "English Peasant" might be allowed to be a little weatherbeaten; but, at first sight, we should say that he was not of the temperance society when the aquafortis was on the table. It is black, from being overbitten. Yet, after a while, we see through the darkness into the character. He is an honest fellow, but a little "disguised." His "Twilight" is very good, yet perhaps is the light a little too sharp and strong for that hour. The subject is from verses by Redgrave, and good and quaintlike old gentle rhymes they are. But how comes it that the figures are both feminine?—that does not accord with the lines.
"Time was no more for them: the sun had gone,
The stars from sunset glow began to peer;
Yet 'neath those stars that pair still linger'd on,
Unconscious of the night, fast drawing near!
His voice to her was daylight, and her smile
A sunny morning breaking o'er his soul:
Such hours of bliss come only once—the while
Long-silent love speaks forth without control,
And of its hopes and fears first telleth out the whole."
"Welsh Gossips."—
"At every word a reputation dies."
For the credit of Wales, we hope Mr Horsley did not sketch these from nature; yet is there a fearful look of natural acrimony in the one, and sheer busybodyism in the other. The plate is beautifully etched. His "Moonlight" is not quite clear enough—there are too many sparkling lights. The "Shady Seat" is prettily designed; the lady looks rather too alarmed, and, for the subject, perhaps there is not enough of shadow— certainly not "enough for two." We at once recognize Stonhouse in the "Evening effects of Solitude," and his "Neath Abbey." The former he thus describes:—
"There, woods impervious to the breeze,
Thick phalanx of embodied trees—
Here, stillness, height, and solemn shade
Invite, and contemplation aid."
We are sure that Neath Abbey is from nature, for it has the sooty and smoked character of that manufacture-ruined ruin. But we must not pass by his "Dorothea" from Don Quixote. Nothing can be more happily expressed than the deep shady retirement of the wood; there are nice gradations of shades, which is the very character of retirement, and Dorothea is herself in it, not a bright figure in a black mass—and good is the figure too, but the feet are unfinished.
Mr Creswick is a large contributor, and least fortunate in his first: it is not the scene so well given in verse by his friend Townsend; for it is too pretty, too tight. It wants the "lane;" it is the road-side.
"THE WAYSIDE
"A lane, retired from noisy haunts of men,
Whose ruts the solitary lime cart tracks,
Whose hedge-sides, propp'd by many a mossy stone,
Are checker'd o'er with foxglove's purple bloom,
Or graceful fern, or snakehood's curling sheath,
Or the wild strawberry's crimson peeping through.
There, where it joins the far-outstretching heath,
A lengthen'd nook presents its glassy slope,
A couch with nature's velvet verdure clad,
Trimm'd by the straggling sheep, and ever spread
To rest the weary wanderer on his way.
There, oft the ashes of the camp-fire lie,
Marking the gipsy's chosen place of rest.
Black roots of half-charr'd furze, and capons' bones—
Relic of spoils from distant farmers' coop—
Point to the revels of preceding night.
And fancy pictures forth the swarthy group,
Their dark eyes flashing in the ruddy glare;
While laughter, louder after long constraint,
From every jocund face is pealing round.
His "Summer" is a simple unaffected scene, such as may be met with any where, if you have but "eyes to see:" and pretty much like it, but inferior—for if it be not more common in subject, it is in treatment— is the "Old Farm-House," from that delighting and most natural painter with her pen, Miss Mitford. Very exquisite in his "Moonlight"—so true, with all the quivering and blending light of nature, where all things are at once lucid and in shade—as Virgil happily expresses it, "luce sub incertâ linae." Sweet, too, and in the deep solemn repose of religious eve, is the "Village Church"—from lines by Rogers. He is not so happy in his "Smithy;" neither is the scene of interest nor the effect pleasing. But he makes up for all by his "Outward Bound." The home is left in the calmest, stillest of days; though the "outward bound" has sails, they rather wait for, than feel, the wind; there is the village church still in view, and will yet be an hour and more. The sky is, though really printers' ink, like many a sooty vapour converted into light-shedding yet faint clouds—we can see the colour—it is a grey, in which is gold and ultra-marine. The boat is conveying the "outward bound" to the vessel; there is the moving and the waiting. It is poetical. "The Castle" we do not much admire; it is a villa castle, and on no agreeable river. "Low Water" is quite another thing; it is a beautiful etching. He thus describes it with his pen—
"The flowing tides that spread the land,
And turn to sea again."
The "River Scene," illustrating lines from Southey, is delicately touched, and a pleasing scene; yet we feel sure it is not from nature. Why, we can hardly tell. Is it that there is a bridge, apparently without a bank on one side to rest upon? "The Terrace," from lines by Andrew Marvel, is a most fascinating upright plate. It is perfectly true, giving all the thousand intricacies and shades of such a scene; and there is grace in the forms, and the figures well suit the whole. All is gentleness and ease; not a light is too strong, or a shadow too deep; there is no violence—which too many are apt to express when they would give powerful effect. His "Fishing Scene on the Coast of Ireland" is not to our taste, yet is it not without meaning—it is windy and sunny. "The Oriental Palace" is solemn, with its ancient yew in the silence of the crescent moon; but the ruin is to fill up, and does no good.
We have read with pleasure, and extracted, some of Mr Townsend's poetry; let us now see his etching. "Boyhood:" those who delight in the easy, every-day, every-hour play of boyhood, will enjoy this plate. A boy is, with a peacock's feather, tickling a child asleep in the arms of a grave old lady—so sedate have we seen grimalkin look whilst encouraging her kitten, lightly and coquettishly, to play with a ball of cotton. "The Beach" is a well-sketched coast scene, and shows Mr Townsend to have an eye for nature's scenery, as well as nature's sympathies. Very good is "The Model"—an artist sketching in the figure of a Lascar. But his best plate is "Sad Tidings." It is a very sweet figure—youth, elegance, tenderness, are there—and such an even melancholy light, or rather such a mournful evenness of light and shade, that, as a whole, it is neither light nor dark, and should have no other name than melancholy. He had the judgment and forbearance to hide the face—we know it is lovely, and that is enough; it is this, in part, which separates "Sad Tidings" from such subjects as they are usually treated. There are two etchings by Frederic Tayler—"The Chase" from Somerville, and "The Auld Grey" from Burns—both are lightly etched and good; but they have not that free and certain hand which marks Mr Tayler's style in his drawings, where one wash of the brush hits off his object with great truth. "The Gypsy Boy," by Mr Knight, is very masterly in chiaroscuro, and certainly characteristic of the race. Effect of chiaroscuro seems to be his aim. It is marked in his "Old Fable" (which always means the newest) of "The Peasant and the Forest." It is thus given: "A peasant once went into an old forest of shady oaks, and humbly entreated the same to grant him a small branch to make a handle for his axe, and thereby enable him to pursue his labours at home. The forest very graciously acceded to his request, and the peasant soon formed the required handle; but presently he began to lay about him in every direction, using the very substance with which the forest had furnished him out of its own bosom, and in a short time hewed down its whole growth."
Which are we bound most to admire—John Bell's pen or John Bell's needle? It is a difficulty. "The Devil's Webbe" is admirable in both. What a spider-like wretch is he, watching the toils that he has spread!
"This webbe our passions be, and eke the flies
Be we poor mortals: in the centre coyles
Old Nick, a spider grimme, who doth devyse
Ever to catch us in his cunning toyles.
Look at his claws—how long they are, and hooked!
Look at his eyes—and mark how grimme and greedie!
Look at his horrid fangs—how sharp and crooked!
Then keep thy distance so, I this arreede ye,
Oh sillie Flie! an thou wouldst keep thee whole;
For an he catch thee, he will eate thy soul."
And there they are! the winged insect lovers of pleasure, and of gain and strife—in one word, of sin—entangled in the ladder webb; while such a monster is in the centre, watching his larder. John Bell is instinctively a moral weaver. Fine-spun are his philosophical threads; we stop not to enquire if they will bear the tug of life. He is trying them, however, on the "tug of war." Pen and needle are set to work philosophically, methodically, benignly. In this he is but a unit out of many thousands. His opinions are not singular. Amiable moralist!— delightful is the dream, sweetly sounding the wisdom; but is it practicable? John Bell's warfare, "The Assault," is, without a doubt, "confusion worse confounded;" it is not easy, at a view, to find legs and arms and heads in their anatomical order. We must trace the human figure as through its map. Perhaps this is purposely done to resemble a battle the more truly, where limbs are apt to fly out of their places. But John Bell thinks—
"The play's the thing
Wherewith to touch the conscience of the king."
So he pours forth from his "Unpublished Play" a choice tirade against the royal play of human ninepins:—
"And then a battle, too—no doubt it is
A right fine thing; or rather to have been there.
But all things have their price; and this, methinks,
Is rather dear sometimes. Oh! glory's but
The tatter'd banner in a cobwebb'd hall,
Open'd not once a-year—a doubtful tomb,
With half the name effaced. Of all the bones
Have whiten'd battle-fields, how many names
Live in the chronicle? and which were in the right?
One murder hangs a man upon a rope,
A hundred thousand maketh him a god,
And builds him up a temple in the air
Out of men's skulls. A loving mother bears
A thousand pangs to bring into the world
One child; your warrior sends a thousand out,
Then picks his teeth."
JOHN BELL—Unpublished Play.
Such was Shakspeare's momentary humour, when he put it into Falstaff's mouth to ask what honour is "to him that died o' Wednesday." It is a humour that won't last—'tis against nature—man is more than half belligerent, and has a "murder" in him (to give it a bad name) "that will out." Even the peaceable Ephraim took up the handspike, and used it too, with "friend, keep thee in thy own ship." The "friend" was hyprocrisy—the use of the handspike, natural; the very elements are at war, and were made to be so—storms are as necessary as sunshine. But excellent able John Bell likes sunshine best; and who does not like him the better for that? And sweet sunshine has he shed around "The good Mayde"—a sunshine that makes its own magic circle, within which evil spirits or evil men shall not come. Tempt on, ye wizards—she looketh upwards, yet think not she will fall or miss her way—the Unseen guideth her steps. Bell's account of the matter is, however, far better. Let him publish his quaint poem, all of it; the specimens warrant the request.
"Thus doth the goode Mayde, with a stedfaste eye,
Walke through the troubles vaine, and peryls dire,
That doe beset mayde's path with haytes full slie,
The trappes and gynnes of mischief's cunning syre.
Ne nought to her is riches' golden shower,
Ne gaudy baites of dresse and rich attyre,
Ne lover's talke, ne flatteries' worthless store,
Ne scandal's forked tongue—that ancient liar,
Ne music's magic breath, ne giddy wheel
Of gay lascivious daunce, ne ill-raised mirthe,
Ne promised state doth cause her mind to reel,
Or lure from thoughts of heaven to joys of earthe."
Our poet, a moralist etcher, reverts to the old subject; and we have "The Progresse of Warre," in a series, as part of a frieze for his Temple of Peace. This is most clear—for he who runs may read; yet, on a second view, we doubt that—for we see, what we did not at first see, writing under each tablet that is by no means intelligible. Having, with Mr Bell, seen an end of the battle, it is fit time, with Mr Herbert, to discuss "The Day after the Battle." "Next day did many widows come"— that verse of Chevy Chase is the subject. The slaughtered knight, the widow, and the dog, tell the tale, and tell it well too. The widow is the best figure. We have had enough of battle and all its horrors; let us turn to tranquillizing nature, where the undisturbed lichen may grow upon the rocks, and the branches of unpruned trees throw out their sheltering leafage, and the innocent insects know it is their home; and even in the seeming silence, if you listen, may you hear the still voice of a busy creation, a world of a few summer hours—yet seemeth it to them an eternity of enjoyment. And such a scene we have in the "Woody Scene," by Thomas Fearnley—poor Fearnley!—and is it not lightly, elegantly touched with the needle? the scene realized? Or, would you see a wilder spot, turn to his "Norwegian Scenery," and see the saw-mill, or whatever the building be, at the very entrance of the deep wood in its gloom, with the mountain torrent pouring over the rocks. In this sequestered spot, man has built him a home, and turned to human uses the rebellious waters, even on the very skirts of the wilderness; and there he is, for his hours are not all of toil, gloriously angling, for he has hooked his fish. Poor Fearnley! would he could have remained in this country! Had he been moderately patronised, he might have added an honourable name to our dictionary of painters.
And what has become of Webster? We remember well his "Boys let loose from School." Here he is—and but one plate—"Anticipation"—well named. The pie is come home, and the boy's eyes open, and his mouth waters. The story is quaintly told by Townsend thus:—Lights and shadows of boyish days! how bright and deep they are! The schoolmaster's frown may be charmed away by the gift of a new top, or a score of marbles. But what are these in the cotter's life to the stirring vicissitudes of a pie! ——Before its departure for the bakehouse, did he not ponder admiringly on the delicate tact that mingled the bony scraps with.
'Herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses?'
"Since then, imagination has been at play; and, in accordance with its suggestions, his bib and tucker have been donned, as trusty adjutants to the formidable wooden spoon. Thus armed, while sister Phillis—the creative genius of the savoury structure—regards the baker's boy with her modest glance, young Corydon, with his prophetic anticipation, is ogling the baker's burden. If his knife be as sharp as his appetite, 'twill want no whetting! We must expect that, in the afternoon, when anticipation shall have faded through the stages of its fulfilment, if no longer entranced by the pleasures of Hope, he will solace himself with those of Memory." And there, sure enough, is the grinning baker's boy, and the pie admirably baked; and the boy of the bib and tucker, and the wooden spoon, realizing it through his nostrils, and magnifying it through his eyes; and there is the neat-handed Phillis, who cares little for the eating. Feminine and gluttonous seldom come together. "The little glutton" is ever the male. This was in Webster's own way, and he has hit it off truly; he has seen it hundreds of times, and knew as well as Townsend who should have the wooden spoon. We find we have omitted to notice one plate, and that by Redgrave. We did not expect landscape by his hand. It is, however, very clever; there is a light over the dark church-tower which a little offends. Keep down that a little, and you recognize the true effect of nature. It is a view of Worcester. "A spot," says Mr Redgrave, "memorable as the scene of that battle signalized by Oliver Cromwell as the 'crowning mercy;' and whence the young Charles II. commenced the series of romantic and perilous adventures which terminated in his safety."
Our work of criticism is at an end; not so our pleasure. We shall look at this choice volume again and again; and as we have somewhat arrogantly, and with a conceit of our ability and right so to do, taken the Etching Club under our especial care, regard, and patronage, we shall think ourselves at liberty to encourage and to exhort them whenever we see fit. We therefore do exhort them to go on, to give a taste for painters' etchings, to improve themselves, too; and let each make it a rule to himself never to take the trouble to touch a subject that is not worth doing; nor to tell a story not worth telling, however such may seem to look pretty or with effect upon copper or paper; by all means to avoid "annual sentimentalities," and commonplace "acting charades;" and never to forget that expression is the soul of the art. For the present, we dismiss them with thanks—like the prudent physician, who, as Fielding says, always stands by to see nature work, and contents himself by clapping her on the back, by way of approbation, when she does well.
