M. Loppé's pictures might easily be arranged so as to form a kind of 'glacier's progress.' We first find the snows reposing tranquilly in their high rock-cradle and reflecting on their pure surface the tones of the sky from which they have fallen. Then we have the struggle and confusion which attend the encounter of the young glacier with the first obstacles. An irresistible impulse urges the still half-formed ice over the edge, and it is transformed in a moment into a maze of towers and blue abysses, of walls of marble-like snow seamed with the soft veins which mark each year's fall, of crystal-roofed and fretted vaults hung with pendant icicles. M. Loppé paints with wonderful skill not only the forms of the 'séracs,' but the shades and hues given by the imprisoned light and reflections to the frozen mass, combining the whole into a harmony of soft pale colour.
Again we meet the glacier, as it is best known to the world, settled down into middle life, but still seamed by the scars of a stormy youth, earthier, more stained and travel-worn than in its first combat. Here the mottled crust, the green light of the smaller crevices, and the wavelike undulations of the surface are represented with admirable fidelity; but we feel the air is less poetic, and a stray tourist does not offend us as out of place. And now we are present at the last struggle where, under a pall of cloud through which the parent peaks shine down a far-off farewell, the glacier makes its fatal plunge into the valley, for it a valley of death, and we see its end amid the earth and rock-heaps of the terminal moraine. But from under the muddy ruin springs out of a 'dusky door' a new and fuller life, and the mountain stream dashes off on its happy course through the new world of the fields and orchards.
So faithful are these pictures that Professor Tyndall would find in them fit illustrations for a popular discourse. So perfect is sometimes the illusion that we should almost fear a modern version of Zeuxis and the birds, and expect to hear the lecturer calling on his assistant to drive stakes into the canvas.
When M. Loppé turns to summit views we feel that his success is less complete. He has led the way to the
High mountain platforms
Where morn first appears;
Where the white mists for ever
Are spread and upfurl'd,
and has dared to be the first to depict the mysterious light of the far-off sunrise playing on the highest snows of Mont Blanc, the snowy cantonments of the Alps separated by grey cloud-streams, the gradations from the purple of the zenith to the crocus of the horizon in the vault of heaven seen from 15,000 feet above the sea-level; or the red glow of sunset, when the lowlands are already dark in shadow, and the upper world has a moment of hot splendour before it, too, is overwhelmed by the night.
The deep hues of the upper air, the torn edges of the clouds as they are caught by the morning breeze, bear witness to study on the spot. But we demand more delicacy of aerial effect, greater depth of distance, more precision in the handling of the nearer rock-peaks. The painter clearly spends all his love on snow, and does not care so much for the forms of crags. We miss, too, that combined breadth and subtlety of interpretation which belong only to the very highest genius and which no study or perseverance can impart.