THE EXECUTION OF LADY JANE GREY.
There is an immediateness and calm intensity, a certain simplicity and tragic tenderness, in this exquisite picture, which no one but Paul Delaroche has in our days reached. You cannot escape its power, you cannot fail to be moved; it remains in your mind as a thing for ever. It is the last scene of that story we all have by heart, of
"Her most gentle, most unfortunate."
That beautiful, simple English girl, the young wife, who has just seen the headless body of her noble young husband carried past, is drawing to the close of her little life of love and study, of misery and wrong. She is partially undressed, her women having disrobed her. She is blindfolded, and is groping almost eagerly for the block; groping as it were into eternity; her mouth slightly open, her face "steady and serene." Sir John Gage, the Constable of the Tower, is gently leading her by the left hand to the block, and gazing on her with a surprising compassion and regard—a very noble head. Her women, their work over, are aside; one fallen half-dead on the floor; the other turning her back, her hands uplifted and wildly grasping the stone pillar, in utter astonishment and anguish. You cannot conceive what that concealed face must be like. We don't remember anything more terrible or more intense than this figure. In the other corner stands the headsman, with his axe ready, still, but not unmoved; behind him is the coffin; but the eye gazes first and remains last on that pale, doomed face, beautiful and innocent, bewildered and calm. Let our readers take down Hume, and read the story. The cold and impassive philosopher writes as if his heart were full. Her husband, Lord Guildford, asked to see her before their deaths. She answered, No; that the tenderness of the parting would overcome the fortitude of both; besides, she said, their separation would be but for a moment. It had been intended to execute the Lady Jane and Lord Guildford together on the same scaffold on Tower Hill; but the Council, dreading the compassion of the people for their youth, beauty, innocence, and high birth, caused her to be beheaded within the verge of the Tower, after she had seen him from the window, and given him a token as he was led to execution. The conclusion by Hume is thus:—"After uttering these words, she caused herself to be disrobed by her women, and with a steady, serene countenance submitted herself to the executioners." The engraving, which may be seen at Mr. Hill's, is worthy of the picture and the subject. It is a marvel of delicate power, and is one of the very few modern engravings we would desire our friends to buy.
NAPOLEON AT FONTAINEBLEAU BEFORE HIS ABDICATION.
This is the first painting by Delaroche we have seen, though we have long been familiar with his works through their engravings. He is every inch a master. You get from his work that strange and delightful shock which asserts at once his genius and power. You are not struck, but you get a shock of surprise, of awe, and of pleasure, which no man who once gets ever mistakes for anything else. This picture, of
"Him—
Who in our wonder and astonishment