Picturesque London

by Percy Fitzgerald

There is one picture considered the cynosure of the whole, on account of the vast price (some £70,000) given for it—the Ansidei Raphael. Of this we might venture to say that the effect scarcely corresponds to the outlay; or rather, that were it placed among the other Italian estimated pictures, and divested of its history, it would not probably attract much notice. This may seem heretical, but I am confident it is true. With the critical, of course, it is different, though I fancy it would be a difficult task to give a nice, accurate, and judicial appreciation of its points of attraction, going beyond mere phrases of praise. I confess, if choice were offered, I would prefer the more “taking” Soult Murillo in the Louvre. Pace Sir Frederick Burton, it seems also to suffer from the heavy mass which does duty as frame—the excessive gilding impairs the colours, and it is constructed with a sort of basement which stands “in the air” unsupported, which seems to imply that it ought to be on a bracket or altar.

A crying blemish to the collection is the room full of fantastic pictures, so called, the terrible legacy which Turner bequeathed to the nation. These grotesques have neither form nor meaning, and seem to be mad, wild caprices. There is nothing to match them in existence, and no gallery, private or public, would tolerate them. Some are nothing but streaks and smears—yellows and blues utterly amorphous; yet admirers will protest that there is some deep-seated “no meaning” mystery beneath, which study and sympathy will reveal. Some arrangement by Act of Parliament or otherwise should be made for disposing of these performances, which we have heard again and again excite the derision of the foreigner as “polissonneries.” The serious and responsible works of Turner are here, and excite admiration: but these, it is well known, were the eccentricities of his dotage. Some of his large grand pieces are truly fine, such as “The Sea Fight” and the beautiful Italian landscape placed as a pendant to the well-known Claude, though it is easy to note that the exquisitely sultry luminousness of the French painter cannot be approached, Turner’s atmosphere, from the very contrast, being somewhat thick and heavy. Any one who goes from picture to picture of Turner’s, those, I mean, of his sane manner, with care and regularity, will be lost in wonder at the variety of his styles, and will conclude that he could “do anything.” The mistake of his later days was his attempt to simulate with colours atmospheric tones and effects, such as the “actual sense of effulgence” in the sun when we attempt to look straight at it, or the glare from a passing train, or a steamer showing lights and letting off steam.

Perhaps the truest “painter” of the modern English school who could be called a master, and whose works would stand the test of criticism, is Wilkie. No praise could do justice to that masterpiece, “The Blind Fiddler,” with its minutely delicate handling of faces and hands, yet offering a grand breadth of style. The beautiful limpid colouring, the firmness, yet delicacy, of the touch, the pleasant, quiet, unforced humour of the scene—akin to that of Goldsmith—the brilliancy and largeness of treatment, are perfectly miraculous in a youth little more than twenty. Neither Mieris nor Meissonier have works that can be classed with this gem, which, by-the-way, would gain by being hung higher. His picture of “The Beadle” leading away the Mountebanks and their Dancing Dogs, with figures brilliantly and exquisitely finished, is not, however, his best specimen. We should note the contrast with his well-known “Knox Preaching,” which seems the work of a different hand. Many would be puzzled at this; but art critics know that Wilkie altered his style completely after a visit to Spain, and affected a rich, juicy, full-coloured tone, even adopting a large unfinished “streaky” manner. In this contrasting of style we may profitably turn for comparison to a picture truly unique, of which, as Lamb says, “One species is the genus,” and which may be coveted by any gallery, that is, the famous “Treaty of Munster,” by Terburg, a small cabinet picture, the gift of a private person. This extraordinary little masterpiece is worth an hour’s study, and illustrates all the principles of painting. There are some fifty or sixty figures, and the force, dramatic expression, and feeling of the whole is surprising. Every minute face is distinct, and leaves the air of perfect finish; yet, if we look closely, we shall see the workmanship is rough and bold. Mr. Ruskin has happily illustrated this valuable principle by a minute vignette of Turner’s, which decorates his “Italy.” It represents the marvellous windows and elaborate details of the Ducal palace in Venice, all within a couple of inches; yet, if we take a magnifying glass, we shall find that none of the objects represented are actually drawn. There are only a number of dots and touches, and yet the effect of the relief, details, and carvings is perfectly conveyed. On the other hand, had the details been actually drawn on so small a scale, these details would at a distance have failed to convey the idea intended. Here is one of the secrets of largeness of style. Meissonier has much in common with Terburg. Our fashionable modern painters have little idea of relative values. They copy all before them with the accuracy of a photograph.

A little study of one who is the glory of this Gallery, viz. Constable, will illustrate this better. A landscape painter may copy carefully and minutely a spreading cornfield, with reapers at work and effects of sunlight, but, as was said in the case of Corot, there is a mystery in landscape which only genius can discover. This is not to be interpreted as Corot found it was, by wholesale sacrifice of details, but by studying the art of making these contribute to the general effect. The really great painter seems to work in this way: he sees or discovers an “effect”; it becomes an inspiration, it takes possession of him, and it imprints itself vividly on his pictorial memory. He notes the same effect under other conditions, and so the idea becomes generalized. Thus a great marine painter, on an occasion, watches the form of waves in a storm, or a peculiar effect of light. As to mere mechanical painting, that becomes, or should become, as the language he speaks; neither does he require the object or model to be before him to paint from, save by way of suggestion or correction. It is to be suspected that the average modern painter does not work on these principles. He copies everything from without, and not from within. The great painter who has found inspiration in his landscape will only copy so far as to ensure topographical correctness, but his main purpose is to produce the general effect or inspiration which is imprinted on his memory. Such is the meaning of the impression left by Constable’s work. The trees, pastures, figures, are all subsidiary to the tone of the whole, the grand feeling of open air which spreads beyond the narrow, contracted limits of the frame. As he felt the largeness, so is the sense of largeness produced in the spectator. One well-known picture will illustrate this more effectively.

Like the human face, the cathedral has its cast of expression, a kind of soft tenderness, or placid, quiet solitariness, wholly different from the air of perky sharpness and strutting detail which photographs present. Turning to the “Salisbury Cathedral” of this painter anyone that has seen the original will recognize how he caught the poetry, the contrast of the grey building with the green sward of the close, and the deep tone of the trees, and the beautiful significance of the spire, which seems almost to be a natural product of the landscape. These spires, indeed, always seem to give a different sort of interpretation to the place in which they stand; and every person of sensibility will own to different impressions as he passes on the railway by Canterbury, Peterborough, or Ely. In the case of the Salisbury spire there is a certain sharpness which contrasts with the dark and angry cloud behind, and gives an air of menace and hostility.

To take another illustration. There are photographs and engravings in plenty of the picturesque Dover Harbour, with its cliffs and castle. Many who have seen the place in its various moods have wished for some reminder, and may have found the traditional sketches of commerce accurate enough, but insufficient to restore the old charm. As the traveller returning from France approaches, he notes the pyramidal character, the junction and blending of the castle with the clouds behind it, the contrast of the glaring white cliffs with the grey of the sea; there is, besides, the grand air of large security and shelter afforded for centuries back. Now, there is a picture by Turner—in which all these complex ideas are abundantly suggested; he has caught the whole tone of the place, dealing with the skies above and the waters below, quite as elaborately as with the town and harbour; indeed, these are subsidiary. In this way it is true a great artist becomes an interpreter, as well as a painter, of Nature.

It is difficult not to feel a sort of enthusiasm and deep admiration when standing before these grand works of Constable. There is a breadth and solidity, a massiveness, about his style and treatment. The secret might be the sense of dignity, the imparting of a grand personality to the trees, the grass, the water, and everything represented. As we look, the details seem to grow and be enriched. It is not surprising to learn that the introduction of one of his pieces into France was the foundation of the school for landscape in that country. The Gallery is well furnished with other masterpieces of his, and the visitor will study them with delight. If we look at the “Flatford,” or the “Haywain,” we shall see and recognize the power, the mixture of emotions suggested, the grand tranquillity of the country, the variety, the sense of distance, and, as we said, the air of state; as for the colour, its depth and richness are not even approached in our day.

To turn to another of our English masters, it must be said that Landseer was hardly a “painter” in a strict sense. He really only took portraits of animals—and of particular animals. A “painter” would generalize more, and in this view Herring’s horses are more pleasing, and exhibit the animals in their relation to surrounding objects. Of course, in producing fur, hair, etc., Landseer is unequalled. This can be further illustrated by a painting here of Morland’s, who is usually associated with certain vulgar subjects, such as pigs, coarse hinds, and the like, masterly in their way. This portrays a heavy cart-horse and pony entering their stable. The sort of living interest infused is extraordinary, with the languid, helpless expectancy of the pair, the general tone of the stable. We would place it above anything Landseer has done. This will be seen if we compare this stable scene of Morland’s with the well-known “Horse-shoeing,” which has quite an artificial air. Among the finest Landseers are, no doubt, the “Newfoundland Dog” and the capital, vigorously-painted creature who personates Alexander in the visit to Diogenes. In his latter works he became rather tame and insipid in his colour and touch, as we can see by turning to “Peace and War.”

Thirty or forty years ago among the chief attractions of the Academy were pictures by Ward, O’Neil, Crowe, Mrs. Ward, Frith, and others. Such were “James II. receiving the News of the Arrival of William,” “The South Sea Bubble,” the “Derby Day,” and “The Railway Station.”

Leslie, Maclise, Eastlake, Ward, and many more have all fallen considerably in public esteem. Many years ago there was a general exhibition of Leslie’s works, and it was curious to see how the assemblage revealed his defects—the “chalkiness” of his white, his thin colour, his general stiffness. This was the result of the Academic school, when drawing was much insisted upon. Nowadays, when the French imitative system is in vogue, a hard pure outline, it is contended, is not in nature. The figure is softened or blended with the background according to experience.