LITERATURE OF THE DAY.
L'Art: revue hebdomadaire illustrée. Sixième année, Tome II. New York: J. W. Bouton.
Nowhere but in Paris could the resources, the technical knowledge and perfect command of all the appliances of bookmaking be found to sustain such a publication as L'Art. In six years it has not abated by one tittle the perfection with which it first burst upon the world. Its standard is as high, its subjects are as inexhaustible, as ever. We hear now and then of a decline in French art: the great artists who carried it to the high-water mark of modern times have all, or nearly all, passed away, but there is certainly no sign of a vacuum. The activity of production is as great as ever, the interest in art as vital. L'Art draws its material from past as well as present; the work of older artists is kept alive in its pages by the most perfect reproductions; and in its special department of black and white there is advancement rather than decline. The importance of such a publication to the interests of art throughout the world is incalculable. It absorbs the best thought and production of the day. Its high standard and breadth of scope render it impossible for any particular clique to predominate in its pages, while its independent tone and encouragement of individual talent make it a powerful counteracting influence to the conventionalism which forms the chief danger to art in a country where technical rules have become official laws. In fact, L'Art has constituted itself a government of the opposition. It has its Prix de Florence for the education in Italy of promising young sculptors—its galleries in the Avenue de l'Opéra, which are used for the purpose of "independent" exhibitions or for the display of work by one or another artist. It examines and reports the progress of art all over the world, rousing the latent Parisian curiosity as to the achievements of foreign artists, and, what is of more importance (to us at least), it shows the world what is being done and said and thought in the art-circles of Paris. The perusal of its comprehensive index alone will give the reader a clear outline of the state of art in Russia, Japan, Persia and Algeria, as well as in the better-known countries. Such a work is not for the delight of one people alone: it comes home to art-lovers everywhere.
The principal art-event of last spring was the Demidoff sale. About half the etchings in the volume before us are reproductions of pictures in that collection. M. Flameng has forgotten all the perplexities and intricacies of the nineteenth century to render the placid graciousness of a beauty whose portrait was painted in the eighteenth by Drouais. M. Trimolet has etched in a Dutch manner a landscape of Hobbema in the Louvre, but M. Gaucherel translates a Ruysdael from the Demidoff collection into an exquisite delicacy and airiness of line which is the language of etching in its most modern expression. A Demidoff Rembrandt, a Lucrezia, reproduced by the needle of M. Kœpping, is an example of the naïveté of an art which gave itself no thought for archæology. Lucrezia is a simple Dutch maiden in the full-sleeved, straight-bodied Flemish costume. Her innocent, childish face tells of real grief, but not of a tragic history. It is interesting to compare the type with that of Raphael's Lucrezia, with its clinging classic drapery and countenance moulded on that of a tragic mask.
The most striking etching in this volume is that of M. Edm. Ramus, after a portrait in this year's Salon. The name of the painter, Van der Bos, is Flemish, but if his picture had any qualities not distinctively French the genius of the etcher has swept them away. The conception, the character, the pose would all pass for a work of the most advanced French school. Its qualities belong to Paris and to-day. A young woman of a somewhat hard, positive type, neither beautiful nor intellectual, but chic to her finger-tips, jauntily dressed—hat with curling feathers, elbow sleeves, long gloves—standing in an erect and completely unaffected attitude,—that is the subject. The execution is simply superb. Every line is strong and effective: the modelling, the poise of the figure and the breadth of the shadows in dry point, are masterly. The Salon articles, five in number, are from the pen of M. Ph. Burty, the most radical, incisive and original writer on the staff—champion of the Impressionists, bitter enemy of the Academics and warm admirer of any fresh, sincere and individual talent. In his short review of the work of American artists in the Salon his sympathies are frankly with those who have ranged themselves under unofficial leadership in their adopted city. He has warm eulogy both for Mr. Sargent and Mr. Picknell, refusing to believe that the excellence of the latter is due in any way to his instruction at the École des Beaux-Arts. M. Burty concludes the notice of American pictures with a "Hurrah pour la jeune école Américaine! hurrah!" which will be gratefully responded to by those of us who are proud of our growing school.
The "Silhouettes d'Artistes contemporains" are continued in two papers on De Nittis, accompanied by some exquisite reproductions of etchings by that artist; and there are a couple of articles of great interest by M. Véron on Ribot, illustrated by fac-similes of the powerful work of one whom M. Véron unhesitatingly ranks among the greatest names in modern French art. There is both literary and artistic interest in the engravings after pen-and-ink sketches made by Victor Hugo, showing that the poet is able to throw his personality and wonderful imagination into an art which he did not practise till pretty late in life, and then simply as a recreation and without attempting to master its technique. Victor Hugo is stamped as plainly upon these drawings—made, not by line and rule, but by following up the ideas suggested by the direction of a blot of ink—as on the pages of his most deliberate works. In offering homage to the poet L'Art does not depart from its line, which embraces art in its manifold forms. The newest products of the stage are discussed as well as those of the studios, and contemporary literature is reflected in more ways than one in its pages.
Mrs. Beauchamp Brown. (Second No-Name Series.) Boston: Roberts Brothers.
Were this story as good as its name or half as good as some of the undeniably clever things it contains, it might be accepted as a very fair book of its kind. It was written with the evident intention of saying brilliant and witty things; but this brilliance and wit sometimes miss their effect, as, for instance, on the very first page, where Dick Steele's famous compliment is bestowed upon Lady Mary Wortley Montagu instead of the Lady Elizabeth Hastings. We might mention other thwarted attempts, which give much the same jar to our sensibilities as when some one thinks to afford us pleasure by singing a favorite air out of tune. The facility with which the characters are transported from the ends of the earth to meet at a place called Plum Island surpasses any trick in legerdemain. Unless we had read it here we should never have believed that life on the coast of Maine could be so exciting, so cosmopolitan in its scope, so thrilling in its incidents. There is a jumble of notabilities—leaders of Boston and Washington society, a Jesuit Father, an English peer, a brilliant diplomatist on the point of setting out on a foreign mission, a Circe the magic of whose voice and eyes is responsible for most of the mischief which goes on, Anglican priests, a college professor, collegiates, at least one raving maniac, beautiful young girls and representative Yankee men and women. From this company, most of whom conduct themselves in manner which fails to prepossess us, Mrs. Beauchamp Brown alone emerges with a distinct identity. Her zealous adherence to herself, her unconsciousness of weakness or defect even in the most rashly-chosen part, are good points. The writer allows her to express herself without too elaborate canvassing of her character and motives. When the Fifth Avenue Hotel is burning the great lady is amazed at such behavior, and shrieks peremptory orders to have the fire put out immediately. When she reaches Plum Island, and is transferred from the steamboat to the skiff which is to carry her ashore, she is "angrily scared at the seething waters and the grinning rocks."
"'Man! this thing is full of water: my feet are almost in it!' shrieked Mrs. Beauchamp Brown as the gundalow lurched and heaved shoreward.
"The White man looked over his shoulder, and slowly wrinkled his leathern cheeks into an encouraging smile. 'Like ter near killed a woggin,' replied he sententiously. 'Will be ashore in a brace of shakes.'"