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filled the three first with a series of domestic pictures, so touching in their loveliness, that they almost supply the place of crowded incident and energetic action; and has contrived, with equal feeling and skill, to soften our sorrows in the last, and leave us gentle meditations to repose on. The chief wonder in his piece is, that he should hold his audience, during at least two acts, in the sweetest delight by the mere exhibition of natural tendernesses; but so it is; and we are inclined to attribute his singular felicity in this as much to the straight-forwardness and simplicity of his moral feeling, as to his dramatic skill. (The scene in which Virginius tenderly questions his child in order to discover the secret of her heart, and that in which he betroths her to Icilius, his heart running over with fondness, are pieces of the purest natural beauty ever embodied on the scene. Who that has ever seen it can forget the grouping of the persons in the last of these; or the feeling, almost painful from its sweetness, with which he dwelt on their words? Virginius has been, in the excess of his affectionate joy, half jesting with Icilius, as if he meant only to invite him to a feast; and having left him to procure a witness to a deed he has shewn him, returns with his blushing daughter, and addresses her enraptured lover

"You are my witnesses
-That this young creature I present to you,
I do pronounce-my profitably cherish'd
And most deservedly beloved child;
My daughter, truly filial-both in word
And act-yet even more in act than word:
And for the man who seeks to win her love,
A virgin from whose lips a soul as pure
Exhales, as e'er responded to the blessing
Breath'd in a parent's kiss. (kissing her.)
Icilius,

(Icilius rushes towards Virginius, and kneels.)
Since

You are upon your knee, young man, look up;
And lift your hands to heaven-you will be all
Her father has been-added unto all

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Methinks we see even now the trembling delighted fair one-the Icilius in silent and serious rapture on his knees, beautiful as the most exquisitely fashioned statue, with his hands gently upraised and extended-and the Virginius, with his faltering tongue, blessing the household solemnity, and calling to mind all his daughter's filial sweetnesses as he is about to resign her. The character of Virginia is one of the freshest and daintiest loveliness ever drawn. This is the description given of her by Appius

"I know not whether in the state of girlhood
Or womanhood to call her-Twixt the two
She stands, as that were loth to lose her, this
To win her most impatient-the young year,
Trembling and blushing midst the striving kisses
Of parting spring and meeting summer, seems
Her only parallel."

The marvel is that this should have been actually embodied on the stage, and felt as deeply in the theatre as in the closet. Much of this effect is to be attributed to the forbearance of the author-his having done just enough, and never having overstepped the dramatic into the descriptive; but much is also to be ascribed to the actress-hardly actress!-who performs it. Her natural grace, modest beauty, and exquisite, delicacy of feeling, make this performance one of the sweetest and most perfect within our memory.

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The scene in the forum where Icilius rescues Virginia that in the camp where Virginius is informed of the infamous plot against his daughter's innocence and that in which he returns to his house, are admirably wrought, and prove the power of the author to delineate the affections in their intensest action, as well as in their repose. In the last is that singularly deep touch of nature, when the father, gazing on his sweet devoted child, exclaims, "I never saw you look so like your mother in all my life." "The great scene of the sentence and the sacrifice is as replete with minute tendernesses, as it is noble in its outline. The following speech of Virginius seems a perfect example of the kind and the degree of imagery which tragedy allows. The intensity of the passion gives birth to the beauty, and all the beauty takes the colouring of the passion.

"My witnesses are these
The relatives and friends of Numitoria,
Who saw her, ere Virginia's birth, sustain
The burthen which a mother bears, nor feels
The weight with longing for the sight of it.
Here are the eyes that listened to her rights

In nature's hour of labour, which subsides
In the embrace of joy-the hands, that when
The day first look'd upon the infant's face,
And never look'd so pleas'd, help'd them up to it,
And bless'd her for a blessing. Here the eyes
That saw her lying at the generous

And sympathetic fount, that at her cry
Sent forth a stream of liquid living pearl
To cherish her enamell'd veins. The lie

Is most unfruitful then, that takes the flower-
The very flower our bed connubial grew-
Το prove its barrenness."

The little familiar touches in the piece, as the question of Virginius to the lover, "Do you wait for me to lead Virginia in, or will you do it?" and his address when bidding his daughter farewell, "Why how you hold me! Icilius, take her from me," realize the scene, and make our sympathy the sweeter. Their effect would be more dubious if the subject were modern; but, as it is in itself antique and classical, it is well that it

should thus be brought home to hearts, while it fills our imaginations as richly as ever. To sum up the whole, in the beautiful language of the prologue, which is the production of one of the cleverest of our prose writers, and one also of the most promising of our young poets-it is a piece

"Of silent grandeur-simply said,
As though it were awaken'd from the dead:
It is a tale made beautiful by years

Of pure old Roman sorrow, old in tears!
And those we shed o'er it in childhood may
Still fall and fall-for sweet Virginia !"

The piece is, with great propriety, dedicated to Mr. Macready, to whom the author, and yet more the public, are richly indebted for his successful efforts to bring it on the stage, and for his noble and almost perfect representation of its principal character.

FINE ARTS.

MR. HAYDON'S PICTURE OF CHRIST'S TRIUMPHANT ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM.

THIS long-expected performance has been for some time past submitted to public notice, together with Mr. Haydon's preceding works of "Dentatus," " Macbeth," "The Judgment of Solomon," &c. which are already well known. Our observations will therefore be confined to the new picture, as the chief attraction of the present exhibition. In this painting Christ is represented at that period of his mission in which he stood most distinguished by earthly admiration and homage; namely, his glorious entry into the city of Jerusalem, followed by multitudes of zealous worshippers, whose enthusiastic acclamations proclaimed the diffusion of his doctrines, and the triumph of the miraculous evidence by which they were substantiated. Unlike the triumphs of conquering monarchs and chiefs, this event was distinguished by none of the pride, pomp, and circumstance of artificial glory. No gaudy pageant attracted the gaze the grandeur of the spectacle was the magnificence of nature, a countless multitude impelled by unanimous and fervent feelings to one common object of the most sacred import. The being whom they honoured rode meekly amidst the throng, sitting on an ass's colt. The waving branches of the palmtree afforded the only ensigns that decorated the procession; the love, the awe, and joy of God's creatures, were the only formula of the spontaneous homage

with which they rushed to fall in humble and holy rapture at his sacred feet. Where is the subject more calculated to inspire a painter with that enthusiasm to which the learning of his art is subservient, and without which he may perhaps amuse, but can never delight?

The verses from which the subject of this picture is more immediately taken, are from St. Luke, chap. xix. and from St. John, chap. xii. v. 15. "Fear not, daughter of Zion, behold, thy King cometh, sitting on an ass's colt." (St. Luke, chap. xix. v. 36.) " And as he went, they spread their clothes in the way." (37.) " And when he was come nigh, even now at the descent of the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to rejoice and praise God with a loud voice, for all the mighty works that they had seen." (38.)

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Saying, blessed be the King that cometh in the name of the Lord, peace in Heaven, and glory in the highest.' (39.) " And some of the Pharisees from among the multitude, said unto him, Master, rebuke thy disciples." (40.) "And he answered and said unto them, I tell you, that if these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out."

The spectator is supposed to look forward from the city, towards which the procession is approaching; an immense concourse is seen advancing, the rear of which is yet descending a distant hill.

Jesus rides in the midst of the crowd, which opens a passage for him with every demonstration of love and worship; while individuals eagerly seize the opportunity of preferring their particular supplications, or offering their pious acknowledgments of his mercies. On one side, an unhappy mother brings forward to the sacred presence her penitent daughter, to implore the pardon which Almighty mercy has promised to the broken and contrite heart. The tender anxiety, faith, and hope of the mother, in whose fine but pallid features may almost be read the story of her maternal sorrows the deep repentance of the beautiful delinquent, who conceals her 'face with one hand, while the other is extended by her parent in supplication to Jesus-the overwhelming sense of unworthiness which seems to render the one incapable of pleading for herself, and the maternal love and confident piety which nerve the other, excite a holy, sad, yet pleasing interest. In this affecting group is also seen the virtuous married sister of the penitent, in whose sweet and placid countenance the melancholy consciousness of a beloved sister's degradation seems giving place to the joyful assurance of her eternal happiness, of which her deep contrition affords the strongest hopes. This married sister is a personification of female virtue, unostentatious even unconscious of merit, but full of that compassionate sympathy which Christianity inculcates towards the vicious-the truly pitiable. A fine ruddy boy, whom she carefully holds to her side amidst the throng, by his innocence and beauty, and the amiable infantine carelessness of his manner, suggests a thought of the domestic happiness that even on earth rewards her goodness, and thus impressively contrasts the sober, tranquil, yet vivid enjoyments of the good, with the violent but fleeting joys of the dissipated and vicious. But as these sisters are of totally opposite complexions, it may be questionable whether the connection and consequent merit of the conception could be discovered without the aid of description.

On the opposite side of Christ the daughter of Jairus, miraculously restored to life by our Saviour, is presented to his notice by her grateful father. His features are noble, and fraught with pious and thankful expression: his ac tion, kneeling and extending his arms on each side of his daughter towards Christ, is elegant and impassioned. The NEW MONTHLY MAG-No. 78.

feelings of the daughter seem equally intense; but less accustomed to express them, and, restrained by religious awe, she looks up, not to the face of her God, but with that lowly homage that would scarcely dare to touch the hem of his garment; while her hands crossed on her bosom, and the cloquent language of her eyes, express not only fervent devotion, but the overflowing of love and gratitude suitable to the merciful interposition which in her favour had reversed the laws of nature.

In the foreground, the good centurion kneels on the left, laying his civic crown and sword at the feet of Christ; and on the other, the Canaanitish woman, in a fine attitude, spreads her garment in the road, and looks up with lively gratitude to her heavenly deliverer. Next her, a figure falling prostrate before Jesus, is represented with admirable truth and vivacity; but there is nothing to enable us to distinguish it as intended for La

zarus.

Behind the Canaanitish woman, the artist, availing himself of a pictorial licence, has introduced the figures of Newton, Wordsworth, and Voltaire. The former looks steadfastly at Jesus, with deep veneration, but apparently without enthusiasm; as one whose belief was the result of examination and conviction. Wordsworth's head, inclined to the earth, expresses a more implicit faith and humble adoration; and the habitual sneer of Voltaire appears contemptible, when contrasted with the solemn feelings of wiser and better men. The good taste of this anachronism has been doubted, but not by us.

We come now to the painter's great and anxious effort to represent the Christ himself. This has been noticed by some as a most sublime performance; by others as a total failure. The reason of this great diversity of opinion is, the difficulty of our conceiving the expression of the human countenance, when animated by Divinity itself. All our ideas of expression are borrowed from the human face animated by the human soul, and affected by human feelings, passions, and weaknesses. But the necessity of removing every trace of human frailty from a face designed to represent Divinity, exposes the artist to the imminent danger of producing a countenance merely unmeaning. It is easy to talk of uniting the serene wtih the awful, the benignant with the terrible, the mild with the majestic; but to depict this union is by no means VOL. XIV.

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so easy a task. It may, perhaps, be doubted, whether the characteristic expression of the Divine countenance, or its transient expression under any particular circumstances, are subjects properly within the scope of imitative art. How is the painter to feel, or conceive, the workings of the eternal mind-how pourtray the effect of sensations incomprehensible to mortals? We remember but one instance in which art has succeeded in embodying the idea of Divine intelligence and goodness; and that is done, as far as the limits of human capacity would allow, by Leonardo da Vinci, in his exquisite picture of Christ disputing with the doctors in the temple. That learned and judicious artist justly conceived, that perfect wisdom was an eternal. -an inherent quality of its Divine possessor; not, like the knowledge of man, acquired by tedious and painful investigation and deduction. He judged that instruction would be dispensed from Omniscience like light from the sun, without effort or difficulty. He also conceived that the earnestness of debate, and the pride of a victorious disputant, could have no place in the representation of God-condescending to reason with his creatures. To these just and philosophical conceptions, his pencil has in a great degree given effect; to have succeeded perfectly, we may safely pronounce beyond the reach of art. Our Saviour is represented by him with a youthful, serene, and affable countenance; and appears to be reasoning calmly, unostentatiously, and irresistibly. Anxiety, surprise, and mortification, are conspicuous in the faces of his earthly-wise adversaries. The mind of the spectator, combining the idea of the force and perspicuity of the arguments which thus baffle human wisdom and learning, with the beautiful, serene, and unassuming countenance of Jesus, instantly ascribes to him those qualities which may be supposed to distinguish the Divine nature under such circumstances. How perfect that wisdom which thus convinces without effort or ostentation, which triumphs not in its victory! The ineffable sweetness and benigníty of the Saviour's countenance, adds the charm of loveliness to the awe and admiration with which we are inspired by these reflections, and thus completes an idea, perfect in kind, though not in degree, of the Divine character. This idea the unskilful spectator attributes wholly to the artist's representation of Christ himself; not aware how much of it he

has himself been led to supply by the association of his own thoughts.

It appears to us, that in the present instance the painter has been baffled by the endeavour to do more than the na ture of the case would permit. We are led to suppose from the commencement of his description, that the point of time selected is that in which the Pharisees having urged Jesus to repress the enthusiasm of the multitude, he replied, "If these were to hold their peace, the very stones would cry out." In this sentence the artist justly observes, that our Saviour seems to have participated in the enthusiasm of his disciples; and he has given him a colloquial attitude, suitable to such an answer. But in a subsequent part of the description, we are told, that "the moment in which Christ is represented, is one of conscious, prophetic power; not when he is weep ing, or melancholy, not when the man of sorrows, but when excited by the furious enthusiasm of the people to anticipate his death, and calmly, but energetically, collecting his feelings to bear it. There is something sublime in the idea, that in the midst of the highest earthly triumph, surrounded by a de voted and shouting populace, he alone would see into the seeds of time,' and muse on his approaching sacrifice! It is the moment that follows his triumphant approach, and precedes his pathetic lamentation over the city, that it is wished to develope by his air and d.appearance."

This is certainly a most interesting point of view, but it is not clear that it is expressible by painting; nor is it compatible with the point of time selected in the commencement, or with the colloquial attitude of the figure. When Jesus made an emphatic answer to the Pharisees, his countenance was undoubtedly directed to them, and animated by the expression corresponding with the words. When musing on his approaching sacrifice (if we may presume to enter so far into his supposed feelings), we will not venture to say his looks were not those depicted by Mr. Haydon, but his attitude could not have been such as we see in the painting. We think Mr. Haydon has attempted to combine the predominant feeling in the mind of Jesus with a momentary and accidental effusion; which is not natural, for a particular and sudden circumstance effaces for the moment the expression of the predominant feeling. In historical painting, those subjects are

preferable in which a clear and unequivocal meaning is evinced, and reaches the mind at once through the sight, without any investigation or effort of reasoning: but in the present instance, the effect is neither obvious nor capable of satisfactory explanation.

From these considerations, we are compelled to admit that the figure of Christ in this picture has disappointed our hopes. He is declaiming, yet addressing himself to no one; and meditating on one subject, while speaking on another. The interesting groups by which he is surrounded, are not united with him by any reciprocity of intelligence. Neither the penitent daughter, nor Lazarus, nor Jairus, nor any of the accompanying figures, attract his notice, or seem likely to do so; he rides forward intent on his own meditations, and there appears little reason to hope that the Canaanitish woman, or the good centurion, will be more successful than the other candidates for his attention, whom he is passing by unregarded. From the excellence of many parts of the picture, we sincerely regret the failure in the principal figure, which is yet such a failure as could only have happened to a man of great genius.

We find that Mr. Haydon intends to devote his pencil to the representation of other passages of our Saviour's life, which will afford opportunities to paint all the various feelings, in which his Divine nature displayed itself. "He will endeavour to shew in future pictures, his moments of love, and of agony, as well as those of elevated and prophetic deity." We believe this resolution to be full of danger, as leading to attempts not properly within the province of painting.

Human expression, elicited by human actions and sufferings, is the proper subject of historical painting. Our Saviour's actions were unlike those of men, and originated in motives beyond our comprehension; and in endeavouring to grasp them, we shall only struggle

"With thoughts beyond the reaches of our

souls."

In the Cartoons our Saviour appears but twice, and in both instances Raffaelle has failed to produce any adequate impression. From our high estimation of Mr. Haydon's abilities, we hope he will confine his endeavours to practicable undertakings. It may be thought that the success of the ancients, in the

representation of their imaginary divinities, militates against our opinion; but it must be recollected that they succeeded by means from which we are excluded. They elevated the human figure to an ideal beauty, and produced a naked perfection which seemed superhuman, and was sanctified by public opinion. But we are compelled by history and public opinion to the use of drapery, and to the renunciation of beauty as meretricious and earthly. The art which the religion of the ancients required was poetical; that which is appropriate to our belief is historical.

Most of the heads in the present painting are fine, particularly the mo ther, two daughters, and infant boy on the left, and Jairus and St. John on the right. Those of Saint Peter, and one next to him, are ably executed, but the model has not been well chosen, and the features have a national peculiarity foreign to the subject of the piece. There is no display of the naked, except the neck and bosom of the daughter of Jairus (the exposure of which seems excessively improbable), and the arms of the good Centurion and Canaanitish woman. We think these limbs rather heavily drawn, which defect is also observable in the foot of the penitent daughter. In the drapery, (except what relates to colour) there is nothing to censure or to praise; but the figures are too much and too universally clothed. A judicious and moderate use of the beauty of the human figure gives animation, variety, and elegance.

The colouring has on the first glance a most rich, deep, and harmonious effect; but in detail we find the parts occasionally ill combined. The colour of the vest of Jesus approaches_too nearly that of his hair and beard, and the pale garments of the Canaanitish woman, are scarcely distinguishable from her wan complexion: the glaring scarlet cloak of Lazarus comes too forward. But these are trifling defects, and of a subordinate nature in a work of this description. We think the very powerful light thrown on the picture, and heightened by the contrast effected by darkening the other parts of the room, injurious to the effect. The colouring is of a description which time will certainly improve, by softening and mitigating the harshness of some of the violent contrasts it presents.

If established rules have (as it is asserted) been violated in the composition of this picture, it is a proof that

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