266 riNE ARTS. 



The artist has been eminently successful in the drawing, penciling, 

 colouring, and expression ; her face is a model of English beauty. It 

 reminds me of Donne's admired lines. I think they are Donne's, and 

 I quote them from a forty years' recollection, perhaps, not very 

 correctly : — 



" Her pure and eloquent blood spoke in her cheeks and so divinely wrought, 

 That it would almost seem her body thought." 



The forms of her person are delicately rounded, and the air of elegance 

 and fashion in her dress and manner, is chastened by an ineffable look 

 of purity. Her hair and female ornaments are disposed with a graceful 

 simplicity ; and her beauty is rendered more beautiful by the temperance 

 with which she appears to restrain the warm and overflowing emotions 



of her heart. The accessories and background are but, away 



with the accessories ! With all their excellence, 1 cannot think of 

 their merits just now; with that face, that form, that innocent, 

 impassioned loveliness Ijefore me ! Here we may throw down the 

 gauntlet, — England against the Continent. For the power of painting 

 all that constitutes the grace and flower of polished life ; — of painting 

 sentiment, mind, passion, soul, — all the modest charms of virtue in a 

 lovely form, Charles Landseer against them all ! Let it be remembered, 

 I, here, speak only of genteel life, — as I have not seen any effort of his 

 in the higher department of histbry. 



*' 358 — Sad Tidings," by the same painter ; a chamber scene, also. 

 This young lady is seated, with one arm extended listlessly down, 

 holding on her lap, the fatal letter, which has, in a moment, for ever 

 crushed the innocent hope of her first affection. That scroll has, at 

 once, turned the world, and all its pomps, into a frightful void to her. 

 One elbow rests on the table before her ; the fair hand pressed against 

 her drooping forehead, as if to restrain the agony of her throbbing 

 temples. Her face is in profile, and her hair falling in negligent ringlets. 

 But what a contour is there ! How delicate ! how lovely ! — How deep ! 

 how intense ! yet how still, the sorrow on those charming features ! I 

 have, already, observed, there is an unconscious listlessness in the fall 

 of her arm ; and the same is visible in the manner of her holding the 

 letter, and in the drooping forward of her head, as if pressed down by 

 the stunning weight of the blow. 



A melo-dramatic designer would have looked into the green-room of 

 some theatre for a model, and represented her with a violent action ; her 

 elevated hands clasped, or sawing the air ; her dress in a flutter ; her 

 head thrown back ; her eyes raised to heaven, and a flood of tears 

 rolling down her cheeks. All this would be admired, in certain boudoirs, 

 as very fine. But the more show off", the less sympathy. We would 

 look on the Tragedy Queen with coldness or disgust, as on an impostor 

 attempting to extort compassion under false pretences. How vastly 

 superior this ! Here is no attempt to make a scene ; — no forced artifice 

 to attract or excite. Far from any show, — she appears to have turned 

 her eyes inward on herself, as if forgetful of every other being in 

 existence ; as if all had died with one ! Her feelings, her mind, her 

 soul, and everv living faculty, are absorbed in one overwhelming thought. 

 All else is hushed ; all immovable as the grave. Yet how moving, (if I 

 may use it without appearing to play upon the word), that immobility ! 

 Hers is a grief like that so forcibly described by Shakspeare. Here, 

 Sigain, I quote from a long recollection, and, perhaps, I mar the text ; 



'* The grief, that cannot speak. 



Whispers the o'ercharg'd heart, and bids it break." 



