Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 56, No. 346, August, 1844. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.
With just such motion, gliding light,
These fairies vanish'd from my sight."
Poor unfortunate Dadd! some years ago he exhibited a picture of this subject, somewhat similarly treated, that was exquisitely ideal.
The "Ellen Orford," from Crabbe's Borough, is good in the effect; but it has not the pathos that usually distinguishes Redgrave. "Rizpah watching her Sons," is very fine. The night, the glaring torchlight, to scare away the approaching wolves, and the paler, more distant light in the sky, with the melancholy mourning Rizpah, are of the best conception. "The Sick Child" has quite the effect of a Rembrandt plate; yet it is very tender—a scene fit for the angelic visit, and pure and devout of thought and purpose is that angel—we do not like the mother. The best description is from Mr Redgrave's own pen.
"THE SICK CHILD
"He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways."—PSALM xci.
"In a chamber, faintly crying,
With its mother o'er it sighing,
Lay a baby pale and wan;
Ever turning—restless turning—
Much she dreaded fever burning,
Sickness slow or sickness hasting,
Cough, convulsion, ague wasting.
Bitter tears there fell upon
The pale face of her little son.
"The evening chimes had ceased their ringing,
And the even song was singing
In the old kirk grey with years;
Through the air sweet words came welling—
Words of peace, unto that dwelling;
Hymns they sang, how angels shielded
Those who ne'er to sin had yielded:—
And her pale face lost its fears—
That lonely mother dried her tears.
"In her arms the babe soon slumber'd;
That little son, whose days seem'd number'd,
Smiled upon his mother sleeping.
The Lord indeed had sorely tried her,
But his angel knelt beside her;
Heavenly breezes cool'd the fever
Of her child—He shall not leave her!
And this mother ceased her weeping."
The "Expected Return" is quite in Redgrave's best manner
"Fancy, impatient of all painful thoughts,
Pictured the bliss should welcome his return;
* * * * *
And hope and memory made a mingled joy."—SOUTHEY
This is a lovely figure; a loving and lovable gentle creature! and many such have we seen by Redgrave's hand. Not Raffaelle himself could more truly paint the pure mind—that precious jewel, innocence, in its most lovely casket.
Severn has two plates, which may be called companions; racy and good are they, and of one vintage. We are not quite satisfied with either face or figure of the maiden in the "Roman Vintage." Hers is not a face of feeling; nay, we would almost beg Mr Severn's pardon, and pronounce her a bit of a fool. The "Neapolitan" is much better. They are executed in a very bold, broad, free style of etching, and effective. Horsley's "English Peasant" might be allowed to be a little weatherbeaten; but, at first sight, we should say that he was not of the temperance society when the aquafortis was on the table. It is black, from being overbitten. Yet, after a while, we see through the darkness into the character. He is an honest fellow, but a little "disguised." His "Twilight" is very good, yet perhaps is the light a little too sharp and strong for that hour. The subject is from verses by Redgrave, and good and quaintlike old gentle rhymes they are. But how comes it that the figures are both feminine?—that does not accord with the lines.
"Time was no more for them: the sun had gone,
The stars from sunset glow began to peer;
Yet 'neath those stars that pair still linger'd on,
Unconscious of the night, fast drawing near!
His voice to her was daylight, and her smile
A sunny morning breaking o'er his soul:
Such hours of bliss come only once—the while
Long-silent love speaks forth without control,
And of its hopes and fears first telleth out the whole."
"Welsh Gossips."—
"At every word a reputation dies."
For the credit of Wales, we hope Mr Horsley did not sketch these from nature; yet is there a fearful look of natural acrimony in the one, and sheer busybodyism in the other. The plate is beautifully etched. His "Moonlight" is not quite clear enough—there are too many sparkling lights. The "Shady Seat" is prettily designed; the lady looks rather too alarmed, and, for the subject, perhaps there is not enough of shadow— certainly not "enough for two." We at once recognize Stonhouse in the "Evening effects of Solitude," and his "Neath Abbey." The former he thus describes:—
"There, woods impervious to the breeze,
Thick phalanx of embodied trees—
Here, stillness, height, and solemn shade
Invite, and contemplation aid."
We are sure that Neath Abbey is from nature, for it has the sooty and smoked character of that manufacture-ruined ruin. But we must not pass by his "Dorothea" from Don Quixote. Nothing can be more happily expressed than the deep shady retirement of the wood; there are nice gradations of shades, which is the very character of retirement, and Dorothea is herself in it, not a bright figure in a black mass—and good is the figure too, but the feet are unfinished.
Mr Creswick is a large contributor, and least fortunate in his first: it is not the scene so well given in verse by his friend Townsend; for it is too pretty, too tight. It wants the "lane;" it is the road-side.
"THE WAYSIDE
"A lane, retired from noisy haunts of men,
Whose ruts the solitary lime cart tracks,
Whose