Chapter XVII (1)

Through the depth and darkness of the summer night, you can hear Mrs Laurie’s quiet breathing as she lies asleep. With a pain at her heart she lay down, and when she wakes she will feel it, or ever she is aware that she has awaked; but still she sleeps: blessing on the kind oblivion which lays all these troubles for a time to rest.

But what is this white figure erecting itself from the pillow, sitting motionless and silent in the night? It is tears that keep these gentle eyelids apart—tears that banish from them the sleep of youth. Still, that she may not wake the sleeper by her side, scarcely daring to move her hand to wipe away this heavy dew which blinds her eyes. Menie Laurie, Menie Laurie, can this sad watcher be you?

And Menie’s soul is vexing itself with plans and schemes, and Menie’s heart is rising up to God in broken snatches of prayer, constantly interrupted, and merging into the bewilderment of her thoughts. Startled once for all out of the early calm, the serene untroubled youthful life which lies behind her in the past, Menie feels the change very hard and sore as she realises it; from doing nought for her own comfort—from the loving sweet dependence upon others, to which her child’s heart has been accustomed—suddenly, without pause or preparation, to learn that all must depend upon herself—to have the ghost of strife and discord, where such full harmony was wont to be—to feel the two great loves of her nature—the loves which heretofore, in her own innocent and unsuspicious apprehension, have but strengthened and deepened each the other, set forth in antagonism, love against love, and her own heart the battle-ground. Shrinking and failing one moment, longing vainly to flee away—away anywhere into the utmost desolation, if only it were out of this conflict,—the next resolving, with such strong throbs and beatings of her heart, to take up her burden cordially, to be ever awake and alert, to subdue this giant difficulty with the force of her own strong love and ceaseless tenderness—praying now for escape, then for endurance, and anon breaking into silent tears over all. Alas for Menie Laurie in her unaccustomed solitude! and Menie thinks, like every other Menie, that she could have borne anything but this.

But by-and-by, in spite of tears and trouble, the natural rest steals upon Menie—steals upon her unawares, though she feels, in the sadness of her heart, as if she could never rest again; throws back her drooping head upon her pillow, folds her arms meekly on her breast, closes her eyelids over the unshed tear; and thus it is that the dawn finds her out, like a flower overcharged and drooping with its weight of evening dew, but wrapt in sleep as deep and dreamless and unbroken as if her youth had never known a tear.

The sun is full in the room when Menie wakes, and Mrs Laurie has but a moment since closed the door softly behind her, that the sleeper might not be disturbed. Even this tender precaution, when she finds it out, chills Menie to the heart; for heretofore her mother’s voice has roused her, and even her mother’s impatience of her lingering would be joy to her to-day; but Mrs Laurie is not impatient. Mrs Laurie thinks it better, for all the sun’s unceasing proclamation that night and sleep are past, to let the young heart refresh itself a little longer, to leave the young form at rest.

Ay, Menie Laurie, kneel down by your bedside—kneel down and pray; it is not often that your supplications testify themselves in outward attitude. Now there is a murmur of an audible voice speaking words to which no mortal ear has any right to listen; and your downcast face is buried in your hands, and your tears plead with your prayers. For you never thought but to be happy, Menie, and the gentle youthful nature longs and yearns for happiness, and with the strength of a rebel fights against the pain foreseen—poor heart!

“Eh, Jenny! you’re no keeping ill-will?” said a doleful voice upon the lawn below; very distinct, through the open window, it quickened Menie’s morning toilette considerably, and drew her forward, with a wondering face, to make sure. “I’m sure it’s no in me to be unfriends with onybody; and after ane coming a’ this gate for naething but to ask a civil question, how you a’ was. I’m saying, Jenny? you’re no needing to haud ony correspondence with me except ye like; it’s the mistress and Miss Menie I’m wanting to see.”

“Am I to let in a’ the gaun-about vagabones that want to see the mistress and Miss Menie?” said Jenny’s gruff voice in reply. “I trow no; and how ye can have the face to look at Jenny after your last errand till her, I canna tell; ye’ll be for undertaking my service ance mair? but ye may just as weel take my word ance for a’—the mistress canna bide ye ony mair than me.”

“Eh, woman, Jenny, ye’re a thrawn creature!” said Nelly Panton. “I’m sure I never did ye an ill turn a’ my days. But ye needna even the like of your service to me; I’m gaun to live with our Johnnie, and keep his house, and Johnnie’s company are grander folk than the mistress; but I’m no forgetting auld friends, so I came to ask for Miss Menie because I aye likit her, and because she’s a young lass like mysel; and I’ll gang and speak to that ither servant-woman if you’ll no tell Miss Menie I’m here.”

Jenny’s fury—for very furious was Jenny’s suppressed fuff at the presumptuous notion of equality or friendship between Menie Laurie and Nelly Panton—was checked by this threat; and fearful lest the dignity of her young mistress should be injured in the eyes of the household by the new-comer’s pretensions, Jenny, who had held this colloquy out of doors, turned hastily round and pattered away by the back entrance to open the door for the visitor, muttering repeated adjurations. “My patience!” and Jenny’s patience had indeed much reason to be called to her aid.

Menie’s curiosity was a little roused—her mind, withdrawn from herself, lightened somewhat of its load, and she hastened down stairs less unwillingly than she would have done without this interruption. Jenny stood by the drawing-room door holding it open; and Jenny’s sturdy little form vibrated, every inch of it, with anger and indignation. “Ane to speak to you, Miss Menie!—ane used with grand society, and owre high for the like of me. Ye’ll have to speak to her yoursel.”

And Menie suddenly found herself thrust into the room, while Jenny, with an audible snort and fuff, remained in possession of the door.

Nelly Panton had too newly entered on her dignities to be able to restrain the ancient curtsey of her humility. Yes, undoubtedly, it was Nelly Panton—with the same faded gown, the same doleful shawl, the same wrapped-up and gloomy figure. Against the well-lighted, well-pictured wall of Miss Annie Laurie’s drawing-room she stood in dingy individuality dropping her curtsey, while Menie, much surprised and silent, stood before her waiting to be addressed.

“Can nane of ye speak?” said the impatient Jenny, from the door. “Miss Menie, are ye no gaun to ask what is her business here? A fule micht ha’e kent this was nae place to come back to, after her last errand to Burnside; and when she kens I canna bide her, and the mistress canna bide her, to come and set up for a friendship with you!”

“She’s just as cankered as she aye was, Miss Menie,” said Nelly Panton, compassionately, shaking her head. “It shows an ill disposition, indeed, when folk canna keep at peace with me, as many a time I’ve telt my mother. But ye see, Miss Menie, I couldna just bide on in Kirklands when ye were a’ away, so I just took my fit in my hand, and came on to London to see after Johnnie with my ain een. He needs somebody to keep him gaun, and set him richt, puir callant; and he’s in a grand way for himsel, and should be attended to—so I think I’ll just stay on, Miss Menie; and the first thing I did was to come and ask for you.”

“You are very kind, Nelly,” said Menie Laurie; but Menie paused with a suppressed laugh when she saw Jenny’s clenched hand shaken at her from the door.

“And ye’ll maybe think I’m no just in condition to set up for friends with the like of you,” said Nelly, glancing down upon her dress; “but I only came in to London the day before yesterday, and I’ve naething yet but my travelling things. I’m hearing that little Juley Home of Braecroft’s coming too; and between you and me, Miss Menie, no to let it gang ony farther, I think it was real richt and prudent of you to show us the first example, and draw us a’ up to London to take care of thae lads.”

“What do you mean, Nelly?” exclaimed Menie, somewhat angrily.

“Ye may weel say what does she mean,” said Jenny, making a sudden inroad from the door. “Do you hear, ye evil speaker!—the mistress is out, and there’s naebody to take care of this puir bairn but me; whatever malice and venom ye have to say, out wi’t, and I’ll tell the young lady what kind of character ye are when a’s dune.”

“I wadna keep such a meddling body in my house—no, if she did the wark twice as weel,” retorted Nelly, with calm superiority; “and I’ve nae call to speak my mind afore Jenny, and her aye misca’in’ me; but it’s nae secret of mine. I was just gaun to say, that for a’ our Johnnie’s a very decent lad, and minds upon his friends, I never saw ane, gentle or simple, sae awfu’ muckle tooken up about himsel as Randy Home. He’s anither lad altogether to what he used to be; and it’s no to be thocht but what he’s wanting a grand wife like a’ the rest. Now, ye’ll just see.”

Menie Laurie put down Jenny’s passionate disclaimer by a motion of her hand. “If this was what you came to tell me, Nelly, I fear I shall scarcely be grateful for your visit. Do you know that it is an impertinence to say this to me? Whisht, Jenny, that is enough; and I came here to look after no one. Whatever you may have thought before, you will believe this now, since I say it. Jenny will see that you are comfortable while you stay out here; but I think, Nelly, you have said enough to me this morning, and I to you—Jenny, whisht.”

“I’ll no whisht,” cried Jenny, at last, freed by Menie’s pause. “Eh, ye evil spirit! will ye tell me what cause of ill-will ye ever could have against this innocent bairn? I’m no gaun to whisht, Miss Menie—to think of her coming up here ance errand to put out her malice on you! My patience! how ony mortal can thole the sicht o’ her, I dinna ken.”

“I can forgive ye, Jenny,” said the meek Nelly Panton, “for a’ your passions, and your glooms, and your ill words—I’m thankful to say I can forgive ye; but, eh, sirs, this is a weary world;—wherever I gang, at hame, or away frae hame, I’m aye miskent—naebody has the heart to take a guid turn frae me—though, I’m sure, I aye mean a’thing for the best, and it was richt Miss Menie should ken. I thocht I would just come up this far to give ye an advice, Miss Menie, when we were our lanes; and I’m no gaun to blaze up into a fuff like Jenny because it’s ill ta’en. I’m just as guid friends as ever. The next time I come I’ll come with our Johnnie, so I bid you a very good morning, Miss Menie Laurie, and mony thanks for your kind welcome. Jenny, fare-ye-well.”

Menie sat down in the window when the dark figure of her unwelcome visitor was gone. The sun came in upon her gaily—the genial August sun—and the leaves without fluttered in a happy wind and a maze of morning sounds, broken with shriller shouts of children, and rings of silvery laughter floated up and floated round her, of themselves an atmosphere fresh and sweet; but Menie bowed her face between her hands, and looked out with wistful eyes into the future, where so many fears and wonders had come to dwell; and vigilant and stern the meagre yew-tree looked in upon her, like an unkindly fate.

NATIONAL GALLERY.
REPORT OF COMMISSION.

The publication of the evidence given before the Select Committee on the National Gallery, enables us to return to the subject of our article of December with a more complete knowledge of the facts than we could gather from the unfinished Report and the extracts of evidence, which the press of the day supplied. The whole Blue Book is a valuable document: it contains a very clear index by which references to all details, as well of fact as of opinion, can be readily made, rendering the alarming bulk of the materials very manageable. We can now see what each witness actually said, so that none need complain of partial or mutilated extracts; every passage may be taken with its context. We shall take occasion thereby to correct some portions of evidence, upon which we commented in our former paper, having been misled by the versions in the newspaper reports, from which we took them. To correct a misstatement should be our first task. We were certainly much surprised to find it stated that Sir Charles Eastlake had made such a declaration as this, that he would not hesitate to clean a picture, and “to _strip off the whole of its glazings_.” We thought it at the time so improbable that we could not believe such to have been his meaning; and accordingly said, that Sir Charles must have meant coats of varnish, for that we knew him to be too experienced a master of his profession to mean the glazings. We have, since the publication, carefully examined his evidence, and not only do not see the words attributed to him, but collect from his answers to the queries put to him, a general aversion to “cleaning,” and that, in most instances, he opposed subjecting pictures to it, as a dangerous process.

It might, however, be supposed that artists would agree as to the meaning of terms of art. Those on the Commission unacquainted with the processes of painting, must have been very much surprised and perplexed by the very different meanings given to technical terms, and that not by one or two, or by artists of little note, but by nearly all, including the most celebrated. The confusion caused by this non-agreement among the artists, with regard to the terms of their art, the contradictions, and explanations, occupy a very large portion of the Blue Book. Nor does it appear that the Commissioners are able to come to any clear conclusion upon the matter. They labour hard, it is true, and put their questions in every shape, to learn what seems to be simple enough—in fact, whether any paint, put on a picture by the original painter, in a thin transparent manner, has been removed by the cleaning process; but the examined force their examiners into a labyrinth of words, of various and tortuous uses, in which there is all bewilderment, and no master-clue is given them by which they might escape into unobscured ground. Thus, we see in the index the word “glazings” requires four heads of examination—1. Explanation of the process; its susceptibility to injury by cleaning. 2. How far it was used by the ancient masters. 3. Proofs of glazings having been extensively used. 4. Removal by cleaning of the glazings from certain pictures in the Gallery. There is, at least, one certain conclusion to be drawn—that there was, and is, such a thing as glazing. That is generally agreed upon—in fact, is only doubted by the keeper, Mr Uwins, R.A.; and his denial, causing so much astonishment, has raised a storm of contradictory opinions, which have obfuscated the whole artistic atmosphere. The public attention had been drawn to a supposed injury, said to have been inflicted on some of the finest pictures in the National Gallery. The attack, through letters in the _Times_, on the trustees, keeper, cleaners, and general system, was so vigorous that the Commission of Enquiry became absolutely necessary, in order either to allay the public alarm or to provide security for the future. The result has been certainly to justify and confirm the alarm, and to offer certain propositions for the better providing for the safety and progressive improvement of our National Gallery. The system, which includes the whole management of the Gallery, is condemned, in unhesitating terms of compliment to those who _made_ the system, and who ought to have made a better, or to have refused position in one so bad. Yet we really think it is straining a point of grace to dignify the general mismanagement with the title of “system” at all, for no regular system seems ever to have been pursued from the beginning. As we showed in our former article, (and not from our own surmise, but from the evidence of a parliamentary report), our several Governments were never in earnest with regard to the Fine Arts; and a National Gallery having, by a kind of accident, been forced upon them, they chose trustees as to an honorary office in which there was nothing to do, selected for their title and rank rather than for their taste, knowledge, or ability. The consequences have been sad indeed, and exhibit a catalogue of sins of commission and omission. A National Gallery was founded thirty years ago; what is the great production of these thirty years of peace? It is the old fable of the mountain’s labour. The evidence as to losses sustained by omission to purchase is quite vexatious; there is a long list, to which every one acquainted with the picture world may make additions. We have often and often expressed our astonishment, when we have seen pictures on sale, wanted in the Gallery, and not purchased. To say nothing of the greater schools, the Italian, less understood by collectors of pictures, and for which there is as yet unhappily no sufficient public taste—How many pictures of value, of the schools for which a taste is professed, have been allowed to pass away, and many of them sent out of the country? We allude to pictures of which there could be no doubt, either as to their condition or originality. For instance, how miserably poor is our gallery in the works of the younger Vanderveldt, who may be almost classed as an English painter; yet the country had an opportunity of making a purchase of that exceedingly fine one sold from the collection of Sir Bethel Codrington. How poor are we in the works of Ruysdael, of Hobbima—painters so highly estimated by private collectors. We are not giving a preference to these schools; we only show, that what entirely falls within the taste of all collectors among us the nation disregards. An indifference has been proved. Did not a member of the Government declare, in his place in Parliament, that it was preferable that pictures should rather be in private collections than in a public gallery?

We cannot subscribe to the censure passed on our Prime-Minister, Lord Aberdeen, by a writer in the _Morning Post_, that he consented to the purchase of two pictures which he never saw. Surely he was justified in his reliance upon the recommendation of the Trustees, especially as he was well aware of the difficulty of obtaining their consent to make any purchases. But the inadequacy of the system is thus admitted. _Question_ 5289.—“Your Lordship has probably become aware that a want of definite and well-subdivided responsibility is the main defect of the institution as it exists at present?”—“Yes, I think that where the trustees are numerous, and their attendance is not compulsory, there is great uncertainty; different persons attend on different days, and come with different views and different projects.” But further on we have the real cause of the difficulty exposed, the incompetency of the judges. _Q._ 5319.—“Your Lordship is aware that opportunities have occurred for the purchase of pictures which belonged to Mr Solly, Mr Conyngham, Mr Younge Otley, and various other gentlemen; and some persons regret that we have not availed ourselves of those opportunities. I presume your Lordship conceives it might be desirable that authority should be given to a limited body of trustees to give a positive recommendation in such cases to the Chancellor of the Exchequer?”—“Yes, I think that would be very useful; but at the same time, on all these subjects, people differ very much among those who are generally supposed to understand matters of art exceedingly well—I have never found two agree. In the case of pictures not enjoying public notoriety and celebrity, you are always liable to that: one man will think that he has found something that is invaluable, while others will think that it is good for little or nothing. You are always liable to a difference of opinion, and the selection must be left to those who are admitted to be the best judges. I do not expect to see a tribunal in which there will not often be a great difference of opinion on matters of art.” Although his Lordship is aware that there is in France, and Prussia, and other countries, “one supreme head, not an artist, but a nobleman or gentleman of high attainments in those matters, in whom the country has confidence,” he is also aware of the hornet’s nest that free discussion is: in answer to question 5314, “Yes, I believe so—a sort of minister; but in a country where there is the same freedom of discussion that there is here, I should not envy the person occupying such a position.” It would indeed be a responsibility requiring a strong and firm mind. And “public confidence” is a variable thing, as his Lordship may at the present moment shrewdly suspect; yet we doubt not there would be many candidates for, or at least many having sufficient confidence in themselves to accept, such a position. Such might be found amongst the competent and incompetent. It is not improbable that Mr Morris Moore, fully assured of his own taste and knowledge, would accept it; or if Sidney Smith were living, he would be likely to add that to the catalogue of undertakings to which Lord John Russell would think himself fully equal, even though there would be a chance of being flayed alive by public discussion and averted public confidence. There are men who desperately love to give judgment _ex cathedra_, whether it be about a Titian or a nation’s safety, and would hardly be restrained though the fate of Sisanes were threatened them, and they were to encounter the chance of being flayed, and their skins made cushions for their successors in the same seat, to remind them of the consequences of an ill judgment. Still we advocate the one supreme head—a minister of the fine arts—and would have him choose his council; nor should we be so unreasonable as to expect even such a one to be a competent judge in all departments. Few, indeed, are so gifted. Sir Robert Peel, who appears from the beginning to have taken great interest in the Gallery, would scarcely have been a competent authority with regard to Italian art; for, if we mistake not, in the public exhibition of his pictures, a few years ago, there were none of any of the Italian schools. We know no man whose general judgment we should so much rely upon as Sir Charles Eastlake, for he is accomplished, not only as a painter, but as a scholar of artistic research, and full of knowledge; but we learn from himself, in his evidence before this Commission, that when he was appointed to the keepership by Sir Robert Peel, he accepted the office on the condition that he was only to be consulted on, and responsible for, the purchase of Italian pictures. A minister of fine arts should certainly be well acquainted with the finest works of art, and they are undoubtedly of the Italian schools—a real knowledge of these, to a great extent, implies a Catholic taste. The possessor of such knowledge is not likely to be blind to the merits of other schools, though his preference for the higher may have limited his search, and in some measure lowered his zeal as a collector. He would, of course, have subordinate officials, who would, for final judgment, refer to him; and we should in no case fear his decision if he were versed in the fundamental principles of art discoverable in the great schools of Italy. There should be purveyors everywhere. But we have seen enough in the pages of the Report to show that such employed purveyors should not be selected from picture-dealers. Any one attached to the Gallery in this capacity should be a sworn agent, bound to renounce all picture-dealing as a trade, and not to accept anything whatever in the shape of commission. We see no reason why he should ever have been in the trade at all, quite sure that there are many gentlemen out of it perfectly qualified to undertake the important duty.

The main object of the Commission being to discover if the charges of injury, from cleaning certain pictures, have any foundation, it may be thought somewhat strange that they scarcely come to a conclusion upon the matter, which, if they had been inclined to trust to their perception, would not have been a difficult task. They tell us that “the preponderance of testimony is to the effect, that the appearance of the pictures has been _rendered less agreeable by the operation of cleaning_ (the draught of Report says deteriorated)—in some of them, in regard to their general aspect, by removal of the mellow tone which they previously exhibited; in others, from special blemishes, which have become apparent, and which in a former state of the pictures were not perceptible.” In another place we are told, “the weight of evidence varies considerably in respect of the effect produced upon each of the nine pictures which have been lately subjected to the process of cleaning.” We should have thought the _weight_ of evidence had been the _preponderance_; the weighing down testimony, the turning the scale for or against a varying weight, as a conclusion of evidence appears rather unintelligible. There never was so great a weight of evidence as the Blue Book itself. Did the Commissioners—admitting that, from the examination of artists, amateurs, and picture-dealers, the only result was “great contrariety of judgment and irreconcilable differences of taste”—go to the pictures and examine for themselves? They did so. They went “in company with several witnesses, and in some instances they had also the advantage of engravings and painted sketches of the pictures, so that the witness could point out in detail the precise grounds upon which his conclusions were founded.” We did expect, when we came upon this passage in the Report, that we should learn what the Commissioners themselves thought after this inspection, especially as they had immediately stated that the object of the inspection was, “_in order that every facility_ might be afforded for _the elucidation of these conflicting_ opinions.” But, no. They avoid throwing any opinion into the scale; so that there is no positive decision; and at this interesting point they suddenly turn aside, make, as it were, a ring, to enjoy the stand-up fight of the conflicting opinions of Mr Morris Moore and Mr Uwins the keeper, as some relief to the discrepancies among themselves. We do not doubt that they did form a judgment in their own minds, and can readily guess it. They are cautious, and avoid pronouncing it. Indeed, the Commissioners seem to have been a little vexed with Mr Morris Moore, and look unpleasantly upon him as a chief accuser who had put into their hands a very disagreeable work, which they do not at all sit easy under. They show their vexation in the Report, p. xi., where, in commenting upon the contradictory evidence of Mr Morris Moore and Mr Uwins, they embody in the Report the opinion of Mr Uwins, who characterises the evidence of Mr M. Moore as “displaying a mass of ignorance and want of intelligence.” And immediately, as if to set aside the evidence of both, we presume by the context as prejudiced, they say—“Your Committee wish to direct attention to the _unprejudiced_ [the italics are ours] opinions of many eminent artists and amateurs.” So when Mr Morris Moore justly complains of insult from the unreproved words used by Mr Farrer, “If the imputation came from a person who I thought would be believed, I should take it up,” the Commissioners, after clearing the room to consider the charge of Mr Moore, that he had been insulted, came to the strange conclusion, not that Mr Farrer’s words were no insult, but that “Mr Moore had himself frequently used language towards others which might reasonably give offence.” Now this is not fair. Offence may be given reasonably, and therefore admissibly; but when it is of a nature to impugn the veracity generally, not as to any particular fact, of a person under examination, as one not to be believed, he has a right to demand protection; and if it be not given, their right of examination ceases. There is a great difference between what may be in the nature of the evidence offensive and what is insulting. If Mr Moore had been equally guilty with Mr Farrer, the Commissioners should, when so guilty, have reproved it; whereas they make this their omission an excuse for not doing plain justice now. Doubtless Mr M. Moore has given great offence by his evidence, but that does not justify Mr Farrer in offering an insult which is not evidence; nor are the Commissioners justified in their comment that Mr Moore had given offence, without marking still more strongly the insult offered by Mr Farrer, still unreproved. We are not acquainted with Mr Moore, nor do we in any way take up his “_animosities_,” if he has any; but we think towards him the Commissioners did not act quite fairly, nor consistently with the dignity of their position.

We may not unaptly look upon their visit to the National Gallery as an inquest on the bodies of certain old masters—say Claude, Titian, Velasquez—for the charge had been made of positive murder. The decision required—Were they dead, killed, murdered, or still alive and well-looking? A physician once told us an anecdote in point. He, with another physician, had been some time in attendance upon a patient. (We believe the man was a baker). One day they went up-stairs as usual, looked a moment or two at the poor man, then at each other significantly, and walked out of the room. On the stairs they met the wife, and tenderly informed her that she was a widow; and as a widow she properly conducted herself, and saw the physicians depart. It so happened that our friend, some weeks after, turning the corner of a street, came suddenly against the baker—“What! aren’t you dead?” “No,” said the man, “I recovered as soon as you left me.” A little farther on he met the widow that should have been. Perhaps she had less reason to be thankful than her recovered husband. She raised a tumult against the physician, vociferating, “Pretty fellows you must be—much you must know of your business, not to know whether a man be living or dead.” From this, he said, he determined henceforth, on most occasions, to use only dumb show, or ambiguous expressions. The Commissioners seem to have been of this way of thinking. They cannot altogether acquit the irresponsible responsibles—are unwilling to condemn; they adopt, therefore, a figure not unknown in oratory, a mystification under the ambiguity of a varying weight of evidence.[4]

We are, however, now in a position to hear the witnesses speak for themselves. Such a mass of contradictions it will be difficult to find elsewhere among professors of any other art or science. In the multitude of counsellors there may be wisdom, but it is not the less hard to extract it; and certainly one part of the wisdom is sometimes to conceal it.

As “glazing” has been shown to be a fertile source of discrepancies of opinion, and the whole question of the cleaning process so much depends upon its existence or non-existence in certain works, and upon its peculiar liability to injury, it may not be unimportant to examine the testimonies concerning it.

What is the definition of glazing? Sir Charles Eastlake makes it to be, “The passing a dark transparent colour over a lighter colour.” He also draws a distinction between the Italian and Flemish glazing. “The Italian practice is glazing over a solid, light preparation; the Flemish is passing transparent colours over a light ground.” Mr Charteris doubts the propriety of the definition; Sir Charles explains, “I would say that, if a dark transparent colour be passed too thickly, even over a white ground, so as to exclude the light entirely, it becomes opaque; on the other hand, if an opaque colour be passed so thinly over a light ground as to show the light through, it partakes of the nature of glazing. There are pictures by Rubens, in which some of the tints are produced in that way, with opaque colour in a diaphanous state. I was about to state, when you called my attention to the meaning you attach to glazing, that the system of passing a thin opaque colour over its ground is called, in English technical phraseology, ‘scumbling;’ and the passing a strictly transparent colour over its ground is called ‘glazing.’” It may appear very bold in us to question this definition of the President of the Academy; yet we are inclined to do so, because we think our artists have not agreed to adopt it, and because it leaves a common mode of painting without any technical term; but if scumbling may be allowed to express the thin, yet somewhat dry, rubbing in of opaque colour, we may well leave glazing to the conception of it adopted by the Italians, which strikes Sir Charles Eastlake as remarkable. “Now, it is remarkable that the Italians have but one word for both operations—the term _velare_ (to veil) comprehends both glazing and scumbling.” Nor do we see any sufficient reason for confining glazing to dark over light. We cannot but think it was the practice of the Italian schools, at least some of them, to paint glazingly light over dark. Did not Correggio, especially in his backgrounds, paint out the light, the white ground—if he used always light grounds—with deep greys, not of a uniform tone, and afterwards go over them, sometimes with dark transparent colour, and sometimes semi-transparent, and so on lighter? The practice of Rembrandt seems to want technical terms, if Sir Charles’s definition is to be an authority. That eminent painter of mysterious effect, of “palpable obscure,” certainly often painted glazingly semi-opaque lighter over dark, as well as dark over light. It may be a question of practical art, if it be not as desirable that dark under-painting should come out, or slightly appear through a lighter, as that light should come up through the dark. We never can be brought to believe that a white ground, showing through dark glazings, will imitate all the depths of nature. It was perhaps too much the practice of the Flemish schools, but they were not schools from which we should learn the power of sentiment in colouring. It was an expeditious practice, but it led to a conventional colouring, sacrificing the truth of shadows, with the object (if attained) of setting off, and giving body to the lights. We the rather dwell upon this, because we believe that the Flemish system, and particularly that of Rubens, has had an injurious influence upon modern art. Rubens was a painter of great power, and dared an extravagance of conventionality, which, in weaker hands, becomes a conspicuous fault. Hence a thin, flashy, and flimsy style of painting, unnatural, because unsubstantial;—we say unsubstantial; for, however illuminated, or covered with transparency of light or of shadow, nature is ever substantial. The Italian practice is, therefore, greatly to be preferred.

It is well known that our Gainsborough said, that with black or blue, and asphaltum, he would make a pit as deep as the Inferno; but it was a mistake: with such dark transparency, especially over a light ground, he would make no pit at all, but a hole scarcely the depth of his mall-stick; his arm could reach to the end of it, as against a wall. In the greatest depths of nature, there is a depth of dark below, not of light, over which there is atmosphere. It is this depth that should come up, not light. We are not unaware that any semi-opaque glazing over a darker colour has a tendency to coldness, but it may not be the worse on that account, as the painter has the choice of making his under-darks as warm as he pleases, and his semi-opaque glazing warm too. This, cool, in its various degrees over warm, was the method adopted by both the Poussins: they painted on red ground, and that generally not light, but of deep tone; as it was also pretty much the case with the Bolognese school. Gaspar Poussin, by this method, gave great effect to his cool greens in masses of wood, the red ground imperceptibly giving an under warmth, the general masses being laid in with a body of colour, but semi-transparent, as if chalk, or some transparent body, had been embodied with the colour. In his pictures, cool greys, more or less mixed with ochres, tell with great truth over the red ground. We hope the condemnation passed by the President of the Academy upon this method may not be quite merited. Indeed, the beauty of most of that great, we should say greatest, of landscape-painter’s works, which are yet uninjured by the cleaner, would contradict so strong an assertion, as that they are sure to perish from the cause ascribed; for, as they have survived at least two hundred years, Gaspar Poussin having been born in 1600, (and, it may be worth observing, Claude in the same year), we may fairly presume that the work of time on white lead has already done its worst; and we would almost doubt the effect ascribed to time, when we look at the perfect pictures of the master, which appear as if fresh from the easel, and certainly the white not too transparent. Sir Charles is explaining why he objected to the cleaning certain pictures. “The general reason I have given; but if you were to ask me about those pictures, I should say of the two, Canaletti and the Poussin, that it is extremely injudicious to clean pictures of that kind, because time, even without any assistance from picture-cleaners, is sure to destroy such pictures in the end; they are painted on a dark ground, and every painter knows, that when white lead is thinly spread over a dark colour, it becomes more or less transparent in time: white lead has a tendency to grow transparent. If you were to paint a chess-board with a thin coat of white lead, so as effectually to conceal the black squares, and not suffer it to be touched, in a certain time, longer or shorter, according to the thinness of the paint, the black squares would again become apparent. The white lead has a tendency to grow transparent, and the consequence is, that, when a picture is painted on a dark ground, time does it harm rather than good.” We would, with some hesitation—for we pay great deference to the opinions of Sir C. Eastlake—suggest another cause for this appearance of the chess-board—the tendency of oil to become a varnish, and therefore itself more transparent; and we are inclined to think that, had the experiment been tried with any other colour, ochres, or Naples yellow, the effect would have been the same. Nay, what would be a still better test—had the whole board been covered with black, the white squares, we believe, though concealed for a time, would have appeared through. We also hope and trust that this effect of time on the oil is on the whole rather beneficial than otherwise, and that it is not continuous beyond a certain point. It is almost incredible that either the oil or the white lead, laid on canvass two or three hundred years ago, is now, at the present, and will be in future, to a day of destruction, changing their properties. Then, with regard to Gaspar Poussin, if such were really the case, the lights would be the first to disappear; but, on the contrary, Mr Brown, who cleaned the Dido and Æneas about thirty years ago, a very dark picture, gives another kind of evidence. _Q._ 1128.—“Did you observe in that picture that a very considerable part of the discolouring and blackness arose from internal causes, from an internal alteration in the colours?”—“In some instances; but the general effect of the picture was very much lowered by the heterogeneous mass of oil that was upon it, and the very dark parts did not, of course, come out, as you would imagine they would, from the removal of that: the lighter parts were very brilliant, indeed, but it was always a dark picture.” _Q._ 1130.—“Is there not something peculiar in the ground on which Gaspar and Nicholas Poussin painted their pictures, which rendered them liable to decomposition and discolourment?”—“I think not so much the ground, as the colour which they would put upon the ground, because the ground that you see in those masters, where they have used it to assist them in painting the picture, is an universal colour: in some parts of the picture, the ground is more or less painted on, but all the light parts of Gaspar Poussin’s pictures are very tender.” The differences of opinion with respect to glazing are chiefly among the artists. Picture-cleaners and picture-dealers are in better agreement. Even the artists who differ, perhaps differ more on account of the definition not being very clear, and established in the artists’ vocabulary, than as to the fact. But the evidence of the present keeper, Mr Uwins, is certainly very extraordinary on this, as on every point upon which his examination entered. We showed, in our last paper, how he was present and absent at the cleanings at the same times; how he gave evidence as to the methods adopted by the cleaners in his presence, which the cleaners themselves very flatly contradicted; how he astonished Lord Monteagle by assertions which his lordship denied; how he protested he did not advise, yet did advise; and now we find, with regard to this question of glazing, having contradicted nearly every one else, he turns round, for lack of others, to contradict himself. His first answers about glazing were most plain and unhesitating. Being asked if the Venetian painters did not use glazing, and that, in consequence, their pictures are liable to injury in cleaning, he says, “That is a question that can never be settled, because nobody can prove that they did use glazings.” _Q._ 116.—“Is it your opinion that they did, or that they did not?”—“I believe that the best painters of every school used very little, indeed, if any at all, of what is called glazing. I think it quite a modern quackery, that has nothing to do with the noble works of remote ages in art.” _Q._ 117.—“You consider the theory, as to the Venetian painters having used very delicate glazings in finishing off their pictures, is fallacious?”—“I do not admit those glazings, as they are called; I believe that they sought for freshness and pureness of colour, and depended on their knowledge of colour for the harmony of their picture, and not on putting on what the Romans call ‘la velatura Inglese;’ they wished to obtain the vigour and freshness of nature, or their pictures would not have lasted as they have.” _Q._ 118.—“Will you explain to the Committee why the Romans (I presume you mean the Romans of the present day) call that particular process by the name of ‘la velatura Inglese?’”—“Because the English painters only adopt it.” _Q._ 119.—“The English painters of the modern school?”—“It is only those who adopt it; that is why it is especially called ‘la velatura Inglese.’” This is very childish, to attempt to disprove the practice of the old Roman, or other masters, by the supposed—for it is only supposed—or assumed criticism of modern Romans, who can be no authority upon the practice of modern art in this country. Having found, however, that “velare” and “velatura” are old, not new terms of art, in another examination Mr Uwins comes to his explanation, which is as extraordinary as his first assertion. He contradicts himself, by admitting, that all good painters did use glazings, and even asserts that he never denied it, only in a particular sense. It is in vain that the Committee tell him, they asked not the question in any particular sense; he slips out of the hands of the examiner with wonderful lubricity. It is the hardest thing to bring his comprehension to any sense whatever of the questions put to him; and as to the unfortunate “velatura,” he has examined the dictionary of the Academy of Bologna, and, although he has admitted its meaning by the thing, as in practice they all glazed, yet, not to be vanquished, even by his extracts from his dictionary, he pertinaciously says, “I believe that both these extracts relate to the preparation of the canvass.”

We fear the reader may be weary of this discussion on glazing, but we must beg him to go a little further with us on the subject; it is important, for if there were no glazings, both during the process and final, no damage may have been done, in respect to them, for there could be none to remove—a state of the case which some would fain establish, if possible. The Committee take a great deal of trouble to get the clearest evidence upon the point. We perfectly agree with Mr Morris Moore in his evidence in this matter, and utterly repudiate the idea that the mellow, warm, lucid tones of the old masters have been in any degree given by time. He very appositely quotes the sensible Hogarth, “Time cannot give a picture more union and harmony than has been in the power of a skilful master, with all his rules of art, to do.” Mr Morris Moore denies it, with the examples of Claude and Titian, and quotes amply old authorities. We have immediately referred to Leonardo da Vinci’s treatise on painting in general, a very puzzling book; but we find a passage which shows that not only tone might be given by glazing, but colours changed by it—that is, one colour over another, making a third. He says, “A transparent colour being laid on another colour of a different kind forms a third, partaking of each of the two simples that compose it.” Mr Dyce, R.A., comes to the rescue of the Paul Veronese, one of the recently cleaned pictures, showing from the authority of Boschini, a satirical writer on art, of the seventeenth century, that Paul Veronese did not glaze his draperies. The conclusion would of course be, that in that respect the picture could not have been injured, or that it is not the work of Paul Veronese. But surely the passage from Boschini proves too much; for it asserts with regard to drapery an impossibility, or at best a very unlikely thing, unless glazing be taken into the account. For though Boschini is made to say, that Paul Veronese never glazed his drapery, he is made also to say that “he was accustomed to paint the shadows of drapery with lake, not only of red draperies, but also of yellow, green, and even blue, thus producing an indescribably harmonious effect.” But he had also said, that the painter “put in the local tints of draperies first, painting the blue draperies for the most part in water-colour.” It is, in the first place, most unlikely that he left these draperies in water-colour only; it is more probable that this first painting was entirely gone over, or his lake in shadows would hardly have suited all the colours. We happen to have in our possession a Venetian picture, which shows this Venetian practice of lake, under blue drapery. It is a Palma; the subject, The Dead Christ, The Virgin Mother, Mary Magdalene, and other figures. The foot of Mary the Mother rests on a stone, on which is written Jacobus Palma. He was the pupil of Titian, and is said to have finished a picture left unfinished by Titian. The lake is very visible under the blue, which was evidently put over it; and being rubbed off here and there, the red is very conspicuous. We mention this, merely to show that so far Boschini was right, and that the practice was not confined to Paul Veronese. And is there not presumption in any one, whether painter or not—and Boschini was no painter, or a poor one—to assert positively, that a master who lived a generation before him did not use this or that process of painting, having a choice of all, and skill to use them. Boschini’s aversion was the abuse of varnishes; and it is curious that, among the condemned recipes is the _olio d’abezzo_, for which there are other authorities besides Armenini, and it is mentioned in the Marciana Manuscript, supposed to have been the varnish of Correggio. Boschini is speaking of _foreigners_, “forestiere,” not Venetians:—

“O de che strazze se fa cavedal
D’ogio d’avezzo, mastice e sandraca,
E trementina (per no dir triaca)
Robe che illusterave ogni stival.”
—MARCO BOSCHINI, _Vinisto Quinto_.

Mr Dyce is unfortunate upon one occasion in rejecting the evidence of Armenini, “because he describes the practice of another school,” “his own school, the school of Ferrara.” Upon this Mr Morris Moore is somewhat sharp upon him, and quotes Armenini himself, to show that he does not confine himself to any school, but speaks from the “practice and example of the most excellent artists that have existed,” and that he was of Faenza, not Ferrara.

Mrs Merrifield, in her valuable work on the ancient practice of painting, the result of a Government Commission, expresses great confidence in the information she received from a learned and skilful Milanese painter and cleaner, Signor A. He had particularly studied the works of Titian, and describes his practice. If his account be correct, Titian certainly glazed over his lights as well as darks; and, like Paul Veronese, by the account of Boschini, he painted the shadows of blue drapery with lake. “He (Titian) then painted the lights with flesh-colour, and laid by the picture to dry. After five or six months he glazed the flesh with _terra rossa_, and let it dry. He then painted in the shades transparently (that is without any white in the shadows), using a great deal of asphaltum[5] with them.” “He also said, that in a blue drapery he painted the shades with lake, and then laid on the lights (with white); that these colours were laid on with great body, and, when dry, he took a large brush and spread the biadetto over the whole.” This biadetto was used by Paul Veronese; we suppose it was a blue from copper, and, owing to its liability to turn green, used without oil. Now, if such was the practice of Titian, it was most likely in some degree the practice also of Paul Veronese, who, though younger, was contemporary with Titian. We somewhat enlarge upon this question here, because, by the evidence given, doubts were thrown upon the originality of the “Consecration of St Nicolas,” or to prove that no glazings had been removed.

We shall not pursue this subject further, concluding that, whatever practice is in use now by various artists was known by the ancient masters, and some things more, which are either lost or uncertainly recovered. No one has paid greater attention to this subject, or applied to it more research and discrimination, than Sir Charles Eastlake. We still look for more valuable and decisive information from him, especially with respect to the Italian schools.