THE LAMENT. Ir nations weep when kings or princes great, And when I know that round the cheerful hearth And see the widow's garb of woe-and orphans too, Who look into her face with glistening eye, And say, "Where's father gone? how long he stays!” And when will he come back?"-poor little dears, I sorrow for your sakes-for he is gone Where you ne'er think upon-and you are left MR. HAYDON'S PICTURE OF CHRIST'S AGONY IN THE GARDEN. Now exhibiting in Pall-Mall. We have prefixed to the present number an engraved outline of this picture (which we hope will be thought satisfactory), and we subjoin the following description of it in the words of the artist's catalogue. Christ's Agony in the Garden. The manner of treating this subject in the present picture has not been taken from the account of any one Apostle [Evangelist] in particular, but from the united relations of the whole four. The moment selected for the expression of our Saviour is the moment when he acquiesces to (in) the necessity of his approaching sacrifice, after the previous struggle of apprehension. Nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done. It is wished to give an air of submissive tenderness, while a quiver of agony still trembles on his features.-The Apostles are resting a little behind, on a sort of garden-bank; St. John in an unsound doze -St. James in a deep sleep-St. Peter has fallen into a disturbed slumber against a tree, while keeping guard with his sword, and is on the point of waking at the ap; proach of light.-Behind St. Peter, and stealing round the edge of the bank, comes the mean traitor, Judas, with a centurion, soldiers, and a crowd; the centurion has stepped forward from his soldiers (who are marching up) to look with his torch, where Christ is retired and praying; while Judas, alarmed lest he might be surprised too suddenly, presses back his hand to enforce caution and silence, and crouching down his malignant and imbecile face beneath his shoulders, he crawls forward like a reptile to his prey, his features shining with the anticipated rapture of successful treachery. It is an inherent feeling in human beings, to rejoice at the instant of a successful exercise of their own power, however despicably directed. The Apostles are supposed to be lit by the glory which emanates from Christ's head, and the crowd by the torches and lights about them. The printed catalogue contains also elaborate and able descriptions of Macbeth, the murder of Dentatus, and the judgment of Solomon, which have been already before the public. We do not think Christ's Agony in the Garden the best picture in this collection, nor the most striking effort of Mr. Haydon's pencil. On the contrary, we must take leave to say, that we consider it as a comparative failure, both in execution and probable effect. We doubt whether, in point of policy, the celebrated artist would not have consulted his reputation and his ultimate interest more, by waiting till he had produced another work on the same grand and magnificent scale as his last, instead of trusting to the ebb of popula rity, resulting from the exhibition of Christ's Entrance into Jerusalem, to float him through the present season. It is well, it may be argued, to keep much before the public, since they are apt to forget their greatest favourites: but they are also fastidious; and it is safest not to appear always before them in the same, or a less imposing, attitude. It is better to rise upon them at every step, if possible (and there is yet room for improvement in our artist's productions), to take them by surprise, and compel admiration by new and extraordinary exertions--than to trust to their generosity or gratitude, to the lingering remains of their affection for old works, or their candid construction of some less arduous undertaking. A liberal and friendly critic has, indeed, declared on this occasion, that if the spirits of great men other world, in contemplating what and lofty geniuses take delight in the delighted them in this, then the shades of Raphael, Michael Angelo, and Correggio, can find no better employment than to descend again upon the earth, once more teeming with the birth of high art, and stand with hands crossed, and eyes uplifted in mute wonder, before Mr. Haydon's picture of Christ's Agony in the Garden. If we believed that the public in general sympathised seriously in this sentiment, we would not let a murmur escape us to disturb it;-the opinion of the world, however erro neous, is not easily altered; and if they are happy in their ignorance, let them remain so ;-but if the artist himself, to whom this august com pliment has been paid, should find the hollowness of such hyperbolical commendation, a hint to him, as to its cause in the present instance, may not be thrown away. The public may, and must, be managed to a certain point; that is, a little noise, and bustle, and officious enthusiasm, is necessary to catch their notice and fix their attention; but then they should be left to see for themselves; and after that, an artist should fling himself boldly and fairly into the huge stream of popularity (as Lord Byron swam across the Hellespont), stemming the tide with manly heart and hands, instead of buoying himself up with borrowed bloated bladders, and flimsy newspaper paragraphs. When a man feels his own strength, and the public confidence, he has nothing to do but to use the one, and not abuse the other. As his suspicions of the lukewarmness or backwardness of the public taste are removed, his jealousy of himself should increase. The town and the country have shown themselves will ing, eager patrons of Mr. Haydon's AT HOME: he ought to feel particular obligations not to invite them by sound of trumpet and beat of drum to an inferior entertainment; but, like our advertising friend, Matthews, compass sea, earth, and air," to keep up the eclat of his first and overwhelming accueil!-So much for advice; now to criticism. We have said, that we regard the present performance as a comparative failure; and our reasons are briefly and plainly these following: -First, this picture is inferior in size to those that Mr. Haydon has of late years painted, and is so far a fallingoff. It does not fill a given stipulated space in the world's eye. It does not occupy one side of a great room. It is the Iliad in a nutshell. It is only twelve feet by nine, instead of nineteen by sixteen; and that circumstance tells against it with the unenlightened many, and with the judicious few. One great merit of Mr. Haydon's pictures is their size. Reduce him within narrow limits, and you cut off half his resources. His genius is gigantic. He is of the with care, and even with precision, in the more detailed outlines; but it is timid, without relief, and without effect. The colour of the whole figure is, as if it had been smeared over, and neutralized, with some chalky tint. It does not stand out from the canvas, either in the general masses, or in the nicer inflections of the muscles and surface of the skin. It has a veil over it, not a glory round it. We ought, in justice, to add, that a black and white copy (we understand by a young lady) of the head of Christ has a more decided and finer apparent character. To what can this anomaly be owing? Is it that Mr. Haydon's conception and drawing of character is good, but that his mastery in this respect leaves him, when he resigns the portcrayon; and that, instead of giving additional force and beauty to the variations of form and expression, by the aid of colour and real light and shade, he only smudges them over with the pencil, and leaves the indications of truth and feeling more imperfect than he found them? We believe that Mr. Haydon generally copies from nature only with his port crayon; and paints from conjecture or fancy. If so, it would account for what we have here considered as a difficulty. We have reason to believe that the old painters copied form, colour,-every thing, to the last syllable, from nature. Indeed, we have seen two of the heads in the celebrated Madonna of the Garland, the Mother, and the fine head of Joseph, as original, finished studies of heads (the very same as they are in the large composition) in the collection at Burleigh-house. By the contrary practice, Mr. Haydon, as it appears to us, has habituated his hand and eye to giving only the contour of the features or the grosser masses:—when he comes to the details of those masses, he fails. Some one, we suspect from the style of this picture, has been advising our adventurous and spirited artist to try to finish, and he has been taking the advice: we would advise him to turn back, and consult the natural bent of his own genius. A man may avoid great faults or absurdities by the suggestion of friends: he can only attain positive excellence, or overcome great difficulties, by the unbiassed force of his own mind. The crowd coming, with Judas at their head, to surprise our Saviour, is not to our taste. We dislike mobs in a picture. There is, however, a good deal of bustle and movement in the advancing group, and it contrasts almost too abruptly with the unimpassioned stillness and retire ment of the figure of Christ. Judas makes a bad figure both in Mr. Haydon's catalogue, and on his canvas. We think the original must have been a more profound and plau sible-looking character than he is here represented. He should not grin and show his teeth. He was, by all accounts, a grave, plodding, calculating personage, usurious, and with a cast of melancholy, and soon after went and hanged himself. Had Mr. Haydon been in Scotland when he made this sketch? Judas was not a laughing, careless wag; he was one of the " Melancholy Andrews." The best part of this picture is decidedly (in our opi→ nion) the middle ground, containing the figures of the three Apostles. There is a dignity, a grace, a shadowy repose about them which approaches close indeed upon the great style in painting. We have only to regret that a person, who does so well at times, does not do well always. We are inclined to attribute such inequalities, and an appearance of haste and unconcoctedness in some of Mr. Haydon's plans, to distraction and hurry of mind, arising from a struggle with the difficulties both of art and of fortune; and as the last of these is now removed, we trust this circumstance will leave him at leisure to prosecute the grand design he has begun (the Raising of Lazarus) with a mind free and unembarrassed; and enable him to conclude it in a manner worthy of his own reputation, and that of his country! PARIS IN 1815, A POEM, BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY, A.M. MR. CROLY is already well known in literature, by his beautiful poem of the Angel of the World, and by the first part of the work now before us. Having long since given our opinion of his high deserts, we are happy to say, there is nothing in the present production to detract from them. Far from it. The second part of Paris must add considerably to its author's reputation. The same lofty conception-the same gorgeous imagery-the same eloquent and copious diction which distinguished the poet of Arabia, are here, every where discernible. Nor are the graces of its language, and the splendours of its description, the sole, or even principal recommendations of this poem: they are accompanied by a pure strain of moral feeling a clear and deep gush of patriotism and piety, that do as much honour to Mr. Croly's principles as its intellectual excellencies do to his understanding. In a day like this, when we see some of our noblest spirits flying to the bowers, Where pleasure lies carelessly smiling at fame or rising on an impious wing, to brave the very source of their prostituted inspiration, it is delightful to see the poet and the Christian thus meet together, to consummate the sacred union of genius and religion-and it is wise. The loveliest, and the most lasting wreath, which human toil can weave, will surely wither, unless the rose of Sharon consecrates its foliage. The first part of Paris touched upon the principal events of the French Revolution; and the second dwells upon its consequences to the French capital, and its final close, by the victorious entry of the allies, and the restoration of the Bourbons. The death of Louis XVI, the spoliation of the Louvre, the characteristic beauties of the deathless names whose works adorned its walls, the reign and overthrow of Napoleon, and the solitary and unshaken firmness of England during the awful contest which led to it, are all sketched with the hand of a master. The following extract from the preface, gives an awful, and but too faithful picture of the mad progress of the French revolutionists. The Sovereign people established on its throne, instinctively chose murderers for its ministers; Marat, Danton, and Robespierre, three heads that might have kept the gates of Tartarus. Then began the day of tribulation. The king's blood was spilled; from that hour, the scaffold was red for years. France was delivered over to a reprobate mind, and she rushed out into a drunken prodigality of crime. She had no Sabbath, no Scripture, no soul, no God! But she had one abomination to astonish the world, a crime to which even the darkness of heathenism had never stooped; in the presence of mankind, by a solemn act of her legislature and her people, she worshipped a public harlot. This was religion in the hands of the populace their philosophic government more cruel than tyranny-their philosophic religion more benighted than paganism. The guilt of France was now accomplished. She was suffered, and spared no more. The hope of freedom was torn from her. She was abandoned to the inflictions of a despotism, that, worse than the Egyptian |