IN A LETTER TO MR. MACGILP, OF LONDON.
The three collections of pictures at the Louvre, the Luxembourg, and the Ecole des Beaux Arts, contain a number of specimens3 of French art, since its commencement almost, and give the stranger a pretty fair opportunity to study and appreciate the school. The French list of painters contains some very good names — no very great ones, except Poussin (unless the admirers of Claude choose to rank him among great painters) — and I think the school was never in so flourishing a condition as it is at the present day. They say there are three thousand artists in this town alone: of these a handsome minority paint not merely tolerably, but well understand their business: draw the figure accurately5; sketch6 with cleverness; and paint portraits, churches, or restaurateurs’ shops, in a decent manner.
To account for a superiority over England which, I think, as regards art, is incontestable — it must be remembered that the painter’s trade, in France, is a very good one; better appreciated, better understood, and, generally, far better paid than with us. There are a dozen excellent schools which a lad may enter here, and, under the eye of a practised master, learn the apprenticeship7 of his art at an expense of about ten pounds a year. In England there is no school except the Academy, unless the student can afford to pay a very large sum, and place himself under the tuition of some particular artist. Here, a young man, for his ten pounds, has all sorts of accessory instruction, models, &c.; and has further, and for nothing, numberless incitements to study his profession which are not to be found in England:— the streets are filled with picture-shops, the people themselves are pictures walking about; the churches, theatres, eating-houses, concert-rooms are covered with pictures: Nature itself is inclined more kindly9 to him, for the sky is a thousand times more bright and beautiful, and the sun shines for the greater part of the year. Add to this, incitements more selfish, but quite as powerful: a French artist is paid very handsomely; for five hundred a year is much where all are poor; and has a rank in society rather above his merits than below them, being caressed10 by hosts and hostesses in places where titles are laughed at and a baron11 is thought of no more account than a banker’s clerk.
The life of the young artist here is the easiest, merriest, dirtiest existence possible. He comes to Paris, probably at sixteen, from his province; his parents settle forty pounds a year on him, and pay his master; he establishes himself in the Pays Latin, or in the new quarter of Notre Dame12 de Lorette (which is quite peopled with painters); he arrives at his atelier at a tolerably early hour, and labors14 among a score of companions as merry and poor as himself. Each gentleman has his favorite tobacco-pipe; and the pictures are painted in the midst of a cloud of smoke, and a din15 of puns and choice French slang, and a roar of choruses, of which no one can form an idea who has not been present at such an assembly.
You see here every variety of coiffure that has ever been known. Some young men of genius have ringlets hanging over their shoulders — you may smell the tobacco with which they are scented16 across the street; some have straight locks, black, oily, and redundant17; some have toupets in the famous Louis-Philippe fashion; some are cropped close; some have adopted the present mode — which he who would follow must, in order to do so, part his hair in the middle, grease it with grease, and gum it with gum, and iron it flat down over his ears; when arrived at the ears, you take the tongs18 and make a couple of ranges of curls close round the whole head — such curls as you may see under a gilt19 three-cornered hat, and in her Britannic Majesty20’s coachman’s state wig21.
This is the last fashion. As for the beards, there is no end of them; all my friends the artists have beards who can raise them; and Nature, though she has rather stinted22 the bodies and limbs of the French nation, has been very liberal to them of hair, as you may see by the following specimen4. Fancy these heads and beards under all sorts of caps — Chinese caps, Mandarin23 caps, Greek skull-caps, English jockey-caps, Russian or Kuzzilbash caps, Middle-age caps (such as are called, in heraldry, caps of maintenance), Spanish nets, and striped worsted nightcaps. Fancy all the jackets you have ever seen, and you have before you, as well as pen can describe, the costumes of these indescribable Frenchmen.
In this company and costume the French student of art passes his days and acquires knowledge; how he passes his evenings, at what theatres, at what guinguettes, in company with what seducing24 little milliner, there is no need to say; but I knew one who pawned25 his coat to go to a carnival26 ball, and walked abroad very cheerfully in his blouse for six weeks, until he could redeem28 the absent garment.
These young men (together with the students of sciences) comport29 themselves towards the sober citizen pretty much as the German bursch towards the philister, or as the military man, during the empire, did to the pékin:— from the height of their poverty they look down upon him with the greatest imaginable scorn — a scorn, I think, by which the citizen seems dazzled, for his respect for the arts is intense. The case is very different in England, where a grocer’s daughter would think she made a misalliance by marrying a painter, and where a literary man (in spite of all we can say against it) ranks below that class of gentry30 composed of the apothecary31, the attorney, the wine-merchant, whose positions, in country towns at least, are so equivocal. As, for instance, my friend the Rev32. James Asterisk33, who has an undeniable pedigree, a paternal34 estate, and a living to boot, once dined in Warwickshire, in company with several squires35 and parsons of that enlightened county. Asterisk, as usual, made himself extraordinarily37 agreeable at dinner, and delighted all present with his learning and wit. “Who is that monstrous38 pleasant fellow?” said one of the squires. “Don’t you know?” replied another. “It’s Asterisk, the author of so-and-so, and a famous contributor to such and such a magazine.” “Good heavens!” said the squire36, quite horrified39! “a literary man! I thought he had been a gentleman!”
Another instance: M. Guizot, when he was Minister here, had the grand hotel of the Ministry40, and gave entertainments to all the great de par8 le monde, as Brant?me says, and entertained them in a proper ministerial magnificence. The splendid and beautiful Duchess of Dash was at one of his ministerial parties; and went, a fortnight afterwards, as in duty bound, to pay her respects to M. Guizot. But it happened, in this fortnight, that M. Guizot was Minister no longer; having given up his portfolio41, and his grand hotel, to retire into private life, and to occupy his humble42 apartments in the house which he possesses, and of which he lets the greater portion. A friend of mine was present at one of the ex-Minister’s soirées, where the Duchess of Dash made her appearance. He says the Duchess, at her entrance, seemed quite astounded43, and examined the premises44 with a most curious wonder. Two or three shabby little rooms, with ordinary furniture, and a Minister en retraite, who lives by letting lodgings45! In our country was ever such a thing heard of? No, thank heaven! and a Briton ought to be proud of the difference.
But to our muttons. This country is surely the paradise of painters and penny-a-liners; and when one reads of M. Horace Vernet at Rome, exceeding ambassadors at Rome by his magnificence, and leading such a life as Rubens or Titian did of old; when one sees M. Thiers’s grand villa46 in the Rue47 St. George (a dozen years ago he was not even a penny-a-liner: no such luck); when one contemplates48, in imagination, M. Gudin, the marine49 painter, too lame50 to walk through the picture-gallery of the Louvre, accommodated, therefore, with a wheel-chair, a privilege of princes only, and accompanied — nay52, for what I know, actually trundled — down the gallery by majesty itself — who does not long to make one of the great nation, exchange his native tongue for the melodious53 jabber55 of France; or, at least, adopt it for his native country, like Marshal Saxe, Napoleon, and Anacharsis Clootz? Noble people! they made Tom Paine a deputy; and as for Tom Macaulay, they would make a DYNASTY of him.
Well, this being the case, no wonder there are so many painters in France; and here, at least, we are back to them. At the Ecole Royale des Beaux Arts, you see two or three hundred specimens of their performances; all the prize-men, since 1750, I think, being bound to leave their prize sketch or picture. Can anything good come out of the Royal Academy? is a question which has been considerably56 mooted57 in England (in the neighborhood of Suffolk Street especially). The hundreds of French samples are, I think, not very satisfactory. The subjects are almost all what are called classical: Orestes pursued by every variety of Furies; numbers of little wolf-sucking Romuluses; Hectors and Andromaches in a complication of parting embraces, and so forth59; for it was the absurd maxim60 of our forefathers61, that because these subjects had been the fashion twenty centuries ago, they must remain so in saecula saeculorum; because to these lofty heights giants had scaled, behold62 the race of pigmies must get upon stilts63 and jump at them likewise! and on the canvas, and in the theatre, the French frogs (excuse the pleasantry) were instructed to swell64 out and roar as much as possible like bulls.
What was the consequence, my dear friend? In trying to make themselves into bulls, the frogs make themselves into jackasses, as might be expected. For a hundred and ten years the classical humbug65 oppressed the nation; and you may see, in this gallery of the Beaux Arts, seventy years’ specimens of the dulness which it engendered66.
Now, as Nature made every man with a nose and eyes of his own, she gave him a character of his own too; and yet we, O foolish race! must try our very best to ape some one or two of our neighbors, whose ideas fit us no more than their breeches! It is the study of nature, surely, that profits us, and not of these imitations of her. A man, as a man, from a dustman up to ?schylus, is God’s work, and good to read, as all works of Nature are: but the silly animal is never content; is ever trying to fit itself into another shape; wants to deny its own identity, and has not the courage to utter its own thoughts. Because Lord Byron was wicked, and quarrelled with the world; and found himself growing fat, and quarrelled with his victuals67, and thus, naturally, grew ill-humored, did not half Europe grow ill-humored too? Did not every poet feel his young affections withered68, and despair and darkness cast upon his soul? Because certain mighty69 men of old could make heroical statues and plays, must we not be told that there is no other beauty but classical beauty? — must not every little whipster of a French poet chalk you out plays, “Henriades,” and such-like, and vow70 that here was the real thing, the undeniable Kalon?
The undeniable fiddlestick! For a hundred years, my dear sir, the world was humbugged by the so-called classical artists, as they now are by what is called the Christian71 art (of which anon); and it is curious to look at the pictorial72 traditions as here handed down. The consequence of them is, that scarce one of the classical pictures exhibited is worth much more than two-and-sixpence. Borrowed from statuary, in the first place, the color of the paintings seems, as much as possible, to participate in it; they are mostly of a misty73, stony74 green, dismal75 hue76, as if they had been painted in a world where no color was. In every picture, there are, of course, white mantles77, white urns78, white columns, white statues — those obligé accomplishments79 of the sublime80. There are the endless straight noses, long eyes, round chins, short upper lips, just as they are ruled down for you in the drawing-books, as if the latter were the revelations of beauty, issued by supreme82 authority, from which there was no appeal? Why is the classical reign83 to endure? Why is yonder simpering Venus de’ Medicis to be our standard of beauty, or the Greek tragedies to bound our notions of the sublime? There was no reason why Agamemnon should set the fashions, and remain [Greek text omitted] to eternity84: and there is a classical quotation85, which you may have occasionally heard, beginning Vixere fortes86, &c., which, as it avers87 that there were a great number of stout88 fellows before Agamemnon, may not unreasonably90 induce us to conclude that similar heroes were to succeed him. Shakspeare made a better man when his imagination moulded the mighty figure of Macbeth. And if you will measure Satan by Prometheus, the blind old Puritan’s work by that of the fiery91 Grecian poet, does not Milton’s angel surpass ?schylus’s — surpass him by “many a rood?”
In the same school of the Beaux Arts, where are to be found such a number of pale imitations of the antique, Monsieur Thiers (and he ought to be thanked for it) has caused to be placed a full-sized copy of “The Last Judgment” of Michel Angelo, and a number of casts from statues by the same splendid hand. There IS the sublime, if you please — a new sublime — an original sublime — quite as sublime as the Greek sublime. See yonder, in the midst of his angels, the Judge of the world descending92 in glory; and near him, beautiful and gentle, and yet indescribably august and pure, the Virgin93 by his side. There is the “Moses,” the grandest figure that ever was carved in stone. It has about it something frightfully majestic94, if one may so speak. In examining this, and the astonishing picture of “The Judgment,” or even a single figure of it, the spectator’s sense amounts almost to pain. I would not like to be left in a room alone with the “Moses.” How did the artist live amongst them, and create them? How did he suffer the painful labor13 of invention? One fancies that he would have been scorched95 up, like Semele, by sights too tremendous for his vision to bear. One cannot imagine him, with our small physical endowments and weaknesses, a man like ourselves.
As for the Ecole Royale des Beaux Arts, then, and all the good its students have done, as students, it is stark96 naught97. When the men did anything, it was after they had left the academy, and began thinking for themselves. There is only one picture among the many hundreds that has, to my idea, much merit (a charming composition of Homer singing, signed Jourdy); and the only good that the Academy has done by its pupils was to send them to Rome, where they might learn better things. At home, the intolerable, stupid classicalities, taught by men who, belonging to the least erudite country in Europe, were themselves, from their profession, the least learned among their countrymen, only weighed the pupils down, and cramped98 their hands, their eyes, and their imaginations; drove them away from natural beauty, which, thank God, is fresh and attainable99 by us all, today, and yesterday, and tomorrow; and sent them rambling100 after artificial grace, without the proper means of judging or attaining101 it.
A word for the building of the Palais des Beaux Arts. It is beautiful, and as well finished and convenient as beautiful. With its light and elegant fabric102, its pretty fountain, its archway of the Renaissance103, and fragments of sculpture, you can hardly see, on a fine day, a place more riant and pleasing.
Passing from thence up the picturesque104 Rue de Seine, let us walk to the Luxembourg, where bonnes, students, grisettes, and old gentlemen with pigtails, love to wander in the melancholy105, quaint106 old gardens; where the peers have a new and comfortable court of justice, to judge all the émeutes which are to take place; and where, as everybody knows, is the picture-gallery of modern French artists, whom government thinks worthy107 of patronage108.
A very great proportion of the pictures, as we see by the catalogue, are by the students whose works we have just been to visit at the Beaux Arts, and who, having performed their pilgrimage to Rome, have taken rank among the professors of the art. I don’t know a more pleasing exhibition; for there are not a dozen really bad pictures in the collection, some very good, and the rest showing great skill and smartness of execution.
In the same way, however, that it has been supposed that no man could be a great poet unless he wrote a very big poem, the tradition is kept up among the painters, and we have here a vast number of large canvases, with figures of the proper heroical length and nakedness. The anticlassicists did not arise in France until about 1827; and, in consequence, up to that period, we have here the old classical faith in full vigor109. There is Brutus, having chopped his son’s head off, with all the agony of a father, and then, calling for number two; there is ?neas carrying off old Anchises; there are Paris and Venus, as naked as two Hottentots, and many more such choice subjects from Lemprière.
But the chief specimens of the sublime are in the way of murders, with which the catalogue swarms110. Here are a few extracts from it:—
7. Beaume, Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur. “The Grand Dauphiness Dying.
18. Blondel, Chevalier de la, &c. “Zenobia found Dead.”
36. Debay, Chevalier. “The Death of Lucretia.”
38. Dejuinne. “The Death of Hector.”
34. Court, Chevalier de la, &c. “The Death of Caesar.”
39, 40, 41. Delacroix, Chevalier. “Dante and Virgil in the
Infernal Lake,” “The Massacre111 of Scio,” and “Medea going to
Murder her Children.”
43. Delaroche, Chevalier. “Joas taken from among the Dead.”
44. “The Death of Queen Elizabeth.”
45. “Edward V. and his Brother” (preparing for death).
50. “Hecuba going to be Sacrificed.” Drolling, Chevalier.
51. Dubois. “Young Clovis found Dead.”
56. Henry, Chevalier. “The Massacre of St. Bartholomew.”
75. Guérin, Chevalier. “Cain, after the Death of Abel.”
83. Jacquand. “Death of Adelaide de Comminges.”
88. “The Death of Eudamidas.”
93. “The Death of Hymetto.”
103. “The Death of Philip of Austria.”— And so on.
You see what woful subjects they take, and how profusely112 they are decorated with knighthood. They are like the Black Brunswickers, these painters, and ought to be called Chevaliers de la Mort. I don’t know why the merriest people in the world should please themselves with such grim representations and varieties of murder, or why murder itself should be considered so eminently113 sublime and poetical114. It is good at the end of a tragedy; but, then, it is good because it is the end, and because, by the events foregone, the mind is prepared for it. But these men will have nothing but fifth acts; and seem to skip, as unworthy, all the circumstances leading to them. This, however, is part of the scheme — the bloated, unnatural115, stilted116, spouting117, sham118 sublime, that our teachers have believed and tried to pass off as real, and which your humble servant and other antihumbuggists should heartily119, according to the strength that is in them, endeavor to pull down. What, for instance, could Monsieur Lafond care about the death of Eudamidas? What was Hecuba to Chevalier Drolling, or Chevalier Drolling to Hecuba? I would lay a wager120 that neither of them ever conjugated121 [Greek text omitted], and that their school learning carried them not as far as the letter, but only to the game of taw. How were they to be inspired by such subjects? From having seen Talma and Mademoiselle Georges flaunting122 in sham Greek costumes, and having read up the articles Eudamidas, Hecuba, in the “Mythological Dictionary.” What a classicism, inspired by rouge123, gas-lamps, and a few lines in Lemprière, and copied, half from ancient statues, and half from a naked guardsman at one shilling and sixpence the hour!
Delacroix is a man of a very different genius, and his “Medea” is a genuine creation of a noble fancy. For most of the others, Mrs. Brownrigg, and her two female ‘prentices, would have done as well as the desperate Colchian with her [Greek text omitted]. M. Delacroix has produced a number of rude, barbarous pictures; but there is the stamp of genius on all of them — the great poetical INTENTION, which is worth all your execution. Delaroche is another man of high merit; with not such a great HEART, perhaps, as the other, but a fine and careful draughtsman, and an excellent arranger of his subject. “The Death of Elizabeth” is a raw young performance seemingly — not, at least, to my taste. The “Enfans d’Edouard” is renowned124 over Europe, and has appeared in a hundred different ways in print. It is properly pathetic and gloomy, and merits fully27 its high reputation. This painter rejoices in such subjects — in what Lord Portsmouth used to call “black jobs.” He has killed Charles I. and Lady Jane Grey, and the Dukes of Guise125, and I don’t know whom besides. He is, at present, occupied with a vast work at the Beaux Arts, where the writer of this had the honor of seeing him — a little, keen-looking man, some five feet in height. He wore, on this important occasion, a bandanna126 round his head, and was in the act of smoking a cigar.
Horace Vernet, whose beautiful daughter Delaroche married, is the king of French battle-painters — an amazingly rapid and dexterous127 draughtsman, who has Napoleon and all the campaigns by heart, and has painted the Grenadier Fran?ais under all sorts of attitudes. His pictures on such subjects are spirited, natural, and excellent; and he is so clever a man, that all he does is good to a certain degree. His “Judith” is somewhat violent, perhaps. His “Rebecca” most pleasing; and not the less so for a little pretty affectation of attitude and needless singularity of costume. “Raphael and Michael Angelo” is as clever a picture as can be — clever is just the word — the groups and drawing excellent, the coloring pleasantly bright and gaudy128; and the French students study it incessantly129; there are a dozen who copy it for one who copies Delacroix. His little scraps130 of wood-cuts, in the now publishing “Life of Napoleon,” are perfect gems131 in their way, and the noble price paid for them not a penny more than he merits.
The picture, by Court, of “The Death of Caesar,” is remarkable132 for effect and excellent workmanship: and the head of Brutus (who looks like Armand Carrel) is full of energy. There are some beautiful heads of women, and some very good color in the picture. Jacquand’s “Death of Adelaide de Comminges” is neither more nor less than beautiful. Adelaide had, it appears, a lover, who betook himself to a convent of Trappists. She followed him thither133, disguised as a man, took the vows134, and was not discovered by him till on her death-bed. The painter has told this story in a most pleasing and affecting manner: the picture is full of onction and melancholy grace. The objects, too, are capitally represented; and the tone and color very good. Decaisne’s “Guardian Angel” is not so good in color, but is equally beautiful in expression and grace. A little child and a nurse are asleep: an angel watches the infant. You see women look very wistfully at this sweet picture; and what triumph would a painter have more?
We must not quit the Luxembourg without noticing the dashing sea-pieces of Gudin, and one or two landscapes by Giroux (the plain of Grasivaudan), and “The Prometheus” of Aligny. This is an imitation, perhaps; as is a noble picture of “Jesus Christ and the Children,” by Flandrin: but the artists are imitating better models, at any rate; and one begins to perceive that the odious54 classical dynasty is no more. Poussin’s magnificent “Polyphemus” (I only know a print of that marvellous composition) has, perhaps, suggested the first-named picture; and the latter has been inspired by a good enthusiastic study of the Roman schools.
Of this revolution, Monsieur Ingres has been one of the chief instruments. He was, before Horace Vernet, president of the French Academy at Rome, and is famous as a chief of a school. When he broke up his atelier here, to set out for his presidency135, many of his pupils attended him faithfully some way on his journey; and some, with scarcely a penny in their pouches136, walked through France and across the Alps, in a pious137 pilgrimage to Rome, being determined138 not to forsake139 their old master. Such an action was worthy of them, and of the high rank which their profession holds in France, where the honors to be acquired by art are only inferior to those which are gained in war. One reads of such peregrinations in old days, when the scholars of some great Italian painter followed him from Venice to Rome, or from Florence to Ferrara. In regard of Ingres’s individual merit as a painter, the writer of this is not a fair judge, having seen but three pictures by him; one being a plafond in the Louvre, which his disciples140 much admire.
Ingres stands between the Imperio-Davido-classical school of French art, and the namby-pamby mystical German school, which is for carrying us back to Cranach and Dürer, and which is making progress here.
For everything here finds imitation: the French have the genius of imitation and caricature. This absurd humbug, called the Christian or Catholic art, is sure to tickle141 our neighbors, and will be a favorite with them, when better known. My dear MacGilp, I do believe this to be a greater humbug than the humbug of David and Girodet, inasmuch as the latter was founded on Nature at least; whereas the former is made up of silly affectations, and improvements upon Nature. Here, for instance, is Chevalier Ziegler’s picture of “St. Luke painting the Virgin.” St. Luke has a monk’s dress on, embroidered142, however, smartly round the sleeves. The Virgin sits in an immense yellow-ochre halo, with her son in her arms. She looks preternaturally solemn; as does St. Luke, who is eying his paint-brush with an intense ominous143 mystical look. They call this Catholic art. There is nothing, my dear friend, more easy in life. First take your colors, and rub them down clean — bright carmine144, bright yellow, bright sienna, bright ultramarine, bright green. Make the costumes of your figures as much as possible like the costumes of the early part of the fifteenth century. Paint them in with the above colors; and if on a gold ground, the more “Catholic” your art is. Dress your apostles like priests before the altar; and remember to have a good commodity of crosiers, censers, and other such gimcracks, as you may see in the Catholic chapels145, in Sutton Street and elsewhere. Deal in Virgins146, and dress them like a burgomaster’s wife by Cranach or Van Eyck. Give them all long twisted tails to their gowns, and proper angular draperies. Place all their heads on one side, with the eyes shut, and the proper solemn simper. At the back of the head, draw, and gild147 with gold-leaf, a halo or glory, of the exact shape of a cart-wheel: and you have the thing done. It is Catholic art tout89 craché, as Louis Philippe says. We have it still in England, handed down to us for four centuries, in the pictures on the cards, as the redoubtable148 king and queen of clubs. Look at them: you will see that the costumes and attitudes are precisely149 similar to those which figure in the catholicities of the school of Overbeck and Cornelius.
Before you take your cane150 at the door, look for one instant at the statue-room. Yonder is Jouffley’s “Jeune Fille confiant son premier151 secret à Vénus.” Charming, charming! It is from the exhibition of this year only; and I think the best sculpture in the gallery — pretty, fanciful, na?ve; admirable in workmanship and imitation of Nature. I have seldom seen flesh better represented in marble. Examine, also, Jaley’s “Pudeur,” Jacquot’s “Nymph,” and Rude’s “Boy with the Tortoise.” These are not very exalted152 subjects, or what are called exalted, and do not go beyond simple, smiling beauty and nature. But what then? Are we gods, Miltons, Michel Angelos, that can leave earth when we please; and soar to heights immeasurable? No, my dear MacGilp; but the fools of academicians would fain make us so. Are you not, and half the painters in London, panting for an opportunity to show your genius in a great “historical picture?” O blind race! Have you wings? Not a feather: and yet you must be ever puffing153, sweating up to the tops of rugged154 hills; and, arrived there, clapping and shaking your ragged155 elbows, and making as if you would fly! Come down, silly Daedalus; come down to the lowly places in which Nature ordered you to walk. The sweet flowers are springing there; the fat muttons are waiting there; the pleasant sun shines there; be content and humble, and take your share of the good cheer.
While we have been indulging in this discussion, the omnibus has gayly conducted us across the water; and le garde qui veille a la porte du Louvre ne défend pas our entry.
What a paradise this gallery is for French students, or foreigners who sojourn156 in the capital! It is hardly necessary to say that the brethren of the brush are not usually supplied by Fortune with any extraordinary wealth, or means of enjoying the luxuries with which Paris, more than any other city, abounds157. But here they have a luxury which surpasses all others, and spend their days in a palace which all the money of all the Rothschilds could not buy. They sleep, perhaps, in a garret, and dine in a cellar; but no grandee158 in Europe has such a drawing-room. Kings’ houses have, at best, but damask hangings, and gilt cornices. What are these to a wall covered with canvas by Paul Veronese, or a hundred yards of Rubens? Artists from England, who have a national gallery that resembles a moderate-sized gin-shop, who may not copy pictures, except under particular restrictions159, and on rare and particular days, may revel81 here to their hearts’ content. Here is a room half a mile long, with as many windows as Aladdin’s palace, open from sunrise till evening, and free to all manners and all varieties of study: the only puzzle to the student is to select the one he shall begin upon, and keep his eyes away from the rest.
Fontaine’s grand staircase, with its arches, and painted ceilings and shining Doric columns, leads directly to the gallery; but it is thought too fine for working days, and is only opened for the public entrance on Sabbath. A little back stair (leading from a court, in which stand numerous bas-reliefs, and a solemn sphinx, of polished granite,) is the common entry for students and others, who, during the week, enter the gallery.
Hither have lately been transported a number of the works of French artists, which formerly160 covered the walls of the Luxembourg (death only entitles the French painter to a place in the Louvre); and let us confine ourselves to the Frenchmen only, for the space of this letter.
I have seen, in a fine private collection at St. Germain, one or two admirable single figures of David, full of life, truth, and gayety. The color is not good, but all the rest excellent; and one of these so much-lauded pictures is the portrait of a washer-woman. “Pope Pius,” at the Louvre, is as bad in color as remarkable for its vigor and look of life. The man had a genius for painting portraits and common life, but must attempt the heroic; — failed signally; and what is worse, carried a whole nation blundering after him. Had you told a Frenchman so, twenty years ago, he would have thrown the démenti in your teeth; or, at least, laughed at you in scornful incredulity. They say of us that we don’t know when we are beaten: they go a step further, and swear their defeats are victories. David was a part of the glory of the empire; and one might as well have said then that “Romulus” was a bad picture, as that Toulouse was a lost battle. Old-fashioned people, who believe in the Emperor, believe in the Théatre Fran?ais, and believe that Ducis improved upon Shakspeare, have the above opinion. Still, it is curious to remark, in this place, how art and literature become party matters, and political sects161 have their favorite painters and authors.
Nevertheless, Jacques Louis David is dead, he died about a year after his bodily demise162 in 1825. The romanticism killed him. Walter Scott, from his Castle of Abbotsford, sent out a troop of gallant163 young Scotch164 adventurers, merry outlaws165, valiant166 knights167, and savage168 Highlanders, who, with trunk hosen and buff jerkins, fierce two-handed swords, and harness on their back, did challenge, combat, and overcome the heroes and demigods of Greece and Rome. Notre Dame à la rescousse! Sir Brian de Bois Guilbert has borne Hector of Troy clear out of his saddle. Andromache may weep: but her spouse169 is beyond the reach of physic. See! Robin170 Hood58 twangs his bow, and the heathen gods fly, howling. Montjoie Saint Denis! down goes Ajax under the mace171 of Dunois; and yonder are Leonidas and Romulus begging their lives of Rob Roy Macgregor. Classicism is dead. Sir John Froissart has taken Dr. Lemprière by the nose, and reigns172 sovereign.
Of the great pictures of David the defunct173, we need not, then, say much. Romulus is a mighty fine young fellow, no doubt; and if he has come out to battle stark naked (except a very handsome helmet), it is because the costume became him, and shows off his figure to advantage. But was there ever anything so absurd as this passion for the nude174, which was followed by all the painters of the Davidian epoch175? And how are we to suppose yonder straddle to be the true characteristic of the heroic and the sublime? Romulus stretches his legs as far as ever nature will allow; the Horatii, in receiving their swords, think proper to stretch their legs too, and to thrust forward their arms, thus —
[Drawing omitted]
Romulus’s is in the exact action of a telegraph; and the Horatii are all in the position of the lunge. Is this the sublime? Mr. Angelo, of Bond Street, might admire the attitude; his namesake, Michel, I don’t think would.
The little picture of “Paris and Helen,” one of the master’s earliest, I believe, is likewise one of his best: the details are exquisitely177 painted. Helen looks needlessly sheepish, and Paris has a most odious ogle178; but the limbs of the male figure are beautifully designed, and have not the green tone which you see in the later pictures of the master. What is the meaning of this green? Was it the fashion, or the varnish179? Girodet’s pictures are green; Gros’s emperors and grenadiers have universally the jaundice. Gerard’s “Psyche” has a most decided180 green-sickness; and I am at a loss, I confess, to account for the enthusiasm which this performance inspired on its first appearance before the public.
In the same room with it is Girodet’s ghastly “Deluge,” and Gericault’s dismal “Medusa.” Gericault died, they say, for want of fame. He was a man who possessed181 a considerable fortune of his own; but pined because no one in his day would purchase his pictures, and so acknowledge his talent. At present, a scrawl182 from his pencil brings an enormous price. All his works have a grand cachet: he never did anything mean. When he painted the “Raft of the Medusa,” it is said he lived for a long time among the corpses184 which he painted, and that his studio was a second Morgue. If you have not seen the picture, you are familiar probably, with Reynolds’s admirable engraving185 of it. A huge black sea; a raft beating upon it; a horrid186 company of men dead, half dead, writhing187 and frantic188 with hideous189 hunger or hideous hope; and, far away, black, against a stormy sunset, a sail. The story is powerfully told, and has a legitimate190 tragic191 interest, so to speak — deeper, because more natural, than Girodet’s green “Deluge,” for instance: or his livid “Orestes,” or red-hot “Clytemnestra.”
Seen from a distance the latter’s “Deluge” has a certain awe192-inspiring air with it. A slimy green man stands on a green rock, and clutches hold of a tree. On the green man’s shoulders is his old father, in a green old age; to him hangs his wife, with a babe on her breast, and dangling193 at her hair, another child. In the water floats a corpse183 (a beautiful head) and a green sea and atmosphere envelops194 all this dismal group. The old father is represented with a bag of money in his hand; and the tree, which the man catches, is cracking, and just on the point of giving way. These two points were considered very fine by the critics: they are two such ghastly epigrams as continually disfigure French Tragedy. For this reason I have never been able to read Racine with pleasure — the dialogue is so crammed195 with these lugubrious196 good things — melancholy antitheses197 — sparkling undertakers’ wit; but this is heresy198, and had better be spoken discreetly199.
The gallery contains a vast number of Poussin’s pictures; they put me in mind of the color of objects in dreams — a strange, hazy200, lurid201 hue. How noble are some of his landscapes! What a depth of solemn shadow is in yonder wood, near which, by the side of a black water, halts Diogenes. The air is thunder-laden, and breathes heavily. You hear ominous whispers in the vast forest gloom.
Near it is a landscape, by Carel Dujardin, I believe, conceived in quite a different mood, but exquisitely poetical too. A horseman is riding up a hill, and giving money to a blowsy beggar-wench. O matutini rores auraeque salubres! in what a wonderful way has the artist managed to create you out of a few bladders of paint and pots of varnish. You can see the matutinal dews twinkling in the grass, and feel the fresh, salubrious airs (“the breath of Nature blowing free,” as the corn-law man sings) blowing free over the heath; silvery vapors202 are rising up from the blue lowlands. You can tell the hour of the morning and the time of the year: you can do anything but describe it in words. As with regard to the Poussin above mentioned, one can never pass it without bearing away a certain pleasing, dreamy feeling of awe and musing203; the other landscape inspires the spectator infallibly with the most delightful204 briskness205 and cheerfulness of spirit. Herein lies the vast privilege of the landscape-painter: he does not address you with one fixed206 particular subject or expression, but with a thousand never contemplated207 by himself, and which only arise out of occasion. You may always be looking at a natural landscape as at a fine pictorial imitation of one; it seems eternally producing new thoughts in your bosom208, as it does fresh beauties from its own. I cannot fancy more delightful, cheerful, silent companions for a man than half a dozen landscapes hung round his study. Portraits, on the contrary, and large pieces of figures, have a painful, fixed, staring look, which must jar upon the mind in many of its moods. Fancy living in a room with David’s sans-culotte Leonidas staring perpetually in your face!
There is a little Watteau here, and a rare piece of fantastical brightness and gayety it is. What a delightful affectation about yonder ladies flirting209 their fans, and trailing about in their long brocades! What splendid dandies are those, ever-smirking210, turning out their toes, with broad blue ribbons to tie up their crooks211 and their pigtails, and wonderful gorgeous crimson212 satin breeches! Yonder, in the midst of a golden atmosphere, rises a bevy213 of little round Cupids, bubbling up in clusters as out of a champagne214-bottle, and melting away in air. There is, to be sure, a hidden analogy between liquors and pictures: the eye is deliciously tickled215 by these frisky216 Watteaus, and yields itself up to a light, smiling, gentlemanlike intoxication217. Thus, were we inclined to pursue further this mighty subject, yonder landscape of Claude — calm, fresh, delicate, yet full of flavor — should be likened to a bottle of Chateau218 Margaux. And what is the Poussin before spoken of but Romanée Gelée? — heavy, sluggish219 — the luscious220 odor almost sickens you; a sultry sort of drink; your limbs sink under it; you feel as if you had been drinking hot blood.
An ordinary man would be whirled away in a fever, or would hobble off this mortal stage in a premature221 gout-fit, if he too early or too often indulged in such tremendous drink. I think in my heart I am fonder of pretty third-rate pictures than of your great thundering first-rates. Confess how many times you have read Béranger, and how many Milton? If you go to the “Star and Garter,” don’t you grow sick of that vast, luscious landscape, and long for the sight of a couple of cows, or a donkey, and a few yards of common? Donkeys, my dear MacGilp, since we have come to this subject, say not so; Richmond Hill for them. Milton they never grow tired of; and are as familiar with Raphael as Bottom with exquisite176 Titania. Let us thank heaven, my dear sir, for according to us the power to taste and appreciate the pleasures of mediocrity. I have never heard that we were great geniuses. Earthy are we, and of the earth; glimpses of the sublime are but rare to us; leave we them to great geniuses, and to the donkeys; and if it nothing profit us a?rias tentasse domos along with them, let us thankfully remain below, being merry and humble.
I have now only to mention the charming “Cruche Cassée” of Greuze, which all the young ladies delight to copy; and of which the color (a thought too blue, perhaps) is marvellously graceful222 and delicate. There are three more pictures by the artist, containing exquisite female heads and color; but they have charms for French critics which are difficult to be discovered by English eyes; and the pictures seem weak to me. A very fine picture by Bon Bollongue, “Saint Benedict resuscitating223 a Child,” deserves particular attention, and is superb in vigor and richness of color. You must look, too, at the large, noble, melancholy landscapes of Philippe de Champagne; and the two magnificent Italian pictures of Léopold Robert: they are, perhaps, the very finest pictures that the French school has produced — as deep as Poussin, of a better color, and of a wonderful minuteness and veracity224 in the representation of objects.
Every one of Lesueur’s church-pictures is worth examining and admiring; they are full of “unction” and pious mystical grace. “Saint Scholastica” is divine; and the “Taking down from the Cross” as noble a composition as ever was seen; I care not by whom the other may be. There is more beauty, and less affectation, about this picture than you will find in the performances of many Italian masters, with high-sounding names (out with it, and say RAPHAEL at once). I hate those simpering Madonnas. I declare that the “Jardinière” is a puking, smirking miss, with nothing heavenly about her. I vow that the “Saint Elizabeth” is a bad picture — a bad composition, badly drawn225, badly colored, in a bad imitation of Titian — a piece of vile51 affectation. I say, that when Raphael painted this picture two years before his death, the spirit of painting had gone from out of him; he was no longer inspired; IT WAS TIME THAT HE SHOULD DIE!!
There — the murder is out! My paper is filled to the brim, and there is no time to speak of Lesueur’s “Crucifixion,” which is odiously226 colored, to be sure; but earnest, tender, simple, holy. But such things are most difficult to translate into words; — one lays down the pen, and thinks and thinks. The figures appear, and take their places one by one: ranging themselves according to order, in light or in gloom, the colors are reflected duly in the little camera obscura of the brain, and the whole picture lies there complete; but can you describe it? No, not if pens were fitch-brushes, and words were bladders of paint. With which, for the present, adieu.
Your faithful
M. A. T.
To Mr. ROBERT MACGILP,
NEWMAN STREET, LONDON.
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1
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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stinted
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| v.限制，节省（stint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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Mandarin
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| n.中国官话，国语，满清官吏；adj.华丽辞藻的 | |
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seducing
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| 诱奸( seduce的现在分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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comport
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| vi.相称，适合 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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asterisk
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| n.星号，星标 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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40
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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42
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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48
contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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49
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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51
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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52
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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53
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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55
jabber
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| v.快而不清楚地说；n.吱吱喳喳 | |
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56
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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57
mooted
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| adj.未决定的，有争议的，有疑问的v.提出…供讨论( moot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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stilts
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| n.（支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的）桩子，支柱( stilt的名词复数 )；高跷 | |
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64
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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68
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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76
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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mantles
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| vt.&vi.覆盖（mantle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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79
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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80
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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81
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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82
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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83
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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84
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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85
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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86
fortes
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| n.特长，专长，强项( forte的名词复数 )；强音( fortis的名词复数 ) | |
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87
avers
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| v.断言( aver的第三人称单数 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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89
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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90
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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91
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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92
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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93
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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94
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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95
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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96
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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97
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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98
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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99
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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100
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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101
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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102
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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103
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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104
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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105
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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106
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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107
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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108
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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109
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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110
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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111
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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112
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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113
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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114
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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115
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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116
stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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117
spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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118
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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119
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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120
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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121
conjugated
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| adj.共轭的，成对的v.列出（动词的）变化形式( conjugate的过去式和过去分词 )；结合，联合，熔化 | |
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122
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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123
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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124
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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125
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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126
bandanna
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| n.大手帕 | |
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127
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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128
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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129
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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130
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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131
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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132
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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133
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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134
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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135
presidency
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| n.总统(校长，总经理)的职位(任期) | |
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136
pouches
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| n.（放在衣袋里或连在腰带上的）小袋( pouch的名词复数 )；（袋鼠等的）育儿袋；邮袋；（某些动物贮存食物的）颊袋 | |
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137
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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138
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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139
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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140
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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141
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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142
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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143
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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144
carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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145
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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146
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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147
gild
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| vt.给…镀金，把…漆成金色，使呈金色 | |
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148
redoubtable
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| adj.可敬的；可怕的 | |
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149
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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150
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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151
premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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152
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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153
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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154
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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155
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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156
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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157
abounds
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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158
grandee
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| n.贵族；大公 | |
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159
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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160
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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161
sects
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| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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162
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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163
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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164
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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165
outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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166
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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167
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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168
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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169
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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170
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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171
mace
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| n.狼牙棒，豆蔻干皮 | |
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172
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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173
defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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174
nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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175
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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176
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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177
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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178
ogle
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| v.看；送秋波；n.秋波，媚眼 | |
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179
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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180
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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181
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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182
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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183
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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184
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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185
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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186
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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187
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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188
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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189
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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190
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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191
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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192
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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193
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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194
envelops
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的第三人称单数 ) | |
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195
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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196
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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197
antitheses
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| n.对照，对立的，对比法；对立( antithesis的名词复数 )；对立面；对照；对偶 | |
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198
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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199
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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200
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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201
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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202
vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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203
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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204
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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205
briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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206
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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207
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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208
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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209
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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210
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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211
crooks
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| n.骗子( crook的名词复数 )；罪犯；弯曲部分；（牧羊人或主教用的）弯拐杖v.弯成钩形( crook的第三人称单数 ) | |
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212
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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213
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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214
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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215
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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216
frisky
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| adj.活泼的，欢闹的；n.活泼，闹着玩；adv.活泼地，闹着玩地 | |
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217
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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218
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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219
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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220
luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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221
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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222
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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223
resuscitating
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| v.使（某人或某物）恢复知觉，苏醒( resuscitate的现在分词 ) | |
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224
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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225
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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226
odiously
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| Odiously | |
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