The Trans-alpine schools of painting now demand attention. The German is usually divided into three distinct schools—the German, properly so called, the Flemish, and the Dutch. These distinctions are rather local than depending upon characteristic difference of manner. Indeed, prior to the age of Durer, the only style discernible in the schools is that named Gothic, common more or less to all the states of Europe, but especially indigenous in Germany. The expression, then, is here employed not altogether in its vague and generic sense of anything stiff and formal—for these early or Gothic pictures exhibit a specific character both of design and execution. They are painted upon wood, usually oak, covered sometimes with canvass, always with a white ground, upon which the outline of the subject is sketched, and the whole overlaid with gilding. This last forms the real grounding of the picture, which is painted in water or size-color, with great care and diligence of finish, often with considerable felicity of effect, and always with more of the simplicity of individual nature than occurs in any other works of the same age and description. This early school terminated in the fifteenth century, from the more general diffusion of oil-painting; its principal masters were Schoen, the Bon Martino of the Italians, born in 1420, painter and engraver; Wohlgemuth, the instructer of Durer; and Muiller, or Kranach, Burgomaster of Wittemberg, and friend of Luther. But the prince of German artists is Albert Durer, born at Nuremberg in 1471—the Da Vinci of this school, as excelling in science and in art. His works in painting and engraving are equally admirable, evincing knowledge of the best principles of imitation. They still retain a degree of constraint—a remnant of the Gothic manner, of which the habits and prejudices of his countrymen, and his own ignorance of the antique, prevented the removal. Want of dignified design and grandeur of composition, hard and meagre outline, are his defects; truth, originality, and simplicity of thought, good coloring, and the invention, or at least perfecting, of etching on copper, form his contributions to the arts. His contemporary, and, in portraits, superior, was Holbein, best known in England, and whose works, in the reign of Henry VIII., are excellent examples of the school; his successors, in departing from the national style, become blended with the minor Italian masters—for the German school ceases to be original or distinct when it ceases to be Gothic. After Schwartz Rolenhamer, and others of the sixteenth century, who painted history in the Italian manner, Germany sent forth chiefly landscape painters, as Bauer, Elzhaimer, and others, who finished in a style exquisitely delicate and natural.

Commercial wealth, the comparative independence and activity which always accompany industrious enterprise, rendered the Flemish cities, from a very early period, famous in painting. In fact, many of their most lucrative branches of trade—tapestry, embroidery, jewellery—depended upon, and, as in the Italian republics, aided the progress of design. Few characteristics of a national style, however, are to be found in the history of art in the Low Countries, as distinct from Germany, prior to the close of the sixteenth century. To John of Bruges, better known as Van Eyck, a Flemish painter about the beginning of the fifteenth century, has been ascribed the discovery of oil colors; but though the discovery appears rather to have been a gradual improvement, commencing from a much earlier date, he certainly first brought the practice into general use. The painters of the Flemish and Dutch schools were thus put early in possession of an advantage, contributing principally to the distinguishing qualities of art in these countries—fine coloring and exquisite finish. The method, indeed, necessarily introduced these properties, as may also be remarked in Italy, where the Venetian masters, who first obtained the secret, continued to surpass, as they had taken the lead, in sweetness and splendor of pencilling. Lucas Van Leyden and Mabeuse, far surpassed Van Eyck, and indeed rivalled their German contemporaries, Durer and Holbein; while, in the subsequent century, artists are numerous who carried to a high perfection the characteristics of the school—imitation of nature, and wonderful minuteness of finish—such as Brill, Stenwyck, Spranger, the Brueghils, and Van Veen.

Rubens was born of an honorable family, at Antwerp, in 1577, and died in 1640. This powerful and prolific artist, whose works are abundantly scattered over the whole of Europe, gave to the Flemish school the consideration attendant on separate and dignified character. Had Rubens, indeed, united to brilliancy of coloring, rapidity of composition, and splendor of general effect, the elevation of form and sentiment which ennoble the thoughts of the old masters, his name would justly have ranked amongst the highest in art. But the seductions of the Venetian, and the bravura of the Lombard style, had for him more attraction than the majesty of the Florentine, or the grace and pathos of the Roman pencil. There is in his style, however, a dexterous compensation for defects, which, more than in any other, momentarily seduces the judgment from propriety. His defect of expression is concealed in the richness, the lavish variety, of his figures and grouping; the incorrectness of his forms is forgotten in beholding their almost mobile elasticity; the absence of lofty interest passes unmarked amid the striking contrasts and picturesque impressions of the general effect. Over the whole is thrown the most gorgeous coloring, the play of reflected lights, the magnificence of almost shifting, yet ever harmonious hues and luxuriance of ornament;—like the golden flood from the stained window, pouring its radiance over the irregular but magical combinations of the Gothic aisle. The landscapes of Rubens are delightful; they have the freshness, the clearness, the variety of nature, and a far deeper sentiment of her beauty than his histories or portraits—the last, indeed, are the least meritorious of his works. But we shall qualify or support our own by the opinion of Sir Joshua Reynolds, whose summary of the character of Rubens is as follows: 'In his composition his art is too apparent; his figures have expression, and act with energy, but without simplicity or dignity. His coloring, in which he is eminently skilled, is notwithstanding too much of what we call tinted. Throughout the whole of his works, there is a proportionable want of that nicety of distinction and elegance of mind, which is required in the higher walks of painting; to this want, it may in some degree be ascribed, that those qualities that make the excellence of this subordinate style, appear in him with the greatest lustre.' The Crucifixion at Antwerp is his masterpiece; the Allegories of Mary de Medici in the Louvre his largest work; but some of the most finished smaller pictures which we have seen are in the Rubens-gallery, in the palace of Frederic at Potzdam.

The contemporaries of Rubens were independent masters or disciples. Among the former were Van Voss Strada, Miel Savary Seegers; among the latter, Snyders, Jordains, Teniers, and especially Vandyke. Rather later, lived Schwaneveldt in landscape, and Neef for interiors, &c.; but the influence of the principles or precepts of Rubens animated the whole of their efforts. In point of manner and subject, Teniers and Vandyke may in some measure be considered as forming the extremes of the Flemish schools, though in respect of merit they stand in the first rank. Teniers, for instance, connects the Flemish with the Dutch style, being more elevated in the general tone of his conceptions and manner than the latter, while he has selected a less dignified walk than Rubens. He has painted with exquisite truth, and very great beauty of pencil, the customs, scenes, amusements, and character of his countrymen. Vandyke, again, in the grace and dignity of his portraits, in the intellectuality of his expression and composition, seems to effect a junction between the common and broad nature of the native taste, with the ideal of Italian art. The pictures painted by Vandyke during the early period of his residence in England, are among the finest specimens of portraiture. Here, indeed, in some respects, as the clearness and transparency of his carnations, he is excelled only by Titian,—in the graceful air of the heads, and beautiful drawing of the extremities, he reminds us of Raphael,—while, to these qualities, he has added a silvery tone of pencilling, which, more so than in any other master, gives back the delicate and varied hues of real flesh and skin. He has hardly succeeded in history, more, however, from want of practice than genius; for his alleged want of fancy seems not so apparent as has been supposed. In Vandyke, we find a most striking proof that excellence in art is founded upon no abstract theory of the ideal, but in selecting, and sedulously adhering to, some one view of nature: hence—hence alone,

What Rubens had accomplished for the Flemish school in giving to it nationality and a head, Rembrandt some time after conferred upon that of Holland; but between the two cases there is this difference,—the former has identified his principles and reputation with the whole of succeeding art in his country,—these principles, also, are founded in a more comprehensive view of nature and of imitation; the latter has merely given a consistency to the scattered details and individual artists of the Dutch school, by concentrating attention upon one, while he has given a singular but most powerful delineation of nature. He stands alone, not only among his countrymen, a gigantic workman among the minute laborers of cabbages, butchers' shops, and green-grocers' stalls, but he is a solitary master in the schools of Europe. The style of Rembrandt it is easy to distinguish, but difficult to characterise. It is at once natural and highly artificial—original, yet excessively mannered. It is natural: for every object, no matter what, is represented just as it appears, without alteration, improvement, or addition—but the medium of visibility, if the expression may be allowed, the mode in which nature is exposed, is a complete artifice; no inventor was ever more original in his system, but none less varied in its application;—if we have seen one picture of Rembrandt, we have seen all, as far as respects his principles, for he has only two. In his practice he is at once bold, even to coarseness, and elaborately finished—his coloring is delicate, yet placed frequently in lumps upon the canvass. But to attempt a positive description: of the two principles of the Dutch master, one respects the manner of delineating, the other of exhibiting, nature. He appears to have regarded art as without power or control, over the character or form of the subject—these were to be most faithfully preserved, and most minutely copied. This formed his first principle, to which he has most rigidly adhered. But as natural objects present different modifications in appearance, according to the quantity and direction of the light which falls upon them, and since this can be artificially varied at the will of the artist, here Rembrandt fixed his second, and what may be termed his ideal principle. In the schools of Italy, we have seen that the management of light had been brought to very great perfection, especially by Titian, Corregio, and their best instructed followers. Their method was diffusion—to unite, by secondary, the principal lights, and both, by a gradation of under-tone, with the darkest shadows, avoiding strong contrasts. Indeed, the Venetian master has shown, in his practice, that strong opposition, neither of light nor color, was necessary to powerful effect; and Corregio, on the same principle, has painted much in demi, or neutral tone. These precepts Rubens also had discovered in his Italian studies, and afterwards constantly practised; Vandyke, by the same method, has given that extraordinary softness and delicacy which sits so divinely upon his female countenances. Rembrandt pursued a method directly the reverse; he concentrated his light into one meteoric blaze, directed in full power upon one spot—to which all other forms are sacrificed in deep gloom—and upon which the whole riches of his palette are heaped. He placed nature, as it were, in a dungeon, while, through one solitary loophole, the beam of heaven seems, with ten-fold force, to penetrate to the object of the artist's immediate contemplation. This, spreading a dazzling, yet solemn light over all, invests the commonest forms with an unknown interest, and gives to the grossest and most unclassical imitation an elevated and romantic character,—just as the uncertain gloom of twilight mantles in the shadowy terrors and strange shapes, objects, the most familiar in ordinary day. In the same style are painted the landscapes of Rembrandt, equally valued, and more true than even his figures. The rest of the Dutch masters have little of distinctive excellence; the imitation of all is wonderful in its fidelity, minuteness, and beauty; but human talent, and weeks of precious time, wasted upon a cabbage leaf, or a few fish upon a board, is after all but a melancholy theme, which we shall despatch with a catalogue of names. Before or contemporary with Rembrandt, who died in 1674, we have HÆmskirk, Both, Metzu, BlÆmart, Breenberg, Polemberg, Bhergem, Cuyp, Wynants, Heem, Mieris, Vangoyn, Schalken, Van der Neer, Van der Warf. A higher class of artists were Wouvermans, Laar, and Gherard Douw, the most careful of painters. These and others now mentioned placed the ideal of art in the most scrupulous delineation of nature—the most elaborate truth and transparent coloring; and it cannot be denied, that they approached their ideal nearer than did the Italian masters to theirs. But more glory accrued from the attempt than in the success.

The arts of the Low Countries, so long an appendage of the crown of Spain, naturally lead to those of that kingdom. No regular Spanish school of painting appears at any time to have existed, though the art has been very successfully practised by numerous artists. Of these the chief are Velasquez, equally eminent in history and portrait; and Murillo, a delightful colorist, and distinguished for natural feeling, though often vulgar, and rarely dignified, in his choice of forms. He is the most original of all the great masters of Spain, who have generally been indebted to Italy. Morales, Herrera, with many others, might be mentioned, but we have not seen their works. The principal seats of painting, in Spain, were Madrid and Seville; the school holds intermediate rank between those of Venice and Flanders—its chief beauty is truth of character, natural expression and fine coloring, correct, but not elevated, design.

In France, or by French artists, painting has been practised with much individual success; and though academies have been formed, and government protection long and liberally afforded, it would yet be difficult exactly to describe in what the characteristics of the national style of art in France consist. In that country, taste, as respects painting, has fluctuated more, and from the first has been less deeply impressed with original traits, than as regards any other of the fine arts. Voltaire has remarked, that a people may have a music and poetry pleasing only to themselves, and yet both good; but in painting, though their genius may be peculiar, it can be genuine only as it is agreeable to, and prized by, all the world. Tried by this rule, French painting seems to be neither correct nor pleasing, and it is not universal, that is inventive, in its peculiarity of manner. In her early efforts, France was indebted to Italy, and in her subsequent labors the Italian method of design has prevailed; indeed, her artists have here rather copied than imitated, adding, no doubt, what have been termed les graces FranÇoises—an expression ill-naturedly, but not without truth, translated, 'French grimaces.' It is rare, perhaps impossible, to find originality where taste has not been naturally, and to a considerable extent, cultivated prior to the introduction of extrinsic knowledge. Art borrowed in a state of forwardness, can receive no new nor valuable modifications from unskilful hands and unpractised fancy. On the other hand, when thought has been independently exercised, refinement, engrafted upon its bold, though perhaps rude strength, will receive novel combinations and freshness of character, while the reception of more perfect modes in the same walk, will but improve the faculties, without oppressing the powers, of native genius. Again, the fluctuations of painting observable during its progress in France, appear to have arisen chiefly from the influence which favorite masters have been able to exercise over the art universally in that country. Nor has the influence often been that of pure talent. Court intrigue, during the most favorable epochs, has raised to court employment, and consequently to pre-eminence in the honors and emoluments of his profession, some individual, who thus became possessed of the means of rendering his brethren eager to obtain his countenance by imitation of his style. Thus we have the schools of Vouet, of Le Brun, of David, distinguished merely by adherence to the particular manner of these masters; with some exception in the last, which is founded most on general principles. This, however, is only an effect growing out of a far more general cause of imperfection in French art, namely, the absence of all true national interest. Among the French, painting has hitherto, during the most prosperous periods, formed the amusement or the luxury of their rulers; though as contributing to the external pomp, splendor, and show of their 'monarchie,' the people have been trained to applaud. There never has been mutual sympathy between the artist and his countrymen; he drew his encouragement, and looked for his reward, from other and far less ennobling inspiration than their praise. That incense which not unfrequently was really kindled at the Muses' flame, was burnt before the idols set up by a despot, instead of being offered to the majesty of national feeling. In confirmation of these remarks, so congenial with the whole history of art as an intellectual attainment, we have only to refer to the reigns of Louis XIII., XIV., XV.; more especially of the second, whose selfish glory, the pursuit of his entire life, converted the most splendid of the arts into a vehicle of adulation, through fulsome and direct flattery, or glaring and far-fetched allegory. If, during the recent order of things, more respect was paid to real merit, and less to cabal than formerly, the same, nearly, was the isolation of the art from popular enthusiasm—it was still under the same thraldom to the cold and selfish aggrandisement of an individual; or, where this object seemed more directly connected with national exultation, the art was exercised on a theme, whose violent and artificial aspect is, throughout, unvaried, entirely destructive of natural expression and discrimination of character. The gold and glitter of military portraits—the unromantic combinations of modern warfare, with its mechanical levelling of distinctive peculiarities, were little calculated to rectify—they increased—the errors and the wants of French painting; while that which is absolutely good was derived from the colder forms of sculpture.

The most ancient labours of the art in France appear to have been on glass, and, as in every other country, dedicated to the service of religion. Of these primitive specimens, many still remain of considerable beauty, as in the church of St Genevieve at Paris. Another method, common also to Germany, and which, in the fourteenth century, had assumed the appearance of a regular and important branch of ingenuity, was a species of enamel, formed by the fusion of metallic colors with glass. Of this method, many remains of surprising beauty occur in the early part of the fifteenth century, which, with the Gothic paintings already described, seem to have exercised the ingenuity of his subjects, till the exertions of Francis I. for their improvement brought artists from Italy. Among these was the great Leonardo, who died at Fontainbleau, in the arms of this monarch, in 1524, and before he had exercised his pencil in France. Copies of his works, especially of the Last Supper, were executed for Francis, who was desirous of carrying off the original with the wall upon which it is painted.[B]

The intervening period from the death of Francis to the commencement of the seventeenth century, torn by religious dissension, distracted by the heartless intrigue, and still more heartless massacres perpetrated by the Catholic party, threw France back in the career of improvement. The splendid reign of Henry of Navarre was favorable indeed both to the fine and useful arts; but, as in the former age, foreign, and principally Flemish artists, were employed. The imbecile Louis XIII. has the credit of having first formed a native school of painting, or rather, perhaps, in this reign, advantage was first taken of those various circumstances which had gradually been forming both skill and taste in France. This, like every other measure of the same period, is to be attributed to the prime minister, Richelieu, founder also of the Academy. This was the source whence were supplied the artists of the succeeding reign, who were principally disciples of Vouet, the first French master of eminence, born in 1582, but whose merits in the nobler walks of art would not otherwise entitle him to notice.

The glory, not only of this period, but of the history of French art, is Nicholas Poussin—the classic and the virtuous Poussin. To his contemporaries, however, or to the retainers in the halls of Louis, he did not properly belong. Born in 1594, he had formed his taste by a residence of nearly twenty years in Italy, before he was invited, in 1639, to a pension and an apartment in the Tuileries. From the cabals of a court, and the petty jealousy of the inferior Vouet, he fled beyond the Alps to his own loved Rome, never to return. There he conversed more with antiquity than with living men. Thence originated the grand defect of his style. 'We never,' says a moralist, 'live out of our age, without missing something which our successors will wish we had possessed.' This is especially true in the present instance. The characteristics of the works of Poussin are extreme correctness of form and costume, great propriety in keeping, and the most enchanting simplicity of design. These beauties he derived from constant study and deep knowledge of ancient sculpture. While he thus followed closely one of the sources of excellence, he, however, neglected the other, and, in painting, the more important—nature. Hence the frequent want of interest—the defects of expression—the cold and sombre coloring—the absence of that breathing similitude which animates even the subjects of his intense contemplation. But the ancient sculptors were not satisfied with nature at second-hand—the great cause of failure in the painter. The perfections of their statues he transferred to his canvass, forgetting that these were copied from men. In the choice of his subject, and manner of representing its incidents, Poussin has few equals; in his pictures, too, there is always a most charming harmony of thought—the scene—the figures—the handling—even the forms of inanimate objects in his landscapes, all have an antique air, transporting the imagination into an ideal world. Hence, of all those who have made the attempt, Poussin has best succeeded in classical allegory.

Louis XIV., who commenced his reign in 1643, resolved to complete the intentions of his predecessor, in giving to France a school of native artists; and, by the institution of academies, conferring rewards, and raising to honors, so far accomplished his purpose, as respected the cultivation of the art by Frenchmen, to a very considerable extent. The school, however, thus created, was composed of imitators in their profession, and flatterers of their royal patron. True, vigorous, original genius, lives not to be called forth at the smile of a monarch, nor by permission to display its powers in painted panegyrics on the walls of a palace. As well might we expect, in the artificial atmosphere of the hothouse, the strength, and beauty, and freshness, which bloom amid glades and groves, freely visited by the pure breath of heaven.

The great master of this school was Le Brun, for so the Scotch name of Brown, from a family of which name he was descended, has been translated. He was born in 1619, of a family long attached to the practice of the arts, and became the favorite pupil of Vouet, whose precepts in many respects he too faithfully retained. Yet Le Brun had good capabilities,—a lively fancy, great dexterity of hand, and not unfrequently noble conceptions. But in all things he is too artificial—a defect never redeemable by any display even of the most splendid technical qualities. In the paintings of Le Brun, the want of simplicity is conspicuous in the forced attitudes of his figures, and in their too systematic expression. Both these imperfections have resulted from the same cause—neglect of nature, neglect operating by different effects. In the former case, the artist has designed too much from memory, or—a common fault, we should be inclined to say, in French art—has taken his attitudes from the theatre. In the second, it is easy to perceive, that he aimed at reducing the infinite and minute changes, of expression to a theory of academic rules; indeed, his pictures are but commentaries, in this respect, upon his celebrated treatise on the Passions. The coloring in these performances is glaring, without firmness of shadow, and the local tones are false; hence the general effect is shallow, with a monotony of hue, arising, not so much from want of variety in the tints, as from error in keeping. The best works of Le Brun are the five grand pictures from the life of Alexander, which, notwithstanding the defects inherent in his style, are productions of dignity and grandeur, exhibiting great fertility both of composition and of resource in mechanic art; but surely Voltaire must intend his assertion to be restricted to France, when he says, that engravings of these paintings are more sought after than those of the battles of Constantine, by Raphael and Julio Romano.

The truth of the preceding remarks on the causes which have contributed, in France, to the mediocrity of painting, is placed in a striking view by the tyranny, the absolute despotism, in which Le Brun was enabled to lord it over his contemporaries, whether painters, sculptors, or architects. Every one was forced to become the observant servitor of him whom the court favored, or enjoyed the option of remaining unemployed. Such was the fate of Le Sueur, not merely the superior of Le Brun, but, with the exception of Poussin, to whom even in some respects he is more than equal, the best painter France has ever produced—the sole one in whose works are found natural simplicity and repose. He took Raphael for his model, whose feeling, sober grace, and internal dignity, do not contribute even now to render his imitation popular. If Le Sueur were less frequently inferior to himself, he would have stood in the first rank of his profession, though he died in 1655, at the early age of thirtyeight. Bourdon, Valentin, and Megnard, were also contemporaries, and in some respects equals, of Le Brun.

To this period, though only by chronology, and to France merely by birth, belongs Claude Gelee, better known as Claude Lorrain, from his native province, where he was born in 1600, dying in his 88th year at Rome, where he resided during the greater part of the reigns of Louis XIII. and XIV., having never crossed the Alps after leaving home as the runaway apprentice of a pastry cook. To this artist, self-taught, and at first apparently more than commonly incapable, landscape painting owes its interest and its loveliness as a separate and dignified branch of art. In the sweetest, as in the most brilliant, effects of light—from the first blush of day to the fall of dewy eve, Claude is unrivalled, or even unapproached, if in one or two instances we except our own Wilson. The aerial perspective, and the liquid softness of the tones, in his pictures,—the leafing, forms, and branching of the trees, the light flickering clouds, the transparency of hue, the retiring distances, all make as near approaches to nature as it is possible for art to accomplish. Still there is one grand defect in the representations of Claude, which to a degree destroys the natural effect of their constituent features;—they are too frequently compositions, or what are termed heroic landscape. This certainly heightens the charm merely as respects the imagination, but detracts from the still deeper interests of reality. For this practice, which, indeed, is too common with landscape painters, there can be found also no plea, till it has been proved that the majesty and variety of nature are unequal to the powers of the pencil.

The French painters of the eighteenth century were numerous, and on the whole superior to those of the same era in Italy. Throughout the whole, however, we detect the principles of the school of Louis XIV., as respects the individual qualities of the art; while in the philosophy of taste, more especially as affects painting, are discoverable the effects of the mechanical and systematic criticism—the mere pedantry of learning, which, originating with the writers of that age, spread over Europe, nor, in art, is yet entirely exploded. Cases is one of the most eminent of native artists, who was overlooked during his lifetime; but what is the meaning of Voltaire's remark on this artist? 'Chaque nation cherche À se faire valoir; les FranÇais font valoir les autres nations en tout genre.' The taste of this writer in the fine arts is not less contemptible than in the principles of nobler literature, and in religion. The tawdry nudities which we have seen still suspended in the Salle de Tableaux, at Ferney, are a practical testimony of the one fact; and, place serving, it would be no difficult matter to prove the other, or rather, we trust, it needs no exposition. Santerre studied nature, designs with correctness, and colors agreeably, but he rises not above mediocrity; nor will it be admitted, as asserted by his countrymen, that his picture of Adam and Eve is one of the best in modern art. The two Parrocels and Bourgoyn painted combats, chiefly of horsemen. Jouvenet shows talent in design, but colors too yellow; is remarkable as having painted in old age with his left hand. Rigaud is called the French Rubens. Le Moine, in the Apotheosis of Henry IV. at Versailles, has left a striking and well-colored composition, but one of those incongruous allegories, which, during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, formed the besetting sin of French art. La Fosse, the two Boulognes, De Troy, Raous, Tremoilliere, and especially Vanloo, in history; Vateau, in grotesque subjects; Desportes and Audry, in animals; Vernet, the admirable marine painter, with others of less note, bring down our researches to the middle of the last century.

The founder and the representative of the modern French school is David. Born in 1750, he early saw and forsook the conventional feebleness, and, to a great degree, the false glare, of contemporaries, and thus merits the appellation of restorer of art. Unfortunately, however, he engaged in other revolutions than those of taste, and participated too largely in the atrocities which desecrated the close of last century. As one of the regicides, he was, at the restoration, driven into exile—a useless severity, which might have been spared in favor of one who has contributed largely to the solid glory of his country. He died at Brussels in 1825. The leading defect of preceding art in France, is a want of dignified and correct form; next, of simple and natural expression. The former the genius of David detected, and sought to apply the remedy in the careful study of antique sculpture. In this he has been far from unsuccessful; his drawing is most correct, his style of design noble, but both are cold and without feeling. The second defect David either did not discover, or has failed in rectifying. The system which he pursued was in part excellent, but he followed it too exclusively. Statuary can give little to painting beyond form and proportion—the essentials, indeed—but expression, action, not less true and dignified, but more varied, and composition, not to mention coloring, must be added from nature. Here David has failed. He either conceived that the artists who preceded him wanted only form to render French art perfect, or that, by grouping the statuary of ancient Greece in more violent and complicated action, and with more vehemence of expression, pictures would be produced, such, to use his own words, 'that if an Athenian were to return to this world, they might appear to him the works of a Greek painter.' Like Poussin, then, he lived too much for antiquity, and too little with the present; but if Poussin has often given to representations of the most perfect art, instead of delineations of nature, he has at least depicted antiquity as it is, in all its simplicity and perfect repose. David has not done this; he has completely changed, nay, inverted, the character of ancient art, by adding exaggerated expression and forced attitude. The coloring is also very indifferent; for though highly finished, the effect is hard and dry, without sweetness or depth; and while the general tone inclines to the bronze or metallic, the local tints are feeble or untrue. Here, likewise, we discover an endeavor at improvement failing through neglect of the proper object of study. Wishing to avoid the glaring hues of his predecessors, David has fallen into the opposite extreme from overlooking the living subject. The grouping, too, participates in the meagreness inseparable from the system, the arrangement of the figures often approaching to the basso-relievo, where they necessarily stand in lines, while, to relieve the sameness thus produced, the forms are violently and ungracefully contrasted in themselves. Of this a striking instance occurs in the famous picture of the Horatii, who are ranged rank and file, receding from the spectator, so that only one is completely seen, the heads of the others being in profile, each with an arm and foot extended, one, by way of variety, reaching forth his left hand to take the oath dictated by the father, who stands on the opposite side! Without doubt, however, David was a man of great genius, and when he errs, it is more through defect of system than of talent; but the former being his own creation, he stands responsible for its faults. Besides that just quoted, his best performances are Leonidas with the Spartans at ThermopylÆ, one of the best colored of his pictures, but the figure of the chief wants majesty; the Death of Socrates is destitute of that solemnity of repose, yet activity of feeling, which we have been accustomed to associate with the scene; the Funeral of Patroclus—a fine antique composition, but French in feeling; the Coronation of Napoleon—a splendid failure; the Rape of the Sabines—much fine drawing, and the usual share of bustle—expression extravagant, yet cold. In portrait, as might have been anticipated from the range of his studies, David was unequal to himself. His best performances in this walk are the numerous likenesses of his imperial patron. We have seen the original sketch for one of these, which indeed was never afterwards touched, taken during the last few hours of undiminished power possessed by Napoleon in Paris. The greater part of the preceding day and night had been spent in arranging the final operations of the campaign which terminated in the battle of Waterloo. When now past midnight, instead of retiring to repose, the emperor sent for David, to whom he had promised to sit, and who was in waiting in an apartment of the Tuileries. 'My friend,' said Napoleon to the artist, on entering, 'there are yet some hours till four, when we are finally to review the defences of the capital; in the meantime, faites votre possible—(do your utmost), while I read these despatches.' But exhausted nature could hold out no longer; the paper dropt from the nerveless hand, and Napoleon sunk to sleep. In this attitude the painter has represented him. The pale and lofty forehead, the careworn features, the relaxed expression, the very accompaniments, wear an impress inexpressibly tender and melancholy. With the dawn Napoleon awoke, and springing to his feet, was about to address David, when a taper just expiring in the socket arrested his eye. Folding his arms on his breast, a usual posture of thought, he contemplated in silence its dying struggles. When with the last gleam the rays of the morning sun penetrated through the half closed window-curtains, 'Were I superstitious,' said Napoleon, a faint smile playing about his beautiful mouth, 'the first object on which my sight has rested this day might be deemed ominous; but,' pointing to the rising sun, 'the augury is doubtful—at least, the prayer of the Grecian hero will be accorded,—we shall perish in light!'