THE LIFE OF J. M. W. TURNER, R.A.*

PERHAPS the biographies of the men of greatest intellect have not attained an excellence proportionate to their subjects. To- the names of Dante or Titian, Raphael or Shakespeare, we attach the slightest possible biographical associations. What real knowledge we seem to possess of those personalities is often gained from some source other than biographical ; for instance, the few glowing pages on Dante and Shakespeare, in Mr. Carlyle's Hero-Worship, seem to proceed from a hidden individual sympathy with natures such as they must have possessed. When this innate sympathy guides and permeates a biography, a great Life is written. How rarely this is the case, we need hardly venture to indicate. Is it not possible that Shakespeare, in destroying his manuscripts and -retiring quietly towards the close of his life, was desirous cif escaping the hazardous insinuations of an ordinary biographer'? e The life of a painter is usually one that possesses much in- terest, for a variety of reasons, chiefly, we believe, because of the unusualness of pictorial power, and a consequent feeling on the part of the laity that the painter himself is a being of curious and. unique character. But among all biographies, those of painters are probably as imperfect as any. There is wide 1130111 in these- productions for art-cant that the public cannot test, and cliquey views that perhaps are called forth only by critical antagonism.. There is also a fine field for a gushing rendering of pictorial effects into words. But -there is a brighter side to the ques- tion, as we call to mind the writings of Lady Eastlake, of .Mrs. Jameson, and of Mr. Tom Taylor, from all of whom the world. has received temperate and careful biographies of -artists. Some- times, indeed, as in the case of Thornbury's Life of 'Turner, a distinct vein of vulgarity is visible. But the danger to-day is not so much in a vulgar rendering of artistic themes, as in their dilution with the rose-water analysis of a very refined. art- culture, which, though widespread and effir_ient for a certain class of subjects, is far from being deep,and totally inadequate • The Life of J. M. W. Terser, .a.A. j3y P. G. .Eaton. Loudon : Beeiey, Jackson, and Halliday. to the exposition of a great creative genius. The qualities, faults, and good points, in a creation of sterling merit, are ticketed off, summed up, and arranged eloquently and clearly for an enlightened public. But we need hardly say that we cannot approach some creations of art without feeling that a critical spirit sinks away from us at once, if we are to be sincere and true. The critic of high attainment who descants for us -with what must be an ostentatious impartiality upon the faults in Hamlet, or in the "Venus of Milo," we feel to be a man who has mistaken his vocation.

Probably there are few painters to whom, for ages to come, we shall owe more than we do to the long life and work of Turner. Yet were it not for a certain literary monument to him, as imperishable as his own fame, no painter of equal intellectual rank has been more hardly treated by his biographers. Yet far more may be learned of Turner in the book previously written by Mr. Thornbury than from the one now under review, as we sincerely believe. We are compelled to declare our conviction that in Mr. Hamerton's volume he has dealt with a mass of sub- ject-matter (Turner's life, his work, and Mr. Ruskin), in a manner totally inadequate to give to the world any essential notion of what Turner did for us. The book, we believe, to be simply this,—it is a translation by a man of culture of the rather _flashy but rich record of anecdotes collected by Mr. Thornbury. In addition, we are supplied with Mr. Hamerton's comments upon Turner's shortcomings, his vulgarity, his egoism, his untruth to nature ; and Mr. Ruskin is clearly proved to be -essentially not a critic, whatever else he may be. Before pro- .ceeding to point to a few of the more manifestly weak parts of the book, we may mention what seem to us to be some of its good points,—but too few in number ! Mr. Hamerton's ex- planation of Turner's solitary life, of his great reserve, and of his artist character, seems to be very true and good. The reserve -of an unwearied productive artist is too often misconstrued, and has been often so misconstrued in Turner's case. Also the emphasis which Mr. Hamerton lays on the independent bases of existences of Art and Nature seems to us excellent as a theorem. But his application of this theorem to Turner's work we firmly believe to be radically unsound (though space does not permit us to say more). Many a writer has hinted before now at what is probably the truth. Art is indeed distinct from Nature, and cannot be produced in its higher realms by simple communion with her, without a creative intellectual counterpart of a most peculiar kind. Indeed, the vision of an artist's intellect is as essential as the fair external scene. But the great point seems to be—and this Mr. Hamerton ignores or denies—that the visions of the one are analogues, and even imitations when possible, in every shade, of the harmonies of the other. The two intertwine inextricably. Mr. Ruskin's great demonstration of the necessity of truth to nature is the keystone of the existence of all true art, though possibly his many assailants, and our present biographer among the number, may have derived stimulus from his occasional assertion that Nature is the nursery of Art. But that the same signs of the ideal harmonious beauty both report themselves on the face of nature, and are also imprinted in the true creations of the mind, is one of the corner-stones of Art, set firm by Mr. Ruskin. This book is very well written as to grammar, and fully comes up to Mr. Hamerton's known calibre as to style and acuteness of verbal discrimination. Unfortunately, we have now said all that we can in its favour, in proportion to our space.

By far the gravest and, in our opinion, most untrue assertion to which Mr. Hamerton has committed himself, is that about Turner's colouring, as being right in itself, and yet false to nature. On page 191 we read that "the drawings for the rivers of France are glaringly false in colour, considered with refer- -ence to nature ; and the later drawings of Venice are outrage- ous ; but if we look upon them as simple experiments in the juxtaposition of hues, we shall understand them better." This is, indeed, but a mere assertion, as all patient students of nature and of Turner will find out. Let the reader search our equable critic's pages for some notion of what nature's real colour may be. Later in the book we have a little bit about Venice itself, and this is Mr. Hamerton's colouring :—" A city of rose and white, rising out of an emerald sea, against a sky of sap- phire,—here, in a few words, are the chief elements of Venetian colour." But if we look upon this statement as a simple experiment in the juxtaposition of hues, shall we understand it better?

We are heartily glad to find Mr. Hamerton standing up for Turner's great picture of " Phryne going to the Bath as Venus," on which he thus reflects :—" I well remember how the combined grace and energy of the branch-drawing in this picture seemed to me, before I knew the Forest of Fontainebleau, an idealisa- tion of sylvan beauty beyond the possibilities of Nature; and how, when I came almost directly from Fontainebleau to the National Gallery, I found in the picture the power, the freedom, the elegance which astonish us in the noblest Fontainebleau trees, and give the visitor to that wonderful place an entirely new conception of what sylvan magnificence may be." Towards the close of the book, Mr. Hamerton delivers a final verdict

upon Turner; and in the capacious sentence beginning, "I should say, then, to sum up," we are surprised to find the

following note about sylvan magnificence :—" A student of Nature whose range was vast indeed yet not universal,

for he never adequately illustrated the familiar forest-trees, and had not the sentiment of the forest, neither had he the rustic

sentiment in perfection."

We have excerpts from French writers, some of them, as it seems to us, excellent, and from American writers, and are favoured with the opinions of picture-dealers more than once.

One of this fraternity becoming art-tutor for the nonce, Mr.

Hamerton provides us with an abridged report of his lecture :— "I happened to be with a well-known picture-dealer when he

gave some friendly advice to a young artist, whose works were full of the most painstaking fidelity, yet had not the slightest artistic charm. 'You paint things as they are,' he said, 'and that is a great mistake. All successful artists paint things as they are not.' " But we must be pardoned for doubting whether the company of successful artists would endorse this generous advice. Another very experienced picture. dealer observes, "There can be no doubt as to Turner's genius, but his painting is poor in comparison with the great modern masters ;" and above, we find who they are, "say, Matthew Mans, Troyon, Diaz, Millet, Rousseau, James Mans." It is in- structive to compare this opinion with that of some real artists. Mr. Hamerton says (in another part of this volume, by-the-

by) :—

" Some years ago, several eminent French etchers came over to London, for the purpose of executing plates from pictures in the National Gallery. They were all men of considerable experience in art, perfectly familiar with the Old Masters, and with as much

modern art as may be seen in Paris Thus prepared, and eager to make acquaintance with our national collection, they went to Trafalgar Square. It would be difficult to exaggerate the effect which the Turner pictures produced on their minds. It was not merely critical approbation, not merely the respectful attention usually given to a great master,—it was the passionate enthusiasm with which highly educated and very sensitive persons acknowledge a new, strange, irresistible influence in the Fine-arts."

We have not the space to consider Mr. Hamerton's criticism on Mr. Ruskin. It must suffice to say that it is as calm, and sweep- ing, and fallacious, as we believe that on Turner to be. A man who avowedly opposes " truth " in art cannot be expected to serve under the banner of one whose work it will have been to produce his weighty array of proof that art is nothing, unless it brings us more light. "If the public of those days," harangues Mr. Hamerton, " and the brilliant young Oxonian who addressed them, had really understood the peculiar nature of poetic art, they would both have attached much less importance to truth; and his elaborate investigation of the truth of Nature would pro- bably, if undertaken at all, have been undertaken simply as an independent contribution to a new science, the science of natural aspects, with very secondary reference to art." The following state- ment appears to be neither accurate nor made in good-taste :— " There are passages in Mr. Ruskin's works which seem to imply that in his own opinion his writings revealed Turner to the world, and these have been answered by the clearest evidence (exceedingly easy to get together) that Turner was a famous and successful man long before the publication of Modern Painters." This as- sertion as to what is implied by Mr. Ruskin is entirely opposed to the spirit of the whole of Mr. Ruskin's writings on Turner, and we do not believe it could be substantiated. Mr. Hamerton requested a friend "who had known the state of the Fine-arts in England for fifty years," to tell him what he believed to be "the exact truth of Mr. Ruskin's discovery of Turner; and his answer was that Turner's merits were perfectly well known to artists and to a few amateurs long before the publication of Modern Painters ; but in those days the public never talked about him, whereas since that book came out the general public talks about him, and takes a sort of interest in his work." How this differs from "revealing Turner to the world" we fail to

see, and it is astonishing to find it adduced on the same leaf in support of Mr. Hamerton's most gratuitous assertion against Mr. Ruskin.

There are far too many errors or misprints in the book, con- sidering that it has already appeared in chapters. Twice over we have the National Gallery portrait of Turner referred to as painted when he was seventeen years old. But the late Mr. Wornum dates it about 1802, when Turner was twenty-seven. It is obviously a later work than the one exhibited last year by Mr. Ruskin, which was painted at the age of seventeen, and, to which very picture Mr. Hamerton compares it as a contempo- rary work. Mr. Hamerton copies Mr. Thornbury in supposing that a matrimonial project is referred to in a certain proposal of Turner's that a Miss — "should make an offer, instead of expecting one, and the same might change occupiers," when, as was pointed out on the appearance of Thornbury's Life, this passage probably refers to getting a tenant for his little Twickenham house, as he was going abroad.

An instance of very marked one-sidedness is given us in Mr. Hamerton's description of Turner's personal appearance :—" He was a person of unprepossessing appearance, short and thick- set, with coarse features, and the general appearance of the skipper of some small merchant-craft." Compare this with a description by a friend who knew him very intimately through- out the whole of his middle-age and maturity :—" Turner had fine, intelligent eyes, dark-blue or mazarine," says the Rev. Mr. Trimmer;—" and as it is said of Swift's, they were heavy rather than animated. He had a pleasing, but melancholy expression. His conversation was always sensible, and in all matters con- nected with his profession invaluable. He dressed in black, with short, black gaiters, and though neat, was not smart. He was retired in his habits and sensitive in his feelings ; he was an excessively kind-hearted person, and fond of children, says one who knew him. His domestic life was founded on the models of the Old Masters, his conversation was most correct, and no one more upheld the decencies of society."

The etchings of the book, nice and delicate in themselves, give us no idea whatsoever of Turner's individual handiwork. They are steeped in a peculiarly French blurry quality, as if Nature were always moist, and simmering in warm mist. But in Turner's mystery, the far, clear peaks of rosy pearl rise like a wraith from the soft and pure fields of morning cloud ; and for him who looks longingly and steadily, there is as much play and delicate change of form in it, as in the gentle foldings of Greek drapery.