fint 3rto.
A VISIT TO MADAME TUSSAUD'S WAX.WORK.
As there are many persons who think that photography is infallible in its results, still there are many to be found who look upon wax- work as wonderfully life-like, and infinitely prefer it to an imagina- tive work of sculpture. The uncultivated taste appreciates only the lowest efforts of the arts; the picture of fruit or still life, the easily- acquired popular air and the catch-penny rhyme, have charms for those on whom a work of Titian, Mozart, or Milton would leave no impression. Imitation in painting is most successful when applied to the Meaner objects. "You can paint a leaf, but not a tree ; a stone, but not a mountain," says Mr. Ruskin. It is easier to dis- cover ten men that will imitate the colour and texture of a drapery than one who will arrange it in elegant folds and show the form be- neath to the best advantage. The former is a task requiring neither taste nor genim: for its accomplishment—the latter involves the nicest judgment and discrimination. The art which depends merely on imitation for its success must be restricted in range and un- elevating in tendency. The exhibition of Madame Tussaud affords numerous specimens of an art which has imitation for its sole basis; mid in walking through the rooms one constantly hears the remark, " How natural," applied to objects which strike the observing man as bein,,b very unnatural. The child may be deceived by the well- known effigy of Cobbett seated on a bench and steadfastly staring at the group of the royal family, but how any older person, after a second glance at that wonderfully glossy broad-brimmed hat and unwrinkled coat-back of the late member for Oldham, can suppose that they belong to a human form, is a marvel. Notwithstanding the aids of real clothes, real hair, and the most delicate complexions, these figures suggest death far more than life. Their attitudes are fixed and rigid, and they stare stonily at the visitor or each other; there is "no speculation in those eyes.' The flesh is monotonous in tone and far too clean. Every figure has just washed its hands and bathed its face in rose-water. Not a garment has a speck of dust or dirt upon it ; each boot or shoe is an adver- tisement for Day and Martin and free from the slightest spot of mud. Messrs. Bright and Cobden who stand opposite each other, calmly looking into vacancy, scent to have put on those spotless shirt- fronts and wristbands, but a moment before the visitor has entered. So oppresiive is this ultra cleanliness, that it would be a positive rglief to find wen a little honest dirt under the finger-nails of some of these stolid-looking dummies. Finger-nails, by-the-way, seem to be a grand difficulty with the artist in wax..' it was "not the 'air but the heyes" which bothered Mr. Leech's photographer, and Messrs. Tussaud have been conquered by these finger-nails, which neither the colour nor the shiny surface of nature. The eyes, on the other hand, glitter with too universal a brightness, and those of the aged coquette; who -curtseys to Voltaire, are fully as brilliant as those belonging to the two infants in glass-cases, around which the ladies crowd in breathless awe and admiration. Another striking charac- teristic is the newness of the clothes, these garments, 'cleave not to their mould," even "with the aid of use," and it is sad, yet amus- ing, to see how obstinately the trousers and goat-sleeves refuse to fall into natural folds, into any folds at all, in some cases ; how the bodies of the coats fit with an absence of wrinkle that would have excited envy in the bosom of George IV., and how the boots are never guilty of turning up at the toes, wearing down at heel, or in- dulging in any of the other :numerous weaknesses to which those articles of dress are prone in daily life. Most people who are in the habit of studying their fellow-creatures in their daily walks, mast have often wondered how the costermongers, and gentlemen of the "fancy," manage to insert their limbs into the tight-fitting nether garments affected by those people, but the wonder will sink into nothingness when compared with that which is experienced in stand- ingbefote the effigy of Sir Francis Burdett. In vain may one try to divine how on earth it was ever inducted into those buckskin panta- loons, which clip the unfortunate baronet's legs with a tenacity that must bring on a determination of blood to the head. The figures in the stiff modern dress are not so successful as those where opportunity is afforded for a loose or flowing garb, while some clad in armour are among the best in the collection. In them the stiffness of attitude is not so noticeable nor is one troubled by the unnaturally unworn look, or strange fit, of most of the costumes; thus, Henry VIII., in a handsome suit of genuine-looking damascened armour, is really a finely-designed and characteristic figure; the head has apparently been carefully studied from Holbein's portraits, the proportions of the frame have been well preserved, and altogether it doubtless gives a fair notion of the appearance of bluff King Hal as he lived. The two Charleses, also in armour, are the worst of the series of kings. The best, on the whole, is John, a seated figure, artistically draped, with much character and expression in the head, and appropriate action in the limbs. The poets have received scant justice at the hands of the artists. It is difficult to recognize Sir Walter Scott in his Highland dress, notwithstanding the assurance that it was "taken from lifein 1828 ;" but Shakspeare has been most cruelly used. The bard, whose face and redundant whiskers do not recal the Stratford bust, is looking up for inspiration. He leans his elbow on a complete edition of his works, plainly but strongly bound, and rests his temple on the points of two fingers. His -dress is of black velvet, and theatrical in cut. His legs can only be described as stuffy. The catalogue proclaims the fact that the -figure has been taken "from an authentic statue." It will be news to most people that there is an authentic statue of Shakspeare. In arrangement and position the Tussaud version resembles Ronbiliae's extravagant work, to which the term "au- thentic" would be the last any one would ever think of applying. The figures of Penn, Franklin, Washington, Garibaldi, Cavour, and John Wesley are all, more or less, distinguished by truth of resem- blance, natural attitude, and expression. The heads of Garibaldi and Wesley especially show meritorious powers of modelling, which, had they been employed on other materials, would have earned for their possessors no unenviable reputation. The sculptor's art ennobles the rude and worthless stone into a priceless work that shall last for ages : intelligence, skill, and labour are here wasted in the produc- tion of what, at the best, is but a fragile and idealized barber's dummy. In the matter of-costume, allowance being made for the objections hinted above, Messrs. Tussaud are reliable authorities. The dresses are accurate in cut, made of good materials, and both dresses and
ornaments, with the exception of the jewellery, are not characterized by that tawdry look inseparable from theatrical properties. Many of
the groups are valuable-and---iresting, if only on account of the historical truth they display in the matter of clothes. it is a pity that the good taste so generally evident throughout, does not incite the proprietors to the doing away with the "Chamber of Horrors." It is the one blot on an interesting and praiseworthy exhibition. Let the model of the guillotine be preserved, but the rest should be ruth- lessly swept away. The exposure to public view of "Manning,'s crow- bar and pistols," and other hideous relics—of effigies of murderers dressed in the actual clothes they wore at the time of execution—is a disgrace to our civilization, and despite "Messrs. Tussaud's experi- ence to the contrary," cannot fail to have a baneful and demoralizing effect. It is a relief to turn from this loathsome room to the " Golden Chamber," where Napoleon lies in state on his camp-bed, dressed in his Chasseur's uniform, and, covered with the Marengo cloak. Here are several portraits by Baron Gerard, Le Fevre, and others; Thorwaldsen's fine bust of the Emperor, and some pictures by David Parosel and Fischer, which, though of no great value as works of art, are yet historically interesting. A. gilontr.ss specimen of that clever but most meretricious painter, Boucher, at the entrance, and in another room is Sir George Hajter's picture "of Wellington viewing the relics of Napoleon" which is better in the engraved than in the painted form. Here too, is the memorial to the Duke of Wellington, representing him lying on his tented conch. "This portrait model," say the proprietors, "clothed in a field-marshal's uniform, bearing the various orders of knighthood, is a sight which cannot be seen without vibrating in every British heart.'
But if Madame Tussaud's exhibition does not befir the strictest scrutiny from an Art point of view, it possesses many qualities which entitle it to respect, and putting aside all thoughts of the care and pains expended to bring it to its present pitch of excellence, the wonderful collection of Napoleon relics is alone worthy of careful study. An hour or so in the evening might be far less profitably employed than in paying a visit to the Baker-street Museum of
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