MODERN LANDSCAPE.*

AT a time of the year such as the present, when the most general prospect which a Londoner beholds is one uniform

yellow expanse of fog, a book upon modern landscape full of illustrations of summer skies and bright sunshine comes as a pleasant reminder that there are better seasons of the year than this dull February. We even feel tempted to forgive the book for its " edition of luxury " form, and to think that the import- ance of the fact it impresses upon us is a fair reason for card- board-like paper, gorgeous binding, and scarcity of text. We

say scarcity, because though the book is a large and somewhat heavy folio, the print within it is only equivalent in length to an article in a monthly review; and is, indeed, of the same char- acter. We must, however, do Mr. Comyns Carr the justice to say that if he has nothing that is very new to tell us about Titian and Direr, Claude and Turner, Gainsborough and Chrome, Danbigny and Rousseau, Corot and Millet, Cox and De Wint, Millais and Lawson, he, at all events, talks quietly and easily about them and their works, without much affecta- tion, and with considerable knowledge of their more evident peculiarities. The unreal tone which characterised this gentleman's first writings upon art, has, in a great measure, passed away, and been succeeded by a criticism which is sober and painstaking, even if it be wanting in originality ; and it is something gained, at all events, -to be as intelligi- ble and plain-spoken as Mr. Carr is in this work, after having lingered so long in the land of " coloured silences," where "perfect women, with their feet on perfect flowers, passed across his fancy as in twilight." But we may at once say that this essay on modern landscape adds nothing to the literature of the subject. It is a pleasantly-written sketch of some landscape-painters, but it has not much consistency or mean- ing, if taken as a whole. The reader will wonder, perhaps, at the preponderance of the illustrations, and at the fact that there is no special reference to them throughout the text. The reason is, probably, that the whole book is, as is so often the case with editions de liiee, a compilation from the pages of the French periodical L' Art, of which Mr. Comyns Carr is the English director. If we mistake not, all, or nearly all, of these etchings and woodcuts have appeared pre- viously in the magazine referred to, and very possibly Mr. Carr's essay was also first published in the same place. However, we may be mistaken in this, as there is no hint at republication given on the title-page, which surely should have been done, if both the text and its illustrations

• Modem Landscape. By J. C. Carr. London : Librairie de l'Art.

were reprinted from the magazine. The illustrations are very unequal in merit, but have nearly all the advantage of being re- productions of good pictures ; and as several of the etchings and many of the woodcuts are concerned with the work of French landscape-painters, they will probably be new to most English readers. Even to thorough picture-lovers, the works: of Corot, Rousseau, and Danbigny are comparatively little known out of the country in which they were executed ; and of

the less distinguished -members of the school, not even the names are generally remembered. These painters did not form.. a school, in the ordinary sense of the word, for each was working, in a manner individual, original, and personal to himself; but there were certain characteristics of feeling and intention which were alike in all, and the practice was alike at least in this,— that having been acquainted with the traditions of the schools, it was not content with them, but endeavoured to form a tradition for itself. That in this effort, it was, after a desperate struggle, successful, and that from the work of these men sprang the most vital school of French landscape painting, is.

now tolerably well known, even in England, but few know how hard was the fight for mere existence of these artists. There

is, perhaps, no sadder, certainly no sterner, chapter in the history of Art, than that which narrates the story of Millet's life_. This is not the place to tell it, but as evidencing the temper of

the man toward his art, the following quotation from one of his letters to Alfred Sensier has special interest :—

" Bat to tell you the truth, the peasant subjects suit my tempera- ment best ; for I must confess, even if you think me a Socialist, that the human side of art is what touches me most ; and if I could only do what I like, or at least attempt it, I should do nothing that 'was. not an impression from nature, either in landscape or figures. The gay side never shows itself to me. I don't know where it is. I have never seen it. The gayest thing I know is the calm, the silence, which is so sweet, either in the forest or in the cultivated land,— whether the land be good for culture, or not. You will admit that it is always very dreamy, and a sad dream, though often very delicious. Yon are sitting under a tree, enjoying all the comfort and quiet of which you are capable; you see come from a narrow path a poor figure, loaded with faggots. The unexpected and always surprising way in which this figure strikes you, instantly reminds you of the common and melancholy lot of humanity,—weariness. It is always like the impression of La Fontaine's Woodcutter' in the fable :—

What pleasure has be had since the day of his birth? Who so poor as he in the whole wide earth ?'

Sometimes, in places where the land is sterile, you see figarea hoeing- and digging. From time to time, one raises himself, and straightens his back, as they call it, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Thou shalt eat thy bread in the sweat of thy brow.' IS this- the gay, jovial work some people would have us believe in ? But, nevertheless, it is, to me, true humanity and great poetry !"

This letter gives us the key-note to Millet's art, and to the fascination it has for thoughtful people. His painting enforced certain sadly simple truths, with which half mankind are: bitterly acquainted. A peasant himself by birth and training, he felt for and with the peasants, not with the pity of a superior, but the friendship of an equal ; and so it is that there came from his hand and heart those pathetically truthful and pathetically lovely pictures which have made his name famous. Here in England we shirk all truths which we cannot remedy.

The upper classes must not be made uncomfortable by the too vivid representation of the sorrows and sufferings of those be- neath them in the social scale. And so our peasants are bluff, sturdy, honest men, with money in their pockets, and a smile upon their broad faces, who carry a rosy child with one hand, while they lift a mug of beer .with the other ! So at least our artists tell us. There is literally not a man in England' who dares to tell us pictorially the truth about a London~ "rough," or a Wiltshire labourer, in the way Millet told the truth about French peasants. And it is little to be wondered• at that there was at first a wild outcry even in France against one who spoke so violently and so unmistakeably of such un- pleasant matters. Had Frederick Walker once seen the truth about the " people " as Millet saw it, we might, perhaps, have had equally grand pictures, for he had an equal sense of beauty with the French painter, and, probably (though it was never developed), almost as much tragic power.

But this is a subject on which we must not dwell, but conclude with a few words upon the- chief illustrations here. The worst etching is the one of Corot, which gives.

not the faintest idea of his beauty ; the best is that from the Theodore Rousseau etched by Chauvel. But in truth, none of these are first-rate, nor are they so much etchings in all their essential qualities as engravings. The worst of etchings which.

attempt to reproduce oil pictures, is that the qualities of spun:

taneity and freshness, which are amongst the chief charms of good etching, are scarcely to be preserved, and the defects of the process, especially in the rendering of subtle tones of colour and gradations of distance, show very clearly. We are apt to get, in an etching which reproduces an oil landscape, a picture in which the foreground has to be unduly forced in light and shade, in order to get all the gradations possible between it and the extreme distance. The truth is, that the mechanical defects of the process unfit it for such work, and it- requires one who has spent his whole life at the business to overcome these short- comings, and even when they are overcome it is at a loss of the very things which etching should preserve. Of the woodcuts, we can only say that they are very unequal ; some are good, some indifferent, and some bad, but on the whole, they are up to the usual average. Now, however, that the English public see what quality and number of woodcuts can be given in a monthly periodical for a shilling, it may be doubted whether they will not soon insist upon having at least as high an average for the illustrations of expensive books.