temptation of the Fine Arts! Had she not worked bellropes, and smoking-caps, and pocket-books, on the finest, finest canvas? Did not she know what it was to do fine work? Had not she embroidered flowers, and scrolls, and landscapes, in silk, wool, and cotton? That she had! Had she not when in the convent embroidered and fine-sewn, together with the other young ladies, a whole set of babyclothes for the daughter of the Electress! That she had, indeed! And had she not got up by peep of day to embroider? and had she not sat up late at night and embroidered? That she had! And had not she knitted two dozen pair of finest-patterned stockings for her lady sister? That she had, and she would show us them, too! -(this for about the twelfth time) and the bell-rope, also, in the next room, was her work. There was no bell, certainly but the bell-rope of such fine work was hers! That it was. Yes, yes, we might think that our eyes would not fail-but she knew better, that she did! and she knew what the Fine Arts were! And her hands, too! we might think they never could have held a delicate needle; but, yes, indeed, they had: but old age! old age, and scouring, and washing, and cooking, they spoilt any hands! Ah, if the dear Fräulein would but take warning, and not ruin their dear little eyes over the Fine Arts !" : Alas! dear old Fräulein, after many such a gossip as this, repeated for the twentieth time, often have I thought how that neither thou nor Anna had yet attained to the practice of the truest and most difficult of all the Fine Arts ever taught or studied,—the Art of Living with Others and often have I wondered, as I have felt a struggle between compassion, love, and irritation contend within my spirit, whether this Art ever is attained in this world to perfection. But truly alone in the New Testament do we : find the teachings of this Fine Art; as, I believe, also may be found teachings for all other Fine Arts. Yes, even for the Fine Arts, so called, par excellence. But I cannot now branch out into this theory of mine, which at times has risen up before me with an especial loveliness. CHAPTER XXII. CARTOONS. April.-In Kaulbach's studio, this week, there is a drawing which has especially struck me with its beauty. It is a design in charcoal, but finished with exquisite care, one only of the vast number of designs which this great man is ever creating, with inexhaustible fancy and imagination. It represents Mercury announcing to Calypso the command of Jove that Ulysses shall depart. Calypso is seated beneath a rural alcove, in a languid dream. The luxuriant foliage of a southern clime clambers up the stem of a palm tree growing beside the alcove, and wreathing all with beauty. The hot noontide sun flings clear broad shadows from the tangle of leaves and blossoms across the front of the bower, where sits the lovely enchantress. The upper portion of her figure is thrown into shadow by the luxuriant foliage, her beautifully rounded figure revealing itself through her softly clinging drapery; her hand is listlessly resting on her lap, and holds the shuttle of the loom which stands beside her. Her beautiful face is raised with dreamy listlessness towards young Mercury, who, standing out in the broad sun-light, his winged feet just alighted upon earth, points with extended arm and caduceus towards the mournful Ulysses, who, with bowed head, is seated far out in the glare of sun-light, beyond the rustic alcove, upon the margin of the sea. Gentle little waves roll in towards the mournful Ulysses; but he heeds them not. An extended flight of migratory birds the key-note of his thoughts-stretches itself across the sky, winging its way over the ocean, as he sits mournfully, with bowed head, in the sunshine. At the feet of Calypso, in a chafing-dish, burn fragrant woods and gums, the soft smoke curling up among the rich foliage of the bowery alcove, and across the goddess's antique lyre, which leans against the palm-tree stem. Doves flutter and coo among the palm branches. All is as soft, tender, and full of an enchanted languor, as Keats's poetry, yet strong withal as old Chapman's Homer. The small cartoons and studies for colour for the completion of the New-Pinakothek frescoes have been made this early spring by Kaulbach. The principal one of these designs represents the Artist's Festival in Munich in 1845; the other designs are simply single whole-length portraits of the great German painters whose works will be contained within the NewPinakothek-Cornelius, Schnorr, etc.-with decoration of garlands upborne by lovely children,-graceful, of course, but in no way especially remarkable. The Artists' Festival of 1845 is a link in the series of frescoes illustrative of the history of modern German Art, to which I have already referred. It introduces us into the very heart of the whimsical and picturesque jollity of German artist-life. The groups are as if suddenly transferred from the Artists' Masquerade to the canvas. In the centre of the composition rises Schwanthaler's statue of King Ludwig arrayed in his royal robes. A bevy of fair maidens crowned with flowers surrounds the statue, binding garlands of flowers with which to adorn it: one, seated upon an upturned rustic basket, leaning slightly back from the group, hangs a wreath of roses upon an emblazoned shield presented to her by a page. Upon a slightly raised platform beyond this group stands, in semi-circle, a marvellously comic array of singers,—a dash of Kaulbach's Hogarthian satire. The gravity and quaint distortion of the countenances and attitudes are irresistibly droll. That huge stout man with the ear-rings, and with the bearing and countenance of a Friar Turk, sending forth with deep complacency the most sonorous of bass notes from his broad ponderous chest, and whose tidily smoothed hair is adorned with a garland of vineleaves, is a wondrous contrast to the meagre, excited, yet withal most earnest countenances of several of the other singers, and to the calm dignity of the musical director. Above the singers hang festooned insignia of the festival, bound together with gay streamers and garlands, and slung from golden and richly wrought columns; and on either hand of them presses on a group of Munich painters, wearing their gorgeous and whimsical array. Here is a gathering of slashed sleeves, glittering chivalrous armour, ermine-lined mantles and embroidered doublets. There bebold the grave and noble costume of Albert Durer; a workman from the Bronze Foundry in his leathern apron; and again slashed sleeves, garlanded brows, and caps of medieval cut. |