maker of novelties, as all great men are. In fact, for a man to be great, it is essential that he should see farther and higher than his own time.

Almost all writers who have spoken of Jouvenet have spoken favourably. He has not had to undergo those thermometric risings and fallings in public estimation like more capricious talents. Dorgenville highly appreciates him; Voltaire places high value on him also, though he rates him below Lebrun; Saillasson says he is to Poussin what Crebillon was to Corneille. Other critics believe him to have filled in the French school the place occupied by Rembrandt in the Dutch. We do not agree with Voltaire as to Lebrun's superiority. Without doubt he was a great machinist, a powerful orderer; but Jouvenet, with more energy, if not equal method, is perfect master of an immense scene, and has the merit of invention in his groups, in the outline and drawing of his figures. His drawing was very skilful, strongly marked,

and free from all hesitation. The action, which was his forte, sometimes leads him into exaggeration, a gymnastic manner, if we may use the expression, which became a vice in the school of the eighteenth century. Often, those of his figures that belong to the lower classes, such as the fisherman seen from behind, and the man who is drawing the nets, in "The Miraculous Draught of Fishes," have a robust grandeur and a proud gait. Jouvenet's colouring is not of the first order, although it has been frequently vaunted by his admirers. It is reddish, bounded, and not very agreeable as to locality; but it is saved by the skill displayed in the great effects of light and shade, and their resolute expression. Of all his paintings, the most complete, the most vigorous, the grandest, the richest in colouring, is "The Descent from the Cross," in the Paris Museum. It may be seen at all times surrounded by a throng of copyists, who admire its masterly drawing, its energetic tournure, its strong colour, and its powerful chiaro-scuro.

It is not yet fifty years since Fragonard died, and yet such is the wonderful revolution which France has undergone since the period in which he flourished, that few know anything about him at the present; and even the famous "Biographie Universelle," which so seldom passes over the merits of a Frenchman, let them be ever so small, has made a blunder in giving his very name. No one, down to the present, has written much about him save Diderot; and even he in terms of condemnation oftener than of praise. The cause of this oblivion is obvious. Fragonard rose into celebrity in an order

of things, and in a state of society, which happily exist no longer. His talents, great as they undoubtedly were, were prostituted to pander to the vices, follies, and frivolities of the old regime, and when the revolution came, and with it the affectation of Roman simplicity and antique grace, the heroes and demigods of David, and the other artists of the warlike school which flourished under the empire, with their bronze casques and coats of mail, threw the shepherdesses and lovers, with their flowers and light robes, completely into the shade. And yet this was not as it should be. There was nothing

national, nothing thoroughly French, in the mawkish allegories which filled the salons during the empire, and consequently there was little in them worthy of admiration. To be truly great, a painter must be true to his early prejudices, sympathies, and associations. He must find his subjects in the men and women, and frailties and virtues, of his own time, and in the hills, and valleys, and plains, and rivers of his native land. This did Fragonard, whatever else he left undone. We are not about to stand up in defence of the scenes upon which he, in many cases, employed his pencil; but this has nothing to do with the value of his painting itself, any more than the immorality of a poem has to do with its excellence. Byron has described the loves of Haidée and Juan with as much pathos, and fervour, and beauty as if they had been the most virtuous pair who ever stood before the altar and received the blessings of the church. Pity that it should be so, but so it is. Fragonard found a certain state of manners about him, and, like Boucher, he has delineated them with a fidelity, imagination, force, and brilliancy which leave much to be regretted, but nothing to be desired. It is his paintings that we are concerned about, and not his morality; and this may serve as a general excuse for not pouring out a greater amount of virtuous indignation upon him than we shall exhibit in the course of the following notice.

Fragonard came into the world in the nick of time. He was born in 1732, just when Chardin, Loutherbourg, Hubert Robert, and Greuze were in the prime of their career. He had the benefit of their example, and the prospect of succeeding them. He was eighteen years of age before he displayed his penchant for art, by employing the pen which should have been engrossing deeds in a notary's office in sketching designs upon paper. His mother saw them, and instantly took him to Boucher, with the view of placing him under his tuition. But Boucher was too much absorbed in his own pursuits and pleasures, to devote any portion of his time and attention to the education of youth. His pupils were the ballet girls of the opera, and the graceful, but shameless, beauties of the court, who loved to see his pencil employed in delineating their charms. He was then taken to Chardin, who at once received him. Diderot speaks in the highest terms of Chardin's method of instruction, and adds that no one discoursed of art more ably and more eloquently than he. "By means of colour and of effect," he would often say to his young pupil, "interest may be thrown round the most vulgar subjects, and a chef-d'œuvre be made of a pot and some fruit. But how? You endeavour, you scratch out, you rub, you glaze, you paint over again, and when you have caught that, I don't know what to call it, which pleases so much, the painting is finished."

After spending six months with Chardin, he went back to Boucher, who finding him so wonderfully improved, received him into his studio without the payment of any fee. Boucher was at this time the painter of voluptuousness, and the delight of the court, and we may reasonably presume that from him Fragonard contracted the taste which fixed the style of the majority of his works. After six months stay with Boucher, he started for Italy at the age of twenty. While there, he copied the greater part of the celebrated pictures of all the great schools, of Michael Angelo, of Da Vinci, Andrea del Sarto, Raphael, Titian, Corregio, the Caracchi, Guido, Domenichino, and of Ribera, and this splendid collection of drawings in red chalk, made in company with Hubert Robert, testifies his desire to assimilate every variety of style and practice. But, nevertheless, they are all in the style of the eighteenth century.

His first picture after his return from Rome was his "Callirhoe," which caused him to be elected into the Academy by acclamation, and was exhibited in the Salon of 1765. It was copied in tapestry at the Gobelins manufactory. It is still to be seen at the Louvre, though it has neither number, nor name, nor a place in the catalogue, just as a great many others, through whose negligence or mismanagement we know not. It represents the great priest Coresius sacrificing himself to save Callirhoe, and is a theatrical-looking composition

about fifteen feet long. The scene is the interior of a temple; Callirhoe is fainting, her lover is slaying himself, and around stands a crowd of women, old men, and children. The whole appears very skilfully executed, and the colouring in some parts is very beautiful-the young Callirhoe is charming; but still it is not the Fragonard that we admire, who appears here. In the Salon, 1765, the painting of the new academician created a general sensation, but after the first tribute of eulogy had been paid to the artist, and the first round of acclamations, the public began to get bolder. Diderot pretended that he had not seen the picture, and in a pretended vision, entitled "The Cave of Pluto," he recounts the history of Coresus, and describes Fragonard's works in detail; Grimm comes into the dialogue, and exclaims, "You had a beautiful dream, and he has painted it. When we lose sight of the picture for a moment even, we fear still that the canvas will fold itself up as yours has done, and that these engaging fantasies will disappear like those of the night."

Nevertheless, the praise of the critics was loud and long, and none spoke more highly of it afterwards than Diderot. In his 'Essay on Painting," he cites the "Callirhoe" as a model "of effect of light-true, forcible, and piquant." "It is a splendid thing," says he, "and I don't believe there is a painter in Europe capable of imagining such another."

Fragonard exhibited two other paintings in the Salon of 1765; a landscape with a shepherd standing upon a knoll or rising ground, and the "Profiting by the Father's and Mother's Absence;" a little familiar composition, representing the interior of a cottage, in which a young man is kissing a young girl, while the children are playing round a table. It is well planned, and, on the whole, effective and well coloured; though we know not, however, where the light comes from.

Fragonard never exhibited his works but on these two occasions, and this explains the absence of all further mention of him in Diderot's subsequent notices of works of art. Although belonging to the Academy, he was never appointed one of the professors in the school, as he had quarrelled with some of the members almost immediately after his entrance; some were jealous of him, and others were offended by his freedom and fantasies. Besides, during the superintendence of M. de Marigny, the brother of Madame Pompadour, who was entirely devoted to Boucher, he experienced great difficulty regarding the sale and payment for his " Coresus," which he had allowed to be numbered amongst the paintings, "by command." The favour of the public, however, amply recompensed him for the loss and annoyance he thus sustained. He became as fashionable as Boucher, who was now old. His paintings were greatly sought after, and all the amateurs were anxious to have one of his works in their collections. He executed, about this period, a "Visitation" for the Duke de Grammont, and a great number of graceful works, which bore sufficient evidence that his style was already formed.

Some time after this he resolved upon making another tour in Italy, a country to which he was devotedly attached, in company with a friend of his, a rich financier, who offered to bear all the expenses of the journey. Fragonard now thoroughly explored Italy, and made an immense number of drawings of the scenery in various parts. It was about this time that, in 1759, the Abbé St. Non came into Italy, and formed an intimate friendship with Fragonard and Robert. He took them to Naples and Herculaneum, and to Pompeii; they made an ascent of Vesuvius, and visited Italy and the coast of Sicily together, taking views, and sketching all the ruins and picturesque scenes; and St. Non, after his return to Paris in 1762, engraved them in a magnificent folio.* When they

Jean Claude Richard, Abbé St. Non, was son of a receivergeneral of finances; he belonged to the family of Boullongue, painters to the king. As he had a decided taste for the arts, he was pressed to engage in the study of theology and law. He was sub-deacon and counsellor clerk. Fortunately, during some of the political troubles in France, he was sent to Poictiers by a lettre de cachet, and ordered to remain there. He devoted himself now to

returned to Paris, he was surprised to find that his fellowtraveller had no thought of returning his drawings, which had remained in his possession. Upon making application to him for them, he signified his intention of retaining them to compensate him for Fragonard's expenses on the journey. The matter was brought before a court of law, and judgment was given against the financier, who was ordered to restore the drawings or pay 30,000 francs. He chose the latter. This may serve to give an idea of the estimation in which the artist's works were at that time held. He was then, in fact, in his glory. Boucher had just died; the greater part of the young painters, forgetful of the lessons they had received, were trying to assume a graver manner-a prelude of the revolution which was soon to follow, not in art only, but in politics. But Fragonard was not the man to repudiate his old idols, and stepped into the place which Boucher had left vacant, as the only one, in fact, who was fit to fill it. When, in 1772, Madame Dubarry, the mistress of Louis XV., so famous for her beauty, her wickedness, and her terrible end, in 1793, was building the pavilion of Luciennes, it was upon Fragonard that she fixed to decorate it. Accordingly he there painted, à la galante, from large panels on which were represented, in the midst of allegorical ornaments, the "Loves of the Shepherds." Madame was satisfied, and forthwith Fragonard found himself more than ever surrounded by noblemen, caressed by the ladies, and visited by "distinguished foreigners." In 1773 he was decorating a boudoir for Mademoiselle Guimard, and he and she differed regarding some part of the work, and separated in "a tiff," the lady declaring that she would bring all the gentlemen of her acquaintance to look at the painting and decide between them. The ceiling, which contained representations of the gods, was already almost finished, and that Mademoiselle herself, the goddess of the opera in her day, figured as Terpsichore upon the principal panel. Fragonard felt deeply insulted at any one being brought to pass judgment upon his work, and accordingly revenged himself by changing the light and graceful figure of Terpsichore into a hideous fury, but without altering the resemblance of the portrait. The lady arrived with a swarm of her friends; when she saw the alteration she flew into a violent passion; but her companions declared coolly that Fragonard was a great physiognomist. Mademoiselle, however, never forgave him; and it was David who finished the work.

Fragonard was now entering in right earnest upon what was clearly his legitimate sphere, the painter of the tender passion in all its phases and its details. His scenes, it is true, were often warm, often indecorous, but many of them are conceived in a vein of passing tenderness and purity. Witness the "Stolen Kiss" (le Baiser à la Derobeé), and the "Fountain of Love," in which all the ardour of the passion is glowingly depicted without the least admixture of its grossness. What power in the colouring, what sentiment in the drawing of the two young lovers, who in the flush of youth bend eagerly over the basin into which the enchanted waters of love are flowing!

Fragonard, in making use of allegory, succeeded in combining reality and symbol with the happiest effect. By means of a well-timed boldness, he took away the coldness natural to symbolical compositions, and made life palpitate under the

In

drawing and engraving, and met with extraordinary success. 1759 he broke away from his imprisonment, and after a tour through England, he went to Italy, where he met, as we have stated above, with Robert and Fragonard, whose works he engraved. His style was a rapid sketching, which was admirably adapted for the expression of ruins, &c. On his return to France, he commenced the publication of his great work, "Voyage de Naples et Sicile," upon a grand scale, which no private resources could have carried out. He was for a while sustained by rich capitalists; but they at last became tired of the expense, and withdrew their aid. He carried it on for a while longer, by sacrificing the whole of his brother's fortune and his own; and though he was able only to publish a part of it, it was one of the finest offerings ever made at the shrine of art. He was an honorary member of the French Academy of Painting. He died in November, 1791.

wings of thought. Lesuer, Charles Lebrun, and most other great painters, who have clothed their meaning in allegory, have hardly ever got out of the domains of poetical allusion, that is to say, their characters are nearly always gods. Raphael mingled history with it; he brought well-known heroes and historical personages, such as Marie de Medicis and Henry IV., into contact with the divinities of mythology. Fragonard has done more than this; he has brought human figures and living symbols upon the scene; he was the first, we believe, to express one sentiment, or rather sensation, as it was then called, by painting another. We mean, that instead of putting allegory in the persons he has put it in the action. The "Fountain of Love," of which we have been speaking, is an admirable example of this. The waters are flowing fast over the edge of the basin which surrounds the fountain, and as it falls, groups of cupids rise from its spray. On the brink a youth and maiden in light and flowing drapery are seen flying towards it with cager and longing eyes. Here the loves are but accessaries, and the ardour of passion is painted in lines of fire in the movements made by the two lovers to besprinkle themselves with the enchanted liquid which intoxicates the senses and lulls the heart into happiness and repose.

Fragonard, as we have already said, has been accused of descending in search of subjects to regions where art should never enter. But allowing that there is some truth in the accusation, there is an immense deal of exaggeration in it. It was in vain that Diderot counselled the artists of his time to choose themes of an honourable and decorous character. For pupils of Boucher, it was no very easy matter to follow his advice. What would have been said, had Fragonard suddenly falsified his antecedents, and returned to the paths of virtue! Why, this at that time would have caused awful scandal. To effect such a change in the artist would have required nothing less than a remodelling of the whole of French society. So on he went in his old way, and painted “La Gimblette;" the "Milk-pot," and many other works of the same stamp. He married a woman of great talent, who painted miniatures, and they lived together very happily at the Louvre, with a tolerably large family. Here he had a studio furnished in a style that gratified all his caprices. Curious and fantastic drawings were suspended round the walls; in the corner was a swing or hammock in which he generally placed his models, and it was by this airy staircase, that his daughter, a fine girl who died at the early age of eighteen, descended from her apartment on the upper floor. In the furniture and the general arrangement of the room, everything recalled the fairy scenes which he so often depicted in his paintings; here and there garlands of flowers, shrubs, and even jets d'eau, splendid carpets, and gorgeous drapery.

The voluptuous scenes he painted at this period of his career brought almost fabulous prices. He was the idol of fashion-the lion of the salons. Women crowded to caress him who daily held woman up to the eyes of the world in degradation and guilt-a mere animal; and the men were happy to see their vices and escapades so gloriously veiled and even transformed by the painter's genius. But their hour was come, and the destroyer was at hand. A change was insensibly coming over the French people. The philosophers had not sneered and denounced in vain. The nation was gradually rising to a sense of its true dignity and glory, and was beginning to think it foul scorn that a knot of dissolute courtiers and shameless women should stand forth as the repre sentatives of all the courage, hope, and capability that lay slumbering in its mighty heart. For the first time, the real people, the roturiers, rose up into the view of the world after a thousand years of oppression, and declared their wrongs before high heaven. Fragonard saw the change, and had the sagacity to conform himself to it. He abandoned the painting of the follies and crimes of gallantry, and set himself to the nobler task of delineating the condition, the wants, the virtues, and sufferings of the poor, as did most of the other artists of the day. It was a vast and hitherto unexplored field which was now opening up. The works of Chardin and Greuze had furnished faint glimpses of it, but never before

had it seized upon the imagination and attention of the public. Fragonard's successes in the new walk were so many proofs that he was capable of better things than he had yet attempted, and resulted in most of the paintings which have since been multiplied by engraving: "The Happy Mother," "A Family Scene," and "The Cradle," were all executed at this period. In none of them has allegory any part; the sentiment is always pure, and often touching.

The "Family Scene" seems a reflection of Greuze's manner. Fragonard has in it painted a mother surrounded by her children, playing with one of them, while the others, older, are following their humour in various childish amusements. The husband is looking in through an open window upon this scene of quiet happiness. A fine taste is visible in

gratitude and admiration of mankind. But even this was too ponderous a subject for Fragonard's training and temperament. Familiar scenes suited him better, and when the revolution broke out, he paid a tribute to it by dedicating the "Happy Mother" to his country. Fragonard grown wise and grave and decorous,-what a surprise this must have been for the good old dame, who, years before, was the famous Mademoiselle Guimard!

By the revolution he lost two-thirds of his fortune, which had been invested in the funds, but was still left a modest competency. His fine drawings, illustrating "Orlando Furioso," and "Don Quixote," did not sell at as high a price as they would have brought in former times. M. Devon possessed the greater part of the latter; from him they were

the drawing of all the figures, and in the expression which he nas given them. The children, too, are charming.

There cannot be a doubt that when Fragonard returned to the idyl also, it was in obedience to influences which then acted upon him from every quarter. Is it not a curious circumstance that the amorous painter of Dubarry's boudoir, and of the temple of Terpsichore, should afterwards have been inspired by the noble figure of Franklin? And yet nothing is more true. When the American patriarch paid a visit to France, Fragonard sketched in Indian ink, and afterwards engraved, a large composition, in his honour. Turgot's line, since become so famous.

bought by an eccentric Englishman, who caused the "Don Quixote" to be printed in folio, struck off but one magnificent copy, and bound up Fragonard's drawings in it.

Fragonard died at Paris in 1806. He treated every possible variety of subject; historical, religious, mythological, familiar scenes, pastorals, decoration, landscapes, vignettes, in crayon, in water-colours, water body colour, Chinese ink, red chalk, black lead, beautiful miniatures, and engravings of etchings of exquisite delicacy. Some cf his paintings remind us of Rembrandt by the effect and judgment of their light; of Rubens, by the splendour of the flesh and the harmony of the colouring; of Ruysdael, in some of the finished and vigorous landscapes; Chardin, and even Watteau, in the fancy figures: and Reynolds, by the vivacity of some of his sketches. Among the poets, he has illustrated La Fontaine, Boccacio, and Ariosto. Grace and elegance reign in all his compositions.

picture does not fulfil its office when it leaves nothing untold. If there remains nothing for the imagination to shadow forth for itself, nothing for the mind to ponder over, it is little better than mere imitation. It is one of the highest triumphs of genius to convey all its meaning while expressing only a part of it. How successfully this has been done by many of our own great artists we need not say. Wilkie has taught many a solemn lesson, and written many a piece of humour rich, and pathos deep upon his canvas. There may not be any great variety of detail in the scene he pictures,-it may be one of humble life, but there is a moral in every line, that he who runs may read. What a sermon lies in his "Young Postboy!" What warning, instruction, and tenderness in the confusion of the lad, and the anxious look of his grandmother!

The picture, an engraving of which is before us, is another of those which suggest its meaning with beautiful distinct

coasts. For days the sea has been fretting itself against the rocks in impotent fury. Seaward, a sierra of foaming waves, black clouds, and driving rain. At intervals, vessels have been seen in the offing, tearing madly through the storm under doubly reefed topsails, and those on board must have been bold hearts if they did not shudder as they looked towards the land, that loomed upon them so frowningly, so sternly. All along the grassy brow of the cliffs, white wreaths of foam lie like woolpacks, or are swept inland to disappear on some flooded field. Great bundles of sea-weed are found on all the paths by the shore, lying where the sea cast them from it in its fury. The eagle, whose nest is in the cliff, screams hoarsely and savagely as she leaves it in the morning, and more savagely as she returns at night, for this tempest is even more than she can enjoy. There is nobody stirring abroad, the fishing-boats are hauled up high, though not dry, upon the beach; every house in the village has its door shut