Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine Vol. 56, No. 346, August, 1844 by Various

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It is an old saying of any subject too vast or too sad to measure by
hurried words--that "_de Carthagine satius est silere, quam parcius
dicere_." And in this case, where we have left ourselves too narrow a
space to turn round in, and where no space would exhaust the infinities
of the affliction, it is not our purpose to heighten, or rhetorically to
colour, any one feature of the dismal story. Rhetoric, and art of all
kids, we forswear in a tragedy so torturing to our national
sensibilities. We pass, in sympathy with the burning wrath of our
readers, the madness of dallying and moping over the question--to starve
or not to starve. We pass the infamy of entertaining a treaty with
barbarians, _commenced_ in this foul insult to a British army--that
_after_ we should have submitted to indignities past expression, they
(the barbarians) would consider at their leisure whether it would please
them to spare our necks; a villany that gallant men _could_ not have
sanctioned, an which too certainly was not hurled back in their teeth as
it ought to have been. We pass the lunacy of _tempting_ barbarians to a
perfidy almost systematic in their policy, by consenting to a conference
_outside_ the British cantonments, not even within range of the British
guns, not even within the overlooking of British eyes. We pass the
lunacy of taking out sixteen men as an escort against a number
absolutely unlimited of the enemy, and where no restraint, even of
honour or mutual understanding, forbade that unlimited enemy to come
armed from head to foot. It is a trifle to add--that no instructions
were given to the sixteen men as to what they were to do, or in what
circumstances to act; and accordingly that one man only, out of the
whole sixteen, attempted any resistance; and this in defiance of
warnings eight several times reiterated by English officers, and by
friendly Affghans, that treachery was designed. We pass the triple
lunacy of treating at all in a case where Sir William M'Naughtan well
knew, and himself avowed his knowledge, that no man or party existed
amongst the enemy who could pretend to have authority sufficient for
ratifying, or for executing, any treat of whatsoever tenor. The Cabool
forces perished eventually by the _dissension_ of the two first in
command. This is notorious. And yet, to mark the dread fatality which
pursued them, the _concord_ of these two officers was even more
destructive to their victims than the worst of their disputes. In the
one solitary case where they agreed, the two leaders, Elphinstone and
Shelton, _sealed_ their doom. That case was this:--Many felt at that
time, as all men of common sense feel now, that the Bala Hissar, and not
Jillalabad, was the true haven for the army. In resisting this final
gleam of hope for the army, both General Elphinstone and Brigadier
Shelton heartily concurred; _and they concurred then first and then
last_. This also, this almost incredible fact, should be added to the
anecdote--General Elphinstone, when hard pressed by the general wishes
on this point, pleaded as a last reason for his obstinacy--that a
particular article, essential to the army, was wanting in the Bala
Hillar. Subsequently, but after all was over, it turned out that this
plea had been the windiest of chimaeras. True, you reply, but perhaps he
was deceived. Yes, reader, but by what manner of deception? He was
distant from the Bala Hissar by less than two miles; he was then in
almost daily communication with it; and yet, upon a matter confessedly
one of life and death for 17,000 souls, he took no steps for
ascertaining the truth!

But these things we pass, in order to reach a point most superficially
treated by Lieutenant Eyre, which was, in truth, the original fountain
of the whole calamity. We have said already, that, (guilty as might be
the leaders by unexampled fatuity, obstinacy, and improvidence,) in our
judgement, the mischief ascended to elder sources than either General
Elphinstone or Shelton. And here was the main source, which (on the
principle explained above) we shall barely indicate, not saying one word
in aggravation. The cantonments--who was it, what man, what men, what
council, on whom rests the horrible responsibility of that selection and
that execution? We contend that, besides those _directly_ responsible
parties, others were so to a criminal extent; every artillery officer
was so; and therefore, unless some further explanations are made,
Lieutenant Eyre is so. But surely Lieutenant Eyre has exposed the vices
of these cantonments. True, he has so; _some_ of the vices, but not all,
but not the worst. The ground, he tells us, was bad; the line of
fortifications too extensive; the interior overlooked in parts; and
(with a view to the accommodation of the envoy) the defences absolutely
interrupted in their regular series. True; and therefore, night and day,
it became the duty of every artillery officer to cry out, _Delenda est
Carthago_. But all this is not the worst. Even a child knows that, under
the circumstances of the case, and the known reversionary uses of such a
retreat in the event of its being wanted at all, (except as a barrack,)
it was of the last importance to destroy all the strong places, nay,
even all the cover, strong or not strong, which could shelter an enemy.
This was not attempted, or thought of, until it became too late. Next,
it was of even more clamorous importance to have the corn magazine
_within_ the line of defences: no effort was made in that direction.
Now, had these been the only defects of the cantonments, they were
enough to argue a constructive treason in those who neglected to
denounce then. We know how they operated. These three ruins issued from
these most culpable negligences:--1st, Starvation fell in one day upon
the British host; and _that_ it was which placed them at the mercy of
the enemy. 2dly, The troops were inadequate to the extent of the
defences; so that, together with starvation, loss of sleep fell upon the
fighting men. 3dly, As another effect from that cause, a perpetual
Penelope's web was to be maintained; for as often as detachments went
out from cantonments against the many neighbouring forts, before they
could possibly have time to destroy these nests of hornets, back they
were summoned to the defence of their own _lares_; often in broad
daylight, by combined assaults of the enemy on their own ramparts, but
always by the approach of night. So that all momentary advantages became
idle and useless; none could be followed up, none could be maintained.
Lucan says of Caesar, when besieged in the fortified palace of the
Ptolemies at Alexandria, that often, whilst thrown on his most difficult
defence, the matchless soldier became the assailant--

"Obsessusque gerit, tanta est constantia mentis,
_Offensoris_ opus."

But what _he_ did as a trophy of his superiority, we did by imbecile
improvidence and for final ruin. Yet even these shocking neglects or
oversights were not the worst. Let us now suggest what _were_. Wherefore
were the cantonments placed in proximity so close to Cabool? Let that be
answered, and we shall see the early commencement of our infatuation.
Two considerations will clench the case, and then we shall leave it.
1st, The cantonments were never meant to act upon the city of Cabool:
that task was thrown upon the Bala Hissar from its situation. And yet no
trial had ever been made of the power possessed by that fortress. The
private houses were known to be forts: not until rebellion commenced was
it ascertained of what strength they were; and eventually the city
proved more formidable to the Bala Hissar than the Bala Hissar to the
city. Such a blunder of ignorance and miscalculation, we believe, was
never heard of. But, 2dly, Even that was a trifle by comparison with the
capital evil--and the capital evil was this. The enemy was allowed,
throughout the autumn of 1841, to accumulate _ad libitum_ in Cabool.
Retainers of the chiefs, Ghilzyes and others, gathered unwatched
throughout October. Now mark what followed from our choice of
cantonments. Had they been fixed fifteen or even ten miles off, the
impossibility of marching daily to and from Cabool would have strangled
the rebellion in its first three days. The evil which crushed ourselves,
of having always at sunset to go homewards, would have been thrown upon
the enemy, and with as much more of ruinous effect as the distance was
greater. As it never was alleged that the cantonments were meant for the
overawing of Cabool, and in effect they were totally inefficient as
regarded that city--it is clear that the one great advantage by which
the Affghans accomplished our destruction, was coolly prepared for them
by ourselves, without the shadow of any momentary benefit for our own
interests. Even for provisions, the event showed that we had never
looked to Cabool. And there reveals itself the last feature of our
perfect madness.

ETCHED THOUGHTS BY THE ETCHING CLUB.

In the Number of _Maga_ of January 1842, we reviewed one of the labours
of the Etching Club--_The Deserted Village_. We congratulated the lovers
of art upon the resumption of the needle, and showed the advantages
which, in some important respects, it has over the graver. Etching, as
it is less mechanical, is more expressive. We have from it the immediate
impress of the painter's mind; that peculiar autographic character which
marks every turn and shade of thought, even transition of thought and
feeling, in what may, at first view, seem vagaries of lines; which, we
know not how, (nor is the artist himself at the time conscious of the
operation,) discriminate innumerable niceties, each having its own
effect, and yet tending to one whole. We rarely come at once, _uno
ictu_, to a decision. The operation is progressive--from conception to
conception, from feeling to feeling, from many shades of uncertainty to
decision. The first fresh hand upon any work is obedient to the mind in
this process; and hence it is that we so value, so admire, the sketches
and drawings of the great masters. We see not only the full complete
sentiment of the subject, but how they came to it; we trace it back
through all its varieties, and feel a sensible delight in being in
possession of the very mind of the master. Were this not the case, how
are we to account for the charm felt in turning over a portfolio of old
drawings? How exquisitely beautiful are those of Raffaelle and Titian!
The sale of the collection of Sir Thomas Lawrence proves the high
estimation in which these are ever held. Thousands of pounds for a few
drawings! What sums were given for Claude's "Liber Veritatis!" and
why?--Because these original drawings of the old masters possess this
very autographic character that we have described. And this is precisely
the case with etching. Nor is it only the case with those of the
Italian, but those of every school; and, singularly enough, the Flemish
and Dutch painters, whose high finish and elaborate colouring give such
great value to their works, were eminently successful in the free and
expressive style of etching. Rembrandt we need not speak of--wondrous
indeed are his works of the needle. How exquisite are the etchings of
Berghem, Both and Karel du Jardin! and, to show how characteristic they
are, how different are they from each other! It is to be regretted that
this art is of modern invention. What treasures might we not have
possessed, had this inestimable secret been known to the ancients! We
should not be left to conjecture the merits of Apollodorus, Zeuxis,
Parrhasius, Timanthes, Apelles. We might have had outlines--first
thoughts--"etched thoughts," by Phidias himself. And, as the art of
design was earlier than any of those names--even coeval with, or prior
to, Homer himself--those who engraved and worked in metal their shields,
might have handed down to us etchings of Troy itself, and particulars of
the siege. Do we lose or gain by not having the ancient book of beauty?
But we must be content with what we have, and, in the regret, see the
value of the present, looking to future value. Etching, is still old
enough to interest by its portraiture of ages gone by. The inventor is
not known. Perhaps the earliest specimen is the well-known "Cannon" by
Albert Durer, dated 1518; and there is one by him, "Moses receiving the
Tables of the Law," dated 1524. The art was soon after practised by
Parmegiano, and extended to general use. Yet it is clear that the real
power and merit of etching was not known to the inventor, nor to those
who, in its early state, applied themselves to it. The first aim seems
to have been exact imitation of the graver. Le Bosse, in his treatise on
engraving, makes the perfection of the art consist in the close
similitude of the graver's work. It was this which at first cramped the
artist, and delayed the progress of etching, and gave it not only the
appearance, but the reality of inferiority--and often times the name and
reputation of inferiority is as prejudicial as the thing itself, and we
verily believe that it still has its effect upon the public taste.
Artists have not sufficiently taken to etching. We have had more
amateurs excel in it than professional artists. There was a collection
of amateur etchings at Strawberry Hill, given to Walpole by the etchers.
The greater part of them is excellent, though they are mostly copies
from other works, but not all. There are some surprising imitations of
Rembrandt. The best are by Lady Louisa Augusta Neville, afterwards Lady
Carlisle.

Then, again, the union of etching and engraving has certainly retarded
the art, and has given it another character. If that union has engrafted
freedom on engraving, it has given to the needle too much precision--it
has taken from it the working out effects. We have elsewhere noticed
that the taste for the precise and labored engraving in landscape,
introduced by Woollet, drove out from the field that which was very
superior to it. The prints from Claude and Poussin, by Vivares Wood,
Mason, and Chatelet, and published by Pond, are infinitely more
characteristic of the masters than the works which succeeded them. But
we speak here only of imitation. It is in the original handling of
artists themselves, not in translated works, and according to the
translating phraseology, "done by different hands," that we are to look
for the real beauty and power of the art. It is this handwriting of the
artist's original mind that constitutes the real beauty; we would not
have a touch of the graver to any work professing to be an etching--the
graver cannot be used with impunity. If it will admit of any
adventitious aid, it may perhaps be, in a very subordinate degree,
mezzotint and aquatint. But etching rather improves Prince Rupert's
invention than is advantaged by it. The sootiness of mezzotint is
dangerous--in bad hands it is the "black art" of Prince Rupert, though
the term was applied to a metal of the prince's invention, not to his
discovery of mezzotint.

Modern times have brought the art of engraving to a wonderful
perfection. Its mechanical work is most exquisite, and reaches the whole
effect of picture surprisingly. If the publishing public knew as well
what to engrave as our engravers know how to engrave, we should not see
our printsellers' windows teem with worthless works beautifully
executed. We often wonder, as we stop occasionally to look at the
display, where the purchasers are found for things that pain the eye and
weary the mind to see--history, or landscape, or familiar life, it
matters not, nearly all without feeling, elaborate nothings--obtrusions,
unless we are disposed to examine only the work of the engraver; and
even then we must lament to see it thrown away, or rather employed in
disseminating bad taste. How rarely is it we see even a subject of any
value or interest attempted! It is, as in our play-writing, not the
subject, but the peculiarity of some actor, that is to be written up to;
so the peculiarities of some few flashy favourite artists employ our
best engravers, who ought to be far otherwise employed, in making
transcripts from the best works, ancient or modern, by which taste may
be improved, the mind enlarged, and the heart made to feel as it ought.
If our flashy prints are the index of the public taste in this country,
we have little of which to boast; and we undoubtedly keep our artists
from rising to any worthy aim, by showing them how satisfied we can be
with mediocrity, and even some degrees below it. There is, in etching, a
lightness and playfulness of execution which excuses, if it does not
quite reconcile us to a bad subject. We lose the idea of effort in the
freedom. To present to the eye a laboured nothing, is to disgust by the
sense of labour alone. We calculate the time and cost, and look for an
object worthy the outlay in vain, and become thoroughly dissatisfied. We
have a great mind to describe the process of etching, that the lovers of
art who read _Maga_, and happen to be ignorant of it, may try their
hands--it is very fascinating work, and even the uncertainty in the
first attempts, and the very failures, give pleasure in the operation.
There is something more pleasant in hoping our labour will turn out
well, than knowing it. If there be any whose time hangs heavy on their
hands, let them take up etching. Johnson lamented that men did not work
with their needles, considering the employment of the hands a great aid
to thought--and so it is. Now the etching-needle is the one a man may
take up without becoming ridiculous. As there are so many "Handmaids" to
the art, from which the whole mystery may be learned, we forbear. We
have, however, turned to our friend Gerard Larresse for the purpose of
setting down, _secundum artem_, a practical account, and find it not:
but we like little old treatises better than modern, there is something
unsophisticated in their manner of giving information, and there is no
study of periods, which, in their music, steal away the understanding;
so we refer to Faithorne. But nevertheless our friend Gerard, if he does
not give information, supplies amusement. He thinks every thing best
told by an emblem--so receive, reader, his pictorial account of the art;
we cannot give his plate, so be content with _his_ description of it,
that is, Etching. "This beautiful virgin, sitting at a table, has before
her a copperplate, lying on a sand-bag; and near it stands a little
monkey, placing a lighted lamp before her. She is attended by Prudence
and Diligence, and Practice is setting the tools on an oil-stone. Her
chair is of ebony, adorned with figures of Sincerity and Assiduity,
wrought in ivory, and mutually embracing; behind which stands Judgment,
showing her a little further, Painting, accompanied by Apollo and Diana;
he holding up his torch, in order to enlighten Sculpture, and she hers
reversed, with purpose to extinguish it; the Genii, in the mean time,
are every where busy in providing necessary materials. The eldest offers
her a drawing, either redded or whited on the back, and a point or
needle for tracing it on the plate; this drawing represents the design
he is going about. Others, in an inner apartment, are employed in
heating a plate on a chafing-dish, and laying the ground even with a
feather. Here, one is etching--there, another biting a plate; others
taking and reviewing proofs, with great attention and pleasure--while
Fame, having a proof of a portrait in her hand, with her trumpet sounds
out at a window the praises of masters or engravers. Honour, crowned
with laurel, and bearing a small pyramid, is entering the room, ushering
in Annona or Prosperity, who has a cornucopia, or horn filled with
fruits. Round the room are set on pedestals divers busts of famous
etchers and engravers; as Marc Antonio, Audlan, Edelinck, Vander Meulen,
and several other Italian and French, as well as Dutch and German
masters. In the off-skip, Europe, Asia, and Africa appear standing in
surprise at the sound of the trumpet." There is nothing like example!
Who sees in this prophetic enigma, in his "chair of ebony," other than
"Ebony" himself, the "_most accomplished Christopher_," beaming with
"sincerity," and placid in his "assiduity," with "Judgment" waiting upon
him at command, wielding neither crutch nor pen, but, in affable
condescension, the contemned needle etching the portrait of his own
"Colonsay," and his own famous exploit, to show that one needle in the
hand of genius can make a man and a horse too; though nine tailors and
nine needles scarcely make up the complement of a man--yet would these
nine in one, the renowned of Brentford, scarcely have matched
"Christopher on Colonsay!" And as for Fame blowing out of the window,
he, in spite of himself and his modesty, is his own trumpeter, and, as
_Maga_ reaches them, surprises "Europe, Asia, Africa," and America too.
Such is the emblematical representation of etching, and we have
embellished it with a first-rate performer.

And now let us turn to "Etched Thoughts by the Etching Club." We find a
new name or two added to the list--C.G. Lewis, the renowned and best of
etchers; and Severn, whose etchings are new to us, not so his other
works of art. We remember his "Ship of the Ancient Mariner," and his
expressive, sentimental, figures; and poor Fearnley--now no more--we
remember greatly admiring a somewhat large picture of his--"A
River-Scene in Norway,"--evidently painted immediately from nature,
powerfully, expressively given. Somehow or other he did not take in this
country, and quitted it, leaving behind him very beautiful studies
strangely undervalued, and sold for little. The fact is, he was too true
to the solemnity and sobriety of nature to please a public led away by
gaudy display and meretricious colouring. Yet was he a man of more
genius--in landscape--than any nine out of ten of our best artists that
have, these last ten years, attempted to show nature or art upon our
academical walls. Poor Fearnley! We have heard that elsewhere he was
appreciated and successful. Stone and Herbert are good additions. Happy
is it when the feelings of the artist and poet are in unison; happier
still when the poet is himself the artist: and such is the case here. So
that, in many cases, they are really "Etched Thoughts"--not etched
translations of thoughts; and the work of the pen is not inferior to
that of the needle. In the "Deserted Village" was a continuous story;
every plate was in connexion with its preceding. In this publication,
every artist seems to have been left to his own choice of subject, and
to his free fancy.

Cope first comes under our notice. He commences the work with "Love,"
and a quotation from Spenser. As an etching, it is powerful, but we
doubt if quite true: there should be something to account, in such a
twilight scene, for the strong light upon the "Ladye-love!" Nor are we
quite satisfied with the love of the lover, or the reception it meets
with. The man or his guitar, one of the two, if not both, must be out of
tune. His "Veteran's Return" tells its tale, and a somewhat mournful
one; it is in illustration of some very good and pathetic lines by a
member of the club, H.J. Townsend; and as, we believe, they are not to
be met with out of "Etched Thoughts," we extract them for the
gratification of the reader:--

THE VETERAN'S RETURN.

The old yew, deck'd in even's parting beams,
From his red trunk reflects a ruddier ray;
While, flickering through the lengthen'd shadow, gleams
Of gold athwart the dusky branches play.
The jackdaws, erst so bustling on the tower,
Have ceased their cawing clamour from on high;
And the brown bat, as nears the twilight hour,
Circles--the lonely tenant of the sky.

The soldier there, ere pass'd to distant climes,
On Sabbath morn his early mates would meet;
There list the chant of the familiar chimes,
And the fond glance of young affection greet.
There, too, at eve--before the twilight grey
Led the dark hours, when sprites are wont to walk--
With his sweet Nancy how he joy'd to stray,
And tell his rustic love in homely talk.

Now, home return'd, far other thoughts he owns,
Though still the same the scene that meets his view!
The same sun glistens o'er the lichen'd stones--
Scarce one year more seems to have gnarl'd the yew.
There, too, the hamlet where his boyhood pass'd
Sends, as of old, its curls of smoke to ken--
So near, his stalwart arm a stone might cast
Among the cots that deck the coppiced glen!

But ere the joys of that domestic glade
Can wipe the tear from off his rugged brow,
A stone beneath the yew-tree's ebon shade
Deep o'er his heart a heavier shade doth throw.
(Oh! sad indeed, when thus such tidings come
That stun, even when by slow degrees they steal,)
That tablet tells how cold within the tomb
Are hands whose fond warm grasp he long'd to feel.

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