is especially in her descriptions of paintings that Mrs. Jameson's
great talents are displayed. Nowhere do we recollect criticisms more
genial, brilliant, picturesque than those which are scattered through
these pages. Often they have deeper merits, and descend to those
fundamental laws of beauty and of religion by which all Christian art
must ultimately be tested. Mrs. Jameson has certainly a powerful
inductive faculty; she comprehends at once the idea {210} and central
law of a work of art, and sketches it in a few vivid and masterly
touches; and really, to use a hack quotation honestly for once, "in
thoughts which breathe, and words which burn." As an instance, we
must be allowed to quote at length this charming passage on angel
paintings, so valuable does it seem not only as information, but as a
specimen of what criticism should be:

On the revival of art, we find the Byzantine idea of angels
everywhere prevailing. The angels in Cimabue's famous "Virgin and
Child enthroned" are grand creatures, rather stern, but this arose, I
think, from his inability to express beauty. The colossal angels at
Assisi, solemn sceptred kingly forms, all alike in action and
attitude, appeared to me magnificent.

In the angels of Giotto we see the commencement of a softer grace and
a purer taste, further developed by some of his scholars. Benozzo
Gozzoli and Orcagna have left in the Campo Santo examples of the most
graceful and fanciful treatment. Of Benozzo's angels in the Ricardi
Palace I have spoken at length. His master, Angelico (worthy the
name!), never reached the same power of expressing the rapturous
rejoicing of celestial beings, but his conception of the angelic
nature remains unapproached, unapproachable: it is only his, for it
was the gentle, passionless, refined nature of the recluse which
stamped itself there. Angelico's angels are unearthly, not so much
in form as in sentiment; and superhuman, not in power but in purity.
In other hands, any imitation of his soft ethereal grace would become
feeble and insipid. With their long robes falling round their feet,
and drooping many-coloured wings, they seem not to fly or to walk,
but to float along, "smooth sliding without step." Blessed blessed
creatures! love us, only love us! for we dare not task your soft
serene beatitude, by asking you to help us!

There is more sympathy with humanity in Francia's angels: they look
as if they could weep as well as love a