The Sun.
London, England, 1832-11-21 00:00:00

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FINE ARTS.tra v.` iN;e4.
THE BOOK OF BEAUTY ik4W.Y.
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LONDON. 1832. /
" The Book of Beauty for 1833 E
his
is a misnomer. Such a book is for all time.
There is no fashion in beauty. It does not pass
away with the changed spirit of the times ; its
sun never sets, but burns high in the East for
ever. How many thousand upon thousand mu-
tations have the physical and moral world under-
gone since Helen hurled all Greece on Troy ;
since Aspasia touched the lips of Pericles with
fire ; since Thais lighted the first torch in Per-
sepolis ; since Anthony " resigned the world for
Cleopatra's eyes ;" and, to descend to more mo-
dern times, since Nell Gwynne more than half
swayed the destinies of England, and Ninon de
l'Enclos beheld all France at her feet ;—how
many strange mutations, we repeat, has the
world undergone since these various Circes made
earth brighter by their presence ;—yet their power
remains omnipotent as ever ; to the eye of faith
they still present indestructible charms ; still fancy
kneels in idolatry at the feet of Helen ; sees in
" Egypt's brow " the mirror of love, of grace
and sentiment ; and still would gladly break a
spear in defence of the Scottish Mary. Dr.
Moore, in his one clever tale, " Zeluco," has
happily illustrated the undying power of beauty,
where he makes his two Scottish footmen (a
sort of Pylades and Orestes), when, after a
long separation, they meet at Naples, and
are affected to tears by the interview, dis-
cuss in the course of the evening, over a quiet
snug glass, the merits of Mary Queen of Scots,
and as a matter of course get into such a hot
war of words respecting the question of her in-
nocence or guilt, that despite the sacred bond
of friendship that has bound them for so many
years together, the one runs the other clean
through the body, adding that he shall die happy
since it has been vouchsafed him to establish the
innocence of the most beautiful of women.
Beauty, we repeat, knows no decay ; it is like
the elements eternal, and like the dead Caesars,
" still rules our spirits from its urn." Many is
the young heart that even now beats quicker
at the sight of a portrait whose lovely original
has been dead centuries since; and few indeed are
those who have not as vivid an idea of the divine
Helen (even though she herself, according to
Ovid, was sadly conscious of decay,
" Met quoque, ut in speculo rugas asporit aniles
" Tyndaris, et secum, cur sit bis rapta, requirit,")
as if she were still living among them. No, No!
There is no such thing as decay in beauty. On
this point, which we hold as a Gospel truth,
we will break a lance with the stoutest heretic.

Mr. Heath's book is, in every sense of the
word, a book of beauty. It makes the sense
I ache with excess of pleasure. What variety—
what delicacy—what sentiment—black eyes con-
tending for the supremacy with blue, the rose
with the lily, and both equally irresistible ! We
protest we have been sadly puzzled as to which
lady in this collection we should fling the apple,
or in Moslem fashion, the handkerchief. At
one moment we are the avowed champion of
Lolah ; the next, Gulnare wins us to her cause.
Now the Orphan, and now the Bridemaid, put
in their claims to our allegiance. But ten
minutes since we would have stood against the
world in arms for Geraldine, but alas! we have
since seen Rebecca, and now wear her favours
in our cap. Seriously speaking, we know not
where to bestow a preference, but, like Garrick
between Tragedy and Comedy, stand undecided
between the earnest pensive black eyes of the
East, and the more sprightly blue ones of the
West. In a garden where every flower is sweet,
it is impossible to make a selection ; all that a
discreet man can do, is to admire and be thankful.

The portrait of Rebecca contains a world of
sentiment and beauty. The engraver has ade-
quately worked out the conception of the
painter. Its only defect is (but this is scarcely
perceptible except on hypercritical inspection),
that the face is not sufficiently oval. It is too
fleshy for the romantic, high-souled enthu-
siast,—that loveliest of the children of Israel.
Medora is full of character; but it is painful
to look on. It shocks our sense, of what Phi-
losopher Square would call " the fitness of
things," to think that one so young, so gentle,
so beautiful, should be compelled to yield to the
destroyer. Were she a fright, this would be no
great matter—for death is common to us all—
but she is supremely and ineffably lovely, which
makes it a most distressing business. Of the re-
maining pictures we have merely left ourselves
space to say, that the majority of them are gems
of the first water, arid such as, we fear, will set
many a young man sonnetteering for a month to
come. By way, however, of counteracting this
mischief, we recommend Mr. Heath, as speedily
as possible, to bring out a " Book of Frights."
Law and Literature will supply him with lots of
materials.