The Sun.
London, England, 1868-12-22 00:00:00

ROSSINI AND GUS7AVE DORE.

Our children's children, says a correspondent of
the Athenatran, may see, by some great painter that
is yet to be, a Chamber of Death. Upon the couch,
bountifully pillowed, the grand head, in the cham-
bers of which " William Tell" was created ; aside,
living genius, bright and young, intense in manner,
and eager to catch the fading rays of the great
friend, and throw them upon his canvas. The
scene will bear date November 13, 1868 ; Gustave
Dore leave-taking with Gioacchino Rossini !

It is not possible to look upon a more interesting
hasty work of a loving hand than this portrait of
the dead composer. It 18 in broad, bold pencil
marks, save where the hand approached the tender
light and shade of the temples, and the indescrib-
ably delicate mouth and nose ; here the artist's
pencil became smooth and light, and exquisitely
sensitive. You see the haste; at the same time you
feel the emotion that makes it. Not a dimple, not a
muscle is, however, slurred over. The artist was deter-
mined to preserve all from the grave, so that lovers
of Rossini's music who have yet to be born by
millions, should hold in their homes the faithful
human mask he wore in life. In the Church of the
Trinity, when the gifted interpreters of Rossini's
genius filled the air, the familiar figure of the
painter lingered at the bier, loth to leave. We
are cold in these circumstances—outwardly at any
rate ; and it is not among us thaf all the Arts, in
the person of the greatest living representatives,
would meet to do honour to the illustrious servant
of one.

Nor can we understand—that is, can the Eng-
lish mass, or British genteel public, understand—
such a scene as that which happened in Gustave
Dore's studio, after the obsequies of his beloved
friend. The Italian is simple, with more than the
FrenChman's warmth. The Italian deputation,
sent from under Rossini's skies to pay a final tribute
of national love to him, the last funeral duties over,
went to the Rue Bayard, to see that which had
been snatched by the artist's hand from the grave.
There was the maestro, as in life he sat, with closed
eyes (a perpetual habit of his), and with his hands
clasped, at the head of his table, dealing out lively
comment as his humour led him. His simple coun-
trymen wept like children before the pencil-marks
that had snatched the honoured head from the
earth. But for the pillow propping the head, and
the crucifix clasped iu the Viands, and the wreath
upon the coverlet, the beholder would say—That
is the Rossini who would dream in company, and
who, when
gayest, seemed to close his eyelids as
upon an inner consciousness—a dream within a
dream. All of death that is upon the face is the
divine tranquillity. To have caught this out of the
ebou shadows of Erebus is a glory of which Gustave
Dore is justly proud, and for which the whole of
intellectual Paris Las already thanked him.
Item. Dore is engraving his illustrious friend's
portrait in death with his own hand. I believe the
picture will reach London in the spring. B. J.

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