There is no pathos, no melancholy, no one brightening up, no last lucid interval. If she die swanlike with a song, there is no sound or melody, no poetry in this strain. Mr. Millais's best work is, No. 478. A Huguenot refuses to permit his Catholic mistress to bind round his arm her handkerchief as a white badge by which he might escape the massacre on St. Bartholomew's Day. The weather stains and infinite variety of tints convey the impression of reality itself.
Nothing is left to the imagination.
If this principle is to be logically carried out, critics have a right to inquire how these nasturtiums bloom and flower so tenderly on the 24th of August, and whether jonquils and dog-roses blossom simultaneously. A full daylight falls on the wan face which is upturned to his with a touching expression of mingled beseeching, imploring, saddened, and terrified tenderness. Her pure perfect love is for him and for his soul, for this world and for the next. Her pale countenance is heightened by her sable costume, and the pathos is increased by the rich fantastic purple of the once gay lover. Like Swift, he revels in the repulsive.