Overbeck  is  one.  Whoever  has  seen,  not  his  frescos,  nor  his
cartoons,  but  the  least  of  his  little  etchings,  must  feel  that  he  is  a
remarkable  man.  That  kneeling  monk  with  his  back  to  you,  and
cowl  over  his  head — nothing  to  tell  the  tale  but  the  sole  of  the
foot  below  the  robe,  and  the  end  of  the  cross  above  it — the  whole
plate  not  so  big  as  your  hand — is  a  wonderful  piece  of  expres-
sion; but  let  him  try  to  embody  it— let  him  substitute  canvas  for
paper — light  and  shadow,  colour,  surface,  texture,  touch,  for  a  few
feeble  hatched  lines — where  would  be  his  idea  ?  He  dares  not
attempt  it;  for  Overbeck  may  be  a  great  man,  but  he  is  only
half  an  artist.  He  has  no  scope  of  language ;  he  is  tongue-tied ;
he  cannot  even  paint  his  own  portrait.  Where,  then,  is  the  com-
parison with  Raphael  ?  Overbeck's  outlines  have  much  of  his
heavenly  grace  and  sweetness ;  a  design  of  his  might  at  first  sight
be  mistaken  for  one  of  Raphaers — though  this  is  as  much  owing
to  the  most  barefaced  imitation  of  all  his  accessories  as  to  any
identity  of  inspiration — but  here  he  stops.  He  can  only  pro-
mise :  in  point,  of  real  practical  performance  in  the  spirit  of
Raphael,  we  maintain  that  he  is  much  behind  both  Stothard  and
Eastlake.
