Again there came a day when Mary satWithin the latticed doorway's fretted shade,Working in bright and many colored threadsA girdle for her child, who at her feetLay with his gentle face upon her lap.Both little hands were crossed and tightly claspedAround her knee. On them the gleams of lightWhich broke through overhanging blossoms warm,And cool transparent leaves, seemed like the gemsWhich deck Our Lady's shrine when incense-smokeAscends before her, like them, dimly seenBehind the stream of white and slanting raysWhich came from heaven, as a veil of light,Across the darkened porch, and glanced uponThe threshold-stone; and here a moth, just bornTo new existence, stopped upon her flight,To bask her blue-eyed scarlet wings spread outBroad to the sun on Jesus' naked foot,Advancing its warm glow to where the grass,Trimmed neatly, grew around the cottage door.And the child, looking in his mother's face,Would join in converse upon holy thingsWith her, or, lost in thought, would seem to watchThe orange-belted wild bees when they stilledTheir hum, to press with honey-searching trunkThe juicy grape; or drag their waxed legsHalf buried in some leafy cool recessFound in a rose; or else swing heavilyUpon the bending woodbine's fragrant mouth,And rob the flower of sweets to feed the rock,Where, in a hazel-covered crag aloftParting two streams that fell in mist below,The wild bees ranged their waxen vaulted cells.As the time passed, an ass's yearling colt,Bearing a heavy load, came down the laneThat wound from Nazareth by Joseph's house,Sloping down to the sands. And two young men,The owners of the colt, with many blowsFrom lash and goad wearied its patient sides;Urging it past its strength, so they might winUnto the beach before a ship should sail.Passing the door, the ass turned round its head,And looked on Jesus: and he knew the look;And, knowing it, knew too the strange dark crossLaying upon its shoulders and its back.It was a foal of that same ass which bareThe infant and the mother, when they fledTo Egypt from the edge of Herod's sword.And Jesus watched them, till they reached the sands.Then, by his mother sitting down once more,Once more there came that shadow of deep griefUpon his brow when Mary looked at him:And she remembered it in days that came.
Again there came a day when Mary satWithin the latticed doorway's fretted shade,Working in bright and many colored threadsA girdle for her child, who at her feetLay with his gentle face upon her lap.Both little hands were crossed and tightly claspedAround her knee. On them the gleams of lightWhich broke through overhanging blossoms warm,And cool transparent leaves, seemed like the gemsWhich deck Our Lady's shrine when incense-smokeAscends before her, like them, dimly seenBehind the stream of white and slanting raysWhich came from heaven, as a veil of light,Across the darkened porch, and glanced uponThe threshold-stone; and here a moth, just bornTo new existence, stopped upon her flight,To bask her blue-eyed scarlet wings spread outBroad to the sun on Jesus' naked foot,Advancing its warm glow to where the grass,Trimmed neatly, grew around the cottage door.
And the child, looking in his mother's face,Would join in converse upon holy thingsWith her, or, lost in thought, would seem to watchThe orange-belted wild bees when they stilledTheir hum, to press with honey-searching trunkThe juicy grape; or drag their waxed legsHalf buried in some leafy cool recessFound in a rose; or else swing heavilyUpon the bending woodbine's fragrant mouth,And rob the flower of sweets to feed the rock,Where, in a hazel-covered crag aloftParting two streams that fell in mist below,The wild bees ranged their waxen vaulted cells.
As the time passed, an ass's yearling colt,Bearing a heavy load, came down the laneThat wound from Nazareth by Joseph's house,Sloping down to the sands. And two young men,The owners of the colt, with many blowsFrom lash and goad wearied its patient sides;Urging it past its strength, so they might winUnto the beach before a ship should sail.Passing the door, the ass turned round its head,And looked on Jesus: and he knew the look;And, knowing it, knew too the strange dark crossLaying upon its shoulders and its back.It was a foal of that same ass which bareThe infant and the mother, when they fledTo Egypt from the edge of Herod's sword.And Jesus watched them, till they reached the sands.Then, by his mother sitting down once more,Once more there came that shadow of deep griefUpon his brow when Mary looked at him:And she remembered it in days that came.
And the time passed.The child sat by himself upon the beach,While Joseph's barge freighted with heavy wood,Bound homewards, slowly labored thro' the calm.And, as he watched the long waves swell and break,Run glistening to his feet, and sink again,Three children, and then two, with each an armAround the other, throwing up their songs,Such happy songs as only children know,Came by the place where Jesus sat alone.But, when they saw his thoughtful face, they ceased,And, looking at each other, drew near him;While one who had upon his head a wreathOf hawthorn flowers, and in his hand a reed,Put these both from him, saying, “Here is oneWhom you shall all prefer instead of meTo be our king;” and then he placed the wreathOn Jesus' brow, who meekly bowed his head.And, when he took the reed, the children knelt,And cast their simple offerings at his feet:And, almost wondering why they loved him so,Kissed him with reverence, promising to yieldGrave fealty. And Jesus did returnTheir childish salutations; and they passedSinging another song, whose music chimedWith the sea's murmur, like a low sweet chantChanted in some wide church to Jesus Christ.And Jesus listened till their voices sankBehind the jutting rocks, and died away:Then the wave broke, and Jesus felt alone.Who being alone, on his fair countenanceAnd saddened beauty all unlike a child'sThe sun of innocence did light no smile,As on the group of happy faces gone.
And, when the barge arrived, and Joseph bareThe wood upon his shoulders, piece by piece,Up to his shed, Jesus ran by his side,Yearning for strength to help the aged manWho tired himself with work all day for him.But Joseph said: “My child, it is God's willThat I should work for thee until thou artOf age to help thyself.—Bide thou his timeWhich cometh—when thou wilt be strong enough,And on thy shoulders bear a tree like this.”So, while he spake, he took the last one up,Settling it with heaved back, fetching his breath.Then Jesus lifted deep prophetic eyesFull in the old man's face, but nothing said,Running still on to open first the door.
Joseph had one ewe-sheep; and she brought forth,Early one season, and before her time,A weakly lamb. It chanced to be uponJesus' birthday, when he was eight years old.So Mary said—“We'll name it after him,”—(Because she ever thought to please her child)—“And we will sign it with a small red crossUpon the back, a mark to know it by.”And Jesus loved the lamb; and, as it grewSpotless and pure and loving like himself,White as the mother's milk it fed upon,He gave not up his care, till it becameOf strength enough to browse and then, becauseJoseph had no land of his own, being poor,He sent away the lamb to feed amongstA neighbour's flock some distance from his home;Where Jesus went to see it every day.One late Spring eve, their daily work being done,Mother and child, according to their wont,Went, hand in hand, their chosen evening walk.A pleasant wind rose from the sea, and blewLight flakes of waving silver o'er the fieldsReady for mowing, and the golden WestWarmed half the sky: the low sun flickered throughThe hedge-rows, as they passed; while hawthorn treesScattered their snowy leaves and scent around.The sloping woods were rich in varied leaf,And musical in murmur and in song.Long ere they reached the field, the wistful lambSaw them approach, and ran from side to sideThe gate, pushing its eager face betweenThe lowest bars, and bleating for pure joy.And Jesus, kneeling by it, fondled withThe little creature, that could scarce find howTo show its love enough; licking his hands,Then, starting from him, gambolled back again,And, with its white feet upon Jesus' knees,Nestled its head by his: and, as the sunSank down behind them, broadening as it nearedThe low horizon, Mary thought it seemedTo clothe them like a glory.—But her lookGrew thoughtful, and she said: “I had, last night,A wandering dream. This brings it to my mind;And I will tell it thee as we walk home.“I dreamed a weary way I had to goAlone, across an unknown land: such wastesWe sometimes see in visions of the night,Barren and dimly lighted. There was notA tree in sight, save one seared leafless trunk,Like a rude cross; and, scattered here and there,A shrivelled thistle grew: the grass was dead,And the starved soil glared through its scanty tuftsIn bare and chalky patches, cracked and hot,Chafing my tired feet, that caught uponIts parched surface; for a thirsty sunHad sucked all moisture from the ground it burned,And, red and glowing, stared upon me likeA furnace eye when all the flame is spent.I felt it was a dream; and so I triedTo close my eyes, and shut it out from sight.Then, sitting down, I hid my face; but thisOnly increased the dread; and so I gazedWith open eyes into my dream again.The mists had thickened, and had grown quite blackOver the sun; and darkness closed round me.(Thy father said it thundered towards the morn.)But soon, far off, I saw a dull green lightBreak though the clouds, which fell across the earth,Like death upon a bad man's upturned face.Sudden it burst with fifty forked dartsIn one white flash, so dazzling bright it seemedTo hide the landscape in one blaze of light.When the loud crash that came down with it hadRolled its long echo into stillness, throughThe calm dark silence came a plaintive sound;And, looking towards the tree, I saw that itWas scorched with the lightning; and there stoodClose to its foot a solitary sheepBleating upon the edge of a deep pit,Unseen till now, choked up with briars and thorns;And into this a little snow white lamb,Like to thine own, had fallen. It was deadAnd cold, and must have lain there very long;While, all the time, the mother had stood by,Helpless, and moaning with a piteous bleat.The lamb had struggled much to free itself,For many cruel thorns had torn its headAnd bleeding feet; and one had pierced its side,From which flowed blood and water. Strange the thingsWe see in dreams, and hard to understand;—For, stooping down to raise its lifeless head,I thought it changed into the quiet faceOf my own child. Then I awoke, and sawThe dim moon shining through the watery cloudsOn thee awake within thy little bed.”Then Jesus, looking up, said quietly:“We read that God will speak to those he lovesSometimes in visions. He might speak to theeOf things to come his mercy partly veilsFrom thee, my mother; or perhaps, the thoughtFloated across thy mind of what we readAloud before we went to rest last night;—I mean that passage in Isaias' book,Which tells about the patient suffering lamb,And which it seems that no one understands.”Then Mary bent her face to the child's brow,And kissed him twice, and, parting back his hair,Kissed him again. And Jesus felt her tearsDrop warm upon his cheek, and he looked sadWhen silently he put his hand againWithin his mother's. As they came, they went,Hand in hand homeward.With Mary and with Joseph, till the timeWhen all the things should be fulfilled in himWhich God had spoken by his prophets' mouthLong since; and God was with him, and God's grace.
Joseph had one ewe-sheep; and she brought forth,Early one season, and before her time,A weakly lamb. It chanced to be uponJesus' birthday, when he was eight years old.So Mary said—“We'll name it after him,”—(Because she ever thought to please her child)—“And we will sign it with a small red crossUpon the back, a mark to know it by.”And Jesus loved the lamb; and, as it grewSpotless and pure and loving like himself,White as the mother's milk it fed upon,He gave not up his care, till it becameOf strength enough to browse and then, becauseJoseph had no land of his own, being poor,He sent away the lamb to feed amongstA neighbour's flock some distance from his home;Where Jesus went to see it every day.
One late Spring eve, their daily work being done,Mother and child, according to their wont,Went, hand in hand, their chosen evening walk.A pleasant wind rose from the sea, and blewLight flakes of waving silver o'er the fieldsReady for mowing, and the golden WestWarmed half the sky: the low sun flickered throughThe hedge-rows, as they passed; while hawthorn treesScattered their snowy leaves and scent around.The sloping woods were rich in varied leaf,And musical in murmur and in song.
Long ere they reached the field, the wistful lambSaw them approach, and ran from side to sideThe gate, pushing its eager face betweenThe lowest bars, and bleating for pure joy.And Jesus, kneeling by it, fondled withThe little creature, that could scarce find howTo show its love enough; licking his hands,Then, starting from him, gambolled back again,And, with its white feet upon Jesus' knees,Nestled its head by his: and, as the sunSank down behind them, broadening as it nearedThe low horizon, Mary thought it seemedTo clothe them like a glory.—But her lookGrew thoughtful, and she said: “I had, last night,A wandering dream. This brings it to my mind;And I will tell it thee as we walk home.
“I dreamed a weary way I had to goAlone, across an unknown land: such wastesWe sometimes see in visions of the night,Barren and dimly lighted. There was notA tree in sight, save one seared leafless trunk,Like a rude cross; and, scattered here and there,A shrivelled thistle grew: the grass was dead,And the starved soil glared through its scanty tuftsIn bare and chalky patches, cracked and hot,Chafing my tired feet, that caught uponIts parched surface; for a thirsty sunHad sucked all moisture from the ground it burned,And, red and glowing, stared upon me likeA furnace eye when all the flame is spent.I felt it was a dream; and so I triedTo close my eyes, and shut it out from sight.Then, sitting down, I hid my face; but thisOnly increased the dread; and so I gazedWith open eyes into my dream again.The mists had thickened, and had grown quite blackOver the sun; and darkness closed round me.(Thy father said it thundered towards the morn.)But soon, far off, I saw a dull green lightBreak though the clouds, which fell across the earth,Like death upon a bad man's upturned face.Sudden it burst with fifty forked dartsIn one white flash, so dazzling bright it seemedTo hide the landscape in one blaze of light.When the loud crash that came down with it hadRolled its long echo into stillness, throughThe calm dark silence came a plaintive sound;And, looking towards the tree, I saw that itWas scorched with the lightning; and there stoodClose to its foot a solitary sheepBleating upon the edge of a deep pit,Unseen till now, choked up with briars and thorns;And into this a little snow white lamb,Like to thine own, had fallen. It was deadAnd cold, and must have lain there very long;While, all the time, the mother had stood by,Helpless, and moaning with a piteous bleat.The lamb had struggled much to free itself,For many cruel thorns had torn its headAnd bleeding feet; and one had pierced its side,From which flowed blood and water. Strange the thingsWe see in dreams, and hard to understand;—For, stooping down to raise its lifeless head,I thought it changed into the quiet faceOf my own child. Then I awoke, and sawThe dim moon shining through the watery cloudsOn thee awake within thy little bed.”
Then Jesus, looking up, said quietly:“We read that God will speak to those he lovesSometimes in visions. He might speak to theeOf things to come his mercy partly veilsFrom thee, my mother; or perhaps, the thoughtFloated across thy mind of what we readAloud before we went to rest last night;—I mean that passage in Isaias' book,Which tells about the patient suffering lamb,And which it seems that no one understands.”Then Mary bent her face to the child's brow,And kissed him twice, and, parting back his hair,Kissed him again. And Jesus felt her tearsDrop warm upon his cheek, and he looked sadWhen silently he put his hand againWithin his mother's. As they came, they went,Hand in hand homeward.With Mary and with Joseph, till the timeWhen all the things should be fulfilled in himWhich God had spoken by his prophets' mouthLong since; and God was with him, and God's grace.
I looked for that which is not, nor can be,And hope deferred made my heart sick, in truth;But years must pass before a hope of youthIs resigned utterly.I watched and waited with a steadfast will:And, tho' the object seemed to flee awayThat I so longed for, ever, day by day,I watched and waited still.Sometimes I said,—“This thing shall be no more;My expectation wearies, and shall cease;I will resign it now, and be at peace:”—Yet never gave it o'er.Sometimes I said,—“It is an empty nameI long for; to a name why should I giveThe peace of all the days I have to live?”—Yet gave it all the same.Alas! thou foolish one,—alike unfitFor healthy joy and salutary pain,Thou knowest the chase useless, and againTurnest to follow it.
I looked for that which is not, nor can be,And hope deferred made my heart sick, in truth;But years must pass before a hope of youthIs resigned utterly.
I watched and waited with a steadfast will:And, tho' the object seemed to flee awayThat I so longed for, ever, day by day,I watched and waited still.
Sometimes I said,—“This thing shall be no more;My expectation wearies, and shall cease;I will resign it now, and be at peace:”—Yet never gave it o'er.
Sometimes I said,—“It is an empty nameI long for; to a name why should I giveThe peace of all the days I have to live?”—Yet gave it all the same.
Alas! thou foolish one,—alike unfitFor healthy joy and salutary pain,Thou knowest the chase useless, and againTurnest to follow it.
The object we have proposed to ourselves in writing on Art, has been “an endeavour to encourage and enforce an entire adherence to the simplicity of nature; and also to direct attention, as an auxiliary medium, to the comparatively few works which Art has yet produced in this spirit.” It is in accordance with the former and more prominent of these objects that the writer proposes at present to treat.
An unprejudiced spectator of the recent progress and main direction of Art in England will have observed, as a great change in the character of the productions of the modern school, a marked attempt to lead the taste of the public into a new channel by producing pure transcripts and faithful studies from nature, instead of conventionalities and feeble reminiscences from the Old Masters; an entire seeking after originality in a more humble manner than has been practised since the decline of Italian Art in the Middle Ages. This has been most strongly shown by the landscape painters, among whom there are many who have raised an entirely new school of natural painting, and whose productions undoubtedly surpass all others in the simple attention to nature in detail as well as in generalities. By this they have succeeded in earning for themselves the reputation of being the finest landscape painters in Europe. But, although this success has been great and merited, it is not of them that we have at present to treat, but rather to recommend their example to their fellow-labourers, the historical painters.
That the system of study to which this would necessarily lead requires a somewhat longer and more devoted course of observation than any other is undoubted; but that it has a reward in a greater effect produced, and more delight in the searching, is, the writer thinks, equally certain. We shall find a greater pleasure in proportion to our closer communion with nature, and by a more exact adherence to all her details, (for nature has no peculiarities or excentricities) in whatsoever direction her study may conduct.
This patient devotedness appears to be a conviction peculiar to, or at least more purely followed by, the early Italian Painters; a feeling which, exaggerated, and its object mistaken by them, though still held holy and pure, was the cause of the retirement of many of the greatest men from the world to the monastery; there, in undisturbed silence and humility,
“Monotonous to paintThose endless cloisters and eternal aislesWith the same series, Virgin, Babe, and Saint,With the same cold, calm, beautiful regard.”
Even with this there is not associated a melancholy feeling alone; for, although the object was mistaken, yet there is evinced a consciousness of purpose definite and most elevated; and again, we must remember, as a great cause of this effect, that the Arts were, for the most part, cleric, and not laic, or at least were under the predominant influence of the clergy, who were the most important patrons by far, and their houses the safest receptacles for the works of the great painter.
The modern artist does not retire to monasteries, or practise discipline; but he may show his participation in the same high feeling by a firm attachment to truth in every point of representation, which is the most just method. For how can good be sought by evil means, or by falsehood, or by slight in any degree? By a determination to represent the thing and the whole of the thing, by training himself to the deepest observation of its fact and detail, enabling himself to reproduce, as far as possible, nature herself, the painter will best evince his share of faith.
It is by this attachment to truth in its most severe form that the followers of the Arts have to show that they share in the peculiar character of the present age,—a humility of knowledge, a diffidence of attainment; for, as Emerson has well observed,
“The time is infected with Hamlet's unhappiness,—‘Sicklied o'er with the the pale cast of thought.’
Is this so bad then? Sight is the last thing to be pitied. Would we be blind? Do we fear lest we should outsee nature and God, and drink truth dry?”
It has been said that there is presumption in this movement of the modern school, a want of deference to established authorities, a removing of ancient landmarks. This is best answered by the profession that nothing can be more humble than the pretension to the observation of facts alone, and the truthful rendering of them. If we are not to depart from established principles, how are we to advance at all? Are we to remain still? Remember, no thing remains still; that which does not advance falls backward. That this movement is an advance, and that it is of nature herself, is shown by its going nearer to truth in every object produced, and by its being guided by the very principles the ancient painters followed, as soon as they attained the mere power of representing an object faithfully.These principles are now revived, not from them, though through their example, but from nature herself.
That the earlier painters came nearer to fact, that they were less of the art, artificial, cannot be better shown than by the statement of a few examples from their works. There is a magnificent Niello work by an unknown Florentine artist, on which is a group of the Saviour in the lap of the Virgin. She is old, (a most touching point); lamenting aloud, clutches passionately the heavy-weighted body on her knee; her mouth is open. Altogether it is one of the most powerful appeals possible to be conceived; for there are few but will consider this identification with humanity to be of more effect than any refined or emasculate treatment of the same subject by later artists, in which we have the fact forgotten for the sake of the type of religion, which the Virgin was always taken to represent, whence she is shown as still young; as if, nature being taken typically, it were not better to adhere to the emblem throughout, confident by this means to maintain its appropriateness, and, therefore, its value and force.
In the Niello work here mentioned there is a delineation of the Fall, in which the serpent has given to it a human head with a most sweet, crafty expression. Now in these two instances the style is somewhat rude; but there are passion and feeling in it. This is not a question of mere execution, but of mind, however developed. Let us not mistake, however, from this that execution should be neglected, but only maintained as a most importantaid, and in that quality alone, so that we do not forget the soul for the hand. The power of representing an object, that its entire intention may be visible, its lesson felt, is all that is absolutely necessary: mere technicalities of performance are but additions; and not the real intent and end of painting, as many have considered them to be. For as the knowledge is stronger and more pure in Masaccio than in the Caracci, and the faith higher and greater,—so the first represents nature with more true feeling and love, with a deeper insight into her tenderness; he follows her more humbly, and has produced to us more of her simplicity; we feel his appeal to be more earnest: it is the crying out of the man, with none of the strut of the actor.
Let us have the mind and the mind's-workings, not the remains of earnest thought which has been frittered away by a long dreary course of preparatory study, by which all life has been evaporated. Never forget that there is in the wide river of nature something which every body who has a rod and line may catch, precious things which every one may dive for.
It need not be feared that this course of education would lead to arepetition of the toe-trippings of the earliest Italian school, a sneer which is manifestly unfair; for this error, as well as several others of a similar kind, was not the result of blindness or stupidity, but of the simple ignorance of what had not been applied to the service of painting at their time. It cannot be shown that they were incorrect in expression, false in drawing, or unnatural in what is called composition. On the contrary, it is demonstrable that they exceeded all others in these particulars, that they partook less of coarseness and of conventional sentiment than any school which succeeded them, and that they looked more to nature; in fact, were more true, and less artificial. That their subjects were generally of a melancholy cast is acknowledged, which was an accident resulting from the positions their pictures were destined to occupy. No man ever complained that the Scriptures were morbid in their tendency because they treat of serious and earnest subjects: then why of the pictures which represent such? A certain gaunt length and slenderness have also been commented upon most severely; as if the Italians of the fourteenth century were as so many dray horses, and the artist were blamed for not following his model. The consequence of this direction of taste is that we have life-guardsmen and pugilists taken as models for kings, gentlemen, and philosophers. The writer was once in a studio where a man, six feet two inches in height, with atlantean shoulders, was sitting for King Alfred. That there is no greater absurdity than this will be perceived by any one that has ever read the description of the person of the king given by his historian and friend Asser.
The sciences have become almost exact within the present century. Geology and chemistry are almost re-instituted. The first has been nearly created; the second expanded so widely that it now searches and measures the creation. And how has this been done but by bringing greater knowledge to bear upon a wider range of experiment; by being precise in the search after truth? If this adherence to fact, to experiment and not theory,—to begin at the beginning and not fly to the end,—has added so much to the knowledge of man in science; why may it not greatly assist the moral purposes of the Arts? It cannot be well to degrade a lesson by falsehood. Truth in every particular ought to be the aim of the artist. Admit no untruth: let the priest's garment be clean.
Let us now return to the Early Italian Painters. A complete refutation of any charge that the character of their school was neccessarily gloomy will be found in the works of Benozzo Gozzoli, as in his ‘Vineyard’ where there are some grape-gatherers the most elegant and graceful imaginable; this painter's children are themost natural ever painted. In Ghiberti,—in Fra Angilico, (well named),—in Masaccio,—in Ghirlandajo, and in Baccio della Porta, in fact in nearly all the works of the painters of this school, will be found a character of gentleness, grace, and freedom, which cannot be surpassed by any other school, be that which it may; and it is evident that this result must have been obtained by their peculiar attachment to simple nature alone, their casting aside all ornament, or rather their perfect ignorance of such,—a happy fortune none have shared with them. To show that with all these qualifications they have been pre-eminent in energy and dignity, let us instance the ‘Air Demons’ of Orcagna, where there is a woman borne through the air by an Evil Spirit. Her expression is the most terrible imaginable; she grasps her bearer with desperation, looking out around her into space, agonized with terror. There are other figures in the same picture of men who have been cast down, and are falling through the air: one descends with his hands tied, his chin up, and long hair hanging from his head in a mass. One of the Evil Spirits hovering over them has flat wings, as though they were made of plank: this gives a most powerful character to the figure. Altogether, this picture contains perhaps a greater amount of bold imagination and originality of conception than any of the kind ever painted. For sublimity there are few works which equal the ‘Archangels’ of Giotto, who stand singly, holding their sceptres, and with relapsed wings. The ‘Paul’ of Masaccio is a well-known example of the dignified simplicity of which these artists possessed so large a share. These instances might be multiplied without end; but surely enough have been cited in the way of example to show the surpassing talent and knowledge of these painters, and their consequent success, by following natural principles, until the introduction of false and meretricious ornament led the Arts from the simple chastity of nature, which it is as useless to attempt to elevate as to endeavour to match the works of God by those of man. Let the artist be content to study nature alone, and not dream of elevating any of her works, which are alone worthy of representation.{5}
{5} The sources from which these examples are drawn, and where many more might be found, are principally:—D'Agincourt: “Histoire del'Art par les Monumens;”—Rossini: “Storia della Pittura;”—Ottley: “Italian School of Design,”and his 120 Fac-similes of scarce prints;—and the “Gates of San Giovanni,” by Ghiberti; of which last a cast of one entire is set up in the Central School of Design, Somerset House; portions of the same are also in the Royal Academy.
{5} The sources from which these examples are drawn, and where many more might be found, are principally:—D'Agincourt: “Histoire del'Art par les Monumens;”—Rossini: “Storia della Pittura;”—Ottley: “Italian School of Design,”and his 120 Fac-similes of scarce prints;—and the “Gates of San Giovanni,” by Ghiberti; of which last a cast of one entire is set up in the Central School of Design, Somerset House; portions of the same are also in the Royal Academy.
The Arts have always been most important moral guides. Theirflourishing has always been coincident with the most wholesome period of a nation's: never with the full and gaudy bloom which but hides corruption, but the severe health of its most active and vigorous life; its mature youth, and not the floridity of age, which, like the wide full open petals of a flower, indicates that its glory is about to pass away. There has certainly always been a period like the short warm season the Canadians call the “Indian Summer,” which is said to be produced by the burning of the western forests, causing a factitious revival of the dying year: so there always seems to have been a flush of life before the final death of the Arts in each period:—in Greece, in the sculptors and architects of the time after Pericles; in the Germans, with the successors of Albert Durer. In fact, in every school there has been a spring, a summer, an autumn, an “Indian Summer,” and then winter; for as surely as the “Indian Summer,” (which is, after all, but an unhealthy flush produced by destruction,) so surely does winter come. In the Arts, the winter has been exaggerated action, conventionalism, gaudy colour, false sentiment, voluptuousness, and poverty of invention: and, of all these characters, that which has been the most infallible herald of decease, voluptuousness, has been the most rapid and sure. Corruption lieth under it; and every school, and indeed every individual, that has pandered to this, and departed from the true spirit in which all study should be conducted, sought to degrade and sensualize, instead of chasten and render pure, the humanity it was instructed to elevate. So has that school, and so have those individuals, lost their own power and descended from their high seat, fallen from the priest to the mere parasite, from the law-giver to the mere courtier.
If we have entered upon a new age, a new cycle of man, of which there are many signs, let us have it unstained by this vice of sensuality of mind. The English school has lately lost a great deal of this character; why should we not be altogether free from it? Nothing can degrade a man or a nation more than this meanness; why should we not avoid it? Sensuality is a meanness repugnant to youth, and disgusting in age: a degradation at all times. Let us say
“My strength is as the strength of ten,Because my heart is pure.”
Bearing this in mind,—the conviction that, without the pure heart, nothing can be done worthy of us; by this, that the most successful school of painters has produced upon us the intention of their earnestness at this distance of time,—let us follow in their path,guided by their light: not so subservient as to lose our own freedom, but in the confidence of equal power and equal destiny; and then rely that we shall obtain the same success and equal or greater power, such as is given to the age in which we live. This is the only course that is worthy of the influence which might be exerted by means of the Arts upon the character of the people: therefore let it be the only one for us to follow if we hope to share in the work.
That the real power of the Arts, in conjunction with Poetry, upon the actions of any age is, or might be, predominant above all others will be readily allowed by all that have given any thought to the subject: and that there is no assignable limit to the good that may be wrought by their influence is another point on which there can be small doubt. Let us then endeavour to call up and exert this power in the worthiest manner, not forgetting that we chose a difficult path in which there are many snares, and holding in mind the motto,“No Cross, no Crown.”
Believe that there is that in the fact of truth, though it be only in the character of a single leaf earnestly studied, which may do its share in the great labor of the world: remember that it is by truth alone that the Arts can ever hold the position for which they were intended, as the most powerful instruments, the most gentle guides; that, of all classes, there is none to whom the celebrated words of Lessing, “That the destinies of a nation depend upon its young men between nineteen and twenty-five years of age,” can apply so well as to yourselves. Recollect, that your portion in this is most important: that your share is with the poet's share; that, in every careless thought or neglected doubt, you shelve your duty, and forsake your trust; fulfil and maintain these, whether in the hope of personal fame and fortune, or from a sense of power used to its intentions; and you may hold out both hands to the world. Trust it, and it will have faith in you; will hearken to the precepts you may have permission to impart.
Oh! roses for the flush of youth,And laurel for the perfect prime;But pluck an ivy-branch for me,Grown old before my time.Oh! violets for the grave of youth,And bay for those dead in their prime;Give me the withered leaves I choseBefore in the olden time.
Oh! roses for the flush of youth,And laurel for the perfect prime;But pluck an ivy-branch for me,Grown old before my time.
Oh! violets for the grave of youth,And bay for those dead in their prime;Give me the withered leaves I choseBefore in the olden time.
Another day hath dawnedSince, hastily and tired, I threw myselfInto the dark lap of advancing sleep.Meanwhile through the oblivion of the nightThe ponderous world its old course hath fulfilled;And now the gradual sun begins to throwIts slanting glory on the heads of trees,And every bird stirs in its nest revealed,And shakes its dewy wings.A blessed giftUnto the weary hath been mine to-night,Slumber unbroken: now it floats away:—But whether 'twere not best to woo it still,The head thus properly disposed, the eyesIn a continual dawning, mingling earthAnd heaven with vagrant fantasies,—one hour,—Yet for another hour? I will not breakThe shining woof; I will not rudely leapOut of this golden atmosphere, through whichI see the forms of immortalities.Verily, soon enough the laboring dayWith its necessitous unmusical callsWill force the indolent conscience into life.The uncouth moth upon the window-panesHath ceased to flap, or traverse with blind whirrThe room's dusk corners; and the leaves withoutVibrate upon their thin stems with the breezeFlying towards the light. To an Eastern valeThat light may now be waning, and acrossThe tall reeds by the Ganges, lotus-paved,Lengthening the shadows of the banyan-tree.The rice-fields are all silent in the glow,All silent the deep heaven without a cloud,Burning like molten gold. A red canoeCrosses with fan-like paddles and the soundOf feminine song, freighted with great-eyed maidsWhose unzoned bosoms swell on the rich air;A lamp is in each hand; some mystic riteGo they to try. Such rites the birds may see,Ibis or emu, from their cocoa nooks,—What time the granite sentinels that watchThe mouths of cavern-temples hail the firstFaint star, and feel the gradual darkness blendTheir august lineaments;—what time HarounPerambulated Bagdat, and none knewHe was the Caliph who knocked soberlyBy Giafar's hand at their gates shut betimes;—What time prince Assad sat on the high hill'Neath the pomegranate-tree, long wearyingFor his lost brother's step;—what time, as now,Along our English sky, flame-furrows cleaveAnd break the quiet of the cold blue clouds,And the first rays look in upon our roofs.Let the day come or go; there is no letOr hindrance to the indolent wilfulnessOf fantasy and dream-land. Place and timeAnd bodily weight are for the wakeful only.Now they exist not: life is like that cloud,Floating, poised happily in mid-air, bathedIn a sustaining halo, soft yet clear,Voyaging on, though to no bourne; all heavenIts own wide home alike, earth far belowFading still further, further. Yet we see,In fancy, its green fields, its towers, and townsSmoking with life, its roads with traffic throngedAnd tedious travellers within iron cars,Its rivers with their ships, and laborers,To whose raised eye, as, stretched upon the sward,They may enjoy some interval of rest,That little cloud appears no living thing,Although it moves, and changes as it moves.There is an old and memorable taleOf some sound sleeper being borne awayBy banded fairies in the mottled hourBefore the cockcrow, through unknown weird woodsAnd mighty forests, where the boughs and rootsOpened before him, closed behind;—thenceforthA wise man lived he, all unchanged by years.Perchance again these fairies may return,And evermore shall I remain as now,A dreamer half awake, a wandering cloud!The spellOf Merlin old that ministered to fate,The tales of visiting ghosts, or fairy elves,Or witchcraft, are no fables. But his taskIs ended with the night;—the thin white moonEvades the eye, the sun breaks through the trees,And the charmed wizard comes forth a mere manFrom out his circle. Thus it is, whate'erWe know and understand hath lost the powerOver us;—we are then the master. StillAll Fancy's world is real; no diverse markIs on the stores of memory, whether gleanedFrom childhood's early wonder at the charmThat bound the lady in the echoless caveWhere lay the sheath'd sword and the bugle horn,—Or from the fullgrown intellect, that worksFrom age to age, exploring darkest truths,With sympathy and knowledge in one yokePloughing the harvest land.The lark is up,Piercing the dazzling sky beyond the searchOf the acutest love: enough for meTo hear its song: but now it dies away,Leaving the chirping sparrow to attractThe listless ear,—a minstrel, sooth to say,Nearly as good. And now a hum like thatOf swarming bees on meadow-flowers comes up.Each hath its just and yet luxurious joy,As if to live were to be blessed. The mildMaternal influence of nature thusEnnobles both the sentient and the dead;—The human heart is as an altar wreathed,On which old wine pours, streaming o'er the leaves,And down the symbol-carved sides. Behold!Unbidden, yet most welcome, who be these?The high-priests of this altar, poet-kings;—Chaucer, still young with silvery beard that seemsWorthy the adoration of a child;And Spenser, perfect master, to whom allSweet graces ministered. The shut eye weavesA picture;—the immortals pass alongInto the heaven, and others follow still,Each on his own ray-path, till all the fieldIs threaded with the foot-prints of the great.And now the passengers are lost; long linesOnly are left, all intertwisted, darkUpon a flood of light......... I am awake!I hear domestic voices on the stair.Already hath the mower finished halfHis summer day's ripe task; already hathHis scythe been whetted often; and the heapsBehind him lie like ridges from the tide.In sooth, it is high time to wave awayThe cup of Comus, though with nectar filled,And sweet as odours to the marinerFrom lands unseen, across the wide blank sea.
Another day hath dawnedSince, hastily and tired, I threw myselfInto the dark lap of advancing sleep.Meanwhile through the oblivion of the nightThe ponderous world its old course hath fulfilled;And now the gradual sun begins to throwIts slanting glory on the heads of trees,And every bird stirs in its nest revealed,And shakes its dewy wings.
A blessed giftUnto the weary hath been mine to-night,Slumber unbroken: now it floats away:—But whether 'twere not best to woo it still,The head thus properly disposed, the eyesIn a continual dawning, mingling earthAnd heaven with vagrant fantasies,—one hour,—Yet for another hour? I will not breakThe shining woof; I will not rudely leapOut of this golden atmosphere, through whichI see the forms of immortalities.Verily, soon enough the laboring dayWith its necessitous unmusical callsWill force the indolent conscience into life.
The uncouth moth upon the window-panesHath ceased to flap, or traverse with blind whirrThe room's dusk corners; and the leaves withoutVibrate upon their thin stems with the breezeFlying towards the light. To an Eastern valeThat light may now be waning, and acrossThe tall reeds by the Ganges, lotus-paved,Lengthening the shadows of the banyan-tree.The rice-fields are all silent in the glow,All silent the deep heaven without a cloud,Burning like molten gold. A red canoeCrosses with fan-like paddles and the soundOf feminine song, freighted with great-eyed maidsWhose unzoned bosoms swell on the rich air;A lamp is in each hand; some mystic riteGo they to try. Such rites the birds may see,Ibis or emu, from their cocoa nooks,—What time the granite sentinels that watchThe mouths of cavern-temples hail the firstFaint star, and feel the gradual darkness blendTheir august lineaments;—what time HarounPerambulated Bagdat, and none knewHe was the Caliph who knocked soberlyBy Giafar's hand at their gates shut betimes;—What time prince Assad sat on the high hill'Neath the pomegranate-tree, long wearyingFor his lost brother's step;—what time, as now,Along our English sky, flame-furrows cleaveAnd break the quiet of the cold blue clouds,And the first rays look in upon our roofs.
Let the day come or go; there is no letOr hindrance to the indolent wilfulnessOf fantasy and dream-land. Place and timeAnd bodily weight are for the wakeful only.Now they exist not: life is like that cloud,Floating, poised happily in mid-air, bathedIn a sustaining halo, soft yet clear,Voyaging on, though to no bourne; all heavenIts own wide home alike, earth far belowFading still further, further. Yet we see,In fancy, its green fields, its towers, and townsSmoking with life, its roads with traffic throngedAnd tedious travellers within iron cars,Its rivers with their ships, and laborers,To whose raised eye, as, stretched upon the sward,They may enjoy some interval of rest,That little cloud appears no living thing,Although it moves, and changes as it moves.There is an old and memorable taleOf some sound sleeper being borne awayBy banded fairies in the mottled hourBefore the cockcrow, through unknown weird woodsAnd mighty forests, where the boughs and rootsOpened before him, closed behind;—thenceforthA wise man lived he, all unchanged by years.Perchance again these fairies may return,And evermore shall I remain as now,A dreamer half awake, a wandering cloud!
The spellOf Merlin old that ministered to fate,The tales of visiting ghosts, or fairy elves,Or witchcraft, are no fables. But his taskIs ended with the night;—the thin white moonEvades the eye, the sun breaks through the trees,And the charmed wizard comes forth a mere manFrom out his circle. Thus it is, whate'erWe know and understand hath lost the powerOver us;—we are then the master. StillAll Fancy's world is real; no diverse markIs on the stores of memory, whether gleanedFrom childhood's early wonder at the charmThat bound the lady in the echoless caveWhere lay the sheath'd sword and the bugle horn,—Or from the fullgrown intellect, that worksFrom age to age, exploring darkest truths,With sympathy and knowledge in one yokePloughing the harvest land.
The lark is up,Piercing the dazzling sky beyond the searchOf the acutest love: enough for meTo hear its song: but now it dies away,Leaving the chirping sparrow to attractThe listless ear,—a minstrel, sooth to say,Nearly as good. And now a hum like thatOf swarming bees on meadow-flowers comes up.Each hath its just and yet luxurious joy,As if to live were to be blessed. The mildMaternal influence of nature thusEnnobles both the sentient and the dead;—The human heart is as an altar wreathed,On which old wine pours, streaming o'er the leaves,And down the symbol-carved sides. Behold!Unbidden, yet most welcome, who be these?The high-priests of this altar, poet-kings;—Chaucer, still young with silvery beard that seemsWorthy the adoration of a child;And Spenser, perfect master, to whom allSweet graces ministered. The shut eye weavesA picture;—the immortals pass alongInto the heaven, and others follow still,Each on his own ray-path, till all the fieldIs threaded with the foot-prints of the great.And now the passengers are lost; long linesOnly are left, all intertwisted, darkUpon a flood of light......... I am awake!I hear domestic voices on the stair.
Already hath the mower finished halfHis summer day's ripe task; already hathHis scythe been whetted often; and the heapsBehind him lie like ridges from the tide.In sooth, it is high time to wave awayThe cup of Comus, though with nectar filled,And sweet as odours to the marinerFrom lands unseen, across the wide blank sea.
When midst the summer-roses the warm beesAre swarming in the sun, and thou—so fullOf innocent glee—dost with thy white hands pullPink scented apples from the garden treesTo fling at me, I catch them, on my knees,Like those who gather'd manna; and I cullSome hasty buds to pelt thee—white as woolLilies, or yellow jonquils, or heartsease;—Then I can speak my love, ev'n tho' thy smilesGush out among thy blushes, like a flockOf bright birds from rose-bowers; but when thou'rt goneI have no speech,—no magic that beguiles,The stream of utterance from the harden'd rock:—The dial cannot speak without the sun!
Beneath the stars and summer moonA pair of wedded lovers walk,Upon the stars and summer moonThey turn their happy eyes, and talk.EDITH.“Those stars, that moon, for me they shineWith lovely, but no startling light;My joy is much, but not as thine,A joy that fills the pulse, like fright.”ALFRED.“My love, a darken'd conscience clothesThe world in sackcloth; and, I fear,The stain of life this new heart loathes,Still clouds my sight; but thine is clear.“True vision is no startling boonTo one in whom it always lies;But if true sight of stars and moonWere strange to thee, it would surprise.“Disease it is and dearth in meWhich thou believest genius, wealth;And that imagined want in theeIs riches and abundant health.“O, little merit I my bride!And therefore will I love her more;Renewing, by her gentle side,Lost worth: let this thy smile restore!”EDITH.“Ah, love! we both, with longing deep,Love words and actions kind, which areMore good for life than bread or sleep,More beautiful than Moon or Star.”
Beneath the stars and summer moonA pair of wedded lovers walk,Upon the stars and summer moonThey turn their happy eyes, and talk.
EDITH.“Those stars, that moon, for me they shineWith lovely, but no startling light;My joy is much, but not as thine,A joy that fills the pulse, like fright.”
ALFRED.“My love, a darken'd conscience clothesThe world in sackcloth; and, I fear,The stain of life this new heart loathes,Still clouds my sight; but thine is clear.
“True vision is no startling boonTo one in whom it always lies;But if true sight of stars and moonWere strange to thee, it would surprise.
“Disease it is and dearth in meWhich thou believest genius, wealth;And that imagined want in theeIs riches and abundant health.
“O, little merit I my bride!And therefore will I love her more;Renewing, by her gentle side,Lost worth: let this thy smile restore!”
EDITH.“Ah, love! we both, with longing deep,Love words and actions kind, which areMore good for life than bread or sleep,More beautiful than Moon or Star.”