APPENDIXToC

"His last study from nature was painted in Rome in October 1895, for the unfinished picture of 'Clytie,' exhibited in the Royal Academy, 1896. It was a study of fruit, and he enjoyed working on it for several hours, though he was then ill; and I believe that the hours he passed in the courtyard of the Palazzo Odeschalchi painting these fruits, which he had arranged on a marble sarcophagus, afforded him, perhaps, the last artistic pleasures he ever enjoyed. It is true that after this he went to the Vatican, to Siena, and to Florence, where he saw for thelast time the masterpieces with which these towns abound. But, standing before the great works of the masters of the past, he could only sigh."He worshipped children, and his pictures of children with fruit and flowers are among the most delicious and spontaneous work ever done by him in painting. And I can see him again, during the last visit he paid to Rome in 1895, on his knees before my little girl, to accede to her request that she should have a lock of his hair as a remembrance."

"He worshipped children, and his pictures of children with fruit and flowers are among the most delicious and spontaneous work ever done by him in painting. And I can see him again, during the last visit he paid to Rome in 1895, on his knees before my little girl, to accede to her request that she should have a lock of his hair as a remembrance."

Nothing could give a better record of two sides of Leighton's nature, often believed to be incompatible, than the contents of the letter from Naples to his sister, with its remarks on Nordau, Nietzsche, and the like, and this beautiful picture recalled by his old friend Costa—Leighton on his knees before a little child. The intellect which could crack the hardest of intellectual nuts was surmounted by lowly reverence for all beauty, most ardently adored when that beauty came to him in its most innocent childlike garb.

Writing to me on his return on November the 6th Leighton says: "I shall try to look in to-morrow at five. I want very much to hear Fuller-Maitland's preachment" (Lectures on Purcell were being given at our house previous to the Purcell Festival). "I am sorry to say I am no better, rather worse." On being asked the next day, as he came into our house, "How is it?" the answer Leighton gave was, "Oh, worse! Sometimes fifteen attacks a day." On his birthday, the 3rd of December, he wrote to his sister:—

2 Holland Park Road, Kensington, W.,December 3, 1895.Dear Lina,—The grand leaves in a mossy pot, and the sweet flowers, and the poems, and your letter, came all together. I know you will let me answer you both on one piece of paper. I know, dears, how true is your love, and though I am not ademonstrative person, it is very precious to me. I know you will both like to hear that after anhour'sinnings between L. Brunton, Dr. Tunnicliffe his partner, Roberts, and three most ingenious scientific instruments, and after tapping and auscultating of my wretched ear cap fore and aft, it was pronounced that (in some mysterious way) I amnotworse, butbetter; well, I am glad to hear it; meanwhile my medicine is being strengthened, and will be again in the (pretty certain) event of its requiring more strength. L.B. quitehopesto rig me out for the May banquet. Much love to both from affectionate old brother.

2 Holland Park Road, Kensington, W.,December 3, 1895.

Dear Lina,—The grand leaves in a mossy pot, and the sweet flowers, and the poems, and your letter, came all together. I know you will let me answer you both on one piece of paper. I know, dears, how true is your love, and though I am not ademonstrative person, it is very precious to me. I know you will both like to hear that after anhour'sinnings between L. Brunton, Dr. Tunnicliffe his partner, Roberts, and three most ingenious scientific instruments, and after tapping and auscultating of my wretched ear cap fore and aft, it was pronounced that (in some mysterious way) I amnotworse, butbetter; well, I am glad to hear it; meanwhile my medicine is being strengthened, and will be again in the (pretty certain) event of its requiring more strength. L.B. quitehopesto rig me out for the May banquet. Much love to both from affectionate old brother.

On the 14th he wrote to his friend Mr. Henry Wells:—

2 Holland Park Road, Kensington, W.,December 14, 1895.Dear Wells,—Many thanks for your kind letter, relying on which I hasten to "nail" you for the27th; I shall be very much disappointed if you say me "nay." I never give alongnotice, in part so as to bring about a little shuffling of cards, and relieving my guests of a certain monotony of routine which might in the end irk them. I need not assure you that I am most warmly sensible to the vigilant and truly friendly interest which you manifest concerning my health; believe me, if I differ from you in not believing in the efficacy or feasibility of a suspension of activity for a year or two, it is in no unreasoning or perverse spirit (and let me, by-the-bye, say in passing that I have, for a few days past, certainly been a little better). Putting aside for a moment the fact that I have for the next year, and more, definite professionalobligationsin the way of commissioned work (which is, unfortunately, not incompatible with having a certain number of unsold works!), to withdraw from Academic duties would meanleaving Englandfor the period in question; it would be morally impossible to remain here, apparently in robust health, congratulated constantly, as I am, on my healthy appearance, going about unrebuked by averycautious doctor (Lauder Brunton), taking the pleasures of lifeapparentlywithout any stint (as a matter offactI am very quiet and regular, and undercontinuousmedical treatment), and then shirking all itsduties; but experience has shown that I gain nothing by absence—by change of climate and the rest; and, on the other hand, my temperament being what you know, the withdrawal from my active life would infallibly prey on me and have a marked effect on my health through my spirits; this is also the opinion of Lauder Brunton. My care must be to live quietly but not idly, and thus try to mend gradually, as I doubtless shall, in the hands of my doctorand my masseur.If, which God forbid, I am pronounced still unfit in May, I will bow, with whatever bitterness, to the judgment, but till then I must not forego hope. Meanwhile, you have all done me infinite service in prohibiting the "Discourse" for this year—I can't say how grateful I was for that! I shall also avoid, as far as may be, allcontroversyat our table; that is the worst thing of all by far, for yours sincerely always,Fred Leighton.[87]

2 Holland Park Road, Kensington, W.,December 14, 1895.

Dear Wells,—Many thanks for your kind letter, relying on which I hasten to "nail" you for the27th; I shall be very much disappointed if you say me "nay." I never give alongnotice, in part so as to bring about a little shuffling of cards, and relieving my guests of a certain monotony of routine which might in the end irk them. I need not assure you that I am most warmly sensible to the vigilant and truly friendly interest which you manifest concerning my health; believe me, if I differ from you in not believing in the efficacy or feasibility of a suspension of activity for a year or two, it is in no unreasoning or perverse spirit (and let me, by-the-bye, say in passing that I have, for a few days past, certainly been a little better). Putting aside for a moment the fact that I have for the next year, and more, definite professionalobligationsin the way of commissioned work (which is, unfortunately, not incompatible with having a certain number of unsold works!), to withdraw from Academic duties would meanleaving Englandfor the period in question; it would be morally impossible to remain here, apparently in robust health, congratulated constantly, as I am, on my healthy appearance, going about unrebuked by averycautious doctor (Lauder Brunton), taking the pleasures of lifeapparentlywithout any stint (as a matter offactI am very quiet and regular, and undercontinuousmedical treatment), and then shirking all itsduties; but experience has shown that I gain nothing by absence—by change of climate and the rest; and, on the other hand, my temperament being what you know, the withdrawal from my active life would infallibly prey on me and have a marked effect on my health through my spirits; this is also the opinion of Lauder Brunton. My care must be to live quietly but not idly, and thus try to mend gradually, as I doubtless shall, in the hands of my doctorand my masseur.If, which God forbid, I am pronounced still unfit in May, I will bow, with whatever bitterness, to the judgment, but till then I must not forego hope. Meanwhile, you have all done me infinite service in prohibiting the "Discourse" for this year—I can't say how grateful I was for that! I shall also avoid, as far as may be, allcontroversyat our table; that is the worst thing of all by far, for yours sincerely always,

Fred Leighton.[87]

With the New Year honours and among those bestowed was a Peerage on Leighton, who was created Lord Leighton, Baron of Stretton (seechap. i. vol. i., Antecedents). Needless to say, congratulations poured in from all sorts and conditions. One of these in writing was preserved because enclosed in a note to his sister.

January 13, 1896.My dear Leighton,—I have just come back from Italy, and hope that it is not too late to tell you with how much satisfaction I read of the mark of honour that has been accepted by you. I am not a passionate admirer of the legislative feats of the House of Lords, but so long as it stands, it is well that such a man as you should sit there. I hope that the thing has given you pleasure, and for my poor part I rejoice both as a friend and as a humble admirer of art and genius that this honourable recognition has fallen to you.—Yours sincerely,John Morley.Not a word of reply, I pray.

January 13, 1896.

My dear Leighton,—I have just come back from Italy, and hope that it is not too late to tell you with how much satisfaction I read of the mark of honour that has been accepted by you. I am not a passionate admirer of the legislative feats of the House of Lords, but so long as it stands, it is well that such a man as you should sit there. I hope that the thing has given you pleasure, and for my poor part I rejoice both as a friend and as a humble admirer of art and genius that this honourable recognition has fallen to you.—Yours sincerely,

John Morley.

Not a word of reply, I pray.

From his native place Leighton received the following:—

When it was announced on Wednesday that the Queen had been pleased to confer the dignity of a Peerage of the United Kingdom upon Sir Frederic Leighton, Bart., President of the Royal Academy, who is a native of Scarborough, having been born here sixty-five years ago, the Mayor (Alderman Cross, J.P.) sent the following telegram:—"Sir Frederic Leighton, 2 Holland Park Road, London, the Mayor, Corporation, and inhabitants of Scarborough present their hearty congratulations on the honour conferred upon you.—The Mayor, Scarborough." The next morning the following reply was received:—"The Mayor ofScarborough,—Sincere thanks for congratulations from my birthplace.Leighton."

Leighton."

Leighton had been loath to acquaint his sisters with the real nature of his complaint, as he was aware how much their anxiety for him would be increased if they knew. However, he at last felt it was necessary to tell them. Very characteristically, he chose the moment when they were at the theatre, thinking it might produce a less painful shock when mentioned casually, and when their attention might be distracted more easily. It was difficult, however, under any circumstances to temper the blow. Leighton wrote the next Sunday—"I do hope I shall find you better this afternoon.... I ought not to have spoken to you about my ailment." I received the following in Somerset, dated January 20, dictated, ... "As I am (not to put too fine a point on it) in bed with a very bad cough at this moment, you will, I know, forgive my using the hand of a secretary in writing to you. I see that you want a contribution for Mrs. Watts Hughes' Home for Boys; I therefore enclose a cheque." ... On the day following, Tuesday, his doctors decreed that he should remain in his room, but on Wednesday, the day after, Leighton insisted on getting into his studio, where he worked all the morning from models. In the afternoon he drove in his open carriage—certainly without the permission of his doctors!—to Westminster, getting out and standing in the raw damp of a cold January afternoon to watch the pulling down of some old houses which had interested him. In the evening he wrote to me a letter, which happened to be the last he penned. A Lecture was to be given for the benefit of Mrs. Watts Hughes' Home for Boys; and in return for Leighton's contribution I had sent him four five shilling tickets to give away, offering to change them for half guinea tickets, but suggesting it would be most rash of him to gohimself. However, he intended to go, and wrote that Wednesday evening:—

Dear Mrs. Barrington,—... Since you are good enough to offer to change the tickets for tenners, I will ask you to do so, and thank you in advance. Yes, Mackail's book, which oddly enough Ihaveread—for, alas! I never read now—is an exquisite bit of work.

When the Lecture was given on the evening of January 29, Leighton had left us already four days!

At five o'clock on Thursday morning, January 23, he woke, feeling terrible pain and great distress in breathing, but would not ring for his servant because he believed him to be delicate, and thought it might hurt him to be disturbed so early. At seven he rang, and Dr. Roberts, who was telegraphed for, at once saw that the situation was of the gravest. Sir Lauder Brunton also was summoned. Leighton's servant had promised his sisters that they should be sent for at once if the symptoms at any time became more acute; but on his mentioning this, Leighton said he must not send for Mrs. Orr and Mrs. Matthews, as they were both more ill than he was. However, as the morning went on and there were no signs of any change for the better, the sisters were told of his condition, and at once came—not leaving him till the end.

On Thursday afternoon, when he was supposed to be sinking, and they were with him alone, he expressed his wishes as to his property—the sums of money he wished given to various friends—adding that he should like ten thousand pounds to be given to the Royal Academy. These were wishes expressed—not legacies, as he left his whole property unconditionally to his sisters, and believed that they, as next-of-kin, would, as a matter of course, be his heirs.

Contrary to the doctor's expectations, Leighton rallied on the Friday, and hopes were expressed that he might recover from the acute attack from which he was suffering. On his hearing this, he exclaimed to his sisters, "Would it not have been a pity if I had had to die just when I was going to paint better!"

On the Saturday morning the gravest symptoms returned, and every hope vanished. It was then suggested to Leighton that it would be better for him to make a will, and his lawyer was sent for; but it was some time before he could arrive. Though the agony was great, Leighton refused all alleviations till his will was written out. It was as follows:—

This is the last will and testament of Frederic Leighton. I will and bequeath to my sisters, Alexandra Orr and Augusta Newnburg Matthews, the whole estate unconditionally.Fred Leighton.

This is the last will and testament of Frederic Leighton. I will and bequeath to my sisters, Alexandra Orr and Augusta Newnburg Matthews, the whole estate unconditionally.

Fred Leighton.

Mrs. Orr wrote: "When the official will had been drawn up and signed, he said, 'Does this give my sisters absolute control over all I have?' On the lawyer answering in the affirmative, Leighton asked, 'Then no one can interfere with them?' 'No one,' answered the lawyer; 'they are paramount.' He was afraid that the brief paragraph was not sufficiently strong."

After signing it, he said, "My love to the Academy"; but his last words were spoken in German, and meant for his sisters' ears alone. Then came the end.

"We went together," writes Lady Loch, "to see Fred Leighton the Sunday before he died, and he said, 'Mind you come to "my concert." I have just settled it all with Villiers Stanford, and it will be beautiful.'" In about ten days after, with aching hearts at the loss of so true, sowarm, so great a friend, we attended his burial service at St. Paul's Cathedral, seeing such proofs of real mourning all along the Embankment and streets, for indeed every man, woman, and child had lost a real, true friend.

The Spirit of the Summit"THE SPIRIT OF THE SUMMIT." 1894ToList

"THE SPIRIT OF THE SUMMIT." 1894ToList

Study for LachrymæSTUDY FOR "LACHRYMÆ." 1895ToList

STUDY FOR "LACHRYMÆ." 1895ToList

All who were present must ever remember the last "Music" in the March before, when (contrasting so strongly in colour and sentiment) "Lachrymæ" and "Flaming June" stood on the easels, and for the first time the silk room was open, hung with the work of Leighton's friends; how, through all the beautiful strains from Joachim and the rest, a tragic note rang out to tell, as it seemed, of the waning life of the centre of it all. No one said it, but all felt that the last chapter was ending of those many, many perfect pages in life known as "Leighton's music."

A voice sang with emotion Charles Kingsley's soul-stirring verse—

"When all the world is old, lad,And all the trees are brown;And all the sport is stale, lad,And all the wheels run down,Creep home, and take your place there,The spent and maim'd among;God grant you find one face thereYou loved when all was young."

Cruelly pathetic did it seem that one who had ever had the vitality of a boy, who had ever been the inspirer and support of those weary overwrought ones whose wheels had run down before their time, should himself be stricken, creeping home "the spent and maimed among."

The studios emptied, and he came down the stairs with the last of us. Dainty figures of girls were dancing round the fountain in the empty Arab Hall; and as he went to the outer door they flew to him, throwing their arms round his neck. "They are all my god-children," he said, aseach, fleet-footed, fled out of the gate. A clasp, a wring of a friend's hand; then, ashen pale, tired and haggard, he turned back lonely into the House Beautiful—and that book was closed.

Instead of strains of perfect song and music hailing their completion, the six pictures of the next year looked down on the coffin, and over a rich carpeting of beautiful flowers. In the centre, above the head, the sun-loving "Clytie" stretched out her arms, bidding a passionate farewell to her god.

The coffin was borne away to the Academy on Saturday, February 1, previous to the funeral on the Monday.

Clytie"CLYTIE." 1896By permission of the Fine Art Society, the owners of the CopyrightToList

"CLYTIE." 1896By permission of the Fine Art Society, the owners of the CopyrightToList

The following is a correct account of the public funeral, written on the day it took place, and forwarded to Leighton's birthplace.

At half-past ten this morning, by which time a dense crowd had collected in the neighbourhood of the Royal Academy, the workmen commenced to remove the numerous wreaths from the Central Hall, where the body of Lord Leighton has rested since Saturday night, and to load the huge floral car. Prominent among these wreaths was one from the Princess Christian; but that from the Prince and Princess of Wales was conveyed in a separate carriage by representatives of the Prince and Princess, General Ellis and Lord Colville of Culross. The wreath consisted of choice white flowers rising from a bank of delicate green foliage, and attached was a card written by the Princess of Wales, and inscribed as follows:—"Life's race well run,Life's work well done,Life's Crown well won,Now comes rest."Then follow the words, "A mark of sincere and affectionate regard, esteem, and admiration for a great artist and much beloved friend, from Alexandra and Albert Edward." At the head of the card were the words, "To Sir Frederic Leighton."There was also a wreath from the Empress Frederick, bearing the words: "From Victoria, Empress Frederick," in the Empress's own writing.The Queen's wreath for the funeral of Lord Leighton was sent from Buckingham Palace this morning to Colonel the Honourable W. Carington, by whom it was conveyed to St. Paul's Cathedral. The wreath is composed of laurel, entwined with which are immortelles, and it is tied with broad satin ribbon. Attached to the wreath is an autograph card from Her Majesty, with the following inscription: "A mark of respect from Victoria, R.I."About five minutes to eleven the coffin was removed from the Central Hall, and carried through the vestibule into the quadrangle. A detachment of the Artists' Volunteers was drawn up here, and saluted the coffin as soon as it emerged into the open by presenting arms. The remains were placed in a glass hearse, and the volunteers took up their position at the front and sides. The pall-bearers, relatives, and others meanwhile formed in procession, and punctually at eleven the cortège left the Academy, the crowd reverentially uncovering as the hearse passed into the street. The whole length of the route, from Piccadilly to St. Paul's, was lined with people; but the crowds were quiet and orderly, and maintained a clear space for the funeral cortège without the assistance of the police. The volunteers marched with arms reversed, and the remains of the deceased artist were carried to their last resting-place with every manifestation of mournful regret. Flags were at half-mast on many public buildings, and as the solemn procession passed slowly along, the remains were reverently saluted by the crowd. Passing into Pall Mall by Charing Cross, the procession wended its way through Northumberland Street, proceeding thence along the Thames Embankment, New Bridge Street, and Ludgate Hill, St. Paul's being reached shortly before noon.The service in the Cathedral, which occupied an hour, was at once picturesque as a spectacle and impressive in its solemnity as a religious function.More than an hour before the time appointed for the arrival of the funeral cortège, the space available to the public in St.Paul's was occupied, and a few minutes after eleven o'clock, visitors of distinction, who had been provided with special invitations, began to fill up the reserved seats in the transept.Among those present were representatives of the Royal Family, the German Emperor, and the King of Belgium, members of both Houses of Parliament, including the Speaker; delegates from learned bodies and artistic associations, as well as from the art committees of various provincial municipalities.The first lesson was read by the Dean, and the succeeding passages were given by the Bishop of Stepney; but the greater part of the service was undertaken by the Archbishop of York, chaplain of the Royal Academy. The musical portions of the service were exceptionally fine, and included, as a somewhat unusual feature, a trombone quartette.Lord Salisbury had promised to be one of the pall-bearers, but found himself unable to attend. The pall-bearers were Major-General Ellis, representing the Prince and Princess of Wales; the Duke of Abercorn, Sir Joseph Lister, Sir J. Millais, Sir E. Thompson, Sir A. Mackenzie, and Professor Lecky.After the coffin was lowered into the crypt by a central opening directly beneath the dome, the two sisters of the late Lord Leighton came to the front, and took a last look at it. When the coffin was lowered many beautiful flowers were placed upon it, and again, after the opening was covered up, the space was more than covered by further wreaths sent by various Academicians, the Royal Academy, students, and personal friends, many of whom lingered some time after the conclusion of the solemn ceremony.Scarborough Evening News, February 3, 1896.

"Life's race well run,Life's work well done,Life's Crown well won,Now comes rest."

Then follow the words, "A mark of sincere and affectionate regard, esteem, and admiration for a great artist and much beloved friend, from Alexandra and Albert Edward." At the head of the card were the words, "To Sir Frederic Leighton."There was also a wreath from the Empress Frederick, bearing the words: "From Victoria, Empress Frederick," in the Empress's own writing.

The Queen's wreath for the funeral of Lord Leighton was sent from Buckingham Palace this morning to Colonel the Honourable W. Carington, by whom it was conveyed to St. Paul's Cathedral. The wreath is composed of laurel, entwined with which are immortelles, and it is tied with broad satin ribbon. Attached to the wreath is an autograph card from Her Majesty, with the following inscription: "A mark of respect from Victoria, R.I."

About five minutes to eleven the coffin was removed from the Central Hall, and carried through the vestibule into the quadrangle. A detachment of the Artists' Volunteers was drawn up here, and saluted the coffin as soon as it emerged into the open by presenting arms. The remains were placed in a glass hearse, and the volunteers took up their position at the front and sides. The pall-bearers, relatives, and others meanwhile formed in procession, and punctually at eleven the cortège left the Academy, the crowd reverentially uncovering as the hearse passed into the street. The whole length of the route, from Piccadilly to St. Paul's, was lined with people; but the crowds were quiet and orderly, and maintained a clear space for the funeral cortège without the assistance of the police. The volunteers marched with arms reversed, and the remains of the deceased artist were carried to their last resting-place with every manifestation of mournful regret. Flags were at half-mast on many public buildings, and as the solemn procession passed slowly along, the remains were reverently saluted by the crowd. Passing into Pall Mall by Charing Cross, the procession wended its way through Northumberland Street, proceeding thence along the Thames Embankment, New Bridge Street, and Ludgate Hill, St. Paul's being reached shortly before noon.

The service in the Cathedral, which occupied an hour, was at once picturesque as a spectacle and impressive in its solemnity as a religious function.

More than an hour before the time appointed for the arrival of the funeral cortège, the space available to the public in St.Paul's was occupied, and a few minutes after eleven o'clock, visitors of distinction, who had been provided with special invitations, began to fill up the reserved seats in the transept.

Among those present were representatives of the Royal Family, the German Emperor, and the King of Belgium, members of both Houses of Parliament, including the Speaker; delegates from learned bodies and artistic associations, as well as from the art committees of various provincial municipalities.

The first lesson was read by the Dean, and the succeeding passages were given by the Bishop of Stepney; but the greater part of the service was undertaken by the Archbishop of York, chaplain of the Royal Academy. The musical portions of the service were exceptionally fine, and included, as a somewhat unusual feature, a trombone quartette.

Lord Salisbury had promised to be one of the pall-bearers, but found himself unable to attend. The pall-bearers were Major-General Ellis, representing the Prince and Princess of Wales; the Duke of Abercorn, Sir Joseph Lister, Sir J. Millais, Sir E. Thompson, Sir A. Mackenzie, and Professor Lecky.

After the coffin was lowered into the crypt by a central opening directly beneath the dome, the two sisters of the late Lord Leighton came to the front, and took a last look at it. When the coffin was lowered many beautiful flowers were placed upon it, and again, after the opening was covered up, the space was more than covered by further wreaths sent by various Academicians, the Royal Academy, students, and personal friends, many of whom lingered some time after the conclusion of the solemn ceremony.

Scarborough Evening News, February 3, 1896.

Leighton's death touched, as did his life, all sorts and conditions of men; for he had been the true friend alike of the greatest and of the least. The soil in which true distinction is rooted is of a quality too rich, too fertile to be affected by class prejudice. Leighton's own life was made beautiful by the gratitude he felt for the joy nature's loveliness inspired in his soul, and by the passion to make knownthrough his work the mysterious treasure, the never-failing fountain of delight, ever springing up in his heart. Lovingly human, he ardently desired not only to pass on his own joy in beauty to every fellow-creature who crossed his path, but, where he saw in any possible way help could be given, to give it.

Of the eager, great-hearted Leighton, not a few can echo Romola's tribute to Savonarola—the last words of the great book whose pages he vivified with his art: "Perhaps I should never have learned to love him if he had not helped me when I was in great need."

A light has passed that never shall pass away,A sun has set whose rays are unequalled of might;The loyal grace, the courtesy bright as day,The strong, sweet, radiant spirit of life and light,That shone and smiled and lightened in all men's sight,The kindly life whose tune was the tune of May,For us now dark, for love and for fame is bright.Algernon Charles Swinburne.[88]

Algernon Charles Swinburne.[88]

Leighton MonumentMONUMENT IN ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL, ERECTED AS A MEMORIAL TO LORD LEIGHTON BY HIS FRIENDS AND ADMIRERSSculptured by Thomas Brock, R.A.ToList

MONUMENT IN ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL, ERECTED AS A MEMORIAL TO LORD LEIGHTON BY HIS FRIENDS AND ADMIRERSSculptured by Thomas Brock, R.A.ToList

Leighton HouseView of Inner Hall and Staircase of Leighton House, with reproduction of Mr. Thomas Brock's R.A. Diplomawork, Bust of Lord Leighton, presented by Mr. Brock to the Leighton House Collection in 1898.By permission of Mr. J. Harris Stone.ToList

View of Inner Hall and Staircase of Leighton House, with reproduction of Mr. Thomas Brock's R.A. Diplomawork, Bust of Lord Leighton, presented by Mr. Brock to the Leighton House Collection in 1898.By permission of Mr. J. Harris Stone.ToList

[83]"Life and Letters of Robert Browning."

[84]Professor Giovanni Costa.

[85]It was during this last visit to Malinmore Leighton made those sketches of the sea thistle (seechapter iii. vol. i.), and also some last sketches in oil.

[86]Leighton had visited Mr. Pepys Cockerell and his family at Lindisfarne (Holy Island) more than once when going or returning from Scotland.

[87]Mr. Percy Fitzgerald wrote the following:—"Being in the same club with Lord Leighton, I could note many instances of his good humour and sweetness of temper. I am happy to think, for it was a high compliment from him, that he made my acquaintance, not I his. He had always a pleasant word; as when, entering the writing-room with his hasty tramp, he looked over at me, seated at the window pencil in hand, and rushed over in his impetuous way: "Ah, one ofourtrade, I see!" He was particularly interested in a museum or institute at Camberwell, and one day thanked me most warmly for having gone down to lecture there, and that it was appreciated by the people, &c. This was good-natured."The day he received his title, an old gentleman of the club, who did not know him, congratulated him as he passed by in high-sounding Italian. He was delighted, and poured out a reply in the same tongue, adding some pleasant remark. This little incident quite illustrates hisbonhomie. It is just what Dickens would do. I gave him a copy of Sir Joshua's Discourses, a presentation one to Burke. It was fitting that the modern President should have it."How tragic were his last appearances at the Academysoirée! How jaded, shrunk and haggard looked the once handsome painter! He must have suffered cruelly, and at the end seemed worn out. There was something of a likeness to the lamented Irving, the same sweetness of manner, the same grace and romantic view of things. His dress was characteristic, somewhat showy, yet not scrupulously neat like a dandy. His clothes, like Irving's, seemed old friends, and lay about him in roomy fashion. His somewhat unkempt beard left some traces on the lapels of his favourite snuff-coloured coat with the flowing tails. The blue or red silk, its ends flying free, was a note of colour. Three men of mark, and on some points resembling each other, had each this fancy for a somewhat theatrical attire."I noticed that a nervous guest innocently presented to the porter a ticket for some artisticsoirée, which was declined, to the embarrassment of the visitor. But Leighton promptly stepped forward, and kindly came to his rescue. It was curious that those three eminent artistic beings, Dickens, Leighton, and Irving, should have perished from outwearing their nervous systems, Leighton and Irving from heart-failure, Dickens from an overtaxed brain."

[87]Mr. Percy Fitzgerald wrote the following:—

"Being in the same club with Lord Leighton, I could note many instances of his good humour and sweetness of temper. I am happy to think, for it was a high compliment from him, that he made my acquaintance, not I his. He had always a pleasant word; as when, entering the writing-room with his hasty tramp, he looked over at me, seated at the window pencil in hand, and rushed over in his impetuous way: "Ah, one ofourtrade, I see!" He was particularly interested in a museum or institute at Camberwell, and one day thanked me most warmly for having gone down to lecture there, and that it was appreciated by the people, &c. This was good-natured."The day he received his title, an old gentleman of the club, who did not know him, congratulated him as he passed by in high-sounding Italian. He was delighted, and poured out a reply in the same tongue, adding some pleasant remark. This little incident quite illustrates hisbonhomie. It is just what Dickens would do. I gave him a copy of Sir Joshua's Discourses, a presentation one to Burke. It was fitting that the modern President should have it."How tragic were his last appearances at the Academysoirée! How jaded, shrunk and haggard looked the once handsome painter! He must have suffered cruelly, and at the end seemed worn out. There was something of a likeness to the lamented Irving, the same sweetness of manner, the same grace and romantic view of things. His dress was characteristic, somewhat showy, yet not scrupulously neat like a dandy. His clothes, like Irving's, seemed old friends, and lay about him in roomy fashion. His somewhat unkempt beard left some traces on the lapels of his favourite snuff-coloured coat with the flowing tails. The blue or red silk, its ends flying free, was a note of colour. Three men of mark, and on some points resembling each other, had each this fancy for a somewhat theatrical attire."I noticed that a nervous guest innocently presented to the porter a ticket for some artisticsoirée, which was declined, to the embarrassment of the visitor. But Leighton promptly stepped forward, and kindly came to his rescue. It was curious that those three eminent artistic beings, Dickens, Leighton, and Irving, should have perished from outwearing their nervous systems, Leighton and Irving from heart-failure, Dickens from an overtaxed brain."

"The day he received his title, an old gentleman of the club, who did not know him, congratulated him as he passed by in high-sounding Italian. He was delighted, and poured out a reply in the same tongue, adding some pleasant remark. This little incident quite illustrates hisbonhomie. It is just what Dickens would do. I gave him a copy of Sir Joshua's Discourses, a presentation one to Burke. It was fitting that the modern President should have it.

"How tragic were his last appearances at the Academysoirée! How jaded, shrunk and haggard looked the once handsome painter! He must have suffered cruelly, and at the end seemed worn out. There was something of a likeness to the lamented Irving, the same sweetness of manner, the same grace and romantic view of things. His dress was characteristic, somewhat showy, yet not scrupulously neat like a dandy. His clothes, like Irving's, seemed old friends, and lay about him in roomy fashion. His somewhat unkempt beard left some traces on the lapels of his favourite snuff-coloured coat with the flowing tails. The blue or red silk, its ends flying free, was a note of colour. Three men of mark, and on some points resembling each other, had each this fancy for a somewhat theatrical attire.

"I noticed that a nervous guest innocently presented to the porter a ticket for some artisticsoirée, which was declined, to the embarrassment of the visitor. But Leighton promptly stepped forward, and kindly came to his rescue. It was curious that those three eminent artistic beings, Dickens, Leighton, and Irving, should have perished from outwearing their nervous systems, Leighton and Irving from heart-failure, Dickens from an overtaxed brain."

[88]"A Reminiscence," Leighton, 1896.

Delivered bySir F. Leighton, Bart., P.R.A.,at the Art Congress, held at Liverpool, December 3rd, 1888.

I cannot but feel that to some of my hearers, and to not a few of those who do not hear me, but whom the words spoken in this place may chance to reach through the Press, some brief explanation is, at the outset, due as to my occupancy of this chair. To them it is known that weighty reasons have for many years compelled me to decline all requests—and those requests have been frequent, urgent, and most gratifying to me in form and spirit—that I should publicly address audiences, beyond the walls of Burlington House, on the subject which is to occupy this Congress, the subject of Art. It is not without some compunction that I have followed this course, but the exigencies, on the one hand, of the duties of my office, and, on the other, a firm purpose, which you will not, I hope, rebuke, to remain always and before all things a working artist, have left to my too limited strength and powers no alternative but that which I have adopted. Nevertheless, I have felt justified in obeying the summons of the founders of this Congress—and for this reason that, while the far-reaching character of the effort here initiated, and my earnest desire to contribute, in however small a measure, to whatever of good may flow from it have seemed to make it incumbent on me to accept the duty of saying a few words on this occasion, its comprehensive and national character lifts it into a category wholly apart from and outside the sphere of purely local interests such as those which I had hitherto been invited to support.

I trust I shall be pardoned this short obtrusion of private considerations, and that you will see in it not a movement of egotism but the discharge of a simple debt of courtesy; which said, let me address myself to the task imposed upon me—the task of showing cause and need for the existence of the association which inaugurates to-day its public work, and of arousing, if it is in my power, your efficient sympathy in that work, that it may not remain barren and without fruit. But here I am at once conscious of a perplexity lurking in your minds. "Why," I hear you ask, "should an organisation have been called into life for the sole purpose of considering in public matters relating to the development and spread of art in this country? What hitherto unfulfilled ends do you seek to achieve? Do you aim at the wider extension of artistic education in this country? But vast sums from the public purse are annually devoted to its promotion; schools of art multiply, one might almost say swarm, over the face of the land. Or do you tax the great municipal bodies of England with remissness on this score? But day by day efforts in this direction among the great provincial centres of trade and industry become more marked and effectual. No announcement more frequently meets our eyes than that of the opening, with due ceremony and circumstance, and seemingly with full recognition that the event is an important one, of spacious public galleries for the annual exhibition, or for the permanent housing, of works of contemporary art. Or does art find private individuals lacking in that noble spirit which so often prompts Englishmen to devote to the enjoyment and profit of their fellow-citizens a large share of the wealth gained by them in the pursuit of their avocations? But a great gallery of art which rises hard by across the road would shame and silence any such assertion. Or, again, can it be denied that what encouragement to artists is afforded by the purchase of innumerable pictures, at all events, was never more liberally meted out to them than within our generation, and does not the crowding of exhibitions, of which the name is legion, evince abundantly the responsive attitude of the country, as far at least as one of the arts is concerned? Are not statues multiplying in our streets? Is not architecture, as an art, finding at this timeincreasing, if tardy, acceptance at the hands of private individuals? Is not a wholesome sense dawning among us that even a private dwelling should not offend, nay, should conciliate, the eye of the passer-by in our public thoroughfares? and lastly, has not a more than marked improvement taken place within our day in the character of all those intimate domestic surroundings which are the daily diet of our eyes, and should be daily their delight? Are these not facts patent to all, and do they not seem to cut from under your feet the ground on which you seek to stand?" Yes, all this and more may be said; and I should be blind as an observer—I should be ungrateful as one speaking in the name of artists—did I not recognise the force of these words which I have put into the mouth of an imaginary querist. I acknowledge with joy that there is in all these facts, and still more in their significance, much on which we may justly congratulate ourselves, much that points to a quickening consciousness, a stirring of slumbering æsthetic impulse, a receptive readiness, a growing malleability in the general temper, which promise well; and it is precisely such a condition of things which justifies our hope of good results from this Congress, and in it we find our best encouragement.

Well, what then is our charge in respect to the present relation of the country to art? What are the shortcomings for which we are here to seek a remedy? Our charge is that with the great majority of Englishmen the appreciation of art, as art, is blunt, is superficial, is desultory, is spasmodic; that our countrymen have no adequate perception of the place of art as an element of national greatness; that they do not count its achievements among the sources of their national pride; that they do not appreciate its vital importance in the present day to certain branches of national prosperity; that while what is excellent receives from them honour and recognition, what is ignoble and hideous is not detested by them, is, indeed, accepted and borne with a dull, indifferent acquiescence; that the æsthetic consciousness is not with them a living force, impelling them towards the beautiful, and rebelling against the unsightly. We charge that while a desire to possess works of art, but especially pictures, is very widespread, it is in a large number, perhapsin a majority of cases, not the essential quality of art that has attracted the purchaser to his acquisition; not the emanation of beauty in any one of its innumerable forms, but something outside and wholly independent of art. In a word, there is, we charge, among the many in our country, little consciousness that every product of men's hands claiming to rank as a work of art, be it lofty in its uses and monumental, or lowly and dedicated to humble ends, be it a temple or a palace, the sacred home of prayer or a Sovereign's boasted seat, be it a statue or a picture, or any implement or utensil bearing the traces of an artist's thought and the imprint of an artist's finger—there is, I say, little adequate consciousness that each of these works is a work of art only on condition that, is a work of art exactly in proportion as, it contains within itself the precious spark from the Promethean rod, the divine fire-germ of living beauty; and that the presence of this divine germ ennobles and lifts into one and the same family every creation which reveals it; for even as the life-sustaining fire which streams out in splendour from the sun's molten heart is one with the fire which lurks for our uses in the grey and homely flint, so the vital flame of beauty is one and the same, though kindled now to higher and now to humbler purpose, whether it be manifest in the creations of a Phidias or of a Michael Angelo, of an Ictinus or of some nameless builder of a sublime cathedral; in a jewel designed by Holbein or a lamp from Pompeii, a sword-hilt from Toledo, a caprice in ivory from Japan or the enamelled frontlet of an Egyptian queen. We say, further, that the absence of this perception is fraught with infinite mischief, direct and indirect, to the development of art among us, tending, as it does, to divorce from it whole classes of industrial production, and incalculably narrowing the field of the influence of beauty in our lives. And with the absence of this true æsthetic instinct, we find not unnaturally the absence of any national consciousness that the sense of what is beautiful, and the manifestation of that sense through the language of art, adorn and exalt a people in the face of the world and before the tribunal of history; a national consciousness which should become a national conscience—a sense, that is, of public duty and of a collective responsibility in regard to this loveliest flower of civilisation.

Well, it is in the belief that the consciousness of which I have spoken is rather dormant with us than absent, waiting to be aroused rather than wholly wanting, that the founders of this Association have initiated the movement which has brought you together, and laid upon me the ungracious task to which I am now addressing myself—a task I have accepted in the hope that, at least, some good to others may come out of the wreck and ruin of any character for courtesy which may hitherto have been conceded to me.

But let us now look closer into my indictment; and let us, first, for a moment, and by way of getting at a standard, turn our thoughts to one or two of those races among which art has reached its highest level and round whose memory art has shed an inextinguishable splendour. Let us first consider the Greek race in the day of its greatest achievements and the most perfect balance of its transcendent gifts. What is it that impresses us most in the contemplation of the artistic activity of this race? It is, first, that the stirring æsthetic instinct, the impulse towards and absolute need of beauty, was universal with it, and lay, a living force, at the root of its emotional being; and, secondly, that the Greeks were conscious of this impulse as of a just source of pride and a sign of their supremacy among the nations. So saturated were they with it that whatever left their hands bore its stamp. Whatever of Greek work has been preserved to us, temple or statue, vessel or implement, is marked with the same attributes of stately and rhythmic beauty; in all their creations, from the highest to the lowest, one spirit lives, and whatever be the rank of each of these creations in the hierarchy of works of art, in one thing they are even-born and kin—in the spirit of loveliness. And of the dignity of this artistic instinct, which they regarded as their birthright, they were, as I have said, proudly conscious. Would you have an instance of this high consciousness? Here is one. At the end of the first year of the Peloponnesian war the Athenians having, according to ancestral custom, decreed a public funeral to those who had fallen in battle, Pericles, the son of Xanthippus, was chosen by them to speak the praises of the dead. It is a famous speech, that in which he obeyed their injunction, and it opens with a lofty eulogy of the Republic for which the heroeswhom they mourned had fallen. In this magnificent song of praise he enumerates the virtues of the Athenians; he shows them heroic, wise, just, tolerant,lovers of beauty, philosophers—in all things foremost amongst men. Mark this! At a celebration of the most moving solemnity—in a breathing space between two acts of a gigantic international struggle for hegemony—you have here a great statesman enumerating the titles of his fellow-citizens to headship among the nations, and placing not at the end of his panegyric and as an oratorical embellishment, but in its very heart and centre, these words: "We love the beautiful."

But we may gain, perhaps, a yet more vivid sense of the extent to which the artistic impulse possessed and filled this people in the fascinating epitome of Grecian handicraft which is presented to us in Pompeii, or rather in the Museo Nazionale at Naples. Here you have the work, not of Athenian Greeks, of the Periclean or of the Alexandrian age, but the work of provincial Greeks inhabiting a watering-place of no very great importance, in the first century of our era; a period as far removed from the days of the Parthenon sculptures as we are from the days of the Canterbury Tales. And what a display it is! How full of interest! Here we are admitted into the most intimate privacy of a multitude of Pompeian houses—the kitchens, the pantries, the cellars of the contemporaries of the Plinies have here no secret for us; indeed, for aught we know, more than one of those dinners of which that delicatebon vivant, the nephew of the naturalist, was so appreciative a judge may have been cooked in one of these very ranges, one of these ladles may have skimmed his soup, his quails may have been roasted on yonder spit. Nothing is wanting that goes to make the complete armament of a kitchen—stoves, cauldrons, vessels of every kind, lamps of every shape, forks, spoons, ladles of every dimension. And in all this mass of manifold material perhaps the most marked characteristic is not the high level of executive merit it reveals, high as that level is, but the amazing wealth ofidea, the marvellous intellectual activity brought to bear on what we now call objects of industrial art—whatever that may mean—in this outpost of Greek civilisation. These accumulated appliances of the kitchen and the pantry form a museum of art—a museumof art of inexhaustible fascination; and not only does this vast collection of necessary things contain nothing ugly, but it displays, as I have just said, an amazing wealth of ideas; each bowl, each lamp, each spoon almost, is an individual work of art, a separate and distinct conception, a special birth of the joy of creation in a genuine artist. But, above all, let us bear this fact in mind—the absence there of any ugly thing; for the instinct of what is beautiful not only delights and seeks to express itself in lovely work, but forbids and banishes whatever is graceless and unsightly.

As next to the Greeks, and as almost their equals in this craving for the beautiful, the Italians will occur to you. And here it may be well to note, in a parenthesis, that a vivid sense of abstract beauty in line and form does not necessarily carry with it a keen perception of shapliness in the human frame. This curious fact we see strikingly illustrated in a race which possesses the artistic instinct in certain of its developments in a greater degree than any other in our time—I mean the Japanese. With them the sense of decorative distribution and of subtle loveliness of form and colour is absolutely universal, and expresses itself in every most ordinary appliance of daily life, overflowing, indeed, into every toy or trifle that may amuse an idle moment; and yet majesty and beauty in the human form are as absent from their works as from their persons. Be this said without prejudice to the fact that in the movement imparted by them to the figures in their designs there is often much of daintiness and dignity, the outcome of that keen perception of beauty of line in the abstract which we have seen to be dominant in them. I need not follow further this, I think, interesting train of thought, but the digression seemed to me useful, not as illustrating the fact that beauty is not to be regarded only in connection with the human form, which is a mere truism, but as showing that the abstract sense of it, in certain aspects, may possess and penetrate a race in which the perception of comeliness in the human body is almost entirely absent; and I meet by it also, in anticipation, certain objections that may suggest themselves to you in connection with the Italians, as far, at least, as the Tuscans are concerned; for in them, too, we find occasionally, side by side with an unsurpassed sense of the expressiveness of line and form, a defective perception of beautyin the human frame—witness the ungainly angularities, for instance, of a Verrocchio, a Gozzoli, a Signorelli.

The thirst for the artistically delightful was the mark in Italy of no particular class; it was common to all, high and low, to the Pontiff on his throne, to the trader behind his counter, to the people in the market-place. And here, again, observe that this desire was not alone for the adornment of walls and public places with painting and statuary—though every wall in every church or public building was, in fact, enriched by the hand of painters and of sculptors—but it embraced every humbler form of artistic expression, and was, indeed, especially directed to one which has in our time touched, here and there, a melancholy depth—the craft of the goldsmith. I said "humbler form" of art for lack of a better word; for a craft cannot fitly be called humble which has occupied and delighted men of the very highest gifts. Did not the mind that conceived the "Perseus" of the Loggia dei Lanzi pour out some of its richest fancies in a jewelled salt-cellar for the table of a Pope? Did not the sublimest genius that ever shone upon the world of art receive its first guidance in the workshop of a jeweller—a jeweller who was himself a painter also of high renown? For was it not that painter-goldsmith whose hands adorned with noble frescoes the famous choir of Sta. Maria Novella?

Now, to a cultured audience such as that which I am here addressing, these facts are familiar and trite, so trite and so familiar that it may, perhaps, be doubted whether their true significance has ever stood quite clearly before your minds, and whether you have fully grasped the solidarity of the arts—if I may use an outlandish expression—which at one time prevailed. Let us in imagination transfer the last quoted fact into contemporary life. Let us suppose that the municipality of a great English city, proud of its annals and of its culture, determined to decorate with paintings in some comprehensive manner the walls of a great public building; and suppose, further, that an artist, admittedly of the first rank, were to answer to its call from the workshop—and I say advisedly from the workshop, for it is there, and not on an armchair in the office, that the head of the house would have been found in the old day—suppose, I say, that such anartist came forth from some great firm of jewellers, in Bond Street for instance, we should have, on the artistic side, the exact parallel of the case of the Dominicans of Sta. Maria Nuova and Domenico, the son of Thomas the garland-maker of Florence. Meanwhile, striking as is this instance of the unity of art in long past days, it is but just to add, and I rejoice to be able here to do so, that signs are not wanting on the side of our own artists of a strong tendency towards a return to closer bonds between its various branches, in which direction, indeed, a movement has been for some years increasingly marked and practical; and it is with a glad outlook into the future, and with a sense of breathing a wider air, that I place by the side of the cases which I have just mentioned—cases which were, in their time, of natural and frequent occurrence—one which is of yesterday. The chief magistrate of an important provincial centre of English industry, the Mayor of Preston, wears at this time a chain of office which is a beautiful work of art, and this chain was not only designed but wrought throughout by the sculptor who modelled the stately commemorative statue of the Queen that adorns the County Square of Winchester, the artist who presides over the section of sculpture in this Congress, my young friend and colleague, Mr. Alfred Gilbert.

I have pointed to the Italians and the Greeks as culminating instances of people filled with a love of beauty and achieving the highest excellence in its embodiment, and I have named the Japanese as manifesting the æsthetic temper in a high degree of sensitiveness, but within certain limitations. It is not necessary to remind you that I might extend this list, if with some qualification, and that the same lesson—the lesson that the nations which love beauty seek it in the humblest as well as the highest things—is taught us by others than those I have mentioned. Whosoever, for instance, has wondered at the work of Persian looms, or felt the fascination of the manuscripts illuminated by the artists of Iran, or noted the unfailing grace of subtle line revealed in their metal-work, will feel that for this race also the merit of a work of art did not reside in its category, but in the degree to which it manifested the spirit which alone could ennoble it, the spirit of beauty. And if, further, this dominant instinct of the beautiful is not in our own time found in any Western race in its fullestforce, and among one Eastern people, with, as we saw, important limitations, there is yet one modern nation in our own hemisphere in which the thirst for artistic excellence is widespread to a degree unknown elsewhere in Europe; a people with whom the sense of the dignity of artistic achievement, as an element of national greatness, an element which it is the duty of its Government to foster and to further, and to proclaim before the world, is keen and constant; I mean, of course, your brilliant neighbours, the people of France. Here, then, are standards to which we may appeal to see how far, all allowance being made for many signs of improvement in things concerning art, we yet fall short, as a nation, of the ideal which we should have before us.

Let me now revert to my indictment. I said that the sense of abstract beauty with the mass of our countrymen—and once again I must be understood not to ignore, but only to leave out of view for the moment, the considerable and growing number of those in whom this sense is astir and active—with the mass, I repeat, of our countrymen, the perception of beauty is blunt, and the desire for it sluggish and superficial; with them the beautiful is, indeed, sometimes a source of vague, half-conscious satisfaction, especially when it appeals to them conjointly with other incitements to emotion, but their perception of it is passive, and does not pass into active desire; it accepts, it does not demand; it is uncertain of itself, for it lacks definiteness of intuition, and having no definite intuition, it is necessarily uncritical. This weakness, among the many, of the critical faculty in æsthetic matters, and the curious bluntness of their perceptions, is seen not in connection with the plastic arts only, but over the whole artistic field, in the domains of music and the drama, as in that of painting and sculpture. Who, for instance, where a body of English men and women has been gathered together in a concert room, has not, at one moment, heard a storm of applause go up to meet some matchless executant of noble music, and then, five minutes later, watched in wonder and dismay the same crepitation of eager hands proclaiming an equal satisfaction with the efforts of some feeblest servant of Apollo? Or have you not often, in your theatres, blushed to see the lowest buffoonery received with exuberant delight by an audience—anda cultivated audience—which had just before not seemed insensible to some fine piece of histrionic art? And what could proclaim the lack of true, spontaneous instinct in more startling fashion than the notorious fact that the most thrilling touch of pathos in the performance of an actor reputed to be comic will be infallibly received with a titter by a British audience, which has paid to laugh and come to the play focussed for the funny?

Now this little glimpse into the attitude of the public in regard to other arts than ours has its bearing upon our present subject. This same feebleness of the critical sense which arises out of the indefiniteness—to say the best of it—of the inner standard of artistic excellence, is not unnaturally accompanied by and fosters an apathy in regard to that excellence, and an attitude of callous acquiescence in the unsightly, which are inexpressibly mischievous; for you cannot too strongly print this on your minds, that what you demand that will you get, and according to what you accept will be that which is provided for you. Let an atmosphere be generated among you in which the appetite for what is beautiful and noble is whetted and becomes imperative, in which whatever is ugly and vulgar shall be repugnant and hateful to the beholder, and assuredly what is beautiful and noble will, in due time, be furnished to you, and in steadily increasing excellence, satisfying your taste, and at the same time further purifying it and heightening its sensitiveness.

The enemy, then, is this indifference in the presence of the ugly; it is only by the victory over this apathy that you can rise to better things, it is only by the rooting out and extermination of what is ugly that you can bring about conditions in which beauty shall be a power among you. Now, this callous tolerance of the unsightly, although it is, I am grateful to think, yielding by degrees to a healthier feeling, is still strangely prevalent and widespread among us, and its deadening influence is seen in the too frequent absence of any articulate protest of public opinion against the disfigurement of our towns.

Let me give you an instance of this indifference. Our country is happy in possessing a collection of paintings by the old masters of exceptional interest and splendour, a collection which, thanks to the taste and highly trained discernment of its presentaccomplished head, Sir Frederick Burton, is, with what speed the short-sighted policy of successive Governments permits, rising steadily to a foremost place among the famous galleries in the world. Some years ago, the building destined to receive it being found no longer adequate, it became necessary to provide, by some means, ampler space for the display of the national treasure. It was resolved that another edifice should take the place of that designed by Wilkins, an edifice which, be it said in passing, has been made the butt of curiously unmerited ridicule in the world of connoisseurship, and which, apart from certain very obvious blemishes, it has always seemed to me to be much easier to deride than to better. A competition was opened, and designs were demanded for a spacious building, equal to present and future needs, and worthy of the magnificence of the collection it was to house. It is hardly necessary to say that we have here no concern whatever with the controversy which arose over these designs. My concern is with its final outcome, which is this: the original building has remained unaltered as to its exterior; but on the rear of one of its flanks loom now into view, first, an appendage in an entirely different style of architecture, and further on, an excrescence of no style of architecture at all; the one an Italian tower, the other a flat cone of glass, surmounted by a ventilator—a structure of the warehouse type—the whole resulting in a jarring jumble and an aspect of chaotic incongruity which would be ludicrous if it were not distressing; and we enjoy, further, this instructive phenomenon that a public opinion which sensitively shrank from the blemishes of the original edifice has accepted its retention, with all those blemishes unmodified,plusan appendage which adds to the whole the worst almost of all sins architectural—a lack of unity of conception. Now, I have never to my knowledge heard one single word of articulate public reprobation levelled at this now irremediable blot on what we complacently call the finest site in the world; and yet I cannot find it in me to believe that many have not, like myself, groaned in spirit before a spectacle so deplorable—a spectacle which, indeed, is only conceivable within these islands. I think that a good deal is summed up in this episode, and I need not, for my present purpose, seek another in the domain of architecture.

In regard to sculpture, the public apathy and blindness are yet more depressing and complete, and illustrate the deadness of the many to the perception of the essential qualities of art. To the overwhelming majority of Englishmen sculpture means simply the perpetuation of the form of Mr. So-and-So in marble, bronze, or terra-cotta—this, and no more. That marble, bronze, or terra-cotta may, under cunning hands, become vehicles, for those who have eyes to see, of emotions, æsthetic and poetic, not less lofty than those which are stirred in us by the verse of a Dante or a Milton, or by strains of noblest music, of this the consciousness is for practical purposes non-existent. For sculpture, for an art through which alone the name of Greece would have been famous for all time, there is, outside portraiture, even now, under conditions admittedly improved, little or no field in this country. Portrait-statues galore bristle, indeed, within our streets; but the notion of setting up in public places pieces of monumental sculpture solely for adornment and dignity, or of monuments that shall remind us of deeds in which our country or our town has earned fame and deserved gratitude, and incite the young to emulation of those deeds, or that shall be the allegorised expression of any great idea—and yet our race has had great ideas, and clothed them in deeds as great—hardly ever, it would seem, enters the heads of a people whose aspirations are surely not less noble or less high than those of other nations. Nay, even a monument commemorative of the great public services of some individual man which shall be a monumenttohim rather than exclusively an imageofhim, a monument of which his effigy shall form a part, but of which the main feature shall be the embodiment or illustration, in forms of art, of the virtues that have earned for him the homage of his countrymen—even this is suggested in vain.

And if we are tolerant of treason against fitness in architecture, what shall we say of our tolerance in regard to its sculptural adornments? What shall we say of the complacent acceptance, above and about windows and doorways in clubs, offices, barracks, and the like buildings, of carven wonders such as no other civilised community would accept in silence? Though I fear I must here, with all deference, add that my brethren, thearchitects, who suffer their work to be so defaced, are themselves not wholly blameless; and indeed, it is a truth in the assertion of which the most enlightened workmen in every branch of art will stand by me, that among ourselves also the sense of the kinship of the arts is too often a mere theory, received, no doubt, with respect as an abstract proposition, but not perceptibly colouring our practical activity.

In sculpture the inertness of demand and tolerance of inferior supply is due mainly to the want, to which I have alluded, of a sense of and a joy in the purely æsthetic quality in artistic production, an insensibility to the power inherent in form, by its own virtue, of producing the emotion and exciting the imagination, a power on which the dignity of this pure and severe art does or should mainly rest.

In the appreciation of painting, which on various grounds appeals as an art to a far wider public than either architecture or sculpture, the same shortcomings are evident, though in a less degree, and with less mischievous results; for the witchery of colour, at least, is felt and appreciated, more or less consciously, by a very large number of people. The inadequacy of the general standard of artistic insight is here seen in the fact that to a great multitude of persons the attractiveness of a painted canvas is in proportion to the amount of literary element which it carries, not in proportion to the degree of æsthetic emotion stirred by it, or of appeal to the imagination contained in it—persons, those, who regard a picture as a compound of anecdote and mechanism, and with whom looking at it would seem to mean only another form of reading. Time after time, in listening to the description—the enthusiastic description—of a picture, we become aware that the points emphasised by the speaker are such as did not specially call for treatment in art at all, were often not fitted for expression through form or colour, their natural vehicle being not paint but ink, which is the proper and appointed conveyor of abstract thoughts and concrete narrative. I have heard pictures extolled as works of genius simply because they expressed, not because they nobly clothed in forms of art, ideas not beyond the reach of the average penny-a-liner.

Now I know that in what I am here saying I skirt the burningground of controversy long and hotly waged—skirt it only, for that controversy touches but the borders of my subject, and I shall of course not pursue it here. I will, nevertheless, to avoid misrepresentation in either sense, state, as briefly as I can, one or two definite principles on which it appears to me safe to stand. It is given to form and to colour to elicit in men powerful and exquisite emotions, emotions covering a very wide range of sensibility, and to which they alone have the key. The chords within us which vibrate to these emotions are the instrument on which art plays, and a work of art deserves that name, as I have said, in proportion as, and in the extent to which, it sets those chords in motion. The power and solemnity of a simple appeal of form as such is seen in a noble building of imposing mass and stately outlines. When, however, form in arts is connected with the human frame, and when combinations of human forms are among the materials with which a beautiful design is built up, then another element is added to the sum of our sensations—an element due to the absorbing interest of man in all that belongs to his kind; and the emotion primarily produced by the force of a purely æsthetic appeal is enhanced and heightened by elements of a more intimate and universal order, one more nearly touching our affections, but not, therefore, necessarily of a higher order. Thus the episode, for instance, of Paolo and Francesca, clothed in the rare, grave melody of Dante's verse, entrances us with its pathos; but our emotion, intensely human as it is, is not therefore of a higher kind than that which holds us as we listen to sounds sublimely woven by some great musician; nor are the impressions received in watching from the floor of some great Christian church the gathering of the gloom within a dome's receding curves of less noble order than those aroused by a supreme work of sculpture or a painting—by, say, the "Notte" of Michael Angelo or the "Monna Lisa" of Lionardo; and yet in both of these last the chord of human sympathy is strongly swept, though in different ways—in the "Notte" by the poetic and pathetic suggestiveness of certain forms and movements of the human body; in the "Monna Lisa" by a more definitely personal charm and feminine sorcery which haunts about her shadowy eyes, and the subtle curling of her mysterious lips.

I say, then, that in a work of art the elements of emotion based on human sympathies are not of a loftier order than those arising out of abstract sublimity or loveliness of form, but that the presence of these elements in such a work, while not raising it as an artistic creation, does impart to it an added power of appeal, and that, therefore, a work in which these elements are combined will be with the great majority of mankind a more potent engine of delight than one which should rest exclusively on abstract qualities. And it follows, therefore, that while a work of art earns its title to that name on condition only, once again I say, of the purely æsthetic element being present in it, and will rank as such in exact proportion to the degree in which this element prevails in it; and while, further, this element, carrying with it, as it does, imaginative suggestiveness of the highest order and of the widest scope, is all-sufficient in those branches of art in which the human form plays no part, the element which is inseparable in a work of art from the introduction of human beings is one which it is not possible for us to ignore in our appreciation of that work as a source and vehicle of emotion.

Every attempt at succinct exposition of a complex question risks being unsatisfactory and obscure, and I am painfully alive to the inadequacy of what I have just said. I trust, however, that I have conveyed my meaning, if roughly, yet sufficiently to shield me from misconception in regard to the special emphasis I am laying on the importance of a proper estimation of the essentially æsthetic quality in a work of art, an importance which I urge upon you, not so much here on account of the effect its absence may have exercised on the development of painting, as on account of the significant fact that its want—the lack of a perception that certain qualities are the very essence of art, and link into one great family every work of the hands of men in which they are found—has led with us to a disastrous divorce between what is considered as art proper and the arts which are called industrial. I say advisedly "disastrous," for the lowering among us in the present day of the status of forms of art, in the service of which such men as Albert Dürer, for example, and Holbein (men, by-the-by, of kindred blood withourselves), Cellini and Lionardo, were glad to labour and create—and that not as a concession, but in the joyful exercise of their fullest powers—is one of its results, and carrying with it, as is natural, a lowering of standard in these arts, has generated the marvellous notion, not expressed in words, but too largely acted on, that art in any serious sense is not to be looked for at all in certain places—where, in truth, alas! neither is it often found—and led to the holding aloof to a great extent, until comparatively recent years, of much of the best talent from very delightful forms of artistic creation; and this notion has led further to the virtual banishment from certain provinces of designing of the human figure, or where it is not banished, to its defacement, too often, in the hands of the untrained or the inept.

We are to a wonderful degree creatures of habit, our thoughts are prone to run—or shall I say rather to stagnate?—within grooves; and if we are a people of many and great endowments, a swift and free play of thought is, as we have been forcibly told by a voice that we shall hear no more, and can ill miss, not a distinguishing feature among us. Is it not an amazing thing, for example, that human shapes, which in clay or plaster would be ignominiously excluded from a second-rate exhibition, are not only accepted, but displayed with a chuckle of elated pride, when cast in the precious metals, flanked, say by a palm-tree, borne aloft on a rock, and presented in the guise of a piece of ornamental plate? But is this even rare? Is it not of constant occurrence? Do you demur? Well, let me ask you a plain question: Of all the nymphs and goddesses, the satyrs, and the tritons, that disport themselves on the ceremonial goldsmithery of the United Kingdom, how many if cast in vulgar plaster, and not in glittering gold, would pass muster before the jury of an average exhibition? And if few, I ask why is this so? In the name of Cellini—nay, in the name of common sense, why? And is it on account of the low ebb of figure modelling for decorative purposes that on our carved furniture—what we mysteriously describe as "art furniture"—the human form is hardly ever seen? Then why is the best talent not enlisted in this work? Certain it is that the absence of living forms imparts to much of the furniture now made in England, unsurpassed as it is in regard to delicacy and finish ofhandiwork, and frequently elegant in design, a certain look of slightness and flimsy, faddy dilettantism which prevent it from taking that rank in the province of applied art in which it might and should aspire.

But I have, I fear, already unduly drawn upon your patience, and I must bring to a close these too disjointed prefatory words, leaving it to the accomplished gentlemen who head the various sections of this Congress to amplify and enrich as they will out of the wide fund of their knowledge and experience the bald outline I have sketched before you. They, in their turn, taking up, no doubt, our common parable, will emphasise and press on you the fact that by cultivating its æsthetic sense in a more comprehensive and harmoniously consistent spirit than hitherto, and with a clearer vision of the nature of all art and a more catholic receptiveness as to its charms, and by stimulating in a right direction the abundant productive energy which lies to its hand, this nation will not only be adding infinitely to the adornment and dignity of its public and private life, not only providing for itself an increasing and manifold source of delight and renovating repose, mental and spiritual, in a day in which such resting and regenerating elements are more and more called for by our jaded nervous systems, and more and more needed for our intellectual equilibrium, but will be dealing with a subject which is every day becoming more and more important in relation to certain sides of the waning material prosperity of the country. For, as they will no doubt remind you, the industrial competition between this and other countries—a competition, keen and eager, which means to certain industries almost a race for life—runs, in many cases, no longer exclusively or mainly on the lines of excellence of material and solidity of workmanship, but greatly nowadays on the lines of artistic charm and beauty of design. This, to you, vital fact is one which they will, I am convinced, not suffer to fall into the background.

One last word in anticipation of certain objections not unlikely to be raised against an assumption which may seem to be implied in the existence of our Association—the assumption that the evils and shortcomings of which I have spoken with such unsparing frankness can be removed or remedied by the gathering togetherof a number of persons to listen to a series of addresses. The causes of these evils, we may be told, and their antidote, are not on the surface of things, but rest on conditions of a complex character, and are fundamental. "Who," I hear some one say, "is this dreamer of dreams, who hopes to cure by talking such deep-seated evils? Who is this shallow and unphilosophical thinker who does not see that the same primary conditions are operative in making the purchaser indifferent what he gets and the supplier indifferent to what he produces, and who attributes the circumstance that good work is not generally produced in certain forms of industry to the lack of demand, rather than to the deeper-lying fact that suppliers and demanders are of the same stock, having the same congenital failings; and satisfied with the same standards?" My answer to this imaginary, or I ought, perhaps, to say this foreseen objector would be, first, this—that I am not the visionary for whom he takes me, and that I do not believe in the efficacy of words either directly to remedy the state of things I have been deploring, or to create a love of art and a delicate sensitiveness to its charms in those to whom the responsive chords have been refused; neither is the eloquence, trumpet-toned and triumphant, conceivable by me before which the walls of the Jericho of the Philistine shall crumble in abrupt ruin to the ground; least of all do I believe in sudden developments of the human intellect. But it has nevertheless seemed to me, as it has seemed to the framers of this Association, that words, if they be judicious and sincere, may rally and strengthen and prompt to action instincts and impulses which only await a signal to assert themselves—instincts, sometimes, perhaps, not fully conscious of themselves—and that a favouring temperature may be thus created within which, by the operation of natural laws, in due time, but by no stroke of the wand, a new and better order may arise. Neither, indeed, do I ignore the force of my critic's contention that the causes of mischief lie deep, and are not to be touched by surface-tinkering, if they are to be removed at all; although I demur to his pessimistic estimate of them as a final bar to our hopes. It is true that certain specific attributes are, or seem to be, feeble in our race; it is true, too true—I have it on the repeated assurance of apologetic vendors—that with us the ugliest objects—often, oh!how ugly—have the largest market; nevertheless, the amount of good artistic production in connection with industry—I purposely speak of this first—has grown within the last score or so of years, and through the initiative, mind, of a mere handful of enthusiastic and highly gifted men in an extraordinary degree; and in a proportionate degree has the number increased, also, of those who accept and desire it; and this growth has been steady and organic, and is of the best augury. Now, the increase in the number of those who desire good work, and the concurrent development of their critical sensitiveness in matters of taste, stimulate, in their turn, the energies, and sustain the upward efforts, of the producers, and thus, through action and reaction, a condition of things should be slowly but surely evolved which shall more nearly approach that general level of artistic culture and artistic production so anxiously looked for by us all. It is in the hastening of this desired result that we invoke, not your sympathy alone, but your patient, strenuous aid. And if I am further asked how, in my view, this association can best contribute to the furtherance of our common end, I would say, not merely by seeking to fan and kindle a more general interest in the things of art, but mainly by seeking to awaken a clearer perception of the trueessenceof a work of art, by insisting on the fundamental identity of all manifestations of the artistic creative impulse through whatever channels it may express itself, and by setting forth and establishing this pregnant truth—that whatever degrees of dignity and rank may exist in the scale of artistic productions, according to the order of emotion to which they minister in us, they are in one kind; for the various and many channels through which beauty is made manifest to us in art are but the numerous several stops of one and the same divine instrument.

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