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diff --git a/17649.txt b/17649.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b8f60cf --- /dev/null +++ b/17649.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10896 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Germ, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Germ + Thoughts towards Nature in Poetry, Literature and Art + +Author: Various + +Commentator: William Michael Rossetti + +Editor: Dante Gabriel Rossetti + +Release Date: January 31, 2006 [EBook #17649] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GERM *** + + + + +Produced by Andrew Sly + + + + + + + +THE GERM + +Thoughts towards Nature in Poetry, Literature +and Art + +BEING +A _FACSIMILE_ REPRINT OF THE LITERARY +ORGAN OF THE PRE-RAPHAELITE +BROTHERHOOD, PUBLISHED +IN 1850 + +WITH AN INTRODUCTION +BY +WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI + +LONDON +ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. +1901 + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +Of late years it has been my fate or my whim to write a good deal +about the early days of the Praeraphaelite movement, the members of +the Praeraphaelite Brotherhood, and especially my brother Dante +Gabriel Rossetti, and my sister Christina Georgina Rossetti. I am now +invited to write something further on the subject, with immediate +reference to the Praeraphaelite magazine "The Germ," republished in +this volume. I know of no particular reason why I should not do this, +for certain it is that few people living know, or ever knew, so much +as I do about "The Germ,"; and if some press-critics who regarded +previous writings of mine as superfluous or ill-judged should +entertain a like opinion now, in equal or increased measure, I +willingly leave them to say so, while I pursue my own course none the +less. + +"The Germ" is here my direct theme, not the Praeraphaelite +Brotherhood; but it seems requisite to say in the first instance +something about the Brotherhood--its members, allies, and ideas--so +as to exhibit a raison d'etre for the magazine. In doing this I must +necessarily repeat some things which I have set forth before, and +which, from the writings of others as well as myself, are well enough +known to many. I can vary my form of expression, but cannot introduce +much novelty into my statements of fact. + +In 1848 the British School of Painting was in anything but a vital or +a lively condition. One very great and incomparable genius, Turner, +belonged to it. He was old and past his executive prime. There were +some other highly able men--Etty and David Scott, then both very near +their death; Maclise, Dyce, Cope, Mulready, Linnell, Poole, William +Henry Hunt, Landseer, Leslie, Watts, Cox, J.F. Lewis, and some +others. There were also some distinctly clever men, such as Ward, +Frith, and Egg. Paton, Gilbert, Ford Madox Brown, Mark Anthony, had +given sufficient indication of their powers, but were all in an early +stage. On the whole the school had sunk very far below what it had +been in the days of Hogarth, Reynolds, Gainsborough, and Blake, and +its ordinary average had come to be something for which commonplace +is a laudatory term, and imbecility a not excessive one. + +There were in the late summer of 1848, in the Schools of the Royal +Academy or barely emergent from them, four young men to whom this +condition of the art seemed offensive, contemptible, and even +scandalous. Their names were William Holman-Hunt, John Everett +Millais, and Dante Gabriel Rossetti, painters, and Thomas Woolner, +sculptor. Their ages varied from twenty-two to nineteen--Woolner +being the eldest, and Millais the youngest. Being little more than +lads, these young men were naturally not very deep in either the +theory or the practice of art: but they had open eyes and minds, and +could discern that some things were good and other bad--that some +things they liked, and others they hated. They hated the lack of +ideas in art, and the lack of character; the silliness and vacuity +which belong to the one, the flimsiness and make-believe which result +from the other. They hated those forms of execution which are merely +smooth and prettyish, and those which, pretending to mastery, are +nothing better than slovenly and slapdash, or what the P.R.B.'s +called "sloshy." Still more did they hate the notion that each artist +should not obey his own individual impulse, act upon his own +perception and study of Nature, and scrutinize and work at his +objective material with assiduity before he could attempt to display +and interpret it; but that, instead of all this, he should try to be +"like somebody else," imitating some extant style and manner, and +applying the cut-and-dry rules enunciated by A from the practice of B +or C. They determined to do the exact contrary. The temper of these +striplings, after some years of the current academic training, was +the temper of rebels: they meant revolt, and produced revolution. It +would be a mistake to suppose, because the called themselves +Praeraphaelites, that they seriously disliked the works produced by +Raphael; but they disliked the works produced by Raphael's uninspired +satellites, and were resolved to find out, by personal study and +practice, what their own several faculties and adaptabilities might +be, without being bound by rules and big-wiggeries founded upon the +performance of Raphael or of any one. They were to have no master +except their own powers of mind and hand, and their own first-hand +study of Nature. Their minds were to furnish them with subjects for +works of art, and with the general scheme of treatment; Nature was to +be their one or their paramount storehouse of materials for objects +to be represented; the study of her was to be deep, and the +representation (at any rate in the earlier stages of self-discipline +and work) in the highest degree exact; executive methods were to be +learned partly from precept and example, but most essentially from +practice and experiment. As their minds were very different in range +and direction, their products also, from the first, differed greatly; +and these soon ceased to have any link of resemblance. + +The Praeraphaelite Brothers entertained a deep respect and a sincere +affection for the works of some of the artists who had preceded +Raphael; and they thought that they should more or less be following +the lead of those artists if they themselves were to develop their +own individuality, disregarding school-rules. This was really the sum +and substance of their "Praeraphaelitism." It may freely be allowed +that, as they were very young, and fired by certain ideas impressive +to their own spirits, they unduly ignored some other ideas and +theories which have none the less a deal to say for themselves. They +contemned some things and some practitioners of art not at all +contemptible, and, in speech still more than in thought, they at +times wilfully heaped up the scorn. You cannot have a youthful rebel +with a faculty who is also a model head-boy in a school. + +The P.R.B. was completed by the accession of three members to the +four already mentioned. These were James Collinson, a domestic +painter; Frederic George Stephens, an Academy-student of painting; +and myself, a Government-clerk. These again, when the P.R.B. was +formed towards September 1848, were all young, aged respectively +about twenty-three, twenty-one, and nineteen. + +This Praeraphaelite Brotherhood was the independent creation of +Holman-Hunt, Millais, Rossetti, and (in perhaps a somewhat minor +degree) Woolner: it cannot be said that they were prompted or abetted +by any one. Ruskin, whose name has been sometimes inaccurately mixed +up in the matter, and who had as yet published only the first two +volumes of "Modern Painters," was wholly unknown to them personally, +and in his writings was probably known only to Holman-Hunt. Ford +Madox Brown had been an intimate of Rossetti since March 1848, and he +sympathized, fully as much as any of these younger men, with some +old-world developments of art preceding its ripeness or +over-ripeness: but he had no inclination to join any organization for +protest and reform, and he followed his own course--more influenced, +for four or five years ensuing, by what the P.R.B.'s were doing than +influencing them. Among the persons who were most intimate with the +members of the Brotherhood towards the date of its formation, and +onwards till the inception of "The Germ," I may mention the +following. For Holman-Hunt, the sculptor John Lucas Tupper, who had +been a fellow Academy-student, and was now an anatomical designer at +Guy's Hospital: he and his family were equally well acquainted with +Mr. Stephens. For Millais, the painter Charles Allston Collins, son +of the well-known painter of domestic life and coast-scenes +William Collins; the painter Arthur Hughes; also his own brother, +William Henry Millais, who had musical aptitudes and became a +landscape-painter. For Rossetti, William Bell Scott (brother of David +Scott), painter, poet, and Master of the Government School of Design +in Newcastle-on-Tyne; Major Calder Campbell, a retired Officer of the +Indian army, and a somewhat popular writer of tales, verses, etc.; +Alexander Munro the sculptor; Walter Howell Deverell, a young +painter, son of the Secretary to the Government Schools of Design; +James Hannay, the novelist, satirical writer, and journalist; and +(known through Madox Brown) William Cave Thomas, a painter who had +studied in the severe classical school of Germany, and had earned a +name in the Westminster Hall competitions for frescoes in Parliament. +For Woolner, John Hancock and Bernhard Smith, sculptors; Coventry +Patmore the poet, with his connections the Orme family and Professor +Masson; also William North, an eccentric young literary man, of much +effervescence and some talent, author of "Anti-Coningsby" and other +novels. For Collinson, the prominent painter of romantic and biblical +subjects John Rogers Herbert, who was, like Collinson himself, a +Roman Catholic convert. + +The Praeraphaelite Brotherhood having been founded in September 1848, +the members exhibited in 1849 works conceived in the new spirit. +These were received by critics and by the public with more than +moderate though certainly not unmixed favour: it had not as yet +transpired that there was a league of unquiet and ambitious young +spirits, bent upon making a fresh start of their own, and a clean +sweep of some effete respectabilities. It was not until after the +exhibitions were near closing in 1849 that any idea of bringing out a +magazine came to be discussed. The author of the project was Dante +Gabriel Rossetti. He alone among the P.R.B.'s had already cultivated +the art of writing in verse and in prose to some noticeable extent +("The Blessed Damozel" had been produced before May 1847), and he was +better acquainted than any other member with British and foreign +literature. There need be no self-conceit in saying that in these +respects I came next to him. Holman-Hunt, Woolner, and Stephens, were +all reading men (in British literature only) within straiter bounds +than Rossetti: not any one of them, I think, had as yet done in +writing anything worth mentioning. Millais and Collinson, more +especially the former, were men of the brush, not the pen, yet both +of them capable of writing with point, and even in verse. By July 13 +and 14, 1849, some steps were taken towards discussing the project of +a magazine. The price, as at first proposed, was to be sixpence; the +title, "Monthly Thoughts in Literature, Poetry, and Art"; each number +was to have an etching. Soon afterwards a price of one shilling was +decided upon, and two etchings per number: but this latter intention +was not carried out.{1} All the P.R.B.'s were to be proprietors of +the magazine: I question however whether Collinson was ever persuaded +to assume this responsibility, entailing payment of an eventual +deficit. We were quite ready also to have some other proprietors. Mr. +Herbert was addressed by Collinson, and at one time was regarded as +pretty safe. Mr. Hancock the sculptor did not resist the pressure put +upon him; but after all he contributed nothing to "The Germ," either +in work or in money. Walter Deverell assented, and paid when the time +came. Thus there seem to have been eight, or else seven, +proprietors--not one of them having any spare cash, and not all of +them much steadiness of interest in the scheme set going by Dante +Rossetti. + +{1} Many of the particulars here given regarding "The Germ" appear in +the so-called "P.R.B. Journal," which was published towards December +1899, in the volume named "Preraphaelite Diaries and Letters, edited +by W.M. Rossetti." At the date when I wrote the present introduction, +that volume had not been offered for publication. + +With so many persons having a kind of co-equal right to decide what +should be done with the magazine, it soon became apparent that +somebody ought to be appointed Editor, and assume the control. I, +during an absence from London, was fixed upon for this purpose by +Woolner and my brother--with the express or tacit assent, so far as I +know, of all the others, I received notice of my new dignity on +September 23, 1849, being just under twenty years of age, and I +forthwith applied myself to the task. It had at first been proposed +to print upon the prospectus and wrappers of the magazine the words +"Conducted by Artists," and also (just about this time) to entitle it +"The P.R.B. Journal." I called attention to the first of these points +as running counter to my assuming the editorship, and to the second +as in itself inappropriate: both had in fact been already set aside. +My brother had ere this been introduced to Messrs. Aylott and Jones, +publishers in Paternoster Row (principally concerned, I believe, with +books of evangelical religion), and had entered into terms with them, +and got them to print a prospectus. "P.R.B." was at first printed on +the latter, but to this Mr. Holman-Hunt objected in November, and it +was omitted. The printers were to be Messrs. Tupper and Sons, a firm +of lithographic and general printers in the City, the same family to +which John Lucas Tupper belonged. The then title, invented by my +brother, was "Thoughts towards Nature," a phrase which, though +somewhat extra-peculiar, indicated accurately enough the predominant +conception of the Praeraphaelite Brotherhood, that an artist, whether +painter or writer, ought to be bent upon defining and expressing his +own personal thoughts, and that these ought to be based upon a direct +study of Nature, and harmonized with her manifestations. It was not +until December 19, when the issue of our No. 1 was closely impending, +that a different title, "The Germ," was proposed. On that evening +there was a rather large gathering at Dante Rossetti's studio, 72 +Newman Street; the seven P.R.B.'s, Madox Brown, Cave Thomas, +Deverell, Hancock, and John and George Tupper. Mr. Thomas had drawn +up a list of no less than sixty-five possible titles (a facsimile of +his MS. of some of them appears in the "Letters of Dante Gabriel +Rossetti to William Allingham," edited by George Birkbeck +Hill--Unwin, 1897). Only a few of them met with favour; and one of +them, "The Germ," going to the vote along with "The Seed" and "The +Scroll," was approved by a vote of six to four. The next best were, I +think, "The Harbinger," "First Thoughts," "The Sower," "The +Truth-Seeker," and "The Acorn." Appended to the new title we +retained, as a sub-title, something of what had been previously +proposed; and the serial appeared as "The Germ. Thoughts towards +Nature in Poetry, Literature, and Art." At this same meeting Mr. +Woolner suggested that authors' names should not be published in the +magazine. I alone opposed him, and his motion was carried. I cannot +at this distance of time remember with any precision what his reasons +were; but I think that he, and all the other artists concerned, +entertained a general feeling that to appear publicly as writers, and +especially as writers opposing the ordinary current of opinions on +fine art, would damage their professional position, which already +involved uphill work more than enough. + +"The Germ," No. 1, came out on or about January 1, 1850. The number +of copies printed was 700. Something like 200 were sold, in about +equal proportions by the publishers, and by ourselves among +acquaintances and well-wishers. This was not encouraging, so we +reduced the issue of No. 2 to 500 copies. It sold less well than No. +1. With this number was introduced the change of printing on the +wrapper the names of most of the contributors: not of all, for some +still preferred to remain unnamed, or to figure under a fancy +designation. Had we been left to our own resources, we must now have +dropped the magazine. But the printing-firm--or Mr. George I.F. +Tupper as representing it--came forward, and undertook to try the +chance of two numbers more. The title was altered (at Mr. Alexander +Tupper's suggestion) to "Art and Poetry, being Thoughts towards +Nature, conducted principally by Artists"; and Messrs. Dickinson and +Co., of New Bond Street, the printsellers, consented to join their +name as publishers to that of Messrs. Aylott and Jones. Mr. Robert +Dickinson, the head of this firm, and more especially his brother, +the able portrait-painter Mr. Lowes Dickinson, were well known to +Madox Brown, and through him to members of the P.R.B. I continued to +be editor; but, as the money stake of myself and my colleagues in the +publication had now ceased, I naturally accommodated myself more than +before to any wish evinced by the Tupper family. No. 3, which ought +to have appeared March 1, was delayed by these uncertainties and +changes till March 31. No. 4 came out on April 30. Some small amount +of advertising was done, more particularly by posters carried about +in front of the Royal Academy (then in Trafalgar Square), which +opened at the beginning of May. All efforts proved useless. People +would not buy "The Germ," and would scarcely consent to know of its +existence. So the magazine breathed its last, and its obsequies were +conducted in the strictest privacy. Its debts exceeded its assets, +and a sum of L33 odd, due on Nos. 1 and 2, had to be cleared off by +the seven (or eight) proprietors, conscientious against the grain. +What may have been the loss of Messrs. Tupper on Nos. 3 and 4 I am +unable to say. It is hardly worth specifying that neither the editor, +nor any of the contributors whether literary or artistic, received +any sort of payment. This was foreseen from the first as being "in +the bond," and was no grievance to anybody. + +"The Germ," as we have seen, was a most decided failure, yet it would +be a mistake to suppose that it excited no amount of literary +attention whatsoever. There were laudatory notices in "The Dispatch," +"The Guardian," "Howitt's Standard of Freedom," "John Bull," "The +Critic," "Bell's Weekly Messenger," "The Morning Chronicle," and I +dare say some other papers. A pat on the back, with a very lukewarm +hand, was bestowed by "The Art Journal." There were notices also--not +eulogistic--in "The Spectator" and elsewhere. The editor of "The +Critic," Mr. (afterwards Serjeant) Cox, on the faith of doings in +"The Germ," invited me, or some other of the art-writers there, to +undertake the fine-art department--picture-exhibitions, etc.--of his +weekly review. This I did for a short time, and, on getting +transferred to "The Spectator," I was succeeded on "The Critic" by +Mr. F.G. Stephens. I also received some letters consequent upon "The +Germ," and made some acquaintances among authors; Horne, Clough, +Heraud, Westland Marston, also Miss Glyn the actress. I as editor +came in for this; but of course the attractiveness of "The Germ" +depended upon the writings of others, chiefly Messrs. Woolner, +Patmore, and Orchard, my sister, and above all my brother, and, among +the artist-etchers, Mr. Holman-Hunt. + +I happen to be still in possession of the notices which appeared in +"The Critic," "Bell's Weekly Messenger," and "The Guardian," and of +extracts (as given in our present facsimile) from those in "John +Bull," "The Morning Chronicle," and "The Standard of Freedom": I here +reproduce the first three for the curious reader's perusal. First +comes the review which appeared in "The Critic" on February 15, 1850, +followed by a second review on June 1. The former was (as shown by +the initials) written by Mr. Cox, and I presume the latter also. +Major Calder Campbell must have called the particular attention of +Mr. Cox to "The Germ." My own first personal acquaintance with this +gentleman may have been intermediate between 15 February and 1 June. + +_The Germ. Thoughts towards Nature in Poetry, Literature, and Art._ +Nos. I. and II. London: Aylott and Jones. + +We depart from our usual plan of noticing the periodicals under one +heading, for the purpose of introducing to our readers a new aspirant +for public favour, which has peculiar and uncommon claims to +attention, for in design and execution it differs from all other +periodicals. _The Germ_ is the somewhat affected and unpromising +title give to a small monthly journal, which is devoted almost +entirely to poetry and art, and is the production of a party of young +persons. This statement is of itself, as we are well aware, enough to +cause it to be looked upon with shyness. A periodical largely +occupied with poetry wears an unpromising aspect to readers who have +learned from experience what nonsensical stuff most fugitive +magazine-poetry is; nor is this natural prejudice diminished by the +knowledge that it is the production of young gentlemen and ladies. +But, when they have read a few extracts which we propose to make, we +think they will own that for once appearances are deceitful, and that +an affected title and an unpromising theme really hides a great deal +of genius; mingled however, we must also admit, with many conceits +which youth is prone to, but which time and experience will assuredly +tame. + +That the contents of _The Germ_ are the production of no common minds +the following extracts will sufficiently prove, and we may add that +these are but a small portion of the contents which might prefer +equal claims to applause. + +"My Beautiful Lady," and "Of my Lady in Death," are two poems +in a quaint metre, full of true poetry, marred by not a few +affectations--the genuine metal, but wanting to be purified from its +dross. Nevertheless, it is pleasant to find the precious ore anywhere +in these unpoetical times. + +To our taste the following is replete with poetry. What a _picture_ +it is! A poet's tongue has told what an artist's eye has seen. It is +the first of a series to be entitled "Songs of One Household." [Here +comes Dante Rossetti's poem, "My Sister's Sleep," followed by +Patmore's "Seasons," and Christina Rossetti's "Testimony."] We have +not space to take any specimens of the prose, but the essays on art +are conceived with an equal appreciation of its _meaning_ and +requirements. Being such, _The Germ_ has our heartiest wishes for its +success; but we scarcely dare to _hope_ that it may win the +popularity it deserves. The truth is that it is too good for the +time. It is not _material_ enough for the age. + +_Art and Poetry: being Thoughts towards Nature._ Conducted +principally by Artists. Nos. 3 and 4. London: Dickinson and Co. + +Some time since we had occasion to direct the attention of our +readers to a periodical then just issued under the modest title of +_The Germ_. The surprise and pleasure with which we read it was, as +we are informed, very generally shared by our readers upon perusing +the poems we extracted from it; and it was manifest to every person +of the slightest taste that the contributors were possessed of genius +of a very high order, and that _The Germ_ was not wantonly so +entitled, for it abounded with the promise of a rich harvest to be +anticipated from the maturity of those whose youth could accomplish +so much. + +But we expressed also our fear lest the very excellence of this +magazine should be fatal to its success. It was too good--that is to +say, too refined and of too lofty a class, both in its art and in its +poetry--to be sufficiently popular to pay even the printer's bill. +The name, too, was against it, being somewhat unintelligible to the +thoughtless, and conveying to the considerate a notion of something +very juvenile. Those fears were not unfounded, for it was suspended +for a short time; but other journals after a while discovered and +proclaimed the merit that was scattered profusely over the pages of +_The Germ_, and, thus encouraged, the enterprise has been resumed, +with a change of name which we must regard as an improvement. _Art +and Poetry_ precisely describes its character. It is wholly devoted +to them, and it aims at originality in both. It is seeking out for +itself new paths, in a spirit of earnestness, and with an undoubted +ability which must lead to a new era. The writers may err somewhat at +first, show themselves too defiant of prescriptive rules, and mistake +extravagance for originality; but this fault (inherent in youth when, +conscious of its powers, it first sets up for itself) will after a +while work its own cure, and with experience will come soberer +action. But we cannot contemplate this young and rising school in art +and literature without the most ardent anticipations of something +great to grow from it, something new and worthy of our age, and we +bid them God speed upon the path they have adventured. + +But our more immediate purpose here is with the poetry, of which +about one-half of each number is composed. It is all beautiful, must +of it of extraordinary merit, and equal to anything that any of our +known poets could write, save Tennyson, of whom the strains sometimes +remind us, although they are not imitations in any sense of the word. +[The Reviewer next proceeds to quote, with a few words of comment, +Christina Rossetti's "Sweet Death," John Tupper's "Viola and Olivia," +Orchard's "Whit-Sunday Morn," and (later on) Dante Rossetti's "Pax +Vobis."] + +Almost one half of the April number is occupied with a "Dialogue on +Art," the composition of an Artist whose works are well known to the +public. It was written during a period of ill health, which forbad +the use of the brush, and, taking his pen, he has given to the world +his thoughts upon art in a paper which the _Edinburgh Review_ in its +best days might have been proud to possess. + +Sure we are that not one of our readers will regret the length at +which we have noticed this work. + + * * * * * * * + +The short and unpretending critique which I add from "Bell's Weekly +Messenger" was written, I believe, either by or at the instance of +Mr. Bellamy, a gentleman who acted as secretary to the National Club. +His son addressed me as editor of "The Germ," in terms of great +ardour, and through the son I on one occasion saw the father as well. + +_Art and Poetry._ Nos. I., II., and III. London, Dickinson and Co. + +The present numbers are the commencement of a very useful +publication, conducted principally by artists, the design of which is +to "express thoughts towards Nature." We see much to commend in its +pages, which are also nicely illustrated in the mediaeval style of +art and in outline. The paper upon Shakespeare's tragedy of +"Macbeth," in the third number, abounds with striking passages, and +will be found to be well worthy of consideration. + + * * * * * * * + +I now proceed to "The Guardian." The notice came out on August 20, +1850, some months after "The Germ" had expired. I do not now know who +wrote it, and (so far as memory serves me) I never did know. The +writer truly said that Millais "contributes nothing" to the magazine. +This however was not Millais's fault, for he made an etching for a +prose story by my brother (named "An Autopsychology," or now "St. +Agnes of Intercession"); and this etching, along with the story, had +been expected to appear in a No. 5 of "The Germ" which never came +out. The "very curious but very striking picture" by Rossetti was the +"Annunciation," now in the National British Gallery. + +_Art and Poetry._ Being Thoughts towards Nature. Conducted +principally by Artists. Dickinson and Co., and Aylott and Jones. + +We are very sorry to find that, after a short life of four monthly +numbers, this magazine is not likely to be continued. Independently +of the great ability displayed by some of its contributors, we have +been anxious to see the rising school of young and clever artists +find a voice, and tell us what they are aiming at, and how they +propose to reach their aim. This magazine was to a great extent +connected with the Pre-Raffaelle Brethren, whose paintings have +attracted this year a more than ordinary quantity of attention, and +an amount of praise and blame perhaps equally extravagant. As might +have been expected, the school has been identified with its cleverest +manipulator, Mr. Millais, and his merits or defects have been made +the measure of the admiration or contempt bestowed by the public upon +those whom it chooses to class with him. This is not matter of +complaint, but it is a mistake. As far as these papers enable us to +judge, Mr. Millais is by no means the leading _mind_ among his +fraternity; and judged by the principles of some clever and beautiful +papers upon art in the magazine before us, his pictures would be +described by them as wanting in some of the very highest artistic +qualities, although possessing many which entitle them to attention +and respect. The chief contributors to this magazine (to which Mr. +Millais contributes nothing) are other artists, as yet not greatly +known, but with feeling and purpose about them such as must make them +remarkable in time. Some of the best papers are by two brothers named +Rossetti, one of whom, Mr. D. G. Rossetti, has a very curious but +very striking picture now exhibiting in the Portland Gallery. Mr. +Deverell, who has also a very clever picture in the same gallery, +contributes some beautiful poetry. It is perhaps chiefly in the +poetry that the abilities of these writers are displayed; for, with +somewhat absurd and much that is affected, there is yet in the +poetical pieces of these four numbers a beauty and grace of language +and sentiment, and not seldom a vigour of conception, altogether +above the common run. Want of purpose may be easily charged against +them as a fault, and with some justice, but it is a very common +defect of youthful poetry, which is sure to disappear with time if +there be anything real and manly in the poet. The best pieces are too +long to extracted in entire, and are not to be judged of fairly +except as wholes. There is a very fine poem called "Repining" of +which this is particularly true. [Next comes a quotation of Christina +Rossetti's "Dream Land," and of a portion of Dante Rossetti's +"Blessed Damozel."] The last number contains a remarkable dialogue on +Art, written by a young man, John Orchard, who has since died. It is +well worth study. Kalon, Kosmon, Sophon, and Christian, whose names, +of course, represent the opinions they defend, discuss a number of +subjects connected with the arts. Each character is well supported, +and the wisdom and candour of the whole piece is very striking, +especially when we consider the youth and inexperience of the writer. +Art lost a true and high-minded votary in Mr. Orchard. [A rather long +extract from the "Dialogue" follows here.] + +It is a pity that the publication is to stop. English artists have +hitherto worked each one by himself, with too little of common +purpose, too little of mutual support, too little of distinct and +steadily pursued intellectual object. We do not believe that they are +one whit more jealous than the followers of other professions. But +they are less forced to be together, and the little jealousies which +deform the natures of us all have in their case, for this reason, +freer scope, and tend more to isolation. Here, at last, we have a +_school_, ignorant it may be, conceited possibly, as yet with but +vague and unrealised objects, but working together with a common +purpose, according to certain admitted principles, and looking to one +another for help and sympathy. This is new in England, and we are +very anxious it should have a fair trial. Its aim, moreover, however +imperfectly attained as yet, is high and pure. No one can walk along +our streets and not see how debased and sensual our tastes have +become. The saying of Burke (so unworthy of a great man), that vice +loses half its evil by losing all its grossness, is practically acted +upon, and voluptuous and seductive figures, recommended only by a +soft effeminacy, swarm our shop-windows and defile our drawing-rooms. +It is impossible to over-state the extent to which they minister to, +and increase the foul sins of, a corrupt and luxurious age. A school +of artists who attempt to bring back the popular taste to the severe +draperies and pure forms of early art are at least deserving of +encouragement. Success in their attempt would be a national blessing. + + * * * * * * * + +Shrivelling in the Spring of 1850, "The Germ" showed no further sign +of sprouting for many years, though I suppose it may have been known +to the promoters of "The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine," produced in +1856, and may have furnished some incitement towards that +enterprise--again an unsuccessful one commercially. Gradually some +people began to take a little interest in the knowledge that such a +publication had existed, and to inquire after stray copies here and +there. This may perhaps have commenced before 1870, or at any rate +shortly afterwards, as in that year the "Poems" of Dante Rossetti +were brought out, exciting a great amount of attention and +admiration, and curiosity attached to anything that he might have +published before. One heard of such prices as ten shillings for a set +of the "The Germ," then L2, L10, L30, etc., and in 1899 a copy +handsomely bound by Cobden-Saunderson was sold in America for about +L104. Will that high-water mark ever be exceeded? For the sake of +common-sense, let us hope not. + +I will now go through the articles in "The Germ" one by one. Wherever +any of them may seem to invite a few words of explanation I offer +such to the reader; and I give the names of the authors, when not +named in the magazine itself. Those articles which do not call for +any particular comment receive none here. + +On the wrapper of each number is to be found a sonnet, printed in a +rather aggressively Gothic type, beginning, "When whoso merely hath a +little thought." This sonnet is my performance; it had been suggested +that one or other of the proprietors of the magazine should write a +sonnet to express the spirit in which the publication was undertaken. +I wrote the one here in question, which met with general acceptance; +and I do not remember that any one else competed. This sonnet may not +be a good one, but I do not see why it should be considered +unintelligible. Mr. Bell Scott, in his "Autobiographical Notes," +expressed the opinion that to master the production would almost need +a Browning Society's united intellects. And he then gave his +interpretation, differing not essentially from my own. What I meant +is this: A writer ought to think out his subject honestly and +personally, not imitatively, and ought to express it with directness +and precision; if he does this, we should respect his performance as +truthful, even though it may not be important. This indicated, for +writers, much the same principle which the P.R.B. professed for +painters,--individual genuineness in the thought, reproductive +genuineness in the presentment. + +By Thomas Woolner: "My Beautiful Lady," and "Of My Lady in Death." +These compositions were, I think, nearly the first attempts which Mr. +Woolner made in verse; any earlier endeavours must have been few and +slight. The author's long poem "My Beautiful Lady," published in +1863, started from these beginnings. Coventry Patmore, on hearing the +poems in September 1849, was considerably impressed by them: "the +only defect he found" (as notified in a letter from Dante Rossetti) +"being that they were a trifle too much in earnest in the passionate +parts, and too sculpturesque generally. He means by this that each +stanza stands too much alone, and has its own ideas too much to +itself." + +By Ford Madox Brown: "The Love of Beauty: Sonnet." + +By John L. Tupper: "The Subject in Art." Two papers, which do not +complete the important thesis here undertaken. Mr. Tupper was, for an +artist, a man of unusually scientific mind; yet he was not, I think, +distinguished by that power of orderly and progressive exposition +which befits an argumentation. These papers exhibit a good deal of +thought, and state several truths which, even if partial truths, are +not the less deserving of attention; but the dissertation does not +produce a very clear impression, inasmuch as there is too great a +readiness to plunge, _in medias res_, checked by too great a tendency +to harking back, and re-stating some conclusion in modified terms and +with insecure corollaries. Two points which Mr. Tupper chiefly +insists upon are: (1) that the subject in a work of art affects the +beholder in the same sort of way as the same subject, occurring as a +fact or aspect of Nature, affects him; and thus whatever in Nature +excites the mental and moral emotion of man is a right subject for +fine art; and (2), that subjects of our own day should not be +discarded in favour of those of a past time. These principles, along +with others bearing in the same direction, underlie the propositions +lately advanced by Count Leo Tolstoy in his most interesting and +valuable (though I think one-sided) book entitled "What is Art?"--and +the like may be said of the principles announced in the "Hand and +Soul" of Dante Rossetti, and in the "Dialogue on Art" by John +Orchard, through the mouths of two of the speakers, Christian and +Sophon. I have once or twice seen these papers by Mr. Tupper +commented upon to the effect that he wholly ignores the question of +art-merit in a work of art, the question whether it is good or bad in +form, colour, etc. But this is a mistake, for in fact he allows that +this is a relevant consideration, but declines to bring it within his +own lines of discussion. There is also a curious passage which has +been remarked upon as next door to absurd; that where, in treating of +various forms of still life as inferior subjects for art, he says +that "the dead pheasant in a picture will always be as 'food,' while +the same at the poulterer's will be but a dead pheasant." I do not +perceive that this is really absurd. At the poulterer's (and Mr. +Tupper has proceeded to say as much in his article) all the items are +in fact food, and therefore the spectator attends to the differences +between them; one being a pheasant, one a fowl, one a rabbit, etc. +But, in a varied collection of pictures, most of the works +representing some subject quite unconnected with food; and, if you +see among them one, such as a dead pheasant, representing an article +of food, that is the point which primarily occurs to your mind as +distinguishing this particular picture from the others. The views +expressed by Mr. Tupper in these two papers should be regarded as his +own, and not by any means necessarily those upheld by the +Praeraphaelite Brotherhood. The members of this body must however +have agreed with several of his utterances, and sympathized with +others, apart from strict agreement. + +By Patmore: "The Seasons." This choice little poem was volunteered to +"The Germ" in September, after the author had read our prospectus, +which impressed him favourably. He withheld his name, much to our +disappointment, having resolved to do so in all instances where +something of his might be published pending the issue of a new +volume. + +By Christina Rossetti: "Dream Land." Though my sister was only just +nineteen when this remarkable lyric was printed, she had already made +some slight appearance in published type (not to speak of the +privately printed "Verses" of 1847), as two small poems of hers had +been inserted in "The Athenaeum" in October 1848. "Dream Land" was +written in April 1849, before "The Germ" was thought of; and it may +be as well to say that all my sister's contributions to this magazine +were produced without any reference to publication in that or in any +particular form. + +By Dante G. Rossetti: "My Sister's Sleep." This purports to be No. 1 +of "Songs of One Household." I do not much think that Dante Rossetti +ever wrote any other poem which would have been proper to such a +series. "My Sister's Sleep" was composed very soon after he emerged +from a merely juvenile stage of work. I believe that it dates before +"The Blessed Damozel," and therefore before May 1847. It is not +founded upon any actual event affecting the Rossetti family, nor any +family of our acquaintance. As I have said in my Memoir of my brother +(1895), the poem was shown, perhaps early in 1848, by Major Calder +Campbell to the editress of the "Belle Assemblee," who heartily +admired it, but, for one reason or another, did not publish it. This +composition is somewhat noticeable on more grounds than one; not +least as being in a metre which was not much in use until it became +famous in Tennyson's "In Memoriam," published in 1850, and of course +totally unknown to Rossetti when he wrote "My Sister's Sleep." In +later years my brother viewed this early work with some distaste, and +he only reluctantly reprinted it in his "Poems," 1870. He then wholly +omitted the four stanzas 7, 8, 12, 13, beginning: "Silence was +speaking," "I said, full knowledge," "She stood a moment," "Almost +unwittingly"; and he made some other verbal alterations.{2} It will +be observed that this poem was written long before the Praeraphaelite +movement began. None the less it shows in an eminent degree one of +the influences which guided that movement: the intimate intertexture +of a spiritual sense with a material form; small actualities made +vocal of lofty meanings. + +{2} I may call attention to Stanza 16, "She stooped an instant." The +word is "stooped" in "The Germ," and in the "Poems" of 1870. This is +undoubtedly correct; but in my brother's re-issue of the "Poems," +1881, the word got mis-printed "stopped"; and I find the same +mis-print in subsequent editions. + +By Dante G. Rossetti: "Hand and Soul." This tale was, I think, +written with an express view to its appearing in No. 1 of our +magazine, and Rossetti began making for it an etching, which, though +not ready for No. 1, was intended to appear in some number later than +the second. He drew it in March 1850; but, being disgusted with the +performance, he scratched the plate over, and tore up the prints. The +design showed Chiaro dell' Erma in the act of painting his embodied +Soul. Though the form of this tale is that of romantic metaphor, its +substance is a very serious manifesto of art-dogma. It amounts to +saying, The only satisfactory works of art are those which exhibit +the very soul of the artist. To work for fame or self-display is a +failure, and to work for direct moral proselytizing is a failure; but +to paint that which your own perceptions and emotions urge you to +paint promises to be a success for yourself, and hence a benefit to +the mass of beholders. This was the core of the "Praeraphaelite" +creed; with the adjunct (which hardly came within the scope of +Rossetti's tale, and yet may be partly traced there) that the artist +cannot attain to adequate self-expression save through a stern study +and realization of natural appearances. And it may be said that to +this core of the Praeraphaelite creed Rossetti always adhered +throughout his life, greatly different though his later works are +from his earlier ones in the externals of artistic style. Most of +"Hand and Soul" was written on December 21, 1849, day and night, +chiefly in some five hours beginning after midnight. Three currents +of thought may be traced in this story: (1) A certain amount of +knowledge regarding the beginnings of Italian art, mingled with some +ignorance, voluntary or involuntary, of what was possible to be done +in the middle of the thirteenth century; (2) a highly ideal, yet +individual, general treatment of the narrative; and (3) a curious +aptitude at detailing figments as if they were facts. All about +Chiaro dell' Erma himself, Dresden and Dr. Aemmster, D'Agincourt, +pictures at the Pitti Gallery, the author's visit to Florence in +1847, etc., are pure inventions or "mystifications"; but so +realistically put that they have in various instances been relied +upon and cited as truths. I gave some details as to this in my Memoir +of Dante Rossetti. The style of writing in "Hand and Soul" is of a +very exceptional kind. My brother had at that time a great affection +for "Stories after Nature," written by Charles Wells (author of +"Joseph and his Brethren"), and these he kept in view to some extent +as a model, though the direct resemblance is faint indeed. In the +conversation of foreign art-students, forming the epilogue, he may +have been not wholly oblivious of the scene in Browning's "Pippa +Passes" (a prime favourite of his), where some "foreign students of +painting and sculpture" are preparing a disagreeable surprise for the +French sculptor Jules. There is, however, no sort of imitation; and +Rossetti's dialogue is the more markedly natural of the two. In +re-reading "Hand and Soul," I am struck by two passages which came +true of Rossetti himself in after-life: (1) "Sometimes after +nightfall he would walk abroad in the most solitary places he could +find--hardly feeling the ground under him because of the thoughts of +the day which held him in fever." (2) "Often he would remain at work +through the whole of a day, not resting once so long as the light +lasted." When Rossetti, in 1869, was collecting his poems, and +getting them privately printed with a view to after-publication, he +thought of including "Hand and Soul" in the same volume, but did not +eventually do so. The privately-printed copy forms a small pamphlet, +which has sometimes been sold at high prices--I believe L10 and +upwards. At this time I pointed out to him that the church at Pisa +which he named San Rocco could not possibly have borne that name--San +Rocco being a historical character who lived at a later date: the +Church was then re-named "San Petronio," and this I believe is the +only change of the least importance introduced into the reprint. In +December 1870 the tale was published in "The Fortnightly Review." The +Rev. Alfred Gurney (deceased not long ago) was a great admirer of +Dante Rossetti's works. He published in 1883 a brochure named "A +Dream of Fair Women, a Study of some Pictures by Dante Gabriel +Rossetti"; he also published an essay on "Hand and Soul," giving a +more directly religious interpretation to the story than its author +had at all intended. It is entitled "A Painter's Day-dream." + +By W. M. Rossetti: "Review of Clough's Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich." +The only remark which I need to make on this somewhat ponderous +article is that I, as Editor of "The Germ," was more or less expected +to do the sort of work for which other "proprietors" had little +inclination--such especially as the regular reviewing of new poems. + +By W. M. Rossetti: "Her First Season: Sonnet." As I have said +elsewhere, my brother and I were at one time greatly addicted to +writing sonnets together to _bouts-rimes_: the date may have been +chiefly 1848, and the practice had, I think, quite ceased for some +little while before "The Germ" commenced in 1850. This sonnet was one +of my _bouts-rimes_ performances. I ought to have been more chary +than I was of introducing into our seriously-intended magazine such +hap-hazard things as _bouts-rimes_ poems: one reason for doing so was +that we were often at a loss for something to fill a spare page. + +By John L. Tupper: "A Sketch from Nature." The locality indicated in +these very spirited descriptive lines is given as "Sydenham Wood." +When I was compiling the posthumous volume of John Tupper's "Poems" +which came out in 1897, I should, so far as merit is concerned, have +wished to include this little piece: it was omitted solely on the +ground of its being already published. + +By Christina Rossetti: "An End." Written in March 1849. + +By Collinson: "The Child Jesus, a Record Typical of the Five +Sorrowful Mysteries." Collinson, as I have already said, was hardly a +writing man, and I question whether he had produced a line of verse +prior to undertaking this by no means trivial task. The poem, like +the etching which he did for it, is deficient in native strength, nor +is there much invention in the symbolical incidents which make it up: +but its general level, and several of its lines and passages, always +appeared to me, and still appear, highly laudable, and far better +than could have been reckoned for. Here and there a telling line was +supplied by Dante Rossetti. Millais, when shortly afterwards in +Oxford, found that the poem had made some sensation there. It is +singular that Collinson should, throughout his composition, speak of +Nazareth as being on the sea-shore--which is the reverse of the fact. +The Praeraphaelites, with all their love of exact truth to nature, +were a little arbitrary in applying the principle; and Collinson +seems to have regarded it as quite superfluous to look into a map, +and see whether Nazareth was near the sea or not. Or possibly he +trusted to Dante Rossetti's poem "Ave," in which likewise Nazareth is +a marine town. My brother advisedly stuck to this in 1869, when I +pointed out the error to him: he replied, "I fear the sea must remain +at Nazareth: you know an old painter would have made no bones if he +wanted it for his background." I cannot say whether Collinson, if put +to it, would have pleaded the like arbitrary and almost burlesque +excuse: at any rate he made the blunder, and in a much more detailed +shape than in Rossetti's lyric. "The Child Jesus" is, I think, the +poem of any importance that he ever wrote. + +By Christina Rossetti: "A Pause of Thought." On the wrapper of "The +Germ" the writer's name is given as "Ellen Alleyn": this was my +brother's concoction, as Christina did not care to figure under her +own name. "A Pause of Thought" was written in February 1848, when she +was but little turned of seventeen. Taken as a personal utterance +(which I presume it to be, though I never inquired as to that, and +though it was at first named "Lines in Memory of Schiller's Der +Pilgrim"), it is remarkable; for it seems to show that, even at that +early age, she aspired ardently after poetic fame, with a keen sense +of "hope deferred." + +By F. G. Stephens (called "John Seward" on the wrapper): "The Purpose +and Tendency of Early Italian Art." This article speaks for itself as +being a direct outcome of the Praeraphaelite movement: its aim is to +enforce personal independent endeavour, based upon close study of +nature, and to illustrate the like qualities shown in the earlier +school of art. It is more hortatory than argumentative, and is in +fact too short to develop its thesis--it indicates some main points +for reflection. + +By W. Bell Scott: "Morning Sleep." This poem delighted us extremely +when Mr. Scott sent it in reply to a request for contributions. I +still think it a noticeably fine thing, and one of his most equable +pieces of execution. It was republished in his volume of "Poems," +1875--with some verbal changes, and shortened, I think damaged. + +By Patmore: "Stars and Moon." + +By Ford Madox Brown: "On the Mechanism of a Historical Picture": Part +1, the Design. It is by this time a well-recognized fact that Brown +was one of the men in England, or indeed in Europe, most capable of +painting a historical picture, and it is a matter of regret that "The +Germ" came to an end before he had an opportunity of continuing and +completing this serviceable compendium of precepts. He had studied +art in continental schools; but I do not think he imported into his +article much of what he had been taught,--rather what he had thought +out for himself, and had begun putting into practice. + +By W. M. Rossetti: "Fancies at Leisure." The first three of these +were written to _bouts-rimes_. As to No. 1, "Noon Rest," I have a +tolerably clear recollection that the rhymes were prescribed to me by +Millais, on one of the days in 1849 when I was sitting to him for the +head of Lorenzo in his first Praeraphaelite picture from Keats's +"Isabella." No. 4, "Sheer Waste," was not a _bouts-rimes_ +performance. It was chiefly the outcome of an early afternoon spent +lazily in Regent's Park. + +By Walter H. Deverell: "The Light Beyond." These sonnets are not of +very finished execution, but they have a dignified sustained tone and +some good lines. Had Deverell lived a little longer, he might +probably have proved that he had some genuine vocation as a poet, no +less than a decided pictorial faculty. He died young in February +1854. + +By Dante G. Rossetti: "The Blessed Damozel." As to this celebrated +poem much might be said; but I shall not say it here, partly because +I wrote an Introduction to a reprint (published by Messrs. Duckworth +and Co. in 1898) of the "Germ" version of the poem, which is the +earliest version extant, and in that Introduction I gave a number of +particulars forestalling what I could now set down. I will however +take this opportunity of correcting a blunder into which I fell in +the Introduction above mentioned. I called attention to "calm" and +"warm," which make a "cockney rhyme" in stanza 9 of this "Germ" +version; and I said that, in the later version printed in "The Oxford +and Cambridge Magazine" in 1856, a change in the line was made, +substituting "swam" for "calm," and that the cockneyism, though +shuffled, was not thus corrected. In "The Saturday Review," June 25, +1898, the publication of Messrs. Duckworth was criticized; and the +writer very properly pointed out that I had made a crass mistake. +"Mr. Rossetti," he said, "must be a very hasty reader of texts. What +is printed [in 'The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine'] is 'swarm,' not +'swam,' and the rhyme with 'warm' is perfect, stultifying the +editor's criticism completely." Probably the critic considered my +error as unaccountable as it was serious; and yet it could be fully +accounted for, though not fully excused. I had not been "a very hasty +reader of texts" in the sense indicated by "The Saturday Review." The +fact is that, not possessing a copy of "The Oxford and Cambridge +Magazine," I had referred to the book brought out by Mr. William +Sharp in 1882, "Dante Gabriel Rossetti: A Record and a Study," in +which are given (with every appearance of care and completeness) the +passages of "The Blessed Damozel" as they appeared in "The Germ," +with the alterations printed in "The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine." +From the latter, the line in question is given by Mr. Sharp as "Waste +sea of worlds that swam"; and I, supposing him to be correct (though +I allow that memory ought to have taught me the contrary), reproduced +that line to the same effect. "Always verify your references" is a +precept to which editors and commentators cannot too carefully +conform. Many thanks to the writer in "The Saturday Review" for +showing that, while I, and also Mr. Sharp, had made a mistake, my +brother had made none. + +By W. M. Rossetti: "Review of the Strayed Reveller and other Poems, +by A." As we all now know, "A." was Matthew Arnold, and this was his +first published volume; but I, at the time of writing the review, +knew nothing of the identity of "A.," and even had I been told that +he was Matthew Arnold, that would have carried the matter hardly at +all further. I remember that, after I had written the whole or most +of this admiring review, I found that the volume had been abused in +"Blackwood's Magazine"; a fact of sweet savour to myself and other +P.R.B.'s, as we entertained a hearty detestation of that magazine, +with its blustering "Christopher North," and its traditions of +truculency against Keats, Shelley, Leigh Hunt, Tennyson, Ruskin, and +some others. I read "A.'s" volume with great attention, and piqued +myself somewhat upon having introduced into my review some reference +(detailed or cursory) to every poem in it. Possibly (but I hardly +think so) the critique was afterwards shortened, so as to bereave it +of this merit. + +By Madox Brown (the etching) and by W. M. Rossetti (the verses): +"Cordelia." For the belated No. 3 of "The Germ" we were much at a +loss for an illustration. Mr. Brown offered to accommodate us by +etching this design, one of a series from "King Lear" which he had +drawn in Paris in 1844. That series, though not very sightly to the +eye, is of extraordinary value for dramatic insight and energy. We +gladly accepted, and he produced this etching with very little +self-satisfaction, so far as the technique of execution is concerned. +Dante Rossetti was to have furnished some verses for the etching; but +for this he did not find time, so I was put in as a stopgap, and I am +not sure that any reader of "The Germ" has ever thanked me for my +obedience to the call of duty. + +By Patmore: "Essay on Macbeth." In this interesting and +well-considered paper Mr. Patmore assumes that he was the first +person to put into writing the opinion that Macbeth, before meeting +with the witches, had already definitely conceived and imparted the +idea of obtaining the crown of Scotland by wrongful means. I have +always felt some uncertainty whether Mr. Patmore was really the +first; if he was, it certainly seems strange that the train of +reasoning which he furnishes in this essay--forcible, even if we do +not regard it as unanswerable--should not have presented itself to +the mind and pen of some earlier writer. The Essay appears to have +been left incomplete in at least one respect. In speaking of "the +fifth scene," the author refers to "postponement of comment" upon +Macbeth's letter to his wife, and he "leaves it for the present." But +the comment never comes. + +By Christina Rossetti: "Repining." This rather long poem, written in +December 1847 on a still broader scale, was never republished by the +authoress, although all her other poems in "The Germ" were so. She +did not think that its deservings were such as to call for +republication. I apprehend that herein she exercised a wise +discretion: none the less, when I was compiling the volume of her +"New Poems," issued in 1896, I included "Repining"--for I think that +some of the considerations which apply to the works of an author +while living do not remain in anything like full force after death. + +By Dante G. Rossetti: "The Carillon, Antwerp and Bruges." These +verses, and some others further on in "The Germ," were written during +the brief trip, in Paris and Belgium, which my brother made along +with Holman-Hunt in the autumn of 1849. He did not republish "The +Carillon"; but he left in MS. an abridged form of it, with the title +"Antwerp and Bruges," and this I included in his "Collected Works," +1886. The only important change was the omission of stanzas 1 and 4. + +By Dante G. Rossetti: "From the Cliffs, Noon." Altering some phrases +in this lyric, and adding two stanzas, Rossetti republished it under +the name of "The Sea-limits." + +By W. M. Rossetti: "Fancies at Leisure." The first four were written +to _bouts-rimes_: not the fifth, "The Fire Smouldering," which is, I +think, as old as 1848, or even 1847. + +By John L. Tupper: "Papers of the MS. Society; No. 1, An Incident in +the Siege of Troy." This grotesque outburst, though sprightly and +clever, was not well-suited to the pages of "The Germ." My attention +had been called to it at an earlier date, when my editorial power was +unmodified, but I then staved it off, and indeed John Tupper himself +did not deem it appropriate. It will be observed that "MS. Society" +is said not to mean "Manuscript Society." I forget what it did +mean--possibly "Medical Student Society." The whole thing is replete +with semi-private _sous-entendus_, and banter at Free Trade, medical +and anatomical matters, etc. The like general remarks apply to No. 4, +"Smoke," by the same writer. It is a rollicking semi-intelligible +chaunt, a forcible thing in its way, proper in the first instance (I +believe) to a sort of club of medical students, Royal Academy +students, and others--highly-seasoned smokers most of them--in which +John Tupper exercised a quasi-privacy, and was called (owing to his +thinness, much over-stated in the poem) "The Spectro-cadaveral King." +No. 5, "Rain," is again by John Tupper, and is the only item in "The +Papers of the MS. Society" which seems, in tone and method, to be +reasonably appropriate for "The Germ." + +By Alexander Tupper: No. 2, "Swift's Dunces." + +By George I. F. Tupper: No. 3, "Mental Scales." This also, in the +scrappy condition which it here presents, reads rather as a joke than +as a serious proposition: I believe it was meant for the latter. + +By John L. Tupper: "Viola and Olivia." The verses are not of much +significance. The etching by Deverell, however defective in +technique, claims more attention, as the Viola was drawn from Miss +Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal, whom Deverell had observed in a bonnet-shop +some few months before the etching was done, and who in 1860 became +the wife of Dante Rossetti. This face does not give much idea of +hers, and yet it is not unlike her in a way. The face of Olivia bears +some resemblance to Christina Rossetti: I think however that it was +drawn, not from her, but from a sister of the artist. + +By John Orchard: "A Dialogue on Art." The brief remarks prefacing +this dialogue were written by Dante Rossetti. The diction of the +dialogue itself was also, at Orchard's instance, revised to some +minor extent by my brother, and I dare say by me. Orchard was a +painter of whom perhaps no memory remains at the present day: he +exhibited some few pictures, among which I can dimly remember one of +"The Flight of Archbishop Becket from England." His age may, I +suppose, have been twenty-seven or twenty-eight years at the date of +his death. In our circle he was unknown; but, conceiving a deep +admiration for Rossetti's first exhibited picture (1849), "The +Girlhood of Mary Virgin," he wrote to him, enclosing a sonnet upon +the picture--a very bad sonnet in all executive respects, and far +from giving promise of the spirited, if unequal, poetic treatment +which we find in the lines in "The Germ," "On a Whit-Sunday Morn in +the Month of May." This led to a call from Orchard to Rossetti. I +think there was only one call, and I, as well as my brother, saw him +on that occasion. Afterwards, he sent this dialogue for "The Germ." +The dialogue has always, and I think justly, been regarded as a +remarkable performance. The form of expression is not impeccable, but +there is a large amount of eloquence, coming in aid of definite and +expansive thought. From what is here said it will be understood that +Orchard was quite unconnected with the P.R.B. He expressed opinions +of his own which may indeed have assimilated in some points to +theirs, but he was not in any degree the mouthpiece of their +organization, nor prompted by any member of the Brotherhood. In the +dialogue, the speaker whose opinions appear manifestly to represent +those of Orchard himself is Christian, who is mostly backed up by +Sophon. Christian forces ideas of purism or puritanism to an extreme, +beyond anything which I can recollect as characterizing any of the +P.R.B. His upholding of the painters who preceded Raphael as the best +men for nurturing new and noble developments of art in our own day +was more in their line. In my brother's prefatory note a question is +raised of publishing any other writings which Orchard might have left +behind. None such, however, were found. Dr. W. C. Bennett (afterwards +known as the author of "Songs for Sailors," etc.), who had been +intimate with Orchard, aided my brother in his researches. + +By F. G. Stephens (called "Laura Savage" on the wrapper): "Modern +Giants." + +By Dante G. Rossetti: "Pax Vobis." Republished by the author, with +some alterations, under the title of "World's Worth." + +By Dante G. Rossetti: "Sonnets for Pictures." No. 1, "A Virgin and +Child, by Hans Memmeling," was not reprinted by Rossetti, but is +included (with a few verbal alterations made by him in MS.) in his +"Collected Works." No. 2, "A Marriage of St. Katherine, by the same." +A similar observation. No. 3, "A Dance of Nymphs, by Andrea +Mantegna," was republished by Rossetti, with some verbal alterations. +No. 4, "A Venetian Pastoral, by Giorgione"--the like. The alterations +here are of considerable moment. Rossetti, in a published letter of +October 8, 1849, referred to the Giorgione picture as follows: "A +Pastoral--at least, a kind of Pastoral--by Giorgione, which is so +intensely fine that I condescended to sit down before it and write a +sonnet. You must have heard me rave about the engraving before, and, +I fancy, have seen it yourself. There is a woman, naked, at one side, +who is dipping a glass vessel into a well, and in the centre two men +and another naked woman, who seem to have paused for a moment in +playing on the musical instruments which they hold." Nos. 5 and 6, +"Angelica Rescued from the Sea-Monster, by Ingres," were also +reprinted by the author, with scarcely any alteration. Patmore, on +reading these two sonnets, was much struck with their truthfulness of +quality, as being descriptive of paintings. As to some of the other +sonnets, Mr. W. M. Hardinge wrote in "Temple Bar," several years ago, +an article containing various pertinent and acute remarks. + +By W. M. Rossetti: "Review of Browning's Christmas Eve and Easter +Day." The only observation I need make upon this review--which was +merely intended as introductory to a fuller estimate of the poem, to +appear in an ensuing number of "The Germ"--is that it exemplifies +that profound cultus of Robert Browning which, commenced by Dante +Rossetti, had permeated the whole of the Praeraphaelite Brotherhood, +and formed, not less than some other ideas, a bond of union among +them. It will be readily understood that, in Mr. Stephens's article, +"Modern Giants," the person spoken of as "the greatest perhaps of +modern poets" is Browning. + +By W. M. Rossetti: "The Evil under the Sun: Sonnet." This sonnet was +composed in August 1849, when the great cause of the Hungarian +insurrection against Austrian tyranny was, like revolutionary +movements elsewhere, precipitating towards its fall. My original +title for the sonnet was, "For the General Oppression of the Better +by the Worse Cause, Autumn 1849." When the verses had to be published +in "The Germ," a magazine which did not aim at taking any side in +politics, it was thought that this title was inappropriate, and the +other was substituted. At a much later date the sonnet was reprinted +with yet another and more significant title, "Democracy +Down-trodden." + +Having now disposed of "The Germ" in general, and singly of most of +the articles in it, I have very little to add. The project of +reprinting the magazine was conceived by its present publisher, Mr. +Stock, many years ago--perhaps about 1883. At that time several +contributors assented, but others declined, and considerations of +copyright made it impracticable to proceed with the project. It is +only now that lapse of time has disposed of the copyright question, +and Mr. Stock is free to act as he likes. I was from the first one of +those (the majority) who assented to the republication, acting herein +on behalf of my brother, then lately deceased, as well as of myself. +I am quite aware that some of the articles in "The Germ" are far from +good, and some others, though good in essentials, are to a certain +extent juvenile; but juvenility is anything but uninteresting when it +is that of such men as Coventry Patmore and Dante Rossetti. "The +Germ" contains nothing of which, in spirit and in purport, the +writers need be ashamed. If people like to read it without paying +fancy prices for the original edition, they were and are, so far as I +am concerned, welcome to do so. Before Mr. Stock's long-standing +scheme could be legally carried into effect, an American publisher, +Mr. Mosher, towards the close of 1898, brought out a handsome reprint +of "The Germ" (not in any wise a facsimile), and a few of the copies +were placed on sale in London.{3} Mr. Mosher gave as an introduction +to his volume an article by the late J. Ashcroft Noble which +originally appeared in an English magazine in May 1882. This article +is entitled "A Pre-Raphaelite Magazine." It is written in a spirit of +generous sympathy, and is mostly correct in its facts. I may here +mention another article on "The Germ," also published, towards 1868, +in some magazine. It is by John Burnell Payne (originally a Clergyman +of the Church of England), who died young in 1869. He wrote a triplet +of articles, named "Praeraphaelite Poetry and Painting," of which +Part I. is on "The Germ." He expresses himself sympathetically +enough; but his main drift is to show that the Praeraphaelite +movement, after passing through some immature stages, developed into +a quasi-Renaissance result. A perusal of his paper will show that Mr. +Payne was one of the persons who supposed Chiaro dell'Erma, the hero +of "Hand and Soul," to have been a real painter, author of an extant +picture. + +{3} I have seen in the "Irish Figaro", May 6, 1899, a very pleasant +notice, signed "J. Reid," of this reprint. + +Mr. Stock's reprint is of the facsimile order, and even faults of +print are reproduced. I am not called upon to say with any precision +what there are. On page 45 I observe "ear," which should be "car"; on +page 62, Angilico, and Rossini (for Rosini). On page 155 the words, +"I believe that the thought-wrapped philosopher," ought to begin a +new sentence. On page 159 "Phyrnes" ought of course to be "Phrynes." +The punctuation could frequently be improved. + +I will conclude by appending a little list (it makes no pretension to +completeness) of writings bearing upon the Praeraphaelite Brotherhood +and its members. Writings of that kind are by this date rather +numerous; but some readers of the present pages may not well know +where to find them, and might none the less be inclined to read up +the subject a little. I give these works in the order (as far as I +know it) of their dates, without any attempt to indicate the degree +of their importance. That is a question on which I naturally +entertain opinions of my own, but I shall not intrude them upon the +reader. + + Ruskin: Pre-Raphaelitism, 1854, and other later writings. + F. G. Stephens: William Holman-Hunt and his Works, 1860. + William Sharp: Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1882. + Hall Caine: Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1882. + Walter Hamilton: The aesthetic Movement in England, 1882. + T. Watts-Dunton: The Truth about Rossetti, 1883, and other writings. + W. Holman-Hunt: The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, 1884 (?). + Earnest Chesneau: La Peinture Anglaise, 1884 (?). + Joseph Knight: Life of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1887. + W. M. Rossetti: Dante Gabriel Rossetti as Designer and Writer, 1889. + Harry Quilter: Preferences in Art, 1892. + W. Bell Scott: Autobiographical Notes, 1892. + Esther Wood: Dante Rossetti and the Pre-Raphaelite Movement, 1894. + Robert de la Sizeranne: La Peinture Anglaise Contemporaine, 1895. + Dante G. Rossetti: Family Letters, with Memoir by W. M. Rossetti, 1895. + Richard Muther: The History of Modern Painting, vols. ii. and iii., 1896. + Ford H. M. Hueffer: Ford Madox Brown, 1896. + Dante G. Rossetti: Letters to William Allingham, edited by Dr. Birkbeck + Hill, 1897. + M. H. Spielmann: Millais and his Works, 1898. + Antonio Agresti: Poesie di Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Traduzione con uno + Studio su la Pittura Inglese, etc., 1899. + Fraulein Wilmersdoerffer: Dante Gabriel Rossetti und sein Einflusz, 1899. + Edited by W. M. Rossetti: Ruskin, Rossetti, Praeraphaelitism, 1899. + J. Guille Millais: Life and Letters of Sir John Everett Millais, 1899. + Percy H. Bate: The English Praeraphaelite Painters, 1899. + H. C. Marillier: Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1899. + Edited by W. M. Rossetti: Praeraphaelite Diaries and Letters, 1899. + +There are also books on Burne-Jones and Willaim Morris with which I +am not accurately acquainted. It seems strange that no memoir of +Thomas Woolner has yet been published; a fine sculptor and remarkable +man known to and appreciated by all sorts of people, and certain to +have figured extensively in correspondence. He died in October 1892. +Mr. Holman-Hunt is understood to have been engaged for a long while +past upon a book on Praeraphaelitism which would cast into the shade +most of the earlier literature on the subject. + + W. M. ROSSETTI + London, _July 1899._ + +N.B.--When the third number of the magazine was about to appear, with +a change of title from "The Germ" to "Art and Poetry," two fly-sheets +were drawn up, more, I think, by Messrs. Tupper the printing-firm +than by myself. They contain some "Opinions of the Press," already +referred to in this Introduction, and an explanation as to the change +of title. The fly-sheets appear in facsimile as follows: + + +"The Germ" + + +The Subscribers to this Periodical are respectfully informed that +in future it will appear under the title of "Art and Poetry" +instead of the original arbitrary one, which occasioned much +misapprehension--This alteration will not be productive of any ill +consequence, as the title has never occurred in the work itself, and +Label will be supplied for placing on the old wrappers, so as to make +them conformable to the new-- + +It should also be noticed that the Numbers will henceforward be +published on the last day of the Month for which they are dated-- + +Town Subscribers will oblige by filling up & returning the +accompanying form, which will ensure the Numbers being duly forwarded +as directed.-- + +Country Subscribers may obtain their copies by kindly forwarding +their orders to any Booksellers in their respective Neighborhoods.-- + + +Opinions of the press. + + +"... Original Poems, stories to develop thought and principle, essays +concerning Art & other subjects, are the materials which are to +compose this unique addition to our periodical literature Among the +poetry, there are some rare gems of poetic conception; among the +prose essays, we notice "the Subject in Art" which treats of Art +itself in a noble and lofty tone, with the view which he must take of +it who would, in the truest sense of the word, be an Artist, and +another paper, not less interesting, on "the Purpose and Tendency of +Early Italian Art" A well executed Etching in the medieval style, +accompanies each number" + + John Bull. + +"... There are so many original and beautiful thoughts in these +pages--indeed some of the poems & tales are in themselves so +beautiful in spirit & form--that we have hopes of the writers, when +they shall have got rid of those ghosts of mediaeval art which now +haunt their every page. The essay 'On the Mechanism of a Historical +Picture' is a good practical treatise, and indicates the hand of +writing which is much wanted among artists" + + Morning Chronicle. + +"We depart from our usual plan of noticing the periodicals under one +heading, for the purpose of introducing to our readers a new aspirant +for public favour, which has pecu liar and uncommon claims to +attention, for in design & execution it differs from all other +periodicals ... A periodical largely occupied with poetry wears an +unpromising aspect to readers who have learned from experience what +nonsensical stuff most fugitive Magazine poetry is.... But, when they +have read a few extracts which we propose to make, we think they will +own that for once appearances are deceitful.... That the contents of +this work are the productions of no common minds, the following +extracts will sufficiently prove.... We have not space to take any +specimens of the prose; but the essays on Art are conceived with an +equal appreciation of its _meaning_ & requirements. Being such, this +work has our heartiest wishes for its success, but we scarcely dare +to _hope_ that it may win the popularity it deserves. The truth is +that it is too good for the time. It is not _material_ enough for the +age" + + Critic. + +"... It bears unquestionable evidences of true inspirations and, in +fact, is so thoroughly spiritual that it is more likely to find 'the +fit audience though few' than to attract the multitude ... The prose +articles are much to our taste ... We know, however, of no periodical +of the time which is so genuinely poetical and artistic in its tone." + + Standard of Freedom. + + + + +No. 1. (_Price One Shilling_.) JANUARY, 1850. + +With an Etching by W. HOLMAN HUNT. + +The Germ: Thoughts towards Nature In Poetry, Literature, and Art. + + When whoso merely hath a little thought + Will plainly think the thought which is in him,-- + Not imaging another's bright or dim, + Not mangling with new words what others taught; + When whoso speaks, from having either sought + Or only found,--will speak, not just to skim + A shallow surface with words made and trim, + But in that very speech the matter brought: + Be not too keen to cry--"So this is all!-- + A thing I might myself have thought as well, + But would not say it, for it was not worth!" + Ask: "Is this truth?" For is it still to tell + That, be the theme a point or the whole earth, + Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small? + +London: AYLOTT & JONES, 8, PATERNOSTER ROW. + +G. F Tupper, Printer, Clement's Lane. Lombard Street. + + +CONTENTS. + + My Beautiful Lady: by _Thomas Woolner_ 1 + Of my Lady in Death: by _Thomas Woolner_ 5 + The Love of Beauty: by _F. Madox Brown_ 10 + The Subject in Art, (No. 1.) 11 + The Seasons 19 + Dream Land: by _Ellen Allyn_ 20 + Songs of one Household, (My Sister's Sleep): by _Dante G. Rossetti_ 21 + Hand and Soul: by _Dante G. Rossetti_ 23 + REVIEWS: The "Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich": by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 34 + Her First Season: by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 46 + A Sketch From Nature 47 + An End: by _Ellen Allyn_ 48 + +It is requested that those who may have by them any un-published +Poems, Essays, or other articles appearing to coincide with the views +in which this Periodical is established, and who may feel desirous of +contributing such papers--will forward them, for the approval of the +Editor, to the Office of publication. It may be relied upon that the +most sincere attention will be paid to the examination of all +manuscripts, whether they be eventually accepted or declined. + + +[Illustration] + + +My Beautiful Lady + + + I love my lady; she is very fair; + Her brow is white, and bound by simple hair; + Her spirit sits aloof, and high, + Altho' it looks thro' her soft eye + Sweetly and tenderly. + + As a young forest, when the wind drives thro', + My life is stirred when she breaks on my view. + Altho' her beauty has such power, + Her soul is like the simple flower + Trembling beneath a shower. + + As bliss of saints, when dreaming of large wings, + The bloom around her fancied presence flings, + I feast and wile her absence, by + Pressing her choice hand passionately-- + Imagining her sigh. + + My lady's voice, altho' so very mild, + Maketh me feel as strong wine would a child; + My lady's touch, however slight, + Moves all my senses with its might, + Like to a sudden fright. + + A hawk poised high in air, whose nerved wing-tips + Tremble with might suppressed, before he dips,-- + In vigilance, not more intense + Than I; when her word's gentle sense + Makes full-eyed my suspense. + + Her mention of a thing--august or poor, + Makes it seem nobler than it was before: + As where the sun strikes, life will gush, + And what is pale receive a flush, + Rich hues--a richer blush. + + My lady's name, if I hear strangers use,-- + Not meaning her--seems like a lax misuse. + I love none by my lady's name; + Rose, Maud, or Grace, are all the same, + So blank, so very tame. + + My lady walks as I have seen a swan + Swim thro' the water just where the sun shone. + There ends of willow branches ride, + Quivering with the current's glide, + By the deep river-side. + + Whene'er she moves there are fresh beauties stirred; + As the sunned bosom of a humming-bird + At each pant shows some fiery hue, + Burns gold, intensest green or blue: + The same, yet ever new. + + What time she walketh under flowering May, + I am quite sure the scented blossoms say, + "O lady with the sunlit hair! + "Stay, and drink our odorous air-- + "The incense that we bear: + + "Your beauty, lady, we would ever shade; + "Being near you, our sweetness might not fade." + If trees could be broken-hearted, + I am sure that the green sap smarted, + When my lady parted. + + This is why I thought weeds were beautiful;-- + Because one day I saw my lady pull + Some weeds up near a little brook, + Which home most carefully she took, + Then shut them in a book. + + A deer when startled by the stealthy ounce,-- + A bird escaping from the falcon's trounce, + Feels his heart swell as mine, when she + Stands statelier, expecting me, + Than tall white lilies be. + + The first white flutter of her robe to trace, + Where binds and perfumed jasmine interlace, + Expands my gaze triumphantly: + Even such his gaze, who sees on high + His flag, for victory. + + We wander forth unconsciously, because + The azure beauty of the evening draws: + When sober hues pervade the ground, + And life in one vast hush seems drowned, + Air stirs so little sound. + + We thread a copse where frequent bramble spray + With loose obtrusion from the side roots stray, + (Forcing sweet pauses on our walk): + I'll lift one with my foot, and talk + About its leaves and stalk. + + Or may be that the prickles of some stem + Will hold a prisoner her long garment's hem; + To disentangle it I kneel, + Oft wounding more than I can heal; + It makes her laugh, my zeal. + + Then on before a thin-legged robin hops, + Or leaping on a twig, he pertly stops, + Speaking a few clear notes, till nigh + We draw, when quickly he will fly + Into a bush close by. + + A flock of goldfinches may stop their flight, + And wheeling round a birchen tree alight + Deep in its glittering leaves, until + They see us, when their swift rise will + Startle a sudden thrill. + + I recollect my lady in a wood, + Keeping her breath and peering--(firm she stood + Her slim shape balanced on tiptoe--) + Into a nest which lay below, + Leaves shadowing her brow. + + I recollect my lady asking me, + What that sharp tapping in the wood might be? + I told her blackbirds made it, which, + For slimy morsels they count rich, + Cracked the snail's curling niche: + + She made no answer. When we reached the stone + Where the shell fragments on the grass were strewn, + Close to the margin of a rill; + "The air," she said, "seems damp and chill, + "We'll go home if you will." + + "Make not my pathway dull so soon," I cried, + "See how those vast cloudpiles in sun-glow dyed, + "Roll out their splendour: while the breeze + "Lifts gold from leaf to leaf, as these + "Ash saplings move at ease." + + Piercing the silence in our ears, a bird + Threw some notes up just then, and quickly stirred + The covert birds that startled, sent + Their music thro' the air; leaves lent + Their rustling and blent, + + Until the whole of the blue warmth was filled + So much with sun and sound, that the air thrilled. + She gleamed, wrapt in the dying day's + Glory: altho' she spoke no praise, + I saw much in her gaze. + + Then, flushed with resolution, I told all;-- + The mighty love I bore her,--how would pall + My very breath of life, if she + For ever breathed not hers with me;-- + Could I a cherub be, + + How, idly hoping to enrich her grace, + I would snatch jewels from the orbs of space;-- + Then back thro' the vague distance beat, + Glowing with joy her smile to meet, + And heap them round her feet. + + Her waist shook to my arm. She bowed her head, + Silent, with hands clasped and arms straightened: + (Just then we both heard a church bell) + O God! It is not right to tell: + But I remember well + + Each breast swelled with its pleasure, and her whole + Bosom grew heavy with love; the swift roll + Of new sensations dimmed her eyes, + Half closing them in ecstasies, + Turned full against the skies. + + The rest is gone; it seemed a whirling round-- + No pressure of my feet upon the ground: + But even when parted from her, bright + Showed all; yea, to my throbbing sight + The dark was starred with light. + + + + +Of My Lady In Death + + + All seems a painted show. I look + Up thro' the bloom that's shed + By leaves above my head, + And feel the earnest life forsook + All being, when she died:-- + My heart halts, hot and dried + As the parched course where once a brook + Thro' fresh growth used to flow,-- + Because her past is now + No more than stories in a printed book. + + The grass has grown above that breast, + Now cold and sadly still, + My happy face felt thrill:-- + Her mouth's mere tones so much expressed! + Those lips are now close set,-- + Lips which my own have met; + Her eyelids by the earth are pressed; + Damp earth weighs on her eyes; + Damp earth shuts out the skies. + My lady rests her heavy, heavy rest. + + To see her slim perfection sweep, + Trembling impatiently, + With eager gaze at me! + Her feet spared little things that creep:-- + "We've no more right," she'd say, + "In this the earth than they." + Some remember it but to weep. + Her hand's slight weight was such, + Care lightened with its touch; + My lady sleeps her heavy, heavy sleep. + + My day-dreams hovered round her brow; + Now o'er its perfect forms + Go softly real worms. + Stern death, it was a cruel blow, + To cut that sweet girl's life + Sharply, as with a knife. + Cursed life that lets me live and grow, + Just as a poisonous root, + From which rank blossoms shoot; + My lady's laid so very, very low. + + Dread power, grief cries aloud, "unjust,"-- + To let her young life play + Its easy, natural way; + Then, with an unexpected thrust, + Strike out the life you lent, + Just when her feelings blent + With those around whom she saw trust + Her willing power to bless, + For their whole happiness; + My lady moulders into common dust. + + Small birds twitter and peck the weeds + That wave above her head, + Shading her lowly bed: + Their brisk wings burst light globes of seeds, + Scattering the downy pride + Of dandelions, wide: + Speargrass stoops with watery beads: + The weight from its fine tips + Occasionally drips: + The bee drops in the mallow-bloom, and feeds. + + About her window, at the dawn, + From the vine's crooked boughs + Birds chirupped an arouse: + Flies, buzzing, strengthened with the morn;-- + She'll not hear them again + At random strike the pane: + No more upon the close-cut lawn, + Her garment's sun-white hem + Bend the prim daisy's stem, + In walking forth to view what flowers are born. + + No more she'll watch the dark-green rings + Stained quaintly on the lea, + To image fairy glee; + While thro' dry grass a faint breeze sings, + And swarms of insects revel + Along the sultry level:-- + No more will watch their brilliant wings, + Now lightly dip, now soar, + Then sink, and rise once more. + My lady's death makes dear these trivial things. + + Within a huge tree's steady shade, + When resting from our walk, + How pleasant was her talk! + Elegant deer leaped o'er the glade, + Or stood with wide bright eyes, + Staring a short surprise: + Outside the shadow cows were laid, + Chewing with drowsy eye + Their cuds complacently: + Dim for sunshine drew near a milking-maid. + + Rooks cawed and labored thro' the heat; + Each wing-flap seemed to make + Their weary bodies ache: + The swallows, tho' so very fleet, + Made breathless pauses there + At something in the air:-- + All disappeared: our pulses beat + Distincter throbs: then each + Turned and kissed, without speech,-- + She trembling, from her mouth down to her feet. + + My head sank on her bosom's heave, + So close to the soft skin + I heard the life within. + My forehead felt her coolly breathe, + As with her breath it rose: + To perfect my repose + Her two arms clasped my neck. The eve + Spread silently around, + A hush along the ground, + And all sound with the sunlight seemed to leave. + + By my still gaze she must have known + The mighty bliss that filled + My whole soul, for she thrilled, + Drooping her face, flushed, on my own; + I felt that it was such + By its light warmth of touch. + My lady was with me alone: + That vague sensation brought + More real joy than thought. + I am without her now, truly alone. + + We had no heed of time: the cause + Was that our minds were quite + Absorbed in our delight, + Silently blessed. Such stillness awes, + And stops with doubt, the breath, + Like the mute doom of death. + I felt Time's instantaneous pause; + An instant, on my eye + Flashed all Eternity:-- + I started, as if clutched by wild beasts' claws, + + Awakened from some dizzy swoon: + I felt strange vacant fears, + With singings in my ears, + And wondered that the pallid moon + Swung round the dome of night + With such tremendous might. + A sweetness, like the air of June, + Next paled me with suspense, + A weight of clinging sense-- + Some hidden evil would burst on me soon. + + My lady's love has passed away, + To know that it is so + To me is living woe. + That body lies in cold decay, + Which held the vital soul + When she was my life's soul. + Bitter mockery it was to say-- + "Our souls are as the same:" + My words now sting like shame; + Her spirit went, and mine did not obey. + + It was as if a fiery dart + Passed seething thro' my brain + When I beheld her lain + There whence in life she did not part. + Her beauty by degrees, + Sank, sharpened with disease: + The heavy sinking at her heart + Sucked hollows in her cheek, + And made her eyelids weak, + Tho' oft they'd open wide with sudden start. + + The deathly power in silence drew + My lady's life away. + I watched, dumb with dismay, + The shock of thrills that quivered thro' + And tightened every limb: + For grief my eyes grew dim; + More near, more near, the moment grew. + O horrible suspense! + O giddy impotence! + I saw her fingers lax, and change their hue. + + Her gaze, grown large with fate, was cast + Where my mute agonies + Made more sad her sad eyes: + Her breath caught with short plucks and fast:-- + Then one hot choking strain. + She never breathed again: + I had the look which was her last: + Even after breath was gone, + Her love one moment shone,-- + Then slowly closed, and hope for ever passed. + + Silence seemed to start in space + When first the bell's harsh toll + Rang for my lady's soul. + Vitality was hell; her grace + The shadow of a dream: + Things then did scarcely seem: + Oblivion's stroke fell like a mace: + As a tree that's just hewn + I dropped, in a dead swoon, + And lay a long time cold upon my face. + + Earth had one quarter turned before + My miserable fate + Pressed on with its whole weight. + My sense came back; and, shivering o'er, + I felt a pain to bear + The sun's keen cruel glare; + It seemed not warm as heretofore. + Oh, never more its rays + Will satisfy my gaze. + No more; no more; oh, never any more. + + + + +The Love of Beauty + + + John Boccaccio, love's own squire, deep sworn + In service to all beauty, joy, and rest,-- + When first the love-earned royal Mary press'd, + To her smooth cheek, his pale brows, passion-worn,-- + 'Tis said, he, by her grace nigh frenzied, torn + By longings unattainable, address'd + To his chief friend most strange misgivings, lest + Some madness in his brain had thence been born. + The artist-mind alone can feel his meaning:-- + Such as have watched the battle-rank'd array + Of sunset, or the face of girlhood seen in + Line-blending twilight, with sick hope. Oh! they + May feed desire on some fond bosom leaning: + But where shall such their thirst of Nature stay? + + + + +The Subject in Art + +(No. 1.) + + +If Painting and Sculpture delight us like other works of ingenuity, +merely from the difficulties they surmount; like an 'egg in a +bottle,' a tree made out of stone, or a face made of pigment; and the +pleasure we receive, is our wonder at the achievement; then, to such +as so believe, this treatise is not written. But if, as the writer +conceives, works of Fine Art delight us by the interest the objects +they depict excite in the beholder, just as those objects in nature +would excite his interest; if by any association of ideas in the one +case, by the same in the other, without reference to the +representations being other than the objects they represent:--then, +to such as so believe, the following upon 'SUBJECT' is addressed. +Whilst, at the same time, it is not disallowed that a subsequent +pleasure may and does result, upon reflecting that the objects +contemplated were the work of human ingenuity. + +Now the subject to be treated, is the 'subject' of Painter and +Sculptor; what ought to be the nature of that 'subject,' how far that +subject may be drawn from past or present time with advantage, how +far the subject may tend to confer upon its embodiment the title, +'High Art,' how far the subject may tend to confer upon its +embodiment the title 'Low Art;' what is 'High Art,' what is 'Low +Art'? + +To begin then (at the end) with 'High Art.' However we may differ as +to facts, the principle will be readily granted, that 'High Art,' +_i.e._ Art, par excellence, Art, in its most exalted character, +addresses pre-eminently the highest attributes of man, viz.: his +mental and his moral faculties. + +'Low Art,' or Art in its less exalted character, is that which +addresses the less exalted attributes of man, viz.: his mere sensory +faculties, without affecting the mind or heart, excepting through the +volitional agency of the observer. + +These definitions are too general and simple to be disputed; but +before we endeavour to define more particularly, let us analyze the +subject, and see what it will yield. + +All the works which remain to us of the Ancients, and this appears +somewhat remarkable, are, with the exception of those by incompetent +artists, universally admitted to be 'High Art.' Now do we afford them +this high title, because all remnants of the antique world, by +tempting a comparison between what was, and is, will set the mental +faculties at work, and thus address the highest attributes of man? +Or, as this is owing to the agency of the observer, and not to the +subject represented, are we to seek for the cause in the subjects +themselves! + +Let us examine the subjects. They are mostly in sculpture; but this +cannot be the cause, unless all modern sculpture be considered 'High +Art.' This is leaving out of the question in both ages, all works +badly executed, and obviously incorrect, of which there are numerous +examples both ancient and modern. + +The subjects we find in sculpture are, in "the round," mostly men or +women in thoughtful or impassioned action: sometimes they are indeed +acting physically; but then, as in the Jason adjusting his Sandal, +acting by mechanical impulse, and thinking or looking in another +direction. In relievo we have an historical combat, such as that +between the Centaurs and Lapithae; sometimes a group in conversation, +sometimes a recitation of verses to the Lyre; a dance, or religious +procession. + +As to the first class in "the round," as they seem to appeal to the +intellectual, and often to the moral faculties, they are naturally, +and according to the broad definition, works of 'High Art.' Of the +relievo, the historical combat appeals to the passions; and, being +historical, probably to the intellect. The like may be said of the +conversational groups, and lyrical recitation which follow. The dance +appeals to the passions and the intellect; since the intellect +recognises therein an order and design, her own planning; while the +solemn, modest demeanour in the religious procession speaks to the +heart and the mind. The same remarks will apply to the few ancient +paintings we possess, always excluding such merely decorative works +as are not fine art at all. + +Thus it appears that all these works of the ancients _might_ +rationally have been denominated works of 'High Art;' and here we +remark the difference between the hypothetical or rational, and the +historical account of facts; for though here is _reason_ enough why +ancient art _might_ have been denominated 'High Art,' that it _was_ +so denominated on this account, is a position not capable of proof: +whereas, in all probability, the true account of the matter runs +thus--The works of antiquity awe us by their time-hallowed presence; +the mind is sent into a serious contemplation of things; and, the +subject itself in nowise contravening, we attribute all this potent +effect to the agency of the subject before us, and 'High Art,' it +becomes _then_ and _for ever_, with all such as "follow its cut." But +then as this was so named, not from the abstract cause, but from a +result and effect; when a _new_ work is produced in a similar spirit, +but clothed in a dissimilar matter, and the critics have to settle to +what class of art it belongs,--then is the new work dragged up to +fight with the old one, like the poor beggar Irus in front of +Ulysses; then are they turned over and applied, each to each, like +the two triangles in Euclid; and then, if they square, fit and tally +in every quarter--with the nude to the draped in the one, as the nude +to the draped in the other--with the standing to the sitting in the +one, as the standing to the sitting in the other--with the fat to the +lean in the one, as the fat to the lean in the other--with the young +to the old in the one, as the young to the old in the other--with +head to body, as head to body; and nose to knee, as nose to knee, &c. +&c., (and the critics have done a great deal)--then is the work +oracularly pronounced one of 'High Art;' and the obsequious artist is +pleased to consider it is. + +But if, per contra, as in the former case, the works are not to be +literally reconciled, though wrought in the self-same spirit; then +this unfortunate creature of genius is degraded into a lower rank of +art; and the artist, if he have faith in the learned, despairs; or, +if he have none, he _swears_. But listen, an artist speaks: "If I +have genius to produce a work in the true spirit of high art, and yet +am so ignorant of its principles, that I scarce know whereon the +success of the work depends, and scarcely whether I have succeeded or +no; with this ignorance and this power, what needs your knowledge or +your reasoning, seeing that nature is all-sufficient, and produces a +painter as she produces a plant?" To the artist (the last of his +race), who spoke thus, it is answered, that science is not meant for +him, if he like it not, seeing he can do without it, and seeing, +moreover, that with it _alone_ he can never do. Science here does not +make; it unmakes, wonderingly to find the making of what God has +made--of what God has made through the poet, leading him blindly by a +path which he has not known; this path science follows slowly and in +wonder. But though science is not to make the artist, there is no +reason in nature that the artist reject it. Still, science is +properly the birthright of the critic; 'tis his all in all. It shows +him poets, painters, sculptors, his fellow men, often his inferiors +in their want of it, his superiors in the ability to do what he +cannot do; it teaches him to love them as angels bringing him food +which _he_ cannot attain, and to venerate their works as a gift from +the Creator. + +But to return to the critical errors relating to 'High Art.' While +the constituents of high art were unknown, whilst its abstract +principles were unsought, and whilst it was only recognized in the +concrete, the critics, certainly guilty of the most unpardonable +blindness, blundered up to the masses of 'High Art,' left by +antiquity, saying, "there let us fix our observatory," and here came +out perspective glass, and callipers and compasses; and here they +made squares and triangles, and circles, and ellipses, for, said +they, "this is 'High Art,' and this hath certain proportions;" then +in the logic of their hearts, they continued, "all these proportions +we know by admeasurement, whatsoever hath these is 'High Art,' +whatsoever hath not, is 'Low Art.'" This was as certain as the fact +that the sun is a globe of glowing charcoal, because forsooth +they both yield light and heat. Now if the phantom of a then +embryon-electrician had arisen and told them that their "high art +marbles possessed an electric influence, which, acting in the +brain of the observer, would awake in him emotions of so exalted +a character, that he forthwith, inevitably nodding at them, +must utter the tremendous syllables 'High Art;'" he, the then +embryon-electrician, from that age withheld to bless and irradiate +the physiology of ours, would have done something more to the purpose +than all the critics and the compasses. + +Thus then we see, that the antique, however successfully it may have +wrought, is not our model; for, according to that faith demanded at +setting out, fine art delights us from its being the semblance of +what in nature delights. Now, as the artist does not work by the +instrumentality of rule and science, but mainly by an instinctive +impulse; if he copy the antique, unable as he is to segregate the +merely delectable matter, he must needs copy the whole, and thereby +multiply models, which the casting-man can do equally well; whereas +if he copy nature, with a like inability to distinguish that +delectable attribute which allures him to copy her, and under the +same necessity of copying the whole, to make sure of this "tenant of +nowhere;" we then have the artist, the instructed of nature, +fulfilling his natural capacity, while his works we have as manifold +yet various as nature's own thoughts for her children. + +But reverting to the subject, it was stated at the beginning that +'Fine Art' delights, by presenting us with objects, which in nature +delight us; and 'High Art' was defined, that which addresses the +intellect; and hence it might appear, as delight is an emotion of the +mind, that 'Low Art,' which addresses the senses, is not Fine Art at +all. But then it must be remembered, that it was neither stated of +'Fine Art,' nor of 'High Art,' that it always delights; and again, +that delight is not entirely mental. To point out the confines of +high and low art, where the one terminates and the other commences, +would be difficult, if not impracticable without sub-defining or +circumscribing the import of the terms, pain, pleasure, delight, +sensory, mental, psychical, intellectual, objective, subjective, &c. +&c.; and then, as little or nothing would be gained mainly pertinent +to the subject, it must be content to receive no better definitions +than those broad ones already laid down, with their latitude somewhat +corrected by practical examples. Yet before proceeding to give these +examples, it might be remarked of 'High Art,' that it always might, +if it do not always excite some portion of delight, irrespective of +that subsequent delight consequent upon the examination of a +curiosity; that its function is sometimes, with this portion of +delight, to commingle grief or distress, and that it may, (though +this is _not_ its function,) excite mental anguish, and by a reflex +action, actual body pain. Now then to particularize, by example; let +us suppose a perfect and correct painting of a stone, a common stone +such as we walk over. Now although this subject might to a religious +man, suggest a text of scripture; and to the geologist a theory of +scientific interest; yet its general effect upon the average number +of observers will be readily allowed to be more that of wonder or +admiration at a triumph over the apparently impossible (to make a +round stone upon a flat piece of canvass) than at aught else the +subject possesses. Now a subject such as this belongs to such very +low art, that it narrowly illudes precipitation over the confines of +Fine Art; yet, that it is Fine Art is indisputable, since no mere +mechanic artisan, or other than one specially gifted by nature, could +produce it. This then shall introduce us to "Subject." This subject +then, standing where fine art gradually confines with mechanic art, +and almost midway between them; of no use nor beauty; but to be +wondered at as a curiosity; is a subject of scandalous import to the +artist, to the artist thus gifted by nature with a talent to +reproduce her fleeting and wondrous forms. But if, as the writer +doubts, nature could afford a monster so qualified for a poet, yet +destitute of poetical genius; then the scandal attaches if he attempt +a step in advance, or neglect to join himself to those, a most useful +class of mechanic artists, who illustrate the sciences by drawing and +diagram. + +But as the subject supposed is one never treated in painting; only +instanced, in fact, to exemplify an extreme; let us consider the +merits of a subject really practical, such as 'dead game,' or 'a +basket of fruit;' and the first general idea such a subject will +excite is simply that of _food_, 'something to eat.' For though fruit +on the tree, or a pheasant in the air, is a portion of nature and +properly belongs to the section, 'Landscape,' a division of art +intellectual enough; yet gather the fruit or bring down the pheasant, +and you presently bring down the poetry with it; and although Sterne +could sentimentalize upon a dead ass; and though a dead pheasant in +the larder, or a dead sheep at a butcher's, may excite feelings akin +to anything but good living; and though they may _there_ be the +excitive causes of poetical, nay, or moral reflexion; yet, see them +on the canvass, and the first and uppermost idea will be that of +'_Food_,' and how, in the name of decency, they ever came there. It +will be vain to argue that gathered fruit is only nature under a +certain phase, and that a dead sheep or a dead pheasant is only a +dead animal like a dead ass--it will be pitiably vain and miserable +sophistry, since we know that the dead pheasant in a picture will +always be as _food_, while the same at he poulterer's will be but a +dead pheasant. + +For we have not one only, but numerous general ideas annexed to every +object in nature. Thus one of the series may be that that object is +matter, one that it is individual matter, one that it is animal +matter, one that it is a bird, one that it is a pheasant, one that it +is a dead pheasant, and one that it is food. Now, our general ideas +or notions are not evoked in this order as each new object addresses +the mind; but that general idea is _first_ elicited which accords +with the first or principle destination of the object: thus the first +general idea of a cowry, to the Indian, is that of money, not of a +shell; and our first general idea of a dead pheasant is that of food, +whereas to a zoologist it might have a different effect: but this is +the exception. But it was said, that a dead pheasant in a picture +would always be as food, while the same at the poulterer's would be +but a dead pheasant: what then becomes of the first general idea? It +seems to be disposed of thus: at the first sight of the shop, the +idea is that of food, and next (if you are not hungry, and poets +never are), the mind will be attracted to the species of animal, +and (unless hunger presses) you may be led on to moralize like +Sterne: but, amongst pictures, where there is nothing else to +excite the general ideas of food, this, whenever adverted to, +must over re-excite that idea; and hence it appears that these +_esculent_ subjects might be poetical enough if exhibited all +together, _i.e._, they must be surrounded with eatables, like +a possibly-poetical-pheasant in a poulterer's shop. + +Longer stress has been laid upon this subject, "Still Life," than +would seem justified by its insignificance, but as this is a branch +of art which has never aspired to be 'High Art,' it contains +something definite in its character which makes it better worth the +analysis than might appear at first sight; but still, as a latitude +has been taken in the investigation which is ever unavoidable in the +handling of such mercurial matter as poetry (where one must spread +out a broad definition to catch it wherever it runs), and as this is +ever incomprehensible to such as are unaccustomed to abstract +thinking, from the difficulty of educing a rule amidst an infinite +array of exceptions, and of recognising a principle shrouded in the +obscurity of conflicting details; it appears expedient, before +pursuing the question, to reinforce the first broad elementary +principles with what definite modification they may have acquired in +their progress to this point in the argument, together with the +additional data which may have resulted from analytic reference to +other correlative matter. + +First then, as Fine Art delights in proportion to the delectating +interest of the objects it depicts, and, as subsequently stated, +grieves or distresses in proportion as the objects are grievous or +distressing, we have this resultant: "Fine Art _excites_ in +proportion to the excitor influence of the object;" and then, that +"_fine art_ excites either the sensory or the mental faculties, in a +like proportion to the excitor properties of the objects +respectively." Thus then we have, definitely stated, the powers or +capabilities of _Fine Art_, as regulated and governed by the objects +it selects, and the objects it selects making its subject. Now the +question in hand is, "what the nature of that _subject_ should be," +but the _subject_ must be according to what Fine Art proposes to +effect; all then must depend upon this proposition. For if you +propose that Fine Art shall excite sensual pleasure, then such +objects as excite sensual pleasure should form the _subject_ of Fine +Art; and those which excite sensual pleasure in the highest degree, +will form the _highest subject_--'High Art.' Or if you propose that +Fine Art shall excite a physical energetic activity, by addressing +the sensory organism, which is a phase of the former proposition, +(for what are popularly called sensual pleasures, are only particular +sensory excitements sought by a physical appetite, while this +sensory-organic activity is physically appetent also,) then the +subjects of art ought to be draw form such objects as excite a +general activity, such as field-sports, bull-fights, battles, +executions, court pageants, conflagrations, murders; and those which +most intensely excite this sensory-organic activity, by expressing +most of physical human power or suffering, such as battles, +executions, regality, murder, would afford the _highest subject_ of +Fine Art, and consequently these would be "_High Art_." But if you +propose (with the writer) that _Fine Art_ shall regard the general +happiness of man, but addressing those attributes which are +_peculiarly human_, by exciting the activity of his rational and +benevolent powers (and the writer would add, man's religious +aspirations, but omits it as sufficiently evolvable from the +proposition, and since some well-willing men cannot at present +recognize man as a religious animal), then the subject of Fine Art +should be drawn from objects which address and excite the activity of +man's rational and benevolent powers, such as:--acts of justice--of +mercy--good government--order--acts of intellect--men obviously +speaking or thinking abstract thoughts, as evinced by one speaking to +another, and looking at, or indicating, a flower, or a picture, or a +star, or by looking on the wall while speaking--or, if the scene be +from a _good_ play, or story, or another beneficent work, then not +only of men in abstract thought or meditation, but, it may be, in +simple conversation, or in passion--or a simple representation of a +person in a play or story, as of Jacques, Ferdinand, or Cordelia; or, +in real life, portraits of those who are honestly beautiful; or +expressive of innocence, happiness, benevolence, or intellectuality, +but not of gluttony, wantonness, anger, hatred, or malevolence, +unless in some cases of justifiable satire--of histrionic or historic +portraiture--landscape--natural phenomena--animals, not +_indiscriminately_--in some cases, grand or beautiful buildings, even +without figures--any scene on sea or land which induces +reflection--all subjects from such parts of history as are morally or +intellectually instructive or attractive--and therefore +pageants--battles--and _even_ executions--all forms of thought and +poetry, however wild, if consistent with rational benevolence--all +scenes serious or comic, domestic or historical--all religious +subjects proposing good that will not shock any reasonable number of +reasonable men--all subjects that leave the artist wiser and +happier--and none which intrinsically act otherwise--to sum all, +every thing or incident in nature which excites, or may be made to +excite, the mind and the heart of man as a mentally intelligent, not +as a brute animal, is a subject for Fine Art, at all times, in all +places, and in all ages. But as all these subjects in nature affect +our hearts or our understanding in proportion to the heart and +understanding we have to apprehend and to love them, those will +excite us most intensely which we know most of and love most. But as +we may learn to know them all and to love them all, and what is dark +to-day may be luminous to-morrow, and things, dumb to-day, to-morrow +grow voiceful, and the strange voice of to-day be plain and reproach +us to-morrow; who shall adventure to say that this or that is the +highest? And if it appear that all these subjects in nature _may_ +affect us with equal intensity, and that the artist's representations +affect as the subjects affect, then it follows, with all these +subjects, Fine Art may affect us equally; but the subjects may all be +high; therefore, all Fine Art may be High Art. + + + + +The Seasons + + + The crocus, in the shrewd March morn, + Thrusts up its saffron spear; + And April dots the sombre thorn + With gems, and loveliest cheer. + + Then sleep the seasons, full of might; + While slowly swells the pod, + And rounds the peach, and in the night + The mushroom bursts the sod. + + The winter falls: the frozen rut + Is bound with silver bars; + The white drift heaps against the hut; + And night is pierced with stars. + + + + +Dream Land + + + Where sunless rivers weep + Their waves into the deep, + She sleeps a charmed sleep; + Awake her not. + Led by a single star, + She came from very far, + To seek where shadows are + Her pleasant lot. + + She left the rosy morn, + She left the fields of corn, + For twilight cold and lorn, + And water-springs. + Thro' sleep, as thro' a veil, + She sees the sky look pale, + And hears the nightingale, + That sadly sings. + + Rest, rest, a perfect rest, + Shed over brow and breast; + Her face is toward the west, + The purple land. + She cannot see the grain + Ripening on hill and plain; + She cannot feel the rain + Upon her hand. + + Rest, rest, for evermore + Upon a mossy shore, + Rest, rest, that shall endure, + Till time shall cease;-- + Sleep that no pain shall wake, + Night that no morn shall break, + Till joy shall overtake + Her perfect peace. + + + + +Songs of One Household + +No. 1. + +My Sister's Sleep + + + She fell asleep on Christmas Eve. + Upon her eyes' most patient calms + The lids were shut; her uplaid arms + Covered her bosom, I believe. + + Our mother, who had leaned all day + Over the bed from chime to chime, + Then raised herself for the first time, + And as she sat her down, did pray. + + Her little work-table was spread + With work to finish. For the glare + Made by her candle, she had care + To work some distance from the bed. + + Without, there was a good moon up, + Which left its shadows far within; + The depth of light that it was in + Seemed hollow like an altar-cup. + + Through the small room, with subtle sound + Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove + And reddened. In its dim alcove + The mirror shed a clearness round. + + I had been sitting up some nights, + And my tir'd mind felt weak and blank; + Like a sharp strengthening wine, it drank + The stillness and the broken lights. + + Silence was speaking at my side + With an exceedingly clear voice: + I knew the calm as of a choice + Made in God for me, to abide. + + I said, "Full knowledge does not grieve: + This which upon my spirit dwells + Perhaps would have been sorrow else: + But I am glad 'tis Christmas Eve." + + Twelve struck. That sound, which all the years + Hear in each hour, crept off; and then + The ruffled silence spread again, + Like water that a pebble stirs. + + Our mother rose from where she sat. + Her needles, as she laid them down, + Met lightly, and her silken gown + Settled: no other noise than that. + + "Glory unto the Newly Born!" + So, as said angels, she did say; + Because we were in Christmas-day, + Though it would still be long till dawn. + + She stood a moment with her hands + Kept in each other, praying much; + A moment that the soul may touch + But the heart only understands. + + Almost unwittingly, my mind + Repeated her words after her; + Perhaps tho' my lips did not stir; + It was scarce thought, or cause assign'd. + + Just then in the room over us + There was a pushing back of chairs, + As some who had sat unawares + So late, now heard the hour, and rose. + + Anxious, with softly stepping haste, + Our mother went where Margaret lay, + Fearing the sounds o'erhead--should they + Have broken her long-watched for rest! + + She stooped an instant, calm, and turned; + But suddenly turned back again; + And all her features seemed in pain + With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned. + + For my part, I but hid my face, + And held my breath, and spake no word: + There was none spoken; but _I heard_ + _The silence_ for a little space. + + My mother bowed herself and wept. + And both my arms fell, and I said: + "God knows I knew that she was dead." + And there, all white, my sister slept. + + Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn + A little after twelve o'clock + We said, ere the first quarter struck, + "Christ's blessing on the newly born!" + + + + +Hand and Soul + + + "Rivolsimi in quel lato + La 'nde venia la voce, + E parvemi una luce + Che lucea quanto stella: + La mia mente era quella." + + _Bonaggiunta Urbiciani_, (1250.) + +Before any knowledge of painting was brought to Florence, there were +already painters in Lucca, and Pisa, and Arezzo, who feared God and +loved the art. The keen, grave workmen from Greece, whose trade it +was to sell their own works in Italy and teach Italians to imitate +them, had already found rivals of the soil with skill that could +forestall their lessons and cheapen their crucifixes and +_addolorate_, more years than is supposed before the art came at all +into Florence. The pre-eminence to which Cimabue was raised at once +by his contemporaries, and which he still retains to a wide extent +even in the modern mind, is to be accounted for, partly by the +circumstances under which he arose, and partly by that extraordinary +_purpose of fortune_ born with the lives of some few, and through +which it is not a little thing for any who went before, if they are +even remembered as the shadows of the coming of such an one, and the +voices which prepared his way in the wilderness. It is thus, almost +exclusively, that the painters of whom I speak are now known. They +have left little, and but little heed is taken of that which men hold +to have been surpassed; it is gone like time gone--a track of dust +and dead leaves that merely led to the fountain. + +Nevertheless, of very late years, and in very rare instances, some +signs of a better understanding have become manifest. A case in point +is that of the tryptic and two cruciform pictures at Dresden, by +Chiaro di Messer Bello dell' Erma, to which the eloquent pamphlet of +Dr. Aemmster has at length succeeded in attracting the students. +There is another, still more solemn and beautiful work, now proved to +be by the same hand, in the gallery at Florence. It is the one to +which my narrative will relate. + + * * * * * * * + +This Chiaro dell' Erma was a young man of very honorable family in +Arezzo; where, conceiving art almost, as it were, for himself, and +loving it deeply, he endeavored from early boyhood towards the +imitation of any objects offered in nature. The extreme longing after +a visible embodiment of his thoughts strengthened as his years +increased, more even than his sinews or the blood of his life; until +he would feel faint in sunsets and at the sight of stately persons. +When he had lived nineteen years, he heard of the famous Giunta +Pisano; and, feeling much of admiration, with, perhaps, a little of +that envy which youth always feels until it has learned to measure +success by time and opportunity, he determined that he would seek out +Giunta, and, if possible, become his pupil. + +Having arrived in Pisa, he clothed himself in humble apparel, being +unwilling that any other thing than the desire he had for knowledge +should be his plea with the great painter; and then, leaving his +baggage at a house of entertainment, he took his way along the +street, asking whom he met for the lodging of Giunta. It soon chanced +that one of that city, conceiving him to be a stranger and poor, took +him into his house, and refreshed him; afterwards directing him on +his way. + +When he was brought to speech of Giunta, he said merely that he was a +student, and that nothing in the world was so much at his heart as to +become that which he had heard told of him with whom he was speaking. +He was received with courtesy and consideration, and shewn into the +study of the famous artist. But the forms he saw there were lifeless +and incomplete; and a sudden exultation possessed him as he said +within himself, "I am the master of this man." The blood came at +first into his face, but the next moment he was quite pale and fell +to trembling. He was able, however, to conceal his emotion; speaking +very little to Giunta, but, when he took his leave, thanking him +respectfully. + +After this, Chiaro's first resolve was, that he would work out +thoroughly some one of his thoughts, and let the world know him. But +the lesson which he had now learned, of how small a greatness might +win fame, and how little there was to strive against, served to make +him torpid, and rendered his exertions less continual. Also Pisa was +a larger and more luxurious city than Arezzo; and, when in his walks, +he saw the great gardens laid out for pleasure, and the beautiful +women who passed to and fro, and heard the music that was in the +groves of the city at evening, he was taken with wonder that he had +never claimed his share of the inheritance of those years in which +his youth was cast. And women loved Chiaro; for, in despite of the +burthen of study, he was well-favoured and very manly in his walking; +and, seeing his face in front, there was a glory upon it, as upon the +face of one who feels a light round his hair. + +So he put thought from him, and partook of his life. But, one night, +being in a certain company of ladies, a gentleman that was there with +him began to speak of the paintings of a youth named Bonaventura, +which he had seen in Lucca; adding that Giunta Pisano might now look +for a rival. When Chiaro heard this, the lamps shook before him, and +the music beat in his ears and made him giddy. He rose up, alleging a +sudden sickness, and went out of that house with his teeth set. + +He now took to work diligently; not returning to Arezzo, but +remaining in Pisa, that no day more might be lost; only living +entirely to himself. Sometimes, after nightfall, he would walk abroad +in the most solitary places he could find; hardly feeling the ground +under him, because of the thoughts of the day which held him in +fever. + +The lodging he had chosen was in a house that looked upon gardens +fast by the Church of San Rocco. During the offices, as he sat at +work, he could hear the music of the organ and the long murmur that +the chanting left; and if his window were open, sometimes, at those +parts of the mass where there is silence throughout the church, his +ear caught faintly the single voice of the priest. Beside the matters +of his art and a very few books, almost the only object to be noticed +in Chiaro's room was a small consecrated image of St. Mary Virgin +wrought out of silver, before which stood always, in summer-time, a +glass containing a lily and a rose. + +It was here, and at this time, that Chiaro painted the Dresden +pictures; as also, in all likelihood, the one--inferior in merit, but +certainly his--which is now at Munich. For the most part, he was calm +and regular in his manner of study; though often he would remain at +work through the whole of the day, not resting once so long as the +light lasted; flushed, and with the hair from his face. Or, at times, +when he could not paint, he would sit for hours in thought of all the +greatness the world had known from of old; until he was weak with +yearning, like one who gazes upon a path of stars. + +He continued in this patient endeavour for about three years, at the +end of which his name was spoken throughout all Tuscany. As his fame +waxed, he began to be employed, besides easel-pictures, upon +paintings in fresco: but I believe that no traces remain to us of any +of these latter. He is said to have painted in the Duomo: and +D'Agincourt mentions having seen some portions of a fresco by him +which originally had its place above the high altar in the Church of +the Certosa; but which, at the time he saw it, being very +dilapidated, had been hewn out of the wall, and was preserved in the +stores of the convent. Before the period of Dr. Aemmster's +researches, however, it had been entirely destroyed. + +Chiaro was now famous. It was for the race of fame that he had girded +up his loins; and he had not paused until fame was reached: yet now, +in taking breath, he found that the weight was still at his heart. +The years of his labor had fallen from him, and his life was still in +its first painful desire. + +With all that Chiaro had done during these three years, and even +before, with the studies of his early youth, there had always been a +feeling of worship and service. It was the peace-offering that he +made to God and to his own soul for the eager selfishness of his aim. +There was earth, indeed, upon the hem of his raiment; but _this_ was +of the heaven, heavenly. He had seasons when he could endure to think +of no other feature of his hope than this: and sometimes, in the +ecstacy of prayer, it had even seemed to him to behold that day when +his mistress--his mystical lady (now hardly in her ninth year, but +whose solemn smile at meeting had already lighted on his soul like +the dove of the Trinity)--even she, his own gracious and holy Italian +art--with her virginal bosom, and her unfathomable eyes, and the +thread of sunlight round her brows--should pass, through the sun that +never sets, into the circle of the shadow of the tree of life, and be +seen of God, and found good: and then it had seemed to him, that he, +with many who, since his coming, had joined the band of whom he was +one (for, in his dream, the body he had worn on earth had been dead +an hundred years), were permitted to gather round the blessed maiden, +and to worship with her through all ages and ages of ages, saying, +Holy, holy, holy. This thing he had seen with the eyes of his spirit; +and in this thing had trusted, believing that it would surely come to +pass. + +But now, (being at length led to enquire closely into himself,) even +as, in the pursuit of fame, the unrest abiding after attainment had +proved to him that he had misinterpreted the craving of his own +spirit--so also, now that he would willingly have fallen back on +devotion, he became aware that much of that reverence which he had +mistaken for faith had been no more than the worship of beauty. +Therefore, after certain days passed in perplexity, Chiaro said +within himself, "My life and my will are yet before me: I will take +another aim to my life." + +From that moment Chiaro set a watch on his soul, and put his hand to +no other works but only to such as had for their end the presentment +of some moral greatness that should impress the beholder: and, in +doing this, he did not choose for his medium the action and passion +of human life, but cold symbolism and abstract impersonation. So the +people ceased to throng about his pictures as heretofore; and, when +they were carried through town and town to their destination, they +were no longer delayed by the crowds eager to gaze and admire: and no +prayers or offerings were brought to them on their path, as to his +Madonnas, and his Saints, and his Holy Children. Only the critical +audience remained to him; and these, in default of more worthy +matter, would have turned their scrutiny on a puppet or a mantle. +Meanwhile, he had no more of fever upon him; but was calm and pale +each day in all that he did and in his goings in and out. The works +he produced at this time have perished--in all likelihood, not +unjustly. It is said (and we may easily believe it), that, though +more labored than his former pictures, they were cold and unemphatic; +bearing marked out upon them, as they must certainly have done, the +measure of that boundary to which they were made to conform. + +And the weight was still close at Chiaro's heart: but he held in his +breath, never resting (for he was afraid), and would not know it. + +Now it happened, within these days, that there fell a great feast in +Pisa, for holy matters: and each man left his occupation; and all the +guilds and companies of the city were got together for games and +rejoicings. And there were scarcely any that stayed in the houses, +except ladies who lay or sat along their balconies between open +windows which let the breeze beat through the rooms and over the +spread tables from end to end. And the golden cloths that their arms +lay upon drew all eyes upward to see their beauty; and the day was +long; and every hour of the day was bright with the sun. + +So Chiaro's model, when he awoke that morning on the hot pavement of +the Piazza Nunziata, and saw the hurry of people that passed him, got +up and went along with them; and Chiaro waited for him in vain. + +For the whole of that morning, the music was in Chiaro's room from +the Church close at hand: and he could hear the sounds that the crowd +made in the streets; hushed only at long intervals while the +processions for the feast-day chanted in going under his windows. +Also, more than once, there was a high clamour from the meeting of +factious persons: for the ladies of both leagues were looking down; +and he who encountered his enemy could not choose but draw upon him. +Chiaro waited a long time idle; and then knew that his model was gone +elsewhere. When at his work, he was blind and deaf to all else; but +he feared sloth: for then his stealthy thoughts would begin, as it +were, to beat round and round him, seeking a point for attack. He now +rose, therefore, and went to the window. It was within a short space +of noon; and underneath him a throng of people was coming out through +the porch of San Rocco. + +The two greatest houses of the feud in Pisa had filled the church for +that mass. The first to leave had been the Gherghiotti; who, stopping +on the threshold, had fallen back in ranks along each side of the +archway: so that now, in passing outward, the Marotoli had to walk +between two files of men whom they hated, and whose fathers had hated +theirs. All the chiefs were there and their whole adherence; and each +knew the name of each. Every man of the Marotoli, as he came forth +and saw his foes, laid back his hood and gazed about him, to show the +badge upon the close cap that held his hair. And of the Gherghiotti +there were some who tightened their girdles; and some shrilled and +threw up their wrists scornfully, as who flies a falcon; for that was +the crest of their house. + +On the walls within the entry were a number of tall, narrow frescoes, +presenting a moral allegory of Peace, which Chiaro had painted that +year for the Church. The Gherghiotti stood with their backs to these +frescoes: and among them Golzo Ninuccio, the youngest noble of the +faction, called by the people of Golaghiotta, for his debased life. +This youth had remained for some while talking listlessly to his +fellows, though with his sleepy sunken eyes fixed on them who passed: +but now, seeing that no man jostled another, he drew the long silver +shoe off his foot, and struck the dust out of it on the cloak of him +who was going by, asking him how far the tides rose at Viderza. And +he said so because it was three months since, at that place, the +Gherghiotti had beaten the Marotoli to the sands, and held them there +while the sea came in; whereby many had been drowned. And, when he +had spoken, at once the whole archway was dazzling with the light of +confused swords; and they who had left turned back; and they who were +still behind made haste to come forth: and there was so much blood +cast up the walls on a sudden, that it ran in long streams down +Chiaro's paintings. + +Chiaro turned himself from the window; for the light felt dry between +his lids, and he could not look. He sat down, and heard the noise of +contention driven out of the church-porch and a great way through the +streets; and soon there was a deep murmur that heaved and waxed from +the other side of the city, where those of both parties were +gathering to join in the tumult. + +Chiaro sat with his face in his open hands. Once again he had wished +to set his foot on a place that looked green and fertile; and once +again it seemed to him that the thin rank mask was about to spread +away, and that this time the chill of the water must leave leprosy in +his flesh. The light still swam in his head, and bewildered him at +first; but when he knew his thoughts, they were these:-- + +"Fame failed me: faith failed me: and now this also,--the hope that I +nourished in this my generation of men,--shall pass from me, and +leave my feet and my hands groping. Yet, because of this, are my feet +become slow and my hands thin. I am as one who, through the whole +night, holding his way diligently, hath smitten the steel unto the +flint, to lead some whom he knew darkling; who hath kept his eyes +always on the sparks that himself made, lest they should fail; and +who, towards dawn, turning to bid them that he had guided God speed, +sees the wet grass untrodden except of his own feet. I am as the last +hour of the day, whose chimes are a perfect number; whom the next +followeth not, nor light ensueth from him; but in the same darkness +is the old order begun afresh. Men say, 'This is not God nor man; he +is not as we are, neither above us: let him sit beneath us, for we +are many.' Where I write Peace, in that spot is the drawing of +swords, and there men's footprints are red. When I would sow, another +harvest is ripe. Nay, it is much worse with me than thus much. Am I +not as a cloth drawn before the light, that the looker may not be +blinded; but which sheweth thereby the grain of its own coarseness; +so that the light seems defiled, and men say, 'We will not walk by +it.' Wherefore through me they shall be doubly accursed, seeing that +through me they reject the light. May one be a devil and not know +it?" + +As Chiaro was in these thoughts, the fever encroached slowly on his +veins, till he could sit no longer, and would have risen; but +suddenly he found awe within him, and held his head bowed, without +stirring. The warmth of the air was not shaken; but there seemed a +pulse in the light, and a living freshness, like rain. The silence +was a painful music, that made the blood ache in his temples; and he +lifted his face and his deep eyes. + +A woman was present in his room, clad to the hands and feet with a +green and grey raiment, fashioned to that time. It seemed that the +first thoughts he had ever known were given him as at first from her +eyes, and he knew her hair to be the golden veil through which he +beheld his dreams. Though her hands were joined, her face was not +lifted, but set forward; and though the gaze was austere, yet her +mouth was supreme in gentleness. And as he looked, Chiaro's spirit +appeared abashed of its own intimate presence, and his lips shook +with the thrill of tears; it seemed such a bitter while till the +spirit might be indeed alone. + +She did not move closer towards him, but he felt her to be as much +with him as his breath. He was like one who, scaling a great +steepness, hears his own voice echoed in some place much higher than +he can see, and the name of which is not known to him. As the woman +stood, her speech was with Chiaro: not, as it were, from her mouth or +in his ears; but distinctly between them. + +"I am an image, Chiaro, of thine own soul within thee. See me, and +know me as I am. Thou sayest that fame has failed thee, and faith +failed thee; but because at least thou hast not laid thy life unto +riches, therefore, though thus late, I am suffered to come into thy +knowledge. Fame sufficed not, for that thou didst seek fame: seek +thine own conscience (not thy mind's conscience, but thine heart's), +and all shall approve and suffice. For Fame, in noble soils, is a +fruit of the Spring: but not therefore should it be said: 'Lo! my +garden that I planted is barren: the crocus is here, but the lily is +dead in the dry ground, and shall not lift the earth that covers it: +therefore I will fling my garden together, and give it unto the +builders.' Take heed rather that thou trouble not the wise secret +earth; for in the mould that thou throwest up shall the first tender +growth lie to waste; which else had been made strong in its season. +Yea, and even if the year fall past in all its months, and the soil +be indeed, to thee, peevish and incapable, and though thou indeed +gather all thy harvest, and it suffice for others, and thou remain +vext with emptiness; and others drink of thy streams, and the drouth +rasp thy throat;--let it be enough that these have found the feast +good, and thanked the giver: remembering that, when the winter is +striven through, there is another year, whose wind is meek, and whose +sun fulfilleth all." + +While he heard, Chiaro went slowly on his knees. It was not to her +that spoke, for the speech seemed within him and his own. The air +brooded in sunshine, and though the turmoil was great outside, the +air within was at peace. But when he looked in her eyes, he wept. And +she came to him, and cast her hair over him, and, took her hands +about his forehead, and spoke again: + +"Thou hadst said," she continued, gently, "that faith failed thee. +This cannot be so. Either thou hadst it not, or thou hast it. But who +bade thee strike the point betwixt love and faith? Wouldst thou sift +the warm breeze from the sun that quickens it? Who bade thee turn +upon God and say: "Behold, my offering is of earth, and not worthy: +thy fire comes not upon it: therefore, though I slay not my brother +whom thou acceptest, I will depart before thou smite me." Why +shouldst thou rise up and tell God He is not content? Had He, of His +warrant, certified so to thee? Be not nice to seek out division; but +possess thy love in sufficiency: assuredly this is faith, for the +heart must believe first. What He hath set in thine heart to do, that +do thou; and even though thou do it without thought of Him, it shall +be well done: it is this sacrifice that He asketh of thee, and His +flame is upon it for a sign. Think not of Him; but of His love and +thy love. For God is no morbid exactor: he hath no hand to bow +beneath, nor a foot, that thou shouldst kiss it." + +And Chiaro held silence, and wept into her hair which covered his +face; and the salt tears that he shed ran through her hair upon his +lips; and he tasted the bitterness of shame. + +Then the fair woman, that was his soul, spoke again to him, saying: + +"And for this thy last purpose, and for those unprofitable truths of +thy teaching,--thine heart hath already put them away, and it needs +not that I lay my bidding upon thee. How is it that thou, a man, +wouldst say coldly to the mind what God hath said to the heart +warmly? Thy will was honest and wholesome; but look well lest this +also be folly,--to say, 'I, in doing this, do strengthen God among +men.' When at any time hath he cried unto thee, saying, 'My son, lend +me thy shoulder, for I fall?' Deemest thou that the men who enter +God's temple in malice, to the provoking of blood, and neither for +his love nor for his wrath will abate their purpose,--shall +afterwards stand with thee in the porch, midway between Him and +themselves, to give ear unto thy thin voice, which merely the fall of +their visors can drown, and to see thy hands, stretched feebly, +tremble among their swords? Give thou to God no more than he asketh +of thee; but to man also, that which is man's. In all that thou +doest, work from thine own heart, simply; for his heart is as thine, +when thine is wise and humble; and he shall have understanding of +thee. One drop of rain is as another, and the sun's prism in all: and +shalt not thou be as he, whose lives are the breath of One? Only by +making thyself his equal can he learn to hold communion with thee, +and at last own thee above him. Not till thou lean over the water +shalt thou see thine image therein: stand erect, and it shall slope +from thy feet and be lost. Know that there is but this means whereby +thou may'st serve God with man:--Set thine hand and thy soul to serve +man with God." + +And when she that spoke had said these words within Chiaro's spirit, +she left his side quietly, and stood up as he had first seen her; +with her fingers laid together, and her eyes steadfast, and with the +breadth of her long dress covering her feet on the floor. And, +speaking again, she said: + +"Chiaro, servant of God, take now thine Art unto thee, and paint me +thus, as I am, to know me: weak, as I am, and in the weeds of this +time; only with eyes which seek out labour, and with a faith, not +learned, yet jealous of prayer. Do this; so shall thy soul stand +before thee always, and perplex thee no more." + +And Chiaro did as she bade him. While he worked, his face grew solemn +with knowledge: and before the shadows had turned, his work was done. +Having finished, he lay back where he sat, and was asleep +immediately: for the growth of that strong sunset was heavy about +him, and he felt weak and haggard; like one just come out of a dusk, +hollow country, bewildered with echoes, where he had lost himself, +and who has not slept for many days and nights. And when she saw him +lie back, the beautiful woman came to him, and sat at his head, +gazing, and quieted his sleep with her voice. + +The tumult of the factions had endured all that day through all Pisa, +though Chiaro had not heard it: and the last service of that Feast +was a mass sung at midnight from the windows of all the churches for +the many dead who lay about the city, and who had to be buried before +morning, because of the extreme heats. + + * * * * * * * + +In the Spring of 1847 I was at Florence. Such as were there at +the same time with myself--those, at least, to whom Art is +something,--will certainly recollect how many rooms of the Pitti +Gallery were closed through that season, in order that some of the +pictures they contained might be examined, and repaired without the +necessity of removal. The hall, the staircases, and the vast central +suite of apartments, were the only accessible portions; and in these +such paintings as they could admit from the sealed _penetralia_ were +profanely huddled together, without respect of dates, schools, or +persons. + +I fear that, through this interdict, I may have missed seeing many of +the best pictures. I do not mean _only_ the most talked of: for +these, as they were restored, generally found their way somehow into +the open rooms, owing to the clamours raised by the students; and I +remember how old Ercoli's, the curator's, spectacles used to be +mirrored in the reclaimed surface, as he leaned mysteriously over +these works with some of the visitors, to scrutinize and elucidate. + +One picture, that I saw that Spring, I shall not easily forget. It +was among those, I believe, brought from the other rooms, and had +been hung, obviously out of all chronology, immediately beneath that +head by Raphael so long known as the "Berrettino," and now said to be +the portrait of Cecco Ciulli. + +The picture I speak of is a small one, and represents merely the +figure of a woman, clad to the hands and feet with a green and grey +raiment, chaste and early in its fashion, but exceedingly simple. She +is standing: her hands are held together lightly, and her eyes set +earnestly open. + +The face and hands in this picture, though wrought with great +delicacy, have the appearance of being painted at once, in a single +sitting: the drapery is unfinished. As soon as I saw the figure, it +drew an awe upon me, like water in shadow. I shall not attempt to +describe it more than I have already done; for the most absorbing +wonder of it was its literality. You knew that figure, when painted, +had been seen; yet it was not a thing to be seen of men. This +language will appear ridiculous to such as have never looked on the +work; and it may be even to some among those who have. On examining +it closely, I perceived in one corner of the canvass the words _Manus +Animam pinxit_, and the date 1239. + +I turned to my Catalogue, but that was useless, for the pictures were +all displaced. I then stepped up to the Cavaliere Ercoli, who was in +the room at the moment, and asked him regarding the subject of +authorship of the painting. He treated the matter, I thought, +somewhat slightingly, and said that he could show me the reference in +the Catalogue, which he had compiled. This, when found, was not of +much value, as it merely said, "Schizzo d'autore incerto," adding the +inscription.{4} I could willingly have prolonged my inquiry, in the +hope that it might somehow lead to some result; but I had disturbed +the curator from certain yards of Guido, and he was not +communicative. I went back therefore, and stood before the picture +till it grew dusk. + +{4}I should here say, that in the catalogue for the year just over, +(owing, as in cases before mentioned, to the zeal and enthusiasm of +Dr. Aemmester) this, and several other pictures, have been more +competently entered. The work in question is now placed in the _Sala +Sessagona_, a room I did not see--under the number 161. It is +described as "Figura mistica di Chiaro dell' Erma," and there is a +brief notice of the author appended. + +The next day I was there again; but this time a circle of students +was round the spot, all copying the "Berrettino." I contrived, +however, to find a place whence I could see _my_ picture, and where I +seemed to be in nobody's way. For some minutes I remained +undisturbed; and then I heard, in an English voice: "Might I beg of +you, sir, to stand a little more to this side, as you interrupt my +view." + +I felt vext, for, standing where he asked me, a glare struck on the +picture from the windows, and I could not see it. However, the +request was reasonably made, and from a countryman; so I complied, +and turning away, stood by his easel. I knew it was not worth while; +yet I referred in some way to the work underneath the one he was +copying. He did not laugh, but he smiled as we do in England: "_Very_ +odd, is it not?" said he. + +The other students near us were all continental; and seeing an +Englishman select an Englishman to speak with, conceived, I suppose, +that he could understand no language but his own. They had evidently +been noticing the interest which the little picture appeared to +excite in me. + +One of them, and Italian, said something to another who stood next to +him. He spoke with a Genoese accent, and I lost the sense in the +villainous dialect. "Che so?" replied the other, lifting his eyebrows +towards the figure; "roba mistica: 'st' Inglesi son matti sul +misticismo: somiglia alle nebbie di la. Li fa pensare alla patria, + + "E intenerisce il core + Lo di ch' han detto ai dolci amici adio." + +"La notte, vuoi dire," said a third. + +There was a general laugh. My compatriot was evidently a novice in +the language, and did not take in what was said. I remained silent, +being amused. + +"Et toi donc?" said he who had quoted Dante, turning to a student, +whose birthplace was unmistakable even had he been addressed in any +other language: "que dis-tu de ce genre-la?" + +"Moi?" returned the Frenchman, standing back from his easel, and +looking at me and at the figure, quite politely, though with an +evident reservation: "Je dis, mon cher, que c'est une specialite dont +je me fiche pas mal. Je tiens que quand on ne comprend pas une chose, +c'est qu' elle ne signifie rein." + +My reader thinks possibly that the French student was right. + + + + +Reviews + +_The Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich: a Long-vacation Pastoral. By Arthur +Hugh Clough. Oxford: Macpherson. London: Chapman and Hall.--1848_ + + +The critic who should undertake to speak of all the poetry which +issues from the press of these present days, what is so called by +courtesy as well as that which may claim the title as of right, would +impose on himself a task demanding no little labor, and entailing no +little disgust and weariness. Nor is the trouble well repaid. More +profit will not accrue to him who studies, if the word can be used, +fifty of a certain class of versifiers, than to him who glances over +one: and, while a successful effort to warn such that poetry is not +their proper sphere, and that they must seek elsewhere for a vocation +to work out, might embolden a philanthropist to assume the position +of scare-crow, and drive away the unclean birds from the flowers and +the green leaves; on the other hand, the small results which appear +to have hitherto attended such endeavors are calculated rather to +induce those who have yet made, to relinquish them than to lead +others to follow in the same track. It is truly a disheartening task. +To the critic himself no good, though some amusement occasionally, +can be expected: to the criticised, good but rarely, for he is seldom +convinced, and annoyance and rancour almost of course; and, even in +those few cases where the voice crying "in the wilderness" produces +its effect, the one thistle that abandons the attempt at bearing figs +sees its neighbors still believing in their success, and soon has its +own place filled up. The sentence of those who do not read is the +best criticism on those who will not think. + +It is acting on these considerations that we propose not to take +count of any works that do not either show a purpose achieved or give +promise of a worthy event; while of such we hope to overlook none. + +We believe it may safely be assumed that at no previous period has +the public been more buzzed round by triviality and common-place; but +we hold firm, at the same time, that at none other has there been a +greater or a grander body of genius, or so honorable a display of +well cultivated taste and talent. Certainly the public do not seem to +know this: certainly the critics deny it, or rather speak as though +they never contemplated that such a position would be advanced: but, +if the fact be so, it will make itself known, and the poets of this +day will assert themselves, and take their places. + +Of these it is our desire to speak truthfully, indeed, and without +compromise, but always as bearing in mind that the inventor is more +than the commentator, and the book more than the notes; and that, if +it is we who speak, we do so not for ourselves, nor as of ourselves. + +The work of Arthur Hugh Clough now before us, (we feel warranted in +the dropping of the _Mr._ even at his first work,) unites the most +enduring forms of nature, and the most unsophisticated conditions of +life and character, with the technicalities of speech, of manners, +and of persons of an Oxford reading party in the long vacation. His +hero is + + "Philip Hewson, the poet, + Hewson, the radical hot, hating lords and scorning ladies;" + +and his heroine is no heroine, but a woman, "Elspie, the quiet, the +brave." + +The metre he has chosen, the hexametral, harmonises with the spirit +of primitive simplicity in which the poem is conceived; is itself a +background, as much as are "Knoydart, Croydart, Moydart, Morrer, and +Ardnamurchan;" and gives a new individuality to the passages of +familiar narrative and every day conversation. It has an intrinsic +appropriateness; although, at first thought of the subject, this +will, perhaps, be scarcely admitted of so old and so stately a +rhythmical form. + +As regards execution, however, there may be noted, in qualification +of much pliancy and vigour, a certain air of experiment in occasional +passages, and a license in versification, which more than warrants a +warning "to expect every kind of irregularity in these modern +hexameters." The following lines defy all efforts at reading in +dactyls or spondees, and require an almost complete transposition of +accent. + + "There was a point which I forgot, which our gallant Highland + homes have;"-- + "While the little drunken Piper came across to shake hands with + Lindsay:"-- + "Something of the world, of men and women: you will not refuse me." + +In the first of these lines, the omission of the former "_which_," +would remove all objection; and there are others where a final +syllable appears clearly deficient; as thus:-- + + "Only the road and larches and ruinous millstead between" + [_them_]:-- + "Always welcome the stranger: I may say, delighted to see + [_such_] Fine young men:"-- + "Nay, never talk: listen now. What I say you can't apprehend" + [_yet_]:-- + "Laid her hand on her lap. Philip took it. She did not resist" + [_him_]:-- + +Yet the following would be scarcely improved by greater exactness: + + "Roaring after their prey, do seek their meat from God;" + +Nor, perhaps, ought this to be made correct: + + "Close as the bodies and intertwining limbs of athletic wrestlers." + +The aspect of _fact_ pervading "the Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich,"--(in +English, "the hut of the bearded well," a somewhat singular title, to +say the least,) is so strong and complete as to render necessary the +few words of dedication, where, in inscribing the poem, (or, as the +author terms it, "trifle,") to his "long-vacation pupils," he +expresses a hope, that they "will not be displeased if, in a fiction, +purely fiction, they are here and there reminded of times enjoyed +together." + +As the story opens, the Oxford party are about to proceed to dinner +at "the place of the Clansmen's meeting." Their characters, +discriminated with the nicest taste, and perfectly worked out, are +thus introduced: + + "Be it recorded in song who was first, who last, in dressing. + Hope was the first, black-tied, white-waistcoated, simple, his Honor; + For the postman made out he was a son to the Earl of Ilay, + (As, indeed, he was to the younger brother, the Colonel); + Treated him therefore with special respect, doffed bonnet, and ever + Called him his Honor: his Honor he therefore was at the cottage; + Always his Honor at least, sometimes the Viscount of Ilay. + + "Hope was the first, his Honor; and, next to his Honor, the Tutor. + Still more plain the tutor, the grave man nicknamed Adam, + White-tied, clerical, silent, with antique square-cut waistcoat, + Formal, unchanged, of black cloth, but with sense and feeling beneath it; + Skilful in ethics and logic, in Pindar and poets unrivalled; + _Shady_ in Latin, said Lindsay, but _topping_ in plays and Aldrich. + + "Somewhat more splendid in dress, in a waistcoat of a lady, + Lindsay succeeded, the lively, the cheery, cigar-loving Lindsay, + Lindsay the ready of speech, the Piper, the Dialectician: + This was his title from Adam, because of the words he invented, + Who in three weeks had created a dialect new for the party. + + "Hewson and Hobbes were down at the _matutine_ bathing; of course + Arthur Audley, the bather _par excellence_ glory of headers: + Arthur they called him for love and for euphony: so were they bathing + There where in mornings was custom, where, over a ledge of granite, + Into a granite bason descended the amber torrent. + There were they bathing and dressing: it was but a step from the cottage, + Only the road and larches and ruinous millstead between. + Hewson and Hobbes followed quick upon Adam; on them followed Arthur. + + "Airlie descended the last, splendescent as god of Olympus. + When for ten minutes already the fourwheel had stood at the gateway; + He, like a god, came leaving his ample Olympian chamber."--pp. 5, 6. + +A peculiar point of style in this poem, and one which gives a certain +classic character to some of its more familiar aspects, is the +frequent recurrence of the same line, and the repeated definition of +a personage by the same attributes. Thus, Lindsay is "the Piper, the +Dialectician," Arthur Audley "the glory of headers," and the tutor +"the grave man nicknamed Adam," from beginning to end; and so also of +the others. + +Omitting the after-dinner speeches, with their "Long constructions +strange and plusquam-Thucydidean," that only of "Sir Hector, the +Chief and the Chairman;" in honor of the Oxonians, than which nothing +could be more unpoetically truthful, is preserved, with the +acknowledgment, ending in a sarcasm at the game laws, by Hewson, who, +as he is leaving the room, is accosted by "a thin man, clad as the +Saxon:" + + "'Young man, if ye pass thro' the Braes o'Lochaber, + See by the Loch-side ye come to the Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich.'"--p. 9. + +Throughout this scene, as through the whole book, no opportunity is +overlooked for giving individuality to the persons introduced: Sir +Hector, of whom we lose sight henceforward, the attache, the +Guards-man, are not mere names, but characters: it is not enough to +say that two tables were set apart "for keeper and gillie and +peasant:" there is something to be added yet; and with others +assembled around them were "Pipers five or six; _among them the young +one, the drunkard_." + +The morrow's conversation of the reading party turns on "noble ladies +and rustic girls, their partners." And here speaks out Hewson the +chartist: + + "'Never (of course you will laugh, but of course all the + same I shall say it,) + Never, believe me, revealed itself to me the sexual glory, + Till, in some village fields, in holidays now getting stupid, + One day sauntering long and listless, as Tennyson has it, + Long and listless strolling, ungainly in hobbydihoyhood, + Chanced it my eye fell aside on a capless bonnetless maiden, + Bending with three-pronged fork in a garden uprooting potatoes. + Was it the air? who can say? or herself? or the charm of the labor? + But a new thing was in me, and longing delicious possessed me, + Longing to take her and lift her, and put her away from her slaving. + Was it to clasp her in lifting, or was it to lift her by clasping, + Was it embracing or aiding was most in my mind? Hard question. + But a new thing was in me: I too was a youth among maidens. + Was it the air? who can say? But, in part, 'twas the charm of + the labor.'" + +And he proceeds in a rapture to talk on the beauty of household +service. + +Hereat Arthur remarks: "'Is not all this just the same that one hears +at common room breakfasts, Or perhaps Trinity-wines, about Gothic +buildings and beauty?'"--p. 13. + +The character of Hobbes, called into energy by this observation, is +perfectly developed in the lines succeeding: + + "And with a start from the sofa came Hobbes; with a cry from + the sofa, + There where he lay, the great Hobbes, contemplative, corpulent, + witty; + Author forgotten and silent of currentest phrase and fancy; + Mute and exuberant by turns, a fountain at intervals playing, + Mute and abstracted, or strong and abundant as rain in the tropics; + Studious; careless of dress; inobservant; by smooth persuasions + Lately decoyed into kilt on example of Hope and the Piper, + Hope an Antinous mere, Hyperion of calves the Piper..... + "'Ah! could they only be taught,' he resumed, 'by a Pugin of women + How even churning and washing, the dairy, the scullery duties, + Wait but a touch to redeem and convert them to charms and attractions; + Scrubbing requires for true grace but frank and artistical handling, + And the removal of slops to be ornamentally treated!"--pp. 13, 14. + +Here, in the tutor's answer to Hewson, we come on the moral of the +poem, a moral to be pursued through commonplace lowliness of station +and through high rank, into the habit of life which would be, in the +one, not petty,--in the other, not overweening,--in any, calm and +dignified. + + "'You are a boy; when you grow to a man, you'll find things alter. + You will learn to seek the good, to scorn the attractive, + Scorn all mere cosmetics, as now of rank and fashion, + Delicate hands, and wealth, so then of poverty also, + Poverty truly attractive, more truly, I bear you witness. + Good, wherever found, you will choose, be it humble or stately, + Happy if only you find, and, finding, do not lose it.'"--p. 14. + +When the discussion is ended, the party propose to separate, some +proceeding on their tour; and Philip Hewson will be of these. + + "'Finally, too,' from the kilt and the sofa said Hobbes in conclusion, + 'Finally Philip must hunt for that home of the probable poacher, + Hid in the Braes of Lochaber, the Bothie of what-did-he-call-it. + Hopeless of you and of us, of gillies and marquises hopeless, + Weary of ethic and logic, of rhetoric yet more weary, + There shall he, smit by the charm of a lovely potatoe-uprooter, + Study the question of sex in the Bothie of what-did-he-call-it."'--p.18. + +The action here becomes divided; and, omitting points of detail, we +must confine ourselves to tracing the development of the idea in +which the subject of the poem consists. + +Philip and his companions, losing their road, are received at a farm, +where they stay for three days: and this experience of himself +begins. He comes prepared; and, if he seems to love the +"golden-haired Katie," it is less that she is "the youngest and +comeliest daughter" than because of her position, and that in that +she realises his preconceived wishes. For three days he is with her +and about her; and he remains when his friends leave the farm-house. +But his love is no more than the consequence of his principles; it is +his own will unconsidered and but half understood. And a letter to +Adam tells how it had an end: + + "'I was walking along some two miles from the cottage, + Full of my dreamings. A girl went by in a party with others: + She had a cloak on,--was stepping on quickly, for rain was + beginning; + But, as she passed, from the hood I saw her eyes glance at me:-- + So quick a glance, so regardless I, that, altho' I felt it, + You couldn't properly say our eyes met; she cast it, and left it. + It was three minutes, perhaps, ere I knew what it was. I had + seen her + Somewhere before, I am sure; but that wasn't it,--not its import. + No; it had seemed to regard me with simple superior insight, + Quietly saying to herself: 'Yes, there he is still in his + fancy...... + Doesn't yet see we have here just the things he is used to + elsewhere, + And that the things he likes here, elsewhere he wouldn't have + looked at; + People here, too, are people, and not as fairy-land creatures. + He is in a trance, and possessed,--I wonder how long to continue. + It is a shame and pity,--and no good likely to follow.'-- + Something like this; but, indeed, I cannot the least define it. + Only, three hours thence, I was off and away in the moor-land, + Hiding myself from myself, if I could, the arrow within me.'"--p.29. + +Philip Hewson has been going on + + "Even as cloud passing subtly unseen from mountain to mountain, + Leaving the crest of Benmore to be palpable next on Benvohrlich, + Or like to hawk of the hill, which ranges and soars in its hunting, + Seen and unseen by turns."...... And these are his words in the + mountains:...... + + "'Surely the force that here sweeps me along in its violent impulse, + Surely my strength shall be in her, my help and protection about her, + Surely in inner-sweet gladness and vigor of joy shall sustain her; + Till, the brief winter o'erpast, her own true sap in the springtide + Rise, and the tree I have bared be verdurous e'en as aforetime: + Surely it may be, it should be, it must be. Yet, ever and ever, + 'Would I were dead,' I keep saying, 'that so I could go and + uphold her.'"--pp. 26, 27. + +And, meanwhile, Katie, among the others, is dancing and smiling still +on some one who is to her all that Philip had ever been. + +When Hewson writes next, his experience has reached its second stage. +He is at Balloch, with the aunt and the cousin of his friend Hope: +and the lady Maria has made his beliefs begin to fail and totter, and +he feels for something to hold firmly. He seems to think, at one +moment, that the mere knowledge of the existence of such an one ought +to compensate for lives of drudgery hemmed in with want; then he +turns round on himself with, "How shall that be?" And, at length, he +appeases his questions, saying that it must and should be so, if it is. + +After this, come scraps of letters, crossed and recrossed, from the +Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich. In his travelling towards home, a horse +cast a shoe, and the were directed to David Mackaye. Hewson is still +in the clachan hard by when he urges his friend to come to him: and +he comes. + + "There on the blank hill-side, looking down through the loch to + the ocean; + There, with a runnel beside, and pine-trees twain before it, + There, with the road underneath, and in sight of coaches and + steamers, + Dwelling of David Mackaye and his daughters, Elspie and Bella, + Sends up a column of smoke the Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich..... + + "So on the road they walk, by the shore of the salt sea-water, + Silent a youth and maid, the elders twain conversing."--pp. 36, 37. + + "Ten more days, with Adam, did Philip abide at the changehouse; + Ten more nights they met, they walked with father and daughter. + Ten more nights; and, night by night, more distant away were + Philip and she; every night less heedful, by habit, the + father."--pp. 38, 39. + +From this point, we must give ourselves up to quotation; and the +narrow space remaining to us is our only apology to the reader for +making any omission whatever in these extracts. + + "For she confessed, as they sat in the dusk, and he saw not her + blushes, + Elspie confessed, at the sports, long ago, with her father, she + saw him, + When at the door the old man had told him the name of the Bothie; + There, after that, at the dance; yet again at the dance in Rannoch; + And she was silent, confused. Confused much rather Philip + Buried his face in his hands, his face that with blood was + bursting. + Silent, confused; yet by pity she conquered here fear, and + continued: + 'Katie is good and not silly: be comforted, Sir, about her; + Katie is good and not silly; tender, but not, like many, + Carrying off, and at once, for fear of being seen, in the bosom + Locking up as in a cupboard, the pleasure that any man gives them, + Keeping it out of sight as a prize they need be ashamed of: + That is the way, I think, Sir, in England more than in Scotland. + No; she lives and takes pleasure in all, as in beautiful weather; + Sorry to lose it; but just as we would be to lose fine weather..... + There were at least five or six,--not there; no, that I don't say, + But in the country about,--you might just as well have been courting. + That was what gave me much pain; and (you won't remember that tho'), + Three days after, I met you, beside my Uncle's walking; + And I was wondering much, and hoped you wouldn't notice; + So, as I passed, I couldn't help looking. You didn't know me; + But I was glad when I heard, next day, you were gone to the teacher.' + + "And, uplifting his face at last, with eyes dilated, + Large as great stars in mist, and dim with dabbled lashes. + Philip, with new tears starting, + + 'You think I do not remember,' + Said, 'suppose that I did not observe. Ah me! shall I tell you? + Elspie, it was your look that sent me away from Rannoch.'.... + And he continued more firmly, altho' with stronger emotion. + 'Elspie, why should I speak it? You cannot believe it, and should not. + Why should I say that I love, which I all but said to another? + Yet, should I dare, should I say, Oh Elspie you only I love, you, + First and sole in my life that has been, and surely that shall be; + Could, oh could, you believe it, oh Elspie, believe it, and spurn not? + Is it possible,--possible, Elspie?' + + 'Well,' she answered, + Quietly, after her fashion, still knitting; 'Well, I think of it. + Yes, I don't know, Mr. Philip; but only it feels to me strangely,-- + Like to the high new bridge they used to build at, below there, + Over the burn and glen, on the road. You won't understand me..... + Sometimes I find myself dreaming at nights about arches and bridges; + Sometimes I dream of a great invisible hand coming down, and + Dropping a great key-stone in the middle.'.... + + "But while she was speaking,-- + So it happened,--a moment she paused from her work, and, pondering, + Laid her hand on her lap. Philip took it, she did not resist. + So he retained her fingers, the knitting being stopped. But emotion + Came all over her more and more, from his hand, from her heart, and + Most from the sweet idea and image her brain was renewing. + So he retained her hand, and, his tears down-dropping on it, + Trembling a long time, kissed it at last: and she ended. + And, as she ended, up rose he, saying: 'What have I heard? Oh! + What have I done, that such words should be said to me? Oh! I see it, + See the great key-stone coming down from the heaven of heavens.' + And he fell at her feet, and buried his face in her apron. + "But, as, under the moon and stars, they went to the cottage, + Elspie sighed and said: 'Be patient, dear Mr. Philip; + Do not do anything hasty. It is all so soon, so sudden. + Do not say anything yet to any one.' + + 'Elspie,' he answered, + "Does not my friend go on Friday? I then shall see nothing of you: + Do not I myself go on Monday? 'But oh!' he said, 'Elspie, + Do as I bid you, my child; do not go on calling me _Mr._ + Might I not just as well be calling you _Miss Elspie?_ + Call me, this heavenly night, for once, for the first time, Philip.' + "'Philip,' she said, and laughed, and said she could not say it. + 'Philip,' she said. He turned, and kissed the sweet lips as they + said it. + "But, on the morrow, Elspie kept out of the way of Philip; + And, at the evening seat, when he took her hand by the alders, + Drew it back, saying, almost peevishly: + + "'No, Mr. Philip; + I was quite right last night: it is too soon, too sudden, + What I told you before was foolish, perhaps,--was hasty. + When I think it over, I am shocked and terrified at it.'".... + "Ere she had spoken two words, had Philip released her fingers; + As she went on, he recoiled, fell back, and shook, and shivered. + There he stood, looking pale and ghastly; when she had ended, + Answering in a hollow voice: + + "'It is true; oh! quite true, Elspie. + Oh! you are always right; oh! what, what, have I been doing? + I will depart to-morrow. But oh! forget me not wholly, + Wholly, Elspie, nor hate me; no, do not hate me, my Elspie.'" + + "But a revulsion passed thro' the brain and bosom of Elspie; + And she got up from her seat on the rock, putting by her knitting, + Went to him where he stood, and answered: + + "'No, Mr. Philip: + No; you are good, Mr. Philip, and gentle; and I am the foolish: + No, Mr. Philip; forgive me.' + + "She stepped right to him, and boldly + Took up his hand, and placed it in her's, he daring no movement; + Took up the cold hanging hand, up-forcing the heavy elbow. + 'I am afraid,' she said; 'but I will;' and kissed the fingers. + And he fell on his knees, and kissed her own past counting...... + "As he was kissing her fingers, and knelt on the ground before her, + Yielding, backward she sank to her seat, and, of what she was doing + Ignorant, bewildered, in sweet multitudinous vague emotion, + Stooping, knowing not what, put her lips to the curl on his forehead. + And Philip, raising himself, gently, for the first time, round her + Passing his arms, close, close, enfolded her close to his bosom. + "As they went home by the moon, 'Forgive me, Philip,' she whispered: + 'I have so many things to talk of all of a sudden, + I who have never once thought a thing in my ignorant Highlands.'" + --pp. 39-44. + +We may spare criticism here, for what reader will not have felt such +poetry? There is something in this of the very tenderness of +tenderness; this is true delicacy, fearless and unembarrassed. Here +it seems almost captious to object: perhaps, indeed, it is rather +personal whim than legitimate criticism which makes us take some +exception at "the curl on his forehead;" yet somehow there seems a +hint in it of the pet curate. + +Elspie's doubts now return upon her with increased force; and it is +not till after many conversations with the "teacher" that she allows +her resolve to be fixed. So, at last, + + "There, upon Saturday eve, in the gorgeous bright October, + Under that alders knitting, gave Elspie her troth to Philip." + +And, after their talk, she feels strong again, and fit to be +his.--Then they rise. + + "'But we must go, Mr. Philip.' + + "'I shall not go at all,' said + He, 'If you call me _Mr._ Thank Heaven! that's well over!' + "'No, but it's not,' she said; 'it is not over, nor will be. + Was it not, then,' she asked, 'the name I called you first by? + No, Mr. Philip, no. You have kissed me enough for two nights. + No.--Come, Philip, come, or I'll go myself without you.' + "'You never call me Philip,' he answered, 'until I kiss you.'" + --pp. 47, 48. + +David Mackaye gives his consent; but first Hewson must return to +College, and study for a year. + +His views have not been stationary. To his old scorn for the idle of +the earth had succeeded the surprise that overtook him at Balloch: +and he would now hold to his creed, yet not as rejecting his +experience. Some, he says, were made for use; others for ornament; +but let these be so _made_, of a truth, and not such as find +themselves merely thrust into exemption from labor. Let each know his +place, and take it, "For it is beautiful only to do the thing we are +meant for." And of his friend urging Providence he can only, while +answering that doubtless he must be in the right, ask where the limit +comes between circumstance and Providence, and can but wish for a +great cause, and the trumpet that should call him to God's battle, +whereas he sees + + "Only infinite jumble and mess and dislocation, + Backed by a solemn appeal, 'For God's sake, do not stir there.'" + And the year is now out. + "Philip returned to his books, but returned to his Highlands after.... + There in the bright October, the gorgeous bright October, + When the brackens are changed, and heather blooms are faded, + And, amid russet of heather and fern, green trees are bonnie, + There, when shearing had ended, and barley-stooks were garnered, + David gave Philip to wife his daughter, his darling Elspie; + Elspie, the quiet, the brave, was wedded to Philip, the poet..... + So won Philip his bride. They are married, and gone to New Zealand. + Five hundred pounds in pocket, with books and two or three pictures, + Tool-box, plough, and the rest, they rounded the sphere to New Zealand. + There he hewed and dug; subdued the earth and his spirit." + --pp. 52-55. + +Among the prominent attributes of this poem is its completeness. The +elaboration, not only of character and of mental discipline, but of +incident also, is unbroken. The absences of all mention of Elspie in +the opening scene and again at the dance at Rannoch may at first seem +to be a failure in this respect; but second thoughts will show it to +be far otherwise: for, in the former case, her presence would not +have had any significance for Hewson, and, in the latter, would have +been overlooked by him save so far as might warrant a future vague +recollection, pre-occupied as his eyes and thoughts were by another. +There is one condition still under which we have as yet had little +opportunity of displaying this quality; but it will be found to be as +fully carried out in the descriptions of nature. In the first of our +extracts the worlds are few, but stand for many. + + "Meaely glen, the heart of Lochiel's fair forest, + Where Scotch firs are darkest and amplest, and intermingle + Grandly with rowan and ash;--in Mar you have no ashes; + There the pine is alone or relieved by birch and alder."--p. 22. + +In the next mere sound and the names go far towards the entire +effect; but not so far as to induce any negligence in essential +details: + + "As, at return of tide, the total weight of ocean, + Drawn by moon and sun from Labrador and Greenland, + Sets in amain in the open space betwixt Mull and Scarfa, + Heaving, swelling, spreading, the might of the mighty Atlantic; + There into cranny and slit of the rocky cavernous bottom + Settles down; and with dimples huge the smooth sea-surface + Eddies, coils, and whirls, and dangerous Corryvreckan."--p. 52. + +Two more passages, and they must suffice as examples. Here the +isolation is perfect; but it is the isolation, not of the place and +the actors only; it is, as it were, almost our own in an equal +degree; + + "Ourselves too seeming + Not as spectators, accepted into it, immingled, as truly + Part of it as are the kine of the field lying there by the birches." + "There, across the great rocky wharves a wooden bridge goes, + Carrying a path to the forest; below,--three hundred yards, say,-- + Lower in level some twenty-five feet, thro' flats of shingle, + Stepping-stones and a cart-track cross in the open valley. + But, in the interval here, the boiling pent-up water + Frees itself by a final descent, attaining a bason + Ten feet wide and eighteen long, with whiteness and fury + Occupied partly, but mostly pellucid, pure, a mirror; + Beautiful there for the color derived from green rocks under; + Beautiful most of all where beads of foam uprising + Mingle their clouds of white with the delicate hue of the stillness. + Cliff over cliff for its sides, with rowan and pendent birch-boughs, + Here it lies, unthought of above at the bridge and pathway, + Still more concealed from below by wood and rocky projection. + You are shut in, left alone with yourself and perfection of water, + Hid on all sides, left alone with yourself and the goddess of bathing."-- + + "So they bathed, they read, they roamed in glen and forest; + Far amid blackest pines to the waterfall they shadow, + Far up the long long glen to the loch, and the loch beyond it + Deep under huge red cliffs, a secret." + +In many of the images of this poem, as also in the volume +"Ambarvalia," the joint production of Clough and Thomas Burbidge, +there is a peculiar moderness, a reference distinctly to the means +and habits of society in these days, a recognition of every-day fact, +and a willingness to believe it as capable of poetry as that which, +but for having once been fact, would not now be tradition. There is a +certain special character in passages like the following, the +familiarity of the matter blending with the remoteness of the form of +metre, such as should not be overlooked in attempting to estimate the +author's mind and views of art: + + "Still, as before (and as now), balls, dances, and evening parties,.... + Seemed like a sort of unnatural up-in-the-air balloon work,.... + As mere gratuitous trifling in presence of business and duty + As does the turning aside of the tourist to look at a landscape + Seem in the steamer or coach to the merchant in haste for the city." + --p. 12. + + "I was as one that sleeps on the railway; one who, dreaming, + Hears thro' his dream the name of his home shouted out,--hears + and hears not, + Faint, and louder again, and less loud, dying in distance,-- + Dimly conscious, with something of inward debate and choice, and + Sense of [present] claim and reality present; relapses, + Nevertheless, and continues the dream and fancy, while forward, + Swiftly, remorseless, the car presses on, he knows not whither." + --p.38. + +Indeed, the general adaptation of the style to the immediate matter, +the alternation of the poetic and the familiar, with a certain +mixture even of classical phrase and allusion, is highly appropriate, +and may almost be termed constant, except in occasional instances +where more poetry, and especially more conception and working out of +images, is introduced than squares with a strict observance of +nature. Thus the lines quoted where Elspie applies to herself the +incident of "the high new bridge" and "the great key-stone in the +middle" are succeeded by others (omitted in our extract) where the +idea is followed into its details; and there is another passage in +which, through no less than seventeen lines, she compares herself to +an inland stream disturbed and hurried on by the mingling with it of +the sea's tide. Thus also one of the most elaborate descriptions in +the poem,--an episode in itself of the extremest beauty and finish, +but, as we think, clearly misplaced,--is a picture of the dawn over a +great city, introduced into a letter of Philip's, and that, too, +simply as an image of his own mental condition. There are but few +poets for whom it would be superfluous to reflect whether pieces of +such-like mere poetry might not more properly form part of the +descriptive groundwork, and be altogether banished from discourse and +conversation, where the greater amount of their intrinsic care and +excellence becomes, by its position, a proportionally increasing load +of disregard for truthfulness. + +For a specimen of a peculiarly noble spirit which pervades the whole +work, we would refer the reader to the character of Arthur Audley, +unnecessary to the story, but most important to the sentiment; for a +comprehensive instance of minute feeling for individuality, to the +narrative of Lindsay and the corrections of Arthur on returning from +their tour. + + "He to the great _might have been_ upsoaring, sublime and ideal; + He to the merest _it was_ restricting, diminishing, dwarfing;" + +For pleasant ingenuity, involving, too, a point of character, to the +final letter of Hobbes to Philip, wherein, in a manner made up of +playful subtlety and real poetical feeling, he proves how "this +Rachel and Leah is marriage." + +"The Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich" will not, it is to be feared, be +extensively read; its length combined with the metre in which it is +written, or indeed a first hasty glance at the contents, does not +allure the majority even of poetical readers; but it will not be left +or forgotten by such as fairly enter upon it. This is a poem +essentially thought and studied, if not while in the act of writing, +at least as the result of a condition of mind; and the author owes it +to the appreciations of all into whose hands it shall come, and who +are willing to judge for themselves, to call it, should a second +edition appear, by its true name;--not a trifle, but a work. + +That public attention should have been so little engaged by this poem +is a fact in one respect somewhat remarkable, as contrasting with the +notice which the "Ambarvalia" has received. Nevertheless, +independently of the greater importance of "the Bothie" in length and +development, it must, we think, be admitted to be written on sounder +and more matured principles of taste,--the style being sufficiently +characterized and distinctive without special prominence, whereas not +a few of the poems in the other volume are examples rather of style +than of thought, and might be held in recollection on account of the +former quality alone. + + + + +Her First Season + + + He gazed her over, from her eyebrows down + Even to her feet: he gazed so with the good + Undoubting faith of fools, much as who should + Accost God for a comrade. In the brown + Of all her curls he seemed to think the town + Would make an acquisition; but her hood + Was not the newest fashion, and his brood + Of lady-friends might scarce approve her gown. + If I did smile, 'twas faintly; for my cheeks + Burned, thinking she'd be shown up to be sold, + And cried about, in the thick jostling run + Of the loud world, till all the weary weeks + Should bring her back to herself and to the old + Familiar face of nature and the sun. + + + + +A Sketch From Nature + + + The air blows pure, for twenty miles, + Over this vast countrie: + Over hill and wood and vale, it goeth, + Over steeple, and stack, and tree: + And there's not a bird on the wind but knoweth + How sweet these meadows be. + + The swallows are flying beside the wood, + And the corbies are hoarsely crying; + And the sun at the end of the earth hath stood, + And, thorough the hedge and over the road, + On the grassy slope is lying: + And the sheep are taking their supper-food + While yet the rays are dying. + + Sleepy shadows are filling the furrows, + And giant-long shadows the trees are making; + And velvet soft are the woodland tufts, + And misty-gray the low-down crofts; + But the aspens there have gold-green tops, + And the gold-green tops are shaking: + The spires are white in the sun's last light;-- + And yet a moment ere he drops, + Gazes the sun on the golden slopes. + + Two sheep, afar from fold, + Are on the hill-side straying, + With backs all silver, breasts all gold: + The merle is something saying, + Something very very sweet:-- + 'The day--the day--the day is done:' + There answereth a single bleat-- + The air is cold, the sky is dimming, + And clouds are long like fishes swimming. + + _Sydenham Wood_, 1849. + + + + +An End + + + Love, strong as death, is dead. + Come, let us make his bed + Among the dying flowers: + A green turf at his head; + And a stone at his feet, + Whereon we may sit + In the quiet evening hours. + + He was born in the spring, + And died before the harvesting. + On the last warm summer day + He left us;--he would not stay + For autumn twilight cold and grey + Sit we by his grave and sing + He is gone away. + + To few chords, and sad, and low, + Sing we so. + Be our eyes fixed on the grass, + Shadow-veiled, as the years pass, + While we think of all that was + In the long ago. + + +_Published Monthly, price 1s._ + +This Periodical will consist of original Poems, Stories to develope +thought and principle, Essays concerning Art and other subjects, and +analytic Reviews of current Literature--particularly of Poetry. Each +number will also contain an Etching; the subject to be taken from the +opening article of the month. + +An attempt will be made, both intrinsically and by review, to claim +for Poetry that place to which its present development in the +literature of this country so emphatically entitles it. + +The endeavour held in view throughout the writings on Art will be 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 +need scarcely be added that the chief object of the etched designs +will be to illustrate this aim practically, as far as the method of +execution will permit; in which purpose they will be produced with +the utmost care and completeness. + + + + +No. 2. (_Price One Shilling_.) FEBRUARY, 1850. + +With an Etching by JAMES COLLINSON. + +The Germ: Thoughts towards Nature In Poetry, Literature, and Art. + + When whoso merely hath a little thought + Will plainly think the thought which is in him,-- + Not imaging another's bright or dim, + Not mangling with new words what others taught; + When whoso speaks, from having either sought + Or only found,--will speak, not just to skim + A shallow surface with words made and trim, + But in that very speech the matter brought: + Be not too keen to cry--"So this is all!-- + A thing I might myself have thought as well, + But would not say it, for it was not worth!" + Ask: "Is this truth?" For is it still to tell + That, be the theme a point or the whole earth, + Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small? + + + London: + AYLOTT & JONES, 8, PATERNOSTER ROW. + + G. F Tupper, Printer, Clement's Lane. Lombard Street. + + + +CONTENTS. + + The Child Jesus: by _James Collinson_ 49 + A Pause of Thought: by _Ellen Alleyn_ 57 + The Purpose and Tendency of Early Italian Art: by _John Seward_ 58 + Song: by _Ellen Alleyn_ 64 + Morning Sleep: by _Wm. B. Scott_ 65 + Sonnet: by _Calder Campbell_ 68 + Stars and Moon 69 + On the Mechanism of a Historical Picture: by _F. Madox Brown_ 70 + A Testimony: by _Ellen Alleyn_ 73 + O When and Where: by _Thomas Woolner_ 75 + Fancies at Leisure: by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 76 + The Sight Beyond: by _Walter H. Deverell_ 79 + The Blessed Damozel: by _Dante G. Rossetti_ 80 + REVIEWS: "The Strayed Reveller, and other Poems:" by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 84 + + +To Correspondents. + +All persons from whom Communications have been received, and who have +not been otherwise replied to, are requested to accept the Editor's +acknowledgments. + +[Illustration: Ex ore infantiam et lartentium pertecizli laudem.] + + + +The Child Jesus + + +"O all ye that pass by the way, attend and see if there be any sorrow +like to my sorrow."-- + + _Lamentations i.12._ + +I. The Agony in the Garden + + Joseph, a carpenter of Nazareth, + And his wife Mary had an only child, + Jesus: One holy from his mother's womb. + Both parents loved him: Mary's heart alone + Beat with his blood, and, by her love and his, + She knew that God was with her, and she strove + Meekly to do the work appointed her; + To cherish him with undivided care + Who deigned to call her mother, and who loved + From her the name of son. And Mary gave + Her heart to him, and feared not; yet she seemed + To hold as sacred that he said or did; + And, unlike other women, never spake + His words of innocence again; but all + Were humbly treasured in her memory + With the first secret of his birth. So strong + Grew her affection, as the child increased + In wisdom and in stature with his years, + That many mothers wondered, saying: "These + Our little ones claim in our hearts a place + The next to God; but Mary's tenderness + Grows almost into reverence for her child. + Is he not of herself? I' the temple when + Kneeling to pray, on him she bends her eyes, + As though God only heard her prayer through him. + Is he to be a prophet? Nay, we know + That out of Galilee no prophet comes." + + But all their children made the boy their friend. + + Three cottages that overlooked the sea + Stood side by side eastward of Nazareth. + Behind them rose a sheltering range of cliffs, + Purple and yellow, verdure-spotted, red, + Layer upon layer built up against the sky. + In front a row of sloping meadows lay, + Parted by narrow streams, that rose above, + Leaped from the rocks, and cut the sands below + Into deep channels widening to the sea. + + Within the humblest of these three abodes + Dwelt Joseph, his wife Mary, and their child. + A honeysuckle and a moss-rose grew, + With many blossoms, on their cottage front; + And o'er the gable warmed by the South + A sunny grape vine broadened shady leaves + Which gave its tendrils shelter, as they hung + Trembling upon the bloom of purple fruit. + And, like the wreathed shadows and deep glows + Which the sun spreads from some old oriel + Upon the marble Altar and the gold + Of God's own Tabernacle, where he dwells + For ever, so the blossoms and the vine, + On Jesus' home climbing above the roof, + Traced intricate their windings all about + The yellow thatch, and part concealed the nests + Whence noisy close-housed sparrows peeped unseen. + And Joseph had a little dove-cote placed + Between the gable-window and the eaves, + Where two white turtle doves (a gift of love + From Mary's kinsman Zachary to her child) + Cooed pleasantly; and broke upon the ear + The ever dying sound of falling waves. + + And so it came to pass, one Summer morn, + The mother dove first brought her fledgeling out + To see the sun. It was her only one, + And she had breasted it through three long weeks + With patient instinct till it broke the shell; + And she had nursed it with all tender care, + Another three, and watched the white down grow + Into full feather, till it left her nest. + And now it stood outside its narrow home, + With tremulous wings let loose and blinking eyes; + While, hovering near, the old dove often tried + By many lures to tempt it to the ground, + That they might feed from Jesus' hand, who stood + Watching them from below. The timid bird + At last took heart, and, stretching out its wings, + Brushed the light vine-leaves as it fluttered down. + Just then a hawk rose from a tree, and thrice + Wheeled in the air, and poised his aim to drop + On the young dove, whose quivering plumage swelled + About the sunken talons as it died. + Then the hawk fixed his round eye on the child, + Shook from his beak the stained down, screamed, and flapped + His broad arched wings, and, darting to a cleft + I' the rocks, there sullenly devoured his prey. + And Jesus heard the mother's anguished cry, + Weak like the distant sob of some lost child, + Who in his terror runs from path to path, + Doubtful alike of all; so did the dove, + As though death-stricken, beat about the air; + Till, settling on the vine, she drooped her head + Deep in her ruffled feathers. She sat there, + Brooding upon her loss, and did not move + All through that day. + + And, sitting by her, covered up his face: + Until a cloud, alone between the earth + And sun, passed with its shadow over him. + Then Jesus for a moment looked above; + And a few drops of rain fell on his brow, + Sad, as with broken hints of a lost dream, + Or dim foreboding of some future ill. + + Now, from a garden near, a fair-haired girl + Came, carrying a handful of choice flowers, + Which in her lap she sorted orderly, + As little children do at Easter-time + To have all seemly when their Lord shall rise. + Then Jesus' covered face she gently raised, + Placed in his hand the flowers, and kissed his cheek + And tried with soothing words to comfort him; + He from his eyes spoke thanks. + + Fast trickling down his face, drop upon drop, + Fell to the ground. That sad look left him not + Till night brought sleep, and sleep closed o'er his woe. + +II. The Scourging + + Again there came a day when Mary sat + Within the latticed doorway's fretted shade, + Working in bright and many colored threads + A girdle for her child, who at her feet + Lay with his gentle face upon her lap. + Both little hands were crossed and tightly clasped + Around her knee. On them the gleams of light + Which broke through overhanging blossoms warm, + And cool transparent leaves, seemed like the gems + Which deck Our Lady's shrine when incense-smoke + Ascends before her, like them, dimly seen + Behind the stream of white and slanting rays + Which came from heaven, as a veil of light, + Across the darkened porch, and glanced upon + The threshold-stone; and here a moth, just born + To new existence, stopped upon her flight, + To bask her blue-eyed scarlet wings spread out + Broad 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 things + With her, or, lost in thought, would seem to watch + The orange-belted wild bees when they stilled + Their hum, to press with honey-searching trunk + The juicy grape; or drag their waxed legs + Half buried in some leafy cool recess + Found in a rose; or else swing heavily + Upon the bending woodbine's fragrant mouth, + And rob the flower of sweets to feed the rock, + Where, in a hazel-covered crag aloft + Parting 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 lane + That wound from Nazareth by Joseph's house, + Sloping down to the sands. And two young men, + The owners of the colt, with many blows + From lash and goad wearied its patient sides; + Urging it past its strength, so they might win + Unto 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 cross + Laying upon its shoulders and its back. + It was a foal of that same ass which bare + The infant and the mother, when they fled + To 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 grief + Upon his brow when Mary looked at him: + And she remembered it in days that came. + +III. The Crowning with Thorns + + 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 arm + Around 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 wreath + Of hawthorn flowers, and in his hand a reed, + Put these both from him, saying, "Here is one + Whom you shall all prefer instead of me + To be our king;" and then he placed the wreath + On 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 yield + Grave fealty. And Jesus did return + Their childish salutations; and they passed + Singing another song, whose music chimed + With the sea's murmur, like a low sweet chant + Chanted in some wide church to Jesus Christ. + And Jesus listened till their voices sank + Behind the jutting rocks, and died away: + Then the wave broke, and Jesus felt alone. + Who being alone, on his fair countenance + And saddened beauty all unlike a child's + The sun of innocence did light no smile, + As on the group of happy faces gone. + +IV. Jesus Carrying his Cross + + And, when the barge arrived, and Joseph bare + The wood upon his shoulders, piece by piece, + Up to his shed, Jesus ran by his side, + Yearning for strength to help the aged man + Who tired himself with work all day for him. + But Joseph said: "My child, it is God's will + That I should work for thee until thou art + Of age to help thyself.--Bide thou his time + Which 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 eyes + Full in the old man's face, but nothing said, + Running still on to open first the door. + +V. The Crucifixion + + Joseph had one ewe-sheep; and she brought forth, + Early one season, and before her time, + A weakly lamb. It chanced to be upon + Jesus' 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 cross + Upon the back, a mark to know it by." + And Jesus loved the lamb; and, as it grew + Spotless and pure and loving like himself, + White as the mother's milk it fed upon, + He gave not up his care, till it became + Of strength enough to browse and then, because + Joseph had no land of his own, being poor, + He sent away the lamb to feed amongst + A 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 blew + Light flakes of waving silver o'er the fields + Ready for mowing, and the golden West + Warmed half the sky: the low sun flickered through + The hedge-rows, as they passed; while hawthorn trees + Scattered 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 lamb + Saw them approach, and ran from side to side + The gate, pushing its eager face between + The lowest bars, and bleating for pure joy. + And Jesus, kneeling by it, fondled with + The little creature, that could scarce find how + To 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 sun + Sank down behind them, broadening as it neared + The low horizon, Mary thought it seemed + To clothe them like a glory.--But her look + Grew 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 go + Alone, across an unknown land: such wastes + We sometimes see in visions of the night, + Barren and dimly lighted. There was not + A 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 tufts + In bare and chalky patches, cracked and hot, + Chafing my tired feet, that caught upon + Its parched surface; for a thirsty sun + Had sucked all moisture from the ground it burned, + And, red and glowing, stared upon me like + A furnace eye when all the flame is spent. + I felt it was a dream; and so I tried + To close my eyes, and shut it out from sight. + Then, sitting down, I hid my face; but this + Only increased the dread; and so I gazed + With open eyes into my dream again. + The mists had thickened, and had grown quite black + Over the sun; and darkness closed round me. + (Thy father said it thundered towards the morn.) + But soon, far off, I saw a dull green light + Break though the clouds, which fell across the earth, + Like death upon a bad man's upturned face. + Sudden it burst with fifty forked darts + In one white flash, so dazzling bright it seemed + To hide the landscape in one blaze of light. + When the loud crash that came down with it had + Rolled its long echo into stillness, through + The calm dark silence came a plaintive sound; + And, looking towards the tree, I saw that it + Was scorched with the lightning; and there stood + Close to its foot a solitary sheep + Bleating 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 dead + And 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 head + And bleeding feet; and one had pierced its side, + From which flowed blood and water. Strange the things + We see in dreams, and hard to understand;-- + For, stooping down to raise its lifeless head, + I thought it changed into the quiet face + Of my own child. Then I awoke, and saw + The dim moon shining through the watery clouds + On thee awake within thy little bed." + + Then Jesus, looking up, said quietly: + "We read that God will speak to those he loves + Sometimes in visions. He might speak to thee + Of things to come his mercy partly veils + From thee, my mother; or perhaps, the thought + Floated across thy mind of what we read + Aloud 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 tears + Drop warm upon his cheek, and he looked sad + When silently he put his hand again + Within his mother's. As they came, they went, + Hand in hand homeward. + With Mary and with Joseph, till the time + When all the things should be fulfilled in him + Which God had spoken by his prophets' mouth + Long since; and God was with him, and God's grace. + + + + +A Pause of Thought + + + 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 youth + Is resigned utterly. + + I watched and waited with a steadfast will: + And, tho' the object seemed to flee away + That 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 name + I long for; to a name why should I give + The peace of all the days I have to live?"-- + Yet gave it all the same. + + Alas! thou foolish one,--alike unfit + For healthy joy and salutary pain, + Thou knowest the chase useless, and again + Turnest to follow it. + + + + +The Purpose and Tendency of Early Italian Art + + +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 paint + Those endless cloisters and eternal aisles + With 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 important _aid_, 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 a +repetition 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 the most +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 de +l'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. Their +flourishing 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. + + + + +Song + + + 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 chose + Before in the olden time. + + + + +Morning Sleep + + + Another day hath dawned + Since, hastily and tired, I threw myself + Into the dark lap of advancing sleep. + Meanwhile through the oblivion of the night + The ponderous world its old course hath fulfilled; + And now the gradual sun begins to throw + Its slanting glory on the heads of trees, + And every bird stirs in its nest revealed, + And shakes its dewy wings. + + A blessed gift + Unto 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 eyes + In a continual dawning, mingling earth + And heaven with vagrant fantasies,--one hour,-- + Yet for another hour? I will not break + The shining woof; I will not rudely leap + Out of this golden atmosphere, through which + I see the forms of immortalities. + Verily, soon enough the laboring day + With its necessitous unmusical calls + Will force the indolent conscience into life. + + The uncouth moth upon the window-panes + Hath ceased to flap, or traverse with blind whirr + The room's dusk corners; and the leaves without + Vibrate upon their thin stems with the breeze + Flying towards the light. To an Eastern vale + That light may now be waning, and across + The 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 canoe + Crosses with fan-like paddles and the sound + Of feminine song, freighted with great-eyed maids + Whose unzoned bosoms swell on the rich air; + A lamp is in each hand; some mystic rite + Go they to try. Such rites the birds may see, + Ibis or emu, from their cocoa nooks,-- + What time the granite sentinels that watch + The mouths of cavern-temples hail the first + Faint star, and feel the gradual darkness blend + Their august lineaments;--what time Haroun + Perambulated Bagdat, and none knew + He was the Caliph who knocked soberly + By Giafar's hand at their gates shut betimes;-- + What time prince Assad sat on the high hill + 'Neath the pomegranate-tree, long wearying + For his lost brother's step;--what time, as now, + Along our English sky, flame-furrows cleave + And 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 let + Or hindrance to the indolent wilfulness + Of fantasy and dream-land. Place and time + And bodily weight are for the wakeful only. + Now they exist not: life is like that cloud, + Floating, poised happily in mid-air, bathed + In a sustaining halo, soft yet clear, + Voyaging on, though to no bourne; all heaven + Its own wide home alike, earth far below + Fading still further, further. Yet we see, + In fancy, its green fields, its towers, and towns + Smoking with life, its roads with traffic thronged + And 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 tale + Of some sound sleeper being borne away + By banded fairies in the mottled hour + Before the cockcrow, through unknown weird woods + And mighty forests, where the boughs and roots + Opened before him, closed behind;--thenceforth + A 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 spell + Of Merlin old that ministered to fate, + The tales of visiting ghosts, or fairy elves, + Or witchcraft, are no fables. But his task + Is ended with the night;--the thin white moon + Evades the eye, the sun breaks through the trees, + And the charmed wizard comes forth a mere man + From out his circle. Thus it is, whate'er + We know and understand hath lost the power + Over us;--we are then the master. Still + All Fancy's world is real; no diverse mark + Is on the stores of memory, whether gleaned + From childhood's early wonder at the charm + That bound the lady in the echoless cave + Where lay the sheath'd sword and the bugle horn,-- + Or from the fullgrown intellect, that works + From age to age, exploring darkest truths, + With sympathy and knowledge in one yoke + Ploughing the harvest land. + + The lark is up, + Piercing the dazzling sky beyond the search + Of the acutest love: enough for me + To hear its song: but now it dies away, + Leaving the chirping sparrow to attract + The listless ear,--a minstrel, sooth to say, + Nearly as good. And now a hum like that + Of swarming bees on meadow-flowers comes up. + Each hath its just and yet luxurious joy, + As if to live were to be blessed. The mild + Maternal influence of nature thus + Ennobles 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 seems + Worthy the adoration of a child; + And Spenser, perfect master, to whom all + Sweet graces ministered. The shut eye weaves + A picture;--the immortals pass along + Into the heaven, and others follow still, + Each on his own ray-path, till all the field + Is threaded with the foot-prints of the great. + And now the passengers are lost; long lines + Only are left, all intertwisted, dark + Upon a flood of light......... I am awake! + I hear domestic voices on the stair. + + Already hath the mower finished half + His summer day's ripe task; already hath + His scythe been whetted often; and the heaps + Behind him lie like ridges from the tide. + In sooth, it is high time to wave away + The cup of Comus, though with nectar filled, + And sweet as odours to the mariner + From lands unseen, across the wide blank sea. + + + + +Sonnet + + + When midst the summer-roses the warm bees + Are swarming in the sun, and thou--so full + Of innocent glee--dost with thy white hands pull + Pink scented apples from the garden trees + To fling at me, I catch them, on my knees, + Like those who gather'd manna; and I cull + Some hasty buds to pelt thee--white as wool + Lilies, or yellow jonquils, or heartsease;-- + Then I can speak my love, ev'n tho' thy smiles + Gush out among thy blushes, like a flock + Of bright birds from rose-bowers; but when thou'rt gone + I have no speech,--no magic that beguiles, + The stream of utterance from the harden'd rock:-- + The dial cannot speak without the sun! + + + +Stars and Moon + + + Beneath the stars and summer moon + A pair of wedded lovers walk, + Upon the stars and summer moon + They turn their happy eyes, and talk. + +EDITH. + + "Those stars, that moon, for me they shine + With 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 clothes + The 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 boon + To one in whom it always lies; + But if true sight of stars and moon + Were strange to thee, it would surprise. + + "Disease it is and dearth in me + Which thou believest genius, wealth; + And that imagined want in thee + Is 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 are + More good for life than bread or sleep, + More beautiful than Moon or Star." + + + + +On the Mechanism of a Historical Picture + + +Part I. The Design + +In tracing these memoranda of the course to be pursued in producing a +work of the class commonly denominated "Historic Art," we have no +wish to set ourselves in opposition to the practice of other artists. +We are quite willing to believe that there may be various methods of +working out the same idea, each productive of a satisfactory result. +Should any one therefore regard it as a subject for controversy, we +would only reply that, if different, or to them better, methods be +adopted by other painters, no less certain is it that there are +numbers who at the onset of their career have not the least knowledge +of any one of these methods; and that it is chiefly for such that +these notes have been penned. In short, that to all about to paint +their first picture we address ourselves. + +The first advice that should be given, on painting a historical +picture, ought undoubtedly to be on the choosing of a fit subject; +but, the object of the present paper being purely practical, it would +ill commence with a question which would entail a dissertation +bearing upon the most abstract properties of Art. Should it +afterwards appear necessary, we may append such a paper to the last +number of these articles; but, for the present, we will content +ourselves with beginning where the student may first encounter a +difficulty in giving body to his idea. + +The first care of the painter, after having selected his subject, +should be to make himself thoroughly acquainted with the character of +the times, and habits of the people, which he is about to represent; +and next, to consult the proper authorities for his costume, and such +objects as may fill his canvass; as the architecture, furniture, +vegetation or landscape, or accessories, necessary to the elucidation +of the subject. By not pursuing this course, the artist is in danger +of imagining an effect, or disposition of lines, incompatible with +the costume of his figures, or objects surrounding them; and it will +be found always a most difficult thing to efface an idea that has +once taken possession of the mind. Besides which, it is impossible to +conceive a design with any truth, not being acquainted with the +character, habits, and appearance, of the people represented. + +Having, by such means, secured the materials of which his work must +be composed, the artist must endeavour, as far as lies in his power, +to embody the picture in his thoughts, before having recourse to +paper. He must patiently consider his subject, revolving in his mind +every means that may assist the clear development of the story: +giving the most prominent places to the most important actors, and +carefully rejecting incidents that cannot be expressed by pantomimic +art without the aid of text. He must also, in this mental forerunner +of his picture, arrange the "grouping" of his figures,--that is, the +disposing of them in such agreeable clusters or situations on his +canvass as may be compatible with the dramatic truth of the whole, +(technically called the lines of a composition.) He must also +consider the color, and disposition of light and dark masses in his +design, so as to call attention to the principal objects, +(technically called the "effect.") Thus, to recapitulate, the +painter, in his first conception of his picture, will have to combine +three qualities, each subordinate to the other;--the intellectual, or +clear development, dramatic truth, and sentiment, of his +incident;--the construction, or disposition of his groups and lines, +as most conducive to clearness, effect, and harmony;--and the +chromatic, or arrangement of colors, light and shade, most suitable +to impress and attract the beholder.{6} + +{6} Many artists, chiefly of the schools not colorists, are in the +habit of making their designs in outline, leaving the colors and +light and shade to be thought of afterwards. This plan may offer +facilities; but we doubt if it be possible to arrange satisfactorily +the colors of a work which has been designed in outline without +consideration of these qualities. + +Having settled these points in his mind, as definitely as his +faculties will allow of, the student will take pencil and paper, and +sketch roughly each separate figure in his composition, studying his +own acting, (in a looking-glass) or else that of any friend he may +have of an artistic or poetic temperament, but not employing for the +purpose the ordinary paid models.--It will be always found that they +are stiff and feelingless, and, as such, tend to curb the vivacity of +a first conception, so much so that the artist may believe an action +impossible, through the want of comprehension of the model, which to +himself or a friend might prove easy. + +Here let the artist spare neither time nor labor, but exert himself +beyond his natural energies, seeking to enter into the character of +each actor, studying them one after the other, limb for limb, hand +for hand, finger for finger, noting each inflection of joint, or +tension of sinew, searching for dramatic truth internally in himself, +and in all external nature, shunning affectation and exaggeration, +and striving after pathos, and purity of feeling, with patient +endeavor and utter simplicity of heart. For on this labor must depend +the success of his work with the public. Artists may praise his +color, drawing, or manipulation, his chiaroscuro, or his lines; but +the clearness, truth, and sentiment, of his work will alone affect +the many. + +The action of each figure being now determinate, the next step will +be to make a sketch in oil of the whole design; after which, living +models, as like the artist's conception as can be found, must be +procured, to make outlines of the nude of each figure, and again +sketches of the same, draped in the proper costume.{7} + +{7} There is always difficulty attending this very necessary portion +of the study of the picture; because, if the dresses be borrowed or +hired, at this period they may be only wanted for a few hours, and +perhaps not required again for some months to paint into the +picture.--Again, if the costume have to be made, and of expensive +material, the portion of it seen may be sufficient to pin on to a lay +figure, without having the whole made, which could not be worn by the +living model. However, with all the larger or loose draperies, it is +very necessary to sketch them first from the living model. + +From these studies, the painter will prepare a second sketch, in +outline, of the whole, being, in fact, a small and hasty cartoon.{8} + +{8} Should the picture be of small dimensions, it will be found more +expeditious to make an outline of it on paper the full size, which +can be traced on to the canvass, keeping the latter clean. On the +contrary, should the painting be large, the outline had better be +made small, and squared to transfer to the canvass. + +In this last preparation of the design, the chief care of the student +will be the grouping, and the correct size and place of each figure; +also the perspective of the architecture and ground plan will now +have to be settled; a task requiring much patient calculation, and +usually proving a source of disgust to the novice not endowed with +much perseverance. But, above all, the quality to be most studied in +this outline design will be the _proportion_ of the whole work. + +And with a few remarks on this quality, which might appropriately be +termed "constructive beauty in art," we will close this paper on "the +Design," as belonging more properly to the mechanical than the +intellectual side of art; as being rather the slow growth of +experience than the spontaneous impulse of the artistic temperament. +It is a feature in art rather apt to savor of conventionality to such +as would look on nature as the only school of art, who would consider +it but as the exponent of thought and feeling; while, on the other +hand, we fear it likely to be studied to little effect by such as +receive with indiscriminate and phlegmatic avidity all that is handed +down to them in the shape of experience or time-sanctioned rule. But +plastic art claims not merely our sympathy, in its highest capacity +to emit thought and sentiment; but as form, colour, light, life, and +beauty; and who shall settle the claims between thought and beauty? +But art has beauties of its own, which neither impair nor contradict +the beauties of nature; but which are not of nature, and yet are, +inasmuch as art itself is but part of nature: and of such, the +beauties of the nature of art, is the feeling for constructive +beauty. It interferes not with truth or sentiment; it is not the +cause of unlikely order and improbable symmetry; it is not bounded by +line or rule, nor taught by theory. It is a feeling for proportion, +ever varying from an infinity of conflicting causes, that balances +the picture as it balances the Gothic edifice; it is a germ planted +in the breast of the artist, that gradually expands by cultivation. + +To those who would foster its development the only rule we could +offer would be never to leave a design, while they imagine they could +alter for the better (subordinate to the truth of nature) the place +of a single figure or group, or the direction of a line. + +And to such as think it beneath their care we can only say that they +neglect a refinement, of which every great master takes advantage to +increase the fascination which beauty, feeling, or passion, exercises +over the multitude. + + + +A Testimony + + + I said of laughter: It is vain;-- + Of mirth I said: What profits it?-- + Therefore I found a book, and writ + Therein, how ease and also pain, + How health and sickness, every one + Is vanity beneath the sun. + + Man walks in a vain shadow; he + Disquieteth himself in vain. + The things that were shall be again. + The rivers do not fill the sea, + But turn back to their secret source: + The winds, too, turn upon their course. + + Our treasures, moth and rust corrupt; + Or thieves break through and steal; or they + Make themselves wings and fly away. + One man made merry as he supp'd, + Nor guessed how when that night grew dim, + His soul would be required of him. + + We build our houses on the sand + Comely withoutside, and within; + But when the winds and rains begin + To beat on them, they cannot stand; + They perish, quickly overthrown, + Loose at the hidden basement stone. + + All things are vanity, I said: + Yea vanity of vanities. + The rich man dies; and the poor dies: + The worm feeds sweetly on the dead. + Whatso thou lackest, keep this trust:-- + All in the end shall have but dust. + + The one inheritance, which best + And worst alike shall find and share. + The wicked cease from troubling there, + And there the weary are at rest; + There all the wisdom of the wise + Is vanity of vanities. + + Man flourishes as a green leaf, + And as a leaf doth pass away; + Or, as a shade that cannot stay, + And leaves no track, his course is brief: + Yet doth man hope and fear and plan + Till he is dead:--oh foolish man! + + Our eyes cannot be satisfied + With seeing; nor our ears be fill'd + With hearing: yet we plant and build, + And buy, and make our borders wide: + We gather wealth, we gather care, + But know not who shall be our heir. + + Why should we hasten to arise + So early, and so late take rest? + Our labor is not good; our best + Hopes fade; our heart is stayed on lies: + Verily, we sow wind; and we + Shall reap the whirlwind, verily. + + He who hath little shall not lack; + He who hath plenty shall decay: + Our fathers went; we pass away; + Our children follow on our track: + So generations fail, and so + They are renewed, and come and go. + + The earth is fattened with our dead; + She swallows more and doth not cease; + Therefore her wine and oil increase + And her sheaves are not numbered; + Therefore her plants are green, and all + Her pleasant trees lusty and tall. + + Therefore the maidens cease to sing, + And the young men are very sad; + Therefore the sowing is not glad, + And weary is the harvesting. + Of high and low, of great and small, + Vanity is the lot of all. + + A king dwelt in Jerusalem: + He was the wisest man on earth; + He had all riches from his birth, + And pleasures till he tired of them: + Then, having tested all things, he + Witnessed that all are vanity. + + + + +O When and Where + + + All knowledge hath taught me, + All sorrow hath brought me, + Are smothered sighs + That pleasure lies, + Like the last gleam of evening's ray, + So far and far away,--far away. + + Under the cold moist herbs + No wind the calm disturbs. + O when and where? + Nor here nor there. + Grass cools my face, grief heats my heart. + Will this life I swoon with never part? + + + + +Fancies at Leisure + + +I. Noon Rest + + Following the river's course, + We come to where the sedges plant + Their thickest twinings at its source;-- + A spot that makes the heart to pant, + Feeling its rest and beauty. Pull + The reeds' tops thro' your fingers; dull + Your sense of the world's life; and toss + The thought away of hap or cross: + Then shall the river seem to call + Your name, and the slow quiet crawl + Between your eyelids like a swoon; + And all the sounds at heat of noon + And all the silence shall so sing + Your eyes asleep as that no wing + Of bird in rustling by, no prone + Willow-branch on your hair, no drone + Droning about and past you,--nought + May soon avail to rouse you, caught + With sleep thro' heat in the sun's light,-- + So good, tho' losing sound and sight, + You scarce would waken, if you might. + +II. A Quiet Place + + My friend, are not the grasses here as tall + As you would wish to see? The runnell's fall + Over the rise of pebbles, and its blink + Of shining points which, upon this side, sink + In dark, yet still are there; this ragged crane + Spreading his wings at seeing us with vain + Terror, forsooth; the trees, a pulpy stock + Of toadstools huddled round them; and the flock-- + Black wings after black wings--of ancient rook + By rook; has not the whole scene got a look + As though we were the first whose breath should fan + In two this spider's web, to give a span + Of life more to three flies? See, there's a stone + Seems made for us to sit on. Have men gone + By here, and passed? or rested on that bank + Or on this stone, yet seen no cause to thank + For the grass growing here so green and rank? + +III. A Fall of Rain + + It was at day-break my thought said: + "The moon makes chequered chestnut-shade + There by the south-side where the vine + Grapples the wall; and if it shine + This evening thro' the boughs and leaves, + And if the wind with silence weaves + More silence than itself, each stalk + Of flower just swayed by it, we'll walk, + Mary and I, when every fowl + Hides beak and eyes in breast, the owl + Only awake to hoot."--But clover + Is beaten down now, and birds hover, + Peering for shelter round; no blade + Of grass stands sharp and tall; men wade + Thro' mire with frequent plashing sting + Of rain upon their faces. Sing, + Then, Mary, to me thro' the dark: + But kiss me first: my hand shall mark + Time, pressing yours the while I hark. + +IV. Sheer Waste + + Is it a little thing to lie down here + Beside the water, looking into it, + And see there grass and fallen leaves interknit, + And small fish sometimes passing thro' some bit + Of tangled grass where there's an outlet clear? + + And then a drift of wind perhaps will come, + And blow the insects hovering all about + Into the water. Some of them get out; + Others swim with sharp twitches; and you doubt + Whether of life or death for other some. + + Meanwhile the blueflies sway themselves along + Over the water's surface, or close by; + Not one in ten beyond the grass will fly + That closely skirts the stream; nor will your eye + Meet any where the sunshine is not strong. + + After a time you find, you know not how, + That it is quite a stretch of energy + To do what you have done unconsciously,-- + That is, pull up the grass; and then you see + You may as well rise and be going now. + + So, having walked for a few steps, you fall + Bodily on the grass under the sun, + And listen to the rustle, one by one, + Of the trees' leaves; and soon the wind has done + For a short space, and it is quiet all; + + Except because the rooks will make a caw + Just now and then together: and the breeze + Soon rises up again among the trees, + Making the grass, moreover, bend and tease + Your face, but pleasantly. Mayhap the paw + + Of a dog touches you and makes you rise + Upon one arm to pat him; and he licks + Your hand for that. A child is throwing sticks, + Hard by, at some half-dozen cows, which fix + Upon him their unmoved contented eyes. + + The sun's heat now is painful. Scarce can you + Move, and even less lie still. You shuffle then, + Poised on your arms, again to shade. Again + There comes a pleasant laxness on you. When + You have done enough of nothing, you will go. + + Some hours perhaps have passed. Say not you fling + These hours or such-like recklessly away. + Seeing the grass and sun and children, say, + Is not this something more than idle play, + Than careless waste? Is it a little thing? + + + + +The Light beyond + +I + + Though we may brood with keenest subtlety, + Sending our reason forth, like Noah's dove, + To know why we are here to die, hate, love, + With Hope to lead and help our eyes to see + Through labour daily in dim mystery, + Like those who in dense theatre and hall, + When fire breaks out or weight-strained rafters fall, + Towards some egress struggle doubtfully; + Though we through silent midnight may address + The mind to many a speculative page, + Yearning to solve our wrongs and wretchedness, + Yet duty and wise passiveness are won,-- + (So it hath been and is from age to age)-- + Though we be blind, by doubting not the sun. + +II + + Bear on to death serenely, day by day, + Midst losses, gains, toil, and monotony, + The ignorance of social apathy, + And artifice which men to men display: + Like one who tramps a long and lonely way + Under the constant rain's inclemency, + With vast clouds drifting in obscurity, + And sudden lightnings in the welkin grey. + To-morrow may be bright with healthy pleasure, + Banishing discontents and vain defiance: + The pearly clouds will pass to a slow measure, + Wayfarers walk the dusty road in joyance, + The wide heaths spread far in the sun's alliance, + Among the furze inviting us to leisure. + +III + + Vanity, say they, quoting him of old. + Yet, if full knowledge lifted us serene + To look beyond mortality's stern screen, + A reconciling vision could be told, + Brighter than western clouds or shapes of gold + That change in amber fires,--or the demesne + Of ever mystic sleep. Mists intervene, + Which then would melt, to show our eyesight bold + From God a perfect chain throughout the skies, + Like Jacob's ladder light with winged men. + And as this world, all notched to terrene eyes + With Alpine ranges, smoothes to higher ken, + So death and sin and social miseries; + By God fixed as His bow o'er moor and fen. + + + +The Blessed Damozel + + + The blessed Damozel leaned out + From the gold bar of Heaven: + Her blue grave eyes were deeper much + Than a deep water, even. + She had three lilies in her hand, + And the stars in her hair were seven. + + Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, + No wrought flowers did adorn, + But a white rose of Mary's gift + On the neck meetly worn; + And her hair, lying down her back, + Was yellow like ripe corn. + + Herseemed she scarce had been a day + One of God's choristers; + The wonder was not yet quite gone + From that still look of hers; + Albeit to them she left, her day + Had counted as ten years. + + (To _one_ it is ten years of years: + ........ Yet now, here in this place + Surely she leaned o'er me,--her hair + Fell all about my face......... + Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves. + The whole year sets apace.) + + It was the terrace of God's house + That she was standing on,-- + By God built over the sheer depth + In which Space is begun; + So high, that looking downward thence, + She could scarce see the sun. + + It lies from Heaven across the flood + Of ether, as a bridge. + Beneath, the tides of day and night + With flame and blackness ridge + The void, as low as where this earth + Spins like a fretful midge. + + But in those tracts, with her, it was + The peace of utter light + And silence. For no breeze may stir + Along the steady flight + O seraphim; no echo there, + Beyond all depth or height. + + Heard hardly, some of her new friends, + Playing at holy games, + Spake, gentle-mouthed, among themselves, + Their virginal chaste names; + And the souls, mounting up to God, + Went by her like thin flames. + + And still she bowed herself, and stooped + Into the vast waste calm; + Till her bosom's pressure must have made + The bar she leaned on warm, + And the lilies lay as if asleep + Along her bended arm. + + From the fixt lull of heaven, she saw + Time, like a pulse, shake fierce + Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove, + In that steep gulph, to pierce + The swarm: and then she spake, as when + The stars sang in their spheres. + + "I wish that he were come to me, + For he will come," she said. + "Have I not prayed in solemn heaven? + On earth, has he not prayed? + Are not two prayers a perfect strength? + And shall I feel afraid? + + "When round his head the aureole clings, + And he is clothed in white, + I'll take his hand, and go with him + To the deep wells of light, + And we will step down as to a stream + And bathe there in God's sight. + + "We two will stand beside that shrine, + Occult, withheld, untrod, + Whose lamps tremble continually + With prayer sent up to God; + And where each need, revealed, expects + Its patient period. + + "We two will lie i' the shadow of + That living mystic tree + Within whose secret growth the Dove + Sometimes is felt to be, + While every leaf that His plumes touch + Saith His name audibly. + + "And I myself will teach to him-- + I myself, lying so,-- + The songs I sing here; which his mouth + Shall pause in, hushed and slow, + Finding some knowledge at each pause + And some new thing to know." + + (Alas! to _her_ wise simple mind + These things were all but known + Before: they trembled on her sense,-- + Her voice had caught their tone. + Alas for lonely Heaven! Alas + For life wrung out alone! + + Alas, and though the end were reached?........ + Was _thy_ part understood + Or borne in trust? And for her sake + Shall this too be found good?-- + May the close lips that knew not prayer + Praise ever, though they would?) + + "We two," she said, "will seek the groves + Where the lady Mary is, + With her five handmaidens, whose names + Are five sweet symphonies:-- + Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, + Margaret, and Rosalys. + + "Circle-wise sit they, with bound locks + And bosoms covered; + Into the fine cloth, white like flame, + Weaving the golden thread, + To fashion the birth-robes for them + Who are just born, being dead. + + "He shall fear haply, and be dumb. + Then I will lay my cheek + To his, and tell about our love, + Not once abashed or weak: + And the dear Mother will approve + My pride, and let me speak. + + "Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, + To Him round whom all souls + Kneel--the unnumber'd solemn heads + Bowed with their aureoles: + And Angels, meeting us, shall sing + To their citherns and citoles. + + "There will I ask of Christ the Lord + Thus much for him and me:-- + To have more blessing than on earth + In nowise; but to be + As then we were,--being as then + At peace. Yea, verily. + + "Yea, verily; when he is come + We will do thus and thus: + Till this my vigil seem quite strange + And almost fabulous; + We two will live at once, one life; + And peace shall be with us." + + She gazed, and listened, and then said, + Less sad of speech than mild: + "All this is when he comes." She ceased; + The light thrilled past her, filled + With Angels, in strong level lapse. + Her eyes prayed, and she smiled. + + (I saw her smile.) But soon their flight + Was vague 'mid the poised spheres. + And then she cast her arms along + The golden barriers, + And laid her face between her hands, + And wept. (I heard her tears.) + + + + +Reviews + + +The Strayed Reveller; and other Poems. By A.--Fellowes, +Ludgate-street.--1849. + +If any one quality may be considered common to all living poets, it +is that which we have heard aptly described as _self-consciousness_. +In this many appear to see the only permanent trace of the now old +usurping deluge of Byronism; but it is truly a fact of the +time,--less a characteristic than a portion of it. Every species of +composition--the dramatic, the narrative, the lyric, the didactic, +the descriptive--is imbued with this spirit; and the reader may +calculate with almost equal certainty on becoming acquainted with the +belief of a poet as of a theologian or a moralist. Of the evils +resulting from the practice, the most annoying and the worst is that +some of the lesser poets, and all mere pretenders, in their desire to +emulate the really great, feel themselves under a kind of obligation +to assume opinions, vague, incongruous, or exaggerated, often not +only not their own, but the direct reverse of their own,--a kind of +meanness that has replaced, and goes far to compensate for, the +flatteries of our literary ancestors. On the other hand, this quality +has created a new tie of interest between the author and his public, +enhances the significance of great works, and confers value on even +the slightest productions of a true poet. + +That the systematic infusion of this spirit into the drama and epic +compositions is incompatible with strict notions of art will scarcely +be disputed: but such a general objection does not apply in the case +of lyric poetry, where even the character of the subject is optional. +It is an instance of this kind that we are now about to consider. + +"The Strayed Reveller and other Poems," constitutes, we believe, the +first published poetical work of its author, although the following +would rather lead to the inference that he is no longer young. + + "But my youth reminds me: 'Thou + Hast lived light as these live now; + As these are, thou too wert such.'"--p. 59. + +And, in another poem: + + "In vain, all, all, in vain, + They beat upon mine ear again, + Those melancholy tones so sweet and still: + Those lute-like tones which, in long-distant years, + Did steal into mine ears."--p. 86. + +Accordingly, we find but little passion in the volume, only four +pieces (for "The Strayed Reveller" can scarcely be so considered) +being essentially connected with it. Of these the "Modern Sappho" +appears to us not only inferior, but as evidencing less maturity both +of thought and style; the second, "Stagyrus," is an urgent appeal to +God; the third, "The New Sirens," though passionate in utterance, is, +in purpose, a rejection of passion, as having been weighed in the +balance and found wanting; and, in the last, where he tells of the +voice which once + + "Blew such a thrilling summons to his will, + Yet could not shake it; + Drained all the life his full heart had to spill; + Yet could not break it:"-- + +he records the "intolerable change of thought" with which it now +comes to his "long-sobered heart." Perhaps "The Forsaken Merman" +should be added to these; but the grief here is more nearly +approaching to gloomy submission and the sickness of hope deferred. + +The lessons that the author would learn of nature are, as set forth +in the sonnet that opens the volume, + + "Of toil unsevered from tranquillity; + Of labor that in one short hour outgrows + Man's noisy schemes,--accomplished in repose, + Too great for haste, too high for rivalry."--p. 1. + +His conception of the poet is of one who + + "Sees before him life unroll, + A placid and continuous whole; + That general life which does not cease; + Whose secret is, not joy, but peace; + That life, whose dumb wish is not missed + If birth proceeds, if things subsist; + The life of plants and stones and rain; + The life he craves:--if not in vain + Fate gave, what chance shall not control, + His sad lucidity of soul."--pp. 123-4. + + (_Resignation._) + +Such is the author's purpose in these poems. He recognises in each +thing a part of the whole: and the poet must know even as he sees, or +breathes, as by a spontaneous, half-passive exercise of a faculty: he +must receive rather than seek. + + "Action and suffering tho' he know, + He hath not lived, if he lives so." + +Connected with this view of life as "a placid and continuous whole," +is the principle which will be found here manifested in different +modes, and thro' different phases of event, of the permanence and +changelessness of natural laws, and of the large necessity wherewith +they compel life and man. This is the thought which animates the +"Fragment of an 'Antigone:'" "The World and the Quietest" has no +other scope than this:-- + + "Critias, long since, I know, + (For fate decreed it so), + Long since the world hath set its heart to live. + Long since, with credulous zeal, + It turns life's mighty wheel: + Still doth for laborers send; + Who still their labor give. + And still expects an end."--p. 109. + +This principle is brought a step futher into the relations of life in +"The Sick King in Bokhara," the following passage from which claims +to be quoted, not less for its vividness as description, than in +illustration of this thought:-- + + "In vain, therefore, with wistful eyes + Gazing up hither, the poor man + Who loiters by the high-heaped booths + Below there in the Registan + + "Says: 'Happy he who lodges there! + With silken raiment, store of rice, + And, for this drought, all kinds of fruits, + Grape-syrup, squares of colored ice, + + "'With cherries served in drifts of snow.' + In vain hath a king power to build + Houses, arcades, enamelled mosques, + And to make orchard-closes filled + + "With curious fruit trees brought from far, + With cisterns for the winter rain; + And, in the desert, spacious inns + In divers places;--if that pain + + "Is not more lightened which he feels, + If his will be not satisfied: + And that it be not from all time + The law is planted, to abide."--pp. 47-8. + +The author applies this basis of fixity in nature generally to the +rules of man's nature, and avow himself a Quietist. Yet he would not +despond, but contents himself, and waits. In no poem of the volume is +this character more clearly defined and developed than in the sonnets +"To a Republican Friend," the first of which expresses concurrence in +certain broad progressive principles of humanity: to the second we +would call the reader's attention, as to an example of the author's +more firm and serious writing:-- + + "Yet when I muse on what life is, I seem + Rather to patience prompted than that proud + Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud; + France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme:-- + Seeing this vale, this earth whereon we dream, + Is on all sides o'ershadowed by the high + Uno'erleaped mountains of necessity, + Sparing us narrower margin than we deem. + Nor will that day dawn at a human nod, + When, bursting thro' the net-work superposed + By selfish occupation--plot and plan, + Lust, avarice, envy,--liberated man, + All difference with his fellow-man composed, + Shall be left standing face to face with God."--p. 57. + +In the adjuration entitled "Stagyrus," already mentioned, he prays to +be set free + + "From doubt, where all is double, + Where Faiths are built on dust;" + +and there seems continually recurring to him a haunting presage of +the unprofitableness of the life, after which men have not "any more +a portion for ever in anything that is done under the sun." Where he +speaks of resignation, after showing how the less impetuous and +self-concentred natures can acquiesce in the order of this life, even +were it to bring them back with an end unattained to the place whence +they set forth; after showing how it is the poet's office to live +rather than to act in and thro' the whole life round about him, he +concludes thus: + + "The world in which we live and move + Outlasts aversion, outlasts love..... + Nay, and since death, which wipes out man, + Finds him with many an unsolved plan,.... + Still gazing on the ever full + Eternal mundane spectacle, + This world in which we draw our breath + In some sense, Fausta, outlasts death..... + + Enough, we live:--and, if a life + With large results so little rife, + Tho' bearable, seem scarcely worth + This pomp of worlds, this pain of birth, + Yet, Fausta, the mute turf we tread, + The solemn hills around us spread, + This stream that falls incessantly, + The strange-scrawled rocks, the lonely sky, + If I might lend their life a voice, + Seem to bear rather than rejoice. + And, even could the intemperate prayer + Man iterates, while these forbear, + For movement, for an ampler sphere, + Pierce fate's impenetrable ear, + Not milder is the general lot + Because our spirits have forgot, + In actions's dizzying eddy whirled, + The something that infects the world."--pp. 125-8.--_Resignation._ + +"Shall we," he asks, "go hence and find that our vain dreams are not +dead? Shall we follow our vague joys, and the old dead faces, and the +dead hopes?" + +He exhorts man to be "_in utrumque paratus_." If the world be the +materialized thought of one all-pure, let him, "by lonely pureness," +seek his way through the colored dream of life up again to that +all-pure fount:-- + + "But, if the wild unfathered mass no birth + In divine seats hath known; + In the blank echoing solitude, if earth, + Rocking her obscure body to and fro, + Ceases not from all time to heave and groan, + Unfruitful oft, and, at her happiest throe, + Forms what she forms, alone:" + +then man, the only self-conscious being, "seeming sole to awake," +must, recognizing his brotherhood with this world which stirs at his +feet unknown, confess that he too but seems. + +Thus far for the scheme and the creed of the author. Concerning these +we leave the reader to draw his own conclusions. + +Before proceeding to a more minute notice of the various poems, we +would observe that a predilection is apparent throughout for +antiquity and classical association; not that strong love which made +Shelley, as it were, the heir of Plato; not that vital grasp of +conception which enabled Keats without, and enables Landor with, the +most intimate knowledge of form and detail, to return to and renew +the old thoughts and beliefs of Greece; still less the mere +superficial acquaintance with names and hackneyed attributes which +was once poetry. Of this conventionalism, however, we have detected +two instances; the first, an allusion to "shy Dian's horn" in +"breathless glades" of the days we live, peculiarly inappropriate in +a sonnet addressed "To George Cruikshank on his Picture of 'The +Bottle;'" the second a grave call to Memory to bring her tablets, +occurring in, and forming the burden of, a poem strictly personal, +and written for a particular occasion. But the author's partiality is +shown, exclusively of such poems as "Mycerinus" and "The Strayed +Reveller," where the subjects are taken from antiquity, rather in the +framing than in the ground work, as in the titles "A Modern Sappho," +"The New Sirens," "Stagyrus," and "_In utrumque paratus_." It is +Homer and Epictetus and Sophocles who "prop his mind;" the immortal +air which the poet breathes is "Where Orpheus and where Homer are;" +and he addresses "Fausta" and "Critias." + +There are four narrative poems in the volume:--"Mycerinus," "The +Strayed Reveller," "The Sick King in Bokhara," and "The Forsaken +Merman." The first of these, the only one altogether narrative in +form, founded on a passage in the 2nd Book of Herodotus, is the story +of the six years of life portioned to a King of Egypt succeeding a +father "who had loved injustice, and lived long;" and tells how he +who had "loved the good" revels out his "six drops of time." He takes +leave of his people with bitter words, and goes out + + "To the cool regions of the groves he loved........ + Here came the king holding high feast at morn, + Rose-crowned; and ever, when the sun went down, + A hundred lamps beamed in the tranquil gloom, + From tree to tree, all thro' the twinkling grove, + Revealing all the tumult of the feast, + Flushed guests, and golden goblets foamed with wine; + While the deep-burnished foliage overhead + Splintered the silver arrows of the moon."--p. 7. + +(a daring image, verging towards a conceit, though not absolutely +such, and the only one of that character that has struck us in the +volume.) + + "So six long years he revelled, night and day: + And, when the mirth waxed loudest, with dull sound + Sometimes from the grove's centre echoes came, + To tell his wondering people of their king; + In the still night, across the steaming flats, + Mixed with the murmur of the moving Nile."--pp. 8, 9. + +Here a Tennysonian influence is very perceptible, more especially in +the last quotation; and traces of the same will be found in "The +Forsaken Merman." + +In this poem the story is conveyed by allusions and reminiscences +whilst the Merman makes his children call after her who had returned +to her own earth, hearing the Easter bells over the bay, and who is +not yet come back for all the voices calling "Margaret! Margaret!" +The piece is scarcely long enough or sufficiently distinct otherwise +than as a whole to allow of extract; but we cannot but express regret +that a poem far from common-place either in ubject or treatment +should conclude with such sing-song as + + ------"There dwells a loved one, + But cruel is she; + She left lonely for ever + The kings of the sea." + +"The Strayed Reveller" is written without rhyme--(not being blank +verse, however,)--and not unfrequently, it must be admitted, without +rhythm. Witness the following lines: + + "Down the dark valley--I saw."-- + "Trembling, I entered; beheld"-- + "Thro' the islands some divine bard."-- + +Nor are these by any means the only ones that might be cited in +proof; and, indeed, even where there is nothing precisely contrary to +rhythm, the verse might, generally speaking, almost be read as prose. +Seldom indeed, as it appears to us, is the attempt to write without +some fixed laws of metrical construction attended with success; +never, perhaps, can it be considered as the most appropriate +embodiment of thought. The fashion has obtained of late years; but it +is a fashion, and will die out. But few persons will doubt the +superiority of the established blank verse, after reading the +following passage, or will hesitate in pronouncing that it ought to +be the rule, instead of the exception, in this poem: + + "They see the merchants + On the Oxus stream:--but care + _Must visit first them too, and make them pale:_ + Whether, thro' whirling sand, + _A cloud of desert robber-horse has burst_ + _Upon their caravan; or greedy kings,_ + _In the walled cities the way passes thro',_ + Crushed them with tolls; or fever airs + On some great river's marge + Mown them down, far from home."--p. 25. + +The Reveller, going to join the train of Bacchus in his temple, has +strayed into the house of Circe and has drunk of her cup: he believes +that, while poets can see and know only through participation in +endurance, he shares the power belonging to the gods of seeing +"without pain, without labour;" and has looked over the valley all +day long at the Moenads and Fauns, and Bacchus, "sometimes, for a +moment, passing through the dark stems." Apart from the inherent +defects of the metre, there is great beauty of pictorial description +in some passages of the poem, from which the following (where he is +speaking of the gods) may be taken as a specimen:-- + + "They see the Indian + Drifting, knife in hand, + His frail boat moored to + A floating isle, thick-matted + With large-leaved low-creeping melon plants, + And the dark cucumber. + He reaps and stows them, + Drifting--drifting:--round him, + Round his green harvest-plot, + Flow the cool lake-waves: + The mountains ring them."--p. 20. + +From "the Sick King in Bokhara," we have already quoted at some +length. It is one of the most considerable, and perhaps, as being the +most simple and life-like, the best of the narrative poems. A vizier +is receiving the dues from the cloth merchants, when he is summoned +to the presence of the king, who is ill at ease, by Hussein: "a +teller of sweet tales." Arrived, Hussein is desired to relate the +cause of the king's sickness; and he tells how, three days since, a +certain Moollah came before the king's path, calling for justice on +himself, whom, deemed a fool or a drunkard, the guards pricked off +with their spears, while the king passed on into the mosque: and how +the man came on the morrow with yesterday's blood-spots on him, and +cried out for right. What follows is told with great singleness and +truth: "Thou knowest," the man says, + + "'How fierce + In these last day the sun hath burned; + That the green water in the tanks + Is to a putrid puddle turned; + And the canal that from the stream + Of Samarcand is brought this way + Wastes and runs thinner every day. + "'Now I at nightfall had gone forth + Alone; and, in a darksome place + Under some mulberry-trees, I found + A little pool; and, in brief space, + With all the water that was there + I filled my pitcher, and stole home + Unseen; and, having drink to spare, + I hid the can behind the door, + And went up on the roof to sleep. + + "'But, in the night, which was with wind + And burning dust, again I creep + Down, having fever, for a drink. + + "'Now, meanwhile, had my brethren found + The water-pitcher, where it stood + Behind the door upon the ground, + And called my mother: and they all, + As they were thirsty and the night + Most sultry, drained the pitcher there; + That they sat with it in my sight, + Their lips still wet, when I came down. + + "'Now mark: I, being fevered, sick, + (Most unblessed also,) at that sight + Brake forth and cursed them. Dost thou hear? + One was my mother. Now, do right.' + + "But my lord mused a space, and said, + 'Send him away, sirs, and make on. + It is some madman,' the king said. + As the king said, so was it done. + + "The morrow at the self-same hour, + In the king's path, behold, the man, + Not kneeling, sternly fixed. He stood + Right opposite, and thus began, + + "Frowning grim down: 'Thou wicked king, + Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear; + What? Must I howl in the next world, + Because thou wilt not listen here? + + "'What, wilt thou pray and get thee grace, + And all grace shall to me be grudged? + Nay but, I swear, from this thy path + I will not stir till I be judged.' + + "Then they who stood about the king + Drew close together and conferred; + Till that the king stood forth and said: + 'Before the priests thou shalt be heard.' + + "But, when the Ulema were met + And the thing heard, they doubted not; + But sentenced him, as the law is, + To die by stoning on the spot. + + "Now the king charged us secretly: + 'Stoned must he be: the law stands so: + Yet, if he seek to fly, give way; + Forbid him not, but let him go.' + + "So saying, the king took a stone, + And cast it softly: but the man, + With a great joy upon his face, + Kneeled down, and cried not, neither ran. + + "So they whose lot it was cast stones, + That they flew thick and bruised him sore: + But he praised Allah with loud voice, + And remained kneeling as before. + + "My lord had covered up his face: + But, when one told him, 'He is dead;' + Turning him quickly to go in, + 'Bring thou to me his corpse,' he said. + + "And truly, while I speak, oh king, + I hear the bearers on the stair. + Wilt thou they straightway bring him in?-- + Ho! enter ye who tarry there."--pp. 39-43. + +The Vizier counsels the king that each man's private grief suffices +him, and that he should not seek increase of it in the griefs of +other men. But he answers him, (this passage we have before quoted,) +that the king's lot and the poor man's is the same, for that neither +has his will; and he takes order that the dead man be buried in his +own royal tomb. + +We know few poems the style of which is more unaffectedly without +labor, and to the purpose, than this. The metre, however, of the +earlier part is not always quite so uniform and intelligible as might +be desired; and we must protest against the use, for the sake of +rhyme, of _broke_ in lieu of _broken_, as also of _stole_ for +_stolen_ in "the New Sirens." While on the subject of style, we may +instance, from the "Fragment of an Antigone," the following uncouth +stanza, which, at the first reading, hardly appears to be correctly +put together: + + "But hush! Hoemon, whom Antigone, + Robbing herself of life in burying, + Against Creon's laws, Polynices, + Robs of a loved bride, pale, imploring, + Waiting her passage, + Forth from the palace hitherward comes."--p. 30. + +Perhaps the most perfect and elevated in tone of all these poems is +"The New Sirens." The author addresses, in imagination, a company of +fair women, one of whose train he had been at morning; but in the +evening he has dreamed under the cedar shade, and seen the same forms +"on shores and sea-washed places," "With blown tresses, and with +beckoning hands." + +He thinks how at sunrise he had beheld those ladies playing between +the vines; but now their warm locks have fallen down over their arms. +He prays them to speak and shame away his sadness; but there comes +only a broken gleaming from their windows, which "Reels and shivers +on the ruffled gloom." He asks them whether they have seen the end of +all this, the load of passion and the emptiness of reaction, whether +they dare look at life's latter days, + + "When a dreary light is wading + Thro' this waste of sunless greens, + When the flashing lights are fading + On the peerless cheek of queens, + When the mean shall no more sorrow, + And the proudest no more smile; + While the dawning of the morrow + Widens slowly westward all that while?" + +And he implores them to "let fall one tear, and set him free." The +past was no mere pretence; it was true while it lasted; but it is +gone now, and the East is white with day. Shall they meet again, only +that he may ask whose blank face that is? + + "Pluck, pluck cypress, oh pale maidens; + Dusk the hall with yew." + +This poem must be read as a whole; for not only would it be difficult +to select particular passages for extraction, but such extracts, if +made, would fail in producing any adequate impression. + +We have already quoted so larely from the concluding piece, +"Resignation," that it may here be necessary to say only that it is +in the form of speech held with "Fausta" in retracing, after a lapse +of ten years, the same way they had once trod with a joyful company. +The tone is calm and sustained, not without touches of familiar +truth. + +The minor poems comprise eleven sonnets, among which, those "To the +Duke of Wellington, on hearing him mispraised," and on "Religious +Isolation," deserve mention; and it is with pleasure we find one, in +the tenor of strong appreciation, written on reading the Essays of +the great American, Emerson. The sonnet for "Butler's Sermons" is +more indistinct, and, as such, less to be approved, in imagery than +is usual with this poet. That "To an Independent Preacher who +preached that we should be in harmony with nature," seems to call for +some remark. The sonnet ends with these words: + + "Man must begin, know this, where nature ends; + Nature and man can never be fast friends; + Fool, if thou canst not pass her, rest her slave." + +Now, as far as this sonnet shows of the discourse which occasioned +it, we cannot see anything so absurd in that discourse; and where the +author confutes the Independent preacher by arguing that + + "Nature is cruel; man is sick of blood: + Nature is stubborn; man would fain adore: + Nature is fickle; man hath need of rest:" + +we cannot but think that, by attributing to nature a certain human +degree of qualities, which will not suffice for man, he loses sight +of the point really raised: for is not man's nature only a part of +nature? and, if a part, necessary to the completeness of the whole? +and should not the individual, avoiding a factitious life, order +himself in conformity with his own rule of being? And, indeed, the +author himself would converse with the self-sufficing progress of +nature, with its rest in action, as distinguished from the troublous +vexation of man's toiling:-- + + "Two lessons, Nature, let me learn of thee, + Two lessons that in every wind are blown; + Two blending duties harmonised in one, + Tho' the loud world proclaim their enmity."--p. 1. + +The short lyric poem, "To Fausta" has a Shelleian spirit and grace in +it. & "The Hayswater Boat" seems a little _got up_, and is scarcely +positive enough. This remark applies also, and in a stonger degree, +to the "Stanzas on a Gipsy Child," which, and the "Modern Sappho," +previously mentioned, are the pieces least to our taste in the +volume. There is a something about them of drawing-room +sentimentality; and they might almost, without losing much save in +size, be compressed into poems of the class commonly set to music. It +is rather the basis of thought than the writing of the "Gipsy Child," +which affords cause for objection; nevertheless, there is a passage +in which a comparison is started between this child and a "Seraph in +an alien planet born,"--an idea not new, and never, as we think, +worth much; for it might require some subtlety to show how a planet +capable of producing a Seraph should be alien from that Seraph. + +We may here notice a few cases of looseness, either of thought or of +expression, to be met with in these pages; a point of style to be +particularly looked to when the occurrence or the absence of such +forms one very sensible difference between the first-rate and the +second-rate poets of the present times. + +Thus, in the sonnet "Shakspear," the conclusion says, + + "All pains the immortal spirit must endure, + All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow, + Find their sole _voice_ in that victorious brow;" + +whereas a brow's voice remains to be uttered: nor, till the nature of +the victory gained by the brow shall have been pointed out, are we +able to hazard an opinion of the precise value of the epithet. + +In the address to George Cruikshank, we find: "Artist, whose hand +with horror _winged_;" where a similar question arises; and, +returning to the "Gipsy Child," we are struck with the unmeaningness +of the line: "Who massed round that slight brow these clouds of +doom?" + +Nor does the following, from the first of the sonnets, "To a +Republican Friend," appear reconcileable with any ideas of +appropriateness: + + ----"While before me _flow_ + The _armies_ of the homeless and unfed." + +It is but right to state that the only instance of the kind we +remember throughout the volume have now been mentioned. + +To conclude. Our extracts will enable the reader to judge of this +Poet's style: it is clear and comprehensive, and eschews flowery +adornment. No particular model has been followed, though that general +influence which Tennyson exercises over so many writers of this +generation may be traced here as elsewhere. It may be said that the +author has little, if anything, to unlearn. Care and consistent +arrangement, and the necessary subordination of the parts to the +whole, are evident throughout; the reflective, which appears the more +essential form of his thought, does not absorb the due observation or +presentment of the outward facts of nature; and a well-poised and +serious mind shows itself in every page. + + +_Published Monthly, price 1s._ + +This Periodical will consist of original Poems, Stories to develope +thought and principle, Essays concerning Art and other subjects, and +analytic Reviews of current Literature--particularly of Poetry. Each +number will also contain an Etching; the subject to be taken from the +opening article of the month. + +An attempt will be made, both intrinsically and by review, to claim +for Poetry that place to which its present development in the +literature of this country so emphatically entitles it. + +The endeavour held in view throughout the writings on Art will be 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 +need scarcely be added that the chief object of the etched designs +will be to illustrate this aim practically, as far as the method of +execution will permit; in which purpose they will be produced with +the utmost care and completeness. + + + + +No. 3. (_Price One Shilling_.) MARCH, 1850. + +With an Etching by F. Madox Brown. + +Art and Poetry: Being Thoughts towards Nature Conducted principally +by Artists. + + When whoso merely hath a little thought + Will plainly think the thought which is in him,-- + Not imaging another's bright or dim, + Not mangling with new words what others taught; + When whoso speaks, from having either sought + Or only found,--will speak, not just to skim + A shallow surface with words made and trim, + But in that very speech the matter brought: + Be not too keen to cry--"So this is all!-- + A thing I might myself have thought as well, + But would not say it, for it was not worth!" + Ask: "Is this truth?" For is it still to tell + That, be the theme a point or the whole earth, + Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small? + + London: + DICKINSON & Co., 114, NEW BOND STREET, + AND + AYLOTT & JONES, 8, PATERNOSTER ROW. + + G. F Tupper, Printer, Clement's Lane, Lombard Street. + + +CONTENTS. + + Cordelia--_W. M. Rossetti_ 97 + Macbeth 99 + Repining.--_Ellen Alleyn_ 111 + Sweet Death--_Ellen Alleyn_ 117 + Subject in Art, No. II 118 + Carillon.--_Dante G. Rossetti_ 126 + Emblems.--_Thomas Woolner_ 127 + Sonnet.--_W. B. Scott_ 128 + From the Cliffs.--_Dante G. Rossetti_ 129 + Fancies at Leisure.--_W. M. Rossetti_ 129 + Papers of "The M. S. Society," Nos. I. II. & III 131 + Review, Sir Reginald Mohun.--_W.M. Rossetti_ 137 + + +The Subscribers to this Work are respectfully informed that the +future Numbers will appear on the last day of the Month for which +they are dated. Also, that a supplementary, or large-sized Etching +will occasionally be given (as with the present Number.) + + +[Illustration: GONERIL: REGAN: LEAR: FOOL: CORDELIA: FRANCE:] + + +Cordelia + + + "The jewels of our father, with washed eyes + Cordelia leaves you. I know you what you are + And, like a sister, am most loth to tell + Your faults, as they are named. Use well our father: + To your professed bosoms I commit him. + But yet, alas!--stood I within his grace, + I would prefer him to a better place. + So farewell to you both." + + + Cordelia, unabashed and strong, + Her voice's quite scarcely less + Than yester-eve, enduring wrong + And curses of her father's tongue, + Departs, a righteous-souled princess; + Bidding her sisters cherish him. + + They turn on her and fix their eyes, + But cease not passing inward;--one + Sneering with lips still curled to lies, + Sinuous of body, serpent-wise; + Her footfall creeps, and her looks shun + The very thing on which they dwell. + + The other, proud, with heavy cheeks + And massive forehead, where remains + A mark of frowning. If she seeks + With smiles to tame her eyes, or speaks, + Her mouth grows wanton: she disdains + The ground with haughty, measured steps. + + The silent years had grown between + Father and daughter. Always she + Had waited on his will, and been + Foremost in doing it,--unseen + Often: she wished him not to see, + But served him for his sake alone. + + He saw her constant love; and, tho' + Occasion surely was not scant, + Perhaps had never sought to know + How she could give it wording. So + His love, not stumbling at a want, + Among the three preferred her first. + + Her's is the soul not stubborn, yet + Asserting self. The heart was rich; + But, questioned, she had rather let + Men judge her conscious of a debt + Than freely giving: thus, her speech + Is love according to her bond. + + In France the queen Cordelia had + Her hours well satisfied with love: + She loved her king, too, and was glad: + And yet, at times, a something sad, + May be, was with her, thinking of + The manner of his life at home. + + But this does not usurp her mind. + It is but sorrow guessed from far + Thro' twilight dimly. She must find + Her duty elsewhere: not resigned-- + Because she knows them what they are, + Yet scarcely ruffled from her peace. + + Cordelia--a name well revered; + Synonymous with truth and tried + Affection; which but needs be heard + To raise one selfsame thought endeared + To men and women far and wide; + A name our mothers taught to us. + + Like placid faces which you knew + Years since, but not again shall meet; + On a sick bed like wind that blew; + An excellent thing, best likened to + Her own voice, gentle, soft, and sweet; + Shakpere's Cordelia;--better thus. + + + + +Macbeth {9} + +{9} It is proper to state that this article was written, and seen, +exactly as it at present stands, by several literary friends of the +writer, a considerable time before the appearance, in the +"Westminster Review," of a Paper advocating a view of "Macbeth," +similar to that which is here taken. But although the publication of +the particular view was thus anticipated, nearly all the most +forcible arguments for maintaining it were omitted; and the subject, +mixed up, as it was, with lengthy disquisitions upon very minor +topics of Shaksperian acting, &c. made no very general impression at +the time. + + +The purpose of the following Essay is to demonstrate the existence of +a very important error in the hitherto universally adopted +interpretation of the character of Macbeth. We shall prove that _a +design of illegitimately obtaining the crown of Scotland had been +conceived by Macbeth, and that it had been communicated by him to his +wife, prior to his first meeting with the witches, who are commonly +supposed to have suggested that design_. + +Most persons when they commence the study of the great Shaksperian +dramas, already entertain concerning them a set of traditional +notions, generally originated by the representations, or +misrepresentations, of the theatre, afterwards to become strengthened +or confirmed by desultory reading and corroborative criticism. With +this class of persons it was our misfortune to rank, when we first +entered upon the _study_ of "Macbeth," fully believing that, in the +character of the hero, Shakspere intended to represent a man whose +general rectitude of soul is drawn on to ruin by the temptations of +supernatural agents; temptations which have the effect of eliciting +his latent ambition, and of misdirecting that ambition when it has +been thus elicited. + +As long as we continued under this idea, the impression produced upon +us by "Macbeth" came far short of that sense of complete satisfaction +which we were accustomed to receive from every other of the higher +works of Shakspere. But, upon deeper study, the view now proposed +suggested itself, and seemed to render every thing as it should be. +We say that this view suggested _itself_, because it did not arise +directly from any one of the numerous passages which can be quoted in +its support; it originated in a general feeling of what seemed to be +wanting to the completion of the entire effect; a circumstance which +has been stated at length from the persuasion that it is of itself no +mean presumption in favour of the opinion which it is the aim of this +paper to establish. + +Let us proceed to examine the validity of a position, which, if it +deserves any attention at all, may certainly claim an investigation +more than usually minute. We shall commence by giving an analysis of +the first Act, wherein will be considered, successively, every +passage which may appear to bear either way upon the point in +question. + +The inferences which we believe to be deducible from the first scene +can be profitably employed only in conjunction with those to be +discovered in the third. Our analysis must, therefore, be entered +upon by an attempt to ascertain the true character of the impressions +which it was the desire of Shakspere to convey by the second. + +This scene is almost exclusively occupied with the narrations of the +"bleeding Soldier," and of _Rosse_. These narrations are constructed +with the express purpose of vividly setting forth the personal valour +of Duncan's generals, "Macbeth and Banquo." Let us consider what is +the _maximum_ worth which the words of Shakspere will, at this period +of the play, allow us to attribute to the moral character of the +hero:--a point, let it be observed, of first-rate importance to the +present argument. We find Macbeth, in this scene, designated by +various epithets, _all_ of which, either directly or indirectly, +arise from feelings of admiration created by his courageous conduct +in the war in which he is supposed to have been engaged. "Brave" and +"Noble Macbeth," "Bellona's Bridegroom," "Valiant Cousin," and +"Worthy Gentleman," are the general titles by which he is here spoken +of; but none of them afford any positive clue whatever to his _moral_ +character. Nor is any such clue supplied by the scenes in which he is +presently received by the messengers of Duncan, and afterwards +received and lauded by Duncan himself. Macbeth's moral character, up +to the development of his criminal hopes, remains strictly +_negative_. Hence it is difficult to fathom the meaning of those +critics, (A. Schlegel at their head), who have over and over again +made the ruin of Macbeth's "so many noble qualities"{10} the subject +of their comment. + +{10} A. Schlegel's "Lectures on Dramatic Literature." Vol. II. p. +208. + +In the third scene we have the meeting of the witches, the +announcement of whose intention to re-assemble upon the heath, _there +to meet with Macbeth_, forms the certainly most obvious, though not +perhaps, altogether the most important, aim of the short scene by +which the tragedy is opened. An enquiry of much interest here +suggests itself. Did Shakspere intend that in his tragedy of +"Macbeth" the witches should figure as originators of gratuitous +destruction, in direct opposition to the traditional, and even +proverbial, character of the _genus?_ By that character such +personages have been denied the possession of any influence whatever +over the untainted soul. Has Shakspere in this instance re tained, or +has he abolished, the chief of those characteristics which have been +universally attributed to the beings in question? + +We think that he has retained it, and for the following reasons: +Whenever Shakspere has elsewhere embodied superstitions, he has +treated them as direct and unalterable _facts_ of human nature; and +this he has done because he was too profound a philosopher to be +capable of regarding genuine superstition as the product of random +spectra of the fancy, having absolute darkness for the prime +condition of their being, instead of eeing in it rather the zodiacal +light of truth, the concomitant of the uprising, and of the setting +of the truth, and a partaker in its essence. Again, Shakspere has in +this very play devoted a considerable space to the purpose of +suggesting the self-same trait of character now under discussion, and +this he appears to have done with the express intent of guarding +against a mistake, the probability of the occurrence of which he +foresaw, but which, for reasons connected with the construction of +the play, he could not hope otherwise to obviate. + +We allude to the introductory portion of the present scene. One +sister, we learn, has just returned from killing _swine;_ another +breathes forth vengeance against a sailor, on account of the +uncharitable act of his wife; but "his bark _cannot be lost,_" though +it may be "tempest tossed." The last words are scarcely uttered +before the confabulation is interrupted by the approach of Macbeth, +to whom they have as yet made no direct allusion whatever, throughout +the whole of this opening passage, consisting in all of some five and +twenty lines. Now this were a digression which would be a complete +anomaly, having place, as it is supposed to have, at this early stage +of one of the most consummate of the tragedies of Shakspere. We may +be sure, therefore, that it is the chief object of these lines to +impress the reader beforehand with an idea that, in the mind of +Macbeth, there already exist sure foundations for that great +superstructure of evil, to the erection of which, the "metaphysical +_aid_" of the weird sisters is now to be offered. An opinion which is +further supported by the reproaches of Hecate, who, afterwards, +referring to what occurs in this scene, exclaims, + + "All you have done + Hath been but for a wayward son, + Spiteful, and wrathful, who, as others do, + Loves for his own end, not for you." + +Words which seem to relate to ends loved of Macbeth before the +witches had spurred him on to their acquirement. + +The fact that in the old chronicle, from which the plot of the play +is taken, the machinations of the witches are not assumed to be +_un_-gratuitous, cannot be employed as an argument against our +position. In history the sisters figure in the capacity of prophets +_merely_. There we have no previous announcement of their intention +"to meet with Macbeth." But in Shakspere they are invested with all +other of their superstitional attributes, in order that they may +become the evil instruments of holy vengeance upon evil; of that most +terrible of vengeance which punishes sin, after it has exceeded +certain bounds, by deepening it. + +Proceeding now with our analysis, upon the entrance of Macbeth and +Banquo, the witches wind up their hurried charm. They are first +perceived by Banquo. To his questions the sisters refuse to reply; +but, at the command of Macbeth, they immediately speak, and forthwith +utter the prophecy which seals the fate of Duncan. + +Now, assuming the truth of our view, what would be the natural +behaviour of Macbeth upon coming into sudden contact with beings who +appear to hold intelligence of his most secret thoughts; and upon +hearing those thoughts, as it were, spoken aloud in the presence of a +third party? His behaviour would be precisely that which is implied +by the question of Banquo. + + "Good sir, why do you _start and seem to fear_ + Things which do sound so fair?" + +If, on the other hand, our view is _not_ true, why, seeing that their +characters are in the abstract so much alike, why does the present +conduct of Macbeth differ from that of Banquo, when the witches +direct their prophecies to him? Why has Shakspere altered the +narrative of Holinshed, without the prospect of gaining any advantage +commensurate to the licence taken in making that alteration? These +are the words of the old chronicle: "This (the recontre with the +witches) was reputed at the first but some vain fantastical illusion +by Macbeth and Banquo, insomuch that Banquo would call Macbeth in +jest king of Scotland; and Macbeth again would call him in jest +likewise the father of many kings." Now it was the invariable +practice of Shakspere to give facts or traditions just as he found +them, whenever the introduction of those facts or traditions was not +totally irreconcileable with the tone of his conception. How then +(should we still receive the notion which we are now combating) are +we to account for his anomalous practice in this particular case? + +When the witches are about to vanish, Macbeth attempts to delay their +departure, exclaiming, + + "Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more: + By Sinol's death, I know I am thane of Glamis; + But how of Cawdor? the thane of Cawdor lives, + A prosperous gentleman; _and, to be king_ + _Stands not within the prospect of belief,_ + _No more than to be Cawdor_. Say, from whence + You owe this strange _intelligence?_" + +"To be king stands not within the prospect of belief, _no more than +to be Cawdor_." No! it naturally stands much _less_ within the +prospect of belief. Here the mind of Macbeth, having long been +accustomed to the nurture of its "royal hope," conceives that it is +uttering a very suitable hyperbole of comparison. Had that mind been +hitherto an honest mind the word "Cawdor" would have occupied the +place of "king," "king" that of "Cawdor." Observe too the general +character of this speech: Although the coincidence of the principal +prophecy with his own thoughts has so strong an effect upon Macbeth +as to induce him to, at once, pronounce the words of the sisters, +"intelligence;" he nevertheless affects to treat that prophecy as +completely secondary to the other in the strength of its claims upon +his consideration. This is a piece of _over-cautious_ hypocrisy which +is fully in keeping with the tenor of his conduct throughout the rest +of the tragedy. + +No sooner have the witches vanished than Banquo begins to doubt +whether there had been "such things there as they did speak about." +This is the natural incredulity of a free mind so circumstanced. On +the other hand, Macbeth, whose manner, since the first announcement +of the sisters, has been that of a man in a _reverie_, makes no doubt +whatever of the reality of their appearance, nor does he reply to the +expressed scepticism of Banquo, but abruptly exclaims, "your children +shall be kings." To this Banquo answers, "you shall be king." "And +thane of Cawdor too: went it not so?" continues Macbeth. Now, what, +in either case, is the condition of mind which can have given rise to +this part of the dialogue? It is, we imagine, sufficiently evident +that the playful words of Banquo were suggested to Shakspere by the +narration of Holinshed; but how are we to account for those of +Macbeth, otherwise than by supposing that the question of the crown +is now settled in his mind by the coincidence of the principal +prediction, with the shapings of his own thoughts, and that he is at +this moment occupied with the _wholly unanticipated_ revelations, +touching the thaneship of Cawdor, and the future possession of the +throne by the offspring of Banquo? + +Now comes the fulfilment of the first prophecy. Mark the words of +these men, upon receiving the announcement of Rosse: + + "_Banquo_. What! can the devil speak truth? + _Macbeth_. The thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me + In borrowed robes?" + +Mark how that reception is in either case precisely the reverse of +that given to the prophecy itself. Here _Banquo_ starts. But what is +here done for Banquo, by the coincidence of the prophecy with the +truth, has been already done for Macbeth, by the coincidence of his +thought with the prophecy. Accordingly, Macbeth is calm enough to +play the hypocrite, when he must otherwise have experienced surprise +far greater than that of Banquo, because he is much more nearly +concerned in the source of it. So far indeed from being overcome with +astonishment, Macbeth still continues to dwell upon the prophecy, by +which his peace of mind is afterwards constantly disturbed, + + "Do you not hope your children shall be kings, + When those that gave the thane of Cawdor to me + Promised no less to them?" + +Banquo's reply to this question has been one of the chief sources of +the interpretation, the error of which we are now endeavouring to +expose. He says, + + "That, trusted home, + Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, + Besides the thane of Cawdor. But, 'tis strange; + And often times, to win us to our harm, + The instruments of darkness tell us truths, + Win us with honest trifles, to betray us + In deepest consequence." + +Now, these words have usually been considered to afford the clue to +the _entire_ nature and extent of the supernatural influence brought +into play upon the present tragedy; whereas, in truth, all that they +express is a natural suspicion, called up in the mind of Banquo, by +Macbeth's remarkable deportment, that _such_ is the character of the +influence which is at this moment being exerted upon the soul of the +man to whom he therefore thinks proper to hint the warning they +contain. + +The soliloquy which immediately follows the above passage is +particularly worthy of comment: + + "This supernatural soliciting + Cannot be ill; cannot be good:--if ill, + Why hath it given me earnest of success, + Commencing in a truth? I am thane of Cawdor: + If good, why do I yield to that suggestion, + Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, + And make my seated heart knock at my ribs + Against the use of nature? Present fears + Are less than horrible imaginings. + My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, + Shakes so my single state of man, that function + Is smothered in surmise, and nothing is, + But what is not." + +The early portion of this passage assuredly indicates that Macbeth +regards the communications of the witches merely in the light of an +invitation to the carrying out of a design pre-existent in his own +mind. He thinks that the _spontaneous_ fulfilment of the chief +prophecy is in no way probable; the consummation of the lesser +prophecy being held by him, but as an "earnest of success" to his own +efforts in consummating the greater. From the latter portion of this +soliloquy we learn the real extent to which "metaphysical aid" is +implicated in bringing about the crime of Duncan's murder. It serves +to assure Macbeth that _that_ is the "nearest way" to the attainment +of his wishes;--a way to the suggestion of which he now, for the +first time, "_yields_," because the chances of its failure have been +infinitely lessened by the "earnest of success" which he has just +received. + +After the above soliloquy Macbeth breaks the long pause, implied in +Banquo's words, "Look how our partner's rapt," by exclaiming, + + "If chance will have me king, why chance may crown me, + Without my stir." + +Which is a very logical conclusion; but one at which he would long +ago have arrived, had "soliciting" meant "suggestion," as most people +suppose it to have done; or at least, under those circumstances, he +would have been satisfied with that conclusion, instead of +immediately afterwards changing it, as we see that he has done, when +he adds, + + "Come what come may, + Time and the hour runs through the roughest day!" + +With that the third scene closes; the parties engaged in it +proceeding forthwith to the palace of Duncan at Fores. + +Towards the conclusion of the fourth scene, Duncan names his +successor in the realm of Scotland. After this Macbeth hastily +departs, to inform his wife of the king's proposed visit to their +castle, at Inverness. The last words of Macbeth are the following, + + "The prince of Cumberland!--That is a step, + On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap. + For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! + Let not light see my black and deep desires; + The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be, + Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see." + +These lines are equally remarkable for a tone of settled assurance as +to the fulfilment of the speaker's royal hope, and for an entire +absence of any expression of reliance upon the power of the +witches,--the hitherto supposed originators of that hope,--in aiding +its consummation. It is particularly noticeable that Macbeth should +make no reference whatever, not even in thought, (that is, in +soliloquy) to any supernatural agency during the long period +intervening between the fulfilment of the two prophecies. Is it +probable that this would have been the case had Shakspere intended +that such an agency should be understood to have been the first +motive and mainspring of that deed, which, with all its accompanying +struggles of conscience, he has so minutely pictured to us as having +been, during that period, enacted? But besides this negative +argument, we have a positive one for his non-reliance upon their +promises in the fact that he attempts to outwit them by the murder of +Fleance even after the fulfilment of the second prophecy. + +The fifth scene opens with Lady Macbeth's perusal of her husband's +narration of his interview with the witches. The order of our +investigation requires the postponement of comment upon the contents +of this letter. We leave it for the present, merely cautioning the +reader against taking up any hasty objections to a very important +clause in the enunciation of our view by reminding him that, contrary +to Shakspere's custom in ordinary cases, we are made acquainted only +with a _portion_ of the missive in question. Let us then proceed to +consider the soliloquy which immediately follows the perusal of this +letter: + + "I do fear thy nature. + It is too full o' the milk of human kindness, + To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great; + Art not without ambition; but without + The illness should attend it. That thou wouldst highly, + That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false + And yet wouldst wrongly win: thou'dst have, great Glamis, + That which cries this thou must do if thou have it, + And that which rather thou dost fear to do, + Thou wishest should be undone." + +It is vividly apparent that this passage indicates a knowledge of the +character it depicts, which is far too intimate to allow of its being +other than a _direct_ inference from facts connected with previous +communications upon similar topics between the speaker and the +writer: unless, indeed, we assume that in this instance Shakspere has +notably departed from his usual principles of characterization, in +having invested Lady Macbeth with an amount of philosophical +acuteness, and a faculty of deduction, much beyond those pretended to +by any other of the female creations of the same author. + +The above passage is interrupted by the announcement of the approach +of Duncan. Observe Lady Macbeth's behaviour upon receiving it. She +immediately determines upon what is to be done, and all without (are +we to suppose?) in any way consulting, or being aware of, the wishes +or inclinations of her husband! Observe too, that neither does _she_ +appear to regard the witches' prophecies as anything more than an +invitation, and holding forth of "metaphysical _aid_" to the carrying +out of an independent project. That this should be the case in both +instances vastly strengthens the argument legitimately deducible from +each. + +At the conclusion of the passage which called for the last remark, +Macbeth, after a long and eventful period of absence, let it be +recollected, enters to a wife who, we will for a moment suppose, is +completely ignorant of the character of her husband's recent +cogitations. These are the first words which pass between them, + + "_Macbeth_. My dearest love, + Duncan comes here to-night. + + _L. Macbeth_. And when goes hence? + + _Macbeth_. To-morrow, as he purposes. + + _L. Macbeth_. Oh! never + Shall sun that morrow see! + Your face, my thane, is as a book where men + May read strange matters:--to beguile the time, + Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, + Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, + But be the serpent under it. He that's coming + Must be provided for; and you shall put + This night's great business into my dispatch, + Which shall to all our nights and days to come + Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. + + _Macbeth_. We will speak further." + +Are these words those which would naturally arise from the situation +at present, by common consent, attributed to the speakers of them? +That is to say a situation in which _each speaker is totally ignorant +of the sentiments pre-existent in the mind of the other_. Are the +words, "we will speak further," those which might in nature form the +whole and sole reply made by a man to his wife's completely +unexpected anticipation of his own fearful purposes? If not, if few +or none of these lines, thus interpreted, will satisfy the reader's +feeling for common truth, does not the view which we have adopted +invest them with new light, and improved, or perfected meaning? + +The next scene represents the arrival of Duncan at Inverness, and +contains nothing which bears either way upon the point in question. +Proceeding, therefore, to the seventh and last scene of the first act +we come to what we cannot but consider to be proof positive of the +opinion under examination. We shall transcribe at length the portion +of this scene containing that proof; having first reminded the reader +that a few hours at most can have elapsed between the arrival of +Macbeth, and the period at which the words, now to be quoted, are +uttered. + + "_Lady Macbeth. Was the hope drunk,_ + _Wherein you dressed yourself? Hath it slept since,_ + _And wakes it now, to look so green and pale_ + _At what it did so freely?_ From this time, + Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard + To be the same in thine own act and valour, + As thou art in desire? Would'st thou have that + Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, + And live a coward in thine own esteem, + Letting, I dare not, wait upon, I would, + Like the poor cat in the adage? + + _Macbeth_. Prithee, peace: + I dare do all that may become a man; + Who dares do more is none. + + _Lady Macbeth. What beast was't then_ + _That made you break this enterprise to me?_ + _When you durst do it, then you were a man,_ + _And to be more than what you were you would_ + _Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place_ + _Did then adhere, and yet you would make both._ + They have made themselves, and that their fitness now + Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know + How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me: + I would, while it was smiling in my face, + Have plucked my nipple from its boneless gums, + And dashed the brains out, _had I so sworn_ + _As you have done to this_." + +With respect to the above lines, let us observe that, the words, "nor +time nor place did then adhere," render it evident that they hold +reference to something which passed before Duncan had signified his +intention of visiting the castle of Macbeth. Consequently the words +of Lady Macbeth can have no reference to the previous communication +of any definite intention, on the part of her husband, to murder the +king; because, not long before, she professes herself aware that +Macbeth's nature is "too full of the milk of human kindness to catch +the nearest way;" indeed, she has every reason to suppose that she +herself has been the means of breaking that enterprise to _him_, +though, in truth, the crime had already, as we have seen, suggested +itself to his thought, "whose murder was as yet fantastical." + +Again the whole tenor of this passage shows that it refers to verbal +communication between them. _But no such communication can have taken +place since Macbeth's rencontre with the witches_; for, besides that +he is, immediately after that recontre, conducted to the presence of +the king, who there signifies an intention of proceeding directly to +Macbeth's castle, such a communication would have rendered the +contents of the letter to Lady Macbeth completely superfluous. What +then are we to conclude concerning these problematical lines? First +begging the reader to bear in mind the tone of sophistry which has +been observed by Schlegel to pervade, and which is indeed manifest +throughout the persuasions of Lady Macbeth, we answer, that +she wilfully confounds her husband's,--probably vague and +unplanned--"enterprise" of obtaining the crown, with that "nearest +way" to which she now urges him; but, at the same time, she obscurely +individualizes the separate purposes in the words, "and to be _more_ +than what you were, you would be so much more the man." + +It is a fact which is highly interesting in itself, and one which +strongly impeaches the candour of the majority of Shakspere's +commentators, that the impenetrable obscurity which must have +pervaded the whole of this passage should never have been made the +subject of remark. As far as we can remember, not a word has been +said upon the matter in any one of the many superfluously explanatory +editions of our dramatist's productions. Censures have been +repeatedly lavished upon minor cases of obscurity, none upon this. In +the former case the fault has been felt to be Shakspere's, for it has +usually existed in the expression; but in the latter the language is +unexceptional, and the avowal of obscurity might imply the +possibility of misapprehension or stupidity upon the part of the +avower. + +Probably the only considerable obstacle likely to act against the +general adoption of those views will be the doubt, whether so +important a feature of this consummate tragedy can have been left by +Shakspere so obscurely expressed as to be capable of remaining +totally unperceived during upwards of two centuries, within which +period the genius of a Coleridge and of a Schlegel has been applied +to its interpretation. Should this objection be brought forward, we +reply, in the first place, that the objector is 'begging' his +question in assuming that the feature under examination has remained +_totally_ unperceived. Coleridge by way of comment upon these words +of Banquo, + + "Good sir, why do you stand, and seem to fear + Things that do sound so fair?" + +writes thus: "The general idea is all that can be required of a +poet--not a scholastic logical consistency in all the parts, so as to +meet metaphysical objectors. * * * * * * * * How strictly true to +nature it is, that Banquo, and not Macbeth himself, directs our +notice to the effects produced in Macbeth's mind, _rendered temptible +by previous dalliance with ambitious thoughts_." Here Coleridge +denies the _necessity_ of "logical consistency, so as to meet +metaphysical objectors," although he has, throughout his criticisms +upon Shakspere, endeavored, and nearly always with success, to prove +the _existence_ of that consistency; and so strongly has he felt the +want of it here, that he has, in order to satisfy himself, _assumed_ +that "previous dalliance with ambitious thoughts," whose existence it +has been our object to _prove_. + +But, putting Coleridge's imperfect perception of the truth out of the +question, surely nothing can be easier than to believe _that_ for the +belief in which we have so many precedents. How many beauties, lost +upon Dryden, were perceived by Johnson; How many, hidden to Johnson +and his cotemporaries, have been brought to light by Schlegel and by +Coleridge. + + + + +Repining + + + She sat alway thro' the long day + Spinning the weary thread away; + And ever said in undertone: + "Come, that I be no more alone." + + From early dawn to set of sun + Working, her task was still undone; + And the long thread seemed to increase + Even while she spun and did not cease. + She heard the gentle turtle-dove + Tell to its mate a tale of love; + She saw the glancing swallows fly, + Ever a social company; + She knew each bird upon its nest + Had cheering songs to bring it rest; + None lived alone save only she;-- + The wheel went round more wearily; + She wept and said in undertone: + "Come, that I be no more alone." + + Day followed day, and still she sighed + For love, and was not satisfied; + Until one night, when the moonlight + Turned all the trees to silver white, + She heard, what ne'er she heard before, + A steady hand undo the door. + The nightingale since set of sun + Her throbbing music had not done, + And she had listened silently; + But now the wind had changed, and she + Heard the sweet song no more, but heard + Beside her bed a whispered word: + "Damsel, rise up; be not afraid; + For I am come at last," it said. + + She trembled, tho' the voice was mild; + She trembled like a frightened child;-- + Till she looked up, and then she saw + The unknown speaker without awe. + He seemed a fair young man, his eyes + Beaming with serious charities; + His cheek was white, but hardly pale; + And a dim glory like a veil + Hovered about his head, and shone + Thro' the whole room till night was gone. + + So her fear fled; and then she said, + Leaning upon her quiet bed: + "Now thou art come, I prithee stay, + That I may see thee in the day, + And learn to know thy voice, and hear + It evermore calling me near." + + He answered: "Rise, and follow me." + But she looked upwards wonderingly: + "And whither would'st thou go, friend? stay + Until the dawning of the day." + But he said: "The wind ceaseth, Maid; + Of chill nor damp be thou afraid." + + She bound her hair up from the floor, + And passed in silence from the door. + + So they went forth together, he + Helping her forward tenderly. + The hedges bowed beneath his hand; + Forth from the streams came the dry land + As they passed over; evermore + The pallid moonbeams shone before; + And the wind hushed, and nothing stirred; + Not even a solitary bird, + Scared by their footsteps, fluttered by + Where aspen-trees stood steadily. + + As they went on, at length a sound + Came trembling on the air around; + The undistinguishable hum + Of life, voices that go and come + Of busy men, and the child's sweet + High laugh, and noise of trampling feet. + + Then he said: "Wilt thou go and see?" + And she made answer joyfully; + "The noise of life, of human life, + Of dear communion without strife, + Of converse held 'twixt friend and friend; + Is it not here our path shall end?" + He led her on a little way + Until they reached a hillock: "Stay." + + It was a village in a plain. + High mountains screened it from the rain + And stormy wind; and nigh at hand + A bubbling streamlet flowed, o'er sand + Pebbly and fine, and sent life up + Green succous stalk and flower-cup. + + Gradually, day's harbinger, + A chilly wind began to stir. + It seemed a gentle powerless breeze + That scarcely rustled thro' the trees; + And yet it touched the mountain's head + And the paths man might never tread. + But hearken: in the quiet weather + Do all the streams flow down together?-- + No, 'tis a sound more terrible + Than tho' a thousand rivers fell. + The everlasting ice and snow + Were loosened then, but not to flow;-- + With a loud crash like solid thunder + The avalanche came, burying under + The village; turning life and breath + And rest and joy and plans to death. + + "Oh! let us fly, for pity fly; + Let us go hence, friend, thou and I. + There must be many regions yet + Where these things make not desolate." + He looked upon her seriously; + Then said: "Arise and follow me." + The path that lay before them was + Nigh covered over with long grass; + And many slimy things and slow + Trailed on between the roots below. + The moon looked dimmer than before; + And shadowy cloudlets floating o'er + Its face sometimes quite hid its light, + And filled the skies with deeper night. + + At last, as they went on, the noise + Was heard of the sea's mighty voice; + And soon the ocean could be seen + In its long restlessness serene. + Upon its breast a vessel rode + That drowsily appeared to nod + As the great billows rose and fell, + And swelled to sink, and sank to swell. + + Meanwhile the strong wind had come forth + From the chill regions of the North, + The mighty wind invisible. + And the low waves began to swell; + And the sky darkened overhead; + And the moon once looked forth, then fled + Behind dark clouds; while here and there + The lightning shone out in the air; + And the approaching thunder rolled + With angry pealings manifold. + How many vows were made, and prayers + That in safe times were cold and scarce. + Still all availed not; and at length + The waves arose in all their strength, + And fought against the ship, and filled + The ship. Then were the clouds unsealed, + And the rain hurried forth, and beat + On every side and over it. + + Some clung together, and some kept + A long stern silence, and some wept. + Many half-crazed looked on in wonder + As the strong timbers rent asunder; + Friends forgot friends, foes fled to foes;-- + And still the water rose and rose. + + "Ah woe is me! Whom I have seen + Are now as tho' they had not been. + In the earth there is room for birth, + And there are graves enough in earth; + Why should the cold sea, tempest-torn, + Bury those whom it hath not borne?" + + He answered not, and they went on. + The glory of the heavens was gone; + The moon gleamed not nor any star; + Cold winds were rustling near and far, + And from the trees the dry leaves fell + With a sad sound unspeakable. + + The air was cold; till from the South + A gust blew hot, like sudden drouth, + Into their faces; and a light + Glowing and red, shone thro' the night. + + A mighty city full of flame + And death and sounds without a name. + Amid the black and blinding smoke, + The people, as one man, awoke. + Oh! happy they who yesterday + On the long journey went away; + Whose pallid lips, smiling and chill, + While the flames scorch them smile on still; + Who murmur not; who tremble not + When the bier crackles fiery hot; + Who, dying, said in love's increase: + "Lord, let thy servant part in peace." + + Those in the town could see and hear + A shaded river flowing near; + The broad deep bed could hardly hold + Its plenteous waters calm and cold. + Was flame-wrapped all the city wall, + The city gates were flame-wrapped all. + + What was man's strength, what puissance then? + Women were mighty as strong men. + Some knelt in prayer, believing still, + Resigned unto a righteous will, + Bowing beneath the chastening rod, + Lost to the world, but found of God. + Some prayed for friend, for child, for wife; + Some prayed for faith; some prayed for life; + While some, proud even in death, hope gone, + Steadfast and still, stood looking on. + + "Death--death--oh! let us fly from death; + Where'er we go it followeth; + All these are dead; and we alone + Remain to weep for what is gone. + What is this thing? thus hurriedly + To pass into eternity; + To leave the earth so full of mirth; + To lose the profit of our birth; + To die and be no more; to cease, + Having numbness that is not peace. + Let us go hence; and, even if thus + Death everywhere must go with us, + Let us not see the change, but see + Those who have been or still shall be." + + He sighed and they went on together; + Beneath their feet did the grass wither; + Across the heaven high overhead + Dark misty clouds floated and fled; + And in their bosom was the thunder, + And angry lightnings flashed out under, + Forked and red and menacing; + Far off the wind was muttering; + It seemed to tell, not understood, + Strange secrets to the listening wood. + + Upon its wings it bore the scent + Of blood of a great armament: + Then saw they how on either side + Fields were down-trodden far and wide. + That morning at the break of day + Two nations had gone forth to slay. + + As a man soweth so he reaps. + The field was full of bleeding heaps; + Ghastly corpses of men and horses + That met death at a thousand sources; + Cold limbs and putrifying flesh; + Long love-locks clotted to a mesh + That stifled; stiffened mouths beneath + Staring eyes that had looked on death. + + But these were dead: these felt no more + The anguish of the wounds they bore. + Behold, they shall not sigh again, + Nor justly fear, nor hope in vain. + What if none wept above them?--is + The sleeper less at rest for this? + Is not the young child's slumber sweet + When no man watcheth over it? + These had deep calm; but all around + There was a deadly smothered sound, + The choking cry of agony + From wounded men who could not die; + Who watched the black wing of the raven + Rise like a cloud 'twixt them and heaven, + And in the distance flying fast + Beheld the eagle come at last. + + She knelt down in her agony: + "O Lord, it is enough," said she: + "My heart's prayer putteth me to shame; + "Let me return to whence I came. + "Thou for who love's sake didst reprove, + "Forgive me for the sake of love." + + + + +Sweet Death + + + The sweetest blossoms die. + And so it was that, going day by day + Unto the church to praise and pray, + And crossing the green church-yard thoughtfully, + I saw how on the graves the flowers + Shed their fresh leaves in showers; + And how their perfume rose up to the sky + Before it passed away. + + The youngest blossoms die. + They die, and fall, and nourish the rich earth + From which they lately had their birth. + Sweet life: but sweeter death that passeth by, + And is as tho' it had not been. + All colors turn to green: + The bright hues vanish, and the odours fly; + The grass hath lasting worth. + + And youth and beauty die. + So be it, O my God, thou God of truth. + Better than beauty and than youth + Are saints and angels, a glad company: + And Thou, O lord, our Rest and Ease, + Are better far than these. + Why should we shrink from our full harvest? why + Prefer to glean with Ruth? + + + + +The Subject in Art No. II + + +Resuming a consideration of the subject-matter suitable in painting +and sculpture, it is necessary to repeat those premises, and to +re-establish those principles which were advanced or elicited in the +first number of this essay. + +It was premised then that works of Fine Art affect the beholder in +the same ratio as the _natural prototypes_ of those works would +affect him; and not in proportion to the difficulties overcome in the +artificial representation of those prototypes. Not contending, +meanwhile, that the picture painted by the hand of the artist, and +then by the hand of nature on the eye of the beholder, is, in amount, +the same as the picture painted there by nature alone; but +disregarding, as irrelevant to this investigation, _all concomitants +of fine art wherein they involve an ulterior impression as to the +relative merits of the work by the amount of its success,_ and, for a +like reason, disregarding all emotions and impressions which are not +the immediate and proximate result of an excitor influence of, or +pertaining to, the _things artificial_, as a bona fide equivalent of +the _things natural_. + +Or the premises may be practically stated thus:--(1st.) When one +looks on a certain painting or sculpture for the first time, the +first notion is that of a painting or sculpture. (2nd.) In the next +place, while the objects depicted are revealing themselves as real +objects, the notion of a painting or sculpture has elapsed, and, in +its place, there are emotions, passions, actions (moral or +intellectual) according in sort and degree to the heart or +mind-moving influence of the objects represented. (3rd.) Finally, +there is a notion of a painting or sculpture, and a judgment or +sentiment commensurate with the estimated merits of the work.--The +second statement gives the premised conditions under which Fine Art +is about to be treated: the 3rd statement exemplifies a phase in the +being of Fine Art under which it is never to be considered: and +furthermore, whilst the mental reflection last mentioned (the +judgment on the work) is being made, it may occur that certain +objects, most difficult of artistic execution, had been most +successfully handled: the merits of introducing such objects, in such +a manner, are the merits of those concomitants mentioned as equally +without the scope of consideration. + +Thus much for the premises--next to the re-establishment of +principles. + +1st. The principle was elicited, that Fine Art should regard the +general happiness of man, by addressing those of his attributes which +are _peculiarly human_, by exciting the activity of his rational and +benevolent powers; and thereafter:--2nd, that the Subject in Art +should be drawn from objects which so address and excite him; and +3rd, as objects so exciting the mental activity may (in proportion to +the mental capacity) excite it to any amount, and so possibly in the +highest degree (the function of Fine Art being _mental excitement_, +and that of High Art being the _highest mental excitement_) that all +objects so exciting mental activity and emotion in the highest +degree, may afford subjects for High Art. + +Having thus re-stated the premises and principles already deduced, +let us proceed to enquire into the propriety of selecting the Subject +from the past or the present time; which enquiry resolves itself +fundamentally into the analysis of objects and incidents experienced +immediately by the senses, or acquired by mental education. + +Here then we have to explore the specific difference between the +incidents and objects of to-day, as exposed to our daily observation, +and the incidents and objects of time past, as bequeathed to us by +history, poetry, or tradition. + +In the first place, there is, no doubt, a considerable _real_ +difference between the things of to-day and those of times past: but +as all former times, their incidents and objects differ amongst +themselves, this can hardly be the cause of the specific difference +sought for--a difference between our share of things past and things +present. This real, but not specific difference then, however +admitted, shall not be considered here. + +It is obvious, in the meanwhile, that all which we have of the past +is stamped with an impress of mental assimilation: an impress it has +received from the mind of the author who has garnered it up, and +disposed it in that form and order which ensure it acceptance with +posterity. For let a writer of history be as matter of fact as he +will, the very order and classification of events will save us the +trouble of confusion, and render them graspable, and more capable of +assimilation, than is the raw material of every-day experience. In +fact the work of mind is begun, the key of intelligence is given, and +we have only to continue the process. Where the vehicle for the +transmission of things past is poetry, then we have them presented in +that succession, and with that modification of force, a resilient +plasticity, now advancing, now recoiling, insinuating and grappling, +that ere this material and mental warfare is over, we find the facts +thus transmitted are incorporated with our psychical existence. And +in tradition is it otherwise?--Every man tells the tale in his own +way; and the merits of the story itself, or the person who tells it, +or his way of telling, procures it a lodgment in the mind of the +hearer, whence it is ever ready to start up and claim kindred with +some external excitement. + +Thus it is the luck of all things of the past to come down to us with +some poetry about them; while from those of diurnal experience we +must extract this poetry ourselves: and although all good men are, +more or less, poets, they are passive or recipient poets; while the +active or donative poet caters for them what they fail to collect. +For let a poet walk through London, and he shall see a succession of +incidents, suggesting some moral beauty by a contrast of times with +times, unfolding some principle of nature, developing some attribute +of man, or pointing to some glory in The Maker: while the man who +walked behind him saw nothing but shops and pavement, and coats and +faces; neither did he hear the aggregated turmoil of a city of +nations, nor the noisy exponents of various desires, appetites and +pursuits: each pulsing tremour of the atmosphere was not struck into +it by a subtile ineffable something willed forcibly out of a cranium: +neither did he see the driver of horses holding a rod of light in his +eye and feeling his way, in a world he was rushing through, by the +motion of the end of that rod:--he only saw the wheels in motion, and +heard the rattle on the stones; and yet this man stopped twice at a +book shop to buy 'a Tennyson,' or a 'Browning's Sordello.' Now this +man might have seen all that the poet saw; he walked through the same +streets: yet the poet goes home and writes a poem; and he who failed +to feel the poetry of the things themselves detects it readily in the +poet's version. Then why, it is asked, does not this man, schooled by +the poet's example, look out for himself for the future, and so find +attractions in things of to-day? He does so to a trifling extent, but +the reason why he does so rarely will be found in the former +demonstration. + +It was shown how bygone objects and incidents come down to us +invested in peculiar attractions: this the poet knows and feels, and +the probabilities are that he transferred the incidents of to-day, +with all their poetical and moral suggestions, to the romantic +long-ago, partly from a feeling of prudence, and partly that he +himself was under this spell of antiquity, How many a Troubadour, who +recited tales of king Arthur, had his incidents furnished him by the +events of his own time! And thus it is the many are attracted to the +poetry of things past, yet impervious to the poetry of things +present. But this retrograde movement in the poet, painter, or +sculptor (except in certain cases as will subsequently appear), if +not the result of necessity, is an error in judgment or a culpable +dishonesty. For why should he not acknowledge the source of his +inspiration, that others may drink of the same spring with himself; +and perhaps drink deeper and a clearer draught?--For the water is +unebbing and exhaustless, and fills the more it is emptied: why then +should it be filtered through his tank _where_ he can teach men to +drink it at the fountain? + +If, as every poet, every painter, every sculptor will acknowledge, +his best and most original ideas are derived from his own times: if +his great lessonings to piety, truth, charity, love, honor, honesty, +gallantry, generosity, courage, are derived from the same source; why +transfer them to distant periods, and make them _not things of +to-day?_ Why teach us to revere the saints of old, and not our own +family-worshippers? Why to admire the lance-armed knight, and not the +patience-armed hero of misfortune? Why to draw a sword we do not wear +to aid and oppressed damsel, and not a purse which we do wear to +rescue an erring one? Why to worship a martyred St. Agatha, and not a +sick woman attending the sick? Why teach us to honor an Aristides or +a Regulus, and not one who pays an equitable, though to him ruinous, +tax without a railing accusation? And why not teach us to help what +the laws cannot help?--Why teach us to hate a Nero or an Appius, and +not an underselling oppressor of workmen and betrayer of women and +children? Why to love a _Ladie in bower_, and not a wife's fireside? +Why paint or poetically depict the horrible race of Ogres and Giants, +and not show Giant Despair dressed in that modern habit he walks the +streets in? Why teach men what were great and good deeds in the old +time, neglecting to show them any good for themselves?--Till these +questions are answered absolutory to the artist, it were unwise to +propose the other question--Why a poet, painter or sculptor is not +honored and loved as formerly? "As formerly," says some avowed +sceptic in _old world transcendency_ and _golden age affairs_, "I +believe _formerly_ the artist was as much respected and cared for as +he is now. 'Tis true the Greeks granted an immunity from taxation to +some of their artists, who were often great men in the state, and +even the companions of princes. And are not some of our poets peers? +Have not some of our artists received knighthood from the hand of +their Sovereign, and have not some of them received pensions?" + +To answer objections of this latitude demands the assertion of +certain characteristic facts which, tho' not here demonstrated, may +be authenticated by reference to history. Of these, the facts of +Alfred's disguised visit to the Danish camp, and Aulaff's visit to +the Saxon, are sufficient to show in what respect the poets of that +period were held; when a man without any safe conduct whatever +could enter the enemy's camp on the very eve of battle, as was +here the case; could enter unopposed, unquestioned, and return +unmolested!--What could have conferred upon the poet of that day so +singular a privilege? What upon the poet of an earlier time that +sanctity in behoof whereof + + "The great Emathian conqueror bid spare + The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower + Went to the ground: and the repeated air + Of sad Electra's poet had the power + To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare." + +What but an universal recognition of the poet as an universal +benefactor of mankind? And did mankind recognize him as such, from +some unaccountable infatuation, or because his labours obtained for +him an indefeasible right to that estimate? How came it, when a Greek +sculptor had completed some operose performance, that his countrymen +bore him in triumph thro' their city, and rejoiced in his prosperity +as identical with their own? How but because his art had embodied +some principle of beauty whose mysterious influence it was their +pride to appreciate--or he had enduringly moulded the limbs of some +well-trained Athlete, such as it was their interest to develop, or he +had recorded the overthrow of some barbaric invader whom their +fathers had fallen to repel. + +In the middle ages when a knight listened, in the morning, to some +song of brave doing, ere evening he himself might be the hero of such +song.--What wonder then that he held sacred the function of the poet! +Now-a-days our heroes (and we have them) are left unchapleted and +neglected--and therefore the poet lives and dies neglected. + +Thus it would appear from these facts (which have been collaterally +evolved in course of enquiring into the propriety of choosing the +subject from past or present time, and in course of the consequent +analysis) that Art, to become a more powerful engine of civilization, +assuming a practically humanizing tendency (the admitted function of +Art), should be made more directly conversant with the things, +incidents, and influences which surround and constitute the living +world of those whom Art proposes to improve, and, whether it should +appear in event that Art can or can not assume this attitude without +jeopardizing her specific existence, that such a consummation were +desirable must be equally obvious in either case. + +Let us return now to the former consideration. It was stated that the +poet is affected by every day incidents, which would have little or +no effect on the mind of a general observer: and if you ask the poet, +who from his conduct may be the supposed advocate of the past as the +fittest medium for poetic eduction, why he embodied the suggestions +of to-day in the matter and dress of antiquity; he is likely to +answer as follows.--"You have stated that men pass by that which +furnishes me with my subject: If I merely reproduce what they +slighted, the reproduction will be slighted equally. It appears then +that I must devise some means of attracting their sympathies--and the +medium of antiquity is the fittest for three several reasons. +1st.--Nothing comes down to us from antiquity unless fraught with +sufficient interest of some sort, to warrant it being worthy of +record. Thus, all incidents which we possess of the old time being +more or less interesting, there arises an illative impression that +all things of old really were so: and all things in idea associated +with that time, whether real or fictitious, are afforded a favorable +entertainment. Now these associations are neither trivial nor +fanciful:{11} for I remember to have discovered, after visiting the +British Museum for the first time, that the odour of camphor, for +which I had hitherto no predilection, afforded me a peculiar +satisfaction, seemingly suggestive of things scientific or artistic; +it was in fact a _literary smell!_ All this was vague and +unaccountable until some time after when this happened again, and I +was at once reminded of an enormous walrus at the British Museum, and +then remembered how the whole collection, from end to end, was +permeated with the odour of camphor! Still, despite the +_consciousness_ of this, the camphor retains its influence. Now let a +poem, a painting, or sculpture, smell ever so little of antiquity, +and every intelligent reader will be full of delightful imaginations. +2nd.--All things ancient are mysterious in obscurity:--veneration, +wonder, and curiosity are the result. 3rd.--All things ancient are +dead and gone:--we sympathize with them accordingly. All these +effects of antiquity, as a means of enforcing poetry, declare it too +powerful an ally to be readily abandoned by the poet." To all this +the painter will add that the costume of almost any ancient time is +more beautiful than that of the present--added to which it exposes +more of that most beautiful of all objects, the human figure. + +{11} Here the author, in the person of respondent, takes occasion to +narrate a real fact. + +Thus we have a formidable array of objections to the choice of +_present-day subjects:_ and first, it was objected and granted, that +incidents of the present time are well nigh barren in poetic +attraction for the many. Then it was objected, but not granted, that +their poetic or pictorial counterparts will be equally unattractive +also: but this last remains to be proved. It was said, and is +believed by the author, (and such as doubt it he does not address) +that all good men are more or less poetical in some way or other; +while their poetry shows itself at various times. Thus the +business-man in the street has other to think of than poetry; but +when he is inclined to look at a picture, or in his more poetical +humour, will he neglect the pictorial counterpart of what he +neglected before? To test this, show him a camera obscura, where +there is a more literal transcript of present-day nature than any +painting can be:--what is the result? He expresses no anxiety to quit +it, but a great curiosity to investigate; he feels it is very +beautiful, indeed more beautiful than nature: and this he will say is +because he does not see nature as an artist does. Now the solution of +all this is easy: 1st. He is in a mood of mind which renders him +accessible to the influences of poetry, which was not before the +case. 2nd. He looks at that steadily which he before regarded +cursorily; and, as the picture remains in his eye, it acquires an +amount of harmony, in behoof of an intrinsic harmony resident in the +organ itself, which exerts proportionately modifying influences on +all things that enter within it; and of the nervous harmony, and the +beautifully apportioned stimuli of alternating ocular spectra. 3rd. +There is a resolution of discord effected by the instrument itself, +inasmuch as its effects are homogeneous. All these harmonizing +influences are equally true of the painting; and though we have no +longer the homogeneous effect of the camera, we have the homogeneous +effect of one mind, viz., the mind of the artist. + +Thus having disproved the supposed poetical obstacles to the +rendering of real life or nature in its own real garb and time, as +faithfully as Art can render it, nothing need be said to answer the +advantages of the antique or mediaeval rendering; since they were +only called in to neutralize the aforesaid obstacles, which obstacles +have proved to be fictitious. It remains then to consider the +_artistic_ objection of costume, &c., which consideration ranges +under the head of _real differences between the things of past and +present times_, a consideration formerly postponed. But this +requiring a patient analysis, will necessitate a further +postponement, and in conclusion, there will be briefly stated the +elements of the argument, thus.--It must be obvious to every +physicist that physical beauty (which this subject involves on the +one side [the ancient] as opposed to the want of it on the other [the +modern]) was in ancient times as superior to physical beauty in the +modern, as psychical beauty in the modern is superior to psychical +beauty in the ancient. Costume then, as physical, is more beautiful +ancient than modern. Now that a certain amount of physical beauty is +requisite to constitute Fine Art, will be readily admitted; but what +that amount is, must be ever undefined. That the maximum of physical +beauty does not constitute the maximum of Fine Art, is apparent from +the facts of the physical beauty of _Early Christian_ Art being +inferior to that of Grecian art; whilst, in the concrete, Early +Christian Art is superior to Grecian. Indeed some specimens of Early +Christian Art are repulsive rather than beautiful, yet these are in +many cases the highest works of Art. + +In the "Plague at Ashdod," great physical beauty, resulting from +picturesque costume and the exposed human figure, was so far from +desirable, that it seems purposely deformed by blotches of livid +color; yet the whole is a most noble work of Poussin. Containing as +much physical beauty as this picture, the writer remembers to have +seen an incident in the streets where a black-haired, sordid, +wicked-headed man, was striking the butt of his whip at the neck of a +horse, to urge him round an angle of the pavement; a smocked +countryman offered him the loan of his mules: a blacksmith standing +by, showed him how to free the wheel, by only swerving the animal to +the left: he, taking no notice whatever, went on striking and +striking; whilst a woman waiting to cross, with a child in her one +hand, and with the other pushing its little head close to her side, +looked with wide eyes at this monster. + +This familiar incident, affording a subject fraught with more moral +interest than, and as much picturesque matter as, many antique or +mediaeval subjects, is only wanting in that romantic attraction +which, by association, attaches to things of the past. Yet, let these +modern subjects once excite interest, as it really appears they can, +and the incidents of to-day will acquire romantic attractions by the +same association of ideas. + +The claims of ancient, mediaeval, and modern subjects will be +considered in detail at a future period. + + + + +The Carillon. (Antwerp and Bruges) + +In these and others of the Flemish Towns, the _Carillon_, or chimes +which have a most fantastic and delicate music, are played almost +continually The custom is very ancient. + + + At Antwerp, there is a low wall + Binding the city, and a moat + Beneath, that the wind keeps afloat. + You pass the gates in a slow drawl + Of wheels. If it is warm at all + The Carillon will give you thought. + + I climbed the stair in Antwerp church, + What time the urgent weight of sound + At sunset seems to heave it round. + Far up, the Carillon did search + The wind; and the birds came to perch + Far under, where the gables wound. + + In Antwerp harbour on the Scheldt + I stood along, a certain space + Of night. The mist was near my face: + Deep on, the flow was heard and felt. + The Carillon kept pause, and dwelt + In music through the silent place. + + At Bruges, when you leave the train, + --A singing numbness in your ears,-- + The Carillon's first sound appears + Only the inner moil. Again + A little minute though--your brain + Takes quiet, and the whole sense hears. + + John Memmeling and John Van Eyck + Hold state at Bruges. In sore shame + I scanned the works that keep their name. + The Carillon, which then did strike + Mine ears, was heard of theirs alike: + It set me closer unto them. + + I climbed at Bruges all the flight + The Belfry has of ancient stone. + For leagues I saw the east wind blown: + The earth was grey, the sky was white. + I stood so near upon the height + That my flesh felt the Carillon. + + _October_, 1849. + + + + +Emblems + + + I lay through one long afternoon, + Vacantly plucking the grass. + I lay on my back, with steadfast gaze + Watching the cloud-shapes pass; + Until the evening's chilly damps + Rose from the hollows below, + Where the cold marsh-reeds grow. + + I saw the sun sink down behind + The high point of a mountain; + Its last light lingered on the weeds + That choked a shattered fountain, + Where lay a rotting bird, whose plumes + Had beat the air in soaring. + On these things I was poring:-- + + The sun seemed like my sense of life, + Now weak, that was so strong; + The fountain--that continual pulse + Which throbbed with human song: + The bird lay dead as that wild hope + Which nerved my thoughts when young. + These symbols had a tongue, + + And told the dreary lengths of years + I must drag my weight with me; + Or be like a mastless ship stuck fast + On a deep, stagnant sea. + A man on a dangerous height alone, + If suddenly struck blind, + Will never his home path find. + + When divers plunge for ocean's pearls, + And chance to strike a rock, + Who plunged with greatest force below + Receives the heaviest shock. + With nostrils wide and breath drawn in, + I rushed resolved on the race; + Then, stumbling, fell in the chase. + + Yet with time's cycles forests swell + Where stretched a desert plain: + Time's cycles make the mountains rise + Where heaved the restless main: + On swamps where moped the lonely stork, + In the silent lapse of time + Stands a city in its prime. + + I thought: then saw the broadening shade + Grow slowly over the mound, + That reached with one long level slope + Down to a rich vineyard ground: + The air about lay still and hushed, + As if in serious thought: + But I scarcely heeded aught, + + Till I heard, hard by, a thrush break forth, + Shouting with his whole voice, + So that he made the distant air + And the things around rejoice. + My soul gushed, for the sound awoke + Memories of early joy: + I sobbed like a chidden boy. + + + + + + +Sonnet: Early Aspirations + + + How many a throb of the young poet-heart, + Aspiring to the ideal bliss of Fame, + Deems that Time soon may sanctify his claim + Among the sons of song to dwell apart.-- + Time passes--passes! The aspiring flame + Of Hope shrinks down; the white flower Poesy + Breaks on its stalk, and from its earth-turned eye + Drop sleepy tears instead of that sweet dew + Rich with inspiring odours, insect wings + Drew from its leaves with every changing sky, + While its young innocent petals unsunn'd grew. + No more in pride to other ears he sings, + But with a dying charm himself unto:-- + For a sad season: then, to active life he springs. + + + +From the Cliffs: Noon + + + The sea is in its listless chime: + Time's lapse it is, made audible,-- + The murmur of the earth's large shell. + In a sad blueness beyond rhyme + It ends: sense, without thought, can pass + No stadium further. Since time was, + This sound hath told the lapse of time. + + No stagnance that death wins,--it hath + The mournfulness of ancient life, + Always enduring at dull strife. + As the world's heart of rest and wrath, + Its painful pulse is in the sands. + Last utterly, the whole sky stands, + Grey and not known, along its path. + + + + + + +Fancies at Leisure + + +I. In Spring + + The sky is blue here, scarcely with a stain + Of grey for clouds: here the young grasses gain + A larger growth of green over this splinter + Fallen from the ruin. Spring seems to have told Winter + He shall not freeze again here. Tho' their loss + Of leaves is not yet quite repaired, trees toss + Sprouts from their boughs. The ash you called so stiff + Curves, daily, broader shadow down the cliff. + +II. In Summer + + How the rooks caw, and their beaks seem to clank! + Let us just move out there,--(it might be cool + Under those trees,) and watch how the thick tank + By the old mill is black,--a stagnant pool + Of rot and insects. There goes by a lank + Dead hairy dog floating. Will Nature's rule + Of life return hither no more? The plank + Rots in the crushed weeds, and the sun is cruel. + +III. The Breadth of Noon + + Long time I lay there, while a breeze would blow + From the south softly, and, hard by, a slender + Poplar swayed to and fro to it. Surrender + Was made of all myself to quiet. No + Least thought was in my mind of the least woe: + Yet the void silence slowly seemed to render + My calmness not less calm, but yet more tender, + And I was nigh to weeping.--'Ere I go,' + I thought, 'I must make all this stillness mine; + The sky's blue almost purple, and these three + Hills carved against it, and the pine on pine + The wood in their shade has. All this I see + So inwardly I fancy it may be + Seen thus of parted souls by _their_ sunshine.' + +IV. Sea-Freshness + + Look at that crab there. See if you can't haul + His backward progress to this spar of a ship + Thrown up and sunk into the sand here. Clip + His clipping feelers hard, and give him all + Your hand to gripe at: he'll take care not fall: + So,--but with heed, for you are like to slip + In stepping on the plank's sea-slime. Your lip-- + No wonder--curves in mirth at the slow drawl + Of the squat creature's legs. We've quite a shine + Of waves round us, and here there comes a wind + So fresh it must bode us good luck. How long + Boatman, for one and sixpence? Line by line + The sea comes toward us sun-ridged. Oh! we sinned + Taking the crab out: let's redress his wrong. + +V. The Fire Smouldering + + I look into the burning coals, and see + Faces and forms of things; but they soon pass, + Melting one into other: the firm mass + Crumbles, and breaks, and fades gradually, + Shape into shape as in a dream may be, + Into an image other than it was: + And so on till the whole falls in, and has + Not any likeness,--face, and hand, and tree, + All gone. So with the mind: thought follows thought, + This hastening, and that pressing upon this, + A mighty crowd within so narrow room: + And then at length heavy-eyed slumbers come, + The drowsy fancies grope about, and miss + Their way, and what was so alive is nought. + + + + +Papers of "The M.S. Society" {12} + +{12} The Editor is requested to state that "M. S." does not here mean +Manuscript. + + +No. I. An Incident in the Siege of Troy, seen from a modern Observatory + + Sixteen Specials in Priam's Keep + Sat down to their mahogany: + The League, just then, had made _busters_ cheap, + And Hesiod writ his "Theogony," + A work written to prove "that, if men would be men, + And demand their rights again and again, + They might live like gods, have infinite _smokes_, + Drink infinite rum, drive infinite _mokes_, + Which would come from every part of the known + And civilized globe, twice as good as their own, + And, finally, Ilion, the work-shop should be + Of the world--one vast manufactory!" + + From arrow-slits, port-holes, windows, what not, + Their sixteen quarrels the Specials had shot + From sixteen arblasts, their daily task; + Why they'd to do it they didn't ask, + For, after they'd done it, they sat down to dinner; + The sixteen Specials they didn't get thinner; + But kept quite loyal, and every day + Asked no questions but fired away. + + Would you like me to tell you the reason why + These sixteen Specials kept letting fly + From eleven till one, as the Chronicle speaks? + They did it, my boys, to annoy the Greeks, + Who kept up a perpetual cannonade + On the walls, and threaten'd an escalade. + The sixteen Specials were so arranged + That the shots they shot were not shots exchanged, + But every shot so told on the foe + The Greeks were obliged to draw it mild: + Diomedes--"A fix," Ulysses--"No go" + Declared it, the "king of men" cried like a child; + Whilst the Specials, no more than a fine black Tom + I keep to serenade Mary from + The tiles, where he lounges every night, + Knew nor cared what they did, and were perfectly right. + + But the fact was thus: one Helenus, + A man much faster than any of us, + More fast than a gent at the top of a "bus," + More fast than the coming of "Per col. sus." + Which Shakespeare says comes galloping, + (I take his word for anything) + This Helenus had a cure of souls-- + He had cured the souls of several Greeks, + Achilles sole or heel,--the rolls + Of fame (not French) say Paris:--speaks + Anatomist Quain thereof. Who seeks + May read the story from z to a; + He has handled and argued it every way;-- + A subject on which there's a good deal to say. + His work was ever the best, and still is, + Because of this note on the Tendo Achillis. + + This Helenus was a man well bred, + He was _up_ in Electricity, + Fortification, Theology, + aesthetics and Pugilicity; + Celsus and Gregory he'd read; + Knew every "dodge" of _glove and fist;_ + Was a capital curate, (I think I've said) + And Transcendental Anatomist: + _Well up_ in Materia Medica, + _Right up_ in Toxicology, + And Medical Jurisprudence, that sell! + And the _dead sell_ Physiology: + Knew what and how much of any potation + Would get him through any examination: + With credit not small, had passed the Hall + And the College----and they couldn't _pluck_ him at all. + He'd written on Rail-roads, delivered a lecture + Upon the Electric Telegraph, + Had played at single-stick with Hector, + And written a paper on half-and-half. + + With those and other works of note + He was not at all a "_people's man_," + Though public, for the works he wrote + Were not that sort the people can + Admire or read; they were Mathematic + The most part, some were Hydrostatic; + But Algebraic, in the main, + And full of a, b, c, and n-- + And other letters which perplex-- + The last was full of double x! + In fact, such stuff as one may easily + Imagine, didn't go down greasily, + Nor calculated to produce + Such heat as "cooks the public goose," + And does it of so brown a hue + Men wonder while they relish too. + + It therefore was that much alone + He studied; and a room is shown + In a coffee-house, an upper room, + Where none but hungry devils come, + Wherein 'tis said, with animation + He read "Vestiges of Creation." + + Accordingly, a month about + After he'd _chalked up_ steak and stout + For the last time, he gave the world + A pamphlet, wherein he unfurled + A tissue of facts which, soon as blown, + Ran like wildfire through the town. + And, first of all, he plainly showed + A capital error in the mode + Of national defences, thus-- + "The Greek one thousand miles from us," + Said he, (for nine hundred and ninety-nine + The citadel stood above the brine + In perpendicular height, allowing + For slope of glacis, thereby showing + An increase of a mile,) "'tis plain + The force that shot and shell would gain, + By gravitation, with their own, + Would fire the ground by friction alone; + Which, being once in fusion schooled + Ere cool, as _Fire-mist had cooled_" + Would gain a motion, which must soon, + Just as the earth detached the moon + And gave her locomotive birth, + Detach some twenty miles of earth, + And send it swinging in the air, + The Devil only could tell where! + Then came the probability + With what increased facility + The Greeks, by this projectile power, + Might land on Ilion's highest tower, + All safe and sound, in battle array, + With howitzers prepared to play, + And muskets to the muzzles rammed;-- + Why, the town would be utterly smashed and jammed, + And positively, as the phrase is + Vernacular, be "sent to blazes"! + + In the second place, he then would ask, + (And here he took several members to task, + And wondered--"he really must presume + To wonder" a statesman like--you know whom-- + Who ever evinced the deepest sense + Of a crying sin in any expense, + Should so besotted be, and lost + To the fact that now, at public cost, + Powder was being day by day + Wantonly wasted, blown away);-- + Yes, he would ask, "with what intent + But to perch the Greeks on a battlement + From which they might o'erlook the town, + The easier to batter it down, + Which he had proved must be the case + (If it hadn't already taken place): + He called on his readers to fear and dread it, + _Whilst he wrote it,--whilst they read it!_" + "How simple! How beautifully simple," said he, + "And obvious was the remedy! + Look back a century or so-- + And there was the ancient Norman bow, + A weapon (he gave them leave to laugh) + Efficient, better, cheaper by half: + (He knew quite well the age abused it + Because, forsooth, the Normans used it) + These, planted in the citadel, + Would reach the walls say,--very well; + There, having spent their utmost force, + They'd drop down right, as a matter of course, + A thousand miles! Think--a thousand miles! + What was the weight for driving piles + To this? He calculated it-- + 'Twould equal, when both Houses sit, + The weight of the entire building, + Including Members, paint, and gilding; + But, if a speech or the address + From the throne were given, something less, + Because, as certain snores aver, + The House is then much heavier. + + Now this, though very much a rub like + For Ministers, convinced the public; + And Priam, who liked to hear its brays + To any tune but "the Marseillaise," + Summoned a Privy Council, where + 'Twas shortly settled to confer + On Helenus a sole command + Of Specials.--He headed that daring band! + + And sixteen Specials in Priam's keep + Got up from their mahogany; + They smoked their pipes in silence deep + Till there was such a fog--any + Attempt to discover the priest in the smother + Had bothered old Airy and Adams and t'other + And--Every son of an _English_ mother. + + June, 1848. + +No. II. Swift's Dunces + +"When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this +sign, that the DUNCES are all in confederacy against him."--_Swift_. + +How shall we know the dunces from the man of genius, who is no doubt +our superior in judgment, yet knows himself for a fool--by the +proverb? + +At least, my dear Doctor, you will let me, with the mass of readers, +have clearer wits than the dunces--then why should I not know what +you are as soon as, or sooner than Bavius, &c.--unless a dunce has a +good nose, or a natural instinct for detecting wit. + +Now I take it that these people stigmatized as dunces are but men of +ill-balanced mental faculties, yet perhaps, in a great degree, +superior to the average of minds. For instance, a poet of much merit, +but more ambition, has written the "Lampiad," an epic; when he should +not have dared beyond the Doric reed: his ambitious pride has +prevented the publication of excellent pastorals, therefore the world +only knows him for his failure. This, I say, is a likely man to +become a detractor; for his good judgment shows the imperfections of +most works, his own included; his ambition (an ill-combination of +self-conscious worth and spleen) leads him to compare works of the +highest repute; the works of contemporaries; and his own. In all +cases where success is most difficult, he will be most severe; this +naturally leads him to criticise the very best works. + +He has himself failed; he sees errors in successful writers; he knows +he possesses certain merits, and knows what the perfection of them +should be. This is the ground work of envy, which makes a man of +parts a comparative fool, and a confederate against "true genius." + +No. III. Mental Scales + +I make out my case thus-- + +There is an exact balance in the distribution of causes of pleasure +and pain: this has been satisfactorily proved in my next paper, upon +"Cause and Effect," therefore I shall take it for granted. What, +then, is there but the mind to determine its own state of happiness, +or misery: just as the motion of the scales depends upon themselves, +when two equal weights are put into them. The balance ought to be +truly hung; but if the unpleasant scale is heavier, then the motion +is in favor of the pleasant scale, and vice versa. Whether the beam +stands horizontally, or otherwise, does not matter (that only +determines the key): draw a line at right angles to it, then put in +your equal weights; if the angle becomes larger on the unpleasant +scale's side of the line, happiness is the result, if on the other, +misery. + +It requires but a slight acquaintance with mechanics to see that he +who would be happy should have the unpleasant side heavier. I hate +corollaries or we might have a group of them equally applicable to +Art and Models. + + _June_, 1848. + + + + +Reviews + + +_Some Account of the Life and Adventures of Sir Reginald Mohun, Bart. +Done in Verse by George John Cayley. Canto 1st. Pickering._ 1849. + +Inconsistency, whether in matters of importance or in trifles, +whether in substance or in detail, is never pleasant. We do not here +impute to this poem any inconsistency between one portion and +another; but certainly its form is at variance with its subject and +treatment. In the wording of the title, and the character of +typography, there is a studious archaism: more modern the poem itself +could scarcely be. + +"Sir Reginald Mohun" aims, to judge from the present sample, at +depicting the easy intercourse of high life; and the author enters on +his theme with a due amount of sympathy. It is in this respect, if in +any, that the mediaeval tone of the work lasts beyond the title page. +In Mr. Cayley's eyes, the proof of the comparative prosperity of +England is that + + "Still Queen Victoria sits upon her throne; + Our aristocracy still keep alive, + And, on the whole, may still be said to thrive,-- + Tho' now and then with ducal acres groan + The honored tables of the auctioneer. + Nathless, our aristocracy is dear, + Tho' their estates go cheap; and all must own + That they still give society its tone."--p. 16. + +He proceeds in these terms: + + "Our baronets of late appear to be + Unjustly snubbed and talked and written down; + Partly from follies of Sir Something Brown, + Stickling for badges due to their degree, + And partly that their honor's late editions + Have been much swelled with surgeons and physicians; + For 'honor hath small skill in surgery,' + And skill in surgery small honor."--p. 17. + +What "honor" is here meant? and against whom is the taunt +implied?--against the "surgeons and physicians," or against the +depreciation of them. Surely the former can hardly have been +intended. The sentence will bear to be cleared of some ambiguity, or +else to be cleared off altogether. + +Our introduction to Sir Reginald Mohun, Lord of Nornyth Place, and of +"an income clear of 20,000 pounds," and to his friends Raymond St. +Oun, De Lacy, Wilton, Tancarville, and Vivian--(for the author's +names are aristocratic, like his predilections)--is effected through +the medium of a stanza, new, we believe, in arrangement, though +differing but slightly from the established octave, and of verses so +easy and flowing as to make us wonder less at the promise of + + "provision plenty + For cantos twelve, or may be, four and twenty," + +than at Mr. Cayley's assertion that he "Can never get along at all in +prose." + +The incidents, as might be expected of a first canto, are neither +many nor important, and will admit of compression into a very small +compass. + +Sir Reginald, whose five friends had arrived at Nornyth Place late on +the preceding night, is going over the grounds with them in a +shooting party after a late breakfast. St. Oun expresses a wish to +"prowl about the place" in preference, not feeling in the mood for +the required exertion. + + "'Of lazy dogs the laziest ever fate + Set on two useless legs you surely are, + And born beneath some wayward sauntering star + To sit for ever swinging on a gate, + And laugh at wiser people passing through.' + So spake the bard De Lacy: for they two + In frequent skirmishes of fierce debate + Would bicker, tho' their mutual love was great."--p. 35. + +Mohun, however, sides with St. Oun, and agrees to escort him in his +rambles after the first few shots. He accordingly soon resigns his +gun to the keeper Oswald, whose position as one who + + "came into possession + Of the head-keepership by due succession + Thro' sire and grandsire, who, when one was dead, + Left his right heir-male keeper in his stead," + +Mr. Cayley evidently regards with some complacence. The friends enter +a boat: here, while sailing along a rivulet that winds through the +estate, St. Oun falls to talking of wealth, its value and +insufficiency, of death, and life, and fame; and coming at length to +ask after the history of Sir Reginald's past life, he suggests "this +true epic opening for relation:" + + "'The sun, from his meridian heights declining + Mirrored his richest tints upon the shining + Bosom of a lake. In a light shallop, two + _Young men, whose dress,_ etcaetera, _proclaims,_ + Etcaetera,--so would write G.P.R. James-- + Glided in silence o'er the waters blue, + Skirting the wooded slopes. Upward they gazed + On Nornyth's ancient pile, whose windows blazed + + "'In sunset rays, whose crimson fulgence streamed + Across the flood: wrapped in deep thought they seemed. + 'You are pensive, Reginald,' at length thus spake + The helmsman: 'ha! it is the mystic power + Fraught by the sacred stillness of the hour: + Forgive me if your reverie I break, + Craving, with friendship's sympathy, to share + _Your spirit's burden, be it joy or care.'"_--pp. 48, 49. + +Sir Reginald Mohun's story is soon told.--Born in Italy, and losing +his mother at the moment of his birth, and his father and only sister +dying also soon after, he is left alone in the world. + + "'My father was a melancholy man, + Having a touch of genius, and a heart, + But not much of that worldly better part + Called force of character, which finds some plan + For getting over anguish that will crush + Weak hearts of stronger feeling. He began + To pine; was pale; and had a hectic flush + At times; and from his eyelids tears would gush. + + "'Some law of hearts afflicted seems to bind + A spell by which the scenes of grief grew dear; + He never could leave Italy, tho' here + And there he wandered with unquiet mind,-- + Rome, Florence, Mantua, Milan; once as far + As Venice; but still Naples had a blind + Attraction which still drew him thither. There + He died. Heaven rest his ashes from their care. + + "'He wrote, a month or so before he died, + To Wilton's father; (he is Earl of Eure, + My mother's brother); saying he was sure + That he should soon be gone, and would confide + Us to his guardian care. My uncle came + Before his death. We stood by his bedside. + He blessed us. We, who scarcely knew the name + Of death, yet read in the expiring flame + + "'Of his sunk eyes some awful mystery, + And wept we knew not why. There was a grace + Of radiant joyful hope upon his face, + Most unaccustomed, and which seemed to be + All foreign to his wasted frame; and yet + So heavenly in its consolation we + Smiled through the tears with which our lids were wet. + His lips were cold, as, whispering, 'Do not fret + + "'When I am gone,' he kissed us: and he took + Our uncle's hands, which on our heads he laid, + And said: 'My children, do not be afraid + Of Death, but be prepared to meet him. Look; + Here is your mother's brother; he to her + As Reginald to Eve.' His thin voice shook.-- + 'Eve was your Mother's name.' His words did err, + As dreaming; and his wan lips ceased to stir.'"--pp. 55-57. + +(We have quoted this passage, not insensible to its defects,--some +common-place in sentiment and diction; but independently of the good +it does really contain, as being the only one of such a character +sustained in quality to a moderate length.) + +Reginald and his cousin Wilton grew up together friends, though not +bound by common sympathies. The latter has known life early, and +"earned experience piecemeal:" with the former, thought has already +become a custom. + +Thus far only does Reginald bring his retrospect; his other friends +come up, and they all return homeward. Here, too, ends the story of +this canto; but not without warranting some surmise of what will +furnish out the next. There is evidence of observation adroitly +applied in the talk of the two under-keepers who take charge of the +boat. + + "They said: 'Oh! what a gentleman to talk + Is that there Lacy! What a tongue he've got! + But Mr. Vivian _is_ a pretty shot. + And what a pace his lordship wish to walk! + Which Mr. Tancarville, he seemed quite beat: + But he's a pleasant gentleman. Good lawk! + How he do make me laugh! Dang! this 'ere seat + Have wet my smalls slap thro'. Dang! what a treat! + + "'There's company coming to the Place to morn: + Bess housemaid told me. Lord and Lady----: dash + My wigs! I can't think on. But there's a mash + O' comp'ny and fine ladies; fit to torn + The heads of these young chaps. Why now I'd lay + This here gun to an empty powder-horn + Sir Reginald be in love, or that-a-way. + He looks a little downcast-loikish,--eh?'"--pp.62, 63. + +It will be observed that there is no vulgarity in this vulgarism: +indeed, the gentlemanly good humour of the poem is uninterrupted. +This, combined with neatness of handling, and the habit of not +over-doing, produces that general facility of appearance which it is +no disparagement, in speaking of a first canto, to term the chief +result of so much of these life and adventures as is here "done into +verse." It may be fairly anticipated, however, that no want of +variety in the conception, or of success in the pourtrayal, of +character will need to be complained of: meanwhile, a few passages +may be quoted to confirm our assertions. The two first extracts are +examples of mere cleverness; and all that is aimed at is attained. +The former follows out a previous comparison of the world with a +"huge churn." + + "Yet some, despising life's legitimate aim, + Instead of butter, would become "the cheese;" + A low term for distinction. Whence the name + I know not: gents invented it; and these + Gave not an etymology. I see no + Likelier than this, which with their taste agrees; + The _caseine_ element I conceive to mean no + Less than the _beau ideal_ of the Casino."--p.12. + + "Wise were the Augurers of old, nor erred + In substance, deeming that the life of man-- + (This is a new reflection, spick and span)-- + May be much influenced by the flight of birds. + Our senate can no longer hold their house + When culminates the evil star of grouse; + And stoutest patriots will their shot-belts gird + When first o'er stubble-field hath partridge whirred."--p.25. + +In these others there is more purpose, with a no less definite +conciseness: + + "Comes forth the first great poet. Then a number + Of followers leave much literary lumber. + He cuts his phrases in the sapling grain + Of language; and so weaves them at his will. + They from his wickerwork extract with pain + The wands now warped and stiffened, which but ill + Bend to their second-hand employment."--pp. 4, 5. + + "What's life? A riddle; + Or sieve which sifts you thro' it in the middle."--p.45. + +The misadventures of the five friends on their road to Nornyth are +very sufficiently described: + + "The night was cold and cloudy as they topped + A moorland slope, and met the bitter blast, + So cutting that their ears it almost cropped; + And rain began to fall extremely fast. + A broken sign-post left them in great doubt + About two roads; and, when an hour was passed, + They learned their error from a lucid lout; + Soon after, one by one, their lamps went out."--p.29. + +There remains to point out one fault,--and that the last fault the +occurrence of which could be looked for, after so clearly expressed +an intention as this: + + "But, if an Author takes to writing fine, + (Which means, I think, an artificial tone), + The public sicken and won't read a line. + I hope there's nothing of this sort in mine."--p. 6. + +A quotation or two will fully explain our meaning: and we would +seriously ask Mr. Cayley to reflect whether he has always borne his +principle in mind, and avoided "writing fine;" whether he has not +sometimes fallen into high-flown common-place of the most undisguised +stamp, rendered, moreover, doubly inexcusable and out of place by +being put into the mouth of one of the personages of the poem; It is +Sir Reginald Mohun that speaks; and truly, though not thrust forward +as a "wondrous paragon of praise," he must be confessed to be, + + "Judging by specimens the author quotes, + An utterer of most ordinary phrases," + +not words only and sentences, but real _phrases_, in the more +distinct and specific sense of the term. + + "'There, while yet a new born thing, + Death o'er my cradle waved his darksome wing; + My mother died to give me birth: forlorn + I came into the world, a babe of woe, + Ill-omened from my childhood's early morn; + Yet heir to what the idolators of show + Deem life's good things, which earthly bliss bestow. + + "'The riches of the heart they call a dream; + Love, hope, faith, friendship, hollow phantasies: + Living but for their pockets and their eyes, + They stifle in their breasts the purer beam + Of sunshine glanced from heaven upon their clay, + To be its light and warmth. This is a theme + For homilies: and I will only say, + The heart feeds not on fortune's baubles gay.'"--p. 51. + +Sir Reginald's narrative concludes after this fashion: + + "'But what is this? A dubious compromise; + Twilight of cloudy zones, whereon the blaze + Of sunshine breaks but seldom with its rays + Of heavenly hope, towards which the spirit sighs + Its aspirations, and is lost again + 'Mid doubts: to grasp the wisdom of the skies + Too feeble, tho' convinced earth's bonds are vain, + Cowering faint-hearted in the festering chain.'"--p. 60. + +A similar instance of conventionality constantly repeated is the sin +of inversion, which is no less prevalent, throughout the poem, in the +conversational than in the narrative portions. In some cases the +exigencies of rhyme may be pleaded in palliation, as for "Cam's marge +along" and "breezy willows cool," which occur in two consecutive +lines of a speech; but there are many for which no such excuse can be +urged. Does any one talk of "sloth obscure," or of "hearts +afflicted?" Or what reason is there for preferring "verses easy" to +_easy verses?_ Ought not the principle laid down in the following +passage of the introduction to be followed out, not only into the +intention, but into the manner and quality also, of the whole work? + + "'I mean to be _sincere_ in this my lay: + That which I think I shall write down without + A drop of pain or varnish. Therefore, pray, + Whatever I may chance to rhyme about, + Read it without the shadow of a doubt.'"--p. 12. + +Again, the Author appears to us to have acted unwisely in +occasionally departing from the usual construction of his stanzas, as +in this instance: + + "'But, as I said, you know my history; + And your's--not that you made a mystery + Of it, nor used reserve, yet, being not + By nature an Autophonophilete, + (A word De Lacy fashioned and called me it)-- + Your's you have never told me yet. And what + Can be a more appropriate occasion + Than this true epic opening for relation?'"--p. 48. + +Here the lines do not cohere so happily as in the more varied +distribution of the rhymes; and, moreover, as a question of +principle, we think it not advisable to allow of minor deviations +from the uniformity of a prescribed metre. + +It may be well to take leave of Mr. Cayley with a last quotation of +his own words,--words which no critic ought to disregard: + + "I shall be deeply grateful to reviews, + Whether they deign approval, or rebuke, + For any hints they think may disabuse + Delusions of my inexperienced muse."--p.8. + +If our remarks have been such as to justify the Author's wish for +sincere criticism, our object is attained; and we look forward for +the second canto with confidence in his powers. + + +_Published Monthly.--Price One S._ + + Art and Poetry, + Being Thoughts towards Nature. + + Conducted principally by Artists. + +Of the little worthy the name of writing that has ever been written +upon the principles of Art, (of course excepting that on the mere +mechanism), a very small portion is by Artists themselves; and that +is so scattered, that one scarcely knows where to find the ideas of +an Artist except in his pictures. + +With a view to obtain the thoughts of Artists, upon Nature as evolved +in Art, in another language besides their _own proper_ one, this +Periodical has been established. Thus, then, it is not open to the +conflicting opinions of all who handle the brush and palette, nor is +it restricted to actual practitioners; but is intended to enunciate +the principles of those who, in the true spirit of Art, enforce a +rigid adherence to the simplicity of Nature either in Art or Poetry, +and consequently regardless whether emanating from practical Artists, +or from those who have studied nature in the Artist's School. + +Hence this work will contain such original Tales (in prose or verse), +Poems, Essays, and the like, as may seem conceived in the spirit, or +with the intent, of exhibiting a pure and unaffected style, to which +purpose analytical Reviews of current Literature--especially +Poetry--will be introduced; as also illustrative Etchings, one of +which latter, executed with the utmost care and completeness, will +appear in each number. + + + + +No. 4. (_Price One Shilling_.) MAY, 1850. + +With an Etching by W.H. Deverell. + +Art and Poetry: Being Thoughts towards Nature Conducted principally +by Artists. + + When whoso merely hath a little thought + Will plainly think the thought which is in him,-- + Not imaging another's bright or dim, + Not mangling with new words what others taught; + When whoso speaks, from having either sought + Or only found,--will speak, not just to skim + A shallow surface with words made and trim, + But in that very speech the matter brought: + Be not too keen to cry--"So this is all!-- + A thing I might myself have thought as well, + But would not say it, for it was not worth!" + Ask: "Is this truth?" For is it still to tell + That, be the theme a point or the whole earth, + Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small? + + + London: + DICKINSON & Co., 114, NEW BOND STREET, + AND + AYLOTT & JONES, 8, PATERNOSTER ROW. + + G. F Tupper, Printer, Clement's Lane, Lombard Street. + + +CONTENTS. + + Etching.--Viola and Olivia. + Viola and Olivia 145 + A Dialogue.--_John Orchard_ 146 + On a Whit-sunday Morn in the Month of May.--_John Orchard_ 167 + Modern Giants.--_Laura Savage_ 169 + To the Castle Ramparts--_W.M. Rossetti_ 173 + Pax Vobis.--_Dante G. Rossetti_ 176 + A Modern Idyl.--_Walter H. Deverell_ 177 + "Jesus Wept."--_W.M. Rossetti_ 179 + Sonnets for Pictures.--_Dante G Rossetti_ 180 + Papers of "The M. S. Society," + No IV. Smoke 183 + No. V. Rain 186 + Review: Christmas Eve and Easter Day.--_W.M. Rossetti_ 187 + The Evil under the Sun 192 + + +The Subscribers to this Work are respectfully informed that the +future Numbers will appear on the last day of the Month for which +they are dated. Also, that a supplementary, or large-sized Etching +will occasionally be given. + + +[Illustration] + + + +Viola and Olivia + + + When Viola, a servant of the Duke, + Of him she loved the page, went, sent by him, + To tell Olivia that great love which shook + His breast and stopt his tongue; was it a whim, + Or jealousy or fear that she must look + Upon the face of that Olivia? + + 'Tis hard to say if it were whim or fear + Or jealousy, but it was natural, + As natural as what came next, the near + Intelligence of hearts: Olivia + Loveth, her eye abused by a thin wall + Of custom, but her spirit's eyes were clear. + + Clear? we have oft been curious to know + The after-fortunes of those lovers dear; + Having a steady faith some deed must show + That they were married souls--unmarried here-- + Having an inward faith that love, called so + In verity, is of the spirit, clear + Of earth and dress and sex--it may be near + What Viola returned Olivia? + + + +A Dialogue on Art + + +[The following paper had been sent as a contribution to this +publication scarcely more than a week before its author, Mr. John +Orchard, died. It was written to commence a series of "Dialogues on +Art," which death has rendered for ever incomplete: nevertheless, the +merits of this commencement are such that they seemed to warrant its +publication as a fragment; and in order that the chain of argument +might be preserved, so far as it goes, uninterrupted, the dialogue is +printed entire in the present number, despite its length. Of the +writer, but little can be said. He was an artist; but ill health, +almost amounting to infirmity--his portion from childhood--rendered +him unequal to the bodily labour inseparable from his profession: and +in the course of his short life, whose youth was scarcely +consummated, he exhibited, from time to time, only a very few small +pictures, and these, as regards public recognition, in no way +successfully. In art, however, he gave to the "seeing eye," token of +that ability and earnestness which the "hearing ear" will not fail to +recognize in the dialogue now published; where the vehicle of +expression, being more purely intellectual, was more within his grasp +than was the physical and toilsome embodiment of art. + +It is possible that a search among the papers he has left, may bring +to light a few other fugitive pieces, which will, in such event, as +the Poem succeeding this Dialogue, be published in these pages. + +To the end that the Author's scheme may be, as far as is now +possible, understood and appreciated, we subjoin, in his own words, +some explanation of his further intent, and of the views and feelings +which guided him in the composition of the dialogue: + +"I have adopted the form of dialogue for several, to me, cogent +reasons; 1st, because it gives the writer the power of exhibiting the +question, Art, on all its sides; 2nd, because the great phases of Art +could be represented idiosyncratically; and, to make this clear, I +have named the several speakers accordingly; 3rd, because dialogue +secures the attention; and, that secured, deeper things strike, and +go deeper than otherwise they could be made to; and, 4th and last, +because all my earliest and most delightful pleasures associate +themselves with dialogue,--(the old dramatists, Lucian, Walter Savage +Landor, &c.) + +"You will find that I have not made one speaker say a thing on +purpose for another to condemn it; but that I make each one utter his +wisest in the very wisest manner he can, or rather, that I can for +him. + +"The further continuation of this 1st dialogue embraces the question +_Nature_, and its processes, invention and imitation,--imitation +chiefly. Kosmon begins by showing, in illustration of the truth of +Christian's concluding sentences, how imperfectly all the Ancients, +excepting the Hebrews, loved, understood, or felt Nature, &c. This is +not an unimportant portion of Art knowledge. + +"I must not forget to say that the last speech of Kosmon will be +answered by Christian when they discourse of imitation. It properly +belongs to imitation; and, under that head, it can be most +effectively and perfectly confuted. Somewhat after this idea, the +"verticalism" and "involution" will be shown to be direct from +Nature; the gilding, &c., disposed of on the ground of the old piety +using the most precious materials as the most religious and worthy of +them; and hence, by a very easy and probable transition, they +concluded that that which was most soul-worthy, was also most +natural."] + + +Dialogue I., in the House of Kalon + + +_Kalon._ Welcome, my friends:--this day above all others; to-day is +the first day of spring. May it be the herald of a bountiful +year,--not alone in harvests of seeds. Great impulses are moving +through man; swift as the steam-shot shuttle, weaving some mighty +pattern, goes the new birth of mind. As yet, hidden from eyes is the +design: whether it be poetry, or painting, or music, or architecture, +or whether it be a divine harmony of all, no manner of mind can tell; +but that it is mighty, all manners of minds, moved to involuntary +utterance, affirm. The intellect has at last again got to work upon +thought: too long fascinated by matter and prisoned to motive +geometry, genius--wisdom seem once more to have become human, to have +put on man, and to speak with divine simplicity. Kosmon, Sophon, +again welcome! your journey is well-timed; Christian, my young +friend, of whom I have often written to you, this morning tells me by +letter that to-day he will pay me his long-promised visit. You, I +know, must rejoice to meet him: this interchange of knowledge cannot +fail to improve us, both by knocking down and building up: what is +true we shall hold in common; what is false not less in common +detest. The debateable ground, if at last equally debateable as it +was at first, is yet ploughed; and some after-comer may sow it with +seed, and reap therefrom a plentiful harvest. + +_Sophon._ Kalon, you speak wisely. Truth hath many sides like a +diamond with innumerable facets, each one alike brilliant and +piercing. Your information respecting your friend Christian has not a +little interested me, and made me desirous of knowing him. + +_Kosmon._ And I, no less than Sophon, am delighted to hear that we +shall both see and taste your friend. + +_Sophon._ Kalon, by what you just now said, you would seem to think a +dearth of original thought in the world, at any time, was an evil: +perhaps it is not so; nay, perhaps, it is a good! Is not an +interregnum of genius necessary somewhere? A great genius, sun-like, +compels lesser suns to gravitate with and to him; and this is +subversive of originality. Age is as visible in thought as it is in +man. Death is indispensably requisite for a _new_ life. Genius is +like a tree, sheltering and affording support to numberless creepers +and climbers, which latter die and live many times before their +protecting tree does; flourishing even whilst that decays, and thus, +lending to it a greenness not its own; but no new life can come out +of that expiring tree; it must die: and it is not until it is dead, +and fallen, and _rotted into compost_, that another tree can grow +there; and many years will elapse before the new birth can increase +and occupy the room the previous one occupied, and flourish anew with +a greenness all its own. This on one side. On another; genius is +essentially imitative, or rather, as I just now said, gravitative; it +gravitates towards that point peculiarly important at the moment of +its existence; as air, more rarified in some places than in others, +causes the winds to rush towards _them_ as toward a centre: so that +if poetry, painting, or music slumbers, oratory may ravish the world, +or chemistry, or steam-power may seduce and rule, or the sciences sit +enthroned. Thus, nature ever compensates one art with another; her +balance alone is the always just one; for, like her course of the +seasons, she grows, ripens, and lies fallow, only that stronger, +larger and better food may be reared. + +_Kalon._ By your speaking of chemistry, and the mechanical arts and +sciences, as periodically ruling the world along with poetry, +painting, and music,--am I to understand that you deem them powers +intellectually equal, and to require of their respective professors +as mighty, original, and _human_ a genius for their successful +practice? + +_Kosmon._ Human genius! why not? Are they not equally human?--nay, +are they not--especially steam-power, chemistry and the electric +telegraph--more--eminently more--useful to man, more radically +civilizers, than music, poetry, painting, sculpture, or architecture? + +_Kalon._ Stay, Kosmon! whither do you hurry? Between chemistry and +the mechanical arts and sciences, and between poetry, painting, and +music, there exists the whole totality of genius--of genius as +distinguished from talent and industry. To be useful alone is not to +be great: _plus_ only is _plus_, and the sum is _minus_ something and +_plus_ in nothing if the most unimaginable particle only be absent. +The fine arts, poetry, painting, sculpture, music, and architecture, +as thought, or idea, Athene-like, are complete, finished, revelations +of wisdom at once. Not so the mechanical arts and sciences: they are +arts of growth; they are shaped and formed gradually, (and that, more +by a blind sort of guessing than by intuition,) and take many men's +lives to win even to one true principle. On all sides they are the +exact opposites of each other; for, in the former, the principles +from the first are mature, and only the manipulation immature; in the +latter, it is the principles that are almost always immature, and the +manipulation as constantly mature. The fine arts are always grounded +upon truth; the mechanical arts and sciences almost always upon +hypothesis; the first are unconfined, infinite, immaterial, +impossible of reduction into formulas, or of conversion into +machines; the last are limited, finite, material, can be uttered +through formulas, worked by arithmetic, tabulated and seen in +machines. + +_Sophon._ Kosmon, you see that Kalon, true to his nature, prefers the +beautiful and good, to the good without the beautiful; and you, who +love nature, and regard all that she, and what man from her, can +produce, with equal delight,--true to your's,--cannot perceive +wherefore he limits genius to the fine arts. Let me show you why +Kalon's ideas are truer than yours. You say that chemistry, +steam-power, and the electric telegraph, are more radically +civilizers than poetry, painting, or music: but bethink you: what +emotions beyond the common and selfish ones of wonder and fear do the +mechanical arts or sciences excite, or communicate? what pity, or +love, or other holy and unselfish desires and aspirations, do they +elicit? Inert of themselves in all teachable things, they are the +agents only whereby teachable things,--the charities, sympathies and +love,--may be more swiftly and more certainly conveyed and diffused: +and beyond diffusing media the mechanical arts or sciences cannot +get; for they are merely simple facts; nothing more: they cannot +induct; for they, in or of themselves, have no inductive powers, and +their office is confined to that of carrying and spreading abroad the +powers which do induct; which powers make a full, complete, and +visible existence only in the fine arts. In FACT and THOUGHT we have +the whole question of superiority decided. Fact is merely physical +record: Thought is the application of that record to something +_human_. Without application, the fact is only fact, and nothing +more; the application, thought, then, certainly must be superior to +the record, fact. Also in thought man gets the clearest glimpse he +will ever have of soul, and sees the incorporeal make the nearest +approach to the corporeal that it is possible for it to do here upon +earth. And hence, these noble acts of wisdom are--far--far above the +mechanical arts and sciences, and are properly called fine arts, +because their high and peculiar office is to refine. + +_Kosmon._ But, certainly thought is as much exercised in deducting +from physical facts the sciences and mechanical arts as ever it is in +poetry, painting, or music. The act of inventing print, or of +applying steam, is quite as soul-like as the inventing of a picture, +poem, or statue. + +_Kalon._ Quite. The chemist, poet, engineer, or painter, alike, +think. But the things upon which they exercise their several +faculties are very widely unlike each other; the chemist or engineer +cogitates only the physical; the poet or painter joins to the +physical the human, and investigates soul--scans the world in man +added to the world without him--takes in universal creation, its +sights, sounds, aspects, and ideas. Sophon says that the fine arts +are thoughts; but I think I know a more comprehensive word; for they +are something more than thoughts; they are things also; that word is +NATURE--Nature fully--thorough nature--the world of creation. All +that is _in_ man, his mysteries of soul, his thoughts and +emotions--deep, wise, holy, loving, touching, and fearful,--or in the +world, beautiful, vast, ponderous, gloomy, and awful, moved with +rhythmic harmonious utterance--_that_ is Poetry. All that is _of_ +man--his triumphs, glory, power, and passions; or of the world--its +sunshine and clouds, its plains, hills or valleys, its wind-swept +mountains and snowy Alps, river and ocean--silent, lonely, severe, +and sublime--mocked with living colours, hue and tone,--_that_ is +Painting. Man--heroic man, his acts, emotions, loves,--aspirative, +tender, deep, and calm,--intensified, purified, colourless,--exhibited +peculiarly and directly through his own form;_that_ is sculpture. +All the voices of nature--of man--his bursts of rage, pity, and +fear--his cries of joy--his sighs of love; of the winds and the +waters--tumultuous, hurrying, surging, tremulous, or gently +falling--married to melodious numbers;_that_ is music. And, the music +of proportions--of nature and man, and the harmony and opposition of +light and shadow, set forth in the ponderous; _that_ is Architecture. + +_Christian._ [_as he enters_] Forbear, Kalon! These I know for your +dear fiends, Kosmon and Sophon. The moment of discoursing with them +has at last arrived: May I profit by it! Kalon, fearful of checking +your current of thought, I stood without, and heard that which you +said: and, though I agree with you in all your definitions of poetry, +painting, sculpture, music, and architecture; yet certainly all +things in or of man, or the world, are not, however equally +beautiful, equally worthy of being used by the artist. Fine art +absolutely rejects all impurities of form; not less absolutely does +it reject all impurities of passion and expression. Everything +throughout a poem, picture, or statue, or in music, may be sensuously +beautiful; but nothing must be sensually so. Sins are only paid for +in virtues; thus, every sin found is a virtue lost--lost--not only to +the artist, but a cause of loss to others--to all who look upon what +he does. He should deem his art a sacred treasure, intrusted to him +for the common good; and over it he should build, of the most +precious materials, in the simplest, chastest, and truest +proportions, a temple fit for universal worship: instead of which, it +is too often the case that he raises above it an edifice of clay; +which, as mortal as his life, falls, burying both it and himself +under a heap of dirt. To preserve him from this corruption of his +art, let him erect for his guidance a standard awfully high above +himself. Let him think of Christ; and what he would not show to as +pure a nature as His, let him never be seduced to work on, or expose +to the world. + +_Kosmon._ Oh, Kalon, whither do we go! Greek art is condemned, and +Satire hath got its death-stroke. The beautiful is not the beautiful +unless it is fettered to the moral; and Virtue rejects the physical +perfections, lest she should fall in love with herself, and sin and +cause sin. + +_Christian._ Nay, Kosmon. Nothing pure,--nothing that is innocent, +chaste, unsensual,--whether Greek or satirical, is condemned: but +everything--every picture, poem, statue, or piece of music--which +elicits the sensual, viceful, and unholy desires of our nature--is, +and that utterly. The beautiful was created the true, morally as well +as physically; vice is a deformment of virtue,--not of form, to which +it is a parasitical addition--an accretion which can and must be +excised before the beautiful can show itself as it was originally +made, morally as well as formally perfect. How we all wish the +sensual, indecent, and brutal, away from Hogarth, so that we might +show him to the purest virgin without fear or blushing. + +_Sophon._ And as well from Shakspere. Rotten members, though small in +themselves, are yet large enough to taint the whole body. And those +impurities, like rank growths of vine, may be lopped away without +injuring any vital principle. In perfect art the utmost purity of +intention, design, and execution, alone is wisdom. Every tree--every +flower, in defiance of adverse contingencies, grows with perfect will +to be perfect: and, shall man, who hath what they have not, a soul +wherewith he may defy all ill, do less? + +_Kosmon._ But how may this purity be attained? I see every where +close round the pricks; not a single step may be taken in advance +without wounding something vital. Corruption strews thick both earth +and ocean; it is only the heavens that are pure, and man cannot live +upon manna alone. + +_Christian._ Kosmon, you would seem to mistake what Sophon and I +mean. Neither he nor I wish nature to be used less, or otherwise than +as it appears; on the contrary, we wish it used more--more directly. +Nature itself is comparatively pure; all that we desire is the +removal of the factitious matter that the vice of fashion, evil +hearts, and infamous desires, graft upon it. It is not simple +innocent nature that we would exile, but the devilish and libidinous +corruptions that sully nature. + +_Kalon._ But, if your ideas were strictly carried out, there would be +but little of worth left in the world for the artist to use; for, if +I understand you rightly, you object to his making use of any +passion, whether heroic, patriotic, or loving, that is not rigidly +virtuous. + +_Christian._ I do. Without he has a didactic aim; like as Hogarth +had. A picture, poem, or statue, unless it speaks some purpose, is +mere paint, paper, or stone. A work of art must have a purpose, or it +is not a work of _fine_ art: thus, then, if it be a work of fine art, +it has a purpose; and, having purpose, it has either a good or an +evil one: there is no alternative. An artist's works are his +children, his immortal heirs, to his evil as well as to his good; as +he hath trained them, so will they teach. Let him ask himself why +does a parent so tenderly rear his children. Is it not because he +knows that evil is evil, whether it take the shape of angels or +devils? And is not the parent's example worthy of the artist's +imitation? What advantage has a man over a child? Is there any +preservative peculiar to manhood that it alone may see and touch sin, +and yet be not defiled? Verily, there is none! All mere battles, +assassinations, immolations, horrible deaths, and terrible situations +used by the artist solely to excite,--every passion degrading to +man's perfect nature,--should certainly be rejected, and that +unhesitatingly. + +_Sophon._--Suffer me to extend the just conclusions of Christian. +Art--true art--fine art--cannot be either coarse or low. +Innocent-like, no taint will cling to it, and a smock frock is as +pure as "virginal-chaste robes." And,--sensualism, indecency, and +brutality, excepted--sin is not sin, if not in the act; and, in +satire, with the same exceptions, even sin in the act is tolerated +when used to point forcibly a moral crime, or to warn society of a +crying shame which it can remedy. + +_Kalon._ But, my dear Sophon,--and you, Christian,--you do not +condemn the oak because of its apples; and, like them, the sin in the +poem, picture, or statue, may be a wormy accretion grafted from +without. The spectator often makes sin where the artist intended +none. For instance, in the nude,--where perhaps, the poet, painter, +or sculptor, imagines he has embodied only the purest and chastest +ideas and forms, the sensualist sees--what he wills to see; and, +serpent-like, previous to devouring his prey, he covers it with his +saliva. + +_Christian._ The Circean poison, whether drunk from the clearest +crystal or the coarsest clay, alike intoxicates and makes beasts of +men. Be assured that every nude figure or nudity introduced in a +poem, picture, or piece of sculpture, merely on physical grounds, and +only for effect, is vicious. And, where it is boldly introduced and +forms the central idea, it ought never to have a sense of its +condition: it is not nudity that is sinful, but the figure's +knowledge of its nudity,(too surely communicated by it to the +spectator,) that makes it so. Eve and Adam before their fall were not +more utterly shameless than the artist ought to make his inventions. +The Turk believes that, at the judgment-day, every artist will be +compelled to furnish, from his own soul, soul for every one of his +creations. This thought is a noble one, and should thoroughly awake +poet, painter, and sculptor, to the awful responsibilities they +labour under. With regard to the sensualist,--who is omnivorous, and +swine-like, assimilates indifferently pure and impure, degrading +everything he hears or sees,--little can be said beyond this; that +for him, if the artist _be_ without sin, he is not answerable. But in +this responsibility he has two rigid yet just judges, God and +himself;--let him answer there before that tribunal. God will acquit +or condemn him only as he can acquit or condemn himself. + +_Kalon._ But, under any circumstance, beautiful nude flesh +beautifully painted must kindle sensuality; and, described as +beautifully in poetry, it will do the like, almost, if not quite, as +readily. Sculpture is the only form of art in which it can be used +thoroughly pure, chaste, unsullied, and unsullying. I feel, +Christian, that you mean this. And see what you do!--What a vast +domain of art you set a Solomon's seal upon! how numberless are the +poems, pictures, and statues--the most beautiful productions of their +authors--you put in limbo! To me, I confess, it appears the very top +of prudery to condemn these lovely creations, merely because they +quicken some men's pulses. + +_Kosmon._ And, to me, it appears hypercriticism to object to +pictures, poems, and statues, calling them not works of art--or fine +art--because they have no higher purpose than eye or ear-delight. If +this law be held to be good, very few pictures called of the English +school--of the English school, did I say?--very few pictures at all, +of any school, are safe from condemnation: almost all the Dutch must +suffer judgment, and a very large proportion of modern sculpture, +poetry, and music, will not pass. Even "Christabel" and the "Eve of +St. Agnes" could not stand the ordeal. + +_Christian._ Oh, Kalon, you hardly need an answer! What! shall the +artist spend weeks and months, nay, sometimes years, in thought and +study, contriving and perfecting some beautiful invention,--in order +only that men's pulses may be quickened? What!--can he, jesuit-like, +dwell in the house of soul, only to discover where to sap her +foundations?--Satan-like, does he turn his angel of light into a +fiend of darkness, and use his God-delegated might against its giver, +making Astartes and Molochs to draw other thousands of innocent lives +into the embrace of sin? And as for you, Kosmon, I regard purpose as +I regard soul; one is not more the light of the thought than the +other is the light of the body; and both, soul and purpose, are +necessary for a complete intellect; and intellect, of the +intellectual--of which the fine arts are the capital members--is not +more to be expected than demanded. I believe that most of the +pictures you mean are mere natural history paintings from the animal +side of man. The Dutchmen may, certainly, go Letheward; but for their +colour, and subtleties of execution, they would not be tolerated by +any man of taste. + +_Sophon._ Christian here, I think, is too stringent. Though walls be +necessary round our flower gardens to keep out swine and other vile +cattle--yet I can see no reason why, with excluding beasts, we should +also exclude light and air. Purpose is purpose or not, according to +the individual capacity to assimilate it. Different plants require +different soils, and they will rather die than grow on unfriendly +ones; it is the same with animals; they endure existence only through +their natural food; and this variety of soils, plants, and +vegetables, is the world less man. But man, as well as the other +created forms, is subject to the same law: he takes only that aliment +he can digest. It is sufficient with some men that their sensoria be +delighted with pleasurable and animated grouping, colour, light, and +shade: this feeling or desire of their's is, in itself, thoroughly +innocent: it is true, it is not a great burden for them to carry; no, +but it is the lightness of the burden that is the merit; for thereby, +their step is quickened and not clogged, their intellect is +exhilarated and not oppressed. Thus, then, a purpose _is_ secured, +from a picture or poem or statue, which may not have in it the +smallest particle of what Christian and I think necessary for it to +possess; he reckons a poem, picture, or statue, to be a work of fine +art by the quality and quantity of thought it contains, by the mental +leverage it possesses wherewith to move his mind, by the honey which +he may hive, and by the heavenly manna he may gather therefrom. + +_Kosmon._ Christian wants art like Magdalen Hospitals, where the +windows are so contrived that all of earth is excluded, and only +heaven is seen. Wisdom is not only shown in the soul, but also in the +body: the bones, nerves, and muscles, are quite as wonderful in idea +as is the incorporeal essence which rules them. And the animal part +of man wants as much caring for as the spiritual: God made both, and +is equally praised through each. And men's souls are as much +touchable and teachable through their animal feelings as ever they +are through their mental aspirations; this both Orpheus and Amphion +knew when they, with their music, made towns to rise in savage woods +by savage hands. And hence, in that light, nothing is without a +purpose; and I maintain,--if they give but the least glimpse of +happiness to a single human being,--that even the Dutch masters are +useful, I believe that the thought-wrapped philosopher, who, in his +close-pent study, designs some valuable blessing for his lower and +more animal brethren, only pursues the craving of his nature; and +that his happiness is no higher than their's in their several +occupations and delights. Sight and sense are fully as powerful for +happiness as thought and ratiocination. Nature grows flowers wherever +she can; she causes sweet waters to ripple over stony beds, and +living wells to spring up in deserts, so that grass and herbs may +grow and afford nourishment to _some_ of God's creatures. Even the +granite and the lava must put forth blossoms. + +_Kalon._ Oh Christian, children cannot digest strong meats! Neither +can a blind man be made to see by placing him opposite the sun. The +sound of the violin is as innocent as that of the organ. And, though +there be a wide difference in the sacredness of the occupations, yet +dance, song, and the other amusements common to society, are quite as +necessary to a healthy condition of the mind and body, as is to the +soul the pursuit and daily practice of religion. The healthy +condition of the mind and body is, after all, the happy life; and +whether that life be most mental or most animal it matters little, +even before God, so long as its delights, amusements, and +occupations, be thoroughly innocent and chaste. + +_Christian._ So long as the pursuits, pastimes, and pleasures of +mankind be innocent and chaste,--with you all, heartily, I believe it +matters little how or in what form they be enjoyed. Pure water is +certainly equally pure, whether it trickle from the hill-side or flow +through crystal conduits; and equally refreshing whether drunk from +the iron bowl or the golden goblet;--only the crystal and gold will +better please some natures than the hill-side and the iron. I know +also that a star may give more light than the moon,--but that is up +in its own heavens and not here on earth. I know that it is not light +and shade which make a complete globe, but, as well, the local and +neutral tints. Thus, my friends, you perceive that I am neither for +building a wall, nor for contriving windows so as to exclude light, +air, and earth. As much as any of you, I am for every man's sitting +under his own vine, and for his training, pruning, and eating its +fruit how he pleases. Let the artist paint, write, or carve, what and +how he wills, teach the world through sense or through thought,--I +will not dissent; I have no patent to entitle me to do so; nay, I +will be thoroughly satisfied with whatsoever he does, so long as it +is pure, unsensual, and earnestly true. But, as the mental is the +peculiar feature that places man apart from and above animals,--so +ought all that he does to be apart from and above their nature; +especially in the fine arts, which are the intellectual perfection of +the intellectual. And nothing short of this intellectual +perfection,--however much they may be pictures, poems, statues, or +music,--can rank such works to be works of Fine Art. They may have +merit,--nay, be useful, and hence, in some sort, have a purpose: but +they are as much works of Fine Art as Babel was the Temple of +Solomon. + +_Sophon._ And man can be made to understand these truths--can be +drawn to crave for and love the fine arts: it is only to take him in +hand as we would take some animal--tenderly using it--entreating it, +as it were, to do its best--to put forth all its powers with all its +capable force and beauty. Nor is it so very difficult a task to +raise, in the low, conceptions of things high: the mass of men have a +fine appreciation of God and his goodness: and as active, charitable, +and sympathetic a nurture in the beautiful and true as they have +given to them in religion, would as surely and swiftly raise in them +an equally high appreciation of the fine arts. But, if the artist +would essay such a labour, he must show them what fine art is: and, +in order to do this effectually, as an architect clears away from +some sacred edifice which he restores the shambles and shops, which, +like filthy toads cowering on a precious monument, have squatted +themselves round its noble proportions; so must he remove from his +art-edifice the deformities which hide--the corruptions which shame +it. + +_Christian._ How truly Sophon speaks a retrospective look will show. +The disfigurements which both he and I deplore are strictly what he +compared them to; they are shambles and shops grafted on a sacred +edifice. Still, indigenous art is sacred and devoted to religious +purposes: this keeps it pure for a time; but, like a stream +travelling and gathering other streams as it goes through wide +stretches of country to the sea, it receives greater and more +numerous impurities the farther it gets from its source, until, at +last, what was, in its rise, a gentle rilling through snows and over +whitest stones, roars into the ocean a muddy and contentious river. +Men soon long to touch and taste all that they see; savage-like, him +whom to-day they deem a god and worship, they on the morrow get an +appetite for and kill, to eat and barter. And thus art is degraded, +made a thing of carnal desire--a commodity of the exchange. Yes, +Sophon, to be instructive, to become a teaching instrument, the +art-edifice must be cleansed from its abominations; and, with them, +must the artist sweep out the improvements and ruthless restorations +that hang on it like formless botches on peopled tapestry. The +multitude must be brought to stand face to face with the pious and +earnest builders, to enjoy the severely simple, beautiful, aspiring, +and solemn temple, in all its first purity, the same as they +bequeathed it to them as their posterity. + +_Kalon._ The peasant, upon acquaintance, quickly prefers wheaten +bread to the black and sour mass that formerly served him: and when +true jewels are placed before him, counterfeit ones in his eyes soon +lose their lustre, and become things which he scorns. The multitude +are teachable--teachable as a child; but, like a child, they are +self-willed and obstinate, and will learn in their own way, or not at +all. And, if the artist wishes to raise them unto a fit audience, he +must consult their very waywardness, or his work will be a Penelope's +web of done and undone: he must be to them not only cords of support +staying their every weakness against sin and temptation, but also, +tendrils of delight winding around them. But I cannot understand why +regeneration can flow to them through sacred art alone. All pure art +is sacred art. And the artist having soul as well as nature--the +lodestar as well as the lodestone--to steer his path by--and seeing +that he must circle earth--it matters little from what quarter he +first points his course; all that is necessary is that he go as +direct as possible, his knowledge keeping him from quicksands and +sunken rocks. + +_Christian._ Yes, Kalon;--and, to compare things humble--though +conceived in the same spirit of love--with things mighty, the artist, +if he desires to inform the people thoroughly, must imitate Christ, +and, like him, stoop down to earth and become flesh of their flesh; +and his work should be wrought out with all his soul and strength in +the same world-broad charity, and truth, and virtue, and be, for +himself as well as for them, a justification for his teaching. But +all art, simply because it is pure and perfect, cannot, for those +grounds alone, be called sacred: Christian, it may, and that justly; +for only since Christ taught have morals been considered a religion. +Christian and sacred art bear that relation to each other that the +circle bears to its generating point; the first is only volume, the +last is power: and though the first--as the world includes +God--includes with it the last, still, the last is the greatest, for +it makes that which includes it: thus all pure art is Christian, but +not all is sacred. Christian art comprises the earth and its +humanities, and, by implication, God and Christ also; and sacred art +is the emanating idea--the central causating power--the jasper +throne, whereon sits Christ, surrounded by the prophets, apostles, +and saints, administering judgement, wisdom, and holiness. In this +sense, then, the art you would call sacred is not sacred, but +Christian: and, as _all perfect art is Christian_, regeneration +necessarily can only flow thence; and thus it is, as you say, that, +from whatever quarter the artist steers his course, he steers aright. + +_Kosmon._ And, Christian, is a return to this sacred or Christian art +by you deemed possible? I question it. How can you get the art of one +age to reflect that of another, when the image to be reflected is +without the angle of reflection? The sun cannot be seen of us when it +is night! and that class of art has got its golden age too +remote--its night too long set--for it to hope ever to grasp rule +again, or again to see its day break upon it. You have likened art to +a river rising pure, and rolling a turbid volume into the ocean. I +have a comparison equally just. The career of one artist contains in +itself the whole of art-history; its every phase is presented by him +in the course of his life. Savage art is beheld in his childish +scratchings and barbarous glimmerings; Indian, Egyptian, and Assyrian +art in his boyish rigidity and crude fixedness of idea and purpose; +Mediaeval, or pre-Raffaelle art is seen in his youthful timid +darings, his unripe fancies oscillating between earth and heaven; +there where we expect truth, we see conceit; there where we want +little, much is given--now a blank eyed riddle,--dark with excess of +self,--now a giant thought--vast but repulsive,--and now angel +visitors startling us with wisdom and touches of heavenly beauty. +Every where is seen exactness; but it is the exactness of hesitation, +and not of knowledge--the line of doubt, and not of power: all the +promises for ripeness are there; but, as yet, all are immature. And +mature art is presented when all these rude scaffoldings are thrown +down--when the man steps out of the chrysalis a complete idea--both +Psyche and Eros--free-thoughted, free-tongued, and free-handed;--a +being whose soul moves through the heavens and the earth--now +choiring it with angels--and now enthroning it, bay-crowned, among +the men-kings;--whose hand passes over all earth, spreading forth its +beauties unerring as the seasons--stretches through cloudland, +revealing its delectable glories, or, eagle-like, soars right up +against the sun;--or seaward goes seizing the cresting foam as it +leaps--the ships and their crews as they wallow in the watery +valleys, or climb their steeps, or hang over their flying +ridges:--daring and doing all whatsoever it shall dare to do, with +boundless fruitfulness of idea, and power, and line; that is mature +art--art of the time of Phidias, of Raffaelle, and of Shakspere. And, +Christian, in preferring the art of the period previous to Raffaelle +to the art of his time, you set up the worse for the better, elevate +youth above manhood, and tell us that the half-formed and unripe +berry is wholesomer than the perfect and ripened fruit. + +_Christian._ Kosmon, your thoughts seduce you; or rather, your nature +prefers the full and rich to the exact and simple: you do not go deep +enough--do not penetrate beneath the image's gilt overlay, and see +that it covers only worm-devoured wood. Your very comparison tells +against you. What you call ripeness, others, with as much truth, may +call over-ripeness, nay, even rottenness; when all the juices are +drunk with their lusciousness, sick with over-sweetness. And the art +which you call youthful and immature--may be, most likely is, mature +and wholesome in the same degree that it is tasteful, a perfect round +of beautiful, pure, and good. You call youth immature; but in what +does it come short of manhood. Has it not all that man can +have,--free, happy, noble, and spiritual thoughts? And are not those +thoughts newer, purer, and more unselfish in the youth than in the +man? What eye has the man, that the youth's is not as comprehensive, +keen, rapid, and penetrating? or what hand, that the youth's is not +as swift, forceful, cunning, and true? And what does the youth gain +in becoming man? Is it freshness, or deepness, or power, or wisdom? +nay rather--is it not languor--the languor of satiety--of +indifferentism? And thus soul-rusted and earth-charmed, what mate is +he for his former youth? Drunken with the world-lees, what can he do +but pourtray nature drunken as well, and consumed with the same fever +or stupor that consumes himself, making up with gilding and filigree +what he lacks in truth and sincerity? and what comparison shall exist +here and between what his youth might or could have done, with a soul +innocent and untroubled as heaven's deep calm of blue, gazing on +earth with seraph eyes--looking, but not longing--or, in the spirit +rapt away before the emerald-like rainbow-crowned throne, witnessing +"things that shall be hereafter," and drawing them down almost as +stainless as he beheld them? What an array of deep, earnest, and +noble thinkers, like angels armed with a brightness that withers, +stand between Giotto and Raffaelle; to mention only Orcagna, +Ghiberti, Masaccio, Lippi, Fra Beato Angelico, and Francia. Parallel +_them_ with post-Raffaelle artists? If you think you can, you have +dared a labour of which the fruit shall be to you as Dead Sea apples, +golden and sweet to the eye, but, in the mouth, ashes and bitterness. +And the Phidian era was a youthful one--the highest and purest period +of Hellenic art: after that time they added no more gods or heroes, +but took for models instead--the Alcibiadeses and Phyrnes, and made +Bacchuses and Aphrodites; not as Phidias would have--clothed with the +greatness of thought, or girded with valour, or veiled with modesty; +but dissolved with the voluptuousness of the bath, naked, wanton, and +shameless. + +_Sophon._ You hear, Kosmon, that Christian prefers ripe youth to ripe +manhood: and he is right. Early summer is nobler than early autumn; +the head is wiser than the hand. You take the hand to mean too much: +you should not judge by quantity, or luxuriance, or dexterity, but by +quality, chastity, and fidelity. And colour and tone are only a fair +setting to thought and virtue. Perhaps it is the fate, or rather the +duty, of mortals to make a sacrifice for all things, withheld as well +as given. Hand sometimes succumbs to head, and head in its turn +succumbs to hand; the first is the lot of youth, the last of manhood. +The question is--which of the two we can best afford to do without. +Narrowed down to this, I think but very few men would be found who +would not sacrifice in the loss of hand in preference to its gain at +the loss of head. + +_Kosmon._ But, Christian, in advocating a return to this +pre-Raffaelle art, are you not--you yourself--urging the committal +of "ruthless restorations" and "improvements," new and vile as any +that you have denounced? You tell the artist, that he should restore +the sacred edifice to its first purity--the same as it was bequeathed +by its pious and earnest builders. But can he do this and be himself +original? For myself, I would above all things urge him to study how +to _reproduce_, and not how to represent--to imitate no past +perfection, but to create for himself another, as beautiful, wise, +and true. I would say to him, "build not on old ground, profaned, +polluted, trod into slough by filthy animals; but break new +ground--virgin ground--ground that thought has never imagined or eye +seen, and dig into our hearts a foundation, deep and broad as our +humanity. Let it not be a temple formed of hands only, but built up +of _us_--us of the present--body of our body, soul of our soul." + +_Christian._ When men wish to raise a piece of stone, or to move it +along, they seek for a fulcrum to use their lever from; and, this +obtained, they can place the stone wheresoever they please. And +world-perfections come into existence too slowly for men to reject +all the teaching and experience of their predecessors: the labour of +learning is trifling compared to the labour of finding out; the first +implies only days, the last, hundreds of years. The discovery of the +new world without the compass would have been sheer chance; but with +it, it became an absolute certainty. So, and in such manner, the +modern artist seeks to use early mediaeval art, as a fulcrum to raise +through, but only as a fulcrum; for he himself holds the lever, +whereby he shall both guide and fix the stones of his art temple; as +experience, which shall be to him a rudder directing the motion of +his ship, but in subordination to his control; and as a compass, +which shall regulate his journey, but which, so far from taking away +his liberty, shall even add to it, because through it his course is +set so fast in the ways of truth as to allow him, undividedly, to +give up his whole soul to the purpose of his voyage, and to steer a +wider and freer path over the trackless, but to him, with his rudder +and compass, no longer the trackless or waste ocean; for, God and his +endeavours prospering him, that shall yield up unto his hands +discoveries as man-worthy as any hitherto beheld by men, or conceived +by poets. + +_Kalon._ But, Christian, another artist with equal justness might use +Hellenic art as a means toward making happy discoveries; formatively, +there is nothing in it that is not both beautiful and perfect; and +beautiful things, rainbow-like, are once and for ever beautiful; and +the contemplation and study of its dignified, graceful, and truthful +embodiments--which, by common consent, it only is allowed to possess +in an eminent and universal degree--is full as likely to awaken in +the mind of its student as high revelations of wisdom, and cause him +to bear to earth as many perfections for man, as ever the study of +pre-Raffaelle art can reveal or give, through its votary. + +_Christian._ But beautiful things, to be beautiful in the highest +degree, like the rainbow, must have a spiritual as well as a physical +voice. Lovely as it is, it is not the arch of colours that glows in +the heavens of our hearts; what does, is the inner and invisible +sense for which it was set up of old by God, and of which its +many-hued form is only the outward and visible sign. Thus, beautiful +things alone, of themselves, are not sufficient for this task; to be +sufficient they must be as vital with soul as they are with shape. To +be formatively perfect is not enough; they must also be spiritually +perfect, and this not _locally_ but universally. The art of the +Greeks was a local art; and hence, now, it has no spiritual. Their +gods speak to us no longer as gods, or teach us divinely: they have +become mere images of stone--profane embodiments. False to our +spiritual, Hellenic art wants every thing that Christian art is full +of. Sacred and universal, this clasps us, as Abraham's bosom did +Lazarus, within its infinite embraces, causing every fibre of our +being to quicken under its heavenly truths. Ithuriel's golden spear +was not more antagonistic to Satan's loathly transformation--than is +Christian opposed to pagan art. The wide, the awful gulf, separating +one from the other, will be felt instantly in its true force by first +thinking ZEUS, and then thinking CHRIST. How pale, shadowy, and +shapeless the vision of lust, revenge, and impotence, that rises at +the thought of Zeus; but at the thought of Christ, how overwhelming +the inrush of sublime and touching realities; what height and depth +of love and power; what humility, and beauty, and immaculate purity +are made ours at the mention of his name; the Saviour, the +Intercessor, the Judge, the Resurrection and the Life. These--these +are the divinely awful truths taught by our faith; and which should +also be taught by our art. Hellenic art, like the fig tree that only +bore leaves, withered at Christ's coming; and thus no "happy +discoveries" can flow thence, or "revelations of wisdom," or other +perfections be borne to earth for man. + +_Sophon._ Christian thinks and says, that if the spiritual be not +_in_ a thing, it cannot be put upon it; and hence, if a work of art +be not a god, it must be a man, or a mere image of one; and that the +faith of the Pagan is the foolishness of the Christian. Nor does he +utter unreason; for, notwithstanding their perfect forms, their gods +are not gods to us, but only perfect forms: Apollo, Theseus, the +Ilissus, Aphrodite, Artemis, Psyche, and Eros, are only shapeful +manhood, womanhood, virginhood, and youth, and move us only by the +exact amount of humanity they possess in common with ourselves. +_Homer and aeschylus, and Sophocles, and Phidias, live not by the +sacred in them, but by the human:_ and, but for this common bond, +Hellenic art would have been submerged in the same Lethe that has +drowned the Indian, Egyptian, and Assyrian Theogonies and arts. And, +if we except form, what other thing does Hellenic art offer to the +modern artist, that is not thoroughly opposed to his faith, wants, +and practice? And thought--thought in accordance with all the lines +of his knowledge, temperament, and habits--thought through which he +makes and shapes for men, and is understood by them--it is as +destitute of, as inorganic matter of soul and reason. But Christian +art, because of the faith upon which it is built, suffers under no +such drawbacks, for that faith is as personal and vigorous now as +ever it was at its origin--every motion and principle of our being +moves to it like a singing harmony;--it is the breath which brings +out of us, aeolian-harp-like, our most penetrating and heavenly +music--the river of the water of life, which searches all our dry +parts and nourishes them, causing them to spring up and bear +abundantly the happy seed which shall enrich and make fat the earth +to the uttermost parts thereof. + +_Kalon._ With you both I believe, that faith is necessary to a man, +and that without faith sight even is feeble: but I also believe that +a man is as much a part of the religious, moral, and social system in +which he lives, as is a plant of the soil, situation, and climate in +which it exists: and that external applications have just as much +power to change the belief of the man, as they have to alter the +structure of the plant. A faith once in a man, it is there always; +and, though unfelt even by himself, works actively: and Hellenic art, +so far from being an impediment to the Christian belief, is the exact +reverse; for, it is the privilege of that belief, through its sublime +alchymy, to be able to transmute all it touches into itself: and the +perfect forms of Hellenic art, so touched, move our souls only the +more energetically upwards, because of their transcendent beauty; for +through them alone can we see how wonderfully and divinely God +wrought--how majestic, powerful, and vigorous he made man--how +lovely, soft, and winning, he made woman: and in beholding these +things, we are thankful to him that we are permitted to see them--not +as Pagans, but altogether as Christians. Whether Christian or Pagan, +the highest beauty is still the highest beauty; and the highest +beauty alone, to the total exclusion of gods and their myths, compels +our admiration. + +_Kosmon._ Another thing we ought to remember, when judging Hellenic +Art, is, but for its existence, all other kinds--pre-Raffaelle as +well--could not have had being. The Greeks were, by far, more +inclined to worship nature as contained in themselves, than the +gods,--if the gods are not reflexes of themselves, which is most +likely. And, thus impelled, they broke through the monstrous +symbolism of Egypt, and made them gods after their own hearts; that +is, fashioned them out of themselves. And herein, I think we may +discern something of providence; for, suppose their natures had not +been so powerfully antagonistic to the traditions and conventions of +their religion, what other people in the world could or would have +done their work? Cast about a brief while in your memories, and +endeavor to find whether there has ever existed a people who in their +nature, nationality, and religion, have been so eminently fitted to +perform such a task as the Hellenic? You will then feel that we have +reason to be thankful that they were allowed to do what else had +never been done; and, which not done, all posterity would have +suffered to the last throe of time. And, if they have not made a +thorough perfection--a spiritual as well as a physical one--forget +not that, at least, they have made this physical representation a +finished one. They took it from the Egyptians, rude, clumsy, and +seated; its head stony--pinned to its chest; its hands tied to its +side, and its legs joined; they shaped it, beautiful, majestic, and +erect; elevated its head; breathed into it animal fire; gave movement +and action to its arms and hands; opened its legs and made it +walk--made it human at all points--the radical impersonation of +physical and sensuous beauty. And, if the god has receded into the +past and become a "pale, shadowy, and shapeless vision of lust, +revenge, and impotence," the human lives on graceful, vigorous, and +deathless, as at first, and excites in us admiration as unbounded as +ever followed it of old in Greece or Italy. + +_Christian._ Yes, Kosmon, yes! they are flourished all over with the +rhetoric of the body; but nowhere is to be seen in them that diviner +poetry, the oratory of the soul! Truly they are a splendid casket +enclosing nothing--at least nothing now of importance to us; for what +they once contained, the world, when stirred with nobler matter, +disregarded, and left to perish. But, Kosmon, we cannot discuss +probabilities. Our question is--not whether the Greeks only could +have made such masterpieces of nature and art; but whether their +works are of that kind the _most fitted_ to carry forward to a more +ultimate perfection that idea which is peculiarly our's. All art, +more or less, is a species of symbolism; and the Hellenic, +notwithstanding its more universal method of typification, was fully +as symbolic as the Egyptian; and hence its language is not only dead, +but forgotten, and is now past recovery: and, if it were not, what +purpose would be served by its republication? For, for whom does the +artist work? The inevitable answer is, "For his nation!" His statue, +or picture, poem, or music, must be made up and out of them; they are +at once his exemplars, his audience, and his worshippers; and he is +their mirror in which they behold themselves as they are: he breathes +them vitally as an atmosphere, and they breathe him. Zeus, Athene, +Heracles, Prometheus, Agamemnon, Orestes, the House of Oedipus, +Clytemnestra, Iphigenia, and Antigone, spoke something to the +Hellenic nations; woke their piety, pity, or horror,--thrilled, +soothed, or delighted them; but they have no charm for our ears; for +us, they are literally disembodied ghosts, and voiceless as +shapeless. But not so are Christ, and the holy Apostles and saints, +and the Blessed Virgin; and not so is Hamlet, or Richard the Third, +or Macbeth, or Shylock, or the House of Lear, Ophelia, Desdemona, +Grisildis, or Una, or Genevieve. No: _they_ all speak and move real +and palpable before our eyes, and are felt deep down in the heart's +core of every thinking soul among us:--they all grapple to us with +holds that only life will loose. Of all this I feel assured, because, +a brief while since, we agreed together that man could only be raised +through an incarnation of himself. Tacitly, we would also seem to +have limited the uses of Hellenic art to the serving as models of +proportion, or as a gradus for form: and, though I cannot deny them +any merit they may have in this respect, still, I would wish to deal +cautiously with them: the artist,--most especially the young one, and +who is and would be most subject to them and open to their +influence,--should never have his soul asleep when his hand is awake; +but, like voice and instrument, one should always accompany the other +harmoniously. + +_Kosmon._ But surely you will deal no less cautiously with early +mediaeval art. Archaisms are not more tolerable in pictures than they +are in statues, poems, or music; and the archaisms of this kind of +art are so numerous as to be at first sight the most striking feature +belonging to it. Most remarkable among these unnatural peculiarities +are gilded backgrounds, gilded hair, gilded ornaments and borders to +draperies and dresses, the latter's excessive verticalism of lines +and tedious involution of folds, and the childlike passivity of +countenance and expression: all of which are very prominent, and +operate as serious drawbacks to their merits; which--as I have freely +admitted--are in truth not a few, nor mean. + +_Christian._ The artist is only a man, and living with other men in a +state of being called society; and,--though perhaps in a lesser +degree--he is as subject to its influences--its fashions and +customs--as they are. But in this respect his failings may be likened +to the dross which the purest metal in its molten state continually +throws up to its surface, but which is mere excrement, and so little +essential that it can be skimmed away: and, as the dross to the +metal, just so little essential are the archaisms you speak of to the +early art, and just so easily can they be cast aside. But bethink +you, Kosmon. Is Hellenic art without archaisms? And that feature of +it held to be its crowning perfection--its head--is not that a very +marked one? And, is it not so completely opposed to the artist's +experience in the forms of nature that--except in subjects from Greek +history and mythology--he dares not use it--at least without +modifying it so as to destroy its Hellenism? + +_Sophon._ Then Hellenic Art is like a musical bell with a flaw in it; +before it can be serviceable it must be broken up and recast. If its +sum of beauty--its line of lines, the facial angle, must be +destroyed--as it undoubtedly must,--before it can be used for the +general purposes of art, then its claims over early mediaeval art, in +respect of form, are small indeed. But is it not altogether a great +archaism? + +_Kalon._ Oh, Sophon! weighty as are the reasons urged against +Hellenic art by Christian and yourself, they are not weighty enough +to outbalance its beauty, at least to me: at present they may have +set its sun in gloom; yet I know that that obscuration, like a dark +foreground to a bright distance, will make its rising again only the +more surpassingly glorious. I admire its exquisite creations, because +they are beautiful, and noble, and perfect, and they elevate me +because I think them so; and their silent capabilities, like the +stardust of heaven before the intellectual insight, resolve +themselves into new worlds of thoughts and things so ever as I +contemplate their perfections: like a prolonged music, full of sweet +yet melancholy cadences, they have sunk into my heart--my brain--my +soul--never, never to cease while life shall hold with me. But, for +all that, my hands are not full; and, whithersoever the happy seed +shall require me, I am not for withholding plough or spade, planting +or watering; and that which I am called in the spirit to do--will I +do manfully and with my whole strength. + +_Sophon._ Kalon, the conclusion of your speech is better than the +commencement. It is better to sacrifice myrrh and frankincense than +virtue and wisdom, thoughts than deeds. Would that all men were as +ready as yourself to dispark their little selfish enclosures, and +burn out all their hedges of prickly briers and brambles--turning the +evil into the good--the seed-catching into the seed-nourishing. Of +the too consumptions let us prefer the active, benevolent, and +purifying one of fire, to the passive, self-eating, and corrupting +one of rust: one half minute's clear shining may touch some watching +and waiting soul, and through him kindle whole ages of light. + +_Christian._ Men do not stumble over what they know; and the day +fades so imperceptibly into night that were it not for experience, +darkness would surprise us long before we believed the day done: and, +in relation to art, its revolutions are still more imperceptible in +their gradations; and, in fulfilling themselves, they spread over +such an extent of time, that in their knowledge the experience of one +artist is next to nothing; and its twilight is so lengthy, that those +who never saw other, believe its gloom to be day; nor are their +successors more aware that the deepening darkness is the contrary, +until night drops big like a great clap of thunder, and awakes them +staringly to a pitiable sense of their condition. But, if we cannot +have this experience through ourselves, we can through others; and +that will show us that Pagan art has once--nay twice--already brought +over Christian art a "darkness which might be felt;" from a little +handful cloud out of the studio of Squarcione, it gathered density +and volume through his scholar Mantegna--made itself a nucleus in the +Academy of the Medici, and thence it issued in such a flood of +"heathenesse" that Italy finally became covered with one vast deep +and thick night of Pagandom. But in every deep there is a lower deep; +and, through the same gods-worship, a night intenser still fell upon +art when the pantomime of David made its appearance. With these two +fearful lessons before his eyes, the modern artist can have no other +than a settled conviction that Pagan art, Devil-like, glozes but to +seduce--tempts but to betray; and hence, he chooses to avoid that +which he believes to be bad, and to follow that which he holds to be +good, and blots out from his eye and memory all art between the +present and its first taint of heathenism, and ascends to the art +previous to Raffaelle; and he ascends thither, not so much for its +forms as he does for its THOUGHT and NATURE--the root and trunk of +the art-tree, of whose numerous branches form is only one--though the +most important one: and he goes to pre-Raffaelle art for those two +things, because the stream at that point is clearer and deeper, and +less polluted with animal impurities, than at any other in its +course. And, Kalon and Kosmon, had you remembered this, and at the +same time recollected that the words, "Nature" and "Thought" express +very peculiar ideas to modern eyes and ears--ideas which are totally +unknown to Hellenic Art--you would have instantly felt, that the +artist cannot study from it things chiefest in importance to him--of +which it is destitute, even as is a shore-driven boulder of life and +verdure. + + + + +On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May + + + The sun looked over the highest hills, + And down in the vales looked he; + And sprang up blithe all things of life, + And put forth their energy; + The flowers creeped out their tender cups, + And offered their dewy fee; + And rivers and rills they shimmered along + Their winding ways to the sea; + And the little birds their morning song + Trilled forth from every tree, + On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May. + + Lord Thomas he rose and donned his clothes; + For he was a sleepless man: + And ever he tried to change his thoughts, + Yet ever they one way ran. + He to catch the breeze through the apple trees, + By the orchard path did stray, + Till he was aware of a lady there + Came walking adown that way: + Out gushed the song the trees among + Then soared and sank away, + On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May. + + With eyes down-cast care-slow she came, + Heedless of shine or shade, + Or the dewy grass that wetted her feet, + And heavy her dress all made: + Oh trembled the song the trees among, + And all at once was stayed, + On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May. + + Lord Thomas he was a truth-fast knight, + And a calm-eyed man was he. + He pledged his troth to his mother's maid + A damsel of low degree: + He spoke her fair, he spoke her true + And well to him listened she. + He gave her a kiss, she gave him twain + All beneath an apple tree: + The little birds trilled, the little birds filled + The air with their melody, + On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May. + + A goodly sight it was, I ween, + This loving couple to see, + For he was a tall and a stately man, + And a queenly shape had she. + With arms each laced round other's waist, + Through the orchard paths they tread + With gliding pace, face mixed with face, + Yet never a word they said: + Oh! soared the song the birds among, + And seemed with a rapture sped, + On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May. + + The dew-wet grass all through they pass, + The orchard they compass round; + Save words like sighs and swimming eyes + No utterance they found. + Upon his chest she leaned her breast, + And nestled her small, small head, + And cast a look so sad, that shook + Him all with the meaning said: + Oh hushed was the song the trees among, + As over there sailed a gled, + On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May. + + Then forth with a faltering voice there came, + "Ah would Lord Thomas for thee + That I were come of a lineage high, + And not of a low degree." + Lord Thomas her lips with his fingers touched, + And stilled her all with his ee': + "Dear Ella! Dear Ella!" he said, + "Beyond all my ancestry + Is this dower of thine--that precious thing, + Dear Ella, thy purity. + Thee will I wed--lift up thy head-- + All I have I give to thee-- + Yes--all that is mine is also thine-- + My lands and my ancestry." + The little birds sang and the orchard rang + With a heavenly melody, + On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May. + + + + +Modern Giants + + +Yes! there are Giants on the earth in these days; but it is their +great bulk, and the nearness of our view, which prevents us from +perceiving their grandeur. This is how it is that the glory of the +present is lost upon the contemporaries of the greatest men; and, +perhaps this was Swift's meaning, when he said that Gulliver could +not discover exactly what it was that strode among the corn-ridges in +the Brobdignagian field: thus, we lose the brightness of things of +our own time in consequence of their proximity. + +It is of the development of our individual perceptions, and the +application thereof to a good use, that the writer humbly endeavours +to treat. We will for this purpose take as an example, that which may +be held to indicate the civilization of a period more than any thing +else; namely, the popular perception of the essentials of Poetry; and +endeavour to show that while the beauties of old writers are +acknowledged, (tho' not in proportion to the attention of each +individual in his works to nature alone) the modern school is +contemned and unconsidered; and also that much of the active poetry +of modern life is neglected by the majority of the writers +themselves. + +There seems to be an opinion gaining ground fast, in spite of all the +shaking of conventional heads, that the Poets of the present day are +equal to all others, excepting one: however this may be, it is +certain we are not fair judges, because of the natural reason stated +before; and there is decidedly one great fault in the moderns, that +not only do they study models with which they can never become +intimately acquainted, but that they neglect, or rather reject as +worthless, that which they alone can carry on with perfect success: I +mean the knowledge of themselves, and the characteristics of their +own actual living. Thus, if a modern Poet or Artist (the latter much +more culpably errs) seeks a subject exemplifying charity, he rambles +into ancient Greece or Rome, awakening not one half the sympathy in +the spectator, as do such incidents as may be seen in the streets +every day. For instance; walking with a friend the other day, we met +an old woman, exceedingly dirty, restlessly pattering along the kerb +of a crowded thoroughfare, trying to cross: her eyes were always +wandering here and there, and her mouth was never still; her object +was evident, but for my own part, I must needs be fastidious and +prefer to allow her to take the risk of being run over, to overcoming +my own disgust. Not so my friend; he marched up manfully, and putting +his arm over the old woman's shoulder, led her across as carefully as +though she were a princess. Of course, I was ashamed: ashamed! I was +frightened; I expected to see the old woman change into a tall angel +and take him off to heaven, leaving me her original shape to repent +in. On recovering my thoughts, I was inclined to take up my friend +and carry him home in triumph, I felt so strong. Why should not this +thing be as poetical as any in the life of Saint Elizabeth of Hungary +or any one else? for, so we look at it with a pure thought, we shall +see about it the same light the Areopagite saw at Jerusalem surround +the Holy Virgin, and the same angels attending and guarding it. + +And there is something else we miss; there is the poetry of the +things about us; our railways, factories, mines, roaring cities, +steam vessels, and the endless novelties and wonders produced every +day; which if they were found only in the Thousand and One Nights, or +in any poem classical or romantic, would be gloried over without end; +for as the majority of us know not a bit more about them, but merely +their names, we keep up the same mystery, the main thing required for +the surprise of the imagination. + +Next to Poetry, Painting and Music have most power over the mind; and +how do you apply this influence? In what direction is it forced? Why, +for the last, you sit in your drawing-rooms, and listen to a quantity +of tinkling of brazen marches of going to war; but you never see +before your very eyes, the palpable victory of leading nature by her +own power, to a conquest of blessings; and when the music is over, +you turn to each other, and enthusiastically whisper, "How +fine!"--You point out to others, (as if they had no eyes) the +sentiment of a flowing river with the moon on it, as an emblem of the +after-peace, but you see not this in the long white cloud of steam, +the locomotive pours forth under the same moon, rushing on; the +perfect type of the same, with the presentment of the struggle +beforehand. The strong engine is never before you, sighing all night, +with the white cloud above the chimney-shaft, escaping like the +spirits Solomon put his seal upon, in the Arabian Tales; these +mightier spirits are bound in a faster vessel; and then let forth, as +of little worth, when their work is done. + +The Earth shakes under you, from the footfall of the Genii man has +made, and you groan about the noise. Vast roads draw together the +Earth, and you say how they spoil the prospect, which you never cared +a farthing about before. + +You revel in Geology: but in chemistry, the modern science, +possessing thousands of powers as great as any used yet, you see no +glory:--the only thought is so many Acids and Alkalies. You require a +metaphor for treachery, and of course you think of our puny old +friend the Viper; but the Alkaline, more searching and more unknown, +that may destroy you and your race, you have never heard of,--and yet +this possesses more of the very quality required, namely, mystery, +than any other that is in your hands. + +The only ancient character you have retained in its proper force is +Love; but you seem never to see any light about the results of long +labour of mind, the most intense Love. Devotedness, magnanimity, +generosity, you seem to think have left the Earth since the Crusades. +In fact, you never go out into Life: living only in the past world, +you go on repeating in new combinations the same elements for the +same effect. You have taught an enlightened Public, that the province +of Poetry is to reproduce the Ancients; not as Keats did, with the +living heart of our own Life; but so as to cause the impression that +you are not aware that they had wives and families like yourselves, +and laboured and rested like us all. + +The greatest, perhaps, of modern poets seeming to take refuge from +this, has looked into the heart of man, and shown you its pulsations, +fears, self-doubts, hates, goodness, devotedness, and noble +world-love; this is not done under pretty flowers of metaphor in the +lispings of a pet parson, or in the strong but uncertain fashion of +the American school; still less in the dry operose quackery of +professed doctors of psychology, mere chaff not studied from nature, +and therefore worthless, never felt, and therefore useless; but with +the firm knowing hand of the anatomist, demonstrating and making +clear to others, that the knowledge may be applied to purpose. All +this difficult task is achieved so that you may read till your own +soul is before you, and you know it; but the enervated public +complains that the work is obscure forsooth: so we are always looking +for green grass--verdant meads, tall pines, vineyards, etc., as the +essentials of poetry; these are all very pretty and very delicate, +the dust blows not in your eyes, but Chaucer has told us all this, +and while it was new, far better than any one else; why are we not to +have something besides? Let us see a little of the poetry of man's +own works,--"Visibly in his garden walketh God." + +The great portion of the public take a morbid delight in such works +as Frankenstein, that "Poor, impossible monster abhorred," who would +be disgusting if he were not so extremely ludicrous: and all this +search after impossible mystery, such trumpery! growing into the +popular taste, is fed with garbage; doing more harm than all the +preachings and poundings of optimistic Reviews will be able to remedy +in an hundred years. + +The study of such matters as these does other harm than merely +poisoning the mind in one direction; it renders us sceptical of +virtue in others, and we lose the power of pure perception. So +--reading the glorious tale of Griselda and looking about you, you +say there never was such a woman; your wise men say she was a fool; +are there no such fools round about you? pray look close:--so the +result of this is, you see no lesson in such things, or at least +cannot apply it, and therefore the powers of the author are thrown +away. Do you think God made Boccaccio and Chaucer to amuse you in +your idle hours, only that you might sit listening like crowned +idiots, and then debate concerning their faithfulness to truth? You +never can imagine but they knew more of nature than any of us, or +that they had less reverence for her. + +In reference to Painting, the Public are taught to look with delight +upon murky old masters, with dismally demoniac trees, and dull waters +of lead, colourless and like ice; upon rocks that make geologists +wonder, their angles are so impossible, their fractures are so new. +Thousands are given for uncomfortable Dutch sun-lights; but if you +are shown a transcript of day itself, with the purple shadow upon the +mountains, and across the still lake, you know nothing of it because +your fathers never bought such: so you look for nothing in it; nay, +let me set you in the actual place, let the water damp your feet, +stand in the chill of the shadow itself, and you will never tell me +the colour on the hill, or where the last of the crows caught the +sinking sunlight. Letting observation sleep, what can you know of +nature? and you _are_ a judge of landscape indeed. So it is that the +world is taught to think of nature, as seen through other men's eyes, +without any reference to its own original powers of perception, and +much natural beauty is lost. + + + + +To the Castle Ramparts + + + The Castle is erect on the hill's top, + To moulder there all day and night: it stands + With the long shadow lying at its foot. + That is a weary height which you must climb + Before you reach it; and a dizziness + Turns in your eyes when you look down from it, + So standing clearly up into the sky. + + I rose one day, having a mind to see it. + 'Twas on a clear Spring morning, and a blackbird + Awoke me with his warbling near my window: + My dream had fashioned this into a song + That some one with grey eyes was singing me, + And which had drawn me so into myself + That all the other shapes of sleep were gone: + And then, at last, it woke me, as I said. + The sun shone fully in on me; and brisk + Cool airs, that had been cold but for his warmth, + Blow thro' the open casement, and sweet smells + Of flowers with the dew yet fresh upon them,-- + Rose-buds, and showery lilacs, and what stayed + Of April wallflowers. + + I set early forth, + Wishing to reach the Castle when the heat + Should weigh upon it, vertical at noon. + My path lay thro' green open fields at first, + With now and then trees rising statelily + Out of the grass; and afterwards came lanes + Closed in by hedges smelling of the may, + And overshadowed by the meeting trees. + So I walked on with none but pleasant thoughts; + The Spring was in me, not alone around me, + And smiles came rippling o'er my lips for nothing. + I reached at length,--issuing from a lane + Which wound so that it seemed about to end + Always, yet ended not for a long while,-- + A space of ground thick grassed and level to + The overhanging sky and the strong sun: + Before me the brown sultry hill stood out, + Peaked by its rooted Castle, like a part + Of its own self. I laid me in the grass, + Turning from it, and looking on the sky, + And listening to the humming in the air + That hums when no sound is; because I chose + To gaze on that which I had left, not that + Which I had yet to see. As one who strives + After some knowledge known not till he sought, + Whose soul acquaints him that his step by step + Has led him to a few steps next the end, + Which he foresees already, waits a little + Before he passes onward, gathering + Together in his thoughts what he has done. + + Rising after a while, the ascent began. + Broken and bare the soil was; and thin grass, + Dry and scarce green, was scattered here and there + In tufts: and, toiling up, my knees almost + Reaching my chin, one hand upon my knee, + Or grasping sometimes at the earth, I went, + With eyes fixed on the next step to be taken, + Not glancing right or left; till, at the end, + I stood straight up, and the tower stood straight up + Before my face. One tower, and nothing more; + For all the rest has gone this way and that, + And is not anywhere, saving a few + Fragments that lie about, some on the top, + Some fallen half down on either side the hill, + Uncared for, well nigh grown into the ground. + The tower is grey, and brown, and black, with green + Patches of mildew and of ivy woven + Over the sightless loopholes and the sides: + And from the ivy deaf-coiled spiders dangle, + Or scurry to catch food; and their fine webs + Touch at your face wherever you may pass. + The sun's light scorched upon it; and a fry + Of insects in one spot quivered for ever, + Out and in, in and out, with glancing wings + That caught the light, and buzzings here and there; + That little life which swarms about large death; + No one too many or too few, but each + Ordained, and being each in its own place. + The ancient door, cut deep into the wall, + And cramped with iron rusty now and rotten, + Was open half: and, when I strove to move it + That I might have free passage inwards, stood + Unmoved and creaking with old uselessness: + So, pushing it, I entered, while the dust + Was shaken down upon me from all sides. + The narrow stairs, lighted by scanty streaks + That poured in thro' the loopholes pierced high up, + Wound with the winding tower, until I gained, + Delivered from the closeness and the damp + And the dim air, the outer battlements. + + There opposite, the tower's black turret-girth + Suppressed the multiplied steep chasm of fathoms, + So that immediately the fields far down + Lay to their heaving distance for the eyes, + Satisfied with one gaze unconsciously, + To pass to glory of heaven, and to know light. + Here was no need of thinking:--merely sense + Was found sufficient: the wind made me free, + Breathed, and returned by me in a hard breath: + And what at first seemed silence, being roused + By callings of the cuckoo from far off, + Resolved itself into a sound of trees + That swayed, and into chirps reciprocal + On each side, and revolving drone of flies. + + Then, stepping to the brink, and looking sheer + To where the slope ceased in the level stretch + Of country, I sat down to lay my head + Backwards into a single ivy-bush + Complex of leaf. I lay there till the wind + Blew to me, from a church seen miles away, + Half the hour's chimes. + + Great clouds were arched abroad + Like angels' wings; returning beneath which, + I lingered homewards. All their forms had merged + And loosened when my walk was ended; and, + While yet I saw the sun a perfect disc, + There was the moon beginning in the sky. + + + + +Pax Vobis + + + 'Tis of the Father Hilary. + He strove, but could not pray: so took + The darkened stair, where his feet shook + A sad blind echo. He kept up + Slowly. 'Twas a chill sway of air + That autumn noon within the stair, + Sick, dizzy, like a turning cup. + His brain perplexed him, void and thin: + He shut his eyes and felt it spin; + The obscure deafness hemmed him in. + He said: "the air is calm outside." + + He leaned unto the gallery + Where the chime keeps the night and day: + It hurt his brain,--he could not pray. + He had his face upon the stone: + Deep 'twixt the narrow shafts, his eye + Passed all the roofs unto the sky + Whose greyness the wind swept alone. + Close by his feet he saw it shake + With wind in pools that the rains make: + The ripple set his eyes to ache. + He said, "Calm hath its peace outside." + + He stood within the mystery + Girding God's blessed Eucharist: + The organ and the chaunt had ceased: + A few words paused against his ear, + Said from the altar: drawn round him, + The silence was at rest and dim. + He could not pray. The bell shook clear + And ceased. All was great awe,--the breath + Of God in man, that warranteth + Wholly the inner things of Faith. + He said: "There is the world outside." + + _Ghent: Church of St. Bavon._ + + + + +A Modern Idyl + + + "Pride clings to age, for few and withered powers, + Which fall on youth in pleasures manifold, + Like some bright dancer with a crowd of flowers + And scented presents more than she can hold: + + "Or as it were a child beneath a tree, + Who in his healthy joy holds hand and cap + Beneath the shaken boughs, and eagerly + Expects the fruit to fall into his lap." + + So thought I while my cousin sat alone, + Moving with many leaves in under tone, + And, sheened as snow lit by a pale moonlight, + Her childish dress struck clearly on the sight: + That, as the lilies growing by her side + Casting their silver radiance forth with pride, + She seemed to dart an arrowy halo round, + Brightening the spring time trees, brightening the ground; + And beauty, like keen lustre from a star, + Glorified all the garden near and far. + The sunlight smote the grey and mossy wall + Where, 'mid the leaves, the peaches one and all, + Most like twin cherubim entranced above, + Leaned their soft cheeks together, pressed in love. + + As the child sat, the tendrils shook round her; + And, blended tenderly in middle air, + Gleamed the long orchard through the ivied gate: + And slanting sunbeams made the heart elate, + Startling it into gladness like the sound,-- + Which echo childlike mimicks faintly round + Blending it with the lull of some far flood,-- + Of one long shout heard in a quiet wood. + A gurgling laugh far off the fountain sent, + As if the mermaid shape that in it bent + Spoke with subdued and faintest melody: + And birds sang their whole hearts spontaneously. + + When from your books released, pass here your hours, + Dear child, the sweet companion of these flowers, + These poplars, scented shrubs, and blossomed boughs + Of fruit-trees, where the noisy sparrows house, + Shaking from off the leaves the beaded dew. + Now while the air is warm, the heavens blue, + Give full abandonment to all your gay + Swift childlike impulses in rompish play;-- + The while your sisters in shrill laughter shout, + Whirling above the leaves and round about,-- + Until at length it drops behind the wall,-- + With awkward jerks, the particoloured ball: + Winning a smile even from the stooping age + Of that old matron leaning on her page, + Who in the orchard takes a stroll or two, + Watching you closely yet unseen by you. + + Then, tired of gambols, turn into the dark + Fir-skirted margins of your father's park; + And watch the moving shadows, as you pass, + Trace their dim network on the tufted grass, + And how on birch-trunks smooth and branches old, + The velvet moss bursts out in green and gold, + Like the rich lustre full and manifold + On breasts of birds that star the curtained gloom + From their glass cases in the drawing room. + Mark the spring leafage bend its tender spray + Gracefully on the sky's aerial grey; + And listen how the birds so voluble + Sing joyful paeans winding to a swell, + And how the wind, fitful and mournful, grieves + In gusty whirls among the dry red leaves; + And watch the minnows in the water cool, + And floating insects wrinkling all the pool. + + So in your ramblings bend your earnest eyes. + High thoughts and feelings will come unto you,-- + Gladness will fall upon your heart like dew,-- + Because you love the earth and love the skies. + + Fair pearl, the pride of all our family: + Girt with the plenitude of joys so strong, + Fashion and custom dull can do no wrong: + Nestling your young face thus on Nature's knee. + + + + +"Jesus Wept" + + + Mary rose up, as one in sleep might rise, + And went to meet her brother's Friend: and they + Who tarried with her said: "she goes to pray + And weep where her dead brother's body lies." + So, with their wringing of hands and with sighs, + They stood before Him in the public way. + "Had'st Thou been with him, Lord, upon that day, + He had not died," she said, drooping her eyes. + Mary and Martha with bowed faces kept + Holding His garments, one on each side.--"Where + Have ye laid him?" He asked. "Lord, come and see." + The sound of grieving voices heavily + And universally was round Him there, + A sound that smote His spirit. Jesus wept. + + + + + +Sonnets for Pictures + + +1. For a Virgin and Child, by Hans Memmelinck; in the Academy of +Bruges + + Mystery: God, Man's Life, born into man + Of woman. There abideth on her brow + The ended pang of knowledge, the which now + Is calm assured. Since first her task began, + She hath known all. What more of anguish than + Endurance oft hath lived through, the whole space + Through night till night, passed weak upon her face + While like a heavy flood the darkness ran? + All hath been told her touching her dear Son, + And all shall be accomplished. Where he sits + Even now, a babe, he holds the symbol fruit + Perfect and chosen. Until God permits, + His soul's elect still have the absolute + Harsh nether darkness, and make painful moan. + + +2. A Marriage of St. Katharine, by the same; in the Hospital of St. +John at Bruges. + + Mystery: Katharine, the bride of Christ. + She kneels, and on her hand the holy Child + Setteth the ring. Her life is sad and mild, + Laid in God's knowledge--ever unenticed + From Him, and in the end thus fitly priced. + Awe, and the music that is near her, wrought + Of Angels, hath possessed her eyes in thought: + Her utter joy is her's, and hath sufficed. + There is a pause while Mary Virgin turns + The leaf, and reads. With eyes on the spread book, + That damsel at her knees reads after her. + John whom He loved and John His harbinger + Listen and watch. Whereon soe'er thou look, + The light is starred in gems, and the gold burns. + +3. A Dance of Nymphs, by Andrea Mantegna; in the Louvre. + +(It is necessary to mention, that this picture would appear to have +been in the artist's mind an allegory, which the modern spectator may +seek vainly to interpret.) + + Scarcely, I think; yet it indeed _may_ be + The meaning reached him, when this music rang + Sharp through his brain, a distinct rapid pang, + And he beheld these rocks and that ridg'd sea. + But I believe he just leaned passively, + And felt their hair carried across his face + As each nymph passed him; nor gave ear to trace + How many feet; nor bent assuredly + His eyes from the blind fixedness of thought + To see the dancers. It is bitter glad + Even unto tears. Its meaning filleth it, + A portion of most secret life: to wit:-- + Each human pulse shall keep the sense it had + With all, though the mind's labour run to nought. + +4. A Venetian Pastoral, by Giorgione; in the Louvre. + +(In this picture, two cavaliers and an undraped woman are seated in +the grass, with musical instruments, while another woman dips a vase +into a well hard by, for water.) + + Water, for anguish of the solstice,--yea, + Over the vessel's mouth still widening + Listlessly dipt to let the water in + With slow vague gurgle. Blue, and deep away, + The heat lies silent at the brink of day. + Now the hand trails upon the viol-string + That sobs; and the brown faces cease to sing, + Mournful with complete pleasure. Her eyes stray + In distance; through her lips the pipe doth creep + And leaves them pouting; the green shadowed grass + Is cool against her naked flesh. Let be: + Do not now speak unto her lest she weep,-- + Nor name this ever. Be it as it was:-- + Silence of heat, and solemn poetry. + +5. "Angelica rescued from the Sea-monster," by Ingres; in the +Luxembourg. + + A remote sky, prolonged to the sea's brim: + One rock-point standing buffetted alone, + Vexed at its base with a foul beast unknown, + Hell-spurge of geomaunt and teraphim: + A knight, and a winged creature bearing him, + Reared at the rock: a woman fettered there, + Leaning into the hollow with loose hair + And throat let back and heartsick trail of limb. + The sky is harsh, and the sea shrewd and salt. + Under his lord, the griffin-horse ramps blind + With rigid wings and tail. The spear's lithe stem + Thrills in the roaring of those jaws: behind, + The evil length of body chafes at fault. + She doth not hear nor see--she knows of them. + +6. The same. + + Clench thine eyes now,--'tis the last instant, girl: + Draw in thy senses, set thy knees, and take + One breath for all: thy life is keen awake,-- + Thou may'st not swoon. Was that the scattered whirl + Of its foam drenched thee?--or the waves that curl + And split, bleak spray wherein thy temples ache?-- + Or was it his the champion's blood to flake + Thy flesh?--Or thine own blood's anointing, girl?.... + ....Now, silence; for the sea's is such a sound + As irks not silence; and except the sea, + All is now still. Now the dead thing doth cease + To writhe, and drifts. He turns to her: and she + Cast from the jaws of Death, remains there, bound, + Again a woman in her nakedness. + + + + + +Papers of "The M. S. Society" + + +No. IV. Smoke. + + I'm the king of the _Cadaverals_, + I'm _Spectral_ President; + And, all from east to occident, + There's not a man whose dermal walls + Contain so narrow intervals, + So lank a resident. + + Look at me and you shall see + The ghastliest of the ghastly; + The eyes that have watched a thousand years, + The forehead lined with a thousand cares, + The seaweed-character of hairs!-- + You shall see and you shall see, + Or you may hear, as I can feel, + When the winds batter, how these _parchments_ clatter, + And the beautiful tenor that's ever ringing + When thro' the _Seaweed_ the breeze is singing: + And you should know, I know a great deal, + When the _bacchi arcanum_ I clutch and gripe, + I know a great deal of wind and weather + By hearing my own cheeks slap together + A-pulling up a pipe. + + I believe--and I conceive + I'm an authority + In all things ghastly, + First for tenuity + For stringiness secondly, + And sallowness lastly-- + I say I believe a cadaverous man + Who would live as _long_ and as _lean_ as he can + Should live entirely on bacchi-- + On the bacchic ambrosia entirely feed him; + When living thus, so little lack I, + So easy am I, I'll never heed him + Who anything seeketh beyond the _Leaf:_ + For, what with mumbling pipe-ends freely, + And snuffing the ashes now and then, + I give it as my firm belief + One might go living on genteelly + To the age of an antediluvian. + + This from the king to each spectral _Grim_-- + Mind, we address no _bibbing smoker_! + Tell not us 'tis as broad as it's long, + We've no breadth more than a leathern thong + Tanned--or a tarnished poker: + Ye are also lank and slim?-- + Your king he comes of an ancient _line_ + Which "length without breadth" the Gods define, + And look ye follow him! + Lanky lieges! the Gods one day + Will cut off this _line_, as geometers say, + Equal to any given line:-- + PI,--PE--their hands divine + Do more than we can see: + They cut off every length of clay + Really in a most extraordinary way-- + They fill your bowls up--Dutch C'naster, + Shag, York River--fill 'em faster, + Fill 'em faster up, I say. + What Turkey, Oronoko, Cavendish! + There's the fuel to make a chafing dish, + A chafing dish to peel the petty + Paint that girls and boys call pretty-- + Peel it off from lip and cheek: + We've none such here; yet, if ye seek + An infallible test for a raw beginner, + Mundungus will always discover a sinner. + + Now ye are charged, we give the word + Light! and pour it thro' your noses, + And let it hover and lodge in your hair + Bird-like, bird-like--You're aware + Anacreon had a bird-- + A bird! and filled _his_ bowl with roses. + Ha ha! ye laugh in ghastlywise, + And the smoke comes through your eyes, + And you're looking very grim, + And the air is very dim, + And the casual paper flare + Taketh still a redder glare. + + Now thou pretty little fellow, + Now thine eyes are turning yellow, + Thou shalt be our page to-night! + Come and sit thee next to us, + And as we may want a light + See that thou be dexterous. + + Now bring forth your tractates musty, + Dry, cadaverous, and dusty, + One, on the sound of mammoths' bones + In motion; one, on Druid-stones: + Show designs for pipes most ghastly, + And devils and ogres grinning nastily! + Show, show the limnings ye brought back, + Since round and round the zodiac + Ye galloped goblin horses which + Were light as smoke and black as pitch; + And those ye made in the mouldy moon, + And Uranus, Saturn, and Neptune, + And in the planet Mercury, + Where all things living and dead have an eye + Which sometimes opening suddenly + Stareth and startleth strangely + + But now the night is growing better, + And every jet of smoke grows _jetter_, + While yet there blinks sufficient light, + Bring in those skeletons that fright + Most men into fits, but that + We relish for their want of fat. + Bring them in, the Cimabues + With all or each that horribly true is, + Francias, Giottos, Masaccios, + That tread on the tops of their bony toes, + And every one with a long sharp arrow + Cleverly shot through his spinal marrow, + With plenty of gridirons, spikes, and fires + And fiddling angels in sheets and quires. + + Hold! 'tis dark! 'tis lack of light, + Or something wrong in this royal sight, + Or else our musty, dusty, and right + Well-beloved lieges all + Are standing in rank against the wall, + And ever thin and thinner, and tall + And taller grow and _cadaveral!_ + Subjects, ye are sharp and spare, + Every nose is blue and frosty, + And your back-bone's growing bare, + And your king can count your _costae_, + And your bones are clattering, + And your teeth are chattering, + And ye spit out bits of pipe, + Which, shorter grown, ye faster gripe + In jaws; and weave a cloudy cloak + That wraps up all except your bones + Whose every joint is oozing smoke: + And there's a creaky music drones + Whenas your lungs distend your ribs, + A sound, that's like the grating nibs + Of pens on paper late at night; + Your shanks are yellow more than white + And very like what Holbein drew! + Avaunt! ye are a ghastly crew + Too like the Campo Santo--down! + We are your monarch, but we own + That were we not, we very well + Might take ye to be imps of hell: + But ye are glorious ghastly sprites, + What ho! our page! Sir knave--lights, lights, + The final pipes are to be lit: + Sit, gentlemen, we charge ye sit + Until the cock affrays the night + And heralds in the limping morn, + And makes the owl and raven flit; + Until the jolly moon is white, + And till the stars and moon are gone. + + +No. V. Rain. + + The chamber is lonely and light; + Outside there is nothing but night-- + And wind and a creeping rain. + And the rain clings to the pane: + And heavy and drear's + The night; and the tears + Of heaven are dropt in pain. + + And the tears of heaven are dropt in pain; + And man pains heaven and shuts the rain + Outside, and sleeps: and winds are sighing; + And turning worlds sing mass for the dying. + + + + +Reviews + +Christmas Eve and Easter Day: by Robert Browning.--Chapman and Hall. +1850. + + +There are occasions when the office of the critic becomes almost +simply that of an expositor; when his duty is not to assert, but to +interpret. It is his privilege to have been the first to study a +subject, and become familiar with it; what remains is to state facts, +and to suggest considerations; not to lay down dogmas. That which he +speaks of is to him itself a dogma; he starts from conviction: his it +is to convince others, and, as far as may be, by the same means as +satisfied himself; to incite to the same study, doing his poor best, +meanwhile, to supply the present want of it. + +Thus much, indeed, is the critic's duty always; but he generally +feels the right, and has it, of speaking with authority. He condemns, +or gives praise; and his judgment, though merely individual and +subject to revision, is judgment. Before the certainty of genius and +deathless power, in the contemplation of consummate art, his position +changes: and well for him if he knows, and is contented it should be +so. Here he must follow, happy if he only follows and serves; and +while even here he will not shelve his doubts, or blindly refuse to +exercise a candid discrimination, his demur at unquestioning assent, +far from betraying any arrogance, will be discreetly advanced, and on +clearly stated grounds. + +Of all poets, there is none more than Robert Browning, in approaching +whom diffidence is necessary. The mere extent of his information +cannot pass unobserved, either as a fact, or as a title to respect. +No one who has read the body of his works will deny that they are +replete with mental and speculative subtlety, with vivid and most +diversified conception of character, with dramatic incident and +feeling; with that intimate knowledge of outward nature which makes +every sentence of description a living truth; replete with a most +human tenderness and pathos. Common as is the accusation of +"extravagance," and unhesitatingly as it is applied, in a general +off-hand style, to the entire character of Browning's poems, it would +require some jesuitism of self-persuasion to induce any one to affirm +his belief in the existence of such extravagance in the conception of +the poems, or in the sentiments expressed; of any want of +concentration in thought, of national or historical keeping. Far from +this, indeed, a deliberate unity of purpose is strikingly apparent. +Without referring for the present to what are assumed to be perverse +faults of execution--a question the principles and bearing of which +will shortly be considered--assuredly the mention of the names of a +few among Browning's poems--of "Paracelsus," "Pippa Passes," "Luria," +the "Souls's Tragedy," "King Victor and King Charles," even of the +less perfect achievement, "Strafford"; or, passing to the smaller +poems, of "The Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister," "The Laboratory," +and "The Bishop orders his Tomb at St. Praxed's";--will at once +realize to the memory of all readers an abstruse ideal never lost +sight of, and treated to the extreme of elaboration. As regards this +point, we address all in any manner acquainted with the poet's works, +certain of receiving an affirmative answer even from those who +"_can't_ read Sordello, or understand the object of writing in that +style." + +If so many exceptions to Browning's "system of extravagance" be +admitted,--and we again refer for confirmation or refutation to all +who have sincerely read him, and who, valuing written criticism at +its worth, value also at _its_ worth the criticism of individual +conviction,--wherein are we to seek this extravagance? The groundwork +exempted, the imputation attaches, if anywhere, to the framework; to +the body, if not to the soul. And we are thus left to consider the +style, or mode of expression. + +Style is not stationary, or, _in the concrete_, matter of principle: +style is, firstly, national; next, chronological; and lastly, +individual. To try the oriental system by the European, and pronounce +either wrong by so much as it exceeds or falls short, would imply so +entire a want of comprehensive appreciation as can scarcely fail to +induce the conviction, that the two are distinct and independent, +each to be tested on its own merits. Again, were the Elizabethan +dramatists right, or are those of our own day? Neither absolutely, as +by comparison alone; his period speaks in each; and each must be +judged by this: not whether he is true to any given type, but whether +his own type be a true one for himself. And this, which holds good +between nations and ages, holds good also between individuals. Very +different from Shelley's are Wordsworth's nature in description, his +sentiment, his love; Burn's and Keats's different from these and from +each other: yet are all these, nature, and sentiment, and love. + +But here it will be urged: by this process any and every style is +pronounced good, so that it but find a measure of recognition in its +own age and country; nay, even the author's self-approval will be +sufficient. And, as a corollary, each age must and ought to reject +its predecessor; and Voltaire was no less than right in dubbing +Shakspere barbarian. That it is not so, however, will appear when the +last element of truth in style, that with which all others combine, +which includes and implies consistency with the author's self, with +his age and his country, is taken into account. Appropriateness of +treatment to subject it is which lies at the root of all controversy +on style: this is the last and the whole test. And the fact that none +other is requisite, or, more strictly, that all others are but +aspects of this one, will very easily be allowed when it is reflected +that the subject, to be of an earnest and sincere ideal, must be an +emanation of the poet's most secret soul; and that the soul receives +teaching from circumstance, which is the time when and place where. + +This premised, it must next be borne in mind that the poet's +conception of his subject is not identical with, and, in the majority +of cases, will be unlike, his reader's. And, the question of style +(manner) being necessarily subordinate to that of subject (matter), +it is not for the reader to dispute with the author on his mode of +rendering, provided that should be accepted as embodying (within the +bounds of grammatical logic) the intention preconceived. The object +of the poet in writing, why he attempts to describe an event as +resulting from this cause or this, or why he assumes such as the +effect; all these considerations the reader is competent to +entertain: any two men may deduce from the same premises, and may +probably arrive at different conclusions: but, these conclusions +reached, what remains is a question of resemblance, which each must +determine for himself, as best conscious of his own intention. To +take an instance. Shakspere's conception of Macbeth as a man capable +of uttering a pompous conceit-- + + ("Here lay Duncan, + His silver skin laced with his golden blood--") + +in a moment, to him, and to all present, of startling purport, may be +a correct or an impressive conception, or it may be the reverse. That +the rendering of the momentary intention is adequate here there is no +reason to doubt. If so, in what respect is the reader called upon to +investigate a matter of style? He must simply return to the question +of whether this point of character be consistent with others imagined +of the same person; this, answered affirmatively, is an +approval,--negatively, a condemnation, of _intention_; the merit of +_style_, in either case, being mere competence, and that admitted +irrespectively of the reader's liking or disliking of the passage +_per se_, or as part of a context. Why, in this same tragedy of +Macbeth, is a drunken porter introduced between a murder and its +discovery? Did Shakspere really intend him to be a sharp-witted man? +These questions are pertinent and necessary. There is no room for +disputing that this scene is purposely a comic scene: and, if this is +certain, the style of the speech is appropriate to the scene, and of +the scene, to the conception of the drama? Is _that conception_ +admirable? + +We have entered thus at length on the investigation of adequacy and +appropriateness of style, and of the mode by which entire classes of +disputable points, usually judged under that name, may be reduced to +the more essential element of conception; because it will be almost +invariably found, that a mere arbitrary standard of irresponsible +private predilection is then resorted to. Nor can this be well +guarded against. The concrete, _style_, being assumed as always +constituting an entity auxiliary to, but not of necessity modified +by, and representing subject,--as something substantially +pre-existing in the author's mind or practice, and belonging to him +individually; the reader will, not without show of reason, betake +himself to the trial of personality by personality, another's by his +own; and will thus pronounce on poems or passages of poems not as +elevated, or vigorous, or well-sustained, or the opposite, in idea, +but, according to certain notions of his own, as attractive, +original, or conventional writing. + +Thus far as regards those parts of execution which concern human{13} +embodiment--the metaphysical and dramatic or epic faculties. Of style +in description the reader is more nearly as competent a judge as the +writer. In the one case, the poet is bound to realize an idea, which +is his own, and the justness of which, and therefore of the form of +its expression, can be decided only by reasoning and analogy; in the +other, having for his type material phaenomena, he must reproduce the +things as cognizable by all, though not hereby in any way exempt from +adhering absolutely to his proper perception of them. Here, even as +to ideal description or simile, the reader can assert its truth or +falsehood of purpose, its sufficiency or insufficiency of means: but +here again he must beware of exceeding his rights, and of +substituting himself to his author. He must not dictate under what +aspect nature is to be considered, stigmatizing the one chosen, +because his own bent is rather towards some other. In the exercise of +censure, he cannot fairly allow any personal _peculiarities_ of view +to influence him; but will have to decide from common grounds of +perception, unless clearly conscious of short-coming, or of the +extreme of any corresponding peculiarity on the author's part. + +{13} In employing the word "human," we would have our intention +understood to include organic spiritualism--the superhuman treated, +from a human _pou sto,_ as ideal mind, form, power, action, &c. + +In speaking of the adaptation of style to conception, we advanced +that, details of character and of action being a portion of the +latter, the real point to determine in reference to the former is, +whether such details are completely rendered in relation to the +general purpose. And here, to return to Robert Browning, we would +enforce on the attention of those among his readers who assume that +he spoils fine thoughts by a vicious, extravagant, and involved +style, a few analytical questions, to be answered unbiassed by +hearsay evidence. Concerning the dramatic works: Is the leading idea +conspicuously brought forward throughout each work? Is the language +of the several speakers such as does not create any impression other +than that warranted by the subject matter of each? If so, does it +create the impression apparently intended? Is the character of speech +varied according to that of the speaker? Are the passages of +description and abstract reflection so introduced as to add to +poetic, without detracting from dramatic, excellence? About the +narrative poems, and those of a more occasional and personal quality +the same questions may be asked with some obvious adaptation; and +this about all:--Are the versification strong, the sound sharp or +soft, monotonous, hurried, in proportion to the requirement of sense; +the illustrative thoughts apt and new; the humour quaint and +relishing? Finally, is not in many cases that which is spoken of as +something extraneous, dragged in aforethought, for the purpose of +singularity, the result more truly of a most earnest and +single-minded labor after the utmost rendering of idiomatic +conversational truth; the rejection of all stop-gap words; about the +most literal transcript of fact compatible with the ends of poetry +and true feeling for Art? This a point worthy note, and not capable +of contradiction.{14} + +{14} We may instance several scenes of "Pippa Passes,"--the +concluding one especially, where Pippa reviews her day; the whole of +the "Soul's Tragedy,"--the poetic as well as the prose portion; "The +Flight of the Duchess;" "Waring," &c.; and passages continually +recurring in "Sordello," and in "Colombe's Birthday." + +These questions answered categorically will, we believe, be found to +establish the assurance that Browning's style is copious, and +certainly not other than appropriate,--instance contrasted with +instance--as the form of expression bestowed on the several phases of +a certain ever-present form of thought. We have already endeavored to +show that, where style is not inadequate, its object as a means being +attained, the mind must revert to its decision as to relative and +collective value of intention: and we will again leave Browning's +manifestations of intellectual purpose, as such, for the verdict of +his readers. + +To those who yet insist: "Why cannot I read Sordello?" we can only +answer:--Admitted a leading idea, not only metaphysical but subtle +and complicated to the highest degree; how work out this idea, unless +through the finest intricacy of shades of mental development? +Admitted a philosophic comprehensiveness of historical estimate and a +minuteness of familiarity with details, with the added assumption, +besides, of speaking with the very voice of the times; how present +this position, unless by standing at an eminent point, and addressing +thence a not unprepared audience? Admitted an intense aching +concentration of thought; how be self-consistent, unless uttering +words condensed to the limits of language?--And let us at last say: +Read Sordello again. Why hold firm that you ought to be able at once +to know Browning's stops, and to pluck out the heart of his mystery? +Surely, if you do not understand him, the fact tells two ways. But, +if you _will_ understand him, you shall. + +We have been desirous to explain and justify the state of feeling in +which we enter on the consideration of a new poem by Robert Browning. +Those who already feel with us will scarcely be disposed to forgive +the prolixity which, for the present, has put it out of our power to +come at the work itself: but, if earnestness of intention will plead +our excuse, we need seek for no other. + + + + +The Evil under the Sun + + + How long, oh Lord?--The voice is sounding still, + Not only heard beneath the altar stone, + Not heard of John Evangelist alone + In Patmos. It doth cry aloud and will + Between the earth's end and earth's end, until + The day of the great reckoning, bone for bone, + And blood for righteous blood, and groan for groan: + Then shall it cease on the air with a sudden thrill; + Not slowly growing fainter if the rod + Strikes one or two amid the evil throng, + Or one oppressor's hand is stayed and numbs,-- + Not till the vengeance that is coming comes: + For shall all hear the voice excepting God? + Or God not listen, hearing?--Lord, how long? + + +_Published Monthly.--Price One Shilling._ + + Art and Poetry, + Being Thoughts towards Nature. + + Conducted principally by Artists. + +Of the little worthy the name of writing that has ever been written +upon the principles of Art, (of course excepting that on the mere +mechanism), a very small portion is by Artists themselves; and that +is so scattered, that one scarcely knows where to find the ideas of +an Artist except in his pictures. + +With a view to obtain the thoughts of Artists, upon Nature as evolved +in Art, in another language besides their _own proper_ one, this +Periodical has been established. Thus, then, it is not open to the +conflicting opinions of all who handle the brush and palette, nor is +it restricted to actual practitioners; but is intended to enunciate +the principles of those who, in the true spirit of Art, enforce a +rigid adherence to the simplicity of Nature either in Art or Poetry, +and consequently regardless whether emanating from practical Artists, +or from those who have studied nature in the Artist's School. + +Hence this work will contain such original Tales (in prose or verse), +Poems, Essays, and the like, as may seem conceived in the spirit, or +with the intent, of exhibiting a pure and unaffected style, to which +purpose analytical Reviews of current Literature--especially +Poetry--will be introduced; as also illustrative Etchings, one of +which latter, executed with the utmost care and completeness, will +appear in each number. + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Germ, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GERM *** + +***** This file should be named 17649.txt or 17649.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/6/4/17649/ + +Produced by Andrew Sly + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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