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diff --git a/old/66838-0.txt b/old/66838-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 43c7d81..0000000 --- a/old/66838-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6699 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Coasting Bohemia, by Joseph Comyns Carr - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Coasting Bohemia - -Author: Joseph Comyns Carr - -Release Date: November 28, 2021 [eBook #66838] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive/American - Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COASTING BOHEMIA *** - - - - -COASTING BOHEMIA - - - - - [Illustration] - - MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED - LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA - MELBOURNE - - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO - DALLAS · SAN FRANCISCO - - THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. - TORONTO - - - - - COASTING BOHEMIA - - BY - J. COMYNS CARR - AUTHOR OF ‘KING ARTHUR,’ ‘TRISTRAM AND ISEULT,’ ‘PAPERS ON ART,’ - ‘SOME EMINENT VICTORIANS,’ ETC. ETC. - - - MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED - ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON - 1914 - - - - -COPYRIGHT - - - - -INTRODUCTORY NOTE - - -Many of the papers which give to the present volume its title first -appeared in the columns of the _Daily Telegraph_, and are here -reprinted by the courteous permission of the proprietors of that -journal. - -A portion of the essay on Burne-Jones was originally designed as an -introduction to the catalogue of an exhibition of his collected works -held, shortly after his death, at the New Gallery. The essay on Sex in -Tragedy was written on the occasion of Sir Henry Irving’s last revival -of the play of _Macbeth_ at the Lyceum Theatre. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - BOHEMIA PAST AND PRESENT 1 - - SOME MEMORIES OF MILLAIS 12 - - AT HOME WITH ALMA-TADEMA 26 - - WITH ROSSETTI IN CHEYNE WALK 42 - - EDWARD BURNE-JONES 56 - - JAMES M‘NEIL WHISTLER 89 - - THE ENGLISH SCHOOL OF PAINTING AT THE ROMAN EXHIBITION 101 - - WITH GEORGE MEREDITH ON BOX HILL 134 - - THE LEGEND OF PARSIFAL 147 - - SEX IN TRAGEDY 162 - - HENRY IRVING 199 - - A SENSE OF HUMOUR 213 - - SITTING AT A PLAY 227 - - SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN 242 - - THE JUNIOR OF THE CIRCUIT 253 - - BY THE SIDE OF A STREAM 264 - - - INDEX 279 - - - - -BOHEMIA PAST AND PRESENT - - -The papers which compose this volume make no claim to any sort of -ordered plan in their composition. They reflect in some measure the -varied activities of a life that has been passed in close association -with more than one of the arts, and therein lies their sole title to so -much of coherence as they may be found to possess. - -Lord Beaconsfield once defined critics as men who had failed in art. -The reproach, however, is not always deserved, for youth is often -confident in its judgment of others at a time when it is still too -timorous to make any adventure of its own. For myself I may confess -that I had adopted the calling of a critic long before I had found -the courage to make even the most modest incursion into the field of -authorship. My first essays in journalism, made at a time when I was -still a student at the bar, were chiefly concerned with the art of -painting, and I look back now with feelings almost of dismay at the -spirit of reckless assurance in which I then assumed to measure and -appraise the achievement of contemporary masters. A little later in -my career I was brought into still closer contact with the art of the -theatre, and in both these worlds, as well as in that of literature -itself, I was fortunate in the formation of many valued and enduring -friendships which have enabled me, in such of the following chapters -as bear a distinctively biographical character, to record my personal -impressions of some of the notable figures in the literature and art of -the later Victorian era. - -The reader who accompanies me in my voyage along the shores of the -Bohemia of that time will quickly realise that it is not quite the -Bohemia of to-day. Indeed since Shakespeare first boldly conceded -to the kingdom a seaboard, each succeeding age, and almost every -generation, has claimed the liberty to refashion this enchanted country -in accordance with its own ideals. The coast-line has been recharted -by every voyager who has newly cruised upon its encompassing seas, and -in recent days its boundaries have been enlarged by the occasional -incursions of Society which has lately condescended to include the -concerns of art within the sphere of its patronage. But although no -longer retaining its old outlines upon the map, there is enough of -continuity in the character of the inhabitants and in the subjects of -their preoccupation to render a brief survey of earlier conditions of -something more than merely archaeological interest. If much has been -gained, something also has been lost, and the traveller who survives to -set down the experiences of that earlier time may perhaps be pardoned -if he cannot always accept the changes which have transformed the face -of the country, or modified the mental attitude of its citizens, as -improvements upon the prospect that first dawned upon his vision forty -years ago. - -I read the other day a confident pronouncement made by one of the -apostles of the more modern spirit which gave me the measure of the -revolution that has been effected in all that concerns our judgment -upon matters of art. “Art,” declared this authority, “cannot stop: the -moment it rests and repeats itself, or imitates the past, it dies.” -There is here no faltering or uncertainty in the assertion of those -principles of faith and criticism which are embodied in the newer -gospel, and it took me a little time to steady myself in the face of -a declaration which seemed to overturn the settled convictions of a -lifetime. But after much pondering my courage returned. I perceived -that apart from the underlying truism that life implies movement, and -that art as its image must share its vitality, there is nothing here -that is not highly disputable or wholly false. Art indeed never stops -but it does not always go forward: the movement perceptible at every -stage of its history has been as often retrograde as progressive, and -although it can never repeat itself, there have been again and again -long seasons of rest when after a period of great productivity the land -which has yielded so rich a harvest lies fallow. - -But the final clause of the proposition, that imitation of the past -heralds approaching dissolution, is demonstrably untrue of every great -epoch of artistic activity. A fearless spirit of imitation, born of the -worship yielded to the achievements of an earlier time, may, on the -contrary, be claimed as the hall-mark of genius, and is indeed most -frankly confessed in the work of men of unchallenged supremacy. Raphael -exhibited neither shame nor fear in the frank reliance of his youth -upon the example of Perugino: the painting of Titian, with an equal -candour, confesses the extent of his debt to Giovanni Bellini, and -Tintoret, who certainly could not be cited as a man deficient in the -spirit of independence, made it his boast that he combined the design -of Michelangelo with the colouring of Titian: while of Michelangelo -himself we have it on record that in one of his earlier efforts as a -sculptor a deliberate imitation of the antique carried him near to -the confines of forgery. And when we pass from individuals to the -epoch which produced them, was not the main impulse which governed -the movement of the Renaissance inspired by a renewed sense of the -beauty that was left resident in the surviving examples of the Art of -the antique world? And all later time yields a similar experience. -That newly born spirit in modern painting associated with what is -known as the pre-Raphaelite movement rested upon the untiring effort -of its professors to recapture the forgotten or neglected qualities -of the painting of an earlier time, not indeed of the time which -was its immediate forerunner, but of that still younger day when by -simple means and with technical resources not yet assured, the earlier -painters of Italy sought to interpret the beauty they found in nature. -The spirit of imitation, conscious and unabashed, was of the very life -blood of the movement, and it was in their devotion to that period in -Italian painting which preceded the crowning glory of the Renaissance -that the artists whose work constitutes the most important contribution -to the painting of modern Europe were led to a stricter veracity in the -rendering of the facts in nature which they sought to interpret. - -But the men who laboured in that day were not greatly affected by -the declared ambitions of the present generation. Originality had -not yet been accepted as the cardinal virtue in any of the fields -of imaginative production, and the illusion of progress, which may -be said to rank as the special vice of the moment, found no place in -the teaching of the time. Thinking over this widely desired and much -vaunted quality of Originality in art, I was minded to turn to old -Samuel Johnson to discover what particular meaning was then attached to -a term that is now in such constant use. But my curiosity was baffled, -for I discovered to my disappointment that this much treasured word -finds no place at all in the pages of his _Dictionary_. The world is -therefore free to conjecture in what way, if he were living in this -hour, that sane and virile intelligence might have sought to describe -it. As applied to matters of art, whether literary or pictorial, he -would perhaps have been tempted to define it as “a word in vulgar use -employed to indicate a vulgar ambition.” But without burdening the -great lexicographer with views which the exigencies of the time did not -provoke him to express, this at least may be confidently affirmed, that -the pursuit of whatever virtue the word implies can have no place in -the conscious equipment of any great artist. Certainly it was unknown -or unregarded in every great epoch of the past. It is impossible to -think of even the least of the mighty race of Florentine painters, -from Giotto to Michelangelo, sparing one foolish moment from the -eager intentness of their labour to ponder whether the judgment of -aftertime should hail their work as original. That work, in common -with all else that is produced in obedience to the impulse which is -constantly shaping the beauties of the outer world till they are tuned -into harmony with the spirit resident in the breast of the artist, had -no need of any spur to production beyond that which is provided by a -reverent love and an unceasing devotion, and it survives to prove, if -proof were needed, that this boasted attribute of Originality, though -it may fitly find a place in the epitaph upon an artist’s tomb, never -since the world began formed any part in the impulse that governed the -work of his hand. - -The undue importance now assigned to this coveted quality of -Originality is partly the outcome of the illusion to which I have -already referred,--that art is in its nature progressive and is in -fact constantly and steadily progressing. It must be obvious, however, -to any one who has followed the fortunes of the imaginative spirit in -the past, that history affords no warrant for any such pretension. -In whatever field of artistic industry we choose to enter, in the -world of letters no less than the world of art, strictly so called, -the testimony of the ages bears witness to the fact that the sense -of restless and unceasing movement is not always accompanied by any -real advancement. Fate has scattered over the centuries with impartial -indifference to the onward march of time those signal examples of -individual genius which mark for us the summit of human invention. -No one supposes that Dryden was a greater dramatist than Shakespeare -because he came later: no one would be so foolish as to suggest that a -comparison between Lycidas and Adonais can be decided by reference to -the historical position of their authors. - -And yet it is not difficult to understand how in our more modern day -this illusion of progress has fastened itself upon the judgment and -consideration of the things of art. The rapid strides made by science -during the last fifty or sixty years, yielding at every step some -new discovery to arrest the admiration of a wondering world, has not -unnaturally bred an inappropriate spirit of rivalry in the minds of -men whose mission it was to deal with the widely divergent problems of -the imagination. Indeed it is easy to discern in the literature of the -Victorian era that some of its professors were apt to be haunted by the -fear that their different appeal might be partly overborne or wholly -silenced unless they too could prove to their generation that what -they had to offer for its acceptance registered something of a like -superiority to the product of earlier times. - -The sense of inexhaustible variety, characteristic of all art -that truly images the spirit of man, has by a false analogy been -confused with the onward march of science where every addition to -the accumulated harvest garnered in the past uplifts each succeeding -generation upon the shoulders of its forerunner. Art cannot compete on -such terms, and any comparison so conducted must relegate its claims -to an inferior place; yet though so much may be freely confessed, it -does not therefore follow that its unchanging appeal is to be counted -as an unequal factor in shaping the destinies of humanity. The work of -the man of science, however pre-eminent the place assigned to him in -his generation, must of necessity yield place to the larger discoveries -made by even the humblest of his followers; while the work of the -artist, the outcome of individual vision engaged upon the unchanging -passions of man and the unfading beauty of the world he inhabits, -stands secure against any assault from the future; in its nature -distinct from all that has preceded it as from all that may follow in -the time to come. It knows neither rivalry nor competition, for in the -temple wherein the artist worships, each worshipper has his separate -and appointed place. In the matchless words of Shelley, - - Life, like a dome of many coloured glass, - Stains the white radiance of eternity, - -and although the light beyond to which the artist lifts his eyes is -of unchanging purity, the myriad hues through which it is transmitted -yields to each separate vision the impress of an individuality which no -after achievement can challenge or destroy. - -But there are recurring seasons in the history of every art when the -worker becomes unduly conscious of the medium in which he labours, -and correspondingly forgetful of the truth he seeks to interpret. -It was this that Wordsworth had in his mind when he urged upon the -poet the necessity of keeping his eye upon the object, and it is not -difficult to perceive how easily in the present hour the reiterated -demand for Originality, enforced by the vulgar illusion that art to be -a living force must be a progressive force, invites the invasion of -the charlatan. It would perhaps not be too much to say that the little -corner of time we now inhabit constitutes a veritable paradise for the -antics of every form of conscious imposture. - -But this fact, even if it be conceded, need not greatly disturb us. -The patient labour of men more worthily inspired still survives. The -more aggressive spirits in every department of art, who in their -haste to secure the verdict of the future are eager to cast overboard -the hoarded treasure of the past, may find when time’s award comes -to be recorded that they have won nothing but the gaping wonder of -the fleeting moment. The judgment of posterity refuses to be hustled -however loud or shrill the voices that call upon it, and we may take -comfort in the thought that the whispered message, perhaps only half -audible in its generation, has often been the first to win the ear of -the future. - - - - -SOME MEMORIES OF MILLAIS - - -There are men in every walk of life who would seem deliberately to -shun the outward trappings of their calling. During his later years, -when I knew Robert Browning well, it always appeared to me that he was -at particular pains not to make any social appeal which could be held -to rest on his claims as a poet. The homage that fell to him on that -score he accepted as his due, but always, as I thought, on the implied -understanding that in the daily traffic of social life the subject -should not be rashly intruded. In the many and varied circles in which -he moved he made no demand of any formal tribute to the distinguished -place he held in the world of letters; and it was sometimes matter for -wonder to those who met him constantly to note with what apparently -eager and sincere interest he entered into the discussion of any -trivial topic in which it was not to be supposed that he could have -been very deeply concerned. Like Lord Byron, whose gifts as a poet -he held in no great esteem, he was rather anxious--at any rate, in -the earlier stages of acquaintanceship--that his position as a poet -should be regarded as a thing apart; and he was apt, I think, to be -embarrassed by any persistent endeavour to penetrate the outward shard -of the man of the world, wherein he preferred to render himself easily -accessible to a wide circle of friends, few of whom would have deemed -themselves competent to enter into any sustained discussion of literary -topics. - -Among the painters of his time Millais would, I think, have owned to -a like inclination. Neither in his personality nor in his bearing was -he at any pains to announce himself to the world as an artist; and -if not in his earlier days, at any rate at the time I first began -to know him, he seemed to seek by preference the comradeship of men -whose distinction had been won in another field. In self-esteem he was -certainly at no time lacking; he could accept in full measure praise -of his own work from whatever quarter it came; and in that respect he -differed from Browning, whose nature seemed to stand in less need of -flattery, or even of expressed appreciation. On occasion, indeed, and -with only moderate encouragement, Millais could be beguiled into a -confession of confident faith in his own powers that might sometimes -seem to border on arrogance, but at the worst it was no more than -the arrogance of an overgrown boy, put forward with such genuine -conviction as to rob it of all offence. At these times he would give -you the impression that, having won the top place in his class, he -intended to hold it. He could not readily endure the thought, or even -the suspicion, that there was anybody qualified to supplant him, and -he was apt to be impatient, and even restive, when other claims were -advanced, as though he felt the world was wasting time till it reached -the consideration of what he was genuinely convinced was a higher -manifestation of artistic power. And yet thee judgments upon himself, -even when they were delivered in the most buoyant and conquering -spirit, never left the savour of pretentious vanity. There was an air -of impartiality that I think was genuine, even when his self-esteem was -most emphatically expressed, as though he were recording the award of -a higher tribunal, in whose verdict his own personality was in no way -involved. - -And then there was so much that was immediately lovable in the man -himself as distinguished from the artist! I have heard it said by an -older friend who knew him in the season of his youth that when, as a -mere boy, he quitted the schools of the Academy to begin the practice -of his art, he had the face and form of an Adonis, and his handsome -and commanding presence when I first met him, toward the close of the -seventies, a man then nearing fifty years of age, made it easy to -believe that this record of the charm of his youthful appearance was -in no way exaggerated. And yet the frank outlook of the face, with its -clear blue eyes, and firm, yet finely-modelled mouth, though it spoke -clearly of power and resource, and betrayed in every changing mood of -expression the unconquerable optimism of a nature that retained its -full vitality to the last, did not, I think, then, or at any time, -yield any decisive indication of the direction in which his gifts -were employed. Afterwards I learned to find in his features the true -index of the finer qualities of his genius, but at our first encounter -it seemed to me rather that I stood in the presence of a robust -personality that had been bred and nurtured in the free air of the -country. - -It was always, indeed, easier to think of him as one of a happy and -careless company during those annual fishing and shooting holidays in -which he so greatly delighted, than to picture him a prisoner in a -London studio, arduously applying himself to the problems of his art. -And, in point of fact, he always brought something of that sense of -breezy, outdoor life into the spacious studio at Palace Gate. Perhaps, -if he could have followed his own inclination, he would have passed -a greater part of his life on the banks of the northern river that -he loved so well. Quite in the later years of his life, when he was -rebuking his old friend and comrade, Holman Hunt, upon a too obstinate -indifference to the taste of his time, he said to him: “Why, if I were -to go on like that, I should never be able to go away in the autumn to -fish and shoot. You take my advice, old boy, and just take the world -as it is, and don’t make it your business to rub up people the wrong -way.” Millais’s ready acquiescence in the demands of his generation -was to some extent an element of weakness in his artistic character, -leading him occasionally, as he more than once confessed to me himself, -into errors of taste that he was afterwards shrewd enough to detect -and candid enough to deplore; but however far he may on occasion have -been led astray towards a certain triviality in choice of subject, this -tendency never impugned or injured his integrity as a painter in the -chosen task he had set himself to accomplish. The presence of nature, -either in human face or form, or in the facts of the external world, -proved a tonic that sufficed to restore his artistic conscience, and -I do not think he was ever satisfied by the exercise of any acquired -facility, for it was both the strength and the weakness of his art that -his ultimate success in any particular adventure largely depended upon -the inspiration supplied by his model. - -One day we were talking of technique, and I remember Millais, who was -at the time in some trouble with a portrait that he could not get to -his satisfaction, roundly declared that, for an artist worth the name, -there was no such thing as technique. “Look at me now,” he said; “I -can’t get this face right, and it has been the same with me all through -my life--with every fresh subject I have to learn my art all over -again.” Such a confession came well from a man who, from the earliest -time of his precocious and marvellous boyhood, had in the native gifts -of a painter clearly outpaced and outdistanced the most accomplished of -his contemporaries, and yet it was made in no spirit of mock modesty, -but out of a clear conviction that an artist’s conflict with nature is -ceaseless and unending, no matter what degree of mastery the world may -choose to accord him. - -We first met at the Old Arts Club, in Hanover Square. He was not a very -constant visitor there, for his inclination, as I have already hinted, -did not often carry him into a mixed company of his fellow-workers; but -he occasionally looked in of an evening after dinner, and sometimes -I used to walk away with him towards his home in Kensington. In his -talk at the club he was apt to exhibit a genuine impatience of any -desponding view of the present condition or the future prospects of -English art, and the unbroken success of his own career--for at that -time he had long outlived, and perhaps almost forgotten, the struggles -of his youth--made it, I think, really difficult for him to comprehend -that the arena in which he had won his undisputed place was not the -best of all possible worlds. But this overbearing optimism of view was -not always entirely sympathetic in its appeal; he was apt to brush -aside with imperfect consideration the comparative failure of his less -fortunate contemporaries, and it was not until long afterwards that -I grew to realise that this apparent indifference to the fortunes of -others sprang less from any natural lack of sympathy than from an -intellectual incapacity to understand the possibility of real merit -failing to secure recognition. Something of an egotism that was at -times almost aggressive must indeed be allowed to him--an egotism which -I believe left him with a genuine belief that nearly all other ideals -than those he followed were misguided, and that lesser achievements -than his own scarcely merited prolonged consideration. - -But when we had left the club and were alone together in the street -the more human and sympathetic side of his character often came into -play. Not that he was, even then, apt to lavish extravagant praise -upon his immediate contemporaries, but he could speak often and -lovingly of the men with whom he had been brought into association in -his earlier days, both in literature and in art, always reverting, in -terms of special affection, to his friendship for John Leech, of whom -he was wont to say that he was “the greatest gentleman of them all.” -Dickens, too, he genuinely admired, though the great novelist had -failed to recognise the earlier efforts of his genius; and he had many -interesting anecdotes of Thackeray, with whom he had been brought into -close contact during the time when he was engaged in the practice of -illustration, telling me how, during periods of illness, he would be -summoned to the distinguished editor’s bedside to receive instructions -for the drawings he was commissioned to execute for the _Cornhill -Magazine_. - -It was during one of those talks about Thackeray that he related how he -came to make his first acquaintance with the name of Frederic Leighton, -in an anecdote which he afterwards told with telling effect, as part -of a speech at the Arts Club, on the occasion of Leighton’s election -to the post of President of the Academy. He recounted how Thackeray -had warmly praised the talents of the young painter, whom he had met -in Rome, prophesying for him the final distinction he afterwards -achieved; and Millais confessed how, even then, he had felt a certain -measure of jealousy in the novelist’s warmth of appreciation, conscious -that he already cherished the idea that he himself would one day -occupy the presidential chair. And so, indeed, he did, but the honour -fell upon him almost too late, when he was already in the grip of the -malady that was destined to carry him to the grave. But his reference -to the work of other painters, however distinguished, was, as I have -already hinted, comparatively rare, and the dominant impression left -from all our talks of that time was of a man whose own ever-increasing -prosperity had left him partially blind to qualities in others that had -missed an equal measure of recognition. He could perceive little or no -flaw in a world which had accorded to him his unchallenged position. - -The finer and gentler side of Millais, half hidden from me then under -an overpowering and impenetrable armour of optimism, I learned to -know better when, as one of the directors of the Grosvenor Gallery, -I assisted in the arrangement of the collected display of his life’s -work. That was in the year 1886, and I can vividly recall with what -easy self-complacency he anticipated the pleasure which he would derive -from this long-looked-for opportunity of seeing the product of many -years of labour displayed in a single exhibition. Before the arrival -of the paintings themselves, many of which he had not seen from the -time they had left his easel, he was afflicted by no trace of the -nervous apprehension which I have found not uncommonly betrayed by -other artists in similar circumstances. But the triumphant buoyancy -of this earlier mood was replaced by many an hour of deep dejection -when the works themselves appeared in their place; and that dejection -again was sometimes as swiftly replaced by a spirit of almost unlimited -self-esteem as he discovered in some particular example qualities -greater than his recollection had accorded it. - -The essential charm of the man’s nature shone out very clearly -during that fortnight of preparation, and the invulnerable armour of -self-esteem in which he was wont to appear before the world would -sometimes fall from him in an instant, leaving in its place a spirit -of humility that belonged to the deeper part of his nature. It was -sometimes almost touching to note the mood of obvious dejection in -which he would quit the gallery at the close of the day’s work, and -no less interesting to observe with what alacrity the next morning he -would recapture the confident outlook that was a part of the necessity -of his being. He would sometimes be in the gallery half an hour or -more before the usual time for the work of hanging to begin, and we -would find him on our arrival with his short cherrywood pipe in his -mouth surveying with evident satisfaction the pictures already placed -upon the walls. And on those occasions he would often run his arm -through mine and draw me away to compel my admiration of some forgotten -excellence in this picture or in that, the renewed vision of which had -sufficed completely to restore his self-complacency. - -But these moments of exultation were not long-enduring, and it was -an integral part of the fascinating _naïveté_ of his character that -he could with equal emphasis in the presence of some less desirable -performance accuse himself roundly of having slipped into vulgarity and -bad taste. There was one thing, however, he never could endure, and -that was the suggestion that his latest achievement was not also his -best, and this conviction so entirely possessed him that he set himself -in very vigorous fashion to the task of correcting what he conceived -to be the faults of some of his earlier works. I confess I looked upon -this adventure with something approaching dismay, for it was evident -enough, though he was in no way conscious of it, that the Millais of -1886 was not the Millais of thirty years before, who had laboured under -the influence of earlier and different ideals. Happily the emphatic -protests of one or two of the owners from whom the pictures had been -borrowed cut short this crusade of fancied improvement upon which he -had embarked, and in one instance, although sorely against his will, he -was forced to remove the fresh painting from the surface of the canvas. - -Some of the essays of that earlier time of youthful impulse and more -poetic design had grown unfamiliar to him. Many of them he had not -seen from the date when they first left his studio, and I recall in -particular with what eager and yet nervous expectation he awaited the -arrival of “The Huguenot,” a picture that had served as the foundation -of his fame as a young man. I think as he saw it unpacked, with its -delicate beauty untarnished by time, that for the moment his faith in -the uninterrupted progress of his career was partly shaken. I know at -least that his voice trembled with emotion as he muttered some blunt -words of praise for a picture which, as he said, was “not so bad for -a youngster,” and I remember that as it took its place upon the wall, -after gazing at it intently for some time in silence, he relit his pipe -and took his way thoughtfully down the stairs into the street. - -Millais used to contend that, until the advent of Watteau, the beauty -of women had found no fit interpreters in art, and he would cite the -example of Rembrandt as showing how poorly the feminine features which -he portrayed compared with the lovely faces imaged by Reynolds and -Gainsborough. Perhaps he was hardly equipped to deliver final judgment -on such a subject, for I do not think he leaned with any enthusiasm -towards those finer examples of Italian painting wherein the subtleties -of feminine beauty have certainly not suffered by neglect. But these -dogmatic assertions of men of genius, if they are not irrefutable in -themselves, are often instructive in illuminating the finer tendencies -of their own achievement; and it will remain as one of Millais’s -indestructible claims to recognition that both in his earlier and -in his later time he was able to interpret with matchless power the -finer shades of emotional expression in the faces of beautiful women. -When the chosen model rightly inspired him--and without that model -his invention was often vapid and inert--he could succeed in a degree -which no other artist has matched or surpassed in registering not only -the permanent facts of beauty in form and feature, but in arresting -with equal felicity the most fleeting moments of tender or passionate -expression. - -In the later days of his life it was at the Garrick Club that I saw -most of Millais, for there, in the card-room, he was to be found -nearly every afternoon, and as we both then dwelt in Kensington we -often wandered homeward together. The buoyancy of his youth and early -manhood never quite deserted him, even at that sadder season, when -he was already in conflict with that dread opponent against whom his -all-conquering spirit was powerless, and I never heard from him, -however great the dejection of spirit he must have suffered, a single -sour word concerning life or nature. His outlook on the world was -never tainted by self-compassion, never clouded by any bitterness of -personal experience, and one came to recognise then, as his life and -strength gradually waned and failed, that the spirit of optimism which -seemed sometimes unsympathetic in the season of his opulent vigour and -virility was indeed a beauty deeply resident in his character, which -even the shadow of coming death was powerless to cloud or darken. - - - - -AT HOME WITH ALMA-TADEMA - - -The death of Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, following only too closely upon -the loss of his gracious and gifted wife, finally closed the doors -of one of the most delightful houses that overlooked the shores of -Bohemia. They both possessed in rare measure the genius of friendship, -and to both belonged the fine and generous sympathy of nature which is -the abiding secret of true hospitality. And in their case a friendship -once formed was steadfastly held. There are men and women not a few, -who, as they advance along the path that leads to fame and distinction, -contrive to shed the friends and comrades of an earlier day in haste to -make room for guests more important or influential. This was never true -of Tadema at any period of his career, and those who can recall the -earlier Tuesday evenings at Townshend House, which looked across the -waters of the canal to the green shade of the Regent’s Park, can bear -witness that the simplest and most modest of his associates of that -time found as cordial a welcome in the more spacious premises which he -afterwards built for himself in the Grove End Road. - -It was in the year 1877 that I first became an intimate guest at the -pleasant weekly receptions at Townshend House, and I remember that -what first struck me about them was the delightful sense of ease and -informality that the host and hostess contrived to infuse into every -gathering. Sometimes the friends assembled might number only a few; -sometimes the rooms would be thronged with all that was most notable -in the world of literature and art; but the party, whether large or -small, knew no constraint of dulness, nor were we ever oppressed by -that overpowering sense of social decorum which is apt to benumb the -best-intentioned efforts of ordinary English hospitality. And, this I -think, was due in great measure to an element in Tadema’s character -that was almost unique. - -Shakespeare has told us of the “boy eternal,” and many men of -distinction have owned and kept that quality to the end of their days. -But Tadema went one better, for he retained throughout his life some -of the simple impulses and attributes of a veritable child. He had -the wondering delight of a child in each new experience as it came -within the range of his vision, and there were times when some passing -ebullition of temper would betray something also of a child’s wayward -petulance. It was characteristic of this side of his nature, which -for the rest ranked among the most masculine and virile I have known, -that he preserved to the last a child’s abiding delight in all forms -of mechanical toys. This was a weakness well known to his intimate -friends, who, on the annual occasion of his birthday, would vie with -one another in presenting him with the most admired achievements of the -toy-maker’s art. I remember, in particular, a certain ferocious tiger, -which moved by clock-work across the polished floor of the studio. -Tadema was absolutely fascinated by the antics of this mimic beast, -remaining under the spell of its enchantment during the whole of the -evening; and whenever a pause in the music permitted it, I could hear -the whirr of the wheels of the clock as the delighted owner of this new -plaything prepared to start it again upon an excursion round the room. - -These birthday parties were occasions fondly cherished by our host. He -loved every detail in the little ceremonial that might be arranged for -their celebration, and would reckon up with the earnest intentness of -a schoolboy over his first sum in arithmetic, the candles set around -his birthday cake, that counted the sum of his years. And then followed -the inevitable speech proposing his health--a task which usually fell -to my lot; whereupon Tadema, who always thought that whatever was done -in his honour exceeded in excellence any tribute accorded to another, -would stoutly maintain that, as an effort in oratory, it far surpassed -any speech he had ever heard made. This naïve delight of his in little -things, that remained as a constant element of his character, was -linked with a large generosity of nature in all that concerned the -greater issues of life. And if he exacted from all who came within -the range of his influence the little acts of homage and respect that -he thought were his due, there was no one who would so freely place -himself at the disposal of those whom he believed he could serve. He -loved to gather round him the young students of his craft, ever on -the alert to note and welcome new talent as it appeared, and when his -counsel or advice was needed, he would spare neither time nor pains to -afford the aid and encouragement which his superb technical resources -so well fitted him to bestow. I have heard artists of position declare -that if they had reached some crux in a picture that proved difficult -of solution, there was no one so helpful as Tadema; and this, I -think, was due mainly to the fact that his quick sympathy and swift -apprehension enabled him at once to appreciate the point of view of the -comrade who had sought his advice. - -The last of those pleasant Tuesday evenings at Townshend House, which -occurred in the spring of 1885, brought with it a certain feeling of -sadness that found constant expression as the evening wore on. We had -all become deeply attached to the quaintly-adorned dwelling where so -many joyous evenings had been passed, and some there were who may have -been conscious of a lurking fear lest the more spacious premises that -were then in course of reconstruction in the Grove End Road should rob -these festive gatherings of some part of the ease and intimacy that had -hitherto been their most delightful characteristic. Certain it was that -for his friends during many months to come, the week would contain no -Tuesday worth the name, and as we parted that night I think there was a -wide-spread feeling that the new order of things could never rival the -old. But such fears, so often justified by experience, proved in this -case wholly without foundation, and when, in the autumn of 1887, we -were bidden to the richly-decorated new studio, in the construction of -which Tadema had taken such infinite delight, it was found that the old -spirit of hospitality, unchanged and unimpaired, was able quickly to -accommodate itself to its more imposing surroundings. - -I had known the house in Grove End Road before it took on the stamp -of Tadema’s quaint invention and fanciful ingenuity. It had been -inhabited by the French painter Tissot during a great part of his -residence in England, and I recall a dinner party given by him on an -occasion shortly after the opening of the Grosvenor Gallery, at which -he announced to me his serious and solemn intention of making a radical -revolution in the purpose and direction of his art. Up to that time -the pictures of this most adroit of craftsmen had been wholly mundane, -it might even be said demi-mundane, in character; but he had been -profoundly impressed by the recent display of the works of Burne-Jones, -to which the public for the first time had accorded a larger welcome; -and it immediately struck the shrewd spirit of Tissot that there were -commercial possibilities in the region of ideal art of which he was -bound as a practical man to take account and advantage. As he himself -naïvely expressed it on that evening: “Vraiment, mon ami, je vois qu’il -y a quelque chose à faire”; and he forthwith led the way to his studio, -where he had already commenced a group of allegorical subjects, to the -infinite amusement of his friend Heilbuth, who at that time, I think, -knew him better than he knew himself. - -In those days, Tadema and Burne-Jones were scarcely acquainted. -Their real friendship came a little later, but when it came it was -very genuine and sincere, resting on a certain quality of simplicity -which they owned in common and a strong feeling of mutual respect and -esteem. Their ways in art lay far asunder, but each knew how to value -at their true worth the gifts of the other. From time to time they -would both join me in little Bohemian feasts at Previtali’s Restaurant -in Coventry Street, where we would sit till the closing hours in -pleasant converse that was never permitted to be protractedly serious. -Tadema generally prefaced the evening with an anecdote which he always -believed to be entirely new, and even when its hoary antiquity was not -in doubt, Burne-Jones never failed to supply a full measure of the -laughing appreciation that was due to novelty. In his more serious -moods, however, Tadema’s talk was marked by deep conviction and entire -sincerity. He never acquired complete mastery over our language, but he -could always find the word or phrase that reached the heart of what he -wanted to say. In his art, no less than in his views on art and life, -he was desperately in earnest, and there was something even in the -quality of his voice that aptly mirrored the mind and character of the -man. Indeed, to be quite correct, it was not one voice, but two, for -sometimes even within the compass of a single sentence the tone would -swiftly change from the guttural notes that betrayed his northern -origin to those softer cadences that seemed to echo from some southern -belfry. - -I have often thought that this contrast of intonation in his speech -reflected in a measure the dual influences that dominated his painting. -By his heart’s desire, he belonged to a land that was not the land of -his birth and to an epoch far removed from the present. The call of -the spirit led him backward and southward--to the streets of ancient -Rome and the sunlit shores of the Mediterranean; but, for all his -journeyings, his genius as a painter remained securely domiciled under -northern skies. The saving grace of his art, whatever the material -upon which it was employed, differed little, indeed, from that which -gives its surviving charm to the art of his countryman De Hoogh. Both -will live in virtue of their unfailing love of light. It is that, -or, at least, that above all else, that will make their achievements -delightful and indestructible. “No man has ever lived,” Burne-Jones -once said to me, “who has interpreted with Tadema’s power the incidence -of sunlight on metal and marble.” And although Tadema left the simple -interiors of De Hoogh far behind him in his learned reconstruction of -the buildings of antiquity, it was with a temper and purpose closely -allied to that of De Hoogh that he loved to revel in quaintly-chosen -effects of light and shade, admitting sometimes only the tiniest corner -of the full sunshine from the outer world, just to illumine as with the -dazzling brilliance of a jewel the imprisoned half-tones that flood the -foregrounds of his pictures. - -To those who can look below the surface, this central quality of his -genius, which he inherited as part of his birthright, will be found -reappearing in unbroken continuity throughout the splendid series of -his work that lately adorned the walls of Burlington House. Their -fertile invention, and the strong and vivid sense of drama that often -moves that invention; the patient industry and wide learning which -have served to recreate the classic environment wherein his chosen -characters live and have their being--these things would count for -little in the final impression left by his art, if he had not carried -with him in all his wanderings into the past and towards the south, -that vitalising principle of light, which, in hands fitly inspired, -is able to bestow even upon inanimate things a pulsing and sentient -existence. “There is nothing either beautiful or ugly,” as Constable -once said, “but light and shade makes it so.” Alma-Tadema had learnt -this secret long ago, when he was little more than a boy, and before he -had quitted his native land, and he retained it to the very end of his -career. - -This is not the occasion to appraise at its full value the worth -of Tadema’s artistic achievement, nor would even those who are his -warmest admirers seek to deny that in many of its aspects it is open -to criticism. But at a time when the antics of the charlatan are -invading almost every realm of art, his patient and unswerving loyalty -to a chosen ideal stands forth as a shining example to all who may -come after him. That his powers in the region of design confessed -some inherent limitations he himself was entirely conscious. I -remember one day when we were discussing the claims of several of his -contemporaries, he said to me suddenly, “You know, my dear fellow, -there are some painters who are colour-blind, and some painters who are -form-blind. Now, Leighton, for instance, is colour-blind, and I--well, -I, you know, am form-blind.” The criticism was perhaps unduly severe in -both directions, but it announced a pregnant truth and proved that he -was not unaware of those particular qualities in which his weakness was -apt to betray itself. - -This was said during the time when Hallé and I were arranging the -collected exhibition of his works at the Grosvenor Gallery, and when -he had had a full opportunity of passing in review the gathered -achievement of many years’ labour. Those days we passed together -superintending the process of hanging were wholly delightful, and -served to bring out many interesting characteristics of Tadema’s -nature. When the exhibition was first projected Tadema had laid -down a rule for our guidance, which he emphatically declared must -not be departed from. “The arrangement,” he said, “must be strictly -chronological”; for the whole interest of such a collection, as he -held, lay in the image it presented of an artist’s gradual development. -We offered no objection at the time, though we knew well by previous -experience that adherence to so rigid a principle was inconsistent with -decorative effect; and we were, therefore, not unduly surprised when -Tadema appeared one morning with the revolutionary announcement that -the chronological arrangement must go by the board; insisting, with -the air of a man who had hitherto unwillingly yielded to our pedantic -tradition, that the only fit way to hang an exhibition was to make the -pictures look well upon the walls. - -The last time I met Alma-Tadema was at a little supper party given by -Sir Herbert Tree on the occasion of the first performance of _Macbeth_. -It was impossible for those who had known him in the days of his full -vigour not to be conscious even then that his health was failing. From -the time of his wife’s death, he had never, indeed, shown the same -elasticity of spirit, though with valiant courage he had set himself to -take up the broken thread of his life, retaining even to the last that -loving and humorous welcome of his friends that had been his unfailing -characteristic in happier days. But although admittedly no longer -robust, his unflagging interest in the theatre and his friendship for -Tree had brought him from home on that evening, and availed to hold him -a prisoner for the little impromptu feast that followed the play. - -My first experience of Tadema’s work for the theatre was on the -occasion of the production of Mr. Ogilvie’s play of _Hypatia_, when I -had persuaded him, at Tree’s invitation, to undertake the designs for -the scenery and costumes. This is a kind of work to which many gifted -painters cannot readily adapt themselves. But Tadema’s constructive -talent, his rare ingenuity in dealing with architectural problems, and, -above all, his unrivalled gifts in contriving diversified effects of -light and shade, amply fitted him for such a task; and the difficulty -which some painters experience of yoking their intended design with the -interpretative resources of the scenic artists, proved no difficulty -to him. He loved their art with all its infinite devices for the -production of illusion, and he knew how to treat them in a spirit of -true and loyal comradeship. At the first I had been a little nervous -on this score, but, one day, when I asked him how he and the principal -scene-painter were progressing, he relieved me of all anxiety upon the -matter by the emphatic announcement that he and his associate were in -such complete agreement that, as he quaintly phrased it from a peasant -formula recalled from the land of his birth, “we are like two hands -on one stomach.” As the production neared completion, I remember one -evening, we were waiting for Tadema, who had been detained by a council -meeting at the Royal Academy. The most important scene was ready set, -and, as it seemed to us, with really admirable effect; but when Tadema -arrived everything was wrong. He scattered objection and criticism in -every direction, sometimes, as I thought, with so little reason that -I cast about to discover what could be the source of his discontent. -Suddenly I remembered that the hour was late, and that, as he had come -straight from Burlington House to keep the appointment, the probability -was that he had not dined. I put the question to him, and his answer -was immediate, “Of course I have not dined.” “Then,” I said, “let us -dine, and leave the men to put these matters right.” The cure acted -like magic, for when we returned to the theatre an hour later, Tadema -readily found a way by which every defect might be set right. - -I was associated with him at a later time with several other -productions which he made for the stage, notably the _Coriolanus_, in -the later days of the Lyceum, and, in a lesser degree as far as my work -was concerned, in the _Julius Caesar_ presented by Sir Herbert Tree. -I think such work was always a pleasure to him, because it brought -into play qualities that are not directly involved in the work of -a painter. His talent had always a strongly practical side, and it -was that which made the construction and perfecting of his own house -so keen a pleasure to him. His labours there would, I believe, have -remained incomplete even if he had lived for another twenty years. He -was always discovering new possibilities that opened the door for fresh -improvements, and his knowledge of the details of every craft employed -in his service was so exacting and complete that the skilled artificers -who laboured for him knew well that they were under the trained eye of -a master as well as of an employer. - -When I called at his house on the day that brought the news of his -death, the quaintly covered way that leads to the front door was girt -on either side by a wealth of varied blooms that had been made ready -by his gardener to greet his expected return from abroad; and then, a -few days later, as I stood beside his coffin that had been reverently -set down in the great studio, I found it buried beneath an avalanche -of flowers, which his countless friends had sent as a last mark of -love and affection. And it was, indeed, a fitting tribute to the -dead artist; for Tadema, while he lived, had an absolute passion for -flowers. As a painter he would linger with untiring devotion over each -separate petal of every separate bloom, and yet with such a sustained -sense of mastery in the rendering of their beauty that when the result -was complete the infinite mass of perfected detail was found to be -firmly bound together by the controlling force of a single effect of -light and shade. To a young man who stood beside his easel on a day -when he was making a careful study of azaleas that formed an integral -part of the design upon which he was engaged, Tadema summed up in -a single sentence the spirit in which he constantly laboured: “The -people of to-day, they will tell you,” he said, “that all this minute -detail--that is not art!” And then, turning again to his picture, he -added in his quaint English: “But it has given me so much pleasure to -paint him that I cannot help thinking it will give, at least, some one -pleasure to look at him, too.” This was the spirit of the older men -before the pestilent pursuit of originality came to infect the modest -worship of Nature, and it will remain as the dominant quality of all -art, whether of to-day or to-morrow, that is destined to outlive the -passing fashion of an hour. - - - - -WITH ROSSETTI IN CHEYNE WALK - - -Passing along the Chelsea Embankment a while ago I was reminded by the -sight of Rossetti’s old house of the number of studios where I was once -a constant visitor, which time had long since left untenanted. Millais, -Leighton, Whistler, Fred Walker, Cecil Lawson, and Burne-Jones were -among the names that crowded upon my recollection; and thinking of -these men and of their work, I could not but be reminded of the changed -spirit in which art has come to be regarded in these later days of -restless experiment and ceaseless research after novelty of form and -expression. - -And yet those earlier times of which I am speaking were also marked -by conflict and controversy; for even in the seventies, when I first -became actively engaged in the study of painting, the stirring spirit -of English Art still throbbed in response to the message that had -been delivered by the pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood more than twenty -years before. It may be a fancy, but I hardly think the workers or -students of a later generation can quite understand the concentrated -eagerness and expectation which awaited each new achievement of that -small group of men upon whom the hope of the time had been set. We did -not, perhaps, then quite realise that the revolution, so far as they -were concerned, was already complete, and that what was to come was -not destined to signalise any new or important development of what had -already been accomplished. - -Millais, Holman Hunt, and Rossetti, the three men who stand as the -authentic founders of the pre-Raphaelite movement, had all, in the only -sense in which their names still stand in linked association, produced -the work by which they will be best remembered. During the twenty years -that had passed since the movement took birth, the output of these -three men, at first bitterly disputed and sometimes keenly resented, -was in a sense the best that any or all of them were destined to give -to the world--in a sense, I say, because their after-career, whatever -new triumphs it proclaimed, exhibited a partial desertion of the aims -which had held them in close comradeship during the brief season of -their youth. It is probable that no three stronger or more distinct -personalities ever laboured in the pursuit of a common purpose; and it -was therefore inevitable that as the years passed they should each -assert in separate ways the widely divergent tendencies which at the -time I am speaking of were held in subjection to a common ideal. But -when it is remembered what their combined efforts had already produced, -the result must stand, I think, as a record unmatched in the domain -of painting by any contemporary achievement in the art of Europe. -Millais had painted and exhibited, among many other and less notable -works, “The Feast of Lorenzo,” “The Carpenter’s Shop,” the “Ophelia,” -the “Huguenot,” and the “Blind Girl”; Holman Hunt, whose methods as -a painter were not calculated to win such ready acceptance, had none -the less firmly established his fame by his picture of the “Light of -the World,” at first roundly denounced by most of the organs of public -opinion, but in the end, as much perhaps by reason of its intense -religious sentiment as by its qualities of pure art, achieving through -the advocacy of Mr. Ruskin a settled place in public esteem; and -Rossetti, although during these years little or nothing had been shown -to the world, was already accepted by those of the inner circle who -were admitted to his confidence as the chief exponent of the spiritual -tendencies of the new movement. - -In 1873, when I first made the acquaintance of Rossetti, I knew more of -his verse than of his painting. The first volume of his poems had been -before the world for nearly three years, and it was hardly wonderful -that the picturesque beauty of his writing, with its occasional direct -reference to paintings and designs of his own, should have stirred -within me an eager curiosity to make acquaintance with the pictures -themselves. It happened about this time that I gained access to the -small but choice collection of Mr. Rae of Birkenhead, which contained -several of the most beautiful of Rossetti’s works; and filled with -admiration of what I had seen, I had written, over the signature of -Ignotus, an article in one of the daily papers containing an incomplete -but enthusiastic appreciation of Rossetti’s powers. Searching where I -could, I afterwards made myself acquainted with some of his designs in -black and white; but still eager for a wider knowledge of a man whose -poetic invention had laid so strong a hold upon me, I ventured to -address myself directly to the recluse of Cheyne Walk, praying that if -he could see his way to grant my request I might be permitted to visit -his studio. From that time our acquaintance began. His letter in reply -to mine, wherein I had mentioned a project then in my mind of enlarging -my brief essay so as to make it more worthy of its subject, already -revealed to me some part of that reticent side of his nature which our -later friendship helped me the better to understand. - -“My youth,” he wrote to me, “was spent chiefly in planning and -designing, and whether I shall still have time to do anything I cannot -tell.” And then, in conclusion, he added: “As to what you ask me about -views connected with my work, I never had any theories on the subject, -or derived, as far as a painter may say so, suggestions of style or -tendency from any source save my own natural impulse.” - -This letter, dated, as I have said, in 1873, shows how little an artist -may be aware what part of his life’s work is destined to constitute his -enduring title to fame. Still eagerly looking forward, he had already -produced the work by which he will be best remembered, for although -in years a young man--he was not more than forty-five at the time of -our first acquaintance--his progress as a painter was not afterwards -destined to record any notable development. “Beata Beatrix,” “The -Loving Cup,” “The Beloved,” the “Monna Vanna,” the “Blue Bower,” and -the “Lady Lilith” already stood to his credit, besides the series of -water-colours, including “Paolo and Francesca,” and the beautiful -pen-and-ink design of “Cassandra.” - -The room into which I was shown on the occasion of my first visit to -Cheyne Walk came to seem to me as aptly characteristic of the man. It -offered few or none of the ordinary features of a studio, and in its -array of books around the walls spoke rather of the man of letters than -of the painter; and the careless disposition of the simple furniture, -though it bore some tokens of the newer fashion introduced by William -Morris and Rossetti himself, made no very serious appeal on the score -of deliberate decoration. It was obviously the painter’s living room -as well as his workshop, and as I came to know it afterwards, remains -associated in my mind with many long evenings of vivid and fascinating -talk, in which Rossetti roamed at will over the fields of literature -and art. But the thing that at once took me by surprise on that first -visit was the masculine and energetic personality of the man himself. - -From what I knew of his persistent seclusion, and in part, also, from -what I had gleaned from the subtle and delicate qualities expressed -both in his painting and in his poetry, I was prepared to find in -their author a man of comparatively frail physique and of subdued -and retiring address. Nothing could be less like the reality that -confronted me on that May afternoon, as he stood beside his easel at -work upon the picture before him. It was not till much later, and then -only by indications half-consciously conveyed, that I recaptured the -picture of Rossetti as I had first found it reflected in his verse -and in his painting. Little by little, as I got to know him better, -I realised that my fancied image of him did indeed mirror qualities -that lay deeply resident in his character; but at the first encounter -it was the dominating strength and vigour of his intellect and the -overpowering influence of a personality rich in varied sympathies, that -struck itself in vivid outline upon the imagination of the observer. - -As our intercourse and our friendship advanced, it was easy enough to -comprehend the source of that potent spell which he wielded over all -who came within the sphere of his influence. Without any reservation, I -may say of him that he was beyond comparison the most inspiring talker -with whom I have ever been brought into contact: certainly the most -inspiring to a youth, for his conversation, although it sought no set -phrase of eloquence, flowed in a stream that was irresistible; and -yet so quick was his appreciation and so keen his sympathy that the -youngest man of the company could always draw from him encouragement -to speak without fear upon any theme that sincerely engaged him. I -have heard him sometimes “gore and toss” without mercy any one who -ventured to enter the debate with an empty ambition of display. Of -insincerity of view, of any mere flimsy preciousness or prettiness -of phrase, he was always impatiently intolerant; but he was equally -quick to recognise and to welcome a thought truly held and modestly -stated. At such times his ready power of evoking a full and fearless -statement of what even the most insignificant of his visitors had to -say was scarcely less inspiring than the rich and rounded tones of his -own voice, as it glowed in enthusiastic appreciation of some worshipped -hero in the field of art or letters. And though his work owns to a -concentration and intensity of purpose that would seem sometimes to -imply a corresponding narrowness of vision, it was in his work only -that such a limited outlook could be said to be characteristic of the -man. - -That he dwelt by preference on the imaginative side of life, and -chiefly chose for eulogy achievements in which the imagination was -the dominating factor, is unquestionably true; but his taste within -the wide limits of the region he had explored was catholic and -comprehensive to a degree that I have not known equalled by any of -his contemporaries. And lest this should seem an exaggerated estimate -of the man as I knew him then, I may here quote the testimony of -others who stood nearer to him than I did. Burne-Jones, his pupil and -disciple, wrote long afterwards: “Towards other men’s ideas he was -decidedly the most generous man I ever knew. No one so threw himself -into the ideas of the other men; but it was part of his enormous -imagination. The praises he had first lavished upon me, had I not had -any inborn grains of modesty, would have been enough to turn my head -altogether.” And at another time he wrote: “What I chiefly gained from -him was not to be afraid of myself, and to do the thing I liked most; -but in those first years I only wanted to think as he did, and all -he did and said fitted me through and through. He never harangued or -persuaded; he had a gift of saying things authoritatively, such as I -have never heard in any man.” - -But there is, indeed, no surer testimony to the magic of his -personality than is betrayed in the restive spirit with which his two -comrades of those earlier days endeavoured afterwards to assert their -independence of his influence. Both Sir John Millais and Mr. Holman -Hunt, in their later life, went out of their way to try to prove to -the world that the pre-Raphaelite movement would have been in no way -changed in its direction if Rossetti had not been one of the original -group. I often talked with Millais on this subject, and it was easy to -perceive that he harboured something almost of resentment at the bare -suggestion that the direction of his art was in any sense due to the -example or teaching of Rossetti; and of the Millais of later years, -who had partly discarded the poetic impulses of his youth, it may be -readily conceded that he owed nothing to the man whose art, whether in -its splendour or in its decay, was governed always by the spirit of -imaginative design. - -And equally of Holman Hunt who, in his two long volumes, has -so laboriously and so needlessly laboured to vindicate his own -independence, it may be admitted without reservation that his kinship -with the spirit in which Rossetti worked was transient and almost -accidental. But it remains, nevertheless, unquestionably true that -during that brief season of close comradeship, the supremacy of -Rossetti’s genius is very clearly reflected in the work of both. The -aftergrowth of talents as great as--and in some respects greater -than--his, led each of these men into ways of Art that owned, it may be -freely confessed, no obligation to Rossetti; and of the rich gifts of -Millais as a painter, extraordinary in their precocity and developed in -increasing power almost to the end of his career, no one could exhibit -keener or truer appreciation than Rossetti himself. I recall on one of -those nights in Cheyne Walk with what power and fulness of expression -he paid willing homage to Millais’ genius. “Since painting began,” -he said, “I do not believe there has ever been a man more greatly -endowed.” And then he went on to speak with genuine humility of his own -many shortcomings in technical accomplishment, wherein he admitted that -Millais stood as the unchallenged master of his time. - -Rossetti was the kindest, but most careless, of hosts, and the many -little dinners at which I was permitted to be a guest always had about -them something of the air of improvisation. Of the actual details of -the feast, from a culinary point of view, he seemed to take little -heed, and there was something quaint and humorous in the way in which, -at the head of his table, he would attack the fowl or joint that -happened to be set before him, lunging at it with the carving knife -and fork almost as if it were an armoured foe who had challenged him -to mortal combat. I remember on one of those occasions an incident -occurred that showed in striking fashion the quick warmth of his heart -at the sudden call of friendship. We were in the midst of cheeriest -converse. Fred Leyland, one of his staunchest and earliest patrons, -was of the company, when the news came by special messenger that young -Oliver Madox Brown was stricken with serious illness. It chanced that -we had been talking of the young man’s youthful essays, both in art and -in literature, and Rossetti had spoken in almost exaggerated praise -of the promise they displayed, when the letter was handed to him. He -remained silent for a moment, though it was easy to see by the working -of his face that he was deeply distressed. “Brown is my oldest friend,” -he said. “His boy is ill, and I must go to him; but that need not break -the evening for you.” And then, without any added word of farewell, he -left us where we sat, and in a moment we heard the street door close, -and we knew that he had gone. For a time we lingered over the table, -but Cheyne Walk was no longer itself without the presence of its host. -We passed into the studio, where Rossetti was wont to coil himself up -on the sofa in preparation for long hours of talk, and we felt as by -common consent that the evening was at an end. - -The circumstance was slight enough in itself, but I remember feeling -afresh how magical and inspiring was the spell he exercised over us -all, and I little realised then that this friendship with Rossetti, -which had proved so powerful a factor in moulding the intellectual -tendencies of my own life, was not destined much longer to endure. For -a time, indeed, the old welcome always awaited me, but after a time I -thought I detected a certain reserve and restraint in our intercourse -which I was unable to explain. A little later those longed-for -invitations to dine at Cheyne Walk ceased altogether, and once or -twice when I called the studio door, always open to me heretofore, was -closed, on the excuse that the painter was too busily engaged. It was -not, indeed, until after his death, that I learnt from his truest and -most trusted friend the cause of our alienation. - -Rossetti, although he never exposed his own pictures to public -criticism, was, like every artist who has ever lived, eager for the -praise of those whose praise he valued; and his nature, already grown -morbid under the stress of influences that were undermining his -health, was not without an element of jealousy that seemed strangely -inconsistent with the tribute he could on many an occasion offer to -the work of others. He saw but little of Burne-Jones in those days, -but he knew that I saw him often. He knew, also, from my published -criticism, that I was strongly attracted to his genius, and although I -have heard Rossetti himself speak of his pupil and follower in terms of -laudation that could not be surpassed, the thought, as I learnt later, -had already begun to poison his mind that my allegiance to himself had -suffered diminution; and he frankly confessed to the friend from whom -little in his life was hidden that my presence in Cheyne Walk became to -him, for this reason, a source of irritation, which, in the condition -of his health, he was unable to endure. - -Such flaws in a nature so splendidly endowed count for nothing in -remembrance of the picture of him that remains to me as I first knew -him in the plenitude of his intellectual powers. For a time it seemed -as if the great movement at the head of which his name must enduringly -remain was likely to suffer eclipse. The taste of later years had taken -an entirely different direction, and the ideals which the small band he -led had striven so manfully to recapture from a renewed study of nature -and a finer understanding of the artistic achievements of the past -appeared to have sunk into oblivion. It was therefore a delight to find -in Rome in the spring of two years ago how enthusiastic was the welcome -accorded to a man who, while he ranks so high among English painters, -owned in his veins the blood of Italy and from whose painters, at that -bewitching season when the spirit of the Renaissance was in its youth, -he had drawn the inspiration which was destined to kindle his own -genius. - - - - -EDWARD BURNE-JONES - - -“I think Morris’s friendship began everything for me; everything that I -afterwards cared for; we were freshmen together at Exeter. When I left -Oxford I got to know Rossetti, whose friendship I sought and obtained. -He is, you know, the most generous of men to the young. I couldn’t bear -with a young man’s dreadful sensitiveness and conceit as he bore with -mine. He taught me practically all I ever learnt; afterwards I made -a method for myself to suit my nature. He gave me courage to commit -myself to imagination without shame--a thing both bad and good for me. -It was Watts, much later, who compelled me to try and draw better. - -“I quarrel now with Morris about Art. He journeys to Iceland, and I to -Italy--which is a symbol--and I quarrel, too, with Rossetti. If I could -travel backwards I think my heart’s desire would take me to Florence in -the time of Botticelli.” - -So Burne-Jones wrote of himself more than forty years ago. It chanced -I had just then written a series of papers on living English painters; -and, with the thought of their re-publication, had asked him for -some particulars of his earlier career. The scheme, I remember, was -never carried into effect; but his answer to my inquiry, from which I -have drawn this interesting fragment of autobiography, served as the -beginning of a long friendship that was interrupted only by death. - -In those boyish essays of mine there was, as I now see, not a little -of that quality of youthful conceit that could never, I think, have -entered very largely into his composition; and if I recall them now -with any sort of gratification, it is mainly because they included an -enthusiastic appreciation of so much as was then known to me of the -work of Rossetti and Burne-Jones. Of Rossetti’s art I have already -spoken, and perhaps the time has not yet arrived to record a final -verdict upon the worth of his achievement as a painter. I have also -sought to indicate how irresistible in my own case was the influence -of his strongly marked personality, an influence which enabled me the -more readily to understand how deep may have been the debt that is -here so generously acknowledged. In this matter the witness of his -contemporaries is irrefutable. Even though posterity should not accord -to him the unstinted praise bestowed upon his art by those who then -accepted him as a master, no later judgment can dispute or disturb the -authority he exercised over those who came within the sphere of his -personal fascination. - -Little wonder then that to the dream-fed soul of the younger painter, -whose art as yet lacked the means to fix in form and colour the -thronging visions that must have already crowded his brain, the -friendship of such a man must have seemed a priceless possession; and -although, with the patient and gradual assertion of Burne-Jones’s -individuality, their ways in the world of Art divided, yet even in that -later day each knew well how to measure the worth of the other. Of what -was highest and noblest in the art of Rossetti, no praise ever outran -the praise offered by Burne-Jones to the man he had sought and owned -as his master; and I can recall an evening in Cheyne Walk more than -forty years ago, when there fell from the lips of Rossetti the most -generous tribute I have ever heard to the genius of the painter who -was still his disciple. “If, as I hold,” he said, in those round and -ringing tones that seemed at once to invite and to defy contradiction, -“the noblest picture is a painted poem, then I say that in the whole -history of Art there has never been a painter more greatly gifted than -Burne-Jones with the highest qualities of poetical invention.” Here we -have praise indeed; but there is at least one painter, he whose long -life still kept the stainless record of unswerving loyalty to a noble -ideal, to whom also Burne-Jones has here owned his indebtedness, who -would, I believe, have accepted and endorsed even such a judgment as -this. And if an artist’s fame lives most sweetly, most securely, in the -regard of his fellows, who could ask aught higher of the living or the -dead of our times, than that the award of Rossetti should be confirmed -and enforced by the painter of “Love and Death”? - -“A picture is a painted poem.” Upon that Rossetti never tired of -insisting. “Those who deny it,” he used to add in his vehement way, -“are simply men who have no poetry in their composition.” We know -there are many who deny it,--many, indeed, who think it savours of the -rankest heresy; for herein, as they would warn us, lurks the insidious -poison of “the literary idea.” Nor can such warning ever be without -its uses. The literary idea, it must be owned, has often played sad -havoc in the domain of art. Much, both in painting and sculpture that -the world has rightly forgotten or would fain forget, found the source -of its failure in misguided loyalty to a literary ideal; much even -that survives still claims a spurious dignity from its fortuitous -attachment to an imaginative conception that had never been rightly -subdued to the service of Art. - -But though the warning be timely, the definition which it confronts is -not on that account to be lightly dismissed. It is true, as Rossetti -stoutly maintained, and must ever remain true, of all men who have -poetry in their nature. It was true, from the beginning of his career -to its close, of the art of Burne-Jones. From “The Merciful Knight” to -the unfinished “Avalon,” wherein, as it would seem, he had designed to -give us all that was most winning in the brightly-coloured dreams of -youth, combined with all that was richest in the gathered resources -of maturity, his every picture was a painted poem. Nay, more, every -drawing from his hand, every fragment of design, each patient study -of leaf or flower or drapery, has in it something of that imaginative -impulse which controls and informs the completed work. I have lately -been turning over the leaves of some of those countless books of -studies he has left behind him, studies which prove with what untiring -and absorbing industry he approached every task he had set himself to -accomplish. And yet, amongst them all, of mere studies there are none. -Again and again he went back to nature, but ever under the compelling -impulse of an idea, always taking with him an integral part of what he -came to capture. That unprejudiced inspection of the facts of nature -which, in the preliminary stages of their work, may content those who -are moved by a keener and colder spirit of scientific research, he had -not the will, he had not the power to make. For every force carries -with it its own limitation; nor would it ever have been his boast that -nature owned no more than she was fain to yield to him. If, then, with -unwearied application he was constantly re-seeking the support of -nature, it was with a purpose so frankly confessed, that even in the -presence of the model the sense of mere portraiture is already seen to -be passing under the dominion of the idea. At their first encounter the -artist’s invention asserts its authority over his subject; and not all -the allurements of individual face or form which to men of a different -temperament are often all-sufficing, could find or leave him unmindful -of the single purpose that filled his mind and guided all the work of -his hand. - -It is this which gives to the drawings of Burne-Jones their -extraordinary charm and fascination. He who possesses one of these -pencil studies has something more than a leaf torn from an artist’s -sketch-book. He has in the slightest of them a fragment that images -the man: that is compact of all the qualities of his art; and that -reveals his ideal as surely as it interprets the facts upon which -he was immediately engaged. And yet we see in them how strenuously, -how resolutely, he set himself to wring from nature the vindication -of his own design. There is no realist of them all who looked more -persistently at life, who spared himself so little where patient labour -might serve to perfect what he had in his mind to do; and if the -treasure he bore away still left a rich store for others, it is because -the house of beauty holds many mansions, and no man can hope to inhabit -them all. - -“A picture is a painted poem.” Like all definitions that pass the -limits of barren negation it contains only half a truth. Like most -definitions forged by men of genius it is chiefly valuable as a -confession of faith. There is a long line of artists to whom, save in -a forced and figurative sense, it has no kind of relevancy. And they -boast a mighty company. Flanders and Spain serve under their banner. -Rubens and Velasquez, Vandyck and Franz Hals, aye, and at no unworthy -distance, our own Reynolds and Gainsborough are to be counted among -the leaders of their host. And long before the first of these men had -arisen, the tradition they acknowledged had been firmly established. It -was Venice that gave it birth. Venice, where not even the commanding -influence of Mantegna could hold back the flowing tide of naturalism -that rose under the spell of Titian’s genius. Out of his art, which -contained them both, came those twin currents of portraiture and -landscape that were destined to supply all that was vital in the after -development of painting in Europe. All that was vital; for though -Religion and Allegory, History and Symbol, still played their formal -part in many a grandiose and rhetorical design, these things were no -longer of the essence of the achievement. To the painters who employed -them, nature itself was already all-absorbing. The true poetry of -their work, whatever other claims it may seem to advance, resides in -the mastery of the craftsman; it cannot be detached from the markings -of the brush that give it life and being. To wring from nature its -countless harmonies of tone and colour, to seize and interpret the -endless subtleties of individual form and character--these are the -ideals that have inspired and have satisfied many of the greatest -painters the world has produced. Who then shall say that Art has need -of any other, any wider ambition? - -And yet, as I have said, the house of beauty has so many mansions -that no single ideal can furnish them all. Nature is prodigal to -those who worship her; there is fire for every altar truly raised -in her service. And so it happened that while Venice was perfecting -a tradition destined for many a generation to sway the schools of -Northern Europe, there had risen and fallen at Florence a race of -artists, such as the world had not seen before and may haply not see -again, who had asked of Nature a different gift, and had won another -reward. That imperishable series of “painted poems” which had been -first lisped in the limpid accents of Giotto, had found their final -utterance in the perfected dialect of Michael Angelo. In the years that -intervened many hands had tilled the field; many a harvest had been -gathered in: but so rich had been the yield that the land perforce lay -fallow at the last; and when Michael Angelo died, Florence had nothing -to bequeath that the temper of the time was fit to inherit. - -From that day almost to our own the ideal of the Florentine painters -has slept the sleep of Arthur in Avalon. Those who from time to time -have sought to recapture their secret have gone in their quest, not to -the source, but to the sea. They have tried to begin where Lionardo, -Raphael, and Michael Angelo left off; to repeat in poorer phrase what -had been said once and for all in language that needed no enlargement, -that would suffer no translation. They made the mistake of thinking -that the forms and modes of art are separable things, independent -of its essence; that the coinage moulded by the might of individual -genius could be imported and adopted as common currency; and so even -the most gifted of them carried away only the last faltering message -of a style already waning and outworn. To look only to the painters of -our own land, we know well what disaster waited upon men like Barry, -Fuseli, and Haydon in their hapless endeavours to recover the graces -of the grand style; and even Reynolds, though he never wearied in -praise of Michael Angelo, was drawn by a surer instinct as to his own -powers into a field of Art that owed nothing to the great Florentine. -A truer perception of what was needed, and of what was possible, in -order to revive a feeling for the almost forgotten art of design, came -in a later time, and was due, as I have always thought, mainly to the -initiative of Rossetti. Not because he stood alone in the demand for -a more searching veracity of interpretation; that was also the urgent -cry of men whose native gifts were widely different from his, men like -the young Millais, who owned and paid only a passing allegiance to the -purely poetic impulse which youth grants to all, and age saves only for -a few, and then sped onwards to claim the rich inheritance that awaited -him in quite another world of Art. But if this new worship of nature -was indeed at the time a passion common to them all, yet amongst -them all Rossetti stands pre-eminent, if not absolutely alone, in his -endeavour to rescue from the traditions of the past, and to refashion -according to present needs, a language that might aptly render the -visions of legend and romance. - -And this in a larger and wider sense became afterwards the mission of -Burne-Jones. This was his life-work--to find fitting utterance in line -and colour for dreams of beauty that in England at least had till now -been shaped only in verse. And to accomplish his task he was driven, -as he has said, to make a method to suit his own nature. The surviving -traditions of style could avail him little, for he already possessed by -right of birth a secret long lost to them. With him there never was any -question of grafting the perfected flower of one art upon the barren -stem of another. There, and there only, lurks the peril of the literary -idea. But it could have had no terrors for him, who from the outset -of his career submitted himself, as by instinct, to the essential -conditions of the medium in which he worked, moving easily in those -shackles which make of every art either an empire or a prison. Of the -visions that came to him he took only what was his by right, leaving -untouched and unspoiled all that the workers in another realm might -justly claim as theirs. Every thought, every symbol, as it passed the -threshold of his imagination, struck itself into form; he saw life and -beauty in no other way. There was no laboured process of translation, -for his spirit lived in the language of design; but labour there must -have been, and, as we know, there was, in perfecting an instrument that -had been so long disused. To be sure of his way he had to seek again -the path where it had been first marked out by men of like ambitions -to his own; and it was by innate kinship of ideas, not by any forced -affectation of archaic form, that at the outset of his career he found -himself following in the footsteps of the painters of an earlier day. - -“If I could travel backwards I think my heart’s desire would take me -to Florence in the time of Botticelli.” It was by no accident that he -chose this one name among many, for of all the painters of his school -Botticelli’s art asserts the closest, the most affectionate attachment -to the ideas which gave it birth. Others could be cited whose work -bears the stamp of a deeper religious conviction; others again whose -technical mastery was more complete, who could boast a readier command -of the mere graces of decoration. But he was the poet of them all. -For him, more than for all the rest of his fellows, the beauty of the -chosen legend exercised the most constant, the most supreme authority. -It was the source of his invention and the dominating influence which -guided every subtle detail of his design. It made his art, as it formed -and controlled all the processes of his art, leaving the indelible -record of individual and personal feeling upon the delicate beauty of -every face that he pressed into his service. It is not wonderful then -that the poet-painter of our day should have recognised with almost -passionate sympathy the genius of the earlier master, or that he should -sometimes have travelled backwards in spirit to the city wherein he -dwelt; and if that longer journey upon which he has now set forth -should lead him not to Florence, who is there who shall declare that he -may not have met with Botticelli by the way? - -It is no part of my present purpose to offer any laboured vindication -of the art of Burne-Jones. That is not needed now. The generous -appreciation of a wider circle has long ago overtaken the praise of -those who first gave him welcome; and for others who have yet to learn -the secret of his influence, the fruit of his life’s labour is there -to speak for itself. But in the presence of work that is clearly -marked off from so much else produced in our time, it may be well -to ask ourselves what are the qualities we have a right to demand, -what, on the other hand, are the limitations we may fitly concede to -a painter whose special ambition is so frankly avowed. For there is -no individual and there is no school whose claims embrace all the -secrets of nature, whose practice exhausts all the resources of art. -To combine the design of Michael Angelo with the colouring of Titian -was a task that lay not merely beyond the powers of a Tintoret. It -is an achievement impossible in itself; and even could we suppose it -possible, it would be destructive and disastrous. Titian had design, -but its qualities were of right and need subordinated to the dominant -control of his colour; Michael Angelo used colour, but it served only -as the fitting complement of his design; and although the result -achieved by both has the ring of purest metal, there is no power on -earth that can suffice to fuse the two. These two names, we may say, -stand as the representatives of opposite ideals, which have been fixed -and separated by laws that are elemental and enduring; and if between -these ideals--leaning on the one hand towards symbolism, on the other -towards illusion--the pendulum of art is for ever swaying, this at -least we know, that it can never halt midway. - -And between these ideals Burne-Jones made no hesitating choice. For -him, from the outset of his career, design was all in all, and the -forms and colours of the real world were in their essence only so many -symbols that he employed for the expression of an idea. His chosen -types of face and form are fashioned and subdued to bear the message -of his own individuality. No art was ever more personal in its aim, -or, to borrow an image of literature, more lyrical in its direction. -The scheme in which he chose to work did not admit of wide variety -of characterisation, but for what is lacking here we have, by way of -compensation, a certainty, an intensity of vision that supplies its -own saving grace of vitality. There is nothing of cold abstraction -or formal classicism. Though his art affects no mere transcript of -nature, and can boast not all the allurements of nature, yet nature -follows close at its heels; and if the beauty he presents has been -formed to inhabit a world of its own, remote from our actual world, -we are conscious none the less that he had fortified himself at every -step by reference to so much of life as he had the power or the will to -use. And again we may see that while his mind was bent upon the poetic -beauty of Romantic legend, he never suffered himself to depend upon -that merely scenic quality that seeks for mystery in vague suggestion -or uncertain definition. His design, whatever the theme upon which -it is engaged, has the simplicity, the directness of conviction. He -needs no rhetoric to enforce his ideas. All that he sees is clearly -and sharply seen, with something of a child’s wondering vision, with -something also of the unsuspecting faith and fearless familiarity of a -child. - -And, as with his design, so also with his colour. He worked in both at -a measured distance from reality, never passing beyond the limits he -had assigned to himself, and using only so much of illusion as seemed -needful for the illustration of his idea. The accidents of light and -shade, with their infinite varieties of tint and tone, which yield a -special charm to work differently inspired, were not of his seeking. -He would indeed, on occasion, so narrow his palette as to give to the -result little more than the effect of sculptured relief; he could -equally, when so minded, range and order upon his canvas an assemblage -of the most brilliant hues that nature offers. But in either case he -employed what he had chosen always with a specific purpose--for the -enrichment of his design, not for any mere triumph of imitation. Few -will deny to the painter of the _Chant d’Amour_ and _Laus Veneris_ -the native gift of a colourist, but we may recognise in both these -examples, and, indeed, in all he has left us, that the painter disposes -his colours as a jeweller uses his gems. They are locked and guarded in -the golden tracery that surrounds and combines them. And they may not -overrun their setting, for to him, as to all whose genius is governed -by the spirit of design, the setting is even more precious than the -stone. - -These qualities of Burne-Jones’s art are not peculiar to him. They -find their warrant, as we have seen, in all the work of that earlier -school to which he loved to own his obligation. But they were strange -to the time in which he first appeared; and to their presence, I think, -must be ascribed no small part of the hostility he then encountered. -Something, no doubt, was due to the immaturity of resource which marked -his earlier efforts. And he knew that. At a time when his imagination -had already ripened, he was but poorly equipped in a purely technical -sense; and although there is no education so rapid as that which genius -bestows upon itself, it was long before his hand could keep pace with -the pressing demands of the ideas that called for interpretation. But -apart from mere technical failure, there was in his own individuality, -and still more in the means which he recognised as the only means that -could rightly serve him, not a little that was sure of protest from a -generation to whom both were unfamiliar. This also he well knew; and -I think it was the clear perception of it which gave him patience and -courage to press forward to the goal. - -And there were times when he had need of both. The critics who saw in -his earlier efforts only the signs of affectation greeted him with -ridicule. We are reported a grave nation, but laughter is a safe refuge -for dulness that does not understand; and as there were few of the -comic spirits then engaged upon art criticism who had the faintest -apprehension of the ideal which inspired his art, they found in it only -a theme for the exercise of a somewhat rough and boisterous humour. But -they never moved him from his purpose; never, I think, even provoked -in him any strong feeling of resentment. His nature was too gentle for -that, his strength of conviction too deep and too secure. No one ever -possessed a larger quality of personal sympathy; no one, it might seem, -was on that account so much exposed to the influence of others. And in -a sense this was so. In the lighter traffic of life his spirit flew -to the mood of the hour. His appreciation was so quick, his power of -identifying himself with the thoughts and feelings of others so ready -and so real, that he seemed at such moments to have no care to assert -his own personality. Nor had he; for of all men he was surely the most -indifferent to those petty dues that greatness sometimes loves to -exact. That was not the sort of homage he had any desire to win; and as -he put forward no such poor claim on his own behalf, his keen sense of -humour made him quick to detect in others the presence or assumption -of mere parochial dignity. Of that he was always intolerant; indeed, -I think there was scarcely any other human failing for which he could -not find some measure of sympathy. But although in the free converse of -friends his spirit passed swiftly and easily from the gravest to the -lightest themes, anxious, as it would seem, rather to leap with the -lead of others than to assert his own individuality, it was easy to see -how firmly, how resolutely, he refused all concession in matters that -concerned the deeper convictions of his life. To touch him there was to -touch a rock. Behind the affectionate gentleness of his nature, that -was accessible to every winning influence, lay a faith that nothing -could shake or weaken. It was never obtruded, but it lay ready for all -who cared to make trial of it. In its service he was prepared to make -all sacrifice of time and strength and labour. His friends claimed -much of him, and he yielded much; generous both in act and thought, -there was probably no man of such concentrated purpose who ever placed -himself so freely at the service of those he loved; but there was no -friend of them all who could boast of having won any particle of the -allegiance that the artist owed to his art. That was a world in which -he dwelt alone, from which he rigorously excluded all thoughts save -those that were born of his task; and though every artist has need of -encouragement, and he certainly loved it not less than others, yet such -was the tenacity of his purpose, such a fund of obstinate persistence -lay at the root of a nature that was in many ways soft and yielding, -that even without it I think he would have laboured on patiently to the -end. - -A mind so constituted was therefore little likely to yield to ridicule. -Such attacks as he had to endure may have wounded, but they did not -weaken his spirit; and with a playful humour that would have surprised -his censors, he would sometimes affect to join the ranks of his -assailants, and wage a mock warfare upon his own ideals. I have in my -possession a delightful drawing of his which is supposed to represent -a determination to introduce into his design a type of beauty that -was more acceptable to the temper of his time. He had been diligently -studying, as he assured me, the style and method of the great Flemish -masters, and he sent me as earnest of his new resolve a charming -design of “Susanna and the Elders,”--“after the manner of Rubens.” -On another occasion he wrote to me that he felt he had striven too -long to stem the tide of popular taste, that he was determined now -to make a fresh departure, and that with this view he had projected -a series of pictures which were to be called the “Homes of England.” -He enclosed for my sympathetic criticism the design for the first of -the series. It was indeed a masterpiece. Upon a Victorian sofa, whose -every hideous and bulging curve was outlined with the kind of intimate -knowledge that is born only of love or of detestation, lay stretched, -in stertorous slumber, the monstrous form of some unchastened hero of -finance. A blazing solitaire stud shone as a beacon in a trackless -field of shirt-front: while from his puffy hand the sheets of a great -daily journal had fallen fluttering to the floor. There were others of -the series, but none, I think, which imaged with happier humour that -masculine type, whose sympathies at the time he was so often charged -with neglecting. - -For it must not be forgotten that when ridicule had done its work, -Burne-Jones was very seriously taken to task by “the apostles of the -robust.” There are men so constituted that all delicate beauty seems to -move them to resentment; men who would require of a lily that it should -be nurtured in a gymnasium; and who go about the world constantly -reassuring themselves of their own virility by denouncing what they -conceive to be the effeminate weakness of others. To this class the art -of Burne-Jones came in the nature of a personal offence. They raged -against it, warning their generation not to yield to its insidious -and enervating influence; and the more it gathered strength the more -urgently did they feel impelled to insist on its inherent weakness. -But, as Shakespeare asked of us long ago: - - How with this rage shall Beauty hold a plea - Whose action is no stronger than a flower? - -They forgot that: forgot that something of a feminine, not an -effeminate spirit enters into the re-creation of all forms of beauty; -that an artist, by the very nature of his task, cannot always be in the -mood to pose as an athlete. And, even if they had desired to define -the special direction of Burne-Jones’s art, or to mark the limits of -its exercise--limits that no admirer, however ardent, would seek to -deny--they need not surely have been so angry. - -So at least it seemed to me then. And yet, rightly viewed, the very -vehemence of such opposition was in its own way a tribute to his -power. Any new artistic growth that passes without challenge may -perhaps be justly suspected of being produced without individuality, -and certainly such work as his, that bears so clearly the stamp of a -strong individual presence, could hardly escape a disputed welcome. -It must even now in a measure repel many of those whom it does not -powerfully attract and charm; for it cannot be regarded with the sort -of indifference that is the fate of work less certainly inspired; it -must therefore always find both friends and foes. But so does much else -in the world of art that speaks with even higher authority than his. -There are many to whom the matchless spell of Lionardo’s genius remains -always an enigma; many again who yield only a respectful assent to the -verdict which would set Michael Angelo above all his fellows. - -We may be patient, then, if the genius of Burne-Jones wins not yet the -applause of all. It bears with it a special message, and is secure -of homage from those for whom that message is written. They are many -to-day, who at the first numbered only a few: they are many, and I -think even the earliest of them would say that their debt to him was -greatest at the last. In praise and love they followed him without -faltering to the close of a life that knew no swerving from its ideal; -a life of incessant labour spent in loyal service to the mistress -he worshipped; and even though he had won no wider reward, this, I -believe, would have seemed to him enough. - -Painting is perhaps the only art which offers in its practice -opportunities of social converse. The writer and musician work alone, -or, if their solitude is invaded, it is only by way of interruption. -But the practice of the painter’s art admits a measure of comradeship, -and the progress of his work is sometimes even advanced rather than -hindered by the presence of a friend. The element of manual labour -that enters into painting leaves the painter free at many points of -his work to enjoy friendly converse with the visitor to his studio; -and I have known many an interesting discussion carried on for several -hours without the painter ceasing for a moment from his work upon -the canvas before him. This might not apply to every stage in the -growth and structure of a picture. There are times which demand entire -concentration both of brain and hand, and when the painter needs to -be as solitary as the poet. But these tenser moments yield to longer -intervals wherein the manual element in the painter’s calling holds -for a season a more dominating place; and it is at such times that an -intimate friend may safely invade the artist’s sanctuary. - -Some of the most enjoyable hours of my life have been passed in -this intimacy of the studio, and it is interesting to recall, as -it was always interesting to note, the different ways in which the -individuality of the artist expresses itself in the processes of his -work--interesting also to observe how the litter of the studio in its -varying degrees of disorder reflects something of the mind of the man. -There are studios which seem deliberately fashioned for an effect of -beauty--rooms so ornate and so adorned, that the picture in progress -upon the easel seems the last thing calculated to arrest the gaze of -the spectator. And there are others again, so completely barren of -all decoration, and so deliberately stripped of every incident in the -way of bric-à-brac or collected treasures, of carven furniture or -woven tissue, that were it not for the half-finished canvas, it would -be impossible to guess the vocation of its inhabitant. Between these -two extremes there is room for every degree of careless or conscious -environment; and although it is not always possible to define the exact -measure of association between the workman and his surroundings, the -visitor becomes gradually aware of a certain element of fitness in the -seemingly accidental accumulation of the varied objects which find -their way into a painter’s workshop. - -It would certainly, however, be erroneous to assume that the disorder -of the studio is to be taken as the direct reflex of the habit of an -artist’s mind. No man, in the conduct of his work, ever surrendered -himself to a stricter discipline of labour than Burne-Jones, though -his studio in many respects was a model of apparent disorder. No man -certainly in his work ever aimed at a more settled and nicely balanced -beauty of design supported by deliberate harmonies of colour; and yet -the bare white-washed walls of his studio in the North End Road gave no -hint of the coloured glories of the invention that he was seeking to -fix upon his canvas; while the litter that scattered the floor or was -unceremoniously hustled into the corners of the room seemed strangely -inconsistent with the ordered completeness of design that marked every -picture from his hand. - -There were few more delightful companions in the studio--none, -according to my experience, whose talk leapt with such easy alertness -from the gravest to the gayest themes. His almost child-like spirit -invited humour; and yet his lightest moods of laughter left you -never in doubt of the sense of deep conviction that lay at the root -of his character. As he stood beside you at his work, his figure -relieved against three or four half-completed designs, it was -sometimes difficult to find the link which joined the lighter moods -of his comradeship with the wistful beauty of the faces that he -sought to image in his pictures. But almost at the next moment the -difficulty would be solved by a sudden transition to a graver train -of thought, and before either of us would be well aware of the swift -change of tone, our converse had wandered off to the consideration -of some larger ideal of art or life. It was a unique attraction of -Burne-Jones’s studio that it nearly always contained a rich and varied -record of his work, for the chosen method of his painting rendered it -necessary for him to keep several pictures in almost equal states of -progress, each being put aside in turn till the surface of pigment was -so fixed and hardened as to render it ready for the added layer of -colour which was to form the next stage in its progress. - -Very often on these occasions our talk was not directly concerned with -painting at all, but strayed away into many worlds of the present or -the past. As a painter every artist must stand or fall by his command -of the particular aspect of beauty which can be rendered by that art, -and by no other. If a picture fails, it is no excuse that its author is -a poet. If a poet fails, it is idle to plead in his defence that he is -an accomplished musician. What added burdens of the spirit the worker -in any art chooses to carry, concerns himself alone; what concerns -the world is that the result--whatever other message it may undertake -to convey--must be perfect according to the laws of the medium he has -chosen. In speaking, therefore, of the deep poetic impulse that lay -at the back of all Burne-Jones’s achievement in design, I have no -thought of seeking to rest the reputation which he will ultimately -hold upon any other considerations than those which are proper to the -field in which he laboured. He has left enough, and more than enough, -to vindicate his high claim to rank among the masters of art, but it -is certain, none the less, that his profound interest in those other -fields of expression in which the imagination finds utterance, gave him -infinite charm as a man. - -There was little lovable in literature that he did not keenly love, -though in regard to the literature of the past, I think his heart -turned by preference to the legendary beauty of the earlier romances, -where the story, freshly emerging from its mythical form, may still -be captured with equal right of possession by the poet, the musician, -or the painter. Great drama, even the drama of Shakespeare, never so -strongly appealed to him; and, indeed, I have always noticed in my -companionship with painters that in their judgment of the work of the -theatre what is most essentially dramatic in drama is not, as a rule, -that upon which their imagination most eagerly fixes itself. And yet, -in the case of Burne-Jones, it was curious to observe that among the -narrative writers of our time the highly dramatised work of Charles -Dickens most strongly appealed to him. For Dickens’s genius, its -pathos, not less than its humour, he owned an unbounded admiration; -and I suppose there were few of the worshippers of the great novelist, -except, perhaps, Mr. Swinburne, who could boast so full and so complete -a knowledge of his work. The sense of humour, which was a dominating -quality in the character of Burne-Jones, could, perhaps, scarcely -be surmised by those who know the man only through his painting. -His claims in this regard, which could not be ignored by those who -knew him, must always be received with a sense of surprise--even of -incredulity--by those to whom he was a stranger. And yet, when he -was so minded, his pencil could give proof of it in many essays in -caricature; while in conversation it was an ever-present quality that -lay in wait for the fit occasion. - -When Burne-Jones spoke of his own art it was always with complete -understanding of its many and divergent ideals, and I have heard him -appraise at its true value the genius of men with whom he himself had -little in common. Among his contemporaries he could speak with generous -appreciation of the great gifts of Millais, and of the acknowledged -masters of the past. However little their ideals sorted with his own, -his power of appreciation was too liberal and too keen to permit him to -ignore or to belittle their claims though his heart’s abiding-place -was as I have said with the Florentines of the fifteenth century. - -My visits to Burne-Jones’s studio began very early in our acquaintance, -and the several errands which took me there varied as time went on. -While he was painting his picture of King Cophetua, he asked that my -eldest son--who was then a child--should be allowed to serve as model -for one of the heads in the picture. I am afraid that, like most -children, my boy gave some trouble to the master, who one day rebuked -him as being an incorrigibly bad sitter, and the boy, who had been kept -standing during the whole of the morning, promptly replied with the -indignant inquiry as to whether Burne-Jones called standing sitting--a -response that immensely delighted the painter himself, who recognised -the justice of the claim by at once releasing him from further service -for the day. At a later time I saw much of him in his studio while he -was designing the scenery and costumes for my play of _King Arthur_. I -read him the play one afternoon while he was at work upon his own great -design of King Arthur’s sleep in Avalon, in the lower studio, which -stood at the foot of his garden; and the task, which he straightway -accepted, of assisting in the production of the drama at the Lyceum -Theatre, led to many later meetings, at which our talk turned -constantly on that great cycle of romance--one phase of which I had -sought to illustrate. - -His own mind was steeped in their beauty, as may be seen in his -constant recurrence to these legends as chosen subjects for his design, -and I fancy it was their common love for this subject in romance which -formed one of the strongest links of fellowship between himself and -William Morris. I have said that to Rossetti he always confessed his -deep obligations as an artist, but there can, I think, be little doubt -that of all living comrades it was Morris whom he most loved. Though, -as he has himself confessed, they had parted company in regard to some -of the problems that beset the artist, in the graver issues of life, -no less than in the lighter moods of social comradeship, they were -at one to the end. He told me that once in the earlier days of their -association they had gone with Charles Faulkner on a boating excursion -up the Thames. At that time Morris was apprehensive that he was growing -too stout, and at one of the river inns where they had to share the -same room the painter conceived the mischievous idea of unduly alarming -the poet as to his condition. Morris had retired earlier than the -others, and was fast asleep, when Burne-Jones, having procured a needle -and thread from the landlady, took a large slice out of the lining -of his companion’s waistcoat, and then sewed the two sides together -as neatly as he could. In the morning Morris was up betimes, and -Burne-Jones, still feigning to be asleep, watched with eager excitement -the terror and consternation with which the poet sought, in vain, to -make the shrivelled garment meet around his waist. The victim of the -plot fancied that his increasing proportions had suddenly taken on a -miraculous acceleration of pace, and it was not until the smothered -laughter of the painter greeted his ears that he was relieved from the -panic of anxiety into which he had been suddenly thrown. - -Burne-Jones could sometimes, on occasion, be himself the victim of -a practical joke, and once when I paid him a sudden and unexpected -visit at his little cottage in Rottingdean, I contrived to play, very -successfully, upon what I knew to be his horror of the professional -interviewer. I announced myself to the servant as an American colonel, -who had called as the special correspondent of the _Cincinnati Record_, -and on the message being conveyed to her master, she returned, as I -expected, with the curt intimation that he was not at home. But he -evidently felt that no precaution was too great to be taken in the face -of this threatened invasion, for as I crept by the window that looks -out on to the little Village green I saw him, in company with his son, -stealthily crawling under the table, and when I afterwards returned and -announced myself in my own name, he related with childish delight how -skilfully he had avoided the attack of the enemy. - - - - -JAMES M‘NEIL WHISTLER - - -The many pleasant hours I spent in Whistler’s studio in Cheyne Walk are -dominated in recollection by the striking personality of the artist. -In physical no less than in mental equipment, he stood apart from his -generation, and the characteristic peculiarities of his appearance, -joined to the marked idiosyncrasy of his temperament, must remain -unforgettable to all who knew him. It is easy indeed to recall the -tones of the sometimes strident voice as he let slip some barbed shaft -in ruthless characterisation of one or other of his contemporaries: -easier still to summon again, as though he stood before me now, the -oddly fashioned figure, lithe and muscular, yet finely delicate in its -outline, as he skipped to and fro in front of his canvas, now with -brush poised in the air between those long slender fingers, seeming, -as he gazed at the model, to challenge the supremacy of nature, now -passing swiftly to the easel to lay on that single touch of colour that -was to record his victory. It is not so easy, however, to convey in -words the intellectual impression left by the agile movement of his -mind, as it leaped in sudden transition from the graver utterance of -some pregnant thought concerning the immutable laws of his art, to -those lighter sallies of wit and humour that found their readiest and -most congenial exercise in the half-playful, half-malicious portraiture -of men we both knew. - -So notable indeed and so notorious became the sayings of Whistler, -uttered in such moods of laughing irony, that the more deeply serious -side of his nature was apt in his own time to be ignored or even -denied. And for this he himself was partly to blame. His own manifest -enjoyment in the free play of a ready and relentless wit was apt -sometimes to obscure that deeper insight into the essential principles -of the art he practised, to which no one on occasion could give a finer -or more subtle expression. - -No one, surely, perceived more clearly that there is in every art an -essential quality born of its material and resting with instinctive -security upon its special resources and limitations, without which it -can make no lasting claim to recognition. He never forgot that the -painter or the poet who ventures to take upon himself added burthens of -the spirit which he is unable to subdue to the conditions of the medium -in which he works, can find no just defence for the violation of any -of the conditions the chosen vehicle imposes, by an appeal to the -intellectual or emotional value of the ideas he has sought to express. -He looked perhaps with even excessive suspicion upon the interpretation -through painting of subjects that suggested any sort of reliance upon -the modes appropriate to other arts, with the result that the effects -he achieved bear sometimes too strongly the stamp of calculated -effort. Science was a word he was very fond of employing with regard -to painting, and though it implied a just rebuke to those who were -wont to make a merely sentimental appeal, it sometimes fettered his -own processes and left upon some of the work he produced rather the -sense of a protest against the false ideals of others than of the free -and spontaneous enjoyment of the beauty in nature that he intended to -convey. - -But an artist, after all, is either something better or something worse -than his theories, and Whistler was infinitely better. His instinct -was sure, and within the limits he assigned to himself he moved with -faultless security of taste. If the realm he conquered was not over -richly furnished it was at any rate kept jealously free from the -intrusion of inappropriate elements. Whatever was admitted there had an -indisputable right to its artistic existence, and while he excluded -much that other men, differently gifted, might equally have subdued to -the conditions he was so careful to obey, such beauty as he found in -nature was at least always of a kind that painting alone could fitly -render. - -To watch Whistler at work in his studio was quickly to forget that he -had any theories at all. Nothing certainly could less resemble the -assured processes of science than his own tentative and sometimes even -timid practice; for although the result, when it received the final -stamp of his approval, seemed often slight and was always free from -the evidence of labour, labour most surely had not been absent, for -the ultimate shape given to his design, though it may have represented -in itself only a brief period employed in its execution, had in many -cases been preceded by unwearying experiment and by many a misdirected -adventure that never reached completion at all. - -Whistler’s talk in the studio was not often concerned with the subject -of Art, and even when Art was the topic it was nearly always his -own. His admiration of the genius he unquestionably possessed was -unstinted and sincere, and if he avoided any prolonged discussion of -the competing claims of his contemporaries, it was, I think, in the -unfeigned belief that they deserved no larger consideration. He had his -chosen heroes among the masters of the past, but they were few, and -their superior pretensions, in his judgment, were so manifest that it -seemed sufficient to him to announce their supremacy without further -parley as to the inferior claims of their fellows. The position they -occupied in his regard was as little open to argument as the place -of incontestable superiority he was wont to assign to himself in his -own generation. I remember once, when a friend in his presence rashly -ventured to accuse him of a lack of catholicity in taste, Whistler in -swift response admitted the justice of the charge and excused himself -on the ground that he only liked what was good. - -But there were causes, apart from the convinced egotism of his nature, -which led him by preference towards other topics of conversation. He -has written in his lectures and in his letters both wisely and wittily -of the proper mission of painting; so wittily, indeed, that his humour -and satire are apt sometimes to obscure the sound and serious thought -which, on this subject, coloured even his most playful utterances. -For, underlying all he said or wrote, was a conviction he took no -pains to conceal--that the principles of Art, together with its aims -and ideals, were the proper concern only of artists and could scarcely -be debated without impropriety by that larger and profaner circle -whose praise and appreciation, however, he was by no means disposed to -resent. At times he was even greedy of applause, and provided it was -full and emphatic enough, showed no inclination to question its source -or authority. There were moments, indeed, when, if it appeared to lack -volume or vehemence, he was ready himself to supply what was deficient. - -It was partly therefore upon principle that he forbore to discuss at -any length subjects with which he deemed the layman had no proper -concern; partly also because in intimate conversation his innate and -powerful sense of humour so loved to assert itself that he wandered, -by preference, into fields where it found unfettered play. And so it -happened in the long and intimate talks in the studio, while he was -at his work, he loved to speak of things that belonged to the outer -world, and to let his wit play vividly, sometimes mischievously and -even maliciously, upon the qualities and foibles of his friends. Here -he was never reticent, and so relentless were his raillery and his -sarcasm that one was sometimes tempted to think that his acquaintances, -and even his friends, only existed for the purpose of displaying his -powers of attack and annihilation. I remember very well, when he was -decorating what afterwards became known as the “Peacock Room” in -Mr. Leyland’s house, that I used often to visit him at his work, and -sometimes shared with him the picnic meals which a devoted satellite -would prepare for him in the empty mansion. He was certainly very proud -of the elaborate scheme of blue and gold ornament he had devised, but I -believe this unalloyed admiration of his own achievement was scarcely -so great or so keen as his delighted anticipation of the owner’s shock -of surprise when he should return to discover that the handsome and -costly stamped leather, which originally adorned the walls of the -apartment, had been completely effaced to make room for the newly -fashioned pattern of decoration. He already scented the joy of the -battle that impended, and this added a peculiar zest to his labours in -the accomplishment of a purely artistic task. As he had hoped so indeed -it happened, and in the long controversy and conflict that ensued, he -found, I believe, the most perfect and unalloyed satisfaction. - -His nature, in short, at every stage of his career was impishly -militant, and whereas other men are so constituted as to desire peace -at any price, there was with Whistler scarcely any cost he deemed too -great to secure a hostile encounter. To baulk him of a controversy was -to rob him of his peace of mind, and so deeply implanted in him was -the fighting spirit that he was sometimes only half-conscious of the -wounds he inflicted. Certain it is that, the lists once entered, he was -relentless in attack, and availed himself without scruple of any weapon -that came to his hand. And yet even in his most saturnine sallies there -was an underlying sense of humour that yielded to the onlooker at least -a part of the enjoyment that he himself drew from the encounter; while -his after recital of the tortuous ingenuity with which he had whipped -a harmless misunderstanding into a grave estrangement was always -irresistible in its appeal. - -But though pitiless in combat, Whistler was not without a chivalrous -side to his nature. He was fond enough, to use his own expression, -of “collecting scalps,” but his tomahawk was never employed against -members of the gentler sex. His manner towards women was unfailingly -courteous and even deferential. In their company he laid aside the -weapons of war, exhibiting towards them on all occasions a delicacy -of sympathy and perception which they instinctively recognised and -appreciated. It set them at their ease. They felt they could listen -with interest and amusement to his recital of those fearless and -sometimes savage contests with the male, in complete security from any -danger of the war being carried into their own country. They were -conscious, in his presence, of an enduring truce between the sexes: a -truce so artfully established and so chivalrously conceded as to arouse -no suspicion that they were being treated with the indulgence due to -inferiors. There was, indeed, in his own character and personality -something of the charm, something also of the weakness, that is -commonly supposed to be exclusively feminine. The alertness of his -temperament betrayed an intuitive quickness in identifying himself -with the mood of the moment that found in them a ready response; and -his natural vanity, though it might sometimes seem overpowering to -members of his own sex, was so exercised as to leave no doubt that he -still held in reserve a full measure of the admiration which was due to -theirs. - -Even as a craftsman there was something delicately feminine in -Whistler’s modes of work. I have often watched him at his own -printing-press when he was preparing a plate of one of his etchings, -and it was always fascinating to follow the deft and agile movements -of his hands as he inked the surface of the copper and then, with -successive touches, graduated the varying force of the impression to be -taken. Here, as I used to think, his method seemed more assured, his -alliance with the mechanical resources of his art more confident, than -when he was struggling with the subtler and more complex problems of -colour. - -I have already spoken of those physical peculiarities with which he -had been liberally endowed by nature. They were such as to make him a -marked figure in any company in which he appeared, and, so far from -being a source of embarrassment to himself, he regarded them as a -substantial asset to be carefully cultivated and artfully obtruded -upon public notice. He even went so far as to enforce and emphasise -what there was of inherited eccentricity in his personal appearance. -The single tuft of white hair which lay embedded in the coiling black -locks adorning his brow, he regarded with a special complacency and -pride; and I was amused one evening in Cheyne Walk, while I watched him -dressing for dinner, to observe the infinite pains he bestowed upon -this particular item of his toilet. It was already past the hour when -we should both have been seated at our friend’s table, but this fact in -no way abbreviated the care with which he cultivated and arranged this -unique feature in his appearance. - -And yet it would be wrong, perhaps, to ascribe the delay only to -vanity, because to be late for dinner was with Whistler almost a -religion. Certain it was, however, that he took a childish delight in -any little studied departures from the rules of ordinary costume. -At one time he ostentatiously abandoned the white neck-tie which was -the accepted accompaniment of evening dress; at another, a delicate -wand-like cane was deemed to be a necessary ornament to be carried in -his walks abroad; and yet again he would announce an approved change in -fashion by appearing in a pair of spotless white ducks beneath his long -black frock-coat. These calculated eccentricities induced in the minds -of the crowd the conviction that Whistler deliberately sought a cheap -notoriety, and it must be conceded, even by those who recognised the -serious side of his nature, that he exhibited at times a strange blend -of the man of genius and the showman. And yet this admission might -easily be made to convey a false impression. He was in a sense both -the one and the other, but their separate functions were never merged -or confused. Till his task as an artist was completed no man was more -serious in his purpose or more exacting or fastidious in the demands -he made upon himself. There was nothing of the charlatan in that part -of him which he dedicated to his work; and it was not until the artist -was satisfied that he availed himself of such antics as attracted, -and perhaps were designed to attract, the astonished attention of the -public. - -One charge that was often urged against him by his enemies, arose out -of the singular choice of titles for his pictures. But it was not, -I think, in any spirit of affectation that he elected to describe -some of his works in terms only strictly appropriate to music. His -“Harmonies” and his “Nocturnes,” though they seemed at the time to -indicate a certain wilful perversity, had in reality a true relation to -principles in Art which he was earnestly seeking to establish. It has -been rightly held of music that, in its detachment from the things of -the intellect and its independence of defined human emotion, it stands -as a model to all other modes of expression by its jealous guardianship -of those indefinable qualities which are of the essence of Art itself. -And in a sense it may be said of Whistler that he discharged a like -function in the realm of painting. For all appeal made through other -means than those strictly belonging to the chosen medium he had neither -sympathy nor pity. It was for the incommunicable element in painting, -incommunicable save through the unassisted resources of painting -itself, that he was constantly striving, and it was his revolt against -all alien pretensions that led him to seek and to adopt the analogy of -music wherein the saving efficacy of such elements is never questioned. - - - - -THE ENGLISH SCHOOL OF PAINTING AT THE ROMAN EXHIBITION[1] - - -The British Section of the International Fine Arts Exhibition, to the -study of which these pages are designed to serve as introduction, may -claim to possess one or two features of exceptional interest. It is -the first time that in any exhibition held outside the British Isles a -serious endeavour has been made to illustrate the progressive movement -of the English school of painting. The works of English painters have -time and again been shown in the different capitals of Europe, and it -is no longer possible to allege that the masters whose achievements we -prize are unknown beyond the limits of our own shores. But the present -occasion is the first wherein a serious and successful experiment has -been made to render the chosen examples of the art of the past truly -representative of the birth and growth of modern art in England and of -the distinctive developments of style which have marked its history. -And it is peculiarly fitting that this connected panorama of English -art should be offered in the capital of a kingdom to whose example the -art of every land has at some time owned its indebtedness. If it be -true that every road leads to Rome, it is no less true that, since the -dawn of the Renaissance, the footsteps of the artists of all northern -lands have worn the several ways that make for Italy; and it will be -seen, as we come to trace the story of painting in England, that, -not only in its earlier appeal but again and again in the successive -revolutions of style and method that have marked its progress, it has -found renewed encouragement and fresh inspiration in the splendid -and varied achievements of the great Italian masters, from Giotto to -Michael Angelo, from Bellini to Tintoretto. - -The history of painting in England precedes by more than a century -the history of English painting. The force of the Reformation had -unquestionably the effect of suddenly snapping the artistic tradition. -At an earlier time England could boast of a race of artists who, as the -illuminated manuscripts of the period clearly show, were able to hold -their own with the most perfect masters in that kind that Europe could -show; but with the advent of the Reformation the imaginative impulse of -our people found a different channel. The strength of our Renaissance -sought expression in our literature, and for a considerable period we -became and remained indebted for all expression of pictorial design -to a race of foreign artists who enjoyed the hospitality of our land. -Even before the Reformation was complete Holbein had found a home at -the English Court, and at a later period Rubens and his great pupil -Van Dyck were invited to our shores. They brought with them to England -the great tradition in portraiture that may be traced back to Italy--a -tradition having its spring in the style and practice of the masters of -Venice, whose devotion to Nature survived as an inheritance to Northern -Europe when the more imaginative design of the school of Florence had -fallen into decay. - -It may be said of all modern art in whatever land we follow its -story, that its master currents flow in the direction of portrait and -landscape, and it was in these twin streams that the English school, -when a century later it came into being, was destined to prove its -acknowledged supremacy. But the realistic spirit which from the first -had stamped itself upon the great Venetians, even at a period when they -seemed to be labouring wholly or mainly in the service of religion, -had gathered in its passage towards our shores yet another impulse, -which found its first expression in the art of the Low Countries. - -Of the painting of _genre_--that art which dwells lovingly upon the -illustration of the social manners of the time--there is already a hint -even in Venice itself; but it was in Holland that it first claimed -a separate and secure existence; and it was to the examples in this -kind, perfected by the Dutch masters, that we owe the achievement of -the great painter who may be claimed as the founder of the modern -English school. That school may be said, indeed, to date from the -birth of William Hogarth. English painters--not a few--had practised -before his time, but their work only followed, without rivalling, -that of foreign contemporaries under whose influence they laboured. -Hogarth was the first who by the independence of his genius gave the -seal and stamp of national character to the pictorial illustration of -the manners of his age. It was the fashion at one time to dwell almost -exclusively upon Hogarth’s qualities as a satirist, to the neglect of -those more enduring claims which are now conceded to him as a great -master of the art he professed; but the criticism of a later time has -repaired that injustice, and Hogarth takes his place now not merely in -virtue of the social message he sought to convey, but even more by -reason of his great qualities as a colourist and a master of tone. Not -that we need underrate or ignore those dramatic elements by which he -still makes so strong an appeal to our admiration. It is rare enough, -even among the supreme painters of _genre_, to find so faithful, so -penetrating an insight into character. Of all the great Dutchmen whom -he succeeded Jan Steen alone can, in this particular, claim to be his -rival; and although the English school is specially rich in the class -of composition which his genius and invention had initiated, there are -none of all those who have practised in a later day who would not still -own him as their master. - -The two examples secured for the present exhibition show Hogarth at -his best, both as a painter and as an inventor. “The Lady’s Last -Stake”--contributed by Mr. Pierpont Morgan--even when our admiration -has been glutted by the rich evidence it affords of Hogarth’s -unrivalled control of a kind of truth that might have found expression -in an art other than the art of the painter, still draws from us the -unstinted homage due to a great colourist whose chosen tints are -submitted with unfailing skill to every delicate and subtle gradation -of tone; while in “The Card Party,” lent by Sir Frederick Cook, where -these qualities are not less clearly announced, we are left at leisure -to follow and appreciate the unflagging observation which registers -every detail that serves for the dramatic presentation of the chosen -theme. - -From the time of Hogarth to our own day this particular style, which he -may claim to have originated, has never lacked professors. As it passed -into the hands of Wilkie satire is softened by sympathy, the foibles -of character are touched with a gentler and more tender spirit, and -the adroitly ordered groups, with which he sometimes loves to crowd -his canvas, tell, in their final impression, of the presence of a kind -of sentiment, sometimes perhaps even of a measure of sentimentalism, -which scarcely came within the range of Hogarth’s fiercer survey of -life. And, again, in the later work of Orchardson sentiment and satire -have both yielded to another ambition that was content to render with -unfailing sympathy and distinction of style the finer graces of social -life. In the superb picture of “The Young Duke” we may note how clearly -the gifts of the painter dominate the scene, his eye ever on the alert -for the opportunities of rich and delicate harmonies supplied by every -chosen accessory of costume and furniture; and no less eager to exhibit -and to record by means of the subtle resources of his art those finer -shades of social breeding that the subject suggests. In this power of -granting a nameless dignity to the art of _genre_--a dignity resident -in the painter which by some strange magic he contrives to confer -upon the people of his creation--Sir William Orchardson sometimes -recalls the art of Watteau, who indeed remains unrivalled in his power -to perceive and his ability to register those slighter realities of -gesture and bearing which give to the rendering of trivial things a -distinction which only style can bestow. - -It is interesting to turn from this characteristic example of Sir -William Orchardson’s style to the work of an elder contemporary in -the person of Frith. The two artists--though both may be said to be -engaged in the same task--make a widely contrasted appeal. With the -former, whatever other message he may intend to convey, the claims -of the painter stand foremost. We are conscious of the controlling -influence of the colourist and the master of pictorial composition -before we are permitted to study or to enjoy the human realities that -he has chosen to depict. With Frith, on the other hand, it is the -human element in the design that first arrests our attention. Gifts of -a purely artistic kind he undoubtedly possessed, as the example here -exhibited sufficiently proves--gifts which at one time criticism tended -to ignore or to undervalue; but it remains finally true nevertheless -that it is as a student of manners, presented in a form sometimes -recalling the arts of the theatre, that Frith makes his first appeal to -our attention. In this respect he claims kinship with Hogarth himself, -whose influence, I doubt not, he would have been proud to acknowledge. - -“Coming of Age in the Olden Time,” necessitating, by the choice of -its subject, the employment of historic costume, illustrates only one -aspect of Frith’s varied talent, and he will perhaps be best remembered -by such works as “The Railway Station” and “Ramsgate Sands,” where -he is called upon to render with unflinching fidelity those facts -of contemporary dress in which painters differently gifted find no -picturesque opportunity; and whatever may be Time’s final judgment upon -Frith’s claim in the region of pure art, it cannot be questioned that -such richly peopled canvases must for ever remain an invaluable record -of the outward realities of the generation for which he labored. - -The historic side of _genre_ painting is further illustrated in the -present collection in the person of Maclise, who, like his great -forerunner, William Hogarth, was attracted again and again by the -art of the theatre. But Maclise brought to his task certain larger -qualities of design and composition which he had won from the study of -the great masters of style; and although he never achieved the highest -triumphs in the region of the ideal his efforts in that direction -left an impress upon his painting that served to distinguish it from -the achievements of those who laboured in obedience to a more modest -tradition. - -The English theatre has attracted the talent of a long line of artists, -some of whom, like Clint, are little known in any other sphere. Perhaps -the greatest of them all (if we except the name of Hogarth himself) was -Johann Zoffany, whose paintings, admirable in the rendering of incident -and character, are even more remarkable for his great qualities as -a colourist and his perfect mastery over the secrets of tone. As a -student of the theatre he may perhaps be seen to best advantage in the -several fine examples in the possession of the Garrick Club; but Lord -O’Hagan’s picture of Charles Townley the collector, presented in his -library with his marbles, asserts with convincing force his right to -rank among the great painters of his time. - -Among other pictures in this category whose high claims deserve a -fulness of consideration which the exigencies of space alone forbid me -to grant, I may mention the Eastern study by Lewis, the “Dawn” by E. J. -Gregory, and the group of Sir Peter and Lady Teazle by John Pettie. - -I have hinted already that in the brief story of our national school of -painting we are constantly reminded of the abiding splendours of the -art of Italy, and even in the work of men whose genuine victories were -won in another sphere there are constant echoes of the larger language -moulded by the great masters of the south. For although, at the first, -it is only in the allied departments of portrait and landscape that -the art of England claims and owns unquestioned supremacy, yet in the -career of the gifted painter who may be said to have first firmly -established our claim to rank among the schools of Europe we are not -allowed to forget the glorious victories of the Italian Renaissance. - -It has been sometimes alleged of Sir Joshua Reynolds’s occasional -experiments in the grand style that their failure to rival the masters -he most admired proves how futile were his studies in that branch -of art in which he could never hope to excel. But this, I think, -is to take only a shallow and superficial view of the factors that -make for excellence in any chosen field of artistic endeavour; for -if Sir Joshua’s essays in ideal design now fade into insignificance -by comparison with the solid and enduring work he achieved in -portraiture, it remains none the less true that the study of those -great models towards which his ambition led him has served to grant -to his interpretation of individual face and form a measure of added -dignity and power that could have been won from no other source. His -sketch-book--preserved in the Print Room of the British Museum--while -it forms an interesting record of his sojourn in Italy is no less -instructive as illustrating his untiring devotion to those great -masters who laboured in a realm of art that his own genius was never -destined to inhabit; and there is something infinitely touching in the -concluding sentences of his valedictory address to the students of the -Royal Academy wherein, while frankly confessing his own failure, he -reiterates his undiminished admiration of the greatest of the great -Florentines. “It will not,” he says, “I hope, be thought presumptuous -in me to appear in the train, I cannot say of his imitators, but of his -admirers. I have taken another course, one more suited to my abilities -and to the tastes of the time in which I live. Yet, however unequal -I feel myself to that attempt, were I now to begin the world again I -would tread in the steps of that great master. To kiss the hem of his -garment, to catch the slightest of his perfections, would be glory and -distinction enough for an ambitious man. I feel a self-congratulation -in knowing myself capable of such sensations as he intended to excite. -I reflect, not without vanity, that these discourses bear testimony -of my admiration of that truly divine man; and I desire that the last -words I should pronounce in this academy and from this place might be -the name of Michael Angelo.” - -In the same year in which these words were uttered there is yet another -reference to his earlier ambitions which is scarcely less pathetic. -Writing to Sheridan, who desired to purchase the beautiful picture of -St. Cecilia, for which Mrs. Sheridan had served as the model, he says: - -“It is with great regret that I part with the best picture I ever -painted; for though I have every year hoped to paint better and better, -and may truly say ‘Nil actum reputans dum quid superesset agendum,’ -it has not been always the case. However, there is now an end of the -pursuit; the race is over, whether it is won or lost.” - -The judgment of Time has left the land that owned him in no doubt -that the race had been worthily won. The prize awarded to him by the -acclaim of subsequent generations was not perhaps the prize he coveted -the most; and yet if the goal towards which he set his feet was never -reached, the time spent in the study of the great masters of the past -affords no story of wasted ambition. For without the example of those -great masters he loved to study, his own achievement would have been -shorn of certain elements of greatness which have served to place him -foremost in the ranks of the portrait painters of his time. - -In certain styles of painting we are rightly modest in asserting the -claims of the English school, but in that goodly list of artists at -whose head stands the name of Sir Joshua we may boast a national -possession which the art of the time could scarcely rival and most -assuredly could not surpass. Europe was then in no mood to take over -the rich inheritance of the great Florentines; the successful study of -the principles they had expounded had to wait the coming of a later -day; but in those departments wherein the art of Europe was still vital -England certainly was, at that time, not lagging behind her rivals. -Reynolds, Gainsborough, Romney, Hoppner, Raeburn--what names in the -contemporary art of the Continent can be cited as their superiors in -those branches of painting which they cultivated? Disparagement is -no part of the business of criticism, and the victories of one land -assuredly take nothing from the triumphs justly won in another. France, -too, at that epoch could boast gifted artists greatly distinguished -in various fields; but when it is remembered that Watteau, the most -distinguished of French colourists, had died two years before Reynolds -was born, the outburst of artistic activity, which the men whose names -I have cited heralded to the world, may well be viewed as a phenomenon -almost unparalleled in the modern history of painting. For it is as -colourists, in the truest and highest sense of the term, that the -English school at this period of revival makes its claim to supremacy; -and it was here that the teaching of Italy--not as expounded through -the work of the Florentines, but rather as it travelled northwards, -carrying with it the surviving splendours of the Venetians--found a -full and worthy response from these gifted exponents of our native art. - -The present collection is rich in finely chosen examples of the -masters I have named. Reynolds boasted to Malone that he had painted -two generations of the beauties of England, and as we turn from the -“Kitty Fisher,” lent by the Earl of Crewe, to the portrait of “Anne -Dashwood,” or to that of the “Marchioness of Thomond,” from Sir Carl -Meyer’s collection, we may well own that no man was more rightly -equipped for the task that had fallen upon him. No man save perhaps -his rival, Thomas Gainsborough, who, in the alertness and delicacy of -his observation as well as by a natural affinity with the gentler sex -that was born of a sweet and gracious disposition, seemed specially -destined to interpret with loving fidelity the lightest no less than -the most characteristic realities of feminine beauty. In weight and -dignity of style, the outcome, as I have already hinted, of a diligent -study of the great models of the past, in masculine grip and gravity -of interpretation, displayed more especially in the portraiture of the -most distinguished men of his time, Reynolds, it must be conceded, -remains even to this day without a rival in our school. But in the -native gifts of a painter Gainsborough owned no superior, and it would -be difficult to trace to any individual master of the past, or indeed -to any other source than his inborn love of nature, those peculiar -qualities of sweetness and grace which set the finest achievements of -his brush in a category of their own. A measure of kinship with the -great Dutchmen may be discerned in his earlier essays in landscape--a -branch of art which he may be said almost to have founded in England; -and the final words with which he took leave of the world, “We are -all going to heaven and Van Dyck is of the company,” give warrant for -the belief that even in portraiture he would willingly have owned his -allegiance to the famous pupil of Rubens; but in his actual practice -as a portrait painter his own modest and yet commanding personality -quickly effaced all record of indebtedness to any other influence than -his own inspiration. - -It would be easy, if space permitted, to institute an interesting -comparison between his own accomplishment and that of his contemporary -Sir Joshua. The same personalities sometimes figure upon the canvases -of both. The winning beauty of Miss Linley’s face, employed by Sir -Joshua in his picture of St. Cecilia, had no less strongly attracted -the genius of Gainsborough; and here, as well as in the rendering of -the features of Mrs. Siddons, we may note the divergent gifts which -these painters separately brought to their task and the varying and -matchless qualities which nature surrendered ungrudgingly to both. -Speaking generally, it may, I think, be conceded that Gainsborough’s -art registered with greater felicity those fleeting graces of gesture -and expression that would sometimes escape his more serious rival; -while Reynolds, constantly preoccupied by the intellectual appeal -made by his sitter, was perhaps more apt to dwell in the features he -portrayed upon those deeper and more permanent truths that would serve -to mirror mind and character. - -That Gainsborough’s vision was not, however, limited to forms of female -beauty is shown clearly enough by the several notable examples here -exhibited. His portraits of John Eld and Dr. William Pearce, no less -than the head of the artist himself, prove that he could acquit himself -nobly even when he was not engaged in the more sympathetic task of -presenting with faultless grace the lovely women of his time; while -Lord Jersey’s “Landscape and Cattle” affords sufficient evidence of -what the school of English landscape owes to his initiative. - -Of the other distinguished masters of portrait in the century in -which these two great names stand pre-eminent we find here adequate -representation. Romney is not always faultless as a colourist, nor -does his draughtsmanship yield the searching penetration displayed -by Reynolds or the more delicate apprehension of the finer facts -of expression which constitutes so large a part of Gainsborough’s -ineffable charm; but judged at his best, and art may justly appeal -against any less generous verdict, he takes his rightful place by -the side of both. How good was his best may be seen in Mr. Pierpont -Morgan’s fine full-length of Mrs. Scott Jackson, as well as in the -group of Mrs. Clay and her child, lent by Mrs. Fleischmann. But Romney -had one sitter whose beauty overpowered all others in the appeal it -made to the artist, and it is therefore fortunate that the collection -includes a portrait of Lady Hamilton, whose fame may be said to be -inseparably linked with his own. She, too, in her own person awakens -echoes from Italy, for it was at Rome she won the admiration of Goethe -in those dramatic assumptions of classical character that are preserved -for succeeding generations in Romney’s constantly repeated studies of -the face he worshipped. - -From these three commanding personalities, which yield brightness -to the dawn of our English school of portraiture, we advance by no -inglorious progression to the masters who, though now deceased, belong -of right to our own day. Hoppner, the younger contemporary of the -men I have named, whose career carries us into the next century, is -here superbly represented in the contributions from Mrs. Fleischmann -and Lord Darnley. Raeburn also, whose masculine and sometimes rugged -genius speaks to us with the accent of the north--Raeburn, who at -the instigation of Sir Joshua journeyed to Italy to study the great -Italian masters--is here seen at his best in the splendid portrait of -“The MacNab,” lent by Mrs. Baillie-Hamilton; while near by we find -characteristic examples of the art of his fellow-countrymen, Allan -Ramsay and Andrew Geddes. Sir Thomas Lawrence may be said to have -brought to a close the tradition established by Reynolds, and his -practice may therefore be held to form a link with the more modern -school. His claims here receive justice in the two portraits lent -by Lord Bathurst and Lord Plymouth; nor is the collection without -worthy specimens of the art of Opie, whose practice frankly confesses -the example and influence of Sir Joshua himself. Among the portrait -painters of the younger day, in whose ranks may be counted Frank Holl -and Frederick Sandys, Brough, and Furse, two names stand pre-eminent. -Watts and Millais in their different appeal register the high-water -mark of portraiture during what may be called the Victorian era. The -former owned in common with Sir Joshua an unswerving devotion to the -great traditions of Italian painting, and may claim equally with Sir -Joshua to have won for his work in this kind an imaginative quality -legitimately imported from the study of ideal design. Millais stands -alone. Of both I shall have to speak again in respect of other claims -which their art puts forward, but the position of Millais as a painter -of portrait is as independent in its appeal as that of Gainsborough -himself. - -The incursions into the realm of ideal and decorative art made by -English painters of the eighteenth century may not be reckoned among -the accepted triumphs of our school. Barry, Fuseli, and Haydon, all -alike inspired by high ambition and capable, as was shown by their -untiring devotion and sacrifice in the cause they had espoused, lacked -the means and the endowment to appear with any solid measure of success -to an age that was in itself unfitted to receive the message they -sought to convey. The untutored and undisciplined genius of William -Blake affords an isolated example in his time of a true and deeper -understanding of the secrets of the kind of art which these men vainly -pursued; but even if Blake had possessed more ample resources as a -painter he would none the less have spoken in a language that was -strange to the temper of his time; and it was reserved for a later -day to forge the means which would secure a genuine revival of the -forgotten glories of imaginative design. - -The movement associated with the name of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood -stands as a landmark in the modern history of our school, nor has it -been without lasting influence upon the art of Europe. In the year -1848, which gave it birth, the outlook for painting which aimed at -the presentation of any imaginative ideal was not encouraging. Etty, -a painter of genuine endowment, still survived, and his unquestioned -gifts as a colourist are plainly asserted in the single example -included in the present exhibition; but the practice of his later -years, as Holman Hunt has justly observed, scarcely offered the most -fitting model to a young artist of serious ambition. On the other -hand, the waning accomplishment of men who had passed their prime -cried aloud for the need of a new return to nature; and the accepted -conventions of style, either in themselves outworn or else imperfectly -revealed by hands enfeebled and grown old, left the hour ripe for -the advent of that small but greatly gifted group of young men whose -rebel practice was destined to leave so strong an imprint upon their -own and succeeding generations. It would perhaps be difficult to find -three painters of equal power whose art was so differently inspired -and whose achievement was destined to take such separate and widely -divergent forms as Holman Hunt, John Millais, and Dante Gabriel -Rossetti, who stand as the acknowledged heads in this new movement; but -their efforts, at the time of which I am speaking, were bound together -by a common purpose which prevailed then and has since continued to -keep their names linked together in the modern history of our English -school. In protest against the fetters imposed upon painting by the -tradition of the past--fetters that were by common consent only to be -removed by a renewed return to the facts of nature--they trod, in the -season of their youth, the same road, although the ultimate development -of their separate personalities led them, before many years passed, -into paths widely divergent from one another. To judge Rossetti’s -talent justly from works collected on the present occasion we must -group together the examples in oil and water-colour. The religious -phase in his career is indicated by “The Annunciation of the Virgin,” -lent by Mrs. Boyce; while the freedom with which his imagination -afterwards roamed over those great legends already made memorable in -literature is shown by the “Mariana” and the “Dante meeting Beatrice” -among the paintings in oil, and perhaps even more conclusively in the -exquisite water-colour drawing of “Paolo and Francesca,” lent by Mr. -Davis, which may be accepted as a capital instance of his unrivalled -power to render the truths of human passion without violating the -laws inherent in the art he professed. In his water-colours even more -decisively than in his paintings in oil Rossetti clearly announces his -great claims as a colourist; and his paintings bear this distinctive -mark in their invention of colour that the ordered harmonies he can -command are not only beautiful in themselves but that their beauty -stands in clear and direct response to the nature of the chosen -subject. In this regard assuredly neither of the two men who stand -associated with him in the Pre-Raphaelite movement can claim to be his -superior. It is perhaps unfortunate for purposes of comparison that -the range of Millais’s talent is here not completely represented. “Sir -Isumbras at the Ford” is indeed a characteristic example of his earlier -period, though it hardly shows the qualities he could then command in -the same degree of perfection as would be rendered by the presence of -“Lorenzo and Isabella” or of “Christ in the Carpenter’s Shop.” We have, -on the other hand, in the “Black Brunswicker” a notable example of -that transitional period in Millais’s art wherein the claims of fancy -and invention and the overmastering gifts of the realist--gifts that -afterwards availed to set him as the greatest portrait painter of his -time--are held in momentary balance; and we may find herein expressed -an element of Millais’s painting which had already received supreme -embodiment in the famous picture of “The Huguenot.” No artist of his -time--perhaps no artist of any time--has ever excelled him in the -rendering of certain phases of human emotion that transfigure without -disturbing the permanent beauty of feminine character. This power -remained to him to the end of his career, and it was the perception of -it which caused Watts to write to him in 1878, in regard to “The Bride -of Lammermoor,” which had received deserved decoration in Paris: “Lucy -Ashton’s mouth is worthy of any number of medals.” It is impossible to -say in the presence of work of this kind how much has been contributed -by the model, how much conferred by the artist; but that the artist’s -share in the result is predominant is proved by the fact that nobody -else has combined in the same fashion the portraiture of individual -features with the most delicate suggestion of the emotion that moves -them. In the art of Holman Hunt, always masculine in its character -and marked by the signs of indefatigable industry, emphasis is so -evenly laid upon all the confluent qualities that contribute to the -result that it is hard to signalise or to describe the dominating -characteristics of his personality. In his treatment of religious -subjects he showed a constant reverence that nevertheless scarcely -touched the confines of worship; for the same earnestness of purpose, -the same reverent research of truth, asserts itself no less in whatever -subject engages his brush. Rare qualities of a purely pictorial kind -nearly all his work may claim, and yet it is not always possible -to concede to the result, however astonishing in its power, that -final seal of beauty without which Art’s victory can never be deemed -absolutely complete. “The Scapegoat,” here exhibited, was fiercely -disputed at the date of his first appearance, and it is even now not -difficult to understand that its appeal must have seemed strange to -the temper of the time; but there can be no barrier at any rate to the -generous appreciation of the noble qualities displayed in the “Finding -of the Saviour in the Temple” or the austere simplicity and sincerity -of “Morning Prayer.” - -Around these three men who bravely heralded the new movement in English -art are grouped the names of others who in different degrees were -equally inspired by the principles the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood -sought to enforce. For although their earlier efforts encountered -bitter attack from the accredited organs of public opinion, they met -at the outset with warm response from within the ranks of art itself. -The company of their followers at first, indeed, was small; but the -quickened spirit of the time had already been in part prepared for -the reception of the message they bore. The writings of John Ruskin, -in whatever degree his particular judgments upon art matters may be -disputed, had already availed to stir the conscience of his generation -and to restore to art its rightful place in life. Henceforth it was not -possible to think of painting as a thing of mere dilettantism, serving -only to minister to the trivial demands of the taste of the hour. He -proved to the world that at every season when art has held a dominating -place its spirit has been fast linked with the heart and life of the -people; and the deep earnestness which in _Modern Painters_ he brought -to the task of historical criticism found a ready reflex in the more -serious and concentrated intensity of feeling which coloured the work -of men of the younger school. - -William Dyce, by his declared devotion to the painters of the -Quattrocento, had already in part anticipated the practice of the -Pre-Raphaelites; and Ford Madox Brown, here represented both as a -painter of portrait and as a master of design, though never formally -enrolled in the brotherhood, claims by the inherent qualities of his -work a prominent place in the revolution that was then in progress. He -had been Rossetti’s first master, and to the end of his life, as I can -testify, Rossetti retained for him the warmest affection, and Holman -Hunt’s somewhat ungracious protest that the direction of his art would -have clashed with the aims the Pre-Raphaelites had then in view must -be surely deemed unconvincing in the presence of his great picture -entitled “Work,” wherein an unflinching reliance upon nature is the -dominant characteristic. Frederick Sandys, here admirably represented -by the portrait of Mrs. Clabburn and by “Medea,” showed even more -conclusively in his varied work in design his right to be reckoned side -by side with the leaders I have named; while Burne-Jones, who always -generously acknowledged his indebtedness to Rossetti, displayed as his -powers developed a kindred attachment to the kind of beauty in painting -which finds its well-spring in the art of Florence. The water-colours -in the present collection represent him at a time when Rossetti’s -example and influence were still dominant, but “Love among the Ruins,” -lent by Mrs. Michie, and “The Mirror of Venus,” from the collection of -Mr. Goldman, reveal to us the painter in the plenitude of his powers, -when with full mastery of resource he revelled in the interpretation -of themes of imaginative significance. A great colourist in the sense -in which the Florentines use colour--a great designer, gifted from the -outset with the power of striking into symbol forms of beauty that -might equally serve to fire the fancy of a poet, Burne-Jones holds a -unique position in our school; nor are his claims to admiration likely -to suffer from the fact that the principles he professed have sometimes -been adopted by imitators not sufficiently endowed for so high an -endeavour. - -In the story of a movement that limitations of space must needs leave -inadequate it would be impossible to ignore or to omit the names of two -men who worthily occupied a distinguished place in the art of their -time. G. F. Watts and Lord Leighton may both be said to stand apart -from the particular current of artistic revolution associated with -the names I have already cited. The former was already deeply imbued -with the spirit of the great Venetians even before the Pre-Raphaelite -Brotherhood had come into being, but the poetic impulse, which he owned -in common with his younger contemporaries, sets much of his work in -clear alliance with theirs. His “Love and Death” illustrates in a form -of unquestioned beauty the attempt to combine the sometimes divergent -qualities of the two great schools of Italy; and the example set by -both reappears in a union that is entirely satisfying when Watts turns -to the task of portraiture. Nor could any better examples of his -accomplishment have been procured than the figure of Lord Tennyson or -the head of Mr. Walter Crane. - -Lord Leighton’s finely cultivated talent, though his early sojourn at -Florence had coloured the work of his youth, reveals at the hour of its -maturity an undivided allegiance to classic ideals. His mediaevalism -was a garb quickly discarded. “By degrees,” he once wrote to me, -“my growing love for form made me intolerant of the restraints and -exigencies of costume and led me more and more, and finally, to a -class of subjects, or more accurately to a state of conditions, in -which supreme scope is left to pure artistic qualities, in which no -form is imposed upon the artist by the tailor, but in which every -form is made obedient to the conception of the design he has in hand. -These conditions classic subjects afford, and as vehicles therefore -of abstract form, which is a thing not of one time but of all time, -these subjects can never be obsolete, and though to many they are a -dead letter, they can never be an anachronism.” With this confession -of faith before us we may measure how far the unceasing labours of -a long career availed to satisfy the noble purpose of his youth. A -certain lack of virility, an imperfect sense of energy and movement -which is needed to give the final sense of vitality to all art, however -directed, may perhaps be alleged even against the most complete of -his achievements; but the saving sense of grace, revealed in forms -often finely proportioned and justly selected, remains as an abiding -element in his constant pursuit of classic perfection, and is clearly -enough illustrated in such works as the “Summer Moon” and the “Return -of Persephone,” which the committee have secured for the present -exhibition. - -We must return now for a while to the earlier experiments of our -school in order to trace the growth of the art of landscape, a -department wherein by the consent of Europe our painters hold a place -of indisputable supremacy. Gainsborough, as I have already hinted, -had found in the surroundings of his Suffolk home the material he -needed for the display of his deeply seated love of outward nature; -and his achievements in this kind rest as the first foundation of -what is most enduringly characteristic in English landscape painting. -But as early as the year 1749, when Gainsborough was only a youth of -twenty-two, Richard Wilson was already resident in Italy, and had -begun that exquisite series of studies from Italian scenery which -won so small a meed of praise from his own generation. The special -direction of his art was not, indeed, destined to inspire many of -those who came after him, for the new spirit of naturalism sought and -captured certain qualities of dramatic expressions in the rendering of -nature that were not of his seeking; nor was the ordered beauty of his -compositions, or the serene charm which characterises his gift as a -colourist, likely to be heeded by a race of painters who were already -on the alert to seize and record those fleeting effects of changing -light and tone which found such splendid embodiment in the vigorous -painting of Constable. Constable’s frank reliance upon light and -shade as constituting the final element of beauty in landscape could -never have been accepted without reserve by Richard Wilson, but the -pursuit which Constable initiated has owned an overpowering attraction -for nearly all students of nature since his time; and his example, -transported to France through the art of Michel, may be allowed to -have powerfully inspired that distinguished group of French artists -whose work was a part of the outcome of the modern romantic movement. -It would be impossible here to distinguish in detail the separate work -of English painters who have worthily carried forward the tradition -established by Constable; nor is it needful now to vindicate the -claims of men like Cotman, Cox, and Crome in an earlier time, or of -Hook and Cecil Lawson, Sam Bough, Mason, and Frederick Walker, whose -more recent work brings the story of this branch of art down to our -own day. Of English landscapists, indeed, the name is legion, and at -the head of them all, if we may judge by the extent of the fame he has -won, stands the name of Joseph Mallord William Turner, whose genius, -heralded to the world by the eloquent advocacy of Ruskin, is here fully -illustrated in superb examples from the collections of Mr. Chapman, -Lord Strathcona, Mr. Beecham, and Mr. Pierpont Morgan. Turner, in his -youth, while he was still under the influence of Girtin, might well -have owned kinship with Richard Wilson, as both in turn might have -confessed their indebtedness to the great Frenchman, Claude Lorraine; -but Turner’s talent, as it passed onward in steady development, parted -completely with the shackles imposed by earlier authority and left him -at the close of a brilliant career in a position of complete isolation -and independence. There will always be those--and I may count myself -among the number--who will turn with increasing love to the more -restrained beauty of his earlier work, and who will seek rather in his -water-colours than in his paintings in oil for the finer expression of -those more individual qualities which marked the practice of his prime. -But personal preference need count for little in the acknowledgment -which all alike must freely render, that his genius has conferred a -lasting glory upon the English school. - -With this brief survey of the work of deceased British artists -the mission of the critic may here fitly end. The purpose of such -an introduction as I have attempted is sufficiently served if, in -sketching the growth of our school from its foundation in the middle -of the eighteenth century, I have succeeded in indicating the several -diverse currents which have contributed to its development, and have -left so rich a heritage in achievement and example to the men of a -younger day. Of the varied quality of that later work the exhibition -must be left to speak for itself. That the product of our time lacks -nothing of vitality is sufficiently shown in the spirit of restless -and untiring experiment which marks the varied output of our younger -school; and that it still preserves among many of its exponents a loyal -adherence to the imperishable traditions of the past is no less clearly -asserted in the work of men who are now labouring with undiminished -faith in the ideals established by an earlier generation. Of Subject -and Portrait, in the art that leans for its support upon qualities -of decorative design and in the direct and searching questionings of -nature, noticeable in every direction and manifest specially in the -treatment of landscape, there is a rich and abundant harvest in the -present collection. - - - - -WITH GEORGE MEREDITH ON BOX HILL - - -“Come down,” he wrote to me one day, “and see our Indian summer here. A -dozen differently coloured torches you will find held up in our woods, -for which, however, as well as for your sensitive skin, we require -stillness and a smiling or sober sky.” - -This was written in the autumn of 1878, and is drawn from one of many -little notes of invitation which used to preface a delightful day with -George Meredith on the slopes of Box Hill. Our long rambles filled the -afternoon, and were preceded by a simple but thoughtfully chosen lunch, -which, when the weather allowed, was set out upon a gravel walk in -front of the cottage beside the tall, sheltering hedge that gave shade -from the sun. Meredith attached no small importance to the details of -these little feasts. He prided himself not a little on his gastronomic -knowledge, and was pleased when our climate made it possible to -reproduce the impression of a genuine French _déjeuner en plein air_. -In another letter he writes: “The promise of weather is good. Lilac, -laburnum, nightingales, and asparagus are your dishes. Hochheimer or -dry, still, red Bouzy, Richebourg and your friend to wash all down.” -His knowledge of these matters of the table was, perhaps, not very -profound, but the appropriate vocabulary which gave the air of the -expert was always at his command. And this, I think, was characteristic -of the man in respect of many fields of knowledge that lay beyond the -arena in which his imaginative powers were directly engaged. - -In his art he was never quite content to image only the permanent -facts of life, either in their larger or simpler issues, unless he was -permitted at the same time to entangle the characters of his creation -in the coils of some problem that was intellectual rather than purely -emotional. He loved to submit his creations to the instant pressure of -their time, and with this purpose it was his business, no less than -his pleasure, to equip himself intellectually with garnered stores of -knowledge in fields into which the ordinary writers of fiction rarely -enter. It was not, of course, to be supposed that he could claim equal -mastery in all, although his intellect was so active and so agile -that his limitations were not easily discerned. I remember one day -at an Exhibition in the New Gallery having introduced him to an old -gentleman, whose long life had been spent in a study of the drawings -of the old masters, to whom Meredith, with inimitable fluency, was -expounding the peculiar virtues of the art of Canaletto. Meredith -was eloquent, but the discourse somehow failed to impress the aged -student. When they had parted his sole commentary to me was: “Your -friend--Mr. Meredith, I think you said--endeavoured to persuade me that -he understood Canaletto, but he did not.” - -But even if, in this single instance, the criticism be accepted as -just, it must be conceded by all who knew him well that Meredith was -not often caught tripping in the discussion of any topic in which his -intellect had been actively engaged. Sometimes--and then, perhaps, -rather in a spirit of audacious adventure and for exercise of his -incomparable powers of expression--he would make a bold sortie into -realms of knowledge that were only half conquered. But this was, for -the most part, only when he had an audience waiting on his words. When -he had only a single companion to listen there was no man whose talk -was more penetrating or more sincere: and he was at his best, I used -to think, in those long rambles that filled our afternoons at Box -Hill. The active exercise in which he delighted seemed to steady and -concentrate those intellectual forces that sometimes ran riot when he -felt himself called upon to dominate the mixed assembly of a dinner -table. - -No one, assuredly, ever possessed a more genuine or a more exalted -delight in nature. His veneration for the earth and for all that sprang -from the earth as an unfailing and irrefutable source of the highest -sanity in thought and feeling, amounted almost to worship. He never -deliberately set out to paint the landscape in set language as we -passed along, but a brief word dropped here and there upon our way, -telling of some aspect of beauty newly observed and newly registered, -showed clearly that every fresh encounter with nature served to add -another gem to the hoarded store of beauty that lay resident in his -mind. And yet, even here, the research for the recondite, either -in the fact observed or in the phrase that fixed it, peeped out -characteristically in the most careless fashion of his talk. He loved -to signalise an old and abiding love of the outward world by some -new token that found expression at once in language newly coined; -and he would break away on a sudden from some long-drawn legend of a -half-imaginary character that was often set in the frame of burlesque, -to note, with a swift change to a graver tone, some passing aspect of -the scene that challenged his admiration afresh. And then, when he had -quietly added this last specimen to his cabinet, he would as quickly -turn again, with boisterous mirth, to complete the caricature portrait -of some common friend, which he loved to embellish with every detail of -imagined embroidery. - -In a mixed company Meredith did not often lean to the discussion -of literature. He inclined rather, if an expert on any subject was -present, to press the conversation in that direction, exhibiting nearly -always a surprising knowledge of the specialist’s theme, knowledge at -any rate sufficient to yield in the result a full revelation of the -store of information at the disposal of his interlocutor. But in those -long rambles when we were alone he loved to consider and discuss the -claims of the professors of his own art, rejecting scornfully enough -the current standards of his own time, but approaching with entire -humility the work of masters whom he acknowledged. In those days (I am -speaking now of the years between 1875 and 1888) he had by no means -attained even to that measure of popularity which came to him at a -later time, and when the talk veered towards his own work it was easy -to perceive a lurking sense of disappointment that left him, however, -with an undiminished faith in the art to which his life was pledged. - -During the autumn of 1878 I had written to him in warm appreciation of -some of his poems, and his reply is characteristic. “There is no man,” -he writes, “I would so strongly wish to please with my verse. I wish -I had more time for it, but my Pactolus, a shrivelled stream at best, -will not flow to piping, and as to publishing books of verse, I have -paid heavily for that audacity twice in pounds sterling. I had for -audience the bull, the donkey, and the barking cur. He that pays to -come before them a third time, we will not give him his name.” I think -in regard to all his work, whether in prose or verse, he was haunted -at that time by the presence of the bull, the donkey, and the barking -cur. But if this had yielded for the moment some sense of bitterness -in regard to the results of his own career, his attitude towards life -was even then undaunted, and left him generously disposed towards all -achievement of true pretensions, either in the present or in the past. -Indeed, the true greatness of the man was in nothing better displayed -than in the unbroken urbanity of his outlook upon life. His was of -all natures I have known the most hopeful of the world’s destiny. The -starved and shrivelled pessimism of the disappointed egotist had no -part in his disposition. His wider outlook upon life was undimmed by -the pain of whatever measure of personal failure had befallen him, -and I believe that even if his faith in humanity had not of itself -been sufficing and complete, he could have drawn from the earth, and -the unfading beauty of the earth, encouragement enough to keep him -steadfast in his way. - -How admirably has he expressed this joy of full comradeship with nature -in the opening lines of the “Woods of Westermain”! - - Toss your heart up with the lark; - Foot at peace with mouse and worm, - Fair you fare. - -So he cries in invitation; and then a little later, in celebration of -the joys that await the wood-wayfarer, he adds: - - This is being bird and more, - More than glad musician this; - Granaries you will have a store - Past the world of woe and bliss; - Sharing still its bliss and woe; - Harnessed to its hungers, no. - On the throne Success usurps, - You shall seat the joy you feel - Where a race of water chirps - Twisting hues of flourished steel: - Or where light is caught in hoop - Up a clearing’s leafy rise, - Where the crossing deer-herds troop - Classic splendours, knightly dyes. - Or, where old-eyed oxen chew - Speculation with the cud, - Read their pool of vision through, - Back to hours when mind was mud. - -Or yet again towards the close: - - Hear that song; both wild and ruled. - Hear it: is it wail or mirth? - Ordered, bubbled, quite unschooled? - None, and all: it springs of Earth. - O but hear it! ’tis the mind; - Mind that with deep Earth unites, - Round the solid trunk to wind - Rings of clasping parasites. - Music have you there to feed - Simplest and most soaring need. - -In his prose work Meredith seems often half distrustful of his own -inspiration, halting now and then to test the validity of the emotions -he has awakened, and at times letting a jet of irony on to the fire -he has kindled, as though half suspicious that he had been lured into -the ways of the sentimentalist. But in his poetry he owns a larger -daring and a higher freedom; there he treads unhampered by these -half-conscious fears, and yet there, no less than in his prose, we can -recognise his insatiable hunger to find and discover new tokens by -which to arrest the vision that he loves. - -Meredith’s little cottage at the foot of Box Hill was the fittest home -for the writer and for the man. Not so far removed from town as to be -beyond the echo of its strife, it enabled him when his duty as reader -to Chapman and Hall took him to the office to pass an hour or two at -luncheon at the Garrick Club, where he loved in these brief intervals -of leisure to rally some of his old friends in laughing and cheerful -converse. - -These occasional visits served to keep him in touch with the moving -problems of his time, towards none of which he affected any kind of -indifference; and yet the pungent wit and profound penetration of -view with which he handled such mundane themes were won and hoarded, -I think, in the long silences and the chosen loneliness of his Surrey -home. Hard by Flint Cottage stands the little inn at Burford Bridge, -now transformed and enlarged to meet the constant incursions of -visitors from the town, but at the time when I first remember it but -little changed from the days when it sheltered Keats while he was -setting the finishing touches to “Endymion.” The association often -led us in our rambles to speak of the work of the earlier poet, for -whose faultless art Meredith owned an unbounded admiration. Of the -poets I think he spoke more willingly than of the writers of prose, -though he was on the alert to recognise genius in any form, and never -lacked enthusiasm in appraising the work of a writer like Charlotte -Brontë. For George Eliot’s achievement he never professed more than -a strictly limited respect. Her more pretentious literary methods -failed to impress him, and there were times when the keenness of his -hostile criticism bordered upon scorn. I remember when some one in -his presence ventured to remark that George Eliot, “panoplied in all -the philosophies, was apt to swoop upon a commonplace,” he hailed the -criticism with the keenest enjoyment, and half-laughingly declared that -he would like to have forged the phrase himself. - -At the close of our afternoon rambles, that in summer time were -prolonged to close upon the dinner-hour, we would return at loitering -pace down the winding paths to the cottage, and when I was able to -stay the night our evenings would be spent in the little châlet that -stood on the hill at the summit of his garden. Meredith truly loved -the secluded bower that he had fashioned for himself. It was there -he worked, and during the summer months it was there he constantly -passed the night. It was there I used to leave him when our long talk -was over, and descend the garden to the room that had been allotted -to me in the cottage. But of talk he never tired, and it was often -far into the night before we parted. He loved also, when he found an -appreciative listener, to read aloud long passages from his poems. Once -I remember he recited to me during a single evening the whole of the -body of sonnets forming the poem of “Modern Love.” On occasion--but -not, perhaps, quite so willingly--he might be tempted to anticipate -publication by reading a chapter or two from an uncompleted story, -and I can recall with what admirable effect, not at Box Hill, but at -Ightham Moat where we were both the guests of a gracious hostess, whose -death long preceded his own, he read aloud to us the remarkable opening -chapters of the “Amazing Marriage.” - -Meredith greatly enjoyed those occasional visits to his friends, and -found himself, I think, especially at home in the house I have named. -He did not disdain the little acts of homage there freely offered -him, for the guests assembled were always to be counted among his -worshippers, and yet he was finely free from the smallest pretence of -consciously asserted dignity. As a rule, he spoke but little of his own -work, and then only on urgent invitation, content, for the most part, -to accept the passing topic, which his high spirits and unflagging -humour would quickly lift to illumination. On such occasions he loved -to invent and elaborate, for one or other of his more intimate friends, -some fancied legend that was absolutely detached from life and reality, -and sometimes he so fell in love with the fable of his creation that -for weeks or months afterwards his letters would continue to elaborate -and to develop a story that had only taken birth in the jesting mood -of a moment. - -The young people of a country-house always found a welcome from -Meredith, and towards women at all times his respect was of a kind -that needed no spur of social convention. It sprang of a deep faith -in their high service to the world, and a quickened belief in the -larger future that was in store for them. In his own home the spirit of -raillery, that he could not always curb, sometimes pressed too hardly -upon those nearest him; but I think he was scarcely conscious of any -pain he may have inflicted--hardly aware, indeed, of the reiterated -insistence with which he would sometimes expose and ridicule some -harmless foible of character that did not deserve rebuke. But if this -fault must be conceded in regard to those who stood in the intimate -circle of his home, it certainly implied no failing reverence towards -the sex they owned. After all, an artist, who has a full claim to that -title, is revealed most truly in his work. If the revelation there can -be suspected, the art is false, and it may, I think, be claimed without -challenge for Meredith that in the created characters of his work he -has done for women what has been accomplished by no other writer since -Shakespeare. Over all the mystery that gives them charm, his mastery -in delineation was complete, but it is his appreciation of the nobler -possibilities of character that lie behind the wayward changes of -temperament that sets his portraiture of women beyond the reach of -rivalry. I think most women who came to know him were conscious of this -in his presence, and it is small wonder that that larger circle who -met themselves mirrored in his books should count him among the most -fearless champions of their sex. - -A few months ago I found myself treading once more the road that leads -to his cottage under the hill. Once again a “dozen differently coloured -torches” were held up in the woods behind the house, flaming as I saw -them first in his company. But there was one torch that burned no more. -It had fallen from the hand that held it, and lay extinguished upon -the earth his spirit owned and loved. But those days I passed with him -there are memorable still, and as I stood beside the cottage gate amid -the gathering shadows of evening, his own beautiful lines came back to -me from “Love in the Valley”: - - Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping - Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. - Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, - Brooding o’er the gloom, spins the brown eve-jar. - Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: - So were it with me if forgetting could be willed. - Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring, - Tell it to forget the source that keeps it filled. - - - - -THE LEGEND OF PARSIFAL - - -Some few years ago, when I was writing my play of _Tristram and -Iseult_, a lady of my acquaintance, who was familiar with the -music-drama by Wagner on the same theme, asked me by what means I had -contrived to secure Madame Wagner’s consent to the use of the story -for the English stage. Such ignorance of one of the most beautiful of -the legends included in the Arthurian cycle, enshrined for English -readers by Sir Thomas Malory’s immortal prose romance of _Le Morte -d’Arthur_, is of course phenomenal and extreme, but it was matched -by my experience a few days after the production of the play, when -an enterprising newscutting agency, misled by some reference in the -programme to the great chronicler, forwarded to the theatre a bundle -of criticisms addressed to Sir Thomas Malory, Knight, oblivious of the -fact that he had passed beyond the reach of censure in the closing -years of the fifteenth century. - -It is possible, however, that even among some of those to whom the -source of the Tristram story is familiar, there may be here and there -isolated worshippers of the great German composer who are hardly aware -that the legend of Parsifal found its source in the same great body -of Arthurian romance. Indeed, I have met with not a few to whom the -identification of Parsifal with the British hero, Sir Perceval, comes -somewhat as a surprise, and who are scarcely conscious that the whole -legend of the “Holy Grail,” which forms the subject of Wagner’s opera, -had its source in Britain, and was afterwards incorporated in romances -that first saw the light in France. The writer who originally gave to -the story its poetic form, and in whose work the purely human features -of the narrative are already linked with the history of Christianity, -was Crestien de Troyes, who began to write about 1150, and died before -the end of the twelfth century. His poems embrace a number of the -Arthurian stories, but it so happens that amongst them the “Conte del -Graal” was left unfinished, and was afterwards completed by several -writers, chief among whom, Wauchier, confessed that he had drawn his -inspiration from the work of a Welshman, Bleheris, in whose version the -“Grail” hero is not Sir Perceval but Sir Gawain. - -But even before Crestien’s death the beauty of certain of these -Arthurian legends had captured the imagination of Europe, and in -the opening years of the thirteenth century we have the “Parzival” -of Wolfram von Eschenbach, of Bavaria, who admits his knowledge of -Crestien, but confesses a preference for a still older French version -by Guyot, the Provençal. To Wolfram’s poem Wagner is directly indebted -for that portion of the story which forms the basis of the opera. -The Bavarian knight died about the year 1220, and his work forms a -complete and beautiful poem, concluding with a recital of the fortunes -of Lohengrin, the son of Parsifal, who, in his turn, became ruler of -the Grail Kingdom. Here, as with Crestien, the link with Christianity -is firmly established, and in a still later form of the story embodied -by Malory the Christianising influence is further developed, and the -Grail, now definitely identified with the Holy Cup, is assumed to have -been brought to Britain by Joseph of Arimathea, who himself had filled -it with the blood that flowed from the side of the Redeemer. - -In all these later forms of the legend, however, certain features and -incidents survive which clearly prove that the story owned an earlier, -and a Pagan source. Even in Wolfram the Grail is not a cup, but a stone -endowed with plenty-giving qualities, and the symbols, which in all -later versions are bodily taken over for the service of the Church, we -find on examination to possess a pre-Christian character and origin. - -A subject upon which such a mass of criticism and scholarship has -accumulated cannot here be discussed in full, but the learned work -of the late Alfred Nutt, and the acute researches into the heart of -the mystery made by Miss Jessie Weston, one of the most patient and -diligent students of a difficult problem, establish almost beyond -dispute that the Grail, in its earlier manifestations, bore no relation -to the history of the Christian faith. The magic symbols that stood -ready to the hand of those who gave to the legend its final religious -shape had indisputably an earlier and a different significance. The -dripping lance, that now becomes the weapon that pierced the Body of -the Redeemer; the Cup containing the blood that flowed from His Side, -had figured first as life-giving symbols before they had taken on the -holier character with which they are endowed by the chroniclers of the -twelfth and thirteenth centuries. - -This was well established by Mr. Alfred Nutt, who referred their origin -to the earlier forms of Celtic folklore; and in Miss Jessie Weston’s -latest contribution to the literature of the subject, published in -June of the present year, a powerful plea is put forward for the -interpretation of the story in the light of the earlier forms of -nature-worship, linked by far-reaching tradition with the ritual of the -Adonis cult, and associated with the quest for the principle of Life -itself. It is unquestionably true that this theory explains as no other -can many of the features of the Grail story which have no relation to -Christianity. The Fisher King, the Guardian of the precious Grail, is -a title which cannot be understood unless we take account of primitive -tradition, in which the fish is widely employed as a symbol of life, -and the fate and character of the maimed king who guards the Grail, -as well as the mystic instruments which accompany its revelation, -are equally referable to Pagan ritual belonging to earlier forms of -nature-worship. - -This is not the place to follow in detail the many intricate and -puzzling problems which beset the history of the Grail. It is, -indeed, a fascinating theme, and has already attracted the learning -and research of many scholars in England, Germany, and France, and -is perhaps destined, in the absence of some of the earlier texts -from which the legend was drawn, never to receive a final and wholly -satisfying solution. Here, however, we are concerned only with those -features of the story at a date when it had already received the stamp -of Christian sentiment, and more especially with that particular form -of it embodied by the composer, Richard Wagner, in his world-famous -opera. - -Apart from the hero himself, the characters engaged in the drama are -not numerous. There is the aged Titurel; the wounded Amfortas whose -sufferings, imposed as the penalty of unlawful love, must endure till -the coming of the deliverer, Parsifal; Klingsor, the malign ruler of -the enchanted castle, served by the spell-bound Kundry, an enchantress, -only to be released from her thraldom by the knight who successfully -resists her witch-like fascinations; and Gurnemanz, through whose -aid and guidance the hero is finally enabled to accomplish his task. -All appear in Wolfram’s romance, under the names retained by Wagner; -and the types recur also in other versions of the legend, sometimes -under different names, and with endless variations in the adventures -befalling them. Parsifal is our own Sir Perceval, a knight of Arthur’s -Court, the Peredur of the Mabinogion, not, however, the earliest or -the latest hero of the Grail quest. Before him in historic position is -Sir Gawain, who, as already noted, plays the rôle of deliverer in the -poem of Bleheris; while in the later romances his place is taken by the -chaste Sir Galahad, the son of Sir Lancelot, who--by reason of his sin -with Guinevere--was denied the reward of achieving the quest in his -own person. In like manner the Grail King, Amfortas, takes on other -titles, according to the particular source of the legend, while the -part played by Kundry as the Grail messenger is only a variant of the -rôle assigned to the “Loathly Damsel,” with the added qualities of the -sorceress, who serves the sinister purpose of Klingsor in the enchanted -castle. - -But a comparison of all these legends leaves undisturbed the fact -that in its original shape the story and its environment are British, -and, further, that it first took literary form in the work of a Welsh -poet. Issuing thence, as we now know, this and other of the Arthurian -romances spread like a flame over the Western world, finding their -principal exponents in Germany and France, but extending even to -Sicily, where there is still a tradition that in the mirage that floats -between the island and the mainland can be seen the sleeping form of -King Arthur embedded in the heart of Etna, and awaiting the sound of -the horn that shall summon him back to his kingdom. It is not a little -strange that these legends, doomed to the long sleep of King Arthur -himself, should have awakened to new vitality in the work of our own -modern poets, and should equally have attracted the genius of the great -German composer. - -To those who are interested in the dramatic side of Wagner’s genius, -the study of Wolfram’s beautiful poem, to which he is directly -indebted, will not be without fruitful results. As a general comment, -it may be said that the dramatist misses something of the spirit of -romance, something also of the atmosphere of chivalry to be found in -the master whom he has followed. On the other hand, it will be clearly -seen that he had handled this material with the vision of a dramatist, -supported by an imagination which seizes, instinctively and surely, -upon personages and incidents that enforce the ethical message he seeks -to deliver. Perhaps the most beautiful part of Wolfram’s poem, of -necessity excluded from the closer action of drama, concerns Parsifal’s -earlier years, before he had won the right to carry arms as one of -the knights of King Arthur’s Court. Gahmuret, his father, in search -of adventure, had first taken service under Baruc, and had won the -love of the heathen queen, Belakane, who bore him a son, Feirefiz, the -father of Prester John. But before the birth of the child, Gahmuret, -returning to Europe, had sought and won the love of Queen Herzeleide, -the mother of the Grail hero. Gahmuret was manifestly very conscious of -his restless temperament, and duly warned his newly-won bride that what -had happened before might recur. - - Then he looked on Queen Herzeleide, and he spake to her courteously: - “If in joy we would live, O Lady, then my warder thou shalt not be, - When loosed from the bonds of sorrow, for knighthood my heart is fain; - If thou holdest me back from Tourney I may practise such wiles again - As of old, when I fled from the lady whom I won with mine own right - hand, - When from strife she would fain have kept me, I fled from her folk and - land.” - Then she spake: “Set what bonds thou willest, by thy word I will still - abide.” - “Many spears would I break asunder and each month would to Tourney - ride, - Thou shalt murmur not, O Lady, when such knightly joust I’ld run!” - This she sware, so the tale was told me, and the maid and her lands he - won. - -And yet, despite her brave front, Herzeleide was destined to endure -much sorrow at the hands of her restless lord. Before Parsifal was -born, he had already set out on fresh adventure, leaving his lonely -lady sick with longing for his return. - - As for half a year he was absent, she looked for his coming sure, - For but in the thought of that meeting might the life of the Queen - endure. - Then brake the sword of her gladness thro’ the midst of the hilt in - twain, - Ah, me, and alas! for her mourning, that goodness should bear such - pain - And faith ever waken sorrow! Yea, so doth it run alway - With the life of men, and to-morrow must they mourn who rejoice - to-day! - -Here follow the bitter tidings of Gahmuret’s death. Then, when the -child of sorrow came to be born, Herzeleide retreated from the Court, -and took refuge in a wild woodland, where Parsifal grew to manhood, -in ignorance of the world and its ways; in ignorance also of his high -lineage, for the Queen held that she had suffered enough through -knighthood and its adventures, and sought only to rescue her child from -the dangers of his father’s fate. I am drawing again upon Miss Jessie -Weston’s charming translation of Wolfram’s poem for this delightful -picture of Parsifal’s boyhood: - - No knightly weapon she gave him save such as in childish play - He wrought himself from the bushes that grew on his lonely way. - A bow and arrows he made him, and with these in thoughtless glee, - He shot at the birds as they carolled o’erhead in the leafy tree. - But when the feathered songster of the woods at his feet lay dead, - In wonder and dumb amazement he bowed down his golden head, - And in childish wrath and sorrow tore the locks of his sunny hair - (For I wot well of all earth’s children was never a child so fair - As this boy, who, afar in the desert, from the haunts of mankind did - dwell, - Who bathed in the mountain streamlet, and roamed o’er the rock-strewn - fell!) - Then he thought him well how the music which his hand had for ever - stilled, - Had thrilled his soul with its sweetness; and his heart was with - sorrow filled, - And the ready tears of childhood flowed forth from their fountains - free, - And he ran to his mother weeping, and bowed him beside her knee. - -It may be that this passage partly inspired Wagner in his treatment -of the incident of the stricken swan; but in the heart of Herzeleide, -Parsifal’s love of the birds only begot a fierce jealousy, and she sent -forth her servants to snare and slay the woodland choristers, so that -she might have no rival in her boy’s love. But the boy’s reproaches -touched the mother’s heart: - - ... “Now sweet, my mother, why trouble the birds so sore, - Forsooth they can ne’er have harmed thee, ah! leave them in peace once - more!” - And his mother kissed him gently, “Perchance I have wrought a wrong, - Of a truth the dear God who made them, He gave unto them their song, - And I would not that one of His creatures should sorrow because of - me.” - -The turning-point in Parsifal’s career came a little later on, when on -his wondering eyes fell the vision of certain of King Arthur’s knights -who passed through the forest: - - It chanced through a woodland thicket one morn as he took his way, - And brake from o’erhanging bushes full many a leafy spray, - That a pathway steep and winding rose sharply his track anear, - And the distant beat of horse-hoofs fell strange on his wondering ear. - Then the boy grasped his javelin firmly, and thought what the sound - might be; - “Perchance ’tis the Devil cometh; well, I care not if it be he! - Methinks I can still withstand him, be he never so fierce and grim, - Of a truth my lady mother she is o’er much afraid of him!” - - As he stood there for combat ready, behold! in the morning light - Three knights rode into the clearing in glittering armour bright. - From head to foot were they armèd, each one on his gallant steed, - And the lad, as he saw their glory, thought each one a god indeed! - No longer he stood defiant, but knelt low upon his knee, - And cried, “God who helpest all men, I pray Thee have thought for me!” - -From that hour the boy’s heart, like that of his father, was fired -by the spirit of adventure. How he followed after them in their -wanderings, and how, after much happening, he arrived at King Arthur’s -Court, were too long to tell. When she saw that his mind was made up -his mother put no obstacle in his path, but robed him in the garb of a -fool, thinking, in the cunning of her mother heart, and “the cruelty -of a mother’s love,” as the poet phrases it, that when the world mocked -him he would return to the forest again. - -It is at this point in the mental development of our hero that he -makes his entrance into Wagner’s opera. As already noted, full and -skilful use is made by the modern author of the dramatic material -which the legend discloses. In the associated characters of Kundry -and Klingsor he has given logical and coherent form to much that -lies scattered and disjointed in Wolfram’s poem; and he has built up -the character of Parsifal, adding to the simpler conception of the -older writer an element of conscious philosophy that makes a strong -appeal to the countrymen of Goethe. Not, be it said, that the outline -left by Wolfram was indefinite or uncertain. Already in the legend -Parsifal’s personality is clearly marked. “A brave man,” says Wolfram, -“yet slowly wise is he whom I hail my hero,” and the steady growth of -wisdom based on sympathy and suffering is clearly traced in Parsifal’s -successive visits to the Grail Castle. It is the ignorance of innocence -and egotism that on the first occasion keeps his lips dumb, when the -sympathy he was afterwards to acquire might have prompted the simple -question that would have set the sufferer free, while it was the -richer experience that came as his after inheritance which enabled -him finally to achieve the liberation of the wounded Amfortas. Of that -first visit of Parsifal to the Castle, Wolfram writes: - - Yet one, uncalled, rode thither, and evil did then befall, - For foolish he was, and witless, and sin-laden from thence did fare, - Since he asked not his host of his sorrow and the woe that he saw him - bear. - No man would I blame, yet this man I ween for his sins must pay - Since he asked not the longed-for question which all sorrow had put - away. - -And in these lines we may find the germ of Wagner’s more conscious and -more didactic conception, wherein we miss something of the simplicity, -something also of the rich humanity of the twelfth-century poet. -This sense of loss in the modern presentment of the theme, loss in -the spirit of romance, and in the impression of free and unfettered -humanity, is perhaps an individual impression; and I may conclude with -a tribute to Wagner’s genius by the late Alfred Nutt, which certainly -does ample justice to the composer’s contribution to the story, as he -accepted it from the hands of the Bavarian knight. - -“Kundry,” he writes, “is Wagner’s great contribution to the legend. She -is the Herodias whom Christ, for her laughter, doomed to wander till He -come again. Subject to the powers of evil, she must tempt and lure to -their destruction the Grail warriors. And yet she would find release -and salvation could a man resist her witch-like spell. She knows this. -The scene between the unwilling temptress, whose success would but doom -her afresh, and the virgin Parsifal thus becomes tragic in the extreme. -How does this affect Amfortas and the Grail? In this way. Parsifal is a -‘pure fool,’ knowing naught of sin or suffering. It has been foretold -of him he should become ‘wise by fellow-suffering,’ and so it proves. -The overmastering rush of desire unseals his eyes, clears his mind. -Heart-wounded by the shaft of passion, he feels Amfortas’s torture -thrill through him. The pain of the physical wound is his, but far -more the agony of the sinner who has been unworthy of his high trust, -and who, soiled by carnal sin, must yet daily come in contact with the -Grail, symbol of the highest purity and holiness. The strength which -comes of the new-born knowledge enables him to resist sensual longing, -and thereby to release both Kundry and Amfortas.” - - - - -SEX IN TRAGEDY - - -In the popular view of the play of _Macbeth_ the relation of the two -principal characters may be said to lie beyond the region of doubt -or discussion. According to the tradition of the stage, supported -in this instance by a respectable array of critical authority, the -motive-power of the drama is not supplied by the “vaulting ambition” of -Macbeth himself, but is to be sought rather in the sinister strength -and inhuman cruelty of his guilty partner. In virtue of her unshaken -resolution and her superior resource, Lady Macbeth is regarded as the -dominating influence in this awful record of crime, and it may indeed -be doubted whether any part of equal length--for, counted by actual -lines, it is one of the shortest in all tragic drama--has ever left -so strong a stamp on the popular imagination. Nor is the prevalent -conception of Lady Macbeth’s character lacking at all in distinctness -of definition. The outlines of the portrait are sharply and deeply -impressed: and as she is commonly represented to us, it takes the form -of a sexless creature endowed with the temper of a man and the heart of -a fiend. The embodiment of all those fiercer passions that are deemed -to be most repugnant to the ideal of womanhood, and moved by a will -that is deaf to the pleadings of humanity and inaccessible to the voice -of eternal law, she is regarded as the evil genius of her husband, -crushing by the weight of her stronger individuality the constant -promptings of his better nature, and sweeping him with irresistible -force into a bottomless abyss of crime. - -To this popular view of the character Mrs. Kemble, in her notes on -Shakespeare, gives vivacious expression. Here we are told that Lady -Macbeth was not only devoid of “all the peculiar sensibilities of her -sex,” but that she was actually incapable of the feelings of remorse. -The sleepless madness of her closing hours was not, so we are assured, -the result of conscious guilt, for that was foreign to her nature: it -resembled rather the nightmare of a butcher who is haunted by the blood -in which his hands are imbrued. And as to her death, it was due in no -degree to the anguish of a stricken soul, but was in some occult way -directly traceable to the unconquerable wickedness of her heart. - -“I think,” writes Mrs. Kemble, with the eager interest of a scientific -inquirer on the track of a new poison, “her life was destroyed by sin -as by a disease of which she was unconscious, and that she died of a -broken heart, while the impenetrable resolution of her will remained -unbowed. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak; the body -can sin but so much and survive; and other deadly passions besides -those of violence and sensuality can wear away its fine tissues and -undermine its wonderful fabric. The woman’s mortal frame succumbed to -the tremendous weight of sin and suffering which her immortal soul had -power to sustain; and having destroyed its temporal house of earthly -sojourn, that soul, unexhausted by its wickedness, went forth into its -new abode of eternity.” - -Allowing for a certain feminine vehemence in the wording of the -indictment, this view of Lady Macbeth can scarcely be said to -exaggerate the current conception of her character. That it represents -a somewhat grotesque caricature of Shakespeare’s marvellous creation, -will plainly appear from even the most cursory examination of the -text, and has, indeed, already been pointed out on more than one -occasion. In 1867 Mr. P. W. Clayden, in the _Fortnightly Review_, made -a praiseworthy attempt to revive the finer outlines of Shakespeare’s -portrait, an attempt in which he had already been forestalled by Mr. -Fletcher in the _Westminster Review_ for 1844, and by a writer in the -_National Review_ for 1863. - -The only reproach that can fairly be brought against the last-named -article, which for the rest deserves to rank as a careful and searching -piece of criticism, is that it has too much the tone of being delivered -as a brief in the lady’s favour. The advocacy of her cause, and the -consequent denunciation of the character of her husband, are both in a -style that seems rather to blur the imaginative beauty of the picture -as a whole. We are made to feel that we are sitting in a court of -law rather than at a poet’s feet, and we are sharply reminded of the -somewhat inappropriate arena into which the discussion has drifted by -the writer’s concluding assertion, that Macbeth was “one of the worst -villains” ever drawn by Shakespeare. Charges of this sort smack too -strongly of the forensic method, and have but little significance when -applied to the central figure of a great tragedy. If Macbeth stood at -the bar of the Old Bailey he would undoubtedly be convicted of murder, -and so, for that matter, would his wife; but it is the poet’s privilege -to lift the record of crime into an ideal atmosphere; and when, at -the magic bidding of genius, the closest secrets of the human heart -have been unlocked, and its inner workings laid bare, such epithets -as may be used to dismiss the record of a police case cease to be -instructive, and are scarcely even relevant to the wider issue that -has been raised. The character of Iago, with whom Macbeth is compared, -stands on different ground. It was there no part of Shakespeare’s task -to lift the impenetrable mask of malice which serves as the instrument -of Othello’s destruction. Iago is known to us only by his pitiless -delight in human torture, and by the sinister cruelty of which he -stands accused and convicted; while in the case of Macbeth, despite his -heavier record of actual crime, the evil that he wrought serves only -as the stepping-stone by which we are allowed to enter into the deeper -recesses of his soul. - -But there is one point in the article to which we have referred that -has a profound interest for the student of the drama. It is the -writer’s main contention that the source of the error he seeks to -correct is to be traced to what he terms a distortion of the stage. -The figure of Lady Macbeth as now popularly accepted is represented -as the lineal descendant of the genius of Mrs. Siddons. It was her -incomparable art which first gave to the character the particular -stamp it now bears, and chased from the popular imagination the more -delicate creation of the poet’s brain. This charge carries with it, of -course, a splendid tribute to the artist’s powers, and the experience -of our own time proves that it may not be altogether unfounded. It is -not so long ago since the glamour of Salvini’s genius, with its superb -gifts of voice and bearing and its incomparable technical resource, -succeeded in effacing the Othello of Shakespeare, leaving us in its -stead a figure admirably effective for the purposes of the stage, but -sadly lacking in the higher and finer elements with which the character -had been endowed by the author. And it may be added that the witness -of contemporaries goes far to support this particular view of Mrs. -Siddons’ performance of the part. The poet Campbell testifies to the -extraordinary impression she created when he writes that “the moment -she seized the part she identified her image with it in the minds of -the living generation.” Boaden, her earlier biographer, speaking of her -first entrance on the scene, says, “The distinction of sex was only -external; ‘her spirits’ informed their tenement with the apathy of a -demon”; and evidence to the same effect is supplied by the interesting -notes of Professor Bell, first published some few years ago by -Professor Fleeming Jenkin. - -“Of Lady Macbeth,” he writes, “there is not much in the play, but the -wonderful genius of Mrs. Siddons makes it the whole. She makes it tell -the whole story of the ambitious project, the disappointment, the -remorse, the sickness and despair of guilty ambition, the attainment -of whose object is no cure for the wounds of the spirit. Macbeth in -Kemble’s hand is only a co-operating part. I can conceive Garrick to -have sunk Lady Macbeth as much as Mrs. Siddons does Macbeth, yet when -you see Mrs. Siddons play the part you scarcely can believe that any -acting could make her part subordinate. Her turbulent and inhuman -strength of spirit does all. She turns Macbeth to her purpose, makes -him her mere instrument, guides, directs, and inspires the whole plot. -Like Macbeth’s evil genius, she hurries him on in the mad career of -ambition and cruelty from which his nature would have shrunk.” - -If this was really the impression produced by Mrs. Siddons--and the -Professor’s notes are in close accord with Boaden’s description of -her as “an exulting savage”--it only proves how potent a factor in -the art of the stage is the unconscious and inevitable intrusion -of the actor’s personality. For this creature of “turbulent and -inhuman strength of spirit” was not at all what Mrs. Siddons in her -critical moments conceived Lady Macbeth to be. Her recorded memoranda -exhibit a widely different interpretation, and contain, indeed, much -penetrating criticism on the general scope and purpose of the play. -Even the physical image of Lady Macbeth, as it presented itself to -her imagination, was strangely unlike the threatening and commanding -figure which she actually presented on the stage. She thought of her as -embodying a type of beauty “generally allowed to be most captivating -to the other sex, fair, feminine, nay, perhaps even fragile”--a -description which calls from her biographer the almost indignant -protest that “the public would ill have exchanged such a representation -for the dark locks and eagle eyes of Mrs. Siddons.” But the most -remarkable feature of her criticism lies in its constant insistence -upon the essentially feminine nature of Lady Macbeth. Speaking of her -entrance in the Third Act, she pictures in a few eloquent words the -sudden change which the haunting memory of crime has already wrought -in her character. “The golden round of royalty now crowns her brow -and royal robes enfold her form, but the peace which passeth all -understanding is lost to her for ever, and the worm that never dies -already gnaws her heart.” And, again, still treating of this same -scene, the most deplorably pathetic in all tragedy, “she exhibits for -the first time striking indications of sensibility, nay, tenderness and -sympathy; and I think this conduct is nobly followed up by her during -the whole of their subsequent eventful intercourse.” Not less striking -is the keen perception which these notes exhibit of the terrible -anguish of the woman herself: “Her feminine nature, her delicate -structure, it is too evident, are soon overwhelmed by the enormous -pressure of her crimes.... She knows by her own woeful experience the -torments he undergoes, and endeavours to alleviate his sufferings.” - -But there is one sentence in these notes more pregnant with meaning -than all the rest. “The different physical powers of the two sexes,” -she writes, “are finely delineated in the different effects which their -mutual crimes produce.” Here in a few words is to be found the key -that will unlock the heart of the tragedy. Not merely the different -physical powers, but also, and with even a deeper truth, the different -mental and moral characteristics of the two sexes in the presence of -crime, are here illustrated by Shakespeare with unsurpassable force -and delicacy. This is the imaginative theme which his transcendent -genius has fastened upon the legend of Macbeth, and there is scarcely a -line of the play which can be rightly understood until we realise that -the two central figures are, and are deliberately intended to be, the -embodiment and expression of the contrasted characteristics of sex. -To argue that Lady Macbeth is not truly and typically a woman, is to -destroy at one blow the delicate fabric which the poet has been at -such pains to construct: to strive to vindicate the character of her -husband at her expense, is but a vain endeavour to break through the -empire of crime which sways and dominates the lives of both. There is -here, indeed, no question of moral rescue for either; and it were idle -to debate what he or she might have been under different conditions. -For, as Shakespeare has conceived the action of the story, the shadow -of guilt hangs from the first like a murky cloud in the sky, and the -invisible hands of fate have drawn the net of evil closely around them -long ere they appear upon the scene. But, accepting these conditions, -with the transformation of individual character which they imply, -_Macbeth_ stands out among the works of Shakespeare as a sublime study -of sexual contrast, a superb embodiment of the force and the weakness -of the conjugal relation. - -Coleridge has aptly observed that the dominant note of the tragedy -is struck in its opening lines. The appearance of the supernatural -agents of evil serves to set the framework of the picture: their choppy -fingers have already drawn the magic circle of malignant fate around -the caged souls of Macbeth and his partner, who are henceforth to be -prisoners in a world where “fog and filthy air” exclude the purer -light of heaven, a world in which the moral order of the universe -is upturned, and where “fair is foul and foul is fair.” The whole -after-action of the story passes in this darkened and shadowed light: -the forms of the principal characters starting out from a background of -crime, illumined as by the lurid gleam of a stormy sunset whose clouds -drip blood. And as the play advances the scene seems gradually shifted -into some unknown latitude of eternal night, where the voices of nature -are made to chorus the direful music of the witches’ incantation. -Throughout the drama this dominant note of evil is kept constantly -vibrating. Even for those whose hearts are free the poisoned air seems -to carry some taint of infection, and the imagination shudders at the -uneasy forebodings that haunt the soul of Banquo, who fears to trust -his assured integrity to the attacks of the secret agents of the dark. - - Hold, take my sword.--There’s husbandry in heaven, - Their candles are all out.--Take thee that too. - A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, - And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers! - Restrain in me the cursèd thoughts that nature - Gives way to in repose! - -_Macbeth_, indeed, in its imaginative setting is a play of the night; -and with unwearied imagery Shakespeare again and again appeals to the -forces of darkness as so many symbols of the black pall of crime that -weighs upon the souls of Macbeth and his wife. Nearly every page of -the drama yields some striking picture fit to conjure up such fears as -Banquo feels. Thus Macbeth himself on his way to the king’s chamber: - - Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse - The curtained sleep. - -And, again, Lady Macbeth in the same scene: - - It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman - Which gives the stern’st good-night. - -And when the murder has been committed, Nature, through the lips of -Lenox, makes her own contribution to the picture: - - The night has been unruly: where we lay, - Our chimneys were blown down; and, as they say, - Lamentings heard i’ the air: strange screams of death - And, prophesying with accents terrible - Of dire combustion and confused events, - New hatched to the woful time, the obscure bird - Clamour’d the live-long night: some say the earth - Was feverous and did shake. - -How superbly is the effect of this description and its symbolic -significance again enforced by the words of Rosse in a subsequent -scene: - - By the clock ’tis day - And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp: - Is’t night’s predominance, or the day’s shame, - That darkness does the face of earth entomb, - When living light should kiss it? - -The “night’s predominance” fit emblem of the deeds of this “woful -time” prevails to the end: and as Macbeth advances in his terrible -crusade his soul becomes attuned to its surroundings, and on the eve of -Banquo’s murder he calls darkness to his aid. “The west yet glimmers -with some streaks of day” when he utters that terrible invocation: - - Come, seeling night, - Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day; - And, with thy bloody and invisible hand, - Cancel, and tear to pieces, that great bond - Which keeps me pale! Light thickens; and the crow - Makes wing to the rooky wood; - Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; - While night’s black agents to their prey do rouse. - -Lady Macbeth had already anticipated the spirit of this dread summons -when, on the eve of Duncan’s coming to her castle, she cries out in the -impatience of her passionate impulse: - - Come, thick night, - And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell! - That my keen knife see not the wound it makes; - Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, - To cry “Hold, Hold!” - -Through this realm of darkness, that knows no dawn till that last -hour when by the hand of Macduff “the time is free,” Shakespeare -conducts his characters with no uncertain step. Lit as by the light of -the under-world, the fell purpose of the guilty pair stands plainly -revealed to us on the very threshold of the drama: the seeds of murder -had been sown long ere the weird sisters have shrieked their fatal -preface to the action; and before we meet with either Macbeth or his -wife, the souls of both are already deeply dyed in blood. Nothing, -indeed, could be more absurd than to suggest that the murder of Duncan -is the fruit of sudden impulse on his part or hers; nor could anything -be more destructive of the whole scheme of the poet’s work than the -assumption that Macbeth’s enfeebled virtue was overborne by the satanic -strength of her will. We cannot too often remind ourselves that there -is no question of virtue here: it could not live in the air they had -learned to breathe: it has passed beyond the ken of minds that have -long brooded over crime. And it may be pointed out that Shakespeare -himself has been at particular pains to make this clear to us; for he -doubtless felt, and felt rightly, that unless the starting-point were -clearly kept in view, the subsequent development of the action, with -the contrast of character it is designed to illustrate, would lose -all significance. Therefore at the first entrance of Macbeth, when -the eulogy of others has but just pictured him to us as a soldier of -dauntless courage fighting loyally for his sovereign, we are allowed -to see that the thought of Duncan’s death has already found a lodging -in his heart. As the weird sisters lift the veil of the future and -point the dark way to the throne, the vision that presents itself to -his eyes is but the mirrored image of the bloody picture seated in -his own brain; and in foretelling the end, they wring from his lips a -confession of the means which he has already devised for its fulfilment: - - 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. - -Then, like one affrighted by the echo of his own voice, he stands for -a moment appalled at the concrete shape into which these withered hags -have thrown his own phantasy, and, seeking to ignore, what he knows but -too well, that in this dread business fate and he are one, tries to -cheat his senses with the soothing anodyne that he may yet escape the -responsibilities of action: - - If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me, - Without my stir. - -But this mood lasts only a little while, for in the next scene, even -while his grateful sovereign is loading him with honours, his dark -purpose is seen to have taken still more defined shape: - - 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. - -All this, be it observed, takes place before the meeting between -himself and his wife. But it needed not his coming to enable her to -divine his thoughts or to force her to confess her own. His written -message to her contains no hint of murder, and yet the words she -utters, as she holds his letter in her hands, have no meaning unless -we suppose that the violent death of Duncan had long been the subject -of conjugal debate. She has watched the working of the poison in his -breast, and has already anticipated the hesitation which he afterwards -displays. How far her generous interpretation of his halting action -accords with the real character of the man we shall presently see -for ourselves: but for the moment her speech suffices to afford the -clearest evidence that he had already imparted to her his guilty -purpose: - - Yet do I fear thy nature; - It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness, - To catch the nearest way. Thou would’st be great; - Art not without ambition; but without - The illness should attend it. What thou would’st highly, - That thou would’st holily; would’st not play false, - And yet would’st wrongly win. - -And that we may be in no doubt as to the original source from which -this diabolical plot proceeded, Shakespeare makes the truth doubly -plain to us in a subsequent passage. When the hesitation, which she had -feared, threatens to wreck their cherished scheme of crime, she reminds -him that in its inception the idea was his, not hers: - - What beast was’t, then, - That made you break this enterprise to me? - - * * * * * - - 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. - -Nor, indeed, would the conduct of either be humanly explicable -unless we clearly grasp the situation as it is here plainly stated -by Shakespeare. Her superlative strength in executive resource is -only consistent with the assumption that she has accepted without -questioning a policy that was none of her own devising: his apparent -weakness, on the other hand, is the inevitable attitude of an -imaginative temperament which feels all the responsibilities and -forecasts the consequences of the crime it has conceived. - -And this brings us to a consideration of the particular types of -character which have been chosen by Shakespeare for the two principal -figures of his tragedy. I have suggested that the ideal motive of the -drama lies in its contrast of the distinctive qualities of sex as -these are developed under the pressure of a combined purpose and a -common experience: and it will be found, at any rate, that the special -individuality which the author has assigned to Macbeth not less than -to his wife aptly serves the end I have supposed he had in view. Dr. -Johnson has said of the play, that “it has no nice discriminations -of character; the events are too great to admit the influence of -particular dispositions, and the course of the action necessarily -determines the conduct of the agents.” This, of course, is putting the -matter too crudely. Shakespeare was not wont to deal in abstractions, -though by the force of his imagination he could so inform his work -as to raise the exhibition of individual nature into an image of our -common humanity. Still less can he be accused of inventing mere puppets -with no other function than to carry the chosen legend to its close. -His characters always outlive the particular circumstances in which -they are employed: they are enriched by a thousand touches of reality -not absolutely needed for the requirements of the scene, which allow -us to pursue them in imagination beyond the margin of the printed -page. But there is at least this truth underlying Johnson’s criticism, -that, accepting the malign influences under which their natures are -exhibited, there is nothing abnormal in the character of either; and -that what is particularly distinctive about them has been added with -the view of giving ideal emphasis to tendencies that are common to us -all. - -We shall realise this the better as we come to examine more nearly -their conduct and bearing towards the one terrible circumstance that -dominates the lives of both. For it must never be forgotten that in the -play of _Macbeth_ the murder of Duncan means all. It is the touchstone -by which temperament and disposition are tried and developed; the -instrument of evolution which the poet has found ready to his hand, -and which he has wielded with all the extraordinary force of his -genius. The first of a long list of horrors committed by Macbeth, it -nevertheless in essence contains them all; and though it hurries his -unfortunate partner by a more terrible passage to a swifter doom, it -illumines as by lightning-flashes every phase of the woman’s nature, -from the first passionate impulse of evil to the remorse that cannot -find refuge even in madness, and is only silenced by death. - -On the threshold of this terrible adventure in what mood do we find -them? The project, as we have seen, is no stranger to the breast of -either, and yet with what strangely different effect has the poison -worked its spell! They have been apart, and the soul of each has been -thrown back upon itself. In the thick of action, “disdaining fortune -with his brandished steel,” Macbeth has become infirm of purpose: alone -in her castle at Inverness, Lady Macbeth has brooded over the crime -until it has completely possessed her. With the concentration of a -woman’s nature, she has driven from her brain all other thoughts save -this: and she waits now with impatient expectancy for the hour that -shall put her courage to the proof. Here, as we see, the divergence of -sex has already asserted itself, working such a transformation that -when they meet they scarcely recognise one another. The sudden coming -of the occasion so long plotted and desired by both has hastened the -development of individual character. He finds in the “dearest partner” -of his greatness a being so formidable that he regards her for the -moment with feelings of mingled admiration and dismay: - - Bring forth men-children only; - For thy undaunted metal should compose - Nothing but males. - -And though, with the woman’s finer instinct, she has partly divined -and anticipated his mood, she is appalled at the extent of the change -it has wrought in him. Beneath the armour of the valiant soldier she -finds, as she thinks, the trembling heart of a coward, and struck with -sudden terror at his failing purpose, she tries to recall him to his -former self: - - 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. - -From this moment they are strangers in spirit, though the old bond -still holds them together. And yet to us, who view the whole picture -with the poet’s larger vision, the process of development moves in -obedience to inevitable law. For at such a crisis it is natural in -a man to anticipate: in a woman to remember; on the eve of action -he looks forward with apprehension: on the morrow she looks back -with regret; and while his nature is stronger in restraint, hers, on -the contrary, surrenders itself more completely to the passion of -remorse. The finer moral feelings of a woman are retrospective, for -her imagination feeds and broods upon the past. She is often more -intrepid in action because the intensity of her purpose bars the view -of consequence; and whether the enterprise be heroic or malign, her -indifference to danger, which then far surpasses the courage of man, -is never so superbly illustrated as when she labours in his service, -and not for any ends of her own. And so it happens that where she only -follows she sometimes seems to lead, and the man, who has devised the -policy which her readier resource only avails to carry into execution, -appears in the guise of the reluctant victim of her stronger purpose -and more undaunted will. - -In order the better to exhibit these tendencies of her sex, Shakespeare -has pictured for us in Lady Macbeth a woman of the highest nervous -organisation, whose deep devotion gives to her character a passionate -intensity of purpose that seems at times to be more than human. While -the troubled surface of Macbeth’s mind sends back but a blurred image -of the dark secret that it hides, in her transparent nature the guilty -project of his ambition is clearly and sharply mirrored. Before the -murder of Duncan she can see nothing but the crime and its reward, that -crime-- - - Which shall to all our nights and days to come - Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. - -Macbeth’s message has reminded her that the time is drawing near, and -she resolves to chase from his brain-- - - All that impedes thee from the golden round, - -which the witches have placed upon his brow. In the next moment she -hears of the king’s expected arrival, and then she knows that the hour -so long awaited has come at last, and she nerves herself for the one -supreme effort of her life: - - The raven himself is hoarse - That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan - Under my battlements. Come, you spirits - That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here; - And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full - Of direst cruelty! - -But it is a vain cry; for throughout the terrible experiences of the -next few hours the feminine nature is ever dominant. If there are no -women save those who deal in gentle deeds, then Jael did not drive the -nail into the forehead of Sisera, and it was not Judith’s hand that -compassed the death of Holofernes. And yet, if such as they were truly -of the sex which claims them, by a still firmer title may we say of -Lady Macbeth that she is every inch a woman. It is the woman who in -this same scene greets her husband on his return: - - Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor! - Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! - Thy letters have transported me beyond - This ignorant present, and I feel now - The future in the instant. - -And in “the instant” she now lives, looking neither before nor after; -for the future that she sees stretches no further than the dreaded -deed which is to bring fulfilment of all their cherished hopes. As she -has shut out the past, with whatever compassionate scruples it might -recall, so in like manner her fixed concentration on the business in -hand excludes all vision of the time to come. If she had been endowed -with Macbeth’s imagination, which could ride so swiftly on the track -of consequence, Duncan would indeed have gone forth on the morrow as -he purposed. It needed this fatal combination to effect what neither -would have accomplished alone--the man’s guilty conception poisoning -and possessing the woman’s soul, the woman’s surrender to his will so -complete and passionate that when he falters she stands before him as -the glittering image of his former self, a superb creation of his own -brain, endowed with all, and more than all, the courage he had lost. -This is Lady Macbeth on the eve of Duncan’s murder. From the moment -that she perceives his wavering resolution she takes the yoke of action -on to her own shoulders. She contrives and schemes every detail of the -crime, and with ever-increasing impetuosity urges his failing footsteps -towards the goal he now fears to reach. But the precious moments -are speeding onward, and her passionate arguments seem powerless to -lift his sickened spirit; till at the last, with all the rhetoric of -despair, she presents to his affrighted gaze a blackened image of -herself, thinking, as well she may, that such a vision will prove more -potent than curses to fan into flame the dying embers of his resolve: - - 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 pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums, - And dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn as you - Have done to this. - -It seems almost incredible, but it is nevertheless true, that this -frenzied appeal has over and again been accepted as Lady Macbeth’s -judicial report upon her own character. A speech which is conceived in -the most daring spirit of dramatic fitness, and which bears in every -word the stamp of the special purpose for which it is uttered, is -transformed into a prosaic statement of fact; and we can only wonder we -are not also invited to believe that this somewhat rigorous treatment -of the young accounts for the fact that the play contains no mention of -the lady’s surviving offspring. - -When the scene in which the awful passage occurs has drawn to its -close, Lady Macbeth’s task is already more than half accomplished. -Her fiery eloquence has roused him from his stupor, and, inspired by -the dauntless spirit which he had himself inspired, he bends up “each -corporal agent to this terrible feat.” But she does not rest until all -is finished; she never falters till the goal is passed. The woman’s -quivering nerves, more potent than the iron sinews of a giant, bear her -up safely to the end; and then, with a woman’s weakness, they break, -not beneath the weight they bear, but beneath the weight they have -borne. So long as the need of action endures she remains unflinching -and undismayed. It is she who drugs the grooms in preparation for the -murder: it is she who at the supreme moment, when he can do no more, -revisits the chamber of death to complete what he has left undone: - - Infirm of purpose! - Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead - Are but as pictures: ’tis the eye of childhood - That fears a painted devil. - -A speech which shows how little she knew herself; for throughout all -her brief after-life this picture of “the sleeping and the dead” is -set in flames before her haunted vision and burnt with fire into the -depths of her soul. - -From this time forward Macbeth and his wife change places. In outward -seeming at least, their positions are reversed, though when we look -beneath the surface there is an inexorable consistency in the conduct -of both. He, whose imagination had foreseen all the consequences of -this initial step in crime, braces himself without hesitation to the -completion of his fatal task; she, who had foreseen nothing, is thrown -back upon the past, her dormant imagination now terribly alert, and -picturing to her broken spirit all the horrors she had previously -ignored. As the penalty of his crime is unresting action, her heavier -doom is isolated despair; and it is significant to observe that it -is she who suffers most acutely all the moral torments he had only -anticipated for himself. Macbeth indeed had “murdered sleep,” but it -was her sleep he had murdered as well as his own; and the blood that, -he feared, not “all great Neptune’s ocean” would wash away, counts -for little with one who afterwards plunged breast-high into the full -tide of blood, but remains with her a haunting memory to the end. This -change is already well marked in the scene immediately following the -murder, when he suddenly wrests the conduct of affairs from her hands, -and she sinks appalled at the dark vista of unending crime which his -readiness in resource now first opens to her view. He who before had -stood with trembling feet upon the brink of the stream now rushes -headlong into the flood; to complete the chain of suspicion, he murders -the two grooms without an instant’s hesitation; and before the next Act -opens he has already planned the death of Banquo and his son. - -But from this point he proceeds alone. Her help is no longer needed, -and even if it were not so, she has none now to give. “Naught’s had, -all’s spent.” Her dream is shattered; the vision of glory is fled away -into the night, and she who had felt “the future in the instant” can -only brood over the wreck of the past. The crown for which she had -struggled presses like molten lead into her brain; the lamp which has -lighted her so far only flings its rays backward on the blood-stained -pathway she has trodden; and, bitterest of all to her woman’s soul, the -evil she had wrought for his sake now breaks their lives asunder and -parts them for ever. For his spirit has no access to the anguish of -remorse that is fast hurrying her to the tomb, and she on her side can -take no part in those darker projects with which he seeks to buttress -the tottering fabric of his ambition. In all tragedy there is nothing -so pitiful in its pathos as the passage in which she strives to grant -to her husband the support of which she herself stands so sorely in -need. She feels instinctively that he shuns her company, and surmises -that he too is suffering the lonely pangs of remorse, little guessing -that he comes to her fresh from a new scheme of murder: - - How now, my lord? why do you keep alone, - Of sorriest fancies your companions making? - Using those thoughts which should indeed have died - With them they think on? Things without all remedy, - Should be without regard: what’s done, is done. - -With what a jarring note comes his answer: - - We have scotched the snake, not killed it. - -And yet, despite this answer, with its clear indication of the true -drift of his thoughts, she still fails to realise the gulf that divides -them. All through the banquet scene she cannot rid herself of the -belief that he is haunted, as she is haunted, by the vision of the -murdered king, and even when he strips off the mask and bares the inner -workings of his breast-- - - For mine own good, - All causes shall give way; I am in blood - Stepp’d in so far, that, should I wade no more, - Returning were as tedious as go o’er, - -she listens without understanding, and still interpreting his -sufferings by her own, answers him from the sleepless anguish of her -own soul: - - You lack the season of all natures, sleep. - -In the interval, before we meet Lady Macbeth again, and for the -last time, she has learnt all; and beneath the weight of her guilty -knowledge her shattered nerves have snapped and broken. Throughout the -wandering utterances of her dying hours her imagination is unalterably -fixed upon the scene and circumstances of Duncan’s death, but across -this unchanging background flit other spectres besides that of the -murdered king. Banquo is there, and Macduff’s unhappy wife: she is -spared no item in the dreary catalogue of her husband’s crimes; -and yet, always overpowering these more recent memories, come the -thick-crowding thoughts of that one fatal hour, when her spirit shot -like a flame across the sky, and then fell headlong down the dark abyss -of night. - -The character of Macbeth standing in vivid contrast to that of his -wife, has been subject to an equal amount of misconception, though -of a different sort. He is commonly represented as being pursued by -the constant warnings of conscience, which are only silenced by the -evil ascendancy of the commanding figure at his elbow. But this is -to antedate the action of the drama, and to mistake the real basis -of his nature. If the voice of conscience ever gained a hearing, it -was in some earlier hour, not pictured by Shakespeare, before this -settled scheme of murder had taken firm possession of his soul. The -opening chorus of the witches, no less than the bearing of the man -himself, warn us that he has long ceased to wrestle with the messengers -of Heaven, and that he is now under the dominion of influences that -have a different origin. The forces that sway Macbeth as we know him -are intellectual rather than moral, and in order to exhibit more -effectively that tendency to deliberation which is characteristic of -his sex, Shakespeare has endowed him with the most potent imagination, -which presents the consequences of conduct as clearly as though the -secrets of the future were mirrored in a glass. It is not conscience, -the whispered echo of eternal law, which causes him to falter on the -verge of action: it is the instinct of security, which, as Hecate sings: - - Is mortal’s chiefest enemy. - -And so indeed it proved; for the initial step in crime once past, the -very forces that had been strongest in restraint now carry him with -unhalting speed through crime after crime, until his headlong course -is stayed by the hand of Macduff. And seeing that Macbeth’s keen -vision had pictured what was in store for him, it is no wonder that -he trembles with irresolute purpose while his wife’s blind impulse -moves with unbroken strength. In his case it is neither conscience nor -cowardice that cries halt, but an imagination morbidly vivid and alert, -which sees the oak in the acorn, and converts the trickling spring into -the full tide of the river that rushes to the sea. All this is plainly -imaged for us in the soliloquy that follows his first interview with -his wife: - - If it were done, when ’tis done, then ’twere well - It were done quickly: if the assassination - Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, - With his surcease, success; that but this blow - Might be the be-all and the end-all here, - But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, - We’d jump the life to come. But, in these cases, - We still have judgment here; that we but teach - Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return - To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice - Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice - To our own lips. - -Then in the passage that follows he realises in more particular detail -the horror and execration which such a deed will awaken. Duncan’s -virtues, he sees, - - Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against - The deep damnation of his taking-off: - And pity, like a naked new-born babe, - Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubin, hors’d - Upon the sightless couriers of the air, - Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, - That tears shall drown the wind. - -Here we see set forth in clearest language both the scope and the limit -of Macbeth’s moral vision; and as we note his growing irresolution, it -is impossible not to be reminded of another of Shakespeare’s characters -in whom the imaginative temperament worked with equal potency. Macbeth -and Hamlet are in some points strangely allied, but when they are -placed side by side the elements of antagonism quickly overpower the -outward appearance of similarity. Both were men in whom the supremacy -of the imagination induced paralysis of action, but in the one case -its exercise is bounded by the limits of our present world, and in the -other it starts from the confines of mortal life and seeks to pierce -the veil of eternity. Macbeth takes no heed of what may lurk in those -dark recesses beyond the grave; if he can only be assured of safety -here he is ready to “jump the life to come.” To Hamlet, on the other -hand, the fortune of this world, and even death itself, are but as -shadows, for his imagination is haunted by the mysteries of that unseen -realm of which death is but the portal-- - - The undiscovered country, from whose bourne - No traveller returns. - -It is this which “puzzles the will” and arrests the uplifted arm, and -though the voice that urges him to action comes to him from the grave, -the very fact that the command is borne by a supernatural messenger -suffices to ensure its neglect, and sends the imagination once more -adrift upon the limitless ocean of eternity. Macbeth too trafficks -in the supernatural, but with what different purpose and result! He -holds converse with the weird sisters only that Fate may echo the -dark project he fears to utter; and when he consults these “black and -midnight hags” again, it is to wring from their lips the knowledge -that may guide him still further in his settled career of crime. And -they answer him according to his will. He is already far advanced in -blood, but they beckon him still onward, and, speaking with the double -tongue of hope and fear, bid him beware, and yet be bold, leading him -by such sure steps to his doom that the struggle at last becomes almost -sublime, and Fate, which he had rashly challenged, enters the lists -against him. - -When we have once grasped the motive-power of Macbeth’s character, it -is not difficult to reconcile the apparent inconsistency in his conduct -before and after the murder of Duncan. By this one act his trembling -hesitation is suddenly converted into an iron consistency of purpose. -The view of consequence that had held him for a while irresolute on the -threshold of crime now becomes the strongest incentive to whatever -may be needed to make his position secure. His imagination is thus -both the source of inaction and the spur that urges him to morbid -activity: it is at once the friend of conscience and its bitterest -foe: at one moment the lamp that reveals to him his hideous design and -all its attendant train of evil, in the next a lurid flame that lights -up a thousand avenues of danger, only to be guarded by the exercise -of a relentless cruelty and an unflinching courage. In nearly every -utterance of Macbeth after the murder we are allowed to see how clearly -he himself apprehends the danger of his position, and the sinister -policy which it demands. “Things bad begun make strong themselves by -ill”; and accordingly, with no more compunction than an executioner -might feel, he proceeds in the course of action which he had foreseen -from the first to be inevitable. Even his superstitious fears do not -shake him in his resolve, and he has no sooner recovered from the -vision of Banquo’s ghost than he determines to visit again the weird -sisters, that he may know “by the worst means the worst.” - - Strange things I have in head, that will to hand, - Which must be acted ere they may be scanned. - -This is the first intimation that we have of any menace to the safety -of Macduff, and when, in a following scene, Macbeth hears of his flight -to England, he is full of self-reproaches for his procrastination in -crime: - - The flighty purpose never is o’ertook - Unless the deed go with it: from this moment, - The very firstlings of my heart shall be - The firstlings of my hand. - -And then, baulked in his guilty designs upon the husband, he -straightway resolves to wreak his vengeance upon his family: - - The castle of Macduff I will surprise; - Seize upon Fife; and give to the edge o’ the sword - His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls - That trace him in his line. - -Truly indeed and with prophetic vision had he said to his wife that he -was “but young in deed,” and that his terror at Banquo’s ghost was only -“the initiate fear that wants hard use.” - -And yet, despite this full revelation of the man’s nature, who can fail -to be moved by the splendid despair of his closing hours, when, with -all the forces of heaven and earth arrayed against him, he struggles -with dauntless courage to the end? His imagination, still informing his -shattered spirit, lights up the ruin of his life, and presents to his -wearied gaze the hated object that he has become in the sight of all -men: - - My way of life - Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf: - And that which should accompany old age, - As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, - I must not look to have; but, in their stead, - Curses not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath, - Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. - -There is no refuge of madness for him. He has seen the end from the -beginning, and even when the end has come it has no terror which he had -not known long ago. This only is added to his earlier knowledge, though -the truth, alas! comes too late, that this present life, which he had -held so dear, and for which he had sacrificed all, this life, which had -been the tomb of his virtue, and of his honour, is - - ... but a walking shadow; a poor player, - That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, - And then is heard no more: it is a tale - Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, - Signifying nothing. - -And so, with the “sound and fury” of this present world still ringing -in his ears, he passes out into that “life to come” of which he had -never dreamed at all. - - - - -HENRY IRVING - - -The value of personality on the stage has rarely been exhibited with -greater force than in the case of Sir Henry Irving. Nature had not -specially equipped him for his calling; in several respects, indeed, -she had weighted him with disabilities which were destined to prove a -serious hindrance in the progress of his career. But she had dowered -him, as if by way of compensation, with a force and persistence of -character that finally shaped for themselves a mode of expression which -satisfied the demands of his ambition. And this sense of resident power -was mirrored in the man himself, even in the earlier days when those -physical peculiarities, which he never wholly lost, were, for the time, -gravely imperilling his success upon the stage. - -I met him first at the Old Albion Tavern in Drury Lane--a favourite -haunt of actors that has long passed away--and I remember then -that the man himself impressed me more deeply than any of the few -impersonations in which I had seen him. Already in his face and in his -bearing he contrived to convey a curious sense of power and authority -that he had not yet found the means to incorporate completely in his -work upon the stage. I found myself vaguely wondering why he should -have chosen the actor’s calling as a means of impressing himself upon -his generation, and yet at the time I felt a full assurance that in -that or in some other walk of life he was bound to leave a mark upon -his time. Johnson once said of Burke that if a stranger should take -shelter beside him from the rain, he would part from him with the -feeling that chance had brought him in contact with a remarkable man. -Something of that same feeling was left in me as the impression drawn -from my first meeting with Irving; and it is perhaps characteristic -of that unnameable kind of force his personality suggested, that even -at the zenith of his career, when he had won complete authority over -a public that at first only reluctantly rallied to his banner, there -was still room left for a measure of doubt as to whether his powers -might not have found a fuller exercise in a different realm. It is, I -think, however, an attribute of all the very highest achievement in -any art that its authors, even when their special aptitude for the -chosen medium of expression is full and complete, possess, by right -of their genius, something more and something different in kind from -that particular endowment which the art they have adopted calls into -exercise. In Irving’s case, this thought marked itself more deeply, -because, as I have already hinted, his command of the special resources -of his art was by no means complete, and his whole career may be said -to have been a struggle, fiercer and more obstinate than most men -have to wage, to secure, through the medium of the theatre, a full -recognition of the latent forces he undoubtedly possessed. - -He was conscious of that himself, and would often openly avow it; very -conscious, I mean, that, in a calling in which there is no escape from -the physical presence of the artist, he had much to contend with. -It made him quickly appreciative of the kind of perfection achieved -by others in whom the motive and the means of expression were more -finely attuned; and he never wearied in later days of appraising this -quality in the acting of Ellen Terry, whose varied gifts in the moment -of perfection were combined in a fashion so easy and so absolute as -sometimes almost to rob her of the praise due to conscious art. - -Such appreciation would sometimes, though not so often, be extended to -the comrades of his own sex; and I recollect, during the time when -William Terriss was a member of his company, he would comment, with a -sense of half-humorous envy, upon the ease and grace with which the -younger actor could at once establish himself in the favour of his -audience. But this recognition of the qualities he knew himself not to -possess never, I think, for a moment shook his deeper conviction that, -when he could subdue to the service of his art the more refractory -elements of his own physical personality, he had a message to convey -which would carry a deeper and more lasting impression. - -And he proved by his career that he had a true title to that -conviction. Force was always there, force that showed itself almost -to the point of terror in his early impersonation of “The Bells.” But -sweetness and grace came not till later, and was only won as the reward -of patient and unceasing effort: it was the case of the honeycomb -bedded in the carcase of the lion, and it took all a lion’s strength to -reveal it to the world. In the man himself, however, as distinguished -from his art, it was present from the first; and I recall, in those -earlier days of our friendship, that a certain grave courtliness of -bearing was among the first things that struck me. A certain sense -of loneliness and isolation always belonged to him--the index, as it -seemed to me, of a mind that was conscious that in his case the road -towards fame must be trodden alone; that such perfection as he could -ultimately achieve could borrow little from example, but must be due to -his own unaided subjugation of whatever in his individuality impeded -his progress. - -But this suggestion was never so far obtruded as to burden the freedom -of personal intercourse, and my long association with him, in work or -at play, is rich in the remembrance of many varied moods of a sweet and -affectionate character. In common with all men who remain permanently -attractive in companionship, he had a quick and delicate sense of -humour, sometimes half-mischievous in its exercise, and touched now and -then with a slightly saturnine quality, but always ready at call--even -in his most serious moods. - -One evening during a brief holiday with him in Paris it was somewhat -roughly put to the test. We stood in a group of spectators watching -the agile performances of some dancers who were exhibiting the wayward -figures of the Can-Can, when one of the more adventurous of the troupe, -greatly daring, suddenly lifted her foot and neatly removed the hat -that Irving was wearing. The other spectators, some of whom, I think, -had recognised the actor, and all of whom, as I had remarked, were -attracted by his personality, stood in momentary wonder as to how this -audacious act of familiarity might be received, and I thought that -I myself detected in Irving’s face a momentary struggle between the -dignity that was natural to him and the genial acceptance of the spirit -of the place in which we found ourselves. But it was only momentary, -and when he acknowledged with hearty laughter the adroitness of the -performer, the Parisians around us found themselves free to indulge in -the merriment which the look upon his grave, pale face had for the time -held in check. - -Upon such lighter phases of the life of the French capital Irving -looked with a half-sinister tolerance. - -That aspect of the character of the French people made no sympathetic -appeal to him, but he watched their antics with unceasing interest -rather as he might have watched the uncouth gambols of animals in a -menagerie. But there was one of the shows of Paris which positively -fascinated him, and that was the Morgue. Irving’s mind was always -attracted to the study of crime; he loved to trace its motives, to -examine and to probe the various modes of the criminal character; and -so it happened that, on one pretext or another, our morning wanderings -nearly always led us back to this gruesome exhibition. One day the -fancy seized him that a man who passed before one of the corpses and -then returned to gaze upon it again was possibly the murderer himself; -and afterwards, while we were breakfasting at Bignons, he occupied -himself with a sense of keen enjoyment in tracing in imagination the -motive of the crime and the means by which it had been carried out. - -At that time his thoughts were greatly occupied with the proposed -revival of _Macbeth_, and on several evenings at the Hotel Bristol we -sat long into the night discussing every phase of that greatest of all -poetic tragedies. I think Irving felt--partly, perhaps, as the result -of our many discussions--that in his earlier presentation of the play -he had dwelt too insistently upon the purely criminal side of Macbeth’s -character to the neglect of its larger and more imaginative issues. I -know, at any rate, that he was so far impressed with my view of the -play, that he asked me to write an essay upon the subject which was -to appear simultaneously with the revival; and he did this in part, -I believe, because the view I entertained of the interplay of motive -between Macbeth and his guilty partner went far to supplant that -masculine conception of Lady Macbeth’s character which had hitherto -been imposed upon the world mainly through the genius of Mrs. Siddons. -The essay, no less than the performance, proved, as we had expected, -the mark for much hostile criticism; but the revival--interesting -to me in many respects--illustrated with surprising force the -extraordinary advance in his art which had been made by Irving since -the earlier production of the play--an advance not merely of technical -resource, but even more as showing the larger and profounder spirit in -which he could now approach the poetic drama. - -Nearly all our excursions abroad were in some way associated with -work projected or already in hand, and it was while he was preparing -Mr. W. G. Wills’s version of _Faust_ that we made together a long -and delightful excursion to Nuremberg. Irving was very anxious to -find something that was both quaint and characteristic for the scene -of Margaret’s Garden, and although he was not very fond of physical -exercise, he never wearied of our constant tramps among the narrower -streets of the old German city in inquisitive search for something -that should fit with the ideal that he had in his mind. We trespassed -freely wherever we found an open gateway; and at last, having failed to -discover what was exactly suited to the purpose, we set out one day for -Rothenburg on the Tauber--one of the most perfect and complete examples -of a mediaeval city, and where, as we were assured, we should find -richer material than was provided in Nuremberg itself. - -At that time the journey between Nuremberg and Rothenburg had to be -made mainly by road; the railway carried us only half-way, and then we -had a drive of several hours before reaching our destination. I think -it was this that mainly attracted Irving in undertaking the excursion. -All through his life he clearly loved the pleasure of a drive; and -during a week I spent with him at Lucerne, our every day, for six or -seven hours at a stretch, was employed in exploring the shores of the -lake. Rothenburg, as it chanced, furnished us with little new material -towards the object of which we were in quest, and on our return to -Albert Durer’s city, feeling that he had exhausted all the available -means of inquiry, he at once, with characteristic promptitude, summoned -the scenic artist, Mr. Hawes Craven, from London in order that he might -make notes on the spot of the several scenes of the drama. - -At home or abroad, Irving was always at his best as a host, and, -whether in the larger entertainments which he sometimes gave on -the stage of the Lyceum, or in the more intimate gatherings in the -Beefsteak Room, he presided with admirable grace over a company that -was often strangely varied in its composition--the most distinguished -statesmen, soldiers, and men of letters, meeting in happy association -with chosen members of his own profession. Two little incidents recur -to me which illustrate in their different ways that sense of humour, -sometimes innocently mischievous, and sometimes again employed for a -long settled purpose of deliberate attack. The first of these occasions -was a dinner given in honour of the members of the Saxe-Meiningen -company on the stage of the theatre. I had been driving with him during -the day, and happened to mention, to his manifest surprise, that I had -not seen their great performance of the play of _Julius Caesar_ which -was making a considerable stir in London. He said nothing more at the -time, but at the end of the evening’s feast, after having himself in a -few words gracefully welcomed his distinguished guests, he announced -that he would now call upon Mr. Comyns Carr, who he felt sure would -do ample justice to the exquisite art of these German players. I can -see now the smile upon his face as he sat down, and left me to my -task, of which I acquitted myself with at least so much skill, that he -was the only one among those present who was aware that I was wholly -unacquainted with the subject I had been summoned to discuss. - -The other incident to which I have referred had a more serious import. -During his first visit to America his feelings had been gravely -outraged, and not on his own account alone, by a series of scandalous -articles which had appeared in one of the most popular of New York -journals. Our party that evening at supper in the Beefsteak Room -included a popular American Colonel, a great friend of Irving’s, and, -as Irving well knew, a great friend also of the wealthy proprietor of -this offending journal. The scene was wholly characteristic of Irving, -who rarely forgot an injury, although he was content sometimes to lie -long in wait for the fitting occasion to strike a counter-blow. In a -genial prelude he led our American friend on in a growing crescendo of -praise of the amiable qualities of the wealthy newspaper proprietor. -“You know so-and-so,” he innocently remarked to his guest, as he -settled himself down in his chair, in an attitude that not uncommonly -conveyed to those who knew him that danger might be impending. “Know -him!” replied the innocent Colonel, “I have known him all my life.” -“Quite so,” said Irving; “good fellow, isn’t he?” “Good! He’s one of -the very best fellows that was ever born.” “The kind of man,” pursued -Irving, “who would never do an ungenerous or an unkind thing?” And at -this, lured on to his doom, the unsuspecting Colonel burst forth in -such unrestrained eulogy of his friend, as to depict for the admiration -of those present a character of almost unchallenged perfection. “No -doubt; no doubt,” responded Irving; “no doubt he is all that you say”; -and then, in words all the deadlier for the perfect quietude of tone in -which they were uttered, he added: “But he is also one of the damned’st -scoundrels that ever stepped the earth.” The genial Colonel was not -unnaturally taken aback; but before he could make any show of defence, -Irving had whipped from his breast-pocket the series of offending -articles, and, handing them across the table, made the simple comment, -“I thought, old friend, you might be interested to see them.” - -It was, I think, in the beginning of the year 1892 that Irving invited -me to write for him a play on the subject of King Arthur. The theme had -long been in his mind, and before his death Mr. Wills had completed a -version, which proved, however, unacceptable to the actor. At first -Irving thought that I might find it possible to recast and remodel -Wills’s work; but it was afterwards agreed between us that I should -be free to work out my own design. When my task was completed, Irving -and Miss Terry came one night to dine with us in Blandford Square. He -brought with him also his little dog Fussy, the constant companion of -many years. And when dinner was over, he settled himself down in an -arm-chair, with the dog upon his knees, prepared for an ordeal that -is never wholly agreeable either to the author or his auditor. I know -that I was nervous enough, as I always am on such occasions; and when -I was about half-way through, the audible sounds of snoring which -reached my ears made me fancy in my morbid state of sensitiveness that -I had failed to grip or to hold the attention of the man I so strongly -desired to please. Still I plodded on, not daring to lift my eyes -from the book, and still the stertorous sounds continued, until at -last, exasperated beyond endurance, I closed the book, with the abrupt -announcement that I felt it useless to go on. “What do you mean?” -inquired Irving, in blank amazement. “Why, you were asleep,” I replied; -but even as I spoke, I perceived the ridiculous blunder into which I -had fallen, for the snoring still continued without interruption, and, -lifting my eyes, I saw Miss Terry, with laughing gesture, pointing to -the sleeping terrier still resting upon Irving’s knees. I had “tried it -on the dog,” and it was the dog I had failed to please. - -My association with Irving during the preparation of _King Arthur_ -was wholly interesting and delightful. I had been warned by those who -had long worked with him in the theatre that Irving was intolerant of -interference, and that I would do well not to assume any position -of authority in the direction of the rehearsals. My own experience, -however, completely belied this warning; from the first he treated me -with the utmost consideration, and invited, rather than repressed, -the suggestions I had to make. His own work at rehearsal was always -deeply interesting to watch, though it often revealed little more than -the mechanical part of his own performance. This, however, he fixed -with absolute exactitude, and the minute invention of detail which he -displayed sufficed to suggest that in his own private study of the -part this fabric of mechanism was already wedded to the emotional -message he intended to convey. As a rule, he was word-perfect before -the rehearsals of any play began, and this left him free to bestow -infinite patience and pains upon the work of others. He would go -through the whole of any one of the minor parts, instructing the actor -in every detail of gesture and movement; and when it came to scenes in -which he himself was concerned, he knew precisely--and could precisely -realise--the pace and the tone that were needed to achieve the effect -he desired. - - - - -A SENSE OF HUMOUR - - -I suppose no man at this time of day would have the temerity to -hazard a definition of humour. It has been often attempted, never, -however, with any convincing success; and sometimes with such cumbrous -elaboration of thought as to leave upon the reader only the desolating -impression that the philosopher was wholly lacking in the quality which -he sought to define. Nor is its presence so common even in those who -most loudly deplore its absence in others. I have heard the dullest of -men lament the fact that God has denied it to women, and the fleeting -smile with which such an announcement is sometimes received by their -wives goes far to prove that even the intimate association of marriage -has not sufficed for the full appreciation of character. - -In its larger and more elemental forms humour is certainly one of the -rarest of human attributes; and even the appreciation of humour in -that broader and deeper sense is not quite so common as is generally -supposed. There is quite a considerable body of seemingly educated -opinion which would concede to Shakespeare every gift except the gift -of humour; persons who would regard Falstaff as a quite inconsiderable -creation, and who would dismiss Dogberry and the nurse in _Romeo and -Juliet_ as negligible portraits in the great Shakespearean gallery. -Once I remember hearing this view put forward very confidently in the -presence of a brilliant essayist, whose grave demeanour gave the critic -some ground for the belief that his unfavourable opinion would meet -with ready acceptance. After holding forth at some length upon what he -deemed to be this rather puerile aspect of Shakespeare’s genius, he -ventured at the finish upon the direct inquiry: “Now what, sir, do you -think of Shakespeare’s humour?” To which the reply came in very quiet -tones: “Well, the trouble is, there is no other.” - -The proposition need not be taken too literally, but it contains a -truth that cannot be ignored. Shakespeare’s humour is as directly and -as legitimately the fruit of his wide and deep love of life as the -most sublime of his tragic creations. The mind that drew the portrait -of Falstaff owns and claims the same large handwriting as that which -revealed the character of Macbeth; in both there is an equal measure -of mastery. And that, naturally, suggests an element in humour -which, without risking the imprudence of definition, may be said to -separate it from mere wit. The man of wit may distinguish and reveal -the incongruities of life but the humorist, not only perceives them, -but loves the characters in which they reside. Among the humorists I -have met, this essential gift of sympathy has always, as it seems to -me, been a constant and dominating force. It was not my fortune to -know Charles Dickens, but his transcendent humour may be said to have -dominated all who came within the reach and range of his genius; and it -may surely be said of him, as it may be said of Shakespeare, that he -not only saw where the sources of laughter lay, but that he loved the -thing he made laughable. - -This was equally true of Bret Harte, who in our talks together would -always willingly own his obligations to the great master; and there -is certainly no more touching tribute to Dickens’s genius than is -contained in the little poem with which Bret Harte greeted the news -of his death. As is not uncommon with men of creative humour, Bret -Harte, in ordinary converse, gave little hint of its possession. A -man of grave and reticent bearing, he made no attempt to shine as a -talker; and as far as my experience went, rarely sought to draw the -conversation into literary channels. He deliberately, as it would -seem, kept all that concerned his work as an artist in a world apart; -and his charm in companionship--which was not inconsiderable--suggested -rather the tenderness and sympathy in his outlook on life than his -equal gift of humorous appreciation. Those earlier meetings of the -Kinsmen Club, of which Bret Harte was a member, brought together many -humorous spirits, and amongst them George du Maurier and poor Randolph -Caldecott, who, although he too owned a grave exterior, partly due to -frailty of health, could on occasion break out into a frolic mood that -was irresistible in its sense of fun. - -But the draughtsmen for _Punch_ in those days, even when, as in the -case of du Maurier and Charles Keene, they could boast a higher measure -of purely artistic accomplishment, were hardly comparable in their -grasp of what is essentially comic in character with their predecessor, -John Leech; and if we turn from the work they produced to the men -themselves, it was not the possession of a sense of humour which formed -the main element in the social charm they exercised. Du Maurier, in his -conversation, never sought to exhibit or to exploit this particular -side of his talent; and in our many talks upon the subject of art it -was evident that he was rather on the alert to recognise what was -seriously beautiful in the work of his contemporaries. He never tired -in praise of Millais whom, I think, he ranked as the supreme master of -his time; and, on the other hand, he never quite settled in his mind, -even up to the end of his life, what measure of welcome to accord to -the widely different gifts of Rossetti and Burne-Jones. - -But although his talk was, for the most part, serious in tone, he could -show himself on occasion to be possessed of the wildest high spirits, -and it was then he most clearly revealed the qualities that were -distinctively his in virtue of his partly foreign extraction. - -Indeed among the men who practised this branch of art, I have known -only two who in personal intercourse gave any complete indication of -the humorous powers they possessed. Perhaps neither Phil May nor Fred -Barnard have yet received their full meed of praise, and yet in them, -rather than in their better known contemporaries, the tradition of -the earlier humorists survives. In one sense they may be said to have -shared between them the mantle of John Leech, and they possessed this -quality in common, that their perception of the sources of laughter -in life was as clearly betrayed in personal association as in the -work that came from their hand. Phil May’s face was in itself a -highly-coloured print that made an instant appeal to any one endowed -even with a most rudimentary sense of humour, and his talk, though it -affected no brilliancy, very clearly revealed the fact that the little -pageant of life which came within the range of his vision struck itself -at once into humorous outline. He hardly saw life, indeed, in any other -frame, and the few finely selected lines with which he registered -the images that presented themselves to his imagination seemed by -instinctive preference to exclude and to dismiss those graver realities -that were not his especial concern. And yet so keen and so sure was his -touch of life that now and again his hand would outrun his purpose, and -leave, even upon the slightest drawing, a suggestion of almost tragic -import underlying its laughing message. Fred Barnard was a humorist -through and through--at work or at play his eye lighted unerringly on -whatever might enrich his humorous experience, and he was quick to -detect, though never with any lack of urbanity, the little foibles of -those with whom he was brought into contact. - -But I suppose it is to the stage that one’s thoughts must naturally -turn for the most telling exposition of this particular quality. Nearly -all the comedians I have known have seemed to accept it as a part of -the duty which their profession imposes on them, that they should be -as amusing in the world as in the theatre. It cannot be said, according -to my own experience, that they have always been successful, and I may -even go so far as to say that the laboured efforts of the wilfully -comic man mark off in remembrance some of the dullest hours I have -passed. The penalty of the perpetual jester very often, as one would -think, a grievous burden to himself, falls sometimes with even heavier -incidence upon those he has doomed to be amused. - -I know it is a prevalent belief among Americans that we English are -wholly devoid of that sense of humour in which many of their own -countrymen undoubtedly excel; and it may perhaps, therefore, shock them -to learn that, to a taste differently educated, the unremitting efforts -of some of their professional jesters are apt on occasion to appear a -little overstrained. But in some natures the appetite for the ceaseless -flow of comic anecdote is swiftly satisfied, and the man who will -insist upon unpacking his wallet of well-worn stories for the intended -delight of his fellows may, if he is not watchful of the effect he -is producing, induce in the mind of his audience a mood of settled -sadness, that not even the genius of a Dickens could lift or lighten. - -This haunting fear lest conversation should at any point take a -serious note--which I cannot help thinking characteristic of many -Americans--is often to be found in our own country in the person of -the comedian by profession. It existed perhaps in a lesser degree in -J. L. Toole than any other representative of his calling whom I have -intimately known. What rendered Toole delightful in companionship was -rarely anything memorable that he said, for he made no effort to pose -as a wit, and his reminiscent humour, which he could always summon at -need, was for the most part introduced in illustration of some point -of character humorously perceived and presented. There are critics who -have questioned his appeal as a comedian in the theatre, but no one -brought into personal contact with him could be left in any doubt as -to the swiftness and sureness of his vision in detecting and enjoying -the little foibles of those around him. In any company, whatever its -composition, his mind got quickly to work upon each individuality in -the group; and, although he might not join largely in the conversation, -he loved to impart to the companion by his side his keen sense of -enjoyment of the conflict and interplay of character as it presented -itself at the table. - -Toole was a constant guest at those pleasant little suppers in the -Beefsteak Room of the Lyceum Theatre over which Irving so gracefully -presided; and if one had the good fortune to be his neighbour it was -always delightful to watch the expression of his swiftly-glancing, -laughing eyes and mobile mouth, as they mirrored, in hardly-restrained -amusement, his inward enjoyment of the changing humours of the -scene. Nothing characteristic escaped him, however widely divergent -the personalities that came within the range of his vision; but his -quickness of perception, ever ready to register and record the little -foibles of each member of the company, bred in him no feeling of -resentment, but seemed rather to add to the rich store of enjoyment -which, in his happier moods, life always afforded him. I say in his -happier moods, because even in the earlier days of our friendship, when -his vitality was unimpaired, his exuberant high spirits were subject to -sudden clouds of deep depression that seemed for the time to banish all -laughter from his life. - -Like Irving, he was an inveterately late sitter, and the many -occasions that found them together--either at the theatre or at the -Garrick Club--rarely witnessed their parting till the morning hours -were far spent. In Toole’s case, I know, this reluctance to break in -upon the long duration of these social hours sprang in part out of a -haunting terror of the sadder thoughts that might overtake him when -he was driven back upon himself. He would often confess to me, as -we drove home, his constant dread of these night fears, that were -chiefly dominated at that time by the recurring image of his only son, -whose early death remained with him to the end as an ineffaceable -source of sorrow. And yet, while we talked of these sadder things, it -was sometimes irresistibly comic to notice, as we drew towards his -house, how this deeper grief would then be exchanged for a terror -of a nearer kind, for he was always at these moments very conscious -that his persistently late habits--so often repented of, but never -reformed--would surely draw down upon him severe domestic rebuke. And -even when the cab had reached his door, he would hold me prisoner in -whispered converse in order to postpone, as long as he could, the dread -moment when he would have to face the salutary lecture that was in -store for him. - -But for the most part he was the gayest and most light-hearted of -companions, forcing out of the most unhopeful material a rich yield of -fun and frolic. At home or abroad he was never at a loss for the means -of filling an empty day. Sometimes, in his ceaseless tendency towards -practical joking, he would place himself in positions that other -men might have found embarrassing and even dangerous. But there was -something so infectious in his humour, and in his good humour, that -even on the Continent, where he could speak no language but his own, -he was always able to extricate himself with success from difficulties -that would have left many graver men without resource. - -He dearly loved the excitement of the gaming table, whether at Monte -Carlo or elsewhere; and I remember, during a holiday that we passed -together at Aix-les-Bains, that he did his best to imperil the good -effects of his cure by his constant attendance at the Cercle and the -Villa des Fleurs. It was difficult to drag him from the table, however -late the hour, for his pathetic reply to every remonstrance took the -form of a solemn promise that he would absolutely go to bed as soon as -the little pile before him was exhausted; a reply, the humour of which -he was himself only half-conscious, for it pointed to the inevitable -loss that was the final result of all his gambling transactions. After -a night wherein he had been more than usually successful in exhausting -the ready cash he carried about him, we made our way in the morning to -the little bank in the main street of Aix-les-Bains, in order that he -might make a fresh draft upon his letter of credit. - -But he did not at once reveal to the clerk in charge his serious -intent. Tapping lightly at the closed window of the _guichet_, he -inquired, in broken English, which he appeared strangely to believe -would be somehow comprehensible to his foreign interlocutor, whether -the bank would be prepared to make him a small advance upon a -gold-headed cane which he carried in his hand. The request, as might -be supposed, was somewhat briskly dismissed, and the little window was -abruptly closed in his face. Toole retired apparently deeply dejected -by the refusal of his prayer; but in a few minutes he returned to the -attack, having in the meantime provided himself with fresh material for -a new financial proposition. Hastening out into the little market that -lay near the bank, he hurriedly purchased from one of the fish-stalls -a small pike that had been caught in the lake, and, having added to -this a bunch of carrots, he returned to the bank, where he carefully -arranged these proffered securities on the counter, enforced by the -addition of his watch and chain, a three-penny bit, and a penknife. -When all was ready he again tapped softly at the window, and, in a -voice that was broken by sobs, implored the clerk, in view of his -unfortunate position, to accept these ill-assorted articles in pledge -for the small sum which was needed to save him from starvation. The -clerk, by this time grown indignant, requested him to leave the -establishment, explaining to him in emphatic terms, and in such -English as he could command, that they only made advances upon circular -notes or letters of credit. At the last-named word Toole’s saddened -face suddenly broke into smiles, and, producing his letter of credit, -he handed it to the astonished clerk, with the added explanation that -he would have offered that at first if he had thought the bank cared -about it, but that the porter at the hotel had told him the bankers of -Aix liked fish better. - -This is only a sample of the kind of adventure that Toole loved to -create for himself and which he carried through with the keenest -zest and enjoyment. His invention in such matters never flagged, and -I have often been his companion through the whole of an idle day, -during which he would keep us both fully employed in the prosecution -of these boyish frolics, that may seem foolish enough in narration, -but were irresistible in their appeal, owing to the unalloyed pleasure -they brought him in their progress. I have known many men who deem -themselves adepts at this kind of sport, but none who were so -convincing in their methods--none, certainly, who took such an honest -pleasure in their work, or who used such infinite pains in carrying the -projected little plot to a successful issue. - -Once at Ramsgate he contrived to relieve the tedium of a Sunday -afternoon by calling at nearly every house in a long and respectable -terrace, charged with a mission that was foredoomed to failure. As each -door was opened Toole stood on the step, his face distorted by signs -of emotion, that for the moment deprived him of all powers of speech, -and when at last, in response to the angry inquiry of a maid-servant, -he contrived to regain a measure of self-control, it was only to -beg, in tearful accents, for the loan of “a small piece of groundsel -for a sick bird.” As door after door was slammed in his face, his -high spirits correspondingly increased, his only fear being, as he -afterwards explained to me, lest some one of the peaceful inhabitants -whose Sabbath repose he had so ruthlessly disturbed should, by an evil -chance, have possessed the remedy he so persistently sought. - - - - -SITTING AT A PLAY - - -The child’s love of the drama begins long before there is any thought -of a playhouse. To escape from life in order to rediscover it in mimic -form, would seem to rank among the earliest of human impulses. We are -all born actors, though some of us--and this is true even of those -who adopt the stage as a profession--would seem occasionally to part -with this primitive instinct in later life. But an average child has -no sooner entered this world than he finds himself pursued by the -longing to create another: he has scarcely had time to recognise his -own identity before he seeks to hide it beneath the mask of an alien -personality. How far the youthful histrion believes himself to be a -lion when he crawls across the drawing-room carpet on all fours, and -roars from behind the sofa, is perhaps open to argument. My own belief -is that he is already so much of an artist as to be in no way deceived, -but of his desire to impose upon the credulity of others there can, I -think, be no question. But the limits of histrionic enjoyment are even -here sometimes overstepped, as, for example, when a maturer rival in -the art, boasting a louder roar, approaches too closely to the confines -of absolute illusion. The enjoyment of the art as an art is then rudely -disturbed, and, shaken with sudden terror, the infant Roscius is once -more driven back upon that actual world from which it had been his -pride and desire to escape. - -This may be cited as an early instance of the intemperate employment of -the resources of realism, which in later life, when sitting at a play, -we have so often just reason to deplore. Again, the sudden assumption -by a too eager elder of a woolly hearth-rug may ruin at a stroke the -child’s purely imaginative vision that he is in the society of a bear. -Natural terror expels in an instant that higher emotion which the -drama is designed to create. The child recognises that the irrefutable -laws of the art have been rudely broken, to his own discomfort; and -it is always interesting to note on such occasions with what quick -and easy resource he will suddenly change the whole subject and scope -of the mimic performance, imperiously demanding that the bear shall -be exchanged for a horse, or some other domestic animal, whose milder -tendencies may be the more readily endured, even when the actor is -forgetful of the proper restraints of his art. - -It is what survives of the child in us that makes us all playgoers, -although in the early days of our playgoing the unsuspected resources -of illusion which the theatre can command are often hard to endure. -It is, I suppose, the experience of most children--it certainly was -mine--that certain critical moments in drama, clearly foreseen and -eagerly anticipated, nevertheless prove in realisation too thrilling -and too intense for pure delight; and I can recall occasions, such -desired moments being clearly in view, when I would address a whispered -request to one of my elders that I might be permitted to watch the -ensuing scene from the safe vantage ground of the corridor at the back -of the dress circle. The small glass window in the red baize door -provided just that added veil of distance which rendered the sufferings -of the persons on the stage artistically tolerable. But the crisis once -past--a crisis generally signalised by the explosion of a pistol--I -was eager to return to my seat in order to appreciate with unabated -enjoyment the consequences of an act of violence I had not had the -courage to witness. - -It is remarkable how little, in those very early days of playgoing, -we are at all concerned with the personality of the actor. The story -is all-absorbing, and in the poignant interest in the persons of the -story, all memory of the performer as a separate entity is submerged -and effaced. I had no thought at that time whether the actor was good -or bad. His performance appeared to me to be inevitable and inevitably -perfect. The day when he takes separate existence, apart from the -character he is presenting, marks a revolution in the life of the -playgoer, a revolution that is destined henceforward to complicate his -emotions, with never again any possible return to that earlier and -more confiding attitude when the illusion of the scene is absolute and -complete. It is difficult even to recall the names of the actors who -first greatly stirred me. They hardly stain my memory, for in my mind -they had no separate existence. But with this revolution is born a new -kind of enjoyment, that carries richer recollections. The limitless -world of illusion shrinks to a narrower kingdom, but its triumphs are -more vivid and more enduring: the sense of assumption and disguise is -no longer so complete or so convincing, but the message of revelation, -when it comes, brings with it a higher pleasure. - -Nothing lives longer in remembrance, or pictures itself more vividly, -than the first impression of the performance of a great actor. Phelps -was the earliest of my heroes of this more sophisticated time, and -the first of his performances I can recall was that of Falstaff in -_King Henry IV._ produced at Drury Lane. Walter Montgomery was the -Hotspur of the occasion, and young Edmund Phelps figured as Prince Hal. -First impressions are hard to supplant, and the visual presentment -of Falstaff even now always takes the form and shape assigned to him -by the elder Phelps on that memorable evening. I saw him many times -afterwards--in _Othello_ and _King John_, in Mephistopheles, in -Bayle Bernard’s version of Goethe’s play, in Wolsey, in Sir Pertinax -M‘Sycophant, and in John Bull; and, although the more critical spirit -of a later hour left him shorn of some part of that perfection I -thought was his when I first saw him upon the stage, he ranks even -now in my recollection as a great and gifted exponent of a great -tradition. In his personality there was little to allure. It was rugged -and bereft of many of the lighter graces that are calculated to win -an audience; but his voice was incomparable, and the earnestness of -the artist beyond reproach. Nor could variety of resource be denied -him: he seemed equally equipped for his task as King John, Wolsey, or -Falstaff, or as Bottom in the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_. He fought his -way to a front rank in the profession at a time when older playgoers -were full of memories of men who were perhaps his superiors--of Kemble, -Kean, and, more recently, of Macready. But whatever he owed to any of -them--and I do not suppose he was ever tempted to deny his debt--it is -impossible not to concede to him a rare measure of individual power -that must always leave him his due rank among the English interpreters -of Shakespeare. - -It must have been my first vision of Charles Fechter which enabled me -to realise as by a flash how much Phelps suffered by lack of personal -charm and grace. In those days I had not seen Fechter in Shakespeare. -I knew him only as the victorious lover and the conquering hero of -romantic drama. But, however conventional the material upon which -his talent was employed, the glamour of his personality exercised an -overpowering fascination. - -To the youth of both sexes Fechter’s foreign accent constituted a charm -in itself. The rising cadence of his voice struck heroically on the -ear, and the swifter and freer gesture which came of his Gallic origin -added something of extra fascination to the unquestionably great gifts -with which he was endowed. In those days of the old Lyceum, when he was -acting in melodramas like _The Duke’s Motto_ and _Bel Demonio_, Miss -Kate Terry was constantly his partner and the two together seemed to -embody for the time the whole spirit of romance. But the moment of -Fechter’s acting which is stamped most firmly in my recollection was -in the last act of _Ruy Blas_. It was not till long afterwards when -growing stoutness had robbed him of that grace of form which belonged -to his earlier days, that I saw him in the part of _Hamlet_, and it is -perhaps hardly fair to test his fitness as a Shakespearean actor by -such later impressions. To me, however, that foreign cadence, which -linked itself so well with the impersonation of romantic heroism, -left a jarring note when it was yoked with the statelier measure of -English verse; and it was not till long afterwards, when I saw Irving’s -_Hamlet_, that I realised for the first time how much of the subtlety -of the character and beauty of the play could be realised within the -walls of a theatre. - -The playgoer’s memories refuse to obey any strict chronological order. -They are rather governed by vividness of impression, which summons with -equal distinctness things seen long ago and triumphs of a more recent -date. My first vision of Sarah Bernhardt retains always a foremost -place in my playgoing experience. It was in Paris in the spring of -1876, and the play was _L’Étrangère_. She was surrounded by a company -of rare distinction--Coquelin, Croisette, and Mounet-Sully amongst -them. But I remember, as she came upon the stage, that a creature -almost of another race seemed suddenly to have invaded, and, at a -single stroke, to be dominating, the scene. Her personality appeared -at once to announce a new dialect in the language of Art. Her mode of -speech and her method of acting left almost unregarded and unremembered -the particular language in which the play was written. In virtue of -her genius she became at once an international possession, leaving, -by comparison, the artists around her almost provincial in style -and method. I had previously seen Ristori, and had marvelled at the -wonders of her art in Lucrezia Borgia and in Mary Stuart, an art that -was struck in a larger mould than Sarah Bernhardt could claim; and I -afterwards had to acknowledge the superb force and matchless physical -resource which Salvini brought to the theatre. But in neither case does -the first impression stand out so vividly in recollection as that first -impression of Sarah Bernhardt in Dumas’ play. And yet I remember Sir -Frederick Leighton, whose recollections of the theatre went back to an -earlier day, telling me that the effect produced by Rachel left Sarah -Bernhardt’s art by comparison almost in the region of the commonplace. - -I have mentioned the name of Coquelin, whose talent in the region -of comedy was consummate, and even in this very performance of -_L’Étrangère_ his impersonation of the Duc de Septmonts leaves an -ineffaceable recollection. But I had already seen him in Molière, and -it was the endless resource with which he furnished the creations -of the master dramatist of France that gives him, I think, his -unapproachable place in the modern theatre. His own rich enjoyment of -every discovered detail of the carefully constructed portrait carried -with it the magic of infection, and, as the work grew under his hand, -the spectator was left with a pitiful consciousness of his own dulness -in having gathered from the written page so small a part of the -author’s manifest intention. In so far as the actor’s art seeks for the -triumphs of assumption and disguise, Coquelin was, indeed, beyond the -reach of rivalry, and it was perhaps pardonable, in view of his own -splendid achievement, that he should have been disposed to question the -claims of those whose mastery in this particular direction was not so -complete as his own. Coquelin to the last was intolerant of all acting -which allowed the personality of the performer to override the identity -of the particular character to be presented. He could be admiring, and -even enthusiastic, over the art of Irving, but always with an implied -reservation--the English actor never, to his thinking, sufficiently -effaced himself in his part; the performance, however brilliant in -intellectual force, was marred, in Coquelin’s judgment, by an imperfect -surrender of personality, and by a corresponding incompleteness of -assumption. And that was an unforgivable sin in the eyes of the French -artist. - -It was agreeable to discuss these matters with Coquelin, for he was -a brilliant talker, quick in insight, and ever ready with the terse -and fit phrase to illustrate his meaning. And it was peculiarly -interesting to me, because the argument touched upon problems in the -actor’s art that I have always thought to be profoundly significant. -How far may the personality of the performer intrude itself in the -presentation of the chosen character, and to what extent are assumption -and disguise part of the indispensable equipment of the artist? These -are questions which every generation is apt to raise in regard to its -popular favourites upon the stage. And the answer is not easy to find. -To very many it will seem indisputable that versatility carries with -it the hall-mark of perfection, and that no actor can claim absolute -victory in any individual achievement unless we are allowed completely -to forget the person in the impersonation. Such critics are the avowed -champions of the art of disguise, and yet, to me at least, they leave -out of account the most profound and most memorable impressions which -the theatre is able to yield. The scenes which have most deeply -moved me, the performers whose art has stirred me to the strongest -emotion, are hardly associated in memory with any particular triumph -of characterisation. It is, in short, not disguise, but revelation, -which evokes and demands the highest histrionic gifts. The ingenuity -and resource that can distinguish and exhibit the markings of varying -personality must, of course, always count for much, but the imaginative -power which can recreate upon the scene the simpler and deeper emotions -that are common to us all must surely count for more; and in the -exercise of this higher power the lighter accessories employed to -achieve completeness of disguise must often be discarded and forgotten, -as the actor’s personality, impatient of all lesser fetters that impede -its utterance, becomes wholly engaged in the task of communicating -to his audience the deeper and more enduring passions of our common -humanity. - -Of course, some may dream that these opposite qualities may be -combined. I have never seen them combined in any measure of -completeness. I remember thinking, when I first saw Sarah Bernhardt -in _Frou-Frou_, that her portraiture fell far short of that of -Desclée, the original creator of the rôle. And so, in fact, it did. -The countless subtleties, by means of which the earlier performer -had established the identity of the frivolous heroine of one of the -most masterly of modern French plays, were all lacking in the work -of her successor; but in the great scene in the third act, where -the tensity of the situation sounds a deeper note of drama, I felt -disposed to forget that any other _Frou-Frou_ had ever existed. Another -illustration pointing in the same direction may be found in the -exquisite art of the Italian actress, Eleanora Duse. When I saw her in -the _Dame aux camélias_ it was impossible to believe even for a moment -that this perfect embodiment of all that is beautiful in feminine -nature owned even the remotest relationship to the courtesan whom Dumas -had set himself to present upon the stage. The unconquerable purity -of her artistic personality left her helpless in the presence of her -chosen task. As mere assumption the performance counted for next to -nothing, and yet in its exquisite power to reveal the ever-deepening -emotions of a suffering human soul it was incomparable and superb. -It chanced that only three nights afterwards I saw Sarah Bernhardt -in this same play, and the contrast was striking and instructive. It -might have been another story; it certainly was another and a widely -different character. Possibly neither artist rendered faithfully the -author’s intention, and yet both had produced an impression of intense -enjoyment, such as the theatre is rarely able to confer. - -On both of these evenings I had the good fortune to sit beside Miss -Ellen Terry, whose presence in the theatre I think contributed in -no small degree to the almost inspired performances of her comrades -upon the stage. I am not indiscreet enough to reveal her comparative -judgment of their competing claims, but I remember considering at the -time how far her own presentation of Marguerite Gauthier, if she had -ever undertaken the part, would have compared with the conception -of either. Here, again, is an instance of an artist who has never -sought, or who has sought in vain, to hide her own identity; and -yet of those who have felt the magic of her influence in the ideal -figure of Ophelia, in the exquisite raillery of Beatrice, or in the -tender sentiment of Olivia, who is there who would deny her right to -the foremost place in her profession? With her most surely the final -effect and impression rest upon powers of revelation--upon the ability -to realise and to interpret the simplest and the subtlest phases of -emotion, far more than upon those artifices of deception that make for -the more obvious triumphs of disguise. - -It may, of course, be conceded that in his critical and discriminating -judgment of Irving’s acting Coquelin had before him an extreme -example of marked personal idiosyncrasy. The English actor, and no -one was better aware of the fact than himself, was partly hampered -in the exercise of his art by physical peculiarities that for many -years proved a serious hindrance in his career. But, even if he could -have shaken himself wholly free of them, he could never have effaced -the personality that lay behind them. It is, indeed, impossible to -conceive a more striking contrast than was presented by the two men as -I used often to see them in those intimate little supper-parties at the -Lyceum. Coquelin, despite his alert and agile intelligence, remained in -outward appearance almost defiantly bourgeois, and this indelible stamp -of his origin, which art had done nothing to refashion or refine, never -showed so clearly as when he stood beside the English actor, who, with -no better social title than his own, nevertheless carried about him a -nameless sense of race and breeding. I remember one night when they -stood up side by side towards the close of a long evening, Coquelin’s -silhouette bulging in somewhat rotund line as it traversed his ample -waistcoat, the comedian was enlarging in earnest and eager tones as to -his plans for the future. “I have the intention,” he said to Irving, -in his halting English, “I have the intention next year to assume the -rôle of _Richard III._” Irving seemed thoughtful for a moment, and then -his long, slender fingers lightly tapping that protuberant outline, he -murmured, as though half to himself, “Would you? I wonder!” - - - - -SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN - - -Arthur Sullivan’s final claims as a composer can only be settled by -time. It is not allowed, even to the expert, to hasten the judgment -of posterity, for, as we know from experience, that judgment does not -always accord with the verdict even of the most learned of the living. -But there is one fact which in Sullivan’s case time cannot dispute, -and that is the extraordinary influence which he exercised over his -generation. There is possibly no Englishman in any realm of art who, -during the same period, won the admiration of so many of his fellows: -none assuredly whose genius entered with so sweet a welcome into so -many English homes. - -The art of the musician where it is destined to win any form of -popular response has indeed this peculiar prerogative. The processes -of its production are hedged around with special technicalities that -can be comprehended only by the few, but its completed message owns a -universal language that no other art can command. And those of us who -know of music no more than the pleasure it confers ought not on that -account to withhold our tribute of praise from a master who has charmed -us all. It is not only the super-subtle or the obscure which merits -respect, and we need not, therefore, be too timorous in confessing our -love of that which we are permitted to understand, resting assured that -there will remain critics enough to deliver the sterner judgment of -the higher courts. And amongst such critics there is a certain section -in music, as in literature, or in painting, whose ears are so finely -tuned to catch the first whisper of the moderating voice of the time -to come, that they are apt to lose their nerve for praise of their -contemporaries: others again so beset with the cant of categories that -they must needs deplore in the case of every gifted artist who chances -also to be popular that his gifts are not engaged in other and loftier -employment. We need not, however, be too greatly concerned with censure -of this sort; for the accepted formulas of criticism are after all but -the reflex of past achievement, and are liable to be recast or enlarged -in accordance with the needs and resources of those who have the power -to remodel them. Genius, indeed, takes little account of the accepted -classifications of the schools, and forms of art that were deemed -capable of holding only so much as they have hitherto contained are -suddenly transformed at the touch of new invention, which, in its turn, -forges new fetters doomed again to be shattered by the advent of some -later individuality. - -But it is the personality of the artist rather than the quality of his -work that now chiefly concerns us. Of the latter, indeed, the present -writer has no title to speak save in terms of grateful admiration, and -although it is true of every man of genius that the finest attributes -of his nature lie surely enshrined in the fruit of his life’s labour, -yet those who enjoyed the privilege of Arthur Sullivan’s friendship -may be pardoned for thinking that the art with which he charmed the -world still left unrevealed a deeper fascination in the man himself. -So much at least is certain, that only those who knew him well were -able to realise the perfect accord that existed between the artist -and his work. This, as we know, is not always easy to discover. Life -sometimes refuses to surrender any hint of the subtler graces that -stand confessed in the artistic record given to the world for its -enjoyment; and, on the other hand, it will as often happen that the -product of hand or brain seems sternly to exclude some more intimate -charm that friendship alone can claim to have discovered. It was not so -in Sullivan’s case. The man and the artist were woven of one fabric -throughout, and those who have enjoyed the varied phases of his music, -from its graver to its lighter strains, may be said to have possessed a -faithful index to the purely personal qualities that won the affection -of his friends. In the unstudied converse of daily life he exhibited -in himself that same swift grace of alternating mood that is so -characteristic of his art. He was never afraid of the sudden entry of -humour into a discussion of the most serious theme, or of sounding a -deeper and graver note, however closely it may have followed upon the -heels of recent laughter. It was this that made him the most delightful -of companions. His instinct was so sure, his sympathy so finely tuned, -that he never missed his footing: his sense of harmony in friendship, -as in art, so absolutely irreproachable, that he never struck a jarring -note. - -A great simplicity and generosity of nature lay, I think, at the root -of the rare social charm he possessed. In all my recollections of -our companionship I cannot recall a single ill-natured word towards -friend or acquaintance, or any bitter criticism of a comrade in art. In -another man such restraint might have seemed insipid: in his case it -was instinctive and obviously sincere. He was naturally endowed with -the genius of friendship, and what he had to say in the way of serious -criticism was delivered with such generous understanding of the claims -of other arts with which he was brought into association, that it could -never give offence. It was my good fortune more than once to be closely -allied with him in the execution of a common task, and those who have -written for music will know how constant are the opportunities for -friction between the author and the composer. The conflicting claims of -music and drama must needs breed keen discussion, and sometimes even -marked divergence of view, but with Arthur Sullivan the sense of what -was essential in the requirements he had to meet was so quick and so -true that it was rarely possible to withhold any concession he might -finally see fit to demand. - -We met first in the seventies when we were fellow-guests in a -country-house in Scotland. The house party was a large one, and Sir -Arthur Sullivan, laying aside all claim to the kind of consideration -to which his reputation entitled him, became at once the life and soul -of the varied entertainments that were organised during the evenings -of our visit. If there were private theatricals or tableaux vivants he -would cheerfully supply the incidental music required for the occasion, -and was so little preoccupied with the dignity of his position as -composer that he would willingly accompany the songs of every amateur, -and when the need arose would seat himself patiently at the piano to -provide the music for an improvised dance. We met often in the years -that followed, and our acquaintance quickly ripened into a close and -lasting friendship. In the riverside houses, which he used then to -take during the summer months of the year, he was the most delightful -of hosts, and when I was able to accompany him on some of his trips -abroad, I found in his companionship a charm that never failed. - -In 1894 he was invited by Sir Henry Irving to compose the music for -my play of King Arthur, and he became so deeply interested in the -subject that he afterwards planned the execution of an opera dealing -with the fortunes of Launcelot and Guinevere, for which I was to supply -the libretto. Owing to failing health, however, the scheme was never -carried to completion, and it is perhaps open to question whether the -sustained effort needed for the interpretation of a serious and tragic -theme would have so nicely fitted the natural bent of his genius as the -lighter framework provided for him by Sir William Gilbert. - -Certainly the alliance of these two men proved of rare value to their -generation. It is impossible to conceive of talents so differently -moulded or so sharply contrasted, a contrast that found an apt -reflection in their strikingly divergent personalities. At the first -glance their partnership would hardly seem to promise a fruitful -result, and yet it was perhaps out of their very unlikeness that -they were enabled to derive something of constant inspiration from -one another. Gilbert’s humour, perhaps the most individual in his -generation, was cloaked beneath a somewhat sullen exterior. The settled -gravity of his expression, sometimes almost menacing in the sense of -slumbering hostility which it conveyed, gave hardly a hint of those -sudden flashes of wit which came like quick lightning from a lowering -sky, and was as far removed as possible from the sunny radiance of -Sullivan’s face, wherein the look of resident geniality stood ready -on the smallest provocation to reflect every passing mood of quickly -responsive appreciation. Many of the pungent epigrams of Gilbert are -well known, and if they were not in every case invented on the spur of -the moment, they were uttered with such apparent reluctance to disturb -the settled gravity of his demeanour as to produce in the listener -the conviction that he himself was the last person to suspect their -existence. Very often indeed they were obviously born of the moment of -their utterance. I remember our both being present in the stalls of -a theatre listening to an actor who was wont to mask his occasional -departure from strict sobriety by the adoption of a confidential tone -in delivery that sank sometimes to the confines of a whisper, when -Gilbert, leaning over my shoulder, remarked, “No one admires the art -of Mr. K---- more than I do, but I always feel I am taking a liberty -in overhearing what he says.” At another time, when he had been -invited to attend a concert in aid of the Soldiers’ Daughters’ Home, -he replied with polite gravity that he feared he would not be able -to be present at the concert, but that he would be delighted to see -one of the soldiers’ daughters home after the entertainment. These -are only two samples drawn at random from an inexhaustible store of -such sayings as must survive in the memory of all who knew him, and -the special flavour that is impressed upon them all is equally to be -noted in his work for the theatre, more particularly in those lyrical -portions of the operas composed in association with Sullivan. In the -art of stating a purely prosaic proposition in terms of verse he was -indeed without rival. His metrical skill only served to emphasise more -deeply the essential unfitness of the poetic form for the message he -had to convey; and this unconcealed discordance between the essence of -the thought to be expressed and the vehicle chosen for its expression, -became irresistible in its humorous appeal even before it had received -its musical setting. And yet that setting, as supplied by Sullivan, -gave to the whole a unique value. The sardonic spirit of the writer not -only called forth in Sullivan a corresponding humour in the adaptation -of serious musical form, but it enabled him to super-add qualities of -grace and beauty which deserved to rank as an independent contribution -of his own. In this way the combined result possessed a measure of -poetic charm and glamour which Gilbert’s verse in itself, despite -its rare technical qualities, could not pretend to claim, although -without the impulse supplied by his more prosaic partner, it may be -doubted whether even the finer graces of Sullivan’s genius would have -found such apt and fortunate expression. Certain it is that where the -task imposed upon him lacked the support of this satiric spirit, he -often laboured with a reward less entirely satisfying, and, on the -other hand, I think Gilbert himself was impelled by the exigencies -of their comradeship to indulge a more fanciful invention than was -characteristic of his isolated efforts as a writer of verse. - -My final association with Sir Arthur Sullivan arose out of my joint -authorship with Sir Arthur Pinero in the libretto of _The Beauty -Stone_. I think the composer was conscious that the scheme of our work -constituted a somewhat violent departure from the lines upon which -his success in the theatre had hitherto been achieved. At an earlier -time this fact in itself would not, I believe, have proved unwelcome -to him, for he had confessed to me that he was sometimes weary of the -fetters which Gilbert’s particular satiric vein imposed upon him, -and his ambition rather impelled him to make trial in a field where, -without encountering all the demands incident to Grand Opera, he might -be able to give freer rein to the more serious side of his genius. -But the adventure, even had our share in the task proved entirely -satisfactory to the public, came too late. Poor Sullivan was already a -sick man. Sufferings long and patiently endured had sapped his power of -sustained energy, and my recollection of the days I passed with him in -his villa at Beaulieu, when he was engaged in setting the lyrics I had -written, are shadowed and saddened by the impression then left upon me -that he was working under difficulties of a physical kind almost too -great to be borne. The old genial spirit was still there, the quick -humour in appreciation and the ready sympathy in all that concerned -our common task, but the sunny optimism of earlier days shone only -fitfully through the physical depression that lay heavily upon him, and -when a little later we came to the strenuous times of rehearsal in the -theatre, one was forced to observe the strain he seemed constantly in -need of putting upon himself in order to get through the irksome labour -of the day. There were indeed brighter intervals when he seemed in -nothing changed from the man as I first knew him, but on such happier -moments would quickly follow long seasons of depression, showing itself -sometimes in an irritability of temper so foreign to his real nature as -to raise in the minds of his friends feelings of deep disquietude and -anxiety. But the Sullivan of those moods of dejection is not the man -whose portrait lives in the memory of those who knew him. It is easier -to think of him in those earlier days when the constant urbanity of his -outlook upon the world was lightened by a laughing humour constantly -inspired by sympathy and affection. - - - - -THE JUNIOR OF THE CIRCUIT - - -When I first joined the Northern circuit in the year 1872, it -covered a wider area than is now allotted to it. We used at that -time to begin operations at Appleby, journeying thence from Durham -to Newcastle, Carlisle, Lancaster, Manchester, and Liverpool. The -members of the Local Bar in the two last-named cities were already -strong and powerful, but they had not yet absorbed so large a share -of the business of the assizes as they now enjoy. It was Charles -Crompton--with whom I had read in chambers--who secured for me the -coveted position of Junior of the circuit, and the first occasion on -which I set out to discharge the somewhat anomalous duties of my office -I shared rooms at Durham with the present Mr. Justice Kennedy, who, I -think, had himself been a candidate for the post. - -I have referred to the duties of the Junior of the circuit as being -somewhat anomalous, because although, as his title would imply, he -is always chosen from the newest of its recruits, tradition dowers -him with a figment of authority which is altogether out of proportion -to any personal qualifications he may chance to possess. He disputes -the leadership of the circuit with the leader himself, and is assumed -to hold specially in his keeping the interests of the Junior Bar as -opposed to whatever arrogant claims may be put forward by the more -fortunate wearers of the silken gown. To this defiant attitude, -where the opportunity for defiance was in any sense possible, I was -constantly urged by the members of the Junior Bar, whose cause I was -supposed to champion; and it was deemed a duty, which no Junior of -spirit could safely ignore, that on any public occasion when he had -to stand up as spokesman of the circuit, he should depreciate, with -all the resources at his disposal, both the intellectual prowess and -the professional bearing of the eminent Queen’s counsel who were -assembled at assize. The dignity thus assigned to him was, of course, -only half-humorously entertained by his comrades of both ranks, but -so much of reality still attached to the office that the holder of -it, if he chose to take advantage of the situation, found ample -opportunity for the trial and exercise of such gifts of oratory as he -might be fortunate enough to possess. Wherever and whenever the members -of the circuit were entertained, the Junior had to brace himself -to his allotted task; and although at the time I had been assigned -no opportunity of airing my powers of speech in open court, these -festive gatherings, which occurred in nearly every separate county we -visited, left me free for the crude practice of an art that had always -profoundly attracted me. - -The leaders of the Northern circuit, whose virtues I was called upon -to assail, numbered at that time some of the most distinguished -representatives at the Bar. Herschell, Russell, Holker, and Sam Pope -had all either attained or were nearing the zenith of their fame; while -among the Junior Bar it may suffice to cite the names of the late -Lord Selby (then Mr. Gully), Mr. Henn Collins (the late Master of the -Rolls), Lord Mersey, and Mr. Justice Kennedy. It was a privilege to -watch the work in court in which the powers of some of these giants -of the profession were daily called into exercise. I used to hear -some of my contemporaries sigh over the weary ordeal of having to -sit and listen to cases in which they were not concerned; a little -later, in the courts at Westminster, I sometimes shared that feeling -of fatigue; but my experience of two years of circuit life yields few -dull memories. The proceedings on circuit are perhaps more concentrated -in their interest than can, in the nature of things, be claimed for -the more scattered and diversified arena of the metropolis; one is -brought more nearly into touch with the chief actors in the drama, and -the incidents of the day are renewed and discussed at the Bar mess in -the evening. It is possible there to gauge and to measure the social -qualities of the men whose public performances in court are still under -consideration, and to link the more human side of this or that great -advocate, as it was frankly and freely exhibited in those hours when we -sat at wine after dinner, with the purely intellectual gifts that had -been set in action during the day. No one, for instance, who knew Mr. -Russell (afterwards Lord Russell of Killowen) only by his conduct of -a case in court, where the qualities of an imperious temper joined to -an unrelenting gravity of manner coloured and dominated the impression -which even his most eloquent speeches produced, could have readily -divined that he possessed at the same time a vein of genuine sentiment -that, in his more sympathetic moods, showed itself as being no less -clearly an integral part of his nature. And yet this softer side of -his character was often shown at the circuit mess, and I have more -than once seen his eyes moistened with tears as he would sing, without -any great pretence of art, one or more of Moore’s sentimental Irish -melodies. - -Nor could it have been readily guessed that, beneath the look of -slumbering power which marked Holker’s personality, there lurked a -quickened sense of humour of which he could make agile display when -the needs of the social occasion called it into being. The almost -daily contest between these two men, so differently equipped, and yet -often so equally matched, formed one of the most interesting subjects -of study to the youngster whose idle days were passed in court; for -down the length of the circuit, from Durham to Liverpool, there were -few causes of any magnitude or importance in which they were not both -engaged, and their divergent personalities and varying methods remain -to me now as an unfading recollection. It was sometimes difficult -to realise that Holker owned any real claims to eloquence until the -cumulative effect of his untiring insistence found its reflex in the -favourable verdict of the jury. That, at any rate, was the first -impression. - -It was only afterwards that the student was able to realise what a -wealth of intellectual resource and unsleeping vigilance lay masked -beneath the somewhat uncouth exterior in which the immobile and -unresponsive features gave scarcely a hint of the quick insight -into human nature, and the swift grasp of what was essential either -in the strength or the weakness of his cause. Grace of oratory he -certainly could never boast, but his very disability in this respect -seemed sometimes to serve him as a source of power. His humble and -deprecating manner, as though he were struggling with a task too -great for him, made an irresistible appeal to the sympathies of a -Northern jury, who would seem silently bidden to come to the aid of -this giant in distress, and who were never, I think, aware that in -leaning towards what they deemed the weaker side, they were, in fact, -the victims of the most consummate art which cloaked itself in almost -blundering simplicity of phrase. Russell’s more brilliant gifts as -an orator often beat in vain against what seemed at first sight to -be the ill-adjusted and cumbrous methods of his adversary; while at -other times the superior grace and vehemence of his style carried him -safely to victory. Even at that date it seemed to me clear that he was -destined to take his place as the most distinguished advocate at the -Bar, and those who had the privilege of watching his career at that -time had not long to wait to witness the fulfilment of their prophecy. -I think of him always as an advocate, for although his natural gift of -speech might have fitted him to win renown in almost any arena, it may -nevertheless be justly said of him that it was the office of advocacy -alone which furnished the needed impulse for the display of his highest -gifts as an orator. It is possibly for that reason that his career -in Parliament never quite justified his commanding reputation at the -Bar, and it is certainly true--as I myself have witnessed more than -once--that in the discharge of those lighter duties that fall to a -speaker on festal occasions he moved with little ease of style and with -far inferior effect. - -It was the concrete issue, carrying with it a full sense of -responsibility, that was needed to set in motion the great forces of -character and intellect that were his by right. It was the sense of -the duel that pricked him forward to the display of his powers at -their best; and it is, I think, this same sense of the duel that forms -the supreme element of interest to those who are called upon to watch -the conduct of a great trial in which grave issues are at stake. To -the trained mind of the lawyer an intricate case, in which only civil -interests are involved, provides perhaps the fullest opportunity for -watching the expert sword-play between two leaders who are fitly armed -for their task; but from the more human and dramatic point of view -it is the criminal court in an assize town that more often attracts -the presence of the younger student. A murder trial, where the man -whose life is in the balance stands before you in the dock during the -long hours of a protracted hearing, becomes, as the case advances, -absorbing, and even oppressive, in its interest. The very air of -the crowded court seems charged with the message of this one human -story; it is difficult, as the sordid and pitiable facts are gradually -revealed, to conceive that there is any other drama than that which -is being enacted within those four walls. And as the trial drags its -course, with each new link in the evidence seeming to forge a chain -that is gradually drawing closer around the wretched being who stands -before you in the dock, the intensity of the situation becomes so great -and so strained that one is almost tempted to believe that the whole -world is awaiting that one word from the lips of the jury which shall -set him free once more or send him to his doom. - -I can recall many such trials during my brief service on the Northern -circuit, and sometimes when the hearing outran the hours commonly -allotted for the sittings of the court, and when judge and jury, by -mutual consent, had agreed that the end should be reached before the -end of the day, the inherent solemnity of the scene would receive an -added sense of awe and terror as the fading daylight gradually deserted -the building, and the creeping shadows half-shrouded the faces of the -spectators eagerly and silently intent upon every word that fell from -the judge in his summing-up--whose grave countenance, only partly -illumined by the candles that had been set upon his desk, stood in -dreadful contrast with that of the prisoner who confronted him with -ashen face like that of a spectre in the darkness. And once I remember, -when the fatal verdict had been given, and the judge had passed to -the dread task of pronouncing sentence--a task never in my experience -discharged without the signs of visible emotion--the terror of the -scene was still further heightened as the prisoner, shrieking for -mercy, held fast to the bar of the dock, and was only at last removed -by force to the cells below. - -Such memories count among the sadder experiences of circuit life, and -were relieved by much else in the ordinary work of the day that leaves -a happier recollection. I believe the circuit mess has now greatly -fallen from its former estate; in my time it flourished exceedingly. -At each of the great towns we kept a well-stocked cellar of our own, -and it was the business of the junior to see that the members dining -were kept well supplied with the wine of their choice. The increase of -the Local Bar in many of the great centres has no doubt considerably -changed all this--with some loss, as it must be, of the sense of -good-fellowship which then bound us together. But at that time those -nightly gatherings, at which nearly every member of the circuit dined, -kept alive a kind of schoolboy feeling that infected the graver -leaders no less than the Junior Bar. The dinner-hour brought with it -always something of a festal spirit, and there were special occasions, -such as grand nights, that were wholly given over to a frolic mood. We -had our accredited Poet Laureate, poor Hugh Shield, who has now joined -the majority, and whose duty it was to provide the fitting doggerel -to be recited at the mess. Nor were these effusions too strictly -judged, from a purely literary point of view, if they were sufficiently -besprinkled with pungent personal references to such members as were -deemed to afford fitting material for the exercise of the poet’s -humour. Another of those who was a prodigal contributor to the humours -of the evening was M‘Connell, who afterwards became judge of the -Middlesex Sessions. And even the leader was not allowed to escape his -contribution, although it was sometimes hinted that his lighter essays -in prose and verse were supplied to him by some one of his friends -whose professional services were not so fully employed. - -Though the barrister’s calling did not long hold me in its service, -I have always retained the keenest interest in the triumphs of its -distinguished representatives. Perhaps of no other profession can it be -so truly said that it is fitted to claim the undivided allegiance of -the strongest character and the keenest intellect; possibly, for that -reason it leaves the most indelible mark upon its followers. A great -lawyer, in whatever arena he may be encountered, never quite divests -himself of the habit of the law; just as there are some men who, by a -natural academic inclination, remain always and obviously members of -their University, no matter how far removed may be the ultimate field -of their activity. But if a lawyer is always a lawyer, it is perhaps -for that very reason that he is often such excellent company, and this, -I think, applies especially to members of the Common Law Bar, who do -not incur the same danger of becoming enmeshed in the enclosing net -of legal subtleties. With them the study and knowledge of character -becomes often a greater element of strength, than a profound knowledge -of legal principles. - - - - -BY THE SIDE OF A STREAM - - -If a writer happens to be an angler, he will often find himself when in -holiday mood on the banks of a trout stream. There is long warrant for -the association of these two callings. Since the day of Izaak Walton, -whom we still follow with such delight in his rambles beside the Dove -or the Lea, the hand whose chief office it is to hold the pen has -again and again, in hours of leisure, been found wielding the rod. We -have modern examples in Charles Kingsley, whose “Chalk Stream Studies” -may perhaps outlast many of his more ambitious essays in literature; -and Mr. Froude has left among his miscellaneous writings a delightful -record of a day’s fishing on a Hertfordshire stream. William Black, -the novelist, never tired of recounting to me his various adventures -in northern waters; and among modern writers, Mr. Andrew Lang may -also be cited as an unwearying follower of the gentle art. I think, -indeed, the alliance I have noted has in it something more than the -accident of individual taste. There is no need for the long leisure -of a set holiday to enable the man of letters to turn to his favourite -recreation. The more violent forms of sport, which exact the devotion -of a day, or of a series of days, require the enforced cessation of all -forms of literary toil; but if the angler is fortunately located, work -and play are by no means inconsistent and--granted that he is strong -enough to resist during the earlier hours of the day the alluring call -of the gentle south-west breeze with its alternating changes of sun -and cloud--the morning may still hold him chained to his desk, sure of -the reward of his industry in the evening ramble by the stream. And -if his success as an angler be not too complete--and how often it is -not!--the subject of his morning task will often renew itself in the -happy solitude that counts among the many joys which angling can boast. - -My own apprenticeship as a fisherman was passed among the Cumberland -hills. Earlier experience had taken me no further than an occasional -day on the upper reaches of the Thames, but even this cockney form of -the sport in its annual recurrence was looked forward to with delight; -and though the reward was no more than a few gudgeon, with a rare -and occasional perch, such puny triumphs already whetted my appetite -for the day when I should be admitted to the deeper mysteries of -the fly-fisher’s art. My first master in this higher branch of the -profession was no hero save to me. He was a gentleman of unsettled -occupation, who dwelt in a cottage close beside Grasmere Churchyard, -where Wordsworth lies buried; and by the more orderly characters of -the village his wayward habits of life, involving constantly recurring -lapses into inebriety, were regarded with stern reprobation. But for -me, at the time, any doubt of the moral integrity of his character -was silenced by the indisputable fact that he was an unrivalled -professor of his art. I accepted him without misgiving as my comrade -and my master, and this at least may be urged in mitigation of the -harsher judgment of the village, that the night’s debauch, of which I -was myself too often the reluctant witness, never hindered him from -appearing under our cottage window as soon after dawn as I was prepared -to set out on our daily expedition. His stock-in-trade as a fisherman -was of the homeliest and scantiest description. His rod, consisting -of two parts rudely spliced together, had been fashioned by himself; -and by the side of the beck or the mountain tarn, with fingers that -alcohol still left incomparably steady for their task, he would forge, -with such rough process of imitation as he could command, the fly that -he thought best suited for the conditions of the water or the day. In -his company my brother and I rambled far afield. There was no upland -stream or lonely pool within a circuit of five miles where our untried -skill was not assiduously exercised. At that time the lakes and rivers -of Cumberland were not so unceasingly flogged by the summer visitor, -and there were sequestered haunts well known to him that were scarcely -visited by the tourist at all. - -One specially favoured spot was a tiny lake called Harrop Tarn, -surrounded by a quaking bog, that lay in the hills above Thirlmere. -My revered master, though a genuine sportsman, was not wholly -irreproachable in regard to some delicate questions that lay on the -border-land of poaching, and it was at Harrop, where the bank was -in most places unapproachable, that he initiated us in the subtle -mysteries of cross-lining. Be it counted to his honour, however, that -these occasional departures from the stricter etiquette of his calling -were never undertaken without enjoining on us the most solemn pledge of -secrecy, a fact that at the time gave to the delights of almost certain -success the added excitement of some unknown personal risk and danger. - -But the Lake district, it must be confessed, was even then no paradise -for the trout-fisher. It satisfied well enough the moderate ambition of -a boy, who was still a bungler in the art, and it served, at any rate, -as fitting ground for that patient apprenticeship which is necessary -to all who desire to become proficient in the science and practice of -casting a fly. Scotland, a few years later, offered a wider field, with -the occasional chance of larger triumphs; and it was there that I first -became conscious of my ability to meet my desired prey upon more equal -terms. The upper reaches of the Tay, as it runs between Crianlarich and -Killin, became for many years my favourite hunting-ground. The little -inn at Luib was our resting-place, and Loch Dochart, which lay five -miles up the stream, our favourite resort when wind and weather served. -I can recall no sense of fatigue from the ten miles of mountain road -that we had to trudge by the time our day’s work was done, though we -were often drenched to the skin before we reached the inn at night. Nor -did the inn itself, at that time, offer absolute protection against the -weather, and sometimes when the storm beat heavily upon the uncertain -roof we had to make our way upstairs to our rooms under the shelter of -an umbrella. - -Some years later I found my way to the Western Highlands as the invited -guest of a dear friend who was almost as keen a fisherman as myself. -I had often heard of the _Salmo ferox_, whose identity as a separate -species is, I believe, still in dispute, but it was not until one -memorable day upon Loch Awe that I encountered the monster in person. -A fair morning had changed suddenly to a wild storm of wind and rain, -and the surface of the lake was lashed into the semblance of a mimic -sea. Fly-fishing was out of the question, and our gillie in despair -suggested that we might put out the trolling rod with a large phantom -minnow for bait, while we tried to make our way against the wind back -to the landing-place. I do not think there was any expectation even on -his part that the endeavour would yield any result, and I, who held the -rod in hands that were nearly frozen by the beating rain, was entirely -unprepared for the violent and sudden tug that nearly wrenched it from -my grasp. But when that tug came, no one thought any more about the -storm, and for nearly half an hour of throbbing excitement we were -engaged in a fierce struggle that seemed at any moment likely to end -in our ignominious defeat. Again and again the great trout rose to the -surface and sprang high into the air, and then, with sudden change of -tactics, it would dive, as it would seem, to the floor of the lake, -and lie in sullen resistance to such pressure as we dared put upon the -line. But the victory long delayed was ours at last, not, however, I -will admit, without some element of disappointment in the appearance -and quality of our captive. A long, lank fish, that scaled something -between 8 lb. and 9 lb., but which, if it had been in condition, ought -to have mounted to as much as half its weight again: an ugly fish, with -the mouth and jaws of a pike, it still left us in wonder where it had -found the force to offer so stubborn a resistance. - -An occasional monster during a day which seems to offer the prospect of -only smaller fry is one of the pleasurable excitements of loch-fishing -in Scotland. Only a few years ago I set out in pleasant company from -a cottage beside the shores of Mull, to make a picnic near one of the -little lochs that lay about five miles up the hill. Two or three of us -had taken our rods, but with no thought of a larger capture than the -small brown trout and Fontinalis with which we knew these hill lochs -were well stocked. The day was busily spent, and most of the party had -already started homeward on the downward path, when the gillie who was -with us said that he knew of another little loch about a mile over the -hill, where rumour had it that there were certain larger trout which -had never been induced to rise to the fly. My host and I, with one -other companion, determined to make trial of this unconquered pool, -and set out across the heather just as the sun was beginning to dip -behind the shelter of the hill. It had been a scorching day, and was a -lovely evening. As we came in sight of the little loch it seemed to us -both that if these reluctant fish were ever to be lured to the net, the -present was the most propitious occasion for the adventure. - -It chanced that my friend had in his case a fine cast of drawn gut -with a small floating fly, which a month or two before he had used on -a southern stream; I myself had chosen an Alder of a pattern I had -found efficient two or three years before on some of the little lochs -above Glenmuich. Our gillie knew nothing of the mysteries of the dry -fly, though he had heard tell of its wonders, and it was indeed mainly -at his instigation that we were tempted to present this lure on the -present occasion. We threw our lines almost simultaneously far out into -the tranquil surface of the pool, but the luck was with my rival, for -his fly had scarcely reached the water when there came a sudden flop -and a splash, and it was evident by the mighty rush, that took out -nearly the whole of the line from his reel, that the legend related -to us by the keeper had a solid foundation in fact. It is astonishing -what strength and persistence these larger lake trout display. A fish -of equal weight in the Test or the Itchen would most assuredly have -been brought to bank within half an hour or less, but on this occasion -it was nearer three hours before our capture was complete. A part of -our difficulty was due to the fact that the tackle was of the finest, -so that it was impossible to put any strain upon the line; and even, at -the last, when the struggle was practically at an end, there came the -added difficulty that the long gloaming had fallen into darkness, and -the application of the landing-net became a hazardous operation. Twice -the line nearly parted when the fish was within less than a yard of the -bank; but when it was safely netted it proved to be a splendid trout of -something over 4-1/2 lb., in perfection of colour and condition. It was -under a moonless sky and in pitch darkness that we picked our way amid -the rough boulders down to the valley below, where we were met within -a mile of home by the rest of our party, who had already set out with -lanterns to come to our rescue. - -There is not often occasion for the use of the dry fly in the -Highlands, though I remember employing it with some success one evening -at Kinloch-Rannoch, where the waters of the river run with tranquil -flow from the lake. But it is a delightful branch of the fly-fisher’s -craft, of unending fascination to those who have once gained a mastery -over its secrets. For some years I was in happy possession of a little -cottage on the upper reaches of the Lea, where the narrow stream, in -places no more than a few yards across, gave no hint, save to the -initiated, of the heavy fish which found a home and haunt under its -banks. It was, indeed, only during the annual rise of the May-fly -that this little river made anything like a full announcement of its -thriving population. During the weeks before and after this recurrent -season of debauch, there was little chance of a heavy basket, and for -that reason it made a delightful home for any one occupied in writing, -to whom at those seasons the banks of the stream offered no compelling -temptation. Two or three hours in the evening after work was done -sufficed to test the chances of sport, and I was amply satisfied if -I returned to the cottage at nightfall with a brace or a brace and a -half of handsome trout. But with the advent of the May-fly my desk, I -confess, was deserted. From my windows, as I tried to write, I could -hear and see the constant splashing in the stream which proclaimed -that the fish were already on the feed. The cottage and the stretch -of river that belonged to it are, alas! no longer mine, and I am told -that there, as in so many other southern streams, the rise of the fly -is no more what it was ten years ago. In those days, on a favourable -morning, the meadows that bordered the water were all alight with -myriads of these beautiful ephemorae, and the stream itself, as far -as the eye could trace its course, literally alive with the boil and -splash of the feeding fish. For every fly that touched the water there -seemed to be an attendant and expectant trout. Larger fish, that kept -to their deeper haunts at other seasons, now took up their stations -in mid-stream, and the veriest tiro in these favouring circumstances -could scarcely go home with an empty basket. But there are days of luck -and days of disaster at all seasons: days even during the May-fly time -when the most skilful fisherman has sometimes to confess a series of -mishaps, while a companion not a hundred yards away is crowned with -good fortune. When the weed is heavy--and for my part I have a liking -for the presence of the weed, and deprecate the close shearing of the -stream which is too often the modern habit--it is inevitable that -some of the heavier fish should make their escape. The most fortunate -morning that I can recall was a basket of twelve fish, weighing in all -28-1/2 lb.; and the largest trout that has ever fallen to my rod there, -though by no means the largest known to the river, was within an ounce -of 4 lb. - -In days of early spring or late summer, when there is no rise of fly to -tempt the angler, the keeper and I used to find congenial occupation -in ridding the stream of some of the heavy jack that were apt in those -days to come from Luton Hoo. It was he who first initiated me in the -art, of which he himself was a past master, of securing these marauding -cannibals by the aid of a running wire. Like many a good keeper, he -had been in his boyhood something of a poacher, and even in those -later days, when his morality was beyond reproach, be retained certain -stealthy and secret ways that dated from the lawless times of his -youth. At any likely bend of the stream, where a deeper pool rendered -probable the presence of a jack, and when I might perhaps be deploring -the fact that we had left our wires at the cottage, he would suddenly -to my surprise produce an ash sappling that lay hidden in the long -grass, not three yards away, with the running noose already attached -to its point. Nothing could exceed the quickness of his vision in -detecting the neighbourhood of his prey, and nothing could equal the -incomparable steadiness of his hand as he reached far out across the -stream and deftly passed the wire over the head of the jack as it lay -half asleep in the sun. And then, before I was aware that the operation -was complete, with a sudden wrench that almost cut the fish in twain -he would lift a jack of 4 lb. or 5 lb. high into the air, and fling it -over his head on to the bank. It was perhaps the recollection of his -earlier poaching days that made him so zealous and watchful during the -spawning season, which offers to the poacher his favourite opportunity. -At these times he would spend long hours of the night beside the -stream, never seeming to grudge any demand that was made upon his rest, -and it was while he was so employed that he made capture of a large -otter, whose marauding expeditions he had long reason to suspect. -Otters, I think, are not common on that part of the Lea; certainly this -was the only specimen brought to my knowledge during my long tenancy -of the cottage. But even a single otter can work ruinous havoc among -the trout, as we had then reason to know, and it was therefore with -pardonable pride that, when I came down to breakfast one morning, he -laid his dead victim out to view on the little lawn in front of the -door. - -I sometimes think that those who haunt the country, without conscious -sense of its many beauties, are apt to learn and love its beauties -best. How often the memory of a day’s shooting is indissolubly linked -with the pattern of a fading autumn sky, when we have stood at the edge -of a stubble field wondering whether the growing twilight will suffice -for the last drive. And if this is true of other forms of sport, it -is everlastingly true of fishing. There is hardly a remembered day -on a Scotch loch, or beside a southern stream, which has not stamped -upon it some unfading image of landscape beauty. It was not for that -we set forth in the morning, for then the changing lights in a dappled -sky counted for no more than a promise of good sport; during those -earlier hours there is no feeling but a feeling of impatience to be -at work; and the splash of a rising trout, before the rod is joined -and ready and the line run through its rings, is heard with a sense of -half-resentment lest we should have missed the favourable moment of the -day. But as the hours pass, the mind becomes more tranquilly attuned -to its surroundings. The keenness of the pursuit is still there, but -little by little the still spirit of the scene invades our thoughts, -and as we tramp home at nightfall the landscape that was unregarded -when we set forth upon our adventure now seems to wrap itself like a -cloak around us with a spell that it is impossible to resist. A hundred -such visions, born of an angler’s wanderings, come back to me across -the space of many years. I can see the reeds etched against a sunset -sky, as they spring out of a little loch in the hills above the inn at -Tummel. And then, with a changing flash of memory, the broad waters of -Rannoch are outspread, fringed by its purple hills. And then, again, -in a homelier frame, I can see the willows that border the Lea, their -yellow leaves turned to gold under the level rays of the evening sun; -and I can hear the nightingale in the first notes of its song as I -cross the plank bridge that leads me homeward to the cottage by the -stream. - - - - -INDEX - - - Alma-Tadema, Sir Lawrence, 26-41 - - - Barnard, Fred, 217, 218 - - Barry, James, 119 - - _Beauty Stone_, the, 251 - - Bell, Professor: Mrs. Siddons as Lady Macbeth, 167 - - Bernhardt, Sarah, 233, 237, 238 - - Black, William, 264 - - Blake, William, 120 - - Bleheris: story of the Holy Grail, 148 - - Boaden, James: Mrs. Siddons as Lady Macbeth, 167 - - Bohemia Past and Present, 1-11 - - Bough, Sam, 131 - - Bret Harte, 215 - - Brough, Robert Barnabas, 119 - - Brown, Ford Madox, 126 - - Brown, Oliver Madox, 52 - - Browning, Robert, 12 - - Burne-Jones, Edward, 56-88; - friendship with Alma-Tadema, 31; - appreciation of Rossetti, 49, 56, 86; - paintings referred to, 60; - friendship with William Morris, 86; - paintings at Roman Exhibition, 127; - Du Maurier’s opinion of, 217 - - - Caldecott, Randolph, 216 - - Clayden, P. W., 164 - - Clint, George, 109 - - Collins, Henn, 255 - - Constable, John, 130 - - Coquelin, B. C., 233, 234, 240 - - Cotman, John Sell, 131 - - Cox, David, 131 - - Craven, Hawes, 207 - - Crestien de Troyes--story of the Holy Grail, 148 - - Crome, John, 131 - - Crompton, Charles, 253 - - - De Hoogh, 33 - - Desclée, Mme., 237 - - Dickens, Charles, 215 - - Du Maurier, George, 216 - - Duse, Eleanora, 238 - - Dyce, William, 125 - - - English School of Painting at the Roman Exhibition, 101-133 - - Etty, William, 120 - - - Faulkner, Charles, 86 - - _Faust_, Irving’s preparations for, 206 - - Fletcher, Charles, 232 - - Fletcher, Mr., 164 - - Frith, William Powell, 107 - - Froude, James Anthony, 264 - - Furse, 119 - - Fuseli, Johann Caspar, 119 - - - Gainsborough, Thomas, 113, 114, 115, 129 - - Geddes, Andrew, 118 - - George Eliot, 142 - - Gilbert, Sir William, 247-250 - - Gregory, E. J., 109 - - - Haydon, B. R., 119 - - Herschel, Sir F., 255 - - Hogarth, William, 104-106 - - Holker, Sir John, 255-257 - - Holl, Frank, 119 - - Hook, 131 - - Hoppner, John, 113, 118 - - Humour, A Sense of, 213-226 - - Hunt, Holman, 44, 124; - pre-Raphaelite movement, 43, 50, 121 - - - Irving, Sir Henry, 199-212, 233, 235, 240 - - - Junior of the Circuit, the, 253-263 - - - Keene, Charles, 216 - - Kemble, Mrs., 163 - - Kennedy, Mr. Justice, 253, 255 - - _King Arthur_, Mr. Carr’s version of, for Henry Irving, 210; - music for, written by Sir Arthur Sullivan, 247 - - Kingsley, Charles, 264 - - - Lang, Andrew, 264 - - Lawrence, Sir Thomas, 118 - - Lawson, Cecil, 131 - - Leech, John, 216, 217 - - Leighton, Sir Frederick, 19, 35, 128, 234; - paintings at Roman Exhibition, 129 - - Lewis, John Frederick, 109 - - Leyland, Fred, referred to, 52 - - Lorraine, Claude, 131 - - - _Macbeth_, 162-198; - Irving’s reading of, 205 - - Maclise, Daniel, 108 - - M‘Connell, W. R., 262 - - Malory, Sir Thomas, 147 - - Mason, 131 - - May, Phil, 217 - - Meredith, George, 134-146 - - Mersey, Lord, 255 - - Millais, Sir John Everett, 13-25, 65; - pre-Raphaelite movement, 43, 50, 121; - paintings referred to, 23, 44, 123; - Rossetti’s praise of, 51; - portrait painting, 119; - paintings at Roman Exhibition, 123; - Du Maurier’s praise of, 217 - - Montgomery, Walter, 231 - - Morris, William, 86 - - - Nutt, Alfred: story of the Holy Grail, 150, 160 - - - Opie, John, 119 - - Orchardson, Sir William, 106 - - - “Parsifal”: origin of legend, etc., 147-161 - - Pettie, John, 110 - - Phelps, Edmund (jun.), 231 - - Phelps, Samuel, 230 - - Pope, Sam, 255 - - Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood--aims and achievements of, etc., 5, 42, - 50, 55, 120, 125 - - - Rae, Mr., 45 - - Raeburn, Sir Henry, 113, 118 - - Ramsay, Allan, 118 - - Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 110, 114, 116 - - Ristori, Mme., 234 - - Roman Exhibition, English school of painting at, 101-133 - - Romney, George, 113, 117 - - Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 42-55; - paintings referred to, 46, 122; - praise of Millais, 51; - encouragement and appreciation of Burne-Jones, 56, 57; - pre-Raphaelite movement, 43, 50, 55, 121; - paintings at Roman Exhibition, 122; - Du Maurier’s opinion of, 217 - - Ruskin, John, 125 - - Russell of Killowen, Lord, 255, 256, 258 - - - Salvini, Tomaso, 234 - - Sandys, Frederick, 119, 126 - - Selby, Lord (Mr. Gully), 255 - - Sex in Tragedy--_Macbeth_, 162-198, 205 - - Shield, Hugh, 262 - - Siddons, Mrs.: personation of Lady Macbeth, 166-170, 205 - - Sitting at a Play, 227-241 - - Sullivan, Sir Arthur, 242-252 - - - Terriss, William, 202 - - Terry, Ellen, 201, 210, 239 - - Terry, Kate, 232 - - Tissot, Amédée Angelot, referred to, 31 - - Toole, J. L., 220-226 - - _Tristram and Iseult_, 147 - - Trout-fishing, 264-277 - - Turner, Joseph Mallord William, 131-132; - paintings at Roman Exhibition, 131 - - - Walker, Frederick, 131 - - Watts, G. F., 119, 128 - - Wauchier: story of the Holy Grail, 148 - - Weston, Miss Jessie: story of the Holy Grail, 150, 156 - - Whistler, James McNeill, 89-100 - - Wilkie, Sir David, 106 - - Wills, W. G., 206, 210 - - Wilson, Richard, 130, 131 - - Wolfram von Eschenbach: story of the Holy Grail, 149 - - - Zoffany, Johann, 109 - - -THE END - - -_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_. - - - - -BY THE SAME AUTHOR. - - - KING ARTHUR. A Drama. 8vo. 2s. net; sewed, 1s. net. - - -A SELECTION OF NEW BOOKS - - THE LIFE OF SIR JOHN LUBBOCK, FIRST LORD AVEBURY. By HORACE - HUTCHINSON. With Portraits. Two vols. 8vo. - - LETTERS FROM AND TO JOSEPH JOACHIM. Selected and Translated by NORA - BICKLEY. With Preface by J. A. 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