The Germ Part 12

That the system of study to which this would necessarily lead requires a somewhat longer and more devoted course of observation than any other is undoubted; but that it has a reward in a greater effect produced, and more delight in the searching, is, the writer thinks, equally certain. We shall find a greater pleasure in proportion to our closer communion with nature, and by a more exact adherence to all her details, (for nature has no peculiarities or excentricities) in whatsoever direction her study may conduct.

This patient devotedness appears to be a conviction peculiar to, or at least more purely followed by, the early Italian Painters; a feeling which, exaggerated, and its object mistaken by them, though still held holy and pure, was the cause of the retirement of many of the greatest men from the world to the monastery; there, in undisturbed silence and humility,

"Monotonous to paint Those endless cloisters and eternal aisles With the same series, Virgin, Babe, and Saint, With the same cold, calm, beautiful regard."

Even with this there is not a.s.sociated a melancholy feeling alone; for, although the object was mistaken, yet there is evinced a consciousness of purpose definite and most elevated; and again, we must remember, as a great cause of this effect, that the Arts were, for the most part, cleric, and not laic, or at least were under the predominant influence of the clergy, who were the most important patrons by far, and their houses the safest receptacles for the works of the great painter.

The modern artist does not retire to monasteries, or practise discipline; but he may show his partic.i.p.ation in the same high feeling by a firm attachment to truth in every point of representation, which is the most just method. For how can good be sought by evil means, or by falsehood, or by slight in any degree? By a determination to represent the thing and the whole of the thing, by training himself to the deepest observation of its fact and detail, enabling himself to reproduce, as far as possible, nature herself, the painter will best evince his share of faith.

It is by this attachment to truth in its most severe form that the followers of the Arts have to show that they share in the peculiar character of the present age,--a humility of knowledge, a diffidence of attainment; for, as Emerson has well observed,

"The time is infected with Hamlet's unhappiness,-- 'Sicklied o'er with the the pale cast of thought.'

Is this so bad then? Sight is the last thing to be pitied. Would we be blind? Do we fear lest we should outsee nature and G.o.d, and drink truth dry?"

It has been said that there is presumption in this movement of the modern school, a want of deference to established authorities, a removing of ancient landmarks. This is best answered by the profession that nothing can be more humble than the pretension to the observation of facts alone, and the truthful rendering of them. If we are not to depart from established principles, how are we to advance at all? Are we to remain still? Remember, no thing remains still; that which does not advance falls backward. That this movement is an advance, and that it is of nature herself, is shown by its going nearer to truth in every object produced, and by its being guided by the very principles the ancient painters followed, as soon as they attained the mere power of representing an object faithfully. These principles are now revived, not from them, though through their example, but from nature herself.

That the earlier painters came nearer to fact, that they were less of the art, artificial, cannot be better shown than by the statement of a few examples from their works. There is a magnificent Niello work by an unknown Florentine artist, on which is a group of the Saviour in the lap of the Virgin. She is old, (a most touching point); lamenting aloud, clutches pa.s.sionately the heavy-weighted body on her knee; her mouth is open. Altogether it is one of the most powerful appeals possible to be conceived; for there are few but will consider this identification with humanity to be of more effect than any refined or emasculate treatment of the same subject by later artists, in which we have the fact forgotten for the sake of the type of religion, which the Virgin was always taken to represent, whence she is shown as still young; as if, nature being taken typically, it were not better to adhere to the emblem throughout, confident by this means to maintain its appropriateness, and, therefore, its value and force.

In the Niello work here mentioned there is a delineation of the Fall, in which the serpent has given to it a human head with a most sweet, crafty expression. Now in these two instances the style is somewhat rude; but there are pa.s.sion and feeling in it. This is not a question of mere execution, but of mind, however developed. Let us not mistake, however, from this that execution should be neglected, but only maintained as a most important _aid_, and in that quality alone, so that we do not forget the soul for the hand. The power of representing an object, that its entire intention may be visible, its lesson felt, is all that is absolutely necessary: mere technicalities of performance are but additions; and not the real intent and end of painting, as many have considered them to be. For as the knowledge is stronger and more pure in Masaccio than in the Caracci, and the faith higher and greater,--so the first represents nature with more true feeling and love, with a deeper insight into her tenderness; he follows her more humbly, and has produced to us more of her simplicity; we feel his appeal to be more earnest: it is the crying out of the man, with none of the strut of the actor.

Let us have the mind and the mind's-workings, not the remains of earnest thought which has been frittered away by a long dreary course of preparatory study, by which all life has been evaporated. Never forget that there is in the wide river of nature something which every body who has a rod and line may catch, precious things which every one may dive for.

It need not be feared that this course of education would lead to a repet.i.tion of the toe-trippings of the earliest Italian school, a sneer which is manifestly unfair; for this error, as well as several others of a similar kind, was not the result of blindness or stupidity, but of the simple ignorance of what had not been applied to the service of painting at their time. It cannot be shown that they were incorrect in expression, false in drawing, or unnatural in what is called composition. On the contrary, it is demonstrable that they exceeded all others in these particulars, that they partook less of coa.r.s.eness and of conventional sentiment than any school which succeeded them, and that they looked more to nature; in fact, were more true, and less artificial. That their subjects were generally of a melancholy cast is acknowledged, which was an accident resulting from the positions their pictures were destined to occupy. No man ever complained that the Scriptures were morbid in their tendency because they treat of serious and earnest subjects: then why of the pictures which represent such? A certain gaunt length and slenderness have also been commented upon most severely; as if the Italians of the fourteenth century were as so many dray horses, and the artist were blamed for not following his model. The consequence of this direction of taste is that we have life-guardsmen and pugilists taken as models for kings, gentlemen, and philosophers. The writer was once in a studio where a man, six feet two inches in height, with atlantean shoulders, was sitting for King Alfred. That there is no greater absurdity than this will be perceived by any one that has ever read the description of the person of the king given by his historian and friend a.s.ser.

The sciences have become almost exact within the present century.

Geology and chemistry are almost re-inst.i.tuted. The first has been nearly created; the second expanded so widely that it now searches and measures the creation. And how has this been done but by bringing greater knowledge to bear upon a wider range of experiment; by being precise in the search after truth? If this adherence to fact, to experiment and not theory,--to begin at the beginning and not fly to the end,--has added so much to the knowledge of man in science; why may it not greatly a.s.sist the moral purposes of the Arts? It cannot be well to degrade a lesson by falsehood. Truth in every particular ought to be the aim of the artist. Admit no untruth: let the priest's garment be clean.

Let us now return to the Early Italian Painters. A complete refutation of any charge that the character of their school was neccessarily gloomy will be found in the works of Benozzo Gozzoli, as in his 'Vineyard' where there are some grape-gatherers the most elegant and graceful imaginable; this painter's children are the most natural ever painted. In Ghiberti,--in Fra Angilico, (well named),--in Masaccio,--in Ghirlandajo, and in Baccio della Porta, in fact in nearly all the works of the painters of this school, will be found a character of gentleness, grace, and freedom, which cannot be surpa.s.sed by any other school, be that which it may; and it is evident that this result must have been obtained by their peculiar attachment to simple nature alone, their casting aside all ornament, or rather their perfect ignorance of such,--a happy fortune none have shared with them. To show that with all these qualifications they have been pre-eminent in energy and dignity, let us instance the 'Air Demons' of Orcagna, where there is a woman borne through the air by an Evil Spirit. Her expression is the most terrible imaginable; she grasps her bearer with desperation, looking out around her into s.p.a.ce, agonized with terror. There are other figures in the same picture of men who have been cast down, and are falling through the air: one descends with his hands tied, his chin up, and long hair hanging from his head in a ma.s.s. One of the Evil Spirits hovering over them has flat wings, as though they were made of plank: this gives a most powerful character to the figure. Altogether, this picture contains perhaps a greater amount of bold imagination and originality of conception than any of the kind ever painted. For sublimity there are few works which equal the 'Archangels' of Giotto, who stand singly, holding their sceptres, and with relapsed wings.

The 'Paul' of Masaccio is a well-known example of the dignified simplicity of which these artists possessed so large a share. These instances might be multiplied without end; but surely enough have been cited in the way of example to show the surpa.s.sing talent and knowledge of these painters, and their consequent success, by following natural principles, until the introduction of false and meretricious ornament led the Arts from the simple chast.i.ty of nature, which it is as useless to attempt to elevate as to endeavour to match the works of G.o.d by those of man. Let the artist be content to study nature alone, and not dream of elevating any of her works, which are alone worthy of representation.{5}

{5} The sources from which these examples are drawn, and where many more might be found, are princ.i.p.ally:--_D'Agincourt: "Histoire de l'Art par les Monumens;"--Rossini: "Storia della Pittura;"--Ottley: "Italian School of Design,"_ and his 120 Fac-similes of scarce prints;--and the "Gates of San Giovanni," by Ghiberti; of which last a cast of one entire is set up in the Central School of Design, Somerset House; portions of the same are also in the Royal Academy.

The Arts have always been most important moral guides. Their flouris.h.i.+ng has always been coincident with the most wholesome period of a nation's: never with the full and gaudy bloom which but hides corruption, but the severe health of its most active and vigorous life; its mature youth, and not the floridity of age, which, like the wide full open petals of a flower, indicates that its glory is about to pa.s.s away. There has certainly always been a period like the short warm season the Canadians call the "Indian Summer," which is said to be produced by the burning of the western forests, causing a fact.i.tious revival of the dying year: so there always seems to have been a flush of life before the final death of the Arts in each period:--in Greece, in the sculptors and architects of the time after Pericles; in the Germans, with the successors of Albert Durer. In fact, in every school there has been a spring, a summer, an autumn, an "Indian Summer," and then winter; for as surely as the "Indian Summer," (which is, after all, but an unhealthy flush produced by destruction,) so surely does winter come. In the Arts, the winter has been exaggerated action, conventionalism, gaudy colour, false sentiment, voluptuousness, and poverty of invention: and, of all these characters, that which has been the most infallible herald of decease, voluptuousness, has been the most rapid and sure. Corruption lieth under it; and every school, and indeed every individual, that has pandered to this, and departed from the true spirit in which all study should be conducted, sought to degrade and sensualize, instead of chasten and render pure, the humanity it was instructed to elevate. So has that school, and so have those individuals, lost their own power and descended from their high seat, fallen from the priest to the mere parasite, from the law-giver to the mere courtier.

If we have entered upon a new age, a new cycle of man, of which there are many signs, let us have it unstained by this vice of sensuality of mind. The English school has lately lost a great deal of this character; why should we not be altogether free from it? Nothing can degrade a man or a nation more than this meanness; why should we not avoid it? Sensuality is a meanness repugnant to youth, and disgusting in age: a degradation at all times. Let us say

"My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure."

Bearing this in mind,--the conviction that, without the pure heart, nothing can be done worthy of us; by this, that the most successful school of painters has produced upon us the intention of their earnestness at this distance of time,--let us follow in their path, guided by their light: not so subservient as to lose our own freedom, but in the confidence of equal power and equal destiny; and then rely that we shall obtain the same success and equal or greater power, such as is given to the age in which we live. This is the only course that is worthy of the influence which might be exerted by means of the Arts upon the character of the people: therefore let it be the only one for us to follow if we hope to share in the work.

That the real power of the Arts, in conjunction with Poetry, upon the actions of any age is, or might be, predominant above all others will be readily allowed by all that have given any thought to the subject: and that there is no a.s.signable limit to the good that may be wrought by their influence is another point on which there can be small doubt. Let us then endeavour to call up and exert this power in the worthiest manner, not forgetting that we chose a difficult path in which there are many snares, and holding in mind the motto, _"No Cross, no Crown."_

Believe that there is that in the fact of truth, though it be only in the character of a single leaf earnestly studied, which may do its share in the great labor of the world: remember that it is by truth alone that the Arts can ever hold the position for which they were intended, as the most powerful instruments, the most gentle guides; that, of all cla.s.ses, there is none to whom the celebrated words of Lessing, "That the destinies of a nation depend upon its young men between nineteen and twenty-five years of age," can apply so well as to yourselves. Recollect, that your portion in this is most important: that your share is with the poet's share; that, in every careless thought or neglected doubt, you shelve your duty, and forsake your trust; fulfil and maintain these, whether in the hope of personal fame and fortune, or from a sense of power used to its intentions; and you may hold out both hands to the world. Trust it, and it will have faith in you; will hearken to the precepts you may have permission to impart.

Song

Oh! roses for the flush of youth, And laurel for the perfect prime; But pluck an ivy-branch for me, Grown old before my time.

Oh! violets for the grave of youth, And bay for those dead in their prime; Give me the withered leaves I chose Before in the olden time.

Morning Sleep

Another day hath dawned Since, hastily and tired, I threw myself Into the dark lap of advancing sleep.

Meanwhile through the oblivion of the night The ponderous world its old course hath fulfilled; And now the gradual sun begins to throw Its slanting glory on the heads of trees, And every bird stirs in its nest revealed, And shakes its dewy wings.

A blessed gift Unto the weary hath been mine to-night, Slumber unbroken: now it floats away:-- But whether 'twere not best to woo it still, The head thus properly disposed, the eyes In a continual dawning, mingling earth And heaven with vagrant fantasies,--one hour,-- Yet for another hour? I will not break The s.h.i.+ning woof; I will not rudely leap Out of this golden atmosphere, through which I see the forms of immortalities.

Verily, soon enough the laboring day With its necessitous unmusical calls Will force the indolent conscience into life.

The uncouth moth upon the window-panes Hath ceased to flap, or traverse with blind whirr The room's dusk corners; and the leaves without Vibrate upon their thin stems with the breeze Flying towards the light. To an Eastern vale That light may now be waning, and across The tall reeds by the Ganges, lotus-paved, Lengthening the shadows of the banyan-tree.

The rice-fields are all silent in the glow, All silent the deep heaven without a cloud, Burning like molten gold. A red canoe Crosses with fan-like paddles and the sound Of feminine song, freighted with great-eyed maids Whose unzoned bosoms swell on the rich air; A lamp is in each hand; some mystic rite Go they to try. Such rites the birds may see, Ibis or emu, from their cocoa nooks,-- What time the granite sentinels that watch The mouths of cavern-temples hail the first Faint star, and feel the gradual darkness blend Their august lineaments;--what time Haroun Perambulated Bagdat, and none knew He was the Caliph who knocked soberly By Giafar's hand at their gates shut betimes;-- What time prince a.s.sad sat on the high hill 'Neath the pomegranate-tree, long wearying For his lost brother's step;--what time, as now, Along our English sky, flame-furrows cleave And break the quiet of the cold blue clouds, And the first rays look in upon our roofs.

Let the day come or go; there is no let Or hindrance to the indolent wilfulness Of fantasy and dream-land. Place and time And bodily weight are for the wakeful only.

Now they exist not: life is like that cloud, Floating, poised happily in mid-air, bathed In a sustaining halo, soft yet clear, Voyaging on, though to no bourne; all heaven Its own wide home alike, earth far below Fading still further, further. Yet we see, In fancy, its green fields, its towers, and towns Smoking with life, its roads with traffic thronged And tedious travellers within iron cars, Its rivers with their s.h.i.+ps, and laborers, To whose raised eye, as, stretched upon the sward, They may enjoy some interval of rest, That little cloud appears no living thing, Although it moves, and changes as it moves.

There is an old and memorable tale Of some sound sleeper being borne away By banded fairies in the mottled hour Before the c.o.c.kcrow, through unknown weird woods And mighty forests, where the boughs and roots Opened before him, closed behind;--thenceforth A wise man lived he, all unchanged by years.

Perchance again these fairies may return, And evermore shall I remain as now, A dreamer half awake, a wandering cloud!

The spell Of Merlin old that ministered to fate, The tales of visiting ghosts, or fairy elves, Or witchcraft, are no fables. But his task Is ended with the night;--the thin white moon Evades the eye, the sun breaks through the trees, And the charmed wizard comes forth a mere man From out his circle. Thus it is, whate'er We know and understand hath lost the power Over us;--we are then the master. Still All Fancy's world is real; no diverse mark Is on the stores of memory, whether gleaned From childhood's early wonder at the charm That bound the lady in the echoless cave Where lay the sheath'd sword and the bugle horn,-- Or from the fullgrown intellect, that works From age to age, exploring darkest truths, With sympathy and knowledge in one yoke Ploughing the harvest land.

The lark is up, Piercing the dazzling sky beyond the search Of the acutest love: enough for me To hear its song: but now it dies away, Leaving the chirping sparrow to attract The listless ear,--a minstrel, sooth to say, Nearly as good. And now a hum like that Of swarming bees on meadow-flowers comes up.

Each hath its just and yet luxurious joy, As if to live were to be blessed. The mild Maternal influence of nature thus Enn.o.bles both the sentient and the dead;-- The human heart is as an altar wreathed, On which old wine pours, streaming o'er the leaves, And down the symbol-carved sides. Behold!

Unbidden, yet most welcome, who be these?

The high-priests of this altar, poet-kings;-- Chaucer, still young with silvery beard that seems Worthy the adoration of a child; And Spenser, perfect master, to whom all Sweet graces ministered. The shut eye weaves A picture;--the immortals pa.s.s along Into the heaven, and others follow still, Each on his own ray-path, till all the field Is threaded with the foot-prints of the great.

And now the pa.s.sengers are lost; long lines Only are left, all intertwisted, dark Upon a flood of light......... I am awake!

I hear domestic voices on the stair.

Already hath the mower finished half His summer day's ripe task; already hath His scythe been whetted often; and the heaps Behind him lie like ridges from the tide.

In sooth, it is high time to wave away The cup of Comus, though with nectar filled, And sweet as odours to the mariner From lands unseen, across the wide blank sea.

Sonnet

When midst the summer-roses the warm bees Are swarming in the sun, and thou--so full Of innocent glee--dost with thy white hands pull Pink scented apples from the garden trees To fling at me, I catch them, on my knees, Like those who gather'd manna; and I cull Some hasty buds to pelt thee--white as wool Lilies, or yellow jonquils, or heartsease;-- Then I can speak my love, ev'n tho' thy smiles Gush out among thy blushes, like a flock Of bright birds from rose-bowers; but when thou'rt gone I have no speech,--no magic that beguiles, The stream of utterance from the harden'd rock:-- The dial cannot speak without the sun!

Stars and Moon