This is the British Library copy of the first issue of
The Germ
, the periodical launched by DGR and some friends in 1850 for
disseminating the work and ideas of the initial Pre-Raphaelite circle. Only
four numbers were published (January, February, March, and May, 1850).
The most useful commentary on the periodical is still the 1901
The Germ
.
The first number appeared in 1 January 1850 with Holman Hunt's etching (700 copies printed; 50 had etchings on India paper). Only 70 were sold. The second issue appeared on 31 January (500 copies printed, 40 sold by 9 February) and with a James Collinson engraving. Number 3 appeared on 31 March with Ford Madox Brown's engraving, and the last number, with Walter Deverell's engraving, on 30 April. Print runs for issues 3 and 4 are uncertain, and apparently only 106 copies of number 4 were sold). The poor sales forced the journal to close down. Most of the expenses for the financial failure of the magazine were born by George Tupper
After the fame of the PRB was established,
The Germ
was reprinted first by Thomas Mosher (1898: Portland, Maine) and again
as a close
Each of the four issues began with an etching, a device that clearly established the artistic focus of the journal. The gothic types that were used for the cover sheets (which also served as title pages) and for the printed texts also contributed to the tone if not the arguments of the work. These types seem reminiscent of the Puseyite or Tractarian movement and locate the work's spiritual inspiration in an earlier, medieval world.
<xref doc="a.nd467.h9.1914.rad" link="dead">Pre-Raphaelitism</xref>
.
Fraser's Magazine
(
⁂ It is requested that those who may have by them
any
un-published Poems, Essays, or other articles appearing
to
coincide with the views in which this Periodical is
established,
and who may feel desirous of contributing such
papers—will
forward them, for the general approval of the Editor, to
the Office of
publication. It may be relied upon that the most
sincere
attention will be paid to the examination of all
manuscripts,
whether they be eventually accepted or declined.
If Painting and Sculpture delight us like other
works of
ingenuity, merely from the difficulties they surmount;
like an
‘egg in a bottle,’ a tree made out of stone, or a face
made of
pigment; and the pleasure we receive, is our wonder at
the
achievement; then, to such as so believe, this treatise is
not written.
But if, as the writer conceives, works of Fine Art
delight us by the
interest the objects they depict excite in the
beholder, just as those
objects in nature would excite his
interest; if by any association of
ideas in the one case, by the
same in the other, without reference to
the representations
being other than the objects they represent:—
then, to such as
so believe, the following upon ‘Subject’
is
addressed. Whilst, at the same time, it is not disallowed
that a
subsequent pleasure may and does result, upon reflecting
that the
objects contemplated were the work of human ingenuity.
Now the subject to be treated, is the ‘subject’ of
Painter
and Sculptor; what ought to be the nature of that
‘subject,’ how far
that subject may be drawn from past or
present time with advantage,
how far the subject may tend to
confer upon its embodiment the
title, ‘High Art,’ how far the
subject may tend to confer upon its
embodiment the title ‘Low
Art;’ what is ‘High Art,’ what is
‘Low Art’?
To begin then (at the end) with ‘High Art.’ However we
may
differ as to facts, the principle will be readily granted,
that
‘High Art,’ i. e. Art, par excellence,
Art, in its most exalted
character, addresses pre-eminently the
highest attributes of man,
viz.: his mental and his moral
faculties.
‘Low Art,’ or Art in its less exalted character, is that
which
addresses the less exalted attributes of man, viz.: his
mere sensory
faculties, without affecting the mind or heart,
excepting through the
volitional agency of the observer.
These definitions are too general and simple to be disputed;
but
before we endeavour to define more particularly, let us
analyze the
subject, and see what it will yield.
All the works which remain to us of the Ancients, and
this
appears somewhat remarkable, are, with the exception of
those by
incompetent artists, universally admitted to be ‘High
Art.’ Now
do we afford them this high title, because all
remnants of the
antique world, by tempting a comparison between
what was, and
is, will set the mental faculties at work, and
thus address the
the
observer, and not to the subject represented, are we to seek
for
the cause in the subjects themselves!
Let us examine the subjects. They are mostly in sculpture;
but
this cannot be the cause, unless all modern sculpture be
considered
‘High Art.’ This is leaving out of the question in
both ages, all
works badly executed, and obviously incorrect, of
which there are
numerous examples both ancient and modern.
The subjects we find in sculpture are, in “the round,”
mostly
men or women in thoughtful or impassioned action:
sometimes they
are indeed acting physically; but then, as in the
Jason adjusting
his Sandal, acting by mechanical impulse, and
thinking or looking
in another direction. In relievo we have an
historical combat,
such as that between the Centaurs and
Lapithæ; sometimes a group
in conversation, sometimes a
recitation of verses to the Lyre; a
dance, or religious
procession.
As to the first class in “the round,” as they seem to appeal
to
the intellectual, and often to the moral faculties, they are
naturally,
and according to the broad definition, works of ‘High
Art.’ Of
the relievo, the historical combat appeals to the
passions; and,
being historical, probably to the intellect. The
like may be said of
the conversational groups, and lyrical
recitation which follow. The
dance appeals to the passions and
the intellect; since the intellect
recognises therein an order
and design, her own planning; while
the solemn, modest demeanour
in the religious procession speaks to
the heart and the mind.
The same remarks will apply to the few
ancient paintings we
possess, always excluding such merely deco-
rative works as are
not fine art at all.
Thus it appears that all these works of the ancients might rationally
have been denominated works
of ‘High Art;’ and here we remark
the difference between the
hypothetical or rational, and the historical
account of facts;
for though here is reason enough why ancient art
might have been denominated ‘High Art,’ that it
was so denomi-
nated on this account, is a
position not capable of proof: whereas,
in all probability, the
true account of the matter runs thus—The
works of antiquity awe
us by their time-hallowed presence; the
mind is sent into a
serious contemplation of things; and, the subject
itself in
nowise contravening, we attribute all this potent effect to
the
agency of the subject before us, and ‘High Art,’ it becomes
then and for ever, with all such
as “follow its cut.” But then as
this was so named, not from the
abstract cause, but from a result and
effect; when a new work is produced in a similar spirit, but
clothed
in a dissimilar matter, and the critics have to settle
to what classB
the old one, like the poor beggar Irus in front of
Ulysses; then are
they turned over and applied, each to each,
like the two triangles in
Euclid; and then, if they square, fit
and tally in every quarter—
with the nude to the draped in the
one, as the nude to the draped
in the other—with the standing to
the sitting in the one, as the
standing to the sitting in the
other—with the fat to the lean in the
one, as the fat to the
lean in the other—with the young to the old
in the one, as the
young to the old in the other—with head to body,
as head to
body; and nose to knee, as nose to knee, &c. &c.,
(and
the critics have done a great deal)— then is the work
oracularly
pronounced one of ‘High Art;’ and the obsequious
artist is
pleased to consider it is.
But if, per contra, as in the former case, the works are not
to be
literally reconciled, though wrought in the self-same
spirit; then
this unfortunate creature of genius is degraded
into a lower rank of
art; and the artist, if he have faith in
the learned, despairs; or, if
he have none, he swears. But listen, an artist speaks: “If I
have
genius to produce a work in the true spirit of high art,
and yet am
so ignorant of its principles, that I scarce know
whereon the success
of the work depends, and scarcely whether I
have succeeded or no;
with this ignorance and this power, what
needs your knowledge or
your reasoning, seeing that nature is
all-sufficient, and produces a
painter as she produces a plant?”
To the artist (the last of his
race), who spoke thus, it is
answered, that science is not meant for
him, if he like it not,
seeing he can do without it, and seeing, more-
over, that with
it alone he can never do. Science here does
not
make; it unmakes, wonderingly to find the making of what God
has
made,— of what God has made through the poet, leading him
blindly
by a path which he has not known; this path science
follows slowly
and in wonder. But though science is not to make
the artist, there
is no reason in nature that the artist reject
it. Still, science is pro-
perly the birthright of the critic;
'tis his all in all. It shows him
poets, painters, sculptors,
his fellow men, often his inferiors in their
want of it, his
superiors in the ability to do what he cannot do;
it teaches him
to love them as angels bringing him food which he
cannot attain, and to venerate their works as a gift from
the
Creator.
But to return to the critical errors relating to ‘High
Art.’
While the constituents of high art were unknown, whilst
its
abstract principles were unsought, and whilst it was only
recognized
in the concrete, the critics, certainly guilty of the
most unpardon-
able blindness, blundered up to the masses of
‘High Art,’ left by
out
perspective glass, and callipers and compasses; and here
they
made squares and triangles, and circles, and ellipses, for,
said they,
“this is ‘High Art,’ and this hath certain
proportions;” then in
the logic of their hearts, they continued,
“all these proportions we
know by admeasurement, whatsoever hath
these is ‘High Art,’
whatsoever hath not, is ‘Low Art.’ This was
as certain as the
fact that the sun is a globe of glowing
charcoal, because forsooth
they both yield light and heat. Now
if the phantom of a then
embryon-electrician had arisen and told
them that their “high art
marbles possessed an electric
influence, which, acting in the brain
of the observer, would
awake in him emotions of so exalted a
character, that he
forthwith, inevitably nodding at them, must utter
the tremendous
syllables ‘High Art;’” he, the then embryon-
electrician, from
that age withheld to bless and irradiate the
physiology of ours,
would have done something more to the purpose
than all the
critics and the compasses.
Thus then we see, that the antique, however successfully it
may have
wrought, is not our model; for, according to that faith
demanded
at setting out, fine art delights us from its being the
semblance of
what in nature delights. Now, as the artist does
not work by the
instrumentality of rule and science, but mainly
by an instinctive
impulse; if he copy the antique, unable as he
is to segregate the
merely delectable matter, he must needs copy
the whole, and
thereby multiply models, which the casting-man
can do equally
well; whereas if he copy nature, with a like
inability to distinguish
that delectable attribute which allures
him to copy her, and under the
same necessity of copying the
whole, to make sure of this “tenant
of nowhere;” we then have
the artist, the instructed of nature,
fulfilling his natural
capacity, while his works we have as manifold
yet various as
nature's own thoughts for her children.
But reverting to the subject, it was stated at the beginning
that
‘Fine Art’ delights, by presenting us with objects, which
in nature
delight us; and ‘High Art’ was defined, that which
addresses the
intellect; and hence it might appear, as delight
is an emotion of
the mind, that ‘Low Art,’ which addresses the
senses, is not Fine
Art at all. But then it must be remembered,
that it was neither
stated of ‘Fine Art,’ nor of ‘High Art,’
that it always
delights; and again, that delight is not entirely
mental. To point
out the confines of high and low art, where the
one terminates and
the other commences, would be difficult, if
not impracticable without
sub-defining or circumscribing the
import of the terms, pain,
pleasure, delight, sensory, mental,
psychical, intellectual, objective,B 2
mainly pertinent to the
subject, it must be content to receive no
better definitions
than those broad ones already laid down, with
their latitude
somewhat corrected by practical examples. Yet
before proceeding
to give these examples, it might be remarked of
‘High Art,’ that
it always might, if it do not always excite some
portion of
delight, irrespective of that subsequent delight consequent
upon
the examination of a curiosity; that its function is
sometimes,
with this portion of delight, to commingle grief or
distress, and that
it may, (though this is not
its function,) excite mental anguish, and
by a reflex action,
actual body pain. Now then to particularize,
by example; let us
suppose a perfect and correct painting of a stone,
a common
stone such as we walk over. Now although this subject
might to a
religious man, suggest a text of scripture; and to the
geologist
a theory of scientific interest; yet its general effect upon
the
average number of observers will be readily allowed to be
more
that of wonder or admiration at a triumph over the
apparently
impossible (to make a round stone upon a flat piece
of canvass) than
at aught else the subject possesses. Now a
subject such as this
belongs to such very low art, that it
narrowly illudes precipitation
over the confines of Fine Art;
yet, that it is Fine Art is indis-
putable, since no mere
mechanic artisan, or other than one specially
gifted by nature,
could produce it. This then shall introduce us to
“Subject.”
This subject then, standing where fine art gradually
confines
with mechanic art, and almost midway between them; of
no use nor
beauty; but to be wondered at as a curiosity; is a subject
of
scandalous import to the artist, to the artist thus gifted by
nature
with a talent to reproduce her fleeting and wondrous
forms. But
if, as the writer doubts, nature could afford a
monster so qualified
for a poet, yet destitute of poetical
genius; then the scandal attaches
if he attempt a step in
advance, or neglect to join himself to those,
a most useful
class of mechanic artists, who illustrate the sciences
by
drawing and diagram.
But as the subject supposed is one never treated in
painting;
only instanced, in fact, to exemplify an extreme; let
us consider the
merits of a subject really practical, such as
‘dead game,’ or ‘a
basket of fruit;’ and the first general idea
such a subject will
excite is simply that of food, ‘something to eat.’ For though
fruit on the tree, or
a pheasant in the air, is a portion of nature and
properly
belongs to the section, ‘Landscape,’ a division of
art
intellectual enough; yet gather the fruit or bring down the
pheasant,
and you presently bring down the poetry with it; and
although
Sterne could sentimentalize upon a dead ass; and though
a dead
feelings
akin to anything but good living; and though they may
there be the excitive causes of poetical, nay, or
moral reflexion; yet,
see them on the canvass, and the first and
uppermost idea will be
that of ‘Food,’ and
how, in the name of decency, they ever came
there. It will be
vain to argue that gathered fruit is only nature
under a certain
phase, and that a dead sheep or a dead pheasant is
only a dead
animal like a dead ass—it will be pitiably vain and
miserable
sophistry, since we know that the dead pheasant in a
picture
will always be as food, while the same at he
poulterer's will
be but a dead pheasant.
For we have not one only, but numerous general ideas
annexed
to every object in nature. Thus one of the series may be
that that
object is matter, one that it is individual matter,
one that it is
animal matter, one that it is a bird, one that it
is a pheasant, one
that it is a dead pheasant, and one that it
is food. Now, our
general ideas or notions are not evoked in
this order as each new
object addresses the mind; but that
general idea is first elicited
which accords
with the first or principle destination of the object:
thus the
first general idea of a cowry, to the Indian, is that of
money,
not of a shell; and our first general idea of a dead pheasant
is
that of food, whereas to a zoologist it might have a different
effect:
but this is the exception. But it was said, that a dead
pheasant in
a picture would always be as food, while the same at
the poulterer's
would be but a dead pheasant: what then becomes
of the first
general idea? It seems to be disposed of thus: at
the first sight of
the shop, the idea is that of food, and next
(if you are not hungry,
and poets never are), the mind will be
attracted to the species of
animal, and (unless hunger presses)
you may be led on to moralize
like Sterne: but, amongst
pictures, where there is nothing else to
excite the general
ideas of food, this, whenever adverted to, must
ever re-excite
that idea; and hence it appears that these esculent
subjects might be poetical enough if exhibited all together,
i.e., they
must be surrounded with
eatables, like a possibly-poetical-pheasant
in a poulterer's
shop.
Longer stress has been laid upon this subject, “Still Life,”
than
would seem justified by its insignificance, but as this is
a branch of
art which has never aspired to be ‘High Art,’ it
contains something
definite in its character which makes it
better worth the analysis
than might appear at first sight; but
still, as a latitude has been
taken in the investigation which
is ever unavoidable in the handling
of such mercurial matter as
poetry (where one must spread out a
broad definition to catch it
wherever it runs), and as this is ever
from the difficulty of educing a rule amidst an
infinite array of
exceptions, and of recognising a principle
shrouded in the obscurity
of conflicting details; it appears
expedient, before pursuing the
question, to reinforce the first
broad elementary principles with
what definite modification they
may have acquired in their progress
to this point in the
argument, together with the additional data
which may have
resulted from analytic reference to other correlative
matter.
First then, as Fine Art delights in proportion to the
delectating
interest of the objects it depicts, and, as
subsequently stated, grieves
or distresses in proportion as the
objects are grievous or distressing,
we have this resultant:
“Fine Art excites in proportion to the
excitor
influence of the object;” and then, that “fine art
excites
either the sensory or the mental faculties, in a like
proportion to
the excitor properties of the objects
respectively.” Thus then we
have, definitely stated, the powers
or capabilities of Fine Art, as
regulated and
governed by the objects it selects, and the objects it
selects
making its subject. Now the question in hand is, “what
the
nature of that subject should be,” but the subject must be ac-
cording to what Fine Art
proposes to effect; all then must depend
upon this proposition.
For if you propose that Fine Art shall
excite sensual pleasure,
then such objects as excite sensual pleasure
should form the subject of Fine Art; and those which excite
sensual
pleasure in the highest degree, will form the highest subject—‘High
Art.’ Or if you propose
that Fine Art shall excite a physical ener-
getic activity, by
addressing the sensory organism, which is a phase
of the former
proposition, (for what are popularly called sensual
pleasures,
are only particular sensory excitements sought by a phy-
sical
appetite, while this sensory-organic activity is physically
appe-
tent also,) then the subjects of art ought to be drawn
from such ob-
jects as excite a general activity, such as
field-sports, bull-fights,
battles, executions, court pageants,
conflagrations, murders; and
those which most intensely excite
this sensory-organic activity, by
expressing most of physical
human power or suffering, such as battles,
executions, regality,
murder, would afford the highest subject of
Fine
Art, and consequently these would be ‘High
Art.’ But if you propose
(with the writer) that Fine Art shall regard the general happiness
of
man, by addressing those attributes which are peculiarly human,
by exciting the activity of his
rational and benevolent powers (and
the writer would add, man's
religious aspirations, but omits it as
sufficiently evolvable
from the proposition, and since some well-
willing men cannot at
present recognize man as a religious animal),
address
and excite the activity of man's rational and benevolent
powers,
such as: — acts of justice—of mercy—good government—
order—acts
of intellect—men obviously speaking or thinking ab-
stract
thoughts, as evinced by one speaking to another, and looking
at,
or indicating, a flower, or a picture, or a star, or by looking
on
the wall while speaking—or, if the scene be from a good play, or
story, or another beneficent
work, then not only of men in abstract
thought or meditation,
but, it may be, in simple conversation, or in
passion—or a
simple representation of a person in a play or story,
as of
Jacques, Ferdinand, or Cordelia; or, in real life, portraits of
those who are honestly beautiful; or expressive of innocence,
happi-
ness, benevolence, or intellectuality, but not of
gluttony, wantonness,
anger, hatred or malevolence, unless in
some cases of justifiable
satire—of histrionic or historic
portraiture—landscape—natural
phenomena—animals, not indiscriminately—in some cases, grand or
beautiful buildings, even without figures—any scene on sea or
land
which induces reflection—all subjects from such parts of
history as
are morally or intellectually instructive or
attractive—and therefore
pageants—battles—and even executions—all forms of thought and
poetry, however
wild, if consistent with rational benevolence—all
scenes
serious or comic, domestic or historical—all religious subjects
proposing good that will not shock any reasonable number of
reason-
able men—all subjects that leave the artist wiser and
happier—and
none which intrinsically act otherwise— to sum all,
every thing or
incident in nature which excites, or may be made
to excite, the
mind and the heart of man as a mentally
intelligent, not as a brute
animal, is a subject for Fine Art,
at all times, in all places, and in
all ages. But as all these
subjects in nature affect our hearts or our
understanding in
proportion to the heart and understanding we
have to apprehend
and to love them, those will excite us most
intensely which we
know most of and love most. But as we may
learn to know them
all and to love them all, and what is dark to-
day may be
luminous to-morrow, and things, dumb to-day, to-morrow
grow
voiceful, and the strange voice of to-day be plain and reproach
us to-morrow; who shall adventure to say that this or that is
the highest?
And if it appear that all these subjects in nature
may affect us with
equal intensity, and
that the artist's representations affect us as the
subjects
affect, then it follows, with all these subjects, Fine Art may
affect us equally; but the subjects may all be high; therefore,
all
Fine Art may be High Art.
Before any knowledge of painting was brought to Florence,
there
were already painters in Lucca, and Pisa, and Arezzo, who
feared
God and loved the art. The keen, grave workmen from
Greece,
whose trade it was to sell their own works in Italy and
teach
Italians to imitate them, had already found rivals of the
soil with
skill that could forestall their lessons and cheapen
their crucifixes
and addolorate
all into Florence. The pre-eminence to which Cimabue was
raised
at once by his contemporaries, and which he still retains
to a wide
extent even in the modern mind, is to be accounted
for, partly by
the circumstances under which he arose, and
partly by that extra-
ordinary purpose of
fortune born with the lives of some few, and
through which
it is not a little thing for any who went before, if
they are
even remembered as the shadows of the coming of such an
one, and
the voices which prepared his way in the wilderness. It is
thus,
almost exclusively, that the painters of whom I speak are
now
known. They have left little, and but little heed is taken
of
that which men hold to have been surpassed; it is gone like
time gone
— a track of dust and dead leaves that merely led to
the fountain.
Nevertheless, of very late years, and in very rare instances,
some
signs of a better understanding have become manifest. A
case in
point is that of the tryptic and two cruciform pictures
at Dresden,
by Chiaro di Messer Bello dell' Erma, to which the
eloquent pam-
phlet of Dr. Aemmster has at length succeeded in
attracting the stu-
dents. There is another, still more solemn
and beautiful work, now
proved to be by the same hand, in the
gallery at Florence. It is
the one to which my narrative will
relate.
This Chiaro dell' Erma was a young man of very
honorable
family in Arezzo; where, conceiving art almost, as it
were, for him-
self, and loving it deeply, he endeavored from
early boyhood towards
the imitation of any objects offered in
nature. The extreme longing
after a visible embodiment of his
thoughts strengthened as his years
increased, more even than his
sinews or the blood of his life; until
he would feel faint in sunsets and at the sight of stately
persons.
When he had lived nineteen years, he heard of the
famous Giunta
Pisano; and, feeling much of admiration, with,
perhaps, a little of
that envy which youth always feels until it
has learned to measure
success by time and opportunity, he
determined that he would seek
out Giunta, and, if possible,
become his pupil.
Having arrived in Pisa, he clothed himself in humble
apparel,
being unwilling that any other thing than the desire he
had for
knowledge should be his plea with the great painter; and
then,
leaving his baggage at a house of entertainment, he took
his way
along the street, asking whom he met for the lodging of
Giunta. It soon
chanced that one of that city, conceiving him to
be a stranger
and poor, took him into his house, and refreshed
him; afterwards
directing him on his way.
When he was brought to speech of Giunta, he said merely
that
he was a student, and that nothing in the world was so much
at
his heart as to become that which he had heard told of him
with
whom he was speaking. He was received with courtesy and
con-
sideration, and shewn into the study of the famous artist.
But the
forms he saw there were lifeless and incomplete; and a
sudden
exultation possessed him as he said within himself, “I am
the master
of this man.” The blood came at first into his face,
but the next
moment he was quite pale and fell to trembling. He
was able,
however, to conceal his emotion; speaking very little
to Giunta,
but, when he took his leave, thanking him
respectfully.
After this, Chiaro's first resolve was, that he would work
out
thoroughly some one of his thoughts, and let the world know
him.
But the lesson which he had now learned, of how small a
greatness
might win fame, and how little there was to strive
against, served
to make him torpid, and rendered his exertions
less continual.
Also Pisa was a larger and more luxurious city
than Arezzo; and,
when in his walks, he saw the great gardens
laid out for pleasure,
and the beautiful women who passed to and
fro, and heard the
music that was in the groves of the city at
evening, he was taken
with wonder that he had never claimed his
share of the inheritance
of those years in which his youth was
cast. And women loved
Chiaro; for, in despite of the burthen of
study, he was well-favoured
and very manly in his walking; and,
seeing his face in front, there
was a glory upon it, as upon the
face of one who feels a light round
his hair.
So he put thought from him, and partook of his life. But,
one
night, being in a certain company of ladies, a gentleman
that was
there with him began to speak of the paintings of a
youth named
Bonaventura, which he had seen in Lucca; adding that Giunta
Pisano
might now look for a rival. When Chiaro heard this, the
lamps shook
before him, and the music beat in his ears and made
him giddy. He
rose up, alleging a sudden sickness, and went out
of that house with
his teeth set.
He now took to work diligently; not returning to Arezzo,
but
remaining in Pisa, that no day more might be lost; only
living en-
tirely to himself. Sometimes, after nightfall, he
would walk abroad
in the most solitary places he could find;
hardly feeling the ground
under him, because of the thoughts of
the day which held him
in fever.
The lodging he had chosen was in a house that looked
upon
gardens fast by the Church of San Rocco. During the
offices, as he
sat at work, he could hear the music of the organ
and the long
murmur that the chanting left; and if his window
were open,
sometimes, at those parts of the mass where there is
silence through-
out the church, his ear caught faintly the
single voice of the
priest. Beside the matters of his art and a
very few books, almost
the only object to be noticed in Chiaro's
room was a small conse-
crated image of St. Mary Virgin wrought
out of silver, before which
stood always, in summer-time, a
glass containing a lily and a rose.
It was here, and at this time, that Chiaro painted the
Dresden
pictures; as also, in all likelihood, the one—inferior
in merit, but
certainly his—which is now at Munich. For the most
part, he was
calm and regular in his manner of study; though
often he would
remain at work through the whole of the day, not
resting once so
long as the light lasted; flushed, and with the
hair from his face.
Or, at times, when he could not paint, he
would sit for hours in
thought of all the greatness the world
had known from of old;
until he was weak with yearning, like one
who gazes upon a path
of stars.
He continued in this patient endeavour for about three
years, at
the end of which his name was spoken throughout all
Tuscany. As
his fame waxed, he began to be employed, besides
easel-pictures,
upon paintings in fresco: but I believe that no
traces remain to us
of any of these latter. He is said to have
painted in the Duomo:
and D'Agincourt mentions having seen some
portions of a fresco by
him which originally had its place
above the high altar in the
Church of the Certosa; but which,
at the time he saw it, being very
dilapidated, had been hewn
out of the wall, and was preserved in
the stores of the
convent. Before the period of Dr. Aemmster's
researches,
however, it had been entirely destroyed.
Chiaro was now famous. It was for the race of fame that
he had
girded up his loins; and he had not paused until fame was
reached:
yet now, in taking breath, he found that the weight was
still at his
heart. The years of his labor had fallen from him,
and his life
was still in its first painful desire.
With all that Chiaro had done during these three years,
and even
before, with the studies of his early youth, there had
always been a
feeling of worship and service. It was the
peace-offering that he
made to God and to his own soul for the
eager selfishness of his
aim. There was earth, indeed, upon the
hem of his raiment; but
this was of the heaven, heavenly. He had seasons
when he could
endure to think of no other feature of his hope
than this: and some-
times, in the ecstasy of prayer, it had
even seemed to him to behold
that day when his mistress — his
mystical lady (now hardly in her
ninth year, but whose solemn
smile at meeting had already lighted
on his soul like the dove
of the Trinity) — even she, his own
gracious and holy Italian
art — with her virginal bosom, and her un-
fathomable eyes, and
the thread of sunlight round her brows — should
pass, through
the sun that never sets, into the circle of the shadow
of the
tree of life, and be seen of God, and found good: and then
it
had seemed to him, that he, with many who, since his coming,
had
joined the band of whom he was one (for, in his dream, the
body he
had worn on earth had been dead an hundred years), were
permitted
to gather round the blessed maiden, and to worship
with her through
all ages and ages of ages, saying, Holy, holy,
holy. This thing he
had seen with the eyes of his spirit; and in
this thing had trusted,
believing that it would surely come to
pass.
But now, (being at length led to enquire closely into
himself,) even
as, in the pursuit of fame, the unrest abiding
after attainment had
proved to him that he had misinterpreted
the craving of his own
spirit — so also, now that he would
willingly have fallen back on
devotion, he became aware that
much of that reverence which he
had mistaken for faith had been
no more than the worship of beauty.
Therefore, after certain
days passed in perplexity, Chiaro said within
himself, “My life
and my will are yet before me: I will take
another aim to my
life.”
From that moment Chiaro set a watch on his soul, and
put his
hand to no other works but only to such as had for their
end the
presentment of some moral greatness that should impress
the be-
holder: and, in doing this, he did not choose for his
medium the
action and passion of human life, but cold symbolism
and abstract
impersonation. So the people ceased to throng about
his pictures
as heretofore; and, when they were carried through
town and town
to their destination, they were no longer delayed
by the crowds
eager to gaze and admire: and no prayers or offerings were
brought
to them on their path, as to his Madonnas, and his
Saints, and his
Holy Children. Only the critical audience
remained to him; and
these, in default of more worthy matter,
would have turned their
scrutiny on a puppet or a mantle.
Meanwhile, he had no more of
fever upon him; but was calm and
pale each day in all that he did
and in his goings in and out.
The works he produced at this time
have perished — in all
likelihood, not unjustly, It is said (and we
may easily believe
it), that, though more labored than his former
pictures, they
were cold and unemphatic; bearing marked out upon
them, as they
must certainly have done, the measure of that boun-
dary to
which they were made to conform.
And the weight was still close at Chiaro's heart: but
he held in
his breath, never resting (for he was afraid), and
would not know it.
Now it happened, within these days, that there fell a
great feast
in Pisa, for holy matters: and each man left his
occupation; and
all the guilds and companies of the city were
got together for games
and rejoicings. And there were scarcely
any that stayed in the
houses, except ladies who lay or sat
along their balconies between
open windows which let the breeze
beat through the rooms and
over the spread tables from end to
end. And the golden cloths that
their arms lay upon drew all
eyes upward to see their beauty; and
the day was long; and every
hour of the day was bright with the
sun.
So Chiaro's model, when he awoke that morning on the
hot pave-
ment of the Piazza Nunziata, and saw the hurry of
people that
passed him, got up and went along with them; and
Chiaro waited
for him in vain.
For the whole of that morning, the music was in
Chiaro's room
from the Church close at hand: and he could hear
the sounds that
the crowd made in the streets; hushed only at
long intervals while
the processions for the feast-day chanted
in going under his windows.
Also, more than once, there was a
high clamour from the meeting
of factious persons: for the
ladies of both leagues were looking
down; and he who encountered
his enemy could not choose but
draw upon him. Chiaro waited a
long time idle; and then knew
that his model was gone elsewhere.
When at his work, he was
blind and deaf to all else; but he
feared sloth: for then his stealthy
thoughts would begin, as it
were, to beat round and round him,
seeking a point for attack.
He now rose, therefore, and went to
the window. It was within a
short space of noon; and underneath
him a throng of people was
coming out through the porch of San
Rocco.
The two greatest houses of the feud in Pisa had filled
the church
for that mass. The first to leave had been the
Gherghiotti; who,
stopping on the threshold, had fallen back in
ranks along each side
of the archway: so that now, in passing
outward, the Marotoli had
to walk between two files of men whom
they hated, and whose
fathers had hated theirs. All the chiefs
were there and their
whole adherence; and each knew the name of
each. Every man
of the Marotoli, as he came forth and saw his
foes, laid back his hood
and gazed about him, to show the badge
upon the close cap
that held his hair. And of the Gherghiotti
there were some who
tightened their girdles; and some shrilled
and threw up their
wrists scornfully, as who flies a falcon; for
that was the crest of
their house.
On the walls within the entry were a number of tall,
narrow fres-
coes, presenting a moral allegory of Peace, which
Chiaro had painted
that year for the Church. The Gherghiotti
stood with their backs
to these frescoes: and among them Golzo
Ninuccio, the youngest
noble of the faction, called by the
people of Golaghiotta, for his de-
based life. This youth had
remained for some while talking list-
lessly to his fellows,
though with his sleepy sunken eyes fixed on
them who passed: but
now, seeing that no man jostled another, he
drew the long silver
shoe off his foot, and struck the dust out of it
on the cloak of
him who was going by, asking him how far the
tides rose at
Viderza. And he said so because it was three months
since, at
that place, the Gherghiotti had beaten the Marotoli to
the
sands, and held them there while the sea came in; whereby
many
had been drowned. And, when he had spoken, at once the
whole
archway was dazzling with the light of confused swords;
and they
who had left turned back; and they who were still
behind made
haste to come forth: and there was so much blood
cast up the
walls on a sudden, that it ran in long streams down
Chiaro's
paintings.
Chiaro turned himself from the window; for the light
felt dry
between his lids, and he could not look. He sat down,
and heard
the noise of contention driven out of the church-porch
and a great
way through the streets; and soon there was a deep
murmur that
heaved and waxed from the other side of the city,
where those of
both parties were gathering to join in the
tumult.
Chiaro sat with his face in his open hands. Once again
he had
wished to set his foot on a place that looked green and
fertile; and
once again it seemed to him that the thin rank mask
was about to
spread away, and that this time the chill of the
water must leave
leprosy in his flesh. The light still swam in
his head, and bewil-C
dered him at first; but when he knew his thoughts, they
were
these: —
“Fame failed me: faith failed me: and now this also, —
the hope
that I nourished in this my generation of men, — shall
pass from me,
and leave my feet and my hands groping. Yet,
because of this, are
my feet become slow and my hands thin. I am
as one who, through
the whole night, holding his way diligently,
hath smitten the steel
unto the flint, to lead some whom he knew
darkling; who hath
kept his eyes always on the sparks that
himself made, lest they
should fail; and who, towards dawn,
turning to bid them that he
had guided God speed, sees the wet
grass untrodden except of his
own feet. I am as the last hour of
the day, whose chimes are a
perfect number; whom the next
followeth not, nor light ensueth
from him; but in the same
darkness is the old order begun afresh.
Men say, ‘This is not
God nor man; he is not as we are, neither
above us: let him sit
beneath us, for we are many.’ Where I
write Peace, in that spot
is the drawing of swords, and there men's
footprints are red.
When I would sow, another harvest is ripe.
Nay, it is much worse
with me than thus much. Am I not as a
cloth drawn before the
light, that the looker may not be blinded;
but which sheweth
thereby the grain of its own coarseness; so that
the light seems
defiled, and men say, ‘We will not walk by it.’
Wherefore
through me they shall be doubly accursed, seeing that
through me
they reject the light. May one be a devil and not
know it?”
As Chiaro was in these thoughts, the fever encroached
slowly on
his veins, till he could sit no longer, and would have
risen; but
suddenly he found awe within him, and held his head
bowed,
without stirring. The warmth of the air was not shaken;
but
there seemed a pulse in the light, and a living freshness,
like rain.
The silence was a painful music, that made the blood
ache in his
temples; and he lifted his face and his deep eyes.
A woman was present in his room, clad to the hands and
feet
with a green and grey raiment, fashioned to that time. It
seemed
that the first thoughts he had ever known were given him
as at
first from her eyes, and he knew her hair to be the golden
veil through
which he beheld his dreams. Though her hands were
joined, her
face was not lifted, but set forward; and though the
gaze was
austere, yet her mouth was supreme in gentleness. And
as he
looked, Chiaro's spirit appeared abashed of its own
intimate
presence, and his lips shook with the thrill of tears;
it seemed such
a bitter while till the spirit might be indeed
alone.
She did not move closer towards him, but he felt her to
be as
much with him as his breath. He was like one who, scaling a
great steepness, hears his own voice echoed in some place
much
higher than he can see, and the name of which is not known
to him.
As the woman stood, her speech was with Chiaro: not, as
it were,
from her mouth or in his ears; but distinctly between
them.
“I am an image, Chiaro, of thine own soul within thee.
See me, and
know me as I am. Thou sayest that fame has failed
thee, and faith
failed thee; but because at least thou hast not
laid thy life unto riches,
therefore, though thus late, I am
suffered to come into thy know-
ledge. Fame sufficed not, for
that thou didst seek fame: seek thine
own conscience (not thy
mind's conscience, but thine heart's), and
all shall approve and
suffice. For Fame, in noble soils, is a fruit of
the Spring: but
not therefore should it be said: ‘Lo! my garden
that I planted
is barren: the crocus is here, but the lily is dead in
the dry
ground, and shall not lift the earth that covers it: therefore
I
will fling my garden together, and give it unto the
builders.’
Take heed rather that thou trouble not the wise
secret earth; for in
the mould that thou throwest up shall the
first tender growth lie to
waste; which else had been made
strong in its season. Yea, and
even if the year fall past in all
its months, and the soil be indeed, to
thee, peevish and
incapable, and though thou indeed gather all thy
harvest, and it
suffice for others, and thou remain vext with empti-
ness; and
others drink of they streams, and the drouth rasp thy
throat; —
let it be enough that these have found the feast good,
and
thanked the giver: remembering that, when the winter is
striven
through, there is another year, whose wind is meek, and
whose sun
fulfilleth all.”
While he heard, Chiaro went slowly on his knees. It was
not to
her that spoke, for the speech seemed within him and his
own. The
air brooded in sunshine, and though the turmoil was
great outside,
the air within was at peace. But when he looked
in her eyes, he
wept. And she came to him, and cast her hair
over him, and,
took her hands about his forehead, and spoke
again:
“Thou hadst said,” she continued, gently, “that faith
failed thee.
This cannot be so. Either thou hadst it not, or
thou hast it. But
who bade thee strike the point betwixt love
and faith? Wouldst
thou sift the warm breeze from the sun that
quickens it? Who
bade thee turn upon God and say: “Behold, my
offering is of earth,
and not worthy: thy fire comes not upon
it: therefore, though I
slay not my brother whom thou acceptest,
I will depart before thou
smite me.” Why shouldst thou rise up
and tell God He is not
content? Had He, of His warrant,
certified so to thee? Be not
nice to seek out division; but
possess thy love in sufficiency: as-
suredly this is faith, for
the heart must believe first. What He hath
set in thine heart to
do, that do thou; and even though thou do itC 2
without thought of Him, it shall be well done: it is this
sacrifice
that He asketh of thee, and His flame is upon it for a
sign. Think
not of Him; but of His love and thy love. For God is
no morbid
exactor: he hath no hand to bow beneath, nor a foot,
that thou
shouldst kiss it.”
And Chiaro held silence, and wept into her hair which
covered
his face; and the salt tears that he shed ran through
her hair upon
his lips; and he tasted the bitterness of shame.
Then the fair woman, that was his soul, spoke again to him, saying:
“And for this thy last purpose, and for those
unprofitable truths
of thy teaching, — thine heart hath already
put them away, and it
needs not that I lay my bidding upon thee.
How is it that thou, a
man, wouldst say coldly to the mind what
God hath said to
the heart warmly? Thy will was honest and
wholesome; but
look well lest this also be folly, — to say, ‘I,
in doing this, do
strengthen God among men.’ When at any time
hath he cried unto
thee, saying, ‘My son, lend me thy shoulder,
for I fall?’ Deemest
thou that the men who enter God's temple in
malice, to the
provoking of blood, and neither for his love nor
for his wrath will
abate their purpose, — shall afterwards stand
with thee in the
porch, midway between Him and themselves, to
give ear unto thy
thin voice, which merely the fall of their
visors can drown, and to
see thy hands, stretched feebly,
tremble among their swords? Give
thou to God no more than he
asketh of thee; but to man also, that
which is man's. In all
that thou doest, work from thine own heart,
simply; for his
heart is as thine, when thine is wise and humble;
and he shal
have understanding of thee. One drop of rain is as
another, and
the sun's prism in all: and shalt not thou be as he,
whose lives
are the breath of One? Only by making thyself his equal
can he
learn to hold communion with thee, and at last own thee
above
him. Not till thou lean over the water shalt thou see
thine
image therein: stand erect, and it shall slope from thy
feet and be
lost. Know that there is but this means whereby thou
may'st
serve God with man: — Set thine hand and thy soul to
serve man
with God.”
And when she that spoke had said these words within
Chiaro's
spirit, she left his side quietly, and stood up as he
had first seen
her; with her fingers laid together, and her eyes
steadfast, and with
the breadth of her long dress covering her
feet on the floor. And,
speaking again, she said:
“Chiaro, servant of God, take now thine Art unto thee,
and paint
me thus, as I am, to know me: weak, as I am, and in
the weeds of
this time; only with eyes which seek out labour,
and with a faith,
not learned, yet jealous of prayer. Do this;
so shall thy soul
stand before thee always, and perplex thee no
more.”
And Chiaro did as she bade him. While he worked, his
face
grew solemn with knowledge: and before the shadows had
turned,
his work was done. Having finished, he lay back where he
sat,
and was asleep immediately: for the growth of that strong
sunset
was heavy about him, and he felt weak and haggard; like
one just
come out of a dusk, hollow country, bewildered with
echoes, where
he had lost himself, and who has not slept for
many days and
nights. And when she saw him lie back, the
beautiful woman came
to him, and sat at his head, gazing, and
quieted his sleep with her voice.
The tumult of the factions had endured all that day
through all
Pisa, though Chiaro had not heard it: and the last
service of that
Feast was a mass sung at midnight from the
windows of all the
churches for the many dead who lay about the
city, and who had to
be buried before morning, because of the
extreme heats.
In the Spring of 1847 I was at Florence. Such as were
there at
the same time with myself — those, at least, to whom
Art is some-
thing, — will certainly recollect how many rooms of
the Pitti Gallery
were closed through that season, in order that
some of the pictures
they contained might be examined, and
repaired without the neces-
sity of removal. The hall, the
staircases, and the vast central suite
of apartments, were the
only accessible portions; and in these such
paintings as they
could admit from the sealed penetralia were
pro-
fanely huddled together, without respect of dates, schools,
or persons.
I fear that, through this interdict, I may have missed
seeing many
of the best pictures. I do not mean only the most talked of: for
these, as they were
restored, generally found their way somehow
into the open rooms,
owing to the clamours raised by the students;
and I remember how
old Ercoli's, the curator's, spectacles used to
be mirrored in
the reclaimed surface, as he leaned mysteriously over
these
works with some of the visitors, to scrutinize and elucidate.
One picture, that I saw that Spring, I shall not easily
forget. It
was among those, I believe, brought from the other
rooms, and had
been hung, obviously out of all chronology,
immediately beneath
that head by Raphael so long known as the
The picture I speak of is a small one, and represents
merely the
figure of a woman, clad to the hands and feet with a
green and grey
raiment, chaste and early in its fashion, but
exceedingly simple.
She is standing: her hands are held together
lightly, and her
eyes set earnestly open.
The face and hands in this picture, though wrought with
great
delicacy, have the appearance of being painted at once, in
a single
sitting: the drapery is unfinished. As soon as I saw
the figure, it
drew an awe upon me, like water in shadow. I
shall not attempt to
describe it more than I have already done;
for the most absorbing
wonder of it was its literality. You knew
that figure, when painted,
had been seen; yet it was not a thing
to be seen of men. This
language will appear ridiculous to such
as have never looked on the
work; and it may be even to some
among those who have. On
examining it closely,I perceived in one
corner of the canvass the
words Manus Animam pinxit
I turned to my Catalogue, but that was useless, for the
pictures
were all displaced. I then stepped up to the Cavaliere
Ercoli, who
was in the room at the moment, and asked him
regarding the
subject of authorship of the painting. He treated the matter,
I
thought, somewhat slightingly, and said that he could show me
the
reference in the Catalogue, which he had compiled.
found, was not of much value, as it
merely said,
incerto,”
my
inquiry, in the hope that it might somehow lead to some
result;
but I had disturbed the curator from certain yards of
Guido, and he
was not communicative. I went back therefore, and
stood before
the picture till it grew dusk.
The next day I was there again; but this time a circle
of students
was round the spot, all copying the
I felt vext, for, standing where he asked me, a glare
struck on the
picture from the windows, and I could not see it.
However, the
request was reasonably made, and from a countryman;
so I com-
plied, and turning away, stood by his easel. I knew it
was not worth
while; yet I referred in some way to the work
underneath the
one he was copying. He did not laugh, but he
smiled as we do in
England: “Very odd, is it
not?” said he.
The other students near us were all continental; and
seeing an
Englishman select an Englishman to speak with,
conceived, I sup-
pose, that he could understand no language but
his own. They had
evidently been noticing the interest which the
little picture appeared
to excite in me.
One of them, and Italian, said something to another who
stood
next to him. He spoke with a Genoese accent, and I lost
the sense
in the villainous dialect.
eyebrows
toward the figure;
matti sul misticismo: somiglia alle nebbie di
là. Li fa pensare
alla patria, “E intenerisce il core
Lo
dì ch' han detto ai dolci amici adio.”
There was a general laugh. My compatriot was evidently
a
novice in the language, and did not take in what was said.
I
remained silent, being amused.
student, whose birthplace was
unmistakable even had he been
addressed in any other
language:
and looking at me and at the
figure, quite politely, though with an
evident reservation:
je me fiche pas mal. Je tiens que quand on
ne comprend pas une
chose, c'est qu' elle ne signifie
rein.”
My reader thinks possibly that the French student was right.
*I should here say, that in the catalogue for the year just over,
(owing, as in
cases before mentioned, to the zeal and
enthusiasm of Dr. Aemmester) this, and
several other
pictures, have been more competently entered. The work
in
question is now placed in the Sala Sessagona
number 161. It
is described as
The critic who should undertake to speak of
all the poetry which
issues from the press of these present
days, what is so called by courtesy
as well as that which
may claim the title as of right, would impose on
himself a
task demanding no little labor, and entailing no little disgust
and weariness. Nor is the trouble well repaid. More profit
will not
accrue to him who studies, if the word can be
used, fifty of a certain
class of versifiers, than to him
who glances over one: and, while a
successful effort to
warn such that poetry is not their proper sphere,
and that
they must seek elsewhere for a vocation to work out, might
embolden a philanthropist to assume the position of
scare-crow, and
drive away the unclean birds from the
flowers and the green leaves; on
the other hand, the small
results which appear to have hitherto attended
such
endeavors are calculated rather to induce those who have yet
made,
to relinquish them, than to lead others to follow in
the same track. It
is truly a disheartening task. To the
critic himself no good, though
some amusement occasionally,
can be expected: to the criticised, good
but rarely, for he
is seldom convinced, and annoyance and rancour
al–
most of course; and, even in those few cases
where the voice crying
“in the wilderness” produces its
effect, the one thistle that abandons
the attempt at
bearing figs sees its neighbors still believing in their
success, and soon has its own place filled up. The sentence
of those
who do not read is the best criticism on those who
will not think.
It is acting on these considerations that we propose not to
take
count of any works that do not either show a purpose
achieved or give
promise of a worthy event; while of such
we hope to overlook none.
We believe it may safely be assumed that at no previous
period has
the public been more buzzed round by triviality
and common-place;
but we hold firm, at the same time, that
at none other has there been a
greater or a grander body of
genius, or so honorable a display of well
cultivated taste
and talent. Certainly the public do not seem to know
this:
certainly the critics deny it, or rather speak as though they
never
contemplated that such a position would be advanced;
but, if the fact
be so, it will make itself known, and the
poets of this day will assert
themselves, and take their
places.
Of these it is our desire to speak truthfully, indeed, and
without
compromise, but always as bearing in mind that the
inventor is more
than the commentator, and the book more
than the notes; and that, if
it is we who speak, we do so
not for ourselves, nor as of ourselves.
The work of Arthur Hugh Clough now before us, (we feel
warranted
in the dropping of the Mr.
even at his first work,) unites the most enduring
forms of
nature, and the most unsophisticated conditions of life and
character, with the technicalities of speech, of manners,
and of persons
of an Oxford reading party in the long
vacation. His hero is
and his heroine is no heroine, but a woman, “Elspie,
the quiet, the
brave.”
The metre he has chosen, the hexametral, harmonises with
the spirit
of primitive simplicity in which the poem is
conceived; is itself a
background, as much as are
“Knoydart, Croydart, Moydart, Morrer,
and Ardnamurchan;”
and gives a new individuality to the passages of
familiar
narrative and every day conversation. It has an intrinsic
appropriateness; although, at first thought of the subject,
this will,
perhaps, be scarcely admitted of so old and so
stately a rhythmical
form.
As regards execution, however, there may be noted, in
qualification
of much pliancy and vigour, a certain air of
experiment in occasional
passages, and a license in
versification, which more than warrants a
warning “to
expect every kind of irregularity in these modern
hexameters.” The following lines defy all efforts at
reading in dactyls
or spondees, and require an almost
complete transposition of accent.
[have;” —
[Lindsay:” —
In the first of these lines, the omission of the former
“which,”
would remove all objection;
and there are others where a final syllable
appears clearly
deficient; as thus: —
them]: —such] yet]: ” —him]: —
Yet the following would be scarcely improved by greater exactness:
Nor, perhaps, ought this to be made correct:
The aspect of fact pervading
As the story opens, the Oxford party are about to proceed
to dinner
at “the place of the Clansmen's meeting.” Their
characters, discrimi–
nated with the nicest
taste, and perfectly worked out, are thus in–
troduced:
[it; Shady in Latin, said Lindsay, but
topping in plays and
Aldrich.matutine bathing; of course par
excellence glory of headers:
[tage,
[Arthur.
A peculiar point of style in this poem, and one which
gives a certain
classic character to some of its more
familiar aspects, is the frequent
recurrence of the same
line, and the repeated definition of a personage
Arthur Audley “the glory of headers,” and the tutor “the
grave man
nicknamed Adam,” from beginning to end; and so
also of the others.
Omitting the after-dinner speeches, with their
that only of “Sir Hector, the Chief and the Chairman;”
in honor of the
Oxonians, than which nothing could be more
unpoetically truthful, is
preserved, with the
acknowledgment, ending in a sarcasm at the game
laws, by
Hewson, who, as he is leaving the room, is accosted by “a
thin man, clad as the Saxon:”
Throughout this scene, as through the whole book, no
opportunity is
overlooked for giving individuality to the
persons introduced: Sir
Hector, of whom we lose sight
henceforward, the attaché, the Guards–
man, are
not mere names, but characters: it is not enough to say that
two tables were set apart “for keeper and gillie and
peasant:” there is
something to be added yet; and with
other assembled around them were
among them the
young one, the drunkard.”
The morrow's conversation of the reading party turns on
“noble
ladies and rustic girls, their partners.” And here
speaks out Hewson
the chartist:
[it,)
[labor.’”
And he proceeds in a rapture to talk on the beauty of
household
service.
Hereat Arthur remarks:
[breakfasts,
— p.13.
The character of Hobbes, called into energy by this
observation, is
perfectly developed in the lines succeeding:
Here, in the tutor's answer to Hewson, we come on the
moral of
the poem, a moral to be pursued through
commonplace lowliness of
station and through high rank,
into the habit of life which would be,
in the one, not
petty, — in the other, not overweening, — in any, calm
and dignified.
When the discussion is ended, the party propose to
separate, some
proceeding on their tour; and Philip Hewson
will be of these.
The action here becomes divided; and, omitting points of
detail, we
must confine ourselves to tracing the
development of the idea in which
the subject of the poem
consists.
Philip and his companions, losing their road, are received
at a farm,
where they stay for three days: and this
experience of himself begins.
He comes prepared; and, if he
seems to love the “golden-haired
Katie,” it is less that
she is “the youngest and comeliest daughter”
than because
of her position, and that in that she realises his
precon–
ceived wishes. For three days he is with
her and about her; and he
more than the consequence of his principles; it is his own
will uncon–
sidered and but half understood. And
a letter to Adam tells how it
had an end:
Philip Hewson has been going on
[mountains: . . . . . .
[her.’” — pp. 26, 27.
And, meanwhile, Katie, among the others, is dancing and
smiling
still on some one who is to her all that Philip had
ever been.
When Hewson writes next, his experience has reached its
second
stage. He is at Balloch, with the aunt and the
cousin of his friend
Hope: and the lady Maria has made his
beliefs begin to fail and totter,
and he feels for
something to hold firmly. He seems to think, at one
moment,
that the mere knowledge of the existence of such an one
ought to compensate for lives of drudgery hemmed in with
want; then
he turns round on himself with, “How shall that
be?” And, at length,
he appeases his questions, saying that
it must and should be so, if it is.
After this, come scraps of letters, crossed and recrossed,
from the
cast a shoe, and the were directed to David Mackaye. Hewson
is
still in the clachan hard by when he urges his friend to
come to him:
and he comes.
[ocean:
[39.
From this point, we must give ourselves up to quotation;
and the
narrow space remaining to us is our only apology to
the reader for
making any omission whatever in these extracts.
Mr.
Miss Elspie?
[pp. 39-44.
We may spare criticism here, for what reader will not have
felt such
poetry? There is something in this of the very
tenderness of tender–
ness; this is true
delicacy, fearless and unembarrassed. Here it seems
almost
captious to object: perhaps, indeed, it is rather personal whim
than legitimate criticism which makes us take some
exception at “the
curl on his forehead;” yet somehow there
seems a hint in it of the
pet curate.
Elspie's doubts now return upon her with increased force;
and it is
not till after many conversations with the
“teacher” that she allows
her resolve to be fixed. So, at last,
And, after their talk, she feels strong again, and fit
to be his. — Then
they rise.
Mr. Thank
Heaven! that's well over!’
[47, 48.
David Mackaye gives his consent; but first Hewson must
return to
College, and study for a year.
His views have not been stationary. To his old scorn for
the idle of
he would now hold to his creed, yet not
as rejecting his experience.
Some, he says, were made for
use; others for ornament; but let these
be so made, of a truth, and not such as find themselves
merely thrust
into exemption from labor. Let each know his
place, and take it,
And of his friend urging Providence he can only, while
answering that
doubtless he must be in the right, ask where
the limit comes between
circumstance and Providence, and
can but wish for a great cause, and
the trumpet that should
call him to God's battle, whereas he sees
And the year is now out.
Among the prominent attributes of this poem is its
completeness.
The elaboration, not only of character and of
mental discipline, but of
incident also, is unbroken. The
absences of all mention of Elspie in the
opening scene and
again at the dance at Rannoch may at first seem to
be a
failure in this respect; but second thoughts will show it to be
far
otherwise: for, in the former case, her presence would
not have had
any significance for Hewson, and, in the
latter, would have been over–
looked by him save
so far as might warrant a future vague recollection,
pre-occupied as his eyes and thoughts were by another.
There is one
condition still under which we have as yet had
little opportunity of dis–
playing this quality;
but it will be found to be as fully carried out in
the
descriptions of nature. In the first of our extracts the worlds
are
few, but stand for many.
In the next mere sound and the names go far towards the
entire
effect; but not so far as to induce any negligence
in essential details:
Two more passages, and they must suffice as examples. Here
the
isolation is perfect; but it is the isolation, not of
the place and the actors
only; it is, as it were, almost
our own in an equal degree;
In many of the images of this poem, as also in the volume
“Still, as before (and as now), balls, dances, and evening parties, . . . . Seemed like a sort of unnatural up-in-the-air balloon work, . . . . As mere gratuitous trifling in presence of business and duty As does the turning aside of the tourist to look at a landscape Seem in the steamer or coach to the merchant in haste for the city.” —
[p. 12.“I was as one that sleeps on the railway; one who, dreaming, Hears thro' his dream the name of his home shouted out. — hears and
[hears not,Faint, and louder again, and less loud, dying in distance, — Dimly conscious, with something of inward debate and choice, and Sense of [present] claim and reality present; relapses, Nevertheless, and continues the dream and fancy, while forward, Swiftly, remorseless, the car presses on, he knows not whither.” — p. 38.
Indeed, the general adaptation of the style to the
immediate matter,
the alternation of the poetic and the
familiar, with a certain mixture
even of classical phrase
and allusion, is highly appropriate, and may
almost be
termed constant, except in occasional instances where more
poetry, and especially more conception and working out of
images, is
introduced than squares with a strict observance
of nature. Thus the
lines quoted where Elspie applies to
herself the incident of “the high
new bridge” and “the
great key-stone in the middle” are succeeded
by others
(omitted in our extract) where the idea is followed into its
details; and there is another passage in which, through no
less than seven–
teen lines, she compares herself
to an inland stream disturbed and
hurried on by the
mingling with it of the sea's tide. Thus also one of
the
most elaborate descriptions in the poem, — an episode in itself
of
the extremest beauty and finish, but, as we think,
clearly misplaced, —
is a picture of the dawn over a great
city, introduced into a letter of
Philip's, and that, too,
simply as an image of his own mental condition.
There are
but few poets for whom it would be superfluous to reflect
whether pieces of such-like mere poetry might not more
properly form
part of the descriptive groundwork, and be
altogether banished from
discourse and conversation, where
the greater amount of their intrinsic
care and excellence
becomes, by its position, a proportionally increasing
load
of disregard for truthfulness.
For a specimen of a peculiarly noble spirit which pervades
the whole
work, we would refer the reader to the character
of Arthur Audley,
unnecessary to the story, but most
important to the sentiment; for a
comprehensive instance of
minute feeling for individuality, to the
nar–
rative of Lindsay and the corrections of
Arthur on returning from their
tour.
For pleasant ingenuity, involving, too, a point of
character, to the final might have been
upsoaring, sublime and ideal;it was
restricting, diminishing, dwarfing;”
letter of Hobbes to Philip,
wherein, in a manner made up of playful
subtlety and real
poetical feeling, he proves how “this Rachel and
Leah is
marriage.”
That public attention should have been so little engaged
by this
poem is a fact in one respect somewhat remarkable,
as contrasting
with the notice which the
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