Rossetti Archive Textual Transcription

Document Title: The Germ (British Library Copy, second issue)
Author: Aylott and Jones (publisher)
Editor: William Michael Rossetti
Date of publication: 1850 January 31
Publisher: Aylott & Jones
Printer: G.F. Tupper
Edition: 1
Volume: 1
Issue: 2

The full Rossetti Archive record for this transcribed document is available.

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Editorial Note (page ornament): An ornamental border frames all the text except the printer's name (G.F. Tupper), which lies just beneath it.
No. 2 ( Price One Shilling)

FEBRUARY, 1850



With an Etching by JAMES COLLINSON

The Germ:

Thoughts towards Nature

In Poetry, Literature, and Art.




  • When whoso merely hath a little thought
  • Will plainly think the thought which is in him,—
  • Not imaging another's bright or dim,
  • Not mangling with new words what others taught;
  • When whoso speaks, from having either sought
  • Or only found,—will speak, not just to skim
  • A shallow surface with words made and trim,
  • But in that very speech the matter brought:
  • Be not too keen to cry—“So this is all!—
  • 10A thing I might myself have thought as well,
  • But would not say it, for it was not worth!”
  • Ask: “Is this truth?” For is it still to tell
  • That, be the theme a point or the whole earth,
  • Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small?

London:

AYLOTT & JONES, 8, PATERNOSTER ROW.

G. F. Tupper, Printer, Clement's Lane. Lombard Street.

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  • The Child Jesus: by James Collinson .............................. 49
  • A Pause of Thought: by Ellen Alleyn .............................. 57
  • The Purpose and Tendency of Early Italian Art: by John Seward................... 58
  • Song: by Ellen Alleyn ............................................ 64
  • Morning Sleep: by Wm. B. Scott ................................... 65
  • Sonnet; by Calder Campbell ....................................... 68
  • Stars and Moon................................................... 69
  • On the Mechanism of a Historical Picture: by F. Madox Brown ...... 70
  • A Testimony: by Ellen Alleyn ..................................... 73
  • O When and Where: by Thomas Woolner .............................. 75
  • Fancies at Leisure: by Wm. M. Rossetti ........................... 76
  • The Sight Beyond: by Walter H. Deverell .......................... 79
  • The Blessed Damozel: by Dante G. Rossetti ........................ 80
  • Reviews: “The Strayed Reveller, and other Poems:” by Wm. M.

    Rossetti
    ............................................................... 84

To Correspondents.
All persons from whom Communications have been

received, and who have not been otherwise replied to,

are requested to accept the Editor's acknowledgments.

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Ex ore infantiam et lactentium pertecizli         laudem

Ex ore infantiam et Lactentium pertecizli laudem.

Figure: Etching. Landscape orientation. Various figures standing and kneeling near Jesus, who is seated at the center of the work. Signed “James Collinson 1850.”



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Sig. D
Manuscript Addition: James Collinson
Editorial Description: author's name handwritten in
The Child Jesus.

A Record typical of the five Sorrowful Mysteries.

“O all ye that pass by the way, attend and see if there be any sorrow like to my sorrow.” —

Lamentations, i. 12.

I. The Agony in the Garden.
  • Joseph, a carpenter of Nazareth,
  • And his wife Mary had an only child,
  • Jesus: One holy from his mother's womb.
  • Both parents loved him: Mary's heart alone
  • Beat with his blood, and, by her love and his,
  • She knew that God was with her, and she strove
  • Meekly to do the work appointed her;
  • To cherish him with undivided care
  • Who deigned to call her mother, and who loved
  • 10From her the name of son. And Mary gave
  • Her heart to him, and feared not; yet she seemed
  • To hold as sacred that he said or did;
  • And, unlike other women, never spake
  • His words of innocence again; but all
  • Were humbly treasured in her memory
  • With the first secret of his birth. So strong
  • Grew her affection, as the child increased
  • In wisdom and in stature with his years,
  • That many mothers wondered, saying: “These
  • 20Our little ones claim in our hearts a place
  • The next to God; but Mary's tenderness
  • Grows almost into reverence for her child.
  • Is he not of herself? I' the temple when
  • Kneeling to pray, on him she bends her eyes,
  • As though God only heard her prayer through him.
  • Is he to be a prophet? Nay, we know
  • That out of Galilee no prophet comes.”
  • But all their children made the boy their friend.
  • Three cottages that overlooked the sea
  • 30Stood side by side eastward of Nazareth.
  • Behind them rose a sheltering range of cliffs,
  • Purple and yellow, verdure-spotted, red,
  • Layer upon layer built up against the sky.
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  • In front a row of sloping meadows lay,
  • Parted by narrow streams, that rose above,
  • Leaped from the rocks, and cut the sands below
  • Into deep channels widening to the sea.
  • Within the humblest of these three abodes
  • Dwelt Joseph, his wife Mary, and their child.
  • 40A honeysuckle and a moss-rose grew,
  • With many blossoms, on their cottage front;
  • And o'er the gable warmed by the South
  • A sunny grape vine broadened shady leaves
  • Which gave its tendrils shelter, as they hung
  • Trembling upon the bloom of purple fruit.
  • And, like the wreathed shadows and deep glows
  • Which the sun spreads from some old oriel
  • Upon the marble Altar and the gold
  • Of God's own Tabernacle, where he dwells
  • 50For ever, so the blossoms and the vine,
  • On Jesus' home climbing above the roof,
  • Traced intricate their windings all about
  • The yellow thatch, and part concealed the nests
  • Whence noisy close-housed sparrows peeped unseen.
  • And Joseph had a little dove-cote placed
  • Between the gable-window and the eaves,
  • Where two white turtle doves (a gift of love
  • From Mary's kinsman Zachary to her child)
  • Cooed pleasantly; and broke upon the ear
  • 60The ever dying sound of falling waves.
  • And so it came to pass, one Summer morn,
  • The mother dive first brought her fledgling out
  • To see the sun. It was her only one,
  • And she had breasted it through three long weeks
  • With patient instinct till it broke the shell;
  • And she had nursed it with all tender care,
  • Another three, and watched the white down grow
  • Into full feather, till it left her nest.
  • And now it stood outside its narrow home,
  • 70With tremulous wings let loose and blinking eyes;
  • While, hovering near, the old dove often tried
  • By many lures to tempt it to the ground,
  • That they might feed from Jesus' hand, who stood
  • Watching them from below. The timid bird
  • At last took heart, and, stretching out its wings,
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    Sig. D 2
  • Brushed the light vine-leaves as it fluttered down.
  • Just then a hawk rose from a tree, and thrice
  • Wheeled in the air, and poised his aim to drop
  • On the young dove, whose quivering plumage swelled
  • 80About the sunken talons as it died.
  • Then the hawk fixed his round eye on the child,
  • Shook from his beak the stained down, screamed, and flapped
  • His broad arched wings, and, darting to a cleft
  • I' the rocks, there sullenly devoured his prey.
  • And Jesus heard the mother's anguished cry,
  • Weak like the distant sob of some lost child,
  • Who in his terror runs from path to path,
  • Doubtful alike of all; so did the dove,
  • As though death-stricken, beat about the air;
  • 90Till, settling on the vine, she drooped her head
  • Deep in her ruffled feathers. She sat there,
  • Brooding upon her loss, and did not move
  • All through that day.
  • And the child Jesus wept,
  • And, sitting by her, covered up his face:
  • Until a cloud, alone between the earth
  • And sun, passed with its shadow over him.
  • Then Jesus for a moment looked above;
  • And a few drops of rain fell on his brow,
  • Sad, as with broken hints of a lost dream,
  • 100Or dim foreboding of some future ill.
  • Now, from a garden near, a fair-haired girl
  • Came, carrying a handful of choice flowers,
  • Which in her lap she sorted orderly,
  • As little children do at Easter-time
  • To have all seemly when their Lord shall rise.
  • Then Jesus' covered face she gently raised,
  • Placed in his hand the flowers, and kissed his cheek
  • And tried with soothing words to comfort him;
  • 110He from his eyes spoke thanks.
  • But still the tears,
  • Fast trickling down his face, drop upon drop,
  • Fell to the ground. That sad look left him not
  • Till night brought sleep, and sleep closed o'er his woe.

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II. The Scourging.
  • Again there came a day when Mary sat
  • Within the latticed doorway's fretted shade,
  • Working in bright and many colored threads
  • A girdle for her child, who at her feet
  • Lay with his gentle face upon her lap.
  • Both little hands were crossed and tightly clasped
  • Around her knee. On them the gleams of light
  • Which broke through overhanging blossoms warm,
  • And cool transparent leaves, seemed like the gems
  • 10Which deck Our Lady's shrine when incense-smoke
  • Ascends before her, like them, dimly seen
  • Behind the stream of white and slanting rays
  • Which came from heaven, as a veil of light,
  • Across the darkened porch, and glanced upon
  • The threshold-stone; and here a moth, just born
  • To new existence, stopped upon her flight,
  • To bask her blue-eyed scarlet wings spread out
  • Broad to the sun on Jesus' naked foot,
  • Advancing its warm glow to where the grass,
  • 20Trimmed neatly, grew around the cottage door.
  • And the child, looking in his mother's face,
  • Would join in converse upon holy things
  • With her, or, lost in thought, would seem to watch
  • The orange-belted wild bees when they stilled
  • Their hum, to press with honey-searching trunk
  • The juicy grape; or drag their waxed legs
  • Half buried in some leafy cool recess
  • Found in a rose; or else swing heavily
  • Upon the bending woodbine's fragrant mouth,
  • 30And rob the flower of sweets to feed the rock,
  • Where, in a hazel-covered crag aloft
  • Parting two streams that fell in mist below,
  • The wild bees ranged their waxen vaulted cells.
  • As the time passed, an ass's yearling colt,
  • Bearing a heavy load, came down the lane
  • That wound from Nazareth by Joseph's house,
  • Sloping down to the sands. And two young men,
  • The owners of the colt, with many blows
  • From lash and goad wearied its patient sides;
  • 40Urging it past its strength, so they might win
  • Unto the beach before a ship should sail.
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  • Passing the door, the ass turned round its head,
  • And looked on Jesus: and he knew the look;
  • And, knowing it, knew too the strange dark cross
  • Laying upon its shoulders and its back.
  • It was a foal of that same ass which bare
  • The infant and the mother, when they fled
  • To Egypt from the edge of Herod's sword.
  • And Jesus watched them, till they reached the sands.
  • 50Then, by his mother sitting down once more,
  • Once more there came that shadow of deep grief
  • Upon his brow when Mary looked at him:
  • And she remembered it in days that came.
III. The Crowning with Thorns.
  • And the time passed.
  • And, one bright summer eve,
  • The child sat by himself upon the beach,
  • While Joseph's barge freighted with heavy wood,
  • Bound homewards, slowly labored thro' the calm.
  • And, as he watched the long waves swell and break,
  • Run glistening to his feet, and sink again,
  • Three children, and then two, with each an arm
  • Around the other, throwing up their songs,
  • Such happy songs as only children know,
  • 10Came by the place where Jesus sat alone.
  • But, when they saw his thoughtful face, they ceased,
  • And, looking at each other, drew near him;
  • While one who had upon his head a wreath
  • Of hawthorn flowers, and in his hand a reed,
  • Put these both from him, saying, “Here is one
  • Whom you shall all prefer instead of me
  • To be our king;” and then he placed the wreath
  • On Jesus' brow, who meekly bowed his head.
  • And, when he took the reed, the children knelt,
  • 20And cast their simple offerings at his feet:
  • And, almost wondering why they loved him so,
  • Kissed him with reverence, promising to yield
  • Grave fealty. And Jesus did return
  • Their childish salutations; and they passed
  • Singing another song, whose music chimed
  • With the sea's murmur, like a low sweet chant
  • Chanted in some wide church to Jesus Christ.
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  • And Jesus listened till their voices sank
  • Behind the jutting rocks, and died away:
  • 30Then the wave broke, and Jesus felt alone.
  • Who being alone, on his fair countenance
  • And saddened beauty all unlike a child's
  • The sun of innocence did light no smile,
  • As on the group of happy faces gone.
IV. Jesus Carrying his Cross.
  • And, when the barge arrived, and Joseph bare
  • The wood upon his shoulders, piece by piece,
  • Up to his shed, Jesus ran by his side,
  • Yearning for strength to help the aged man
  • Who tired himself with work all day for him.
  • But Joseph said: “My child, it is God's will
  • That I should work for thee until thou art
  • Of age to help thyself. — Bide thou his time
  • Which cometh — when thou wilt be strong enough,
  • 10And on thy shoulders bear a tree like this.”
  • So, while he spake, he took the last one up,
  • Settling it with heaved back, fetching his breath.
  • Then Jesus lifted deep prophetic eyes
  • Full in the old man's face, but nothing said,
  • Running still on to open first the door.
V. The Crucifixion.
  • Joseph had one ewe-sheep; and she brought forth,
  • Early one season, and before her time,
  • A weakly lamb. It chanced to be upon
  • Jesus' birthday, when he was eight years old.
  • So Mary said — “We'll name it after him,” —
  • (Because she ever thought to please her child) —
  • “And we will sign it with a small red cross
  • Upon the back, a mark to know it by.”
  • And Jesus loved the lamb; and, as it grew
  • 10Spotless and pure and loving like himself,
  • White as the mother's milk it fed upon,
  • He gave not up his care, till it became
  • Of strength enough to browse; and then, because
  • Joseph had no land of his own, being poor,
  • He sent away the lamb to feed amongst
  • A neighbour's flock some distance from his home;
  • Where Jesus went to see it every day.
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  • One late Spring eve, their daily work being done,
  • Mother and child, according to their wont,
  • 20Went, hand in hand, their chosen evening walk.
  • A pleasant wind rose from the sea, and blew
  • Light flakes of waving silver o'er the fields
  • Ready for mowing, and the golden West
  • Warmed half the sky: the low sun flickered through
  • The hedge-rows, as they passed; while hawthorn trees
  • Scattered their snowy leaves and scent around.
  • The sloping woods were rich in varied leaf,
  • And musical in murmur and in song.
  • Long ere they reached the field, the wistful lamb
  • 30Saw them approach, and ran from side to side
  • The gate, pushing its eager face between
  • The lowest bars, and bleating for pure joy.
  • And Jesus, kneeling by it, fondled with
  • The little creature, that could scarce find how
  • To show its love enough; licking his hands,
  • Then, starting from him, gambolled back again,
  • And, with its white feet upon Jesus' knees,
  • Nestled its head by his: and, as the sun
  • Sank down behind them, broadening as it neared
  • 40The low horizon, Mary thought it seemed
  • To clothe them like a glory. — But her look
  • Grew thoughtful, and she said: “I had, last night,
  • A wandering dream. This brings it to my mind;
  • And I will tell it thee as we walk home.
  • “I dreamed a weary way I had to go
  • Alone, across an unknown land: such wastes
  • We sometimes see in visions of the night,
  • Barren and dimly lighted. There was not
  • A tree in sight, save one seared leafless trunk,
  • 50Like a rude cross; and, scattered here and there,
  • A shrivelled thistle grew: the grass was dead,
  • And the starved soil glared through its scanty tufts
  • In bare and chalky patches, cracked and hot,
  • Chafing my tired feet, that caught upon
  • Its parched surface; for a thirsty sun
  • Had sucked all moisture from the ground it burned,
  • And, red and glowing, stared upon me like
  • A furnace eye when all the flame is spent.
  • I felt it was a dream; and so I tried
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  • 60To close my eyes, and shut it out from sight.
  • Then, sitting down, I hid my face; but this
  • Only increased the dread; and so I gazed
  • With open eyes into my dream again.
  • The mists had thickened, and had grown quite black
  • Over the sun; and darkness closed round me.
  • (Thy father said it thundered towards the morn.)
  • But soon, far off, I saw a dull green light
  • Break though the clouds, which fell across the earth,
  • Like death upon a bad man's upturned face.
  • 70Sudden it burst with fifty forked darts
  • In one white flash, so dazzling bright it seemed
  • To hide the landscape in one blaze of light.
  • When the loud crash that came down with it had
  • Rolled its long echo into stillness, through
  • The calm dark silence came a plaintive sound;
  • And, looking towards the tree, I saw that it
  • Was scorched with the lightning; and there stood
  • Close to its foot a solitary sheep
  • Bleating upon the edge of a deep pit,
  • 80Unseen till now, choked up with briars and thorns;
  • And into this a little snow white lamb,
  • Like to thine own, had fallen. It was dead
  • And cold, and must have lain there very long;
  • While, all the time, the mother had stood by,
  • Helpless, and moaning with a piteous bleat.
  • The lamb had struggled much to free itself,
  • For many cruel thorns had torn its head
  • And bleeding feet; and one had pierced its side,
  • From which flowed blood and water. Strange the things
  • 90We see in dreams, and hard to understand; —
  • For, stooping down to raise its lifeless head,
  • I thought it changed into the quiet face
  • Of my own child. Then I awoke, and saw
  • The dim moon shining through the watery clouds
  • On thee awake within thy little bed.”
  • Then Jesus, looking up, said quietly:
  • “We read that God will speak to those he loves
  • Sometimes in visions. He might speak to thee
  • Of things to come his mercy partly veils
  • 100From thee, my mother; or perhaps, the thought
  • Floated across thy mind of what we read
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  • Aloud before we went to rest last night; —
  • I mean that passage in Isaias' book,
  • Which tells about the patient suffering lamb,
  • And which it seems that no one understands.”
  • Then Mary bent her face to the child's brow,
  • And kissed him twice, and, parting back his hair,
  • Kissed him again. And Jesus felt her tears
  • Drop warm upon his cheek, and he looked sad
  • 110When silently he put his hand again
  • Within his mother's. As they came, they went,
  • Hand in hand homeward.
  • And the child abode
  • With Mary and with Joseph, till the time
  • When all the things should be fulfilled in him
  • Which God had spoken by his prophets' mouth
  • Long since; and God was with him, and God's grace.

Manuscript Addition: Christina Rossetti
Editorial Description: name handwritten in
A Pause of Thought.

  • I looked for that which is not, nor can be,
  • And hope deferred made my heart sick, in truth;
  • But years must pass before a hope of youth
  • Is resigned utterly.
  • I watched and waited with a steadfast will:
  • And, tho' the object seemed to flee away
  • That I so longed for, ever, day by day,
  • I watched and waited still.
  • Sometimes I said, — “This thing shall be no more;
  • 10My expectation wearies, and shall cease;
  • I will resign it now, and be at peace:” —
  • Yet never gave it o'er.
  • Sometimes I said, — “It is an empty name
  • I long for; to a name why should I give
  • The peace of all the days I have to live ?” —
  • Yet gave it all the same.
  • Alas! thou foolish one, — alike unfit
  • For healthy joy and salutary pain,
  • Thou knowest the chase useless, and again
  • 20Turnest to follow it.

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Manuscript Addition: F. G. Stephens
Editorial Description: name handwritten in
The Purpose and Tendency of Early

Italian Art.

The object we have proposed to ourselves in writing on Art, has

been “an endeavour to encourage and enforce an entire adherence

to the simplicity of nature; and also to direct attention, as an

auxiliary medium, to the comparatively few works which Art has

yet produced in this spirit.” It is in accordance with the former

and more prominent of these objects that the writer proposes at

present to treat.
An unprejudiced spectator of the recent progress and main direc–

tion of Art in England will have observed, as a great change in the

character of the productions of the modern school, a marked attempt

to lead the taste of the public into a new channel by producing pure

transcripts and faithful studies from nature, instead of convention–

alities and feeble reminiscences from the Old Masters; an entire

seeking after originality in a more humble manner than has been

practised since the decline of Italian Art in the Middle Ages. This

has been most strongly shown by the landscape painters, among

whom there are many who have raised an entirely new school of

natural painting, and whose productions undoubtedly surpass all

others in the simple attention to nature in detail as well as in

generalities. By this they have succeeded in earning for themselves

the reputation of being the finest landscape painters in Europe.

But, although this success has been great and merited, it is not of

them that we have at present to treat, but rather to recommend

their example to their fellow-labourers, the historical painters.
That the system of study to which this would necessarily lead

requires a somewhat longer and more devoted course of observation

than any other is undoubted; but that it has a reward in a greater

effect produced, and more delight in the searching, is, the writer

thinks, equally certain. We shall find a greater pleasure in pro–

portion 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

their greatest men from the world to the monastery; there, in

undisturbed silence and humility,
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  • “Monotonous to paint
  • Those endless cloisters and eternal aisles
  • With the same series, Virgin, Babe, and Saint,
  • With the same cold, calm, beautiful regard.”
Even with this there is not associated a melancholy feeling alone;

for, although the object was mistaken, yet there is evinced a con–

sciousness 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 dis–

cipline; but he may show his participation in the same high feeling

by a firm attachment to truth in every point of representation,

which is the most just method. For how can good be sought by

evil means, or by falsehood, or by slight in any degree? By a

determination to represent the thing and the whole of the thing, by

training himself to the deepest observation of its fact and detail,

enabling himself to reproduce, as far as possible, nature herself,

the painter will best evince his share of faith.
It is by this attachment to truth in its most severe form that the

followers of the Arts have to show that they share in the peculiar

character of the present age, — a humility of knowledge, a diffidence

of attainment; for, as Emerson has well observed,
  • “ The time is infected with Hamlet's unhappiness, —
  • ‘Sicklied o'er with the the pale cast of thought.’

Is this so bad then? Sight is the last thing to be pitied. Would

we be blind? Do we fear lest we should outsee nature and God, and

drink truth dry?”

It has been said that there is presumption in this movement of

the modern school, a want of deference to established authorities, a

removing of ancient landmarks. This is best answered by the

profession that nothing can be more humble than the pretension to

the observation of facts alone, and the truthful rendering of them.

If we are not to depart from established principles, how are we to

advance at all? Are we to remain still? Remember, no thing re–

mains 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.
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These principles are now revived, not from them, though through

their example, but from nature herself.
That the earlier painters came nearer to fact, that they were less

of the art, artificial, cannot be better shown than by the statement

of a few examples from their works. There is a magnificent Niello

work by an unknown Florentine artist, on which is a group of

the Saviour in the lap of the Virgin. She is old, (a most touching

point); lamenting aloud, clutches passionately the heavy-weighted

body on her knee; her mouth is open. Altogether it is one of the

most powerful appeals possible to be conceived; for there are few

but will consider this identification with humanity to be of more

effect than any refined or emasculate treatment of the same subject

by later artists, in which we have the fact forgotten for the sake of

the type of religion, which the Virgin was always taken to represent,

whence she is shown as still young; as if, nature being taken

typically, it were not better to adhere to the emblem throughout,

confident by this means to maintain its appropriateness, and, there–

fore, its value and force.
In the Niello work here mentioned there is a delineation of the

Fall, in which the serpent has given to it a human head with a most

sweet, crafty expression. Now in these two instances the style is

somewhat rude; but there are passion and feeling in it. This is

not a question of mere execution, but of mind, however developed.

Let us not mistake, however, from this that execution should be

neglected, but only maintained as a most important aid, and in that

quality alone, so that we do not forget the soul for the hand. The

power of representing an object, that its entire intention may be

visible, its lesson felt, is all that is absolutely necessary: mere

technicalities of performance are but additions; and not the real

intent and end of painting, as many have considered them to be.

For as the knowledge is stronger and more pure in Masaccio than in

the Caracci, and the faith higher and greater, — so the first repre–

sents 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
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repetition of the toe-trippings of the earliest Italian school, a sneer

which is manifestly unfair; for this error, as well as several others

of a similar kind, was not the result of blindness or stupidity, but of

the simple ignorance of what had not been applied to the service of

painting at their time. It cannot be shown that they were incorrect

in expression, false in drawing, or unnatural in what is called com–

position. On the contrary, it is demonstrable that they exceeded all

others in these particulars, that they partook less of coarseness and

of conventional sentiment than any school which succeeded them,

and that they looked more to nature; in fact, were more true, and

less artificial. That their subjects were generally of a melan–

choly 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 slen–

derness have also been commented upon most severely; as if the

Italians of the fourteenth century were as so many dray horses, and

the artist were blamed for not following his model. The consequence

of this direction of taste is that we have life-guardsmen and pugilists

taken as models for kings, gentlemen, and philosophers. The writer

was once in a studio where a man, six feet two inches in height, with

atlantean shoulders, was sitting for King Alfred. That there is no

greater absurdity than this will be perceived by any one that has

ever read the description of the person of the king given by his

historian and friend Asser.
The sciences have become almost exact within the present cen–

tury. Geology and chemistry are almost re-instituted. The first

has been nearly created; the second expanded so widely that it now

searches and measures the creation. And how has this been done

but by bringing greater knowledge to bear upon a wider range of

experiment; by being precise in the search after truth? If this

adherence to fact, to experiment and not theory, — to begin at the

beginning and not fly to the end, — has added so much to the know–

ledge of man in science; why may it not greatly assist the moral

purposes of the Arts? It cannot be well to degrade a lesson by

falsehood. Truth in every particular ought to be the aim of the

artist. Admit no untruth: let the priest's garment be clean.
Let us now return to the Early Italian Painters. A complete

refutation of any charge that the character of their school was

neccessarily gloomy will be found in the works of Benozzo Gozzoli,

as in his ‘Vineyard’ where there are some grape-gatherers the most

elegant and graceful imaginable; this painter's children are the
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most natural ever painted. In Ghiberti, — in Fra Angilico, (well

named), — in Masaccio, — in Ghirlandajo, and in Baccio della

Porta, in fact in nearly all the works of the painters of this school,

will be found a character of gentleness, grace, and freedom, which

cannot be surpassed by any other school, be that which it may; and

it is evident that this result must have been obtained by their

peculiar attachment to simple nature alone, their casting aside all

ornament, or rather their perfect ignorance of such, — a happy

fortune none have shared with them. To show that with all these

qualifications they have been pre-eminent in energy and dignity,

let us instance the ‘Air Demons’ of Oreagna, where there is a

woman borne through the air by an Evil Spirit. Her expression is

the most terrible imaginable; she grasps her bearer with desperation,

looking out around her into space, agonized with terror. There are

other figures in the same picture of men who have been cast down,

and are falling through the air: one descends with his hands tied,

his chin up, and long hair hanging from his head in a mass. One

of the Evil Spirits hovering over them has flat wings, as though

they were made of plank: this gives a most powerful character to

the figure. Altogether, this picture contains perhaps a greater

amount of bold imagination and originality of conception than any

of the kind ever painted. For sublimity there are few works which

equal the ‘Archangels’ of Giotto, who stand singly, holding their

sceptres, and with relapsed wings. The ‘Paul’ of Masaccio is a

well-known example of the dignified simplicity of which these

artists possessed so large a share. These instances might be multi–

plied without end; but surely enough have been cited in the

way of example to show the surpassing talent and knowledge of

these painters, and their consequent success, by following natural

principles, until the introduction of false and meretricious ornament

led the Arts from the simple chastity of nature, which it is as use–

less to attempt to elevate as to endeavour to match the works of

God by those of man.Let the artist be content to study nature

alone, and not dream of elevating any of her works, which are alone

worthy of representation.*
The Arts have always been most important moral guides. Their
Transcribed Footnote (page 62):

* The sources from which these examples are drawn, and where many more

might be found, are principally: — D'Agincourt: “ Histoire d e 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.

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flourishing has always been coincident with the most wholesome

period of a nation's: never with the full and gaudy bloom which but

hides corruption, but the severe health of its most active and

vigorous life; its mature youth, and not the floridity of age,

which, like the wide full open petals of a flower, indicates that its

glory is about to pass away. There has certainly always been a

period like the short warm season the Canadians call the “ Indian

Summer,” which is said to be produced by the burning of the

western forests, causing a factitious revival of the dying year: so

there always seems to have been a flush of life before the final

death of the Arts in each period: — in Greece, in the sculptors and

architects of the time after Pericles; in the Germans, with the

successors of Albert Durer. In fact, in every school there has been

a spring, a summer, an autumn, an “ Indian Summer,” and then

winter; for as surely as the “ Indian Summer,” (which is, after all,

but an unhealthy flush produced by destruction,) so surely does

winter come. In the Arts, the winter has been exaggerated action,

conventionalism, gaudy colour, false sentiment, voluptuousness, and

poverty of invention: and, of all these characters, that which has

been the most infallible herald of decease, voluptuousness, has been

the most rapid and sure. Corruption lieth under it; and every

school, and indeed every individual, that has pandered to this, and

departed from the true spirit in which all study should be conducted,

sought to degrade and sensualize, instead of chasten and render

pure, the humanity it was instructed to elevate. So has that school,

and so have those individuals, lost their own power and descended

from their high seat, fallen from the priest to the mere parasite,

from the law-giver to the mere courtier.
If we have entered upon a new age, a new cycle of man, of which

there are many signs, let us have it unstained by this vice of sen–

suality 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,
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guided by their light: not so subservient as to lose our own freedom,

but in the confidence of equal power and equal destiny; and then

rely that we shall obtain the same success and equal or greater power,

such as is given to the age in which we live. This is the only

course that is worthy of the influence which might be exerted by

means of the Arts upon the character of the people: therefore let it

be the only one for us to follow if we hope to share in the work.
That the real power of the Arts, in conjunction with Poetry, upon

the actions of any age is, or might be, predominant above all others

will be readily allowed by all that have given any thought to the

subject: and that there is no assignable limit to the good that may

be wrought by their influence is another point on which there can

be small doubt. Let us then endeavour to call up and exert this

power in the worthiest manner, not forgetting that we chose a

difficult path, in which there are many snares, and holding in mind

the motto, “No Cross, no Crown.”
Believe that there is that in the fact of truth, though it be only in the

character of a single leaf earnestly studied, which may do its share in

the great labor of the world: remember that it is by truth alone

that the Arts can ever hold the position for which they were

intended, as the most powerful instruments, the most gentle guides;

that, of all classes, there is none to whom the celebrated words of

Lessing, “ That the destinies of a nation depend upon its young

men between nineteen and twenty-five years of age,” can apply so

well as to yourselves. Recollect, that your portion in this is most

important: that your share is with the poet's share; that, in every

careless thought or neglected doubt, you shelve your duty, and for–

sake 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.

Manuscript Addition: Christina Rossetti
Editorial Description: author's name handwritten in
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.
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Sig. E
Manuscript Addition: W.B. Scott
Editorial Description: author's name handwritten in
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
  • 10Unto the weary hath been mine to-night,
  • Slumber unbroken: now it floats away: —
  • But whether 'twere not best to woo it still,
  • The head thus properly disposed, the eyes
  • In a continual dawning, mingling earth
  • And heaven with vagrant fantasies, — one hour, —
  • Yet for another hour? I will not break
  • The shining woof; I will not rudely leap
  • Out of this golden atmosphere, through which
  • I see the forms of immortalities.
  • 20Verily, 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,
  • 30Lengthening 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;
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  • 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, —
  • 40What time the granite sentinels that watch
  • The mouths of cavern-temples hail the first
  • Faint star, and feel the gradual darkness blend
  • Their august lineaments; — what time Haroun
  • Perambulated Bagdat, and none knew
  • He was the Caliph who knocked soberly
  • By Giafar's hand at their gates shut betimes; —
  • What time prince Assad sat on the high hill
  • 'Neath the pomegranate-tree, long wearying
  • For his lost brother's step; — what time, as now,
  • 50Along 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,
  • 60Voyaging on, though to no bourne; all heaven
  • Its own wide home alike, earth far below
  • Fading still further, further. Yet we see,
  • In fancy, its green fields, its towers, and towns
  • Smoking with life, its roads with traffic thronged
  • And tedious travellers within iron cars,
  • Its rivers with their ships, and laborers,
  • To whose raised eye, as, stretched upon the sward,
  • They may enjoy some interval of rest,
  • That little cloud appears no living thing,
  • 70Although it moves, and changes as it moves.
  • There is an old and memorable tale
  • Of some sound sleeper being borne away
  • By banded fairies in the mottled hour
  • Before the cockcrow, through unknown weird woods
  • And mighty forests, where the boughs and roots
  • Opened before him, closed behind; — thenceforth
  • A wise man lived he, all unchanged by years.
  • Perchance again these fairies may return,
    Image of page 67 page: 67
    Sig. E 2
  • And evermore shall I remain as now,
  • 80A 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
  • 90Over 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,
  • 100Piercing 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
  • 110Ennobles 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
    Image of page 68 page: 68
  • 120A picture; — the immortals pass along
  • Into the heaven, and others follow still,
  • Each on his own ray-path, till all the field
  • Is threaded with the foot-prints of the great.
  • And now the passengers are lost; long lines
  • Only are left, all intertwisted, dark
  • Upon a flood of light......... I am awake!
  • I hear domestic voices on the stair.
  • Already hath the mower finished half
  • His summer day's ripe task; already hath
  • 130His 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.

Manuscript Addition: Calder Campbell
Editorial Description: author's name handwritten in
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
  • 10Gush 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!

Image of page 69 page: 69
Manuscript Addition: Coventry Patmore
Editorial Description: author's name handwritten in
Stars and Moon.
  • Beneath the stars and summer moon
  • A pair of wedded lovers walk,
  • Upon the stars and summer moon
  • They turn their happy eyes, and talk.
Edith.
  • “Those stars, that moon, for me they shine
  • With lovely, but no startling light;
  • My joy is much, but not as thine,
  • A joy that fills the pulse, like fright.”
Alfred.
  • “My love, a darken'd conscience clothes
  • 10The world in sackcloth; and, I fear,
  • The stain of life this new heart loathes,
  • Still clouds my sight; but thine is clear.
  • “True vision is no startling boon
  • To one in whom it always lies;
  • But if true sight of stars and moon
  • Were strange to thee, it would surprise.
  • “Disease it is and dearth in me
  • Which thou believest genius, wealth;
  • And that imagined want in thee
  • 20Is riches and abundant health.
  • “O, little merit I my bride!
  • And therefore will I love her more;
  • Renewing, by her gentle side,
  • Lost worth: let this thy smile restore !”
Edith.
  • “Ah, love! we both, with longing deep,
  • Love words and actions kind, which are
  • More good for life than bread or sleep,
  • More beautiful than Moon or Star.”

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