page: [i]
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.
page: [ii]
- 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
All persons from whom Communications have been
received, and
who have not been otherwise replied to,
are requested to accept the
Editor's acknowledgments.
page: [iii]
page: [iv]
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.”
page: 49
Manuscript Addition: James Collinson
Editorial Description: author's name handwritten in
“O all ye that pass by the way, attend and see if there be any
sorrow like to my sorrow.” —
Lamentations, i. 12.
- 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.
page: 50
- 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,
page: 51
- 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.
page: 52
- 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.
page: 53
- 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.
- 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.
page: 54
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
page: 55
- 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
page: 56
-
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
page: 57
- 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
- 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.
page: 58
Manuscript Addition: F. G. Stephens
Editorial Description: name handwritten in
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,
page: 59
- “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.
page: 60
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
page: 61
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
page: 62
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.
page: 63
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,
page: 64
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
- 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.
page: 65
Manuscript Addition: W.B. Scott
Editorial Description: author's name handwritten in
- 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;
page: 66
- 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,
page: 67
- 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
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
- 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!
page: 69
Manuscript Addition: Coventry Patmore
Editorial Description: author's name handwritten in
- 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.”
page: 70