This is the British Library copy of the third issue of
The Germ
, the periodical launched by DGR and some friends in 1850 for
disseminating the work and ideas of the initial Pre-Raphaelite circle. Only
four numbers were published (January, February, March, and May, 1850).
The most useful commentary on the periodical is still the 1901
The Germ
.
The first number appeared in 1 January 1850 with Holman Hunt's etching (700 copies printed; 50 had etchings on India paper). Only 70 were sold. The second issue appeared on 31 January (500 copies printed, 40 sold by 9 February) and with a James Collinson engraving. Number 3 appeared on 31 March with Ford Madox Brown's engraving, and the last number, with Walter Deverell's engraving, on 30 April. Print runs for issues 3 and 4 are uncertain, and apparently only 106 copies of number 4 were sold). The poor sales forced the journal to close down. Most of the expenses for the financial failure of the magazine were born by George Tupper.
After the fame of the PRB was established,
The Germ
was reprinted first by Thomas Mosher (1898: Portland, Maine) and again
as a close
Each of the four issues began with an etching, a device that clearly established the artistic focus of the journal. The gothic types that were used for the cover sheets (which also served as title pages) and for the printed texts also contributed to the tone if not the arguments of the work. These types seem reminiscent of the Puseyite or Tractarian movement and locate the work's spiritual inspiration in an earlier, medieval world.
<xref doc="a.nd467.h9.1914.rad" link="dead">Pre-Raphaelitism</xref>
.
Fraser's Magazine
(
The Subscribers to this Work are respectfully informed
that
the future Numbers will appear on the last day of the
Month for
which they are dated. Also, that a supplementary,
or large-sized
Etching will occasionally be given (as with the
present
Number.)
The purpose of the following Essay is to
demonstrate the exist–
ence of a very important error
in the hitherto universally adopted
interpretation of the
character of Macbeth. We shall prove that
a design
of illegitimately obtaining the crown of Scotland had been
conceived by Macbeth, and that it had been communicated by
him to his wife, prior to his first meeting with the
witches, who are commonly supposed to have suggested that
design.
Most persons when they commence the study of the great
Shaksperian dramas, already entertain concerning them a set of
traditional notions, generally originated by the
representations, or
misrepresentations, of the theatre,
afterwards to become strength–
ened or confirmed by
desultory reading and corroborative criticism.
With this class
of persons it was our misfortune to rank,
when we first entered
upon the study of
As long as we continued under this idea, the impression
produced
upon us by
Let us proceed to examine the validity of a position,
which, * It is proper to state that this article was written, and
seen, exactly as it at
present stands, by several
literary friends of the writer, a considerable time before
the appearance, in the
of the particular view was thus anticipated, nearly all
the most forcible argu–
ments for maintaining
it were omitted; and the subject, mixed up, as it was, with
lengthy disquisitions upon very minor topics of
Shaksperian acting, &c. made
no very general
impression at the time.
The inferences which we believe to be deducible from the first
scene can be profitably employed only in conjunction with those
to
be discovered in the third. Our analysis must, therefore, be
entered
upon by an attempt to ascertain the true character of
the impres–
sions which it was the desire of
Shakspere to convey by the second.
This scene is almost exclusively occupied with the narrations
of
the “bleeding Soldier,” and of Rosse.
These narrations are con–
structed with the express
purpose of vividly setting forth the per–
sonal
valour of Duncan's generals, “Macbeth and Banquo.” Let
us
consider what is the maximum worth which the words
of
Shakspere will, at this period of the play, allow us to
attribute to
the moral character of the hero:—a point, let it
be observed,
of first-rate importance to the present argument.
We find Mac–
beth, in this scene, designated by
various epithets, all of which,
either
directly or indirectly, arise from feelings of admiration created
by his courageous conduct in the war in which he is supposed
to have been engaged. “Brave” and “Noble Macbeth,”
“Bel–
lona's Bridegroom,” “Valiant Cousin,” and
“Worthy Gentleman,”
are the general titles by which he is here
spoken of; but none of
them afford any positive clue whatever
to his moral character.
Nor is any such clue
supplied by the scenes in which he is pre–
sently
received by the messengers of Duncan, and afterwards
received
and lauded by Duncan himself. Macbeth's moral
cha–
racter, up to the development of his criminal
hopes, remains
strictly negative. Hence it is
difficult to fathom the meaning of
those critics, (A. Schlegel
at their head), who have over and over
again made the ruin of
Macbeth's
subject of their comment.
In the third scene we have the meeting of the witches, the
* A. Schlegel's
announcement of whose intention to re-assemble upon the heath,
there to meet with Macbeth, forms the
certainly most obvious,
though not perhaps, altogether the most
important, aim of the short
scene by which the tragedy is
opened. An enquiry of much
interest here suggests itself. Did
Shakspere intend that in his
tragedy of “Macbeth” the witches
should figure as originators of
gratuitous destruction, in
direct opposition to the traditional, and
We think that he has retained it, and for the following
reasons: Whenever Shakspere has elsewhere embodied
supersti–
tions, he has treated them as direct and
unalterable facts of human
nature; and this
he has done because he was too profound
a philosopher to be
capable of regarding genuine superstition as
the product of
random spectra of the fancy, having absolute
darkness for the
prime condition of their being, instead of
seeing in it rather
the zodiacal light of truth, the concomitant
of the uprising,
and of the setting of the truth, and a partaker
in its essence.
Again, Shakspere has in this very play devoted
a considerable
space to the purpose of suggesting the self-same
trait of
character now under discussion, and this he appears to
have
done with the express intent of guarding against a mistake,
the
probability of the occurrence of which he foresaw, but which,
for reasons connected with the construction of the play, he
could
not hope otherwise to obviate.
We allude to the introductory portion of the present scene. One
sister, we learn, has just returned from killing swine; another
breathes forth vengeance against a
sailor, on account of the un–
charitable act of his
wife; but “his bark cannot be lost,” though it
may be “tempest tossed.” The last words are scarcely uttered
before the confabulation is interrupted by the approach of
Macbeth,
to whom they have as yet made no direct allusion
whatever, through–
out the whole of this opening
passage, consisting in all of some five
and twenty lines. Now
this were a digression which would be a
complete anomaly,
having place, as it is supposed to have, at this
early stage of
one of the most consummate of the tragedies of
Shak–
spere. We may be sure, therefore, that it is
the chief object of
these lines to impress the reader
beforehand with an idea that, in
the mind of Macbeth, there
already exist sure foundations for that
great superstructure of
evil, to the erection of which, the “meta–
physical
aid” of the weird sisters is now to be
offered. An opinion
which is further supported by the
reproaches of Hecate, who,
afterwards, referring to what occurs
in this scene, exclaims,
witches had spurred him on to their acquirement.
The fact that in the old chronicle, from which the plot of the
play is taken, the machinations of the witches are not assumed
to
be un-gratuitous, cannot be employed as an
argument against our
position. In history the sisters figure in
the capacity of prophets
merely. There we
have no previous announcement of their inten–
tion
“to meet with Macbeth.” But in Shakspere they are invested
with
all other of their superstitional attributes, in order that they
may become the evil instruments of holy vengeance upon evil; of
that most terrible of vengeance which punishes sin, after it
has ex–
ceeded certain bounds, by deepening it.
Proceeding now with our analysis, upon the entrance of Macbeth
and Banquo, the witches wind up their hurried charm. They are
first perceived by Banquo. To his questions the sisters refuse
to
reply; but, at the command of Macbeth, they immediately
speak,
and forthwith utter the prophecy which seals the fate of
Duncan.
Now, assuming the truth of our view, what would be the natural
behaviour of Macbeth upon coming into sudden contact with
beings
who appear to hold intelligence of his most secret
thoughts; and
upon hearing those thoughts, as it were, spoken
aloud in the presence
of a third party? His behaviour would be
precisely that which is
implied by the question of Banquo.
If, on the other hand, our view is start and seem to
fear
not
true, why, seeing that their
characters are in the abstract so
much alike, why does the present
conduct of Macbeth differ from
that of Banquo, when the witches
direct their prophecies to
him? Why has Shakspere altered the
narrative of Holinshed,
without the prospect of gaining any advan–
tage
commensurate to the licence taken in making that alteration?
These are the words of the old chronicle: “This (the recontre
with the witches) was reputed at the first but some vain
fantastical
illusion by Macbeth and Banquo, insomuch that
Banquo would call
Macbeth in jest king of Scotland; and Macbeth
again would call
him in jest likewise the father of many
kings.” Now it was the
invariable practice of Shakspere to give
facts or traditions just as
he found them, whenever the
introduction of those facts or tra–
ditions was not
totally irreconcileable with the tone of his
concep–
tion. How then (should we still receive the
notion which we are
now combating) are we to account for his
anomalous practice in
this particular case?
When the witches are about to vanish, Macbeth attempts to
delay their departure, exclaiming,
“To be king stands not within the prospect of belief, and, to be king
Stands not within the prospect of
belief,
No more than to be Cawdor. Say, from
whenceintelligence
?”no more than to be Cawdor.” No! it naturally
stands much less within the
prospect of
belief. Here the mind of Macbeth, having long been
accustomed
to the nurture of its “royal hope,” conceives that it is
uttering a very suitable hyperbole of comparison. Had that mind
been hitherto an honest mind the word “Cawdor” would have
occupied the place of “king,” “king” that of “Cawdor.” Observe
too the general character of this speech: Although the
coincidence
of the principal prophecy with his own thoughts has
so strong an
effect upon Macbeth as to induce him to, at once,
pronounce the
words of the sisters, “intelligence;” he
nevertheless affects to treat
that prophecy as completely
secondary to the other in the strength
of its claims upon his
consideration. This is a piece of over-cautious
hypocrisy which is fully in keeping with the tenor of his
conduct
throughout the rest of the tragedy.
No sooner have the witches vanished than Banquo begins to
doubt whether there had been “such things there as they did
speak
about.” This is the natural incredulity of a free mind so
circum–
stanced. On the other hand, Macbeth, whose
manner, since the
first announcement of the sisters, has been
that of a man in a
reverie, makes no doubt
whatsoever of the reality of their appearance,
nor does he
reply to the expressed scepticism of Banquo, but
abruptly
exclaims, “your children shall be kings.” To this Banquo
answers, “you shall be king.” “And thane of Cawdor too: went
it not so?” continues Macbeth. Now, what, in either case, is
the
condition of mind which can have given rise to this part of
the
dialogue? It is, we imagine, sufficiently evident that the
playful
words of Banquo were suggested to Shakspere by the
narration of
Holinshed; but how are we to account for those of
Macbeth, other–
wise than by supposing that the
question of the crown is now
settled in his mind by the
coincidence of the principal prediction,
with the shapings of
his own thoughts, and that he is at this
moment occupied with
the wholly unanticipated revelations,
touch–
ing the thaneship of Cawdor, and the future
possession of the throne
by the offspring of Banquo?
Now comes the fulfilment of the first prophecy. Mark the
words of these men, upon receiving the announcement of Rosse:
Mark how that reception is in either case precisely the
reverse of Banquo. What! can the devil speak
truth?Macbeth. The thane of Cawdor lives:
why do you dress me
that given to the prophecy itself. Here Banquo starts. But what
is here done for Banquo, by
the coincidence of the prophecy with
the truth, has been
already done for Macbeth, by the coincidence of
his thought
with the prophecy. Accordingly, Macbeth is calm
enough to play
the hypocrite, when he must otherwise have
experi–
enced surprise far greater than that of
Banquo, because he is much
more nearly concerned in the source
of it. So far indeed from being
overcome with astonishment,
Macbeth still continues to dwell upon
the prophecy, by which
his peace of mind is afterwards constantly
disturbed,
Banquo's reply to this question has been one of the chief
sources
of the interpretation, the error of which we are now
endeavouring to
expose. He says,
Now, these words have usually been considered to afford the
clue to
the entire nature and extent of the
supernatural influence brought
into play upon the present
tragedy; whereas, in truth, all that they
express is a natural
suspicion, called up in the mind of Banquo, by
Macbeth's
remarkable deportment, that such is the character
of the
influence which is at this moment being exerted upon the
soul of the
man to whom he therefore thinks proper to hint the
warning they
contain.
The soliloquy which immediately follows the above passage is
particularly worthy of comment:
The early portion of this passage assuredly indicates that
Macbeth
regards the communications of the witches merely in the
light of an
invitation to the carrying out of a design
pre-existent in his own
mind. He thinks that the spontaneous fulfilment of the chief
prophecy is in no
way probable; the consummation of the lesser
prophecy being
held by him, but as an “earnest of success” to his
own efforts
in consummating the greater. From the latter portion
of this
soliloquy we learn the real extent to which “metaphysical
aid”
is implicated in bringing about the crime of Duncan's murder.
It serves to assure Macbeth that that is the
“nearest way” to the
attainment of his wishes;—a way to the
suggestion of which he now,
for the first time, “yields,” because the chances of its failure have
been
infinitely lessened by the “earnest of success” which he has
just received.
After the above soliloquy Macbeth breaks the long pause,
implied
in Banquo's words, “Look how our partner's rapt,” by exclaiming,
Which is a very logical conclusion; but one at which he would
long
ago have arrived, had “soliciting” meant “suggestion,” as
most
people suppose it to have done; or at least, under those
circum–
stances, he would have been satisfied with
that conclusion, instead
of immediately afterwards changing it,
as we see that he has done,
when he adds,
With that the third scene closes; the parties engaged in it
proceed–
ing forthwith to the palace of Duncan at
Fores.
Towards the conclusion of the fourth scene, Duncan names his
successor in the realm of Scotland. After this Macbeth hastily
departs, to inform his wife of the king's proposed visit to
their
castle, at Inverness. The last words of Macbeth are the following,
These lines are equally remarkable for a tone of settled
assurance
as to the fulfilment of the speaker's royal hope, and
for an entire
absence of any expression of reliance upon the
power of the witches,
—the hitherto supposed originators of that
hope,—in aiding its
consummation. It is particularly noticeable
that Macbeth should
make no reference whatever, not even in
thought, (that is, in
soliloquy) to any supernatural agency
during the long period inter–
vening between the
fulfilment of the two prophecies. Is it probable
that this
would have been the case had Shakspere intended that
such an
agency should be understood to have been the first motive
and
mainspring of that deed, which, with all its accompanying
struggles of conscience, he has so minutely pictured to us as
having
been, during that period, enacted? But besides this
negative argu–
ment, we have a positive one for his
non-reliance upon their pro–
mises in the fact that
he attempts to outwit them by the murder of
Fleance even after
the fulfilment of the second prophecy.
The fifth scene opens with Lady Macbeth's perusal of her
hus–
band's narration of his interview with the
witches. The order of
our investigation requires the
postponement of comment upon the
contents of this letter. We
leave it for the present, merely cau–
tioning the
reader against taking up any hasty objections to a very
important clause in the enunciation of our view by reminding
him that, contrary to Shakspere's custom in ordinary cases, we
are
made acquainted only with a portion of
the missive in question.
Let us then proceed to consider the
soliloquy which immediately
follows the perusal of this letter:
It is vividly apparent that this passage indicates a knowledge
of
the character it depicts, which is far too intimate to allow
of its
being other than a direct inference
from facts connected with pre–
vious communications
upon similar topics between the speaker and
the writer: unless,
indeed, we assume that in this instance Shak–
spere
has notably departed from his usual principles of
charac–
terization, in having invested Lady Macbeth
with an amount of
philosophical acuteness, and a faculty of
deduction, much beyond
those pretended to by any other of the
female creations of the same
author.
The above passage is interrupted by the announcement of the
approach of Duncan. Observe Lady Macbeth's behaviour upon
receiving it. She immediately determines upon what is to be
done,
and all without (are we to suppose?) in any way
consulting, or
being aware of, the wishes or inclinations of
her husband! Observe
too, that neither does she appear to regard the witches' prophecies
as anything
more than an invitation, and holding forth of
“meta–
physical aid” to the
carrying out of an independent project. That
this should be the
case in both instances vastly strengthens the
argument
legitimately deducible from each.
At the conclusion of the passage which called for the last
remark,
Macbeth, after a long and eventful period of absence,
let it be
recollected, enters to a wife who, we will for a
moment suppose,
is completely ignorant of the character of her
husband's recent
cogitations. These are the first words which
pass between them,
Macbeth. My dearest love,L. Macbeth. And when goes hence?Macbeth. To-morrow, as he
purposes.L. Macbeth. Oh! neverMacbeth. We will speak further.”
Are these words those which would naturally arise from the
situation at present, by common consent, attributed to the speakerseach speaker is
totally ignorant of the sentiments pre-existent in the mind
of the other. Are
the words, “we will speak further,”
those which might in nature
form the whole and sole reply made
by a man to his wife's com–
pletely unexpected
anticipation of his own fearful purposes? If
not, if few or
none of these lines, thus interpreted, will satisfy the
reader's feeling for common truth, does not the view which we
have
adopted invest them with new light, and improved, or
perfected
meaning?
The next scene represents the arrival of Duncan at Inverness,
and
contains nothing which bears either way upon the point in
question.
Proceeding, therefore, to the seventh and last scene
of the first act
we come to what we cannot but consider to be
proof positive of the
opinion under examination. We shall
transcribe at length the
portion of this scene containing that
proof; having first reminded
the reader that a few hours at
most can have elapsed between the
arrival of Macbeth, and the
period at which the words, now to be
quoted, are uttered.
Lady Macbeth. Was the hope drunk,
Wherein you dressed yourself? Hath it slept
since,
And wakes it now, to look so green and
pale
At what it did so freely? From this
time,Macbeth. Prithee, peace:Lady Macbeth. What beast was't then
That made you break this enterprise to me
?
When you durst do it, then you were a
man,
And to be more than what you were you
would
Be so much more the man. Nor time nor
place
Did then adhere, and yet you would make
both.had I so
sworn
As you have done to this.”
With respect to the above lines, let us observe that, the
words,
“nor time nor place did then adhere,” render it evident
that they
hold reference to something which passed before
Duncan had sig–
nified his intention of visiting the
castle of Macbeth. Consequently
the words of Lady Macbeth can
have no reference to the previous
communication of any definite
intention, on the part of her husband,
to murder the king;
because, not long before, she professes herself
aware that
Macbeth's nature is “too full of the milk of human
kind–
ness to catch the nearest way;” indeed, she has
every reason to
suppose that she herself has been the means of
breaking that enter–
prize to him,
though, in truth, the crime had already, as we have
seen,
suggested itself to his thought, “whose murder was as yet
fantastical.”
Again the whole tenor of this passage shows that it refers to
ver–
bal communication between them. But
no such communication can have taken place since Macbeth's
rencontre with the witches; for,
besides that he is,
immediately after that recontre, conducted to the
presence of
the king, who there signifies an intention of proceeding
directly to Macbeth's castle, such a communication would have
ren–
dered the contents of the letter to Lady Macbeth
completely super–
fluous. What then are we to
conclude concerning these problematical
lines? First begging
the reader to bear in mind the tone of sophistry
which has been
observed by Schlegel to pervade, and which is
indeed manifest
throughout the persuasions of Lady Macbeth, we
answer, that she
wilfully confounds her husband's,—probably vague
and
unplanned—“enterprise” of obtaining the crown, with that
“nearest way” to which she now urges him; but, at the same
time,
she obscurely individualizes the separate purposes in the
words,
“and to be more than what you were,
you would be so much
more the man.”
It is a fact which is highly interesting in itself, and one
which
strongly impeaches the candour of the majority of
Shakspere's
commentators, that the impenetrable obscurity which
must have
pervaded the whole of this passage should never have
been made
the subject of remark. As far as we can remember, not
a word has
been said upon the matter in any one of the many
superfluously
explanatory editions of our dramatist's
productions. Censures have
been repeatedly lavished upon minor
cases of obscurity, none upon
this. In the former case the
fault has been felt to be Shakspere's,
language is unexceptional, and the avowal of obscurity might
imply the possibility of misapprehension or stupidity upon the
part
of the avower.
Probably the only considerable obstacle likely to act against
the
general adoption of those views will be the doubt, whether
so
important a feature of this consummate tragedy can have been
left
by Shakspere so obscurely expressed as to be capable of
remaining
totally unperceived during upwards of two centuries,
within which
period the genius of a Coleridge and of a Schlegel
has been applied
to its interpretation. Should this objection
be brought forward, we
reply, in the first place, that the
objector is ‘begging’ his question
in assuming that the feature
under examination has remained
totally
unperceived. Coleridge by way of comment upon these
words of Banquo,
writes thus: “The general idea is all that can be required
of a
poet—not a scholastic logical consistency in all the
parts, so as to
meet metaphysical objectors. * * * * * * * *
How strictly true
to nature it is, that Banquo, and not Macbeth
himself, directs our
notice to the effects produced in
Macbeth's mind, rendered temptible by previous
dalliance with ambitious thoughts.” Here Coleridge denies
the necessity of “logical consistency, so as
to meet metaphysical
objectors,” although he has, throughout
his criticisms upon Shaks–
pere, endeavored, and
nearly always with success, to prove the
existence of that consistency; and so strongly has he felt the
want of
it here, that he has, in order to satisfy himself, assumed that “pre–
vious dalliance
with ambitious thoughts,” whose existence it has
been our
object to prove.
But, putting Coleridge's imperfect perception of the truth out
of the
question, surely nothing can be easier than to believe
that for the
belief in which we have so
many precedents. How many beauties,
lost upon Dryden, were
perceived by Johnson; How many, hidden
to Johnson and his
cotemporaries, have been brought to light by
Schlegel and by
Coleridge.
Resuming a consideration of the subject-matter suitable in
painting
and sculpture, it is necessary to repeat those
premises, and to re-es–
tablish those principles
which were advanced or elicited in the first
number of this
essay.
It was premised then that works of Fine Art affect the beholder
in the same ratio as the natural prototypes
of those works would
affect him; and not in proportion to the
difficulties overcome in the
artificial representation of those
prototypes. Not contending, mean–
while, that the
picture painted by the hand of the artist, and then
by the hand
of nature on the eye of the beholder, is, in amount, the
same
as the picture painted there by nature alone; but disregarding,
as irrelevant to this investigation, all
concomitants of fine art wherein they involve an ulterior
impression as to the relative merits of the work by the
amount of its success, and, for a like reason,
disregard–
ing all emotions and impressions which are
not the immediate and
proximate result of an excitor influence
of, or pertaining to, the
things artificial,
as a bona fide equivalent of the things natural.
Or the premises may be practically stated thus:—(1st.) When
one looks on a certain painting or sculpture for the first
time, the
first notion is that of a painting or sculpture.
(2nd.) In the next
place, while the objects depicted are
revealing themselves as real
objects, the notion of a painting
or sculpture has elapsed, and, in its
place, there are
emotions, passions, actions (moral or intellectual)
according
in sort and degree to the heart or mind-moving influence
of the
objects represented. (3rd.) Finally, there is a notion of a
painting or sculpture, and a judgment or sentiment commensurate
with the estimated merits of the work.—The second statement
gives
the premised conditions under which Fine Art is about to
be
treated: the 3rd statement exemplifies a phase in the being
of Fine
Art under which it is never to be considered: and
furthermore,
whilst the mental reflection last mentioned (the
judgment on the
work) is being made, it may occur that certain
objects, most diffi–
cult of artistic execution, had
been most successfully handled: the
merits of introducing such
objects, in such a manner, are the merits
of those concomitants
mentioned as equally without the scope of
consideration.
Thus much for the premises—next to the re-establishment of
principles.
1st. The principle was elicited, that Fine Art should regard
the
general happiness of man, by addressing those of his
attributes
which are peculiarly human, by
exciting the activity of his rational
and benevolent powers;
and thereafter:—2nd, that the Subject in
Art should be drawn
from objects which so address and excite him;
and 3rd, as
objects so exciting the mental activity may (in
propor–
tion to the mental capacity) excite it to any
amount, and so possibly
in the highest degree (the function of
Fine Art being mental excite–ment,
and that of High Art being the highest mental
excitement) that
all objects so exciting mental
activity and emotion in the highest
degree, may afford subjects
for High Art.
Having thus re-stated the premises and principles already
deduced, let us proceed to enquire into the propriety of
selecting
the Subject from the past or the present time; which
enquiry
resolves itself fundamentally into the analysis of
objects and
incidents experienced immediately by the senses, or
acquired by
mental education.
Here then we have to explore the specific difference between
the
incidents and objects of to-day, as exposed to our daily
observation,
and the incidents and objects of time past, as
bequeathed to us by
history, poetry, or tradition.
In the first pace, there is, no doubt, a considerable real difference
between the things of to-day
and those of times past: but as all
former times, their
incidents and objects differ amongst themselves,
this can
hardly be the cause of the specific difference sought for—a
difference between our share of things past and things present.
This real, but not specific difference then, however admitted,
shall
not be considered here.
It is obvious, in the meanwhile, that all which we have of the
past is stamped with an impress of mental assimilation: an
impress
it has received from the mind of the author who has
garnered it up,
and disposed it in that form and order which
ensure it acceptance
with posterity. For let a writer of
history be as matter of fact as
he will, the very order and
classification of events will save us the
trouble of confusion,
and render them graspable, and more capable
of assimilation,
than is the raw material of every-day experience.
In fact the
work of mind is begun, the key of intelligence is given,
and we
have only to continue the process. Where the vehicle for
the
transmission of things past is poetry, then we have them
presented in that succession, and with that modification of
force,
a resilient plasticity, now advancing, now recoiling,
insinuating and
grappling, that ere this material and mental
warfare is over, we
find the facts thus transmitted are
incorporated with our psychical
tale in his own way; and the merits of the story itself, or the
person who tells it, or his way of telling, procures it a
lodgment in
the mind of the hearer, whence it is ever ready to
start up and claim
kindred with some external excitement.
Thus it is the luck of all things of the past to come down to
us
with some poetry about them; while from those of diurnal
ex–
perience we must extract this poetry ourselves:
and although all
good men are, more or less, poets, they are
passive or recipient
poets; while the active or donative poet
caters for them what they
fail to collect. For let a poet walk
through London, and he shall
see a succession of incidents,
suggesting some moral beauty by a
contrast of times with times,
unfolding some principle of nature,
developing some attribute
of man, or pointing to some glory in The
Maker: while the man
who walked behind him saw nothing but
shops and pavement, and
coats and faces; neither did he hear the
aggregated turmoil of
a city of nations, nor the noisy exponents of
various desires,
appetites and pursuits: each pulsing tremour of
the atmosphere
was not struck into it by a subtile ineffable
some–
thing willed forcibly out of a cranium: neither
did he see the
driver of horses holding a rod of light in his
eye and feeling
his way, in a world he was rushing through, by
the motion of
the end of that rod:—he only saw the wheels in
motion, and
heard the rattle on the stones; and yet this man
stopped twice at
a book shop to buy ‘a Tennyson,’ or a
‘Browning's Sordello.’
Now this man might have seen all that
the poet saw; he walked
through the same streets: yet the poet
goes home and writes a
poem; and he who failed to feel the
poetry of the things themselves
detects it readily in the
poet's version. Then why, it is asked, does
not this man,
schooled by the poet's example, look out for himself
for the
future, and so find attractions in things of to-day? He
does so
to a trifling extent, but the reason why he does so rarely
will
be found in the former demonstration.
It was shown how bygone objects and incidents come down to us
invested in peculiar attractions: this the poet knows and
feels, and
the probabilities are that he transferred the
incidents of to-day, with
all their poetical and moral
suggestions, to the romantic long-ago,
partly from a feeling of
prudence, and partly that he himself was
under this spell of
antiquity, How many a Troubadour, who
recited tales of king
Arthur, had his incidents furnished him by
the events of his
own time! And thus it is the many are attracted
to the poetry
of things past, yet impervious to the poetry of things
present.
But this retrograde movement in the poet, painter, or
the result of necessity, is an error in judgment or a culpable
dis–
honesty. For why should he not acknowledge the
source of his
inspiration, that others may drink of the same
spring with himself;
and perhaps drink deeper and a clearer
draught?—For the water is
unebbing and exhaustless, and fills
the more it is emptied: why
then should it be filtered through
his tank where he can teach men
to drink it
at the fountain?
If, as every poet, every painter, every sculptor will
acknow–
ledge, his best and most original ideas are
derived from his own
times: if his great lessonings to piety,
truth, charity, love, honor,
honesty, gallantry, generosity,
courage, are derived from the same
source; why transfer them to
distant periods, and make them not things of
to-day? Why teach us to revere the saints of old, and not
our own family-worshippers? Why to admire the lance-armed
knight, and not the patience-armed hero of misfortune? Why to
draw a sword we do not wear to aid and oppressed damsel, and
not a
purse which we do wear to rescue an erring one? Why to
worship
a martyred St. Agatha, and not a sick woman attending
the sick?
Why teach us to honor an Aristides or a Regulus, and
not one who
pays an equitable, though to him ruinous, tax
without a railing
accusation? And why not teach us to help what
the laws cannot
help?—why teach us to hate a Nero or an Appius,
and not an
underselling oppressor of workmen and betrayer of
women and
children? Why to love a Ladie in
bower, and not a wife's fire–
side? Why paint or poetically
depict the horrible race of Ogres
and , and not show Giant
Despair dressed in that modern
habit he walks the streets in?
Why teach men what were great
and good deeds in the old time,
neglecting to show them any good
for themselves?—till these
questions are answered absolutory to
the artist, it were unwise
to propose the other question—Why a
poet, painter or sculptor
is not honored and loved as formerly?
“As formerly,” says some
avowed sceptic in old world
transendency
andgolden age affairs,
“I believe formerly the artist was as much
respected and cared for as he is now. 'Tis true the Greeks
granted
an immunity from taxation to some of their artists, who
were often
great men in the state, and even the companions of
princes. And
are not some of our poets peers? Have not some of
our artists
received knighthood from the hand of their
Sovereign, and have
not some of them received pensions?”
To answer objections of this latitude demands the assertion of
certain characteristic facts which, tho' not here demonstrated,
may
be authenticated by reference to history. Of these, the
facts of
Saxon, are sufficient to show in what respect the poets of that
period were held; when a man without any safe conduct whatever
could enter the enemy's camp on the very eve of battle, as was
here
the case; could enter unopposed, unquestioned, and return
unmo–
lested!—what could have conferred upon the poet
of that day so
singular a privilege? What upon the poet of an
earlier time that
sanctity in behoof whereof
What but an universal recognition of the poet as an
universal bene–
factor of mankind? And did mankind
recognize him as such, from
some unaccountable infatuation, or
because his labours obtained for
him an indefeasible right to
that estimate? How came it, when a
Greek sculptor had completed
some operose performance, that his
countrymen bore him in
triumph thro' their city, and rejoiced in his
prosperity as
identical with their own? How but because his art
had embodied
some principle of beauty whose mysterious influence
it was
their pride to appreciate—or he had enduringly moulded the
limbs of some well-trained Athlete, such as it was their
interest to
develop, or he had recorded the overthrow of some
barbaric invader
whom their fathers had fallen to repel.
In the middle ages when a knight listened, in the morning, to
some song of brave doing, ere evening he himself might be the
hero
of such song.—what wonder then that he held sacred the
function
of the poet! Now-a-days our heroes (and we have them)
are left
unchapleted and neglected—and therefore the poet lives
and dies
neglected.
Thus it would appear from these facts (which have been
collate–
rally evolved in course of enquiring into
the propriety of
choosing the subject from past or present
time, and in course of the conse–
quent analysis)
that Art, to become a more powerful engine of
civilization,
assuming a practically humanizing tendency (the
admit–
ted function of Art), should be made more
directly conversant with
the things, incidents, and influences
which surround and constitute
the living world of those whom
Art proposes to improve, and,
whether it should appear in event
that Art can or can not assume
this attitude without
jeopardizing her specific existence, that such a
consummation
were desirable must be equally obvious in either
case.
Let us return now to the former consideration. It was stated
that the poet is affected by every day incidents, which would
have
little or no effect on the mind of a general observer: and
if you ask
the poet, who from his conduct may be the supposed
advocate of
the past as the fittest medium for poetic eduction,
why he em–
bodied the suggestions of to-day in the
matter and dress of
antiquity; he is likely to answer as
follows.—“You have stated
“that men pass by that which
furnishes me with my subject: If I
“merely reproduce what they
slighted, the reproduction will be
“slighted equally. It
appears then that I must devise some means
“of attracting their
sympathies—and the medium of antiquity is
“the fittest for
three several reasons. 1st.—Nothing comes down
“to us from
antiquity unless fraught with sufficient interest of some
“sort, to warrant it being worthy of record. Thus, all
incidents
“which we possess of the old time being more or less
interesting,
“there arises an illative impression that all
things of old really
“were so: and all things in idea
associated with that time,
“whether real or fictitious, are
afforded a favorable entertainment.
“
“remember to have discovered, after visiting the British
Museum
“for the first time, that the odour of camphor, for
which I had
“hitherto no predilection, afforded me a peculiar
satisfaction,
“seemingly suggestive of things scientific or
artistic; it was in fact
“a literary smell!
All this was vague and unaccountable until
“some time after
when this happened again, and I was at once
“reminded of an
enormous walrus at the British Museum, and
“then remembered how
the whole collection, from end to end, was
“permeated with the
odour of camphor! Still, despite the con-
“sciousness of this, the camphor retains its
influence. Now let a
“poem, a painting, or sculpture, smell
ever so little of antiquity, and
“every intelligent reader will
be full of delightful imaginations.
“2nd.—All things ancient are
mysterious in obscurity:—veneration,
“wonder, and curiosity are
the result. 3rd.—All things ancient
“are dead and gone:—we
sympathize with them accordingly. All
“these effects of
antiquity, as a means of enforcing poetry, declare it
“too
powerful an ally to be readily abandoned by the poet.” To
all
this the painter will add that the costume of almost any ancient
time is more beautiful than that of the present—added to which
it
exposes more of that most beautiful of all objects, the
human figure.
Thus we have a formidable array of objections to the choice
of * Here the author, in the person of respondent, takes
occasion to narrate
a real fact.present-day subjects: and first, it was objected
and granted, that
incidents of the present time are well nigh
barren in poetic attrac–
tion for the many. Then it
was objected, but not granted, that their
poetic or pictorial
counterparts will be equally unattractive also: but
this last
remains to be proved. It was said, and is believed by the
author, (and such as doubt it he does not address) that all
good men
are more or less poetical in some way or other; while
their poetry
shows itself at various times. Thus the
business-man in the street has
other to think of than poetry;
but when he is inclined to look at a
picture, or in his more
poetical humour, will he neglect the pictorial
counterpart of
what he neglected before? To test this, show him a
camera
obscura, where there is a more literal transcript of
present-
day nature than any painting can be:— what is the
result? He ex–
presses no anxiety to quit it, but a
great curiosity to investigate; he
feels it is very beautiful,
indeed more beautiful than nature: and
this he will say is
because he does not see nature as an artist does.
Now the
solution of all this is easy: 1st. He is in a mood of mind
which renders him accessible to the influences of poetry, which
was
not before the case. 2nd. He looks at that steadily which
he before
regarded cursorily; and, as the picture remains in
his eye, it
acquires an amount of harmony, in behoof of an
intrinsic harmony
resident in the organ itself, which exerts
proportionately modifying
influences on all things that enter
within it; and of the nervous
harmony, and the beautifully
apportioned stimuli of alternating
ocular spectra. 3rd. There
is a resolution of discord effected by the
instrument itself,
inasmuch as its effects are homogeneous. All
these harmonizing
influences are equally true of the painting; and
though we have
no longer the homogeneous effect of the camera, we
have the
homogeneous effect of one mind, viz., the mind of the
artist.
Thus having disproved the supposed poetical obstacles to the
rendering of real life or nature in its own real garb and time,
as
faithfully as Art can render it, nothing need be said to
answer the
advantages of the antique or mediæval rendering;
since they were
only called in to neutralize the aforesaid
obstacles, which obstacles
have proved to be fictitious. It
remains then to consider the artistic
objection of costume, &c., which consideration ranges
under the
head of real differences between the
things of past and present times,
a consideration
formerly postponed. But this requiring a patient
analysis, will
necessitate a further postponement, and in conclusion,
there
will be briefly stated the elements of the argument, thus.—
It
must be obvious to every physicist that physical beauty (which
this subject involves on the one side [the ancient] as opposed
to the
superior to physical beauty in the modern, as
psychical beauty in
the modern is superior to psychical beauty
in the ancient. Costume
then, as physical, is more beautiful
ancient than modern. Now that
a certain amount of physical
beauty is requisite to constitute Fine
Art, will be readily
admitted; but what that amount is, must be
ever undefined. That
the maximum of physical beauty does not
constitute the maximum
of Fine Art, is apparent from the facts of
the physical beauty
of Early Christian Art being inferior to that of
Grecian art; whilst, in the concrete, Early Christian Art is
superior
to Grecian. Indeed some specimens of Early Christian
Art are
repulsive rather than beautiful, yet these are in many
cases the
highest works of Art.
In the
This familiar incident, affording a subject fraught with more
moral interest than, and as much picturesque matter as, many
antique
or mediæval subjects, is only wanting in that romantic
attraction
which, by association, attaches to things of the
past. Yet, let these
modern subjects once excite interest, as
it really appears they can,
and the incidents of to-day will
acquire romantic attractions by the
same association of ideas.
The claims of ancient, mediæval, and modern subjects will be
considered in detail at a future period.
⁂ In these and others of the Flemish Towns,
the Carillon, or chimes
which have a most
fantastic and delicate music, are played almost continually.
The custom is very ancient.