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