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“O all ye that pass by the way, attend and see if there be any sorrow like to my sorrow.”—
The object we have proposed to ourselves in writing on Art, has
been
“an endeavour to encourage and enforce an entire adherence
to the simplicity of nature;
and also to direct attention, as an
auxiliary medium, to the comparatively few works
which Art has
yet produced in this spirit.” It is in accordance with the former
and
more prominent of these objects that the writer proposes at
present to treat.
An unprejudiced spectator of the recent progress and main direc-
tion of Art in
England will have observed, as a great change in the
character of the productions of the
modern school, a marked attempt
to lead the taste of the public into a new channel by
producing pure
transcripts and faithful studies from nature, instead of
convention-
alities and feeble reminiscences from the Old Masters; an entire
seeking
after originality in a more humble manner than has been
practised since the decline of
Italian Art in the Middle Ages. This
has been most strongly shown by the landscape
painters, among
whom there are many who have raised an entirely new school
of
natural painting, and whose productions undoubtedly surpass all
others in the
simple attention to nature in detail as well as in
generalities. By this they have
succeeded in earning for themselves
the reputation of being the finest landscape
painters in Europe.
But, although this success has been great and merited, it is not
of
them that we have at present to treat, but rather to recommend
their example to
their fellow-labourers, the historical painters.
That the system of study to which this would necessarily lead
requires a
somewhat longer and more devoted course of observation
than any other is undoubted; but
that it has a reward in a greater
effect produced, and more delight in the searching,
is, the writer
thinks, equally certain. We shall find a greater pleasure in
pro-
portion to our closer communion with nature, and by a more exact
adherence to
all her details, (for nature has no peculiarities or
excentricities) in whatsoever
direction her study may conduct.
This patient devotedness appears to be a conviction peculiar to, or
at least
more purely followed by, the early Italian Painters; a
feeling which, exaggerated, and
its object mistaken by them, though
still held holy and pure, was the cause of the
retirement of many of
the greatest men from the world to the monastery; there,
in
undisturbed silence and humility,
Even with this there is not associated a melancholy feeling alone;
for, although
the object was mistaken, yet there is evinced a con-
sciousness of purpose definite and
most elevated; and again, we
must remember, as a great cause of this effect, that the
Arts
were, for the most part, cleric, and not laic, or at least were under
the
predominant influence of the clergy, who were the most
important patrons by far, and
their houses the safest receptacles for
the works of the great painter.
The modern artist does not retire to monasteries, or practise dis-
cipline;
but he may show his participation in the same high feeling
by a firm attachment to
truth in every point of representation,
which is the most just method. For how can good
be sought by
evil means, or by falsehood, or by slight in any degree? By a
determination to represent the thing and the whole of the thing, by
training
himself to the deepest observation of its fact and detail,
enabling himself to
reproduce, as far as possible, nature herself,
the painter will best evince his share
of faith.
It is by this attachment to truth in its most severe form that the
followers
of the Arts have to show that they share in the peculiar
character of the present
age,—a humility of knowledge, a diffidence
of attainment; for, as Emerson has well observed,
Is this so bad then? Sight is the last thing to be pitied. Would
we be blind? Do
we fear lest we should outsee nature and God, and
drink truth dry?”
It has been said that there is presumption in this movement of
the modern
school, a want of deference to established authorities, a
removing of ancient landmarks.
This is best answered by the
profession that nothing can be more humble than the
pretension to
the observation of facts alone, and the truthful rendering of them.
If
we are not to depart from established principles, how are we to
advance at all? Are we
to remain still? Remember, no thing re-
mains still; that which does not advance falls
backward. That this
movement is an advance, and that it is of nature herself, is shown
by
its going nearer to truth in every object produced, and by its being
guided by
the very principles the ancient painters followed, as soon
as they attained the mere
power of representing an object faithfully.
their example, but from nature herself.
That the earlier painters came nearer to fact, that they were less
of the art,
artificial, cannot be better shown than by the statement
of a few examples from their
works. There is a magnificent Niello work
by an unknown Florentine artist, on which is a
group of
the Saviour in the lap of the Virgin. She is old, (a most touching
point);
lamenting aloud, clutches passionately the heavy-weighted
body on her knee; her mouth is
open. Altogether it is one of the
most powerful appeals possible to be conceived; for
there are few
but will consider this identification with humanity to be of
more
effect than any refined or emasculate treatment of the same subject
by later
artists, in which we have the fact forgotten for the sake of
the type of religion, which
the Virgin was always taken to represent,
whence she is shown as still young; as if,
nature being taken
typically, it were not better to adhere to the emblem
throughout,
confident by this means to maintain its appropriateness, and,
there-
fore, its value and force.
In the Niello work here mentioned there is a delineation of the
Fall, in which
the serpent has given to it a human head with a most
sweet, crafty expression. Now in
these two instances the style is
somewhat rude; but there are passion and feeling in it.
This is
not a question of mere execution, but of mind, however developed.
Let us not
mistake, however, from this that execution should be
neglected, but only maintained as a
most important aid, and in that
quality alone, so that we do not
forget the soul for the hand. The
power of representing an object, that its entire
intention may be
visible, its lesson felt, is all that is absolutely necessary:
mere
technicalities of performance are but additions; and not the real
intent and
end of painting, as many have considered them to be.
For as the knowledge is stronger
and more pure in Masaccio than in
the Caracci, and the faith higher and greater,—so the
first repre-
sents nature with more true feeling and love, with a deeper
insight
into her tenderness; he follows her more humbly, and has produced
to us more
of her simplicity; we feel his appeal to be more earnest:
it is the crying out of the
man, with none of the strut of the actor.
Let us have the mind and the mind's-workings, not the remains of
earnest
thought which has been frittered away by a long dreary
course of preparatory study, by
which all life has been evaporated.
Never forget that there is in the wide river of
nature something
which every body who has a rod and line may catch, precious
things
which every one may dive for.
It need not be feared that this course of education would lead to a
which is manifestly unfair; for
this error, as well as several others
of a similar kind, was not the result of blindness
or stupidity, but of
the simple ignorance of what had not been applied to the service
of
painting at their time. It cannot be shown that they were incorrect
in
expression, false in drawing, or unnatural in what is called com-
position. On the
contrary, it is demonstrable that they exceeded all
others in these particulars, that
they partook less of coarseness and
of conventional sentiment than any school which
succeeded them,
and that they looked more to nature; in fact, were more true,
and
less artificial. That their subjects were generally of a melan-
choly cast is
acknowledged, which was an accident resulting
from the positions their pictures were
destined to occupy. No man
ever complained that the Scriptures were morbid in their
tendency
because they treat of serious and earnest subjects: then why of
the
pictures which represent such? A certain gaunt length and slen-
derness have
also been commented upon most severely; as if the
Italians of the fourteenth century
were as so many dray horses, and
the artist were blamed for not following his model. The
consequence
of this direction of taste is that we have life-guardsmen and
pugilists
taken as models for kings, gentlemen, and philosophers. The writer
was
once in a studio where a man, six feet two inches in height, with
atlantean shoulders,
was sitting for King Alfred. That there is no
greater absurdity than this will be
perceived by any one that has
ever read the description of the person of the king given
by his
historian and friend Asser.
The sciences have become almost exact within the present cen-
tury. Geology
and chemistry are almost re-instituted. The first
has been nearly created; the second
expanded so widely that it now
searches and measures the creation. And how has this been
done
but by bringing greater knowledge to bear upon a wider range of
experiment; by
being precise in the search after truth? If this
adherence to fact, to experiment and
not theory,—to begin at the
beginning and not fly to the end,—has added so much to the
know-
ledge of man in science; why may it not greatly assist the moral
purposes of
the Arts? It cannot be well to degrade a lesson by
falsehood. Truth in every particular
ought to be the aim of the
artist. Admit no untruth: let the priest's garment be clean.
Let us now return to the Early Italian Painters. A complete
refutation of any
charge that the character of their school was
neccessarily gloomy will be found in the
works of Benozzo Gozzoli,
as in his ‘
The Arts have always been most important moral guides. Their
* The sources from which these examples are drawn, and where many more
might be
found, are principally:—D'Agincourt: “
<foreign lang="french">Histoire d<hi rend="sup">e</hi> l'Art par
les<lb/>Monumens</foreign>
;”—Rossini: “
<foreign lang="italian">Storia della Pittura</foreign>
;”—Ottley: “Italian School of<lb/>Design,” and his
120 Fac-similes of scarce prints;—and the “
Central School of Design, Somerset House; portions of the same are also in
the
Royal Academy.
If we have entered upon a new age, a new cycle of man, of which
there are many
signs, let us have it unstained by this vice of sen-
suality of mind. The English school
has lately lost a great deal of
this character; why should we not be altogether free
from it?
Nothing can degrade a man or a nation more than this meanness;
why should
we not avoid it? Sensuality is a meanness repugnant
to youth, and disgusting in age: a
degradation at all times. Let
us say
Bearing this in mind,—the conviction that, without the pure heart,
nothing can be
done worthy of us; by this, that the most successful
school of painters has produced
upon us the intention of their
earnestness at this distance of time,—let us follow in
their path,
but in the confidence of equal
power and equal destiny; and then
rely that we shall obtain the same success and equal
or greater power,
such as is given to the age in which we live. This is the
only
course that is worthy of the influence which might be exerted by
means of the
Arts upon the character of the people: therefore let it
be the only one for us to follow
if we hope to share in the work.
That the real power of the Arts, in conjunction with Poetry, upon
the actions
of any age is, or might be, predominant above all others
will be readily allowed by all
that have given any thought to the
subject: and that there is no assignable limit to the
good that may
be wrought by their influence is another point on which there can
be
small doubt. Let us then endeavour to call up and exert this
power in the worthiest
manner, not forgetting that we chose a
difficult path in which there are many snares,
and holding in mind
the motto, “ No Cross, no Crown.”
Believe that there is that in the fact of truth, though it be only in
the
character of a single leaf earnestly studied, which may do its share in
the
great labor of the world: remember that it is by truth alone
that the Arts can ever hold
the position for which they were
intended, as the most powerful instruments, the most
gentle guides;
that, of all classes, there is none to whom the celebrated words
of
Lessing, “That the destinies of a nation depend upon its young
” can apply so
men between
nineteen and twenty-five years of age,
well as to yourselves.
Recollect, that your portion in this is most
important: that your share is with the
poet's share; that, in every
careless thought or neglected doubt, you shelve your duty,
and for-
sake your trust; fulfil and maintain these, whether in the hope of
personal
fame and fortune, or from a sense of power used to its
intentions; and you may hold out
both hands to the world. Trust
it, and it will have faith in you; will hearken to the
precepts you
may have permission to impart.
Edith.
Alfred.
Edith.
In tracing these memoranda of the course to be pursued in
pro-
ducing a work of the class commonly denominated “Historic Art,”
we have no
wish to set ourselves in opposition to the practice of
other artists. We are quite
willing to believe that there may be
various methods of working out the same idea, each
productive of a
satisfactory result. Should any one therefore regard it as a
subject
for controversy, we would only reply that, if different, or to them
better,
methods be adopted by other painters, no less certain is it
that there are numbers who
at the onset of their career have not the
least knowledge of any one of these methods;
and that it is chiefly
for such that these notes have been penned. In short, that to
all
about to paint their first picture we address ourselves.
The first advice that should be given, on painting a historical
picture, ought
undoubtedly to be on the choosing of a fit subject;
but, the object of the present
paper being purely practical, it would
ill commence with a question which would entail
a dissertation
bearing upon the most abstract properties of Art. Should it
after-
wards appear necessary, we may append such a paper to the last
number of
these articles; but, for the present, we will content
ourselves with beginning where
the student may first encounter a
difficulty in giving body to his idea.
The first care of the painter, after having selected his subject,
should be to
make himself thoroughly acquainted with the character
of the times, and habits of the
people, which he is about to represent;
and next, to consult the proper authorities for
his costume, and
such objects as may fill his canvass; as the architecture,
furniture,
vegetation or landscape, or accessories, necessary to the elucidation
of
the subject. By not pursuing this course, the artist is in danger
of imagining an
effect, or disposition of lines, incompatible with the
costume of his figures, or
objects surrounding them; and it will be
found always a most difficult thing to efface
an idea that has once
taken possession of the mind. Besides which, it is impossible
to
conceive a design with any truth, not being acquainted with the
character,
habits, and appearance, of the people represented.
Having, by such means, secured the materials of which his work
must be
composed, the artist must endeavour, as far as lies in his
power, to embody the picture
in his thoughts, before having recourse
to paper. He must patiently consider his
subject, revolving in his
story: giving the most prominent places to
the most important
actors, and carefully rejecting incidents that cannot be expressed
by
pantomimic art without the aid of text. He must also, in this
mental forerunner
of his picture, arrange the “grouping” of his
figures,—that is, the disposing of them
in such agreeable clusters or
situations on his canvass as may be compatible with the
dramatic
truth of the whole, (technically called the lines of a composition.)
He
must also consider the color, and disposition of light and dark
masses in his design,
so as to call attention to the principal objects,
(technically called the “effect.”)
Thus, to recapitulate, the painter,
in his first conception of his picture, will have
to combine three
qualities, each subordinate to the other;—the intellectual, or
clear
development, dramatic truth, and sentiment, of his
incident;—the
construction, or disposition of his groups and lines, as most
con-
ducive to clearness, effect, and harmony;—and the chromatic, or
arrangement of
colors, light and shade, most suitable to impress
Having settled these points in his mind, as definitely as his facul-
ties will
allow of, the student will take pencil and paper, and sketch
roughly each separate
figure in his composition, studying his own
acting, (in a looking-glass) or else that
of any friend he may have
of an artistic or poetic temperament, but not employing for
the
purpose the ordinary paid models.—It will be always found that
they are stiff
and feelingless, and, as such, tend to curb the
vivacity of a first conception, so much
so that the artist may
believe an action impossible, through the want of comprehension
of
the model, which to himself or a friend might prove easy.
Here let the artist spare neither time nor labor, but exert himself * Many artists, chiefly of the schools not colorists, are in the habit of
making
beyond his
natural energies, seeking to enter into the character of
each actor, studying them one
after the other, limb for limb, hand
for hand, finger for finger, noting each
inflection of joint, or tension
of sinew, searching for dramatic truth internally in
himself, and in
all external nature, shunning affectation and exaggeration, and
striving
after pathos, and purity of feeling, with patient endeavor
and utter
simplicity of heart. For on this labor must depend the
success of his work with the
public. Artists may praise his color,
their designs in outline, leaving the colors and light and shade to be thought
of
afterwards. This plan may offer facilities; but we doubt if it be possible
to
arrange satisfactorily the colors of a work which has been designed in
outline
without consideration of these qualities.
ness, truth, and sentiment,
of his work will alone affect the many.
The action of each figure being now determinate, the next step
will be to make
a sketch in oil of the whole design; after which,
living models, as like the artist's
conception as can be found, must
be procured, to make outlines of the nude of each
figure, and again
sketches of the same,
From these studies, the painter will prepare a second sketch, in
outline, of
the whole, being, in fact,
In this last preparation of the design, the chief care of the
student will be
the grouping, and the correct size and place of
each figure; also the perspective of
the architecture and ground
plan will now have to be settled; a task requiring much
patient
calculation, and usually proving a source of disgust to the novice
not
endowed with much perseverance. But, above all, the quality
to be most studied in this
outline design will be the proportion of the
whole work.
And with a few remarks on this quality, which might appropriately * There is always difficulty attending this very necessary portion of the study † Should the picture be of small dimensions, it will be found more expeditious
be termed
“constructive beauty in art,” we will close this paper on
“the Design,” as belonging
more properly to the mechanical than
the intellectual side of art; as being rather the
slow growth of
experience than the spontaneous impulse of the artistic
temperament.
It is a feature in art rather apt to savor of conventionality to such
as
would look on nature as the only school of art, who would consider
it but as the
exponent of thought and feeling; while, on the other
hand, we fear it likely to be
studied to little effect by such as
receive with indiscriminate and phlegmatic avidity
all that is
handed down to them in the shape of experience or time-sanc-
tioned
rule. But plastic art claims not merely our sympathy, in
its highest capacity to emit
thought and sentiment; but as form,
colour, light, life, and beauty; and who shall
settle the claims be-
of
the picture; because, if the dresses be borrowed or hired, at this period they
may be
only wanted for a few hours, and perhaps not required again for some
months to paint
into the picture.—Again, if the costume have to be made, and
of expensive material,
the portion of it seen may be sufficient to pin on to a
lay figure, without having
the whole made, which could not be worn by the
living model. However, with all the
larger or loose draperies, it is very
necessary to sketch them first from the living
model.
to
make an outline of it on paper the full size, which can be traced on to the
canvass,
keeping the latter clean. On the contrary, should the painting be large,
the outline
had better be made small, and squared to transfer to the canvass.
neither impair nor contradict the
beauties of nature; but which are
not of nature, and yet are, inasmuch as art itself is
but part of
nature: and of such, the beauties of the nature of art, is the
feeling
for constructive beauty. It interferes not with truth or sentiment;
it is
not the cause of unlikely order and improbable symmetry; it is
not bounded by line or
rule, nor taught by theory. It is a feeling
for proportion, ever varying from an
infinity of conflicting causes,
that balances the picture as it balances the Gothic
edifice; it is a
germ planted in the breast of the artist, that gradually expands
by
cultivation.
To those who would foster its development the only rule we could
offer would
be never to leave a design, while they imagine they
could alter for the better
(subordinate to the truth of nature) the
place of a single figure or group, or the
direction of a line.
And to such as think it beneath their care we can only say that
they neglect a
refinement, of which every great master takes ad-
vantage to increase the fascination
which beauty, feeling, or passion,
exercises over the multitude.
If any one quality may be considered common to all living poets,
it
is that which we have heard aptly described as self-consciousness.
In
this many appear to see the only permanent trace of the now
old usurping deluge of
Byronism; but it is truly a fact of the time,
—less a characteristic than a portion of
it. Every species of com-
position—the dramatic, the narrative, the lyric, the
didactic, the
descriptive—is imbued with this spirit; and the reader may
cal-
culate with almost equal certainty on becoming acquainted with the
belief of a
poet as of a theologian or a moralist. Of the evils
resulting from the practice, the
most annoying and the worst is that
some of the lesser poets, and all mere pretenders,
in their desire to
emulate the really great, feel themselves under a kind of
obligation
to assume opinions, vague, incongruous, or exaggerated, often not
only
not their own, but the direct reverse of their own,—a kind of
meanness that has
replaced, and goes far to compensate for, the
flatteries of our literary ancestors. On
the other hand, this quality
has created a new tie of interest between the author and
his public,
enhances the significance of great works, and confers value on even
the
slightest productions of a true poet.
That the systematic infusion of this spirit into the drama and
epic
compositions is incompatible with strict notions of art will scarcely
be
disputed: but such a general objection does not apply in the case
of lyric poetry,
where even the character of the subject is optional.
It is an instance of this kind
that we are now about to consider.
“
“But my youth reminds me: ‘Thou Hast lived light as these live now; As these are, thou too wert such.’”—p. 59.
“In vain, all, all, in vain, They beat upon mine ear again, Those melancholy tones so sweet and still: Those lute-like tones which, in long-distant years, Did steal into mine ears.”—p. 86.
“Blew such a thrilling summons to his will, Yet could not shake it; Drained all the life his full heart had to spill; Yet could not break it:”—
intolerable change of thought” with which it now
long-sobered heart.” Perhaps “
The lessons that the author would learn of nature are, as set forth
in the
sonnet that opens the volume,
His conception of the poet is of one who
<xref doc="a.arnold001.006.rad" link="dead">Resignation.</xref>
)
Such is the author's purpose in these poems. He recognises in
each thing a part of
the whole: and the poet must know even as he
sees, or breathes, as by a spontaneous,
half-passive exercise of a
faculty: he must receive rather than seek.
Connected with this view of life as “a placid and
continuous
” is the principle which will be found here manifested in
whole,
different modes, and thro' different phases of event, of the perma-
nence and
changelessness of natural laws, and of the large necessity
wherewith they compel life
and man. This is the thought which
animates the “
“Critias, long since, I know, (For fate decreed it so), Long since the world hath set its heart to live. Long since, with credulous zeal, It turns life's mighty wheel: Still doth for laborers send; Who still their labor give. And still expects an end.”—p. 109.
This principle is brought a step futher into the relations of life
in “
“In vain, therefore, with wistful eyes Gazing up hither, the poor man Who loiters by the high-heaped booths Below there in the Registan “Says: ‘Happy he who lodges there! With silken raiment, store of rice, And, for this drought, all kinds of fruits, Grape-syrup, squares of colored ice, “‘With cherries served in drifts of snow.’ In vain hath a king power to build Houses, arcades, enamelled mosques, And to make orchard-closes filled “With curious fruit trees brought from far, With cisterns for the winter rain; And, in the desert, spacious inns In divers places;—if that pain “Is not more lightened which he feels, If his will be not satisfied: And that it be not from all time The law is planted, to abide.”—pp. 47-8.
The author applies this basis of fixity in nature generally to the
rules of
man's nature, and avow himself a Quietist. Yet he would
not despond, but contents
himself, and waits. In no poem of the
volume is this character more clearly defined and
developed than in
the sonnets “
“Yet when I muse on what life is, I seem Rather to patience prompted than that proud Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud; France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme:— Seeing this vale, this earth whereon we dream, Is on all sides o'ershadowed by the high Uno'erleaped mountains of necessity, Sparing us narrower margin than we deem. Nor will that day dawn at a human nod, When, bursting thro' the net-work superposed By selfish occupation—plot and plan, Lust, avarice, envy,—liberated man, All difference with his fellow-man composed, Shall be left standing face to face with God.”—p. 57.
In the adjuration entitled “
“From doubt, where all is double, Where Faiths are built on dust;”
any”
more a portion for ever in anything that is done under the sun.
“The world in which we live and move Outlasts aversion, outlasts love..... Nay, and since death, which wipes out man, Finds him with many an unsolved plan,.... Still gazing on the ever full Eternal mundane spectacle, This world in which we draw our breath In some sense, Fausta, outlasts death..... Enough, we live:—and, if a life With large results so little rife, Tho' bearable, seem scarcely worth This pomp of worlds, this pain of birth, Yet, Fausta, the mute turf we tread, The solemn hills around us spread, This stream that falls incessantly, The strange-scrawled rocks, the lonely sky, If I might lend their life a voice, Seem to bear rather than rejoice. And, even could the intemperate prayer Man iterates, while these forbear, For movement, for an ampler sphere, Pierce fate's impenetrable ear, Not milder is the general lot Because our spirits have forgot, In actions's dizzying eddy whirled, The something that infects the world.”—pp. 125-8.— Resignation.
“Shall we
,” he asks, “go hence and find that our vain
dreams
”
are not dead? Shall we follow our vague joys, and the old dead
faces, and
the dead hopes?
He exhorts man to be
.”in utrumque paratus
the materialized thought of one all-pure, let
him, “by lonely pure-
” seek his way through the colored dream of
life up again to that
ness,
all-pure fount:—
then man, the only self-conscious being, “seeming sole to
awake,
”
must, recognizing his brotherhood with this world which stirs at
his
feet unknown, confess that he too but seems.
Thus far for the scheme and the creed of the author. Concerning
these we leave
the reader to draw his own conclusions.
Before proceeding to a more minute notice of the various poems,
we would
observe that a predilection is apparent throughout for
antiquity and classical
association; not that strong love which
made Shelley, as it were, the heir of Plato;
not that vital grasp of
conception which enabled Keats without, and enables Landor
with,
the most intimate knowledge of form and detail, to return to and renew
ficial acquaintance with names and
hackneyed attributes which was
once poetry. Of this conventionalism, however, we have
detected
two instances; the first, an allusion to “shy Dian's horn
”
in
“breathless glades
” of the days we live, peculiarly inappropriate
in
a sonnet addressed “
prop his mind;” the immortal air which the poet breathes is
“Where Orpheus and where Homer are;”
There are four narrative poems in the volume:—“
who had loved injustice, and lived long;” and
loved the good” revels out his “
six drops” He takes leave of his people with bitter words, and goes
of time.
(a daring image, verging towards a conceit, though not absolutely“To the cool regions of the groves he loved........ Here came the king holding high feast at morn, Rose-crowned; and ever, when the sun went down, A hundred lamps beamed in the tranquil gloom, From tree to tree, all thro' the twinkling grove, Revealing all the tumult of the feast, Flushed guests, and golden goblets foamed with wine; While the deep-burnished foliage overhead Splintered the silver arrows of the moon.”—p. 7.
“So six long years he revelled, night and day: And, when the mirth waxed loudest, with dull sound Sometimes from the grove's centre echoes came, To tell his wondering people of their king; In the still night, across the steaming flats, Mixed with the murmur of the moving Nile.”—pp. 8, 9.
Here a Tennysonian influence is very perceptible, more especially
in the last
quotation; and traces of the same will be found in “
In this poem the story is conveyed by allusions and reminiscences
whilst the
Merman makes his children call after her who had
returned to her own earth, hearing the
Easter bells over the bay,
and who is not yet come back for all the voices calling
“Margaret!
” The piece is scarcely long enough or
sufficiently
Margaret!
distinct otherwise than as a whole to allow of extract; but we
can-
not but express regret that a poem far from common-place either in
ubject or
treatment should conclude with such sing-song as
“
“Down the dark valley—I saw.”— “Trembling, I entered; beheld”— “Thro' the islands some divine bard.”—
“They see the merchants On the Oxus stream:—but care Must visit first them too, and make them pale:Whether, thro' whirling sand, A cloud of desert robber-horse has burstUpon their caravan; or greedy kings,In the walled cities the way passes thro',Crushed them with tolls; or fever airs On some great river's marge Mown them down, far from home.”—p. 25.
The Reveller, going to join the train of Bacchus in his temple, has
strayed
into the house of Circe and has drunk of her cup: he
believes that, while poets can see
and know only through participa-
tion in endurance, he shares the power belonging to
the gods of
seeing “without pain, without labour;
” and has looked over
the
valley all day long at the Mœnads and Fauns, and Bacchus, “some-
” Apart from
times,
for a moment, passing through the dark stems.
the inherent defects
of the metre, there is great beauty of pictorial
description in some passages of the
poem, from which the following
(where he is speaking of the gods) may be taken as a specimen:—
From “
a teller of sweet tales.” Arrived, Hussein is desired to
Thou knowest,” the man says,
“‘How fierce In these last day the sun hath burned; That the green water in the tanks Is to a putrid puddle turned; And the canal that from the stream Of Samarcand is brought this way Wastes and runs thinner every day. “‘Now I at nightfall had gone forth Alone; and, in a darksome place Under some mulberry-trees, I found A little pool; and, in brief space, With all the water that was there I filled my pitcher, and stole home Unseen; and, having drink to spare, I hid the can behind the door, And went up on the roof to sleep. “‘But, in the night, which was with wind And burning dust, again I creep Down, having fever, for a drink. “‘Now, meanwhile, had my brethren found The water-pitcher, where it stood Behind the door upon the ground, And called my mother: and they all, As they were thirsty and the night Most sultry, drained the pitcher there; That they sat with it in my sight, Their lips still wet, when I came down. “‘Now mark: I, being fevered, sick, (Most unblessed also,) at that sight Brake forth and cursed them. Dost thou hear? One was my mother. Now, do right.’ “But my lord mused a space, and said, ‘Send him away, sirs, and make on. It is some madman,’ the king said. As the king said, so was it done. “The morrow at the self-same hour, In the king's path, behold, the man, Not kneeling, sternly fixed. He stood Right opposite, and thus began, Frowning grim down: ‘Thou wicked king, Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear; What? Must I howl in the next world, Because thou wilt not listen here? “‘What, wilt thou pray and get thee grace, And all grace shall to me be grudged? Nay but, I swear, from this thy path I will not stir till I be judged.’ “Then they who stood about the king Drew close together and conferred; Till that the king stood forth and said: ‘Before the priests thou shalt be heard.’ “But, when the Ulema were met And the thing heard, they doubted not; But sentenced him, as the law is, To die by stoning on the spot. “Now the king charged us secretly: ‘Stoned must he be: the law stands so: Yet, if he seek to fly, give way; Forbid him not, but let him go.’ “So saying, the king took a stone, And cast it softly: but the man, With a great joy upon his face, Kneeled down, and cried not, neither ran. “So they whose lot it was cast stones, That they flew thick and bruised him sore: But he praised Allah with loud voice, And remained kneeling as before. “My lord had covered up his face: But, when one told him, ‘He is dead;’ Turning him quickly to go in, ‘Bring thou to me his corpse,’ he said. “And truly, while I speak, oh king, I hear the bearers on the stair. Wilt thou they straightway bring him in?— Ho! enter ye who tarry there.”—pp. 39-43.
The Vizier counsels the king that each man's private grief
suffices him, and
that he should not seek increase of it in the griefs
of other men. But he answers him,
(this passage we have before
quoted,) that the king's lot and the poor man's is the
same, for that
neither has his will; and he takes order that the dead man be
buried
in his own royal tomb.
We know few poems the style of which is more unaffectedly
without labor, and
to the purpose, than this. The metre, however,
of the earlier part is not always quite
so uniform and intelligible as
might be desired; and we must protest against the use,
for the sake
of rhyme, of broke in lieu of broken,
as also of stole for stolen in
“
“But hush! Hœmon, whom Antigone, Robbing herself of life in burying, Against Creon's laws, Polynices, Robs of a loved bride, pale, imploring, Waiting her passage, Forth from the palace hitherward comes.”—p. 30.
Perhaps the most perfect and elevated in tone of all these poems
is “
on shores and sea-washed places,”
“With blown tresses, and with beckoning hands.”
He thinks how at sunrise he had beheld those ladies playing
between the vines;
but now their warm locks have fallen down
over their arms. He prays them to speak and
shame away his
sadness; but there comes only a broken gleaming from their
windows, which
“Reels and shivers on the ruffled gloom.”
He asks them whether they have seen the end of all this, the load
of passion and
the emptiness of reaction, whether they dare look at
life's latter days,
And he implores them to “let fall one tear, and set him free.
”
The
past was no mere pretence; it was true while it lasted; but it is
gone now, and
the East is white with day. Shall they meet again,
only that he may ask whose blank
face that is?
This poem must be read as a whole; for not only would it be
difficult to
select particular passages for extraction, but such
extracts, if made, would fail in
producing any adequate impression.
We have already quoted so larely from the concluding piece,
“
Fausta” in retracing, after a lapse
The minor poems comprise eleven sonnets, among which, those
“
“Man must begin, know this, where nature ends; Nature and man can never be fast friends; Fool, if thou canst not pass her, rest her slave.”
Now, as far as this sonnet shows of the discourse which occa-
sioned it, we
cannot see anything so absurd in that discourse; and
where the author confutes the
Independent preacher by arguing that
we cannot but think that, by attributing to nature a certain human
degree of
qualities, which will not suffice for man, he loses sight of
the point really raised:
for is not man's nature only a part of
nature? and, if a part, necessary to the
completeness of the whole?
and should not the individual, avoiding a factitious life,
order him-
self in conformity with his own rule of being? And, indeed, the
author
himself would converse with the self-sufficing progress of
nature, with its rest in
action, as distinguished from the troublous
vexation of man's toiling:—
The short lyric poem, “
Seraph”—an idea not new, and never, as we think,
in an alien planet born,
We may here notice a few cases of looseness, either of thought or
of
expression, to be met with in these pages; a point of style to be
particularly looked
to when the occurrence or the absence of such
forms one very sensible difference
between the first-rate and the
second-rate poets of the present times.
Thus, in the sonnet “
“All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow, Find their sole voicein that victorious brow;”
In the address to George Cruikshank, we find: “Artist, whose
” where a similar question arises;
and,
hand with
horror winged;
returning to the “
“Who massed round that slight brow these clouds of doom?”
Nor does the following, from the first of the sonnets, “
propriateness:
flow
armies of the homeless and unfed.”
It is but right to state that the only instance of the kind we
remember
throughout the volume have now been mentioned.
To conclude. Our extracts will enable the reader to judge of
this Poet's
style: it is clear and comprehensive, and eschews flowery
adornment. No particular
model has been followed, though that
general influence which Tennyson exercises over so
many writers of
this generation may be traced here as elsewhere. It may be
said
that the author has little, if anything, to unlearn. Care and con-
sistent
arrangement, and the necessary subordination of the parts to
the whole, are evident
throughout; the reflective, which appears the
more essential form of his thought, does
not absorb the due obser-
vation or presentment of the outward facts of nature; and a
well-
poised and serious mind shows itself in every page.
PROVIDENT LIFE OFFICE,
50, REGENT STREET.
CITY BRANCH: 2, ROYAL EXCHANGE BUILDINGS.
Of the little worthy the name of writing that has ever been
written
upon the principles of Art, (of course excepting that
on the mere mechanism), a very
small portion is by Artists
themselves; and that is so scattered, that one scarcely
knows
where to find the ideas of an Artist except in his pictures.
With a view to obtain the thoughts of Artists, upon Nature
as evolved in Art, in
another language besides their own
proper one, this Periodical has been established. Thus, then,
it is not
open to the conflicting opinions of all who handle the
brush and palette, nor is it
restricted to actual practitioners;
but is intended to enunciate the principles of those
who, in
the true spirit of Art, enforce a rigid adherence to the sim-
plicity of
Nature either in Art or Poetry, and consequently
regardless whether emanating from
practical Artists, or from
those who have studied nature in the Artist's School.
Hence this work will contain such original Tales (in prose
or verse), Poems,
Essays, and the like, as may seem conceived
in the spirit, or with the intent, of
exhibiting a pure and
unaffected style, to which purpose analytical Reviews
of
current Literature—especially Poetry—will be introduced;
as also illustrative
Etchings, one of which latter, executed
with the utmost care and completeness, will
appear in each
number.