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[*** The following paper had been sent as a contribution to
this publication
scarcely more than a week before its author, Mr. John Orchard, died.
It was
written to commence a series of “Dialogues on Art,” which death has rendered
for ever incomplete: nevertheless, the merits of this commencement are such that
they seemed to warrant its publication as a fragment; and in order that the
chain of argument might be preserved, so far as it goes, uninterrupted, the
dialogue
is printed entire in the present number, despite its length. Of the
writer, but
little can be said. He was an artist; but ill health, almost amounting
to
infirmity—his portion from childhood—rendered him unequal to the bodily
labour
inseparable from his profession: and in the course of his short life, whose
youth was
scarcely consummated, he exhibited, from time to time, only a very few
small
pictures, and these, as regards public recognition, in no way successfully.
In art,
however, he gave to the “seeing eye,” token of that ability and earnest-
ness which
the “hearing ear” will not fail to recognize in the dialogue now
published; where the
vehicle of expression, being more purely intellectual, was
more within his grasp than
was the physical and toilsome embodiment of art.
It is possible that a search among the papers he has left, may bring to light a
few other fugitive pieces, which will, in such event, as the Poem succeeding this
Dialogue, be published in these pages.
To the end that the Author's scheme may be, as far as is now possible,
understood and appreciated, we subjoin, in his own words, some explanation of
his
further intent, and of the views and feelings which guided him in the
composition of
the dialogue:
“I have adopted the form of dialogue for several, to me, cogent reasons;
1st,
because it gives the writer the power of exhibiting the question, Art, on all
its
sides; 2nd, because the great phases of Art could be represented idio-
syncratically; and, to make this clear, I have named the several speakers ac-
cordingly; 3rd, because dialogue secures the attention; and, that secured, deeper
things strike, and go deeper than otherwise they could be made to; and, 4th and
last, because all my earliest and most delightful pleasures associate themselves
with dialogue,—(the old dramatists, Lucian, Walter Savage Landor, &c.)
“You will find that I have not made one speaker say a thing on purpose for
another to condemn it; but that I make each one utter his wisest in the very
wisest
manner he can, or rather, that I can for him.
“The further continuation of this 1st dialogue embraces the question
Nature,
and its processes, invention and imitation,—imitation chiefly. Kosmon
begins
by showing, in illustration of the truth of Christian's concluding sentences,
how
imperfectly all the Ancients, excepting the Hebrews, loved, understood, or felt
Nature, &c. This is not an unimportant portion of Art knowledge.
“I must not forget to say that the last speech of Kosmon will be answered by
Christian when they discourse of imitation. It properly belongs to imitation;
and,
under that head, it can be most effectively and perfectly confuted. Somewhat
after
this idea, the “verticalism” and “involution” will be shown to be direct
from
Nature; the gilding, &c., disposed of on the ground of the old piety using
the most precious materials as the most religious and worthy of them; and hence,
by
a very easy and probable transition, they concluded that that which was most
soul-worthy, was also most natural.”]
Kalon. Welcome, my friends:—this day above all others; to-day
is the
first day of spring. May it be the herald of a bountiful year,
—not alone in harvests
of seeds. Great impulses are moving through
man; swift as the steam-shot shuttle,
weaving some mighty pattern,
goes the new birth of mind. As yet, hidden from eyes is
the design:
whether it be poetry, or painting, or music, or architecture,
or
whether it be a divine harmony of all, no manner of mind can tell;
but that it
is mighty, all manners of minds, moved to involuntary
utterance, affirm. The intellect
has at last again got to work upon
thought: too long fascinated by matter and prisoned
to motive
geometry, genius—wisdom seem once more to have become human,
to have put
on man, and to speak with divine simplicity. Kosmon,
Sophon, again welcome! your
journey is well-timed; Christian, my
young friend, of whom I have often written to you,
this morning
tells me by letter that to-day he will pay me his long-promised
visit.
You, I know, must rejoice to meet him: this interchange of knowledge
cannot
fail to improve us, both by knocking down and building up:
what is true we shall hold
in common; what is false not less in
common detest. The debateable ground, if at last
equally debateable
as it was at first, is yet ploughed; and some after-comer may sow
it
with seed, and reap therefrom a plentiful harvest.
Sophon. Kalon, you speak wisely. Truth hath many sides like
a
diamond with innumerable facets, each one alike brilliant and
piercing. Your
information respecting your friend Christian has not
a little interested me, and made
me desirous of knowing him.
Kosmon. And I, no less than Sophon, am delighted to hear that
we
shall both see and taste your friend.
Sophon. Kalon, by what you just now said, you would seem to
think a
dearth of original thought in the world, at any time, was an
evil: perhaps it is not
so; nay, perhaps, it is a good! Is not an
interregnum of genius necessary somewhere? A
great genius, sun-
like, compels lesser suns to gravitate with and to him; and this
is
subversive of originality. Age is as visible in thought as it is in
man. Death
is indispensably requisite for a new life. Genius is like
a tree,
sheltering and affording support to numberless creepers and
climbers, which latter die
and live many times before their protecting
tree does; flourishing even whilst that
decays, and thus, lending to
it a greenness not its own; but no new life can come out
of that
and rotted into
compost, that another tree can grow there; and many
years will elapse before the
new birth can increase and occupy the
room the previous one occupied, and flourish anew
with a greenness
all its own. This on one side. On another; genius is
essentially
imitative, or rather, as I just now said, gravitative; it
gravitates
towards that point peculiarly important at the moment of its
exist-
ence; as air, more rarified in some places than in others, causes the
winds
to rush towards them as toward a centre: so that if poetry,
painting,
or music slumbers, oratory may ravish the world, or
chemistry, or steam-power may
seduce and rule, or the sciences sit
enthroned. Thus, nature ever compensates one art
with another;
her balance alone is the always just one; for, like her course of
the
seasons, she grows, ripens, and lies fallow, only that stronger, larger
and
better food may be reared.
Kalon. By your speaking of chemistry, and the mechanical arts
and
sciences, as periodically ruling the world along with poetry,
painting, and music,—am I
to understand that you deem them powers
intellectually equal, and to require of their
respective professors as
mighty, original, and human a genius for
their successful practice?
Kosmon. Human genius! why not? Are they not equally
human?—nay, are
they not—especially steam-power, chemistry and
the electric telegraph—more—eminently
more—useful to man, more
radically civilizers, than music, poetry, painting, sculpture,
or
architecture?
Kalon. Stay, Kosmon! whither do you hurry? Between che-
mistry and
the mechanical arts and sciences, and between poetry,
painting, and music, there exists
the whole totality of genius—of
genius as distinguished from talent and industry. To be
useful alone
is not to be great: plus only is plus,
and the sum is minus something
and plus in nothing
if the most unimaginable particle only be absent.
The fine arts, poetry, painting,
sculpture, music, and architecture, as
thought, or idea, Athene-like, are complete,
finished, revelations of
wisdom at once. Not so the mechanical arts and sciences: they
are
arts of growth; they are shaped and formed gradually, (and that,
more by a
blind sort of guessing than by intuition,) and take many
men's lives to win even to one
true principle. On all sides they are
the exact opposites of each other; for, in the
former, the principles
from the first are mature, and only the manipulation immature;
in the
latter, it is the principles that are almost always immature, and
the
manipulation as constantly mature. The fine arts are always grounded
upon
truth; the mechanical arts and sciences almost always upon
hypothesis; the first are
unconfined, infinite, immaterial, impossible
are limited, finite, material, can
be uttered through formulas, worked
by arithmetic, tabulated and seen in machines.
Sophon. Kosmon, you see that Kalon, true to his nature, prefers
the
beautiful and good, to the good without the beautiful; and you,
who love nature, and
regard all that she, and what man from her, can
produce, with equal delight,—true to
your's,—cannot perceive
wherefore he limits genius to the fine arts. Let me show you
why
Kalon's ideas are truer than yours. You say that chemistry, steam-
power, and
the electric telegraph, are more radically civilizers than
poetry, painting, or music:
but bethink you: what emotions beyond
the common and selfish ones of wonder and fear do
the mechanical
arts or sciences excite, or communicate? what pity, or love, or
other
holy and unselfish desires and aspirations, do they elicit? Inert
of
themselves in all teachable things, they are the agents only whereby
teachable
things,—the charities, sympathies and love,—may be more
swiftly and more certainly
conveyed and diffused: and beyond
diffusing media the mechanical arts or sciences
cannot get; for they
are merely simple facts; nothing more: they cannot induct; for
they,
in or of themselves, have no inductive powers, and their office is
confined
to that of carrying and spreading abroad the powers which
do induct; which powers make
a full, complete, and visible existence
only in the fine arts. In FACT and THOUGHT we have the whole
question of superiority
decided. Fact is merely physical record:
Thought is the application of that record to
something human.
Without application, the fact is only fact, and
nothing more; the
application, thought, then, certainly must be superior to the
record,
fact. Also in thought man gets the clearest glimpse he will ever
have of
soul, and sees the incorporeal make the nearest approach to
the corporeal that it is
possible for it to do here upon earth. And
hence, these noble acts of wisdom
are—far—far above the mechanical
arts and sciences, and are properly called fine arts,
because their high
and peculiar office is to refine.
Kosmon. But, certainly thought is as much exercised in deduct-
ing
from physical facts the sciences and mechanical arts as ever it is
in poetry, painting,
or music. The act of inventing print, or of
applying steam, is quite as soul-like as
the inventing of a picture,
poem, or statue.
Kalon. Quite. The chemist, poet, engineer, or painter, alike,
think.
But the things upon which they exercise their several faculties
are very widely unlike
each other; the chemist or engineer cogitates
only the physical; the poet or painter
joins to the physical the human,
and investigates soul—scans the world in man added to
the world
and ideas. Sophon says that the
fine arts are thoughts; but I think
I know a more comprehensive word; for they are
something more
than thoughts; they are things also; that word is Nature—Nature
fully—thorough nature—the world of creation. All that is in man,
his mysteries of soul, his thoughts and emotions—deep, wise,
holy,
loving, touching, and fearful,—or in the world, beautiful, vast,
ponderous,
gloomy, and awful, moved with rhythmic harmonious
utterance—that is
Poetry. All that is of man—his triumphs, glory,
power, and passions;
or of the world—its sunshine and clouds, its
plains, hills or valleys, its wind-swept
mountains and snowy Alps,
river and ocean—silent, lonely, severe, and sublime—mocked
with
living colours, hue and tone,—that is Painting. Man—heroic
man,
his acts, emotions, loves,—aspirative, tender, deep, and calm,—inten-
sified,
purified, colourless,—exhibited peculiarly and directly through
his own form;that is sculpture. All the voices of nature—of man—
his bursts of rage,
pity, and fear—his cries of joy—his sighs of love;
of the winds and the
waters—tumultuous, hurrying, surging, tremu-
lous, or gently falling—married to
melodious numbers;that is music.
And, the music of proportions—of
nature and man, and the harmony
and opposition of light and shadow, set forth in the
ponderous; that
is Architecture.
Christian. [as he enters] Forbear, Kalon! These I know
for
your dear fiends, Kosmon and Sophon. The moment of discoursing
with them has at
last arrived: May I profit by it! Kalon, fearful
of checking your current of thought, I
stood without, and heard that
which you said: and, though I agree with you in all your
definitions
of poetry, painting, sculpture, music, and architecture; yet
certainly
all things in or of man, or the world, are not, however
equally
beautiful, equally worthy of being used by the artist. Fine art
absolutely
rejects all impurities of form; not less absolutely does
it reject all impurities of
passion and expression. Everything
throughout a poem, picture, or statue, or in music,
may be sensuously
beautiful; but nothing must be sensually so. Sins are only paid
for
in virtues; thus, every sin found is a virtue lost—lost—not only to
the artist,
but a cause of loss to others—to all who look upon what
he does. He should deem his art
a sacred treasure, intrusted to
him for the common good; and over it he should build,
of the most
precious materials, in the simplest, chastest, and truest
proportions,
a temple fit for universal worship: instead of which, it is too
often
the case that he raises above it an edifice of clay; which, as mortal
as his
life, falls, burying both it and himself under a heap of dirt.
To preserve him from
this corruption of his art, let him erect for
of Christ; and what he would not
show to as pure a nature as His,
let him never be seduced to work on, or expose to the
world.
Kosmon. Oh, Kalon, whither do we go! Greek art is condemned,
and
Satire hath got its death-stroke. The beautiful is not the beau-
tiful unless it is
fettered to the moral; and Virtue rejects the physical
perfections, lest she should
fall in love with herself, and sin and
cause sin.
Christian. Nay, Kosmon. Nothing pure,—nothing that is
innocent,
chaste, unsensual,—whether Greek or satirical, is con-
demned: but everything—every
picture, poem, statue, or piece of
music— which elicits the sensual, viceful, and
unholy desires of
our nature—is, and that utterly. The beautiful was created
the
true, morally as well as physically; vice is a deformment of virtue,—
not of
form, to which it is a parasitical addition—an accretion which
can and must be excised
before the beautiful can show itself as it was
originally made, morally as well as
formally perfect. How we all
wish the sensual, indecent, and brutal, away from Hogarth,
so that
we might show him to the purest virgin without fear or blushing.
Sophon. And as well from Shakspere. Rotten members,
though small in
themselves, are yet large enough to taint the
whole body. And those impurities, like
rank growths of vine, may
be lopped away without injuring any vital principle. In
perfect
art the utmost purity of intention, design, and execution, alone is
wisdom.
Every tree—every flower, in defiance of adverse contin-
gencies, grows with perfect
will to be perfect: and, shall man, who
hath what they have not, a soul wherewith he
may defy all ill, do
less?
Kosmon. But how may this purity be attained? I see every
where close
round the pricks; not a single step may be taken in
advance without wounding something
vital. Corruption strews thick
both earth and ocean; it is only the heavens that are
pure, and man
cannot live upon manna alone.
Christian. Kosmon, you would seem to mistake what Sophon
and I mean.
Neither he nor I wish nature to be used less, or
otherwise than as it appears; on the
contrary, we wish it used
more—more directly. Nature itself is comparatively pure; all
that
we desire is the removal of the factitious matter that the vice of
fashion,
evil hearts, and infamous desires, graft upon it. It is not
simple innocent nature that
we would exile, but the devilish and
libidinous corruptions that sully nature.
Kalon. But, if your ideas were strictly carried out, there would
be
but little of worth left in the world for the artist to use; for, if
passion, whether heroic, patriotic, or
loving, that is not rigidly
virtuous.
Christian. I do. Without he has a didactic aim; like as
Hogarth had.
A picture, poem, or statue, unless it speaks some
purpose, is mere paint, paper, or
stone. A work of art must have
a purpose, or it is not a work of fine
art: thus, then, if it be a work
of fine art, it has a purpose; and, having purpose, it
has either a
good or an evil one: there is no alternative. An artist's works are
his
children, his immortal heirs, to his evil as well as to his good; as he
hath
trained them, so will they teach. Let him ask himself why does
a parent so tenderly
rear his children. Is it not because he knows
that evil is evil, whether it take the
shape of angels or devils? And
is not the parent's example worthy of the artist's
imitation? What
advantage has a man over a child? Is there any preservative
pecu-
liar to manhood that it alone may see and touch sin, and yet be not
defiled?
Verily, there is none! All mere battles, assassinations, im-
molations, horrible
deaths, and terrible situations used by the artist
solely to excite,—every passion
degrading to man's perfect nature,—
should certainly be rejected, and that
unhesitatingly.
Sophon.—Suffer me to extend the just conclusions of
Christian.
Art—true art—fine art—cannot be either coarse or low. Innocent-
like, no
taint will cling to it, and a smock frock is as pure as “vir-
ginal-chaste robes.”
And,—sensualism, indecency, and brutality,
excepted—sin is not sin, if not in the act;
and, in satire, with the
same exceptions, even sin in the act is tolerated when used to
point
forcibly a moral crime, or to warn society of a crying shame which
it can
remedy.
Kalon. But, my dear Sophon,—and you, Christian,—you do
not condemn
the oak because of its apples; and, like them, the sin
in the poem, picture, or statue,
may be a wormy accretion grafted
from without. The spectator often makes sin where the
artist in-
tended none. For instance, in the nude,—where perhaps, the
poet,
painter, or sculptor, imagines he has embodied only the purest and
chastest
ideas and forms, the sensualist sees—what he wills to see;
and, serpent-like, previous
to devouring his prey, he covers it with
his saliva.
Christian. The Circean poison, whether drunk from the
clearest
crystal or the coarsest clay, alike intoxicates and makes
beasts of men. Be assured
that every nude figure or nudity intro-
duced in a poem, picture, or piece of
sculpture, merely on physical
grounds, and only for effect, is vicious. And, where it
is boldly
introduced and forms the central idea, it ought never to have a sense
knowledge of its nudity,(too surely
communicated by it to the
spectator,) that makes it so. Eve and Adam before their fall
were
not more utterly shameless than the artist ought to make his inven-
tions. The
Turk believes that, at the judgment-day, every artist
will be compelled to furnish,
from his own soul, soul for every one
of his creations. This thought is a noble one,
and should thoroughly
awake poet, painter, and sculptor, to the awful responsibilities
they
labour under. With regard to the sensualist,— who is omnivorous,
and
swine-like, assimilates indifferently pure and impure, degrading
everything he hears or
sees,—little can be said beyond this; that
for him, if the artist be
without sin, he is not answerable. But in
this responsibility he has two rigid yet just
judges, God and him-
self;—let him answer there before that tribunal. God will
acquit
or condemn him only as he can acquit or condemn himself.
Kalon. But, under any circumstance, beautiful nude flesh
beautifully
painted must kindle sensuality; and, described as beauti-
fully in poetry, it will do
the like, almost, if not quite, as readily.
Sculpture is the only form of art in which
it can be used thoroughly
pure, chaste, unsullied, and unsullying. I feel, Christian,
that you
mean this. And see what you do!—What a vast domain of art you
set a
Solomon's seal upon! how numberless are the poems, pictures,
and statues—the most
beautiful productions of their authors—you
put in limbo! To me, I confess, it appears
the very top of prudery
to condemn these lovely creations, merely because they
quicken
some men's pulses.
Kosmon. And, to me, it appears hypercriticism to object to
pic-
tures, poems, and statues, calling them not works of art—or fine art
—because
they have no higher purpose than eye or ear-delight. If
this law be held to be good,
very few pictures called of the English
school—of the English school, did I say?—very
few pictures at all,
of any school, are safe from condemnation: almost all the
Dutch
must suffer judgment, and a very large proportion of modern
sculpture,
poetry, and music, will not pass. Even “
Christian. Oh, Kalon, you hardly need an answer! What!
shall the
artist spend weeks and months, nay, sometimes years, in
thought and study, contriving
and perfecting some beautiful inven-
tion,—in order only that men's pulses may be
quickened? What!
—can he, jesuit-like, dwell in the house of soul, only to
discover
where to sap her foundations?—Satan-like, does he turn his angel of
light
into a fiend of darkness, and use his God-delegated might
against its giver, making
Astartes and Molochs to draw other thou-
Kosmon, I regard purpose as I regard
soul; one is not more the
light of the thought than the other is the light of the body;
and
both, soul and purpose, are necessary for a complete intellect; and
intellect,
of the intellectual—of which the fine arts are the capital
members—is not more to be
expected than demanded. I be-
lieve that most of the pictures you mean are mere natural
history
paintings from the animal side of man. The Dutchmen may, cer-
tainly, go
Letheward; but for their colour, and subtleties of
execution, they would not be
tolerated by any man of taste.
Sophon. Christian here, I think, is too stringent. Though walls
be
necessary round our flower gardens to keep out swine and other
vile cattle—yet I can
see no reason why, with excluding beasts, we
should also exclude light and air. Purpose
is purpose or not, accord-
ing to the individual capacity to assimilate it. Different
plants
require different soils, and they will rather die than grow on
unfriendly
ones; it is the same with animals; they endure existence
only through their natural
food; and this variety of soils, plants, and
vegetables, is the world less man. But
man, as well as the other
created forms, is subject to the same law: he takes only that
aliment
he can digest. It is sufficient with some men that their sensoria
be
delighted with pleasurable and animated grouping, colour, light, and
shade: this
feeling or desire of their's is, in itself, thoroughly inno-
cent: it is true, it is
not a great burden for them to carry; no, but
it is the lightness of the burden that is
the merit; for thereby, their
step is quickened and not clogged, their intellect is
exhilarated and
not oppressed. Thus, then, a purpose is secured, from
a picture or
poem or statue, which may not have in it the smallest particle of
what
Christian and I think necessary for it to possess; he reckons a
poem, picture, or
statue, to be a work of fine art by the quality and
quantity of thought it contains, by
the mental leverage it possesses
wherewith to move his mind, by the honey which he may
hive, and
by the heavenly manna he may gather therefrom.
Kosmon. Christian wants art like Magdalen Hospitals, where
the
windows are so contrived that all of earth is excluded, and only
heaven is seen. Wisdom
is not only shown in the soul, but also in
the body: the bones, nerves, and muscles,
are quite as wonderful in
idea as is the incorporeal essence which rules them. And the
animal
part of man wants as much caring for as the spiritual: God made
both, and is
equally praised through each. And men's souls are as
much touchable and teachable
through their animal feelings as ever
they are through their mental aspirations; this
both Orpheus and
Amphion knew when they, with their music, made towns to rise in
is without a purpose; and I
maintain,—if they give but the least
glimpse of happiness to a single human being,—that
even the Dutch
masters are useful, I believe that the thought-wrapped
philosopher,
who, in his close-pent study, designs some valuable blessing for
his
lower and more animal brethren, only pursues the craving of his
nature; and
that his happiness is no higher than their's in their
several occupations and delights.
Sight and sense are fully as power-
ful for happiness as thought and ratiocination.
Nature grows flowers
wherever she can; she causes sweet waters to ripple over stony
beds,
and living wells to spring up in deserts, so that grass and herbs may
grow
and afford nourishment to some of God's creatures. Even the
granite
and the lava must put forth blossoms.
Kalon. Oh Christian, children cannot digest strong meats!
Neither
can a blind man be made to see by placing him opposite the
sun. The sound of the violin
is as innocent as that of the organ.
And, though there be a wide difference in the
sacredness of the
occupations, yet dance, song, and the other amusements common
to
society, are quite as necessary to a healthy condition of the mind and
body, as
is to the soul the pursuit and daily practice of religion.
The healthy condition of the
mind and body is, after all, the happy
life; and whether that life be most mental or
most animal it matters
little, even before God, so long as its delights, amusements,
and
occupations, be thoroughly innocent and chaste.
Christian. So long as the pursuits, pastimes, and pleasures
of
mankind be innocent and chaste,—with you all, heartily, I believe
it matters
little how or in what form they be enjoyed. Pure water
is certainly equally pure,
whether it trickle from the hill-side or flow
through crystal conduits; and equally
refreshing whether drunk
from the iron bowl or the golden goblet;—only the crystal and
gold
will better please some natures than the hill-side and the iron. I
know also
that a star may give more light than the moon,—but that
is up in its own heavens and
not here on earth. I know that it is
not light and shade which make a complete globe,
but, as well, the
local and neutral tints. Thus, my friends, you perceive that I
am
neither for building a wall, nor for contriving windows so as to ex-
clude
light, air, and earth. As much as any of you, I am for every
man's sitting under his
own vine, and for his training, pruning, and
eating its fruit how he pleases. Let the
artist paint, write, or carve,
what and how he wills, teach the world through sense or
through
thought,—I will not dissent; I have no patent to entitle me to do
so; nay,
I will be thoroughly satisfied with whatsoever he does, so
long as it is pure,
unsensual, and earnestly true. But, as the mental
—so ought all that he does to be
apart from and above their nature;
especially in the fine arts, which are the
intellectual perfection of the
intellectual. And nothing short of this intellectual
perfection,—
however much they may be pictures, poems, statues, or music,—can
rank
such works to be works of Fine Art. They may have merit,—
nay, be useful, and hence, in
some sort, have a purpose: but they
are as much works of Fine Art as Babel was the
Temple of Solomon.
Sophon. And man can be made to understand these truths—can
be drawn
to crave for and love the fine arts: it is only to take him
in hand as we would take
some animal—tenderly using it—entreat-
ing it, as it were, to do its best—to put forth
all its powers with all
its capable force and beauty. Nor is it so very difficult a
task to
raise, in the low, conceptions of things high: the mass of men have
a fine
appreciation of God and his goodness: and as active, chari-
table, and sympathetic a
nurture in the beautiful and true as they
have given to them in religion, would as
surely and swiftly raise in
them an equally high appreciation of the fine arts. But, if
the
artist would essay such a labour, he must show them what fine art
is: and, in
order to do this effectually, as an architect clears away
from some sacred edifice
which he restores the shambles and shops,
which, like filthy toads cowering on a
precious monument, have
squatted themselves round its noble proportions; so must he
remove
from his art-edifice the deformities which hide —the corruptions
which shame
it.
Christian. How truly Sophon speaks a retrospective look will
show.
The disfigurements which both he and I deplore are strictly
what he compared them to;
they are shambles and shops grafted on
a sacred edifice. Still, indigenous art is
sacred and devoted to reli-
gious purposes: this keeps it pure for a time; but, like a
stream
travelling and gathering other streams as it goes through wide
stretches of
country to the sea, it receives greater and more nume-
rous impurities the farther it
gets from its source, until, at last, what
was, in its rise, a gentle rilling through
snows and over whitest
stones, roars into the ocean a muddy and contentious river.
Men
soon long to touch and taste all that they see; savage-like, him
whom to-day
they deem a god and worship, they on the morrow get
an appetite for and kill, to eat
and barter. And thus art is degraded,
made a thing of carnal desire—a commodity of the
exchange. Yes,
Sophon, to be instructive, to become a teaching instrument, the
art-
edifice must be cleansed from its abominations; and, with them,
must the
artist sweep out the improvements and ruthless restora-
tions that hang on it like
formless botches on peopled tapestry. The
earnest builders, to enjoy the
severely simple, beautiful, aspiring,
and solemn temple, in all its first purity, the
same as they bequeathed
it to them as their posterity.
Kalon. The peasant, upon acquaintance, quickly prefers wheaten
bread
to the black and sour mass that formerly served him: and
when true jewels are placed
before him, counterfeit ones in his eyes
soon lose their lustre, and become things
which he scorns. The
multitude are teachable— teachable as a child; but, like a child,
they
are self-willed and obstinate, and will learn in their own way, or
not at all.
And, if the artist wishes to raise them unto a fit audience,
he must consult their very
waywardness, or his work will be a
Penelope's web of done and undone: he must be to
them not only
cords of support staying their every weakness against sin
and
temptation, but also, tendrils of delight winding around them. But
I cannot
understand why regeneration can flow to them through
sacred art alone. All pure art is
sacred art. And the artist having
soul as well as nature—the lodestar as well as the
lodestone—to
steer his path by—and seeing that he must circle earth—it
matters
little from what quarter he first points his course; all that is
neces-
sary is that he go as direct as possible, his knowledge keeping him
from
quicksands and sunken rocks.
Christian. Yes, Kalon;—and, to compare things humble—
though
conceived in the same spirit of love—with things mighty,
the artist, if he desires to
inform the people thoroughly, must imi-
tate Christ, and, like him, stoop down to earth
and become flesh of
their flesh; and his work should be wrought out with all his soul
and
strength in the same world-broad charity, and truth, and virtue, and
be, for
himself as well as for them, a justification for his teaching.
But all art, simply
because it is pure and perfect, cannot, for those
grounds alone, be called sacred:
Christian, it may, and that justly;
for only since Christ taught have morals been
considered a religion.
Christian and sacred art bear that relation to each other that
the
circle bears to its generating point; the first is only volume, the last
is
power: and though the first—as the world includes God—includes
with it the last, still,
the last is the greatest, for it makes that which
includes it: thus all pure art is
Christian, but not all is sacred.
Christian art comprises the earth and its humanities,
and, by impli-
cation, God and Christ also; and sacred art is the emanating
idea—
the central causating power—the jasper throne, whereon sits
Christ,
surrounded by the prophets, apostles, and saints, administering
judgement,
wisdom, and holiness. In this sense, then, the art you
would call sacred is not sacred,
but Christian: and, as all perfect art
is Christian, regeneration necessarily can only flow thence; and
thus
it is, as you say, that, from whatever quarter the artist steers his
course,
he steers aright.
Kosmon. And, Christian, is a return to this sacred or Christian
art
by you deemed possible? I question it. How can you get the
art of one age to reflect
that of another, when the image to be re-
flected is without the angle of reflection?
The sun cannot be seen
of us when it is night! and that class of art has got its golden
age
too remote—its night too long set—for it to hope ever to grasp rule
again, or
again to see its day break upon it. You have likened art
to a river rising pure, and
rolling a turbid volume into the ocean. I
have a comparison equally just. The career of
one artist contains
in itself the whole of art-history; its every phase is presented
by
him in the course of his life. Savage art is beheld in his childish
scratchings
and barbarous glimmerings; Indian, Egyptian, and
Assyrian art in his boyish rigidity
and crude fixedness of idea and
purpose; Mediæval, or pre-Raffaelle art is seen in his
youthful timid
darings, his unripe fancies oscillating between earth and
heaven;
there where we expect truth, we see conceit; there where we want
little,
much is given—now a blank eyed riddle,—dark with excess
of self,—now a giant
thought—vast but repulsive,—and now angel
visitors startling us with wisdom and touches
of heavenly beauty.
Every where is seen exactness; but it is the exactness of
hesitation,
and not of knowledge—the line of doubt, and not of power: all
the
promises for ripeness are there; but, as yet, all are immature. And
mature art
is presented when all these rude scaffoldings are thrown
down—when the man steps out of
the chrysalis a complete idea—
both Psyche and Eros— free-thoughted, free-tongued, and
free-
handed;—a being whose soul moves through the heavens and the
earth—now
choiring it with angels—and now enthroning it, bay-
crowned, among the men-kings;—whose
hand passes over all earth,
spreading forth its beauties unerring as the
seasons—stretches through
cloudland, revealing its delectable glories, or, eagle-like,
soars right
up against the sun;—or seaward goes seizing the cresting foam as
it
leaps—the ships and their crews as they wallow in the watery valleys,
or climb
their steeps, or hang over their flying ridges:—daring and
doing all whatsoever it
shall dare to do, with boundless fruitfulness of
idea, and power, and line; that is
mature art—art of the time of
Phidias, of Raffaelle, and of Shakspere. And, Christian,
in prefer-
ring the art of the period previous to Raffaelle to the art of his
time,
you set up the worse for the better, elevate youth above manhood, and
tell us
that the half-formed and unripe berry is wholesomer than the
perfect and ripened fruit.
Christian. Kosmon, your thoughts seduce you; or rather,
your nature
prefers the full and rich to the exact and simple: you
do not go deep enough—do not
penetrate beneath the image's gilt
overlay, and see that it covers only worm-devoured
wood. Your
very comparison tells against you. What you call ripeness, others,
with
as much truth, may call over-ripeness, nay, even rottenness;
when all the juices are
drunk with their lusciousness, sick with over-
sweetness. And the art which you call
youthful and immature—
may be, most likely is, mature and wholesome in the same
degree
that it is tasteful, a perfect round of beautiful, pure, and good.
You call
youth immature; but in what does it come short of man-
hood. Has it not all that man
can have,—free, happy, noble, and
spiritual thoughts? And are not those thoughts newer,
purer, and
more unselfish in the youth than in the man? What eye has the
man, that
the youth's is not as comprehensive, keen, rapid, and
penetrating? or what hand, that
the youth's is not as swift, force-
ful, cunning, and true? And what does the youth
gain in becoming
man? Is it freshness, or deepness, or power, or wisdom?
nay
rather—is it not languor—the languor of satiety—of indifferentism?
And thus
soul-rusted and earth-charmed, what mate is he for his
former youth? Drunken with the
world-lees, what can he do but
pourtray nature drunken as well, and consumed with the
same
fever or stupor that consumes himself, making up with gilding and
filigree
what he lacks in truth and sincerity? and what comparison
shall exist here and between
what his youth might or could have
done, with a soul innocent and untroubled as
heaven's deep calm of
blue, gazing on earth with seraph eyes—looking, but not
longing—
or, in the spirit rapt away before the emerald-like
rainbow-crowned
throne, witnessing “things that shall be hereafter,
” and
drawing
them down almost as stainless as he beheld them? What an array
of deep,
earnest, and noble thinkers, like angels armed with a
brightness that withers, stand
between Giotto and Raffaelle; to
mention only Orcagna, Ghiberti, Masaccio, Lippi, Fra
Beato Ange-
lico, and Francia. Parallel them with post-Raffaelle
artists? If
you think you can, you have dared a labour of which the fruit shall
be
to you as Dead Sea apples, golden and sweet to the eye, but, in
the mouth, ashes and
bitterness. And the Phidian era was a youthful
one—the highest and purest period of
Hellenic art: after that time
they added no more gods or heroes, but took for models
instead—
the Alcibiadeses and Phyrnes, and made Bacchuses and Aphrodites;
not as
Phidias would have—clothed with the greatness of thought,
or girded with valour, or
veiled with modesty; but dissolved with
the voluptuousness of the bath, naked, wanton,
and shameless.
Sophon. You hear, Kosmon, that Christian prefers ripe youth
to ripe
manhood: and he is right. Early summer is nobler than
early autumn; the head is wiser
than the hand. You take the
hand to mean too much: you should not judge by quantity,
or
luxuriance, or dexterity, but by quality, chastity, and fidelity. And
colour and
tone are only a fair setting to thought and virtue. Per-
haps it is the fate, or rather
the duty, of mortals to make a sacrifice
for all things, withheld as well as given.
Hand sometimes suc-
cumbs to head, and head in its turn succumbs to hand; the first
is
the lot of youth, the last of manhood. The question is—which of
the two we can
best afford to do without. Narrowed down to
this, I think but very few men would be
found who would not
sacrifice in the loss of hand in preference to its gain at the loss
of
head.
Kosmon. But, Christian, in advocating a return to this
pre-
Raffaelle art, are you not—you yourself — urging the committal of
“ruthless
restorations” and “improvements,” new and vile as any
that you have denounced? You tell
the artist, that he should
restore the sacred edifice to its first purity—the same as
it was be-
queathed by its pious and earnest builders. But can he do this and
be
himself original? For myself, I would above all things urge
him to study how to reproduce, and not how to represent—to imi-
tate no past perfection, but
to create for himself another, as beau-
tiful, wise, and true. I would say to him,
“build not on old
ground, profaned, polluted, trod into slough by filthy animals;
but
break new ground—virgin ground—ground that thought has never
imagined or eye
seen, and dig into our hearts a foundation, deep and
broad as our humanity. Let it not
be a temple formed of hands
only, but built up of us—us of the
present—body of our body, soul of
our soul.”
Christian. When men wish to raise a piece of stone, or to
move it
along, they seek for a fulcrum to use their lever from;
and, this obtained, they can
place the stone wheresoever they please.
And world-perfections come into existence too
slowly for men to
reject all the teaching and experience of their predecessors:
the
labour of learning is trifling compared to the labour of finding out;
the first
implies only days, the last, hundreds of years. The dis-
covery of the new world
without the compass would have been
sheer chance; but with it, it became an absolute
certainty. So,
and in such manner, the modern artist seeks to use early
mediæval
art, as a fulcrum to raise through, but only as a fulcrum; for he
himself
holds the lever, whereby he shall both guide and fix the
stones of his art temple; as
experience, which shall be to him aL
control; and as a compass, which shall regulate his journey, but
which, so far
from taking away his liberty, shall even add to it, be-
cause through it his course is
set so fast in the ways of truth as
to allow him, undividedly, to give up his whole
soul to the purpose
of his voyage, and to steer a wider and freer path over the
track-
less, but to him, with his rudder and compass, no longer the trackless
or
waste ocean; for, God and his endeavours prospering him, that
shall yield up unto his
hands discoveries as man-worthy as any
hitherto beheld by men, or conceived by poets.
Kalon. But, Christian, another artist with equal justness might
use
Hellenic art as a means toward making happy discoveries;
formatively, there is nothing
in it that is not both beautiful and
perfect; and beautiful things, rainbow-like, are
once and for ever
beautiful; and the contemplation and study of its dignified,
graceful,
and truthful embodiments—which, by common consent, it only is
allowed to
possess in an eminent and universal degree—is full as
likely to awaken in the mind of
its student as high revelations of
wisdom, and cause him to bear to earth as many
perfections for
man, as ever the study of pre-Raffaelle art can reveal or
give,
through its votary.
Christian. But beautiful things, to be beautiful in the
highest
degree, like the rainbow, must have a spiritual as well as a
physical
voice. Lovely as it is, it is not the arch of colours that glows in
the
heavens of our hearts; what does, is the inner and invisible
sense for which it was set
up of old by God, and of which its
many-hued form is only the outward and visible sign.
Thus,
beautiful things alone, of themselves, are not sufficient for this
task; to
be sufficient they must be as vital with soul as they are
with shape. To be formatively
perfect is not enough; they must
also be spiritually perfect, and this not locally but universally. The
art of the Greeks was a local art; and hence, now,
it has no spiri-
tual. Their gods speak to us no longer as gods, or teach
us
divinely: they have become mere images of stone—profane em-
bodiments. False to
our spiritual, Hellenic art wants every thing
that Christian art is full of. Sacred and
universal, this clasps us,
as Abraham's bosom did Lazarus, within its infinite
embraces,
causing every fibre of our being to quicken under its heavenly
truths.
Ithuriel's golden spear was not more antagonistic to Satan's
loathly
transformation—than is Christian opposed to pagan art.
The wide, the awful gulf,
separating one from the other, will be felt
instantly in its true force by first
thinking Zeus, and then thinking
Christ. How pale, shadowy, and shapeless the vision of lust,
the thought of Christ, how
overwhelming the inrush of sublime
and touching realities; what height and depth of
love and power;
what humility, and beauty, and immaculate purity are made ours
at
the mention of his name; the Saviour, the Intercessor, the
Judge, the Resurrection and
the Life. These—these are the divinely
awful truths taught by our faith; and which
should also be taught
by our art. Hellenic art, like the fig tree that only bore
leaves,
withered at Christ's coming; and thus no “happy discoveries” can
flow
thence, or “revelations of wisdom,” or other perfections be
borne to earth for man.
Sophon. Christian thinks and says, that if the spiritual be not
in a thing, it cannot be put upon it; and hence, if a work of art
be
not a god, it must be a man, or a mere image of one; and that the
faith of the
Pagan is the foolishness of the Christian. Nor does
he utter unreason; for,
notwithstanding their perfect forms, their
gods are not gods to us, but only perfect
forms: Apollo, Theseus,
the Ilissus, Aphrodite, Artemis, Psyche, and Eros, are only
shape-
ful manhood, womanhood, virginhood, and youth, and move us
only by the exact
amount of humanity they possess in common with
ourselves. Homer and
Æschylus, and Sophocles, and Phidias, live not
by the sacred in them, but by the human: and, but for this
common
bond, Hellenic art would have been submerged in the same Lethe
that has
drowned the Indian, Egyptian, and Assyrian Theogonies
and arts. And, if we except form,
what other thing does Hellenic
art offer to the modern artist, that is not thoroughly
opposed to his
faith, wants, and practice? And thought—thought in accordance
with
all the lines of his knowledge, temperament, and habits—
thought through which he makes
and shapes for men, and is un-
derstood by them—it is as destitute of, as inorganic
matter of soul
and reason. But Christian art, because of the faith upon which
it is
built, suffers under no such drawbacks, for that faith is as per-
sonal and vigorous
now as ever it was at its origin—every motion
and principle of our being moves to it
like a singing harmony;—
it is the breath which brings out of us, Æolian-harp-like, our
most
penetrating and heavenly music—the river of the water of life,
which searches
all our dry parts and nourishes them, causing them
to spring up and bear abundantly the
happy seed which shall en-
rich and make fat the earth to the uttermost parts thereof.
Kalon. With you both I believe, that faith is necessary to a
man,
and that without faith sight even is feeble: but I also believe
that a man is as much a
part of the religious, moral, and social
system in which he lives, as is a plant of the
soil, situation, andL 2
as
much power to change the belief of the man, as they have to
alter the structure of the
plant. A faith once in a man, it is there
always; and, though unfelt even by himself,
works actively: and
Hellenic art, so far from being an impediment to the
Christian
belief, is the exact reverse; for, it is the privilege of that
belief,
through its sublime alchymy, to be able to transmute all it touches
into
itself: and the perfect forms of Hellenic art, so touched, move
our souls only the more
energetically upwards, because of their
transcendent beauty; for through them alone can
we see how won-
derfully and divinely God wrought—how majestic, powerful,
and
vigorous he made man—how lovely, soft, and winning, he made
woman: and in
beholding these things, we are thankful to him that
we are permitted to see them—not as
Pagans, but altogether as
Christians. Whether Christian or Pagan, the highest beauty
is
still the highest beauty; and the highest beauty alone, to the total
exclusion
of gods and their myths, compels our admiration.
Kosmon. Another thing we ought to remember, when judging
Hellenic
Art, is, but for its existence, all other kinds—pre-Raffaelle
as well—could not have
had being. The Greeks were, by far, more
inclined to worship nature as contained in
themselves, than the
gods,—if the gods are not reflexes of themselves, which is
most
likely. And, thus impelled, they broke through the monstrous
symbolism of
Egypt, and made them gods after their own hearts;
that is, fashioned them out of
themselves. And herein, I think we
may discern something of providence; for, suppose
their natures
had not been so powerfully antagonistic to the traditions and
con-
ventions of their religion, what other people in the world could or
would have
done their work? Cast about a brief while in your
memories, and endeavor to find
whether there has ever existed a
people who in their nature, nationality, and religion,
have been so
eminently fitted to perform such a task as the Hellenic? You will
then
feel that we have reason to be thankful that they were allowed
to do what else had
never been done; and, which not done, all
posterity would have suffered to the last
throe of time. And, if
they have not made a thorough perfection—a spiritual as well
as
a physical one—forget not that, at least, they have made this
physical
representation a finished one. They took it from the Egyptians,
rude,
clumsy, and seated; its head stony—pinned to its chest; its
hands tied to its side, and
its legs joined; they shaped it, beautiful,
majestic, and erect; elevated its head;
breathed into it animal fire;
gave movement and action to its arms and hands; opened
its legs
and made it walk—made it human at all points—the radical
receded into the past and become a
“pale, shadowy, and shapeless
vision of lust, revenge, and impotence,” the human lives
on graceful,
vigorous, and deathless, as at first, and excites in us admiration
as
unbounded as ever followed it of old in Greece or Italy.
Christian. Yes, Kosmon, yes! they are flourished all over with
the
rhetoric of the body; but nowhere is to be seen in them that
diviner poetry, the
oratory of the soul! Truly they are a splendid
casket enclosing nothing—at least
nothing now of importance to
us; for what they once contained, the world, when stirred
with
nobler matter, disregarded, and left to perish. But, Kosmon, we
cannot discuss
probabilities. Our question is—not whether the
Greeks only could have made such
masterpieces of nature and art;
but whether their works are of that kind the most fitted to carry
forward to a more ultimate perfection that idea
which is peculiarly
our's. All art, more or less, is a species of symbolism; and
the
Hellenic, notwithstanding its more universal method of typification,
was fully
as symbolic as the Egyptian; and hence its language is not
only dead, but forgotten,
and is now past recovery: and, if it were
not, what purpose would be served by its
republication? For, for
whom does the artist work? The inevitable answer is, “For
his
nation!” His statue, or picture, poem, or music, must be made up
and out of
them; they are at once his exemplars, his audience, and
his worshippers; and he is
their mirror in which they behold them-
selves as they are: he breathes them vitally as
an atmosphere, and
they breathe him. Zeus, Athene, Heracles, Prometheus,
Agamemnon,
Orestes, the House of Œdipus, Clytemnestra, Iphigenia, and
Antigone,
spoke something to the Hellenic nations; woke their
piety, pity, or horror,—thrilled,
soothed, or delighted them; but
they have no charm for our ears; for us, they are
literally disem-
bodied ghosts, and voiceless as shapeless. But not so are
Christ,
and the holy Apostles and saints, and the Blessed Virgin; and not
so is
Hamlet, or Richard the Third, or Macbeth, or Shylock, or the
House of Lear, Ophelia,
Desdemona, Grisildis, or Una, or Genevieve.
No: they all speak and
move real and palpable before our eyes, and
are felt deep down in the heart's core of
every thinking soul among
us:—they all grapple to us with holds that only life will
loose. Of
all this I feel assured, because, a brief while since, we agreed
together
that man could only be raised through an incarnation of himself.
Tacitly,
we would also seem to have limited the uses of Hellenic art
to the serving as models of
proportion, or as a gradus for form: and,
though I cannot deny them any merit they may
have in this respect,
still, I would wish to deal cautiously with them: the artist,—most
them and open to their
influence,—should never have his soul asleep
when his hand is awake; but, like voice
and instrument, one should
always accompany the other harmoniously.
Kosmon. But surely you will deal no less cautiously with
early
mediæval art. Archaisms are not more tolerable in pictures than
they are in
statues, poems, or music; and the archaisms of this kind
of art are so numerous as to
be at first sight the most striking feature
belonging to it. Most remarkable among
these unnatural peculiari-
ties are gilded backgrounds, gilded hair, gilded ornaments
and
borders to draperies and dresses, the latter's excessive verticalism of
lines
and tedious involution of folds, and the childlike passivity of
countenance and
expression: all of which are very prominent, and
operate as serious drawbacks to their
merits; which—as I have
freely admitted—are in truth not a few, nor mean.
Christian. The artist is only a man, and living with other men
in a
state of being called society; and,—though perhaps in a lesser
degree—he is as subject
to its influences—its fashions and customs
—as they are. But in this respect his
failings may be likened to
the dross which the purest metal in its molten state
continually
throws up to its surface, but which is mere excrement, and so
little
essential that it can be skimmed away: and, as the dross to the metal,
just
so little essential are the archaisms you speak of to the early art,
and just so easily
can they be cast aside. But bethink you, Kosmon.
Is Hellenic art without archaisms? And
that feature of it held to
be its crowning perfection—its head—is not that a very
marked
one? And, is it not so completely opposed to the artist's experience
in the
forms of nature that—except in subjects from Greek history
and mythology—he dares not
use it—at least without modifying it
so as to destroy its Hellenism?
Sophon. Then Hellenic Art is like a musical bell with a flaw
in it;
before it can be serviceable it must be broken up and recast.
If its sum of beauty—its
line of lines, the facial angle, must be
destroyed—as it undoubtedly must,—before it
can be used for the
general purposes of art, then its claims over early mediæval art,
in
respect of form, are small indeed. But is it not altogether a great
archaism?
Kalon. Oh, Sophon! weighty as are the reasons urged against
Hellenic
art by Christian and yourself, they are not weighty enough
to outbalance its beauty, at
least to me: at present they may have
set its sun in gloom; yet I know that that
obscuration, like a dark
foreground to a bright distance, will make its rising again
only the
more surpassingly glorious. I admire its exquisite creations, because
because I think them so; and
their silent capabilities, like the star-
dust of heaven before the intellectual
insight, resolve themselves
into new worlds of thoughts and things so ever as I
contemplate
their perfections: like a prolonged music, full of sweet yet
melan-
choly cadences, they have sunk into my heart—my brain—my soul—
never, never
to cease while life shall hold with me. But, for all that,
my hands are not full; and,
whithersoever the happy seed shall
require me, I am not for withholding plough or
spade, planting or
watering; and that which I am called in the spirit to do—will I
do
manfully and with my whole strength.
Sophon. Kalon, the conclusion of your speech is better than
the
commencement. It is better to sacrifice myrrh and frankin-
cense than virtue and
wisdom, thoughts than deeds. Would that
all men were as ready as yourself to dispark
their little selfish
enclosures, and burn out all their hedges of prickly briers
and
brambles—turning the evil into the good—the seed-catching into
the
seed-nourishing. Of the too consumptions let us prefer the
active, benevolent, and
purifying one of fire, to the passive, self-
eating, and corrupting one of rust: one
half minute's clear shining
may touch some watching and waiting soul, and through him
kindle
whole ages of light.
Christian. Men do not stumble over what they know; and
the day fades
so imperceptibly into night that were it not for ex-
perience, darkness would surprise
us long before we believed the
day done: and, in relation to art, its revolutions are
still more im-
perceptible in their gradations; and, in fulfilling themselves,
they
spread over such an extent of time, that in their knowledge the
experience of
one artist is next to nothing; and its twilight is so
lengthy, that those who never saw
other, believe its gloom to be day;
nor are their successors more aware that the
deepening darkness is
the contrary, until night drops big like a great clap of thunder,
and
awakes them staringly to a pitiable sense of their condition. But,
if we cannot
have this experience through ourselves, we can through
others; and that will show us
that Pagan art has once—nay twice
—already brought over Christian art a “darkness which
might be
felt;” from a little handful cloud out of the studio of Squarcione,
it
gathered density and volume through his scholar Mantegna—made
itself a nucleus
in the Academy of the Medici, and thence it issued
in such a flood of “heathenesse”
that Italy finally became covered
with one vast deep and thick night of Pagandom. But
in every
deep there is a lower deep; and, through the same gods-worship,
a night
intenser still fell upon art when the pantomime of David
eyes, the modern artist can
have no other than a settled conviction
that Pagan art, Devil-like, glozes but to
seduce—tempts but to
betray; and hence, he chooses to avoid that which he believes
to
be bad, and to follow that which he holds to be good, and blots out
from his eye
and memory all art between the present and its first
taint of heathenism, and ascends
to the art previous to Raffaelle;
and he ascends thither, not so much for its forms as
he does for its
Thought and Nature—the root and trunk of the
art-tree, of
whose numerous branches form is only one—though the most im-
portant
one: and he goes to pre-Raffaelle art for those two things,
because the stream at that
point is clearer and deeper, and less
polluted with animal impurities, than at any
other in its course.
And, Kalon and Kosmon, had you remembered this, and at the
same
time recollected that the words, “Nature” and “Thought” express
very peculiar
ideas to modern eyes and ears—ideas which are totally
unknown to Hellenic Art—you would
have instantly felt, that the
artist cannot study from it things chiefest in importance
to him—of
which it is destitute, even as is a shore-driven boulder of life
and
verdure.
Yes! there are Giants on the earth in these days; but it is
their
great bulk, and the nearness of our view, which prevents us from
perceiving
their grandeur. This is how it is that the glory of the
present is lost upon the
contemporaries of the greatest men; and,
perhaps this was Swift's meaning, when he said
that Gulliver could
not discover exactly what it was that strode among the
corn-ridges
in the Brobdignagian field: thus, we lose the brightness of things
of
our own time in consequence of their proximity.
It is of the development of our individual perceptions, and the
application
thereof to a good use, that the writer humbly endeavours
to treat. We will for this
purpose take as an example, that which
may be held to indicate the civilization of a
period more than any
thing else; namely, the popular perception of the essentials of
writers are acknowledged, (tho' not in
proportion to the attention
of each individual in his works to nature alone) the modern
school
is contemned and unconsidered; and also that much of the active
poetry of
modern life is neglected by the majority of the writers
themselves.
There seems to be an opinion gaining ground fast, in spite of all
the shaking of
conventional heads, that the Poets of the present day
are equal to all others, excepting
one: however this may be, it is
certain we are not fair judges, because of the natural
reason stated
before; and there is decidedly one great fault in the moderns,
that
not only do they study models with which they can never become
intimately
acquainted, but that they neglect, or rather reject as
worthless, that which they alone
can carry on with perfect success:
I mean the knowledge of themselves, and the
characteristics of their
own actual living. Thus, if a modern Poet or Artist (the
latter
much more culpably errs) seeks a subject exemplifying charity, he
rambles
into ancient Greece or Rome, awakening not one half the
sympathy in the spectator, as do
such incidents as may be seen in
the streets every day. For instance; walking with a
friend the
other day, we met an old woman, exceedingly dirty, restlessly
pattering
along the kerb of a crowded thoroughfare, trying to cross:
her eyes were always
wandering here and there, and her mouth
was never still; her object was evident, but for
my own part, I
must needs be fastidious and prefer to allow her to take the risk
of
being run over, to overcoming my own disgust. Not so my friend;
he marched up
manfully, and putting his arm over the old woman's
shoulder, led her across as carefully
as though she were a princess.
Of course, I was ashamed: ashamed! I was frightened; I
expected
to see the old woman change into a tall angel and take him off to
heaven,
leaving me her original shape to repent in. On recovering
my thoughts, I was inclined to
take up my friend and carry him
home in triumph, I felt so strong. Why should not this
thing be
as poetical as any in the life of Saint Elizabeth of Hungary or any
one
else? for, so we look at it with a pure thought, we shall see
about it the same light
the Areopagite saw at Jerusalem surround
the Holy Virgin, and the same angels attending
and guarding it.
And there is something else we miss; there is the poetry of the
things about us;
our railways, factories, mines, roaring cities, steam
vessels, and the endless novelties
and wonders produced every day;
which if they were found only in the Thousand and One
Nights, or
in any poem classical or romantic, would be gloried over without
end; for
as the majority of us know not a bit more about them,
thing required for the surprise of the
imagination.
Next to Poetry, Painting and Music have most power over the
mind; and how do you
apply this influence? In what direction is it
forced? Why, for the last, you sit in your
drawing-rooms, and listen to
a quantity of tinkling of brazen marches of going to war;
but you
never see before your very eyes, the palpable victory of leading nature
by
her own power, to a conquest of blessings; and when the music is
over, you turn to each
other, and enthusiastically whisper, “How
fine!”—You point out to others, (as if they
had no eyes) the senti-
ment of a flowing river with the moon on it, as an emblem of
the
after-peace, but you see not this in the long white cloud of steam,
the
locomotive pours forth under the same moon, rushing on; the
perfect type of the same,
with the presentment of the struggle
beforehand. The strong engine is never before you,
sighing all night,
with the white cloud above the chimney-shaft, escaping like
the
spirits Solomon put his seal upon, in the Arabian Tales; these
mightier spirits
are bound in a faster vessel; and then let forth, as
of little worth, when their work is
done.
The Earth shakes under you, from the footfall of the Genii man
has made, and you
groan about the noise. Vast roads draw together
the Earth, and you say how they spoil
the prospect, which you
never cared a farthing about before.
You revel in Geology: but in chemistry, the modern science,
possessing thousands
of powers as great as any used yet, you see no
glory:—the only thought is so many Acids
and Alkalies. You
require a metaphor for treachery, and of course you think of
our
puny old friend the Viper; but the Alkaline, more searching and
more unknown,
that may destroy you and your race, you have never
heard of,—and yet this possesses more
of the very quality required,
namely, mystery, than any other that is in your hands.
The only ancient character you have retained in its proper force
is Love; but
you seem never to see any light about the results of
long labour of mind, the most
intense Love. Devotedness, mag-
nanimity, generosity, you seem to think have left the
Earth since
the Crusades. In fact, you never go out into Life: living only in
the
past world, you go on repeating in new combinations the same
elements for the same
effect. You have taught an enlightened
Public, that the province of Poetry is to
reproduce the Ancients;
not as Keats did, with the living heart of our own Life; but so
as
to cause the impression that you are not aware that they had wives
and families
like yourselves, and laboured and rested like us all.
The greatest, perhaps, of modern poets seeming to take refuge
pulsations, fears, self-doubts, hates,
goodness, devotedness, and
noble world-love; this is not done under pretty flowers of
metaphor
in the lispings of a pet parson, or in the strong but uncertain
fashion
of the American school; still less in the dry operose
quackery of professed doctors of
psychology, mere chaff not studied
from nature, and therefore worthless, never felt,
and therefore
useless; but with the firm knowing hand of the anatomist, demon-
strating and making clear to others, that the knowledge may be
applied to purpose.
All this difficult task is achieved so that you
may read till your own soul is before
you, and you know it; but
the enervated public complains that the work is obscure
forsooth:
so we are always looking for green grass—verdant meads, tall pines,
vineyards, etc., as the essentials of poetry; these are all very pretty
and very
delicate, the dust blows not in your eyes, but Chaucer has
told us all this, and while
it was new, far better than any one else;
why are we not to have something besides? Let
us see a little of
the poetry of man's own works,—
“Visibly in his garden walketh God.”
The great portion of the public take a morbid delight in such
works as
Frankenstein, that “Poor, impossible monster abhorred,
”
who would be
disgusting if he were not so extremely ludicrous:
and all this search after impossible
mystery, such trumpery!
growing into the popular taste, is fed with garbage; doing
more
harm than all the preachings and poundings of optimistic Reviews
will be able
to remedy in an hundred years.
The study of such matters as these does other harm than merely
poisoning the
mind in one direction; it renders us sceptical of virtue
in others, and we lose the
power of pure perception. So —reading
the glorious tale of Griselda and looking about
you, you say there
never was such a woman; your wise men say she was a fool; are
there
no such fools round about you? pray look close:—so the result of
this is, you
see no lesson in such things, or at least cannot apply it,
and therefore the powers of
the author are thrown away. Do you
think God made Boccaccio and Chaucer to amuse you in
your idle
hours, only that you might sit listening like crowned idiots, and
then
debate concerning their faithfulness to truth? You never can imagine
but they
knew more of nature than any of us, or that they had less
reverence for her.
In reference to Painting, the Public are taught to look with delight
upon murky
old masters, with dismally demoniac trees, and dull
gists wonder, their angles
are so impossible, their fractures are so new.
Thousands are given for uncomfortable
Dutch sun-lights; but if you
are shown a transcript of day itself, with the purple
shadow upon
the mountains, and across the still lake, you know nothing of it
because
your fathers never
it; nay, let me set you in the
actual place, let the water damp
your feet, stand in the chill of the shadow itself, and
you will
never tell me the colour on the hill, or where the last of the
crows caught
the sinking sunlight. Letting observation sleep,
what can you know of nature? and you
are a judge of landscape
indeed. So it is that the world is taught to
think of nature, as seen
through other men's eyes, without any reference to its own
original
powers of perception, and much natural beauty is lost.
There are occasions when the office of the critic becomes
almost
simply that of an expositor; when his duty is not to assert, but
to
interpret. It is his privilege to have been the first to study a
subject, and
become familiar with it; what remains is to state facts,
and to suggest considerations;
not to lay down dogmas. That
which he speaks of is to him itself a dogma; he starts
from con-
viction: his it is to convince others, and, as far as may be, by the
same
means as satisfied himself; to incite to the same study, doing
his poor best,
meanwhile, to supply the present want of it.
Thus much, indeed, is the critic's duty always; but he generally
feels the
right, and has it, of speaking with authority. He con-
demns, or gives praise; and his
judgment, though merely individual
and subject to revision, is judgment. Before the
certainty of
genius and deathless power, in the contemplation of consummate
art,
his position changes: and well for him if he knows, and is
contented it should be so.
Here he must follow, happy if he only
follows and serves; and while even here he will
not shelve his
doubts, or blindly refuse to exercise a candid discrimination,
his
demur at unquestioning assent, far from betraying any arrogance,
will be
discreetly advanced, and on clearly stated grounds.
Of all poets, there is none more than Robert Browning, in
approaching whom
diffidence is necessary. The mere extent of his
information cannot pass unobserved,
either as a fact, or as a title
to respect. No one who has read the body of his works
will deny
that they are replete with mental and speculative subtlety, with
vivid
and most diversified conception of character, with dramatic
incident and feeling; with
that intimate knowledge of outward
nature which makes every sentence of description a
living truth;
replete with a most human tenderness and pathos. Common as is
the
accusation of “extravagance,” and unhesitatingly as it is
applied, in a general
off-hand style, to the entire character of
Browning's poems, it would require some
jesuitism of self-persuasion
to induce any one to affirm his belief in the existence of
such
extravagance in the conception of the poems, or in the sentiments
expressed;
of any want of concentration in thought, of national or
historical keeping. Far from
this, indeed, a deliberate unity of
purpose is strikingly apparent. Without referring
for the present
to what are assumed to be perverse faults of execution—a question
the principles
and bearing of which will shortly be considered—
assuredly the mention of the names of
a few among Browning's
poems—of “
”can'treadSordello , or understand the object of writing in
that style.
If so many exceptions to Browning's “system of extravagance
”
be
admitted,—and we again refer for confirmation or refutation to
all who have sincerely
read him, and who, valuing written criticism
at its worth, value also at its worth the criticism of individual con-
viction,—wherein are we to seek this
extravagance? The ground-
work exempted, the imputation attaches, if anywhere, to
the
framework; to the body, if not to the soul. And we are thus left
to consider
the style, or mode of expression.
Style is not stationary, or, in the concrete, matter of
principle:
style is, firstly, national; next, chronological; and lastly,
individual.
To try the oriental system by the European, and pronounce either
wrong
by so much as it exceeds or falls short, would imply so
entire a want of comprehensive
appreciation as can scarcely fail to
induce the conviction, that the two are distinct
and independent,
each to be tested on its own merits. Again, were the
Elizabethan
dramatists right, or are those of our own day? Neither absolutely,
as
by comparison alone; his period speaks in each; and each must
be judged by this: not
whether he is true to any given type, but
whether his own type be a true one for
himself. And this, which
holds good between nations and ages, holds good also
between
individuals. Very different from Shelley's are Wordsworth's nature
in
description, his sentiment, his love; Burn's and Keats's differ-
ent from these and
from each other: yet are all these, nature, and
sentiment, and love.
But here it will be urged: by this process any and every style is
pronounced
good, so that it but find a measure of recognition in its
own age and country; nay,
even the author's self-approval will be
sufficient. And, as a corollary, each age must
and ought to reject
its predecessor; and Voltaire was no less than right in dubbing
the last element of truth in
style, that with which all others com-
bine, which includes and implies consistency
with the author's self,
with his age and his country, is taken into account.
Appropriate-
ness of treatment to subject it is which lies at the root of
all
controversy on style: this is the last and the whole test. And the
fact that
none other is requisite, or, more strictly, that all others
are but aspects of this
one, will very easily be allowed when it is
reflected that the subject, to be of an
earnest and sincere ideal, must
be an emanation of the poet's most secret soul; and
that the soul
receives teaching from circumstance, which is the time when and
place
where.
This premised, it must next be borne in mind that the poet's
conception of his
subject is not identical with, and, in the majority
of cases, will be unlike, his
reader's. And, the question of style
(manner) being necessarily subordinate to that of
subject (matter),
it is not for the reader to dispute with the author on his mode of
rendering, provided that should be accepted as embodying (within
the bounds of
grammatical logic) the intention preconceived. The
object of the poet in writing, why
he attempts to describe an event
as resulting from this cause or this, or why he
assumes such as the
effect; all these considerations the reader is competent to enter-
tain: any two men may deduce from the same premises, and may
probably arrive at
different conclusions: but, these conclusions
reached, what remains is a question of
resemblance, which each
must determine for himself, as best conscious of his own
intention.
To take an instance. Shakspere's conception of Macbeth as a man
capable of uttering a pompous conceit—
in a moment, to him, and to all present, of startling purport, may
be a
correct or an impressive conception, or it may be the reverse.
That the rendering of
the momentary intention is adequate here
there is no reason to doubt. If so, in what
respect is the reader
called upon to investigate a matter of style? He must
simply
return to the question of whether this point of character be con-
sistent
with others imagined of the same person; this, answered
affirmatively, is an
approval,—negatively, a condemnation, of inten-
tion; the merit of style, in either case, being mere
competence, and
that admitted irrespectively of the reader's liking or disliking of
the
passage per se, or as part of a context. Why, in this same
tragedy
of Macbeth, is a drunken porter introduced between a murder and
its
discovery? Did Shakspere really intend him to be a sharp-witted
room for disputing that this scene
is purposely a comic scene: and,
if this is certain, the style of the speech is
appropriate to the scene,
and of the scene, to the conception of the drama? Is that concep-
tion admirable?
We have entered thus at length on the investigation of adequacy
and
appropriateness of style, and of the mode by which entire classes
of disputable points,
usually judged under that name, may be reduced
to the more essential element of
conception; because it will be
almost invariably found, that a mere arbitrary standard
of irrespon-
sible private predilection is then resorted to. Nor can this be
well
guarded against. The concrete, style, being assumed as always
con-
stituting an entity auxiliary to, but not of necessity modified by,
and
representing subject,—as something substantially pre-existing in
the author's
mind or practice, and belonging to him individually;
the reader will, not without show
of reason, betake himself to the
trial of personality by personality, another's by his
own; and will
thus pronounce on poems or passages of poems not as elevated,
or
vigorous, or well-sustained, or the opposite, in idea, but, according
to certain
notions of his own, as attractive, original, or conventional
writing.
Thus far as regards those parts of execution which concern In employing the word “human,” we would have our intention understood
ties. Of style in description the reader is more nearly as compe-
tent a
judge as the writer. In the one case, the poet is bound to
realize an idea, which is
his own, and the justness of which, and
therefore of the form of its expression, can be
decided only by rea-
soning and analogy; in the other, having for his type
material
phænomena, he must reproduce the things as cognizable by all,
though not
hereby in any way exempt from adhering absolutely to
his proper perception of them.
Here, even as to ideal description or
simile, the reader can assert its truth or
falsehood of purpose, its suffi-
ciency or insufficiency of means: but here again he
must beware of
exceeding his rights, and of substituting himself to his author.
He
must not dictate under what aspect nature is to be considered, stigma-
tizing
the one chosen, because his own bent is rather towards some
other. In the exercise of
censure, he cannot fairly allow any per-
sonal peculiarities of view
to influence him; but will have to decide
from common grounds of perception, unless
clearly conscious of
to include
organic spiritualism—the superhuman treated, from a human pou sto,
as ideal mind, form, power, action, &c.
the author's part.
In speaking of the adaptation of style to conception, we advanced
that,
details of character and of action being a portion of the latter,
the real point to
determine in reference to the former is, whether
such details are completely rendered
in relation to the general pur-
pose. And here, to return to Robert Browning, we would
enforce
on the attention of those among his readers who assume that he
spoils fine
thoughts by a vicious, extravagant, and involved style, a
few analytical questions, to
be answered unbiassed by hearsay evi-
dence. Concerning the dramatic works: Is the
leading idea con-
spicuously brought forward throughout each work? Is the
language
of the several speakers such as does not create any impression other
than
that warranted by the subject matter of each? If so, does it
create the impression
apparently intended? Is the character of
speech varied according to that of the
speaker? Are the passages
of description and abstract reflection so introduced as to
add to
poetic, without detracting from dramatic, excellence? About the
narrative
poems, and those of a more occasional and personal quality
the same questions may be
asked with some obvious adaptation; and
this about all:—Are the versification strong,
the sound sharp or
soft, monotonous, hurried, in proportion to the requirement of
sense;
the illustrative thoughts apt and new; the humour quaint and
relishing?
Finally, is not in many cases that which is spoken of as
something extraneous, dragged
in aforethought, for the purpose of
singularity, the result more truly of a most
earnest and single-minded
labor after the utmost rendering of idiomatic conversational
truth;
the rejection of all stop-gap words; about the most literal transcript
of
fact compatible with the ends of poetry and true feeling for Art?
This a point
worthy note, and not capable of contradiction.
These questions answered categorically will, we believe, be found * We may instance several scenes of “
to establish
the assurance that Browning's style is copious, and
certainly not other than
appropriate,—instance contrasted with
instance—as the form of expression bestowed on
the several phases
of a certain ever-present form of thought. We have already
endea-
vored to show that, where style is not inadequate, its object as a
means
being attained, the mind must revert to its decision as to rela-
tive and collective
value of intention: and we will again leave
especially, where Pippa reviews her day; the whole of
the “
the poetic as well as the prose portion; “
To those who yet insist: “Why cannot I read Sordello?” we can
only
answer:—Admitted a leading idea, not only metaphysical but
subtle and complicated to
the highest degree; how work out this
idea, unless through the finest intricacy of
shades of mental develop-
ment? Admitted a philosophic comprehensiveness of
historical
estimate and a minuteness of familiarity with details, with the
added
assumption, besides, of speaking with the very voice of the times;
how
present this position, unless by standing at an eminent point,
and addressing thence a
not unprepared audience? Admitted an
intense aching concentration of thought; how be
self-consistent,
unless uttering words condensed to the limits of language?—And
let
us at last say: Read Sordello again. Why hold firm that you
ought to be able at
once to know Browning's stops, and to pluck out
the heart of his mystery? Surely, if
you do not understand him,
the fact tells two ways. But, if you will
understand him, you shall.
We have been desirous to explain and justify the state of feeling
in which we
enter on the consideration of a new poem by Robert
Browning. Those who already feel
with us will scarcely be dis-
posed to forgive the prolixity which, for the present,
has put it out
of our power to come at the work itself: but, if earnestness of
inten-
tion will plead our excuse, we need seek for no other.
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.