Part I
. is on "The Germ." He expresses himself sympathetically enough; but his main drift is to show that the Praeraphaelite movement, after passing through some immature stages, developed into a quasi-Renaissance result. A perusal of his paper will show that Mr. Payne was one of the persons who supposed Chiaro dell'Erma, the hero of "Hand and Soul," to have been a real painter, author of an extant picture.
{3} I have seen in the "Irish Figaro", May 6, 1899, a very pleasant notice, signed "J. Reid," of this reprint.
Mr. Stock's reprint is of the facsimile order, and even faults of print are reproduced. I am not called upon to say with any precision what there are. On page 45 I observe "ear," which should be "car"; on page 62, Angilico, and Rossini (for Rosini). On page 155 the words, "I believe that the thought-wrapped philosopher," ought to begin a new sentence. On page 159 "Phyrnes" ought of course to be "Phrynes." The punctuation could frequently be improved.
I will conclude by appending a little list (it makes no pretension to completeness) of writings bearing upon the Praeraphaelite Brotherhood and its members. Writings of that kind are by this date rather numerous; but some readers of the present pages may not well know where to find them, and might none the less be inclined to read up the subject a little. I give these works in the order (as far as I know it) of their dates, without any attempt to indicate the degree of their importance. That is a question on which I naturally entertain opinions of my own, but I shall not intrude them upon the reader.
Ruskin: Pre-Raphaelitism, 1854, and other later writings. F. G. Stephens: William Holman-Hunt and his Works, 1860. William Sharp: Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1882. Hall Caine: Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1882. Walter Hamilton: The aesthetic Movement in England, 1882. T. Watts-Dunton: The Truth about Rossetti, 1883, and other writings. W. Holman-Hunt: The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, 1884 (?). Earnest Chesneau: La Peinture Anglaise, 1884 (?). Joseph Knight: Life of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1887. W. M. Rossetti: Dante Gabriel Rossetti as Designer and Writer, 1889. Harry Quilter: Preferences in Art, 1892. W. Bell Scott: Autobiographical Notes, 1892. Esther Wood: Dante Rossetti and the Pre-Raphaelite Movement, 1894. Robert de la Sizeranne: La Peinture Anglaise Contemporaine, 1895. Dante G. Rossetti: Family Letters, with Memoir by W. M. Rossetti, 1895. Richard Muther: The History of Modern Painting, vols. ii. and iii., 1896. Ford H. M. Hueffer: Ford Madox Brown, 1896. Dante G. Rossetti: Letters to William Allingham, edited by Dr. Birkbeck Hill, 1897. M. H. Spielmann: Millais and his Works, 1898. Antonio Agresti: Poesie di Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Traduzione con uno Studio su la Pittura Inglese, etc., 1899. Fraulein Wilmersdoerffer: Dante Gabriel Rossetti und sein Einflusz, 1899. Edited by W. M. Rossetti: Ruskin, Rossetti, Praeraphaelitism, 1899. J. Guille Millais: Life and Letters of Sir John Everett Millais, 1899. Percy H. Bate: The English Praeraphaelite Painters, 1899. H. C. Marillier: Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1899. Edited by W. M. Rossetti: Praeraphaelite Diaries and Letters, 1899.
There are also books on Burne-Jones and Willaim Morris with which I am not accurately acquainted. It seems strange that no memoir of Thomas Woolner has yet been published; a fine sculptor and remarkable man known to and appreciated by all sorts of people, and certain to have figured extensively in correspondence. He died in October 1892. Mr. Holman-Hunt is understood to have been engaged for a long while past upon a book on Praeraphaelitism which would cast into the shade most of the earlier literature on the subject.
W. M. ROSSETTI London, _July 1899._
N.B.--When the third number of the magazine was about to appear, with a change of title from "The Germ" to "Art and Poetry," two fly-sheets were drawn up, more, I think, by Messrs. Tupper the printing-firm than by myself. They contain some "Opinions of the Press," already referred to in this Introduction, and an explanation as to the change of title. The fly-sheets appear in facsimile as follows:
"The Germ"
The Subscribers to this Periodical are respectfully informed that in future it will appear under the title of "Art and Poetry" instead of the original arbitrary one, which occasioned much misapprehension--This alteration will not be productive of any ill consequence, as the title has never occurred in the work itself, and Label will be supplied for placing on the old wrappers, so as to make them conformable to the new--
It should also be noticed that the Numbers will henceforward be published on the last day of the Month for which they are dated--
Town Subscribers will oblige by filling up & returning the accompanying form, which will ensure the Numbers being duly forwarded as directed.--
Country Subscribers may obtain their copies by kindly forwarding their orders to any Booksellers in their respective Neighborhoods.--
Opinions of the press.
"... Original Poems, stories to develop thought and principle, essays concerning Art & other subjects, are the materials which are to compose this unique addition to our periodical literature Among the poetry, there are some rare gems of poetic conception; among the prose essays, we notice "the Subject in Art" which treats of Art itself in a noble and lofty tone, with the view which he must take of it who would, in the truest sense of the word, be an Artist, and another paper, not less interesting, on "the Purpose and Tendency of Early Italian Art" A well executed Etching in the medieval style, accompanies each number"
John Bull.
"... There are so many original and beautiful thoughts in these pages--indeed some of the poems & tales are in themselves so beautiful in spirit & form--that we have hopes of the writers, when they shall have got rid of those ghosts of mediaeval art which now haunt their every page. The essay 'On the Mechanism of a Historical Picture' is a good practical treatise, and indicates the hand of writing which is much wanted among artists"
Morning Chronicle.
"We depart from our usual plan of noticing the periodicals under one heading, for the purpose of introducing to our readers a new aspirant for public favour, which has pecu liar and uncommon claims to attention, for in design & execution it differs from all other periodicals ... A periodical largely occupied with poetry wears an unpromising aspect to readers who have learned from experience what nonsensical stuff most fugitive Magazine poetry is.... But, when they have read a few extracts which we propose to make, we think they will own that for once appearances are deceitful.... That the contents of this work are the productions of no common minds, the following extracts will sufficiently prove.... We have not space to take any specimens of the prose; but the essays on Art are conceived with an equal appreciation of its _meaning_ & requirements. Being such, this work has our heartiest wishes for its success, but we scarcely dare to _hope_ that it may win the popularity it deserves. The truth is that it is too good for the time. It is not _material_ enough for the age"
Critic.
"... It bears unquestionable evidences of true inspirations and, in fact, is so thoroughly spiritual that it is more likely to find 'the fit audience though few' than to attract the multitude ... The prose articles are much to our taste ... We know, however, of no periodical of the time which is so genuinely poetical and artistic in its tone."
Standard of Freedom.
No. 1. (_Price One Shilling_.) JANUARY, 1850.
With an Etching by W. HOLMAN HUNT.
The Germ: Thoughts towards Nature In Poetry, Literature, and Art.
When whoso merely hath a little thought Will plainly think the thought which is in him,-- Not imaging another's bright or dim, Not mangling with new words what others taught; When whoso speaks, from having either sought Or only found,--will speak, not just to skim A shallow surface with words made and trim, But in that very speech the matter brought: Be not too keen to cry--"So this is all!-- A thing I might myself have thought as well, But would not say it, for it was not worth!" Ask: "Is this truth?" For is it still to tell That, be the theme a point or the whole earth, Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small?
London: AYLOTT & JONES, 8, PATERNOSTER ROW.
G. F Tupper, Printer, Clement's Lane. Lombard Street.
CONTENTS.
My Beautiful Lady: by _Thomas Woolner_ 1 Of my Lady in Death: by _Thomas Woolner_ 5 The Love of Beauty: by _F. Madox Brown_ 10 The Subject in Art, (No. 1.) 11 The Seasons 19 Dream Land: by _Ellen Allyn_ 20 Songs of one Household, (My Sister's Sleep): by _Dante G. Rossetti_ 21 Hand and Soul: by _Dante G. Rossetti_ 23 REVIEWS: The "Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich": by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 34 Her First Season: by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 46 A Sketch From Nature 47 An End: by _Ellen Allyn_ 48
It is requested that those who may have by them any un-published Poems, Essays, or other articles appearing to coincide with the views in which this Periodical is established, and who may feel desirous of contributing such papers--will forward them, for the approval of the Editor, to the Office of publication. It may be relied upon that the most sincere attention will be paid to the examination of all manuscripts, whether they be eventually accepted or declined.
[Illustration]
My Beautiful Lady
I love my lady; she is very fair; Her brow is white, and bound by simple hair; Her spirit sits aloof, and high, Altho' it looks thro' her soft eye Sweetly and tenderly.
As a young forest, when the wind drives thro', My life is stirred when she breaks on my view. Altho' her beauty has such power, Her soul is like the simple flower Trembling beneath a shower.
As bliss of saints, when dreaming of large wings, The bloom around her fancied presence flings, I feast and wile her absence, by Pressing her choice hand passionately-- Imagining her sigh.
My lady's voice, altho' so very mild, Maketh me feel as strong wine would a child; My lady's touch, however slight, Moves all my senses with its might, Like to a sudden fright.
A hawk poised high in air, whose nerved wing-tips Tremble with might suppressed, before he dips,-- In vigilance, not more intense Than I; when her word's gentle sense Makes full-eyed my suspense.
Her mention of a thing--august or poor, Makes it seem nobler than it was before: As where the sun strikes, life will gush, And what is pale receive a flush, Rich hues--a richer blush.
My lady's name, if I hear strangers use,-- Not meaning her--seems like a lax misuse. I love none by my lady's name; Rose, Maud, or Grace, are all the same, So blank, so very tame.
My lady walks as I have seen a swan Swim thro' the water just where the sun shone. There ends of willow branches ride, Quivering with the current's glide, By the deep river-side.
Whene'er she moves there are fresh beauties stirred; As the sunned bosom of a humming-bird At each pant shows some fiery hue, Burns gold, intensest green or blue: The same, yet ever new.
What time she walketh under flowering May, I am quite sure the scented blossoms say, "O lady with the sunlit hair! "Stay, and drink our odorous air-- "The incense that we bear:
"Your beauty, lady, we would ever shade; "Being near you, our sweetness might not fade." If trees could be broken-hearted, I am sure that the green sap smarted, When my lady parted.
This is why I thought weeds were beautiful;-- Because one day I saw my lady pull Some weeds up near a little brook, Which home most carefully she took, Then shut them in a book.
A deer when startled by the stealthy ounce,-- A bird escaping from the falcon's trounce, Feels his heart swell as mine, when she Stands statelier, expecting me, Than tall white lilies be.
The first white flutter of her robe to trace, Where binds and perfumed jasmine interlace, Expands my gaze triumphantly: Even such his gaze, who sees on high His flag, for victory.
We wander forth unconsciously, because The azure beauty of the evening draws: When sober hues pervade the ground, And life in one vast hush seems drowned, Air stirs so little sound.
We thread a copse where frequent bramble spray With loose obtrusion from the side roots stray, (Forcing sweet pauses on our walk): I'll lift one with my foot, and talk About its leaves and stalk.
Or may be that the prickles of some stem Will hold a prisoner her long garment's hem; To disentangle it I kneel, Oft wounding more than I can heal; It makes her laugh, my zeal.
Then on before a thin-legged robin hops, Or leaping on a twig, he pertly stops, Speaking a few clear notes, till nigh We draw, when quickly he will fly Into a bush close by.
A flock of goldfinches may stop their flight, And wheeling round a birchen tree alight Deep in its glittering leaves, until They see us, when their swift rise will Startle a sudden thrill.
I recollect my lady in a wood, Keeping her breath and peering--(firm she stood Her slim shape balanced on tiptoe--) Into a nest which lay below, Leaves shadowing her brow.
I recollect my lady asking me, What that sharp tapping in the wood might be? I told her blackbirds made it, which, For slimy morsels they count rich, Cracked the snail's curling niche:
She made no answer. When we reached the stone Where the shell fragments on the grass were strewn, Close to the margin of a rill; "The air," she said, "seems damp and chill, "We'll go home if you will."
"Make not my pathway dull so soon," I cried, "See how those vast cloudpiles in sun-glow dyed, "Roll out their splendour: while the breeze "Lifts gold from leaf to leaf, as these "Ash saplings move at ease."
Piercing the silence in our ears, a bird Threw some notes up just then, and quickly stirred The covert birds that startled, sent Their music thro' the air; leaves lent Their rustling and blent,
Until the whole of the blue warmth was filled So much with sun and sound, that the air thrilled. She gleamed, wrapt in the dying day's Glory: altho' she spoke no praise, I saw much in her gaze.
Then, flushed with resolution, I told all;-- The mighty love I bore her,--how would pall My very breath of life, if she For ever breathed not hers with me;-- Could I a cherub be,
How, idly hoping to enrich her grace, I would snatch jewels from the orbs of space;-- Then back thro' the vague distance beat, Glowing with joy her smile to meet, And heap them round her feet.
Her waist shook to my arm. She bowed her head, Silent, with hands clasped and arms straightened: (Just then we both heard a church bell) O God! It is not right to tell: But I remember well
Each breast swelled with its pleasure, and her whole Bosom grew heavy with love; the swift roll Of new sensations dimmed her eyes, Half closing them in ecstasies, Turned full against the skies.
The rest is gone; it seemed a whirling round-- No pressure of my feet upon the ground: But even when parted from her, bright Showed all; yea, to my throbbing sight The dark was starred with light.
Of My Lady In Death
All seems a painted show. I look Up thro' the bloom that's shed By leaves above my head, And feel the earnest life forsook All being, when she died:-- My heart halts, hot and dried As the parched course where once a brook Thro' fresh growth used to flow,-- Because her past is now No more than stories in a printed book.
The grass has grown above that breast, Now cold and sadly still, My happy face felt thrill:-- Her mouth's mere tones so much expressed! Those lips are now close set,-- Lips which my own have met; Her eyelids by the earth are pressed; Damp earth weighs on her eyes; Damp earth shuts out the skies. My lady rests her heavy, heavy rest.
To see her slim perfection sweep, Trembling impatiently, With eager gaze at me! Her feet spared little things that creep:-- "We've no more right," she'd say, "In this the earth than they." Some remember it but to weep. Her hand's slight weight was such, Care lightened with its touch; My lady sleeps her heavy, heavy sleep.
My day-dreams hovered round her brow; Now o'er its perfect forms Go softly real worms. Stern death, it was a cruel blow, To cut that sweet girl's life Sharply, as with a knife. Cursed life that lets me live and grow, Just as a poisonous root, From which rank blossoms shoot; My lady's laid so very, very low.
Dread power, grief cries aloud, "unjust,"-- To let her young life play Its easy, natural way; Then, with an unexpected thrust, Strike out the life you lent, Just when her feelings blent With those around whom she saw trust Her willing power to bless, For their whole happiness; My lady moulders into common dust.
Small birds twitter and peck the weeds That wave above her head, Shading her lowly bed: Their brisk wings burst light globes of seeds, Scattering the downy pride Of dandelions, wide: Speargrass stoops with watery beads: The weight from its fine tips Occasionally drips: The bee drops in the mallow-bloom, and feeds.
About her window, at the dawn, From the vine's crooked boughs Birds chirupped an arouse: Flies, buzzing, strengthened with the morn;-- She'll not hear them again At random strike the pane: No more upon the close-cut lawn, Her garment's sun-white hem Bend the prim daisy's stem, In walking forth to view what flowers are born.
No more she'll watch the dark-green rings Stained quaintly on the lea, To image fairy glee; While thro' dry grass a faint breeze sings, And swarms of insects revel Along the sultry level:-- No more will watch their brilliant wings, Now lightly dip, now soar, Then sink, and rise once more. My lady's death makes dear these trivial things.
Within a huge tree's steady shade, When resting from our walk, How pleasant was her talk! Elegant deer leaped o'er the glade, Or stood with wide bright eyes, Staring a short surprise: Outside the shadow cows were laid, Chewing with drowsy eye Their cuds complacently: Dim for sunshine drew near a milking-maid.
Rooks cawed and labored thro' the heat; Each wing-flap seemed to make Their weary bodies ache: The swallows, tho' so very fleet, Made breathless pauses there At something in the air:-- All disappeared: our pulses beat Distincter throbs: then each Turned and kissed, without speech,-- She trembling, from her mouth down to her feet.
My head sank on her bosom's heave, So close to the soft skin I heard the life within. My forehead felt her coolly breathe, As with her breath it rose: To perfect my repose Her two arms clasped my neck. The eve Spread silently around, A hush along the ground, And all sound with the sunlight seemed to leave.
By my still gaze she must have known The mighty bliss that filled My whole soul, for she thrilled, Drooping her face, flushed, on my own; I felt that it was such By its light warmth of touch. My lady was with me alone: That vague sensation brought More real joy than thought. I am without her now, truly alone.
We had no heed of time: the cause Was that our minds were quite Absorbed in our delight, Silently blessed. Such stillness awes, And stops with doubt, the breath, Like the mute doom of death. I felt Time's instantaneous pause; An instant, on my eye Flashed all Eternity:-- I started, as if clutched by wild beasts' claws,
Awakened from some dizzy swoon: I felt strange vacant fears, With singings in my ears, And wondered that the pallid moon Swung round the dome of night With such tremendous might. A sweetness, like the air of June, Next paled me with suspense, A weight of clinging sense-- Some hidden evil would burst on me soon.
My lady's love has passed away, To know that it is so To me is living woe. That body lies in cold decay, Which held the vital soul When she was my life's soul. Bitter mockery it was to say-- "Our souls are as the same:" My words now sting like shame; Her spirit went, and mine did not obey.
It was as if a fiery dart Passed seething thro' my brain When I beheld her lain There whence in life she did not part. Her beauty by degrees, Sank, sharpened with disease: The heavy sinking at her heart Sucked hollows in her cheek, And made her eyelids weak, Tho' oft they'd open wide with sudden start.
The deathly power in silence drew My lady's life away. I watched, dumb with dismay, The shock of thrills that quivered thro' And tightened every limb: For grief my eyes grew dim; More near, more near, the moment grew. O horrible suspense! O giddy impotence! I saw her fingers lax, and change their hue.
Her gaze, grown large with fate, was cast Where my mute agonies Made more sad her sad eyes: Her breath caught with short plucks and fast:-- Then one hot choking strain. She never breathed again: I had the look which was her last: Even after breath was gone, Her love one moment shone,-- Then slowly closed, and hope for ever passed.
Silence seemed to start in space When first the bell's harsh toll Rang for my lady's soul. Vitality was hell; her grace The shadow of a dream: Things then did scarcely seem: Oblivion's stroke fell like a mace: As a tree that's just hewn I dropped, in a dead swoon, And lay a long time cold upon my face.
Earth had one quarter turned before My miserable fate Pressed on with its whole weight. My sense came back; and, shivering o'er, I felt a pain to bear The sun's keen cruel glare; It seemed not warm as heretofore. Oh, never more its rays Will satisfy my gaze. No more; no more; oh, never any more.
The Love of Beauty
John Boccaccio, love's own squire, deep sworn In service to all beauty, joy, and rest,-- When first the love-earned royal Mary press'd, To her smooth cheek, his pale brows, passion-worn,-- 'Tis said, he, by her grace nigh frenzied, torn By longings unattainable, address'd To his chief friend most strange misgivings, lest Some madness in his brain had thence been born. The artist-mind alone can feel his meaning:-- Such as have watched the battle-rank'd array Of sunset, or the face of girlhood seen in Line-blending twilight, with sick hope. Oh! they May feed desire on some fond bosom leaning: But where shall such their thirst of Nature stay?
The Subject in Art
(No. 1.)
If Painting and Sculpture delight us like other works of ingenuity, merely from the difficulties they surmount; like an 'egg in a bottle,' a tree made out of stone, or a face made of pigment; and the pleasure we receive, is our wonder at the achievement; then, to such as so believe, this treatise is not written. But if, as the writer conceives, works of Fine Art delight us by the interest the objects they depict excite in the beholder, just as those objects in nature would excite his interest; if by any association of ideas in the one case, by the same in the other, without reference to the representations being other than the objects they represent:--then, to such as so believe, the following upon 'SUBJECT' is addressed. Whilst, at the same time, it is not disallowed that a subsequent pleasure may and does result, upon reflecting that the objects contemplated were the work of human ingenuity.
Now the subject to be treated, is the 'subject' of Painter and Sculptor; what ought to be the nature of that 'subject,' how far that subject may be drawn from past or present time with advantage, how far the subject may tend to confer upon its embodiment the title, 'High Art,' how far the subject may tend to confer upon its embodiment the title 'Low Art;' what is 'High Art,' what is 'Low Art'?
To begin then (at the end) with 'High Art.' However we may differ as to facts, the principle will be readily granted, that 'High Art,' _i.e._ Art, par excellence, Art, in its most exalted character, addresses pre-eminently the highest attributes of man, viz.: his mental and his moral faculties.
'Low Art,' or Art in its less exalted character, is that which addresses the less exalted attributes of man, viz.: his mere sensory faculties, without affecting the mind or heart, excepting through the volitional agency of the observer.
These definitions are too general and simple to be disputed; but before we endeavour to define more particularly, let us analyze the subject, and see what it will yield.
All the works which remain to us of the Ancients, and this appears somewhat remarkable, are, with the exception of those by incompetent artists, universally admitted to be 'High Art.' Now do we afford them this high title, because all remnants of the antique world, by tempting a comparison between what was, and is, will set the mental faculties at work, and thus address the highest attributes of man? Or, as this is owing to the agency of the observer, and not to the subject represented, are we to seek for the cause in the subjects themselves!
Let us examine the subjects. They are mostly in sculpture; but this cannot be the cause, unless all modern sculpture be considered 'High Art.' This is leaving out of the question in both ages, all works badly executed, and obviously incorrect, of which there are numerous examples both ancient and modern.
The subjects we find in sculpture are, in "the round," mostly men or women in thoughtful or impassioned action: sometimes they are indeed acting physically; but then, as in the Jason adjusting his Sandal, acting by mechanical impulse, and thinking or looking in another direction. In relievo we have an historical combat, such as that between the Centaurs and Lapithae; sometimes a group in conversation, sometimes a recitation of verses to the Lyre; a dance, or religious procession.
As to the first class in "the round," as they seem to appeal to the intellectual, and often to the moral faculties, they are naturally, and according to the broad definition, works of 'High Art.' Of the relievo, the historical combat appeals to the passions; and, being historical, probably to the intellect. The like may be said of the conversational groups, and lyrical recitation which follow. The dance appeals to the passions and the intellect; since the intellect recognises therein an order and design, her own planning; while the solemn, modest demeanour in the religious procession speaks to the heart and the mind. The same remarks will apply to the few ancient paintings we possess, always excluding such merely decorative works as are not fine art at all.
Thus it appears that all these works of the ancients _might_ rationally have been denominated works of 'High Art;' and here we remark the difference between the hypothetical or rational, and the historical account of facts; for though here is _reason_ enough why ancient art _might_ have been denominated 'High Art,' that it _was_ so denominated on this account, is a position not capable of proof: whereas, in all probability, the true account of the matter runs thus--The works of antiquity awe us by their time-hallowed presence; the mind is sent into a serious contemplation of things; and, the subject itself in nowise contravening, we attribute all this potent effect to the agency of the subject before us, and 'High Art,' it becomes _then_ and _for ever_, with all such as "follow its cut." But then as this was so named, not from the abstract cause, but from a result and effect; when a _new_ work is produced in a similar spirit, but clothed in a dissimilar matter, and the critics have to settle to what class of art it belongs,--then is the new work dragged up to fight with the old one, like the poor beggar Irus in front of Ulysses; then are they turned over and applied, each to each, like the two triangles in Euclid; and then, if they square, fit and tally in every quarter--with the nude to the draped in the one, as the nude to the draped in the other--with the standing to the sitting in the one, as the standing to the sitting in the other--with the fat to the lean in the one, as the fat to the lean in the other--with the young to the old in the one, as the young to the old in the other--with head to body, as head to body; and nose to knee, as nose to knee, &c. &c., (and the critics have done a great deal)--then is the work oracularly pronounced one of 'High Art;' and the obsequious artist is pleased to consider it is.
But if, per contra, as in the former case, the works are not to be literally reconciled, though wrought in the self-same spirit; then this unfortunate creature of genius is degraded into a lower rank of art; and the artist, if he have faith in the learned, despairs; or, if he have none, he _swears_. But listen, an artist speaks: "If I have genius to produce a work in the true spirit of high art, and yet am so ignorant of its principles, that I scarce know whereon the success of the work depends, and scarcely whether I have succeeded or no; with this ignorance and this power, what needs your knowledge or your reasoning, seeing that nature is all-sufficient, and produces a painter as she produces a plant?" To the artist (the last of his race), who spoke thus, it is answered, that science is not meant for him, if he like it not, seeing he can do without it, and seeing, moreover, that with it _alone_ he can never do. Science here does not make; it unmakes, wonderingly to find the making of what God has made--of what God has made through the poet, leading him blindly by a path which he has not known; this path science follows slowly and in wonder. But though science is not to make the artist, there is no reason in nature that the artist reject it. Still, science is properly the birthright of the critic; 'tis his all in all. It shows him poets, painters, sculptors, his fellow men, often his inferiors in their want of it, his superiors in the ability to do what he cannot do; it teaches him to love them as angels bringing him food which _he_ cannot attain, and to venerate their works as a gift from the Creator.
But to return to the critical errors relating to 'High Art.' While the constituents of high art were unknown, whilst its abstract principles were unsought, and whilst it was only recognized in the concrete, the critics, certainly guilty of the most unpardonable blindness, blundered up to the masses of 'High Art,' left by antiquity, saying, "there let us fix our observatory," and here came out perspective glass, and callipers and compasses; and here they made squares and triangles, and circles, and ellipses, for, said they, "this is 'High Art,' and this hath certain proportions;" then in the logic of their hearts, they continued, "all these proportions we know by admeasurement, whatsoever hath these is 'High Art,' whatsoever hath not, is 'Low Art.'" This was as certain as the fact that the sun is a globe of glowing charcoal, because forsooth they both yield light and heat. Now if the phantom of a then embryon-electrician had arisen and told them that their "high art marbles possessed an electric influence, which, acting in the brain of the observer, would awake in him emotions of so exalted a character, that he forthwith, inevitably nodding at them, must utter the tremendous syllables 'High Art;'" he, the then embryon-electrician, from that age withheld to bless and irradiate the physiology of ours, would have done something more to the purpose than all the critics and the compasses.
Thus then we see, that the antique, however successfully it may have wrought, is not our model; for, according to that faith demanded at setting out, fine art delights us from its being the semblance of what in nature delights. Now, as the artist does not work by the instrumentality of rule and science, but mainly by an instinctive impulse; if he copy the antique, unable as he is to segregate the merely delectable matter, he must needs copy the whole, and thereby multiply models, which the casting-man can do equally well; whereas if he copy nature, with a like inability to distinguish that delectable attribute which allures him to copy her, and under the same necessity of copying the whole, to make sure of this "tenant of nowhere;" we then have the artist, the instructed of nature, fulfilling his natural capacity, while his works we have as manifold yet various as nature's own thoughts for her children.
But reverting to the subject, it was stated at the beginning that 'Fine Art' delights, by presenting us with objects, which in nature delight us; and 'High Art' was defined, that which addresses the intellect; and hence it might appear, as delight is an emotion of the mind, that 'Low Art,' which addresses the senses, is not Fine Art at all. But then it must be remembered, that it was neither stated of 'Fine Art,' nor of 'High Art,' that it always delights; and again, that delight is not entirely mental. To point out the confines of high and low art, where the one terminates and the other commences, would be difficult, if not impracticable without sub-defining or circumscribing the import of the terms, pain, pleasure, delight, sensory, mental, psychical, intellectual, objective, subjective, &c. &c.; and then, as little or nothing would be gained mainly pertinent to the subject, it must be content to receive no better definitions than those broad ones already laid down, with their latitude somewhat corrected by practical examples. Yet before proceeding to give these examples, it might be remarked of 'High Art,' that it always might, if it do not always excite some portion of delight, irrespective of that subsequent delight consequent upon the examination of a curiosity; that its function is sometimes, with this portion of delight, to commingle grief or distress, and that it may, (though this is _not_ its function,) excite mental anguish, and by a reflex action, actual body pain. Now then to particularize, by example; let us suppose a perfect and correct painting of a stone, a common stone such as we walk over. Now although this subject might to a religious man, suggest a text of scripture; and to the geologist a theory of scientific interest; yet its general effect upon the average number of observers will be readily allowed to be more that of wonder or admiration at a triumph over the apparently impossible (to make a round stone upon a flat piece of canvass) than at aught else the subject possesses. Now a subject such as this belongs to such very low art, that it narrowly illudes precipitation over the confines of Fine Art; yet, that it is Fine Art is indisputable, since no mere mechanic artisan, or other than one specially gifted by nature, could produce it. This then shall introduce us to "Subject." This subject then, standing where fine art gradually confines with mechanic art, and almost midway between them; of no use nor beauty; but to be wondered at as a curiosity; is a subject of scandalous import to the artist, to the artist thus gifted by nature with a talent to reproduce her fleeting and wondrous forms. But if, as the writer doubts, nature could afford a monster so qualified for a poet, yet destitute of poetical genius; then the scandal attaches if he attempt a step in advance, or neglect to join himself to those, a most useful class of mechanic artists, who illustrate the sciences by drawing and diagram.
But as the subject supposed is one never treated in painting; only instanced, in fact, to exemplify an extreme; let us consider the merits of a subject really practical, such as 'dead game,' or 'a basket of fruit;' and the first general idea such a subject will excite is simply that of _food_, 'something to eat.' For though fruit on the tree, or a pheasant in the air, is a portion of nature and properly belongs to the section, 'Landscape,' a division of art intellectual enough; yet gather the fruit or bring down the pheasant, and you presently bring down the poetry with it; and although Sterne could sentimentalize upon a dead ass; and though a dead pheasant in the larder, or a dead sheep at a butcher's, may excite feelings akin to anything but good living; and though they may _there_ be the excitive causes of poetical, nay, or moral reflexion; yet, see them on the canvass, and the first and uppermost idea will be that of '_Food_,' and how, in the name of decency, they ever came there. It will be vain to argue that gathered fruit is only nature under a certain phase, and that a dead sheep or a dead pheasant is only a dead animal like a dead ass--it will be pitiably vain and miserable sophistry, since we know that the dead pheasant in a picture will always be as _food_, while the same at he poulterer's will be but a dead pheasant.
For we have not one only, but numerous general ideas annexed to every object in nature. Thus one of the series may be that that object is matter, one that it is individual matter, one that it is animal matter, one that it is a bird, one that it is a pheasant, one that it is a dead pheasant, and one that it is food. Now, our general ideas or notions are not evoked in this order as each new object addresses the mind; but that general idea is _first_ elicited which accords with the first or principle destination of the object: thus the first general idea of a cowry, to the Indian, is that of money, not of a shell; and our first general idea of a dead pheasant is that of food, whereas to a zoologist it might have a different effect: but this is the exception. But it was said, that a dead pheasant in a picture would always be as food, while the same at the poulterer's would be but a dead pheasant: what then becomes of the first general idea? It seems to be disposed of thus: at the first sight of the shop, the idea is that of food, and next (if you are not hungry, and poets never are), the mind will be attracted to the species of animal, and (unless hunger presses) you may be led on to moralize like Sterne: but, amongst pictures, where there is nothing else to excite the general ideas of food, this, whenever adverted to, must over re-excite that idea; and hence it appears that these _esculent_ subjects might be poetical enough if exhibited all together, _i.e._, they must be surrounded with eatables, like a possibly-poetical-pheasant in a poulterer's shop.
Longer stress has been laid upon this subject, "Still Life," than would seem justified by its insignificance, but as this is a branch of art which has never aspired to be 'High Art,' it contains something definite in its character which makes it better worth the analysis than might appear at first sight; but still, as a latitude has been taken in the investigation which is ever unavoidable in the handling of such mercurial matter as poetry (where one must spread out a broad definition to catch it wherever it runs), and as this is ever incomprehensible to such as are unaccustomed to abstract thinking, from the difficulty of educing a rule amidst an infinite array of exceptions, and of recognising a principle shrouded in the obscurity of conflicting details; it appears expedient, before pursuing the question, to reinforce the first broad elementary principles with what definite modification they may have acquired in their progress to this point in the argument, together with the additional data which may have resulted from analytic reference to other correlative matter.
First then, as Fine Art delights in proportion to the delectating interest of the objects it depicts, and, as subsequently stated, grieves or distresses in proportion as the objects are grievous or distressing, we have this resultant: "Fine Art _excites_ in proportion to the excitor influence of the object;" and then, that "_fine art_ excites either the sensory or the mental faculties, in a like proportion to the excitor properties of the objects respectively." Thus then we have, definitely stated, the powers or capabilities of _Fine Art_, as regulated and governed by the objects it selects, and the objects it selects making its subject. Now the question in hand is, "what the nature of that _subject_ should be," but the _subject_ must be according to what Fine Art proposes to effect; all then must depend upon this proposition. For if you propose that Fine Art shall excite sensual pleasure, then such objects as excite sensual pleasure should form the _subject_ of Fine Art; and those which excite sensual pleasure in the highest degree, will form the _highest subject_--'High Art.' Or if you propose that Fine Art shall excite a physical energetic activity, by addressing the sensory organism, which is a phase of the former proposition, (for what are popularly called sensual pleasures, are only particular sensory excitements sought by a physical appetite, while this sensory-organic activity is physically appetent also,) then the subjects of art ought to be draw form such objects as excite a general activity, such as field-sports, bull-fights, battles, executions, court pageants, conflagrations, murders; and those which most intensely excite this sensory-organic activity, by expressing most of physical human power or suffering, such as battles, executions, regality, murder, would afford the _highest subject_ of Fine Art, and consequently these would be "_High Art_." But if you propose (with the writer) that _Fine Art_ shall regard the general happiness of man, but addressing those attributes which are _peculiarly human_, by exciting the activity of his rational and benevolent powers (and the writer would add, man's religious aspirations, but omits it as sufficiently evolvable from the proposition, and since some well-willing men cannot at present recognize man as a religious animal), then the subject of Fine Art should be drawn from objects which address and excite the activity of man's rational and benevolent powers, such as:--acts of justice--of mercy--good government--order--acts of intellect--men obviously speaking or thinking abstract thoughts, as evinced by one speaking to another, and looking at, or indicating, a flower, or a picture, or a star, or by looking on the wall while speaking--or, if the scene be from a _good_ play, or story, or another beneficent work, then not only of men in abstract thought or meditation, but, it may be, in simple conversation, or in passion--or a simple representation of a person in a play or story, as of Jacques, Ferdinand, or Cordelia; or, in real life, portraits of those who are honestly beautiful; or expressive of innocence, happiness, benevolence, or intellectuality, but not of gluttony, wantonness, anger, hatred, or malevolence, unless in some cases of justifiable satire--of histrionic or historic portraiture--landscape--natural phenomena--animals, not _indiscriminately_--in some cases, grand or beautiful buildings, even without figures--any scene on sea or land which induces reflection--all subjects from such parts of history as are morally or intellectually instructive or attractive--and therefore pageants--battles--and _even_ executions--all forms of thought and poetry, however wild, if consistent with rational benevolence--all scenes serious or comic, domestic or historical--all religious subjects proposing good that will not shock any reasonable number of reasonable men--all subjects that leave the artist wiser and happier--and none which intrinsically act otherwise--to sum all, every thing or incident in nature which excites, or may be made to excite, the mind and the heart of man as a mentally intelligent, not as a brute animal, is a subject for Fine Art, at all times, in all places, and in all ages. But as all these subjects in nature affect our hearts or our understanding in proportion to the heart and understanding we have to apprehend and to love them, those will excite us most intensely which we know most of and love most. But as we may learn to know them all and to love them all, and what is dark to-day may be luminous to-morrow, and things, dumb to-day, to-morrow grow voiceful, and the strange voice of to-day be plain and reproach us to-morrow; who shall adventure to say that this or that is the highest? And if it appear that all these subjects in nature _may_ affect us with equal intensity, and that the artist's representations affect as the subjects affect, then it follows, with all these subjects, Fine Art may affect us equally; but the subjects may all be high; therefore, all Fine Art may be High Art.
The Seasons
The crocus, in the shrewd March morn, Thrusts up its saffron spear; And April dots the sombre thorn With gems, and loveliest cheer.
Then sleep the seasons, full of might; While slowly swells the pod, And rounds the peach, and in the night The mushroom bursts the sod.
The winter falls: the frozen rut Is bound with silver bars; The white drift heaps against the hut; And night is pierced with stars.
Dream Land
Where sunless rivers weep Their waves into the deep, She sleeps a charmed sleep; Awake her not. Led by a single star, She came from very far, To seek where shadows are Her pleasant lot.
She left the rosy morn, She left the fields of corn, For twilight cold and lorn, And water-springs. Thro' sleep, as thro' a veil, She sees the sky look pale, And hears the nightingale, That sadly sings.
Rest, rest, a perfect rest, Shed over brow and breast; Her face is toward the west, The purple land. She cannot see the grain Ripening on hill and plain; She cannot feel the rain Upon her hand.
Rest, rest, for evermore Upon a mossy shore, Rest, rest, that shall endure, Till time shall cease;-- Sleep that no pain shall wake, Night that no morn shall break, Till joy shall overtake Her perfect peace.
Songs of One Household
No. 1.
My Sister's Sleep
She fell asleep on Christmas Eve. Upon her eyes' most patient calms The lids were shut; her uplaid arms Covered her bosom, I believe.
Our mother, who had leaned all day Over the bed from chime to chime, Then raised herself for the first time, And as she sat her down, did pray.
Her little work-table was spread With work to finish. For the glare Made by her candle, she had care To work some distance from the bed.
Without, there was a good moon up, Which left its shadows far within; The depth of light that it was in Seemed hollow like an altar-cup.
Through the small room, with subtle sound Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove And reddened. In its dim alcove The mirror shed a clearness round.
I had been sitting up some nights, And my tir'd mind felt weak and blank; Like a sharp strengthening wine, it drank The stillness and the broken lights.
Silence was speaking at my side With an exceedingly clear voice: I knew the calm as of a choice Made in God for me, to abide.
I said, "Full knowledge does not grieve: This which upon my spirit dwells Perhaps would have been sorrow else: But I am glad 'tis Christmas Eve."
Twelve struck. That sound, which all the years Hear in each hour, crept off; and then The ruffled silence spread again, Like water that a pebble stirs.
Our mother rose from where she sat. Her needles, as she laid them down, Met lightly, and her silken gown Settled: no other noise than that.
"Glory unto the Newly Born!" So, as said angels, she did say; Because we were in Christmas-day, Though it would still be long till dawn.
She stood a moment with her hands Kept in each other, praying much; A moment that the soul may touch But the heart only understands.
Almost unwittingly, my mind Repeated her words after her; Perhaps tho' my lips did not stir; It was scarce thought, or cause assign'd.
Just then in the room over us There was a pushing back of chairs, As some who had sat unawares So late, now heard the hour, and rose.
Anxious, with softly stepping haste, Our mother went where Margaret lay, Fearing the sounds o'erhead--should they Have broken her long-watched for rest!
She stooped an instant, calm, and turned; But suddenly turned back again; And all her features seemed in pain With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned.
For my part, I but hid my face, And held my breath, and spake no word: There was none spoken; but _I heard_ _The silence_ for a little space.
My mother bowed herself and wept. And both my arms fell, and I said: "God knows I knew that she was dead." And there, all white, my sister slept.
Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn A little after twelve o'clock We said, ere the first quarter struck, "Christ's blessing on the newly born!"
Hand and Soul
"Rivolsimi in quel lato Là 'nde venia la voce, E parvemi una luce Che lucea quanto stella: La mia mente era quella."
_Bonaggiunta Urbiciani_, (1250.)
Before any knowledge of painting was brought to Florence, there were already painters in Lucca, and Pisa, and Arezzo, who feared God and loved the art. The keen, grave workmen from Greece, whose trade it was to sell their own works in Italy and teach Italians to imitate them, had already found rivals of the soil with skill that could forestall their lessons and cheapen their crucifixes and _addolorate_, more years than is supposed before the art came at all into Florence. The pre-eminence to which Cimabue was raised at once by his contemporaries, and which he still retains to a wide extent even in the modern mind, is to be accounted for, partly by the circumstances under which he arose, and partly by that extraordinary _purpose of fortune_ born with the lives of some few, and through which it is not a little thing for any who went before, if they are even remembered as the shadows of the coming of such an one, and the voices which prepared his way in the wilderness. It is thus, almost exclusively, that the painters of whom I speak are now known. They have left little, and but little heed is taken of that which men hold to have been surpassed; it is gone like time gone--a track of dust and dead leaves that merely led to the fountain.
Nevertheless, of very late years, and in very rare instances, some signs of a better understanding have become manifest. A case in point is that of the tryptic and two cruciform pictures at Dresden, by Chiaro di Messer Bello dell' Erma, to which the eloquent pamphlet of Dr. Aemmster has at length succeeded in attracting the students. There is another, still more solemn and beautiful work, now proved to be by the same hand, in the gallery at Florence. It is the one to which my narrative will relate.
* * * * * * *
This Chiaro dell' Erma was a young man of very honorable family in Arezzo; where, conceiving art almost, as it were, for himself, and loving it deeply, he endeavored from early boyhood towards the imitation of any objects offered in nature. The extreme longing after a visible embodiment of his thoughts strengthened as his years increased, more even than his sinews or the blood of his life; until he would feel faint in sunsets and at the sight of stately persons. When he had lived nineteen years, he heard of the famous Giunta Pisano; and, feeling much of admiration, with, perhaps, a little of that envy which youth always feels until it has learned to measure success by time and opportunity, he determined that he would seek out Giunta, and, if possible, become his pupil.
Having arrived in Pisa, he clothed himself in humble apparel, being unwilling that any other thing than the desire he had for knowledge should be his plea with the great painter; and then, leaving his baggage at a house of entertainment, he took his way along the street, asking whom he met for the lodging of Giunta. It soon chanced that one of that city, conceiving him to be a stranger and poor, took him into his house, and refreshed him; afterwards directing him on his way.
When he was brought to speech of Giunta, he said merely that he was a student, and that nothing in the world was so much at his heart as to become that which he had heard told of him with whom he was speaking. He was received with courtesy and consideration, and shewn into the study of the famous artist. But the forms he saw there were lifeless and incomplete; and a sudden exultation possessed him as he said within himself, "I am the master of this man." The blood came at first into his face, but the next moment he was quite pale and fell to trembling. He was able, however, to conceal his emotion; speaking very little to Giunta, but, when he took his leave, thanking him respectfully.
After this, Chiaro's first resolve was, that he would work out thoroughly some one of his thoughts, and let the world know him. But the lesson which he had now learned, of how small a greatness might win fame, and how little there was to strive against, served to make him torpid, and rendered his exertions less continual. Also Pisa was a larger and more luxurious city than Arezzo; and, when in his walks, he saw the great gardens laid out for pleasure, and the beautiful women who passed to and fro, and heard the music that was in the groves of the city at evening, he was taken with wonder that he had never claimed his share of the inheritance of those years in which his youth was cast. And women loved Chiaro; for, in despite of the burthen of study, he was well-favoured and very manly in his walking; and, seeing his face in front, there was a glory upon it, as upon the face of one who feels a light round his hair.
So he put thought from him, and partook of his life. But, one night, being in a certain company of ladies, a gentleman that was there with him began to speak of the paintings of a youth named Bonaventura, which he had seen in Lucca; adding that Giunta Pisano might now look for a rival. When Chiaro heard this, the lamps shook before him, and the music beat in his ears and made him giddy. He rose up, alleging a sudden sickness, and went out of that house with his teeth set.
He now took to work diligently; not returning to Arezzo, but remaining in Pisa, that no day more might be lost; only living entirely to himself. Sometimes, after nightfall, he would walk abroad in the most solitary places he could find; hardly feeling the ground under him, because of the thoughts of the day which held him in fever.
The lodging he had chosen was in a house that looked upon gardens fast by the Church of San Rocco. During the offices, as he sat at work, he could hear the music of the organ and the long murmur that the chanting left; and if his window were open, sometimes, at those parts of the mass where there is silence throughout the church, his ear caught faintly the single voice of the priest. Beside the matters of his art and a very few books, almost the only object to be noticed in Chiaro's room was a small consecrated image of St. Mary Virgin wrought out of silver, before which stood always, in summer-time, a glass containing a lily and a rose.
It was here, and at this time, that Chiaro painted the Dresden pictures; as also, in all likelihood, the one--inferior in merit, but certainly his--which is now at Munich. For the most part, he was calm and regular in his manner of study; though often he would remain at work through the whole of the day, not resting once so long as the light lasted; flushed, and with the hair from his face. Or, at times, when he could not paint, he would sit for hours in thought of all the greatness the world had known from of old; until he was weak with yearning, like one who gazes upon a path of stars.
He continued in this patient endeavour for about three years, at the end of which his name was spoken throughout all Tuscany. As his fame waxed, he began to be employed, besides easel-pictures, upon paintings in fresco: but I believe that no traces remain to us of any of these latter. He is said to have painted in the Duomo: and D'Agincourt mentions having seen some portions of a fresco by him which originally had its place above the high altar in the Church of the Certosa; but which, at the time he saw it, being very dilapidated, had been hewn out of the wall, and was preserved in the stores of the convent. Before the period of Dr. Aemmster's researches, however, it had been entirely destroyed.
Chiaro was now famous. It was for the race of fame that he had girded up his loins; and he had not paused until fame was reached: yet now, in taking breath, he found that the weight was still at his heart. The years of his labor had fallen from him, and his life was still in its first painful desire.
With all that Chiaro had done during these three years, and even before, with the studies of his early youth, there had always been a feeling of worship and service. It was the peace-offering that he made to God and to his own soul for the eager selfishness of his aim. There was earth, indeed, upon the hem of his raiment; but _this_ was of the heaven, heavenly. He had seasons when he could endure to think of no other feature of his hope than this: and sometimes, in the ecstacy of prayer, it had even seemed to him to behold that day when his mistress--his mystical lady (now hardly in her ninth year, but whose solemn smile at meeting had already lighted on his soul like the dove of the Trinity)--even she, his own gracious and holy Italian art--with her virginal bosom, and her unfathomable eyes, and the thread of sunlight round her brows--should pass, through the sun that never sets, into the circle of the shadow of the tree of life, and be seen of God, and found good: and then it had seemed to him, that he, with many who, since his coming, had joined the band of whom he was one (for, in his dream, the body he had worn on earth had been dead an hundred years), were permitted to gather round the blessed maiden, and to worship with her through all ages and ages of ages, saying, Holy, holy, holy. This thing he had seen with the eyes of his spirit; and in this thing had trusted, believing that it would surely come to pass.
But now, (being at length led to enquire closely into himself,) even as, in the pursuit of fame, the unrest abiding after attainment had proved to him that he had misinterpreted the craving of his own spirit--so also, now that he would willingly have fallen back on devotion, he became aware that much of that reverence which he had mistaken for faith had been no more than the worship of beauty. Therefore, after certain days passed in perplexity, Chiaro said within himself, "My life and my will are yet before me: I will take another aim to my life."
From that moment Chiaro set a watch on his soul, and put his hand to no other works but only to such as had for their end the presentment of some moral greatness that should impress the beholder: and, in doing this, he did not choose for his medium the action and passion of human life, but cold symbolism and abstract impersonation. So the people ceased to throng about his pictures as heretofore; and, when they were carried through town and town to their destination, they were no longer delayed by the crowds eager to gaze and admire: and no prayers or offerings were brought to them on their path, as to his Madonnas, and his Saints, and his Holy Children. Only the critical audience remained to him; and these, in default of more worthy matter, would have turned their scrutiny on a puppet or a mantle. Meanwhile, he had no more of fever upon him; but was calm and pale each day in all that he did and in his goings in and out. The works he produced at this time have perished--in all likelihood, not unjustly. It is said (and we may easily believe it), that, though more labored than his former pictures, they were cold and unemphatic; bearing marked out upon them, as they must certainly have done, the measure of that boundary to which they were made to conform.
And the weight was still close at Chiaro's heart: but he held in his breath, never resting (for he was afraid), and would not know it.
Now it happened, within these days, that there fell a great feast in Pisa, for holy matters: and each man left his occupation; and all the guilds and companies of the city were got together for games and rejoicings. And there were scarcely any that stayed in the houses, except ladies who lay or sat along their balconies between open windows which let the breeze beat through the rooms and over the spread tables from end to end. And the golden cloths that their arms lay upon drew all eyes upward to see their beauty; and the day was long; and every hour of the day was bright with the sun.
So Chiaro's model, when he awoke that morning on the hot pavement of the Piazza Nunziata, and saw the hurry of people that passed him, got up and went along with them; and Chiaro waited for him in vain.
For the whole of that morning, the music was in Chiaro's room from the Church close at hand: and he could hear the sounds that the crowd made in the streets; hushed only at long intervals while the processions for the feast-day chanted in going under his windows. Also, more than once, there was a high clamour from the meeting of factious persons: for the ladies of both leagues were looking down; and he who encountered his enemy could not choose but draw upon him. Chiaro waited a long time idle; and then knew that his model was gone elsewhere. When at his work, he was blind and deaf to all else; but he feared sloth: for then his stealthy thoughts would begin, as it were, to beat round and round him, seeking a point for attack. He now rose, therefore, and went to the window. It was within a short space of noon; and underneath him a throng of people was coming out through the porch of San Rocco.
The two greatest houses of the feud in Pisa had filled the church for that mass. The first to leave had been the Gherghiotti; who, stopping on the threshold, had fallen back in ranks along each side of the archway: so that now, in passing outward, the Marotoli had to walk between two files of men whom they hated, and whose fathers had hated theirs. All the chiefs were there and their whole adherence; and each knew the name of each. Every man of the Marotoli, as he came forth and saw his foes, laid back his hood and gazed about him, to show the badge upon the close cap that held his hair. And of the Gherghiotti there were some who tightened their girdles; and some shrilled and threw up their wrists scornfully, as who flies a falcon; for that was the crest of their house.
On the walls within the entry were a number of tall, narrow frescoes, presenting a moral allegory of Peace, which Chiaro had painted that year for the Church. The Gherghiotti stood with their backs to these frescoes: and among them Golzo Ninuccio, the youngest noble of the faction, called by the people of Golaghiotta, for his debased life. This youth had remained for some while talking listlessly to his fellows, though with his sleepy sunken eyes fixed on them who passed: but now, seeing that no man jostled another, he drew the long silver shoe off his foot, and struck the dust out of it on the cloak of him who was going by, asking him how far the tides rose at Viderza. And he said so because it was three months since, at that place, the Gherghiotti had beaten the Marotoli to the sands, and held them there while the sea came in; whereby many had been drowned. And, when he had spoken, at once the whole archway was dazzling with the light of confused swords; and they who had left turned back; and they who were still behind made haste to come forth: and there was so much blood cast up the walls on a sudden, that it ran in long streams down Chiaro's paintings.
Chiaro turned himself from the window; for the light felt dry between his lids, and he could not look. He sat down, and heard the noise of contention driven out of the church-porch and a great way through the streets; and soon there was a deep murmur that heaved and waxed from the other side of the city, where those of both parties were gathering to join in the tumult.
Chiaro sat with his face in his open hands. Once again he had wished to set his foot on a place that looked green and fertile; and once again it seemed to him that the thin rank mask was about to spread away, and that this time the chill of the water must leave leprosy in his flesh. The light still swam in his head, and bewildered him at first; but when he knew his thoughts, they were these:--
"Fame failed me: faith failed me: and now this also,--the hope that I nourished in this my generation of men,--shall pass from me, and leave my feet and my hands groping. Yet, because of this, are my feet become slow and my hands thin. I am as one who, through the whole night, holding his way diligently, hath smitten the steel unto the flint, to lead some whom he knew darkling; who hath kept his eyes always on the sparks that himself made, lest they should fail; and who, towards dawn, turning to bid them that he had guided God speed, sees the wet grass untrodden except of his own feet. I am as the last hour of the day, whose chimes are a perfect number; whom the next followeth not, nor light ensueth from him; but in the same darkness is the old order begun afresh. Men say, 'This is not God nor man; he is not as we are, neither above us: let him sit beneath us, for we are many.' Where I write Peace, in that spot is the drawing of swords, and there men's footprints are red. When I would sow, another harvest is ripe. Nay, it is much worse with me than thus much. Am I not as a cloth drawn before the light, that the looker may not be blinded; but which sheweth thereby the grain of its own coarseness; so that the light seems defiled, and men say, 'We will not walk by it.' Wherefore through me they shall be doubly accursed, seeing that through me they reject the light. May one be a devil and not know it?"
As Chiaro was in these thoughts, the fever encroached slowly on his veins, till he could sit no longer, and would have risen; but suddenly he found awe within him, and held his head bowed, without stirring. The warmth of the air was not shaken; but there seemed a pulse in the light, and a living freshness, like rain. The silence was a painful music, that made the blood ache in his temples; and he lifted his face and his deep eyes.
A woman was present in his room, clad to the hands and feet with a green and grey raiment, fashioned to that time. It seemed that the first thoughts he had ever known were given him as at first from her eyes, and he knew her hair to be the golden veil through which he beheld his dreams. Though her hands were joined, her face was not lifted, but set forward; and though the gaze was austere, yet her mouth was supreme in gentleness. And as he looked, Chiaro's spirit appeared abashed of its own intimate presence, and his lips shook with the thrill of tears; it seemed such a bitter while till the spirit might be indeed alone.
She did not move closer towards him, but he felt her to be as much with him as his breath. He was like one who, scaling a great steepness, hears his own voice echoed in some place much higher than he can see, and the name of which is not known to him. As the woman stood, her speech was with Chiaro: not, as it were, from her mouth or in his ears; but distinctly between them.
"I am an image, Chiaro, of thine own soul within thee. See me, and know me as I am. Thou sayest that fame has failed thee, and faith failed thee; but because at least thou hast not laid thy life unto riches, therefore, though thus late, I am suffered to come into thy knowledge. Fame sufficed not, for that thou didst seek fame: seek thine own conscience (not thy mind's conscience, but thine heart's), and all shall approve and suffice. For Fame, in noble soils, is a fruit of the Spring: but not therefore should it be said: 'Lo! my garden that I planted is barren: the crocus is here, but the lily is dead in the dry ground, and shall not lift the earth that covers it: therefore I will fling my garden together, and give it unto the builders.' Take heed rather that thou trouble not the wise secret earth; for in the mould that thou throwest up shall the first tender growth lie to waste; which else had been made strong in its season. Yea, and even if the year fall past in all its months, and the soil be indeed, to thee, peevish and incapable, and though thou indeed gather all thy harvest, and it suffice for others, and thou remain vext with emptiness; and others drink of thy streams, and the drouth rasp thy throat;--let it be enough that these have found the feast good, and thanked the giver: remembering that, when the winter is striven through, there is another year, whose wind is meek, and whose sun fulfilleth all."
While he heard, Chiaro went slowly on his knees. It was not to her that spoke, for the speech seemed within him and his own. The air brooded in sunshine, and though the turmoil was great outside, the air within was at peace. But when he looked in her eyes, he wept. And she came to him, and cast her hair over him, and, took her hands about his forehead, and spoke again:
"Thou hadst said," she continued, gently, "that faith failed thee. This cannot be so. Either thou hadst it not, or thou hast it. But who bade thee strike the point betwixt love and faith? Wouldst thou sift the warm breeze from the sun that quickens it? Who bade thee turn upon God and say: "Behold, my offering is of earth, and not worthy: thy fire comes not upon it: therefore, though I slay not my brother whom thou acceptest, I will depart before thou smite me." Why shouldst thou rise up and tell God He is not content? Had He, of His warrant, certified so to thee? Be not nice to seek out division; but possess thy love in sufficiency: assuredly this is faith, for the heart must believe first. What He hath set in thine heart to do, that do thou; and even though thou do it without thought of Him, it shall be well done: it is this sacrifice that He asketh of thee, and His flame is upon it for a sign. Think not of Him; but of His love and thy love. For God is no morbid exactor: he hath no hand to bow beneath, nor a foot, that thou shouldst kiss it."
And Chiaro held silence, and wept into her hair which covered his face; and the salt tears that he shed ran through her hair upon his lips; and he tasted the bitterness of shame.
Then the fair woman, that was his soul, spoke again to him, saying:
"And for this thy last purpose, and for those unprofitable truths of thy teaching,--thine heart hath already put them away, and it needs not that I lay my bidding upon thee. How is it that thou, a man, wouldst say coldly to the mind what God hath said to the heart warmly? Thy will was honest and wholesome; but look well lest this also be folly,--to say, 'I, in doing this, do strengthen God among men.' When at any time hath he cried unto thee, saying, 'My son, lend me thy shoulder, for I fall?' Deemest thou that the men who enter God's temple in malice, to the provoking of blood, and neither for his love nor for his wrath will abate their purpose,--shall afterwards stand with thee in the porch, midway between Him and themselves, to give ear unto thy thin voice, which merely the fall of their visors can drown, and to see thy hands, stretched feebly, tremble among their swords? Give thou to God no more than he asketh of thee; but to man also, that which is man's. In all that thou doest, work from thine own heart, simply; for his heart is as thine, when thine is wise and humble; and he shall have understanding of thee. One drop of rain is as another, and the sun's prism in all: and shalt not thou be as he, whose lives are the breath of One? Only by making thyself his equal can he learn to hold communion with thee, and at last own thee above him. Not till thou lean over the water shalt thou see thine image therein: stand erect, and it shall slope from thy feet and be lost. Know that there is but this means whereby thou may'st serve God with man:--Set thine hand and thy soul to serve man with God."
And when she that spoke had said these words within Chiaro's spirit, she left his side quietly, and stood up as he had first seen her; with her fingers laid together, and her eyes steadfast, and with the breadth of her long dress covering her feet on the floor. And, speaking again, she said:
"Chiaro, servant of God, take now thine Art unto thee, and paint me thus, as I am, to know me: weak, as I am, and in the weeds of this time; only with eyes which seek out labour, and with a faith, not learned, yet jealous of prayer. Do this; so shall thy soul stand before thee always, and perplex thee no more."
And Chiaro did as she bade him. While he worked, his face grew solemn with knowledge: and before the shadows had turned, his work was done. Having finished, he lay back where he sat, and was asleep immediately: for the growth of that strong sunset was heavy about him, and he felt weak and haggard; like one just come out of a dusk, hollow country, bewildered with echoes, where he had lost himself, and who has not slept for many days and nights. And when she saw him lie back, the beautiful woman came to him, and sat at his head, gazing, and quieted his sleep with her voice.
The tumult of the factions had endured all that day through all Pisa, though Chiaro had not heard it: and the last service of that Feast was a mass sung at midnight from the windows of all the churches for the many dead who lay about the city, and who had to be buried before morning, because of the extreme heats.
* * * * * * *
In the Spring of 1847 I was at Florence. Such as were there at the same time with myself--those, at least, to whom Art is something,--will certainly recollect how many rooms of the Pitti Gallery were closed through that season, in order that some of the pictures they contained might be examined, and repaired without the necessity of removal. The hall, the staircases, and the vast central suite of apartments, were the only accessible portions; and in these such paintings as they could admit from the sealed _penetralia_ were profanely huddled together, without respect of dates, schools, or persons.
I fear that, through this interdict, I may have missed seeing many of the best pictures. I do not mean _only_ the most talked of: for these, as they were restored, generally found their way somehow into the open rooms, owing to the clamours raised by the students; and I remember how old Ercoli's, the curator's, spectacles used to be mirrored in the reclaimed surface, as he leaned mysteriously over these works with some of the visitors, to scrutinize and elucidate.
One picture, that I saw that Spring, I shall not easily forget. It was among those, I believe, brought from the other rooms, and had been hung, obviously out of all chronology, immediately beneath that head by Raphael so long known as the "Berrettino," and now said to be the portrait of Cecco Ciulli.
The picture I speak of is a small one, and represents merely the figure of a woman, clad to the hands and feet with a green and grey raiment, chaste and early in its fashion, but exceedingly simple. She is standing: her hands are held together lightly, and her eyes set earnestly open.
The face and hands in this picture, though wrought with great delicacy, have the appearance of being painted at once, in a single sitting: the drapery is unfinished. As soon as I saw the figure, it drew an awe upon me, like water in shadow. I shall not attempt to describe it more than I have already done; for the most absorbing wonder of it was its literality. You knew that figure, when painted, had been seen; yet it was not a thing to be seen of men. This language will appear ridiculous to such as have never looked on the work; and it may be even to some among those who have. On examining it closely, I perceived in one corner of the canvass the words _Manus Animam pinxit_, and the date 1239.
I turned to my Catalogue, but that was useless, for the pictures were all displaced. I then stepped up to the Cavaliere Ercoli, who was in the room at the moment, and asked him regarding the subject of authorship of the painting. He treated the matter, I thought, somewhat slightingly, and said that he could show me the reference in the Catalogue, which he had compiled. This, when found, was not of much value, as it merely said, "Schizzo d'autore incerto," adding the inscription.{4} I could willingly have prolonged my inquiry, in the hope that it might somehow lead to some result; but I had disturbed the curator from certain yards of Guido, and he was not communicative. I went back therefore, and stood before the picture till it grew dusk.
{4}I should here say, that in the catalogue for the year just over, (owing, as in cases before mentioned, to the zeal and enthusiasm of Dr. Aemmester) this, and several other pictures, have been more competently entered. The work in question is now placed in the _Sala Sessagona_, a room I did not see--under the number 161. It is described as "Figura mistica di Chiaro dell' Erma," and there is a brief notice of the author appended.
The next day I was there again; but this time a circle of students was round the spot, all copying the "Berrettino." I contrived, however, to find a place whence I could see _my_ picture, and where I seemed to be in nobody's way. For some minutes I remained undisturbed; and then I heard, in an English voice: "Might I beg of you, sir, to stand a little more to this side, as you interrupt my view."
I felt vext, for, standing where he asked me, a glare struck on the picture from the windows, and I could not see it. However, the request was reasonably made, and from a countryman; so I complied, and turning away, stood by his easel. I knew it was not worth while; yet I referred in some way to the work underneath the one he was copying. He did not laugh, but he smiled as we do in England: "_Very_ odd, is it not?" said he.
The other students near us were all continental; and seeing an Englishman select an Englishman to speak with, conceived, I suppose, that he could understand no language but his own. They had evidently been noticing the interest which the little picture appeared to excite in me.
One of them, and Italian, said something to another who stood next to him. He spoke with a Genoese accent, and I lost the sense in the villainous dialect. "Che so?" replied the other, lifting his eyebrows towards the figure; "roba mistica: 'st' Inglesi son matti sul misticismo: somiglia alle nebbie di là. Li fa pensare alla patria,
"E intenerisce il core Lo dì ch' han detto ai dolci amici adio."
"La notte, vuoi dire," said a third.
There was a general laugh. My compatriot was evidently a novice in the language, and did not take in what was said. I remained silent, being amused.
"Et toi donc?" said he who had quoted Dante, turning to a student, whose birthplace was unmistakable even had he been addressed in any other language: "que dis-tu de ce genre-là?"
"Moi?" returned the Frenchman, standing back from his easel, and looking at me and at the figure, quite politely, though with an evident reservation: "Je dis, mon cher, que c'est une spécialité dont je me fiche pas mal. Je tiens que quand on ne comprend pas une chose, c'est qu' elle ne signifie rein."
My reader thinks possibly that the French student was right.
Reviews
_The Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich: a Long-vacation Pastoral. By Arthur Hugh Clough. Oxford: Macpherson. London: Chapman and Hall.--1848_
The critic who should undertake to speak of all the poetry which issues from the press of these present days, what is so called by courtesy as well as that which may claim the title as of right, would impose on himself a task demanding no little labor, and entailing no little disgust and weariness. Nor is the trouble well repaid. More profit will not accrue to him who studies, if the word can be used, fifty of a certain class of versifiers, than to him who glances over one: and, while a successful effort to warn such that poetry is not their proper sphere, and that they must seek elsewhere for a vocation to work out, might embolden a philanthropist to assume the position of scare-crow, and drive away the unclean birds from the flowers and the green leaves; on the other hand, the small results which appear to have hitherto attended such endeavors are calculated rather to induce those who have yet made, to relinquish them than to lead others to follow in the same track. It is truly a disheartening task. To the critic himself no good, though some amusement occasionally, can be expected: to the criticised, good but rarely, for he is seldom convinced, and annoyance and rancour almost of course; and, even in those few cases where the voice crying "in the wilderness" produces its effect, the one thistle that abandons the attempt at bearing figs sees its neighbors still believing in their success, and soon has its own place filled up. The sentence of those who do not read is the best criticism on those who will not think.
It is acting on these considerations that we propose not to take count of any works that do not either show a purpose achieved or give promise of a worthy event; while of such we hope to overlook none.
We believe it may safely be assumed that at no previous period has the public been more buzzed round by triviality and common-place; but we hold firm, at the same time, that at none other has there been a greater or a grander body of genius, or so honorable a display of well cultivated taste and talent. Certainly the public do not seem to know this: certainly the critics deny it, or rather speak as though they never contemplated that such a position would be advanced: but, if the fact be so, it will make itself known, and the poets of this day will assert themselves, and take their places.
Of these it is our desire to speak truthfully, indeed, and without compromise, but always as bearing in mind that the inventor is more than the commentator, and the book more than the notes; and that, if it is we who speak, we do so not for ourselves, nor as of ourselves.
The work of Arthur Hugh Clough now before us, (we feel warranted in the dropping of the _Mr._ even at his first work,) unites the most enduring forms of nature, and the most unsophisticated conditions of life and character, with the technicalities of speech, of manners, and of persons of an Oxford reading party in the long vacation. His hero is
"Philip Hewson, the poet, Hewson, the radical hot, hating lords and scorning ladies;"
and his heroine is no heroine, but a woman, "Elspie, the quiet, the brave."
The metre he has chosen, the hexametral, harmonises with the spirit of primitive simplicity in which the poem is conceived; is itself a background, as much as are "Knoydart, Croydart, Moydart, Morrer, and Ardnamurchan;" and gives a new individuality to the passages of familiar narrative and every day conversation. It has an intrinsic appropriateness; although, at first thought of the subject, this will, perhaps, be scarcely admitted of so old and so stately a rhythmical form.
As regards execution, however, there may be noted, in qualification of much pliancy and vigour, a certain air of experiment in occasional passages, and a license in versification, which more than warrants a warning "to expect every kind of irregularity in these modern hexameters." The following lines defy all efforts at reading in dactyls or spondees, and require an almost complete transposition of accent.
"There was a point which I forgot, which our gallant Highland homes have;"-- "While the little drunken Piper came across to shake hands with Lindsay:"-- "Something of the world, of men and women: you will not refuse me."
In the first of these lines, the omission of the former "_which_," would remove all objection; and there are others where a final syllable appears clearly deficient; as thus:--
"Only the road and larches and ruinous millstead between" [_them_]:-- "Always welcome the stranger: I may say, delighted to see [_such_] Fine young men:"-- "Nay, never talk: listen now. What I say you can't apprehend" [_yet_]:-- "Laid her hand on her lap. Philip took it. She did not resist" [_him_]:--
Yet the following would be scarcely improved by greater exactness:
"Roaring after their prey, do seek their meat from God;"
Nor, perhaps, ought this to be made correct:
"Close as the bodies and intertwining limbs of athletic wrestlers."
The aspect of _fact_ pervading "the Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich,"--(in English, "the hut of the bearded well," a somewhat singular title, to say the least,) is so strong and complete as to render necessary the few words of dedication, where, in inscribing the poem, (or, as the author terms it, "trifle,") to his "long-vacation pupils," he expresses a hope, that they "will not be displeased if, in a fiction, purely fiction, they are here and there reminded of times enjoyed together."
As the story opens, the Oxford party are about to proceed to dinner at "the place of the Clansmen's meeting." Their characters, discriminated with the nicest taste, and perfectly worked out, are thus introduced:
"Be it recorded in song who was first, who last, in dressing. Hope was the first, black-tied, white-waistcoated, simple, his Honor; For the postman made out he was a son to the Earl of Ilay, (As, indeed, he was to the younger brother, the Colonel); Treated him therefore with special respect, doffed bonnet, and ever Called him his Honor: his Honor he therefore was at the cottage; Always his Honor at least, sometimes the Viscount of Ilay.
"Hope was the first, his Honor; and, next to his Honor, the Tutor. Still more plain the tutor, the grave man nicknamed Adam, White-tied, clerical, silent, with antique square-cut waistcoat, Formal, unchanged, of black cloth, but with sense and feeling beneath it; Skilful in ethics and logic, in Pindar and poets unrivalled; _Shady_ in Latin, said Lindsay, but _topping_ in plays and Aldrich.
"Somewhat more splendid in dress, in a waistcoat of a lady, Lindsay succeeded, the lively, the cheery, cigar-loving Lindsay, Lindsay the ready of speech, the Piper, the Dialectician: This was his title from Adam, because of the words he invented, Who in three weeks had created a dialect new for the party.
"Hewson and Hobbes were down at the _matutine_ bathing; of course Arthur Audley, the bather _par excellence_ glory of headers: Arthur they called him for love and for euphony: so were they bathing There where in mornings was custom, where, over a ledge of granite, Into a granite bason descended the amber torrent. There were they bathing and dressing: it was but a step from the cottage, Only the road and larches and ruinous millstead between. Hewson and Hobbes followed quick upon Adam; on them followed Arthur.
"Airlie descended the last, splendescent as god of Olympus. When for ten minutes already the fourwheel had stood at the gateway; He, like a god, came leaving his ample Olympian chamber."--pp. 5, 6.
A peculiar point of style in this poem, and one which gives a certain classic character to some of its more familiar aspects, is the frequent recurrence of the same line, and the repeated definition of a personage by the same attributes. Thus, Lindsay is "the Piper, the Dialectician," Arthur Audley "the glory of headers," and the tutor "the grave man nicknamed Adam," from beginning to end; and so also of the others.
Omitting the after-dinner speeches, with their "Long constructions strange and plusquam-Thucydidean," that only of "Sir Hector, the Chief and the Chairman;" in honor of the Oxonians, than which nothing could be more unpoetically truthful, is preserved, with the acknowledgment, ending in a sarcasm at the game laws, by Hewson, who, as he is leaving the room, is accosted by "a thin man, clad as the Saxon:"
"'Young man, if ye pass thro' the Braes o'Lochaber, See by the Loch-side ye come to the Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich.'"--p. 9.
Throughout this scene, as through the whole book, no opportunity is overlooked for giving individuality to the persons introduced: Sir Hector, of whom we lose sight henceforward, the attaché, the Guards-man, are not mere names, but characters: it is not enough to say that two tables were set apart "for keeper and gillie and peasant:" there is something to be added yet; and with others assembled around them were "Pipers five or six; _among them the young one, the drunkard_."
The morrow's conversation of the reading party turns on "noble ladies and rustic girls, their partners." And here speaks out Hewson the chartist:
"'Never (of course you will laugh, but of course all the same I shall say it,) Never, believe me, revealed itself to me the sexual glory, Till, in some village fields, in holidays now getting stupid, One day sauntering long and listless, as Tennyson has it, Long and listless strolling, ungainly in hobbydihoyhood, Chanced it my eye fell aside on a capless bonnetless maiden, Bending with three-pronged fork in a garden uprooting potatoes. Was it the air? who can say? or herself? or the charm of the labor? But a new thing was in me, and longing delicious possessed me, Longing to take her and lift her, and put her away from her slaving. Was it to clasp her in lifting, or was it to lift her by clasping, Was it embracing or aiding was most in my mind? Hard question. But a new thing was in me: I too was a youth among maidens. Was it the air? who can say? But, in part, 'twas the charm of the labor.'"
And he proceeds in a rapture to talk on the beauty of household service.
Hereat Arthur remarks: "'Is not all this just the same that one hears at common room breakfasts, Or perhaps Trinity-wines, about Gothic buildings and beauty?'"--p. 13.
The character of Hobbes, called into energy by this observation, is perfectly developed in the lines succeeding:
"And with a start from the sofa came Hobbes; with a cry from the sofa, There where he lay, the great Hobbes, contemplative, corpulent, witty; Author forgotten and silent of currentest phrase and fancy; Mute and exuberant by turns, a fountain at intervals playing, Mute and abstracted, or strong and abundant as rain in the tropics; Studious; careless of dress; inobservant; by smooth persuasions Lately decoyed into kilt on example of Hope and the Piper, Hope an Antinous mere, Hyperion of calves the Piper..... "'Ah! could they only be taught,' he resumed, 'by a Pugin of women How even churning and washing, the dairy, the scullery duties, Wait but a touch to redeem and convert them to charms and attractions; Scrubbing requires for true grace but frank and artistical handling, And the removal of slops to be ornamentally treated!"--pp. 13, 14.
Here, in the tutor's answer to Hewson, we come on the moral of the poem, a moral to be pursued through commonplace lowliness of station and through high rank, into the habit of life which would be, in the one, not petty,--in the other, not overweening,--in any, calm and dignified.
"'You are a boy; when you grow to a man, you'll find things alter. You will learn to seek the good, to scorn the attractive, Scorn all mere cosmetics, as now of rank and fashion, Delicate hands, and wealth, so then of poverty also, Poverty truly attractive, more truly, I bear you witness. Good, wherever found, you will choose, be it humble or stately, Happy if only you find, and, finding, do not lose it.'"--p. 14.
When the discussion is ended, the party propose to separate, some proceeding on their tour; and Philip Hewson will be of these.
"'Finally, too,' from the kilt and the sofa said Hobbes in conclusion, 'Finally Philip must hunt for that home of the probable poacher, Hid in the Braes of Lochaber, the Bothie of what-did-he-call-it. Hopeless of you and of us, of gillies and marquises hopeless, Weary of ethic and logic, of rhetoric yet more weary, There shall he, smit by the charm of a lovely potatoe-uprooter, Study the question of sex in the Bothie of what-did-he-call-it."'--p.18.
The action here becomes divided; and, omitting points of detail, we must confine ourselves to tracing the development of the idea in which the subject of the poem consists.
Philip and his companions, losing their road, are received at a farm, where they stay for three days: and this experience of himself begins. He comes prepared; and, if he seems to love the "golden-haired Katie," it is less that she is "the youngest and comeliest daughter" than because of her position, and that in that she realises his preconceived wishes. For three days he is with her and about her; and he remains when his friends leave the farm-house. But his love is no more than the consequence of his principles; it is his own will unconsidered and but half understood. And a letter to Adam tells how it had an end:
"'I was walking along some two miles from the cottage, Full of my dreamings. A girl went by in a party with others: She had a cloak on,--was stepping on quickly, for rain was beginning; But, as she passed, from the hood I saw her eyes glance at me:-- So quick a glance, so regardless I, that, altho' I felt it, You couldn't properly say our eyes met; she cast it, and left it. It was three minutes, perhaps, ere I knew what it was. I had seen her Somewhere before, I am sure; but that wasn't it,--not its import. No; it had seemed to regard me with simple superior insight, Quietly saying to herself: 'Yes, there he is still in his fancy...... Doesn't yet see we have here just the things he is used to elsewhere, And that the things he likes here, elsewhere he wouldn't have looked at; People here, too, are people, and not as fairy-land creatures. He is in a trance, and possessed,--I wonder how long to continue. It is a shame and pity,--and no good likely to follow.'-- Something like this; but, indeed, I cannot the least define it. Only, three hours thence, I was off and away in the moor-land, Hiding myself from myself, if I could, the arrow within me.'"--p.29.
Philip Hewson has been going on
"Even as cloud passing subtly unseen from mountain to mountain, Leaving the crest of Benmore to be palpable next on Benvohrlich, Or like to hawk of the hill, which ranges and soars in its hunting, Seen and unseen by turns."...... And these are his words in the mountains:......
"'Surely the force that here sweeps me along in its violent impulse, Surely my strength shall be in her, my help and protection about her, Surely in inner-sweet gladness and vigor of joy shall sustain her; Till, the brief winter o'erpast, her own true sap in the springtide Rise, and the tree I have bared be verdurous e'en as aforetime: Surely it may be, it should be, it must be. Yet, ever and ever, 'Would I were dead,' I keep saying, 'that so I could go and uphold her.'"--pp. 26, 27.
And, meanwhile, Katie, among the others, is dancing and smiling still on some one who is to her all that Philip had ever been.
When Hewson writes next, his experience has reached its second stage. He is at Balloch, with the aunt and the cousin of his friend Hope: and the lady Maria has made his beliefs begin to fail and totter, and he feels for something to hold firmly. He seems to think, at one moment, that the mere knowledge of the existence of such an one ought to compensate for lives of drudgery hemmed in with want; then he turns round on himself with, "How shall that be?" And, at length, he appeases his questions, saying that it must and should be so, if it is.
After this, come scraps of letters, crossed and recrossed, from the Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich. In his travelling towards home, a horse cast a shoe, and the were directed to David Mackaye. Hewson is still in the clachan hard by when he urges his friend to come to him: and he comes.
"There on the blank hill-side, looking down through the loch to the ocean; There, with a runnel beside, and pine-trees twain before it, There, with the road underneath, and in sight of coaches and steamers, Dwelling of David Mackaye and his daughters, Elspie and Bella, Sends up a column of smoke the Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich.....
"So on the road they walk, by the shore of the salt sea-water, Silent a youth and maid, the elders twain conversing."--pp. 36, 37.
"Ten more days, with Adam, did Philip abide at the changehouse; Ten more nights they met, they walked with father and daughter. Ten more nights; and, night by night, more distant away were Philip and she; every night less heedful, by habit, the father."--pp. 38, 39.
From this point, we must give ourselves up to quotation; and the narrow space remaining to us is our only apology to the reader for making any omission whatever in these extracts.
"For she confessed, as they sat in the dusk, and he saw not her blushes, Elspie confessed, at the sports, long ago, with her father, she saw him, When at the door the old man had told him the name of the Bothie; There, after that, at the dance; yet again at the dance in Rannoch; And she was silent, confused. Confused much rather Philip Buried his face in his hands, his face that with blood was bursting. Silent, confused; yet by pity she conquered here fear, and continued: 'Katie is good and not silly: be comforted, Sir, about her; Katie is good and not silly; tender, but not, like many, Carrying off, and at once, for fear of being seen, in the bosom Locking up as in a cupboard, the pleasure that any man gives them, Keeping it out of sight as a prize they need be ashamed of: That is the way, I think, Sir, in England more than in Scotland. No; she lives and takes pleasure in all, as in beautiful weather; Sorry to lose it; but just as we would be to lose fine weather..... There were at least five or six,--not there; no, that I don't say, But in the country about,--you might just as well have been courting. That was what gave me much pain; and (you won't remember that tho'), Three days after, I met you, beside my Uncle's walking; And I was wondering much, and hoped you wouldn't notice; So, as I passed, I couldn't help looking. You didn't know me; But I was glad when I heard, next day, you were gone to the teacher.'
"And, uplifting his face at last, with eyes dilated, Large as great stars in mist, and dim with dabbled lashes. Philip, with new tears starting,
'You think I do not remember,' Said, 'suppose that I did not observe. Ah me! shall I tell you? Elspie, it was your look that sent me away from Rannoch.'.... And he continued more firmly, altho' with stronger emotion. 'Elspie, why should I speak it? You cannot believe it, and should not. Why should I say that I love, which I all but said to another? Yet, should I dare, should I say, Oh Elspie you only I love, you, First and sole in my life that has been, and surely that shall be; Could, oh could, you believe it, oh Elspie, believe it, and spurn not? Is it possible,--possible, Elspie?'
'Well,' she answered, Quietly, after her fashion, still knitting; 'Well, I think of it. Yes, I don't know, Mr. Philip; but only it feels to me strangely,-- Like to the high new bridge they used to build at, below there, Over the burn and glen, on the road. You won't understand me..... Sometimes I find myself dreaming at nights about arches and bridges; Sometimes I dream of a great invisible hand coming down, and Dropping a great key-stone in the middle.'....
"But while she was speaking,-- So it happened,--a moment she paused from her work, and, pondering, Laid her hand on her lap. Philip took it, she did not resist. So he retained her fingers, the knitting being stopped. But emotion Came all over her more and more, from his hand, from her heart, and Most from the sweet idea and image her brain was renewing. So he retained her hand, and, his tears down-dropping on it, Trembling a long time, kissed it at last: and she ended. And, as she ended, up rose he, saying: 'What have I heard? Oh! What have I done, that such words should be said to me? Oh! I see it, See the great key-stone coming down from the heaven of heavens.' And he fell at her feet, and buried his face in her apron. "But, as, under the moon and stars, they went to the cottage, Elspie sighed and said: 'Be patient, dear Mr. Philip; Do not do anything hasty. It is all so soon, so sudden. Do not say anything yet to any one.'
'Elspie,' he answered, "Does not my friend go on Friday? I then shall see nothing of you: Do not I myself go on Monday? 'But oh!' he said, 'Elspie, Do as I bid you, my child; do not go on calling me _Mr._ Might I not just as well be calling you _Miss Elspie?_ Call me, this heavenly night, for once, for the first time, Philip.' "'Philip,' she said, and laughed, and said she could not say it. 'Philip,' she said. He turned, and kissed the sweet lips as they said it. "But, on the morrow, Elspie kept out of the way of Philip; And, at the evening seat, when he took her hand by the alders, Drew it back, saying, almost peevishly:
"'No, Mr. Philip; I was quite right last night: it is too soon, too sudden, What I told you before was foolish, perhaps,--was hasty. When I think it over, I am shocked and terrified at it.'".... "Ere she had spoken two words, had Philip released her fingers; As she went on, he recoiled, fell back, and shook, and shivered. There he stood, looking pale and ghastly; when she had ended, Answering in a hollow voice:
"'It is true; oh! quite true, Elspie. Oh! you are always right; oh! what, what, have I been doing? I will depart to-morrow. But oh! forget me not wholly, Wholly, Elspie, nor hate me; no, do not hate me, my Elspie.'"
"But a revulsion passed thro' the brain and bosom of Elspie; And she got up from her seat on the rock, putting by her knitting, Went to him where he stood, and answered:
"'No, Mr. Philip: No; you are good, Mr. Philip, and gentle; and I am the foolish: No, Mr. Philip; forgive me.'
"She stepped right to him, and boldly Took up his hand, and placed it in her's, he daring no movement; Took up the cold hanging hand, up-forcing the heavy elbow. 'I am afraid,' she said; 'but I will;' and kissed the fingers. And he fell on his knees, and kissed her own past counting...... "As he was kissing her fingers, and knelt on the ground before her, Yielding, backward she sank to her seat, and, of what she was doing Ignorant, bewildered, in sweet multitudinous vague emotion, Stooping, knowing not what, put her lips to the curl on his forehead. And Philip, raising himself, gently, for the first time, round her Passing his arms, close, close, enfolded her close to his bosom. "As they went home by the moon, 'Forgive me, Philip,' she whispered: 'I have so many things to talk of all of a sudden, I who have never once thought a thing in my ignorant Highlands.'" --pp. 39-44.
We may spare criticism here, for what reader will not have felt such poetry? There is something in this of the very tenderness of tenderness; this is true delicacy, fearless and unembarrassed. Here it seems almost captious to object: perhaps, indeed, it is rather personal whim than legitimate criticism which makes us take some exception at "the curl on his forehead;" yet somehow there seems a hint in it of the pet curate.
Elspie's doubts now return upon her with increased force; and it is not till after many conversations with the "teacher" that she allows her resolve to be fixed. So, at last,
"There, upon Saturday eve, in the gorgeous bright October, Under that alders knitting, gave Elspie her troth to Philip."
And, after their talk, she feels strong again, and fit to be his.--Then they rise.
"'But we must go, Mr. Philip.'
"'I shall not go at all,' said He, 'If you call me _Mr._ Thank Heaven! that's well over!' "'No, but it's not,' she said; 'it is not over, nor will be. Was it not, then,' she asked, 'the name I called you first by? No, Mr. Philip, no. You have kissed me enough for two nights. No.--Come, Philip, come, or I'll go myself without you.' "'You never call me Philip,' he answered, 'until I kiss you.'" --pp. 47, 48.
David Mackaye gives his consent; but first Hewson must return to College, and study for a year.
His views have not been stationary. To his old scorn for the idle of the earth had succeeded the surprise that overtook him at Balloch: and he would now hold to his creed, yet not as rejecting his experience. Some, he says, were made for use; others for ornament; but let these be so _made_, of a truth, and not such as find themselves merely thrust into exemption from labor. Let each know his place, and take it, "For it is beautiful only to do the thing we are meant for." And of his friend urging Providence he can only, while answering that doubtless he must be in the right, ask where the limit comes between circumstance and Providence, and can but wish for a great cause, and the trumpet that should call him to God's battle, whereas he sees
"Only infinite jumble and mess and dislocation, Backed by a solemn appeal, 'For God's sake, do not stir there.'" And the year is now out. "Philip returned to his books, but returned to his Highlands after.... There in the bright October, the gorgeous bright October, When the brackens are changed, and heather blooms are faded, And, amid russet of heather and fern, green trees are bonnie, There, when shearing had ended, and barley-stooks were garnered, David gave Philip to wife his daughter, his darling Elspie; Elspie, the quiet, the brave, was wedded to Philip, the poet..... So won Philip his bride. They are married, and gone to New Zealand. Five hundred pounds in pocket, with books and two or three pictures, Tool-box, plough, and the rest, they rounded the sphere to New Zealand. There he hewed and dug; subdued the earth and his spirit." --pp. 52-55.
Among the prominent attributes of this poem is its completeness. The elaboration, not only of character and of mental discipline, but of incident also, is unbroken. The absences of all mention of Elspie in the opening scene and again at the dance at Rannoch may at first seem to be a failure in this respect; but second thoughts will show it to be far otherwise: for, in the former case, her presence would not have had any significance for Hewson, and, in the latter, would have been overlooked by him save so far as might warrant a future vague recollection, pre-occupied as his eyes and thoughts were by another. There is one condition still under which we have as yet had little opportunity of displaying this quality; but it will be found to be as fully carried out in the descriptions of nature. In the first of our extracts the worlds are few, but stand for many.
"Meäly glen, the heart of Lochiel's fair forest, Where Scotch firs are darkest and amplest, and intermingle Grandly with rowan and ash;--in Mar you have no ashes; There the pine is alone or relieved by birch and alder."--p. 22.
In the next mere sound and the names go far towards the entire effect; but not so far as to induce any negligence in essential details:
"As, at return of tide, the total weight of ocean, Drawn by moon and sun from Labrador and Greenland, Sets in amain in the open space betwixt Mull and Scarfa, Heaving, swelling, spreading, the might of the mighty Atlantic; There into cranny and slit of the rocky cavernous bottom Settles down; and with dimples huge the smooth sea-surface Eddies, coils, and whirls, and dangerous Corryvreckan."--p. 52.
Two more passages, and they must suffice as examples. Here the isolation is perfect; but it is the isolation, not of the place and the actors only; it is, as it were, almost our own in an equal degree;
"Ourselves too seeming Not as spectators, accepted into it, immingled, as truly Part of it as are the kine of the field lying there by the birches." "There, across the great rocky wharves a wooden bridge goes, Carrying a path to the forest; below,--three hundred yards, say,-- Lower in level some twenty-five feet, thro' flats of shingle, Stepping-stones and a cart-track cross in the open valley. But, in the interval here, the boiling pent-up water Frees itself by a final descent, attaining a bason Ten feet wide and eighteen long, with whiteness and fury Occupied partly, but mostly pellucid, pure, a mirror; Beautiful there for the color derived from green rocks under; Beautiful most of all where beads of foam uprising Mingle their clouds of white with the delicate hue of the stillness. Cliff over cliff for its sides, with rowan and pendent birch-boughs, Here it lies, unthought of above at the bridge and pathway, Still more concealed from below by wood and rocky projection. You are shut in, left alone with yourself and perfection of water, Hid on all sides, left alone with yourself and the goddess of bathing."--
"So they bathed, they read, they roamed in glen and forest; Far amid blackest pines to the waterfall they shadow, Far up the long long glen to the loch, and the loch beyond it Deep under huge red cliffs, a secret."
In many of the images of this poem, as also in the volume "Ambarvalia," the joint production of Clough and Thomas Burbidge, there is a peculiar moderness, a reference distinctly to the means and habits of society in these days, a recognition of every-day fact, and a willingness to believe it as capable of poetry as that which, but for having once been fact, would not now be tradition. There is a certain special character in passages like the following, the familiarity of the matter blending with the remoteness of the form of metre, such as should not be overlooked in attempting to estimate the author's mind and views of art:
"Still, as before (and as now), balls, dances, and evening parties,.... Seemed like a sort of unnatural up-in-the-air balloon work,.... As mere gratuitous trifling in presence of business and duty As does the turning aside of the tourist to look at a landscape Seem in the steamer or coach to the merchant in haste for the city." --p. 12.
"I was as one that sleeps on the railway; one who, dreaming, Hears thro' his dream the name of his home shouted out,--hears and hears not, Faint, and louder again, and less loud, dying in distance,-- Dimly conscious, with something of inward debate and choice, and Sense of [present] claim and reality present; relapses, Nevertheless, and continues the dream and fancy, while forward, Swiftly, remorseless, the car presses on, he knows not whither." --p.38.
Indeed, the general adaptation of the style to the immediate matter, the alternation of the poetic and the familiar, with a certain mixture even of classical phrase and allusion, is highly appropriate, and may almost be termed constant, except in occasional instances where more poetry, and especially more conception and working out of images, is introduced than squares with a strict observance of nature. Thus the lines quoted where Elspie applies to herself the incident of "the high new bridge" and "the great key-stone in the middle" are succeeded by others (omitted in our extract) where the idea is followed into its details; and there is another passage in which, through no less than seventeen lines, she compares herself to an inland stream disturbed and hurried on by the mingling with it of the sea's tide. Thus also one of the most elaborate descriptions in the poem,--an episode in itself of the extremest beauty and finish, but, as we think, clearly misplaced,--is a picture of the dawn over a great city, introduced into a letter of Philip's, and that, too, simply as an image of his own mental condition. There are but few poets for whom it would be superfluous to reflect whether pieces of such-like mere poetry might not more properly form part of the descriptive groundwork, and be altogether banished from discourse and conversation, where the greater amount of their intrinsic care and excellence becomes, by its position, a proportionally increasing load of disregard for truthfulness.
For a specimen of a peculiarly noble spirit which pervades the whole work, we would refer the reader to the character of Arthur Audley, unnecessary to the story, but most important to the sentiment; for a comprehensive instance of minute feeling for individuality, to the narrative of Lindsay and the corrections of Arthur on returning from their tour.
"He to the great _might have been_ upsoaring, sublime and ideal; He to the merest _it was_ restricting, diminishing, dwarfing;"
For pleasant ingenuity, involving, too, a point of character, to the final letter of Hobbes to Philip, wherein, in a manner made up of playful subtlety and real poetical feeling, he proves how "this Rachel and Leah is marriage."
"The Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich" will not, it is to be feared, be extensively read; its length combined with the metre in which it is written, or indeed a first hasty glance at the contents, does not allure the majority even of poetical readers; but it will not be left or forgotten by such as fairly enter upon it. This is a poem essentially thought and studied, if not while in the act of writing, at least as the result of a condition of mind; and the author owes it to the appreciations of all into whose hands it shall come, and who are willing to judge for themselves, to call it, should a second edition appear, by its true name;--not a trifle, but a work.
That public attention should have been so little engaged by this poem is a fact in one respect somewhat remarkable, as contrasting with the notice which the "Ambarvalia" has received. Nevertheless, independently of the greater importance of "the Bothie" in length and development, it must, we think, be admitted to be written on sounder and more matured principles of taste,--the style being sufficiently characterized and distinctive without special prominence, whereas not a few of the poems in the other volume are examples rather of style than of thought, and might be held in recollection on account of the former quality alone.
Her First Season
He gazed her over, from her eyebrows down Even to her feet: he gazed so with the good Undoubting faith of fools, much as who should Accost God for a comrade. In the brown Of all her curls he seemed to think the town Would make an acquisition; but her hood Was not the newest fashion, and his brood Of lady-friends might scarce approve her gown. If I did smile, 'twas faintly; for my cheeks Burned, thinking she'd be shown up to be sold, And cried about, in the thick jostling run Of the loud world, till all the weary weeks Should bring her back to herself and to the old Familiar face of nature and the sun.
A Sketch From Nature
The air blows pure, for twenty miles, Over this vast countrié: Over hill and wood and vale, it goeth, Over steeple, and stack, and tree: And there's not a bird on the wind but knoweth How sweet these meadows be.
The swallows are flying beside the wood, And the corbies are hoarsely crying; And the sun at the end of the earth hath stood, And, thorough the hedge and over the road, On the grassy slope is lying: And the sheep are taking their supper-food While yet the rays are dying.
Sleepy shadows are filling the furrows, And giant-long shadows the trees are making; And velvet soft are the woodland tufts, And misty-gray the low-down crofts; But the aspens there have gold-green tops, And the gold-green tops are shaking: The spires are white in the sun's last light;-- And yet a moment ere he drops, Gazes the sun on the golden slopes.
Two sheep, afar from fold, Are on the hill-side straying, With backs all silver, breasts all gold: The merle is something saying, Something very very sweet:-- 'The day--the day--the day is done:' There answereth a single bleat-- The air is cold, the sky is dimming, And clouds are long like fishes swimming.
_Sydenham Wood_, 1849.
An End
Love, strong as death, is dead. Come, let us make his bed Among the dying flowers: A green turf at his head; And a stone at his feet, Whereon we may sit In the quiet evening hours.
He was born in the spring, And died before the harvesting. On the last warm summer day He left us;--he would not stay For autumn twilight cold and grey Sit we by his grave and sing He is gone away.
To few chords, and sad, and low, Sing we so. Be our eyes fixed on the grass, Shadow-veiled, as the years pass, While we think of all that was In the long ago.
_Published Monthly, price 1s._
This Periodical will consist of original Poems, Stories to develope thought and principle, Essays concerning Art and other subjects, and analytic Reviews of current Literature--particularly of Poetry. Each number will also contain an Etching; the subject to be taken from the opening article of the month.
An attempt will be made, both intrinsically and by review, to claim for Poetry that place to which its present development in the literature of this country so emphatically entitles it.
The endeavour held in view throughout the writings on Art will be 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 need scarcely be added that the chief object of the etched designs will be to illustrate this aim practically, as far as the method of execution will permit; in which purpose they will be produced with the utmost care and completeness.
No. 2. (_Price One Shilling_.) FEBRUARY, 1850.
With an Etching by JAMES COLLINSON.
The Germ: Thoughts towards Nature In Poetry, Literature, and Art.
When whoso merely hath a little thought Will plainly think the thought which is in him,-- Not imaging another's bright or dim, Not mangling with new words what others taught; When whoso speaks, from having either sought Or only found,--will speak, not just to skim A shallow surface with words made and trim, But in that very speech the matter brought: Be not too keen to cry--"So this is all!-- A thing I might myself have thought as well, But would not say it, for it was not worth!" Ask: "Is this truth?" For is it still to tell That, be the theme a point or the whole earth, Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small?
London: AYLOTT & JONES, 8, PATERNOSTER ROW.
G. F Tupper, Printer, Clement's Lane. Lombard Street.
CONTENTS.
The Child Jesus: by _James Collinson_ 49 A Pause of Thought: by _Ellen Alleyn_ 57 The Purpose and Tendency of Early Italian Art: by _John Seward_ 58 Song: by _Ellen Alleyn_ 64 Morning Sleep: by _Wm. B. Scott_ 65 Sonnet: by _Calder Campbell_ 68 Stars and Moon 69 On the Mechanism of a Historical Picture: by _F. Madox Brown_ 70 A Testimony: by _Ellen Alleyn_ 73 O When and Where: by _Thomas Woolner_ 75 Fancies at Leisure: by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 76 The Sight Beyond: by _Walter H. Deverell_ 79 The Blessed Damozel: by _Dante G. Rossetti_ 80 REVIEWS: "The Strayed Reveller, and other Poems:" by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 84
To Correspondents.
All persons from whom Communications have been received, and who have not been otherwise replied to, are requested to accept the Editor's acknowledgments.
[Illustration: Ex ore infantiam et lartentium pertecizli laudem.]
The Child Jesus
"O all ye that pass by the way, attend and see if there be any sorrow like to my sorrow."--
_Lamentations i.12._
I. The Agony in the Garden
Joseph, a carpenter of Nazareth, And his wife Mary had an only child, Jesus: One holy from his mother's womb. Both parents loved him: Mary's heart alone Beat with his blood, and, by her love and his, She knew that God was with her, and she strove Meekly to do the work appointed her; To cherish him with undivided care Who deigned to call her mother, and who loved From her the name of son. And Mary gave Her heart to him, and feared not; yet she seemed To hold as sacred that he said or did; And, unlike other women, never spake His words of innocence again; but all Were humbly treasured in her memory With the first secret of his birth. So strong Grew her affection, as the child increased In wisdom and in stature with his years, That many mothers wondered, saying: "These Our little ones claim in our hearts a place The next to God; but Mary's tenderness Grows almost into reverence for her child. Is he not of herself? I' the temple when Kneeling to pray, on him she bends her eyes, As though God only heard her prayer through him. Is he to be a prophet? Nay, we know That out of Galilee no prophet comes."
But all their children made the boy their friend.
Three cottages that overlooked the sea Stood side by side eastward of Nazareth. Behind them rose a sheltering range of cliffs, Purple and yellow, verdure-spotted, red, Layer upon layer built up against the sky. In front a row of sloping meadows lay, Parted by narrow streams, that rose above, Leaped from the rocks, and cut the sands below Into deep channels widening to the sea.
Within the humblest of these three abodes Dwelt Joseph, his wife Mary, and their child. A honeysuckle and a moss-rose grew, With many blossoms, on their cottage front; And o'er the gable warmed by the South A sunny grape vine broadened shady leaves Which gave its tendrils shelter, as they hung Trembling upon the bloom of purple fruit. And, like the wreathed shadows and deep glows Which the sun spreads from some old oriel Upon the marble Altar and the gold Of God's own Tabernacle, where he dwells For ever, so the blossoms and the vine, On Jesus' home climbing above the roof, Traced intricate their windings all about The yellow thatch, and part concealed the nests Whence noisy close-housed sparrows peeped unseen. And Joseph had a little dove-cote placed Between the gable-window and the eaves, Where two white turtle doves (a gift of love From Mary's kinsman Zachary to her child) Cooed pleasantly; and broke upon the ear The ever dying sound of falling waves.
And so it came to pass, one Summer morn, The mother dove first brought her fledgeling out To see the sun. It was her only one, And she had breasted it through three long weeks With patient instinct till it broke the shell; And she had nursed it with all tender care, Another three, and watched the white down grow Into full feather, till it left her nest. And now it stood outside its narrow home, With tremulous wings let loose and blinking eyes; While, hovering near, the old dove often tried By many lures to tempt it to the ground, That they might feed from Jesus' hand, who stood Watching them from below. The timid bird At last took heart, and, stretching out its wings, Brushed the light vine-leaves as it fluttered down. Just then a hawk rose from a tree, and thrice Wheeled in the air, and poised his aim to drop On the young dove, whose quivering plumage swelled About the sunken talons as it died. Then the hawk fixed his round eye on the child, Shook from his beak the stained down, screamed, and flapped His broad arched wings, and, darting to a cleft I' the rocks, there sullenly devoured his prey. And Jesus heard the mother's anguished cry, Weak like the distant sob of some lost child, Who in his terror runs from path to path, Doubtful alike of all; so did the dove, As though death-stricken, beat about the air; Till, settling on the vine, she drooped her head Deep in her ruffled feathers. She sat there, Brooding upon her loss, and did not move All through that day.
And, sitting by her, covered up his face: Until a cloud, alone between the earth And sun, passed with its shadow over him. Then Jesus for a moment looked above; And a few drops of rain fell on his brow, Sad, as with broken hints of a lost dream, Or dim foreboding of some future ill.
Now, from a garden near, a fair-haired girl Came, carrying a handful of choice flowers, Which in her lap she sorted orderly, As little children do at Easter-time To have all seemly when their Lord shall rise. Then Jesus' covered face she gently raised, Placed in his hand the flowers, and kissed his cheek And tried with soothing words to comfort him; He from his eyes spoke thanks.
Fast trickling down his face, drop upon drop, Fell to the ground. That sad look left him not Till night brought sleep, and sleep closed o'er his woe.
II. The Scourging
Again there came a day when Mary sat Within the latticed doorway's fretted shade, Working in bright and many colored threads A girdle for her child, who at her feet Lay with his gentle face upon her lap. Both little hands were crossed and tightly clasped Around her knee. On them the gleams of light Which broke through overhanging blossoms warm, And cool transparent leaves, seemed like the gems Which deck Our Lady's shrine when incense-smoke Ascends before her, like them, dimly seen Behind the stream of white and slanting rays Which came from heaven, as a veil of light, Across the darkened porch, and glanced upon The threshold-stone; and here a moth, just born To new existence, stopped upon her flight, To bask her blue-eyed scarlet wings spread out Broad to the sun on Jesus' naked foot, Advancing its warm glow to where the grass, Trimmed neatly, grew around the cottage door.
And the child, looking in his mother's face, Would join in converse upon holy things With her, or, lost in thought, would seem to watch The orange-belted wild bees when they stilled Their hum, to press with honey-searching trunk The juicy grape; or drag their waxed legs Half buried in some leafy cool recess Found in a rose; or else swing heavily Upon the bending woodbine's fragrant mouth, And rob the flower of sweets to feed the rock, Where, in a hazel-covered crag aloft Parting two streams that fell in mist below, The wild bees ranged their waxen vaulted cells.
As the time passed, an ass's yearling colt, Bearing a heavy load, came down the lane That wound from Nazareth by Joseph's house, Sloping down to the sands. And two young men, The owners of the colt, with many blows From lash and goad wearied its patient sides; Urging it past its strength, so they might win Unto the beach before a ship should sail. Passing the door, the ass turned round its head, And looked on Jesus: and he knew the look; And, knowing it, knew too the strange dark cross Laying upon its shoulders and its back. It was a foal of that same ass which bare The infant and the mother, when they fled To Egypt from the edge of Herod's sword. And Jesus watched them, till they reached the sands. Then, by his mother sitting down once more, Once more there came that shadow of deep grief Upon his brow when Mary looked at him: And she remembered it in days that came.
III. The Crowning with Thorns
And the time passed. The child sat by himself upon the beach, While Joseph's barge freighted with heavy wood, Bound homewards, slowly labored thro' the calm. And, as he watched the long waves swell and break, Run glistening to his feet, and sink again, Three children, and then two, with each an arm Around the other, throwing up their songs, Such happy songs as only children know, Came by the place where Jesus sat alone. But, when they saw his thoughtful face, they ceased, And, looking at each other, drew near him; While one who had upon his head a wreath Of hawthorn flowers, and in his hand a reed, Put these both from him, saying, "Here is one Whom you shall all prefer instead of me To be our king;" and then he placed the wreath On Jesus' brow, who meekly bowed his head. And, when he took the reed, the children knelt, And cast their simple offerings at his feet: And, almost wondering why they loved him so, Kissed him with reverence, promising to yield Grave fealty. And Jesus did return Their childish salutations; and they passed Singing another song, whose music chimed With the sea's murmur, like a low sweet chant Chanted in some wide church to Jesus Christ. And Jesus listened till their voices sank Behind the jutting rocks, and died away: Then the wave broke, and Jesus felt alone. Who being alone, on his fair countenance And saddened beauty all unlike a child's The sun of innocence did light no smile, As on the group of happy faces gone.
IV. Jesus Carrying his Cross
And, when the barge arrived, and Joseph bare The wood upon his shoulders, piece by piece, Up to his shed, Jesus ran by his side, Yearning for strength to help the aged man Who tired himself with work all day for him. But Joseph said: "My child, it is God's will That I should work for thee until thou art Of age to help thyself.--Bide thou his time Which cometh--when thou wilt be strong enough, And on thy shoulders bear a tree like this." So, while he spake, he took the last one up, Settling it with heaved back, fetching his breath. Then Jesus lifted deep prophetic eyes Full in the old man's face, but nothing said, Running still on to open first the door.
V. The Crucifixion
Joseph had one ewe-sheep; and she brought forth, Early one season, and before her time, A weakly lamb. It chanced to be upon Jesus' birthday, when he was eight years old. So Mary said--"We'll name it after him,"-- (Because she ever thought to please her child)-- "And we will sign it with a small red cross Upon the back, a mark to know it by." And Jesus loved the lamb; and, as it grew Spotless and pure and loving like himself, White as the mother's milk it fed upon, He gave not up his care, till it became Of strength enough to browse and then, because Joseph had no land of his own, being poor, He sent away the lamb to feed amongst A neighbour's flock some distance from his home; Where Jesus went to see it every day.
One late Spring eve, their daily work being done, Mother and child, according to their wont, Went, hand in hand, their chosen evening walk. A pleasant wind rose from the sea, and blew Light flakes of waving silver o'er the fields Ready for mowing, and the golden West Warmed half the sky: the low sun flickered through The hedge-rows, as they passed; while hawthorn trees Scattered their snowy leaves and scent around. The sloping woods were rich in varied leaf, And musical in murmur and in song.
Long ere they reached the field, the wistful lamb Saw them approach, and ran from side to side The gate, pushing its eager face between The lowest bars, and bleating for pure joy. And Jesus, kneeling by it, fondled with The little creature, that could scarce find how To show its love enough; licking his hands, Then, starting from him, gambolled back again, And, with its white feet upon Jesus' knees, Nestled its head by his: and, as the sun Sank down behind them, broadening as it neared The low horizon, Mary thought it seemed To clothe them like a glory.--But her look Grew thoughtful, and she said: "I had, last night, A wandering dream. This brings it to my mind; And I will tell it thee as we walk home.
"I dreamed a weary way I had to go Alone, across an unknown land: such wastes We sometimes see in visions of the night, Barren and dimly lighted. There was not A tree in sight, save one seared leafless trunk, Like a rude cross; and, scattered here and there, A shrivelled thistle grew: the grass was dead, And the starved soil glared through its scanty tufts In bare and chalky patches, cracked and hot, Chafing my tired feet, that caught upon Its parched surface; for a thirsty sun Had sucked all moisture from the ground it burned, And, red and glowing, stared upon me like A furnace eye when all the flame is spent. I felt it was a dream; and so I tried To close my eyes, and shut it out from sight. Then, sitting down, I hid my face; but this Only increased the dread; and so I gazed With open eyes into my dream again. The mists had thickened, and had grown quite black Over the sun; and darkness closed round me. (Thy father said it thundered towards the morn.) But soon, far off, I saw a dull green light Break though the clouds, which fell across the earth, Like death upon a bad man's upturned face. Sudden it burst with fifty forked darts In one white flash, so dazzling bright it seemed To hide the landscape in one blaze of light. When the loud crash that came down with it had Rolled its long echo into stillness, through The calm dark silence came a plaintive sound; And, looking towards the tree, I saw that it Was scorched with the lightning; and there stood Close to its foot a solitary sheep Bleating upon the edge of a deep pit, Unseen till now, choked up with briars and thorns; And into this a little snow white lamb, Like to thine own, had fallen. It was dead And cold, and must have lain there very long; While, all the time, the mother had stood by, Helpless, and moaning with a piteous bleat. The lamb had struggled much to free itself, For many cruel thorns had torn its head And bleeding feet; and one had pierced its side, From which flowed blood and water. Strange the things We see in dreams, and hard to understand;-- For, stooping down to raise its lifeless head, I thought it changed into the quiet face Of my own child. Then I awoke, and saw The dim moon shining through the watery clouds On thee awake within thy little bed."
Then Jesus, looking up, said quietly: "We read that God will speak to those he loves Sometimes in visions. He might speak to thee Of things to come his mercy partly veils From thee, my mother; or perhaps, the thought Floated across thy mind of what we read Aloud before we went to rest last night;-- I mean that passage in Isaias' book, Which tells about the patient suffering lamb, And which it seems that no one understands." Then Mary bent her face to the child's brow, And kissed him twice, and, parting back his hair, Kissed him again. And Jesus felt her tears Drop warm upon his cheek, and he looked sad When silently he put his hand again Within his mother's. As they came, they went, Hand in hand homeward. With Mary and with Joseph, till the time When all the things should be fulfilled in him Which God had spoken by his prophets' mouth Long since; and God was with him, and God's grace.
A Pause of Thought
I looked for that which is not, nor can be, And hope deferred made my heart sick, in truth; But years must pass before a hope of youth Is resigned utterly.
I watched and waited with a steadfast will: And, tho' the object seemed to flee away That I so longed for, ever, day by day, I watched and waited still.
Sometimes I said,--"This thing shall be no more; My expectation wearies, and shall cease; I will resign it now, and be at peace:"-- Yet never gave it o'er.
Sometimes I said,--"It is an empty name I long for; to a name why should I give The peace of all the days I have to live?"-- Yet gave it all the same.
Alas! thou foolish one,--alike unfit For healthy joy and salutary pain, Thou knowest the chase useless, and again Turnest to follow it.
The Purpose and Tendency of Early Italian Art
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 direction 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 conventionalities 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 proportion 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,
"Monotonous to paint Those endless cloisters and eternal aisles With the same series, Virgin, Babe, and Saint, With the same cold, calm, beautiful regard."
Even with this there is not associated a melancholy feeling alone; for, although the object was mistaken, yet there is evinced a consciousness 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 discipline; but he may show his participation in the same high feeling by a firm attachment to truth in every point of representation, which is the most just method. For how can good be sought by evil means, or by falsehood, or by slight in any degree? By a determination to represent the thing and the whole of the thing, by training himself to the deepest observation of its fact and detail, enabling himself to reproduce, as far as possible, nature herself, the painter will best evince his share of faith.
It is by this attachment to truth in its most severe form that the followers of the Arts have to show that they share in the peculiar character of the present age,--a humility of knowledge, a diffidence of attainment; for, as Emerson has well observed,
"The time is infected with Hamlet's unhappiness,-- 'Sicklied o'er with the the pale cast of thought.'
Is this so bad then? Sight is the last thing to be pitied. Would we be blind? Do we fear lest we should outsee nature and God, and drink truth dry?"
It has been said that there is presumption in this movement of the modern school, a want of deference to established authorities, a removing of ancient landmarks. This is best answered by the profession that nothing can be more humble than the pretension to the observation of facts alone, and the truthful rendering of them. If we are not to depart from established principles, how are we to advance at all? Are we to remain still? Remember, no thing remains 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. These principles are now revived, not from them, though through their example, but from nature herself.
That the earlier painters came nearer to fact, that they were less of the art, artificial, cannot be better shown than by the statement of a few examples from their works. There is a magnificent Niello work by an unknown Florentine artist, on which is a group of the Saviour in the lap of the Virgin. She is old, (a most touching point); lamenting aloud, clutches passionately the heavy-weighted body on her knee; her mouth is open. Altogether it is one of the most powerful appeals possible to be conceived; for there are few but will consider this identification with humanity to be of more effect than any refined or emasculate treatment of the same subject by later artists, in which we have the fact forgotten for the sake of the type of religion, which the Virgin was always taken to represent, whence she is shown as still young; as if, nature being taken typically, it were not better to adhere to the emblem throughout, confident by this means to maintain its appropriateness, and, therefore, 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 represents 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 repetition of the toe-trippings of the earliest Italian school, a sneer which is manifestly unfair; for this error, as well as several others of a similar kind, was not the result of blindness or stupidity, but of the simple ignorance of what had not been applied to the service of painting at their time. It cannot be shown that they were incorrect in expression, false in drawing, or unnatural in what is called composition. 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 melancholy 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 slenderness 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 century. 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 knowledge of man in science; why may it not greatly assist the moral purposes of the Arts? It cannot be well to degrade a lesson by falsehood. Truth in every particular ought to be the aim of the artist. Admit no untruth: let the priest's garment be clean.
Let us now return to the Early Italian Painters. A complete refutation of any charge that the character of their school was neccessarily gloomy will be found in the works of Benozzo Gozzoli, as in his 'Vineyard' where there are some grape-gatherers the most elegant and graceful imaginable; this painter's children are the most natural ever painted. In Ghiberti,--in Fra Angilico, (well named),--in Masaccio,--in Ghirlandajo, and in Baccio della Porta, in fact in nearly all the works of the painters of this school, will be found a character of gentleness, grace, and freedom, which cannot be surpassed by any other school, be that which it may; and it is evident that this result must have been obtained by their peculiar attachment to simple nature alone, their casting aside all ornament, or rather their perfect ignorance of such,--a happy fortune none have shared with them. To show that with all these qualifications they have been pre-eminent in energy and dignity, let us instance the 'Air Demons' of Orcagna, where there is a woman borne through the air by an Evil Spirit. Her expression is the most terrible imaginable; she grasps her bearer with desperation, looking out around her into space, agonized with terror. There are other figures in the same picture of men who have been cast down, and are falling through the air: one descends with his hands tied, his chin up, and long hair hanging from his head in a mass. One of the Evil Spirits hovering over them has flat wings, as though they were made of plank: this gives a most powerful character to the figure. Altogether, this picture contains perhaps a greater amount of bold imagination and originality of conception than any of the kind ever painted. For sublimity there are few works which equal the 'Archangels' of Giotto, who stand singly, holding their sceptres, and with relapsed wings. The 'Paul' of Masaccio is a well-known example of the dignified simplicity of which these artists possessed so large a share. These instances might be multiplied without end; but surely enough have been cited in the way of example to show the surpassing talent and knowledge of these painters, and their consequent success, by following natural principles, until the introduction of false and meretricious ornament led the Arts from the simple chastity of nature, which it is as useless to attempt to elevate as to endeavour to match the works of God by those of man. Let the artist be content to study nature alone, and not dream of elevating any of her works, which are alone worthy of representation.{5}
{5} The sources from which these examples are drawn, and where many more might be found, are principally:--_D'Agincourt: "Histoire de l'Art par les Monumens;"--Rossini: "Storia della Pittura;"--Ottley: "Italian School of Design,"_ and his 120 Fac-similes of scarce prints;--and the "Gates of San Giovanni," by Ghiberti; of which last a cast of one entire is set up in the Central School of Design, Somerset House; portions of the same are also in the Royal Academy.
The Arts have always been most important moral guides. Their flourishing has always been coincident with the most wholesome period of a nation's: never with the full and gaudy bloom which but hides corruption, but the severe health of its most active and vigorous life; its mature youth, and not the floridity of age, which, like the wide full open petals of a flower, indicates that its glory is about to pass away. There has certainly always been a period like the short warm season the Canadians call the "Indian Summer," which is said to be produced by the burning of the western forests, causing a factitious revival of the dying year: so there always seems to have been a flush of life before the final death of the Arts in each period:--in Greece, in the sculptors and architects of the time after Pericles; in the Germans, with the successors of Albert Durer. In fact, in every school there has been a spring, a summer, an autumn, an "Indian Summer," and then winter; for as surely as the "Indian Summer," (which is, after all, but an unhealthy flush produced by destruction,) so surely does winter come. In the Arts, the winter has been exaggerated action, conventionalism, gaudy colour, false sentiment, voluptuousness, and poverty of invention: and, of all these characters, that which has been the most infallible herald of decease, voluptuousness, has been the most rapid and sure. Corruption lieth under it; and every school, and indeed every individual, that has pandered to this, and departed from the true spirit in which all study should be conducted, sought to degrade and sensualize, instead of chasten and render pure, the humanity it was instructed to elevate. So has that school, and so have those individuals, lost their own power and descended from their high seat, fallen from the priest to the mere parasite, from the law-giver to the mere courtier.
If we have entered upon a new age, a new cycle of man, of which there are many signs, let us have it unstained by this vice of sensuality of mind. The English school has lately lost a great deal of this character; why should we not be altogether free from it? Nothing can degrade a man or a nation more than this meanness; why should we not avoid it? Sensuality is a meanness repugnant to youth, and disgusting in age: a degradation at all times. Let us say
"My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure."
Bearing this in mind,--the conviction that, without the pure heart, nothing can be done worthy of us; by this, that the most successful school of painters has produced upon us the intention of their earnestness at this distance of time,--let us follow in their path, guided by their light: not so subservient as to lose our own freedom, but in the confidence of equal power and equal destiny; and then rely that we shall obtain the same success and equal or greater power, such as is given to the age in which we live. This is the only course that is worthy of the influence which might be exerted by means of the Arts upon the character of the people: therefore let it be the only one for us to follow if we hope to share in the work.
That the real power of the Arts, in conjunction with Poetry, upon the actions of any age is, or might be, predominant above all others will be readily allowed by all that have given any thought to the subject: and that there is no assignable limit to the good that may be wrought by their influence is another point on which there can be small doubt. Let us then endeavour to call up and exert this power in the worthiest manner, not forgetting that we chose a difficult path in which there are many snares, and holding in mind the motto, _"No Cross, no Crown."_
Believe that there is that in the fact of truth, though it be only in the character of a single leaf earnestly studied, which may do its share in the great labor of the world: remember that it is by truth alone that the Arts can ever hold the position for which they were intended, as the most powerful instruments, the most gentle guides; that, of all classes, there is none to whom the celebrated words of Lessing, "That the destinies of a nation depend upon its young men between nineteen and twenty-five years of age," can apply so well as to yourselves. Recollect, that your portion in this is most important: that your share is with the poet's share; that, in every careless thought or neglected doubt, you shelve your duty, and forsake 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.
Song
Oh! roses for the flush of youth, And laurel for the perfect prime; But pluck an ivy-branch for me, Grown old before my time.
Oh! violets for the grave of youth, And bay for those dead in their prime; Give me the withered leaves I chose Before in the olden time.
Morning Sleep
Another day hath dawned Since, hastily and tired, I threw myself Into the dark lap of advancing sleep. Meanwhile through the oblivion of the night The ponderous world its old course hath fulfilled; And now the gradual sun begins to throw Its slanting glory on the heads of trees, And every bird stirs in its nest revealed, And shakes its dewy wings.
A blessed gift Unto the weary hath been mine to-night, Slumber unbroken: now it floats away:-- But whether 'twere not best to woo it still, The head thus properly disposed, the eyes In a continual dawning, mingling earth And heaven with vagrant fantasies,--one hour,-- Yet for another hour? I will not break The shining woof; I will not rudely leap Out of this golden atmosphere, through which I see the forms of immortalities. Verily, soon enough the laboring day With its necessitous unmusical calls Will force the indolent conscience into life.
The uncouth moth upon the window-panes Hath ceased to flap, or traverse with blind whirr The room's dusk corners; and the leaves without Vibrate upon their thin stems with the breeze Flying towards the light. To an Eastern vale That light may now be waning, and across The tall reeds by the Ganges, lotus-paved, Lengthening the shadows of the banyan-tree. The rice-fields are all silent in the glow, All silent the deep heaven without a cloud, Burning like molten gold. A red canoe Crosses with fan-like paddles and the sound Of feminine song, freighted with great-eyed maids Whose unzoned bosoms swell on the rich air; A lamp is in each hand; some mystic rite Go they to try. Such rites the birds may see, Ibis or emu, from their cocoa nooks,-- What time the granite sentinels that watch The mouths of cavern-temples hail the first Faint star, and feel the gradual darkness blend Their august lineaments;--what time Haroun Perambulated Bagdat, and none knew He was the Caliph who knocked soberly By Giafar's hand at their gates shut betimes;-- What time prince Assad sat on the high hill 'Neath the pomegranate-tree, long wearying For his lost brother's step;--what time, as now, Along our English sky, flame-furrows cleave And break the quiet of the cold blue clouds, And the first rays look in upon our roofs.
Let the day come or go; there is no let Or hindrance to the indolent wilfulness Of fantasy and dream-land. Place and time And bodily weight are for the wakeful only. Now they exist not: life is like that cloud, Floating, poised happily in mid-air, bathed In a sustaining halo, soft yet clear, Voyaging on, though to no bourne; all heaven Its own wide home alike, earth far below Fading still further, further. Yet we see, In fancy, its green fields, its towers, and towns Smoking with life, its roads with traffic thronged And tedious travellers within iron cars, Its rivers with their ships, and laborers, To whose raised eye, as, stretched upon the sward, They may enjoy some interval of rest, That little cloud appears no living thing, Although it moves, and changes as it moves. There is an old and memorable tale Of some sound sleeper being borne away By banded fairies in the mottled hour Before the cockcrow, through unknown weird woods And mighty forests, where the boughs and roots Opened before him, closed behind;--thenceforth A wise man lived he, all unchanged by years. Perchance again these fairies may return, And evermore shall I remain as now, A dreamer half awake, a wandering cloud!
The spell Of Merlin old that ministered to fate, The tales of visiting ghosts, or fairy elves, Or witchcraft, are no fables. But his task Is ended with the night;--the thin white moon Evades the eye, the sun breaks through the trees, And the charmed wizard comes forth a mere man From out his circle. Thus it is, whate'er We know and understand hath lost the power Over us;--we are then the master. Still All Fancy's world is real; no diverse mark Is on the stores of memory, whether gleaned From childhood's early wonder at the charm That bound the lady in the echoless cave Where lay the sheath'd sword and the bugle horn,-- Or from the fullgrown intellect, that works From age to age, exploring darkest truths, With sympathy and knowledge in one yoke Ploughing the harvest land.
The lark is up, Piercing the dazzling sky beyond the search Of the acutest love: enough for me To hear its song: but now it dies away, Leaving the chirping sparrow to attract The listless ear,--a minstrel, sooth to say, Nearly as good. And now a hum like that Of swarming bees on meadow-flowers comes up. Each hath its just and yet luxurious joy, As if to live were to be blessed. The mild Maternal influence of nature thus Ennobles both the sentient and the dead;-- The human heart is as an altar wreathed, On which old wine pours, streaming o'er the leaves, And down the symbol-carved sides. Behold! Unbidden, yet most welcome, who be these? The high-priests of this altar, poet-kings;-- Chaucer, still young with silvery beard that seems Worthy the adoration of a child; And Spenser, perfect master, to whom all Sweet graces ministered. The shut eye weaves A picture;--the immortals pass along Into the heaven, and others follow still, Each on his own ray-path, till all the field Is threaded with the foot-prints of the great. And now the passengers are lost; long lines Only are left, all intertwisted, dark Upon a flood of light......... I am awake! I hear domestic voices on the stair.
Already hath the mower finished half His summer day's ripe task; already hath His scythe been whetted often; and the heaps Behind him lie like ridges from the tide. In sooth, it is high time to wave away The cup of Comus, though with nectar filled, And sweet as odours to the mariner From lands unseen, across the wide blank sea.
Sonnet
When midst the summer-roses the warm bees Are swarming in the sun, and thou--so full Of innocent glee--dost with thy white hands pull Pink scented apples from the garden trees To fling at me, I catch them, on my knees, Like those who gather'd manna; and I cull Some hasty buds to pelt thee--white as wool Lilies, or yellow jonquils, or heartsease;-- Then I can speak my love, ev'n tho' thy smiles Gush out among thy blushes, like a flock Of bright birds from rose-bowers; but when thou'rt gone I have no speech,--no magic that beguiles, The stream of utterance from the harden'd rock:-- The dial cannot speak without the sun!
Stars and Moon
Beneath the stars and summer moon A pair of wedded lovers walk, Upon the stars and summer moon They turn their happy eyes, and talk.
EDITH.
"Those stars, that moon, for me they shine With lovely, but no startling light; My joy is much, but not as thine, A joy that fills the pulse, like fright."
ALFRED.
"My love, a darken'd conscience clothes The world in sackcloth; and, I fear, The stain of life this new heart loathes, Still clouds my sight; but thine is clear.
"True vision is no startling boon To one in whom it always lies; But if true sight of stars and moon Were strange to thee, it would surprise.
"Disease it is and dearth in me Which thou believest genius, wealth; And that imagined want in thee Is riches and abundant health.
"O, little merit I my bride! And therefore will I love her more; Renewing, by her gentle side, Lost worth: let this thy smile restore!"
EDITH.
"Ah, love! we both, with longing deep, Love words and actions kind, which are More good for life than bread or sleep, More beautiful than Moon or Star."
On the Mechanism of a Historical Picture