Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 328, February, 1843

"Justum et tenacem propositi Impavidum ferient ruinæ."

He compliments the Academy upon the ability of the professors, speaks with diffidence of his power as a writer, (the world has in this respect done him justice;) but that he had come not unprepared upon the subject of art, having reflected much upon his own and the opinions of others. He found in the art many precepts and rules, not reconcilable with each other. "To clear away those difficulties and reconcile those contrary opinions, it became necessary to distinguish the greater truth, as it may be called, from the lesser truth; the larger and more liberal idea of nature from the more narrow and confined: that which addresses itself to the imagination, from that which is solely addressed to the eye. In consequence of this discrimination, the different branches of our art to which those different truths were referred, were perceived to make so wide a separation, and put on so new an appearance, that they seemed scarcely to have proceeded from the same general stock. The different rules and regulations which presided over each department of art, followed of course; every mode of excellence, from the grand style of the Roman and Florentine schools down to the lowest rank of still life, had its due weight and value—fitted to some class or other; and nothing was thrown away. By this disposition of our art into classes, that perplexity and confusion, which I apprehend every artist has at some time experienced from the variety of styles, and the variety of excellence with which he is surrounded, is, I should hope, in some measure removed, and the student better enabled to judge for himself what peculiarly belongs to his own particular pursuit." Besides the practice of art, the student must think, and speculate, and consider "upon what ground the fabric of our art is built." An artist suffers throughout his whole life, from uncertain, confused, and erroneous opinions. We are persuaded there would be fewer fatal errors were these Discourses more in the hands of our present artists—"Nocturnâ versate manu, versate diurnâ."—An example is given of the mischief of erroneous opinions. "I was acquainted at Rome, in the early part of my life, with a student of the French Academy, who appeared to me to possess all the qualities requisite to make a great artist, if he had suffered his taste and feelings, and I may add even his prejudices, to have fair play. He saw and felt the excellences of the great works of art with which we were surrounded, but lamented that there was not to be found that nature which is so admirable in the inferior schools,—and he supposed with Felebien, Du Piles, and other theorists, that such an union of different excellences would be the perfection of art. He was not aware that the narrow idea of nature, of which he lamented the absence in the works of those great artists, would have destroyed the grandeur of the general ideas which he admired, and which was indeed the cause of his admiration. My opinions being then confused and unsettled, I was in danger of being borne down by this plausible reasoning, though I remember I then had a dawning suspicion that it was not sound doctrine; and at the same time I was unwilling obstinately to refuse assent to what I was unable to confute." False and low views of art are now so commonly taken both in and out of the profession, that we have not hesitated to quote the above passage; the danger Sir Joshua confesses he was in, is common, and demands the warning. To make it more direct we should add, "Read his Discourses." Again, without intending to fetter the student's mind to a particular method of study, he urges the necessity and wisdom of previously obtaining the appropriated instruments of art, in a first correct design, and a plain manly colouring, before any thing more is attempted. He does not think it, however, of very great importance whether or not the student aim first at grace and grandeur before he has learned correctness, and adduces the example of Parmegiano, whose first public work was done when a boy, the "St Eustachius" in the Church of St Petronius, in Bologna—one of his last is the "Moses breaking the Tables," in Parma. The former has grandeur and incorrectness, but "discovers the dawnings of future greatness." In mature age he had corrected his defects, and the drawing of his Moses was equally admirable with the grandeur of the conception—an excellent plate is given of this figure by Mr Burnet. The fact is, the impulse of the mind is not to be too much restrained—it is better to give it its due and first play, than check it until it has acquired correctness—good sense first or last, and a love of the art, will generally insure correctness in the end; the impulses often checked, come with weakened power, and ultimately refuse to come at all; and each time that they depart unsatisfied, unemployed, take away with them as they retire a portion of the fire of genius. Parmegiano formed himself upon Michael Angelo: Michael Angelo brought the art to a "sudden maturity," as Homer and Shakspeare did theirs. "Subordinate parts of our art, and perhaps of other arts, expand themselves by a slow and progressive growth; but those which depend on a native vigour of imagination, generally burst forth at once in fulness of beauty." Correctness of drawing and imagination, the one of mechanical genius the other of poetic, undoubtedly work together for perfection—"a confidence in the mechanic produces a boldness in the poetic." He expresses his surprise that the race of painters, before Michael Angelo, never thought of transferring to painting the grandeur they admired in ancient sculpture. "Raffaelle himself seemed to be going on very contentedly in the dry manner of Pietro Perugino; and if Michael Angelo had never appeared, the art might still have continued in the same style." "On this foundation the Caracci built the truly great academical Bolognian school; of which the first stone was laid by Pellegrino Tibaldi." The Caracci called him "nostro Michael Angelo riformato." His figure of Polyphemus, which had been attributed to Michael Angelo in Bishop's "Ancient Statues," is given in a plate by Mr Burnet. The Caracci he considers sufficiently succeeded in the mechanical, not in "the divine part which addresses itself to the imagination," as did Tibaldi and Michael Angelo. They formed, however, a school that was "most respectable," and "calculated to please a greater number." The Venetian school advanced "the dignity of their style, by adding to their fascinating powers of colouring something of the strength of Michael Angelo." Here Sir Joshua seems to contradict his former assertion; but as he is here abridging, as it were, his whole Discourses, he cannot avoid his own observations. It was a point, however, upon which he was still doubtful; for he immediately adds—"At the same time it may still be a doubt, how far their ornamental elegance would be an advantageous addition to his grandeur. But if there is any manner of painting, which may be said to unite kindly with his (Michael Angelo's) style, it is that of Titian. His handling, the manner in which his colours are left on the canvass, appears to proceed (as far as that goes) from congenial mind, equally disdainful of vulgar criticism. He is reminded of a remark of Johnson's, that Pope's Homer, had it not been clothed with graces and elegances not in Homer, would have had fewer readers, thus justifying by example and authority of Johnson, the graces of the Venetian school. Some Flemish painters at "the great era of our art" took to their country "as much of this grandeur as they could carry." It did not thrive, but "perhaps they contributed to prepare the way for that free, unconstrained, and liberal outline, which was afterwards introduced by Rubens, through the medium of the Venetian painters." The grandeur of style first discovered by Michael Angelo passed through Europe, and totally "changed the whole character and style of design. His works excite the same sensation as the Epic of Homer. The Sybils, the statue of Moses, "come nearer to a comparison with his Jupiter, his demigods, and heroes; those Sybils and prophets being a kind of intermediate beings between men and angels. Though instances may be produced in the works of other painters, which may justly stand in competition with those I have mentioned, such as the 'Isaiah,' and 'Vision of Ezekiel,' by Raffaelle, the 'St Mark' of Frate Bartolomeo, and many others; yet these, it must be allowed, are inventions so much in Michael Angelo's manner of thinking, that they may be truly considered as so many rays which discover manifestly the centre from whence they emanated." The style of Michael Angelo is so highly artificial that the mind must be cultivated to receive it; having once received it, the mind is improved by it, and cannot go very far back. Hence the hold this great style has had upon all who are most learned in art, and upon nearly all painters in the best time of art. As art multiplies, false tastes will arise, the early painters had not so much to unlearn as modern artists. Where Michael Angelo is not felt, there is a lost taste to recover. Sir Joshua recommends young artists to follow Michael Angelo as he did the ancient sculptors. "He began, when a child, a copy of a mutilated Satyr's head, and finished in his model what was wanting in the original." So would he recommend the student to take his figures from Michael Angelo, and to change, and alter, and add other figures till he has caught the manner. Change the purpose, and retain the attitude, as did Titian. By habit of seeing with this eye of grandeur, he will select from nature all that corresponds with this taste. Sir Joshua is aware that he is laying himself open to sarcasm by his advice, but asserts the courage becoming a teacher addressing students: "they both must equally dare, and bid defiance to narrow criticism and vulgar opinion." It is the conceited who think that art is nothing but inspiration; and such appropriate it in their own estimation; but it is to be learned,—if so, the right direction to it is of vast importance; and once in the right direction, labour and study will accomplish the better aspirations of the artist. Michael Angelo said of Raffaelle, that he possessed not his art by nature but by long study. "Che Raffaelle non ebbe quest' arte da natura, ma per longo studio." Raffaelle and Michael Angelo were rivals, but ever spoke of each other with the respect and veneration they felt, and the true meaning of the passage was to the praise of Raffaelle; those were not the days when men were ashamed of being laborious,—and Raffaelle himself "thanked God that he was born in the same age with that painter."—"I feel a self-congratulation," adds Sir Joshua, "in knowing myself capable of such sensations as he intended to excite. I reflect, not without vanity, that these Discourses bear testimony of my admiration of that truly divine man; and I should desire that the last words which I should pronounce in this Academy, and from this place, might be the name of Michael Angelo." They were his last words from the academical chair. He died about fourteen months after the delivery of this Discourse. Mr Burnet has given five excellent plates to this Discourse—one from Parmegiano, one from Tibaldi, one from Titian, one from Raffaelle, and one from Michael Angelo. Mr Burnet's first note repeats what we have again and again elsewhere urged, the advantage of establishing at our universities, Oxford and Cambridge, Professorships of Painting—infinite would be the advantage to art, and to the public. We do not despair. Mr Burnet seems to fear incorrect drawing will arise from some passages, which he supposes encourages it, in these Discourses; and fearing it, very properly endeavours to correct the error in a note. We had intended to conclude this paper with some few remarks upon Sir Joshua, his style, and influence upon art, but we have not space. Perhaps we may fulfil this part of our intention in another number of Maga.

THE YOUNG GREY HEAD

Grief hath been known to turn the young head grey— To silver over in a single day The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime Scarcely o'erpast: as in the fearful time Of Gallia's madness, that discrownèd head Serene, that on the accursed altar bled Miscall'd of Liberty. Oh! martyr'd Queen! What must the sufferings of that night have been— That one—that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'er With time's untimely snow! But now no more Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee— I have to tell an humbler history; A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth, (If any) will be sad and simple truth. "Mother," quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame— So oft our peasant's use his wife to name, "Father" and "Master" to himself applied, As life's grave duties matronize the bride— "Mother," quoth Ambrose, as he faced the north, With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth To his day labour, from the cottage door— "I'm thinking that, to-night, if not before, There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton12 roar? It's brewing up down westward; and look there, One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair; And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on, As threats, the waters will be out anon. That path by th' ford's a nasty bit of way— Best let the young ones bide from school to-day." "Do, mother, do!" the quick-ear'd urchins cried; Two little lasses to the father's side Close clinging, as they look'd from him, to spy The answering language of the mother's eye. There was denial, and she shook her head: "Nay, nay—no harm will come to them," she said, "The mistress lets them off these short dark days An hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says, May quite be trusted—and I know 'tis true— To take care of herself and Jenny too. And so she ought—she's seven come first of May— Two years the oldest: and they give away The Christmas bounty at the school to-day." The mother's will was law, (alas for her That hapless day, poor soul!) She could not err, Thought Ambrose; and his little fair-hair'd Jane (Her namesake) to his heart he hugg'd again, When each had had her turn; she clinging so As if that day she could not let him go. But Labour's sons must snatch a hasty bliss In nature's tend'rest mood. One last fond kiss, "God bless my little maids!" the father said, And cheerly went his way to win their bread. Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone, What looks demure the sister pair put on— Not of the mother as afraid, or shy, Or questioning the love that could deny; But simply, as their simple training taught, In quiet, plain straightforwardness of thought, (Submissively resign'd the hope of play,) Towards the serious business of the day. To me there's something touching, I confess, In the grave look of early thoughtfulness, Seen often in some little childish face Among the poor. Not that wherein we trace (Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race!) The unnatural sufferings of the factory child, But a staid quietness, reflective, mild, Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes, Sense of life's cares, without its miseries. So to the mother's charge, with thoughtful brow, The docile Lizzy stood attentive now; Proud of her years and of imputed sense, And prudence justifying confidence— And little Jenny, more demurely still, Beside her waited the maternal will. So standing hand in hand, a lovelier twain Gainsb'rough ne'er painted: no—nor he of Spain, Glorious Murillo!—and by contrast shown More beautiful. The younger little one, With large blue eyes, and silken ringlets fair, By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth parted hair, Sable and glossy as the raven's wing, And lustrous eyes as dark. "Now, mind and bring Jenny safe home," the mother said—"don't stay To pull a bough or berry by the way: And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast Your little sister's hand, till you're quite past— That plank's so crazy, and so slippery (If not o'erflowed) the stepping-stones will be. But you're good children—steady as old folk, I'd trust ye any where." Then Lizzy's cloak, A good grey duffle, lovingly she tied, And amply little Jenny's lack supplied With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she, "To wrap it round and knot it carefully (Like this) when you come home; just leaving free One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away— Good will to school, and then good right to play." Was there no sinking at the mother's heart, When all equipt, they turn'd them to depart? When down the lane, she watch'd them as they went Till out of sight, was no forefeeling sent Of coming ill? In truth I cannot tell: Such warnings have been sent, we know full well, And must believe—believing that they are— In mercy then—to rouse—restrain—prepare. And, now I mind me, something of the kind Did surely haunt that day the mother's mind, Making it irksome to bide all alone By her own quiet hearth. Tho' never known For idle gossipry was Jenny Gray, Yet so it was, that morn she could not stay At home with her own thoughts, but took her way To her next neighbour's, half a loaf to borrow— Yet might her store have lasted out the morrow. —And with the loan obtain'd, she linger'd still— Said she—"My master, if he'd had his will, Would have kept back our little ones from school This dreadful morning; and I'm such a fool, Since they've been gone, I've wish'd them back. But then It won't do in such things to humour men— Our Ambrose specially. If let alone He'd spoil those wenches. But it's coming on, That storm he said was brewing, sure enough— Well! what of that?—To think what idle stuff Will come into one's head! and here with you I stop, as if I'd nothing else to do— And they'll come home drown'd rats. I must be gone To get dry things, and set the kettle on." His day's work done, three mortal miles and more Lay between Ambrose and his cottage door. A weary way, God wot! for weary wight! But yet far off, the curling smoke in sight From his own chimney, and his heart felt light. How pleasantly the humble homestead stood, Down the green lane by sheltering Shirley Wood! How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees Sheeted with blossom! And in hot July From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry, How grateful the cool covert to regain Of his own avenue—that shady lane, With the white cottage, in a slanting glow Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below, And jasmine porch, his rustic portico! With what a thankful gladness in his face, (Silent heart-homage—plant of special grace!) At the lane's entrance, slackening oft his pace, Would Ambrose send a loving look before; Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door, The very blackbird, strain'd its little throat In welcome, with a more rejoicing note; And honest Tinker! dog of doubtful breed, All bristle, back, and tail, but "good at need," Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear; But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear, The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells, Of his two little ones. How fondly swells The father's heart, as, dancing up the lane, Each clasps a hand in her small hand again; And each must tell her tale, and "say her say," Impeding as she leads, with sweet delay, (Childhood's blest thoughtlessness!) his onward way. And when the winter day closed in so fast, Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last; And in all weathers—driving sleet and snow— Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must he go, Darkling and lonely. Oh! the blessed sight (His pole-star) of that little twinkling light From one small window, thro' the leafless trees, Glimmering so fitfully; no eye but his Had spied it so far off. And sure was he, Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see, Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour, Streaming to meet him from the open door. Then, tho' the blackbird's welcome was unheard— Silenced by winter—note of summer bird Still hail'd him from no mortal fowl alive, But from the cuckoo-clock just striking five— And Tinker's ear and Tinker's nose were keen— Off started he, and then a form was seen Dark'ning the doorway; and a smaller sprite, And then another, peer'd into the night, Ready to follow free on Tinker's track, But for the mother's hand that held her back; And yet a moment—a few steps—and there, Pull'd o'er the threshold by that eager pair, He sits by his own hearth, in his own chair; Tinker takes post beside, with eyes that say, "Master! we've done our business for the day." The kettle sings, the cat in chorus purs, The busy housewife with her tea-things stirs; The door's made fast, the old stuff curtain drawn; How the hail clatters! Let it clatter on. How the wind raves and rattles! What cares he? Safe housed, and warm beneath his own roof-tree, With a wee lassie prattling on each knee. Such was the hour—hour sacred and apart— Warm'd in expectancy the poor man's heart. Summer and winter, as his toil he plied, To him and his the literal doom applied, Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was sweet So earn'd, for such dear mouths. The weary feet Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way; So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray That time I tell of. He had work'd all day At a great clearing: vig'rous stroke on stroke Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seem'd broke, And the strong arm dropt nerveless. What of that? There was a treasure hidden in his hat— A plaything for the young ones. He had found A dormouse nest; the living ball coil'd round For its long winter sleep; and all his thought As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of nought But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes, And graver Lizzy's quieter surprize, When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer, Hard won, the frozen captive to their care. 'Twas a wild evening—wild and rough. "I knew," Thought Ambrose, "those unlucky gulls spoke true— And Gaffer Chewton never growls for nought— I should be mortal 'mazed now, if I thought My little maids were not safe housed before That blinding hail-storm—ay, this hour and more— Unless, by that old crazy bit of board, They've not passed dry-foot over Shallow-ford, That I'll be bound for—swollen as it must be ... Well! if my mistress had been ruled by me ..." But, checking the half-thought as heresy, He look'd out for the Home-Star. There it shone, And with a gladden'd heart he hasten'd on. He's in the lane again—and there below, Streams from the open doorway that red glow, Which warms him but to look at. For his prize Cautious he feels—all safe and snug it lies— "Down Tinker!—down, old boy!—not quite so free— The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee.— But what's the meaning?—no look-out to-night! No living soul a-stir!—Pray God, all's right! Who's flittering round the peat-stack in such weather? Mother!" you might have fell'd him with a feather When the short answer to his loud—"Hillo!" And hurried question—"Are they come?"—was—"No." To throw his tools down—hastily unhook The old crack'd lantern from its dusty nook, And while he lit it, speak a cheering word, That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard, Was but a moment's act, and he was gone To where a fearful foresight led him on. Passing a neighbour's cottage in his way— Mark Fenton's—him he took with short delay To bear him company—for who could say What need might be? They struck into the track The children should have taken coming back From school that day; and many a call and shout Into the pitchy darkness they sent out, And, by the lantern light, peer'd all about, In every road-side thicket, hole, and nook, Till suddenly—as nearing now the brook— Something brush'd past them. That was Tinker's bark— Unheeded, he had follow'd in the dark, Close at his master's heels, but, swift as light, Darted before them now. "Be sure he's right— He's on the track," cried Ambrose. "Hold the light Low down—he's making for the water. Hark! I know that whine—the old dog's found them, Mark." So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone! And all his dull contracted light could show Was the black void and dark swollen stream below. "Yet there's life somewhere—more than Tinker's whine— That's sure," said Mark. "So, let the lantern shine Down yonder. There's the dog—and, hark!" "Oh dear!" And a low sob came faintly on the ear, Mock'd by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought, Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caught Fast hold of something—a dark huddled heap— Half in the water, where 'twas scarce knee-deep, For a tall man; and half above it, propp'd By some old ragged side-piles, that had stopt Endways the broken plank, when it gave way With the two little ones that luckless day! "My babes!—my lambkins!" was the father's cry. One little voice made answer—"Here am I!" 'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouch'd, with face as white, More ghastly, by the flickering lantern-light, Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips, drawn tight, Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, And eyes on some dark object underneath, Wash'd by the turbid water, fix'd like stone— One arm and hand stretch'd out, and rigid grown, Grasping, as in the death-gripe—Jenny's frock. There she lay drown'd. Could he sustain that shock, The doating father? Where's the unriven rock Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part As that soft sentient thing—the human heart? They lifted her from out her wat'ry bed— Its covering gone, the lonely little head Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside— And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied, Leaving that free, about the child's small form, As was her last injunction—"fast and warm"— Too well obeyed—too fast! A fatal hold Affording to the scrag by a thick fold That caught and pinn'd her in the river's bed, While through the reckless water overhead Her life-breath bubbled up. "She might have lived Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived The wretched mother's heart when she knew all. "But for my foolishness about that shawl— And Master would have kept them back the day; But I was wilful—driving them away In such wild weather!" Thus the tortured heart, Unnaturally against itself takes part, Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe Too deep already. They had raised her now, And parting the wet ringlets from her brow, To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold, The father glued his warm ones, ere they roll'd Once more the fatal shawl—her winding-sheet— About the precious clay. One heart still beat, Warm'd by his heart's blood. To his only child He turn'd him, but her piteous moaning mild Pierced him afresh—and now she knew him not.— "Mother!"—she murmur'd—"who says I forgot? Mother! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold, And tied the shawl quite close—she can't be cold— But she won't move—we slipt—I don't know how— But I held on—and I'm so weary now— And it's so dark and cold! oh dear! oh dear!— And she won't move—if daddy was but here!" Poor lamb—she wander'd in her mind, 'twas clear— But soon the piteous murmur died away, And quiet in her father's arms she lay— They their dead burthen had resign'd, to take The living so near lost. For her dear sake, And one at home, he arm'd himself to bear His misery like a man—with tender care, Doffing his coat her shivering form to fold— (His neighbour bearing that which felt no cold,) He clasp'd her close—and so, with little said, Homeward they bore the living and the dead. From Ambrose Gray's poor cottage, all that night, Shone fitfully a little shifting light, Above—below:—for all were watchers there, Save one sound sleeper.—Her, parental care, Parental watchfulness, avail'd not now. But in the young survivor's throbbing brow, And wandering eyes, delirious fever burn'd; And all night long from side to side she turn'd, Piteously plaining like a wounded dove, With now and then the murmur—"She won't move"— And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright Shone on that pillow, passing strange the sight— That young head's raven hair was streak'd with white! No idle fiction this. Such things have been We know. And now I tell what I have seen. Life struggled long with death in that small frame, But it was strong, and conquer'd. All became As it had been with the poor family— All—saving that which never more might be— There was an empty place—they were but three. C.