The Germ: Thoughts towards Nature in Poetry, Literature and Art

But, putting Coleridge's imperfect perception of the truth out of the question, surely nothing can be easier than to believe that for the belief in which we have so many precedents. How many beauties, lost upon Dryden, were perceived by Johnson; How many, hidden to Johnson and his cotemporaries, have been brought to light by Schlegel and by Coleridge.

Repining

She sat alway thro' the long daySpinning the weary thread away;And ever said in undertone:“Come, that I be no more alone.”From early dawn to set of sunWorking, her task was still undone;And the long thread seemed to increaseEven while she spun and did not cease.She heard the gentle turtle-doveTell to its mate a tale of love;She saw the glancing swallows fly,Ever a social company;She knew each bird upon its nestHad cheering songs to bring it rest;None lived alone save only she;—The wheel went round more wearily;She wept and said in undertone:“Come, that I be no more alone.”Day followed day, and still she sighedFor love, and was not satisfied;Until one night, when the moonlightTurned all the trees to silver white,She heard, what ne'er she heard before,A steady hand undo the door.The nightingale since set of sunHer throbbing music had not done,And she had listened silently;But now the wind had changed, and sheHeard the sweet song no more, but heardBeside her bed a whispered word:“Damsel, rise up; be not afraid;For I am come at last,” it said.She trembled, tho' the voice was mild;She trembled like a frightened child;—Till she looked up, and then she sawThe unknown speaker without awe.He seemed a fair young man, his eyesBeaming with serious charities;His cheek was white, but hardly pale;And a dim glory like a veilHovered about his head, and shoneThro' the whole room till night was gone.So her fear fled; and then she said,Leaning upon her quiet bed:“Now thou art come, I prithee stay,That I may see thee in the day,And learn to know thy voice, and hearIt evermore calling me near.”He answered: “Rise, and follow me.”But she looked upwards wonderingly:“And whither would'st thou go, friend? stayUntil the dawning of the day.”But he said: “The wind ceaseth, Maid;Of chill nor damp be thou afraid.”She bound her hair up from the floor,And passed in silence from the door.So they went forth together, heHelping her forward tenderly.The hedges bowed beneath his hand;Forth from the streams came the dry landAs they passed over; evermoreThe pallid moonbeams shone before;And the wind hushed, and nothing stirred;Not even a solitary bird,Scared by their footsteps, fluttered byWhere aspen-trees stood steadily.As they went on, at length a soundCame trembling on the air around;The undistinguishable humOf life, voices that go and comeOf busy men, and the child's sweetHigh laugh, and noise of trampling feet.Then he said: “Wilt thou go and see?”And she made answer joyfully;“The noise of life, of human life,Of dear communion without strife,Of converse held 'twixt friend and friend;Is it not here our path shall end?”He led her on a little wayUntil they reached a hillock: “Stay.”It was a village in a plain.High mountains screened it from the rainAnd stormy wind; and nigh at handA bubbling streamlet flowed, o'er sandPebbly and fine, and sent life upGreen succous stalk and flower-cup.Gradually, day's harbinger,A chilly wind began to stir.It seemed a gentle powerless breezeThat scarcely rustled thro' the trees;And yet it touched the mountain's headAnd the paths man might never tread.But hearken: in the quiet weatherDo all the streams flow down together?—No, 'tis a sound more terribleThan tho' a thousand rivers fell.The everlasting ice and snowWere loosened then, but not to flow;—With a loud crash like solid thunderThe avalanche came, burying underThe village; turning life and breathAnd rest and joy and plans to death.“Oh! let us fly, for pity fly;Let us go hence, friend, thou and I.There must be many regions yetWhere these things make not desolate.”He looked upon her seriously;Then said: “Arise and follow me.”The path that lay before them wasNigh covered over with long grass;And many slimy things and slowTrailed on between the roots below.The moon looked dimmer than before;And shadowy cloudlets floating o'erIts face sometimes quite hid its light,And filled the skies with deeper night.At last, as they went on, the noiseWas heard of the sea's mighty voice;And soon the ocean could be seenIn its long restlessness serene.Upon its breast a vessel rodeThat drowsily appeared to nodAs the great billows rose and fell,And swelled to sink, and sank to swell.Meanwhile the strong wind had come forthFrom the chill regions of the North,The mighty wind invisible.And the low waves began to swell;And the sky darkened overhead;And the moon once looked forth, then fledBehind dark clouds; while here and thereThe lightning shone out in the air;And the approaching thunder rolledWith angry pealings manifold.How many vows were made, and prayersThat in safe times were cold and scarce.Still all availed not; and at lengthThe waves arose in all their strength,And fought against the ship, and filledThe ship. Then were the clouds unsealed,And the rain hurried forth, and beatOn every side and over it.Some clung together, and some keptA long stern silence, and some wept.Many half-crazed looked on in wonderAs the strong timbers rent asunder;Friends forgot friends, foes fled to foes;—And still the water rose and rose.“Ah woe is me! Whom I have seenAre now as tho' they had not been.In the earth there is room for birth,And there are graves enough in earth;Why should the cold sea, tempest-torn,Bury those whom it hath not borne?”He answered not, and they went on.The glory of the heavens was gone;The moon gleamed not nor any star;Cold winds were rustling near and far,And from the trees the dry leaves fellWith a sad sound unspeakable.The air was cold; till from the SouthA gust blew hot, like sudden drouth,Into their faces; and a lightGlowing and red, shone thro' the night.A mighty city full of flameAnd death and sounds without a name.Amid the black and blinding smoke,The people, as one man, awoke.Oh! happy they who yesterdayOn the long journey went away;Whose pallid lips, smiling and chill,While the flames scorch them smile on still;Who murmur not; who tremble notWhen the bier crackles fiery hot;Who, dying, said in love's increase:“Lord, let thy servant part in peace.”Those in the town could see and hearA shaded river flowing near;The broad deep bed could hardly holdIts plenteous waters calm and cold.Was flame-wrapped all the city wall,The city gates were flame-wrapped all.What was man's strength, what puissance then?Women were mighty as strong men.Some knelt in prayer, believing still,Resigned unto a righteous will,Bowing beneath the chastening rod,Lost to the world, but found of God.Some prayed for friend, for child, for wife;Some prayed for faith; some prayed for life;While some, proud even in death, hope gone,Steadfast and still, stood looking on.“Death—death—oh! let us fly from death;Where'er we go it followeth;All these are dead; and we aloneRemain to weep for what is gone.What is this thing? thus hurriedlyTo pass into eternity;To leave the earth so full of mirth;To lose the profit of our birth;To die and be no more; to cease,Having numbness that is not peace.Let us go hence; and, even if thusDeath everywhere must go with us,Let us not see the change, but seeThose who have been or still shall be.”He sighed and they went on together;Beneath their feet did the grass wither;Across the heaven high overheadDark misty clouds floated and fled;And in their bosom was the thunder,And angry lightnings flashed out under,Forked and red and menacing;Far off the wind was muttering;It seemed to tell, not understood,Strange secrets to the listening wood.Upon its wings it bore the scentOf blood of a great armament:Then saw they how on either sideFields were down-trodden far and wide.That morning at the break of dayTwo nations had gone forth to slay.As a man soweth so he reaps.The field was full of bleeding heaps;Ghastly corpses of men and horsesThat met death at a thousand sources;Cold limbs and putrifying flesh;Long love-locks clotted to a meshThat stifled; stiffened mouths beneathStaring eyes that had looked on death.But these were dead: these felt no moreThe anguish of the wounds they bore.Behold, they shall not sigh again,Nor justly fear, nor hope in vain.What if none wept above them?—isThe sleeper less at rest for this?Is not the young child's slumber sweetWhen no man watcheth over it?These had deep calm; but all aroundThere was a deadly smothered sound,The choking cry of agonyFrom wounded men who could not die;Who watched the black wing of the ravenRise like a cloud 'twixt them and heaven,And in the distance flying fastBeheld the eagle come at last.She knelt down in her agony:“O Lord, it is enough,” said she:“My heart's prayer putteth me to shame;“Let me return to whence I came.“Thou for who love's sake didst reprove,“Forgive me for the sake of love.”

Sweet Death

The sweetest blossoms die.And so it was that, going day by dayUnto the church to praise and pray,And crossing the green church-yard thoughtfully,I saw how on the graves the flowersShed their fresh leaves in showers;And how their perfume rose up to the skyBefore it passed away.The youngest blossoms die.They die, and fall, and nourish the rich earthFrom which they lately had their birth.Sweet life: but sweeter death that passeth by,And is as tho' it had not been.All colors turn to green:The bright hues vanish, and the odours fly;The grass hath lasting worth.And youth and beauty die.So be it, O my God, thou God of truth.Better than beauty and than youthAre saints and angels, a glad company:And Thou, O lord, our Rest and Ease,Are better far than these.Why should we shrink from our full harvest? whyPrefer to glean with Ruth?

The Subject in Art No. II

Resuming a consideration of the subject-matter suitable in painting and sculpture, it is necessary to repeat those premises, and to re-establish those principles which were advanced or elicited in the first number of this essay.

It was premised then that works of Fine Art affect the beholder in the same ratio as the natural prototypes of those works would affect him; and not in proportion to the difficulties overcome in the artificial representation of those prototypes. Not contending, meanwhile, that the picture painted by the hand of the artist, and then by the hand of nature on the eye of the beholder, is, in amount, the same as the picture painted there by nature alone; but disregarding, as irrelevant to this investigation, all concomitants of fine art wherein they involve an ulterior impression as to the relative merits of the work by the amount of its success, and, for a like reason, disregarding all emotions and impressions which are not the immediate and proximate result of an excitor influence of, or pertaining to, the things artificial, as a bona fide equivalent of the things natural.

Or the premises may be practically stated thus:—(1st.) When one looks on a certain painting or sculpture for the first time, the first notion is that of a painting or sculpture. (2nd.) In the next place, while the objects depicted are revealing themselves as real objects, the notion of a painting or sculpture has elapsed, and, in its place, there are emotions, passions, actions (moral or intellectual) according in sort and degree to the heart or mind-moving influence of the objects represented. (3rd.) Finally, there is a notion of a painting or sculpture, and a judgment or sentiment commensurate with the estimated merits of the work.—The second statement gives the premised conditions under which Fine Art is about to be treated: the 3rd statement exemplifies a phase in the being of Fine Art under which it is never to be considered: and furthermore, whilst the mental reflection last mentioned (the judgment on the work) is being made, it may occur that certain objects, most difficult of artistic execution, had been most successfully handled: the merits of introducing such objects, in such a manner, are the merits of those concomitants mentioned as equally without the scope of consideration.

Thus much for the premises—next to the re-establishment of principles.

1st. The principle was elicited, that Fine Art should regard the general happiness of man, by addressing those of his attributes which are peculiarly human, by exciting the activity of his rational and benevolent powers; and thereafter:—2nd, that the Subject in Art should be drawn from objects which so address and excite him; and 3rd, as objects so exciting the mental activity may (in proportion to the mental capacity) excite it to any amount, and so possibly in the highest degree (the function of Fine Art being mental excitement, and that of High Art being the highest mental excitement) that all objects so exciting mental activity and emotion in the highest degree, may afford subjects for High Art.

Having thus re-stated the premises and principles already deduced, let us proceed to enquire into the propriety of selecting the Subject from the past or the present time; which enquiry resolves itself fundamentally into the analysis of objects and incidents experienced immediately by the senses, or acquired by mental education.

Here then we have to explore the specific difference between the incidents and objects of to-day, as exposed to our daily observation, and the incidents and objects of time past, as bequeathed to us by history, poetry, or tradition.

In the first place, there is, no doubt, a considerable real difference between the things of to-day and those of times past: but as all former times, their incidents and objects differ amongst themselves, this can hardly be the cause of the specific difference sought for—a difference between our share of things past and things present. This real, but not specific difference then, however admitted, shall not be considered here.

It is obvious, in the meanwhile, that all which we have of the past is stamped with an impress of mental assimilation: an impress it has received from the mind of the author who has garnered it up, and disposed it in that form and order which ensure it acceptance with posterity. For let a writer of history be as matter of fact as he will, the very order and classification of events will save us the trouble of confusion, and render them graspable, and more capable of assimilation, than is the raw material of every-day experience. In fact the work of mind is begun, the key of intelligence is given, and we have only to continue the process. Where the vehicle for the transmission of things past is poetry, then we have them presented in that succession, and with that modification of force, a resilient plasticity, now advancing, now recoiling, insinuating and grappling, that ere this material and mental warfare is over, we find the facts thus transmitted are incorporated with our psychical existence. And in tradition is it otherwise?—Every man tells the tale in his own way; and the merits of the story itself, or the person who tells it, or his way of telling, procures it a lodgment in the mind of the hearer, whence it is ever ready to start up and claim kindred with some external excitement.

Thus it is the luck of all things of the past to come down to us with some poetry about them; while from those of diurnal experience we must extract this poetry ourselves: and although all good men are, more or less, poets, they are passive or recipient poets; while the active or donative poet caters for them what they fail to collect. For let a poet walk through London, and he shall see a succession of incidents, suggesting some moral beauty by a contrast of times with times, unfolding some principle of nature, developing some attribute of man, or pointing to some glory in The Maker: while the man who walked behind him saw nothing but shops and pavement, and coats and faces; neither did he hear the aggregated turmoil of a city of nations, nor the noisy exponents of various desires, appetites and pursuits: each pulsing tremour of the atmosphere was not struck into it by a subtile ineffable something willed forcibly out of a cranium: neither did he see the driver of horses holding a rod of light in his eye and feeling his way, in a world he was rushing through, by the motion of the end of that rod:—he only saw the wheels in motion, and heard the rattle on the stones; and yet this man stopped twice at a book shop to buy ‘a Tennyson,’ or a ‘Browning's Sordello.’ Now this man might have seen all that the poet saw; he walked through the same streets: yet the poet goes home and writes a poem; and he who failed to feel the poetry of the things themselves detects it readily in the poet's version. Then why, it is asked, does not this man, schooled by the poet's example, look out for himself for the future, and so find attractions in things of to-day? He does so to a trifling extent, but the reason why he does so rarely will be found in the former demonstration.

It was shown how bygone objects and incidents come down to us invested in peculiar attractions: this the poet knows and feels, and the probabilities are that he transferred the incidents of to-day, with all their poetical and moral suggestions, to the romantic long-ago, partly from a feeling of prudence, and partly that he himself was under this spell of antiquity, How many a Troubadour, who recited tales of king Arthur, had his incidents furnished him by the events of his own time! And thus it is the many are attracted to the poetry of things past, yet impervious to the poetry of things present. But this retrograde movement in the poet, painter, or sculptor (except in certain cases as will subsequently appear), if not the result of necessity, is an error in judgment or a culpable dishonesty. For why should he not acknowledge the source of his inspiration, that others may drink of the same spring with himself; and perhaps drink deeper and a clearer draught?—For the water is unebbing and exhaustless, and fills the more it is emptied: why then should it be filtered through his tank where he can teach men to drink it at the fountain?

If, as every poet, every painter, every sculptor will acknowledge, his best and most original ideas are derived from his own times: if his great lessonings to piety, truth, charity, love, honor, honesty, gallantry, generosity, courage, are derived from the same source; why transfer them to distant periods, and make them not things of to-day? Why teach us to revere the saints of old, and not our own family-worshippers? Why to admire the lance-armed knight, and not the patience-armed hero of misfortune? Why to draw a sword we do not wear to aid and oppressed damsel, and not a purse which we do wear to rescue an erring one? Why to worship a martyred St. Agatha, and not a sick woman attending the sick? Why teach us to honor an Aristides or a Regulus, and not one who pays an equitable, though to him ruinous, tax without a railing accusation? And why not teach us to help what the laws cannot help?—Why teach us to hate a Nero or an Appius, and not an underselling oppressor of workmen and betrayer of women and children? Why to love a Ladie in bower, and not a wife's fireside? Why paint or poetically depict the horrible race of Ogres and Giants, and not show Giant Despair dressed in that modern habit he walks the streets in? Why teach men what were great and good deeds in the old time, neglecting to show them any good for themselves?—Till these questions are answered absolutory to the artist, it were unwise to propose the other question—Why a poet, painter or sculptor is not honored and loved as formerly? “As formerly,” says some avowed sceptic in old world transcendency and golden age affairs, “I believe formerly the artist was as much respected and cared for as he is now. 'Tis true the Greeks granted an immunity from taxation to some of their artists, who were often great men in the state, and even the companions of princes. And are not some of our poets peers? Have not some of our artists received knighthood from the hand of their Sovereign, and have not some of them received pensions?”

To answer objections of this latitude demands the assertion of certain characteristic facts which, tho' not here demonstrated, may be authenticated by reference to history. Of these, the facts of Alfred's disguised visit to the Danish camp, and Aulaff's visit to the Saxon, are sufficient to show in what respect the poets of that period were held; when a man without any safe conduct whatever could enter the enemy's camp on the very eve of battle, as was here the case; could enter unopposed, unquestioned, and return unmolested!—What could have conferred upon the poet of that day so singular a privilege? What upon the poet of an earlier time that sanctity in behoof whereof

“The great Emathian conqueror bid spareThe house of Pindarus, when temple and towerWent to the ground: and the repeated airOf sad Electra's poet had the powerTo save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.”

What but an universal recognition of the poet as an universal benefactor of mankind? And did mankind recognize him as such, from some unaccountable infatuation, or because his labours obtained for him an indefeasible right to that estimate? How came it, when a Greek sculptor had completed some operose performance, that his countrymen bore him in triumph thro' their city, and rejoiced in his prosperity as identical with their own? How but because his art had embodied some principle of beauty whose mysterious influence it was their pride to appreciate—or he had enduringly moulded the limbs of some well-trained Athlete, such as it was their interest to develop, or he had recorded the overthrow of some barbaric invader whom their fathers had fallen to repel.

In the middle ages when a knight listened, in the morning, to some song of brave doing, ere evening he himself might be the hero of such song.—What wonder then that he held sacred the function of the poet! Now-a-days our heroes (and we have them) are left unchapleted and neglected—and therefore the poet lives and dies neglected.

Thus it would appear from these facts (which have been collaterally evolved in course of enquiring into the propriety of choosing the subject from past or present time, and in course of the consequent analysis) that Art, to become a more powerful engine of civilization, assuming a practically humanizing tendency (the admitted function of Art), should be made more directly conversant with the things, incidents, and influences which surround and constitute the living world of those whom Art proposes to improve, and, whether it should appear in event that Art can or can not assume this attitude without jeopardizing her specific existence, that such a consummation were desirable must be equally obvious in either case.

Let us return now to the former consideration. It was stated that the poet is affected by every day incidents, which would have little or no effect on the mind of a general observer: and if you ask the poet, who from his conduct may be the supposed advocate of the past as the fittest medium for poetic eduction, why he embodied the suggestions of to-day in the matter and dress of antiquity; he is likely to answer as follows.—“You have stated that men pass by that which furnishes me with my subject: If I merely reproduce what they slighted, the reproduction will be slighted equally. It appears then that I must devise some means of attracting their sympathies—and the medium of antiquity is the fittest for three several reasons. 1st.—Nothing comes down to us from antiquity unless fraught with sufficient interest of some sort, to warrant it being worthy of record. Thus, all incidents which we possess of the old time being more or less interesting, there arises an illative impression that all things of old really were so: and all things in idea associated with that time, whether real or fictitious, are afforded a favorable entertainment. Now these associations are neither trivial nor fanciful:11 for I remember to have discovered, after visiting the British Museum for the first time, that the odour of camphor, for which I had hitherto no predilection, afforded me a peculiar satisfaction, seemingly suggestive of things scientific or artistic; it was in fact a literary smell! All this was vague and unaccountable until some time after when this happened again, and I was at once reminded of an enormous walrus at the British Museum, and then remembered how the whole collection, from end to end, was permeated with the odour of camphor! Still, despite the consciousness of this, the camphor retains its influence. Now let a poem, a painting, or sculpture, smell ever so little of antiquity, and every intelligent reader will be full of delightful imaginations. 2nd.—All things ancient are mysterious in obscurity:—veneration, wonder, and curiosity are the result. 3rd.—All things ancient are dead and gone:—we sympathize with them accordingly. All these effects of antiquity, as a means of enforcing poetry, declare it too powerful an ally to be readily abandoned by the poet.” To all this the painter will add that the costume of almost any ancient time is more beautiful than that of the present—added to which it exposes more of that most beautiful of all objects, the human figure.