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

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 downEven to her feet: he gazed so with the goodUndoubting faith of fools, much as who shouldAccost God for a comrade. In the brownOf all her curls he seemed to think the townWould make an acquisition; but her hoodWas not the newest fashion, and his broodOf lady-friends might scarce approve her gown.If I did smile, 'twas faintly; for my cheeksBurned, thinking she'd be shown up to be sold,And cried about, in the thick jostling runOf the loud world, till all the weary weeksShould bring her back to herself and to the oldFamiliar 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 knowethHow 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-foodWhile 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 bedAmong the dying flowers:A green turf at his head;And a stone at his feet,Whereon we may sitIn the quiet evening hours.He was born in the spring,And died before the harvesting.On the last warm summer dayHe left us;—he would not stayFor autumn twilight cold and greySit we by his grave and singHe 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 wasIn 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.

The Germ: Thoughts towards Nature In Poetry, Literature, and Art.

No. 2. February, 1850

With an Etching by JAMES COLLINSONWhen whoso merely hath a little thoughtWill 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 soughtOr only found,—will speak, not just to skimA 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 tellThat, be the theme a point or the whole earth,Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small?

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 aloneBeat with his blood, and, by her love and his,She knew that God was with her, and she stroveMeekly to do the work appointed her;To cherish him with undivided careWho deigned to call her mother, and who lovedFrom her the name of son. And Mary gaveHer heart to him, and feared not; yet she seemedTo hold as sacred that he said or did;And, unlike other women, never spakeHis words of innocence again; but allWere humbly treasured in her memoryWith the first secret of his birth. So strongGrew her affection, as the child increasedIn wisdom and in stature with his years,That many mothers wondered, saying: “TheseOur little ones claim in our hearts a placeThe next to God; but Mary's tendernessGrows almost into reverence for her child.Is he not of herself? I' the temple whenKneeling 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 knowThat out of Galilee no prophet comes.”But all their children made the boy their friend.Three cottages that overlooked the seaStood 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 belowInto deep channels widening to the sea.Within the humblest of these three abodesDwelt 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 SouthA sunny grape vine broadened shady leavesWhich gave its tendrils shelter, as they hungTrembling upon the bloom of purple fruit.And, like the wreathed shadows and deep glowsWhich the sun spreads from some old orielUpon the marble Altar and the goldOf God's own Tabernacle, where he dwellsFor ever, so the blossoms and the vine,On Jesus' home climbing above the roof,Traced intricate their windings all aboutThe yellow thatch, and part concealed the nestsWhence noisy close-housed sparrows peeped unseen.And Joseph had a little dove-cote placedBetween the gable-window and the eaves,Where two white turtle doves (a gift of loveFrom Mary's kinsman Zachary to her child)Cooed pleasantly; and broke upon the earThe ever dying sound of falling waves.And so it came to pass, one Summer morn,The mother dove first brought her fledgeling outTo see the sun. It was her only one,And she had breasted it through three long weeksWith patient instinct till it broke the shell;And she had nursed it with all tender care,Another three, and watched the white down growInto 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 triedBy many lures to tempt it to the ground,That they might feed from Jesus' hand, who stoodWatching them from below. The timid birdAt 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 thriceWheeled in the air, and poised his aim to dropOn the young dove, whose quivering plumage swelledAbout 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 flappedHis broad arched wings, and, darting to a cleftI' 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 headDeep in her ruffled feathers. She sat there,Brooding upon her loss, and did not moveAll through that day.And, sitting by her, covered up his face:Until a cloud, alone between the earthAnd 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 girlCame, carrying a handful of choice flowers,Which in her lap she sorted orderly,As little children do at Easter-timeTo have all seemly when their Lord shall rise.Then Jesus' covered face she gently raised,Placed in his hand the flowers, and kissed his cheekAnd 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 notTill night brought sleep, and sleep closed o'er his woe.

II. The Scourging

Again there came a day when Mary satWithin the latticed doorway's fretted shade,Working in bright and many colored threadsA girdle for her child, who at her feetLay with his gentle face upon her lap.Both little hands were crossed and tightly claspedAround her knee. On them the gleams of lightWhich broke through overhanging blossoms warm,And cool transparent leaves, seemed like the gemsWhich deck Our Lady's shrine when incense-smokeAscends before her, like them, dimly seenBehind the stream of white and slanting raysWhich came from heaven, as a veil of light,Across the darkened porch, and glanced uponThe threshold-stone; and here a moth, just bornTo new existence, stopped upon her flight,To bask her blue-eyed scarlet wings spread outBroad 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 thingsWith her, or, lost in thought, would seem to watchThe orange-belted wild bees when they stilledTheir hum, to press with honey-searching trunkThe juicy grape; or drag their waxed legsHalf buried in some leafy cool recessFound in a rose; or else swing heavilyUpon the bending woodbine's fragrant mouth,And rob the flower of sweets to feed the rock,Where, in a hazel-covered crag aloftParting 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 laneThat wound from Nazareth by Joseph's house,Sloping down to the sands. And two young men,The owners of the colt, with many blowsFrom lash and goad wearied its patient sides;Urging it past its strength, so they might winUnto 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 crossLaying upon its shoulders and its back.It was a foal of that same ass which bareThe infant and the mother, when they fledTo 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 griefUpon 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 armAround 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 wreathOf hawthorn flowers, and in his hand a reed,Put these both from him, saying, “Here is oneWhom you shall all prefer instead of meTo be our king;” and then he placed the wreathOn 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 yieldGrave fealty. And Jesus did returnTheir childish salutations; and they passedSinging another song, whose music chimedWith the sea's murmur, like a low sweet chantChanted in some wide church to Jesus Christ.And Jesus listened till their voices sankBehind the jutting rocks, and died away:Then the wave broke, and Jesus felt alone.Who being alone, on his fair countenanceAnd saddened beauty all unlike a child'sThe 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 bareThe wood upon his shoulders, piece by piece,Up to his shed, Jesus ran by his side,Yearning for strength to help the aged manWho tired himself with work all day for him.But Joseph said: “My child, it is God's willThat I should work for thee until thou artOf age to help thyself.—Bide thou his timeWhich 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 eyesFull 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 uponJesus' 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 crossUpon the back, a mark to know it by.”And Jesus loved the lamb; and, as it grewSpotless and pure and loving like himself,White as the mother's milk it fed upon,He gave not up his care, till it becameOf strength enough to browse and then, becauseJoseph had no land of his own, being poor,He sent away the lamb to feed amongstA 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 blewLight flakes of waving silver o'er the fieldsReady for mowing, and the golden WestWarmed half the sky: the low sun flickered throughThe hedge-rows, as they passed; while hawthorn treesScattered 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 lambSaw them approach, and ran from side to sideThe gate, pushing its eager face betweenThe lowest bars, and bleating for pure joy.And Jesus, kneeling by it, fondled withThe little creature, that could scarce find howTo 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 sunSank down behind them, broadening as it nearedThe low horizon, Mary thought it seemedTo clothe them like a glory.—But her lookGrew 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 goAlone, across an unknown land: such wastesWe sometimes see in visions of the night,Barren and dimly lighted. There was notA 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 tuftsIn bare and chalky patches, cracked and hot,Chafing my tired feet, that caught uponIts parched surface; for a thirsty sunHad sucked all moisture from the ground it burned,And, red and glowing, stared upon me likeA furnace eye when all the flame is spent.I felt it was a dream; and so I triedTo close my eyes, and shut it out from sight.Then, sitting down, I hid my face; but thisOnly increased the dread; and so I gazedWith open eyes into my dream again.The mists had thickened, and had grown quite blackOver the sun; and darkness closed round me.(Thy father said it thundered towards the morn.)But soon, far off, I saw a dull green lightBreak though the clouds, which fell across the earth,Like death upon a bad man's upturned face.Sudden it burst with fifty forked dartsIn one white flash, so dazzling bright it seemedTo hide the landscape in one blaze of light.When the loud crash that came down with it hadRolled its long echo into stillness, throughThe calm dark silence came a plaintive sound;And, looking towards the tree, I saw that itWas scorched with the lightning; and there stoodClose to its foot a solitary sheepBleating 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 deadAnd 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 headAnd bleeding feet; and one had pierced its side,From which flowed blood and water. Strange the thingsWe see in dreams, and hard to understand;—For, stooping down to raise its lifeless head,I thought it changed into the quiet faceOf my own child. Then I awoke, and sawThe dim moon shining through the watery cloudsOn thee awake within thy little bed.”Then Jesus, looking up, said quietly:“We read that God will speak to those he lovesSometimes in visions. He might speak to theeOf things to come his mercy partly veilsFrom thee, my mother; or perhaps, the thoughtFloated across thy mind of what we readAloud 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 tearsDrop warm upon his cheek, and he looked sadWhen silently he put his hand againWithin his mother's. As they came, they went,Hand in hand homeward.With Mary and with Joseph, till the timeWhen all the things should be fulfilled in himWhich God had spoken by his prophets' mouthLong 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 youthIs resigned utterly.I watched and waited with a steadfast will:And, tho' the object seemed to flee awayThat 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 nameI long for; to a name why should I giveThe peace of all the days I have to live?”—Yet gave it all the same.Alas! thou foolish one,—alike unfitFor healthy joy and salutary pain,Thou knowest the chase useless, and againTurnest 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 paintThose endless cloisters and eternal aislesWith 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.