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

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

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 choseBefore in the olden time.

Morning Sleep

Another day hath dawnedSince, hastily and tired, I threw myselfInto the dark lap of advancing sleep.Meanwhile through the oblivion of the nightThe ponderous world its old course hath fulfilled;And now the gradual sun begins to throwIts slanting glory on the heads of trees,And every bird stirs in its nest revealed,And shakes its dewy wings.A blessed giftUnto 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 eyesIn a continual dawning, mingling earthAnd heaven with vagrant fantasies,—one hour,—Yet for another hour? I will not breakThe shining woof; I will not rudely leapOut of this golden atmosphere, through whichI see the forms of immortalities.Verily, soon enough the laboring dayWith its necessitous unmusical callsWill force the indolent conscience into life.The uncouth moth upon the window-panesHath ceased to flap, or traverse with blind whirrThe room's dusk corners; and the leaves withoutVibrate upon their thin stems with the breezeFlying towards the light. To an Eastern valeThat light may now be waning, and acrossThe 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 canoeCrosses with fan-like paddles and the soundOf feminine song, freighted with great-eyed maidsWhose unzoned bosoms swell on the rich air;A lamp is in each hand; some mystic riteGo they to try. Such rites the birds may see,Ibis or emu, from their cocoa nooks,—What time the granite sentinels that watchThe mouths of cavern-temples hail the firstFaint star, and feel the gradual darkness blendTheir august lineaments;—what time HarounPerambulated Bagdat, and none knewHe was the Caliph who knocked soberlyBy Giafar's hand at their gates shut betimes;—What time prince Assad sat on the high hill'Neath the pomegranate-tree, long wearyingFor his lost brother's step;—what time, as now,Along our English sky, flame-furrows cleaveAnd 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 letOr hindrance to the indolent wilfulnessOf fantasy and dream-land. Place and timeAnd bodily weight are for the wakeful only.Now they exist not: life is like that cloud,Floating, poised happily in mid-air, bathedIn a sustaining halo, soft yet clear,Voyaging on, though to no bourne; all heavenIts own wide home alike, earth far belowFading still further, further. Yet we see,In fancy, its green fields, its towers, and townsSmoking with life, its roads with traffic throngedAnd 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 taleOf some sound sleeper being borne awayBy banded fairies in the mottled hourBefore the cockcrow, through unknown weird woodsAnd mighty forests, where the boughs and rootsOpened before him, closed behind;—thenceforthA 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 spellOf Merlin old that ministered to fate,The tales of visiting ghosts, or fairy elves,Or witchcraft, are no fables. But his taskIs ended with the night;—the thin white moonEvades the eye, the sun breaks through the trees,And the charmed wizard comes forth a mere manFrom out his circle. Thus it is, whate'erWe know and understand hath lost the powerOver us;—we are then the master. StillAll Fancy's world is real; no diverse markIs on the stores of memory, whether gleanedFrom childhood's early wonder at the charmThat bound the lady in the echoless caveWhere lay the sheath'd sword and the bugle horn,—Or from the fullgrown intellect, that worksFrom age to age, exploring darkest truths,With sympathy and knowledge in one yokePloughing the harvest land.The lark is up,Piercing the dazzling sky beyond the searchOf the acutest love: enough for meTo hear its song: but now it dies away,Leaving the chirping sparrow to attractThe listless ear,—a minstrel, sooth to say,Nearly as good. And now a hum like thatOf swarming bees on meadow-flowers comes up.Each hath its just and yet luxurious joy,As if to live were to be blessed. The mildMaternal influence of nature thusEnnobles 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 seemsWorthy the adoration of a child;And Spenser, perfect master, to whom allSweet graces ministered. The shut eye weavesA picture;—the immortals pass alongInto the heaven, and others follow still,Each on his own ray-path, till all the fieldIs threaded with the foot-prints of the great.And now the passengers are lost; long linesOnly are left, all intertwisted, darkUpon a flood of light......... I am awake!I hear domestic voices on the stair.Already hath the mower finished halfHis summer day's ripe task; already hathHis scythe been whetted often; and the heapsBehind him lie like ridges from the tide.In sooth, it is high time to wave awayThe cup of Comus, though with nectar filled,And sweet as odours to the marinerFrom lands unseen, across the wide blank sea.

Sonnet

When midst the summer-roses the warm beesAre swarming in the sun, and thou—so fullOf innocent glee—dost with thy white hands pullPink scented apples from the garden treesTo fling at me, I catch them, on my knees,Like those who gather'd manna; and I cullSome hasty buds to pelt thee—white as woolLilies, or yellow jonquils, or heartsease;—Then I can speak my love, ev'n tho' thy smilesGush out among thy blushes, like a flockOf bright birds from rose-bowers; but when thou'rt goneI 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 moonA pair of wedded lovers walk,Upon the stars and summer moonThey turn their happy eyes, and talk.EDITH.“Those stars, that moon, for me they shineWith 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 clothesThe 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 boonTo one in whom it always lies;But if true sight of stars and moonWere strange to thee, it would surprise.“Disease it is and dearth in meWhich thou believest genius, wealth;And that imagined want in theeIs 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 areMore good for life than bread or sleep,More beautiful than Moon or Star.”

On the Mechanism of a Historical Picture

Part I. The Design

In tracing these memoranda of the course to be pursued in producing a work of the class commonly denominated “Historic Art,” we have no wish to set ourselves in opposition to the practice of other artists. We are quite willing to believe that there may be various methods of working out the same idea, each productive of a satisfactory result. Should any one therefore regard it as a subject for controversy, we would only reply that, if different, or to them better, methods be adopted by other painters, no less certain is it that there are numbers who at the onset of their career have not the least knowledge of any one of these methods; and that it is chiefly for such that these notes have been penned. In short, that to all about to paint their first picture we address ourselves.

The first advice that should be given, on painting a historical picture, ought undoubtedly to be on the choosing of a fit subject; but, the object of the present paper being purely practical, it would ill commence with a question which would entail a dissertation bearing upon the most abstract properties of Art. Should it afterwards appear necessary, we may append such a paper to the last number of these articles; but, for the present, we will content ourselves with beginning where the student may first encounter a difficulty in giving body to his idea.

The first care of the painter, after having selected his subject, should be to make himself thoroughly acquainted with the character of the times, and habits of the people, which he is about to represent; and next, to consult the proper authorities for his costume, and such objects as may fill his canvass; as the architecture, furniture, vegetation or landscape, or accessories, necessary to the elucidation of the subject. By not pursuing this course, the artist is in danger of imagining an effect, or disposition of lines, incompatible with the costume of his figures, or objects surrounding them; and it will be found always a most difficult thing to efface an idea that has once taken possession of the mind. Besides which, it is impossible to conceive a design with any truth, not being acquainted with the character, habits, and appearance, of the people represented.

Having, by such means, secured the materials of which his work must be composed, the artist must endeavour, as far as lies in his power, to embody the picture in his thoughts, before having recourse to paper. He must patiently consider his subject, revolving in his mind every means that may assist the clear development of the story: giving the most prominent places to the most important actors, and carefully rejecting incidents that cannot be expressed by pantomimic art without the aid of text. He must also, in this mental forerunner of his picture, arrange the “grouping” of his figures,—that is, the disposing of them in such agreeable clusters or situations on his canvass as may be compatible with the dramatic truth of the whole, (technically called the lines of a composition.) He must also consider the color, and disposition of light and dark masses in his design, so as to call attention to the principal objects, (technically called the “effect.”) Thus, to recapitulate, the painter, in his first conception of his picture, will have to combine three qualities, each subordinate to the other;—the intellectual, or clear development, dramatic truth, and sentiment, of his incident;—the construction, or disposition of his groups and lines, as most conducive to clearness, effect, and harmony;—and the chromatic, or arrangement of colors, light and shade, most suitable to impress and attract the beholder.6

Having settled these points in his mind, as definitely as his faculties will allow of, the student will take pencil and paper, and sketch roughly each separate figure in his composition, studying his own acting, (in a looking-glass) or else that of any friend he may have of an artistic or poetic temperament, but not employing for the purpose the ordinary paid models.—It will be always found that they are stiff and feelingless, and, as such, tend to curb the vivacity of a first conception, so much so that the artist may believe an action impossible, through the want of comprehension of the model, which to himself or a friend might prove easy.

Here let the artist spare neither time nor labor, but exert himself beyond his natural energies, seeking to enter into the character of each actor, studying them one after the other, limb for limb, hand for hand, finger for finger, noting each inflection of joint, or tension of sinew, searching for dramatic truth internally in himself, and in all external nature, shunning affectation and exaggeration, and striving after pathos, and purity of feeling, with patient endeavor and utter simplicity of heart. For on this labor must depend the success of his work with the public. Artists may praise his color, drawing, or manipulation, his chiaroscuro, or his lines; but the clearness, truth, and sentiment, of his work will alone affect the many.