THE GERM

Thoughts towards Nature in Poetry, Literatureand Art

BEINGA _FACSIMILE_ REPRINT OF THE LITERARYORGAN OF THE PRE-RAPHAELITEBROTHERHOOD, PUBLISHEDIN 1850

WITH AN INTRODUCTIONBYWILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI

LONDONELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E. C. 1901

INTRODUCTION. 

Of late years it has been my fate or my whim to write a good dealabout the early days of the Praeraphaelite movement, the members ofthe Praeraphaelite Brotherhood, and especially my brother DanteGabriel Rossetti, and my sister Christina Georgina Rossetti. I am nowinvited to write something further on the subject, with immediatereference to the Praeraphaelite magazine "The Germ, " republished inthis volume. I know of no particular reason why I should not do this, for certain it is that few people living know, or ever knew, so muchas I do about "The Germ, "; and if some press-critics who regardedprevious writings of mine as superfluous or ill-judged shouldentertain a like opinion now, in equal or increased measure, Iwillingly leave them to say so, while I pursue my own course none theless. 

"The Germ" is here my direct theme, not the PraeraphaeliteBrotherhood; but it seems requisite to say in the first instancesomething about the Brotherhood--its members, allies, and ideas--soas to exhibit a raison d'être for the magazine. In doing this I mustnecessarily repeat some things which I have set forth before, andwhich, from the writings of others as well as myself, are well enoughknown to many. I can vary my form of expression, but cannot introducemuch novelty into my statements of fact. 

In 1848 the British School of Painting was in anything but a vital ora lively condition. One very great and incomparable genius, Turner, belonged to it. He was old and past his executive prime. There weresome other highly able men--Etty and David Scott, then both very neartheir death; Maclise, Dyce, Cope, Mulready, Linnell, Poole, WilliamHenry Hunt, Landseer, Leslie, Watts, Cox, J. F. Lewis, and someothers. There were also some distinctly clever men, such as Ward, Frith, and Egg. Paton, Gilbert, Ford Madox Brown, Mark Anthony, hadgiven sufficient indication of their powers, but were all in an earlystage. On the whole the school had sunk very far below what it hadbeen in the days of Hogarth, Reynolds, Gainsborough, and Blake, andits ordinary average had come to be something for which commonplaceis a laudatory term, and imbecility a not excessive one. 

There were in the late summer of 1848, in the Schools of the RoyalAcademy or barely emergent from them, four young men to whom thiscondition of the art seemed offensive, contemptible, and evenscandalous. Their names were William Holman-Hunt, John EverettMillais, and Dante Gabriel Rossetti, painters, and Thomas Woolner, sculptor. Their ages varied from twenty-two to nineteen--Woolnerbeing the eldest, and Millais the youngest. Being little more thanlads, these young men were naturally not very deep in either thetheory or the practice of art: but they had open eyes and minds, andcould discern that some things were good and other bad--that somethings they liked, and others they hated. They hated the lack ofideas in art, and the lack of character; the silliness and vacuitywhich belong to the one, the flimsiness and make-believe which resultfrom the other. They hated those forms of execution which are merelysmooth and prettyish, and those which, pretending to mastery, arenothing better than slovenly and slapdash, or what the P. R. B. 'scalled "sloshy. " Still more did they hate the notion that each artistshould not obey his own individual impulse, act upon his ownperception and study of Nature, and scrutinize and work at hisobjective material with assiduity before he could attempt to displayand interpret it; but that, instead of all this, he should try to be"like somebody else, " imitating some extant style and manner, andapplying the cut-and-dry rules enunciated by A from the practice of Bor C. They determined to do the exact contrary. The temper of thesestriplings, after some years of the current academic training, wasthe temper of rebels: they meant revolt, and produced revolution. Itwould be a mistake to suppose, because the called themselvesPraeraphaelites, that they seriously disliked the works produced byRaphael; but they disliked the works produced by Raphael's uninspiredsatellites, and were resolved to find out, by personal study andpractice, what their own several faculties and adaptabilities mightbe, without being bound by rules and big-wiggeries founded upon theperformance of Raphael or of any one. They were to have no masterexcept their own powers of mind and hand, and their own first-handstudy of Nature. Their minds were to furnish them with subjects forworks of art, and with the general scheme of treatment; Nature was tobe their one or their paramount storehouse of materials for objectsto be represented; the study of her was to be deep, and therepresentation (at any rate in the earlier stages of self-disciplineand work) in the highest degree exact; executive methods were to belearned partly from precept and example, but most essentially frompractice and experiment. As their minds were very different in rangeand direction, their products also, from the first, differed greatly;and these soon ceased to have any link of resemblance. 

The Praeraphaelite Brothers entertained a deep respect and a sincereaffection for the works of some of the artists who had precededRaphael; and they thought that they should more or less be followingthe lead of those artists if they themselves were to develop theirown individuality, disregarding school-rules. This was really the sumand substance of their "Praeraphaelitism. " It may freely be allowedthat, as they were very young, and fired by certain ideas impressiveto their own spirits, they unduly ignored some other ideas andtheories which have none the less a deal to say for themselves. Theycontemned some things and some practitioners of art not at allcontemptible, and, in speech still more than in thought, they attimes wilfully heaped up the scorn. You cannot have a youthful rebelwith a faculty who is also a model head-boy in a school. 

The P. R. B. Was completed by the accession of three members to thefour already mentioned. These were James Collinson, a domesticpainter; Frederic George Stephens, an Academy-student of painting;and myself, a Government-clerk. These again, when the P. R. B. Wasformed towards September 1848, were all young, aged respectivelyabout twenty-three, twenty-one, and nineteen. 

This Praeraphaelite Brotherhood was the independent creation ofHolman-Hunt, Millais, Rossetti, and (in perhaps a somewhat minordegree) Woolner: it cannot be said that they were prompted or abettedby any one. Ruskin, whose name has been sometimes inaccurately mixedup in the matter, and who had as yet published only the first twovolumes of "Modern Painters, " was wholly unknown to them personally, and in his writings was probably known only to Holman-Hunt. FordMadox Brown had been an intimate of Rossetti since March 1848, and hesympathized, fully as much as any of these younger men, with someold-world developments of art preceding its ripeness orover-ripeness: but he had no inclination to join any organization forprotest and reform, and he followed his own course--more influenced, for four or five years ensuing, by what the P. R. B. 's were doing thaninfluencing them. Among the persons who were most intimate with themembers of the Brotherhood towards the date of its formation, andonwards till the inception of "The Germ, " I may mention thefollowing. For Holman-Hunt, the sculptor John Lucas Tupper, who hadbeen a fellow Academy-student, and was now an anatomical designer atGuy's Hospital: he and his family were equally well acquainted withMr. Stephens. For Millais, the painter Charles Allston Collins, sonof the well-known painter of domestic life and coast-scenesWilliam Collins; the painter Arthur Hughes; also his own brother, William Henry Millais, who had musical aptitudes and became alandscape-painter. For Rossetti, William Bell Scott (brother of DavidScott), painter, poet, and Master of the Government School of Designin Newcastle-on-Tyne; Major Calder Campbell, a retired Officer of theIndian army, and a somewhat popular writer of tales, verses, etc. ;Alexander Munro the sculptor; Walter Howell Deverell, a youngpainter, son of the Secretary to the Government Schools of Design;James Hannay, the novelist, satirical writer, and journalist; and(known through Madox Brown) William Cave Thomas, a painter who hadstudied in the severe classical school of Germany, and had earned aname in the Westminster Hall competitions for frescoes in Parliament. For Woolner, John Hancock and Bernhard Smith, sculptors; CoventryPatmore the poet, with his connections the Orme family and ProfessorMasson; also William North, an eccentric young literary man, of mucheffervescence and some talent, author of "Anti-Coningsby" and othernovels. For Collinson, the prominent painter of romantic and biblicalsubjects John Rogers Herbert, who was, like Collinson himself, aRoman Catholic convert. 

The Praeraphaelite Brotherhood having been founded in September 1848, the members exhibited in 1849 works conceived in the new spirit. These were received by critics and by the public with more thanmoderate though certainly not unmixed favour: it had not as yettranspired that there was a league of unquiet and ambitious youngspirits, bent upon making a fresh start of their own, and a cleansweep of some effete respectabilities. It was not until after theexhibitions were near closing in 1849 that any idea of bringing out amagazine came to be discussed. The author of the project was DanteGabriel Rossetti. He alone among the P. R. B. 's had already cultivatedthe art of writing in verse and in prose to some noticeable extent("The Blessed Damozel" had been produced before May 1847), and he wasbetter acquainted than any other member with British and foreignliterature. There need be no self-conceit in saying that in theserespects I came next to him. Holman-Hunt, Woolner, and Stephens, wereall reading men (in British literature only) within straiter boundsthan Rossetti: not any one of them, I think, had as yet done inwriting anything worth mentioning. Millais and Collinson, moreespecially the former, were men of the brush, not the pen, yet bothof them capable of writing with point, and even in verse. By July 13and 14, 1849, some steps were taken towards discussing the project ofa magazine. The price, as at first proposed, was to be sixpence; thetitle, "Monthly Thoughts in Literature, Poetry, and Art"; each numberwas to have an etching. Soon afterwards a price of one shilling wasdecided upon, and two etchings per number: but this latter intentionwas not carried out. {1} All the P. R. B. 's were to be proprietors ofthe magazine: I question however whether Collinson was ever persuadedto assume this responsibility, entailing payment of an eventualdeficit. We were quite ready also to have some other proprietors. Mr. Herbert was addressed by Collinson, and at one time was regarded aspretty safe. Mr. Hancock the sculptor did not resist the pressure putupon him; but after all he contributed nothing to "The Germ, " eitherin work or in money. Walter Deverell assented, and paid when the timecame. Thus there seem to have been eight, or else seven, proprietors--not one of them having any spare cash, and not all ofthem much steadiness of interest in the scheme set going by DanteRossetti. 

{1} Many of the particulars here given regarding "The Germ" appear inthe so-called "P. R. B. Journal, " which was published towards December1899, in the volume named "Preraphaelite Diaries and Letters, editedby W. M. Rossetti. " At the date when I wrote the present introduction, that volume had not been offered for publication. 

With so many persons having a kind of co-equal right to decide whatshould be done with the magazine, it soon became apparent thatsomebody ought to be appointed Editor, and assume the control. I, during an absence from London, was fixed upon for this purpose byWoolner and my brother--with the express or tacit assent, so far as Iknow, of all the others, I received notice of my new dignity onSeptember 23, 1849, being just under twenty years of age, and Iforthwith applied myself to the task. It had at first been proposedto print upon the prospectus and wrappers of the magazine the words"Conducted by Artists, " and also (just about this time) to entitle it"The P. R. B. Journal. " I called attention to the first of these pointsas running counter to my assuming the editorship, and to the secondas in itself inappropriate: both had in fact been already set aside. My brother had ere this been introduced to Messrs. Aylott and Jones, publishers in Paternoster Row (principally concerned, I believe, withbooks of evangelical religion), and had entered into terms with them, and got them to print a prospectus. "P. R. B. " was at first printed onthe latter, but to this Mr. Holman-Hunt objected in November, and itwas omitted. The printers were to be Messrs. Tupper and Sons, a firmof lithographic and general printers in the City, the same family towhich John Lucas Tupper belonged. The then title, invented by mybrother, was "Thoughts towards Nature, " a phrase which, thoughsomewhat extra-peculiar, indicated accurately enough the predominantconception of the Praeraphaelite Brotherhood, that an artist, whetherpainter or writer, ought to be bent upon defining and expressing hisown personal thoughts, and that these ought to be based upon a directstudy of Nature, and harmonized with her manifestations. It was notuntil December 19, when the issue of our No. 1 was closely impending, that a different title, "The Germ, " was proposed. On that eveningthere was a rather large gathering at Dante Rossetti's studio, 72Newman Street; the seven P. R. B. 's, Madox Brown, Cave Thomas, Deverell, Hancock, and John and George Tupper. Mr. Thomas had drawnup a list of no less than sixty-five possible titles (a facsimile ofhis MS. Of some of them appears in the "Letters of Dante GabrielRossetti to William Allingham, " edited by George BirkbeckHill--Unwin, 1897). Only a few of them met with favour; and one ofthem, "The Germ, " going to the vote along with "The Seed" and "TheScroll, " was approved by a vote of six to four. The next best were, Ithink, "The Harbinger, " "First Thoughts, " "The Sower, " "TheTruth-Seeker, " and "The Acorn. " Appended to the new title weretained, as a sub-title, something of what had been previouslyproposed; and the serial appeared as "The Germ. Thoughts towardsNature in Poetry, Literature, and Art. " At this same meeting Mr. Woolner suggested that authors' names should not be published in themagazine. I alone opposed him, and his motion was carried. I cannotat this distance of time remember with any precision what his reasonswere; but I think that he, and all the other artists concerned, entertained a general feeling that to appear publicly as writers, andespecially as writers opposing the ordinary current of opinions onfine art, would damage their professional position, which alreadyinvolved uphill work more than enough. 

"The Germ, " No. 1, came out on or about January 1, 1850. The numberof copies printed was 700. Something like 200 were sold, in aboutequal proportions by the publishers, and by ourselves amongacquaintances and well-wishers. This was not encouraging, so wereduced the issue of No. 2 to 500 copies. It sold less well than No. 1. With this number was introduced the change of printing on thewrapper the names of most of the contributors: not of all, for somestill preferred to remain unnamed, or to figure under a fancydesignation. Had we been left to our own resources, we must now havedropped the magazine. But the printing-firm--or Mr. George I. F. Tupper as representing it--came forward, and undertook to try thechance of two numbers more. The title was altered (at Mr. AlexanderTupper's suggestion) to "Art and Poetry, being Thoughts towardsNature, conducted principally by Artists"; and Messrs. Dickinson andCo. , of New Bond Street, the printsellers, consented to join theirname as publishers to that of Messrs. Aylott and Jones. Mr. RobertDickinson, the head of this firm, and more especially his brother, the able portrait-painter Mr. Lowes Dickinson, were well known toMadox Brown, and through him to members of the P. R. B. I continued tobe editor; but, as the money stake of myself and my colleagues in thepublication had now ceased, I naturally accommodated myself more thanbefore to any wish evinced by the Tupper family. No. 3, which oughtto have appeared March 1, was delayed by these uncertainties andchanges till March 31. No. 4 came out on April 30. Some small amountof advertising was done, more particularly by posters carried aboutin front of the Royal Academy (then in Trafalgar Square), whichopened at the beginning of May. All efforts proved useless. Peoplewould not buy "The Germ, " and would scarcely consent to know of itsexistence. So the magazine breathed its last, and its obsequies wereconducted in the strictest privacy. Its debts exceeded its assets, and a sum of £33 odd, due on Nos. 1 and 2, had to be cleared off bythe seven (or eight) proprietors, conscientious against the grain. What may have been the loss of Messrs. Tupper on Nos. 3 and 4 I amunable to say. It is hardly worth specifying that neither the editor, nor any of the contributors whether literary or artistic, receivedany sort of payment. This was foreseen from the first as being "inthe bond, " and was no grievance to anybody. 

"The Germ, " as we have seen, was a most decided failure, yet it wouldbe a mistake to suppose that it excited no amount of literaryattention whatsoever. There were laudatory notices in "The Dispatch, ""The Guardian, " "Howitt's Standard of Freedom, " "John Bull, " "TheCritic, " "Bell's Weekly Messenger, " "The Morning Chronicle, " and Idare say some other papers. A pat on the back, with a very lukewarmhand, was bestowed by "The Art Journal. " There were notices also--noteulogistic--in "The Spectator" and elsewhere. The editor of "TheCritic, " Mr. (afterwards Serjeant) Cox, on the faith of doings in"The Germ, " invited me, or some other of the art-writers there, toundertake the fine-art department--picture-exhibitions, etc. --of hisweekly review. This I did for a short time, and, on gettingtransferred to "The Spectator, " I was succeeded on "The Critic" byMr. F. G. Stephens. I also received some letters consequent upon "TheGerm, " and made some acquaintances among authors; Horne, Clough, Heraud, Westland Marston, also Miss Glyn the actress. I as editorcame in for this; but of course the attractiveness of "The Germ"depended upon the writings of others, chiefly Messrs. Woolner, Patmore, and Orchard, my sister, and above all my brother, and, amongthe artist-etchers, Mr. Holman-Hunt. 

I happen to be still in possession of the notices which appeared in"The Critic, " "Bell's Weekly Messenger, " and "The Guardian, " and ofextracts (as given in our present facsimile) from those in "JohnBull, " "The Morning Chronicle, " and "The Standard of Freedom": I herereproduce the first three for the curious reader's perusal. Firstcomes the review which appeared in "The Critic" on February 15, 1850, followed by a second review on June 1. The former was (as shown bythe initials) written by Mr. Cox, and I presume the latter also. Major Calder Campbell must have called the particular attention ofMr. Cox to "The Germ. " My own first personal acquaintance with thisgentleman may have been intermediate between 15 February and 1 June. 

_The Germ. Thoughts towards Nature in Poetry, Literature, and Art. _Nos. I. And II. London: Aylott and Jones. 

We depart from our usual plan of noticing the periodicals under oneheading, for the purpose of introducing to our readers a new aspirantfor public favour, which has peculiar and uncommon claims toattention, for in design and execution it differs from all otherperiodicals. _The Germ_ is the somewhat affected and unpromisingtitle give to a small monthly journal, which is devoted almostentirely to poetry and art, and is the production of a party of youngpersons. This statement is of itself, as we are well aware, enough tocause it to be looked upon with shyness. A periodical largelyoccupied with poetry wears an unpromising aspect to readers who havelearned from experience what nonsensical stuff most fugitivemagazine-poetry is; nor is this natural prejudice diminished by theknowledge that it is the production of young gentlemen and ladies. But, when they have read a few extracts which we propose to make, wethink they will own that for once appearances are deceitful, and thatan affected title and an unpromising theme really hides a great dealof genius; mingled however, we must also admit, with many conceitswhich youth is prone to, but which time and experience will assuredlytame. 

That the contents of _The Germ_ are the production of no common mindsthe following extracts will sufficiently prove, and we may add thatthese are but a small portion of the contents which might preferequal claims to applause. 

"My Beautiful Lady, " and "Of my Lady in Death, " are two poemsin a quaint metre, full of true poetry, marred by not a fewaffectations--the genuine metal, but wanting to be purified from itsdross. Nevertheless, it is pleasant to find the precious ore anywherein these unpoetical times. 

To our taste the following is replete with poetry. What a _picture_it is! A poet's tongue has told what an artist's eye has seen. It isthe first of a series to be entitled "Songs of One Household. " [Herecomes Dante Rossetti's poem, "My Sister's Sleep, " followed byPatmore's "Seasons, " and Christina Rossetti's "Testimony. "] We havenot space to take any specimens of the prose, but the essays on artare conceived with an equal appreciation of its _meaning_ andrequirements. Being such, _The Germ_ has our heartiest wishes for itssuccess; but we scarcely dare to _hope_ that it may win thepopularity it deserves. The truth is that it is too good for thetime. It is not _material_ enough for the age. 

_Art and Poetry: being Thoughts towards Nature. _ Conductedprincipally by Artists. Nos. 3 and 4. London: Dickinson and Co. 

Some time since we had occasion to direct the attention of ourreaders to a periodical then just issued under the modest title of_The Germ_. The surprise and pleasure with which we read it was, aswe are informed, very generally shared by our readers upon perusingthe poems we extracted from it; and it was manifest to every personof the slightest taste that the contributors were possessed of geniusof a very high order, and that _The Germ_ was not wantonly soentitled, for it abounded with the promise of a rich harvest to beanticipated from the maturity of those whose youth could accomplishso much. 

But we expressed also our fear lest the very excellence of thismagazine should be fatal to its success. It was too good--that is tosay, too refined and of too lofty a class, both in its art and in itspoetry--to be sufficiently popular to pay even the printer's bill. The name, too, was against it, being somewhat unintelligible to thethoughtless, and conveying to the considerate a notion of somethingvery juvenile. Those fears were not unfounded, for it was suspendedfor a short time; but other journals after a while discovered andproclaimed the merit that was scattered profusely over the pages of_The Germ_, and, thus encouraged, the enterprise has been resumed, with a change of name which we must regard as an improvement. _Artand Poetry_ precisely describes its character. It is wholly devotedto them, and it aims at originality in both. It is seeking out foritself new paths, in a spirit of earnestness, and with an undoubtedability which must lead to a new era. The writers may err somewhat atfirst, show themselves too defiant of prescriptive rules, and mistakeextravagance for originality; but this fault (inherent in youth when, conscious of its powers, it first sets up for itself) will after awhile work its own cure, and with experience will come sobereraction. But we cannot contemplate this young and rising school in artand literature without the most ardent anticipations of somethinggreat to grow from it, something new and worthy of our age, and webid them God speed upon the path they have adventured. 

But our more immediate purpose here is with the poetry, of whichabout one-half of each number is composed. It is all beautiful, mustof it of extraordinary merit, and equal to anything that any of ourknown poets could write, save Tennyson, of whom the strains sometimesremind us, although they are not imitations in any sense of the word. [The Reviewer next proceeds to quote, with a few words of comment, Christina Rossetti's "Sweet Death, " John Tupper's "Viola and Olivia, "Orchard's "Whit-Sunday Morn, " and (later on) Dante Rossetti's "PaxVobis. "]

Almost one half of the April number is occupied with a "Dialogue onArt, " the composition of an Artist whose works are well known to thepublic. It was written during a period of ill health, which forbadthe use of the brush, and, taking his pen, he has given to the worldhis thoughts upon art in a paper which the _Edinburgh Review_ in itsbest days might have been proud to possess. 

Sure we are that not one of our readers will regret the length atwhich we have noticed this work. 

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The short and unpretending critique which I add from "Bell's WeeklyMessenger" was written, I believe, either by or at the instance ofMr. Bellamy, a gentleman who acted as secretary to the National Club. His son addressed me as editor of "The Germ, " in terms of greatardour, and through the son I on one occasion saw the father as well. 

_Art and Poetry. _ Nos. I. , II. , and III. London, Dickinson and Co. 

The present numbers are the commencement of a very usefulpublication, conducted principally by artists, the design of which isto "express thoughts towards Nature. " We see much to commend in itspages, which are also nicely illustrated in the mediaeval style ofart and in outline. The paper upon Shakespeare's tragedy of"Macbeth, " in the third number, abounds with striking passages, andwill be found to be well worthy of consideration. 

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I now proceed to "The Guardian. " The notice came out on August 20, 1850, some months after "The Germ" had expired. I do not now know whowrote it, and (so far as memory serves me) I never did know. Thewriter truly said that Millais "contributes nothing" to the magazine. This however was not Millais's fault, for he made an etching for aprose story by my brother (named "An Autopsychology, " or now "St. Agnes of Intercession"); and this etching, along with the story, hadbeen expected to appear in a No. 5 of "The Germ" which never cameout. The "very curious but very striking picture" by Rossetti was the"Annunciation, " now in the National British Gallery. 

_Art and Poetry. _ Being Thoughts towards Nature. Conductedprincipally by Artists. Dickinson and Co. , and Aylott and Jones. 

We are very sorry to find that, after a short life of four monthlynumbers, this magazine is not likely to be continued. Independentlyof the great ability displayed by some of its contributors, we havebeen anxious to see the rising school of young and clever artistsfind a voice, and tell us what they are aiming at, and how theypropose to reach their aim. This magazine was to a great extentconnected with the Pre-Raffaelle Brethren, whose paintings haveattracted this year a more than ordinary quantity of attention, andan amount of praise and blame perhaps equally extravagant. As mighthave been expected, the school has been identified with its cleverestmanipulator, Mr. Millais, and his merits or defects have been madethe measure of the admiration or contempt bestowed by the public uponthose whom it chooses to class with him. This is not matter ofcomplaint, but it is a mistake. As far as these papers enable us tojudge, Mr. Millais is by no means the leading _mind_ among hisfraternity; and judged by the principles of some clever and beautifulpapers upon art in the magazine before us, his pictures would bedescribed by them as wanting in some of the very highest artisticqualities, although possessing many which entitle them to attentionand respect. The chief contributors to this magazine (to which Mr. Millais contributes nothing) are other artists, as yet not greatlyknown, but with feeling and purpose about them such as must make themremarkable in time. Some of the best papers are by two brothers namedRossetti, one of whom, Mr. D. G. Rossetti, has a very curious butvery striking picture now exhibiting in the Portland Gallery. Mr. Deverell, who has also a very clever picture in the same gallery, contributes some beautiful poetry. It is perhaps chiefly in thepoetry that the abilities of these writers are displayed; for, withsomewhat absurd and much that is affected, there is yet in thepoetical pieces of these four numbers a beauty and grace of languageand sentiment, and not seldom a vigour of conception, altogetherabove the common run. Want of purpose may be easily charged againstthem as a fault, and with some justice, but it is a very commondefect of youthful poetry, which is sure to disappear with time ifthere be anything real and manly in the poet. The best pieces are toolong to extracted in entire, and are not to be judged of fairlyexcept as wholes. There is a very fine poem called "Repining" ofwhich this is particularly true. [Next comes a quotation of ChristinaRossetti's "Dream Land, " and of a portion of Dante Rossetti's"Blessed Damozel. "] The last number contains a remarkable dialogue onArt, written by a young man, John Orchard, who has since died. It iswell worth study. Kalon, Kosmon, Sophon, and Christian, whose names, of course, represent the opinions they defend, discuss a number ofsubjects connected with the arts. Each character is well supported, and the wisdom and candour of the whole piece is very striking, especially when we consider the youth and inexperience of the writer. Art lost a true and high-minded votary in Mr. Orchard. [A rather longextract from the "Dialogue" follows here. ]

It is a pity that the publication is to stop. English artists havehitherto worked each one by himself, with too little of commonpurpose, too little of mutual support, too little of distinct andsteadily pursued intellectual object. We do not believe that they areone whit more jealous than the followers of other professions. Butthey are less forced to be together, and the little jealousies whichdeform the natures of us all have in their case, for this reason, freer scope, and tend more to isolation. Here, at last, we have a_school_, ignorant it may be, conceited possibly, as yet with butvague and unrealised objects, but working together with a commonpurpose, according to certain admitted principles, and looking to oneanother for help and sympathy. This is new in England, and we arevery anxious it should have a fair trial. Its aim, moreover, howeverimperfectly attained as yet, is high and pure. No one can walk alongour streets and not see how debased and sensual our tastes havebecome. The saying of Burke (so unworthy of a great man), that viceloses half its evil by losing all its grossness, is practically actedupon, and voluptuous and seductive figures, recommended only by asoft effeminacy, swarm our shop-windows and defile our drawing-rooms. It is impossible to over-state the extent to which they minister to, and increase the foul sins of, a corrupt and luxurious age. A schoolof artists who attempt to bring back the popular taste to the severedraperies and pure forms of early art are at least deserving ofencouragement. Success in their attempt would be a national blessing. 

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Shrivelling in the Spring of 1850, "The Germ" showed no further signof sprouting for many years, though I suppose it may have been knownto the promoters of "The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine, " produced in1856, and may have furnished some incitement towards thatenterprise--again an unsuccessful one commercially. Gradually somepeople began to take a little interest in the knowledge that such apublication had existed, and to inquire after stray copies here andthere. This may perhaps have commenced before 1870, or at any rateshortly afterwards, as in that year the "Poems" of Dante Rossettiwere brought out, exciting a great amount of attention andadmiration, and curiosity attached to anything that he might havepublished before. One heard of such prices as ten shillings for a setof the "The Germ, " then £2, £10, £30, etc. , and in 1899 a copyhandsomely bound by Cobden-Saunderson was sold in America for about£104. Will that high-water mark ever be exceeded? For the sake ofcommon-sense, let us hope not. 

I will now go through the articles in "The Germ" one by one. Whereverany of them may seem to invite a few words of explanation I offersuch to the reader; and I give the names of the authors, when notnamed in the magazine itself. Those articles which do not call forany particular comment receive none here. 

On the wrapper of each number is to be found a sonnet, printed in arather aggressively Gothic type, beginning, "When whoso merely hath alittle thought. " This sonnet is my performance; it had been suggestedthat one or other of the proprietors of the magazine should write asonnet to express the spirit in which the publication was undertaken. I wrote the one here in question, which met with general acceptance;and I do not remember that any one else competed. This sonnet may notbe a good one, but I do not see why it should be consideredunintelligible. Mr. Bell Scott, in his "Autobiographical Notes, "expressed the opinion that to master the production would almost needa Browning Society's united intellects. And he then gave hisinterpretation, differing not essentially from my own. What I meantis this: A writer ought to think out his subject honestly andpersonally, not imitatively, and ought to express it with directnessand precision; if he does this, we should respect his performance astruthful, even though it may not be important. This indicated, forwriters, much the same principle which the P. R. B. Professed forpainters, --individual genuineness in the thought, reproductivegenuineness in the presentment. 

By Thomas Woolner: "My Beautiful Lady, " and "Of My Lady in Death. "These compositions were, I think, nearly the first attempts which Mr. Woolner made in verse; any earlier endeavours must have been few andslight. The author's long poem "My Beautiful Lady, " published in1863, started from these beginnings. Coventry Patmore, on hearing thepoems in September 1849, was considerably impressed by them: "theonly defect he found" (as notified in a letter from Dante Rossetti)"being that they were a trifle too much in earnest in the passionateparts, and too sculpturesque generally. He means by this that eachstanza stands too much alone, and has its own ideas too much toitself. "

By Ford Madox Brown: "The Love of Beauty: Sonnet. "

By John L. Tupper: "The Subject in Art. " Two papers, which do notcomplete the important thesis here undertaken. Mr. Tupper was, for anartist, a man of unusually scientific mind; yet he was not, I think, distinguished by that power of orderly and progressive expositionwhich befits an argumentation. These papers exhibit a good deal ofthought, and state several truths which, even if partial truths, arenot the less deserving of attention; but the dissertation does notproduce a very clear impression, inasmuch as there is too great areadiness to plunge, _in medias res_, checked by too great a tendencyto harking back, and re-stating some conclusion in modified terms andwith insecure corollaries. Two points which Mr. Tupper chieflyinsists upon are: (1) that the subject in a work of art affects thebeholder in the same sort of way as the same subject, occurring as afact or aspect of Nature, affects him; and thus whatever in Natureexcites the mental and moral emotion of man is a right subject forfine art; and (2), that subjects of our own day should not bediscarded in favour of those of a past time. These principles, alongwith others bearing in the same direction, underlie the propositionslately advanced by Count Leo Tolstoy in his most interesting andvaluable (though I think one-sided) book entitled "What is Art?"--andthe like may be said of the principles announced in the "Hand andSoul" of Dante Rossetti, and in the "Dialogue on Art" by JohnOrchard, through the mouths of two of the speakers, Christian andSophon. I have once or twice seen these papers by Mr. Tuppercommented upon to the effect that he wholly ignores the question ofart-merit in a work of art, the question whether it is good or bad inform, colour, etc. But this is a mistake, for in fact he allows thatthis is a relevant consideration, but declines to bring it within hisown lines of discussion. There is also a curious passage which hasbeen remarked upon as next door to absurd; that where, in treating ofvarious forms of still life as inferior subjects for art, he saysthat "the dead pheasant in a picture will always be as 'food, ' whilethe same at the poulterer's will be but a dead pheasant. " I do notperceive that this is really absurd. At the poulterer's (and Mr. Tupper has proceeded to say as much in his article) all the items arein fact food, and therefore the spectator attends to the differencesbetween them; one being a pheasant, one a fowl, one a rabbit, etc. But, in a varied collection of pictures, most of the worksrepresenting some subject quite unconnected with food; and, if yousee among them one, such as a dead pheasant, representing an articleof food, that is the point which primarily occurs to your mind asdistinguishing this particular picture from the others. The viewsexpressed by Mr. Tupper in these two papers should be regarded as hisown, and not by any means necessarily those upheld by thePraeraphaelite Brotherhood. The members of this body must howeverhave agreed with several of his utterances, and sympathized withothers, apart from strict agreement. 

By Patmore: "The Seasons. " This choice little poem was volunteered to"The Germ" in September, after the author had read our prospectus, which impressed him favourably. He withheld his name, much to ourdisappointment, having resolved to do so in all instances wheresomething of his might be published pending the issue of a newvolume. 

By Christina Rossetti: "Dream Land. " Though my sister was only justnineteen when this remarkable lyric was printed, she had already madesome slight appearance in published type (not to speak of theprivately printed "Verses" of 1847), as two small poems of hers hadbeen inserted in "The Athenaeum" in October 1848. "Dream Land" waswritten in April 1849, before "The Germ" was thought of; and it maybe as well to say that all my sister's contributions to this magazinewere produced without any reference to publication in that or in anyparticular form. 

By Dante G. Rossetti: "My Sister's Sleep. " This purports to be No. 1of "Songs of One Household. " I do not much think that Dante Rossettiever wrote any other poem which would have been proper to such aseries. "My Sister's Sleep" was composed very soon after he emergedfrom a merely juvenile stage of work. I believe that it dates before"The Blessed Damozel, " and therefore before May 1847. It is notfounded upon any actual event affecting the Rossetti family, nor anyfamily of our acquaintance. As I have said in my Memoir of my brother(1895), the poem was shown, perhaps early in 1848, by Major CalderCampbell to the editress of the "Belle Assemblée, " who heartilyadmired it, but, for one reason or another, did not publish it. Thiscomposition is somewhat noticeable on more grounds than one; notleast as being in a metre which was not much in use until it becamefamous in Tennyson's "In Memoriam, " published in 1850, and of coursetotally unknown to Rossetti when he wrote "My Sister's Sleep. " Inlater years my brother viewed this early work with some distaste, andhe only reluctantly reprinted it in his "Poems, " 1870. He then whollyomitted the four stanzas 7, 8, 12, 13, beginning: "Silence wasspeaking, " "I said, full knowledge, " "She stood a moment, " "Almostunwittingly"; and he made some other verbal alterations. {2} It willbe observed that this poem was written long before the Praeraphaelitemovement began. None the less it shows in an eminent degree one ofthe influences which guided that movement: the intimate intertextureof a spiritual sense with a material form; small actualities madevocal of lofty meanings. 

{2} I may call attention to Stanza 16, "She stooped an instant. " Theword is "stooped" in "The Germ, " and in the "Poems" of 1870. This isundoubtedly correct; but in my brother's re-issue of the "Poems, "1881, the word got mis-printed "stopped"; and I find the samemis-print in subsequent editions. 

By Dante G. Rossetti: "Hand and Soul. " This tale was, I think, written with an express view to its appearing in No. 1 of ourmagazine, and Rossetti began making for it an etching, which, thoughnot ready for No. 1, was intended to appear in some number later thanthe second. He drew it in March 1850; but, being disgusted with theperformance, he scratched the plate over, and tore up the prints. Thedesign showed Chiaro dell' Erma in the act of painting his embodiedSoul. Though the form of this tale is that of romantic metaphor, itssubstance is a very serious manifesto of art-dogma. It amounts tosaying, The only satisfactory works of art are those which exhibitthe very soul of the artist. To work for fame or self-display is afailure, and to work for direct moral proselytizing is a failure; butto paint that which your own perceptions and emotions urge you topaint promises to be a success for yourself, and hence a benefit tothe mass of beholders. This was the core of the "Praeraphaelite"creed; with the adjunct (which hardly came within the scope ofRossetti's tale, and yet may be partly traced there) that the artistcannot attain to adequate self-expression save through a stern studyand realization of natural appearances. And it may be said that tothis core of the Praeraphaelite creed Rossetti always adheredthroughout his life, greatly different though his later works arefrom his earlier ones in the externals of artistic style. Most of"Hand and Soul" was written on December 21, 1849, day and night, chiefly in some five hours beginning after midnight. Three currentsof thought may be traced in this story: (1) A certain amount ofknowledge regarding the beginnings of Italian art, mingled with someignorance, voluntary or involuntary, of what was possible to be donein the middle of the thirteenth century; (2) a highly ideal, yetindividual, general treatment of the narrative; and (3) a curiousaptitude at detailing figments as if they were facts. All aboutChiaro dell' Erma himself, Dresden and Dr. Aemmster, D'Agincourt, pictures at the Pitti Gallery, the author's visit to Florence in1847, etc. , are pure inventions or "mystifications"; but sorealistically put that they have in various instances been reliedupon and cited as truths. I gave some details as to this in my Memoirof Dante Rossetti. The style of writing in "Hand and Soul" is of avery exceptional kind. My brother had at that time a great affectionfor "Stories after Nature, " written by Charles Wells (author of"Joseph and his Brethren"), and these he kept in view to some extentas a model, though the direct resemblance is faint indeed. In theconversation of foreign art-students, forming the epilogue, he mayhave been not wholly oblivious of the scene in Browning's "PippaPasses" (a prime favourite of his), where some "foreign students ofpainting and sculpture" are preparing a disagreeable surprise for theFrench sculptor Jules. There is, however, no sort of imitation; andRossetti's dialogue is the more markedly natural of the two. Inre-reading "Hand and Soul, " I am struck by two passages which cametrue of Rossetti himself in after-life: (1) "Sometimes afternightfall he would walk abroad in the most solitary places he couldfind--hardly feeling the ground under him because of the thoughts ofthe day which held him in fever. " (2) "Often he would remain at workthrough the whole of a day, not resting once so long as the lightlasted. " When Rossetti, in 1869, was collecting his poems, andgetting them privately printed with a view to after-publication, hethought of including "Hand and Soul" in the same volume, but did noteventually do so. The privately-printed copy forms a small pamphlet, which has sometimes been sold at high prices--I believe £10 andupwards. At this time I pointed out to him that the church at Pisawhich he named San Rocco could not possibly have borne that name--SanRocco being a historical character who lived at a later date: theChurch was then re-named "San Petronio, " and this I believe is theonly change of the least importance introduced into the reprint. InDecember 1870 the tale was published in "The Fortnightly Review. " TheRev. Alfred Gurney (deceased not long ago) was a great admirer ofDante Rossetti's works. He published in 1883 a brochure named "ADream of Fair Women, a Study of some Pictures by Dante GabrielRossetti"; he also published an essay on "Hand and Soul, " giving amore directly religious interpretation to the story than its authorhad at all intended. It is entitled "A Painter's Day-dream. "

By W. M. Rossetti: "Review of Clough's Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich. "The only remark which I need to make on this somewhat ponderousarticle is that I, as Editor of "The Germ, " was more or less expectedto do the sort of work for which other "proprietors" had littleinclination--such especially as the regular reviewing of new poems. 

By W. M. Rossetti: "Her First Season: Sonnet. " As I have saidelsewhere, my brother and I were at one time greatly addicted towriting sonnets together to _bouts-rimés_: the date may have beenchiefly 1848, and the practice had, I think, quite ceased for somelittle while before "The Germ" commenced in 1850. This sonnet was oneof my _bouts-rimés_ performances. I ought to have been more charythan I was of introducing into our seriously-intended magazine suchhap-hazard things as _bouts-rimés_ poems: one reason for doing so wasthat we were often at a loss for something to fill a spare page. 

By John L. Tupper: "A Sketch from Nature. " The locality indicated inthese very spirited descriptive lines is given as "Sydenham Wood. "When I was compiling the posthumous volume of John Tupper's "Poems"which came out in 1897, I should, so far as merit is concerned, havewished to include this little piece: it was omitted solely on theground of its being already published. 

By Christina Rossetti: "An End. " Written in March 1849. 

By Collinson: "The Child Jesus, a Record Typical of the FiveSorrowful Mysteries. " Collinson, as I have already said, was hardly awriting man, and I question whether he had produced a line of verseprior to undertaking this by no means trivial task. The poem, likethe etching which he did for it, is deficient in native strength, noris there much invention in the symbolical incidents which make it up:but its general level, and several of its lines and passages, alwaysappeared to me, and still appear, highly laudable, and far betterthan could have been reckoned for. Here and there a telling line wassupplied by Dante Rossetti. Millais, when shortly afterwards inOxford, found that the poem had made some sensation there. It issingular that Collinson should, throughout his composition, speak ofNazareth as being on the sea-shore--which is the reverse of the fact. The Praeraphaelites, with all their love of exact truth to nature, were a little arbitrary in applying the principle; and Collinsonseems to have regarded it as quite superfluous to look into a map, and see whether Nazareth was near the sea or not. Or possibly hetrusted to Dante Rossetti's poem "Ave, " in which likewise Nazareth isa marine town. My brother advisedly stuck to this in 1869, when Ipointed out the error to him: he replied, "I fear the sea must remainat Nazareth: you know an old painter would have made no bones if hewanted it for his background. " I cannot say whether Collinson, if putto it, would have pleaded the like arbitrary and almost burlesqueexcuse: at any rate he made the blunder, and in a much more detailedshape than in Rossetti's lyric. "The Child Jesus" is, I think, thepoem of any importance that he ever wrote. 

By Christina Rossetti: "A Pause of Thought. " On the wrapper of "TheGerm" the writer's name is given as "Ellen Alleyn": this was mybrother's concoction, as Christina did not care to figure under herown name. "A Pause of Thought" was written in February 1848, when shewas but little turned of seventeen. Taken as a personal utterance(which I presume it to be, though I never inquired as to that, andthough it was at first named "Lines in Memory of Schiller's DerPilgrim"), it is remarkable; for it seems to show that, even at thatearly age, she aspired ardently after poetic fame, with a keen senseof "hope deferred. "

By F. G. Stephens (called "John Seward" on the wrapper): "The Purposeand Tendency of Early Italian Art. " This article speaks for itself asbeing a direct outcome of the Praeraphaelite movement: its aim is toenforce personal independent endeavour, based upon close study ofnature, and to illustrate the like qualities shown in the earlierschool of art. It is more hortatory than argumentative, and is infact too short to develop its thesis--it indicates some main pointsfor reflection. 

By W. Bell Scott: "Morning Sleep. " This poem delighted us extremelywhen Mr. Scott sent it in reply to a request for contributions. Istill think it a noticeably fine thing, and one of his most equablepieces of execution. It was republished in his volume of "Poems, "1875--with some verbal changes, and shortened, I think damaged. 

By Patmore: "Stars and Moon. "

By Ford Madox Brown: "On the Mechanism of a Historical Picture": Part1, the Design. It is by this time a well-recognized fact that Brownwas one of the men in England, or indeed in Europe, most capable ofpainting a historical picture, and it is a matter of regret that "TheGerm" came to an end before he had an opportunity of continuing andcompleting this serviceable compendium of precepts. He had studiedart in continental schools; but I do not think he imported into hisarticle much of what he had been taught, --rather what he had thoughtout for himself, and had begun putting into practice. 

By W. M. Rossetti: "Fancies at Leisure. " The first three of thesewere written to _bouts-rimés_. As to No. 1, "Noon Rest, " I have atolerably clear recollection that the rhymes were prescribed to me byMillais, on one of the days in 1849 when I was sitting to him for thehead of Lorenzo in his first Praeraphaelite picture from Keats's"Isabella. " No. 4, "Sheer Waste, " was not a _bouts-rimés_performance. It was chiefly the outcome of an early afternoon spentlazily in Regent's Park. 

By Walter H. Deverell: "The Light Beyond. " These sonnets are not ofvery finished execution, but they have a dignified sustained tone andsome good lines. Had Deverell lived a little longer, he mightprobably have proved that he had some genuine vocation as a poet, noless than a decided pictorial faculty. He died young in February1854. 

By Dante G. Rossetti: "The Blessed Damozel. " As to this celebratedpoem much might be said; but I shall not say it here, partly becauseI wrote an Introduction to a reprint (published by Messrs. Duckworthand Co. In 1898) of the "Germ" version of the poem, which is theearliest version extant, and in that Introduction I gave a number ofparticulars forestalling what I could now set down. I will howevertake this opportunity of correcting a blunder into which I fell inthe Introduction above mentioned. I called attention to "calm" and"warm, " which make a "cockney rhyme" in stanza 9 of this "Germ"version; and I said that, in the later version printed in "The Oxfordand Cambridge Magazine" in 1856, a change in the line was made, substituting "swam" for "calm, " and that the cockneyism, thoughshuffled, was not thus corrected. In "The Saturday Review, " June 25, 1898, the publication of Messrs. Duckworth was criticized; and thewriter very properly pointed out that I had made a crass mistake. "Mr. Rossetti, " he said, "must be a very hasty reader of texts. Whatis printed [in 'The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine'] is 'swarm, ' not'swam, ' and the rhyme with 'warm' is perfect, stultifying theeditor's criticism completely. " Probably the critic considered myerror as unaccountable as it was serious; and yet it could be fullyaccounted for, though not fully excused. I had not been "a very hastyreader of texts" in the sense indicated by "The Saturday Review. " Thefact is that, not possessing a copy of "The Oxford and CambridgeMagazine, " I had referred to the book brought out by Mr. WilliamSharp in 1882, "Dante Gabriel Rossetti: A Record and a Study, " inwhich are given (with every appearance of care and completeness) thepassages of "The Blessed Damozel" as they appeared in "The Germ, "with the alterations printed in "The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine. "From the latter, the line in question is given by Mr. Sharp as "Wastesea of worlds that swam"; and I, supposing him to be correct (thoughI allow that memory ought to have taught me the contrary), reproducedthat line to the same effect. "Always verify your references" is aprecept to which editors and commentators cannot too carefullyconform. Many thanks to the writer in "The Saturday Review" forshowing that, while I, and also Mr. Sharp, had made a mistake, mybrother had made none. 

By W. M. Rossetti: "Review of the Strayed Reveller and other Poems, by A. " As we all now know, "A. " was Matthew Arnold, and this was hisfirst published volume; but I, at the time of writing the review, knew nothing of the identity of "A. , " and even had I been told thathe was Matthew Arnold, that would have carried the matter hardly atall further. I remember that, after I had written the whole or mostof this admiring review, I found that the volume had been abused in"Blackwood's Magazine"; a fact of sweet savour to myself and otherP. R. B. 's, as we entertained a hearty detestation of that magazine, with its blustering "Christopher North, " and its traditions oftruculency against Keats, Shelley, Leigh Hunt, Tennyson, Ruskin, andsome others. I read "A. 's" volume with great attention, and piquedmyself somewhat upon having introduced into my review some reference(detailed or cursory) to every poem in it. Possibly (but I hardlythink so) the critique was afterwards shortened, so as to bereave itof this merit. 

By Madox Brown (the etching) and by W. M. Rossetti (the verses):"Cordelia. " For the belated No. 3 of "The Germ" we were much at aloss for an illustration. Mr. Brown offered to accommodate us byetching this design, one of a series from "King Lear" which he haddrawn in Paris in 1844. That series, though not very sightly to theeye, is of extraordinary value for dramatic insight and energy. Wegladly accepted, and he produced this etching with very littleself-satisfaction, so far as the technique of execution is concerned. Dante Rossetti was to have furnished some verses for the etching; butfor this he did not find time, so I was put in as a stopgap, and I amnot sure that any reader of "The Germ" has ever thanked me for myobedience to the call of duty. 

By Patmore: "Essay on Macbeth. " In this interesting andwell-considered paper Mr. Patmore assumes that he was the firstperson to put into writing the opinion that Macbeth, before meetingwith the witches, had already definitely conceived and imparted theidea of obtaining the crown of Scotland by wrongful means. I havealways felt some uncertainty whether Mr. Patmore was really thefirst; if he was, it certainly seems strange that the train ofreasoning which he furnishes in this essay--forcible, even if we donot regard it as unanswerable--should not have presented itself tothe mind and pen of some earlier writer. The Essay appears to havebeen left incomplete in at least one respect. In speaking of "thefifth scene, " the author refers to "postponement of comment" uponMacbeth's letter to his wife, and he "leaves it for the present. " Butthe comment never comes. 

By Christina Rossetti: "Repining. " This rather long poem, written inDecember 1847 on a still broader scale, was never republished by theauthoress, although all her other poems in "The Germ" were so. Shedid not think that its deservings were such as to call forrepublication. I apprehend that herein she exercised a wisediscretion: none the less, when I was compiling the volume of her"New Poems, " issued in 1896, I included "Repining"--for I think thatsome of the considerations which apply to the works of an authorwhile living do not remain in anything like full force after death. 

By Dante G. Rossetti: "The Carillon, Antwerp and Bruges. " Theseverses, and some others further on in "The Germ, " were written duringthe brief trip, in Paris and Belgium, which my brother made alongwith Holman-Hunt in the autumn of 1849. He did not republish "TheCarillon"; but he left in MS. An abridged form of it, with the title"Antwerp and Bruges, " and this I included in his "Collected Works, "1886. The only important change was the omission of stanzas 1 and 4. 

By Dante G. Rossetti: "From the Cliffs, Noon. " Altering some phrasesin this lyric, and adding two stanzas, Rossetti republished it underthe name of "The Sea-limits. "

By W. M. Rossetti: "Fancies at Leisure. " The first four were writtento _bouts-rimés_: not the fifth, "The Fire Smouldering, " which is, Ithink, as old as 1848, or even 1847. 

By John L. Tupper: "Papers of the MS. Society; No. 1, An Incident inthe Siege of Troy. " This grotesque outburst, though sprightly andclever, was not well-suited to the pages of "The Germ. " My attentionhad been called to it at an earlier date, when my editorial power wasunmodified, but I then staved it off, and indeed John Tupper himselfdid not deem it appropriate. It will be observed that "MS. Society"is said not to mean "Manuscript Society. " I forget what it didmean--possibly "Medical Student Society. " The whole thing is repletewith semi-private _sous-entendus_, and banter at Free Trade, medicaland anatomical matters, etc. The like general remarks apply to No. 4, "Smoke, " by the same writer. It is a rollicking semi-intelligiblechaunt, a forcible thing in its way, proper in the first instance (Ibelieve) to a sort of club of medical students, Royal Academystudents, and others--highly-seasoned smokers most of them--in whichJohn Tupper exercised a quasi-privacy, and was called (owing to histhinness, much over-stated in the poem) "The Spectro-cadaveral King. "No. 5, "Rain, " is again by John Tupper, and is the only item in "ThePapers of the MS. Society" which seems, in tone and method, to bereasonably appropriate for "The Germ. "

By Alexander Tupper: No. 2, "Swift's Dunces. "

By George I. F. Tupper: No. 3, "Mental Scales. " This also, in thescrappy condition which it here presents, reads rather as a joke thanas a serious proposition: I believe it was meant for the latter. 

By John L. Tupper: "Viola and Olivia. " The verses are not of muchsignificance. The etching by Deverell, however defective intechnique, claims more attention, as the Viola was drawn from MissElizabeth Eleanor Siddal, whom Deverell had observed in a bonnet-shopsome few months before the etching was done, and who in 1860 becamethe wife of Dante Rossetti. This face does not give much idea ofhers, and yet it is not unlike her in a way. The face of Olivia bearssome resemblance to Christina Rossetti: I think however that it wasdrawn, not from her, but from a sister of the artist. 

By John Orchard: "A Dialogue on Art. " The brief remarks prefacingthis dialogue were written by Dante Rossetti. The diction of thedialogue itself was also, at Orchard's instance, revised to someminor extent by my brother, and I dare say by me. Orchard was apainter of whom perhaps no memory remains at the present day: heexhibited some few pictures, among which I can dimly remember one of"The Flight of Archbishop Becket from England. " His age may, Isuppose, have been twenty-seven or twenty-eight years at the date ofhis death. In our circle he was unknown; but, conceiving a deepadmiration for Rossetti's first exhibited picture (1849), "TheGirlhood of Mary Virgin, " he wrote to him, enclosing a sonnet uponthe picture--a very bad sonnet in all executive respects, and farfrom giving promise of the spirited, if unequal, poetic treatmentwhich we find in the lines in "The Germ, " "On a Whit-Sunday Morn inthe Month of May. " This led to a call from Orchard to Rossetti. Ithink there was only one call, and I, as well as my brother, saw himon that occasion. Afterwards, he sent this dialogue for "The Germ. "The dialogue has always, and I think justly, been regarded as aremarkable performance. The form of expression is not impeccable, butthere is a large amount of eloquence, coming in aid of definite andexpansive thought. From what is here said it will be understood thatOrchard was quite unconnected with the P. R. B. He expressed opinionsof his own which may indeed have assimilated in some points totheirs, but he was not in any degree the mouthpiece of theirorganization, nor prompted by any member of the Brotherhood. In thedialogue, the speaker whose opinions appear manifestly to representthose of Orchard himself is Christian, who is mostly backed up bySophon. Christian forces ideas of purism or puritanism to an extreme, beyond anything which I can recollect as characterizing any of theP. R. B. His upholding of the painters who preceded Raphael as the bestmen for nurturing new and noble developments of art in our own daywas more in their line. In my brother's prefatory note a question israised of publishing any other writings which Orchard might have leftbehind. None such, however, were found. Dr. W. C. Bennett (afterwardsknown as the author of "Songs for Sailors, " etc. ), who had beenintimate with Orchard, aided my brother in his researches. 

By F. G. Stephens (called "Laura Savage" on the wrapper): "ModernGiants. "

By Dante G. Rossetti: "Pax Vobis. " Republished by the author, withsome alterations, under the title of "World's Worth. "

By Dante G. Rossetti: "Sonnets for Pictures. " No. 1, "A Virgin andChild, by Hans Memmeling, " was not reprinted by Rossetti, but isincluded (with a few verbal alterations made by him in MS. ) in his"Collected Works. " No. 2, "A Marriage of St. Katherine, by the same. "A similar observation. No. 3, "A Dance of Nymphs, by AndreaMantegna, " was republished by Rossetti, with some verbal alterations. No. 4, "A Venetian Pastoral, by Giorgione"--the like. The alterationshere are of considerable moment. Rossetti, in a published letter ofOctober 8, 1849, referred to the Giorgione picture as follows: "APastoral--at least, a kind of Pastoral--by Giorgione, which is sointensely fine that I condescended to sit down before it and write asonnet. You must have heard me rave about the engraving before, and, I fancy, have seen it yourself. There is a woman, naked, at one side, who is dipping a glass vessel into a well, and in the centre two menand another naked woman, who seem to have paused for a moment inplaying on the musical instruments which they hold. " Nos. 5 and 6, "Angelica Rescued from the Sea-Monster, by Ingres, " were alsoreprinted by the author, with scarcely any alteration. Patmore, onreading these two sonnets, was much struck with their truthfulness ofquality, as being descriptive of paintings. As to some of the othersonnets, Mr. W. M. Hardinge wrote in "Temple Bar, " several years ago, an article containing various pertinent and acute remarks. 

By W. M. Rossetti: "Review of Browning's Christmas Eve and EasterDay. " The only observation I need make upon this review--which wasmerely intended as introductory to a fuller estimate of the poem, toappear in an ensuing number of "The Germ"--is that it exemplifiesthat profound cultus of Robert Browning which, commenced by DanteRossetti, had permeated the whole of the Praeraphaelite Brotherhood, and formed, not less than some other ideas, a bond of union amongthem. It will be readily understood that, in Mr. Stephens's article, "Modern Giants, " the person spoken of as "the greatest perhaps ofmodern poets" is Browning. 

By W. M. Rossetti: "The Evil under the Sun: Sonnet. " This sonnet wascomposed in August 1849, when the great cause of the Hungarianinsurrection against Austrian tyranny was, like revolutionarymovements elsewhere, precipitating towards its fall. My originaltitle for the sonnet was, "For the General Oppression of the Betterby the Worse Cause, Autumn 1849. " When the verses had to be publishedin "The Germ, " a magazine which did not aim at taking any side inpolitics, it was thought that this title was inappropriate, and theother was substituted. At a much later date the sonnet was reprintedwith yet another and more significant title, "DemocracyDown-trodden. "

Having now disposed of "The Germ" in general, and singly of most ofthe articles in it, I have very little to add. The project ofreprinting the magazine was conceived by its present publisher, Mr. Stock, many years ago--perhaps about 1883. At that time severalcontributors assented, but others declined, and considerations ofcopyright made it impracticable to proceed with the project. It isonly now that lapse of time has disposed of the copyright question, and Mr. Stock is free to act as he likes. I was from the first one ofthose (the majority) who assented to the republication, acting hereinon behalf of my brother, then lately deceased, as well as of myself. I am quite aware that some of the articles in "The Germ" are far fromgood, and some others, though good in essentials, are to a certainextent juvenile; but juvenility is anything but uninteresting when itis that of such men as Coventry Patmore and Dante Rossetti. "TheGerm" contains nothing of which, in spirit and in purport, thewriters need be ashamed. If people like to read it without payingfancy prices for the original edition, they were and are, so far as Iam concerned, welcome to do so. Before Mr. Stock's long-standingscheme could be legally carried into effect, an American publisher, Mr. Mosher, towards the close of 1898, brought out a handsome reprintof "The Germ" (not in any wise a facsimile), and a few of the copieswere placed on sale in London. {3} Mr. Mosher gave as an introductionto his volume an article by the late J. Ashcroft Noble whichoriginally appeared in an English magazine in May 1882. This articleis entitled "A Pre-Raphaelite Magazine. " It is written in a spirit ofgenerous sympathy, and is mostly correct in its facts. I may heremention another article on "The Germ, " also published, towards 1868, in some magazine. It is by John Burnell Payne (originally a Clergymanof the Church of England), who died young in 1869. He wrote a tripletof articles, named "Praeraphaelite Poetry and Painting, " of whichPart I. Is on "The Germ. " He expresses himself sympatheticallyenough; but his main drift is to show that the Praeraphaelitemovement, after passing through some immature stages, developed intoa quasi-Renaissance result. A perusal of his paper will show that Mr. Payne was one of the persons who supposed Chiaro dell'Erma, the heroof "Hand and Soul, " to have been a real painter, author of an extantpicture. 

{3} I have seen in the "Irish Figaro", May 6, 1899, a very pleasantnotice, signed "J. Reid, " of this reprint. 

Mr. Stock's reprint is of the facsimile order, and even faults ofprint are reproduced. I am not called upon to say with any precisionwhat there are. On page 45 I observe "ear, " which should be "car"; onpage 62, Angilico, and Rossini (for Rosini). On page 155 the words, "I believe that the thought-wrapped philosopher, " ought to begin anew sentence. On page 159 "Phyrnes" ought of course to be "Phrynes. "The punctuation could frequently be improved. 

I will conclude by appending a little list (it makes no pretension tocompleteness) of writings bearing upon the Praeraphaelite Brotherhoodand its members. Writings of that kind are by this date rathernumerous; but some readers of the present pages may not well knowwhere to find them, and might none the less be inclined to read upthe subject a little. I give these works in the order (as far as Iknow it) of their dates, without any attempt to indicate the degreeof their importance. That is a question on which I naturallyentertain opinions of my own, but I shall not intrude them upon thereader. 

 Ruskin: Pre-Raphaelitism, 1854, and other later writings. F. G. Stephens: William Holman-Hunt and his Works, 1860. William Sharp: Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1882. Hall Caine: Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1882. Walter Hamilton: The aesthetic Movement in England, 1882. T. Watts-Dunton: The Truth about Rossetti, 1883, and other writings. W. Holman-Hunt: The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, 1884 (?). Earnest Chesneau: La Peinture Anglaise, 1884 (?). Joseph Knight: Life of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1887. W. M. Rossetti: Dante Gabriel Rossetti as Designer and Writer, 1889. Harry Quilter: Preferences in Art, 1892. W. Bell Scott: Autobiographical Notes, 1892. Esther Wood: Dante Rossetti and the Pre-Raphaelite Movement, 1894. Robert de la Sizeranne: La Peinture Anglaise Contemporaine, 1895. Dante G. Rossetti: Family Letters, with Memoir by W. M. Rossetti, 1895. Richard Muther: The History of Modern Painting, vols. Ii. And iii. , 1896. Ford H. M. Hueffer: Ford Madox Brown, 1896. Dante G. Rossetti: Letters to William Allingham, edited by Dr. Birkbeck Hill, 1897. M. H. Spielmann: Millais and his Works, 1898. Antonio Agresti: Poesie di Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Traduzione con uno Studio su la Pittura Inglese, etc. , 1899. Fraulein Wilmersdoerffer: Dante Gabriel Rossetti und sein Einflusz, 1899. Edited by W. M. Rossetti: Ruskin, Rossetti, Praeraphaelitism, 1899. J. Guille Millais: Life and Letters of Sir John Everett Millais, 1899. Percy H. Bate: The English Praeraphaelite Painters, 1899. H. C. Marillier: Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1899. Edited by W. M. Rossetti: Praeraphaelite Diaries and Letters, 1899. 

There are also books on Burne-Jones and Willaim Morris with which Iam not accurately acquainted. It seems strange that no memoir ofThomas Woolner has yet been published; a fine sculptor and remarkableman known to and appreciated by all sorts of people, and certain tohave figured extensively in correspondence. He died in October 1892. Mr. Holman-Hunt is understood to have been engaged for a long whilepast upon a book on Praeraphaelitism which would cast into the shademost of the earlier literature on the subject. 

 W. M. ROSSETTI London, _July 1899. _

N. B. --When the third number of the magazine was about to appear, witha change of title from "The Germ" to "Art and Poetry, " two fly-sheetswere drawn up, more, I think, by Messrs. Tupper the printing-firmthan by myself. They contain some "Opinions of the Press, " alreadyreferred to in this Introduction, and an explanation as to the changeof title. The fly-sheets appear in facsimile as follows:

"The Germ"

The Subscribers to this Periodical are respectfully informed thatin future it will appear under the title of "Art and Poetry"instead of the original arbitrary one, which occasioned muchmisapprehension--This alteration will not be productive of any illconsequence, as the title has never occurred in the work itself, andLabel will be supplied for placing on the old wrappers, so as to makethem conformable to the new--

It should also be noticed that the Numbers will henceforward bepublished on the last day of the Month for which they are dated--

Town Subscribers will oblige by filling up & returning theaccompanying form, which will ensure the Numbers being duly forwardedas directed. --

Country Subscribers may obtain their copies by kindly forwardingtheir orders to any Booksellers in their respective Neighborhoods. --

Opinions of the press. 

"... Original Poems, stories to develop thought and principle, essaysconcerning Art & other subjects, are the materials which are tocompose this unique addition to our periodical literature Among thepoetry, there are some rare gems of poetic conception; among theprose essays, we notice "the Subject in Art" which treats of Artitself in a noble and lofty tone, with the view which he must take ofit who would, in the truest sense of the word, be an Artist, andanother paper, not less interesting, on "the Purpose and Tendency ofEarly Italian Art" A well executed Etching in the medieval style, accompanies each number"

 John Bull. 

"... There are so many original and beautiful thoughts in thesepages--indeed some of the poems & tales are in themselves sobeautiful in spirit & form--that we have hopes of the writers, whenthey shall have got rid of those ghosts of mediaeval art which nowhaunt their every page. The essay 'On the Mechanism of a HistoricalPicture' is a good practical treatise, and indicates the hand ofwriting which is much wanted among artists"

 Morning Chronicle. 

"We depart from our usual plan of noticing the periodicals under oneheading, for the purpose of introducing to our readers a new aspirantfor public favour, which has pecu liar and uncommon claims toattention, for in design & execution it differs from all otherperiodicals ... A periodical largely occupied with poetry wears anunpromising aspect to readers who have learned from experience whatnonsensical stuff most fugitive Magazine poetry is.... But, when theyhave read a few extracts which we propose to make, we think they willown that for once appearances are deceitful.... That the contents ofthis work are the productions of no common minds, the followingextracts will sufficiently prove.... We have not space to take anyspecimens of the prose; but the essays on Art are conceived with anequal appreciation of its _meaning_ & requirements. Being such, thiswork has our heartiest wishes for its success, but we scarcely dareto _hope_ that it may win the popularity it deserves. The truth isthat it is too good for the time. It is not _material_ enough for theage"

 Critic. 

"... It bears unquestionable evidences of true inspirations and, infact, is so thoroughly spiritual that it is more likely to find 'thefit audience though few' than to attract the multitude ... The prosearticles are much to our taste ... We know, however, of no periodicalof the time which is so genuinely poetical and artistic in its tone. "

 Standard of Freedom. 

No. 1. (_Price One Shilling_. ) JANUARY, 1850. 

With an Etching by W. HOLMAN HUNT. 

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

 When whoso merely hath a little thought Will plainly think the thought which is in him, -- Not imaging another's bright or dim, Not mangling with new words what others taught; When whoso speaks, from having either sought Or only found, --will speak, not just to skim A shallow surface with words made and trim, But in that very speech the matter brought: Be not too keen to cry--"So this is all!-- A thing I might myself have thought as well, But would not say it, for it was not worth!" Ask: "Is this truth?" For is it still to tell That, be the theme a point or the whole earth, Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small?

London: AYLOTT & JONES, 8, PATERNOSTER ROW. 

G. F Tupper, Printer, Clement's Lane. Lombard Street. 

CONTENTS. 

 My Beautiful Lady: by _Thomas Woolner_ 1 Of my Lady in Death: by _Thomas Woolner_ 5 The Love of Beauty: by _F. Madox Brown_ 10 The Subject in Art, (No. 1. ) 11 The Seasons 19 Dream Land: by _Ellen Allyn_ 20 Songs of one Household, (My Sister's Sleep): by _Dante G. Rossetti_ 21 Hand and Soul: by _Dante G. Rossetti_ 23 REVIEWS: The "Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich": by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 34 Her First Season: by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 46 A Sketch From Nature 47 An End: by _Ellen Allyn_ 48

It is requested that those who may have by them any un-publishedPoems, Essays, or other articles appearing to coincide with the viewsin which this Periodical is established, and who may feel desirous ofcontributing such papers--will forward them, for the approval of theEditor, to the Office of publication. It may be relied upon that themost sincere attention will be paid to the examination of allmanuscripts, whether they be eventually accepted or declined. 

[Illustration]

My Beautiful Lady

 I love my lady; she is very fair; Her brow is white, and bound by simple hair; Her spirit sits aloof, and high, Altho' it looks thro' her soft eye Sweetly and tenderly. 

 As a young forest, when the wind drives thro', My life is stirred when she breaks on my view. Altho' her beauty has such power, Her soul is like the simple flower Trembling beneath a shower. 

 As bliss of saints, when dreaming of large wings, The bloom around her fancied presence flings, I feast and wile her absence, by Pressing her choice hand passionately-- Imagining her sigh. 

 My lady's voice, altho' so very mild, Maketh me feel as strong wine would a child; My lady's touch, however slight, Moves all my senses with its might, Like to a sudden fright. 

 A hawk poised high in air, whose nerved wing-tips Tremble with might suppressed, before he dips, -- In vigilance, not more intense Than I; when her word's gentle sense Makes full-eyed my suspense. 

 Her mention of a thing--august or poor, Makes it seem nobler than it was before: As where the sun strikes, life will gush, And what is pale receive a flush, Rich hues--a richer blush. 

 My lady's name, if I hear strangers use, -- Not meaning her--seems like a lax misuse. I love none by my lady's name; Rose, Maud, or Grace, are all the same, So blank, so very tame. 

 My lady walks as I have seen a swan Swim thro' the water just where the sun shone. There ends of willow branches ride, Quivering with the current's glide, By the deep river-side. 

 Whene'er she moves there are fresh beauties stirred; As the sunned bosom of a humming-bird At each pant shows some fiery hue, Burns gold, intensest green or blue: The same, yet ever new. 

 What time she walketh under flowering May, I am quite sure the scented blossoms say, "O lady with the sunlit hair! "Stay, and drink our odorous air-- "The incense that we bear:

 "Your beauty, lady, we would ever shade; "Being near you, our sweetness might not fade. " If trees could be broken-hearted, I am sure that the green sap smarted, When my lady parted. 

 This is why I thought weeds were beautiful;-- Because one day I saw my lady pull Some weeds up near a little brook, Which home most carefully she took, Then shut them in a book. 

 A deer when startled by the stealthy ounce, -- A bird escaping from the falcon's trounce, Feels his heart swell as mine, when she Stands statelier, expecting me, Than tall white lilies be. 

 The first white flutter of her robe to trace, Where binds and perfumed jasmine interlace, Expands my gaze triumphantly: Even such his gaze, who sees on high His flag, for victory. 

 We wander forth unconsciously, because The azure beauty of the evening draws: When sober hues pervade the ground, And life in one vast hush seems drowned, Air stirs so little sound. 

 We thread a copse where frequent bramble spray With loose obtrusion from the side roots stray, (Forcing sweet pauses on our walk): I'll lift one with my foot, and talk About its leaves and stalk. 

 Or may be that the prickles of some stem Will hold a prisoner her long garment's hem; To disentangle it I kneel, Oft wounding more than I can heal; It makes her laugh, my zeal. 

 Then on before a thin-legged robin hops, Or leaping on a twig, he pertly stops, Speaking a few clear notes, till nigh We draw, when quickly he will fly Into a bush close by. 

 A flock of goldfinches may stop their flight, And wheeling round a birchen tree alight Deep in its glittering leaves, until They see us, when their swift rise will Startle a sudden thrill. 

 I recollect my lady in a wood, Keeping her breath and peering--(firm she stood Her slim shape balanced on tiptoe--) Into a nest which lay below, Leaves shadowing her brow. 

 I recollect my lady asking me, What that sharp tapping in the wood might be? I told her blackbirds made it, which, For slimy morsels they count rich, Cracked the snail's curling niche:

 She made no answer. When we reached the stone Where the shell fragments on the grass were strewn, Close to the margin of a rill; "The air, " she said, "seems damp and chill, "We'll go home if you will. "

 "Make not my pathway dull so soon, " I cried, "See how those vast cloudpiles in sun-glow dyed, "Roll out their splendour: while the breeze "Lifts gold from leaf to leaf, as these "Ash saplings move at ease. "

 Piercing the silence in our ears, a bird Threw some notes up just then, and quickly stirred The covert birds that startled, sent Their music thro' the air; leaves lent Their rustling and blent, Until the whole of the blue warmth was filled So much with sun and sound, that the air thrilled. She gleamed, wrapt in the dying day's Glory: altho' she spoke no praise, I saw much in her gaze. 

 Then, flushed with resolution, I told all;-- The mighty love I bore her, --how would pall My very breath of life, if she For ever breathed not hers with me;-- Could I a cherub be, How, idly hoping to enrich her grace, I would snatch jewels from the orbs of space;-- Then back thro' the vague distance beat, Glowing with joy her smile to meet, And heap them round her feet. 

 Her waist shook to my arm. She bowed her head, Silent, with hands clasped and arms straightened: (Just then we both heard a church bell) O God! It is not right to tell: But I remember well

 Each breast swelled with its pleasure, and her whole Bosom grew heavy with love; the swift roll Of new sensations dimmed her eyes, Half closing them in ecstasies, Turned full against the skies. 

 The rest is gone; it seemed a whirling round-- No pressure of my feet upon the ground: But even when parted from her, bright Showed all; yea, to my throbbing sight The dark was starred with light. 

Of My Lady In Death

 All seems a painted show. I look Up thro' the bloom that's shed By leaves above my head, And feel the earnest life forsook All being, when she died:-- My heart halts, hot and dried As the parched course where once a brook Thro' fresh growth used to flow, -- Because her past is now No more than stories in a printed book. 

 The grass has grown above that breast, Now cold and sadly still, My happy face felt thrill:-- Her mouth's mere tones so much expressed! Those lips are now close set, -- Lips which my own have met; Her eyelids by the earth are pressed; Damp earth weighs on her eyes; Damp earth shuts out the skies. My lady rests her heavy, heavy rest. 

 To see her slim perfection sweep, Trembling impatiently, With eager gaze at me! Her feet spared little things that creep:-- "We've no more right, " she'd say, "In this the earth than they. " Some remember it but to weep. Her hand's slight weight was such, Care lightened with its touch; My lady sleeps her heavy, heavy sleep. 

 My day-dreams hovered round her brow; Now o'er its perfect forms Go softly real worms. Stern death, it was a cruel blow, To cut that sweet girl's life Sharply, as with a knife. Cursed life that lets me live and grow, Just as a poisonous root, From which rank blossoms shoot; My lady's laid so very, very low. 

 Dread power, grief cries aloud, "unjust, "-- To let her young life play Its easy, natural way; Then, with an unexpected thrust, Strike out the life you lent, Just when her feelings blent With those around whom she saw trust Her willing power to bless, For their whole happiness; My lady moulders into common dust. 

 Small birds twitter and peck the weeds That wave above her head, Shading her lowly bed: Their brisk wings burst light globes of seeds, Scattering the downy pride Of dandelions, wide: Speargrass stoops with watery beads: The weight from its fine tips Occasionally drips: The bee drops in the mallow-bloom, and feeds. 

 About her window, at the dawn, From the vine's crooked boughs Birds chirupped an arouse: Flies, buzzing, strengthened with the morn;-- She'll not hear them again At random strike the pane: No more upon the close-cut lawn, Her garment's sun-white hem Bend the prim daisy's stem, In walking forth to view what flowers are born. 

 No more she'll watch the dark-green rings Stained quaintly on the lea, To image fairy glee; While thro' dry grass a faint breeze sings, And swarms of insects revel Along the sultry level:-- No more will watch their brilliant wings, Now lightly dip, now soar, Then sink, and rise once more. My lady's death makes dear these trivial things. 

 Within a huge tree's steady shade, When resting from our walk, How pleasant was her talk! Elegant deer leaped o'er the glade, Or stood with wide bright eyes, Staring a short surprise: Outside the shadow cows were laid, Chewing with drowsy eye Their cuds complacently: Dim for sunshine drew near a milking-maid. 

 Rooks cawed and labored thro' the heat; Each wing-flap seemed to make Their weary bodies ache: The swallows, tho' so very fleet, Made breathless pauses there At something in the air:-- All disappeared: our pulses beat Distincter throbs: then each Turned and kissed, without speech, -- She trembling, from her mouth down to her feet. 

 My head sank on her bosom's heave, So close to the soft skin I heard the life within. My forehead felt her coolly breathe, As with her breath it rose: To perfect my repose Her two arms clasped my neck. The eve Spread silently around, A hush along the ground, And all sound with the sunlight seemed to leave. 

 By my still gaze she must have known The mighty bliss that filled My whole soul, for she thrilled, Drooping her face, flushed, on my own; I felt that it was such By its light warmth of touch. My lady was with me alone: That vague sensation brought More real joy than thought. I am without her now, truly alone. 

 We had no heed of time: the cause Was that our minds were quite Absorbed in our delight, Silently blessed. Such stillness awes, And stops with doubt, the breath, Like the mute doom of death. I felt Time's instantaneous pause; An instant, on my eye Flashed all Eternity:-- I started, as if clutched by wild beasts' claws, Awakened from some dizzy swoon: I felt strange vacant fears, With singings in my ears, And wondered that the pallid moon Swung round the dome of night With such tremendous might. A sweetness, like the air of June, Next paled me with suspense, A weight of clinging sense-- Some hidden evil would burst on me soon. 

 My lady's love has passed away, To know that it is so To me is living woe. That body lies in cold decay, Which held the vital soul When she was my life's soul. Bitter mockery it was to say-- "Our souls are as the same:" My words now sting like shame; Her spirit went, and mine did not obey. 

 It was as if a fiery dart Passed seething thro' my brain When I beheld her lain There whence in life she did not part. Her beauty by degrees, Sank, sharpened with disease: The heavy sinking at her heart Sucked hollows in her cheek, And made her eyelids weak, Tho' oft they'd open wide with sudden start. 

 The deathly power in silence drew My lady's life away. I watched, dumb with dismay, The shock of thrills that quivered thro' And tightened every limb: For grief my eyes grew dim; More near, more near, the moment grew. O horrible suspense! O giddy impotence! I saw her fingers lax, and change their hue. 

 Her gaze, grown large with fate, was cast Where my mute agonies Made more sad her sad eyes: Her breath caught with short plucks and fast:-- Then one hot choking strain. She never breathed again: I had the look which was her last: Even after breath was gone, Her love one moment shone, -- Then slowly closed, and hope for ever passed. 

 Silence seemed to start in space When first the bell's harsh toll Rang for my lady's soul. Vitality was hell; her grace The shadow of a dream: Things then did scarcely seem: Oblivion's stroke fell like a mace: As a tree that's just hewn I dropped, in a dead swoon, And lay a long time cold upon my face. 

 Earth had one quarter turned before My miserable fate Pressed on with its whole weight. My sense came back; and, shivering o'er, I felt a pain to bear The sun's keen cruel glare; It seemed not warm as heretofore. Oh, never more its rays Will satisfy my gaze. No more; no more; oh, never any more. 

The Love of Beauty

 John Boccaccio, love's own squire, deep sworn In service to all beauty, joy, and rest, -- When first the love-earned royal Mary press'd, To her smooth cheek, his pale brows, passion-worn, -- 'Tis said, he, by her grace nigh frenzied, torn By longings unattainable, address'd To his chief friend most strange misgivings, lest Some madness in his brain had thence been born. The artist-mind alone can feel his meaning:-- Such as have watched the battle-rank'd array Of sunset, or the face of girlhood seen in Line-blending twilight, with sick hope. Oh! they May feed desire on some fond bosom leaning: But where shall such their thirst of Nature stay?

The Subject in Art

(No. 1. )

If Painting and Sculpture delight us like other works of ingenuity, merely from the difficulties they surmount; like an 'egg in abottle, ' a tree made out of stone, or a face made of pigment; and thepleasure we receive, is our wonder at the achievement; then, to suchas so believe, this treatise is not written. But if, as the writerconceives, works of Fine Art delight us by the interest the objectsthey depict excite in the beholder, just as those objects in naturewould excite his interest; if by any association of ideas in the onecase, by the same in the other, without reference to therepresentations being other than the objects they represent:--then, to such as so believe, the following upon 'SUBJECT' is addressed. Whilst, at the same time, it is not disallowed that a subsequentpleasure may and does result, upon reflecting that the objectscontemplated were the work of human ingenuity. 

Now the subject to be treated, is the 'subject' of Painter andSculptor; what ought to be the nature of that 'subject, ' how far thatsubject may be drawn from past or present time with advantage, howfar the subject may tend to confer upon its embodiment the title, 'High Art, ' how far the subject may tend to confer upon itsembodiment the title 'Low Art;' what is 'High Art, ' what is 'LowArt'?

To begin then (at the end) with 'High Art. ' However we may differ asto facts, the principle will be readily granted, that 'High Art, '_i. E. _ Art, par excellence, Art, in its most exalted character, addresses pre-eminently the highest attributes of man, viz. : hismental and his moral faculties. 

'Low Art, ' or Art in its less exalted character, is that whichaddresses the less exalted attributes of man, viz. : his mere sensoryfaculties, without affecting the mind or heart, excepting through thevolitional agency of the observer. 

These definitions are too general and simple to be disputed; butbefore we endeavour to define more particularly, let us analyze thesubject, and see what it will yield. 

All the works which remain to us of the Ancients, and this appearssomewhat remarkable, are, with the exception of those by incompetentartists, universally admitted to be 'High Art. ' Now do we afford themthis high title, because all remnants of the antique world, bytempting a comparison between what was, and is, will set the mentalfaculties at work, and thus address the highest attributes of man?Or, as this is owing to the agency of the observer, and not to thesubject represented, are we to seek for the cause in the subjectsthemselves!

Let us examine the subjects. They are mostly in sculpture; but thiscannot be the cause, unless all modern sculpture be considered 'HighArt. ' This is leaving out of the question in both ages, all worksbadly executed, and obviously incorrect, of which there are numerousexamples both ancient and modern. 

The subjects we find in sculpture are, in "the round, " mostly men orwomen in thoughtful or impassioned action: sometimes they are indeedacting physically; but then, as in the Jason adjusting his Sandal, acting by mechanical impulse, and thinking or looking in anotherdirection. In relievo we have an historical combat, such as thatbetween the Centaurs and Lapithae; sometimes a group in conversation, sometimes a recitation of verses to the Lyre; a dance, or religiousprocession. 

As to the first class in "the round, " as they seem to appeal to theintellectual, and often to the moral faculties, they are naturally, and according to the broad definition, works of 'High Art. ' Of therelievo, the historical combat appeals to the passions; and, beinghistorical, probably to the intellect. The like may be said of theconversational groups, and lyrical recitation which follow. The danceappeals to the passions and the intellect; since the intellectrecognises therein an order and design, her own planning; while thesolemn, modest demeanour in the religious procession speaks to theheart and the mind. The same remarks will apply to the few ancientpaintings we possess, always excluding such merely decorative worksas are not fine art at all. 

Thus it appears that all these works of the ancients _might_rationally have been denominated works of 'High Art;' and here weremark the difference between the hypothetical or rational, and thehistorical account of facts; for though here is _reason_ enough whyancient art _might_ have been denominated 'High Art, ' that it _was_so denominated on this account, is a position not capable of proof:whereas, in all probability, the true account of the matter runsthus--The works of antiquity awe us by their time-hallowed presence;the mind is sent into a serious contemplation of things; and, thesubject itself in nowise contravening, we attribute all this potenteffect to the agency of the subject before us, and 'High Art, ' itbecomes _then_ and _for ever_, with all such as "follow its cut. " Butthen as this was so named, not from the abstract cause, but from aresult and effect; when a _new_ work is produced in a similar spirit, but clothed in a dissimilar matter, and the critics have to settle towhat class of art it belongs, --then is the new work dragged up tofight with the old one, like the poor beggar Irus in front ofUlysses; then are they turned over and applied, each to each, likethe two triangles in Euclid; and then, if they square, fit and tallyin every quarter--with the nude to the draped in the one, as the nudeto the draped in the other--with the standing to the sitting in theone, as the standing to the sitting in the other--with the fat to thelean in the one, as the fat to the lean in the other--with the youngto the old in the one, as the young to the old in the other--withhead to body, as head to body; and nose to knee, as nose to knee, &c. &c. , (and the critics have done a great deal)--then is the workoracularly pronounced one of 'High Art;' and the obsequious artist ispleased to consider it is. 

But if, per contra, as in the former case, the works are not to beliterally reconciled, though wrought in the self-same spirit; thenthis unfortunate creature of genius is degraded into a lower rank ofart; and the artist, if he have faith in the learned, despairs; or, if he have none, he _swears_. But listen, an artist speaks: "If Ihave genius to produce a work in the true spirit of high art, and yetam so ignorant of its principles, that I scarce know whereon thesuccess of the work depends, and scarcely whether I have succeeded orno; with this ignorance and this power, what needs your knowledge oryour reasoning, seeing that nature is all-sufficient, and produces apainter as she produces a plant?" To the artist (the last of hisrace), who spoke thus, it is answered, that science is not meant forhim, if he like it not, seeing he can do without it, and seeing, moreover, that with it _alone_ he can never do. Science here does notmake; it unmakes, wonderingly to find the making of what God hasmade--of what God has made through the poet, leading him blindly by apath which he has not known; this path science follows slowly and inwonder. But though science is not to make the artist, there is noreason in nature that the artist reject it. Still, science isproperly the birthright of the critic; 'tis his all in all. It showshim poets, painters, sculptors, his fellow men, often his inferiorsin their want of it, his superiors in the ability to do what hecannot do; it teaches him to love them as angels bringing him foodwhich _he_ cannot attain, and to venerate their works as a gift fromthe Creator. 

But to return to the critical errors relating to 'High Art. ' Whilethe constituents of high art were unknown, whilst its abstractprinciples were unsought, and whilst it was only recognized in theconcrete, the critics, certainly guilty of the most unpardonableblindness, blundered up to the masses of 'High Art, ' left byantiquity, saying, "there let us fix our observatory, " and here cameout perspective glass, and callipers and compasses; and here theymade squares and triangles, and circles, and ellipses, for, saidthey, "this is 'High Art, ' and this hath certain proportions;" thenin the logic of their hearts, they continued, "all these proportionswe know by admeasurement, whatsoever hath these is 'High Art, 'whatsoever hath not, is 'Low Art. '" This was as certain as the factthat the sun is a globe of glowing charcoal, because forsooththey both yield light and heat. Now if the phantom of a thenembryon-electrician had arisen and told them that their "high artmarbles possessed an electric influence, which, acting in thebrain of the observer, would awake in him emotions of so exalteda character, that he forthwith, inevitably nodding at them, must utter the tremendous syllables 'High Art;'" he, the thenembryon-electrician, from that age withheld to bless and irradiatethe physiology of ours, would have done something more to the purposethan all the critics and the compasses. 

Thus then we see, that the antique, however successfully it may havewrought, is not our model; for, according to that faith demanded atsetting out, fine art delights us from its being the semblance ofwhat in nature delights. Now, as the artist does not work by theinstrumentality of rule and science, but mainly by an instinctiveimpulse; if he copy the antique, unable as he is to segregate themerely delectable matter, he must needs copy the whole, and therebymultiply models, which the casting-man can do equally well; whereasif he copy nature, with a like inability to distinguish thatdelectable attribute which allures him to copy her, and under thesame necessity of copying the whole, to make sure of this "tenant ofnowhere;" we then have the artist, the instructed of nature, fulfilling his natural capacity, while his works we have as manifoldyet various as nature's own thoughts for her children. 

But reverting to the subject, it was stated at the beginning that'Fine Art' delights, by presenting us with objects, which in naturedelight us; and 'High Art' was defined, that which addresses theintellect; and hence it might appear, as delight is an emotion of themind, that 'Low Art, ' which addresses the senses, is not Fine Art atall. But then it must be remembered, that it was neither stated of'Fine Art, ' nor of 'High Art, ' that it always delights; and again, that delight is not entirely mental. To point out the confines ofhigh and low art, where the one terminates and the other commences, would be difficult, if not impracticable without sub-defining orcircumscribing the import of the terms, pain, pleasure, delight, sensory, mental, psychical, intellectual, objective, subjective, &c. &c. ; and then, as little or nothing would be gained mainly pertinentto the subject, it must be content to receive no better definitionsthan those broad ones already laid down, with their latitude somewhatcorrected by practical examples. Yet before proceeding to give theseexamples, it might be remarked of 'High Art, ' that it always might, if it do not always excite some portion of delight, irrespective ofthat subsequent delight consequent upon the examination of acuriosity; that its function is sometimes, with this portion ofdelight, to commingle grief or distress, and that it may, (thoughthis is _not_ its function, ) excite mental anguish, and by a reflexaction, actual body pain. Now then to particularize, by example; letus suppose a perfect and correct painting of a stone, a common stonesuch as we walk over. Now although this subject might to a religiousman, suggest a text of scripture; and to the geologist a theory ofscientific interest; yet its general effect upon the average numberof observers will be readily allowed to be more that of wonder oradmiration at a triumph over the apparently impossible (to make around stone upon a flat piece of canvass) than at aught else thesubject possesses. Now a subject such as this belongs to such verylow art, that it narrowly illudes precipitation over the confines ofFine Art; yet, that it is Fine Art is indisputable, since no meremechanic artisan, or other than one specially gifted by nature, couldproduce it. This then shall introduce us to "Subject. " This subjectthen, standing where fine art gradually confines with mechanic art, and almost midway between them; of no use nor beauty; but to bewondered at as a curiosity; is a subject of scandalous import to theartist, to the artist thus gifted by nature with a talent toreproduce her fleeting and wondrous forms. But if, as the writerdoubts, nature could afford a monster so qualified for a poet, yetdestitute of poetical genius; then the scandal attaches if he attempta step in advance, or neglect to join himself to those, a most usefulclass of mechanic artists, who illustrate the sciences by drawing anddiagram. 

But as the subject supposed is one never treated in painting; onlyinstanced, in fact, to exemplify an extreme; let us consider themerits of a subject really practical, such as 'dead game, ' or 'abasket of fruit;' and the first general idea such a subject willexcite is simply that of _food_, 'something to eat. ' For though fruiton the tree, or a pheasant in the air, is a portion of nature andproperly belongs to the section, 'Landscape, ' a division of artintellectual enough; yet gather the fruit or bring down the pheasant, and you presently bring down the poetry with it; and although Sternecould sentimentalize upon a dead ass; and though a dead pheasant inthe larder, or a dead sheep at a butcher's, may excite feelings akinto anything but good living; and though they may _there_ be theexcitive causes of poetical, nay, or moral reflexion; yet, see themon the canvass, and the first and uppermost idea will be that of'_Food_, ' and how, in the name of decency, they ever came there. Itwill be vain to argue that gathered fruit is only nature under acertain phase, and that a dead sheep or a dead pheasant is only adead animal like a dead ass--it will be pitiably vain and miserablesophistry, since we know that the dead pheasant in a picture willalways be as _food_, while the same at he poulterer's will be but adead pheasant. 

For we have not one only, but numerous general ideas annexed to everyobject in nature. Thus one of the series may be that that object ismatter, one that it is individual matter, one that it is animalmatter, one that it is a bird, one that it is a pheasant, one that itis a dead pheasant, and one that it is food. Now, our general ideasor notions are not evoked in this order as each new object addressesthe mind; but that general idea is _first_ elicited which accordswith the first or principle destination of the object: thus the firstgeneral idea of a cowry, to the Indian, is that of money, not of ashell; and our first general idea of a dead pheasant is that of food, whereas to a zoologist it might have a different effect: but this isthe exception. But it was said, that a dead pheasant in a picturewould always be as food, while the same at the poulterer's would bebut a dead pheasant: what then becomes of the first general idea? Itseems to be disposed of thus: at the first sight of the shop, theidea is that of food, and next (if you are not hungry, and poetsnever are), the mind will be attracted to the species of animal, and (unless hunger presses) you may be led on to moralize likeSterne: but, amongst pictures, where there is nothing else toexcite the general ideas of food, this, whenever adverted to, must over re-excite that idea; and hence it appears that these_esculent_ subjects might be poetical enough if exhibited alltogether, _i. E. _, they must be surrounded with eatables, likea possibly-poetical-pheasant in a poulterer's shop. 

Longer stress has been laid upon this subject, "Still Life, " thanwould seem justified by its insignificance, but as this is a branchof art which has never aspired to be 'High Art, ' it containssomething definite in its character which makes it better worth theanalysis than might appear at first sight; but still, as a latitudehas been taken in the investigation which is ever unavoidable in thehandling of such mercurial matter as poetry (where one must spreadout a broad definition to catch it wherever it runs), and as this isever incomprehensible to such as are unaccustomed to abstractthinking, from the difficulty of educing a rule amidst an infinitearray of exceptions, and of recognising a principle shrouded in theobscurity of conflicting details; it appears expedient, beforepursuing the question, to reinforce the first broad elementaryprinciples with what definite modification they may have acquired intheir progress to this point in the argument, together with theadditional data which may have resulted from analytic reference toother correlative matter. 

First then, as Fine Art delights in proportion to the delectatinginterest of the objects it depicts, and, as subsequently stated, grieves or distresses in proportion as the objects are grievous ordistressing, we have this resultant: "Fine Art _excites_ inproportion to the excitor influence of the object;" and then, that"_fine art_ excites either the sensory or the mental faculties, in alike proportion to the excitor properties of the objectsrespectively. " Thus then we have, definitely stated, the powers orcapabilities of _Fine Art_, as regulated and governed by the objectsit selects, and the objects it selects making its subject. Now thequestion in hand is, "what the nature of that _subject_ should be, "but the _subject_ must be according to what Fine Art proposes toeffect; all then must depend upon this proposition. For if youpropose that Fine Art shall excite sensual pleasure, then suchobjects as excite sensual pleasure should form the _subject_ of FineArt; and those which excite sensual pleasure in the highest degree, will form the _highest subject_--'High Art. ' Or if you propose thatFine Art shall excite a physical energetic activity, by addressingthe sensory organism, which is a phase of the former proposition, (for what are popularly called sensual pleasures, are only particularsensory excitements sought by a physical appetite, while thissensory-organic activity is physically appetent also, ) then thesubjects of art ought to be draw form such objects as excite ageneral activity, such as field-sports, bull-fights, battles, executions, court pageants, conflagrations, murders; and those whichmost intensely excite this sensory-organic activity, by expressingmost of physical human power or suffering, such as battles, executions, regality, murder, would afford the _highest subject_ ofFine Art, and consequently these would be "_High Art_. " But if youpropose (with the writer) that _Fine Art_ shall regard the generalhappiness of man, but addressing those attributes which are_peculiarly human_, by exciting the activity of his rational andbenevolent powers (and the writer would add, man's religiousaspirations, but omits it as sufficiently evolvable from theproposition, and since some well-willing men cannot at presentrecognize man as a religious animal), then the subject of Fine Artshould be drawn from objects which address and excite the activity ofman's rational and benevolent powers, such as:--acts of justice--ofmercy--good government--order--acts of intellect--men obviouslyspeaking or thinking abstract thoughts, as evinced by one speaking toanother, and looking at, or indicating, a flower, or a picture, or astar, or by looking on the wall while speaking--or, if the scene befrom a _good_ play, or story, or another beneficent work, then notonly of men in abstract thought or meditation, but, it may be, insimple conversation, or in passion--or a simple representation of aperson in a play or story, as of Jacques, Ferdinand, or Cordelia; or, in real life, portraits of those who are honestly beautiful; orexpressive of innocence, happiness, benevolence, or intellectuality, but not of gluttony, wantonness, anger, hatred, or malevolence, unless in some cases of justifiable satire--of histrionic or historicportraiture--landscape--natural phenomena--animals, not_indiscriminately_--in some cases, grand or beautiful buildings, evenwithout figures--any scene on sea or land which inducesreflection--all subjects from such parts of history as are morally orintellectually instructive or attractive--and thereforepageants--battles--and _even_ executions--all forms of thought andpoetry, however wild, if consistent with rational benevolence--allscenes serious or comic, domestic or historical--all religioussubjects proposing good that will not shock any reasonable number ofreasonable men--all subjects that leave the artist wiser andhappier--and none which intrinsically act otherwise--to sum all, every thing or incident in nature which excites, or may be made toexcite, the mind and the heart of man as a mentally intelligent, notas a brute animal, is a subject for Fine Art, at all times, in allplaces, and in all ages. But as all these subjects in nature affectour hearts or our understanding in proportion to the heart andunderstanding we have to apprehend and to love them, those willexcite us most intensely which we know most of and love most. But aswe may learn to know them all and to love them all, and what is darkto-day may be luminous to-morrow, and things, dumb to-day, to-morrowgrow voiceful, and the strange voice of to-day be plain and reproachus to-morrow; who shall adventure to say that this or that is thehighest? And if it appear that all these subjects in nature _may_affect us with equal intensity, and that the artist's representationsaffect as the subjects affect, then it follows, with all thesesubjects, Fine Art may affect us equally; but the subjects may all behigh; therefore, all Fine Art may be High Art. 

The Seasons

 The crocus, in the shrewd March morn, Thrusts up its saffron spear; And April dots the sombre thorn With gems, and loveliest cheer. 

 Then sleep the seasons, full of might; While slowly swells the pod, And rounds the peach, and in the night The mushroom bursts the sod. 

 The winter falls: the frozen rut Is bound with silver bars; The white drift heaps against the hut; And night is pierced with stars. 

Dream Land

 Where sunless rivers weep Their waves into the deep, She sleeps a charmed sleep; Awake her not. Led by a single star, She came from very far, To seek where shadows are Her pleasant lot. 

 She left the rosy morn, She left the fields of corn, For twilight cold and lorn, And water-springs. Thro' sleep, as thro' a veil, She sees the sky look pale, And hears the nightingale, That sadly sings. 

 Rest, rest, a perfect rest, Shed over brow and breast; Her face is toward the west, The purple land. She cannot see the grain Ripening on hill and plain; She cannot feel the rain Upon her hand. 

 Rest, rest, for evermore Upon a mossy shore, Rest, rest, that shall endure, Till time shall cease;-- Sleep that no pain shall wake, Night that no morn shall break, Till joy shall overtake Her perfect peace. 

Songs of One Household

No. 1. 

My Sister's Sleep

 She fell asleep on Christmas Eve. Upon her eyes' most patient calms The lids were shut; her uplaid arms Covered her bosom, I believe. 

 Our mother, who had leaned all day Over the bed from chime to chime, Then raised herself for the first time, And as she sat her down, did pray. 

 Her little work-table was spread With work to finish. For the glare Made by her candle, she had care To work some distance from the bed. 

 Without, there was a good moon up, Which left its shadows far within; The depth of light that it was in Seemed hollow like an altar-cup. 

 Through the small room, with subtle sound Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove And reddened. In its dim alcove The mirror shed a clearness round. 

 I had been sitting up some nights, And my tir'd mind felt weak and blank; Like a sharp strengthening wine, it drank The stillness and the broken lights. 

 Silence was speaking at my side With an exceedingly clear voice: I knew the calm as of a choice Made in God for me, to abide. 

 I said, "Full knowledge does not grieve: This which upon my spirit dwells Perhaps would have been sorrow else: But I am glad 'tis Christmas Eve. "

 Twelve struck. That sound, which all the years Hear in each hour, crept off; and then The ruffled silence spread again, Like water that a pebble stirs. 

 Our mother rose from where she sat. Her needles, as she laid them down, Met lightly, and her silken gown Settled: no other noise than that. 

 "Glory unto the Newly Born!" So, as said angels, she did say; Because we were in Christmas-day, Though it would still be long till dawn. 

 She stood a moment with her hands Kept in each other, praying much; A moment that the soul may touch But the heart only understands. 

 Almost unwittingly, my mind Repeated her words after her; Perhaps tho' my lips did not stir; It was scarce thought, or cause assign'd. 

 Just then in the room over us There was a pushing back of chairs, As some who had sat unawares So late, now heard the hour, and rose. 

 Anxious, with softly stepping haste, Our mother went where Margaret lay, Fearing the sounds o'erhead--should they Have broken her long-watched for rest!

 She stooped an instant, calm, and turned; But suddenly turned back again; And all her features seemed in pain With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned. 

 For my part, I but hid my face, And held my breath, and spake no word: There was none spoken; but _I heard_ _The silence_ for a little space. 

 My mother bowed herself and wept. And both my arms fell, and I said: "God knows I knew that she was dead. " And there, all white, my sister slept. 

 Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn A little after twelve o'clock We said, ere the first quarter struck, "Christ's blessing on the newly born!"

Hand and Soul

 "Rivolsimi in quel lato Là 'nde venia la voce, E parvemi una luce Che lucea quanto stella: La mia mente era quella. "

 _Bonaggiunta Urbiciani_, (1250. )

Before any knowledge of painting was brought to Florence, there werealready painters in Lucca, and Pisa, and Arezzo, who feared God andloved the art. The keen, grave workmen from Greece, whose trade itwas to sell their own works in Italy and teach Italians to imitatethem, had already found rivals of the soil with skill that couldforestall their lessons and cheapen their crucifixes and_addolorate_, more years than is supposed before the art came at allinto Florence. The pre-eminence to which Cimabue was raised at onceby his contemporaries, and which he still retains to a wide extenteven in the modern mind, is to be accounted for, partly by thecircumstances under which he arose, and partly by that extraordinary_purpose of fortune_ born with the lives of some few, and throughwhich it is not a little thing for any who went before, if they areeven remembered as the shadows of the coming of such an one, and thevoices which prepared his way in the wilderness. It is thus, almostexclusively, that the painters of whom I speak are now known. Theyhave left little, and but little heed is taken of that which men holdto have been surpassed; it is gone like time gone--a track of dustand dead leaves that merely led to the fountain. 

Nevertheless, of very late years, and in very rare instances, somesigns of a better understanding have become manifest. A case in pointis that of the tryptic and two cruciform pictures at Dresden, byChiaro di Messer Bello dell' Erma, to which the eloquent pamphlet ofDr. Aemmster has at length succeeded in attracting the students. There is another, still more solemn and beautiful work, now proved tobe by the same hand, in the gallery at Florence. It is the one towhich my narrative will relate. 

 * * * * * * *

This Chiaro dell' Erma was a young man of very honorable family inArezzo; where, conceiving art almost, as it were, for himself, andloving it deeply, he endeavored from early boyhood towards theimitation of any objects offered in nature. The extreme longing aftera visible embodiment of his thoughts strengthened as his yearsincreased, more even than his sinews or the blood of his life; untilhe would feel faint in sunsets and at the sight of stately persons. When he had lived nineteen years, he heard of the famous GiuntaPisano; and, feeling much of admiration, with, perhaps, a little ofthat envy which youth always feels until it has learned to measuresuccess by time and opportunity, he determined that he would seek outGiunta, and, if possible, become his pupil. 

Having arrived in Pisa, he clothed himself in humble apparel, beingunwilling that any other thing than the desire he had for knowledgeshould be his plea with the great painter; and then, leaving hisbaggage at a house of entertainment, he took his way along thestreet, asking whom he met for the lodging of Giunta. It soon chancedthat one of that city, conceiving him to be a stranger and poor, tookhim into his house, and refreshed him; afterwards directing him onhis way. 

When he was brought to speech of Giunta, he said merely that he was astudent, and that nothing in the world was so much at his heart as tobecome that which he had heard told of him with whom he was speaking. He was received with courtesy and consideration, and shewn into thestudy of the famous artist. But the forms he saw there were lifelessand incomplete; and a sudden exultation possessed him as he saidwithin himself, "I am the master of this man. " The blood came atfirst into his face, but the next moment he was quite pale and fellto trembling. He was able, however, to conceal his emotion; speakingvery little to Giunta, but, when he took his leave, thanking himrespectfully. 

After this, Chiaro's first resolve was, that he would work outthoroughly some one of his thoughts, and let the world know him. Butthe lesson which he had now learned, of how small a greatness mightwin fame, and how little there was to strive against, served to makehim torpid, and rendered his exertions less continual. Also Pisa wasa larger and more luxurious city than Arezzo; and, when in his walks, he saw the great gardens laid out for pleasure, and the beautifulwomen who passed to and fro, and heard the music that was in thegroves of the city at evening, he was taken with wonder that he hadnever claimed his share of the inheritance of those years in whichhis youth was cast. And women loved Chiaro; for, in despite of theburthen of study, he was well-favoured and very manly in his walking;and, seeing his face in front, there was a glory upon it, as upon theface of one who feels a light round his hair. 

So he put thought from him, and partook of his life. But, one night, being in a certain company of ladies, a gentleman that was there withhim began to speak of the paintings of a youth named Bonaventura, which he had seen in Lucca; adding that Giunta Pisano might now lookfor a rival. When Chiaro heard this, the lamps shook before him, andthe music beat in his ears and made him giddy. He rose up, alleging asudden sickness, and went out of that house with his teeth set. 

He now took to work diligently; not returning to Arezzo, butremaining in Pisa, that no day more might be lost; only livingentirely to himself. Sometimes, after nightfall, he would walk abroadin the most solitary places he could find; hardly feeling the groundunder him, because of the thoughts of the day which held him infever. 

The lodging he had chosen was in a house that looked upon gardensfast by the Church of San Rocco. During the offices, as he sat atwork, he could hear the music of the organ and the long murmur thatthe chanting left; and if his window were open, sometimes, at thoseparts of the mass where there is silence throughout the church, hisear caught faintly the single voice of the priest. Beside the mattersof his art and a very few books, almost the only object to be noticedin Chiaro's room was a small consecrated image of St. Mary Virginwrought out of silver, before which stood always, in summer-time, aglass containing a lily and a rose. 

It was here, and at this time, that Chiaro painted the Dresdenpictures; as also, in all likelihood, the one--inferior in merit, butcertainly his--which is now at Munich. For the most part, he was calmand regular in his manner of study; though often he would remain atwork through the whole of the day, not resting once so long as thelight lasted; flushed, and with the hair from his face. Or, at times, when he could not paint, he would sit for hours in thought of all thegreatness the world had known from of old; until he was weak withyearning, like one who gazes upon a path of stars. 

He continued in this patient endeavour for about three years, at theend of which his name was spoken throughout all Tuscany. As his famewaxed, he began to be employed, besides easel-pictures, uponpaintings in fresco: but I believe that no traces remain to us of anyof these latter. He is said to have painted in the Duomo: andD'Agincourt mentions having seen some portions of a fresco by himwhich originally had its place above the high altar in the Church ofthe Certosa; but which, at the time he saw it, being verydilapidated, had been hewn out of the wall, and was preserved in thestores of the convent. Before the period of Dr. Aemmster'sresearches, however, it had been entirely destroyed. 

Chiaro was now famous. It was for the race of fame that he had girdedup his loins; and he had not paused until fame was reached: yet now, in taking breath, he found that the weight was still at his heart. The years of his labor had fallen from him, and his life was still inits first painful desire. 

With all that Chiaro had done during these three years, and evenbefore, with the studies of his early youth, there had always been afeeling of worship and service. It was the peace-offering that hemade to God and to his own soul for the eager selfishness of his aim. There was earth, indeed, upon the hem of his raiment; but _this_ wasof the heaven, heavenly. He had seasons when he could endure to thinkof no other feature of his hope than this: and sometimes, in theecstacy of prayer, it had even seemed to him to behold that day whenhis mistress--his mystical lady (now hardly in her ninth year, butwhose solemn smile at meeting had already lighted on his soul likethe dove of the Trinity)--even she, his own gracious and holy Italianart--with her virginal bosom, and her unfathomable eyes, and thethread of sunlight round her brows--should pass, through the sun thatnever sets, into the circle of the shadow of the tree of life, and beseen of God, and found good: and then it had seemed to him, that he, with many who, since his coming, had joined the band of whom he wasone (for, in his dream, the body he had worn on earth had been deadan hundred years), were permitted to gather round the blessed maiden, and to worship with her through all ages and ages of ages, saying, Holy, holy, holy. This thing he had seen with the eyes of his spirit;and in this thing had trusted, believing that it would surely come topass. 

But now, (being at length led to enquire closely into himself, ) evenas, in the pursuit of fame, the unrest abiding after attainment hadproved to him that he had misinterpreted the craving of his ownspirit--so also, now that he would willingly have fallen back ondevotion, he became aware that much of that reverence which he hadmistaken for faith had been no more than the worship of beauty. Therefore, after certain days passed in perplexity, Chiaro saidwithin himself, "My life and my will are yet before me: I will takeanother aim to my life. "

From that moment Chiaro set a watch on his soul, and put his hand tono other works but only to such as had for their end the presentmentof some moral greatness that should impress the beholder: and, indoing this, he did not choose for his medium the action and passionof human life, but cold symbolism and abstract impersonation. So thepeople ceased to throng about his pictures as heretofore; and, whenthey were carried through town and town to their destination, theywere no longer delayed by the crowds eager to gaze and admire: and noprayers or offerings were brought to them on their path, as to hisMadonnas, and his Saints, and his Holy Children. Only the criticalaudience remained to him; and these, in default of more worthymatter, would have turned their scrutiny on a puppet or a mantle. Meanwhile, he had no more of fever upon him; but was calm and paleeach day in all that he did and in his goings in and out. The workshe produced at this time have perished--in all likelihood, notunjustly. It is said (and we may easily believe it), that, thoughmore labored than his former pictures, they were cold and unemphatic;bearing marked out upon them, as they must certainly have done, themeasure of that boundary to which they were made to conform. 

And the weight was still close at Chiaro's heart: but he held in hisbreath, never resting (for he was afraid), and would not know it. 

Now it happened, within these days, that there fell a great feast inPisa, for holy matters: and each man left his occupation; and all theguilds and companies of the city were got together for games andrejoicings. And there were scarcely any that stayed in the houses, except ladies who lay or sat along their balconies between openwindows which let the breeze beat through the rooms and over thespread tables from end to end. And the golden cloths that their armslay upon drew all eyes upward to see their beauty; and the day waslong; and every hour of the day was bright with the sun. 

So Chiaro's model, when he awoke that morning on the hot pavement ofthe Piazza Nunziata, and saw the hurry of people that passed him, gotup and went along with them; and Chiaro waited for him in vain. 

For the whole of that morning, the music was in Chiaro's room fromthe Church close at hand: and he could hear the sounds that the crowdmade in the streets; hushed only at long intervals while theprocessions for the feast-day chanted in going under his windows. Also, more than once, there was a high clamour from the meeting offactious persons: for the ladies of both leagues were looking down;and he who encountered his enemy could not choose but draw upon him. Chiaro waited a long time idle; and then knew that his model was goneelsewhere. When at his work, he was blind and deaf to all else; buthe feared sloth: for then his stealthy thoughts would begin, as itwere, to beat round and round him, seeking a point for attack. He nowrose, therefore, and went to the window. It was within a short spaceof noon; and underneath him a throng of people was coming out throughthe porch of San Rocco. 

The two greatest houses of the feud in Pisa had filled the church forthat mass. The first to leave had been the Gherghiotti; who, stoppingon the threshold, had fallen back in ranks along each side of thearchway: so that now, in passing outward, the Marotoli had to walkbetween two files of men whom they hated, and whose fathers had hatedtheirs. All the chiefs were there and their whole adherence; and eachknew the name of each. Every man of the Marotoli, as he came forthand saw his foes, laid back his hood and gazed about him, to show thebadge upon the close cap that held his hair. And of the Gherghiottithere were some who tightened their girdles; and some shrilled andthrew up their wrists scornfully, as who flies a falcon; for that wasthe crest of their house. 

On the walls within the entry were a number of tall, narrow frescoes, presenting a moral allegory of Peace, which Chiaro had painted thatyear for the Church. The Gherghiotti stood with their backs to thesefrescoes: and among them Golzo Ninuccio, the youngest noble of thefaction, called by the people of Golaghiotta, for his debased life. This youth had remained for some while talking listlessly to hisfellows, though with his sleepy sunken eyes fixed on them who passed:but now, seeing that no man jostled another, he drew the long silvershoe off his foot, and struck the dust out of it on the cloak of himwho was going by, asking him how far the tides rose at Viderza. Andhe said so because it was three months since, at that place, theGherghiotti had beaten the Marotoli to the sands, and held them therewhile the sea came in; whereby many had been drowned. And, when hehad spoken, at once the whole archway was dazzling with the light ofconfused swords; and they who had left turned back; and they who werestill behind made haste to come forth: and there was so much bloodcast up the walls on a sudden, that it ran in long streams downChiaro's paintings. 

Chiaro turned himself from the window; for the light felt dry betweenhis lids, and he could not look. He sat down, and heard the noise ofcontention driven out of the church-porch and a great way through thestreets; and soon there was a deep murmur that heaved and waxed fromthe other side of the city, where those of both parties weregathering to join in the tumult. 

Chiaro sat with his face in his open hands. Once again he had wishedto set his foot on a place that looked green and fertile; and onceagain it seemed to him that the thin rank mask was about to spreadaway, and that this time the chill of the water must leave leprosy inhis flesh. The light still swam in his head, and bewildered him atfirst; but when he knew his thoughts, they were these:--

"Fame failed me: faith failed me: and now this also, --the hope that Inourished in this my generation of men, --shall pass from me, andleave my feet and my hands groping. Yet, because of this, are my feetbecome slow and my hands thin. I am as one who, through the wholenight, holding his way diligently, hath smitten the steel unto theflint, to lead some whom he knew darkling; who hath kept his eyesalways on the sparks that himself made, lest they should fail; andwho, towards dawn, turning to bid them that he had guided God speed, sees the wet grass untrodden except of his own feet. I am as the lasthour of the day, whose chimes are a perfect number; whom the nextfolloweth not, nor light ensueth from him; but in the same darknessis the old order begun afresh. Men say, 'This is not God nor man; heis not as we are, neither above us: let him sit beneath us, for weare many. ' Where I write Peace, in that spot is the drawing ofswords, and there men's footprints are red. When I would sow, anotherharvest is ripe. Nay, it is much worse with me than thus much. Am Inot as a cloth drawn before the light, that the looker may not beblinded; but which sheweth thereby the grain of its own coarseness;so that the light seems defiled, and men say, 'We will not walk byit. ' Wherefore through me they shall be doubly accursed, seeing thatthrough me they reject the light. May one be a devil and not knowit?"

As Chiaro was in these thoughts, the fever encroached slowly on hisveins, till he could sit no longer, and would have risen; butsuddenly he found awe within him, and held his head bowed, withoutstirring. The warmth of the air was not shaken; but there seemed apulse in the light, and a living freshness, like rain. The silencewas a painful music, that made the blood ache in his temples; and helifted his face and his deep eyes. 

A woman was present in his room, clad to the hands and feet with agreen and grey raiment, fashioned to that time. It seemed that thefirst thoughts he had ever known were given him as at first from hereyes, and he knew her hair to be the golden veil through which hebeheld his dreams. Though her hands were joined, her face was notlifted, but set forward; and though the gaze was austere, yet hermouth was supreme in gentleness. And as he looked, Chiaro's spiritappeared abashed of its own intimate presence, and his lips shookwith the thrill of tears; it seemed such a bitter while till thespirit might be indeed alone. 

She did not move closer towards him, but he felt her to be as muchwith him as his breath. He was like one who, scaling a greatsteepness, hears his own voice echoed in some place much higher thanhe can see, and the name of which is not known to him. As the womanstood, her speech was with Chiaro: not, as it were, from her mouth orin his ears; but distinctly between them. 

"I am an image, Chiaro, of thine own soul within thee. See me, andknow me as I am. Thou sayest that fame has failed thee, and faithfailed thee; but because at least thou hast not laid thy life untoriches, therefore, though thus late, I am suffered to come into thyknowledge. Fame sufficed not, for that thou didst seek fame: seekthine own conscience (not thy mind's conscience, but thine heart's), and all shall approve and suffice. For Fame, in noble soils, is afruit of the Spring: but not therefore should it be said: 'Lo! mygarden that I planted is barren: the crocus is here, but the lily isdead in the dry ground, and shall not lift the earth that covers it:therefore I will fling my garden together, and give it unto thebuilders. ' Take heed rather that thou trouble not the wise secretearth; for in the mould that thou throwest up shall the first tendergrowth lie to waste; which else had been made strong in its season. Yea, and even if the year fall past in all its months, and the soilbe indeed, to thee, peevish and incapable, and though thou indeedgather all thy harvest, and it suffice for others, and thou remainvext with emptiness; and others drink of thy streams, and the drouthrasp thy throat;--let it be enough that these have found the feastgood, and thanked the giver: remembering that, when the winter isstriven through, there is another year, whose wind is meek, and whosesun fulfilleth all. "

While he heard, Chiaro went slowly on his knees. It was not to herthat spoke, for the speech seemed within him and his own. The airbrooded in sunshine, and though the turmoil was great outside, theair within was at peace. But when he looked in her eyes, he wept. Andshe came to him, and cast her hair over him, and, took her handsabout his forehead, and spoke again:

"Thou hadst said, " she continued, gently, "that faith failed thee. This cannot be so. Either thou hadst it not, or thou hast it. But whobade thee strike the point betwixt love and faith? Wouldst thou siftthe warm breeze from the sun that quickens it? Who bade thee turnupon God and say: "Behold, my offering is of earth, and not worthy:thy fire comes not upon it: therefore, though I slay not my brotherwhom thou acceptest, I will depart before thou smite me. " Whyshouldst thou rise up and tell God He is not content? Had He, of Hiswarrant, certified so to thee? Be not nice to seek out division; butpossess thy love in sufficiency: assuredly this is faith, for theheart must believe first. What He hath set in thine heart to do, thatdo thou; and even though thou do it without thought of Him, it shallbe well done: it is this sacrifice that He asketh of thee, and Hisflame is upon it for a sign. Think not of Him; but of His love andthy love. For God is no morbid exactor: he hath no hand to bowbeneath, nor a foot, that thou shouldst kiss it. "

And Chiaro held silence, and wept into her hair which covered hisface; and the salt tears that he shed ran through her hair upon hislips; and he tasted the bitterness of shame. 

Then the fair woman, that was his soul, spoke again to him, saying:

"And for this thy last purpose, and for those unprofitable truths ofthy teaching, --thine heart hath already put them away, and it needsnot that I lay my bidding upon thee. How is it that thou, a man, wouldst say coldly to the mind what God hath said to the heartwarmly? Thy will was honest and wholesome; but look well lest thisalso be folly, --to say, 'I, in doing this, do strengthen God amongmen. ' When at any time hath he cried unto thee, saying, 'My son, lendme thy shoulder, for I fall?' Deemest thou that the men who enterGod's temple in malice, to the provoking of blood, and neither forhis love nor for his wrath will abate their purpose, --shallafterwards stand with thee in the porch, midway between Him andthemselves, to give ear unto thy thin voice, which merely the fall oftheir visors can drown, and to see thy hands, stretched feebly, tremble among their swords? Give thou to God no more than he askethof thee; but to man also, that which is man's. In all that thoudoest, work from thine own heart, simply; for his heart is as thine, when thine is wise and humble; and he shall have understanding ofthee. One drop of rain is as another, and the sun's prism in all: andshalt not thou be as he, whose lives are the breath of One? Only bymaking thyself his equal can he learn to hold communion with thee, and at last own thee above him. Not till thou lean over the watershalt thou see thine image therein: stand erect, and it shall slopefrom thy feet and be lost. Know that there is but this means wherebythou may'st serve God with man:--Set thine hand and thy soul to serveman with God. "

And when she that spoke had said these words within Chiaro's spirit, she left his side quietly, and stood up as he had first seen her;with her fingers laid together, and her eyes steadfast, and with thebreadth of her long dress covering her feet on the floor. And, speaking again, she said:

"Chiaro, servant of God, take now thine Art unto thee, and paint methus, as I am, to know me: weak, as I am, and in the weeds of thistime; only with eyes which seek out labour, and with a faith, notlearned, yet jealous of prayer. Do this; so shall thy soul standbefore thee always, and perplex thee no more. "

And Chiaro did as she bade him. While he worked, his face grew solemnwith knowledge: and before the shadows had turned, his work was done. Having finished, he lay back where he sat, and was asleepimmediately: for the growth of that strong sunset was heavy abouthim, and he felt weak and haggard; like one just come out of a dusk, hollow country, bewildered with echoes, where he had lost himself, and who has not slept for many days and nights. And when she saw himlie back, the beautiful woman came to him, and sat at his head, gazing, and quieted his sleep with her voice. 

The tumult of the factions had endured all that day through all Pisa, though Chiaro had not heard it: and the last service of that Feastwas a mass sung at midnight from the windows of all the churches forthe many dead who lay about the city, and who had to be buried beforemorning, because of the extreme heats. 

 * * * * * * *

In the Spring of 1847 I was at Florence. Such as were there atthe same time with myself--those, at least, to whom Art issomething, --will certainly recollect how many rooms of the PittiGallery were closed through that season, in order that some of thepictures they contained might be examined, and repaired without thenecessity of removal. The hall, the staircases, and the vast centralsuite of apartments, were the only accessible portions; and in thesesuch paintings as they could admit from the sealed _penetralia_ wereprofanely huddled together, without respect of dates, schools, orpersons. 

I fear that, through this interdict, I may have missed seeing many ofthe best pictures. I do not mean _only_ the most talked of: forthese, as they were restored, generally found their way somehow intothe open rooms, owing to the clamours raised by the students; and Iremember how old Ercoli's, the curator's, spectacles used to bemirrored in the reclaimed surface, as he leaned mysteriously overthese works with some of the visitors, to scrutinize and elucidate. 

One picture, that I saw that Spring, I shall not easily forget. Itwas among those, I believe, brought from the other rooms, and hadbeen hung, obviously out of all chronology, immediately beneath thathead by Raphael so long known as the "Berrettino, " and now said to bethe portrait of Cecco Ciulli. 

The picture I speak of is a small one, and represents merely thefigure of a woman, clad to the hands and feet with a green and greyraiment, chaste and early in its fashion, but exceedingly simple. Sheis standing: her hands are held together lightly, and her eyes setearnestly open. 

The face and hands in this picture, though wrought with greatdelicacy, have the appearance of being painted at once, in a singlesitting: the drapery is unfinished. As soon as I saw the figure, itdrew an awe upon me, like water in shadow. I shall not attempt todescribe it more than I have already done; for the most absorbingwonder of it was its literality. You knew that figure, when painted, had been seen; yet it was not a thing to be seen of men. Thislanguage will appear ridiculous to such as have never looked on thework; and it may be even to some among those who have. On examiningit closely, I perceived in one corner of the canvass the words _ManusAnimam pinxit_, and the date 1239. 

I turned to my Catalogue, but that was useless, for the pictures wereall displaced. I then stepped up to the Cavaliere Ercoli, who was inthe room at the moment, and asked him regarding the subject ofauthorship of the painting. He treated the matter, I thought, somewhat slightingly, and said that he could show me the reference inthe Catalogue, which he had compiled. This, when found, was not ofmuch value, as it merely said, "Schizzo d'autore incerto, " adding theinscription. {4} I could willingly have prolonged my inquiry, in thehope that it might somehow lead to some result; but I had disturbedthe curator from certain yards of Guido, and he was notcommunicative. I went back therefore, and stood before the picturetill it grew dusk. 

{4}I should here say, that in the catalogue for the year just over, (owing, as in cases before mentioned, to the zeal and enthusiasm ofDr. Aemmester) this, and several other pictures, have been morecompetently entered. The work in question is now placed in the _SalaSessagona_, a room I did not see--under the number 161. It isdescribed as "Figura mistica di Chiaro dell' Erma, " and there is abrief notice of the author appended. 

The next day I was there again; but this time a circle of studentswas round the spot, all copying the "Berrettino. " I contrived, however, to find a place whence I could see _my_ picture, and where Iseemed to be in nobody's way. For some minutes I remainedundisturbed; and then I heard, in an English voice: "Might I beg ofyou, sir, to stand a little more to this side, as you interrupt myview. "

I felt vext, for, standing where he asked me, a glare struck on thepicture from the windows, and I could not see it. However, therequest was reasonably made, and from a countryman; so I complied, and turning away, stood by his easel. I knew it was not worth while;yet I referred in some way to the work underneath the one he wascopying. He did not laugh, but he smiled as we do in England: "_Very_odd, is it not?" said he. 

The other students near us were all continental; and seeing anEnglishman select an Englishman to speak with, conceived, I suppose, that he could understand no language but his own. They had evidentlybeen noticing the interest which the little picture appeared toexcite in me. 

One of them, and Italian, said something to another who stood next tohim. He spoke with a Genoese accent, and I lost the sense in thevillainous dialect. "Che so?" replied the other, lifting his eyebrowstowards the figure; "roba mistica: 'st' Inglesi son matti sulmisticismo: somiglia alle nebbie di là. Li fa pensare alla patria, "E intenerisce il core Lo dì ch' han detto ai dolci amici adio. "

"La notte, vuoi dire, " said a third. 

There was a general laugh. My compatriot was evidently a novice inthe language, and did not take in what was said. I remained silent, being amused. 

"Et toi donc?" said he who had quoted Dante, turning to a student, whose birthplace was unmistakable even had he been addressed in anyother language: "que dis-tu de ce genre-là?"

"Moi?" returned the Frenchman, standing back from his easel, andlooking at me and at the figure, quite politely, though with anevident reservation: "Je dis, mon cher, que c'est une spécialité dontje me fiche pas mal. Je tiens que quand on ne comprend pas une chose, c'est qu' elle ne signifie rein. "

My reader thinks possibly that the French student was right. 

Reviews

_The Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich: a Long-vacation Pastoral. By ArthurHugh Clough. Oxford: Macpherson. London: Chapman and Hall. --1848_

The critic who should undertake to speak of all the poetry whichissues from the press of these present days, what is so called bycourtesy as well as that which may claim the title as of right, wouldimpose on himself a task demanding no little labor, and entailing nolittle disgust and weariness. Nor is the trouble well repaid. Moreprofit will not accrue to him who studies, if the word can be used, fifty of a certain class of versifiers, than to him who glances overone: and, while a successful effort to warn such that poetry is nottheir proper sphere, and that they must seek elsewhere for a vocationto work out, might embolden a philanthropist to assume the positionof scare-crow, and drive away the unclean birds from the flowers andthe green leaves; on the other hand, the small results which appearto have hitherto attended such endeavors are calculated rather toinduce those who have yet made, to relinquish them than to leadothers to follow in the same track. It is truly a disheartening task. To the critic himself no good, though some amusement occasionally, can be expected: to the criticised, good but rarely, for he is seldomconvinced, and annoyance and rancour almost of course; and, even inthose few cases where the voice crying "in the wilderness" producesits effect, the one thistle that abandons the attempt at bearing figssees its neighbors still believing in their success, and soon has itsown place filled up. The sentence of those who do not read is thebest criticism on those who will not think. 

It is acting on these considerations that we propose not to takecount of any works that do not either show a purpose achieved or givepromise of a worthy event; while of such we hope to overlook none. 

We believe it may safely be assumed that at no previous period hasthe public been more buzzed round by triviality and common-place; butwe hold firm, at the same time, that at none other has there been agreater or a grander body of genius, or so honorable a display ofwell cultivated taste and talent. Certainly the public do not seem toknow this: certainly the critics deny it, or rather speak as thoughthey never contemplated that such a position would be advanced: but, if the fact be so, it will make itself known, and the poets of thisday will assert themselves, and take their places. 

Of these it is our desire to speak truthfully, indeed, and withoutcompromise, but always as bearing in mind that the inventor is morethan the commentator, and the book more than the notes; and that, ifit is we who speak, we do so not for ourselves, nor as of ourselves. 

The work of Arthur Hugh Clough now before us, (we feel warranted inthe dropping of the _Mr. _ even at his first work, ) unites the mostenduring forms of nature, and the most unsophisticated conditions oflife and character, with the technicalities of speech, of manners, and of persons of an Oxford reading party in the long vacation. Hishero is

 "Philip Hewson, the poet, Hewson, the radical hot, hating lords and scorning ladies;"

and his heroine is no heroine, but a woman, "Elspie, the quiet, thebrave. "

The metre he has chosen, the hexametral, harmonises with the spiritof primitive simplicity in which the poem is conceived; is itself abackground, as much as are "Knoydart, Croydart, Moydart, Morrer, andArdnamurchan;" and gives a new individuality to the passages offamiliar narrative and every day conversation. It has an intrinsicappropriateness; although, at first thought of the subject, thiswill, perhaps, be scarcely admitted of so old and so stately arhythmical form. 

As regards execution, however, there may be noted, in qualificationof much pliancy and vigour, a certain air of experiment in occasionalpassages, and a license in versification, which more than warrants awarning "to expect every kind of irregularity in these modernhexameters. " The following lines defy all efforts at reading indactyls or spondees, and require an almost complete transposition ofaccent. 

 "There was a point which I forgot, which our gallant Highland homes have;"-- "While the little drunken Piper came across to shake hands with Lindsay:"-- "Something of the world, of men and women: you will not refuse me. "

In the first of these lines, the omission of the former "_which_, "would remove all objection; and there are others where a finalsyllable appears clearly deficient; as thus:--

 "Only the road and larches and ruinous millstead between" [_them_]:-- "Always welcome the stranger: I may say, delighted to see [_such_] Fine young men:"-- "Nay, never talk: listen now. What I say you can't apprehend" [_yet_]:-- "Laid her hand on her lap. Philip took it. She did not resist" [_him_]:--

Yet the following would be scarcely improved by greater exactness:

 "Roaring after their prey, do seek their meat from God;"

Nor, perhaps, ought this to be made correct:

 "Close as the bodies and intertwining limbs of athletic wrestlers. "

The aspect of _fact_ pervading "the Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich, "--(inEnglish, "the hut of the bearded well, " a somewhat singular title, tosay the least, ) is so strong and complete as to render necessary thefew words of dedication, where, in inscribing the poem, (or, as theauthor terms it, "trifle, ") to his "long-vacation pupils, " heexpresses a hope, that they "will not be displeased if, in a fiction, purely fiction, they are here and there reminded of times enjoyedtogether. "

As the story opens, the Oxford party are about to proceed to dinnerat "the place of the Clansmen's meeting. " Their characters, discriminated with the nicest taste, and perfectly worked out, arethus introduced:

 "Be it recorded in song who was first, who last, in dressing. Hope was the first, black-tied, white-waistcoated, simple, his Honor; For the postman made out he was a son to the Earl of Ilay, (As, indeed, he was to the younger brother, the Colonel); Treated him therefore with special respect, doffed bonnet, and ever Called him his Honor: his Honor he therefore was at the cottage; Always his Honor at least, sometimes the Viscount of Ilay. 

 "Hope was the first, his Honor; and, next to his Honor, the Tutor. Still more plain the tutor, the grave man nicknamed Adam, White-tied, clerical, silent, with antique square-cut waistcoat, Formal, unchanged, of black cloth, but with sense and feeling beneath it; Skilful in ethics and logic, in Pindar and poets unrivalled; _Shady_ in Latin, said Lindsay, but _topping_ in plays and Aldrich. 

 "Somewhat more splendid in dress, in a waistcoat of a lady, Lindsay succeeded, the lively, the cheery, cigar-loving Lindsay, Lindsay the ready of speech, the Piper, the Dialectician: This was his title from Adam, because of the words he invented, Who in three weeks had created a dialect new for the party. 

 "Hewson and Hobbes were down at the _matutine_ bathing; of course Arthur Audley, the bather _par excellence_ glory of headers: Arthur they called him for love and for euphony: so were they bathing There where in mornings was custom, where, over a ledge of granite, Into a granite bason descended the amber torrent. There were they bathing and dressing: it was but a step from the cottage, Only the road and larches and ruinous millstead between. Hewson and Hobbes followed quick upon Adam; on them followed Arthur. 

 "Airlie descended the last, splendescent as god of Olympus. When for ten minutes already the fourwheel had stood at the gateway; He, like a god, came leaving his ample Olympian chamber. "--pp. 5, 6. 

A peculiar point of style in this poem, and one which gives a certainclassic character to some of its more familiar aspects, is thefrequent recurrence of the same line, and the repeated definition ofa personage by the same attributes. Thus, Lindsay is "the Piper, theDialectician, " Arthur Audley "the glory of headers, " and the tutor"the grave man nicknamed Adam, " from beginning to end; and so also ofthe others. 

Omitting the after-dinner speeches, with their "Long constructionsstrange and plusquam-Thucydidean, " that only of "Sir Hector, theChief and the Chairman;" in honor of the Oxonians, than which nothingcould be more unpoetically truthful, is preserved, with theacknowledgment, ending in a sarcasm at the game laws, by Hewson, who, as he is leaving the room, is accosted by "a thin man, clad as theSaxon:"

 "'Young man, if ye pass thro' the Braes o'Lochaber, See by the Loch-side ye come to the Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich. '"--p. 9. 

Throughout this scene, as through the whole book, no opportunity isoverlooked for giving individuality to the persons introduced: SirHector, of whom we lose sight henceforward, the attaché, theGuards-man, are not mere names, but characters: it is not enough tosay that two tables were set apart "for keeper and gillie andpeasant:" there is something to be added yet; and with othersassembled around them were "Pipers five or six; _among them the youngone, the drunkard_. "

The morrow's conversation of the reading party turns on "noble ladiesand rustic girls, their partners. " And here speaks out Hewson thechartist:

 "'Never (of course you will laugh, but of course all the same I shall say it, ) Never, believe me, revealed itself to me the sexual glory, Till, in some village fields, in holidays now getting stupid, One day sauntering long and listless, as Tennyson has it, Long and listless strolling, ungainly in hobbydihoyhood, Chanced it my eye fell aside on a capless bonnetless maiden, Bending with three-pronged fork in a garden uprooting potatoes. Was it the air? who can say? or herself? or the charm of the labor? But a new thing was in me, and longing delicious possessed me, Longing to take her and lift her, and put her away from her slaving. Was it to clasp her in lifting, or was it to lift her by clasping, Was it embracing or aiding was most in my mind? Hard question. But a new thing was in me: I too was a youth among maidens. Was it the air? who can say? But, in part, 'twas the charm of the labor. '"

And he proceeds in a rapture to talk on the beauty of householdservice. 

Hereat Arthur remarks: "'Is not all this just the same that one hearsat common room breakfasts, Or perhaps Trinity-wines, about Gothicbuildings and beauty?'"--p. 13. 

The character of Hobbes, called into energy by this observation, isperfectly developed in the lines succeeding:

 "And with a start from the sofa came Hobbes; with a cry from the sofa, There where he lay, the great Hobbes, contemplative, corpulent, witty; Author forgotten and silent of currentest phrase and fancy; Mute and exuberant by turns, a fountain at intervals playing, Mute and abstracted, or strong and abundant as rain in the tropics; Studious; careless of dress; inobservant; by smooth persuasions Lately decoyed into kilt on example of Hope and the Piper, Hope an Antinous mere, Hyperion of calves the Piper..... "'Ah! could they only be taught, ' he resumed, 'by a Pugin of women How even churning and washing, the dairy, the scullery duties, Wait but a touch to redeem and convert them to charms and attractions; Scrubbing requires for true grace but frank and artistical handling, And the removal of slops to be ornamentally treated!"--pp. 13, 14. 

Here, in the tutor's answer to Hewson, we come on the moral of thepoem, a moral to be pursued through commonplace lowliness of stationand through high rank, into the habit of life which would be, in theone, not petty, --in the other, not overweening, --in any, calm anddignified. 

 "'You are a boy; when you grow to a man, you'll find things alter. You will learn to seek the good, to scorn the attractive, Scorn all mere cosmetics, as now of rank and fashion, Delicate hands, and wealth, so then of poverty also, Poverty truly attractive, more truly, I bear you witness. Good, wherever found, you will choose, be it humble or stately, Happy if only you find, and, finding, do not lose it. '"--p. 14. 

When the discussion is ended, the party propose to separate, someproceeding on their tour; and Philip Hewson will be of these. 

 "'Finally, too, ' from the kilt and the sofa said Hobbes in conclusion, 'Finally Philip must hunt for that home of the probable poacher, Hid in the Braes of Lochaber, the Bothie of what-did-he-call-it. Hopeless of you and of us, of gillies and marquises hopeless, Weary of ethic and logic, of rhetoric yet more weary, There shall he, smit by the charm of a lovely potatoe-uprooter, Study the question of sex in the Bothie of what-did-he-call-it. "'--p. 18. 

The action here becomes divided; and, omitting points of detail, wemust confine ourselves to tracing the development of the idea inwhich the subject of the poem consists. 

Philip and his companions, losing their road, are received at a farm, where they stay for three days: and this experience of himselfbegins. He comes prepared; and, if he seems to love the"golden-haired Katie, " it is less that she is "the youngest andcomeliest daughter" than because of her position, and that in thatshe realises his preconceived wishes. For three days he is with herand about her; and he remains when his friends leave the farm-house. But his love is no more than the consequence of his principles; it ishis own will unconsidered and but half understood. And a letter toAdam tells how it had an end:

 "'I was walking along some two miles from the cottage, Full of my dreamings. A girl went by in a party with others: She had a cloak on, --was stepping on quickly, for rain was beginning; But, as she passed, from the hood I saw her eyes glance at me:-- So quick a glance, so regardless I, that, altho' I felt it, You couldn't properly say our eyes met; she cast it, and left it. It was three minutes, perhaps, ere I knew what it was. I had seen her Somewhere before, I am sure; but that wasn't it, --not its import. No; it had seemed to regard me with simple superior insight, Quietly saying to herself: 'Yes, there he is still in his fancy...... Doesn't yet see we have here just the things he is used to elsewhere, And that the things he likes here, elsewhere he wouldn't have looked at; People here, too, are people, and not as fairy-land creatures. He is in a trance, and possessed, --I wonder how long to continue. It is a shame and pity, --and no good likely to follow. '-- Something like this; but, indeed, I cannot the least define it. Only, three hours thence, I was off and away in the moor-land, Hiding myself from myself, if I could, the arrow within me. '"--p. 29. 

Philip Hewson has been going on

 "Even as cloud passing subtly unseen from mountain to mountain, Leaving the crest of Benmore to be palpable next on Benvohrlich, Or like to hawk of the hill, which ranges and soars in its hunting, Seen and unseen by turns. "...... And these are his words in the mountains:...... 

 "'Surely the force that here sweeps me along in its violent impulse, Surely my strength shall be in her, my help and protection about her, Surely in inner-sweet gladness and vigor of joy shall sustain her; Till, the brief winter o'erpast, her own true sap in the springtide Rise, and the tree I have bared be verdurous e'en as aforetime: Surely it may be, it should be, it must be. Yet, ever and ever, 'Would I were dead, ' I keep saying, 'that so I could go and uphold her. '"--pp. 26, 27. 

And, meanwhile, Katie, among the others, is dancing and smiling stillon some one who is to her all that Philip had ever been. 

When Hewson writes next, his experience has reached its second stage. He is at Balloch, with the aunt and the cousin of his friend Hope:and the lady Maria has made his beliefs begin to fail and totter, andhe feels for something to hold firmly. He seems to think, at onemoment, that the mere knowledge of the existence of such an one oughtto compensate for lives of drudgery hemmed in with want; then heturns round on himself with, "How shall that be?" And, at length, heappeases his questions, saying that it must and should be so, if it is. 

After this, come scraps of letters, crossed and recrossed, from theBothie of Toper-na-fuosich. In his travelling towards home, a horsecast a shoe, and the were directed to David Mackaye. Hewson is stillin the clachan hard by when he urges his friend to come to him: andhe comes. 

 "There on the blank hill-side, looking down through the loch to the ocean; There, with a runnel beside, and pine-trees twain before it, There, with the road underneath, and in sight of coaches and steamers, Dwelling of David Mackaye and his daughters, Elspie and Bella, Sends up a column of smoke the Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich..... 

 "So on the road they walk, by the shore of the salt sea-water, Silent a youth and maid, the elders twain conversing. "--pp. 36, 37. 

 "Ten more days, with Adam, did Philip abide at the changehouse; Ten more nights they met, they walked with father and daughter. Ten more nights; and, night by night, more distant away were Philip and she; every night less heedful, by habit, the father. "--pp. 38, 39. 

From this point, we must give ourselves up to quotation; and thenarrow space remaining to us is our only apology to the reader formaking any omission whatever in these extracts. 

 "For she confessed, as they sat in the dusk, and he saw not her blushes, Elspie confessed, at the sports, long ago, with her father, she saw him, When at the door the old man had told him the name of the Bothie; There, after that, at the dance; yet again at the dance in Rannoch; And she was silent, confused. Confused much rather Philip Buried his face in his hands, his face that with blood was bursting. Silent, confused; yet by pity she conquered here fear, and continued: 'Katie is good and not silly: be comforted, Sir, about her; Katie is good and not silly; tender, but not, like many, Carrying off, and at once, for fear of being seen, in the bosom Locking up as in a cupboard, the pleasure that any man gives them, Keeping it out of sight as a prize they need be ashamed of: That is the way, I think, Sir, in England more than in Scotland. No; she lives and takes pleasure in all, as in beautiful weather; Sorry to lose it; but just as we would be to lose fine weather..... There were at least five or six, --not there; no, that I don't say, But in the country about, --you might just as well have been courting. That was what gave me much pain; and (you won't remember that tho'), Three days after, I met you, beside my Uncle's walking; And I was wondering much, and hoped you wouldn't notice; So, as I passed, I couldn't help looking. You didn't know me; But I was glad when I heard, next day, you were gone to the teacher. '

 "And, uplifting his face at last, with eyes dilated, Large as great stars in mist, and dim with dabbled lashes. Philip, with new tears starting, 'You think I do not remember, ' Said, 'suppose that I did not observe. Ah me! shall I tell you? Elspie, it was your look that sent me away from Rannoch. '.... And he continued more firmly, altho' with stronger emotion. 'Elspie, why should I speak it? You cannot believe it, and should not. Why should I say that I love, which I all but said to another? Yet, should I dare, should I say, Oh Elspie you only I love, you, First and sole in my life that has been, and surely that shall be; Could, oh could, you believe it, oh Elspie, believe it, and spurn not? Is it possible, --possible, Elspie?'

 'Well, ' she answered, Quietly, after her fashion, still knitting; 'Well, I think of it. Yes, I don't know, Mr. Philip; but only it feels to me strangely, -- Like to the high new bridge they used to build at, below there, Over the burn and glen, on the road. You won't understand me..... Sometimes I find myself dreaming at nights about arches and bridges; Sometimes I dream of a great invisible hand coming down, and Dropping a great key-stone in the middle. '.... 

 "But while she was speaking, -- So it happened, --a moment she paused from her work, and, pondering, Laid her hand on her lap. Philip took it, she did not resist. So he retained her fingers, the knitting being stopped. But emotion Came all over her more and more, from his hand, from her heart, and Most from the sweet idea and image her brain was renewing. So he retained her hand, and, his tears down-dropping on it, Trembling a long time, kissed it at last: and she ended. And, as she ended, up rose he, saying: 'What have I heard? Oh! What have I done, that such words should be said to me? Oh! I see it, See the great key-stone coming down from the heaven of heavens. ' And he fell at her feet, and buried his face in her apron. "But, as, under the moon and stars, they went to the cottage, Elspie sighed and said: 'Be patient, dear Mr. Philip; Do not do anything hasty. It is all so soon, so sudden. Do not say anything yet to any one. '

 'Elspie, ' he answered, "Does not my friend go on Friday? I then shall see nothing of you: Do not I myself go on Monday? 'But oh!' he said, 'Elspie, Do as I bid you, my child; do not go on calling me _Mr. _ Might I not just as well be calling you _Miss Elspie?_ Call me, this heavenly night, for once, for the first time, Philip. ' "'Philip, ' she said, and laughed, and said she could not say it. 'Philip, ' she said. He turned, and kissed the sweet lips as they said it. "But, on the morrow, Elspie kept out of the way of Philip; And, at the evening seat, when he took her hand by the alders, Drew it back, saying, almost peevishly:

 "'No, Mr. Philip; I was quite right last night: it is too soon, too sudden, What I told you before was foolish, perhaps, --was hasty. When I think it over, I am shocked and terrified at it. '".... "Ere she had spoken two words, had Philip released her fingers; As she went on, he recoiled, fell back, and shook, and shivered. There he stood, looking pale and ghastly; when she had ended, Answering in a hollow voice:

 "'It is true; oh! quite true, Elspie. Oh! you are always right; oh! what, what, have I been doing? I will depart to-morrow. But oh! forget me not wholly, Wholly, Elspie, nor hate me; no, do not hate me, my Elspie. '"

 "But a revulsion passed thro' the brain and bosom of Elspie; And she got up from her seat on the rock, putting by her knitting, Went to him where he stood, and answered:

 "'No, Mr. Philip: No; you are good, Mr. Philip, and gentle; and I am the foolish: No, Mr. Philip; forgive me. '

 "She stepped right to him, and boldly Took up his hand, and placed it in her's, he daring no movement; Took up the cold hanging hand, up-forcing the heavy elbow. 'I am afraid, ' she said; 'but I will;' and kissed the fingers. And he fell on his knees, and kissed her own past counting...... "As he was kissing her fingers, and knelt on the ground before her, Yielding, backward she sank to her seat, and, of what she was doing Ignorant, bewildered, in sweet multitudinous vague emotion, Stooping, knowing not what, put her lips to the curl on his forehead. And Philip, raising himself, gently, for the first time, round her Passing his arms, close, close, enfolded her close to his bosom. "As they went home by the moon, 'Forgive me, Philip, ' she whispered: 'I have so many things to talk of all of a sudden, I who have never once thought a thing in my ignorant Highlands. '" --pp. 39-44. 

We may spare criticism here, for what reader will not have felt suchpoetry? There is something in this of the very tenderness oftenderness; this is true delicacy, fearless and unembarrassed. Hereit seems almost captious to object: perhaps, indeed, it is ratherpersonal whim than legitimate criticism which makes us take someexception at "the curl on his forehead;" yet somehow there seems ahint in it of the pet curate. 

Elspie's doubts now return upon her with increased force; and it isnot till after many conversations with the "teacher" that she allowsher resolve to be fixed. So, at last, "There, upon Saturday eve, in the gorgeous bright October, Under that alders knitting, gave Elspie her troth to Philip. "

And, after their talk, she feels strong again, and fit to behis. --Then they rise. 

 "'But we must go, Mr. Philip. '

 "'I shall not go at all, ' said He, 'If you call me _Mr. _ Thank Heaven! that's well over!' "'No, but it's not, ' she said; 'it is not over, nor will be. Was it not, then, ' she asked, 'the name I called you first by? No, Mr. Philip, no. You have kissed me enough for two nights. No. --Come, Philip, come, or I'll go myself without you. ' "'You never call me Philip, ' he answered, 'until I kiss you. '" --pp. 47, 48. 

David Mackaye gives his consent; but first Hewson must return toCollege, and study for a year. 

His views have not been stationary. To his old scorn for the idle ofthe earth had succeeded the surprise that overtook him at Balloch:and he would now hold to his creed, yet not as rejecting hisexperience. Some, he says, were made for use; others for ornament;but let these be so _made_, of a truth, and not such as findthemselves merely thrust into exemption from labor. Let each know hisplace, and take it, "For it is beautiful only to do the thing we aremeant for. " And of his friend urging Providence he can only, whileanswering that doubtless he must be in the right, ask where the limitcomes between circumstance and Providence, and can but wish for agreat cause, and the trumpet that should call him to God's battle, whereas he sees

 "Only infinite jumble and mess and dislocation, Backed by a solemn appeal, 'For God's sake, do not stir there. '" And the year is now out. "Philip returned to his books, but returned to his Highlands after.... There in the bright October, the gorgeous bright October, When the brackens are changed, and heather blooms are faded, And, amid russet of heather and fern, green trees are bonnie, There, when shearing had ended, and barley-stooks were garnered, David gave Philip to wife his daughter, his darling Elspie; Elspie, the quiet, the brave, was wedded to Philip, the poet..... So won Philip his bride. They are married, and gone to New Zealand. Five hundred pounds in pocket, with books and two or three pictures, Tool-box, plough, and the rest, they rounded the sphere to New Zealand. There he hewed and dug; subdued the earth and his spirit. " --pp. 52-55. 

Among the prominent attributes of this poem is its completeness. Theelaboration, not only of character and of mental discipline, but ofincident also, is unbroken. The absences of all mention of Elspie inthe opening scene and again at the dance at Rannoch may at first seemto be a failure in this respect; but second thoughts will show it tobe far otherwise: for, in the former case, her presence would nothave had any significance for Hewson, and, in the latter, would havebeen overlooked by him save so far as might warrant a future vaguerecollection, pre-occupied as his eyes and thoughts were by another. There is one condition still under which we have as yet had littleopportunity of displaying this quality; but it will be found to be asfully carried out in the descriptions of nature. In the first of ourextracts the worlds are few, but stand for many. 

 "Meäly glen, the heart of Lochiel's fair forest, Where Scotch firs are darkest and amplest, and intermingle Grandly with rowan and ash;--in Mar you have no ashes; There the pine is alone or relieved by birch and alder. "--p. 22. 

In the next mere sound and the names go far towards the entireeffect; but not so far as to induce any negligence in essentialdetails:

 "As, at return of tide, the total weight of ocean, Drawn by moon and sun from Labrador and Greenland, Sets in amain in the open space betwixt Mull and Scarfa, Heaving, swelling, spreading, the might of the mighty Atlantic; There into cranny and slit of the rocky cavernous bottom Settles down; and with dimples huge the smooth sea-surface Eddies, coils, and whirls, and dangerous Corryvreckan. "--p. 52. 

Two more passages, and they must suffice as examples. Here theisolation is perfect; but it is the isolation, not of the place andthe actors only; it is, as it were, almost our own in an equaldegree;

 "Ourselves too seeming Not as spectators, accepted into it, immingled, as truly Part of it as are the kine of the field lying there by the birches. " "There, across the great rocky wharves a wooden bridge goes, Carrying a path to the forest; below, --three hundred yards, say, -- Lower in level some twenty-five feet, thro' flats of shingle, Stepping-stones and a cart-track cross in the open valley. But, in the interval here, the boiling pent-up water Frees itself by a final descent, attaining a bason Ten feet wide and eighteen long, with whiteness and fury Occupied partly, but mostly pellucid, pure, a mirror; Beautiful there for the color derived from green rocks under; Beautiful most of all where beads of foam uprising Mingle their clouds of white with the delicate hue of the stillness. Cliff over cliff for its sides, with rowan and pendent birch-boughs, Here it lies, unthought of above at the bridge and pathway, Still more concealed from below by wood and rocky projection. You are shut in, left alone with yourself and perfection of water, Hid on all sides, left alone with yourself and the goddess of bathing. "--

 "So they bathed, they read, they roamed in glen and forest; Far amid blackest pines to the waterfall they shadow, Far up the long long glen to the loch, and the loch beyond it Deep under huge red cliffs, a secret. "

In many of the images of this poem, as also in the volume"Ambarvalia, " the joint production of Clough and Thomas Burbidge, there is a peculiar moderness, a reference distinctly to the meansand habits of society in these days, a recognition of every-day fact, and a willingness to believe it as capable of poetry as that which, but for having once been fact, would not now be tradition. There is acertain special character in passages like the following, thefamiliarity of the matter blending with the remoteness of the form ofmetre, such as should not be overlooked in attempting to estimate theauthor's mind and views of art:

 "Still, as before (and as now), balls, dances, and evening parties, .... Seemed like a sort of unnatural up-in-the-air balloon work, .... As mere gratuitous trifling in presence of business and duty As does the turning aside of the tourist to look at a landscape Seem in the steamer or coach to the merchant in haste for the city. " --p. 12. 

 "I was as one that sleeps on the railway; one who, dreaming, Hears thro' his dream the name of his home shouted out, --hears and hears not, Faint, and louder again, and less loud, dying in distance, -- Dimly conscious, with something of inward debate and choice, and Sense of [present] claim and reality present; relapses, Nevertheless, and continues the dream and fancy, while forward, Swiftly, remorseless, the car presses on, he knows not whither. " --p. 38. 

Indeed, the general adaptation of the style to the immediate matter, the alternation of the poetic and the familiar, with a certainmixture even of classical phrase and allusion, is highly appropriate, and may almost be termed constant, except in occasional instanceswhere more poetry, and especially more conception and working out ofimages, is introduced than squares with a strict observance ofnature. Thus the lines quoted where Elspie applies to herself theincident of "the high new bridge" and "the great key-stone in themiddle" are succeeded by others (omitted in our extract) where theidea is followed into its details; and there is another passage inwhich, through no less than seventeen lines, she compares herself toan inland stream disturbed and hurried on by the mingling with it ofthe sea's tide. Thus also one of the most elaborate descriptions inthe poem, --an episode in itself of the extremest beauty and finish, but, as we think, clearly misplaced, --is a picture of the dawn over agreat city, introduced into a letter of Philip's, and that, too, simply as an image of his own mental condition. There are but fewpoets for whom it would be superfluous to reflect whether pieces ofsuch-like mere poetry might not more properly form part of thedescriptive groundwork, and be altogether banished from discourse andconversation, where the greater amount of their intrinsic care andexcellence becomes, by its position, a proportionally increasing loadof disregard for truthfulness. 

For a specimen of a peculiarly noble spirit which pervades the wholework, we would refer the reader to the character of Arthur Audley, unnecessary to the story, but most important to the sentiment; for acomprehensive instance of minute feeling for individuality, to thenarrative of Lindsay and the corrections of Arthur on returning fromtheir tour. 

 "He to the great _might have been_ upsoaring, sublime and ideal; He to the merest _it was_ restricting, diminishing, dwarfing;"

For pleasant ingenuity, involving, too, a point of character, to thefinal letter of Hobbes to Philip, wherein, in a manner made up ofplayful subtlety and real poetical feeling, he proves how "thisRachel and Leah is marriage. "

"The Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich" will not, it is to be feared, beextensively read; its length combined with the metre in which it iswritten, or indeed a first hasty glance at the contents, does notallure the majority even of poetical readers; but it will not be leftor forgotten by such as fairly enter upon it. This is a poemessentially thought and studied, if not while in the act of writing, at least as the result of a condition of mind; and the author owes itto the appreciations of all into whose hands it shall come, and whoare willing to judge for themselves, to call it, should a secondedition appear, by its true name;--not a trifle, but a work. 

That public attention should have been so little engaged by this poemis a fact in one respect somewhat remarkable, as contrasting with thenotice which the "Ambarvalia" has received. Nevertheless, independently of the greater importance of "the Bothie" in length anddevelopment, it must, we think, be admitted to be written on sounderand more matured principles of taste, --the style being sufficientlycharacterized and distinctive without special prominence, whereas nota few of the poems in the other volume are examples rather of stylethan of thought, and might be held in recollection on account of theformer quality alone. 

Her First Season

 He gazed her over, from her eyebrows down Even to her feet: he gazed so with the good Undoubting faith of fools, much as who should Accost God for a comrade. In the brown Of all her curls he seemed to think the town Would make an acquisition; but her hood Was not the newest fashion, and his brood Of lady-friends might scarce approve her gown. If I did smile, 'twas faintly; for my cheeks Burned, thinking she'd be shown up to be sold, And cried about, in the thick jostling run Of the loud world, till all the weary weeks Should bring her back to herself and to the old Familiar face of nature and the sun. 

A Sketch From Nature

 The air blows pure, for twenty miles, Over this vast countrié: Over hill and wood and vale, it goeth, Over steeple, and stack, and tree: And there's not a bird on the wind but knoweth How sweet these meadows be. 

 The swallows are flying beside the wood, And the corbies are hoarsely crying; And the sun at the end of the earth hath stood, And, thorough the hedge and over the road, On the grassy slope is lying: And the sheep are taking their supper-food While yet the rays are dying. 

 Sleepy shadows are filling the furrows, And giant-long shadows the trees are making; And velvet soft are the woodland tufts, And misty-gray the low-down crofts; But the aspens there have gold-green tops, And the gold-green tops are shaking: The spires are white in the sun's last light;-- And yet a moment ere he drops, Gazes the sun on the golden slopes. 

 Two sheep, afar from fold, Are on the hill-side straying, With backs all silver, breasts all gold: The merle is something saying, Something very very sweet:-- 'The day--the day--the day is done:' There answereth a single bleat-- The air is cold, the sky is dimming, And clouds are long like fishes swimming. 

 _Sydenham Wood_, 1849. 

An End

 Love, strong as death, is dead. Come, let us make his bed Among the dying flowers: A green turf at his head; And a stone at his feet, Whereon we may sit In the quiet evening hours. 

 He was born in the spring, And died before the harvesting. On the last warm summer day He left us;--he would not stay For autumn twilight cold and grey Sit we by his grave and sing He is gone away. 

 To few chords, and sad, and low, Sing we so. Be our eyes fixed on the grass, Shadow-veiled, as the years pass, While we think of all that was In the long ago. 

_Published Monthly, price 1s. _

This Periodical will consist of original Poems, Stories to developethought and principle, Essays concerning Art and other subjects, andanalytic Reviews of current Literature--particularly of Poetry. Eachnumber will also contain an Etching; the subject to be taken from theopening article of the month. 

An attempt will be made, both intrinsically and by review, to claimfor Poetry that place to which its present development in theliterature of this country so emphatically entitles it. 

The endeavour held in view throughout the writings on Art will be toencourage and enforce an entire adherence to the simplicity ofnature; and also to direct attention, as an auxiliary medium, to thecomparatively few works which Art has yet produced in this spirit. Itneed scarcely be added that the chief object of the etched designswill be to illustrate this aim practically, as far as the method ofexecution will permit; in which purpose they will be produced withthe utmost care and completeness. 

No. 2. (_Price One Shilling_. ) FEBRUARY, 1850. 

With an Etching by JAMES COLLINSON. 

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

 When whoso merely hath a little thought Will plainly think the thought which is in him, -- Not imaging another's bright or dim, Not mangling with new words what others taught; When whoso speaks, from having either sought Or only found, --will speak, not just to skim A shallow surface with words made and trim, But in that very speech the matter brought: Be not too keen to cry--"So this is all!-- A thing I might myself have thought as well, But would not say it, for it was not worth!" Ask: "Is this truth?" For is it still to tell That, be the theme a point or the whole earth, Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small?

 London: AYLOTT & JONES, 8, PATERNOSTER ROW. 

 G. F Tupper, Printer, Clement's Lane. Lombard Street. 

CONTENTS. 

 The Child Jesus: by _James Collinson_ 49 A Pause of Thought: by _Ellen Alleyn_ 57 The Purpose and Tendency of Early Italian Art: by _John Seward_ 58 Song: by _Ellen Alleyn_ 64 Morning Sleep: by _Wm. B. Scott_ 65 Sonnet: by _Calder Campbell_ 68 Stars and Moon 69 On the Mechanism of a Historical Picture: by _F. Madox Brown_ 70 A Testimony: by _Ellen Alleyn_ 73 O When and Where: by _Thomas Woolner_ 75 Fancies at Leisure: by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 76 The Sight Beyond: by _Walter H. Deverell_ 79 The Blessed Damozel: by _Dante G. Rossetti_ 80 REVIEWS: "The Strayed Reveller, and other Poems:" by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 84

To Correspondents. 

All persons from whom Communications have been received, and who havenot been otherwise replied to, are requested to accept the Editor'sacknowledgments. 

[Illustration: Ex ore infantiam et lartentium pertecizli laudem. ]

The Child Jesus

"O all ye that pass by the way, attend and see if there be any sorrowlike to my sorrow. "--

 _Lamentations i. 12. _

I. The Agony in the Garden

 Joseph, a carpenter of Nazareth, And his wife Mary had an only child, Jesus: One holy from his mother's womb. Both parents loved him: Mary's heart alone Beat with his blood, and, by her love and his, She knew that God was with her, and she strove Meekly to do the work appointed her; To cherish him with undivided care Who deigned to call her mother, and who loved From her the name of son. And Mary gave Her heart to him, and feared not; yet she seemed To hold as sacred that he said or did; And, unlike other women, never spake His words of innocence again; but all Were humbly treasured in her memory With the first secret of his birth. So strong Grew her affection, as the child increased In wisdom and in stature with his years, That many mothers wondered, saying: "These Our little ones claim in our hearts a place The next to God; but Mary's tenderness Grows almost into reverence for her child. Is he not of herself? I' the temple when Kneeling to pray, on him she bends her eyes, As though God only heard her prayer through him. Is he to be a prophet? Nay, we know That out of Galilee no prophet comes. "

 But all their children made the boy their friend. 

 Three cottages that overlooked the sea Stood side by side eastward of Nazareth. Behind them rose a sheltering range of cliffs, Purple and yellow, verdure-spotted, red, Layer upon layer built up against the sky. In front a row of sloping meadows lay, Parted by narrow streams, that rose above, Leaped from the rocks, and cut the sands below Into deep channels widening to the sea. 

 Within the humblest of these three abodes Dwelt Joseph, his wife Mary, and their child. A honeysuckle and a moss-rose grew, With many blossoms, on their cottage front; And o'er the gable warmed by the South A sunny grape vine broadened shady leaves Which gave its tendrils shelter, as they hung Trembling upon the bloom of purple fruit. And, like the wreathed shadows and deep glows Which the sun spreads from some old oriel Upon the marble Altar and the gold Of God's own Tabernacle, where he dwells For ever, so the blossoms and the vine, On Jesus' home climbing above the roof, Traced intricate their windings all about The yellow thatch, and part concealed the nests Whence noisy close-housed sparrows peeped unseen. And Joseph had a little dove-cote placed Between the gable-window and the eaves, Where two white turtle doves (a gift of love From Mary's kinsman Zachary to her child) Cooed pleasantly; and broke upon the ear The ever dying sound of falling waves. 

 And so it came to pass, one Summer morn, The mother dove first brought her fledgeling out To see the sun. It was her only one, And she had breasted it through three long weeks With patient instinct till it broke the shell; And she had nursed it with all tender care, Another three, and watched the white down grow Into full feather, till it left her nest. And now it stood outside its narrow home, With tremulous wings let loose and blinking eyes; While, hovering near, the old dove often tried By many lures to tempt it to the ground, That they might feed from Jesus' hand, who stood Watching them from below. The timid bird At last took heart, and, stretching out its wings, Brushed the light vine-leaves as it fluttered down. Just then a hawk rose from a tree, and thrice Wheeled in the air, and poised his aim to drop On the young dove, whose quivering plumage swelled About the sunken talons as it died. Then the hawk fixed his round eye on the child, Shook from his beak the stained down, screamed, and flapped His broad arched wings, and, darting to a cleft I' the rocks, there sullenly devoured his prey. And Jesus heard the mother's anguished cry, Weak like the distant sob of some lost child, Who in his terror runs from path to path, Doubtful alike of all; so did the dove, As though death-stricken, beat about the air; Till, settling on the vine, she drooped her head Deep in her ruffled feathers. She sat there, Brooding upon her loss, and did not move All through that day. 

 And, sitting by her, covered up his face: Until a cloud, alone between the earth And sun, passed with its shadow over him. Then Jesus for a moment looked above; And a few drops of rain fell on his brow, Sad, as with broken hints of a lost dream, Or dim foreboding of some future ill. 

 Now, from a garden near, a fair-haired girl Came, carrying a handful of choice flowers, Which in her lap she sorted orderly, As little children do at Easter-time To have all seemly when their Lord shall rise. Then Jesus' covered face she gently raised, Placed in his hand the flowers, and kissed his cheek And tried with soothing words to comfort him; He from his eyes spoke thanks. 

 Fast trickling down his face, drop upon drop, Fell to the ground. That sad look left him not Till night brought sleep, and sleep closed o'er his woe. 

II. The Scourging

 Again there came a day when Mary sat Within the latticed doorway's fretted shade, Working in bright and many colored threads A girdle for her child, who at her feet Lay with his gentle face upon her lap. Both little hands were crossed and tightly clasped Around her knee. On them the gleams of light Which broke through overhanging blossoms warm, And cool transparent leaves, seemed like the gems Which deck Our Lady's shrine when incense-smoke Ascends before her, like them, dimly seen Behind the stream of white and slanting rays Which came from heaven, as a veil of light, Across the darkened porch, and glanced upon The threshold-stone; and here a moth, just born To new existence, stopped upon her flight, To bask her blue-eyed scarlet wings spread out Broad to the sun on Jesus' naked foot, Advancing its warm glow to where the grass, Trimmed neatly, grew around the cottage door. 

 And the child, looking in his mother's face, Would join in converse upon holy things With her, or, lost in thought, would seem to watch The orange-belted wild bees when they stilled Their hum, to press with honey-searching trunk The juicy grape; or drag their waxed legs Half buried in some leafy cool recess Found in a rose; or else swing heavily Upon the bending woodbine's fragrant mouth, And rob the flower of sweets to feed the rock, Where, in a hazel-covered crag aloft Parting two streams that fell in mist below, The wild bees ranged their waxen vaulted cells. 

 As the time passed, an ass's yearling colt, Bearing a heavy load, came down the lane That wound from Nazareth by Joseph's house, Sloping down to the sands. And two young men, The owners of the colt, with many blows From lash and goad wearied its patient sides; Urging it past its strength, so they might win Unto the beach before a ship should sail. Passing the door, the ass turned round its head, And looked on Jesus: and he knew the look; And, knowing it, knew too the strange dark cross Laying upon its shoulders and its back. It was a foal of that same ass which bare The infant and the mother, when they fled To Egypt from the edge of Herod's sword. And Jesus watched them, till they reached the sands. Then, by his mother sitting down once more, Once more there came that shadow of deep grief Upon his brow when Mary looked at him: And she remembered it in days that came. 

III. The Crowning with Thorns

 And the time passed. The child sat by himself upon the beach, While Joseph's barge freighted with heavy wood, Bound homewards, slowly labored thro' the calm. And, as he watched the long waves swell and break, Run glistening to his feet, and sink again, Three children, and then two, with each an arm Around the other, throwing up their songs, Such happy songs as only children know, Came by the place where Jesus sat alone. But, when they saw his thoughtful face, they ceased, And, looking at each other, drew near him; While one who had upon his head a wreath Of hawthorn flowers, and in his hand a reed, Put these both from him, saying, "Here is one Whom you shall all prefer instead of me To be our king;" and then he placed the wreath On Jesus' brow, who meekly bowed his head. And, when he took the reed, the children knelt, And cast their simple offerings at his feet: And, almost wondering why they loved him so, Kissed him with reverence, promising to yield Grave fealty. And Jesus did return Their childish salutations; and they passed Singing another song, whose music chimed With the sea's murmur, like a low sweet chant Chanted in some wide church to Jesus Christ. And Jesus listened till their voices sank Behind the jutting rocks, and died away: Then the wave broke, and Jesus felt alone. Who being alone, on his fair countenance And saddened beauty all unlike a child's The sun of innocence did light no smile, As on the group of happy faces gone. 

IV. Jesus Carrying his Cross

 And, when the barge arrived, and Joseph bare The wood upon his shoulders, piece by piece, Up to his shed, Jesus ran by his side, Yearning for strength to help the aged man Who tired himself with work all day for him. But Joseph said: "My child, it is God's will That I should work for thee until thou art Of age to help thyself. --Bide thou his time Which cometh--when thou wilt be strong enough, And on thy shoulders bear a tree like this. " So, while he spake, he took the last one up, Settling it with heaved back, fetching his breath. Then Jesus lifted deep prophetic eyes Full in the old man's face, but nothing said, Running still on to open first the door. 

V. The Crucifixion

 Joseph had one ewe-sheep; and she brought forth, Early one season, and before her time, A weakly lamb. It chanced to be upon Jesus' birthday, when he was eight years old. So Mary said--"We'll name it after him, "-- (Because she ever thought to please her child)-- "And we will sign it with a small red cross Upon the back, a mark to know it by. " And Jesus loved the lamb; and, as it grew Spotless and pure and loving like himself, White as the mother's milk it fed upon, He gave not up his care, till it became Of strength enough to browse and then, because Joseph had no land of his own, being poor, He sent away the lamb to feed amongst A neighbour's flock some distance from his home; Where Jesus went to see it every day. 

 One late Spring eve, their daily work being done, Mother and child, according to their wont, Went, hand in hand, their chosen evening walk. A pleasant wind rose from the sea, and blew Light flakes of waving silver o'er the fields Ready for mowing, and the golden West Warmed half the sky: the low sun flickered through The hedge-rows, as they passed; while hawthorn trees Scattered their snowy leaves and scent around. The sloping woods were rich in varied leaf, And musical in murmur and in song. 

 Long ere they reached the field, the wistful lamb Saw them approach, and ran from side to side The gate, pushing its eager face between The lowest bars, and bleating for pure joy. And Jesus, kneeling by it, fondled with The little creature, that could scarce find how To show its love enough; licking his hands, Then, starting from him, gambolled back again, And, with its white feet upon Jesus' knees, Nestled its head by his: and, as the sun Sank down behind them, broadening as it neared The low horizon, Mary thought it seemed To clothe them like a glory. --But her look Grew thoughtful, and she said: "I had, last night, A wandering dream. This brings it to my mind; And I will tell it thee as we walk home. 

 "I dreamed a weary way I had to go Alone, across an unknown land: such wastes We sometimes see in visions of the night, Barren and dimly lighted. There was not A tree in sight, save one seared leafless trunk, Like a rude cross; and, scattered here and there, A shrivelled thistle grew: the grass was dead, And the starved soil glared through its scanty tufts In bare and chalky patches, cracked and hot, Chafing my tired feet, that caught upon Its parched surface; for a thirsty sun Had sucked all moisture from the ground it burned, And, red and glowing, stared upon me like A furnace eye when all the flame is spent. I felt it was a dream; and so I tried To close my eyes, and shut it out from sight. Then, sitting down, I hid my face; but this Only increased the dread; and so I gazed With open eyes into my dream again. The mists had thickened, and had grown quite black Over the sun; and darkness closed round me. (Thy father said it thundered towards the morn. ) But soon, far off, I saw a dull green light Break though the clouds, which fell across the earth, Like death upon a bad man's upturned face. Sudden it burst with fifty forked darts In one white flash, so dazzling bright it seemed To hide the landscape in one blaze of light. When the loud crash that came down with it had Rolled its long echo into stillness, through The calm dark silence came a plaintive sound; And, looking towards the tree, I saw that it Was scorched with the lightning; and there stood Close to its foot a solitary sheep Bleating upon the edge of a deep pit, Unseen till now, choked up with briars and thorns; And into this a little snow white lamb, Like to thine own, had fallen. It was dead And cold, and must have lain there very long; While, all the time, the mother had stood by, Helpless, and moaning with a piteous bleat. The lamb had struggled much to free itself, For many cruel thorns had torn its head And bleeding feet; and one had pierced its side, From which flowed blood and water. Strange the things We see in dreams, and hard to understand;-- For, stooping down to raise its lifeless head, I thought it changed into the quiet face Of my own child. Then I awoke, and saw The dim moon shining through the watery clouds On thee awake within thy little bed. "

 Then Jesus, looking up, said quietly: "We read that God will speak to those he loves Sometimes in visions. He might speak to thee Of things to come his mercy partly veils From thee, my mother; or perhaps, the thought Floated across thy mind of what we read Aloud before we went to rest last night;-- I mean that passage in Isaias' book, Which tells about the patient suffering lamb, And which it seems that no one understands. " Then Mary bent her face to the child's brow, And kissed him twice, and, parting back his hair, Kissed him again. And Jesus felt her tears Drop warm upon his cheek, and he looked sad When silently he put his hand again Within his mother's. As they came, they went, Hand in hand homeward. With Mary and with Joseph, till the time When all the things should be fulfilled in him Which God had spoken by his prophets' mouth Long since; and God was with him, and God's grace. 

A Pause of Thought

 I looked for that which is not, nor can be, And hope deferred made my heart sick, in truth; But years must pass before a hope of youth Is resigned utterly. 

 I watched and waited with a steadfast will: And, tho' the object seemed to flee away That I so longed for, ever, day by day, I watched and waited still. 

 Sometimes I said, --"This thing shall be no more; My expectation wearies, and shall cease; I will resign it now, and be at peace:"-- Yet never gave it o'er. 

 Sometimes I said, --"It is an empty name I long for; to a name why should I give The peace of all the days I have to live?"-- Yet gave it all the same. 

 Alas! thou foolish one, --alike unfit For healthy joy and salutary pain, Thou knowest the chase useless, and again Turnest to follow it. 

The Purpose and Tendency of Early Italian Art

The object we have proposed to ourselves in writing on Art, has been"an endeavour to encourage and enforce an entire adherence to thesimplicity of nature; and also to direct attention, as an auxiliarymedium, to the comparatively few works which Art has yet produced inthis spirit. " It is in accordance with the former and more prominentof these objects that the writer proposes at present to treat. 

An unprejudiced spectator of the recent progress and main directionof Art in England will have observed, as a great change in thecharacter of the productions of the modern school, a marked attemptto lead the taste of the public into a new channel by producing puretranscripts and faithful studies from nature, instead ofconventionalities and feeble reminiscences from the Old Masters; anentire seeking after originality in a more humble manner than hasbeen practised since the decline of Italian Art in the Middle Ages. This has been most strongly shown by the landscape painters, amongwhom there are many who have raised an entirely new school of naturalpainting, and whose productions undoubtedly surpass all others in thesimple attention to nature in detail as well as in generalities. Bythis they have succeeded in earning for themselves the reputation ofbeing the finest landscape painters in Europe. But, although thissuccess has been great and merited, it is not of them that we have atpresent to treat, but rather to recommend their example to theirfellow-labourers, the historical painters. 

That the system of study to which this would necessarily leadrequires a somewhat longer and more devoted course of observationthan any other is undoubted; but that it has a reward in a greatereffect produced, and more delight in the searching, is, the writerthinks, equally certain. We shall find a greater pleasure inproportion to our closer communion with nature, and by a more exactadherence to all her details, (for nature has no peculiarities orexcentricities) in whatsoever direction her study may conduct. 

This patient devotedness appears to be a conviction peculiar to, orat least more purely followed by, the early Italian Painters; afeeling which, exaggerated, and its object mistaken by them, thoughstill held holy and pure, was the cause of the retirement of many ofthe greatest men from the world to the monastery; there, inundisturbed silence and humility, "Monotonous to paint Those endless cloisters and eternal aisles With the same series, Virgin, Babe, and Saint, With the same cold, calm, beautiful regard. "

Even with this there is not associated a melancholy feeling alone;for, although the object was mistaken, yet there is evinced aconsciousness of purpose definite and most elevated; and again, wemust 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 thepredominant influence of the clergy, who were the most importantpatrons by far, and their houses the safest receptacles for the worksof the great painter. 

The modern artist does not retire to monasteries, or practisediscipline; but he may show his participation in the same highfeeling by a firm attachment to truth in every point ofrepresentation, which is the most just method. For how can good besought by evil means, or by falsehood, or by slight in any degree? Bya determination to represent the thing and the whole of the thing, bytraining 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 thefollowers of the Arts have to show that they share in the peculiarcharacter of the present age, --a humility of knowledge, a diffidenceof 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 webe blind? Do we fear lest we should outsee nature and God, and drinktruth dry?"

It has been said that there is presumption in this movement of themodern school, a want of deference to established authorities, aremoving of ancient landmarks. This is best answered by theprofession that nothing can be more humble than the pretension to theobservation of facts alone, and the truthful rendering of them. If weare not to depart from established principles, how are we to advanceat all? Are we to remain still? Remember, no thing remains still;that which does not advance falls backward. That this movement is anadvance, and that it is of nature herself, is shown by its goingnearer to truth in every object produced, and by its being guided bythe very principles the ancient painters followed, as soon as theyattained the mere power of representing an object faithfully. Theseprinciples are now revived, not from them, though through theirexample, but from nature herself. 

That the earlier painters came nearer to fact, that they were less ofthe art, artificial, cannot be better shown than by the statement ofa few examples from their works. There is a magnificent Niello workby an unknown Florentine artist, on which is a group of the Saviourin the lap of the Virgin. She is old, (a most touching point);lamenting aloud, clutches passionately the heavy-weighted body on herknee; her mouth is open. Altogether it is one of the most powerfulappeals possible to be conceived; for there are few but will considerthis identification with humanity to be of more effect than anyrefined or emasculate treatment of the same subject by later artists, in which we have the fact forgotten for the sake of the type ofreligion, which the Virgin was always taken to represent, whence sheis shown as still young; as if, nature being taken typically, it werenot better to adhere to the emblem throughout, confident by thismeans to maintain its appropriateness, and, therefore, its value andforce. 

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 somewhatrude; but there are passion and feeling in it. This is not a questionof mere execution, but of mind, however developed. Let us notmistake, however, from this that execution should be neglected, butonly maintained as a most important _aid_, and in that quality alone, so that we do not forget the soul for the hand. The power ofrepresenting an object, that its entire intention may be visible, itslesson felt, is all that is absolutely necessary: mere technicalitiesof performance are but additions; and not the real intent and end ofpainting, as many have considered them to be. For as the knowledge isstronger and more pure in Masaccio than in the Caracci, and the faithhigher and greater, --so the first represents nature with more truefeeling and love, with a deeper insight into her tenderness; hefollows her more humbly, and has produced to us more of hersimplicity; we feel his appeal to be more earnest: it is the cryingout of the man, with none of the strut of the actor. 

Let us have the mind and the mind's-workings, not the remains ofearnest thought which has been frittered away by a long dreary courseof preparatory study, by which all life has been evaporated. Neverforget that there is in the wide river of nature something whichevery body who has a rod and line may catch, precious things whichevery one may dive for. 

It need not be feared that this course of education would lead to arepetition of the toe-trippings of the earliest Italian school, asneer which is manifestly unfair; for this error, as well as severalothers of a similar kind, was not the result of blindness orstupidity, but of the simple ignorance of what had not been appliedto the service of painting at their time. It cannot be shown thatthey were incorrect in expression, false in drawing, or unnatural inwhat is called composition. On the contrary, it is demonstrable thatthey exceeded all others in these particulars, that they partook lessof coarseness and of conventional sentiment than any school whichsucceeded them, and that they looked more to nature; in fact, weremore true, and less artificial. That their subjects were generally ofa melancholy cast is acknowledged, which was an accident resultingfrom the positions their pictures were destined to occupy. No manever complained that the Scriptures were morbid in their tendencybecause they treat of serious and earnest subjects: then why of thepictures which represent such? A certain gaunt length and slendernesshave also been commented upon most severely; as if the Italians ofthe fourteenth century were as so many dray horses, and the artistwere blamed for not following his model. The consequence of thisdirection of taste is that we have life-guardsmen and pugilists takenas models for kings, gentlemen, and philosophers. The writer was oncein a studio where a man, six feet two inches in height, withatlantean shoulders, was sitting for King Alfred. That there is nogreater absurdity than this will be perceived by any one that hasever read the description of the person of the king given by hishistorian and friend Asser. 

The sciences have become almost exact within the present century. Geology and chemistry are almost re-instituted. The first has beennearly created; the second expanded so widely that it now searchesand measures the creation. And how has this been done but by bringinggreater knowledge to bear upon a wider range of experiment; by beingprecise in the search after truth? If this adherence to fact, toexperiment and not theory, --to begin at the beginning and not fly tothe end, --has added so much to the knowledge of man in science; whymay it not greatly assist the moral purposes of the Arts? It cannotbe well to degrade a lesson by falsehood. Truth in every particularought to be the aim of the artist. Admit no untruth: let the priest'sgarment be clean. 

Let us now return to the Early Italian Painters. A completerefutation of any charge that the character of their school wasneccessarily gloomy will be found in the works of Benozzo Gozzoli, asin his 'Vineyard' where there are some grape-gatherers the mostelegant and graceful imaginable; this painter's children are the mostnatural ever painted. In Ghiberti, --in Fra Angilico, (wellnamed), --in Masaccio, --in Ghirlandajo, and in Baccio della Porta, infact in nearly all the works of the painters of this school, will befound a character of gentleness, grace, and freedom, which cannot besurpassed by any other school, be that which it may; and it isevident that this result must have been obtained by their peculiarattachment to simple nature alone, their casting aside all ornament, or rather their perfect ignorance of such, --a happy fortune none haveshared with them. To show that with all these qualifications theyhave been pre-eminent in energy and dignity, let us instance the 'AirDemons' of Orcagna, where there is a woman borne through the air byan Evil Spirit. Her expression is the most terrible imaginable; shegrasps her bearer with desperation, looking out around her intospace, agonized with terror. There are other figures in the samepicture of men who have been cast down, and are falling through theair: one descends with his hands tied, his chin up, and long hairhanging from his head in a mass. One of the Evil Spirits hoveringover them has flat wings, as though they were made of plank: thisgives a most powerful character to the figure. Altogether, thispicture contains perhaps a greater amount of bold imagination andoriginality of conception than any of the kind ever painted. Forsublimity 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 dignifiedsimplicity of which these artists possessed so large a share. Theseinstances might be multiplied without end; but surely enough havebeen cited in the way of example to show the surpassing talent andknowledge of these painters, and their consequent success, byfollowing natural principles, until the introduction of false andmeretricious ornament led the Arts from the simple chastity ofnature, which it is as useless to attempt to elevate as to endeavourto match the works of God by those of man. Let the artist be contentto study nature alone, and not dream of elevating any of her works, which are alone worthy of representation. {5}

{5} The sources from which these examples are drawn, and where manymore might be found, are principally:--_D'Agincourt: "Histoire del'Art par les Monumens;"--Rossini: "Storia della Pittura;"--Ottley:"Italian School of Design, "_ and his 120 Fac-similes of scarceprints;--and the "Gates of San Giovanni, " by Ghiberti; of which lasta cast of one entire is set up in the Central School of Design, Somerset House; portions of the same are also in the Royal Academy. 

The Arts have always been most important moral guides. Theirflourishing has always been coincident with the most wholesome periodof a nation's: never with the full and gaudy bloom which but hidescorruption, but the severe health of its most active and vigorouslife; its mature youth, and not the floridity of age, which, like thewide full open petals of a flower, indicates that its glory is aboutto pass away. There has certainly always been a period like the shortwarm season the Canadians call the "Indian Summer, " which is said tobe produced by the burning of the western forests, causing afactitious revival of the dying year: so there always seems to havebeen a flush of life before the final death of the Arts in eachperiod:--in Greece, in the sculptors and architects of the time afterPericles; in the Germans, with the successors of Albert Durer. Infact, in every school there has been a spring, a summer, an autumn, an "Indian Summer, " and then winter; for as surely as the "IndianSummer, " (which is, after all, but an unhealthy flush produced bydestruction, ) so surely does winter come. In the Arts, the winter hasbeen exaggerated action, conventionalism, gaudy colour, falsesentiment, voluptuousness, and poverty of invention: and, of allthese characters, that which has been the most infallible herald ofdecease, voluptuousness, has been the most rapid and sure. Corruptionlieth under it; and every school, and indeed every individual, thathas pandered to this, and departed from the true spirit in which allstudy should be conducted, sought to degrade and sensualize, insteadof chasten and render pure, the humanity it was instructed toelevate. So has that school, and so have those individuals, losttheir own power and descended from their high seat, fallen from thepriest 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 thereare many signs, let us have it unstained by this vice of sensualityof mind. The English school has lately lost a great deal of thischaracter; why should we not be altogether free from it? Nothing candegrade a man or a nation more than this meanness; why should we notavoid it? Sensuality is a meanness repugnant to youth, and disgustingin 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 successfulschool of painters has produced upon us the intention of theirearnestness 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 relythat 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 coursethat is worthy of the influence which might be exerted by means ofthe Arts upon the character of the people: therefore let it be theonly 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 theactions of any age is, or might be, predominant above all others willbe 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 wroughtby their influence is another point on which there can be smalldoubt. Let us then endeavour to call up and exert this power in theworthiest manner, not forgetting that we chose a difficult path inwhich there are many snares, and holding in mind the motto, _"NoCross, no Crown. "_

Believe that there is that in the fact of truth, though it be only inthe character of a single leaf earnestly studied, which may do itsshare in the great labor of the world: remember that it is by truthalone that the Arts can ever hold the position for which they wereintended, as the most powerful instruments, the most gentle guides;that, of all classes, there is none to whom the celebrated words ofLessing, "That the destinies of a nation depend upon its young menbetween nineteen and twenty-five years of age, " can apply so well asto yourselves. Recollect, that your portion in this is mostimportant: that your share is with the poet's share; that, in everycareless thought or neglected doubt, you shelve your duty, andforsake your trust; fulfil and maintain these, whether in the hope ofpersonal fame and fortune, or from a sense of power used to itsintentions; 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 mayhave permission to impart. 

Song

 Oh! roses for the flush of youth, And laurel for the perfect prime; But pluck an ivy-branch for me, Grown old before my time. 

 Oh! violets for the grave of youth, And bay for those dead in their prime; Give me the withered leaves I chose Before in the olden time. 

Morning Sleep

 Another day hath dawned Since, hastily and tired, I threw myself Into the dark lap of advancing sleep. Meanwhile through the oblivion of the night The ponderous world its old course hath fulfilled; And now the gradual sun begins to throw Its slanting glory on the heads of trees, And every bird stirs in its nest revealed, And shakes its dewy wings. 

 A blessed gift Unto the weary hath been mine to-night, Slumber unbroken: now it floats away:-- But whether 'twere not best to woo it still, The head thus properly disposed, the eyes In a continual dawning, mingling earth And heaven with vagrant fantasies, --one hour, -- Yet for another hour? I will not break The shining woof; I will not rudely leap Out of this golden atmosphere, through which I see the forms of immortalities. Verily, soon enough the laboring day With its necessitous unmusical calls Will force the indolent conscience into life. 

 The uncouth moth upon the window-panes Hath ceased to flap, or traverse with blind whirr The room's dusk corners; and the leaves without Vibrate upon their thin stems with the breeze Flying towards the light. To an Eastern vale That light may now be waning, and across The tall reeds by the Ganges, lotus-paved, Lengthening the shadows of the banyan-tree. The rice-fields are all silent in the glow, All silent the deep heaven without a cloud, Burning like molten gold. A red canoe Crosses with fan-like paddles and the sound Of feminine song, freighted with great-eyed maids Whose unzoned bosoms swell on the rich air; A lamp is in each hand; some mystic rite Go they to try. Such rites the birds may see, Ibis or emu, from their cocoa nooks, -- What time the granite sentinels that watch The mouths of cavern-temples hail the first Faint star, and feel the gradual darkness blend Their august lineaments;--what time Haroun Perambulated Bagdat, and none knew He was the Caliph who knocked soberly By Giafar's hand at their gates shut betimes;-- What time prince Assad sat on the high hill 'Neath the pomegranate-tree, long wearying For his lost brother's step;--what time, as now, Along our English sky, flame-furrows cleave And break the quiet of the cold blue clouds, And the first rays look in upon our roofs. 

 Let the day come or go; there is no let Or hindrance to the indolent wilfulness Of fantasy and dream-land. Place and time And bodily weight are for the wakeful only. Now they exist not: life is like that cloud, Floating, poised happily in mid-air, bathed In a sustaining halo, soft yet clear, Voyaging on, though to no bourne; all heaven Its own wide home alike, earth far below Fading still further, further. Yet we see, In fancy, its green fields, its towers, and towns Smoking with life, its roads with traffic thronged And tedious travellers within iron cars, Its rivers with their ships, and laborers, To whose raised eye, as, stretched upon the sward, They may enjoy some interval of rest, That little cloud appears no living thing, Although it moves, and changes as it moves. There is an old and memorable tale Of some sound sleeper being borne away By banded fairies in the mottled hour Before the cockcrow, through unknown weird woods And mighty forests, where the boughs and roots Opened before him, closed behind;--thenceforth A wise man lived he, all unchanged by years. Perchance again these fairies may return, And evermore shall I remain as now, A dreamer half awake, a wandering cloud!

 The spell Of Merlin old that ministered to fate, The tales of visiting ghosts, or fairy elves, Or witchcraft, are no fables. But his task Is ended with the night;--the thin white moon Evades the eye, the sun breaks through the trees, And the charmed wizard comes forth a mere man From out his circle. Thus it is, whate'er We know and understand hath lost the power Over us;--we are then the master. Still All Fancy's world is real; no diverse mark Is on the stores of memory, whether gleaned From childhood's early wonder at the charm That bound the lady in the echoless cave Where lay the sheath'd sword and the bugle horn, -- Or from the fullgrown intellect, that works From age to age, exploring darkest truths, With sympathy and knowledge in one yoke Ploughing the harvest land. 

 The lark is up, Piercing the dazzling sky beyond the search Of the acutest love: enough for me To hear its song: but now it dies away, Leaving the chirping sparrow to attract The listless ear, --a minstrel, sooth to say, Nearly as good. And now a hum like that Of swarming bees on meadow-flowers comes up. Each hath its just and yet luxurious joy, As if to live were to be blessed. The mild Maternal influence of nature thus Ennobles both the sentient and the dead;-- The human heart is as an altar wreathed, On which old wine pours, streaming o'er the leaves, And down the symbol-carved sides. Behold! Unbidden, yet most welcome, who be these? The high-priests of this altar, poet-kings;-- Chaucer, still young with silvery beard that seems Worthy the adoration of a child; And Spenser, perfect master, to whom all Sweet graces ministered. The shut eye weaves A picture;--the immortals pass along Into the heaven, and others follow still, Each on his own ray-path, till all the field Is threaded with the foot-prints of the great. And now the passengers are lost; long lines Only are left, all intertwisted, dark Upon a flood of light......... I am awake! I hear domestic voices on the stair. 

 Already hath the mower finished half His summer day's ripe task; already hath His scythe been whetted often; and the heaps Behind him lie like ridges from the tide. In sooth, it is high time to wave away The cup of Comus, though with nectar filled, And sweet as odours to the mariner From lands unseen, across the wide blank sea. 

Sonnet

 When midst the summer-roses the warm bees Are swarming in the sun, and thou--so full Of innocent glee--dost with thy white hands pull Pink scented apples from the garden trees To fling at me, I catch them, on my knees, Like those who gather'd manna; and I cull Some hasty buds to pelt thee--white as wool Lilies, or yellow jonquils, or heartsease;-- Then I can speak my love, ev'n tho' thy smiles Gush out among thy blushes, like a flock Of bright birds from rose-bowers; but when thou'rt gone I have no speech, --no magic that beguiles, The stream of utterance from the harden'd rock:-- The dial cannot speak without the sun!

Stars and Moon

 Beneath the stars and summer moon A pair of wedded lovers walk, Upon the stars and summer moon They turn their happy eyes, and talk. 

EDITH. 

 "Those stars, that moon, for me they shine With lovely, but no startling light; My joy is much, but not as thine, A joy that fills the pulse, like fright. "

ALFRED. 

 "My love, a darken'd conscience clothes The world in sackcloth; and, I fear, The stain of life this new heart loathes, Still clouds my sight; but thine is clear. 

 "True vision is no startling boon To one in whom it always lies; But if true sight of stars and moon Were strange to thee, it would surprise. 

 "Disease it is and dearth in me Which thou believest genius, wealth; And that imagined want in thee Is riches and abundant health. 

 "O, little merit I my bride! And therefore will I love her more; Renewing, by her gentle side, Lost worth: let this thy smile restore!"

EDITH. 

 "Ah, love! we both, with longing deep, Love words and actions kind, which are More good for life than bread or sleep, More beautiful than Moon or Star. "

On the Mechanism of a Historical Picture

Part I. The Design

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

The first advice that should be given, on painting a historicalpicture, ought undoubtedly to be on the choosing of a fit subject;but, the object of the present paper being purely practical, it wouldill commence with a question which would entail a dissertationbearing upon the most abstract properties of Art. Should itafterwards appear necessary, we may append such a paper to the lastnumber of these articles; but, for the present, we will contentourselves with beginning where the student may first encounter adifficulty 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 ofthe times, and habits of the people, which he is about to represent;and next, to consult the proper authorities for his costume, and suchobjects as may fill his canvass; as the architecture, furniture, vegetation or landscape, or accessories, necessary to the elucidationof the subject. By not pursuing this course, the artist is in dangerof imagining an effect, or disposition of lines, incompatible withthe costume of his figures, or objects surrounding them; and it willbe found always a most difficult thing to efface an idea that hasonce taken possession of the mind. Besides which, it is impossible toconceive a design with any truth, not being acquainted with thecharacter, habits, and appearance, of the people represented. 

Having, by such means, secured the materials of which his work mustbe composed, the artist must endeavour, as far as lies in his power, to embody the picture in his thoughts, before having recourse topaper. He must patiently consider his subject, revolving in his mindevery means that may assist the clear development of the story:giving the most prominent places to the most important actors, andcarefully rejecting incidents that cannot be expressed by pantomimicart without the aid of text. He must also, in this mental forerunnerof his picture, arrange the "grouping" of his figures, --that is, thedisposing of them in such agreeable clusters or situations on hiscanvass as may be compatible with the dramatic truth of the whole, (technically called the lines of a composition. ) He must alsoconsider the color, and disposition of light and dark masses in hisdesign, so as to call attention to the principal objects, (technically called the "effect. ") Thus, to recapitulate, thepainter, in his first conception of his picture, will have to combinethree qualities, each subordinate to the other;--the intellectual, orclear development, dramatic truth, and sentiment, of hisincident;--the construction, or disposition of his groups and lines, as most conducive to clearness, effect, and harmony;--and thechromatic, or arrangement of colors, light and shade, most suitableto impress and attract the beholder. {6}

{6} Many artists, chiefly of the schools not colorists, are in thehabit of making their designs in outline, leaving the colors andlight and shade to be thought of afterwards. This plan may offerfacilities; but we doubt if it be possible to arrange satisfactorilythe colors of a work which has been designed in outline withoutconsideration of these qualities. 

Having settled these points in his mind, as definitely as hisfaculties will allow of, the student will take pencil and paper, andsketch roughly each separate figure in his composition, studying hisown acting, (in a looking-glass) or else that of any friend he mayhave of an artistic or poetic temperament, but not employing for thepurpose the ordinary paid models. --It will be always found that theyare stiff and feelingless, and, as such, tend to curb the vivacity ofa first conception, so much so that the artist may believe an actionimpossible, through the want of comprehension of the model, which tohimself or a friend might prove easy. 

Here let the artist spare neither time nor labor, but exert himselfbeyond his natural energies, seeking to enter into the character ofeach actor, studying them one after the other, limb for limb, handfor hand, finger for finger, noting each inflection of joint, ortension 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 patientendeavor and utter simplicity of heart. For on this labor must dependthe success of his work with the public. Artists may praise hiscolor, drawing, or manipulation, his chiaroscuro, or his lines; butthe clearness, truth, and sentiment, of his work will alone affectthe many. 

The action of each figure being now determinate, the next step willbe to make a sketch in oil of the whole design; after which, livingmodels, as like the artist's conception as can be found, must beprocured, to make outlines of the nude of each figure, and againsketches of the same, draped in the proper costume. {7}

{7} There is always difficulty attending this very necessary portionof the study of the picture; because, if the dresses be borrowed orhired, at this period they may be only wanted for a few hours, andperhaps not required again for some months to paint into thepicture. --Again, if the costume have to be made, and of expensivematerial, the portion of it seen may be sufficient to pin on to a layfigure, without having the whole made, which could not be worn by theliving model. However, with all the larger or loose draperies, it isvery necessary to sketch them first from the living model. 

From these studies, the painter will prepare a second sketch, inoutline, of the whole, being, in fact, a small and hasty cartoon. {8}

{8} Should the picture be of small dimensions, it will be found moreexpeditious to make an outline of it on paper the full size, whichcan be traced on to the canvass, keeping the latter clean. On thecontrary, should the painting be large, the outline had better bemade small, and squared to transfer to the canvass. 

In this last preparation of the design, the chief care of the studentwill be the grouping, and the correct size and place of each figure;also the perspective of the architecture and ground plan will nowhave to be settled; a task requiring much patient calculation, andusually proving a source of disgust to the novice not endowed withmuch perseverance. But, above all, the quality to be most studied inthis outline design will be the _proportion_ of the whole work. 

And with a few remarks on this quality, which might appropriately betermed "constructive beauty in art, " we will close this paper on "theDesign, " as belonging more properly to the mechanical than theintellectual side of art; as being rather the slow growth ofexperience than the spontaneous impulse of the artistic temperament. It is a feature in art rather apt to savor of conventionality to suchas would look on nature as the only school of art, who would considerit but as the exponent of thought and feeling; while, on the otherhand, we fear it likely to be studied to little effect by such asreceive with indiscriminate and phlegmatic avidity all that is handeddown to them in the shape of experience or time-sanctioned rule. Butplastic art claims not merely our sympathy, in its highest capacityto emit thought and sentiment; but as form, colour, light, life, andbeauty; and who shall settle the claims between thought and beauty?But art has beauties of its own, which neither impair nor contradictthe beauties of nature; but which are not of nature, and yet are, inasmuch as art itself is but part of nature: and of such, thebeauties of the nature of art, is the feeling for constructivebeauty. It interferes not with truth or sentiment; it is not thecause of unlikely order and improbable symmetry; it is not bounded byline or rule, nor taught by theory. It is a feeling for proportion, ever varying from an infinity of conflicting causes, that balancesthe picture as it balances the Gothic edifice; it is a germ plantedin the breast of the artist, that gradually expands by cultivation. 

To those who would foster its development the only rule we couldoffer would be never to leave a design, while they imagine they couldalter for the better (subordinate to the truth of nature) the placeof a single figure or group, or the direction of a line. 

And to such as think it beneath their care we can only say that theyneglect a refinement, of which every great master takes advantage toincrease the fascination which beauty, feeling, or passion, exercisesover the multitude. 

A Testimony

 I said of laughter: It is vain;-- Of mirth I said: What profits it?-- Therefore I found a book, and writ Therein, how ease and also pain, How health and sickness, every one Is vanity beneath the sun. 

 Man walks in a vain shadow; he Disquieteth himself in vain. The things that were shall be again. The rivers do not fill the sea, But turn back to their secret source: The winds, too, turn upon their course. 

 Our treasures, moth and rust corrupt; Or thieves break through and steal; or they Make themselves wings and fly away. One man made merry as he supp'd, Nor guessed how when that night grew dim, His soul would be required of him. 

 We build our houses on the sand Comely withoutside, and within; But when the winds and rains begin To beat on them, they cannot stand; They perish, quickly overthrown, Loose at the hidden basement stone. 

 All things are vanity, I said: Yea vanity of vanities. The rich man dies; and the poor dies: The worm feeds sweetly on the dead. Whatso thou lackest, keep this trust:-- All in the end shall have but dust. 

 The one inheritance, which best And worst alike shall find and share. The wicked cease from troubling there, And there the weary are at rest; There all the wisdom of the wise Is vanity of vanities. 

 Man flourishes as a green leaf, And as a leaf doth pass away; Or, as a shade that cannot stay, And leaves no track, his course is brief: Yet doth man hope and fear and plan Till he is dead:--oh foolish man!

 Our eyes cannot be satisfied With seeing; nor our ears be fill'd With hearing: yet we plant and build, And buy, and make our borders wide: We gather wealth, we gather care, But know not who shall be our heir. 

 Why should we hasten to arise So early, and so late take rest? Our labor is not good; our best Hopes fade; our heart is stayed on lies: Verily, we sow wind; and we Shall reap the whirlwind, verily. 

 He who hath little shall not lack; He who hath plenty shall decay: Our fathers went; we pass away; Our children follow on our track: So generations fail, and so They are renewed, and come and go. 

 The earth is fattened with our dead; She swallows more and doth not cease; Therefore her wine and oil increase And her sheaves are not numbered; Therefore her plants are green, and all Her pleasant trees lusty and tall. 

 Therefore the maidens cease to sing, And the young men are very sad; Therefore the sowing is not glad, And weary is the harvesting. Of high and low, of great and small, Vanity is the lot of all. 

 A king dwelt in Jerusalem: He was the wisest man on earth; He had all riches from his birth, And pleasures till he tired of them: Then, having tested all things, he Witnessed that all are vanity. 

O When and Where

 All knowledge hath taught me, All sorrow hath brought me, Are smothered sighs That pleasure lies, Like the last gleam of evening's ray, So far and far away, --far away. 

 Under the cold moist herbs No wind the calm disturbs. O when and where? Nor here nor there. Grass cools my face, grief heats my heart. Will this life I swoon with never part?

Fancies at Leisure

I. Noon Rest

 Following the river's course, We come to where the sedges plant Their thickest twinings at its source;-- A spot that makes the heart to pant, Feeling its rest and beauty. Pull The reeds' tops thro' your fingers; dull Your sense of the world's life; and toss The thought away of hap or cross: Then shall the river seem to call Your name, and the slow quiet crawl Between your eyelids like a swoon; And all the sounds at heat of noon And all the silence shall so sing Your eyes asleep as that no wing Of bird in rustling by, no prone Willow-branch on your hair, no drone Droning about and past you, --nought May soon avail to rouse you, caught With sleep thro' heat in the sun's light, -- So good, tho' losing sound and sight, You scarce would waken, if you might. 

II. A Quiet Place

 My friend, are not the grasses here as tall As you would wish to see? The runnell's fall Over the rise of pebbles, and its blink Of shining points which, upon this side, sink In dark, yet still are there; this ragged crane Spreading his wings at seeing us with vain Terror, forsooth; the trees, a pulpy stock Of toadstools huddled round them; and the flock-- Black wings after black wings--of ancient rook By rook; has not the whole scene got a look As though we were the first whose breath should fan In two this spider's web, to give a span Of life more to three flies? See, there's a stone Seems made for us to sit on. Have men gone By here, and passed? or rested on that bank Or on this stone, yet seen no cause to thank For the grass growing here so green and rank?

III. A Fall of Rain

 It was at day-break my thought said: "The moon makes chequered chestnut-shade There by the south-side where the vine Grapples the wall; and if it shine This evening thro' the boughs and leaves, And if the wind with silence weaves More silence than itself, each stalk Of flower just swayed by it, we'll walk, Mary and I, when every fowl Hides beak and eyes in breast, the owl Only awake to hoot. "--But clover Is beaten down now, and birds hover, Peering for shelter round; no blade Of grass stands sharp and tall; men wade Thro' mire with frequent plashing sting Of rain upon their faces. Sing, Then, Mary, to me thro' the dark: But kiss me first: my hand shall mark Time, pressing yours the while I hark. 

IV. Sheer Waste

 Is it a little thing to lie down here Beside the water, looking into it, And see there grass and fallen leaves interknit, And small fish sometimes passing thro' some bit Of tangled grass where there's an outlet clear?

 And then a drift of wind perhaps will come, And blow the insects hovering all about Into the water. Some of them get out; Others swim with sharp twitches; and you doubt Whether of life or death for other some. 

 Meanwhile the blueflies sway themselves along Over the water's surface, or close by; Not one in ten beyond the grass will fly That closely skirts the stream; nor will your eye Meet any where the sunshine is not strong. 

 After a time you find, you know not how, That it is quite a stretch of energy To do what you have done unconsciously, -- That is, pull up the grass; and then you see You may as well rise and be going now. 

 So, having walked for a few steps, you fall Bodily on the grass under the sun, And listen to the rustle, one by one, Of the trees' leaves; and soon the wind has done For a short space, and it is quiet all;

 Except because the rooks will make a caw Just now and then together: and the breeze Soon rises up again among the trees, Making the grass, moreover, bend and tease Your face, but pleasantly. Mayhap the paw

 Of a dog touches you and makes you rise Upon one arm to pat him; and he licks Your hand for that. A child is throwing sticks, Hard by, at some half-dozen cows, which fix Upon him their unmoved contented eyes. 

 The sun's heat now is painful. Scarce can you Move, and even less lie still. You shuffle then, Poised on your arms, again to shade. Again There comes a pleasant laxness on you. When You have done enough of nothing, you will go. 

 Some hours perhaps have passed. Say not you fling These hours or such-like recklessly away. Seeing the grass and sun and children, say, Is not this something more than idle play, Than careless waste? Is it a little thing?

The Light beyond

I

 Though we may brood with keenest subtlety, Sending our reason forth, like Noah's dove, To know why we are here to die, hate, love, With Hope to lead and help our eyes to see Through labour daily in dim mystery, Like those who in dense theatre and hall, When fire breaks out or weight-strained rafters fall, Towards some egress struggle doubtfully; Though we through silent midnight may address The mind to many a speculative page, Yearning to solve our wrongs and wretchedness, Yet duty and wise passiveness are won, -- (So it hath been and is from age to age)-- Though we be blind, by doubting not the sun. 

II

 Bear on to death serenely, day by day, Midst losses, gains, toil, and monotony, The ignorance of social apathy, And artifice which men to men display: Like one who tramps a long and lonely way Under the constant rain's inclemency, With vast clouds drifting in obscurity, And sudden lightnings in the welkin grey. To-morrow may be bright with healthy pleasure, Banishing discontents and vain defiance: The pearly clouds will pass to a slow measure, Wayfarers walk the dusty road in joyance, The wide heaths spread far in the sun's alliance, Among the furze inviting us to leisure. 

III

 Vanity, say they, quoting him of old. Yet, if full knowledge lifted us serene To look beyond mortality's stern screen, A reconciling vision could be told, Brighter than western clouds or shapes of gold That change in amber fires, --or the demesne Of ever mystic sleep. Mists intervene, Which then would melt, to show our eyesight bold From God a perfect chain throughout the skies, Like Jacob's ladder light with winged men. And as this world, all notched to terrene eyes With Alpine ranges, smoothes to higher ken, So death and sin and social miseries; By God fixed as His bow o'er moor and fen. 

The Blessed Damozel

 The blessed Damozel leaned out From the gold bar of Heaven: Her blue grave eyes were deeper much Than a deep water, even. She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. 

 Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary's gift On the neck meetly worn; And her hair, lying down her back, Was yellow like ripe corn. 

 Herseemed she scarce had been a day One of God's choristers; The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers; Albeit to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years. 

 (To _one_ it is ten years of years: ........ Yet now, here in this place Surely she leaned o'er me, --her hair Fell all about my face......... Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace. )

 It was the terrace of God's house That she was standing on, -- By God built over the sheer depth In which Space is begun; So high, that looking downward thence, She could scarce see the sun. 

 It lies from Heaven across the flood Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and blackness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge. 

 But in those tracts, with her, it was The peace of utter light And silence. For no breeze may stir Along the steady flight O seraphim; no echo there, Beyond all depth or height. 

 Heard hardly, some of her new friends, Playing at holy games, Spake, gentle-mouthed, among themselves, Their virginal chaste names; And the souls, mounting up to God, Went by her like thin flames. 

 And still she bowed herself, and stooped Into the vast waste calm; Till her bosom's pressure must have made The bar she leaned on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm. 

 From the fixt lull of heaven, she saw Time, like a pulse, shake fierce Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove, In that steep gulph, to pierce The swarm: and then she spake, as when The stars sang in their spheres. 

 "I wish that he were come to me, For he will come, " she said. "Have I not prayed in solemn heaven? On earth, has he not prayed? Are not two prayers a perfect strength? And shall I feel afraid?

 "When round his head the aureole clings, And he is clothed in white, I'll take his hand, and go with him To the deep wells of light, And we will step down as to a stream And bathe there in God's sight. 

 "We two will stand beside that shrine, Occult, withheld, untrod, Whose lamps tremble continually With prayer sent up to God; And where each need, revealed, expects Its patient period. 

 "We two will lie i' the shadow of That living mystic tree Within whose secret growth the Dove Sometimes is felt to be, While every leaf that His plumes touch Saith His name audibly. 

 "And I myself will teach to him-- I myself, lying so, -- The songs I sing here; which his mouth Shall pause in, hushed and slow, Finding some knowledge at each pause And some new thing to know. "

 (Alas! to _her_ wise simple mind These things were all but known Before: they trembled on her sense, -- Her voice had caught their tone. Alas for lonely Heaven! Alas For life wrung out alone!

 Alas, and though the end were reached?........ Was _thy_ part understood Or borne in trust? And for her sake Shall this too be found good?-- May the close lips that knew not prayer Praise ever, though they would?)

 "We two, " she said, "will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is, With her five handmaidens, whose names Are five sweet symphonies:-- Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, Margaret, and Rosalys. 

 "Circle-wise sit they, with bound locks And bosoms covered; Into the fine cloth, white like flame, Weaving the golden thread, To fashion the birth-robes for them Who are just born, being dead. 

 "He shall fear haply, and be dumb. Then I will lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love, Not once abashed or weak: And the dear Mother will approve My pride, and let me speak. 

 "Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, To Him round whom all souls Kneel--the unnumber'd solemn heads Bowed with their aureoles: And Angels, meeting us, shall sing To their citherns and citoles. 

 "There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me:-- To have more blessing than on earth In nowise; but to be As then we were, --being as then At peace. Yea, verily. 

 "Yea, verily; when he is come We will do thus and thus: Till this my vigil seem quite strange And almost fabulous; We two will live at once, one life; And peace shall be with us. "

 She gazed, and listened, and then said, Less sad of speech than mild: "All this is when he comes. " She ceased; The light thrilled past her, filled With Angels, in strong level lapse. Her eyes prayed, and she smiled. 

 (I saw her smile. ) But soon their flight Was vague 'mid the poised spheres. And then she cast her arms along The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears. )

Reviews

The Strayed Reveller; and other Poems. By A. --Fellowes, Ludgate-street. --1849. 

If any one quality may be considered common to all living poets, itis that which we have heard aptly described as _self-consciousness_. In this many appear to see the only permanent trace of the now oldusurping deluge of Byronism; but it is truly a fact of thetime, --less a characteristic than a portion of it. Every species ofcomposition--the dramatic, the narrative, the lyric, the didactic, the descriptive--is imbued with this spirit; and the reader maycalculate with almost equal certainty on becoming acquainted with thebelief of a poet as of a theologian or a moralist. Of the evilsresulting from the practice, the most annoying and the worst is thatsome of the lesser poets, and all mere pretenders, in their desire toemulate the really great, feel themselves under a kind of obligationto assume opinions, vague, incongruous, or exaggerated, often notonly not their own, but the direct reverse of their own, --a kind ofmeanness that has replaced, and goes far to compensate for, theflatteries of our literary ancestors. On the other hand, this qualityhas created a new tie of interest between the author and his public, enhances the significance of great works, and confers value on eventhe slightest productions of a true poet. 

That the systematic infusion of this spirit into the drama and epiccompositions is incompatible with strict notions of art will scarcelybe disputed: but such a general objection does not apply in the caseof lyric poetry, where even the character of the subject is optional. It is an instance of this kind that we are now about to consider. 

"The Strayed Reveller and other Poems, " constitutes, we believe, thefirst published poetical work of its author, although the followingwould rather lead to the inference that he is no longer young. 

 "But my youth reminds me: 'Thou Hast lived light as these live now; As these are, thou too wert such. '"--p. 59. 

And, in another poem:

 "In vain, all, all, in vain, They beat upon mine ear again, Those melancholy tones so sweet and still: Those lute-like tones which, in long-distant years, Did steal into mine ears. "--p. 86. 

Accordingly, we find but little passion in the volume, only fourpieces (for "The Strayed Reveller" can scarcely be so considered)being essentially connected with it. Of these the "Modern Sappho"appears to us not only inferior, but as evidencing less maturity bothof thought and style; the second, "Stagyrus, " is an urgent appeal toGod; the third, "The New Sirens, " though passionate in utterance, is, in purpose, a rejection of passion, as having been weighed in thebalance and found wanting; and, in the last, where he tells of thevoice which once

 "Blew such a thrilling summons to his will, Yet could not shake it; Drained all the life his full heart had to spill; Yet could not break it:"--

he records the "intolerable change of thought" with which it nowcomes to his "long-sobered heart. " Perhaps "The Forsaken Merman"should be added to these; but the grief here is more nearlyapproaching to gloomy submission and the sickness of hope deferred. 

The lessons that the author would learn of nature are, as set forthin the sonnet that opens the volume, "Of toil unsevered from tranquillity; Of labor that in one short hour outgrows Man's noisy schemes, --accomplished in repose, Too great for haste, too high for rivalry. "--p. 1. 

His conception of the poet is of one who

 "Sees before him life unroll, A placid and continuous whole; That general life which does not cease; Whose secret is, not joy, but peace; That life, whose dumb wish is not missed If birth proceeds, if things subsist; The life of plants and stones and rain; The life he craves:--if not in vain Fate gave, what chance shall not control, His sad lucidity of soul. "--pp. 123-4. 

 (_Resignation. _)

Such is the author's purpose in these poems. He recognises in eachthing a part of the whole: and the poet must know even as he sees, orbreathes, as by a spontaneous, half-passive exercise of a faculty: hemust receive rather than seek. 

 "Action and suffering tho' he know, He hath not lived, if he lives so. "

Connected with this view of life as "a placid and continuous whole, "is the principle which will be found here manifested in differentmodes, and thro' different phases of event, of the permanence andchangelessness of natural laws, and of the large necessity wherewiththey compel life and man. This is the thought which animates the"Fragment of an 'Antigone:'" "The World and the Quietest" has noother scope than this:--

 "Critias, long since, I know, (For fate decreed it so), Long since the world hath set its heart to live. Long since, with credulous zeal, It turns life's mighty wheel: Still doth for laborers send; Who still their labor give. And still expects an end. "--p. 109. 

This principle is brought a step futher into the relations of life in"The Sick King in Bokhara, " the following passage from which claimsto be quoted, not less for its vividness as description, than inillustration of this thought:--

 "In vain, therefore, with wistful eyes Gazing up hither, the poor man Who loiters by the high-heaped booths Below there in the Registan

 "Says: 'Happy he who lodges there! With silken raiment, store of rice, And, for this drought, all kinds of fruits, Grape-syrup, squares of colored ice, "'With cherries served in drifts of snow. ' In vain hath a king power to build Houses, arcades, enamelled mosques, And to make orchard-closes filled

 "With curious fruit trees brought from far, With cisterns for the winter rain; And, in the desert, spacious inns In divers places;--if that pain

 "Is not more lightened which he feels, If his will be not satisfied: And that it be not from all time The law is planted, to abide. "--pp. 47-8. 

The author applies this basis of fixity in nature generally to therules of man's nature, and avow himself a Quietist. Yet he would notdespond, but contents himself, and waits. In no poem of the volume isthis character more clearly defined and developed than in the sonnets"To a Republican Friend, " the first of which expresses concurrence incertain broad progressive principles of humanity: to the second wewould call the reader's attention, as to an example of the author'smore firm and serious writing:--

 "Yet when I muse on what life is, I seem Rather to patience prompted than that proud Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud; France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme:-- Seeing this vale, this earth whereon we dream, Is on all sides o'ershadowed by the high Uno'erleaped mountains of necessity, Sparing us narrower margin than we deem. Nor will that day dawn at a human nod, When, bursting thro' the net-work superposed By selfish occupation--plot and plan, Lust, avarice, envy, --liberated man, All difference with his fellow-man composed, Shall be left standing face to face with God. "--p. 57. 

In the adjuration entitled "Stagyrus, " already mentioned, he prays tobe set free

 "From doubt, where all is double, Where Faiths are built on dust;"

and there seems continually recurring to him a haunting presage ofthe unprofitableness of the life, after which men have not "any morea portion for ever in anything that is done under the sun. " Where hespeaks of resignation, after showing how the less impetuous andself-concentred natures can acquiesce in the order of this life, evenwere it to bring them back with an end unattained to the place whencethey set forth; after showing how it is the poet's office to liverather than to act in and thro' the whole life round about him, heconcludes thus:

 "The world in which we live and move Outlasts aversion, outlasts love..... Nay, and since death, which wipes out man, Finds him with many an unsolved plan, .... Still gazing on the ever full Eternal mundane spectacle, This world in which we draw our breath In some sense, Fausta, outlasts death..... 

 Enough, we live:--and, if a life With large results so little rife, Tho' bearable, seem scarcely worth This pomp of worlds, this pain of birth, Yet, Fausta, the mute turf we tread, The solemn hills around us spread, This stream that falls incessantly, The strange-scrawled rocks, the lonely sky, If I might lend their life a voice, Seem to bear rather than rejoice. And, even could the intemperate prayer Man iterates, while these forbear, For movement, for an ampler sphere, Pierce fate's impenetrable ear, Not milder is the general lot Because our spirits have forgot, In actions's dizzying eddy whirled, The something that infects the world. "--pp. 125-8. --_Resignation. _

"Shall we, " he asks, "go hence and find that our vain dreams are notdead? Shall we follow our vague joys, and the old dead faces, and thedead hopes?"

He exhorts man to be "_in utrumque paratus_. " If the world be thematerialized thought of one all-pure, let him, "by lonely pureness, "seek his way through the colored dream of life up again to thatall-pure fount:--

 "But, if the wild unfathered mass no birth In divine seats hath known; In the blank echoing solitude, if earth, Rocking her obscure body to and fro, Ceases not from all time to heave and groan, Unfruitful oft, and, at her happiest throe, Forms what she forms, alone:"

then man, the only self-conscious being, "seeming sole to awake, "must, recognizing his brotherhood with this world which stirs at hisfeet unknown, confess that he too but seems. 

Thus far for the scheme and the creed of the author. Concerning thesewe leave the reader to draw his own conclusions. 

Before proceeding to a more minute notice of the various poems, wewould observe that a predilection is apparent throughout forantiquity and classical association; not that strong love which madeShelley, as it were, the heir of Plato; not that vital grasp ofconception which enabled Keats without, and enables Landor with, themost intimate knowledge of form and detail, to return to and renewthe old thoughts and beliefs of Greece; still less the meresuperficial acquaintance with names and hackneyed attributes whichwas once poetry. Of this conventionalism, however, we have detectedtwo instances; the first, an allusion to "shy Dian's horn" in"breathless glades" of the days we live, peculiarly inappropriate ina sonnet addressed "To George Cruikshank on his Picture of 'TheBottle;'" the second a grave call to Memory to bring her tablets, occurring in, and forming the burden of, a poem strictly personal, and written for a particular occasion. But the author's partiality isshown, exclusively of such poems as "Mycerinus" and "The StrayedReveller, " where the subjects are taken from antiquity, rather in theframing than in the ground work, as in the titles "A Modern Sappho, ""The New Sirens, " "Stagyrus, " and "_In utrumque paratus_. " It isHomer and Epictetus and Sophocles who "prop his mind;" the immortalair which the poet breathes is "Where Orpheus and where Homer are;"and he addresses "Fausta" and "Critias. "

There are four narrative poems in the volume:--"Mycerinus, " "TheStrayed Reveller, " "The Sick King in Bokhara, " and "The ForsakenMerman. " The first of these, the only one altogether narrative inform, founded on a passage in the 2nd Book of Herodotus, is the storyof the six years of life portioned to a King of Egypt succeeding afather "who had loved injustice, and lived long;" and tells how hewho had "loved the good" revels out his "six drops of time. " He takesleave of his people with bitter words, and goes out

 "To the cool regions of the groves he loved........ Here came the king holding high feast at morn, Rose-crowned; and ever, when the sun went down, A hundred lamps beamed in the tranquil gloom, From tree to tree, all thro' the twinkling grove, Revealing all the tumult of the feast, Flushed guests, and golden goblets foamed with wine; While the deep-burnished foliage overhead Splintered the silver arrows of the moon. "--p. 7. 

(a daring image, verging towards a conceit, though not absolutelysuch, and the only one of that character that has struck us in thevolume. )

 "So six long years he revelled, night and day: And, when the mirth waxed loudest, with dull sound Sometimes from the grove's centre echoes came, To tell his wondering people of their king; In the still night, across the steaming flats, Mixed with the murmur of the moving Nile. "--pp. 8, 9. 

Here a Tennysonian influence is very perceptible, more especially inthe last quotation; and traces of the same will be found in "TheForsaken Merman. "

In this poem the story is conveyed by allusions and reminiscenceswhilst the Merman makes his children call after her who had returnedto her own earth, hearing the Easter bells over the bay, and who isnot yet come back for all the voices calling "Margaret! Margaret!"The piece is scarcely long enough or sufficiently distinct otherwisethan as a whole to allow of extract; but we cannot but express regretthat a poem far from common-place either in ubject or treatmentshould conclude with such sing-song as

 ------"There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she; She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea. "

"The Strayed Reveller" is written without rhyme--(not being blankverse, however, )--and not unfrequently, it must be admitted, withoutrhythm. Witness the following lines:

 "Down the dark valley--I saw. "-- "Trembling, I entered; beheld"-- "Thro' the islands some divine bard. "--

Nor are these by any means the only ones that might be cited inproof; and, indeed, even where there is nothing precisely contrary torhythm, the verse might, generally speaking, almost be read as prose. Seldom indeed, as it appears to us, is the attempt to write withoutsome fixed laws of metrical construction attended with success;never, perhaps, can it be considered as the most appropriateembodiment of thought. The fashion has obtained of late years; but itis a fashion, and will die out. But few persons will doubt thesuperiority of the established blank verse, after reading thefollowing passage, or will hesitate in pronouncing that it ought tobe the rule, instead of the exception, in this poem:

 "They see the merchants On the Oxus stream:--but care _Must visit first them too, and make them pale:_ Whether, thro' whirling sand, _A cloud of desert robber-horse has burst_ _Upon their caravan; or greedy kings, _ _In the walled cities the way passes thro', _ Crushed them with tolls; or fever airs On some great river's marge Mown them down, far from home. "--p. 25. 

The Reveller, going to join the train of Bacchus in his temple, hasstrayed into the house of Circe and has drunk of her cup: he believesthat, while poets can see and know only through participation inendurance, he shares the power belonging to the gods of seeing"without pain, without labour;" and has looked over the valley allday long at the Moenads and Fauns, and Bacchus, "sometimes, for amoment, passing through the dark stems. " Apart from the inherentdefects of the metre, there is great beauty of pictorial descriptionin some passages of the poem, from which the following (where he isspeaking of the gods) may be taken as a specimen:--

 "They see the Indian Drifting, knife in hand, His frail boat moored to A floating isle, thick-matted With large-leaved low-creeping melon plants, And the dark cucumber. He reaps and stows them, Drifting--drifting:--round him, Round his green harvest-plot, Flow the cool lake-waves: The mountains ring them. "--p. 20. 

From "the Sick King in Bokhara, " we have already quoted at somelength. It is one of the most considerable, and perhaps, as being themost simple and life-like, the best of the narrative poems. A vizieris receiving the dues from the cloth merchants, when he is summonedto the presence of the king, who is ill at ease, by Hussein: "ateller of sweet tales. " Arrived, Hussein is desired to relate thecause of the king's sickness; and he tells how, three days since, acertain Moollah came before the king's path, calling for justice onhimself, whom, deemed a fool or a drunkard, the guards pricked offwith their spears, while the king passed on into the mosque: and howthe man came on the morrow with yesterday's blood-spots on him, andcried out for right. What follows is told with great singleness andtruth: "Thou knowest, " the man says, "'How fierce In these last day the sun hath burned; That the green water in the tanks Is to a putrid puddle turned; And the canal that from the stream Of Samarcand is brought this way Wastes and runs thinner every day. "'Now I at nightfall had gone forth Alone; and, in a darksome place Under some mulberry-trees, I found A little pool; and, in brief space, With all the water that was there I filled my pitcher, and stole home Unseen; and, having drink to spare, I hid the can behind the door, And went up on the roof to sleep. 

 "'But, in the night, which was with wind And burning dust, again I creep Down, having fever, for a drink. 

 "'Now, meanwhile, had my brethren found The water-pitcher, where it stood Behind the door upon the ground, And called my mother: and they all, As they were thirsty and the night Most sultry, drained the pitcher there; That they sat with it in my sight, Their lips still wet, when I came down. 

 "'Now mark: I, being fevered, sick, (Most unblessed also, ) at that sight Brake forth and cursed them. Dost thou hear? One was my mother. Now, do right. '

 "But my lord mused a space, and said, 'Send him away, sirs, and make on. It is some madman, ' the king said. As the king said, so was it done. 

 "The morrow at the self-same hour, In the king's path, behold, the man, Not kneeling, sternly fixed. He stood Right opposite, and thus began, "Frowning grim down: 'Thou wicked king, Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear; What? Must I howl in the next world, Because thou wilt not listen here?

 "'What, wilt thou pray and get thee grace, And all grace shall to me be grudged? Nay but, I swear, from this thy path I will not stir till I be judged. '

 "Then they who stood about the king Drew close together and conferred; Till that the king stood forth and said: 'Before the priests thou shalt be heard. '

 "But, when the Ulema were met And the thing heard, they doubted not; But sentenced him, as the law is, To die by stoning on the spot. 

 "Now the king charged us secretly: 'Stoned must he be: the law stands so: Yet, if he seek to fly, give way; Forbid him not, but let him go. '

 "So saying, the king took a stone, And cast it softly: but the man, With a great joy upon his face, Kneeled down, and cried not, neither ran. 

 "So they whose lot it was cast stones, That they flew thick and bruised him sore: But he praised Allah with loud voice, And remained kneeling as before. 

 "My lord had covered up his face: But, when one told him, 'He is dead;' Turning him quickly to go in, 'Bring thou to me his corpse, ' he said. 

 "And truly, while I speak, oh king, I hear the bearers on the stair. Wilt thou they straightway bring him in?-- Ho! enter ye who tarry there. "--pp. 39-43. 

The Vizier counsels the king that each man's private grief sufficeshim, and that he should not seek increase of it in the griefs ofother men. But he answers him, (this passage we have before quoted, )that the king's lot and the poor man's is the same, for that neitherhas his will; and he takes order that the dead man be buried in hisown royal tomb. 

We know few poems the style of which is more unaffectedly withoutlabor, and to the purpose, than this. The metre, however, of theearlier part is not always quite so uniform and intelligible as mightbe desired; and we must protest against the use, for the sake ofrhyme, of _broke_ in lieu of _broken_, as also of _stole_ for_stolen_ in "the New Sirens. " While on the subject of style, we mayinstance, from the "Fragment of an Antigone, " the following uncouthstanza, which, at the first reading, hardly appears to be correctlyput together:

 "But hush! Hoemon, whom Antigone, Robbing herself of life in burying, Against Creon's laws, Polynices, Robs of a loved bride, pale, imploring, Waiting her passage, Forth from the palace hitherward comes. "--p. 30. 

Perhaps the most perfect and elevated in tone of all these poems is"The New Sirens. " The author addresses, in imagination, a company offair women, one of whose train he had been at morning; but in theevening he has dreamed under the cedar shade, and seen the same forms"on shores and sea-washed places, " "With blown tresses, and withbeckoning hands. "

He thinks how at sunrise he had beheld those ladies playing betweenthe vines; but now their warm locks have fallen down over their arms. He prays them to speak and shame away his sadness; but there comesonly a broken gleaming from their windows, which "Reels and shiverson the ruffled gloom. " He asks them whether they have seen the end ofall this, the load of passion and the emptiness of reaction, whetherthey dare look at life's latter days, "When a dreary light is wading Thro' this waste of sunless greens, When the flashing lights are fading On the peerless cheek of queens, When the mean shall no more sorrow, And the proudest no more smile; While the dawning of the morrow Widens slowly westward all that while?"

And he implores them to "let fall one tear, and set him free. " Thepast was no mere pretence; it was true while it lasted; but it isgone now, and the East is white with day. Shall they meet again, onlythat he may ask whose blank face that is?

 "Pluck, pluck cypress, oh pale maidens; Dusk the hall with yew. "

This poem must be read as a whole; for not only would it be difficultto select particular passages for extraction, but such extracts, ifmade, would fail in producing any adequate impression. 

We have already quoted so larely from the concluding piece, "Resignation, " that it may here be necessary to say only that it isin the form of speech held with "Fausta" in retracing, after a lapseof ten years, the same way they had once trod with a joyful company. The tone is calm and sustained, not without touches of familiartruth. 

The minor poems comprise eleven sonnets, among which, those "To theDuke of Wellington, on hearing him mispraised, " and on "ReligiousIsolation, " deserve mention; and it is with pleasure we find one, inthe tenor of strong appreciation, written on reading the Essays ofthe great American, Emerson. The sonnet for "Butler's Sermons" ismore indistinct, and, as such, less to be approved, in imagery thanis usual with this poet. That "To an Independent Preacher whopreached that we should be in harmony with nature, " seems to call forsome remark. The sonnet ends with these words:

 "Man must begin, know this, where nature ends; Nature and man can never be fast friends; Fool, if thou canst not pass her, rest her slave. "

Now, as far as this sonnet shows of the discourse which occasionedit, we cannot see anything so absurd in that discourse; and where theauthor confutes the Independent preacher by arguing that

 "Nature is cruel; man is sick of blood: Nature is stubborn; man would fain adore: Nature is fickle; man hath need of rest:"

we cannot but think that, by attributing to nature a certain humandegree of qualities, which will not suffice for man, he loses sightof the point really raised: for is not man's nature only a part ofnature? and, if a part, necessary to the completeness of the whole?and should not the individual, avoiding a factitious life, orderhimself in conformity with his own rule of being? And, indeed, theauthor himself would converse with the self-sufficing progress ofnature, with its rest in action, as distinguished from the troublousvexation of man's toiling:--

 "Two lessons, Nature, let me learn of thee, Two lessons that in every wind are blown; Two blending duties harmonised in one, Tho' the loud world proclaim their enmity. "--p. 1. 

The short lyric poem, "To Fausta" has a Shelleian spirit and grace init. & "The Hayswater Boat" seems a little _got up_, and is scarcelypositive enough. This remark applies also, and in a stonger degree, to the "Stanzas on a Gipsy Child, " which, and the "Modern Sappho, "previously mentioned, are the pieces least to our taste in thevolume. There is a something about them of drawing-roomsentimentality; and they might almost, without losing much save insize, be compressed into poems of the class commonly set to music. Itis rather the basis of thought than the writing of the "Gipsy Child, "which affords cause for objection; nevertheless, there is a passagein which a comparison is started between this child and a "Seraph inan alien planet born, "--an idea not new, and never, as we think, worth much; for it might require some subtlety to show how a planetcapable of producing a Seraph should be alien from that Seraph. 

We may here notice a few cases of looseness, either of thought or ofexpression, to be met with in these pages; a point of style to beparticularly looked to when the occurrence or the absence of suchforms one very sensible difference between the first-rate and thesecond-rate poets of the present times. 

Thus, in the sonnet "Shakspear, " the conclusion says, "All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow, Find their sole _voice_ in that victorious brow;"

whereas a brow's voice remains to be uttered: nor, till the nature ofthe victory gained by the brow shall have been pointed out, are weable to hazard an opinion of the precise value of the epithet. 

In the address to George Cruikshank, we find: "Artist, whose handwith horror _winged_;" where a similar question arises; and, returning to the "Gipsy Child, " we are struck with the unmeaningnessof the line: "Who massed round that slight brow these clouds ofdoom?"

Nor does the following, from the first of the sonnets, "To aRepublican Friend, " appear reconcileable with any ideas ofappropriateness:

 ----"While before me _flow_ The _armies_ of the homeless and unfed. "

It is but right to state that the only instance of the kind weremember throughout the volume have now been mentioned. 

To conclude. Our extracts will enable the reader to judge of thisPoet's style: it is clear and comprehensive, and eschews floweryadornment. No particular model has been followed, though that generalinfluence which Tennyson exercises over so many writers of thisgeneration may be traced here as elsewhere. It may be said that theauthor has little, if anything, to unlearn. Care and consistentarrangement, and the necessary subordination of the parts to thewhole, are evident throughout; the reflective, which appears the moreessential form of his thought, does not absorb the due observation orpresentment of the outward facts of nature; and a well-poised andserious mind shows itself in every page. 

_Published Monthly, price 1s. _

This Periodical will consist of original Poems, Stories to developethought and principle, Essays concerning Art and other subjects, andanalytic Reviews of current Literature--particularly of Poetry. Eachnumber will also contain an Etching; the subject to be taken from theopening article of the month. 

An attempt will be made, both intrinsically and by review, to claimfor Poetry that place to which its present development in theliterature of this country so emphatically entitles it. 

The endeavour held in view throughout the writings on Art will be toencourage and enforce an entire adherence to the simplicity ofnature; and also to direct attention, as an auxiliary medium, to thecomparatively few works which Art has yet produced in this spirit. Itneed scarcely be added that the chief object of the etched designswill be to illustrate this aim practically, as far as the method ofexecution will permit; in which purpose they will be produced withthe utmost care and completeness. 

No. 3. (_Price One Shilling_. ) MARCH, 1850. 

With an Etching by F. Madox Brown. 

Art and Poetry: Being Thoughts towards Nature Conducted principallyby Artists. 

 When whoso merely hath a little thought Will plainly think the thought which is in him, -- Not imaging another's bright or dim, Not mangling with new words what others taught; When whoso speaks, from having either sought Or only found, --will speak, not just to skim A shallow surface with words made and trim, But in that very speech the matter brought: Be not too keen to cry--"So this is all!-- A thing I might myself have thought as well, But would not say it, for it was not worth!" Ask: "Is this truth?" For is it still to tell That, be the theme a point or the whole earth, Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small?

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CONTENTS. 

 Cordelia--_W. M. Rossetti_ 97 Macbeth 99 Repining. --_Ellen Alleyn_ 111 Sweet Death--_Ellen Alleyn_ 117 Subject in Art, No. II 118 Carillon. --_Dante G. Rossetti_ 126 Emblems. --_Thomas Woolner_ 127 Sonnet. --_W. B. Scott_ 128 From the Cliffs. --_Dante G. Rossetti_ 129 Fancies at Leisure. --_W. M. Rossetti_ 129 Papers of "The M. S. Society, " Nos. I. II. & III 131 Review, Sir Reginald Mohun. --_W. M. Rossetti_ 137

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[Illustration: GONERIL: REGAN: LEAR: FOOL: CORDELIA: FRANCE:]

Cordelia

 "The jewels of our father, with washed eyes Cordelia leaves you. I know you what you are And, like a sister, am most loth to tell Your faults, as they are named. Use well our father: To your professed bosoms I commit him. But yet, alas!--stood I within his grace, I would prefer him to a better place. So farewell to you both. "

 Cordelia, unabashed and strong, Her voice's quite scarcely less Than yester-eve, enduring wrong And curses of her father's tongue, Departs, a righteous-souled princess; Bidding her sisters cherish him. 

 They turn on her and fix their eyes, But cease not passing inward;--one Sneering with lips still curled to lies, Sinuous of body, serpent-wise; Her footfall creeps, and her looks shun The very thing on which they dwell. 

 The other, proud, with heavy cheeks And massive forehead, where remains A mark of frowning. If she seeks With smiles to tame her eyes, or speaks, Her mouth grows wanton: she disdains The ground with haughty, measured steps. 

 The silent years had grown between Father and daughter. Always she Had waited on his will, and been Foremost in doing it, --unseen Often: she wished him not to see, But served him for his sake alone. 

 He saw her constant love; and, tho' Occasion surely was not scant, Perhaps had never sought to know How she could give it wording. So His love, not stumbling at a want, Among the three preferred her first. 

 Her's is the soul not stubborn, yet Asserting self. The heart was rich; But, questioned, she had rather let Men judge her conscious of a debt Than freely giving: thus, her speech Is love according to her bond. 

 In France the queen Cordelia had Her hours well satisfied with love: She loved her king, too, and was glad: And yet, at times, a something sad, May be, was with her, thinking of The manner of his life at home. 

 But this does not usurp her mind. It is but sorrow guessed from far Thro' twilight dimly. She must find Her duty elsewhere: not resigned-- Because she knows them what they are, Yet scarcely ruffled from her peace. 

 Cordelia--a name well revered; Synonymous with truth and tried Affection; which but needs be heard To raise one selfsame thought endeared To men and women far and wide; A name our mothers taught to us. 

 Like placid faces which you knew Years since, but not again shall meet; On a sick bed like wind that blew; An excellent thing, best likened to Her own voice, gentle, soft, and sweet; Shakpere's Cordelia;--better thus. 

Macbeth {9}

{9} It is proper to state that this article was written, and seen, exactly as it at present stands, by several literary friends of thewriter, a considerable time before the appearance, in the"Westminster Review, " of a Paper advocating a view of "Macbeth, "similar to that which is here taken. But although the publication ofthe particular view was thus anticipated, nearly all the mostforcible arguments for maintaining it were omitted; and the subject, mixed up, as it was, with lengthy disquisitions upon very minortopics of Shaksperian acting, &c. Made no very general impression atthe time. 

The purpose of the following Essay is to demonstrate the existence ofa very important error in the hitherto universally adoptedinterpretation of the character of Macbeth. We shall prove that _adesign of illegitimately obtaining the crown of Scotland had beenconceived by Macbeth, and that it had been communicated by him to hiswife, prior to his first meeting with the witches, who are commonlysupposed to have suggested that design_. 

Most persons when they commence the study of the great Shaksperiandramas, already entertain concerning them a set of traditionalnotions, generally originated by the representations, ormisrepresentations, of the theatre, afterwards to become strengthenedor confirmed by desultory reading and corroborative criticism. Withthis class of persons it was our misfortune to rank, when we firstentered upon the _study_ of "Macbeth, " fully believing that, in thecharacter of the hero, Shakspere intended to represent a man whosegeneral rectitude of soul is drawn on to ruin by the temptations ofsupernatural agents; temptations which have the effect of elicitinghis latent ambition, and of misdirecting that ambition when it hasbeen thus elicited. 

As long as we continued under this idea, the impression produced uponus by "Macbeth" came far short of that sense of complete satisfactionwhich we were accustomed to receive from every other of the higherworks of Shakspere. But, upon deeper study, the view now proposedsuggested itself, and seemed to render every thing as it should be. We say that this view suggested _itself_, because it did not arisedirectly from any one of the numerous passages which can be quoted inits support; it originated in a general feeling of what seemed to bewanting to the completion of the entire effect; a circumstance whichhas been stated at length from the persuasion that it is of itself nomean presumption in favour of the opinion which it is the aim of thispaper to establish. 

Let us proceed to examine the validity of a position, which, if itdeserves any attention at all, may certainly claim an investigationmore than usually minute. We shall commence by giving an analysis ofthe first Act, wherein will be considered, successively, everypassage which may appear to bear either way upon the point inquestion. 

The inferences which we believe to be deducible from the first scenecan be profitably employed only in conjunction with those to bediscovered in the third. Our analysis must, therefore, be enteredupon by an attempt to ascertain the true character of the impressionswhich it was the desire of Shakspere to convey by the second. 

This scene is almost exclusively occupied with the narrations of the"bleeding Soldier, " and of _Rosse_. These narrations are constructedwith the express purpose of vividly setting forth the personal valourof Duncan's generals, "Macbeth and Banquo. " Let us consider what isthe _maximum_ worth which the words of Shakspere will, at this periodof the play, allow us to attribute to the moral character of thehero:--a point, let it be observed, of first-rate importance to thepresent argument. We find Macbeth, in this scene, designated byvarious epithets, _all_ of which, either directly or indirectly, arise from feelings of admiration created by his courageous conductin the war in which he is supposed to have been engaged. "Brave" and"Noble Macbeth, " "Bellona's Bridegroom, " "Valiant Cousin, " and"Worthy Gentleman, " are the general titles by which he is here spokenof; but none of them afford any positive clue whatever to his _moral_character. Nor is any such clue supplied by the scenes in which he ispresently received by the messengers of Duncan, and afterwardsreceived and lauded by Duncan himself. Macbeth's moral character, upto the development of his criminal hopes, remains strictly_negative_. Hence it is difficult to fathom the meaning of thosecritics, (A. Schlegel at their head), who have over and over againmade the ruin of Macbeth's "so many noble qualities"{10} the subjectof their comment. 

{10} A. Schlegel's "Lectures on Dramatic Literature. " Vol. II. P. 208. 

In the third scene we have the meeting of the witches, theannouncement of whose intention to re-assemble upon the heath, _thereto meet with Macbeth_, forms the certainly most obvious, though notperhaps, altogether the most important, aim of the short scene bywhich the tragedy is opened. An enquiry of much interest heresuggests itself. Did Shakspere intend that in his tragedy of"Macbeth" the witches should figure as originators of gratuitousdestruction, in direct opposition to the traditional, and evenproverbial, character of the _genus?_ By that character suchpersonages have been denied the possession of any influence whateverover the untainted soul. Has Shakspere in this instance re tained, orhas he abolished, the chief of those characteristics which have beenuniversally attributed to the beings in question?

We think that he has retained it, and for the following reasons:Whenever Shakspere has elsewhere embodied superstitions, he hastreated them as direct and unalterable _facts_ of human nature; andthis he has done because he was too profound a philosopher to becapable of regarding genuine superstition as the product of randomspectra of the fancy, having absolute darkness for the primecondition of their being, instead of eeing in it rather the zodiacallight of truth, the concomitant of the uprising, and of the settingof the truth, and a partaker in its essence. Again, Shakspere has inthis very play devoted a considerable space to the purpose ofsuggesting the self-same trait of character now under discussion, andthis he appears to have done with the express intent of guardingagainst a mistake, the probability of the occurrence of which heforesaw, but which, for reasons connected with the construction ofthe play, he could not hope otherwise to obviate. 

We allude to the introductory portion of the present scene. Onesister, we learn, has just returned from killing _swine;_ anotherbreathes forth vengeance against a sailor, on account of theuncharitable act of his wife; but "his bark _cannot be lost, _" thoughit may be "tempest tossed. " The last words are scarcely utteredbefore the confabulation is interrupted by the approach of Macbeth, to whom they have as yet made no direct allusion whatever, throughoutthe whole of this opening passage, consisting in all of some five andtwenty lines. Now this were a digression which would be a completeanomaly, having place, as it is supposed to have, at this early stageof one of the most consummate of the tragedies of Shakspere. We maybe sure, therefore, that it is the chief object of these lines toimpress the reader beforehand with an idea that, in the mind ofMacbeth, there already exist sure foundations for that greatsuperstructure of evil, to the erection of which, the "metaphysical_aid_" of the weird sisters is now to be offered. An opinion which isfurther supported by the reproaches of Hecate, who, afterwards, referring to what occurs in this scene, exclaims, "All you have done Hath been but for a wayward son, Spiteful, and wrathful, who, as others do, Loves for his own end, not for you. "

Words which seem to relate to ends loved of Macbeth before thewitches had spurred him on to their acquirement. 

The fact that in the old chronicle, from which the plot of the playis taken, the machinations of the witches are not assumed to be_un_-gratuitous, cannot be employed as an argument against ourposition. In history the sisters figure in the capacity of prophets_merely_. There we have no previous announcement of their intention"to meet with Macbeth. " But in Shakspere they are invested with allother of their superstitional attributes, in order that they maybecome the evil instruments of holy vengeance upon evil; of that mostterrible of vengeance which punishes sin, after it has exceededcertain bounds, by deepening it. 

Proceeding now with our analysis, upon the entrance of Macbeth andBanquo, the witches wind up their hurried charm. They are firstperceived by Banquo. To his questions the sisters refuse to reply;but, at the command of Macbeth, they immediately speak, and forthwithutter the prophecy which seals the fate of Duncan. 

Now, assuming the truth of our view, what would be the naturalbehaviour of Macbeth upon coming into sudden contact with beings whoappear to hold intelligence of his most secret thoughts; and uponhearing those thoughts, as it were, spoken aloud in the presence of athird party? His behaviour would be precisely that which is impliedby the question of Banquo. 

 "Good sir, why do you _start and seem to fear_ Things which do sound so fair?"

If, on the other hand, our view is _not_ true, why, seeing that theircharacters are in the abstract so much alike, why does the presentconduct of Macbeth differ from that of Banquo, when the witchesdirect their prophecies to him? Why has Shakspere altered thenarrative of Holinshed, without the prospect of gaining any advantagecommensurate to the licence taken in making that alteration? Theseare the words of the old chronicle: "This (the recontre with thewitches) was reputed at the first but some vain fantastical illusionby Macbeth and Banquo, insomuch that Banquo would call Macbeth injest king of Scotland; and Macbeth again would call him in jestlikewise the father of many kings. " Now it was the invariablepractice of Shakspere to give facts or traditions just as he foundthem, whenever the introduction of those facts or traditions was nottotally irreconcileable with the tone of his conception. How then(should we still receive the notion which we are now combating) arewe to account for his anomalous practice in this particular case?

When the witches are about to vanish, Macbeth attempts to delay theirdeparture, exclaiming, "Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more: By Sinol's death, I know I am thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? the thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; _and, to be king_ _Stands not within the prospect of belief, _ _No more than to be Cawdor_. Say, from whence You owe this strange _intelligence?_"

"To be king stands not within the prospect of belief, _no more thanto be Cawdor_. " No! it naturally stands much _less_ within theprospect of belief. Here the mind of Macbeth, having long beenaccustomed to the nurture of its "royal hope, " conceives that it isuttering a very suitable hyperbole of comparison. Had that mind beenhitherto an honest mind the word "Cawdor" would have occupied theplace of "king, " "king" that of "Cawdor. " Observe too the generalcharacter of this speech: Although the coincidence of the principalprophecy with his own thoughts has so strong an effect upon Macbethas to induce him to, at once, pronounce the words of the sisters, "intelligence;" he nevertheless affects to treat that prophecy ascompletely secondary to the other in the strength of its claims uponhis consideration. This is a piece of _over-cautious_ hypocrisy whichis fully in keeping with the tenor of his conduct throughout the restof the tragedy. 

No sooner have the witches vanished than Banquo begins to doubtwhether there had been "such things there as they did speak about. "This is the natural incredulity of a free mind so circumstanced. Onthe other hand, Macbeth, whose manner, since the first announcementof the sisters, has been that of a man in a _reverie_, makes no doubtwhatever of the reality of their appearance, nor does he reply to theexpressed scepticism of Banquo, but abruptly exclaims, "your childrenshall be kings. " To this Banquo answers, "you shall be king. " "Andthane of Cawdor too: went it not so?" continues Macbeth. Now, what, in either case, is the condition of mind which can have given rise tothis part of the dialogue? It is, we imagine, sufficiently evidentthat the playful words of Banquo were suggested to Shakspere by thenarration of Holinshed; but how are we to account for those ofMacbeth, otherwise than by supposing that the question of the crownis now settled in his mind by the coincidence of the principalprediction, with the shapings of his own thoughts, and that he is atthis moment occupied with the _wholly unanticipated_ revelations, touching the thaneship of Cawdor, and the future possession of thethrone by the offspring of Banquo?

Now comes the fulfilment of the first prophecy. Mark the words ofthese men, upon receiving the announcement of Rosse:

 "_Banquo_. What! can the devil speak truth? _Macbeth_. The thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me In borrowed robes?"

Mark how that reception is in either case precisely the reverse ofthat given to the prophecy itself. Here _Banquo_ starts. But what ishere done for Banquo, by the coincidence of the prophecy with thetruth, has been already done for Macbeth, by the coincidence of histhought with the prophecy. Accordingly, Macbeth is calm enough toplay the hypocrite, when he must otherwise have experienced surprisefar greater than that of Banquo, because he is much more nearlyconcerned in the source of it. So far indeed from being overcome withastonishment, Macbeth still continues to dwell upon the prophecy, bywhich his peace of mind is afterwards constantly disturbed, "Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those that gave the thane of Cawdor to me Promised no less to them?"

Banquo's reply to this question has been one of the chief sources ofthe interpretation, the error of which we are now endeavouring toexpose. He says, "That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, Besides the thane of Cawdor. But, 'tis strange; And often times, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray us In deepest consequence. "

Now, these words have usually been considered to afford the clue tothe _entire_ nature and extent of the supernatural influence broughtinto play upon the present tragedy; whereas, in truth, all that theyexpress is a natural suspicion, called up in the mind of Banquo, byMacbeth's remarkable deportment, that _such_ is the character of theinfluence which is at this moment being exerted upon the soul of theman to whom he therefore thinks proper to hint the warning theycontain. 

The soliloquy which immediately follows the above passage isparticularly worthy of comment:

 "This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill; cannot be good:--if ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am thane of Cawdor: If good, why do I yield to that suggestion, Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings. My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man, that function Is smothered in surmise, and nothing is, But what is not. "

The early portion of this passage assuredly indicates that Macbethregards the communications of the witches merely in the light of aninvitation to the carrying out of a design pre-existent in his ownmind. He thinks that the _spontaneous_ fulfilment of the chiefprophecy is in no way probable; the consummation of the lesserprophecy being held by him, but as an "earnest of success" to his ownefforts in consummating the greater. From the latter portion of thissoliloquy we learn the real extent to which "metaphysical aid" isimplicated in bringing about the crime of Duncan's murder. It servesto assure Macbeth that _that_ is the "nearest way" to the attainmentof his wishes;--a way to the suggestion of which he now, for thefirst time, "_yields_, " because the chances of its failure have beeninfinitely lessened by the "earnest of success" which he has justreceived. 

After the above soliloquy Macbeth breaks the long pause, implied inBanquo's words, "Look how our partner's rapt, " by exclaiming, "If chance will have me king, why chance may crown me, Without my stir. "

Which is a very logical conclusion; but one at which he would longago have arrived, had "soliciting" meant "suggestion, " as most peoplesuppose it to have done; or at least, under those circumstances, hewould have been satisfied with that conclusion, instead ofimmediately afterwards changing it, as we see that he has done, whenhe adds, "Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day!"

With that the third scene closes; the parties engaged in itproceeding forthwith to the palace of Duncan at Fores. 

Towards the conclusion of the fourth scene, Duncan names hissuccessor in the realm of Scotland. After this Macbeth hastilydeparts, to inform his wife of the king's proposed visit to theircastle, at Inverness. The last words of Macbeth are the following, "The prince of Cumberland!--That is a step, On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap. For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires; The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be, Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. "

These lines are equally remarkable for a tone of settled assurance asto the fulfilment of the speaker's royal hope, and for an entireabsence of any expression of reliance upon the power of thewitches, --the hitherto supposed originators of that hope, --in aidingits consummation. It is particularly noticeable that Macbeth shouldmake no reference whatever, not even in thought, (that is, insoliloquy) to any supernatural agency during the long periodintervening between the fulfilment of the two prophecies. Is itprobable that this would have been the case had Shakspere intendedthat such an agency should be understood to have been the firstmotive and mainspring of that deed, which, with all its accompanyingstruggles of conscience, he has so minutely pictured to us as havingbeen, during that period, enacted? But besides this negativeargument, we have a positive one for his non-reliance upon theirpromises in the fact that he attempts to outwit them by the murder ofFleance even after the fulfilment of the second prophecy. 

The fifth scene opens with Lady Macbeth's perusal of her husband'snarration of his interview with the witches. The order of ourinvestigation requires the postponement of comment upon the contentsof this letter. We leave it for the present, merely cautioning thereader against taking up any hasty objections to a very importantclause in the enunciation of our view by reminding him that, contraryto Shakspere's custom in ordinary cases, we are made acquainted onlywith a _portion_ of the missive in question. Let us then proceed toconsider the soliloquy which immediately follows the perusal of thisletter:

 "I do fear thy nature. It is too full o' the milk of human kindness, To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition; but without The illness should attend it. That thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false And yet wouldst wrongly win: thou'dst have, great Glamis, That which cries this thou must do if thou have it, And that which rather thou dost fear to do, Thou wishest should be undone. "

It is vividly apparent that this passage indicates a knowledge of thecharacter it depicts, which is far too intimate to allow of its beingother than a _direct_ inference from facts connected with previouscommunications upon similar topics between the speaker and thewriter: unless, indeed, we assume that in this instance Shakspere hasnotably departed from his usual principles of characterization, inhaving invested Lady Macbeth with an amount of philosophicalacuteness, and a faculty of deduction, much beyond those pretended toby any other of the female creations of the same author. 

The above passage is interrupted by the announcement of the approachof Duncan. Observe Lady Macbeth's behaviour upon receiving it. Sheimmediately determines upon what is to be done, and all without (arewe to suppose?) in any way consulting, or being aware of, the wishesor inclinations of her husband! Observe too, that neither does _she_appear to regard the witches' prophecies as anything more than aninvitation, and holding forth of "metaphysical _aid_" to the carryingout of an independent project. That this should be the case in bothinstances vastly strengthens the argument legitimately deducible fromeach. 

At the conclusion of the passage which called for the last remark, Macbeth, after a long and eventful period of absence, let it berecollected, enters to a wife who, we will for a moment suppose, iscompletely ignorant of the character of her husband's recentcogitations. These are the first words which pass between them, "_Macbeth_. My dearest love, Duncan comes here to-night. 

 _L. Macbeth_. And when goes hence?

 _Macbeth_. To-morrow, as he purposes. 

 _L. Macbeth_. Oh! never Shall sun that morrow see! Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters:--to beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it. He that's coming Must be provided for; and you shall put This night's great business into my dispatch, Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. 

 _Macbeth_. We will speak further. "

Are these words those which would naturally arise from the situationat present, by common consent, attributed to the speakers of them?That is to say a situation in which _each speaker is totally ignorantof the sentiments pre-existent in the mind of the other_. Are thewords, "we will speak further, " those which might in nature form thewhole and sole reply made by a man to his wife's completelyunexpected anticipation of his own fearful purposes? If not, if fewor none of these lines, thus interpreted, will satisfy the reader'sfeeling for common truth, does not the view which we have adoptedinvest them with new light, and improved, or perfected meaning?

The next scene represents the arrival of Duncan at Inverness, andcontains nothing which bears either way upon the point in question. Proceeding, therefore, to the seventh and last scene of the first actwe come to what we cannot but consider to be proof positive of theopinion under examination. We shall transcribe at length the portionof this scene containing that proof; having first reminded the readerthat a few hours at most can have elapsed between the arrival ofMacbeth, and the period at which the words, now to be quoted, areuttered. 

 "_Lady Macbeth. Was the hope drunk, _ _Wherein you dressed yourself? Hath it slept since, _ _And wakes it now, to look so green and pale_ _At what it did so freely?_ From this time, Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valour, As thou art in desire? Would'st thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem, Letting, I dare not, wait upon, I would, Like the poor cat in the adage?

 _Macbeth_. Prithee, peace: I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none. 

 _Lady Macbeth. What beast was't then_ _That made you break this enterprise to me?_ _When you durst do it, then you were a man, _ _And to be more than what you were you would_ _Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place_ _Did then adhere, and yet you would make both. _ They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have plucked my nipple from its boneless gums, And dashed the brains out, _had I so sworn_ _As you have done to this_. "

With respect to the above lines, let us observe that, the words, "nortime nor place did then adhere, " render it evident that they holdreference to something which passed before Duncan had signified hisintention of visiting the castle of Macbeth. Consequently the wordsof Lady Macbeth can have no reference to the previous communicationof any definite intention, on the part of her husband, to murder theking; because, not long before, she professes herself aware thatMacbeth's nature is "too full of the milk of human kindness to catchthe nearest way;" indeed, she has every reason to suppose that sheherself has been the means of breaking that enterprise to _him_, though, in truth, the crime had already, as we have seen, suggesteditself to his thought, "whose murder was as yet fantastical. "

Again the whole tenor of this passage shows that it refers to verbalcommunication between them. _But no such communication can have takenplace since Macbeth's rencontre with the witches_; for, besides thathe is, immediately after that recontre, conducted to the presence ofthe king, who there signifies an intention of proceeding directly toMacbeth's castle, such a communication would have rendered thecontents of the letter to Lady Macbeth completely superfluous. Whatthen are we to conclude concerning these problematical lines? Firstbegging the reader to bear in mind the tone of sophistry which hasbeen observed by Schlegel to pervade, and which is indeed manifestthroughout the persuasions of Lady Macbeth, we answer, thatshe wilfully confounds her husband's, --probably vague andunplanned--"enterprise" of obtaining the crown, with that "nearestway" to which she now urges him; but, at the same time, she obscurelyindividualizes the separate purposes in the words, "and to be _more_than what you were, you would be so much more the man. "

It is a fact which is highly interesting in itself, and one whichstrongly impeaches the candour of the majority of Shakspere'scommentators, that the impenetrable obscurity which must havepervaded the whole of this passage should never have been made thesubject of remark. As far as we can remember, not a word has beensaid upon the matter in any one of the many superfluously explanatoryeditions of our dramatist's productions. Censures have beenrepeatedly lavished upon minor cases of obscurity, none upon this. Inthe former case the fault has been felt to be Shakspere's, for it hasusually existed in the expression; but in the latter the language isunexceptional, and the avowal of obscurity might imply thepossibility of misapprehension or stupidity upon the part of theavower. 

Probably the only considerable obstacle likely to act against thegeneral adoption of those views will be the doubt, whether soimportant a feature of this consummate tragedy can have been left byShakspere so obscurely expressed as to be capable of remainingtotally unperceived during upwards of two centuries, within whichperiod the genius of a Coleridge and of a Schlegel has been appliedto its interpretation. Should this objection be brought forward, wereply, in the first place, that the objector is 'begging' hisquestion in assuming that the feature under examination has remained_totally_ unperceived. Coleridge by way of comment upon these wordsof Banquo, "Good sir, why do you stand, and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair?"

writes thus: "The general idea is all that can be required of apoet--not a scholastic logical consistency in all the parts, so as tomeet metaphysical objectors. * * * * * * * * How strictly true tonature it is, that Banquo, and not Macbeth himself, directs ournotice to the effects produced in Macbeth's mind, _rendered temptibleby previous dalliance with ambitious thoughts_. " Here Coleridgedenies the _necessity_ of "logical consistency, so as to meetmetaphysical objectors, " although he has, throughout his criticismsupon Shakspere, endeavored, and nearly always with success, to provethe _existence_ of that consistency; and so strongly has he felt thewant of it here, that he has, in order to satisfy himself, _assumed_that "previous dalliance with ambitious thoughts, " whose existence ithas been our object to _prove_. 

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

Repining

 She sat alway thro' the long day Spinning the weary thread away; And ever said in undertone: "Come, that I be no more alone. "

 From early dawn to set of sun Working, her task was still undone; And the long thread seemed to increase Even while she spun and did not cease. She heard the gentle turtle-dove Tell to its mate a tale of love; She saw the glancing swallows fly, Ever a social company; She knew each bird upon its nest Had 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 sighed For love, and was not satisfied; Until one night, when the moonlight Turned 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 sun Her throbbing music had not done, And she had listened silently; But now the wind had changed, and she Heard the sweet song no more, but heard Beside 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 saw The unknown speaker without awe. He seemed a fair young man, his eyes Beaming with serious charities; His cheek was white, but hardly pale; And a dim glory like a veil Hovered about his head, and shone Thro' 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 hear It evermore calling me near. "

 He answered: "Rise, and follow me. " But she looked upwards wonderingly: "And whither would'st thou go, friend? stay Until 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, he Helping her forward tenderly. The hedges bowed beneath his hand; Forth from the streams came the dry land As they passed over; evermore The pallid moonbeams shone before; And the wind hushed, and nothing stirred; Not even a solitary bird, Scared by their footsteps, fluttered by Where aspen-trees stood steadily. 

 As they went on, at length a sound Came trembling on the air around; The undistinguishable hum Of life, voices that go and come Of busy men, and the child's sweet High 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 way Until they reached a hillock: "Stay. "

 It was a village in a plain. High mountains screened it from the rain And stormy wind; and nigh at hand A bubbling streamlet flowed, o'er sand Pebbly and fine, and sent life up Green succous stalk and flower-cup. 

 Gradually, day's harbinger, A chilly wind began to stir. It seemed a gentle powerless breeze That scarcely rustled thro' the trees; And yet it touched the mountain's head And the paths man might never tread. But hearken: in the quiet weather Do all the streams flow down together?-- No, 'tis a sound more terrible Than tho' a thousand rivers fell. The everlasting ice and snow Were loosened then, but not to flow;-- With a loud crash like solid thunder The avalanche came, burying under The village; turning life and breath And 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 yet Where these things make not desolate. " He looked upon her seriously; Then said: "Arise and follow me. " The path that lay before them was Nigh covered over with long grass; And many slimy things and slow Trailed on between the roots below. The moon looked dimmer than before; And shadowy cloudlets floating o'er Its face sometimes quite hid its light, And filled the skies with deeper night. 

 At last, as they went on, the noise Was heard of the sea's mighty voice; And soon the ocean could be seen In its long restlessness serene. Upon its breast a vessel rode That drowsily appeared to nod As the great billows rose and fell, And swelled to sink, and sank to swell. 

 Meanwhile the strong wind had come forth From 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 fled Behind dark clouds; while here and there The lightning shone out in the air; And the approaching thunder rolled With angry pealings manifold. How many vows were made, and prayers That in safe times were cold and scarce. Still all availed not; and at length The waves arose in all their strength, And fought against the ship, and filled The ship. Then were the clouds unsealed, And the rain hurried forth, and beat On every side and over it. 

 Some clung together, and some kept A long stern silence, and some wept. Many half-crazed looked on in wonder As 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 seen Are 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 fell With a sad sound unspeakable. 

 The air was cold; till from the South A gust blew hot, like sudden drouth, Into their faces; and a light Glowing and red, shone thro' the night. 

 A mighty city full of flame And death and sounds without a name. Amid the black and blinding smoke, The people, as one man, awoke. Oh! happy they who yesterday On the long journey went away; Whose pallid lips, smiling and chill, While the flames scorch them smile on still; Who murmur not; who tremble not When 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 hear A shaded river flowing near; The broad deep bed could hardly hold Its 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 alone Remain to weep for what is gone. What is this thing? thus hurriedly To 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 thus Death everywhere must go with us, Let us not see the change, but see Those 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 overhead Dark 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 scent Of blood of a great armament: Then saw they how on either side Fields were down-trodden far and wide. That morning at the break of day Two 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 horses That met death at a thousand sources; Cold limbs and putrifying flesh; Long love-locks clotted to a mesh That stifled; stiffened mouths beneath Staring eyes that had looked on death. 

 But these were dead: these felt no more The 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?--is The sleeper less at rest for this? Is not the young child's slumber sweet When no man watcheth over it? These had deep calm; but all around There was a deadly smothered sound, The choking cry of agony From wounded men who could not die; Who watched the black wing of the raven Rise like a cloud 'twixt them and heaven, And in the distance flying fast Beheld 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 day Unto the church to praise and pray, And crossing the green church-yard thoughtfully, I saw how on the graves the flowers Shed their fresh leaves in showers; And how their perfume rose up to the sky Before it passed away. 

 The youngest blossoms die. They die, and fall, and nourish the rich earth From 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 youth Are 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? why Prefer to glean with Ruth?

The Subject in Art No. II

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

It was premised then that works of Fine Art affect the beholder inthe same ratio as the _natural prototypes_ of those works wouldaffect him; and not in proportion to the difficulties overcome in theartificial representation of those prototypes. Not contending, meanwhile, that the picture painted by the hand of the artist, andthen by the hand of nature on the eye of the beholder, is, in amount, the same as the picture painted there by nature alone; butdisregarding, as irrelevant to this investigation, _all concomitantsof fine art wherein they involve an ulterior impression as to therelative merits of the work by the amount of its success, _ and, for alike reason, disregarding all emotions and impressions which are notthe immediate and proximate result of an excitor influence of, orpertaining to, the _things artificial_, as a bona fide equivalent ofthe _things natural_. 

Or the premises may be practically stated thus:--(1st. ) When onelooks on a certain painting or sculpture for the first time, thefirst notion is that of a painting or sculpture. (2nd. ) In the nextplace, while the objects depicted are revealing themselves as realobjects, the notion of a painting or sculpture has elapsed, and, inits place, there are emotions, passions, actions (moral orintellectual) according in sort and degree to the heart ormind-moving influence of the objects represented. (3rd. ) Finally, there is a notion of a painting or sculpture, and a judgment orsentiment commensurate with the estimated merits of the work. --Thesecond statement gives the premised conditions under which Fine Artis about to be treated: the 3rd statement exemplifies a phase in thebeing of Fine Art under which it is never to be considered: andfurthermore, whilst the mental reflection last mentioned (thejudgment on the work) is being made, it may occur that certainobjects, most difficult of artistic execution, had been mostsuccessfully handled: the merits of introducing such objects, in sucha manner, are the merits of those concomitants mentioned as equallywithout the scope of consideration. 

Thus much for the premises--next to the re-establishment ofprinciples. 

1st. The principle was elicited, that Fine Art should regard thegeneral happiness of man, by addressing those of his attributes whichare _peculiarly human_, by exciting the activity of his rational andbenevolent powers; and thereafter:--2nd, that the Subject in Artshould be drawn from objects which so address and excite him; and3rd, as objects so exciting the mental activity may (in proportion tothe mental capacity) excite it to any amount, and so possibly in thehighest degree (the function of Fine Art being _mental excitement_, and that of High Art being the _highest mental excitement_) that allobjects so exciting mental activity and emotion in the highestdegree, 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 Subjectfrom the past or the present time; which enquiry resolves itselffundamentally into the analysis of objects and incidents experiencedimmediately by the senses, or acquired by mental education. 

Here then we have to explore the specific difference between theincidents and objects of to-day, as exposed to our daily observation, and the incidents and objects of time past, as bequeathed to us byhistory, 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: butas all former times, their incidents and objects differ amongstthemselves, this can hardly be the cause of the specific differencesought for--a difference between our share of things past and thingspresent. This real, but not specific difference then, howeveradmitted, shall not be considered here. 

It is obvious, in the meanwhile, that all which we have of the pastis stamped with an impress of mental assimilation: an impress it hasreceived from the mind of the author who has garnered it up, anddisposed it in that form and order which ensure it acceptance withposterity. For let a writer of history be as matter of fact as hewill, the very order and classification of events will save us thetrouble of confusion, and render them graspable, and more capable ofassimilation, than is the raw material of every-day experience. Infact the work of mind is begun, the key of intelligence is given, andwe have only to continue the process. Where the vehicle for thetransmission of things past is poetry, then we have them presented inthat succession, and with that modification of force, a resilientplasticity, now advancing, now recoiling, insinuating and grappling, that ere this material and mental warfare is over, we find the factsthus transmitted are incorporated with our psychical existence. Andin tradition is it otherwise?--Every man tells the tale in his ownway; 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 thehearer, whence it is ever ready to start up and claim kindred withsome external excitement. 

Thus it is the luck of all things of the past to come down to us withsome poetry about them; while from those of diurnal experience wemust extract this poetry ourselves: and although all good men are, more or less, poets, they are passive or recipient poets; while theactive or donative poet caters for them what they fail to collect. For let a poet walk through London, and he shall see a succession ofincidents, suggesting some moral beauty by a contrast of times withtimes, unfolding some principle of nature, developing some attributeof man, or pointing to some glory in The Maker: while the man whowalked behind him saw nothing but shops and pavement, and coats andfaces; neither did he hear the aggregated turmoil of a city ofnations, nor the noisy exponents of various desires, appetites andpursuits: each pulsing tremour of the atmosphere was not struck intoit 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 hiseye and feeling his way, in a world he was rushing through, by themotion of the end of that rod:--he only saw the wheels in motion, andheard the rattle on the stones; and yet this man stopped twice at abook shop to buy 'a Tennyson, ' or a 'Browning's Sordello. ' Now thisman might have seen all that the poet saw; he walked through the samestreets: yet the poet goes home and writes a poem; and he who failedto feel the poetry of the things themselves detects it readily in thepoet's version. Then why, it is asked, does not this man, schooled bythe poet's example, look out for himself for the future, and so findattractions in things of to-day? He does so to a trifling extent, butthe reason why he does so rarely will be found in the formerdemonstration. 

It was shown how bygone objects and incidents come down to usinvested in peculiar attractions: this the poet knows and feels, andthe probabilities are that he transferred the incidents of to-day, with all their poetical and moral suggestions, to the romanticlong-ago, partly from a feeling of prudence, and partly that hehimself was under this spell of antiquity, How many a Troubadour, whorecited tales of king Arthur, had his incidents furnished him by theevents of his own time! And thus it is the many are attracted to thepoetry of things past, yet impervious to the poetry of thingspresent. But this retrograde movement in the poet, painter, orsculptor (except in certain cases as will subsequently appear), ifnot the result of necessity, is an error in judgment or a culpabledishonesty. For why should he not acknowledge the source of hisinspiration, that others may drink of the same spring with himself;and perhaps drink deeper and a clearer draught?--For the water isunebbing and exhaustless, and fills the more it is emptied: why thenshould it be filtered through his tank _where_ he can teach men todrink 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: ifhis great lessonings to piety, truth, charity, love, honor, honesty, gallantry, generosity, courage, are derived from the same source; whytransfer them to distant periods, and make them _not things ofto-day?_ Why teach us to revere the saints of old, and not our ownfamily-worshippers? Why to admire the lance-armed knight, and not thepatience-armed hero of misfortune? Why to draw a sword we do not wearto aid and oppressed damsel, and not a purse which we do wear torescue an erring one? Why to worship a martyred St. Agatha, and not asick woman attending the sick? Why teach us to honor an Aristides ora Regulus, and not one who pays an equitable, though to him ruinous, tax without a railing accusation? And why not teach us to help whatthe laws cannot help?--Why teach us to hate a Nero or an Appius, andnot an underselling oppressor of workmen and betrayer of women andchildren? 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 thestreets in? Why teach men what were great and good deeds in the oldtime, neglecting to show them any good for themselves?--Till thesequestions are answered absolutory to the artist, it were unwise topropose the other question--Why a poet, painter or sculptor is nothonored and loved as formerly? "As formerly, " says some avowedsceptic in _old world transcendency_ and _golden age affairs_, "Ibelieve _formerly_ the artist was as much respected and cared for ashe is now. 'Tis true the Greeks granted an immunity from taxation tosome of their artists, who were often great men in the state, andeven the companions of princes. And are not some of our poets peers?Have not some of our artists received knighthood from the hand oftheir Sovereign, and have not some of them received pensions?"

To answer objections of this latitude demands the assertion ofcertain characteristic facts which, tho' not here demonstrated, maybe authenticated by reference to history. Of these, the facts ofAlfred's disguised visit to the Danish camp, and Aulaff's visit tothe Saxon, are sufficient to show in what respect the poets of thatperiod were held; when a man without any safe conduct whatevercould enter the enemy's camp on the very eve of battle, as washere the case; could enter unopposed, unquestioned, and returnunmolested!--What could have conferred upon the poet of that day sosingular a privilege? What upon the poet of an earlier time thatsanctity in behoof whereof

 "The great Emathian conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground: and the repeated air Of sad Electra's poet had the power To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. "

What but an universal recognition of the poet as an universalbenefactor of mankind? And did mankind recognize him as such, fromsome unaccountable infatuation, or because his labours obtained forhim an indefeasible right to that estimate? How came it, when a Greeksculptor had completed some operose performance, that his countrymenbore him in triumph thro' their city, and rejoiced in his prosperityas identical with their own? How but because his art had embodiedsome principle of beauty whose mysterious influence it was theirpride to appreciate--or he had enduringly moulded the limbs of somewell-trained Athlete, such as it was their interest to develop, or hehad recorded the overthrow of some barbaric invader whom theirfathers had fallen to repel. 

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

Thus it would appear from these facts (which have been collaterallyevolved in course of enquiring into the propriety of choosing thesubject from past or present time, and in course of the consequentanalysis) that Art, to become a more powerful engine of civilization, assuming a practically humanizing tendency (the admitted function ofArt), should be made more directly conversant with the things, incidents, and influences which surround and constitute the livingworld of those whom Art proposes to improve, and, whether it shouldappear in event that Art can or can not assume this attitude withoutjeopardizing her specific existence, that such a consummation weredesirable must be equally obvious in either case. 

Let us return now to the former consideration. It was stated that thepoet is affected by every day incidents, which would have little orno 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 thefittest medium for poetic eduction, why he embodied the suggestionsof to-day in the matter and dress of antiquity; he is likely toanswer as follows. --"You have stated that men pass by that whichfurnishes me with my subject: If I merely reproduce what theyslighted, the reproduction will be slighted equally. It appears thenthat I must devise some means of attracting their sympathies--and themedium of antiquity is the fittest for three several reasons. 1st. --Nothing comes down to us from antiquity unless fraught withsufficient interest of some sort, to warrant it being worthy ofrecord. Thus, all incidents which we possess of the old time beingmore or less interesting, there arises an illative impression thatall things of old really were so: and all things in idea associatedwith that time, whether real or fictitious, are afforded a favorableentertainment. Now these associations are neither trivial norfanciful:{11} for I remember to have discovered, after visiting theBritish Museum for the first time, that the odour of camphor, forwhich I had hitherto no predilection, afforded me a peculiarsatisfaction, seemingly suggestive of things scientific or artistic;it was in fact a _literary smell!_ All this was vague andunaccountable until some time after when this happened again, and Iwas at once reminded of an enormous walrus at the British Museum, andthen remembered how the whole collection, from end to end, waspermeated with the odour of camphor! Still, despite the_consciousness_ of this, the camphor retains its influence. Now let apoem, 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 aredead and gone:--we sympathize with them accordingly. All theseeffects of antiquity, as a means of enforcing poetry, declare it toopowerful an ally to be readily abandoned by the poet. " To all thisthe painter will add that the costume of almost any ancient time ismore beautiful than that of the present--added to which it exposesmore of that most beautiful of all objects, the human figure. 

{11} Here the author, in the person of respondent, takes occasion tonarrate a real fact. 

Thus we have a formidable array of objections to the choice of_present-day subjects:_ and first, it was objected and granted, thatincidents of the present time are well nigh barren in poeticattraction for the many. Then it was objected, but not granted, thattheir poetic or pictorial counterparts will be equally unattractivealso: but this last remains to be proved. It was said, and isbelieved by the author, (and such as doubt it he does not address)that all good men are more or less poetical in some way or other;while their poetry shows itself at various times. Thus thebusiness-man in the street has other to think of than poetry; butwhen he is inclined to look at a picture, or in his more poeticalhumour, will he neglect the pictorial counterpart of what heneglected before? To test this, show him a camera obscura, wherethere is a more literal transcript of present-day nature than anypainting can be:--what is the result? He expresses no anxiety to quitit, but a great curiosity to investigate; he feels it is verybeautiful, indeed more beautiful than nature: and this he will say isbecause he does not see nature as an artist does. Now the solution ofall this is easy: 1st. He is in a mood of mind which renders himaccessible to the influences of poetry, which was not before thecase. 2nd. He looks at that steadily which he before regardedcursorily; and, as the picture remains in his eye, it acquires anamount of harmony, in behoof of an intrinsic harmony resident in theorgan itself, which exerts proportionately modifying influences onall things that enter within it; and of the nervous harmony, and thebeautifully apportioned stimuli of alternating ocular spectra. 3rd. There is a resolution of discord effected by the instrument itself, inasmuch as its effects are homogeneous. All these harmonizinginfluences are equally true of the painting; and though we have nolonger the homogeneous effect of the camera, we have the homogeneouseffect of one mind, viz. , the mind of the artist. 

Thus having disproved the supposed poetical obstacles to therendering of real life or nature in its own real garb and time, asfaithfully as Art can render it, nothing need be said to answer theadvantages of the antique or mediaeval rendering; since they wereonly called in to neutralize the aforesaid obstacles, which obstacleshave proved to be fictitious. It remains then to consider the_artistic_ objection of costume, &c. , which consideration rangesunder the head of _real differences between the things of past andpresent times_, a consideration formerly postponed. But thisrequiring a patient analysis, will necessitate a furtherpostponement, and in conclusion, there will be briefly stated theelements of the argument, thus. --It must be obvious to everyphysicist that physical beauty (which this subject involves on theone side [the ancient] as opposed to the want of it on the other [themodern]) was in ancient times as superior to physical beauty in themodern, as psychical beauty in the modern is superior to psychicalbeauty in the ancient. Costume then, as physical, is more beautifulancient than modern. Now that a certain amount of physical beauty isrequisite to constitute Fine Art, will be readily admitted; but whatthat amount is, must be ever undefined. That the maximum of physicalbeauty does not constitute the maximum of Fine Art, is apparent fromthe facts of the physical beauty of _Early Christian_ Art beinginferior to that of Grecian art; whilst, in the concrete, EarlyChristian Art is superior to Grecian. Indeed some specimens of EarlyChristian Art are repulsive rather than beautiful, yet these are inmany cases the highest works of Art. 

In the "Plague at Ashdod, " great physical beauty, resulting frompicturesque costume and the exposed human figure, was so far fromdesirable, that it seems purposely deformed by blotches of lividcolor; yet the whole is a most noble work of Poussin. Containing asmuch physical beauty as this picture, the writer remembers to haveseen an incident in the streets where a black-haired, sordid, wicked-headed man, was striking the butt of his whip at the neck of ahorse, to urge him round an angle of the pavement; a smockedcountryman offered him the loan of his mules: a blacksmith standingby, showed him how to free the wheel, by only swerving the animal tothe left: he, taking no notice whatever, went on striking andstriking; whilst a woman waiting to cross, with a child in her onehand, and with the other pushing its little head close to her side, looked with wide eyes at this monster. 

This familiar incident, affording a subject fraught with more moralinterest than, and as much picturesque matter as, many antique ormediaeval subjects, is only wanting in that romantic attractionwhich, by association, attaches to things of the past. Yet, let thesemodern subjects once excite interest, as it really appears they can, and the incidents of to-day will acquire romantic attractions by thesame association of ideas. 

The claims of ancient, mediaeval, and modern subjects will beconsidered in detail at a future period. 

The Carillon. (Antwerp and Bruges)

In these and others of the Flemish Towns, the _Carillon_, or chimeswhich have a most fantastic and delicate music, are played almostcontinually The custom is very ancient. 

 At Antwerp, there is a low wall Binding the city, and a moat Beneath, that the wind keeps afloat. You pass the gates in a slow drawl Of wheels. If it is warm at all The Carillon will give you thought. 

 I climbed the stair in Antwerp church, What time the urgent weight of sound At sunset seems to heave it round. Far up, the Carillon did search The wind; and the birds came to perch Far under, where the gables wound. 

 In Antwerp harbour on the Scheldt I stood along, a certain space Of night. The mist was near my face: Deep on, the flow was heard and felt. The Carillon kept pause, and dwelt In music through the silent place. 

 At Bruges, when you leave the train, --A singing numbness in your ears, -- The Carillon's first sound appears Only the inner moil. Again A little minute though--your brain Takes quiet, and the whole sense hears. 

 John Memmeling and John Van Eyck Hold state at Bruges. In sore shame I scanned the works that keep their name. The Carillon, which then did strike Mine ears, was heard of theirs alike: It set me closer unto them. 

 I climbed at Bruges all the flight The Belfry has of ancient stone. For leagues I saw the east wind blown: The earth was grey, the sky was white. I stood so near upon the height That my flesh felt the Carillon. 

 _October_, 1849. 

Emblems

 I lay through one long afternoon, Vacantly plucking the grass. I lay on my back, with steadfast gaze Watching the cloud-shapes pass; Until the evening's chilly damps Rose from the hollows below, Where the cold marsh-reeds grow. 

 I saw the sun sink down behind The high point of a mountain; Its last light lingered on the weeds That choked a shattered fountain, Where lay a rotting bird, whose plumes Had beat the air in soaring. On these things I was poring:--

 The sun seemed like my sense of life, Now weak, that was so strong; The fountain--that continual pulse Which throbbed with human song: The bird lay dead as that wild hope Which nerved my thoughts when young. These symbols had a tongue, And told the dreary lengths of years I must drag my weight with me; Or be like a mastless ship stuck fast On a deep, stagnant sea. A man on a dangerous height alone, If suddenly struck blind, Will never his home path find. 

 When divers plunge for ocean's pearls, And chance to strike a rock, Who plunged with greatest force below Receives the heaviest shock. With nostrils wide and breath drawn in, I rushed resolved on the race; Then, stumbling, fell in the chase. 

 Yet with time's cycles forests swell Where stretched a desert plain: Time's cycles make the mountains rise Where heaved the restless main: On swamps where moped the lonely stork, In the silent lapse of time Stands a city in its prime. 

 I thought: then saw the broadening shade Grow slowly over the mound, That reached with one long level slope Down to a rich vineyard ground: The air about lay still and hushed, As if in serious thought: But I scarcely heeded aught, Till I heard, hard by, a thrush break forth, Shouting with his whole voice, So that he made the distant air And the things around rejoice. My soul gushed, for the sound awoke Memories of early joy: I sobbed like a chidden boy. 

Sonnet: Early Aspirations

 How many a throb of the young poet-heart, Aspiring to the ideal bliss of Fame, Deems that Time soon may sanctify his claim Among the sons of song to dwell apart. -- Time passes--passes! The aspiring flame Of Hope shrinks down; the white flower Poesy Breaks on its stalk, and from its earth-turned eye Drop sleepy tears instead of that sweet dew Rich with inspiring odours, insect wings Drew from its leaves with every changing sky, While its young innocent petals unsunn'd grew. No more in pride to other ears he sings, But with a dying charm himself unto:-- For a sad season: then, to active life he springs. 

From the Cliffs: Noon

 The sea is in its listless chime: Time's lapse it is, made audible, -- The murmur of the earth's large shell. In a sad blueness beyond rhyme It ends: sense, without thought, can pass No stadium further. Since time was, This sound hath told the lapse of time. 

 No stagnance that death wins, --it hath The mournfulness of ancient life, Always enduring at dull strife. As the world's heart of rest and wrath, Its painful pulse is in the sands. Last utterly, the whole sky stands, Grey and not known, along its path. 

Fancies at Leisure

I. In Spring

 The sky is blue here, scarcely with a stain Of grey for clouds: here the young grasses gain A larger growth of green over this splinter Fallen from the ruin. Spring seems to have told Winter He shall not freeze again here. Tho' their loss Of leaves is not yet quite repaired, trees toss Sprouts from their boughs. The ash you called so stiff Curves, daily, broader shadow down the cliff. 

II. In Summer

 How the rooks caw, and their beaks seem to clank! Let us just move out there, --(it might be cool Under those trees, ) and watch how the thick tank By the old mill is black, --a stagnant pool Of rot and insects. There goes by a lank Dead hairy dog floating. Will Nature's rule Of life return hither no more? The plank Rots in the crushed weeds, and the sun is cruel. 

III. The Breadth of Noon

 Long time I lay there, while a breeze would blow From the south softly, and, hard by, a slender Poplar swayed to and fro to it. Surrender Was made of all myself to quiet. No Least thought was in my mind of the least woe: Yet the void silence slowly seemed to render My calmness not less calm, but yet more tender, And I was nigh to weeping. --'Ere I go, ' I thought, 'I must make all this stillness mine; The sky's blue almost purple, and these three Hills carved against it, and the pine on pine The wood in their shade has. All this I see So inwardly I fancy it may be Seen thus of parted souls by _their_ sunshine. '

IV. Sea-Freshness

 Look at that crab there. See if you can't haul His backward progress to this spar of a ship Thrown up and sunk into the sand here. Clip His clipping feelers hard, and give him all Your hand to gripe at: he'll take care not fall: So, --but with heed, for you are like to slip In stepping on the plank's sea-slime. Your lip-- No wonder--curves in mirth at the slow drawl Of the squat creature's legs. We've quite a shine Of waves round us, and here there comes a wind So fresh it must bode us good luck. How long Boatman, for one and sixpence? Line by line The sea comes toward us sun-ridged. Oh! we sinned Taking the crab out: let's redress his wrong. 

V. The Fire Smouldering

 I look into the burning coals, and see Faces and forms of things; but they soon pass, Melting one into other: the firm mass Crumbles, and breaks, and fades gradually, Shape into shape as in a dream may be, Into an image other than it was: And so on till the whole falls in, and has Not any likeness, --face, and hand, and tree, All gone. So with the mind: thought follows thought, This hastening, and that pressing upon this, A mighty crowd within so narrow room: And then at length heavy-eyed slumbers come, The drowsy fancies grope about, and miss Their way, and what was so alive is nought. 

Papers of "The M. S. Society" {12}

{12} The Editor is requested to state that "M. S. " does not here meanManuscript. 

No. I. An Incident in the Siege of Troy, seen from a modern Observatory

 Sixteen Specials in Priam's Keep Sat down to their mahogany: The League, just then, had made _busters_ cheap, And Hesiod writ his "Theogony, " A work written to prove "that, if men would be men, And demand their rights again and again, They might live like gods, have infinite _smokes_, Drink infinite rum, drive infinite _mokes_, Which would come from every part of the known And civilized globe, twice as good as their own, And, finally, Ilion, the work-shop should be Of the world--one vast manufactory!"

 From arrow-slits, port-holes, windows, what not, Their sixteen quarrels the Specials had shot From sixteen arblasts, their daily task; Why they'd to do it they didn't ask, For, after they'd done it, they sat down to dinner; The sixteen Specials they didn't get thinner; But kept quite loyal, and every day Asked no questions but fired away. 

 Would you like me to tell you the reason why These sixteen Specials kept letting fly From eleven till one, as the Chronicle speaks? They did it, my boys, to annoy the Greeks, Who kept up a perpetual cannonade On the walls, and threaten'd an escalade. The sixteen Specials were so arranged That the shots they shot were not shots exchanged, But every shot so told on the foe The Greeks were obliged to draw it mild: Diomedes--"A fix, " Ulysses--"No go" Declared it, the "king of men" cried like a child; Whilst the Specials, no more than a fine black Tom I keep to serenade Mary from The tiles, where he lounges every night, Knew nor cared what they did, and were perfectly right. 

 But the fact was thus: one Helenus, A man much faster than any of us, More fast than a gent at the top of a "bus, " More fast than the coming of "Per col. Sus. " Which Shakespeare says comes galloping, (I take his word for anything) This Helenus had a cure of souls-- He had cured the souls of several Greeks, Achilles sole or heel, --the rolls Of fame (not French) say Paris:--speaks Anatomist Quain thereof. Who seeks May read the story from z to a; He has handled and argued it every way;-- A subject on which there's a good deal to say. His work was ever the best, and still is, Because of this note on the Tendo Achillis. 

 This Helenus was a man well bred, He was _up_ in Electricity, Fortification, Theology, aesthetics and Pugilicity; Celsus and Gregory he'd read; Knew every "dodge" of _glove and fist;_ Was a capital curate, (I think I've said) And Transcendental Anatomist: _Well up_ in Materia Medica, _Right up_ in Toxicology, And Medical Jurisprudence, that sell! And the _dead sell_ Physiology: Knew what and how much of any potation Would get him through any examination: With credit not small, had passed the Hall And the College----and they couldn't _pluck_ him at all. He'd written on Rail-roads, delivered a lecture Upon the Electric Telegraph, Had played at single-stick with Hector, And written a paper on half-and-half. 

 With those and other works of note He was not at all a "_people's man_, " Though public, for the works he wrote Were not that sort the people can Admire or read; they were Mathematic The most part, some were Hydrostatic; But Algebraic, in the main, And full of a, b, c, and n-- And other letters which perplex-- The last was full of double x! In fact, such stuff as one may easily Imagine, didn't go down greasily, Nor calculated to produce Such heat as "cooks the public goose, " And does it of so brown a hue Men wonder while they relish too. 

 It therefore was that much alone He studied; and a room is shown In a coffee-house, an upper room, Where none but hungry devils come, Wherein 'tis said, with animation He read "Vestiges of Creation. "

 Accordingly, a month about After he'd _chalked up_ steak and stout For the last time, he gave the world A pamphlet, wherein he unfurled A tissue of facts which, soon as blown, Ran like wildfire through the town. And, first of all, he plainly showed A capital error in the mode Of national defences, thus-- "The Greek one thousand miles from us, " Said he, (for nine hundred and ninety-nine The citadel stood above the brine In perpendicular height, allowing For slope of glacis, thereby showing An increase of a mile, ) "'tis plain The force that shot and shell would gain, By gravitation, with their own, Would fire the ground by friction alone; Which, being once in fusion schooled Ere cool, as _Fire-mist had cooled_" Would gain a motion, which must soon, Just as the earth detached the moon And gave her locomotive birth, Detach some twenty miles of earth, And send it swinging in the air, The Devil only could tell where! Then came the probability With what increased facility The Greeks, by this projectile power, Might land on Ilion's highest tower, All safe and sound, in battle array, With howitzers prepared to play, And muskets to the muzzles rammed;-- Why, the town would be utterly smashed and jammed, And positively, as the phrase is Vernacular, be "sent to blazes"!

 In the second place, he then would ask, (And here he took several members to task, And wondered--"he really must presume To wonder" a statesman like--you know whom-- Who ever evinced the deepest sense Of a crying sin in any expense, Should so besotted be, and lost To the fact that now, at public cost, Powder was being day by day Wantonly wasted, blown away);-- Yes, he would ask, "with what intent But to perch the Greeks on a battlement From which they might o'erlook the town, The easier to batter it down, Which he had proved must be the case (If it hadn't already taken place): He called on his readers to fear and dread it, _Whilst he wrote it, --whilst they read it!_" "How simple! How beautifully simple, " said he, "And obvious was the remedy! Look back a century or so-- And there was the ancient Norman bow, A weapon (he gave them leave to laugh) Efficient, better, cheaper by half: (He knew quite well the age abused it Because, forsooth, the Normans used it) These, planted in the citadel, Would reach the walls say, --very well; There, having spent their utmost force, They'd drop down right, as a matter of course, A thousand miles! Think--a thousand miles! What was the weight for driving piles To this? He calculated it-- 'Twould equal, when both Houses sit, The weight of the entire building, Including Members, paint, and gilding; But, if a speech or the address From the throne were given, something less, Because, as certain snores aver, The House is then much heavier. 

 Now this, though very much a rub like For Ministers, convinced the public; And Priam, who liked to hear its brays To any tune but "the Marseillaise, " Summoned a Privy Council, where 'Twas shortly settled to confer On Helenus a sole command Of Specials. --He headed that daring band!

 And sixteen Specials in Priam's keep Got up from their mahogany; They smoked their pipes in silence deep Till there was such a fog--any Attempt to discover the priest in the smother Had bothered old Airy and Adams and t'other And--Every son of an _English_ mother. 

 June, 1848. 

No. II. Swift's Dunces

"When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by thissign, that the DUNCES are all in confederacy against him. "--_Swift_. 

How shall we know the dunces from the man of genius, who is no doubtour superior in judgment, yet knows himself for a fool--by theproverb?

At least, my dear Doctor, you will let me, with the mass of readers, have clearer wits than the dunces--then why should I not know whatyou are as soon as, or sooner than Bavius, &c. --unless a dunce has agood nose, or a natural instinct for detecting wit. 

Now I take it that these people stigmatized as dunces are but men ofill-balanced mental faculties, yet perhaps, in a great degree, superior to the average of minds. For instance, a poet of much merit, but more ambition, has written the "Lampiad, " an epic; when he shouldnot have dared beyond the Doric reed: his ambitious pride hasprevented the publication of excellent pastorals, therefore the worldonly knows him for his failure. This, I say, is a likely man tobecome a detractor; for his good judgment shows the imperfections ofmost works, his own included; his ambition (an ill-combination ofself-conscious worth and spleen) leads him to compare works of thehighest repute; the works of contemporaries; and his own. In allcases where success is most difficult, he will be most severe; thisnaturally leads him to criticise the very best works. 

He has himself failed; he sees errors in successful writers; he knowshe possesses certain merits, and knows what the perfection of themshould be. This is the ground work of envy, which makes a man ofparts a comparative fool, and a confederate against "true genius. "

No. III. Mental Scales

I make out my case thus--

There is an exact balance in the distribution of causes of pleasureand pain: this has been satisfactorily proved in my next paper, upon"Cause and Effect, " therefore I shall take it for granted. What, then, is there but the mind to determine its own state of happiness, or misery: just as the motion of the scales depends upon themselves, when two equal weights are put into them. The balance ought to betruly hung; but if the unpleasant scale is heavier, then the motionis in favor of the pleasant scale, and vice versa. Whether the beamstands horizontally, or otherwise, does not matter (that onlydetermines the key): draw a line at right angles to it, then put inyour equal weights; if the angle becomes larger on the unpleasantscale's side of the line, happiness is the result, if on the other, misery. 

It requires but a slight acquaintance with mechanics to see that hewho would be happy should have the unpleasant side heavier. I hatecorollaries or we might have a group of them equally applicable toArt and Models. 

 _June_, 1848. 

Reviews

_Some Account of the Life and Adventures of Sir Reginald Mohun, Bart. Done in Verse by George John Cayley. Canto 1st. Pickering. _ 1849. 

Inconsistency, whether in matters of importance or in trifles, whether in substance or in detail, is never pleasant. We do not hereimpute to this poem any inconsistency between one portion andanother; but certainly its form is at variance with its subject andtreatment. In the wording of the title, and the character oftypography, there is a studious archaism: more modern the poem itselfcould scarcely be. 

"Sir Reginald Mohun" aims, to judge from the present sample, atdepicting the easy intercourse of high life; and the author enters onhis theme with a due amount of sympathy. It is in this respect, if inany, that the mediaeval tone of the work lasts beyond the title page. In Mr. Cayley's eyes, the proof of the comparative prosperity ofEngland is that

 "Still Queen Victoria sits upon her throne; Our aristocracy still keep alive, And, on the whole, may still be said to thrive, -- Tho' now and then with ducal acres groan The honored tables of the auctioneer. Nathless, our aristocracy is dear, Tho' their estates go cheap; and all must own That they still give society its tone. "--p. 16. 

He proceeds in these terms:

 "Our baronets of late appear to be Unjustly snubbed and talked and written down; Partly from follies of Sir Something Brown, Stickling for badges due to their degree, And partly that their honor's late editions Have been much swelled with surgeons and physicians; For 'honor hath small skill in surgery, ' And skill in surgery small honor. "--p. 17. 

What "honor" is here meant? and against whom is the tauntimplied?--against the "surgeons and physicians, " or against thedepreciation of them. Surely the former can hardly have beenintended. The sentence will bear to be cleared of some ambiguity, orelse to be cleared off altogether. 

Our introduction to Sir Reginald Mohun, Lord of Nornyth Place, and of"an income clear of 20, 000 pounds, " and to his friends Raymond St. Oun, De Lacy, Wilton, Tancarville, and Vivian--(for the author'snames are aristocratic, like his predilections)--is effected throughthe medium of a stanza, new, we believe, in arrangement, thoughdiffering but slightly from the established octave, and of verses soeasy and flowing as to make us wonder less at the promise of

 "provision plenty For cantos twelve, or may be, four and twenty, "

than at Mr. Cayley's assertion that he "Can never get along at all inprose. "

The incidents, as might be expected of a first canto, are neithermany nor important, and will admit of compression into a very smallcompass. 

Sir Reginald, whose five friends had arrived at Nornyth Place late onthe preceding night, is going over the grounds with them in ashooting party after a late breakfast. St. Oun expresses a wish to"prowl about the place" in preference, not feeling in the mood forthe required exertion. 

 "'Of lazy dogs the laziest ever fate Set on two useless legs you surely are, And born beneath some wayward sauntering star To sit for ever swinging on a gate, And laugh at wiser people passing through. ' So spake the bard De Lacy: for they two In frequent skirmishes of fierce debate Would bicker, tho' their mutual love was great. "--p. 35. 

Mohun, however, sides with St. Oun, and agrees to escort him in hisrambles after the first few shots. He accordingly soon resigns hisgun to the keeper Oswald, whose position as one who

 "came into possession Of the head-keepership by due succession Thro' sire and grandsire, who, when one was dead, Left his right heir-male keeper in his stead, "

Mr. Cayley evidently regards with some complacence. The friends entera boat: here, while sailing along a rivulet that winds through theestate, St. Oun falls to talking of wealth, its value andinsufficiency, of death, and life, and fame; and coming at length toask after the history of Sir Reginald's past life, he suggests "thistrue epic opening for relation:"

 "'The sun, from his meridian heights declining Mirrored his richest tints upon the shining Bosom of a lake. In a light shallop, two _Young men, whose dress, _ etcaetera, _proclaims, _ Etcaetera, --so would write G. P. R. James-- Glided in silence o'er the waters blue, Skirting the wooded slopes. Upward they gazed On Nornyth's ancient pile, whose windows blazed

 "'In sunset rays, whose crimson fulgence streamed Across the flood: wrapped in deep thought they seemed. 'You are pensive, Reginald, ' at length thus spake The helmsman: 'ha! it is the mystic power Fraught by the sacred stillness of the hour: Forgive me if your reverie I break, Craving, with friendship's sympathy, to share _Your spirit's burden, be it joy or care. '"_--pp. 48, 49. 

Sir Reginald Mohun's story is soon told. --Born in Italy, and losinghis mother at the moment of his birth, and his father and only sisterdying also soon after, he is left alone in the world. 

 "'My father was a melancholy man, Having a touch of genius, and a heart, But not much of that worldly better part Called force of character, which finds some plan For getting over anguish that will crush Weak hearts of stronger feeling. He began To pine; was pale; and had a hectic flush At times; and from his eyelids tears would gush. 

 "'Some law of hearts afflicted seems to bind A spell by which the scenes of grief grew dear; He never could leave Italy, tho' here And there he wandered with unquiet mind, -- Rome, Florence, Mantua, Milan; once as far As Venice; but still Naples had a blind Attraction which still drew him thither. There He died. Heaven rest his ashes from their care. 

 "'He wrote, a month or so before he died, To Wilton's father; (he is Earl of Eure, My mother's brother); saying he was sure That he should soon be gone, and would confide Us to his guardian care. My uncle came Before his death. We stood by his bedside. He blessed us. We, who scarcely knew the name Of death, yet read in the expiring flame

 "'Of his sunk eyes some awful mystery, And wept we knew not why. There was a grace Of radiant joyful hope upon his face, Most unaccustomed, and which seemed to be All foreign to his wasted frame; and yet So heavenly in its consolation we Smiled through the tears with which our lids were wet. His lips were cold, as, whispering, 'Do not fret

 "'When I am gone, ' he kissed us: and he took Our uncle's hands, which on our heads he laid, And said: 'My children, do not be afraid Of Death, but be prepared to meet him. Look; Here is your mother's brother; he to her As Reginald to Eve. ' His thin voice shook. -- 'Eve was your Mother's name. ' His words did err, As dreaming; and his wan lips ceased to stir. '"--pp. 55-57. 

(We have quoted this passage, not insensible to its defects, --somecommon-place in sentiment and diction; but independently of the goodit does really contain, as being the only one of such a charactersustained in quality to a moderate length. )

Reginald and his cousin Wilton grew up together friends, though notbound by common sympathies. The latter has known life early, and"earned experience piecemeal:" with the former, thought has alreadybecome a custom. 

Thus far only does Reginald bring his retrospect; his other friendscome up, and they all return homeward. Here, too, ends the story ofthis canto; but not without warranting some surmise of what willfurnish out the next. There is evidence of observation adroitlyapplied in the talk of the two under-keepers who take charge of theboat. 

 "They said: 'Oh! what a gentleman to talk Is that there Lacy! What a tongue he've got! But Mr. Vivian _is_ a pretty shot. And what a pace his lordship wish to walk! Which Mr. Tancarville, he seemed quite beat: But he's a pleasant gentleman. Good lawk! How he do make me laugh! Dang! this 'ere seat Have wet my smalls slap thro'. Dang! what a treat!

 "'There's company coming to the Place to morn: Bess housemaid told me. Lord and Lady----: dash My wigs! I can't think on. But there's a mash O' comp'ny and fine ladies; fit to torn The heads of these young chaps. Why now I'd lay This here gun to an empty powder-horn Sir Reginald be in love, or that-a-way. He looks a little downcast-loikish, --eh?'"--pp. 62, 63. 

It will be observed that there is no vulgarity in this vulgarism:indeed, the gentlemanly good humour of the poem is uninterrupted. This, combined with neatness of handling, and the habit of notover-doing, produces that general facility of appearance which it isno disparagement, in speaking of a first canto, to term the chiefresult of so much of these life and adventures as is here "done intoverse. " It may be fairly anticipated, however, that no want ofvariety in the conception, or of success in the pourtrayal, ofcharacter will need to be complained of: meanwhile, a few passagesmay be quoted to confirm our assertions. The two first extracts areexamples of mere cleverness; and all that is aimed at is attained. The former follows out a previous comparison of the world with a"huge churn. "

 "Yet some, despising life's legitimate aim, Instead of butter, would become "the cheese;" A low term for distinction. Whence the name I know not: gents invented it; and these Gave not an etymology. I see no Likelier than this, which with their taste agrees; The _caseine_ element I conceive to mean no Less than the _beau ideal_ of the Casino. "--p. 12. 

 "Wise were the Augurers of old, nor erred In substance, deeming that the life of man-- (This is a new reflection, spick and span)-- May be much influenced by the flight of birds. Our senate can no longer hold their house When culminates the evil star of grouse; And stoutest patriots will their shot-belts gird When first o'er stubble-field hath partridge whirred. "--p. 25. 

In these others there is more purpose, with a no less definiteconciseness:

 "Comes forth the first great poet. Then a number Of followers leave much literary lumber. He cuts his phrases in the sapling grain Of language; and so weaves them at his will. They from his wickerwork extract with pain The wands now warped and stiffened, which but ill Bend to their second-hand employment. "--pp. 4, 5. 

 "What's life? A riddle; Or sieve which sifts you thro' it in the middle. "--p. 45. 

The misadventures of the five friends on their road to Nornyth arevery sufficiently described:

 "The night was cold and cloudy as they topped A moorland slope, and met the bitter blast, So cutting that their ears it almost cropped; And rain began to fall extremely fast. A broken sign-post left them in great doubt About two roads; and, when an hour was passed, They learned their error from a lucid lout; Soon after, one by one, their lamps went out. "--p. 29. 

There remains to point out one fault, --and that the last fault theoccurrence of which could be looked for, after so clearly expressedan intention as this:

 "But, if an Author takes to writing fine, (Which means, I think, an artificial tone), The public sicken and won't read a line. I hope there's nothing of this sort in mine. "--p. 6. 

A quotation or two will fully explain our meaning: and we wouldseriously ask Mr. Cayley to reflect whether he has always borne hisprinciple in mind, and avoided "writing fine;" whether he has notsometimes fallen into high-flown common-place of the most undisguisedstamp, rendered, moreover, doubly inexcusable and out of place bybeing put into the mouth of one of the personages of the poem; It isSir Reginald Mohun that speaks; and truly, though not thrust forwardas a "wondrous paragon of praise, " he must be confessed to be, "Judging by specimens the author quotes, An utterer of most ordinary phrases, "

not words only and sentences, but real _phrases_, in the moredistinct and specific sense of the term. 

 "'There, while yet a new born thing, Death o'er my cradle waved his darksome wing; My mother died to give me birth: forlorn I came into the world, a babe of woe, Ill-omened from my childhood's early morn; Yet heir to what the idolators of show Deem life's good things, which earthly bliss bestow. 

 "'The riches of the heart they call a dream; Love, hope, faith, friendship, hollow phantasies: Living but for their pockets and their eyes, They stifle in their breasts the purer beam Of sunshine glanced from heaven upon their clay, To be its light and warmth. This is a theme For homilies: and I will only say, The heart feeds not on fortune's baubles gay. '"--p. 51. 

Sir Reginald's narrative concludes after this fashion:

 "'But what is this? A dubious compromise; Twilight of cloudy zones, whereon the blaze Of sunshine breaks but seldom with its rays Of heavenly hope, towards which the spirit sighs Its aspirations, and is lost again 'Mid doubts: to grasp the wisdom of the skies Too feeble, tho' convinced earth's bonds are vain, Cowering faint-hearted in the festering chain. '"--p. 60. 

A similar instance of conventionality constantly repeated is the sinof inversion, which is no less prevalent, throughout the poem, in theconversational than in the narrative portions. In some cases theexigencies of rhyme may be pleaded in palliation, as for "Cam's margealong" and "breezy willows cool, " which occur in two consecutivelines of a speech; but there are many for which no such excuse can beurged. Does any one talk of "sloth obscure, " or of "heartsafflicted?" Or what reason is there for preferring "verses easy" to_easy verses?_ Ought not the principle laid down in the followingpassage of the introduction to be followed out, not only into theintention, but into the manner and quality also, of the whole work?

 "'I mean to be _sincere_ in this my lay: That which I think I shall write down without A drop of pain or varnish. Therefore, pray, Whatever I may chance to rhyme about, Read it without the shadow of a doubt. '"--p. 12. 

Again, the Author appears to us to have acted unwisely inoccasionally departing from the usual construction of his stanzas, asin this instance:

 "'But, as I said, you know my history; And your's--not that you made a mystery Of it, nor used reserve, yet, being not By nature an Autophonophilete, (A word De Lacy fashioned and called me it)-- Your's you have never told me yet. And what Can be a more appropriate occasion Than this true epic opening for relation?'"--p. 48. 

Here the lines do not cohere so happily as in the more varieddistribution of the rhymes; and, moreover, as a question ofprinciple, we think it not advisable to allow of minor deviationsfrom the uniformity of a prescribed metre. 

It may be well to take leave of Mr. Cayley with a last quotation ofhis own words, --words which no critic ought to disregard:

 "I shall be deeply grateful to reviews, Whether they deign approval, or rebuke, For any hints they think may disabuse Delusions of my inexperienced muse. "--p. 8. 

If our remarks have been such as to justify the Author's wish forsincere criticism, our object is attained; and we look forward forthe second canto with confidence in his powers. 

_Published Monthly. --Price One S. _

 Art and Poetry, Being Thoughts towards Nature. 

 Conducted principally by Artists. 

Of the little worthy the name of writing that has ever been writtenupon the principles of Art, (of course excepting that on the meremechanism), a very small portion is by Artists themselves; and thatis so scattered, that one scarcely knows where to find the ideas ofan Artist except in his pictures. 

With a view to obtain the thoughts of Artists, upon Nature as evolvedin Art, in another language besides their _own proper_ one, thisPeriodical has been established. Thus, then, it is not open to theconflicting opinions of all who handle the brush and palette, nor isit restricted to actual practitioners; but is intended to enunciatethe principles of those who, in the true spirit of Art, enforce arigid adherence to the simplicity of Nature either in Art or Poetry, and consequently regardless whether emanating from practical Artists, or from those who have studied nature in the Artist's School. 

Hence this work will contain such original Tales (in prose or verse), Poems, Essays, and the like, as may seem conceived in the spirit, orwith the intent, of exhibiting a pure and unaffected style, to whichpurpose analytical Reviews of current Literature--especiallyPoetry--will be introduced; as also illustrative Etchings, one ofwhich latter, executed with the utmost care and completeness, willappear in each number. 

No. 4. (_Price One Shilling_. ) MAY, 1850. 

With an Etching by W. H. Deverell. 

Art and Poetry: Being Thoughts towards Nature Conducted principallyby Artists. 

 When whoso merely hath a little thought Will plainly think the thought which is in him, -- Not imaging another's bright or dim, Not mangling with new words what others taught; When whoso speaks, from having either sought Or only found, --will speak, not just to skim A shallow surface with words made and trim, But in that very speech the matter brought: Be not too keen to cry--"So this is all!-- A thing I might myself have thought as well, But would not say it, for it was not worth!" Ask: "Is this truth?" For is it still to tell That, be the theme a point or the whole earth, Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small?

 London: DICKINSON & Co. , 114, NEW BOND STREET, AND AYLOTT & JONES, 8, PATERNOSTER ROW. 

 G. F Tupper, Printer, Clement's Lane, Lombard Street. 

CONTENTS. 

 Etching. --Viola and Olivia. Viola and Olivia 145 A Dialogue. --_John Orchard_ 146 On a Whit-sunday Morn in the Month of May. --_John Orchard_ 167 Modern Giants. --_Laura Savage_ 169 To the Castle Ramparts--_W. M. Rossetti_ 173 Pax Vobis. --_Dante G. Rossetti_ 176 A Modern Idyl. --_Walter H. Deverell_ 177 "Jesus Wept. "--_W. M. Rossetti_ 179 Sonnets for Pictures. --_Dante G Rossetti_ 180 Papers of "The M. S. Society, " No IV. Smoke 183 No. V. Rain 186 Review: Christmas Eve and Easter Day. --_W. M. Rossetti_ 187 The Evil under the Sun 192

The Subscribers to this Work are respectfully informed that thefuture Numbers will appear on the last day of the Month for whichthey are dated. Also, that a supplementary, or large-sized Etchingwill occasionally be given. 

[Illustration]

Viola and Olivia

 When Viola, a servant of the Duke, Of him she loved the page, went, sent by him, To tell Olivia that great love which shook His breast and stopt his tongue; was it a whim, Or jealousy or fear that she must look Upon the face of that Olivia?

 'Tis hard to say if it were whim or fear Or jealousy, but it was natural, As natural as what came next, the near Intelligence of hearts: Olivia Loveth, her eye abused by a thin wall Of custom, but her spirit's eyes were clear. 

 Clear? we have oft been curious to know The after-fortunes of those lovers dear; Having a steady faith some deed must show That they were married souls--unmarried here-- Having an inward faith that love, called so In verity, is of the spirit, clear Of earth and dress and sex--it may be near What Viola returned Olivia?

A Dialogue on Art

[The following paper had been sent as a contribution to thispublication scarcely more than a week before its author, Mr. JohnOrchard, died. It was written to commence a series of "Dialogues onArt, " which death has rendered for ever incomplete: nevertheless, themerits of this commencement are such that they seemed to warrant itspublication as a fragment; and in order that the chain of argumentmight be preserved, so far as it goes, uninterrupted, the dialogue isprinted entire in the present number, despite its length. Of thewriter, but little can be said. He was an artist; but ill health, almost amounting to infirmity--his portion from childhood--renderedhim unequal to the bodily labour inseparable from his profession: andin the course of his short life, whose youth was scarcelyconsummated, he exhibited, from time to time, only a very few smallpictures, and these, as regards public recognition, in no waysuccessfully. In art, however, he gave to the "seeing eye, " token ofthat ability and earnestness which the "hearing ear" will not fail torecognize in the dialogue now published; where the vehicle ofexpression, being more purely intellectual, was more within his graspthan was the physical and toilsome embodiment of art. 

It is possible that a search among the papers he has left, may bringto light a few other fugitive pieces, which will, in such event, asthe Poem succeeding this Dialogue, be published in these pages. 

To the end that the Author's scheme may be, as far as is nowpossible, understood and appreciated, we subjoin, in his own words, some explanation of his further intent, and of the views and feelingswhich guided him in the composition of the dialogue:

"I have adopted the form of dialogue for several, to me, cogentreasons; 1st, because it gives the writer the power of exhibiting thequestion, Art, on all its sides; 2nd, because the great phases of Artcould be represented idiosyncratically; and, to make this clear, Ihave named the several speakers accordingly; 3rd, because dialoguesecures the attention; and, that secured, deeper things strike, andgo deeper than otherwise they could be made to; and, 4th and last, because all my earliest and most delightful pleasures associatethemselves with dialogue, --(the old dramatists, Lucian, Walter SavageLandor, &c. )

"You will find that I have not made one speaker say a thing onpurpose for another to condemn it; but that I make each one utter hiswisest in the very wisest manner he can, or rather, that I can forhim. 

"The further continuation of this 1st dialogue embraces the question_Nature_, and its processes, invention and imitation, --imitationchiefly. Kosmon begins by showing, in illustration of the truth ofChristian's concluding sentences, how imperfectly all the Ancients, excepting the Hebrews, loved, understood, or felt Nature, &c. This isnot an unimportant portion of Art knowledge. 

"I must not forget to say that the last speech of Kosmon will beanswered by Christian when they discourse of imitation. It properlybelongs to imitation; and, under that head, it can be mosteffectively and perfectly confuted. Somewhat after this idea, the"verticalism" and "involution" will be shown to be direct fromNature; the gilding, &c. , disposed of on the ground of the old pietyusing the most precious materials as the most religious and worthy ofthem; and hence, by a very easy and probable transition, theyconcluded that that which was most soul-worthy, was also mostnatural. "]

Dialogue I. , in the House of Kalon

_Kalon. _ Welcome, my friends:--this day above all others; to-day isthe first day of spring. May it be the herald of a bountifulyear, --not alone in harvests of seeds. Great impulses are movingthrough man; swift as the steam-shot shuttle, weaving some mightypattern, goes the new birth of mind. As yet, hidden from eyes is thedesign: whether it be poetry, or painting, or music, or architecture, or whether it be a divine harmony of all, no manner of mind can tell;but that it is mighty, all manners of minds, moved to involuntaryutterance, affirm. The intellect has at last again got to work uponthought: too long fascinated by matter and prisoned to motivegeometry, genius--wisdom seem once more to have become human, to haveput on man, and to speak with divine simplicity. Kosmon, Sophon, again welcome! your journey is well-timed; Christian, my youngfriend, of whom I have often written to you, this morning tells me byletter that to-day he will pay me his long-promised visit. You, Iknow, must rejoice to meet him: this interchange of knowledge cannotfail to improve us, both by knocking down and building up: what istrue we shall hold in common; what is false not less in commondetest. The debateable ground, if at last equally debateable as itwas at first, is yet ploughed; and some after-comer may sow it withseed, and reap therefrom a plentiful harvest. 

_Sophon. _ Kalon, you speak wisely. Truth hath many sides like adiamond with innumerable facets, each one alike brilliant andpiercing. Your information respecting your friend Christian has not alittle interested me, and made me desirous of knowing him. 

_Kosmon. _ And I, no less than Sophon, am delighted to hear that weshall both see and taste your friend. 

_Sophon. _ Kalon, by what you just now said, you would seem to think adearth of original thought in the world, at any time, was an evil:perhaps it is not so; nay, perhaps, it is a good! Is not aninterregnum of genius necessary somewhere? A great genius, sun-like, compels lesser suns to gravitate with and to him; and this issubversive of originality. Age is as visible in thought as it is inman. Death is indispensably requisite for a _new_ life. Genius islike a tree, sheltering and affording support to numberless creepersand climbers, which latter die and live many times before theirprotecting tree does; flourishing even whilst that decays, and thus, lending to it a greenness not its own; but no new life can come outof that expiring tree; it must die: and it is not until it is dead, and fallen, and _rotted into compost_, that another tree can growthere; and many years will elapse before the new birth can increaseand occupy the room the previous one occupied, and flourish anew witha greenness all its own. This on one side. On another; genius isessentially imitative, or rather, as I just now said, gravitative; itgravitates towards that point peculiarly important at the moment ofits existence; as air, more rarified in some places than in others, causes the winds to rush towards _them_ as toward a centre: so thatif poetry, painting, or music slumbers, oratory may ravish the world, or chemistry, or steam-power may seduce and rule, or the sciences sitenthroned. Thus, nature ever compensates one art with another; herbalance alone is the always just one; for, like her course of theseasons, she grows, ripens, and lies fallow, only that stronger, larger and better food may be reared. 

_Kalon. _ By your speaking of chemistry, and the mechanical arts andsciences, as periodically ruling the world along with poetry, painting, and music, --am I to understand that you deem them powersintellectually equal, and to require of their respective professorsas mighty, original, and _human_ a genius for their successfulpractice?

_Kosmon. _ Human genius! why not? Are they not equally human?--nay, are they not--especially steam-power, chemistry and the electrictelegraph--more--eminently more--useful to man, more radicallycivilizers, than music, poetry, painting, sculpture, or architecture?

_Kalon. _ Stay, Kosmon! whither do you hurry? Between chemistry andthe mechanical arts and sciences, and between poetry, painting, andmusic, there exists the whole totality of genius--of genius asdistinguished from talent and industry. To be useful alone is not tobe great: _plus_ only is _plus_, and the sum is _minus_ something and_plus_ in nothing if the most unimaginable particle only be absent. The fine arts, poetry, painting, sculpture, music, and architecture, as thought, or idea, Athene-like, are complete, finished, revelationsof wisdom at once. Not so the mechanical arts and sciences: they arearts of growth; they are shaped and formed gradually, (and that, moreby a blind sort of guessing than by intuition, ) and take many men'slives to win even to one true principle. On all sides they are theexact opposites of each other; for, in the former, the principlesfrom the first are mature, and only the manipulation immature; in thelatter, it is the principles that are almost always immature, and themanipulation as constantly mature. The fine arts are always groundedupon truth; the mechanical arts and sciences almost always uponhypothesis; the first are unconfined, infinite, immaterial, impossible of reduction into formulas, or of conversion intomachines; the last are limited, finite, material, can be utteredthrough formulas, worked by arithmetic, tabulated and seen inmachines. 

_Sophon. _ Kosmon, you see that Kalon, true to his nature, prefers thebeautiful and good, to the good without the beautiful; and you, wholove nature, and regard all that she, and what man from her, canproduce, with equal delight, --true to your's, --cannot perceivewherefore he limits genius to the fine arts. Let me show you whyKalon's ideas are truer than yours. You say that chemistry, steam-power, and the electric telegraph, are more radicallycivilizers than poetry, painting, or music: but bethink you: whatemotions beyond the common and selfish ones of wonder and fear do themechanical arts or sciences excite, or communicate? what pity, orlove, or other holy and unselfish desires and aspirations, do theyelicit? Inert of themselves in all teachable things, they are theagents only whereby teachable things, --the charities, sympathies andlove, --may be more swiftly and more certainly conveyed and diffused:and beyond diffusing media the mechanical arts or sciences cannotget; for they are merely simple facts; nothing more: they cannotinduct; for they, in or of themselves, have no inductive powers, andtheir office is confined to that of carrying and spreading abroad thepowers which do induct; which powers make a full, complete, andvisible existence only in the fine arts. In FACT and THOUGHT we havethe whole question of superiority decided. Fact is merely physicalrecord: Thought is the application of that record to something_human_. Without application, the fact is only fact, and nothingmore; the application, thought, then, certainly must be superior tothe record, fact. Also in thought man gets the clearest glimpse hewill ever have of soul, and sees the incorporeal make the nearestapproach to the corporeal that it is possible for it to do here uponearth. And hence, these noble acts of wisdom are--far--far above themechanical arts and sciences, and are properly called fine arts, because their high and peculiar office is to refine. 

_Kosmon. _ But, certainly thought is as much exercised in deductingfrom physical facts the sciences and mechanical arts as ever it is inpoetry, painting, or music. The act of inventing print, or ofapplying steam, is quite as soul-like as the inventing of a picture, poem, or statue. 

_Kalon. _ Quite. The chemist, poet, engineer, or painter, alike, think. But the things upon which they exercise their severalfaculties are very widely unlike each other; the chemist or engineercogitates only the physical; the poet or painter joins to thephysical the human, and investigates soul--scans the world in manadded to the world without him--takes in universal creation, itssights, sounds, aspects, and ideas. Sophon says that the fine artsare thoughts; but I think I know a more comprehensive word; for theyare something more than thoughts; they are things also; that word isNATURE--Nature fully--thorough nature--the world of creation. Allthat is _in_ man, his mysteries of soul, his thoughts andemotions--deep, wise, holy, loving, touching, and fearful, --or in theworld, beautiful, vast, ponderous, gloomy, and awful, moved withrhythmic harmonious utterance--_that_ is Poetry. All that is _of_man--his triumphs, glory, power, and passions; or of the world--itssunshine and clouds, its plains, hills or valleys, its wind-sweptmountains and snowy Alps, river and ocean--silent, lonely, severe, and sublime--mocked with living colours, hue and tone, --_that_ isPainting. Man--heroic man, his acts, emotions, loves, --aspirative, tender, deep, and calm, --intensified, purified, colourless, --exhibitedpeculiarly and directly through his own form;_that_ is sculpture. All the voices of nature--of man--his bursts of rage, pity, andfear--his cries of joy--his sighs of love; of the winds and thewaters--tumultuous, hurrying, surging, tremulous, or gentlyfalling--married to melodious numbers;_that_ is music. And, the musicof proportions--of nature and man, and the harmony and opposition oflight and shadow, set forth in the ponderous; _that_ is Architecture. 

_Christian. _ [_as he enters_] Forbear, Kalon! These I know for yourdear fiends, Kosmon and Sophon. The moment of discoursing with themhas at last arrived: May I profit by it! Kalon, fearful of checkingyour current of thought, I stood without, and heard that which yousaid: and, though I agree with you in all your definitions of poetry, painting, sculpture, music, and architecture; yet certainly allthings in or of man, or the world, are not, however equallybeautiful, equally worthy of being used by the artist. Fine artabsolutely rejects all impurities of form; not less absolutely doesit reject all impurities of passion and expression. Everythingthroughout a poem, picture, or statue, or in music, may be sensuouslybeautiful; but nothing must be sensually so. Sins are only paid forin virtues; thus, every sin found is a virtue lost--lost--not only tothe artist, but a cause of loss to others--to all who look upon whathe does. He should deem his art a sacred treasure, intrusted to himfor the common good; and over it he should build, of the mostprecious materials, in the simplest, chastest, and truestproportions, a temple fit for universal worship: instead of which, itis too often the case that he raises above it an edifice of clay;which, as mortal as his life, falls, burying both it and himselfunder a heap of dirt. To preserve him from this corruption of hisart, let him erect for his guidance a standard awfully high abovehimself. Let him think of Christ; and what he would not show to aspure a nature as His, let him never be seduced to work on, or exposeto the world. 

_Kosmon. _ Oh, Kalon, whither do we go! Greek art is condemned, andSatire hath got its death-stroke. The beautiful is not the beautifulunless it is fettered to the moral; and Virtue rejects the physicalperfections, lest she should fall in love with herself, and sin andcause sin. 

_Christian. _ Nay, Kosmon. Nothing pure, --nothing that is innocent, chaste, unsensual, --whether Greek or satirical, is condemned: buteverything--every picture, poem, statue, or piece of music--whichelicits the sensual, viceful, and unholy desires of our nature--is, and that utterly. The beautiful was created the true, morally as wellas physically; vice is a deformment of virtue, --not of form, to whichit is a parasitical addition--an accretion which can and must beexcised before the beautiful can show itself as it was originallymade, morally as well as formally perfect. How we all wish thesensual, indecent, and brutal, away from Hogarth, so that we mightshow him to the purest virgin without fear or blushing. 

_Sophon. _ And as well from Shakspere. Rotten members, though small inthemselves, are yet large enough to taint the whole body. And thoseimpurities, like rank growths of vine, may be lopped away withoutinjuring any vital principle. In perfect art the utmost purity ofintention, design, and execution, alone is wisdom. Every tree--everyflower, in defiance of adverse contingencies, grows with perfect willto be perfect: and, shall man, who hath what they have not, a soulwherewith he may defy all ill, do less?

_Kosmon. _ But how may this purity be attained? I see every whereclose round the pricks; not a single step may be taken in advancewithout wounding something vital. Corruption strews thick both earthand ocean; it is only the heavens that are pure, and man cannot liveupon manna alone. 

_Christian. _ Kosmon, you would seem to mistake what Sophon and Imean. Neither he nor I wish nature to be used less, or otherwise thanas it appears; on the contrary, we wish it used more--more directly. Nature itself is comparatively pure; all that we desire is theremoval of the factitious matter that the vice of fashion, evilhearts, and infamous desires, graft upon it. It is not simpleinnocent nature that we would exile, but the devilish and libidinouscorruptions that sully nature. 

_Kalon. _ But, if your ideas were strictly carried out, there would bebut little of worth left in the world for the artist to use; for, ifI understand you rightly, you object to his making use of anypassion, whether heroic, patriotic, or loving, that is not rigidlyvirtuous. 

_Christian. _ I do. Without he has a didactic aim; like as Hogarthhad. A picture, poem, or statue, unless it speaks some purpose, ismere paint, paper, or stone. A work of art must have a purpose, or itis not a work of _fine_ art: thus, then, if it be a work of fine art, it has a purpose; and, having purpose, it has either a good or anevil one: there is no alternative. An artist's works are hischildren, his immortal heirs, to his evil as well as to his good; ashe hath trained them, so will they teach. Let him ask himself whydoes a parent so tenderly rear his children. Is it not because heknows that evil is evil, whether it take the shape of angels ordevils? And is not the parent's example worthy of the artist'simitation? What advantage has a man over a child? Is there anypreservative peculiar to manhood that it alone may see and touch sin, and yet be not defiled? Verily, there is none! All mere battles, assassinations, immolations, horrible deaths, and terrible situationsused by the artist solely to excite, --every passion degrading toman's perfect nature, --should certainly be rejected, and thatunhesitatingly. 

_Sophon. _--Suffer me to extend the just conclusions of Christian. Art--true art--fine art--cannot be either coarse or low. Innocent-like, no taint will cling to it, and a smock frock is aspure as "virginal-chaste robes. " And, --sensualism, indecency, andbrutality, excepted--sin is not sin, if not in the act; and, insatire, with the same exceptions, even sin in the act is toleratedwhen used to point forcibly a moral crime, or to warn society of acrying shame which it can remedy. 

_Kalon. _ But, my dear Sophon, --and you, Christian, --you do notcondemn the oak because of its apples; and, like them, the sin in thepoem, picture, or statue, may be a wormy accretion grafted fromwithout. The spectator often makes sin where the artist intendednone. For instance, in the nude, --where perhaps, the poet, painter, or sculptor, imagines he has embodied only the purest and chastestideas and forms, the sensualist sees--what he wills to see; and, serpent-like, previous to devouring his prey, he covers it with hissaliva. 

_Christian. _ The Circean poison, whether drunk from the clearestcrystal or the coarsest clay, alike intoxicates and makes beasts ofmen. Be assured that every nude figure or nudity introduced in apoem, picture, or piece of sculpture, merely on physical grounds, andonly for effect, is vicious. And, where it is boldly introduced andforms the central idea, it ought never to have a sense of itscondition: it is not nudity that is sinful, but the figure'sknowledge of its nudity, (too surely communicated by it to thespectator, ) that makes it so. Eve and Adam before their fall were notmore utterly shameless than the artist ought to make his inventions. The Turk believes that, at the judgment-day, every artist will becompelled to furnish, from his own soul, soul for every one of hiscreations. This thought is a noble one, and should thoroughly awakepoet, painter, and sculptor, to the awful responsibilities theylabour under. With regard to the sensualist, --who is omnivorous, andswine-like, assimilates indifferently pure and impure, degradingeverything he hears or sees, --little can be said beyond this; thatfor him, if the artist _be_ without sin, he is not answerable. But inthis responsibility he has two rigid yet just judges, God andhimself;--let him answer there before that tribunal. God will acquitor condemn him only as he can acquit or condemn himself. 

_Kalon. _ But, under any circumstance, beautiful nude fleshbeautifully painted must kindle sensuality; and, described asbeautifully in poetry, it will do the like, almost, if not quite, asreadily. Sculpture is the only form of art in which it can be usedthoroughly pure, chaste, unsullied, and unsullying. I feel, Christian, that you mean this. And see what you do!--What a vastdomain of art you set a Solomon's seal upon! how numberless are thepoems, pictures, and statues--the most beautiful productions of theirauthors--you put in limbo! To me, I confess, it appears the very topof prudery to condemn these lovely creations, merely because theyquicken some men's pulses. 

_Kosmon. _ And, to me, it appears hypercriticism to object topictures, poems, and statues, calling them not works of art--or fineart--because they have no higher purpose than eye or ear-delight. Ifthis law be held to be good, very few pictures called of the Englishschool--of the English school, did I say?--very few pictures at all, of any school, are safe from condemnation: almost all the Dutch mustsuffer judgment, and a very large proportion of modern sculpture, poetry, and music, will not pass. Even "Christabel" and the "Eve ofSt. Agnes" could not stand the ordeal. 

_Christian. _ Oh, Kalon, you hardly need an answer! What! shall theartist spend weeks and months, nay, sometimes years, in thought andstudy, contriving and perfecting some beautiful invention, --in orderonly that men's pulses may be quickened? What!--can he, jesuit-like, dwell in the house of soul, only to discover where to sap herfoundations?--Satan-like, does he turn his angel of light into afiend of darkness, and use his God-delegated might against its giver, making Astartes and Molochs to draw other thousands of innocent livesinto the embrace of sin? And as for you, Kosmon, I regard purpose asI regard soul; one is not more the light of the thought than theother is the light of the body; and both, soul and purpose, arenecessary for a complete intellect; and intellect, of theintellectual--of which the fine arts are the capital members--is notmore to be expected than demanded. I believe that most of thepictures you mean are mere natural history paintings from the animalside of man. The Dutchmen may, certainly, go Letheward; but for theircolour, and subtleties of execution, they would not be tolerated byany man of taste. 

_Sophon. _ Christian here, I think, is too stringent. Though walls benecessary round our flower gardens to keep out swine and other vilecattle--yet I can see no reason why, with excluding beasts, we shouldalso exclude light and air. Purpose is purpose or not, according tothe individual capacity to assimilate it. Different plants requiredifferent soils, and they will rather die than grow on unfriendlyones; it is the same with animals; they endure existence only throughtheir natural food; and this variety of soils, plants, andvegetables, is the world less man. But man, as well as the othercreated forms, is subject to the same law: he takes only that alimenthe can digest. It is sufficient with some men that their sensoria bedelighted with pleasurable and animated grouping, colour, light, andshade: this feeling or desire of their's is, in itself, thoroughlyinnocent: it is true, it is not a great burden for them to carry; no, but it is the lightness of the burden that is the merit; for thereby, their step is quickened and not clogged, their intellect isexhilarated and not oppressed. Thus, then, a purpose _is_ secured, from a picture or poem or statue, which may not have in it thesmallest particle of what Christian and I think necessary for it topossess; he reckons a poem, picture, or statue, to be a work of fineart by the quality and quantity of thought it contains, by the mentalleverage it possesses wherewith to move his mind, by the honey whichhe may hive, and by the heavenly manna he may gather therefrom. 

_Kosmon. _ Christian wants art like Magdalen Hospitals, where thewindows are so contrived that all of earth is excluded, and onlyheaven is seen. Wisdom is not only shown in the soul, but also in thebody: the bones, nerves, and muscles, are quite as wonderful in ideaas is the incorporeal essence which rules them. And the animal partof man wants as much caring for as the spiritual: God made both, andis equally praised through each. And men's souls are as muchtouchable and teachable through their animal feelings as ever theyare through their mental aspirations; this both Orpheus and Amphionknew when they, with their music, made towns to rise in savage woodsby savage hands. And hence, in that light, nothing is without apurpose; and I maintain, --if they give but the least glimpse ofhappiness to a single human being, --that even the Dutch masters areuseful, I believe that the thought-wrapped philosopher, who, in hisclose-pent study, designs some valuable blessing for his lower andmore animal brethren, only pursues the craving of his nature; andthat his happiness is no higher than their's in their severaloccupations and delights. Sight and sense are fully as powerful forhappiness as thought and ratiocination. Nature grows flowers wherevershe can; she causes sweet waters to ripple over stony beds, andliving wells to spring up in deserts, so that grass and herbs maygrow and afford nourishment to _some_ of God's creatures. Even thegranite and the lava must put forth blossoms. 

_Kalon. _ Oh Christian, children cannot digest strong meats! Neithercan a blind man be made to see by placing him opposite the sun. Thesound of the violin is as innocent as that of the organ. And, thoughthere be a wide difference in the sacredness of the occupations, yetdance, song, and the other amusements common to society, are quite asnecessary to a healthy condition of the mind and body, as is to thesoul the pursuit and daily practice of religion. The healthycondition of the mind and body is, after all, the happy life; andwhether that life be most mental or most animal it matters little, even before God, so long as its delights, amusements, andoccupations, be thoroughly innocent and chaste. 

_Christian. _ So long as the pursuits, pastimes, and pleasures ofmankind be innocent and chaste, --with you all, heartily, I believe itmatters little how or in what form they be enjoyed. Pure water iscertainly equally pure, whether it trickle from the hill-side or flowthrough crystal conduits; and equally refreshing whether drunk fromthe iron bowl or the golden goblet;--only the crystal and gold willbetter please some natures than the hill-side and the iron. I knowalso that a star may give more light than the moon, --but that is upin its own heavens and not here on earth. I know that it is not lightand shade which make a complete globe, but, as well, the local andneutral tints. Thus, my friends, you perceive that I am neither forbuilding a wall, nor for contriving windows so as to exclude light, air, and earth. As much as any of you, I am for every man's sittingunder his own vine, and for his training, pruning, and eating itsfruit how he pleases. Let the artist paint, write, or carve, what andhow he wills, teach the world through sense or through thought, --Iwill not dissent; I have no patent to entitle me to do so; nay, Iwill be thoroughly satisfied with whatsoever he does, so long as itis pure, unsensual, and earnestly true. But, as the mental is thepeculiar feature that places man apart from and above animals, --soought all that he does to be apart from and above their nature;especially in the fine arts, which are the intellectual perfection ofthe intellectual. And nothing short of this intellectualperfection, --however much they may be pictures, poems, statues, ormusic, --can rank such works to be works of Fine Art. They may havemerit, --nay, be useful, and hence, in some sort, have a purpose: butthey are as much works of Fine Art as Babel was the Temple ofSolomon. 

_Sophon. _ And man can be made to understand these truths--can bedrawn to crave for and love the fine arts: it is only to take him inhand as we would take some animal--tenderly using it--entreating it, as it were, to do its best--to put forth all its powers with all itscapable force and beauty. Nor is it so very difficult a task toraise, in the low, conceptions of things high: the mass of men have afine appreciation of God and his goodness: and as active, charitable, and sympathetic a nurture in the beautiful and true as they havegiven to them in religion, would as surely and swiftly raise in theman equally high appreciation of the fine arts. But, if the artistwould essay such a labour, he must show them what fine art is: and, in order to do this effectually, as an architect clears away fromsome sacred edifice which he restores the shambles and shops, which, like filthy toads cowering on a precious monument, have squattedthemselves round its noble proportions; so must he remove from hisart-edifice the deformities which hide--the corruptions which shameit. 

_Christian. _ How truly Sophon speaks a retrospective look will show. The disfigurements which both he and I deplore are strictly what hecompared them to; they are shambles and shops grafted on a sacrededifice. Still, indigenous art is sacred and devoted to religiouspurposes: this keeps it pure for a time; but, like a streamtravelling and gathering other streams as it goes through widestretches of country to the sea, it receives greater and morenumerous impurities the farther it gets from its source, until, atlast, what was, in its rise, a gentle rilling through snows and overwhitest stones, roars into the ocean a muddy and contentious river. Men soon long to touch and taste all that they see; savage-like, himwhom to-day they deem a god and worship, they on the morrow get anappetite for and kill, to eat and barter. And thus art is degraded, made a thing of carnal desire--a commodity of the exchange. Yes, Sophon, to be instructive, to become a teaching instrument, theart-edifice must be cleansed from its abominations; and, with them, must the artist sweep out the improvements and ruthless restorationsthat hang on it like formless botches on peopled tapestry. Themultitude must be brought to stand face to face with the pious andearnest builders, to enjoy the severely simple, beautiful, aspiring, and solemn temple, in all its first purity, the same as theybequeathed it to them as their posterity. 

_Kalon. _ The peasant, upon acquaintance, quickly prefers wheatenbread to the black and sour mass that formerly served him: and whentrue jewels are placed before him, counterfeit ones in his eyes soonlose their lustre, and become things which he scorns. The multitudeare teachable--teachable as a child; but, like a child, they areself-willed and obstinate, and will learn in their own way, or not atall. And, if the artist wishes to raise them unto a fit audience, hemust consult their very waywardness, or his work will be a Penelope'sweb of done and undone: he must be to them not only cords of supportstaying their every weakness against sin and temptation, but also, tendrils of delight winding around them. But I cannot understand whyregeneration can flow to them through sacred art alone. All pure artis sacred art. And the artist having soul as well as nature--thelodestar as well as the lodestone--to steer his path by--and seeingthat he must circle earth--it matters little from what quarter hefirst points his course; all that is necessary is that he go asdirect as possible, his knowledge keeping him from quicksands andsunken rocks. 

_Christian. _ Yes, Kalon;--and, to compare things humble--thoughconceived in the same spirit of love--with things mighty, the artist, if he desires to inform the people thoroughly, must imitate Christ, and, like him, stoop down to earth and become flesh of their flesh;and his work should be wrought out with all his soul and strength inthe same world-broad charity, and truth, and virtue, and be, forhimself as well as for them, a justification for his teaching. Butall art, simply because it is pure and perfect, cannot, for thosegrounds alone, be called sacred: Christian, it may, and that justly;for only since Christ taught have morals been considered a religion. Christian and sacred art bear that relation to each other that thecircle bears to its generating point; the first is only volume, thelast is power: and though the first--as the world includesGod--includes with it the last, still, the last is the greatest, forit makes that which includes it: thus all pure art is Christian, butnot all is sacred. Christian art comprises the earth and itshumanities, and, by implication, God and Christ also; and sacred artis the emanating idea--the central causating power--the jasperthrone, whereon sits Christ, surrounded by the prophets, apostles, and saints, administering judgement, wisdom, and holiness. In thissense, then, the art you would call sacred is not sacred, butChristian: and, as _all perfect art is Christian_, regenerationnecessarily can only flow thence; and thus it is, as you say, that, from whatever quarter the artist steers his course, he steers aright. 

_Kosmon. _ And, Christian, is a return to this sacred or Christian artby you deemed possible? I question it. How can you get the art of oneage to reflect that of another, when the image to be reflected iswithout the angle of reflection? The sun cannot be seen of us when itis night! and that class of art has got its golden age tooremote--its night too long set--for it to hope ever to grasp ruleagain, or again to see its day break upon it. You have likened art toa river rising pure, and rolling a turbid volume into the ocean. Ihave a comparison equally just. The career of one artist contains initself the whole of art-history; its every phase is presented by himin the course of his life. Savage art is beheld in his childishscratchings and barbarous glimmerings; Indian, Egyptian, and Assyrianart in his boyish rigidity and crude fixedness of idea and purpose;Mediaeval, or pre-Raffaelle art is seen in his youthful timiddarings, his unripe fancies oscillating between earth and heaven;there where we expect truth, we see conceit; there where we wantlittle, much is given--now a blank eyed riddle, --dark with excess ofself, --now a giant thought--vast but repulsive, --and now angelvisitors startling us with wisdom and touches of heavenly beauty. Every where is seen exactness; but it is the exactness of hesitation, and not of knowledge--the line of doubt, and not of power: all thepromises for ripeness are there; but, as yet, all are immature. Andmature art is presented when all these rude scaffoldings are throwndown--when the man steps out of the chrysalis a complete idea--bothPsyche and Eros--free-thoughted, free-tongued, and free-handed;--abeing whose soul moves through the heavens and the earth--nowchoiring it with angels--and now enthroning it, bay-crowned, amongthe men-kings;--whose hand passes over all earth, spreading forth itsbeauties unerring as the seasons--stretches through cloudland, revealing its delectable glories, or, eagle-like, soars right upagainst the sun;--or seaward goes seizing the cresting foam as itleaps--the ships and their crews as they wallow in the wateryvalleys, or climb their steeps, or hang over their flyingridges:--daring and doing all whatsoever it shall dare to do, withboundless fruitfulness of idea, and power, and line; that is matureart--art of the time of Phidias, of Raffaelle, and of Shakspere. And, Christian, in preferring the art of the period previous to Raffaelleto the art of his time, you set up the worse for the better, elevateyouth above manhood, and tell us that the half-formed and unripeberry is wholesomer than the perfect and ripened fruit. 

_Christian. _ Kosmon, your thoughts seduce you; or rather, your natureprefers the full and rich to the exact and simple: you do not go deepenough--do not penetrate beneath the image's gilt overlay, and seethat it covers only worm-devoured wood. Your very comparison tellsagainst you. What you call ripeness, others, with as much truth, maycall over-ripeness, nay, even rottenness; when all the juices aredrunk with their lusciousness, sick with over-sweetness. And the artwhich you call youthful and immature--may be, most likely is, matureand wholesome in the same degree that it is tasteful, a perfect roundof beautiful, pure, and good. You call youth immature; but in whatdoes it come short of manhood. Has it not all that man canhave, --free, happy, noble, and spiritual thoughts? And are not thosethoughts newer, purer, and more unselfish in the youth than in theman? What eye has the man, that the youth's is not as comprehensive, keen, rapid, and penetrating? or what hand, that the youth's is notas swift, forceful, cunning, and true? And what does the youth gainin becoming man? Is it freshness, or deepness, or power, or wisdom?nay rather--is it not languor--the languor of satiety--ofindifferentism? And thus soul-rusted and earth-charmed, what mate ishe for his former youth? Drunken with the world-lees, what can he dobut pourtray nature drunken as well, and consumed with the same feveror stupor that consumes himself, making up with gilding and filigreewhat he lacks in truth and sincerity? and what comparison shall existhere and between what his youth might or could have done, with a soulinnocent and untroubled as heaven's deep calm of blue, gazing onearth with seraph eyes--looking, but not longing--or, in the spiritrapt away before the emerald-like rainbow-crowned throne, witnessing"things that shall be hereafter, " and drawing them down almost asstainless as he beheld them? What an array of deep, earnest, andnoble thinkers, like angels armed with a brightness that withers, stand between Giotto and Raffaelle; to mention only Orcagna, Ghiberti, Masaccio, Lippi, Fra Beato Angelico, and Francia. Parallel_them_ with post-Raffaelle artists? If you think you can, you havedared a labour of which the fruit shall be to you as Dead Sea apples, golden and sweet to the eye, but, in the mouth, ashes and bitterness. And the Phidian era was a youthful one--the highest and purest periodof Hellenic art: after that time they added no more gods or heroes, but took for models instead--the Alcibiadeses and Phyrnes, and madeBacchuses and Aphrodites; not as Phidias would have--clothed with thegreatness of thought, or girded with valour, or veiled with modesty;but dissolved with the voluptuousness of the bath, naked, wanton, andshameless. 

_Sophon. _ You hear, Kosmon, that Christian prefers ripe youth to ripemanhood: and he is right. Early summer is nobler than early autumn;the head is wiser than the hand. You take the hand to mean too much:you should not judge by quantity, or luxuriance, or dexterity, but byquality, chastity, and fidelity. And colour and tone are only a fairsetting to thought and virtue. Perhaps it is the fate, or rather theduty, of mortals to make a sacrifice for all things, withheld as wellas given. Hand sometimes succumbs to head, and head in its turnsuccumbs to hand; the first is the lot of youth, the last of manhood. The question is--which of the two we can best afford to do without. Narrowed down to this, I think but very few men would be found whowould not sacrifice in the loss of hand in preference to its gain atthe loss of head. 

_Kosmon. _ But, Christian, in advocating a return to thispre-Raffaelle art, are you not--you yourself--urging the committalof "ruthless restorations" and "improvements, " new and vile as anythat you have denounced? You tell the artist, that he should restorethe sacred edifice to its first purity--the same as it was bequeathedby its pious and earnest builders. But can he do this and be himselforiginal? For myself, I would above all things urge him to study howto _reproduce_, and not how to represent--to imitate no pastperfection, but to create for himself another, as beautiful, wise, and true. I would say to him, "build not on old ground, profaned, polluted, trod into slough by filthy animals; but break newground--virgin ground--ground that thought has never imagined or eyeseen, and dig into our hearts a foundation, deep and broad as ourhumanity. Let it not be a temple formed of hands only, but built upof _us_--us of the present--body of our body, soul of our soul. "

_Christian. _ When men wish to raise a piece of stone, or to move italong, they seek for a fulcrum to use their lever from; and, thisobtained, they can place the stone wheresoever they please. Andworld-perfections come into existence too slowly for men to rejectall the teaching and experience of their predecessors: the labour oflearning is trifling compared to the labour of finding out; the firstimplies only days, the last, hundreds of years. The discovery of thenew world without the compass would have been sheer chance; but withit, it became an absolute certainty. So, and in such manner, themodern artist seeks to use early mediaeval art, as a fulcrum to raisethrough, but only as a fulcrum; for he himself holds the lever, whereby he shall both guide and fix the stones of his art temple; asexperience, which shall be to him a rudder directing the motion ofhis ship, but in subordination to his control; and as a compass, which shall regulate his journey, but which, so far from taking awayhis liberty, shall even add to it, because through it his course isset so fast in the ways of truth as to allow him, undividedly, togive up his whole soul to the purpose of his voyage, and to steer awider and freer path over the trackless, but to him, with his rudderand compass, no longer the trackless or waste ocean; for, God and hisendeavours prospering him, that shall yield up unto his handsdiscoveries as man-worthy as any hitherto beheld by men, or conceivedby poets. 

_Kalon. _ But, Christian, another artist with equal justness might useHellenic art as a means toward making happy discoveries; formatively, there is nothing in it that is not both beautiful and perfect; andbeautiful things, rainbow-like, are once and for ever beautiful; andthe contemplation and study of its dignified, graceful, and truthfulembodiments--which, by common consent, it only is allowed to possessin an eminent and universal degree--is full as likely to awaken inthe mind of its student as high revelations of wisdom, and cause himto bear to earth as many perfections for man, as ever the study ofpre-Raffaelle art can reveal or give, through its votary. 

_Christian. _ But beautiful things, to be beautiful in the highestdegree, like the rainbow, must have a spiritual as well as a physicalvoice. Lovely as it is, it is not the arch of colours that glows inthe heavens of our hearts; what does, is the inner and invisiblesense for which it was set up of old by God, and of which itsmany-hued form is only the outward and visible sign. Thus, beautifulthings alone, of themselves, are not sufficient for this task; to besufficient they must be as vital with soul as they are with shape. Tobe formatively perfect is not enough; they must also be spirituallyperfect, and this not _locally_ but universally. The art of theGreeks was a local art; and hence, now, it has no spiritual. Theirgods speak to us no longer as gods, or teach us divinely: they havebecome mere images of stone--profane embodiments. False to ourspiritual, Hellenic art wants every thing that Christian art is fullof. Sacred and universal, this clasps us, as Abraham's bosom didLazarus, within its infinite embraces, causing every fibre of ourbeing to quicken under its heavenly truths. Ithuriel's golden spearwas not more antagonistic to Satan's loathly transformation--than isChristian opposed to pagan art. The wide, the awful gulf, separatingone from the other, will be felt instantly in its true force by firstthinking ZEUS, and then thinking CHRIST. How pale, shadowy, andshapeless the vision of lust, revenge, and impotence, that rises atthe thought of Zeus; but at the thought of Christ, how overwhelmingthe inrush of sublime and touching realities; what height and depthof love and power; what humility, and beauty, and immaculate purityare made ours at the mention of his name; the Saviour, theIntercessor, the Judge, the Resurrection and the Life. These--theseare the divinely awful truths taught by our faith; and which shouldalso be taught by our art. Hellenic art, like the fig tree that onlybore leaves, withered at Christ's coming; and thus no "happydiscoveries" can flow thence, or "revelations of wisdom, " or otherperfections be borne to earth for man. 

_Sophon. _ Christian thinks and says, that if the spiritual be not_in_ a thing, it cannot be put upon it; and hence, if a work of artbe not a god, it must be a man, or a mere image of one; and that thefaith of the Pagan is the foolishness of the Christian. Nor does heutter unreason; for, notwithstanding their perfect forms, their godsare not gods to us, but only perfect forms: Apollo, Theseus, theIlissus, Aphrodite, Artemis, Psyche, and Eros, are only shapefulmanhood, womanhood, virginhood, and youth, and move us only by theexact amount of humanity they possess in common with ourselves. _Homer and aeschylus, and Sophocles, and Phidias, live not by thesacred in them, but by the human:_ and, but for this common bond, Hellenic art would have been submerged in the same Lethe that hasdrowned the Indian, Egyptian, and Assyrian Theogonies and arts. And, if we except form, what other thing does Hellenic art offer to themodern artist, that is not thoroughly opposed to his faith, wants, and practice? And thought--thought in accordance with all the linesof his knowledge, temperament, and habits--thought through which hemakes and shapes for men, and is understood by them--it is asdestitute of, as inorganic matter of soul and reason. But Christianart, because of the faith upon which it is built, suffers under nosuch drawbacks, for that faith is as personal and vigorous now asever it was at its origin--every motion and principle of our beingmoves to it like a singing harmony;--it is the breath which bringsout of us, aeolian-harp-like, our most penetrating and heavenlymusic--the river of the water of life, which searches all our dryparts and nourishes them, causing them to spring up and bearabundantly the happy seed which shall enrich and make fat the earthto the uttermost parts thereof. 

_Kalon. _ With you both I believe, that faith is necessary to a man, and that without faith sight even is feeble: but I also believe thata man is as much a part of the religious, moral, and social system inwhich he lives, as is a plant of the soil, situation, and climate inwhich it exists: and that external applications have just as muchpower to change the belief of the man, as they have to alter thestructure of the plant. A faith once in a man, it is there always;and, though unfelt even by himself, works actively: and Hellenic art, so far from being an impediment to the Christian belief, is the exactreverse; for, it is the privilege of that belief, through its sublimealchymy, to be able to transmute all it touches into itself: and theperfect forms of Hellenic art, so touched, move our souls only themore energetically upwards, because of their transcendent beauty; forthrough them alone can we see how wonderfully and divinely Godwrought--how majestic, powerful, and vigorous he made man--howlovely, soft, and winning, he made woman: and in beholding thesethings, we are thankful to him that we are permitted to see them--notas Pagans, but altogether as Christians. Whether Christian or Pagan, the highest beauty is still the highest beauty; and the highestbeauty alone, to the total exclusion of gods and their myths, compelsour admiration. 

_Kosmon. _ Another thing we ought to remember, when judging HellenicArt, is, but for its existence, all other kinds--pre-Raffaelle aswell--could not have had being. The Greeks were, by far, moreinclined to worship nature as contained in themselves, than thegods, --if the gods are not reflexes of themselves, which is mostlikely. And, thus impelled, they broke through the monstroussymbolism of Egypt, and made them gods after their own hearts; thatis, fashioned them out of themselves. And herein, I think we maydiscern something of providence; for, suppose their natures had notbeen so powerfully antagonistic to the traditions and conventions oftheir religion, what other people in the world could or would havedone their work? Cast about a brief while in your memories, andendeavor to find whether there has ever existed a people who in theirnature, nationality, and religion, have been so eminently fitted toperform such a task as the Hellenic? You will then feel that we havereason to be thankful that they were allowed to do what else hadnever been done; and, which not done, all posterity would havesuffered to the last throe of time. And, if they have not made athorough perfection--a spiritual as well as a physical one--forgetnot that, at least, they have made this physical representation afinished one. They took it from the Egyptians, rude, clumsy, andseated; its head stony--pinned to its chest; its hands tied to itsside, and its legs joined; they shaped it, beautiful, majestic, anderect; elevated its head; breathed into it animal fire; gave movementand action to its arms and hands; opened its legs and made itwalk--made it human at all points--the radical impersonation ofphysical and sensuous beauty. And, if the god has receded into thepast and become a "pale, shadowy, and shapeless vision of lust, revenge, and impotence, " the human lives on graceful, vigorous, anddeathless, as at first, and excites in us admiration as unbounded asever followed it of old in Greece or Italy. 

_Christian. _ Yes, Kosmon, yes! they are flourished all over with therhetoric of the body; but nowhere is to be seen in them that divinerpoetry, the oratory of the soul! Truly they are a splendid casketenclosing nothing--at least nothing now of importance to us; for whatthey once contained, the world, when stirred with nobler matter, disregarded, and left to perish. But, Kosmon, we cannot discussprobabilities. Our question is--not whether the Greeks only couldhave made such masterpieces of nature and art; but whether theirworks are of that kind the _most fitted_ to carry forward to a moreultimate perfection that idea which is peculiarly our's. All art, more or less, is a species of symbolism; and the Hellenic, notwithstanding its more universal method of typification, was fullyas symbolic as the Egyptian; and hence its language is not only dead, but forgotten, and is now past recovery: and, if it were not, whatpurpose would be served by its republication? For, for whom does theartist work? The inevitable answer is, "For his nation!" His statue, or picture, poem, or music, must be made up and out of them; they areat once his exemplars, his audience, and his worshippers; and he istheir mirror in which they behold themselves as they are: he breathesthem vitally as an atmosphere, and they breathe him. Zeus, Athene, Heracles, Prometheus, Agamemnon, Orestes, the House of Oedipus, Clytemnestra, Iphigenia, and Antigone, spoke something to theHellenic nations; woke their piety, pity, or horror, --thrilled, soothed, or delighted them; but they have no charm for our ears; forus, they are literally disembodied ghosts, and voiceless asshapeless. But not so are Christ, and the holy Apostles and saints, and the Blessed Virgin; and not so is Hamlet, or Richard the Third, or Macbeth, or Shylock, or the House of Lear, Ophelia, Desdemona, Grisildis, or Una, or Genevieve. No: _they_ all speak and move realand palpable before our eyes, and are felt deep down in the heart'score of every thinking soul among us:--they all grapple to us withholds that only life will loose. Of all this I feel assured, because, a brief while since, we agreed together that man could only be raisedthrough an incarnation of himself. Tacitly, we would also seem tohave limited the uses of Hellenic art to the serving as models ofproportion, or as a gradus for form: and, though I cannot deny themany merit they may have in this respect, still, I would wish to dealcautiously with them: the artist, --most especially the young one, andwho is and would be most subject to them and open to theirinfluence, --should never have his soul asleep when his hand is awake;but, like voice and instrument, one should always accompany the otherharmoniously. 

_Kosmon. _ But surely you will deal no less cautiously with earlymediaeval art. Archaisms are not more tolerable in pictures than theyare in statues, poems, or music; and the archaisms of this kind ofart are so numerous as to be at first sight the most striking featurebelonging to it. Most remarkable among these unnatural peculiaritiesare gilded backgrounds, gilded hair, gilded ornaments and borders todraperies and dresses, the latter's excessive verticalism of linesand tedious involution of folds, and the childlike passivity ofcountenance and expression: all of which are very prominent, andoperate as serious drawbacks to their merits; which--as I have freelyadmitted--are in truth not a few, nor mean. 

_Christian. _ The artist is only a man, and living with other men in astate of being called society; and, --though perhaps in a lesserdegree--he is as subject to its influences--its fashions andcustoms--as they are. But in this respect his failings may be likenedto the dross which the purest metal in its molten state continuallythrows up to its surface, but which is mere excrement, and so littleessential that it can be skimmed away: and, as the dross to themetal, just so little essential are the archaisms you speak of to theearly art, and just so easily can they be cast aside. But bethinkyou, Kosmon. Is Hellenic art without archaisms? And that feature ofit held to be its crowning perfection--its head--is not that a verymarked one? And, is it not so completely opposed to the artist'sexperience in the forms of nature that--except in subjects from Greekhistory and mythology--he dares not use it--at least withoutmodifying it so as to destroy its Hellenism?

_Sophon. _ Then Hellenic Art is like a musical bell with a flaw in it;before it can be serviceable it must be broken up and recast. If itssum of beauty--its line of lines, the facial angle, must bedestroyed--as it undoubtedly must, --before it can be used for thegeneral purposes of art, then its claims over early mediaeval art, inrespect of form, are small indeed. But is it not altogether a greatarchaism?

_Kalon. _ Oh, Sophon! weighty as are the reasons urged againstHellenic art by Christian and yourself, they are not weighty enoughto outbalance its beauty, at least to me: at present they may haveset its sun in gloom; yet I know that that obscuration, like a darkforeground to a bright distance, will make its rising again only themore surpassingly glorious. I admire its exquisite creations, becausethey are beautiful, and noble, and perfect, and they elevate mebecause I think them so; and their silent capabilities, like thestardust of heaven before the intellectual insight, resolvethemselves into new worlds of thoughts and things so ever as Icontemplate their perfections: like a prolonged music, full of sweetyet melancholy cadences, they have sunk into my heart--my brain--mysoul--never, never to cease while life shall hold with me. But, forall that, my hands are not full; and, whithersoever the happy seedshall require me, I am not for withholding plough or spade, plantingor watering; and that which I am called in the spirit to do--will Ido manfully and with my whole strength. 

_Sophon. _ Kalon, the conclusion of your speech is better than thecommencement. It is better to sacrifice myrrh and frankincense thanvirtue and wisdom, thoughts than deeds. Would that all men were asready as yourself to dispark their little selfish enclosures, andburn out all their hedges of prickly briers and brambles--turning theevil into the good--the seed-catching into the seed-nourishing. Ofthe too consumptions let us prefer the active, benevolent, andpurifying one of fire, to the passive, self-eating, and corruptingone of rust: one half minute's clear shining may touch some watchingand waiting soul, and through him kindle whole ages of light. 

_Christian. _ Men do not stumble over what they know; and the dayfades so imperceptibly into night that were it not for experience, darkness would surprise us long before we believed the day done: and, in relation to art, its revolutions are still more imperceptible intheir gradations; and, in fulfilling themselves, they spread oversuch an extent of time, that in their knowledge the experience of oneartist is next to nothing; and its twilight is so lengthy, that thosewho never saw other, believe its gloom to be day; nor are theirsuccessors more aware that the deepening darkness is the contrary, until night drops big like a great clap of thunder, and awakes themstaringly to a pitiable sense of their condition. But, if we cannothave this experience through ourselves, we can through others; andthat will show us that Pagan art has once--nay twice--already broughtover Christian art a "darkness which might be felt;" from a littlehandful cloud out of the studio of Squarcione, it gathered densityand volume through his scholar Mantegna--made itself a nucleus in theAcademy of the Medici, and thence it issued in such a flood of"heathenesse" that Italy finally became covered with one vast deepand thick night of Pagandom. But in every deep there is a lower deep;and, through the same gods-worship, a night intenser still fell uponart when the pantomime of David made its appearance. With these twofearful lessons before his eyes, the modern artist can have no otherthan a settled conviction that Pagan art, Devil-like, glozes but toseduce--tempts but to betray; and hence, he chooses to avoid thatwhich he believes to be bad, and to follow that which he holds to begood, and blots out from his eye and memory all art between thepresent and its first taint of heathenism, and ascends to the artprevious to Raffaelle; and he ascends thither, not so much for itsforms as he does for its THOUGHT and NATURE--the root and trunk ofthe art-tree, of whose numerous branches form is only one--though themost important one: and he goes to pre-Raffaelle art for those twothings, because the stream at that point is clearer and deeper, andless polluted with animal impurities, than at any other in itscourse. And, Kalon and Kosmon, had you remembered this, and at thesame time recollected that the words, "Nature" and "Thought" expressvery peculiar ideas to modern eyes and ears--ideas which are totallyunknown to Hellenic Art--you would have instantly felt, that theartist cannot study from it things chiefest in importance to him--ofwhich it is destitute, even as is a shore-driven boulder of life andverdure. 

On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May

 The sun looked over the highest hills, And down in the vales looked he; And sprang up blithe all things of life, And put forth their energy; The flowers creeped out their tender cups, And offered their dewy fee; And rivers and rills they shimmered along Their winding ways to the sea; And the little birds their morning song Trilled forth from every tree, On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May. 

 Lord Thomas he rose and donned his clothes; For he was a sleepless man: And ever he tried to change his thoughts, Yet ever they one way ran. He to catch the breeze through the apple trees, By the orchard path did stray, Till he was aware of a lady there Came walking adown that way: Out gushed the song the trees among Then soared and sank away, On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May. 

 With eyes down-cast care-slow she came, Heedless of shine or shade, Or the dewy grass that wetted her feet, And heavy her dress all made: Oh trembled the song the trees among, And all at once was stayed, On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May. 

 Lord Thomas he was a truth-fast knight, And a calm-eyed man was he. He pledged his troth to his mother's maid A damsel of low degree: He spoke her fair, he spoke her true And well to him listened she. He gave her a kiss, she gave him twain All beneath an apple tree: The little birds trilled, the little birds filled The air with their melody, On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May. 

 A goodly sight it was, I ween, This loving couple to see, For he was a tall and a stately man, And a queenly shape had she. With arms each laced round other's waist, Through the orchard paths they tread With gliding pace, face mixed with face, Yet never a word they said: Oh! soared the song the birds among, And seemed with a rapture sped, On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May. 

 The dew-wet grass all through they pass, The orchard they compass round; Save words like sighs and swimming eyes No utterance they found. Upon his chest she leaned her breast, And nestled her small, small head, And cast a look so sad, that shook Him all with the meaning said: Oh hushed was the song the trees among, As over there sailed a gled, On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May. 

 Then forth with a faltering voice there came, "Ah would Lord Thomas for thee That I were come of a lineage high, And not of a low degree. " Lord Thomas her lips with his fingers touched, And stilled her all with his ee': "Dear Ella! Dear Ella!" he said, "Beyond all my ancestry Is this dower of thine--that precious thing, Dear Ella, thy purity. Thee will I wed--lift up thy head-- All I have I give to thee-- Yes--all that is mine is also thine-- My lands and my ancestry. " The little birds sang and the orchard rang With a heavenly melody, On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May. 

Modern Giants

Yes! there are Giants on the earth in these days; but it is theirgreat bulk, and the nearness of our view, which prevents us fromperceiving their grandeur. This is how it is that the glory of thepresent is lost upon the contemporaries of the greatest men; and, perhaps this was Swift's meaning, when he said that Gulliver couldnot discover exactly what it was that strode among the corn-ridges inthe Brobdignagian field: thus, we lose the brightness of things ofour own time in consequence of their proximity. 

It is of the development of our individual perceptions, and theapplication thereof to a good use, that the writer humbly endeavoursto treat. We will for this purpose take as an example, that which maybe held to indicate the civilization of a period more than any thingelse; namely, the popular perception of the essentials of Poetry; andendeavour to show that while the beauties of old writers areacknowledged, (tho' not in proportion to the attention of eachindividual in his works to nature alone) the modern school iscontemned and unconsidered; and also that much of the active poetryof modern life is neglected by the majority of the writersthemselves. 

There seems to be an opinion gaining ground fast, in spite of all theshaking of conventional heads, that the Poets of the present day areequal to all others, excepting one: however this may be, it iscertain we are not fair judges, because of the natural reason statedbefore; and there is decidedly one great fault in the moderns, thatnot only do they study models with which they can never becomeintimately acquainted, but that they neglect, or rather reject asworthless, that which they alone can carry on with perfect success: Imean the knowledge of themselves, and the characteristics of theirown actual living. Thus, if a modern Poet or Artist (the latter muchmore culpably errs) seeks a subject exemplifying charity, he ramblesinto ancient Greece or Rome, awakening not one half the sympathy inthe spectator, as do such incidents as may be seen in the streetsevery day. For instance; walking with a friend the other day, we metan old woman, exceedingly dirty, restlessly pattering along the kerbof a crowded thoroughfare, trying to cross: her eyes were alwayswandering here and there, and her mouth was never still; her objectwas evident, but for my own part, I must needs be fastidious andprefer to allow her to take the risk of being run over, to overcomingmy own disgust. Not so my friend; he marched up manfully, and puttinghis arm over the old woman's shoulder, led her across as carefully asthough she were a princess. Of course, I was ashamed: ashamed! I wasfrightened; I expected to see the old woman change into a tall angeland take him off to heaven, leaving me her original shape to repentin. On recovering my thoughts, I was inclined to take up my friendand carry him home in triumph, I felt so strong. Why should not thisthing be as poetical as any in the life of Saint Elizabeth of Hungaryor any one else? for, so we look at it with a pure thought, we shallsee about it the same light the Areopagite saw at Jerusalem surroundthe Holy Virgin, and the same angels attending and guarding it. 

And there is something else we miss; there is the poetry of thethings about us; our railways, factories, mines, roaring cities, steam vessels, and the endless novelties and wonders produced everyday; which if they were found only in the Thousand and One Nights, orin any poem classical or romantic, would be gloried over without end;for as the majority of us know not a bit more about them, but merelytheir names, we keep up the same mystery, the main thing required forthe surprise of the imagination. 

Next to Poetry, Painting and Music have most power over the mind; andhow do you apply this influence? In what direction is it forced? Why, for the last, you sit in your drawing-rooms, and listen to a quantityof tinkling of brazen marches of going to war; but you never seebefore your very eyes, the palpable victory of leading nature by herown power, to a conquest of blessings; and when the music is over, you turn to each other, and enthusiastically whisper, "Howfine!"--You point out to others, (as if they had no eyes) thesentiment of a flowing river with the moon on it, as an emblem of theafter-peace, but you see not this in the long white cloud of steam, the locomotive pours forth under the same moon, rushing on; theperfect type of the same, with the presentment of the strugglebeforehand. The strong engine is never before you, sighing all night, with the white cloud above the chimney-shaft, escaping like thespirits Solomon put his seal upon, in the Arabian Tales; thesemightier spirits are bound in a faster vessel; and then let forth, asof little worth, when their work is done. 

The Earth shakes under you, from the footfall of the Genii man hasmade, and you groan about the noise. Vast roads draw together theEarth, and you say how they spoil the prospect, which you never careda farthing about before. 

You revel in Geology: but in chemistry, the modern science, possessing thousands of powers as great as any used yet, you see noglory:--the only thought is so many Acids and Alkalies. You require ametaphor for treachery, and of course you think of our puny oldfriend the Viper; but the Alkaline, more searching and more unknown, that may destroy you and your race, you have never heard of, --and yetthis possesses more of the very quality required, namely, mystery, than any other that is in your hands. 

The only ancient character you have retained in its proper force isLove; but you seem never to see any light about the results of longlabour of mind, the most intense Love. Devotedness, magnanimity, generosity, you seem to think have left the Earth since the Crusades. In fact, you never go out into Life: living only in the past world, you go on repeating in new combinations the same elements for thesame effect. You have taught an enlightened Public, that the provinceof Poetry is to reproduce the Ancients; not as Keats did, with theliving heart of our own Life; but so as to cause the impression thatyou are not aware that they had wives and families like yourselves, and laboured and rested like us all. 

The greatest, perhaps, of modern poets seeming to take refuge fromthis, has looked into the heart of man, and shown you its pulsations, fears, self-doubts, hates, goodness, devotedness, and nobleworld-love; this is not done under pretty flowers of metaphor in thelispings of a pet parson, or in the strong but uncertain fashion ofthe American school; still less in the dry operose quackery ofprofessed doctors of psychology, mere chaff not studied from nature, and therefore worthless, never felt, and therefore useless; but withthe firm knowing hand of the anatomist, demonstrating and makingclear to others, that the knowledge may be applied to purpose. Allthis difficult task is achieved so that you may read till your ownsoul is before you, and you know it; but the enervated publiccomplains that the work is obscure forsooth: so we are always lookingfor green grass--verdant meads, tall pines, vineyards, etc. , as theessentials of poetry; these are all very pretty and very delicate, the dust blows not in your eyes, but Chaucer has told us all this, and while it was new, far better than any one else; why are we not tohave something besides? Let us see a little of the poetry of man'sown works, --"Visibly in his garden walketh God. "

The great portion of the public take a morbid delight in such worksas Frankenstein, that "Poor, impossible monster abhorred, " who wouldbe disgusting if he were not so extremely ludicrous: and all thissearch after impossible mystery, such trumpery! growing into thepopular taste, is fed with garbage; doing more harm than all thepreachings and poundings of optimistic Reviews will be able to remedyin an hundred years. 

The study of such matters as these does other harm than merelypoisoning the mind in one direction; it renders us sceptical ofvirtue in others, and we lose the power of pure perception. So--reading the glorious tale of Griselda and looking about you, yousay there never was such a woman; your wise men say she was a fool;are there no such fools round about you? pray look close:--so theresult of this is, you see no lesson in such things, or at leastcannot apply it, and therefore the powers of the author are thrownaway. Do you think God made Boccaccio and Chaucer to amuse you inyour idle hours, only that you might sit listening like crownedidiots, and then debate concerning their faithfulness to truth? Younever can imagine but they knew more of nature than any of us, orthat they had less reverence for her. 

In reference to Painting, the Public are taught to look with delightupon murky old masters, with dismally demoniac trees, and dull watersof lead, colourless and like ice; upon rocks that make geologistswonder, their angles are so impossible, their fractures are so new. Thousands are given for uncomfortable Dutch sun-lights; but if youare shown a transcript of day itself, with the purple shadow upon themountains, and across the still lake, you know nothing of it becauseyour fathers never bought such: so you look for nothing in it; nay, let me set you in the actual place, let the water damp your feet, stand in the chill of the shadow itself, and you will never tell methe colour on the hill, or where the last of the crows caught thesinking sunlight. Letting observation sleep, what can you know ofnature? and you _are_ a judge of landscape indeed. So it is that theworld is taught to think of nature, as seen through other men's eyes, without any reference to its own original powers of perception, andmuch natural beauty is lost. 

To the Castle Ramparts

 The Castle is erect on the hill's top, To moulder there all day and night: it stands With the long shadow lying at its foot. That is a weary height which you must climb Before you reach it; and a dizziness Turns in your eyes when you look down from it, So standing clearly up into the sky. 

 I rose one day, having a mind to see it. 'Twas on a clear Spring morning, and a blackbird Awoke me with his warbling near my window: My dream had fashioned this into a song That some one with grey eyes was singing me, And which had drawn me so into myself That all the other shapes of sleep were gone: And then, at last, it woke me, as I said. The sun shone fully in on me; and brisk Cool airs, that had been cold but for his warmth, Blow thro' the open casement, and sweet smells Of flowers with the dew yet fresh upon them, -- Rose-buds, and showery lilacs, and what stayed Of April wallflowers. 

 I set early forth, Wishing to reach the Castle when the heat Should weigh upon it, vertical at noon. My path lay thro' green open fields at first, With now and then trees rising statelily Out of the grass; and afterwards came lanes Closed in by hedges smelling of the may, And overshadowed by the meeting trees. So I walked on with none but pleasant thoughts; The Spring was in me, not alone around me, And smiles came rippling o'er my lips for nothing. I reached at length, --issuing from a lane Which wound so that it seemed about to end Always, yet ended not for a long while, -- A space of ground thick grassed and level to The overhanging sky and the strong sun: Before me the brown sultry hill stood out, Peaked by its rooted Castle, like a part Of its own self. I laid me in the grass, Turning from it, and looking on the sky, And listening to the humming in the air That hums when no sound is; because I chose To gaze on that which I had left, not that Which I had yet to see. As one who strives After some knowledge known not till he sought, Whose soul acquaints him that his step by step Has led him to a few steps next the end, Which he foresees already, waits a little Before he passes onward, gathering Together in his thoughts what he has done. 

 Rising after a while, the ascent began. Broken and bare the soil was; and thin grass, Dry and scarce green, was scattered here and there In tufts: and, toiling up, my knees almost Reaching my chin, one hand upon my knee, Or grasping sometimes at the earth, I went, With eyes fixed on the next step to be taken, Not glancing right or left; till, at the end, I stood straight up, and the tower stood straight up Before my face. One tower, and nothing more; For all the rest has gone this way and that, And is not anywhere, saving a few Fragments that lie about, some on the top, Some fallen half down on either side the hill, Uncared for, well nigh grown into the ground. The tower is grey, and brown, and black, with green Patches of mildew and of ivy woven Over the sightless loopholes and the sides: And from the ivy deaf-coiled spiders dangle, Or scurry to catch food; and their fine webs Touch at your face wherever you may pass. The sun's light scorched upon it; and a fry Of insects in one spot quivered for ever, Out and in, in and out, with glancing wings That caught the light, and buzzings here and there; That little life which swarms about large death; No one too many or too few, but each Ordained, and being each in its own place. The ancient door, cut deep into the wall, And cramped with iron rusty now and rotten, Was open half: and, when I strove to move it That I might have free passage inwards, stood Unmoved and creaking with old uselessness: So, pushing it, I entered, while the dust Was shaken down upon me from all sides. The narrow stairs, lighted by scanty streaks That poured in thro' the loopholes pierced high up, Wound with the winding tower, until I gained, Delivered from the closeness and the damp And the dim air, the outer battlements. 

 There opposite, the tower's black turret-girth Suppressed the multiplied steep chasm of fathoms, So that immediately the fields far down Lay to their heaving distance for the eyes, Satisfied with one gaze unconsciously, To pass to glory of heaven, and to know light. Here was no need of thinking:--merely sense Was found sufficient: the wind made me free, Breathed, and returned by me in a hard breath: And what at first seemed silence, being roused By callings of the cuckoo from far off, Resolved itself into a sound of trees That swayed, and into chirps reciprocal On each side, and revolving drone of flies. 

 Then, stepping to the brink, and looking sheer To where the slope ceased in the level stretch Of country, I sat down to lay my head Backwards into a single ivy-bush Complex of leaf. I lay there till the wind Blew to me, from a church seen miles away, Half the hour's chimes. 

 Great clouds were arched abroad Like angels' wings; returning beneath which, I lingered homewards. All their forms had merged And loosened when my walk was ended; and, While yet I saw the sun a perfect disc, There was the moon beginning in the sky. 

Pax Vobis

 'Tis of the Father Hilary. He strove, but could not pray: so took The darkened stair, where his feet shook A sad blind echo. He kept up Slowly. 'Twas a chill sway of air That autumn noon within the stair, Sick, dizzy, like a turning cup. His brain perplexed him, void and thin: He shut his eyes and felt it spin; The obscure deafness hemmed him in. He said: "the air is calm outside. "

 He leaned unto the gallery Where the chime keeps the night and day: It hurt his brain, --he could not pray. He had his face upon the stone: Deep 'twixt the narrow shafts, his eye Passed all the roofs unto the sky Whose greyness the wind swept alone. Close by his feet he saw it shake With wind in pools that the rains make: The ripple set his eyes to ache. He said, "Calm hath its peace outside. "

 He stood within the mystery Girding God's blessed Eucharist: The organ and the chaunt had ceased: A few words paused against his ear, Said from the altar: drawn round him, The silence was at rest and dim. He could not pray. The bell shook clear And ceased. All was great awe, --the breath Of God in man, that warranteth Wholly the inner things of Faith. He said: "There is the world outside. "

 _Ghent: Church of St. Bavon. _

A Modern Idyl

 "Pride clings to age, for few and withered powers, Which fall on youth in pleasures manifold, Like some bright dancer with a crowd of flowers And scented presents more than she can hold:

 "Or as it were a child beneath a tree, Who in his healthy joy holds hand and cap Beneath the shaken boughs, and eagerly Expects the fruit to fall into his lap. "

 So thought I while my cousin sat alone, Moving with many leaves in under tone, And, sheened as snow lit by a pale moonlight, Her childish dress struck clearly on the sight: That, as the lilies growing by her side Casting their silver radiance forth with pride, She seemed to dart an arrowy halo round, Brightening the spring time trees, brightening the ground; And beauty, like keen lustre from a star, Glorified all the garden near and far. The sunlight smote the grey and mossy wall Where, 'mid the leaves, the peaches one and all, Most like twin cherubim entranced above, Leaned their soft cheeks together, pressed in love. 

 As the child sat, the tendrils shook round her; And, blended tenderly in middle air, Gleamed the long orchard through the ivied gate: And slanting sunbeams made the heart elate, Startling it into gladness like the sound, -- Which echo childlike mimicks faintly round Blending it with the lull of some far flood, -- Of one long shout heard in a quiet wood. A gurgling laugh far off the fountain sent, As if the mermaid shape that in it bent Spoke with subdued and faintest melody: And birds sang their whole hearts spontaneously. 

 When from your books released, pass here your hours, Dear child, the sweet companion of these flowers, These poplars, scented shrubs, and blossomed boughs Of fruit-trees, where the noisy sparrows house, Shaking from off the leaves the beaded dew. Now while the air is warm, the heavens blue, Give full abandonment to all your gay Swift childlike impulses in rompish play;-- The while your sisters in shrill laughter shout, Whirling above the leaves and round about, -- Until at length it drops behind the wall, -- With awkward jerks, the particoloured ball: Winning a smile even from the stooping age Of that old matron leaning on her page, Who in the orchard takes a stroll or two, Watching you closely yet unseen by you. 

 Then, tired of gambols, turn into the dark Fir-skirted margins of your father's park; And watch the moving shadows, as you pass, Trace their dim network on the tufted grass, And how on birch-trunks smooth and branches old, The velvet moss bursts out in green and gold, Like the rich lustre full and manifold On breasts of birds that star the curtained gloom From their glass cases in the drawing room. Mark the spring leafage bend its tender spray Gracefully on the sky's aërial grey; And listen how the birds so voluble Sing joyful paeans winding to a swell, And how the wind, fitful and mournful, grieves In gusty whirls among the dry red leaves; And watch the minnows in the water cool, And floating insects wrinkling all the pool. 

 So in your ramblings bend your earnest eyes. High thoughts and feelings will come unto you, -- Gladness will fall upon your heart like dew, -- Because you love the earth and love the skies. 

 Fair pearl, the pride of all our family: Girt with the plenitude of joys so strong, Fashion and custom dull can do no wrong: Nestling your young face thus on Nature's knee. 

"Jesus Wept"

 Mary rose up, as one in sleep might rise, And went to meet her brother's Friend: and they Who tarried with her said: "she goes to pray And weep where her dead brother's body lies. " So, with their wringing of hands and with sighs, They stood before Him in the public way. "Had'st Thou been with him, Lord, upon that day, He had not died, " she said, drooping her eyes. Mary and Martha with bowed faces kept Holding His garments, one on each side. --"Where Have ye laid him?" He asked. "Lord, come and see. " The sound of grieving voices heavily And universally was round Him there, A sound that smote His spirit. Jesus wept. 

Sonnets for Pictures

1. For a Virgin and Child, by Hans Memmelinck; in the Academy ofBruges

 Mystery: God, Man's Life, born into man Of woman. There abideth on her brow The ended pang of knowledge, the which now Is calm assured. Since first her task began, She hath known all. What more of anguish than Endurance oft hath lived through, the whole space Through night till night, passed weak upon her face While like a heavy flood the darkness ran? All hath been told her touching her dear Son, And all shall be accomplished. Where he sits Even now, a babe, he holds the symbol fruit Perfect and chosen. Until God permits, His soul's elect still have the absolute Harsh nether darkness, and make painful moan. 

2. A Marriage of St. Katharine, by the same; in the Hospital of St. John at Bruges. 

 Mystery: Katharine, the bride of Christ. She kneels, and on her hand the holy Child Setteth the ring. Her life is sad and mild, Laid in God's knowledge--ever unenticed From Him, and in the end thus fitly priced. Awe, and the music that is near her, wrought Of Angels, hath possessed her eyes in thought: Her utter joy is her's, and hath sufficed. There is a pause while Mary Virgin turns The leaf, and reads. With eyes on the spread book, That damsel at her knees reads after her. John whom He loved and John His harbinger Listen and watch. Whereon soe'er thou look, The light is starred in gems, and the gold burns. 

3. A Dance of Nymphs, by Andrea Mantegna; in the Louvre. 

(It is necessary to mention, that this picture would appear to havebeen in the artist's mind an allegory, which the modern spectator mayseek vainly to interpret. )

 Scarcely, I think; yet it indeed _may_ be The meaning reached him, when this music rang Sharp through his brain, a distinct rapid pang, And he beheld these rocks and that ridg'd sea. But I believe he just leaned passively, And felt their hair carried across his face As each nymph passed him; nor gave ear to trace How many feet; nor bent assuredly His eyes from the blind fixedness of thought To see the dancers. It is bitter glad Even unto tears. Its meaning filleth it, A portion of most secret life: to wit:-- Each human pulse shall keep the sense it had With all, though the mind's labour run to nought. 

4. A Venetian Pastoral, by Giorgione; in the Louvre. 

(In this picture, two cavaliers and an undraped woman are seated inthe grass, with musical instruments, while another woman dips a vaseinto a well hard by, for water. )

 Water, for anguish of the solstice, --yea, Over the vessel's mouth still widening Listlessly dipt to let the water in With slow vague gurgle. Blue, and deep away, The heat lies silent at the brink of day. Now the hand trails upon the viol-string That sobs; and the brown faces cease to sing, Mournful with complete pleasure. Her eyes stray In distance; through her lips the pipe doth creep And leaves them pouting; the green shadowed grass Is cool against her naked flesh. Let be: Do not now speak unto her lest she weep, -- Nor name this ever. Be it as it was:-- Silence of heat, and solemn poetry. 

5. "Angelica rescued from the Sea-monster, " by Ingres; in theLuxembourg. 

 A remote sky, prolonged to the sea's brim: One rock-point standing buffetted alone, Vexed at its base with a foul beast unknown, Hell-spurge of geomaunt and teraphim: A knight, and a winged creature bearing him, Reared at the rock: a woman fettered there, Leaning into the hollow with loose hair And throat let back and heartsick trail of limb. The sky is harsh, and the sea shrewd and salt. Under his lord, the griffin-horse ramps blind With rigid wings and tail. The spear's lithe stem Thrills in the roaring of those jaws: behind, The evil length of body chafes at fault. She doth not hear nor see--she knows of them. 

6. The same. 

 Clench thine eyes now, --'tis the last instant, girl: Draw in thy senses, set thy knees, and take One breath for all: thy life is keen awake, -- Thou may'st not swoon. Was that the scattered whirl Of its foam drenched thee?--or the waves that curl And split, bleak spray wherein thy temples ache?-- Or was it his the champion's blood to flake Thy flesh?--Or thine own blood's anointing, girl?.... .... Now, silence; for the sea's is such a sound As irks not silence; and except the sea, All is now still. Now the dead thing doth cease To writhe, and drifts. He turns to her: and she Cast from the jaws of Death, remains there, bound, Again a woman in her nakedness. 

Papers of "The M. S. Society"

No. IV. Smoke. 

 I'm the king of the _Cadaverals_, I'm _Spectral_ President; And, all from east to occident, There's not a man whose dermal walls Contain so narrow intervals, So lank a resident. 

 Look at me and you shall see The ghastliest of the ghastly; The eyes that have watched a thousand years, The forehead lined with a thousand cares, The seaweed-character of hairs!-- You shall see and you shall see, Or you may hear, as I can feel, When the winds batter, how these _parchments_ clatter, And the beautiful tenor that's ever ringing When thro' the _Seaweed_ the breeze is singing: And you should know, I know a great deal, When the _bacchi arcanum_ I clutch and gripe, I know a great deal of wind and weather By hearing my own cheeks slap together A-pulling up a pipe. 

 I believe--and I conceive I'm an authority In all things ghastly, First for tenuity For stringiness secondly, And sallowness lastly-- I say I believe a cadaverous man Who would live as _long_ and as _lean_ as he can Should live entirely on bacchi-- On the bacchic ambrosia entirely feed him; When living thus, so little lack I, So easy am I, I'll never heed him Who anything seeketh beyond the _Leaf:_ For, what with mumbling pipe-ends freely, And snuffing the ashes now and then, I give it as my firm belief One might go living on genteelly To the age of an antediluvian. 

 This from the king to each spectral _Grim_-- Mind, we address no _bibbing smoker_! Tell not us 'tis as broad as it's long, We've no breadth more than a leathern thong Tanned--or a tarnished poker: Ye are also lank and slim?-- Your king he comes of an ancient _line_ Which "length without breadth" the Gods define, And look ye follow him! Lanky lieges! the Gods one day Will cut off this _line_, as geometers say, Equal to any given line:-- PI, --PE--their hands divine Do more than we can see: They cut off every length of clay Really in a most extraordinary way-- They fill your bowls up--Dutch C'naster, Shag, York River--fill 'em faster, Fill 'em faster up, I say. What Turkey, Oronoko, Cavendish! There's the fuel to make a chafing dish, A chafing dish to peel the petty Paint that girls and boys call pretty-- Peel it off from lip and cheek: We've none such here; yet, if ye seek An infallible test for a raw beginner, Mundungus will always discover a sinner. 

 Now ye are charged, we give the word Light! and pour it thro' your noses, And let it hover and lodge in your hair Bird-like, bird-like--You're aware Anacreon had a bird-- A bird! and filled _his_ bowl with roses. Ha ha! ye laugh in ghastlywise, And the smoke comes through your eyes, And you're looking very grim, And the air is very dim, And the casual paper flare Taketh still a redder glare. 

 Now thou pretty little fellow, Now thine eyes are turning yellow, Thou shalt be our page to-night! Come and sit thee next to us, And as we may want a light See that thou be dexterous. 

 Now bring forth your tractates musty, Dry, cadaverous, and dusty, One, on the sound of mammoths' bones In motion; one, on Druid-stones: Show designs for pipes most ghastly, And devils and ogres grinning nastily! Show, show the limnings ye brought back, Since round and round the zodiac Ye galloped goblin horses which Were light as smoke and black as pitch; And those ye made in the mouldy moon, And Uranus, Saturn, and Neptune, And in the planet Mercury, Where all things living and dead have an eye Which sometimes opening suddenly Stareth and startleth strangëly

 But now the night is growing better, And every jet of smoke grows _jetter_, While yet there blinks sufficient light, Bring in those skeletons that fright Most men into fits, but that We relish for their want of fat. Bring them in, the Cimabues With all or each that horribly true is, Francias, Giottos, Masaccios, That tread on the tops of their bony toes, And every one with a long sharp arrow Cleverly shot through his spinal marrow, With plenty of gridirons, spikes, and fires And fiddling angels in sheets and quires. 

 Hold! 'tis dark! 'tis lack of light, Or something wrong in this royal sight, Or else our musty, dusty, and right Well-beloved lieges all Are standing in rank against the wall, And ever thin and thinner, and tall And taller grow and _cadaveral!_ Subjects, ye are sharp and spare, Every nose is blue and frosty, And your back-bone's growing bare, And your king can count your _costae_, And your bones are clattering, And your teeth are chattering, And ye spit out bits of pipe, Which, shorter grown, ye faster gripe In jaws; and weave a cloudy cloak That wraps up all except your bones Whose every joint is oozing smoke: And there's a creaky music drones Whenas your lungs distend your ribs, A sound, that's like the grating nibs Of pens on paper late at night; Your shanks are yellow more than white And very like what Holbein drew! Avaunt! ye are a ghastly crew Too like the Campo Santo--down! We are your monarch, but we own That were we not, we very well Might take ye to be imps of hell: But ye are glorious ghastly sprites, What ho! our page! Sir knave--lights, lights, The final pipes are to be lit: Sit, gentlemen, we charge ye sit Until the cock affrays the night And heralds in the limping morn, And makes the owl and raven flit; Until the jolly moon is white, And till the stars and moon are gone. 

No. V. Rain. 

 The chamber is lonely and light; Outside there is nothing but night-- And wind and a creeping rain. And the rain clings to the pane: And heavy and drear's The night; and the tears Of heaven are dropt in pain. 

 And the tears of heaven are dropt in pain; And man pains heaven and shuts the rain Outside, and sleeps: and winds are sighing; And turning worlds sing mass for the dying. 

Reviews

Christmas Eve and Easter Day: by Robert Browning. --Chapman and Hall. 1850. 

There are occasions when the office of the critic becomes almostsimply that of an expositor; when his duty is not to assert, but tointerpret. It is his privilege to have been the first to study asubject, and become familiar with it; what remains is to state facts, and to suggest considerations; not to lay down dogmas. That which hespeaks of is to him itself a dogma; he starts from conviction: his itis to convince others, and, as far as may be, by the same means assatisfied himself; to incite to the same study, doing his poor best, meanwhile, to supply the present want of it. 

Thus much, indeed, is the critic's duty always; but he generallyfeels the right, and has it, of speaking with authority. He condemns, or gives praise; and his judgment, though merely individual andsubject to revision, is judgment. Before the certainty of genius anddeathless power, in the contemplation of consummate art, his positionchanges: and well for him if he knows, and is contented it should beso. Here he must follow, happy if he only follows and serves; andwhile even here he will not shelve his doubts, or blindly refuse toexercise a candid discrimination, his demur at unquestioning assent, far from betraying any arrogance, will be discreetly advanced, and onclearly stated grounds. 

Of all poets, there is none more than Robert Browning, in approachingwhom diffidence is necessary. The mere extent of his informationcannot pass unobserved, either as a fact, or as a title to respect. No one who has read the body of his works will deny that they arereplete with mental and speculative subtlety, with vivid and mostdiversified conception of character, with dramatic incident andfeeling; with that intimate knowledge of outward nature which makesevery sentence of description a living truth; replete with a mosthuman tenderness and pathos. Common as is the accusation of"extravagance, " and unhesitatingly as it is applied, in a generaloff-hand style, to the entire character of Browning's poems, it wouldrequire some jesuitism of self-persuasion to induce any one to affirmhis belief in the existence of such extravagance in the conception ofthe poems, or in the sentiments expressed; of any want ofconcentration in thought, of national or historical keeping. Far fromthis, indeed, a deliberate unity of purpose is strikingly apparent. Without referring for the present to what are assumed to be perversefaults of execution--a question the principles and bearing of whichwill shortly be considered--assuredly the mention of the names of afew among Browning's poems--of "Paracelsus, " "Pippa Passes, " "Luria, "the "Souls's Tragedy, " "King Victor and King Charles, " even of theless perfect achievement, "Strafford"; or, passing to the smallerpoems, of "The Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, " "The Laboratory, "and "The Bishop orders his Tomb at St. Praxed's";--will at oncerealize to the memory of all readers an abstruse ideal never lostsight of, and treated to the extreme of elaboration. As regards thispoint, we address all in any manner acquainted with the poet's works, certain of receiving an affirmative answer even from those who"_can't_ read Sordello, or understand the object of writing in thatstyle. "

If so many exceptions to Browning's "system of extravagance" beadmitted, --and we again refer for confirmation or refutation to allwho have sincerely read him, and who, valuing written criticism atits worth, value also at _its_ worth the criticism of individualconviction, --wherein are we to seek this extravagance? The groundworkexempted, the imputation attaches, if anywhere, to the framework; tothe body, if not to the soul. And we are thus left to consider thestyle, or mode of expression. 

Style is not stationary, or, _in the concrete_, matter of principle:style is, firstly, national; next, chronological; and lastly, individual. To try the oriental system by the European, and pronounceeither wrong by so much as it exceeds or falls short, would imply soentire a want of comprehensive appreciation as can scarcely fail toinduce the conviction, that the two are distinct and independent, each to be tested on its own merits. Again, were the Elizabethandramatists right, or are those of our own day? Neither absolutely, asby comparison alone; his period speaks in each; and each must bejudged by this: not whether he is true to any given type, but whetherhis own type be a true one for himself. And this, which holds goodbetween nations and ages, holds good also between individuals. Verydifferent from Shelley's are Wordsworth's nature in description, hissentiment, his love; Burn's and Keats's different from these and fromeach other: yet are all these, nature, and sentiment, and love. 

But here it will be urged: by this process any and every style ispronounced good, so that it but find a measure of recognition in itsown age and country; nay, even the author's self-approval will besufficient. And, as a corollary, each age must and ought to rejectits predecessor; and Voltaire was no less than right in dubbingShakspere barbarian. That it is not so, however, will appear when thelast element of truth in style, that with which all others combine, which includes and implies consistency with the author's self, withhis age and his country, is taken into account. Appropriateness oftreatment to subject it is which lies at the root of all controversyon style: this is the last and the whole test. And the fact that noneother is requisite, or, more strictly, that all others are butaspects of this one, will very easily be allowed when it is reflectedthat the subject, to be of an earnest and sincere ideal, must be anemanation of the poet's most secret soul; and that the soul receivesteaching from circumstance, which is the time when and place where. 

This premised, it must next be borne in mind that the poet'sconception of his subject is not identical with, and, in the majorityof cases, will be unlike, his reader's. And, the question of style(manner) being necessarily subordinate to that of subject (matter), it is not for the reader to dispute with the author on his mode ofrendering, provided that should be accepted as embodying (within thebounds of grammatical logic) the intention preconceived. The objectof the poet in writing, why he attempts to describe an event asresulting from this cause or this, or why he assumes such as theeffect; all these considerations the reader is competent toentertain: any two men may deduce from the same premises, and mayprobably arrive at different conclusions: but, these conclusionsreached, what remains is a question of resemblance, which each mustdetermine for himself, as best conscious of his own intention. Totake an instance. Shakspere's conception of Macbeth as a man capableof uttering a pompous conceit--

 ("Here lay Duncan, His silver skin laced with his golden blood--")

in a moment, to him, and to all present, of startling purport, may bea correct or an impressive conception, or it may be the reverse. Thatthe rendering of the momentary intention is adequate here there is noreason to doubt. If so, in what respect is the reader called upon toinvestigate a matter of style? He must simply return to the questionof whether this point of character be consistent with others imaginedof the same person; this, answered affirmatively, is anapproval, --negatively, a condemnation, of _intention_; the merit of_style_, in either case, being mere competence, and that admittedirrespectively of the reader's liking or disliking of the passage_per se_, or as part of a context. Why, in this same tragedy ofMacbeth, is a drunken porter introduced between a murder and itsdiscovery? Did Shakspere really intend him to be a sharp-witted man?These questions are pertinent and necessary. There is no room fordisputing that this scene is purposely a comic scene: and, if this iscertain, the style of the speech is appropriate to the scene, and ofthe scene, to the conception of the drama? Is _that conception_admirable?

We have entered thus at length on the investigation of adequacy andappropriateness of style, and of the mode by which entire classes ofdisputable points, usually judged under that name, may be reduced tothe more essential element of conception; because it will be almostinvariably found, that a mere arbitrary standard of irresponsibleprivate predilection is then resorted to. Nor can this be wellguarded against. The concrete, _style_, being assumed as alwaysconstituting an entity auxiliary to, but not of necessity modifiedby, and representing subject, --as something substantiallypre-existing in the author's mind or practice, and belonging to himindividually; the reader will, not without show of reason, betakehimself to the trial of personality by personality, another's by hisown; and will thus pronounce on poems or passages of poems not aselevated, or vigorous, or well-sustained, or the opposite, in idea, but, according to certain notions of his own, as attractive, original, or conventional writing. 

Thus far as regards those parts of execution which concern human{13}embodiment--the metaphysical and dramatic or epic faculties. Of stylein description the reader is more nearly as competent a judge as thewriter. In the one case, the poet is bound to realize an idea, whichis his own, and the justness of which, and therefore of the form ofits expression, can be decided only by reasoning and analogy; in theother, having for his type material phaenomena, he must reproduce thethings as cognizable by all, though not hereby in any way exempt fromadhering absolutely to his proper perception of them. Here, even asto ideal description or simile, the reader can assert its truth orfalsehood of purpose, its sufficiency or insufficiency of means: buthere again he must beware of exceeding his rights, and ofsubstituting himself to his author. He must not dictate under whataspect nature is to be considered, stigmatizing the one chosen, because his own bent is rather towards some other. In the exercise ofcensure, he cannot fairly allow any personal _peculiarities_ of viewto influence him; but will have to decide from common grounds ofperception, unless clearly conscious of short-coming, or of theextreme of any corresponding peculiarity on the author's part. 

{13} In employing the word "human, " we would have our intentionunderstood to include organic spiritualism--the superhuman treated, from a human _pou sto, _ as ideal mind, form, power, action, &c. 

In speaking of the adaptation of style to conception, we advancedthat, details of character and of action being a portion of thelatter, the real point to determine in reference to the former is, whether such details are completely rendered in relation to thegeneral purpose. And here, to return to Robert Browning, we wouldenforce on the attention of those among his readers who assume thathe spoils fine thoughts by a vicious, extravagant, and involvedstyle, a few analytical questions, to be answered unbiassed byhearsay evidence. Concerning the dramatic works: Is the leading ideaconspicuously brought forward throughout each work? Is the languageof the several speakers such as does not create any impression otherthan that warranted by the subject matter of each? If so, does itcreate the impression apparently intended? Is the character of speechvaried according to that of the speaker? Are the passages ofdescription and abstract reflection so introduced as to add topoetic, without detracting from dramatic, excellence? About thenarrative poems, and those of a more occasional and personal qualitythe same questions may be asked with some obvious adaptation; andthis about all:--Are the versification strong, the sound sharp orsoft, monotonous, hurried, in proportion to the requirement of sense;the illustrative thoughts apt and new; the humour quaint andrelishing? Finally, is not in many cases that which is spoken of assomething extraneous, dragged in aforethought, for the purpose ofsingularity, the result more truly of a most earnest andsingle-minded labor after the utmost rendering of idiomaticconversational truth; the rejection of all stop-gap words; about themost literal transcript of fact compatible with the ends of poetryand true feeling for Art? This a point worthy note, and not capableof contradiction. {14}

{14} We may instance several scenes of "Pippa Passes, "--theconcluding one especially, where Pippa reviews her day; the whole ofthe "Soul's Tragedy, "--the poetic as well as the prose portion; "TheFlight of the Duchess;" "Waring, " &c. ; and passages continuallyrecurring in "Sordello, " and in "Colombe's Birthday. "

These questions answered categorically will, we believe, be found toestablish the assurance that Browning's style is copious, andcertainly not other than appropriate, --instance contrasted withinstance--as the form of expression bestowed on the several phases ofa certain ever-present form of thought. We have already endeavored toshow that, where style is not inadequate, its object as a means beingattained, the mind must revert to its decision as to relative andcollective value of intention: and we will again leave Browning'smanifestations of intellectual purpose, as such, for the verdict ofhis readers. 

To those who yet insist: "Why cannot I read Sordello?" we can onlyanswer:--Admitted a leading idea, not only metaphysical but subtleand complicated to the highest degree; how work out this idea, unlessthrough the finest intricacy of shades of mental development?Admitted a philosophic comprehensiveness of historical estimate and aminuteness of familiarity with details, with the added assumption, besides, of speaking with the very voice of the times; how presentthis position, unless by standing at an eminent point, and addressingthence a not unprepared audience? Admitted an intense achingconcentration of thought; how be self-consistent, unless utteringwords condensed to the limits of language?--And let us at last say:Read Sordello again. Why hold firm that you ought to be able at onceto know Browning's stops, and to pluck out the heart of his mystery?Surely, if you do not understand him, the fact tells two ways. But, if you _will_ understand him, you shall. 

We have been desirous to explain and justify the state of feeling inwhich we enter on the consideration of a new poem by Robert Browning. Those who already feel with us will scarcely be disposed to forgivethe prolixity which, for the present, has put it out of our power tocome at the work itself: but, if earnestness of intention will pleadour excuse, we need seek for no other. 

The Evil under the Sun

 How long, oh Lord?--The voice is sounding still, Not only heard beneath the altar stone, Not heard of John Evangelist alone In Patmos. It doth cry aloud and will Between the earth's end and earth's end, until The day of the great reckoning, bone for bone, And blood for righteous blood, and groan for groan: Then shall it cease on the air with a sudden thrill; Not slowly growing fainter if the rod Strikes one or two amid the evil throng, Or one oppressor's hand is stayed and numbs, -- Not till the vengeance that is coming comes: For shall all hear the voice excepting God? Or God not listen, hearing?--Lord, how long?

_Published Monthly. --Price One Shilling. _

 Art and Poetry, Being Thoughts towards Nature. 

 Conducted principally by Artists. 

Of the little worthy the name of writing that has ever been writtenupon the principles of Art, (of course excepting that on the meremechanism), a very small portion is by Artists themselves; and thatis so scattered, that one scarcely knows where to find the ideas ofan Artist except in his pictures. 

With a view to obtain the thoughts of Artists, upon Nature as evolvedin Art, in another language besides their _own proper_ one, thisPeriodical has been established. Thus, then, it is not open to theconflicting opinions of all who handle the brush and palette, nor isit restricted to actual practitioners; but is intended to enunciatethe principles of those who, in the true spirit of Art, enforce arigid adherence to the simplicity of Nature either in Art or Poetry, and consequently regardless whether emanating from practical Artists, or from those who have studied nature in the Artist's School. 

Hence this work will contain such original Tales (in prose or verse), Poems, Essays, and the like, as may seem conceived in the spirit, orwith the intent, of exhibiting a pure and unaffected style, to whichpurpose analytical Reviews of current Literature--especiallyPoetry--will be introduced; as also illustrative Etchings, one ofwhich latter, executed with the utmost care and completeness, willappear in each number.