The Germ Part 4

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: Speargra.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 pa.s.sed 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 Pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed.

Silence seemed to start in s.p.a.ce When first the bell's harsh toll Rang for my lady's soul.

Vitality was h.e.l.l; 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, s.h.i.+vering 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, pa.s.sion-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 a bottle,' a tree made out of stone, or a face made of pigment; and the pleasure we receive, is our wonder at the achievement; then, to such as so believe, this treatise is not written. But if, as the writer conceives, works of Fine Art delight us by the interest the objects they depict excite in the beholder, just as those objects in nature would excite his interest; if by any a.s.sociation of ideas in the one case, by the same in the other, without reference to the representations 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 subsequent pleasure may and does result, upon reflecting that the objects contemplated were the work of human ingenuity.

Now the subject to be treated, is the 'subject' of Painter and Sculptor; what ought to be the nature of that 'subject,' how far that subject may be drawn from past or present time with advantage, how far the subject may tend to confer upon its embodiment the t.i.tle, 'High Art,' how far the subject may tend to confer upon its embodiment the t.i.tle 'Low Art;' what is 'High Art,' what is 'Low Art'?

To begin then (at the end) with 'High Art.' However we may differ as to 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.: his mental and his moral faculties.

'Low Art,' or Art in its less exalted character, is that which addresses the less exalted attributes of man, viz.: his mere sensory faculties, without affecting the mind or heart, excepting through the volitional agency of the observer.

These definitions are too general and simple to be disputed; but before we endeavour to define more particularly, let us a.n.a.lyze the subject, and see what it will yield.

All the works which remain to us of the Ancients, and this appears somewhat remarkable, are, with the exception of those by incompetent artists, universally admitted to be 'High Art.' Now do we afford them this high t.i.tle, because all remnants of the antique world, by tempting a comparison between what was, and is, will set the mental faculties at work, and thus address the highest attributes of man?

Or, as this is owing to the agency of the observer, and not to the subject represented, are we to seek for the cause in the subjects themselves!

Let us examine the subjects. They are mostly in sculpture; but this cannot be the cause, unless all modern sculpture be considered 'High Art.' This is leaving out of the question in both ages, all works badly executed, and obviously incorrect, of which there are numerous examples both ancient and modern.

The subjects we find in sculpture are, in "the round," mostly men or women in thoughtful or impa.s.sioned action: sometimes they are indeed acting physically; but then, as in the Jason adjusting his Sandal, acting by mechanical impulse, and thinking or looking in another direction. In relievo we have an historical combat, such as that between the Centaurs and Lapithae; sometimes a group in conversation, sometimes a recitation of verses to the Lyre; a dance, or religious procession.

As to the first cla.s.s in "the round," as they seem to appeal to the intellectual, and often to the moral faculties, they are naturally, and according to the broad definition, works of 'High Art.' Of the relievo, the historical combat appeals to the pa.s.sions; and, being historical, probably to the intellect. The like may be said of the conversational groups, and lyrical recitation which follow. The dance appeals to the pa.s.sions and the intellect; since the intellect recognises therein an order and design, her own planning; while the solemn, modest demeanour in the religious procession speaks to the heart and the mind. The same remarks will apply to the few ancient paintings we possess, always excluding such merely decorative works as 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 we remark the difference between the hypothetical or rational, and the historical account of facts; for though here is _reason_ enough why ancient 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 runs thus--The works of antiquity awe us by their time-hallowed presence; the mind is sent into a serious contemplation of things; and, the subject itself in nowise contravening, we attribute all this potent effect to the agency of the subject before us, and 'High Art,' it becomes _then_ and _for ever_, with all such as "follow its cut." But then as this was so named, not from the abstract cause, but from a result and effect; when a _new_ work is produced in a similar spirit, but clothed in a dissimilar matter, and the critics have to settle to what cla.s.s of art it belongs,--then is the new work dragged up to fight with the old one, like the poor beggar Irus in front of Ulysses; then are they turned over and applied, each to each, like the two triangles in Euclid; and then, if they square, fit and tally in every quarter--with the nude to the draped in the one, as the nude to the draped in the other--with the standing to the sitting in the one, as the standing to the sitting in the other--with the fat to the lean in the one, as the fat to the lean in the other--with the young to the old in the one, as the young to the old in the other--with head 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 work oracularly p.r.o.nounced one of 'High Art;' and the obsequious artist is pleased to consider it is.

But if, per contra, as in the former case, the works are not to be literally reconciled, though wrought in the self-same spirit; then this unfortunate creature of genius is degraded into a lower rank of art; and the artist, if he have faith in the learned, despairs; or, if he have none, he _swears_. But listen, an artist speaks: "If I have genius to produce a work in the true spirit of high art, and yet am so ignorant of its principles, that I scarce know whereon the success of the work depends, and scarcely whether I have succeeded or no; with this ignorance and this power, what needs your knowledge or your reasoning, seeing that nature is all-sufficient, and produces a painter as she produces a plant?" To the artist (the last of his race), who spoke thus, it is answered, that science is not meant for him, 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 not make; it unmakes, wonderingly to find the making of what G.o.d has made--of what G.o.d has made through the poet, leading him blindly by a path which he has not known; this path science follows slowly and in wonder. But though science is not to make the artist, there is no reason in nature that the artist reject it. Still, science is properly the birthright of the critic; 'tis his all in all. It shows him poets, painters, sculptors, his fellow men, often his inferiors in their want of it, his superiors in the ability to do what he cannot do; it teaches him to love them as angels bringing him food which _he_ cannot attain, and to venerate their works as a gift from the Creator.

But to return to the critical errors relating to 'High Art.' While the const.i.tuents of high art were unknown, whilst its abstract principles were unsought, and whilst it was only recognized in the concrete, the critics, certainly guilty of the most unpardonable blindness, blundered up to the ma.s.ses of 'High Art,' left by antiquity, saying, "there let us fix our observatory," and here came out perspective gla.s.s, and callipers and compa.s.ses; and here they made squares and triangles, and circles, and ellipses, for, said they, "this is 'High Art,' and this hath certain proportions;" then in the logic of their hearts, they continued, "all these proportions we know by admeasurement, whatsoever hath these is 'High Art,'

whatsoever hath not, is 'Low Art.'" This was as certain as the fact that the sun is a globe of glowing charcoal, because forsooth they both yield light and heat. Now if the phantom of a then embryon-electrician had arisen and told them that their "high art marbles possessed an electric influence, which, acting in the brain of the observer, would awake in him emotions of so exalted a character, that he forthwith, inevitably nodding at them, must utter the tremendous syllables 'High Art;'" he, the then embryon-electrician, from that age withheld to bless and irradiate the physiology of ours, would have done something more to the purpose than all the critics and the compa.s.ses.