'Twas time his sufferings with himself should end."[178]
[177] Dunlap's History of the Arts of Design, Vol. II. p. 188. Mrs.
Jameson's Memoirs and Essays: _Washington Allston_, p. 114.
[178] Anthol. Lib. IV. Tit. viii. Ep. 26.
In another tone, and with cold indifference to human suffering,
Lucretius sings, in often-quoted verse, that it is pleasant, when
beyond the reach of danger, to behold the shock of contending armies:--
"Suave etiam belli certamina magna tueri."[179]
[179] Lucretius, De Rerum Natura, Lib. II. 6.
In like heathen spirit, it may be pleasant to behold a _battle-piece_
in Art. But this is wrong. Admitting the calamitous necessity of
war, it can never be with pleasure--it cannot be without sadness
unspeakable--that we survey its fiendish encounter. The artist of
purest aim, sensitive to these emotions, withdraws naturally from the
field of blood, confessing that no scene of battle finds a place in
the highest Art,--that man, created in the image of God, can never be
pictured degrading, profaning, violating that sacred image.
Were this sentiment adopted in literature as in Art, war would be shorn
of its false glory. Poet, historian, orator, all should join with the
Artist in saying, _No battle-piece!_ Let them cease to dwell, except
with pain and reprobation, upon those dismal exhibitions of human
passion where the life of friends is devoted to procure the death
of enemies. No pen, no tongue, no pencil, by praise or picture, can
dignify scenes from which God averts His eye. It is true, man has slain
his fellow-man, armies have rushed in deadly shock against armies,
the blood of brothers has been spilled. These are tragedies which
History enters sorrowfully, tearfully, in her faithful record; but
this generous Muse with too attractive colors must not perpetuate the
passions from which they sprang or the griefs they caused. Be it her
duty to dwell with eulogy and pride on all that is magnanimous, lovely,
beneficent; let this be preserved by votive canvas and marble also. But
_No battle-piece!_
In the progress of truth, the animal passions degrading our nature are
by degrees checked and subdued. The license of lust and the brutality
of intemperance, marking a civilization inferior to our own, are at
last driven from public display. Faithful Art reflects the character
of the age. To its honor, libertinism and intemperance no longer
intrude their obscene faces into its pictures. The time is at hand
when religion, humanity, and taste will concur in rejecting any image
of human strife. Laïs and Phryne have fled; Bacchus and Silenus are
driven reeling from the scene. Mars will soon follow, howling, as with
that wound from the Grecian spear before Troy. The Hall of Battles,
at Versailles, where Louis Philippe, the inconsistent conservator of
peace, has arrayed, on acres of canvas, the bloody contests in the
long history of France, will be shut by a generation appreciating true
greatness.
In the mission of teaching to nations and to individuals wherein is
true greatness, Art has a noble office. If not herald, she is at least
handmaid of Truth. Her lessons may not train the intellect, but they
cannot fail to touch the heart. Who can measure the influence from
an image of beauty, affection, and truth? The Christus Consolator of
Scheffer, without a word, wins the soul. Such a work awakens lasting
homage to the artist, and to the spirit from which it proceeds, while
it takes its place with things that never die. Other works, springing
from the lower passions, are no better than gaudy, perishing flowers of
earth; but here is perennial, amaranthine bloom.
Allston loved excellence for its own sake. He looked down upon the
common strife for worldly consideration. With impressive beauty
of truth and expression, he said, "Fame is the eternal shadow of
excellence, from which it can never be separated."[180] Here is a
volume, prompting to noble thought and action, not for the sake of
glory, but for advance in knowledge, virtue, excellence. Our Artist
gives renewed utterance to that sentiment which is the highest grace in
the life of the great magistrate, Lord Mansfield, when, confessing the
attractions of "popularity," he said it was that which followed, not
which was followed after.
[180] Mrs. Jameson, Memoirs and Essays: _Washington Allston_, p. 118.
As we contemplate the life and works of Allston, we are inexpressibly
grateful that he lived. His example is one of our best possessions. And
yet, while rejoicing that he has done much, we seem to hear a whisper
that he might have done more. His productions suggest a higher genius
than they display; and we are disposed sometimes to praise the master
rather than the work. Like a beloved character in English literature,
Sir James Mackintosh, he finally closed a career of beautiful, but
fragmentary labors, leaving much undone which all had hoped he would
do. The great painting which haunted so many years of his life, and
which his friends and country awaited with anxious interest, remained
unfinished at last. His Virgilian sensibility and modesty would
doubtless have ordered its destruction, had death arrested him less
suddenly. Titian died, leaving incomplete, like Allston, an important
picture, on which his hand was busy down to the time of his death. A
pious and distinguished pupil, the younger Palma, took up the labor
of his master, and, on its completion, placed it in the church for
which it was destined, with this inscription: "That which Titian left
unfinished Palma reverently completed, and dedicated to God." Where is
the Palma who can complete what our Titian has left unfinished?
* * * * *
Let us now devoutly approach the grave of the brother whom, in order
of time, we were first called to mourn. WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING, THE
PHILANTHROPIST, died in the month of October, 1842, aged sixty-two.
By an easy transition we pass from Allston to Channing. They were
friends and connections. The monumental stone which marks the last
resting-place of the Philanthropist was designed by the Artist. In
physical organization they were not unlike, each possessing a fineness
of fibre hardly belonging to the Anglo-Saxon stock. In both we observe
similar sensibility, delicacy, refinement, and truth, with highest
aims; and the color of Allston finds a parallel in the Venetian
richness which marks the style of Channing.
I do not speak of him as Theologian, although his labors have earned
this title also. It is probable that no single mind, in our age, has
exerted a greater influence over theological opinions. But I pass all
this by, without presuming to indicate its character. Far better dwell
on those labors which should not fail to find favor in all churches,
whether at Rome, Geneva, Canterbury, or Boston.
His influence is widely felt and acknowledged. His words have been
heard and read by thousands, in all conditions of life, and in various
lands, whose hearts now throb with gratitude towards the meek and
eloquent upholder of divine truth. An American traveller, at a small
village nestling on a terrace of the Tyrolese Alps, encountered a
German, who, hearing that his companion was from Boston, inquired
earnestly after Channing,--saying that the difficulty of learning
the English language was adequately repaid by the charm of his
writings. A distinguished stranger, when about to visit our country,
was told by a relative not less lovely in character than elevated in
condition, that she envied him his journey "for the sake of Niagara and
Channing." We have already observed that a critic of Art places him in
an American triumvirate with Allston and Washington. More frequently
he is associated with Washington and Franklin. Unlike Washington, he
was never general or president; unlike Franklin, he never held high
office. But it would be difficult to say that since them any American
has exerted greater sway over his fellow-men. And yet, if it be asked
what single measure he carried to a successful close, I could not
answer. It is on _character_ that he has wrought and is still producing
incalculable change. So extensive is this influence, that multitudes
now feel it, although strangers to his spoken or even his written word.
The whole country and age feel it.
I have called him Philanthropist, lover of man,--the title of highest
honor on earth. "I take goodness in this sense," says Lord Bacon, in
his Essays, "_the affecting of the weal of men_, which is that the
Grecians call _Philanthropia_.... This of all virtues and dignities
of the mind is the greatest, being the character of the Deity; and
without it man is a busy, mischievous, wretched thing, no better than
a kind of vermin." Lord Bacon was right. Confessing the attractions of
scholarship, awed by the majesty of the law, fascinated by the beauty
of Art, the soul bends with involuntary reverence before the angelic
nature that seeks the good of his fellow-man. Through him God speaks.
On him has descended in especial measure the Divine Spirit. God is
Love; and man, when most active in good works, most nearly resembles
Him. In heaven, we are told, the first place or degree is given to the
angels of love, who are termed Seraphim,--the second to the angels of
light, who are termed Cherubim.
Sorrowfully it must be confessed that the time has not come when even
his exalted labors find equal acceptance with all men. And now, as
I undertake to speak of them in this presence, I seem to tread on
half-buried cinders. I shall tread fearlessly, loyal ever, I hope, to
the occasion, to my subject, and to myself. In the language of my own
profession, I shall not travel out of the record; but I must be true
to the record. It is fit that his name should be commemorated here.
He was one of us. He was a son of the University, enrolled also among
its teachers, and for many years a Fellow of the Corporation. To him,
more, perhaps, than to any other person, is she indebted for her most
distinctive opinions. His fame is indissolubly connected with hers:--
"And when thy ruins shall disclaim
To be the treasurer of his name,
His name, that cannot die, shall be
An everlasting monument to thee."[181]
[181] Ben Jonson's inscription for the "pious marble" in honor of
Drayton.
I have called him Philanthropist: he may also be called Moralist, for
he was the expounder of human duties; but his exposition of duties
was another service to humanity. His morality, elevated by Christian
love, fortified by Christian righteousness, was frankly applied to the
people and affairs of his own country and age. He saw full well, that,
in contest with wrong, more was needed than a declaration of simple
principles. A general morality is too vague for action. Tamerlane
and Napoleon both might join in general praise of peace, and entitle
themselves to be enrolled, with Alexander of Russia, as members of a
Peace Society. Many satisfy the conscience by such generalities. This
was not the case with our Philanthropist. He brought his morality
to bear distinctly upon the world. Nor was he disturbed by another
suggestion, which the moralist often encounters, that his views
were sound in theory, but not practical. He well knew that what is
unsound in theory must be vicious in practice. Undisturbed by hostile
criticism, he did not hesitate to arraign the wrong he discerned, and
fasten upon it the mark of Cain. His philanthropy was morality in
action.
As a moralist, he knew that the truest happiness is reached only
by following the Right; and as a lover of man, he sought on all
occasions to inculcate this supreme duty, which he addressed to nations
and individuals alike. In this attempt to open the gates of a new
civilization, he encountered prejudice and error. The principles of
morality, first possessing the individual, slowly pervade the body
politic; and we are often told, in extenuation of war and conquest,
that the nation and the individual are governed by separate laws,--that
the nation may do what an individual may not do. In combating this
pernicious fallacy, Channing was a benefactor. He helped to bring
government within the Christian circle, and taught the statesman
that there is one comprehensive rule, binding on the conscience in
public affairs, as in private affairs. This truth cannot be too often
proclaimed. Pulpit, press, school, college, all should render it
familiar to the ear, and pour it into the soul. Beneficent Nature
joins with the moralist in declaring the universality of God's law;
the flowers of the field, the rays of the sun, the morning and evening
dews, the descending showers, the waves of the sea, the breezes
that fan our cheeks and bear rich argosies from shore to shore, the
careering storm, all on this earth,--nay, more, the system of which
this earth is a part, and the infinitude of the Universe, in which our
system dwindles to a grain of sand, all declare one prevailing law,
knowing no distinction of person, number, mass, or extent.
While Channing commended this truth, he fervently recognized the
Rights of Man. He saw in our institutions, as established in 1776, the
animating idea of Human Rights, distinguishing us from other countries.
It was this idea, which, first appearing at our nativity as a nation,
shone on the path of our fathers, as the unaccustomed star in the west
which twinkled over Bethlehem.
Kindred to the idea of Human Rights was that other, which appears
so often in his writings as to inspire his whole philanthropy,
the importance of the Individual Man. No human soul so abject in
condition as not to find sympathy and reverence from him. He confessed
brotherhood with all God's children, although separated from them by
rivers, mountains, and seas,--although a torrid sun had left upon
them an unchangeable Ethiopian skin. Filled with this thought, he was
untiring in effort to promote their elevation and happiness. He yearned
to do good, to be a spring of life and light to his fellow-men. "I
see nothing worth living for," he said, "but the divine virtue which
endures and surrenders all things for truth, duty, and mankind." In
this spirit, so long as he lived, he was the constant champion of
Humanity.
In the cause of education and of temperance he was earnest. He saw how
essential to a people governing themselves was knowledge,--that without
it the right of voting would be a dangerous privilege, and that with
it the nation would be elevated with new means of happiness and power.
His vivid imagination saw the blight of intemperance, and exposed it
in glowing colors. In these efforts he was sustained by the kindly
sympathy of those among whom he lived.
There were two other causes in which, more than any other, his soul was
enlisted, especially toward the close of life, and with which his name
will be inseparably associated,--I mean the efforts for the abolition
of those two terrible scourges, Slavery and War.
All will see that I cannot pass these by on this occasion; for not
to speak of them would be to present a portrait in which the most
distinctive features were wanting.
And, first, as to Slavery. To this his attention was particularly
drawn by early residence in Virginia, and a season subsequently in one
of the West India Islands. His soul was moved by its injustice and
inhumanity. He saw in it an infraction of God's great laws of Right
and Love, and of the Christian precept, "Whatsoever ye would that men
should do to you, do ye even so to them." Regarding it contrary to the
law of Nature, the Philanthropist unconsciously adopted the conclusions
of the Supreme Court of the United States, speaking by the mouth of
Chief Justice Marshall,[182] and of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts,
at a later day, speaking by the mouth of Chief Justice Shaw. A solemn
decision, now belonging to the jurisprudence of this Commonwealth,
declares that "slavery is contrary to natural right, to the principles
of justice, humanity, and sound policy."[183]
[182] The Antelope, 10 Wheaton's Rep. 211.
[183] Commonwealth _v._ Aves, 18 Pick. 211.
With these convictions, his duty as Moralist and Philanthropist did not
admit of question. He saw before him a giant wrong. Almost alone he
went forth to the contest. On his return from the West Indies, he first
declared himself from the pulpit. At a later day, he published a book
entitled "Slavery," the most considerable treatise from his pen. His
object, as he testifies, was "to oppose slavery on principles which, if
admitted, would inspire resistance to all the wrongs and reverence for
all the rights of human nature."[184] Other publications followed down
to the close of his life, among which was a prophetic letter, addressed
to Henry Clay, against the annexation of Texas, on the ground that
it would entail war with Mexico and the extension of slavery. It is
interesting to know that this letter, before its publication, was read
to his classmate Story, who listened to it with admiration and assent;
so that the Jurist and the Philanthropist joined in this cause.
[184] Letter to Blanco White, July 29, 1836: Life of White, Vol. II. p.
251.
In his defence of African liberty he invoked always the unanswerable
considerations of justice and humanity. The argument of economy, deemed
by some to contain all that is pertinent, never presented itself to
him. The question of profit and loss was absorbed in the question
of right and wrong. His maxim was,--Anything but slavery; poverty
sooner than slavery. But while exhibiting this institution in blackest
colors, as inhuman, unjust, unchristian, unworthy of an enlightened
age and of a republic professing freedom, his gentle nature found no
word of harshness for those whom birth, education, and custom bred
to its support. Implacable towards wrong, he used mild words towards
wrong-doers. He looked forward to the day when they too, encompassed by
a _moral blockade_, invisible to the eye, but more potent than navies,
and under the influence of increasing light, diffused from all the
nations, must acknowledge the wrong, and set the captive free.
He urged the _duty_--such was his unequivocal language--incumbent on
the Northern States to free themselves from all support of slavery. To
this conclusion he was driven irresistibly by the ethical principle,
that _what is wrong for the individual is wrong for the state_. No son
of the Pilgrims can hold a fellow-man in bondage. Conscience forbids.
No son of the Pilgrims can, through Government, hold a fellow-man
in bondage. Conscience equally forbids. We have among us to-day a
brother who, reducing to practice the teachings of Channing and the
suggestions of his own soul, has liberated the slaves which fell to
him by inheritance. Our homage to this act attests the obligation upon
ourselves. In asking the Free States to disconnect themselves from all
support of slavery, Channing called them to do as _States_ what PALFREY
has done as _man_. At the same time he dwelt with affectionate care
upon the Union. He sought to reform, not to destroy,--to eradicate,
not to overturn; and he cherished the Union as mother of peace,
plenteousness, and joy.
Such were some of his labors for liberty. The mind instinctively
recalls the parallel exertions of John Milton. He, too, was a defender
of liberty. His "Defence of the People of England" drew to him, living,
a larger fame than his sublime epic. But Channing's labors were of
a higher order, more instinct with Christian sentiment, more truly
worthy of renown. Milton's _Defensio pro Populo Anglicano_ was for the
_political_ freedom of the English people, supposed at that time to
number four and a half millions. It was written after the "bawble" of
royalty had been removed, and in the confidence that the good cause was
triumphantly established, beneath the protecting genius of Cromwell.
Channing's _Defensio pro Populo Africano_ was for the _personal_
freedom of three million fellow-men in abject bondage, none of whom
knew that his eloquent pen was pleading their cause. The efforts of
Milton produced his blindness; those of Channing exposed him to obloquy
and calumny. How justly might the Philanthropist have borrowed the
exalted words of the Sonnet to Cyriac Skinner!--
"What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied
_In liberty's defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe rings from side to side_."
The same spirit of justice and humanity animating him in defence of
liberty inspired his exertions for the abolition of the barbarous
custom or institution of War. When I call war an institution, I mean
international war, sanctioned, explained, and defined by the Law of
Nations, as a mode of determining questions of right. I mean war, the
arbiter and umpire, the Ordeal by Battle, deliberately continued in an
age of civilization, as the means of justice between nations. Slavery
is an institution sustained by municipal law. War is an institution
sustained by the Law of Nations. Both are relics of the early ages, and
are rooted in violence and wrong.
The principle, already considered, that nations and individuals are
bound by one and the same rule, applies here with unmistakable force.
The Trial by Battle, to which individuals once appealed for justice, is
branded by our civilization as _monstrous_ and _impious_; nor can we
recognize honor in the successful combatant. Christianity turns from
these scenes, as abhorrent to her best injunctions. And is it right in
nations to prolong a usage, monstrous and impious in individuals? There
can be but one answer.
This definition leaves undisturbed that question of Christian ethics,
whether the right of self-defence is consistent with the example
and teaching of Christ. Channing thought it was. It is sufficient
that war, when regarded as a judicial combat, sanctioned by the Law
of Nations as an _institution_ to determine justice, raises no such
question, involves no such right. When, in our age, two nations,
parties to existing international law, after mutual preparations,
continued perhaps through years, appeal to war and invoke the God
of Battles, they _voluntarily_ adopt this unchristian umpirage; nor
can either side plead that overruling _necessity_ on which alone the
right of self-defence is founded. They are governed at every step by
the Laws of War. But self-defence is independent of law; it knows no
law, but springs from sudden tempestuous urgency, which brooks neither
circumscription nor delay. Define it, give it laws, circumscribe it by
a code, invest it with form, refine it by punctilio, and it becomes
_the Duel_. And modern war, with its definitions, laws, limitations,
forms, and refinements, is _the Duel of Nations_.
These nations are communities of Christian brothers. War is, therefore,
a duel between brothers; and here its impiety finds apt illustration in
the past. Far away in the early period of time, where uncertain hues
of Poetry blend with the clearer light of History, our eyes discern
the fatal contest between those two brothers, Eteocles and Polynices.
No scene stirs deeper aversion; we do not inquire which was right.
The soul cries out, in bitterness and sorrow, _Both were wrong_, and
refuses to discriminate between them. A just and enlightened opinion,
contemplating the feuds and wars of mankind, will condemn both sides as
wrong, pronouncing all war fratricidal, and every battle-field a scene
from which to avert the countenance, as from that dismal duel beneath
the walls of Grecian Thebes.