SUBJECTS FOR PICTURES.
A LETTER TO EUSEBIUS.
DEAR EUSEBIUS,—Your letter of inquiry reached me at Gratian’s, just at
the moment we were setting off to pay a visit of a few days to our
friend the Curate, who had ensconced himself in happiness and a curacy
about an easy day’s ride from his former abode. From that quarter I have
no news to tell you, but that the winning affability even of Gratian
cannot obtain a smile or look of acknowledgment from Lydia Prateapace.
She passes him in scorn. We found the Curate and his bride on his little
lawn, before the door of the prettiest of clerical residences. She was
reading to him, and that I know will please you; for I have often heard
you say that a woman’s reading inspires the best repose of thought, and
gives both sweetness and dignity to reflection; that then the true
listener is passive under the fascination and sense of all loveliness,
and his ideas rise the fairer, as the flowers grow the brighter that
bend to the music of the sweet-voiced brook. If every reviewer had such
a reader, criticism would fall merciful as the “gentle dew,”—ink would
lose its blackness. They rose to greet us with the best of welcomes; and
like less happy lovers,
“That day they read no more.”
The house is simply, yet elegantly furnished. To the little library with
its well-filled shelves of classical and English literature, female
fingers had lent a grace—there were flowers, and the familiarity of
work, to humanise the severest author in this living depository of the
thoughts of all ages. The spirit of Plato might look through his
mesmerised binding and smile. The busts of ancient poets seemed to scent
the fragrance, and bow their heads thankful. I could not resist the
pleasure of patting our old acquaintance Catullus on the back, as I
passed, which Gratian saw, and said—“Ay, ay, that’s the rogue to whom I
sacrificed swine.” A few spaces unoccupied by books, were filled with
choice prints from pictures by Raffaele. The most appropriate was the
“School of Athens,” not the least pleasing that portrait of the “gentle
musician.” The Curate saw how much these prints attracted my notice, and
said that he would give me a treat on the morrow, as he expected a
package of prints all framed and glazed, which a wealthy relative, with
whom, however, he added, he was not very well acquainted, had sent
him—and he expected us to attend the unpacking. It is a present, he
said, to furnish my curacy, but I know nothing of the giver’s taste. I
wished at the time, that my friend Eusebius had been present at the
unpacking; for I did not augur much of the collection, and I thought the
grace of his, that is of your wit, Eusebius, might be wanted either in
admiration or apology. For if you happened not to like the picture,
“I’ll warrant you’ll find an excuse for the glass.”
Shall I describe to you our doings and our sayings on this occasion?
imagine the case before—us and in the words of another old song,
“It is our opening day.”
Well—it is opened—now, Eusebius, I will not particularise the contents.
The giver, it is to be presumed, with the patriotic view of encouraging
native art, had confined his choice, and had made his selection,
entirely from the works of modern English painters and engravers. And do
not imagine that I am here about to indulge in any morose and severe
criticism, and say, all were bad. On the contrary, the works showed very
great artistic skill of both kinds; indeed, the work of the needle and
graver exhibited a miraculous power of translation. That the subjects
were such as generally give pleasure, cannot be denied; they are widely
purchased, go where you will, in every country town as in the
metropolis; the printsellers’ windows scarcely exhibit any other. These
prints were therefore according to the general taste,—and therefore the
Curate must be expected to be highly gratified with his present. Perhaps
he was—but he certainly looked puzzled; and the first thing he said was,
that he did not know what to do with them. “Are they not framed and
glazed?” said Gratian: “hang them up, by all means.” “Yes,” said the
bride, delightfully ready to assume the conjugal defence, “but where?
You would not have me put the horses and dogs in my boudoir; and the
other rooms of our nest have already pictures so out of character that
these would only be emblems of disagreement; and I am sure you would not
wish to see any thing of that nature here—yet.” But let me, Eusebius,
take the order of conversation.
GRATIAN.—There is a queen tamer of all animals, and though I would not
like to see the Curate’s wife among the monsters, I doubt not she could
always charm away any discordance these pictures might give. And look
now at the noble face of that honest and well-educated horse. He would
be a gentleman of rank among the houyhuhnms. I love his placid face. He
reminds me of my old pet bay Peter, and many a mile has he carried his
old master that was so fond of him. I have ridden him over gorse and
road many a long day. He lived to be upwards of thirty-three, and
enjoyed a good bite and annuity, in a fat paddock, the last seven or
eight years of his life.
AQUILIUS.—Gratian’s benevolence, you see, regulates his tastes: he loves
all creatures, but especially the dumb: he speaks to them, and makes
eloquent answers for them. You know he has a theory respecting their
language.
CURATE.—And Gratian is happy therein: I wish I had more taste of this
kind, for these things are very beautiful in themselves; they are
honest-looking creatures. In that I have been like Berni:
“Piacevangli i cavalli
Assai, ma si passava del videre,
Che modo non avea da comparalli.”
LYDIA.—If they are honest, there are some sly ones too. What say you to
this law-suit of Landseer’s? I think I could make a pet of the judge.
AQUILIUS.—Great as Landseer is, I like this but little. The picture was
surprisingly painted, but when you have admired the handiwork, there is
an end. The satire is not good: something sketchy may have suited the
wit, but the labour bestowed makes it serious: we want the shortness of
fable to pass off the “_animali parlanti_.”
CURATE.—Gratian, who ought to order a composition picture of “The Happy
Family” all living in concord, knows all the race, in and out of kennel,
and should tell us if these dogs are not a little out of due proportion
one with the other.
GRATIAN.—I think they are; but do not imagine I could bear to look upon
the “Happy Family,” though the piece were painted by Landseer. I never
saw them in a cage but I longed to disenchant them of the terror of
their keeper. They all looked as if they could eat each other up if they
dared. No, no—no convent and nunnery of heterogeneous natures, that long
to quarrel, and would tear each other to pieces but for fear of their
superior. I love natural instincts, and am sure the “Happy family” must
have been sadly tortured to forget them.
CURATE.—I certainly admire these animal portraits, they seem to be very
like the creatures; but I really have no gallery-menagerie where I can
put them. They appear to me to have been painted to adorn the stable
residences of noblemen, gentlemen of the turf and kennel. You smile,
Aquilius, but I mean it not to their dispraise, for in such places they
might amuse in many an idle hour, and give new zest to the favourite
pursuits.
AQUILIUS.—I only smiled at the thought, that though many such noblemen
and gentlemen “go to the dogs,” they would not quite like to see them
among the “family portraits,” and was therefore pleased at your
appropriating these productions to the stable and the kennel. I am not
surprised that you do not know what to do with them. I believe Morland
was the first who introduced pigs into a drawing-room; for my own part,
I ever thought them better in a sty.
GRATIAN.—Hold there, I won’t allow any one to rub my pigs’ backs but
myself, and you know I have a brace of Morlands, pigs too, in my
dressing-room.
LYDIA.—And if the pictures in any degree make you treat your animals
more kindly, Morland deserves praise; and, in that case, all such works
should be encouraged by the “Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals.”
AQUILIUS.—If Gratian is kind of his own nature, his familiarity with all
creatures is of another kinship than such as art can bestow. He would
have given a litter of straw to Morland himself, had he met him in one
of his unfortunate predicaments, and thus have made him happy. But I
fear we are not quite safe in thus commending our choice artists, on the
score of the humanity they are likely to encourage.
CURATE.—Why not? Has not Landseer dedicated to “the Humane Society” the
portrait of the noble Retriever; and is that not his “chief mourner,”
promoting affection between man and beast?
GRATIAN.—“_O si sic omnia!_” I love all field sports, and river sports
too; but it is when horse, dog, and man all agree in the pleasure, and
the bit of cruelty—for such, I suppose, we must admit it to be—is kept
out of sight as much as possible, that we are willing to adopt the
Benthamite principle into the sporting code, “the greatest happiness to
the greatest number.” Yet I don’t like to refine away feeling in this
way, and say, many enjoy, and one poor creature is hunted. I rather put
it all upon nature. There is an instinct to hunt and be hunted, and
perhaps there is a reciprocal pleasure. I like our good old sporting
songs; they dwell upon the health and enjoyment of refreshing animation,
the sociality, the good humour (and sometimes with a nice touch of pity
too) of sport; they take no pleasure in dwelling upon the hard, the
cruel necessity.
AQUILIUS.—Then are our ballad-makers more tender-hearted than our
painters!
GRATIAN.—And there is need they should be; for some of our painters, and
not only ours, but of all countries, have, to my mind, too much indulged
in representations of cruelty. I have often wondered how many of the old
pictures, your martyrdoms of saints, came to be painted. Who could take
pleasure in looking at them?
CURATE.—The best were works of high genius, and were painted for
religious places; and though cruelty is necessary to the story of
martyrdom, it is seldom made the subject—it is the triumph, the angelic
choir, and the crown, and the sublime faith,—all combine to make the
sublime subject; the mere act then becomes but the accessory; and such
pictures, seen in their proper places—the chapels for which they were
painted, and with the mind under a religious impression—are of the
noblest interest, of most improving contemplation. I have heard such
pictures condemned, because they have been seen in uncongenial places,
and under antagonistic impressions. They are not for banquet-rooms, nor
ball-rooms; nor to be commingled with the low-life subjects of the Dutch
school, nor amidst the _omnium-gatherum_ of galleries. The art cannot
offer a higher pleasure than the contemplation of these sublime
productions of Italian genius, seen when and where they should be
exhibited, and alone. I have seen some that make their own sanctity,
which seems to spread from them in a divine light, and diffuse itself
into the outer obscure, in which all that is unfitting and minute is
buried; and the great work of mind has created its own architecture, and
filled it with the religious awe under which we gaze and wonder. And are
we not the better?
AQUILIUS.—I fear this age of domestic life is against the reproduction
of such works. All that can adorn the home, the house, and not the
temple, we make the object of emulous search. Even our churches, if they
would be allowed to receive such works, open as they are but an hour or
so in the week, could scarcely have influence, and make such creations
felt. In Italy, the passer-by has but to draw aside the curtain, and
enter, and receive the influence. In such places, the martyrdoms of
saints gave conviction of the holiness of faith, the beauty and power of
devotion.
GRATIAN.—True; you will teach me the more to admire old Italian art. I
confess, the great power you describe has but seldom come home to my
feelings; perhaps they are naturally more congenial with home subjects;
and I have been too often disgusted with pictures of horrors. A friend
of mine I once found copying a picture of the flaying of a saint. There
was a man unconcernedly tearing away his skin; and the raw flesh was
portrayed, I dare say, to the life. He told me it was a fine picture. I
maintained that it was too natural. It was, in fact, a bad picture, for
the subject was cruelty; unconcealed, detestable cruelty, not made the
means of exhibiting holy fortitude. There was nothing in it to avert the
absolute disgust such a sight must raise. I would as soon live in the
shambles, or in a dissecting-room, as have such a picture before my eyes
continually. My friend thought only of the painting; the naturalness and
the skill that drew it and coloured it to the quick—not to the life. I
have seen so many of the Italian pictures of a gloomy cast, that, for my
part, I have rather enjoyed the cheerful domestic scenes of life and
landscape of the best Flemish masters, and English too.
CURATE.—Art has no power of injunction, or the hand of many an artist
would be stayed from perilling a profanation. Minds of all grades have
been employed in the profession. The Italians have not been exempted
from a corruption of taste and of power. Yet, without question, the
grandest and the most touching creations of art have been the work of
Italian hands, and the conceptions of Italian minds. I fear I am telling
but admitted truisms.
AQUILIUS.—I know not that. I doubt if the pre-eminence will be admitted
as established. What works do our collectors mostly purchase—your men of
taste, your caterers for our National Gallery, those to whose taste and
discernment not only our artists, but the public, are expected to bow?
We have heard a great deal of late of encouraging the fine arts. We have
had a premier supposed to be supreme in taste. Nay, as if he would
cultivate the nation’s taste, show the importance of art, encourage
collecting, and teach how to collect, has he not, of late, opened his
house almost to the public, and exhibited his collection; and what did
it show? doubtless, beautiful specimens of art, but specimens of the
great, the sublime, the pathetic? Alas, no! I did not see mention made
of a single Italian picture. Now, what would you think of the taste of a
man who should profess to collect a library of poets, and should omit
Homer, and Æschylus, and Dante, and point with pride to the neatly-bound
volumes of the minor poets, and show you nothing higher than the “Pastor
Fido,” or the “Gentle Shepherd?”
LYDIA.—Or in a musical library should discard Handel?
GRATIAN.—Well, that is strange, certainly; but if we are becoming more
home-comfort-seeking people, is it not right to encourage the production
of works for that _home market_? I cannot agree to put in the background
our more domestic artists—and at least they avoid the fault of choosing
disgusting subjects.
AQUILIUS.—Do they? I am not quite sure of that: we shall see. I suspect
they fail more in that respect than you will gladly admit.
GRATIAN.—Now, what fault can you find with my favourite Landseer? Do you
not like to see the faithful, poor dumb creatures ennobled by his
pencil, and made, as they ought to be in life, the humble companions of
mankind?
CURATE.—If humble, not ennobled!
GRATIAN.—Master Curate, do you not read—“Before honour cometh humility?”
AQUILIUS.—I agree with you, Gratian. I quite love his pictures: they are
wonderfully executed, with surprising truth, and in general his
subjects, if not high, are pleasing. Yet I hardly know how to say, in
general: there are so many exceptions. I could wish he were a little
less cruel.
LYDIA.—Cruel! how can that be? his pet dogs, his generous dogs, and
horses, and that macaw, and the familiar monkey, and that dear begging
dog. The most gentle-minded lady I am acquainted with is working it in
tambour—and has been a twelve-month about it!
GRATIAN.—And has he not a high poetic feeling? Can you object to the
“Sanctuary,” and the “Combat,”—I believe that is the title of the
picture—where the stag is waiting for his rival?
AQUILIUS.—They are most beautiful, they are poetical; there is not an
inch of canvass in either that you could say should have a touch more or
less. The scenery sympathises with the creatures; it is their wild
domain, and they are left to their own instincts. There is no exhibition
of man’s craft there, let them enjoy their freedom. Even in the more
doubtful “Sanctuary,” we have the assurance that it _is_ a “Sanctuary;”
but I see, Gratian, that your memory is giving you a hint of some
exception. What think you of the fox—not hunted as you would have him
painted, wherein “the field” would be the sport—but just entering the
steel trap, where you see the dead rabbit, and think the fox will be
overmatched by man’s cruel cunning?
GRATIAN.—Why, I had rather hunt him in open field, and give him a chance
than trap him.