This passage is very suggestive in two ways. In the first place, we

humbly venture to think that it contains many excellent reasons why the

ladies of America should mitigate their inordinate desire for sharing in

what hitherto have been considered the appropriate employments of men.

It appears, by Mrs Stowe’s evidence, that they have already so much

domestic work to perform, that they are compelled to sacrifice both

their health and beauty, which certainly are the two last things that a

woman would be inclined to part with. Therefore it seems to us unwise,

and even preposterous, that any portion of them should be clamorous in

demanding a further increase of duty, unless, like the gude-wife of

Auchtermuchty in the old Scots ballad, they are prepared to make an

entire interchange of occupation with their husbands, and can persuade

the latter to whip cream, concoct soup, wash the dishes, and arrange the

table, whilst they are pleading at the bar, prescribing for half the

young fellows in the neighbourhood, gesticulating at public meetings, or

receiving the incense of deputations. In the second place, these

particulars of American society may, in reality, have more to do with

the evident dislike to emancipation of the slaves which evidently

prevails in many parts of the United States, than Mrs Stowe was aware of

when she penned the passage. If it is true that the ladies of

America—using the term in the same sense as Mrs Stowe does, for she is

comparing the personal appearance of women of the richer and more

independent class in the two countries—if it is the fact that the

American ladies in the free States have to undergo the drudgery which

she describes, and that not from choice, but from absolute inability to

obtain proper assistance; then we have a distinct and intelligible

motive assigned to us why many excellent and humane people in the slave

States hesitate to join the movement in behalf of emancipation. We have

often suspected that some strong social reasons, unknown to us and to

the British public, must exist, to account for the continuance of the

slave system; and we think that Mrs Stowe has, albeit unwittingly,

disclosed one of them. For what does her sentiment amount to, but an

acknowledgment that, in the great enlightened republic of America, it is

impossible to procure decent or permanent service—that, as there is no

acknowledgment of anything like rank or gradation, the servants consider

themselves in all respects as good as their master or mistress, will not

obey them unless it suits their humour, and are always ready to decamp?

That must be the case, unless we are to suppose that the American

ladies, answering to the aristocracy here, have a diseased appetite for

performing the offices of scullion, cook, and table-maid. Now, it may be

thought a very strong statement on our part, but we venture to say, that

were slavery existing at the present time in Great Britain, and were the

kind of free service procurable on any terms, no better than that which

Mrs Stowe and all other writers have described as existing in America,

emancipation would be a decidedly unpopular proposal in these Islands.

Is it possible to doubt that? Look at the history of the Factories Bill,

opposed, defeated, and evaded in every possible way, by the very same

men who proclaim themselves as the warmest friends of the negro. They

thought it as nothing that the bodies and souls of the young children

within their factories should be distorted and uncared for, whilst at

the same time they were ready to expend their gratuitous sympathy on the

American slave. But we shall not refer solely to them. Our remark

applies to every class; and we put the question to the ladies of this

country, from the Duchess of Sutherland downwards, whether, if they had

been born slave-owners, they would at once have relinquished their

control over those whom they could treat kindly, and whose affections

they could secure, to pass to a system which would have sent them down

from the drawing-room to slave themselves in the pantry or the kitchen?

Is that an argument for slavery? Heaven forbid! We intend nothing of the

kind, and should be very sorry to see our meaning so twisted and

distorted. But it is an argument of the very strongest description

against republicanism and republican institutions, and against those

absurd notions of equality which, under philosophical cover, are making

such rapid progress in this country. Slavery, we are convinced, has in

all times existed rather as a social necessity, than from any abstract

wish in man to own property in man. The idea is of itself repugnant. Not

much more than a hundred years ago, the Earls of Sutherland were, in

effect, considerable serf-owners. The patriarchal rule of the chief was

more despotic than is the sway of the proprietor of slaves in America;

for if the Mhor-ar-chat, which we apprehend to be the most ancient

designation of the family, had desired Dugald or Donald to pitch his

recusant brother into the loch, with some hundred-weight of granite

attached to his neck by a plaid, “nae doubt the laird’s pleasure suld be

obeyed.” Fortunately we are past that phase of existence. The feudal

system has decayed and died, which we are not by any means sorry for;

but, on the other hand, we have not yet arrived at the point when the

descendants of Dugald and Donald consider themselves as ranking in the

same degree of the social scale with the great Lady of Dunrobin. Feudal

service has given way to a better-ordered, more convenient, and more

profitable system. But still, among us, the gradations of rank are

recognised and acted on; and it is because the feelings and institutions

of the country are essentially aristocratic, that our domestic

arrangements and social intercourse are so decidedly superior to those

of America, or indeed of any other country in the world. We have equal

laws, to which noble and yeoman are alike amenable; but we do not insist

upon the recognition of what has absurdly and mischievously been termed,

the law of universal equality. Admirably has Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton,

in one of his earlier writings, exposed the fallacy of those who

confound equal rights with absolute parity in society. “If the whole

world conspired to enforce the falsehood, they could not make it _law_.

Level all conditions to-day, and you only smoothe away all obstacles to

tyranny to-morrow. A nation that aspires to _equality_ is unfit for

_freedom_.” How is an army led? By subordination only. Remove that

principle, and the army resolves itself into a mob. So is it with all

society. Let men talk of the absurdities of chivalry as they please, it

is the influence of the chivalrous institutions still remaining among us

which leavens the whole mass of British society. Pothouse philosophers

may sneer at this assertion, and, in their usual elegant style of

language, talk of “flunkeyism,” a phrase which, of late, has been very

frequently in their mouths. Let us see what they understand by it. Do

they mean to object to service altogether? Do they consider the waiter

at the Thistlewood Arms, who supplies them with their nocturnal

allowances of gin, degraded by the act of fetching? Doubtless they would

infinitely prefer to help themselves, and to be the sole supervisors of

the score; but as that is a degree of liberty which no law could

possibly allow, or landlord tolerate, they are very fain to avail

themselves of the spirituous ministry of Trinculo. But do they consider

him on a level with themselves? Not at all. They bully him for his

blunders in the transmission of half-and-half and kidneys, with a

ferocity truly unfraternal; and if he were to propose to take a place at

the table of their democratic worships, he would be taught a due

reverence to the rules of society and breeding by the application of a

pint-pot to his cranium. We have very little doubt that the wretched

kind of domestic economy which prevails in the free States of America

has had a strong influence in preventing the spread of emancipation

principles; and we believe that to the very same cause may be traced the

continuance of slavery in ancient Rome as part of their social system.

The Roman plebeian was quite as surly a republican as the descendant of

the Pilgrim Fathers. He would not stoop to act in the capacity of a

servant—hardly in that of a help, which we believe to be the recognised

American term; and consequently the Cornelias, Livias, and Tullias of

Rome, had either to avail themselves of the ministry of slaves who

formed part of the household, or to submit to the personal drudgery of

cleaning the lampreys and opening the oysters for the suppers of their

luxurious lords Titius or Mœvius, or any other of the fellows of the

common sort who had a tribune of their own, would not have consented to

brush the toga or clean the sandals even of a senator. At the bare

mention of such a thing they would have been ready to rush to the Mons

Sacer, for it is a curious fact that in all ages the disaffected have

manifested a propensity for taking to the hills. Chivalry put an end to

this; and by establishing gradation of orders and of rank, laid the

foundation for the freedom which now prevails throughout the states of

Europe. It was no disgrace for the squire to obey the orders of the

knight, or for the yeoman to serve the squire. The lady in her bower had

the attendance of damsel and of page; and the great model of a

well-regulated household was then framed and introduced. But not one

atom of chivalrous feeling was conveyed by the Mayflower to New England.

The spirit of the sourest republicanism pervaded that whole cargo of

human verjuice; and instead of bearing with them to the west the seeds

of civilisation, they carried those of intolerance and slavery. Very

wise, in more senses than one, is the old proverb, which, in all matters

of reformation, desires us to look primarily to home, and to set our

houses in order. There are many social reforms, besides emancipation,

required in America; and some which we almost venture to think must

necessarily precede it. For at present, according to Mrs Stowe’s own

showing and testimony, there is a vast gap in society occasioned by the

republican abhorrence of anything like menial service, and the jealous

and almost defiant spirit with which the semblance of authority is

resisted. In a word, we believe that until civilisation in America has

proceeded so far as to assimilate its social condition to that of the

older states of Europe, very material obstacles will impede the triumph

of that cause which Mrs Stowe has so enthusiastically advocated.

Mrs Stowe, like many others of her ardent countrywomen, has a decided

turn for crotchets. She next falls in with Elihu Burritt, and begins an

eulogistic commentary on the “movement which many, in our

half-Christianised times, regard with as much incredulity as the grim,

old, warlike barons did the suspicious imbecilities of reading and

writing. The sword now, as then, seems so much more direct a way to

terminate controversies, that many Christian men, even, cannot conceive

how the world is to get along without it.” We suspect that, by this

time, exceeding grave doubts as to the practicability of his views, and

the termination of all disputes by arbitration, must have penetrated

even the jolter-pate of the pragmatic Elihu, and that he must be

mourning over the enormous waste of olive-leaves for so little good

purpose. We sincerely hope, for his sake, that he has been allowed a

liberal commission or per-centage on the circulation. As Mrs Stowe seems

to have been admitted to his secrets, we may as well insert her account

of the operations of the Peace Society.

“Burritt’s mode of operation has been by the silent organisation of

circles of ladies in all the different towns of the United Kingdom,

who raise a certain sum for the diffusion of the principles of peace

on earth and good-will to men. Articles, setting forth the evils of

war, moral, political, and social, being prepared, these circles pay

for their insertion in all the principal newspapers of the Continent.

They have secured to themselves in this way a continual utterance in

France, Spain, Italy, Switzerland, Austria, and Germany; so that from

week to week, and month to month, they can insert articles upon these

subjects. Many times the editors insert the articles as editorial,

which still further favours their design. In addition to this, the

ladies of these circles in England correspond with the ladies of

similar circles existing in other countries; and in this way there is

a mutual kindliness of feeling established through these countries.”

We have already recorded in the Magazine our opinion of the character of

these olive-leaves, as well as of the articles avowedly emanating from

the pen of the inspired Elihu; and therefore we need not trouble

ourselves by again disturbing the rubbish. If there are any sincere but

weak people who were inclined to view favourably the movements of the

Peace Society, the transactions in Europe during the last twelve months

must have convinced them of the utter impossibility of creating any

general court of arbitration, by means of which international disputes

may be adjusted. At the present moment, Russia stands condemned for her

aggression by every state in Europe. Even Prussia does not venture to

defend the forcible occupation of the Danubian principalities; and every

species of persuasion and representation was employed to induce the Czar

to abandon his purpose, or at all events to retrace his steps. So

unwilling were the western powers to draw the sword, that they allowed a

great deal of valuable time to be expended in negotiation, before they

took any decided step; and the general opinion in England is, that the

British Government was rather too tardy in its movements. And yet,

without a single declared ally, and with the unanimous voice of Europe

against him, Nicholas has thrown down the gauntlet, and the fleets of

Britain and France are in the Black and the Baltic Seas. After this, it

is inconceivable that there should be found any people besotted enough

to talk about arbitration. We should not, however, omit to notice the

last dying speech and final confession of the Peace Society, as

delivered by a leash of Quakers before his Majesty the Emperor of all

the Russias, and reported on their return with so much unction by the

highly-gifted and exulting Pease. There is no tragedy so deep and solemn

as to be entirely without a farcical element; and we can remember

nothing, in the shape of burlesque, to compete with the apparition of

those diffident Quakers at St Petersburg. But the fact is, that the

leading members of the Peace Society, amongst whom rank conspicuously

the chiefs of the Manchester school, were perfectly well aware that the

notion of arbitration was a mere chimera. Their real object was to

promote the spread of democratic principles; and, if possible, to weaken

the power of every existing government by strewing dissatisfaction among

their subjects. This is not our allegation only—it is in perfect

consonance with what Mrs Stowe records in repeating her conversations

with the leading apostles of peace; and we really think that the

following revelation as to ultimate views, is by no means the least

valuable or interesting part of her work. She says—

“When we ask these reformers how people are to be freed from the yoke

of despotism without war, they answer, ‘By the diffusion of ideas

among the masses—_by teaching the bayonets to think_.’ They say, ‘If

we convince every individual soldier of a despot’s army that war is

ruinous, immoral, and unchristian, we take the instrument out of the

tyrant’s hand. If each individual man would refuse to rob and murder

for the Emperor of Austria and the Emperor of Russia, where would be

their power to hold Hungary? What gave power to the masses in the

French Revolution, but that the army, pervaded by new ideas, refused

any longer to keep the people down?’

“These views are daily gaining strength in England. They are supported

by the whole body of the Quakers, who maintain them with that degree

of inflexible perseverance and never-dying activity which have

rendered the benevolent actions of that body so efficient.”

Very good, Mrs Stowe! But are no soldiers to be allowed to think, except

those belonging to a despot’s army? And is every individual soldier to

be permitted to act exclusively upon his own impressions of the abstract

propriety or justice of the service in which he is engaged? Passages

such as these—and they are not unfrequent in her work—go far indeed to

unsettle our faith in the sense, judgment, and discretion of Mrs

Stowe—qualities without which even the highest talent fails in attaining

at its aims.

But we must now follow Mrs Stowe to London, where her reception was of a

most marked and gratifying kind. Our readers cannot have forgotten the

remonstrance or expostulation which was addressed by the ladies of Great

Britain, under the generalship of the Duchess of Sutherland, to the

ladies of America, on the subject of the emancipation of the slaves.

That document was freely commented upon at the time; and, if we

recollect aright, some rather pungent strictures were made upon it, even

by writers in this country, as if, by taking this step, the fair

remonstrants had somewhat transgressed the reserve which is expected

from their sex. In that view we cannot join. We have intimated, perhaps

broadly enough, our objections to the American notion of the “Rights of

Woman;” but we trust to stand acquitted of entertaining any such

discourteous view as might preclude the ladies from a fair expression of

their opinion. In a question such as this, embracing all the domestic

considerations and feelings to which women are more alive than men, it

was not only well and commendable, but noble and Christian, that women

should take a decided part, and attempt, at least, by an appeal to the

common sympathies of the sex, to awaken commiseration for the degraded

condition of thousands of their human sisters, and to urge an effort in

their behalf. We really think that one such representation, addressed by

women to women, is more likely to have a lasting and salutary effect,

than five hundred public meetings, such as Mrs Stowe witnessed at

Glasgow and elsewhere, where bull-throated ministers and blethering

bailies assemble to make trial of their powers of oratory.

Notwithstanding the reply of Juliana Tyler, who came forward as the

champion on the other side, we believe that the appeal, on the part of

the ladies of Great Britain, must have made a deep impression on the

minds of many in America. We do not feel ourselves called upon to

discuss the arguments which Mrs Tyler employed; for in a ladies’

controversy, no male has a right to interfere. Mrs Stowe tells us that

the origin of the address was this: “Fearful of the jealousy of

political interference, Lord Shaftesbury published an address to the

ladies of England, in which he told them that he felt himself moved by

an irresistible impulse to entreat them to raise their voice, in the

name of their common Christianity and womanhood, to their American

sisters.” We shall add, what Mrs Stowe is too modest to say, or perhaps

what she does not know, that, but for the publication of _Uncle Tom’s

Cabin_, and the interest excited thereby, Lord Shaftesbury might have

worn his pen to the stump before he could have succeeded in eliciting

any such remonstrance.

Most graceful indeed, and becoming, was the attention which was

lavished, on the part of the Duchess of Sutherland and her kindred, upon

Mrs Stowe; and to us by far the most pleasing portion of the book is

that in which she records her impressions of London society. In the very

highest circles of the metropolis, and while moving for a time in a

sphere which might very well dazzle and perplex one to whom such scenes

must have appeared like a fairy dream, she really appears to have kept

her equilibrium, and preserved her coolness of judgment much better than

when she was greeted by civic demonstrations in the North, or by

gatherings of the peaceful but somewhat prosy and dogmatic brotherhood

of the Quakers in the Midland Counties. To our great astonishment we

have observed that poor Mrs Stowe has been accused by various liberal

journals in England, of “flunkeyism,” for conveying to her friends an

accurate account of what she saw at Stafford House, and one or two other

mansions to which she was invited. Anything more unfair and even

monstrous than this style of criticism it is impossible to conceive. Mrs

Stowe is writing her impressions of British society for the information

of her friends in America. In London it was her good fortune to be

received cordially and hospitably by several of the most distinguished

and estimable of the nobility and public characters; and because she

gives a fair, and by no means too minute relation of what she saw and

heard, she is scoffed at, by a certain section of the liberal gentry of

the London press, as a kind of parasite. This is really very shabby and

disgusting; for we do think that her modest, unaffected, and sometimes

naïve observations upon what she saw passing around her, might have

saved her from any such reflection. She enjoyed in England particular

advantages such as very few Americans could boast of. Had N. P. Willis

ever been able to compass an admission to Stafford House, his literary

fortune would have been made. We should have heard no more of Count

Spiridion Ballardos, or any such small-deer; but the intrepid Penciller

would have fixed at once upon the Duke of Argyll as his victim, and have

magnified himself in some inconceivable way, by introducing Philip

Slingsby as the triumphant rival and competitor of the MacCallum-Mhor.

Mrs Stowe does not try by any means to exalt herself—indeed her figure

does not appear at all prominently in the picture. She has endeavoured

to give as accurate a sketch as she could of London society, and in some

respects has succeeded pretty well. Blunders there are of course, but

that was unavoidable, and a good deal of what appears to us to be

gossip, but which possibly may have a higher value in the eyes of her

Transatlantic readers. She very fairly admits in her preface, that her

narrative may be tinged _couleur de rose_; and we are only surprised,

considering the temptations in her way, that she has used the Claude

Lorraine glass with so much discretion. Society is quite as intoxicating

as champagne; and it is impossible to write a book of this kind, without

recalling, to a considerable extent, the feeling of the bygone

excitement. We have no doubt that the printed narrative would seem

peculiarly sober, could we be favoured with a perusal of the actual

letters which Mrs Stowe despatched to America from the bewildering whirl

of London.

One thing, however, we have remarked with pain; and that is the

introduction by Mrs Stowe of an elaborate defence or explanation of what

were called the “Sutherland Clearings.” Her motive for doing so is quite

apparent; but we cannot help thinking that she has placed both herself,

and the noble family for whom she appears as an advocate, in a false and

disagreeable position, by putting forth statements of the accuracy of

which she had no means of judging. The transactions to which she refers

are of an old date; and they occurred in a district of which she has

absolutely no personal knowledge. She never was in Sutherland, or indeed

any other part of the Highlands, and therefore she was not entitled in

any way to deal with such a subject. That she was furnished with

materials for the purposes of publication seems more than probable: if

so, we cannot commend the prudence of those who took so singular a

method of refuting what may very possibly be calumny or

misrepresentation. With the merits of the case we have nothing to do,

nor shall we express any opinion upon them; but it does seem to us a

most extraordinary circumstance that Mrs Stowe should have been induced

to put forth a long, elaborate, and statistical argument upon a subject

of which she is wholly ignorant. A defence of this kind—supposing that

any defence was required—is positively hurtful to the parties whose

conduct has been called in question; and anything but creditable to

their discretion if they consented to its issue.

Interspersed with the actual narrative, are commentaries, or rather

criticisms, upon art and literature, which, for the sake of the

authoress, we could wish omitted. Her taste, upon all subjects of the

kind, is either wholly uncultivated or radically bad—indeed it would be

absolutely cruel to quote her observations on the works of the old

masters. In literature she prefers Dr Watts, as a poet, to Dryden, and

has the calm temerity to proceed to quotation. She says, “For instance,

take these lines:—

“‘Wide as his vast dominion lies

Let the Creator’s name be known;

Loud as his thunder shout his praise,

_And sound it lofty as his throne_.

Speak of the wonders of that love

_Which Gabriel plays on every chord_,

From all below and all above

Loud hallelujahs to the Lord.’

“Simply as a specimen of harmonious versification, _I would place this

paraphrase by Dr Watts above everything in the English language_, not

even excepting Pope’s Messiah”!!! Whereas, to any one possessing a

common ear, the lines must rank as absolute doggrel, and the ideas which

they convey are commonplace and wretchedly expressed. Elsewhere she

says:—“I certainly do not worship the old English poets. With the

exception of Milton and Shakespeare, there is more poetry in the works

of the writers of the last fifty years than in all the rest together.”

We wonder if she ever read a line of Chaucer or of Spenser, not to speak

of Pope and Dryden. But she objects even to Milton. Here is a piece of

criticism which we defy the world to match: “There is a coldness _about

all the luscious exuberance of Milton_, like the wind that blows from

the glaciers across these flowery valleys. How serene his angels in

their adamantine virtue! yet what sinning, suffering soul could find

sympathy in them? The utter want of sympathy for the fallen angels, in

the whole celestial circle, _is shocking_. Satan is the only one who

weeps

“‘For millions of spirits for his faults amerced,

And from eternal splendours flung—’

“God does not care, nor his angels.” Our readers, we hope, will

understand why we leave this passage without comment. But it may be

worth while to show them the sort of poetry (beyond Watts) which Mrs

Stowe does admire, and she favours us with the following as a “beautiful

aspiration” from an American poet of the name of Lowell:—

“Surely the wiser time shall come

When this fine overplus of might,

No longer sullen, slow or dumb,

Shall leap to music and to light.

In that new childhood of the world,

Life of itself shall dance and play,

_Fresh blood through Time’s shrunk veins be hurled_,

And labour meet delight half way.”

Beautiful aspirations—lovely lines! Why—they are absolute nonsense; and

the mere silent reading of them has set our teeth on edge. Try to recite

them, and you are inevitably booked for a catarrh! In like manner she

refers to some rubbish of Mr Whittier, an American rhymer, as a

“beautiful ballad, called ‘Barclay of Ury.’” We have a distinct

recollection of having read that ballad some years ago, and of our

impression that it was incomparably the worst which we ever encountered;

though, if a naked sword were at this moment to be presented to our

throat, we could depone nothing further, than that “rising in a fury,”

rhymed to “Barclay of Ury;” and also, that “frowning very darkly,”

chimed in to the name of “Barclay.” But it was woeful stuff; and it

lingers in our memory solely by reason of its absurdity. However, as Mrs

Stowe prefers this sort of thing to Spenser, we have nothing for it

except to make our bow, regretting that our æsthetical notions are so

far apart, that, under no circumstances whatever, can we foresee the

possibility of a coalition.

Beyond the Channel we shall not follow her; the more especially as the

greater part of the Continental tour is described in the journal of the

Rev. Charles Beecher, an individual with whose proceedings, thoughts,

and raptures, we have not been able to conjure up the slightest

sympathy. In fact, taking Mr Beecher at his own estimate and valuation,

and making every allowance for playfulness of manner, we should by no

means covet his company in any part of Europe; and we are only surprised

that, in one or two places (as for instance Cologne), he did not receive

an emphatic check to his outrageous hilarity. But as he seems to have

been impressed with the idea that he exhibited himself rather in a

humorous and attractive light, we have no intention of dispelling the

dream—we are only sorry that Mrs Stowe should have thought it worth

while to increase the bulk of her book by admitting her relative’s

inflated, ill-written, and singularly silly lucubrations, as part of a

work which, considering her literary celebrity, and the interest of the

theme, will in all probability have an extensive circulation.

After making every allowance for the difficulty attendant upon the task

of portraying with fidelity and spirit the customs of a foreign country,

we cannot, with truth, express an opinion that Mrs Stowe has been

successful in her effort. Far more interesting and agreeable volumes

have been written by women of less natural ability; and we are

constrained to dismiss, with a feeling of decided disappointment, a book

which we opened with the anticipation of a very different result.

THE CRYSTAL PALACE.[44]

It is the common practice of innovators to set up a loud cry against

long-received opinions which favour them not, and the word prejudice is

the denunciation of “mad-dog.” But prejudices, like human beings who

hold them, are not always “_so bad as they seem_.” They are often the

action of good, natural instincts, and often the results of

ratiocinations whose processes are forgotten. Let us have no “Apology”

for a long-established prejudice; ten to one but it can stand upon its

own legs, and needs no officious supporter, who simply apologises for

it.

We have had philosophers who have told us there is really no such thing

as beauty, consequently there can be no such thing as taste; that it is

a mere idea, an unaccountable prejudice somehow or other engendered in

the brain. And though there exists not a head in the universe without a

portion of this disorder-breeding brain, the philosopher persists that

the product is a worthless nonentity, and altogether out of the nature

of things. We maintain, however, in favour of prejudices and tastes—that

there are real grounds for both; and, presuming not to be so wise as to

deny the evidences of our senses, and conclusions of our minds, think it

scarcely worth while to unravel the threads of our convictions. In

matters of science we marvel and can believe almost anything; but in our

tastes and feelings we naturally, and by an undoubting instinct, shrink

from the touch of an innovator, as we would shun the heel of a donkey.

Whenever an innovator of this kind sets up “An Apology” for his intended

folly, we invariably feel that he means a very audacious insult upon our

best perceptions. The worst of it is, he is not one easily put aside—he

will labour to get a commission into your house, ransack it to its

sewers, and turn it out of windows. He is the man that must ever be

doing. He will think himself entitled to perambulate the world with his

pot of polychrome in his hand, and bedaub every man’s door-post; and if

multitudes—the whole offended neighbourhood—rush out to upset his pot

and brush, he will laugh in their faces, defend his plastering

instruments, and throw to them with an air his circular, “An Apology;”

and perhaps afterwards knock the doors down for an authorised payment.

Such a one shall get no “Apology”-pence out of us.

We are prejudiced—we delight in being prejudiced—will continue

prejudiced as long as we live, and will entertain none but prejudiced

friends. There are things we will believe, and give no reasons for,

ever; and things we never will believe, whatever reasons are to be given

in their favour. We think the man who said, “Of course, I believe it, if

you say you saw it; but I would not believe it if I saw it myself,” used

an irresistible argument of good sound prejudice, mixed with discretion.

It is better, safer, and honester, to bristle up like a hedgehog, and

let him touch who dares, than to sit and be smoothed and smoothed over

with oily handling of sophisticated arguments, till every decent

palpable roughness of reason is taken from you.

Reader, do you like white marble? What a question! you will ask,—do you

suppose me to have no eyes? Do not all people covet it—import it from

Carrara? Do not sculptors, as sculptors have done in all ages, make

statues from it—monuments, ornaments, and costly floors? Of course,

everybody loves white marble. Then, reader, if such is your taste, you

are a prejudiced ignoramus; you belong to that age “devoid of the

capacity to appreciate and the power to execute works of art”—that age

which certain persons profess to _illuminate_. You are now, under the

new dictators of taste, to know that you had no business to admire white

marble,[45]—that you are so steeped in this old prejudice that it will

require a long time before you can eradicate this stain of a vile

admiration, although your teachers have acquired a true knowledge in an

incredible time. You must put yourself under the great colourman of the

great Crystal Palace, Mr Owen Jones, who, if he does not put out your

eyes in the experiments he will set before you, will at least endeavour

to convince you that you are a fool of the first water. But beware how

you don his livery of motley. Hear him: “Under this influence (the

admiration of white marble), however, we have been born and bred, and it

requires time to shake off the trammels which such early education

leaves.” You have sillily believed that the Athenians built with marble

because of its beauty,—that the Egyptians thought there was beauty in

granite. You thought in your historical dream that he who found the city

of brick, and left it of marble, had done something whereof he might

reasonably boast. You have been egregiously mistaken. If you ever read

that the Greeks and Romans, and other people since their times

civilised, sent great distances for marble for their palaces and

statues, you must put it down in your note-book of new “historic

doubts.” You learn a fact you never dreamed of, from Mr Owen Jones. They

merely used it (marble) because it lay accidentally at their feet. He

puts the richest colouring of his contempt on “the artificial value

which white marble has in our eyes.” Learn the real cause of its use:

“The Athenians built with marble, because they found it almost beneath

their feet, and also from the same cause which led the Egyptians to

employ granite, which was afterwards painted—viz. because it was the

most enduring, and capable of receiving a higher finish of workmanship.”

He maintains that so utterly regardless were these Greeks of any

supposed beauty in marble—especially white marble—that they took pains

to hide every appearance of its texture; that they not only painted it

all over, but covered it with a coating of stucco. Listen to an oracle

that, we will answer for it, never came from Delphi, that no Pythia in

her madness ever conceived, and that, if uttered in the recesses, would

have made Apollo shake his temple to pieces.

“To what extent were white marble temples painted and ornamented? I

would maintain that they were _entirely_ so; that neither the colour of

the marble, nor even its surface, was preserved; and that preparatory to

the ornamenting and colouring of the surface, the whole was covered with

a thin coating of stucco, something in the nature of a gilder’s ground,

to stop the absorption of the colours by the marble.”

“A thin coat of stucco!” and no exception with respect to statues—to be

applied wherever the offensive white marble showed its unblushing

nakedness and beauty!! Let us imagine it tested on a new statue—thus

stucco over, however thin, Mr Bayley’s Eve, or Mr Power’s Greek

Slave—the thought is enough to make the sculptor go mad, and commit a

murder on himself or the plasterer—to see all his fine, his delicate

chisellings obliterated! all the nice markings, the scarcely perceptible

dimplings gone!—for let the coat of stucco be thin as a wafer, it must,

according to that thickness, enlarge every rising and diminish the

spaces between them: thus, all true proportion must be lost; between two

risings the space must be less. “What fine chisel,” says our immortal

Shakespeare, “could ever yet cut breath?” How did he imagine, in these

few words, the living motion of the “breath of life” in the statue! and

who doubts either the attempt or the success so to represent perfect

humanity, when he looks at the finest antique statues? Let an audacious

innovator dare to daub one of them with his coat of stucco, and all the

chiselling of the life, breath, and motion is annihilated. It must be

so, whatever be the thickness of the coat; though it be but a

nail-paring it must diminish risings and hollows, and all nicer touches

must disappear. We should heartily desire to see the innovator

suffocated in his plaster and paint-pot, that in his suffering he may

know it is a serious thing to knock the life-breath out of the body even

of a statue.

“Nec lex est justior ulla

Quam necis artifices arte perire suâ.”

There is one slight objection to our getting rid of this prejudice in

favour of white marble which we suggest to Mr Owen Jones, and all the

“Stainers’” Company—the unseemly blots we shall have to make in the

fairest pages of poetry, old and new. Albums will of course be ruined,

and a general smear, bad as a “coat of stucco,” be passed over the whole

books of beauties who have “dreamed they dwelt in marble halls.” The new

professors, polychromatists, must bring out, if they are able, new

editions of all our classics. How must this passage from Horace provoke

their bile:

“Urit me Glycone nitor

Splendentis Pario marmore puriùs.”

And when, after being enchanted by the “grata protervitas,” he adds the

untranslateable line,

“Et Vultus nimium lubricus aspici,”

we can almost believe, with that bad taste which Mr Owen Jones will

condemn, that he had in the full eye of his admiration the polished,

delicately defined charm of the Parian marble.

It was a clown’s taste to daub the purity; and first he daubed his own

face, and the faces of his drunken rabble. He would have his gods made

as vulgar as himself; and then, doubtless, there was many a wooden,

worthless, and obscene idol, the half joke and veneration of the

senseless clowns, painted as fine as vermilion could make them.

“Agricola et minio suffusus, Bacche, rubente,

Primus inexpertâ duxit ab arte choros.”

TIB.

But to suppose that Praxiteles and Phidias could endure to submit their

loveliest works to be stuccoed and _solidly_ painted over with

vermilion, seems to us to suppose a perfect impossibility. That they

could not have willingly allowed the defilement we have shown by the

nature of their work, all the nicety of touch and real proportion of

parts lying under the necessity of alteration, and consequently damage

thereby. Whatever apparent proof might be adduced that such statues were

painted—and we doubt the proof, as we will endeavour to show—we do not

hesitate to say that the daubings and plasterings must have been the

doing of a subsequent less cultivated people, and possibly at the demand

of a vulgarised mobocracy. The clown at our pantomimes is the successor

to the clown who smeared his face with wine-lees, and passed his jokes

while he gave orders to have his idol painted with vermilion. Yet though

it must be impossible that Phidias or Praxiteles would have allowed

solid coats of paint or stucco, or both, to have ruined the works of

their love and genius, under the presuming title “historical evidence”

an anecdote is culled from the amusing gossip Pliny, to show what

Praxiteles thought of it. “There is a passage in Pliny which is

decisive, as soon as we understand the allusion.” Speaking of Nicias

(lib. xxxv. cap. 11), he says that Praxiteles, when asked which of his

marble works best satisfied him, replied, “Those which Nicias has had

under his hands.” “So much,” adds Pliny, “did he prize the finishing of

Nicias”—(_tantum circumlitioni ejus tribuebat_). This “finishing of

Nicias,” by its location, professes to be a translation from Pliny,

which it is not. Had the writer adopted the exact wording of the old

English translation, from which he seems to have taken the former

portion of the sentence, it would not have suited his purpose, but it

would have been more fair: it is thus, “So much did he attribute unto

his vernish and polishing”—which contradicts the solid painting. Pliny

is rather ambiguous with regard to this Nicias—whether he was the

celebrated one or no. But it should be noticed that the anecdote, as

told in Mr Owen Jones’ “Apology,” is intended to show that the painter’s

skill, as a painter, was added—substantially added—to the work of

Praxiteles, whereas this Nicias may have been one who was nice in the

making and careful in the use of his varnish; and we readily grant that

some kind of varnishing or polishing may have been used over the

statues, both for lustre and protection. Certainly at one time, though

we would not say there is proof as to the time of Phidias, such

varnishes, or rather waxings, were in use. But even if it were the

celebrated Nicias to whom the anecdote refers, we cannot for a moment

believe he would have touched substantially, as a painter, any work of

Praxiteles. But as genius is ever attached to genius, he may have

supplied to Praxiteles the means of giving that polish which he gave to

his own works, and probably aided him in the operation, not “had under

his hands,” as translated—“quibus manum _admovisset_.” Pliny had in his

eye the very _modus operandi_ of the encaustic process, the holding

heated iron within a certain distance of the object. But what was the

operation? Does the text authorise anything like the painting the

statue? Certainly not. And however triumphantly it is brought forward,

there is a hitch in the argument which must be confessed.

In making this confession, it would have been as well to have referred

to Pliny himself for the meaning. Pliny uses the verb _illinebat_, in

grammatical relation to _circumlitio_, in the sense of varnishing, in

that well-known passage in which he speaks of the varnish used by

Apelles—“Unum imitari nemo potuit, quod absoluta opera _illinebat_

atramento ita tenui,” &c.

The meaning of this passage hangs on the word _circumlitio_. Winckelmann

follows the mass of commentators in understanding this as referring to

some mode of _polishing_ the statues. But Quatremère de Quincey, in his

magnificent work _Le Jupiter Olympien_, satisfactorily shows this to be

untenable, not only “because no sculptor could think of preferring such

of his statues as had been better polished, but also because Nicias

being a _painter_, not a sculptor, his services must have been those of

a painter.” If these are the only “becauses” of Quatremère de Quincey,

they are anything but satisfactory; for a sculptor may esteem all his

works as equal, and then prefer such as had the advantage of Nicias’s

_circumlitio_. Nor does the _because_ of Nicias being a painter at all

define the _circumlitio_ to be a plastering with stucco, or a thick

daubing with vermilion; for, be it borne in mind, this vermilion

painting is always spoken of as a solid coating. As to Nicias’s

services, “What were they?” asks the author of the _Historical Evidence

in Mr Jones’s Apology_. “Nicias was an _encaustic painter_, and hence it

is clear that his _circumlitio_, his mode of finishing the statues, so

highly prized by Praxiteles, must have been the application of encaustic

painting to those parts which the sculptor wished to have ornamented.

For it is quite idle to suppose a sculptor like Praxiteles would allow

another sculptor to _finish_ his works. The rough work may be done by

other hands, but the finishing is always left to the artist. The statue

completed, there still remained the painter’s art to be employed, and

for that Nicias is renowned.”—Indeed! This is exceedingly childish:

first the truism that one sculptor would not have another to _finish_

his work—of course, not; and then that the work was not finished until

the painter had regularly, according to his best skill and art—which art

and skill were required—been employed in the painting it as he would

paint a picture, “_for which he was renowned_;”—that is, variously

colour all the parts—till he had variously coloured hair and eyes, and

put in varieties of flesh tones, show the blue veins beneath, and all

that a painter _renowned_ for these things was in the habit of doing in

his pictures. If this be not the meaning of this author, and the object

of Mr Owen Jones in making such a parade of it, he or the writer writes

without any fixed ideas, and all this assumption, all this absurd

theory, is after all built upon a word which these people are determined

to misunderstand, and yet upon which they cannot help but express the

doubt. But why should there be any doubt at all? As far as we can see,

the word is a plain word, and explains itself very well, and even

expresses its _modus operandi_. A writer acquainted with such a

schoolboy book as Ainsworth’s Dictionary might have relieved his mind as

to any doubts or forced construction of _circumlitio_; he might have

found there, that the word comes from _Lino_, to smear, from _Leo_, the

same—and that _Circum_ in the composition shows the action, the mode of

smearing. Nay, he is referred to two passages in Pliny, the very one

from which the quotation in the _Historical Evidence_ is taken, and to

another in the same author, Pliny—and authors generally explain

themselves—where the word is used in reference to the application of

medicinal unguents. We can readily grant that the ancient sculptors did

employ recipes of the most skilful persons in making unctuous varnishes,

which they rubbed into the marble as a preservative, and also to bring

out more perfectly the beauty of the marble texture—not altogether to

hide it. It may be, without the least concession towards Mr Owen Jones’s

painting theory, as readily granted that they gave this unctuous

composition a warm tone, with a little vermilion, as many still do to

their varnishes. Pliny himself, in his 33d book, chap. vii., gives such

a recipe: White Punic wax, melted with oil, and laid on hot; the work

afterwards to be well rubbed over with cere-cloths. To return to the

“Circumlitio,” we have the word, only with _super_ instead of _circum_,

used in the application of a varnish by the Monk Theophilus, of the

tenth century, who, if he did not take the word from Pliny, and

therefore in Pliny’s sense, may be taken for quite as good _Latin_

authority. After describing the method of making a varnish of oil and a

gum—“gummi quod vocatur fornis”—he adds, “Hoc glutine omnis pictura

superlinita, fit et decora ac omnino durabilis.” The two words

Superlitio and Circumlitio,[46]—the first applicable to such a surface

as a picture; the last to statues, which present quite another surface.

But if it could be proved—and it cannot—that the works of Praxiteles

were in Mr Owen Jones’s sense painted over, would that justify the

colouring the frieze of the Parthenon, the work of Phidias, who preceded

Praxiteles more than a century, during which many abominations in taste

may have been introduced? We are quite aware that, at a barbarous

period, images of gods, probably mostly those of wood, were painted over

with vermilion, as a sacred colour and one of triumph. We extract from

the old translation of Pliny this passage:—“There is found also in

silver mines a mineral called minium, _i. e._ vermilion, which is a

colour at this day of great price and estimation, like as it was in old

time; for the ancient Romans made exceeding great account of it, not

only for pictures, but also for divers sacred and holy uses. And verily

Verrius allegeth and rehearseth many authors whose credit ought not to

be disproved, who affirm that the manner was in times past to paint the

very face of Jupiter’s image on high and festival daies with vermilion:

as also that the valiant captains who rode in triumphant manner into

Rome had in former times their bodies covered all over therewith; after

which manner, they say, noble Camillus entered the city in triumph. And

even to this day, according to that ancient and religious custom,

ordinary it is to colour all the unguents that are used in a festival

supper, at a solemne triumph, with vermilion. And no one thing do the

Censors give charge and order for to be done, at their entrance into

office, before the painting of Jupiter’s image with minium.” Yet Pliny

does not say much in favour of the practice; for he adds—“The cause and

motive that induced our ancestors to this ceremony I marvel much at, and

cannot imagine what it should be.” The Censors did but follow a vulgar

taste to please the vulgar, for whom no finery can be too fine, no

colours too gaudy. However refined the Athenian taste, we know from

their comedies they had their vulgar ingredient: there could be no

security among them even for the continuance in purity of the genius

which gave them the works of Phidias and Praxiteles; nor were even these

great artists perhaps allowed the exercise of their own noble minds. The

Greeks had no permanent virtues—no continuance of high perceptions: as

these deteriorated, their great simplicity would naturally yield to

petty ornament. They of Elis, who appointed the descendants of Phidias

to the office of preserving from injury his statue of Jupiter Olympius,

did little if they neglected to secure their education also in the

principles of the taste of Phidias. The conservators would in time be

the destroyers; and simply because they must do, and know not what to

do. When images—their innumerable idols—were carried in processions,

they were of course dressed up, not for veneration, but show. We know

that in very early times their gods were carried about in shrines, and,

without doubt, tricked up with dress and daubings, pretty much as are,

at this day, the Greek Madonnas. Venus and Cupid have descended down to

our times in the painted Madonna and Bambino. Whatever people under the

sun have ever had paint and finery, temples, gods, and idols have had

their share of them. We need no proofs, and it is surprising we have so

few with respect to the great works of the ancients, that these

corruptions would take place. It is in human nature: barbarism never

actually dies; it is an ill weed, hard entirely to eradicate, and is

ready to spring up in the most cultivated soils. The vulgar mind will

make its own Loretto: imagination and credulity want no angels but

themselves to convey anywhere a “_santa casa_;” nor will there be

wanting brocade and jewels, the crown and the _peplos_, for the

admiration of the ignorant. Are a few examples, if found and proved, and

of the best times—which is not clear—to establish the theory as good in

taste, or in any way part of the intention of the great sculptors? If

authorities adduced, and to be adduced, are worth anything, they must go

a great deal farther. Take, for instance, a passage from Pausanias, lib.

ii. c. 11: Καὶ Ὑγείας δ’ ἐσι κατα ταυτον αγαλμα οὺκ αν οὐδὲ τοῦτο ἴδοις

ῤᾳδίως, οὕτω, περιεχουσιν ἀυτὸ κόμαι τε γυναικὼν άὓ κειρονται τῇ θεῶ,

καὶ ἐσθῆτός Βαβυλωνίας τελαμῶνες.—“And after the same manner is a statue

of Hygeia, which you may not easily see, it is so completely covered

with hair of the women who have shorn themselves in honour of the

goddess, and also with the fringes of the Babylonish vest.” Here,

surely, is quite sufficient authority for Mr Jones to procure ample and

variously coloured wigs for the Venus de Medicis, and other statues, and

to order a committee of milliners to devise suitable vesture. Images of

this kind were mostly made of wood, easy to be carried about; and were

often, doubtless, made likest life, for the deception as of the real

presence of a deity. The view of art was lost when imposture commenced.

Mr Jones admits that the Greek sculptors did not intend exact imitation,

but his theory goes so close to it, it would be difficult to say where

it stops short. Indeed, he had better at once go the whole way, or we

may better say, “the whole hog,” with bristle brushes, for when he has

got rid of the “_prejudice_” in favour of white marble, his spectators

will be satisfied with nothing less than wax-work.

We remember hearing, in a remote village, the consolation one poor woman

gave another—“Look up to them pretty angels, with their lovely black

eyes, and take comfort from ’em.” These were angels’ heads in plaster,

round the cornice, which the church-wardens, year after year, with the

official taste and importance of the Roman Censors, had caused to be so

painted when, as they announced on a tablet, they “beautified” the

church. Of late years we have been removing the whitewash from our

cathedrals, thicker, by repetition, than Mr Owen Jones’s prescribed

coats of stucco. Should his theory prevail, we shall be again ashamed of

stone; white-lime will be restored until funds shall be found for

stucco, inside and out, as preparation for Mr Jones’s bright blue and

unmitigated vermilion and gold. It is frightful to imagine Mr Owen Jones

and his paint-pot over every inch of Westminster Abbey, inside and out.

Let us take a nearer view of the historical evidence. We are told,

“Ancient literature abounds with references and allusions to the

practice of painting and dressing statues. Space prevents their being

copiously cited here.” We venture to affirm, that the lack of existence

is greater than the lack of space, if by ancient literature is meant the

best literature—the literature contemporary with the works of the great

sculptors. There were poets and historians—can any quotation be given at

all admissible as evidence? It is extraordinary that the advocates for

the theory, if it were true, can find no passages in the poets. Is there

nothing nearer than what Plato puts into the mouth of Socrates? “Let it

be remembered that Socrates was the son of a sculptor, and that Plato

lived in Athens, acquainted with the great sculptors and their works;

then read this passage, wherein Socrates employs by way of simile the

practice of painting statues—‘Just as if, when painting statues, a

person should blame us for not placing the most beautiful colours on the

most beautiful parts of the figure—inasmuch as the eyes, the most

beautiful parts, were not painted purple but black,—we should answer him

by saying, Clever fellow, do not suppose we are to paint eyes so

beautifully that they should not appear to be eye.’—PLATO, _De Repub._,

lib. iv. This passage would long ago have settled the question, had not

the moderns been preoccupied with the belief that the Greeks did not

paint their statues; they therefore read the passage in another sense.

Many translators read ‘pictures’ for ‘statues.’ But the Greek word

Ανδριας signifies ‘statue,’ and is never used to signify ‘picture.’ It

means statue, and a statuary is called the maker of such

statues—Ανδριαντοποιος. (Mr Davis, in Bohn’s English edition of Plato,

avoids the difficulty by translating it ‘human figures’).”—Mr Lloyd, in

his remarks upon this passage, confesses that it does not touch the

question concerning the painting the flesh, but refers to the eyes,

lips, and ornaments. We object not to admit more than this, and, as we

have before observed, that certain images, mostly of wood, were painted

entirely, excepting where clothed; and, for argument’s sake, admitting

that Socrates alluded to these common images, if we may so speak, the

ancestors of our common dolls, should we be justified in building a

theory subversive of all good taste upon such an ambiguity? For nothing

is here said of marble statues; and there is nothing to show that marble

statues are meant. The writer in the “Apology” says, with an air of

triumph, that Ανδριας always means statue, and never picture; but these

were figures, that he would call statues, of wood and of clay, and of

little value—a kind of marketable goods for the vulgar, as we have

already shown. But if the writer is determined to make them marble

statues, and of the best, he might certainly have made his case the

stronger; for when he says, and truly, that Socrates was the son of a

sculptor, he forgets that Socrates was himself a sculptor,—and some have

supposed him to have been a painter also, but Pliny is of another

opinion. The three Graces in the court before the Acropolis of Athens

were his work; and it is probably to the demands these Graces made upon

his thoughts the philosopher alluded in his dialogue with Theodote the

courtesan. She had invited him to her home; he excused himself that he

had no leisure from his private and public affairs,—“and besides,” he

adds playfully, “I have φἴλαι—female friends—at home who will not suffer

me to absent myself from them day or night, learning, as they do from

me, charms and powers of enticement.”[47] So that we may suppose him to

have been no mean statuary. Yet, considering that his mother followed

the humble occupation of a midwife, and that consequently his father was

not very rich, it may not be an out-of-the-way conjecture to suppose

that the family trade may have had its humbler employments, of which the

painting images may have borne a part. Ships had their images as well as

temples, and we know that the ship’s head was “Μιλτοπάρἤος.” The custom

has descended to our times. But we are not to take the word put by Plato

into the mouth of Socrates—ανδριαντας—necessarily in the highest sense,

and imagine he speaks of such works as those of Phidias or Praxiteles.

Although the Greeks did distinguish the several words by which statues

were understood, they were not very nice in the observance of the

several uses. Ανδριαντας may have been applied to any representation of

the human figure.[48] Ανδριαντοποιος, says the Apologist, was a

statuary—so may have been said to be Ανδριαντοπλάσης the modellist in

clay or wax; but neither word is used by Socrates—simply Ανδριαντας,

(images). There is not a hint as to how, or with what materials, they

were made. The scholiast on the passage in Aristophanes respecting the

work of Socrates (the Graces), makes a distinction between ανδριαντας

and αγαλματα—noticing that Socrates was the son of Sophroniscus,

λιθοξόou, with whom he took his share in the polishing art, adding that

he polished ανδριαντας λιθινouς ἐλαξεύε, and that he made the “αγαλματα”

of the three Graces. Now, let ανδριας be a statue, or human figure, of

whatever material, and grant that some such figures had painted eyes,

and probably partially coloured drapery, possibly the whole body

painted—what then? they might have been low and inferior works. Who

would think, from such data, of inferring a habit in the Greek sculptors

of painting and plastering all their marble statues—asserting too, so

audaciously, that we the moderns have, and not they, a prejudice in

favour of white marble? But Mr Lloyd, in his note on this passage, with

respect to Socrates (_vide_ “Apology”), admits that it is no evidence of

the colouring the flesh. “The passage is decisive, as far as it goes,

but it does not touch the question of colouring the flesh. It proves

that as late as Plato’s time it was usual to apply colour to the eyes of

statues; and assuming, what is not stated, that marble statues are in

question, we are brought to the same point as by the Æginetan marbles,

of which the eyes, lips, portions of the armour and draperies, were

found coloured. I forget whether the hair was found to be coloured, but

the absence of traces of colour on the flesh, while they were abundant

elsewhere, indicates that, if coloured at all, it must have been by a

different and more perishable process—by a tint, or stain, or varnish.

The Æginetan statues, being archaic, do not give an absolute rule for

those of Phidias. The archaic Athenian bas-relief of a warrior, in

excellent preservation, shows vivid colours on drapery and ornaments of

armour, and the eyeballs were also coloured: here again there is no

trace of colour on the flesh.” But notwithstanding that no statue has

been found with any trace of colour in the flesh, and not satisfied with

Mr Lloyd’s commentary, Mr Owen Jones seeks proof and confirmation of the

sense of the quotation from Plato, in a caution given by Plutarch, thus

mistranslated: “It is necessary to be very careful of statues, otherwise

_the vermilion with which the ancient statues were coloured will quickly

disappear_.” What kind of care is necessary? Plutarch uses the word

γάνωσις, which means more than care—that a polishing or varnishing is

necessary (if, as we may presume, they would preserve the old colouring

of an archaic statue), because, not perhaps of the quick fading of the

vermilion, as translated by Mr Lloyd, but the vermilion

εξανθεῖ—effloresces; or, as we should say, comes up dry to the surface,

leaving the vehicle with which it was put on. However, let the passage

have all the meaning Mr Owen Jones can desire, it relates only to

certain sacred figures at Rome, not in Greece, and which may have been,

for anything that is known to the contrary, figures of sacred geese. How

do these quotations show the practice of Phidias? In the first place,

Plato, who narrates what Socrates said, was nearly a century after

Phidias, and Plutarch nearly six hundred years after Phidias. On every

account the authority of Plato would be preferable to that of Plutarch,

who kept his school at Rome, and was far more fond of raising questions

than of affording accurate information.[49] Mr Owen Jones, however, in

the impetuosity of his imaginary triumph, outruns all his given

authorities to authorities not given. He says: “There are abundant

notices extant which illustrate it (the painting of statues). One will

suffice. The celebrated marble statue of a Bacchante by Scopas is

described as holding, in lieu of the Thyrsus, a dead roebuck, which is

cut open, and the marble represents living flesh.” We willingly excuse

the blunder of the _living_ flesh of a _dead_ roebuck, ascribing it

solely to the impetuosity of the genius of Mr Owen Jones, which,

plunging into colouring matter, would vermilionise the palest face of

Death. If paint could “create a soul under the ribs of death,” he would

do it. He must greatly admire the old lady’s dying request to—

“Put on this cheek a little _red_,

One surely would not look a fright when dead.”

We know not where to lay our hand upon the original account of this

statue of the Bacchante of Scopas; but if it says no more than the

Apologist says for it—that the marble represented “living flesh”—it does

not necessarily imply colour. Here is a contradiction: if it be meant

that by “living flesh” the colour of living flesh was represented—for

that must be the argument—there must have been an attempt towards the

exact imitation of nature. “In the first place,” says Mr Owen Jones,

arguing against the suggestion of coloured and veined marble having been

used, “veins do not so run in marble as to represent flesh. In the

second, unless statues were usually coloured, such veins, if they

existed, would be regarded as terrible blemishes, and the very things

the Greeks are supposed to have avoided—viz., colour as representing

reality—would be shown.” Does Mr Owen Jones here admit that this exact

imitation by colour was not usual? If so, as the words imply, what

becomes of his quotation of the words of Socrates with regard to

colouring the eyes? And further, upon what new plea will he justify his

colouring the Parthenon frieze—not only the men and their cloaks, but

the horses—so that the latter exactly resemble those on the roundabouts

on which children ride at fairs? We suppose he meant the men to have a

natural colour, and the horses also—a taste so vile, that we are quite

sure such a perpetration would have shocked Phidias out of all patience.

And if not meant for the exact colour, what can he suppose they were

painted for?—as, to avoid this semblance of reality, the Greeks,

according to him, should have painted men and horses vermilion or blue,

or any colour the farthest from reality, the contrary to the practice of

Mr Owen Jones—and that he should have painted them vermilion he

immediately shows, by quoting Pausanias, where he describes a statue of

Bacchus “as having all those portions not hidden by draperies painted

vermilion, the body being of gilded wood.” What has this to do with

marble statues? But he seems not to understand the hint given by his

commentator, Mr Lloyd, “that the statue was apparently ithyphallic, and

probably archaic”—a well-known peculiarity in statues of Bacchus. Not

having, however, such a specimen in marble, he is particularly glad to

find one of gypsum, “ornamented with paint:” nothing more probable, and

for the same reason that the wooden one was painted vermilion.

“But colour was used, as we know,” says Mr Owen Jones; “and Pausanias

(_Arcad._, lib. viii. cap. 39) describes a statue of Bacchus as having

all those portions not hidden by draperies painted vermilion, the body

being of gilded wood. He also distinctly says that statues made of

gypsum were painted, describing a statue of Bacchus γυψου πεποιημενον,

which was—the language is explicit—ornamented with paint,

(επικεκοσμημενον γραφῃ.)” These are statues of Bacchus, and, as the

Apologist is reminded by his commentator, Mr Lloyd, “apparently

ithyphallic,” and therefore painted red. The draperies are the

assumption of the writer; he should have said ivy and laurel. Mr Owen

Jones, to render his examples “abundant,” writes _statues_ in the latter

part of the quotation, whereas the word in his authority, Pausanias, is

singular. We stay not to inquire if γραφη here means paint, though,

speaking of another statue, Pausanias uses the verb and its congenial

noun in another sense—“ἐπίγραμμα ἐπἄυτῆ γραφῆναι.” We the more readily

grant it was painted vermilion, because it was a Bacchic statue; and

grant that it was seen by Pausanias. We daresay it was ancient enough;

but for any proof we must not look to Pausanias, who lived at Rome 170th

year of the Christian era;—and here it must be borne in mind, that of

the innumerable statues spoken of by that writer, of marble and other

materials, the supposed painted are a very few exceptions. Not only does

he speak of marble, without any mention of colouring, but of its

whiteness. In this matter, indeed, the exceptions prove the rule of the

contrary. Before we proceed to the examples taken from Virgil—weak

enough—let us see if there may not be found something nearer the time of

Phidias than any authorities given. Well, then, we have an eyewitness,

one who must not only have seen the statues of Phidias, but probably

conversed with Phidias himself—Æschylus. If such statues as he speaks of

were painted generally, and as a necessary part of their completion,

could he have brought into poetic use and sentiment their vacancy of

eyes? It is a remarkable passage. He is describing Menelaus in his

gallery full of the large statues of Helen. It is in the “Agamemnon:”

Εὐμόρφων γὰρ κολοσσῶν

Ἔχθεται χάρις ἀνδρί.

Ὀμμάτων δ’ ἐν ἀχηνίαις

Ἔῤῥει πᾶσ’ Ἀφροδίτα.

There was “no speculation in those eyes.” The eyes were not painted

certainly; as the poet saw the statues in his mind’s eye, so had he seen

them with his visible organs. The charm of love was not in them, because

the outward form of the eye was only represented in the marble. The

love-charm was not in those “vacancies of eyes.” Schütz has this note

upon the passage: “Quamvis nimirum eleganter fabricatæ sint statuæ,

carent tamen oculis, adeoque admirationem quidem excitare possunt amorem

non item.”

These lines of the poet Æschylus, repeated before an acute and critical

Athenian audience, would have been unintelligible, and marked as an

egregious blunder, if the practice of painting statues, or even their

eyes alone, had been so universal as it is represented in this

“Apology.” Can there be a more decisive authority, than this of the

contemporary Æschylus? It is certainly a descent from Æschylus to

Virgil; but we follow the apologist.

“Marmoreusque tibi, Dea, _versicoloribus alis_

_In morem_ pictâ stabit Amor pharetrâ.”

The writer, by his italics, is, we think, a little out in grammar,

connecting “in morem” (because it was customary) with “versicoloribus

alis,”—and in his translated sense of the passage, with “pictâ pharetrâ”

also. This is certainly making nothing of it, by endeavouring to make

the most of it. “In morem” may more properly attach itself to “stabit;”

if not, to the wings or painted quiver,—not, in construction, to both;

at any rate, Virgil, though Heyne reproves him for his bad taste, had

here a prejudice in favour of marble, for “Amor” shall be marble—that is

the first word, and first consideration. In the next quotation Virgil,

as provokingly, sets his heart upon marble—nay, smooth polished

marble—and the whole figure is to be entirely of this smooth marble; but

he gratifies Mr Jones by “scarlet”—the colour of colours, vermilion—and

thus so reconciles the Polychromatist to the marble, as to induce him to

quote the really worthless passage:—

“Si proprium hoc fuerit, levi de marmore tota

Puniceo stabis suras evincta cothurno.”

It is not of much moment to the main question what statue one clown

should offer to Diana, in return for a day’s hunting, or the other to a

very different and far less respectable deity, whom he has already made

in vulgar marble, _pro temp._ only, and whom he promises to set up in

gold, though simply the “custos pauperis horti.”

“Nunc te marmoreum pro tempore fecimus; at tu

Si fœtura gregem suppleverit, aureus esto.”

The poetical promises exceeded the clown’s means; neither Diana, nor the

deity, odious to her, saw the promises fulfilled. The Apologist is

merely taking advantage of a poetical license, a plenary indulgence in

nonperformance. It is quite ridiculous to attempt to prove what Phidias

and Praxiteles must have done, by what Virgil imagined. But as Mr Owen

Jones delights in such _quasi_ modern authorities, we venture to remind

him of the bad taste of Horace, who loved the Parian marble; and to

recommend him to consider in what manner white marble is spoken of by as

good authority, Juvenal, who introduces it as most valued in his

time—white statues.

“Et jam accurrit, qui marmora donet

Conferat impersas. Hic nuda et candida signa,

Hic aliquid præclarum Euphranoris et Polycleti.”

It may be as well to quote also what he says in reference to waxing

statues:—

“Propter quæ fas est genua _incerare_ Deorum.”

Upon which we find in a note—“Consueverant Deorum simulacra cera

_illinire_ (the old word of dispute) ibidemque affert illud Prudentii,

lib. i., contra Symonachum,—

——‘Saxa illita ceris

Viderat, unguentoque Lares humescere nigros.’”

And in Sat. XII., “Simulacra intentia cerâ.”

We have already treated of this custom of waxing the statues, and given

the recipe of Pliny, to which we revert for a moment, because the

advocates for the colouring theory insist that _illitia_, _linita_,

_illinere_, _linire_, all of one origin, are words applicable to

painting. Pliny says,—we quote from Smith’s _Dictionary of Greek and

Roman Antiquities_,—after showing how the wax should be melted and laid

on, “It was then rubbed with a clean linen cloth, _in the way that naked

marble statues were done_.” The Latin is—“_Sicut et marmora nitescunt._”

The writer in the Dictionary speaks as to the various application of the

encaustic process, to paint and to polish: “Wax thus purified was mixed

with all species of colours, and prepared for painting; but it was

applied also to many other uses, as polishing statues, walls, &c.”

Lucian, who died ninety years of age, 180th of the Christian era,

although he relinquished the employment of a statuary, and followed that

of literature, had certainly an excellent taste in art. His descriptions

of statues and pictures prove his fondness and his knowledge. What he

says of the famous Cnidian Venus of Praxiteles is very remarkable. After

admiring the whiteness of the marble and its polish, he praises the

ingenuity of the artificer, in so contriving the statue as to bring

least in sight a blemish in the marble, (a very common thing, he adds).

It would not have required this ingenuity in the design, if Praxiteles

had intended his statue to be painted, for the paint would have covered

the stain in the marble wherever placed. We may learn something more

from Lucian. In his “Images,” wishing to describe a perfect woman, he

will first represent her by the finest statues in the world, selecting

the beauties of each. It is in a dialogue with Lycinus and Polystratus.

“Is there anything wanting?” asks Polystratus, after mention of these

perfect statues. Lycinus replies that the colouring is wanting. He

therefore brings to his description the most beautiful works of the best

painters. Enough is not done yet; there is the mind to be added. He

therefore calls in the poets. Here, then, we have statuary, painter, and

poet, each by their separate art to portray this perfect woman. He does

not describe by painted statues, but by pictures. Had painting statues

been universal, as pretended, Lucian must have seen examples, and his

reference to pictures would have been unnecessary. If it be argued that

the paint had worn off, that argument will tell against the

Polychromatists, for it at least will show that, in an age when statues

were esteemed, the barbarity of colouring was not renewed.

In his “Description of a House,” he says, “Over against the door, upon

the wall, there is the Temple of Minerva in relief, where you may see

the goddess in white marble, without her accoutrements of war.” The

painter, it may be fairly conjectured, painted inside on the wall of the

house, the common aspect, and the white marble statue.

In his “Baths of Hippias,” he mentions “two noble pieces of antiquity in

marble of Health and Æsculapius.” Nor does he omit noticing paint, and

that vermilion—but where is it? “Then you come to a hot passage of

Numidian stone, that brings you to the last apartment, glittering with a

bright vermilion, bordering on purple.”

According to Mr Owen Jones’s theory, all these exquisite works in white

marble are to be considered as unfinished; if they have not been handed

over to the painter, they should be now. Why did Phidias and Praxiteles

so elaborate to the mark of truth their performances? The reader will be

astonished to learn the reason from Mr Owen Jones. It was from the

necessity of the subsequent finish by paints!

“People are apt to argue that Phidias never could have taken such pains

to study the light and shade of this bas-relief, if the fineness of his

workmanship had had to be stopped up when bedaubed with paint.” It is

astonishing that not a glimmering of common sense was here let in upon

the work of Phidias, while the whole light of his understanding showed

the effect of his own handiwork on the plaster; for he, in that case,

says, “But when the plaster has further to be painted with four coats of

oil-paint to stop the suction, it may readily be imagined how much the

more delicate modulations of the surface will suffer.” Does he suppose

that the eyes of Phidias, and of people in that age, were blind to the

suffering of these nice modulations from the stucco, or over-coats of

paint? But why did Phidias so finish his works?—hear the polychromatic

oracle “Now, people who argue thus have never understood what colour

does when applied to form. The very fact that colour has to be applied,

demands the highest finish in the form beneath. By more visibly bringing

out the form, it makes all defects more prominent. Let any one compare

the muscles of the figures in white with the muscles of those coloured,

and he will not hesitate an instant to admit this truth. The labours of

Phidias, had they never received colour, would have been thrown away; it

was because he designed them to receive colour, that such an elaboration

of the surface was required.” This is the most considerable

inconsiderate nonsense imaginable. Common sense says, that one even

colour, or absence of colour, gives equal shadows, according to the

sculptor’s design; but if you colour portions of the same work

differently, the unity of shadows will be destroyed, for shadows will

assimilate themselves to the various colourings, be they light or dark.

This necessity of colouring would impose such a task upon the sculptor,

so complicate his work and design, and so bring his whole mind into

subservience to, or certainly co-operation and consultation with, the

painter, that no man of genius could submit to it; for it is the

characteristic of genius to have its exercise in its own independent

art. The assertion of this effect of colour, by Mr Jones, is untrue in

fact, and if he could make it true, would so complicate, and at the same

time degrade, the statuary’s art, that in the disgust of its operation

it would be both out of the power, and out of the inclination, of men to

pursue it. Will the people of England take Mr Owen Jones’s reproof? To

them the labours of Phidias have hitherto been thrown away, for they

have only as yet seen his works in white marble—in fact, unfinished. In

this state Mr Jones thinks they have been very silly to admire them at

all—and how they came to admire them who can comprehend? they have no

colourable pretext for their admiration. Not only have the labours of

Phidias been “_thrown away_,”—but, what is more galling to this age of

economists, some forty thousand pounds of our good people’s money have

been thrown away too. What is left to be done? Simply what we have often

done before—throw some “good money after the bad,” and constitute Mr

Owen Jones Grand Polychromatist-plenipotentiary, with competence of

salary and paint-pots, and establish him for life, and his school for

ever, in the British Museum. It is well for him and for them the

innocent marbles have no motion, or the very stones would cry out

against him, and uplift their quiescent arms to smash more than his

paint-pots.

And here let us be allowed to remark of Mr Owen Jones’s colouring,

having been thoroughly disgusted at the Crystal Palace, that he is as

yet but in the very elements of the grammar of colour. He has gone but a

very little way in its alphabet. He has practised little more than the A

B C—that is, the bright blue, the bright red, the bright yellow. But the

alphabet is much beyond this. What of their combinations? These are so

innumerable that, as if in despair of their acquirement, he puts his

whole trust in the blue, red, and yellow, so that the very object of

colour, variety, is missed, and the eye is wearied and irritated in this

Crystal Palace with what may be called, in defiance of the contradiction

of the word, a polychromatic monotony. His theory of colour stops short

at the beginning—it is without its learning. The sentiments of colours

are in their mixtures, their relative combinations, and appropriate

applications, and we venture to suggest to other Polychromatists,

besides Mr Owen Jones, that the grammar of colouring, if learned

properly, will lead to a mystery which the blue, red, and yellow, of

themselves the A, B, C of the art, are quite insufficient to teach. The

study is by none more required than our painters in glass; nor are some

of our picture-makers, as our Academy exhibitions show, without the need

of a little learning. We scarcely ever see a modern window that does not

exhibit a total ignorance of colour. The first thing that strikes the

eye is a quantity of blue, for it is the most active colour, and it is

given in large portions, not dissipated as it should be—then reds, and

as vivid as may be—and yellows. Attempt at proper effect, such as the

_genius loci_ requires, there is none. With the unsparing use of these

three unmitigated colours only, we do not see why decorators should be

called Polychromatists at all; they should style themselves

Trichromatists. But of Mr Owen Jones’s polychromatic theory and

practice, do not let him so slander the tasks of the ancients as to

pretend that he has it from them, if by the ancients he means those

artists of good time. They delighted in white marble, “nuda et candida

signa,”—the naked and the white. The pretence that he had it from them,

is as the

“Painted vest Prince Vortigern had on,

Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won.”

The grandsire never took it; the _naked_ Pict never had it. And yet the

directors of this Crystal Palace have taken Mr Owen Jones’s word for it.

They have inconsiderately, and with the worst taste, delivered up the

Palace into Mr Jones’s hands. We dread his being put into any other

palace, for he evidently longs to be stuccoing and daubing the real

marbles. “The experiment cannot be fairly tried, till tried on

marble”—and he looks to a wide area, ample verge, and room enough, “and

in conditions of space, atmosphere, &c., similar to those under which

the originals were placed.” We however owe it to Mr Owen Jones’s candour

in admitting a note by Mr Penrose, which vindicates the character of

this odious marble. Thus speaks Mr Penrose: “An extensive and careful

examination of the Pentelic Quarries, by the orders of King Otho, has

shown that large blocks, such as were used at Athens, are very rare

indeed. The distance, also, from the city is considerable: whereas there

are quarries on Mount Hymettus at little more than one-third the

distance (and most convenient for carriage), which furnish immense

masses of dove-coloured marble, much prized, it would seem, by the

Romans (Hor., ii. 18), and inferior in no respect but that of colour to

the Pentelic. It could, therefore, only have been the intrinsic beauty

of the latter material that led to its employment by so practical a

people as the Athenians.” It will occur to the reader to ask if there is

not here something like a proof that they did not intend this Pentelic

marble to be painted; for it is manifest, under the stucco-and-painting

theory, the dove-coloured of Hymettus would have answered all purposes.

But Mr Owen Jones triumphs over his own candour. He sees nothing in the

admission of this note of Mr Penrose; he takes it up, he exhibits it,

merely for the purpose of throwing it down and trampling upon it. He

gives it a scornful reply.—_Reply_ in large letters. It is a curious

one, for, like the boomerang, it flies back upon himself, and gives his

own arguments a palpable hit. The reader may remember how he had

asserted that “the Athenians built with marble because they found it

almost beneath their feet.” In his oblivious reply, he discovers that

the Athenians used it because it was a great way off from their feet;

nay, that the worst part of the matter was, that it was no farther off

from their feet. He uprises in reverential dignity, to reprove “our

present ideas of economy.” “I do not think that, with our present ideas

of economy, we are able to appreciate the motives of the Athenians in

choosing their marble from the Pentelic quarries, in preference to those

of Mount Hymettus. We must remember that the Greeks built for their

gods; and the Pentelic marble, by presenting greater difficulties in its

acquisition, may have been a more precious offering.” Mr Jones thus

offers two contradictory motives on behalf of the Athenians—_one_ must

be given up. It would be strange in so few pages that a writer should so

contradict himself, if we did not bear in mind with what ingenuity a

theory will invest its own pertinacity. Surely no man on earth will

believe that the Athenians, either by any extraordinary devotion[50]

they showed towards their gods in the time of Pericles, or by an unheard

of folly (for they were a practical people), chose the one quarry in

preference to the other, for no other reason than its greater cost and

difficulty.

We are referred to the evidence of Mr Bracebridge, produced before the

committee of the Institute, which Mr Jones says settles the point “as

far as regards monumental sculpture.” The evidence is, that in the

winter 1835–6, an excavation, to the depth of twenty-five feet, was

made at the south-east angle of the Parthenon. “Here were found many

pieces of marble, and among these fragments parts of triglyphs, of

fluted columns, and of statues, particularly a female head, which was

painted (the hair is nearly the costume of the present day).” It is

quite an assumption that the spot of this excavation was the place

where “the workmen of the Parthenon had thrown their refuse marble.”

There is no proof whatever that these fragments were even of the age

of the Parthenon; even if they may be supposed so to be, we presume

that, as works of art, they are worthless, for they are called refuse,

and most likely had nothing to do with the work of the Parthenon. We

believe at the same time was found the very beautiful fragment in

relief, the Winged Victory, of which but very few casts were taken.

One of these we have just now seen, and doubt not its being of the age

of Phidias. This is white marble, and we have never heard that it has

any indication of having been painted. If Mr Owen Jones could prove to

us that the whole Parthenon, with all its statues, showed certain

indications of paint, we still have not advanced to any ground of fair

conclusion; for, in the want of contemporary evidence—(we cannot call

anything yet adduced evidence)—we are left to conjecture that the

daubing and plastering were the work of a subsequent age, or ages,

when ornament encroached upon and deteriorated every art in Greece,

whether dramatic, painting, or sculpture. “Pliny and Vitruvius both

repeatedly deplore the corrupt taste of their own times. Vitruvius

(vii. 5), observes, that the decorations of the ancients were

tastelessly laid aside, and that strong and gaudy colouring and

prodigal expense were substituted for the beautiful effects produced

by the skill of the ancient artists.”—(Smith’s _Antiquities_.)

We pay little attention to what has been said by the writers quoted

regarding Acrolithic or Chryselephantine statues, whether of the best or

lowest character. Whatever they were, they have perished, and there is

nothing left for modern barbarism to restore. We have looked chiefly to

undoubtedly good genuine marble—white marble statues, and reliefs of the

best times, of such as are to be seen and admired, unadorned, in our

British Museum. “It is the custom of all barbarous nations to colour

their idols,” says the writer of the historical evidence. We perfectly

assent to this, and believe we shall ourselves be a very barbarous

nation whenever the statues in that Museum shall be plastered with

stucco, or painted over with four coats of vermilion or any other

colour. Barbarous nations have painted, and do so still, not only their

idols but themselves. Our Picts, with their woad colouring, may have

emulated the peculiar beauty of blue-faced baboons. We dispute not the

point that Greece, as well as every other country, at some period of its

history was addicted to the common barbarous taste of colouring to the

utmost of their means. The question is not whether they did it, but when

they left it off. It is said in the “Apology,” that if they had ever

left off the practice, it would have been so remarkable an event that it

would have been noted in history. We know not where any one will be able

to put his hand upon any passage in history, showing the exact or

probable period at which our neighbours the Picts left off the fashion,

which we learn prevailed. We think Mr Owen Jones himself would be very

much astonished if, even though in pursuit and pursuance of his own

argument, he should turn the corner of Pall Mall, and come face to face

with half-a-dozen naked Picts in the ancient blue and vermilion costume.

Quite satisfied that the fashion has been superseded, we care not about

the when. Nor do we care to know, in our practical age, what finery they

put upon their idols; and although a commission under Polychromatic

direction may bring back, from no very distant travel, accounts of

multitudes of idols still draped and painted, we are sure this English

nation will not resume the practice. We have something else to do, which

the “Wisdom of Solomon” tells us they had not, who fabricated such

monstrosities. “The carpenter carved it diligently, _when he had nothing

else to do_, and formed it by the skill of his understanding, and

fashioned it to the image of a man, or made it like some vile beast,

laying it over with vermilion, and with paint colouring it red, and

covering every spot therein.”

Much is made of the notices of Pausanias, who, in the 177th year of the

Christian era, travelled over Greece. Mr (afterwards Sir Uvedale) Price,

in 1780 published “an accurate bill of fare of so sumptuous an

entertainment,” in relation to the temples, statues, and paintings

remaining in Greece in the time of Pausanias. We have thought it worth

while to look over this bill of fare, and to extract all that is said

about painted statues. Page 45: “In the great square, where there are

several temples, there are the statues of the Ephesian Diana, and of

Bacchus in wood—all the parts of which are gilt with gold, except the

faces, which are coloured with vermilion.” Immediately follows—“There is

a Temple of Fortune with her statue, which is an upright figure of

Parian marble”—Nothing about painting this! Page 177–78: “In Ægina there

is a Temple of Jupiter, in which there is his statue of Pentelican

marble, in a sitting posture, and one of Minerva in wood, which is gilt

with gold, and adorned with various colours; but the head, hands, and

feet are of ivory.” “At Philoe there are the temples of Bacchus and

Diana: the statue of the goddess is in brass, and she is taking an arrow

out of her quiver; but that of Bacchus is of wood, and is painted of a

ruddy colour.” It is only the wooden are painted! Page 199: “In Phigalia

there is a Temple of Diana Sospita, with her statue in marble; and in

Gymnasium there is a statue of Mercury, and likewise a Temple of Bacchus

Acratophorus with his statue—the upper part of which is painted with

vermilion, but the lower part is covered by the ivy and laurel that

grows over it.” This is the statue mentioned in the historical evidence,

where it says “_the body being of gilded wood_.” There is no doubt it

was so—but in fairness we must say, that, having examined the original

passage in Pausanias (_Arcad._, lib. viii. cap. 89), we find no mention

of the material of which it was made. Here it will be observed that in

no instance does Pausanias speak of a marble statue painted.

We have been reading an account of the discoveries at Herculaneum and

Pompeii—without doubt, both these places contained Greek sculpture of a

good period. There have been a vast number of marble statues and

fragments of statues found. The marble of which they are made is

mentioned. They are mostly white marble, and there is no notice of any

having been painted. If one should be, or should have been found

coloured, it would be an exception, the not unlikely experiment of

individual bad taste. We should bear in mind, also, that the discovered

works must have been found with regard to substance and colour in the

state in which they were overwhelmed in the sudden destruction of the

towns. Yet do we read of a single painted marble statue? The paintings

are, however, minutely described, and their coloured wall decorations.

We have yet to learn that there has been any paint discovered upon those

exquisitely beautiful statues belonging to the Lycian Temple Tomb, in

the British Museum, discovered and brought to this country by Sir

Charles Fellowes. Could we be brought to believe that marble statues

were stuccoed or painted—and we utterly repudiate any such attempts as

Mr Jones’s to make it credible—we should bless the memories, had they

left us any notices of their names, of those worthies of a better taste

who had the good sense to obliterate, to the utmost of their power, the

bedaubers’ doings. With them we venerate white marble; and while we

think of the Polychromatists, we entertain greater respect for the taste

and sense of the so-called simpletons of the fable who endeavoured to

wash the blackamoor _white_, than for the fatuous who would make the

_white_ black, or even vermilion.

It is surprising that in the history of the arts the Homeric period is

made of so little account. We are inclined to believe that the arts had

reached a high state, at least of workmanship; that they were

subsequently lost, and revived. If Homer and Hesiod, the eldest of

heathen authors, introduced into their poems elaborate descriptions of

the shields of Hercules and Achilles, and in some degree spoke of the

actual workmanship, can we believe that either of them treated of things

totally unknown at the times they wrote? If so, they were inventors—or

at least one of them—of the arts they describe. It is all very well to

ascribe all that we read of as mere poetry; but poetry, however it

invents, or partakes of invention, builds invention on fact. It would

not invent an art, and offer it to the world as a thing already known.

The shields exhibit extraordinary workmanship, which is thought worthy

to be attributed to the skill of a deity. That of Hercules in Hesiod

implies the use of hidden springs, for Perseus is described as hovering

over and not touching the shield, and the Gorgons pursuing him as making

a noise with the shield’s motion. The gold and silver dogs keeping watch

at the gates of Alcinous could scarcely be the unauthorised invention of

the poet. Much might be said upon the Nineveh discoveries; references

might be made to the time of Moses—and instances more than that of the

brazen serpent; the subsequent building of the Temple might supply most

curious detail—all these proving the existence of sculptural arts, more

or less refined, long antecedent to what we would fain call the revival

of art in Greece. But we cannot be allowed space for a discussion not

immediately bearing upon the subject of this paper.

It may be fairly conceded, that we are not to look to the earliest

periods of art for its greatest simplicity. In all countries

monstrosities and ornament were more eagerly sought, soon after the

first attempts at representation, than accuracy and beauty. The time of

the

“Fictilis et nullo violatus Jupiter auro,”

if not the poets’ fiction, was of short duration.

In this paper we treat not of the barbarities of art. Barbarous ages may

be of all or of any times. Art having once reached perfection, and

having mastered, over the falsities of bad taste, its own independence

and emancipation from every other art, we deprecate the return of a

barbarism which shall unite it with a gaudy presumption of another and a

lower art, subjugating the genius of mind to the meaningless handling of

the decorator.

Indeed, we should be content very much to narrow the question—to care

little whether the ancient statues and relievi were painted or not. We

are quite sure, from the very nature of things, the materials and the

objects in the use of them, that they never ought to have been painted;

and if there ever was such a practice, and it were a common one as

pretended, the world has shown its good sense in obliterating the marks

of the degradation of art so widely, as that any satisfactory discovery

of such a practice is not to be met with. Ages have passed in a contrary

belief, and much more than the meagre evidence adduced must be required,

in any degree to damage the long-established opinion that statues should

not be painted, and that white marble has undeniable, and, for the

purpose of the statuary, perfect beauty. The audacious attempt in the

Crystal Palace, and the assumptions of the “Apology,” might lead to the

worst taste, to retard and not to advance art. And while we see

simultaneously set up a foolish and dangerous principle to govern our

national collections in painting, and probably sculpture, assumed with

too much apparent authority, we fear the introduction of monstrosity in

preference to beauty, and the consequence in oblivion of what is good in

art, and the encouragement of a practice of all that is bad.

If the reader, unsatisfied with the damage inflicted in these pages upon

the facts assumed by Mr Owen Jones in his “Apology,” and his conclusions

upon them, would desire to see further arguments adduced from the

necessities which originated the various styles of basso, alto, and

mezzo relievo,—showing that they all presupposed one even colourless, or

at least unvariegated plane, as the surface upon which they were to be

executed, and how and why these three—the basso, alto, and mezzo—have

each their own proper principles, in which they differ from each

other—how they were invented for the very purpose of doing that which,

if painting the marble had been contemplated, would have been

unnecessary—how, in fact, they are in their own nature independent of

colour, regulated by principles of light and shade, with which colour

would detrimentally interfere—we would recommend to his attentive

reading the short yet complete treatise on the subject, by Sir Charles

Eastlake, being No. 7, in his admirable volume, _The Literature of the

Fine Arts_. He proves by the characters of the three styles, and by the

wants they were invented to supply, and the diversity of design which

they require, that “the Greeks, as a general principle, considered the

ground of figures in relief to be the real wall, or whatever the solid

plane might be, and not to represent air as if it was a picture.” As Mr

Jones’s experiments are made on relievi, a little study of their nature

and distinctions is at this moment very desirable.

If Mr Jones colours the horses brown and grey, the faces of the riders

flesh colour, and marks their eyes, and reddens their lips, and

draperies their bodies after patterns out of a tailor’s book—it is quite

absurd to say that the Greeks never intended exact imitation. In what he

has done every one will recognise the attempt to portray exact nature in

colour. Upon this principle, and establishing a contempt of white

marble, there is but one more step to take, to set up offensive wax-work

above the art of the statuary in marble. Sculpture is an appeal to the

imagination, not to the senses. That which attempts to deceive disgusts

by the early discovery of the fraud. Indeed, it is a maxim in sculpture

that a certain unnaturalness in subordinate accompanying objects is to

be adopted, to show that a comparison with real nature is not intended.

“If imitation is to be preferred,” says Aristotle, “which is least

adapted to the vulgar and most calculated to please the politest

spectators, that which imitates everything is clearly most adapted to

the vulgar, as not being intelligible without the addition of much

movement and action, as bad players on the flute turn round, if they

would imitate the motion of a discus.” Paint to the statuary is what all

this motion is to the flute-player. Whoever mutilates what is great and

good in art, and would persist in so doing, after reproof, ought to pay

the penalty of his folly. We would not be too severe in the punishment

of offenders in taste, but should rejoice to see one of a congenial kind

put in practice, one very mild for such an offence as this of statue

painting—the tarring and feathering the perpetrators, plasterers and

bedaubers, principals and coadjutors. Upon Mr Owen Jones’s principle,

the “ex uno omnes,” and his making a confirmed summer of one swallow,

though we entirely deny the existence of this one _rara avis_, a white

marble statue painted, he and his company ought not to object to the

punishing process, for more culprits have been known to have been tarred

and feathered than are even the pretended specimens of painted marbles

on record. We would, out of consideration for the peculiar taste of the

decorators, mitigate the punishment, by allowing the received proportion

of Mr Jones’s blue and vermilion to be mixed with the tar.

Besides, as fine feathers make fine birds, and choice may be made of the

brightest colours, it would be a fine sight, and one that would very

much take the fancy of the public, to see the Polychromatists stand

materially and bodily plastered, stuccoed, coloured, tarred and

feathered, in the Crystal Palace, in their own glory or shame, as they

may be pleased to take it, as living specimens of colouring

interferences, to the infinite amusement of all beholders, and a caution

to modern decorators. They would be pleased in one respect, for, beyond

a question, the white statues would be quite neglected, the “prejudice”

in favour of white marble would quite give way, and even the city

wonders, Gog and Magog, would be no longer visited.

The reader will think it time to draw to a conclusion; it will be most

satisfactory if he deems the case too clear to have required so much

discussion, and that

“Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle.”

But before we lay down the pen, we would not have it supposed that we

are not sensible both of the merits and advantages of the Crystal

Palace. It ought to be, and doubtless will be, the means of improving

the people, and affording them rational amusement. There has been a

little too much bombast about it, as a great college for the education

of the mind of the people—too much eulogistic verbiage, which sickens

the true source of rational admiration. It will improve, because it will

amuse; for good amusement is education both for head and heart. The best

praise it can receive is, that it is a place of permanent amusement,

than which nothing could be devised more beautiful and appropriate for

those who mainly want such relief from the toils and cares which eat

into life. We could wish the Archbishop of Canterbury had not consented

to let the Church of England be dragged in triumph behind the car of a

commercial speculation. It was in bad taste at its opening—and Mr Owen

Jones’s colouring is another specimen of bad taste—but “non paucis

maculis.” We sincerely hope it will succeed in all respects, though we

ventured not to join the Archbishop in his prayer. In fact, it is too

great in itself for unnecessary display at the ushering in, which was

worse than ridiculous—it made that which should be most serious in that

place an offence and a falsity. The reader may be amused by an

inauguration of quite another kind—one of poetry by anticipation. We

summon, then, our oldest poet, to celebrate as afar off, for coming

time, our newest Crystal Palace and its wonders, in

CHAUCER’S DREAM

OF THE CRYSTAL PALACE.

“As I slept, I dreamt I was

Within a temple made of glass,

In which there were more images

Of gold standing in sundry stages,

In more rich tabernacles,

And with jewels more pinnacles;

And more curious portraitures

And quaint maniere of figures

Of gold work than I saw ever.

There saw I on either side,

Straight down to the door wide,

From the dais many a pillar

Of metal that shone out full clear.

· · · · ·

Then gan I look about I see

That there came entering in the hall,

A right great company withal,

And that of sundry regions,

Of all kinds of conditions,

That dwell on earth beneath the moon,

Poor and rich.

Such a great congregation

Of folks as I saw roam about,

Some within, and some without,

Was never seen, nor shall be no more.”

THE SECRET OF STOKE MANOR: A FAMILY HISTORY.