THE TWO BOYHOODS.
§ 1. Born half-way between the mountains and the sea--that young George
of Castelfranco--of the Brave Castle:--Stout George they called him,
George of Georges, so goodly a boy he was--Giorgione.
Have you ever thought what a world his eyes opened on--fair, searching
eyes of youth? What a world of mighty life, from those mountain roots to
the shore;--of loveliest life, when he went down, yet so young, to the
marble city--and became himself as a fiery heart to it?
A city of marble, did I say? nay, rather a golden city, paved with
emerald. For truly, every pinnacle and turret glanced or glowed,
overlaid with gold, or bossed with jasper. Beneath, the unsullied sea
drew in deep breathing, to and fro, its eddies of green wave.
Deep-hearted, majestic, terrible as the sea,--the men of Venice moved in
sway of power and war; pure as her pillars of alabaster, stood her
mothers and maidens; from foot to brow, all noble, walked her knights;
the low bronzed gleaming of sea-rusted armor shot angrily under their
blood-red mantle-folds. Fearless, faithful, patient, impenetrable,
implacable,--every word a fate--sate her senate. In hope and honor,
lulled by flowing of wave around their isles of sacred sand, each with
his name written and the cross graved at his side, lay her dead. A
wonderful piece of world. Rather, itself a world. It lay along the face
of the waters, no larger, as its captains saw it from their masts at
evening, than a bar of sunset that could not pass away; but, for its
power, it must have seemed to them as if they were sailing in the
expanse of heaven, and this a great planet, whose orient edge widened
through ether. A world from which all ignoble care and petty thoughts
were banished, with all the common and poor elements of life. No
foulness, nor tumult, in those tremulous streets, that filled, or fell,
beneath the moon; but rippled music of majestic change, or thrilling
silence. No weak walls could rise above them; no low-roofed cottage, nor
straw-built shed. Only the strength as of rock, and the finished setting
of stones most precious. And around them, far as the eye could reach,
still the soft moving of stainless waters, proudly pure; as not the
flower, so neither the thorn nor the thistle, could grow in the glancing
fields. Ethereal strength of Alps, dream-like, vanishing in high
procession beyond the Torcellan shore; blue islands of Paduan hills,
poised in the golden west. Above, tree winds and fiery clouds ranging at
their will;--brightness out of the north, and balm from the south, and
the stars of the evening and morning clear in the limitless light of
arched heaven and circling sea.
Such was Giorgione's school--such Titian's home.
§ 2. Near the south-west corner of Covent Garden, a square brick pit or
well is formed by a close-set block of houses, to the back windows of
which it admits a few rays of light. Access to the bottom of it is
obtained out of Maiden Lane, through a low archway and an iron gate; and
if you stand long enough under the archway to accustom your eyes to the
darkness, you may see on the left hand a narrow door, which formerly
gave quiet access to a respectable barber's shop, of which the front
window, looking into Maiden Lane, is still extant, filled in this year
(1860), with a row of bottles, connected, in some defunct manner, with a
brewer's business. A more fashionable neighborhood, it is said, eighty
years ago than now--never certainly a cheerful one--wherein a boy being
born on St. George's day, 1775, began soon after to take interest in the
world of Covent Garden, and put to service such spectacles of life as it
afforded.
§ 3. No knights to be seen there, nor, I imagine, many beautiful ladies;
their costume at least disadvantageous, depending much on incumbency of
hat and feather, and short waists; the majesty of men founded similarly
on shoebuckles and wigs;--impressive enough when Reynolds will do his
best for it; but not suggestive of much ideal delight to a boy.
"Bello ovile dov' io dormii agnello:" of things beautiful, besides men
and women, dusty sunbeams up or down the street on summer mornings;
deep furrowed cabbage leaves at the greengrocer's; magnificence of
oranges in wheelbarrows round the corner; and Thames' shore within three
minutes' race.
§ 4. None of these things very glorious; the best, however, that
England, it seems, was then able to provide for a boy of gift: who, such
as they are, loves them--never, indeed, forgets them. The short waists
modify to the last his visions of Greek ideal. His foregrounds had
always a succulent cluster or two of greengrocery at the corners.
Enchanted oranges gleam in Covent Gardens of the Hesperides; and great
ships go to pieces in order to scatter chests of them on the waves. That
mist of early sunbeams in the London dawn crosses, many and many a time,
the clearness of Italian air; and by Thames' shore, with its stranded
barges and glidings of red sail, dearer to us than Lucerne lake or
Venetian lagoon,--by Thames' shore we will die.
§ 5. With such circumstance round him in youth, let us note what
necessary effects followed upon the boy. I assume him to have had
Giorgione's sensibility (and more than Giorgione's, if that be possible)
to color and form. I tell you farther, and this fact you may receive
trustfully, that his sensibility to human affection and distress was no
less keen than even his sense for natural beauty--heart-sight deep as
eye-sight.
Consequently, he attaches himself with the faithfullest child-love to
everything that bears an image of the place he was born in. No matter
how ugly it is,--has it anything about it like Maiden Lane, or like
Thames' shore? If so, it shall be painted for their sake. Hence, to the
very close of life, Turner could endure ugliness which no one else, of
the same sensibility, would have borne with for an instant. Dead brick
walls, blank square windows, old clothes, market-womanly types of
humanity--anything fishy and muddy, like Billingsgate or Hungerford
Market, had great attraction for him; black barges, patched sails, and
every possible condition of fog.
§ 6. You will find these tolerations and affections guiding or
sustaining him to the last hour of his life; the notablest of all such
endurances being that of dirt. No Venetian ever draws anything foul; but
Turner devoted picture after picture to the illustration of effects of
dinginess, smoke, soot, dust, and dusty texture; old sides of boats,
weedy roadside vegetation, dung-hills, straw-yards, and all the
soilings and stains of every common labor.
And more than this, he not only could endure, but enjoyed and looked for
_litter_, like Covent Garden wreck after the market. His pictures are
often full of it, from side to side; their foregrounds differ from all
others in the natural way that things have of lying about in them. Even
his richest vegetation, in ideal work, is confused; and he delights in
shingle, débris, and heaps of fallen stones. The last words he ever
spoke to me about a picture were in gentle exaltation about his St.
Gothard: "that _litter_ of stones which I endeavored to represent."
§ 7. The second great result of this Covent Garden training was,
understanding of and regard for the poor, whom the Venetians, we saw,
despised; whom, contrarily, Turner loved, and more than
loved--understood. He got no romantic sight of them, but an infallible
one, as he prowled about the end of his lane, watching night effects in
the wintry streets; nor sight of the poor alone, but of the poor in
direct relations with the rich. He knew, in good and evil, what both
classes thought of, and how they dwelt with, each other.
Reynolds and Gainsborough, bred in country villages, learned there the
country boy's reverential theory of "the squire," and kept it. They
painted the squire and the squire's lady as centres of the movements of
the universe, to the end of their lives. But Turner perceived the
younger squire in other aspects about his lane, occurring prominently in
its night scenery, as a dark figure, or one of two, against the
moonlight. He saw also the working of city commerce, from endless
warehouse, towering over Thames, to the back shop in the lane, with its
stale herrings--highly interesting these last; one of his fathers best
friends, whom he often afterwards visited affectionately at Bristol,
being a fish-monger and glueboiler; which gives us a friendly turn of
mind towards herring-fishing, whaling, Calais poissardes, and many other
of our choicest subjects in after life; all this being connected with
that mysterious forest below London Bridge on one side;--and, on the
other, with these masses of human power and national wealth which weigh
upon us, at Covent Garden here, with strange compression, and crush us
into narrow Hand Court.
§ 8. "That mysterious forest below London Bridge"--better for the boy
than wood of pine, or grove of myrtle. How he must have tormented the
watermen, beseeching them to let him crouch anywhere in the bows, quiet
as a log, so only that he might get floated down there among the ships,
and round and round the ships, and with the ships, and by the ships, and
under the ships, staring and clambering;--these the only quite beautiful
things he can see in all the world, except the sky; but these, when the
sun is on their sails, filling or falling, endlessly disordered by sway
of tide and stress of anchorage, beautiful unspeakably; which ships also
are inhabited by glorious creatures--redfaced sailors, with pipes,
appearing over the gunwales, true knights, over their castle
parapets--the most angelic beings in the whole compass of London world.
And Trafalgar happening long before we can draw ships, we, nevertheless,
coax all current stories out of the wounded sailors, do our best at
present to show Nelson's funeral streaming up the Thames; and vow that
Trafalgar shall have its tribute of memory some day. Which, accordingly,
is accomplished--once, with all our might, for its death; twice, with
all our might, for its victory; thrice, in pensive farewell to the old
Temeraire, and, with it, to that order of things.
§ 9. Now this fond companying with sailors must have divided his time,
it appears to me, pretty equally between Covent Garden and Wapping
(allowing for incidental excursions to Chelsea on one side, and
Greenwich on the other), which time he would spend pleasantly, but not
magnificently, being limited in pocket-money, and leading a kind of
"Poor-Jack" life on the river.
In some respects, no life could be better for a lad. But it was not
calculated to make his ear fine to the niceties of language, nor form
his moralities on an entirely regular standard. Picking up his first
scraps of vigorous English chiefly at Deptford and in the markets, and
his first ideas of female tenderness and beauty among nymphs of the
barge and the barrow,--another boy might, perhaps, have become what
people usually term "vulgar." But the original make and frame of
Turner's mind being not vulgar, but as nearly as possible a combination
of the minds of Keats and Dante, joining capricious waywardness, and
intense openness to every fine pleasure of sense, and hot defiance of
formal precedent, with a quite infinite tenderness, generosity, and
desire of justice and truth--this kind of mind did not become vulgar,
but very tolerant of vulgarity, even fond of it in some forms; and, on
the outside, visibly infected by it, deeply enough; the curious result,
in its combination of elements, being to most people wholly
incomprehensible. It was as if a cable had been woven of blood-crimson
silk, and then tarred on the outside. People handled it, and the tar
came off on their hands; red gleams were seen through the black,
underneath, at the places where it had been strained. Was it
ochre?--said the world--or red lead?
§ 10. Schooled thus in manners, literature, and general moral principles
at Chelsea and Wapping, we have finally to inquire concerning the most
important point of all. We have seen the principal differences between
this boy and Giorgione, as respects sight of the beautiful,
understanding of poverty, of commerce, and of order of battle; then
follows another cause of difference in our training--not slight,--the
aspect of religion, namely, in the neighborhood of Covent Garden. I say
the aspect; for that was all the lad could judge by. Disposed, for the
most part, to learn chiefly by his eyes, in this special matter he finds
there is really no other way of learning. His father taught him "to lay
one penny upon another." Of mother's teaching, we hear of none; of
parish pastoral teaching, the reader may guess how much.
§ 11. I chose Giorgione rather than Veronese to help me in carrying out
this parallel; because I do not find in Giorgione's work any of the
early Venetian monarchist element. He seems to me to have belonged more
to an abstract contemplative school. I may be wrong in this; it is no
matter;--suppose it were so, and that he came down to Venice somewhat
recusant, or insentient, concerning the usual priestly doctrines of his
day,--how would the Venetian religion, from an outer intellectual
standing-point, have _looked_ to him?
§ 12. He would have seen it to be a religion indisputably powerful in
human affairs; often very harmfully so; sometimes devouring widows'
houses, and consuming the strongest and fairest from among the young;
freezing into merciless bigotry the policy of the old: also, on the
other hand, animating national courage, and raising souls, otherwise
sordid, into heroism: on the whole, always a real and great power;
served with daily sacrifice of gold, time, and thought; putting forth
its claims, if hypocritically, at least in bold hypocrisy, not waiving
any atom of them in doubt or fear; and, assuredly, in large measure,
sincere, believing in itself, and believed: a goodly system, moreover,
in aspect; gorgeous, harmonious, mysterious;--a thing which had either
to be obeyed or combated, but could not be scorned. A religion towering
over all the city--many buttressed--luminous in marble stateliness, as
the dome of our Lady of Safety shines over the sea; many-voiced also,
giving, over all the eastern seas, to the sentinel his watchword, to the
soldier his war-cry; and, on the lips of all who died for Venice,
shaping the whisper of death.
§ 13. I suppose the boy Turner to have regarded the religion of his city
also from an external intellectual standing-point.
What did he see in Maiden Lane?
Let not the reader be offended with me; I am willing to let him
describe, at his own pleasure, what Turner saw there; but to me, it
seems to have been this. A religion maintained occasionally, even the
whole length of the lane, at point of constable's staff; but, at other
times, placed under the custody of the beadle, within certain black and
unstately iron railings of St. Paul's, Covent Garden. Among the
wheelbarrows and over the vegetables, no perceptible dominance of
religion; in the narrow, disquieted streets, none; in the tongues,
deeds, daily ways of Maiden Lane, little. Some honesty, indeed, and
English industry, and kindness of heart, and general idea of justice;
but faith, of any national kind, shut up from one Sunday to the next,
not artistically beautiful even in those Sabbatical exhibitions; its
paraphernalia being chiefly of high pews, heavy elocution, and cold
grimness of behavior.
What chiaroscuro belongs to it--(dependent mostly on candlelight),--we
will, however, draw considerately; no goodliness of escutcheon, nor
other respectability being omitted, and the best of their results
confessed, a meek old woman and a child being let into a pew, for whom
the reading by candlelight will be beneficial.[1]
§ 14. For the rest, this religion seems to him
discreditable--discredited--not believing in itself, putting forth its
authority in a cowardly way, watching how far it might be tolerated,
continually shrinking, disclaiming, fencing, finessing; divided against
itself, not by stormy rents, but by thin fissures, and splittings of
plaster from the walls. Not to be either obeyed, or combated, by an
ignorant, yet clear-sighted youth; only to be scorned. And scorned not
one whit the less, though also the dome dedicated to _it_ looms high
over distant winding of the Thames; as St. Mark's campanile rose, for
goodly landmark, over mirage of lagoon. For St. Mark ruled over life;
the Saint of London over death; St. Mark over St. Mark's Place, but St.
Paul over St. Paul's Churchyard.
§ 15. Under these influences pass away the first reflective hours of
life, with such conclusion as they can reach. In consequence of a fit of
illness, he was taken--I cannot ascertain in what year--to live with an
aunt, at Brentford; and here, I believe, received some schooling, which
he seems to have snatched vigorously; getting knowledge, at least by
translation, of the more picturesque classical authors, which he turned
presently to use, as we shall see. Hence also, walks about Putney and
Twickenham in the summer time acquainted him with the look of English
meadow-ground in its restricted states of paddock and park; and with
some round-headed appearances of trees, and stately entrances to houses
of mark: the avenue at Bushy, and the iron gates and carved pillars of
Hampton, impressing him apparently with great awe and admiration; so
that in after life his little country house is,--of all places in the
world,--at Twickenham! Of swans and reedy shores he now learns the soft
motion and the green mystery, in a way not to be forgotten.
§ 16. And at last fortune wills that the lad's true life shall begin;
and one summer's evening, after various wonderful stage-coach
experiences on the north road, which gave him a love of stage-coaches
ever after, he finds himself sitting alone among the Yorkshire hills.[2]
For the first time, the silence of Nature round him, her freedom sealed
to him, her glory opened to him. Peace at last; no roll of cart-wheel,
nor mutter of sullen voices in the back shop; but curlew-cry in space of
heaven, and welling of bell-toned streamlet by its shadowy rock. Freedom
at last. Dead-wall, dark railing, fenced field, gated garden, all passed
away like the dream of a prisoner; and behold, far as foot or eye can
race or range, the moor, and cloud. Loveliness at last. It is here then,
among these deserted vales! Not among men. Those pale, poverty-struck,
or cruel faces;--that multitudinous, marred humanity--are not the only
things that God has made. Here is something He has made which no one has
marred. Pride of purple rocks, and river pools of blue, and tender
wilderness of glittering trees, and misty lights of evening on
immeasurable hills.
§ 17. Beauty, and freedom, and peace; and yet another teacher, graver
than these. Sound preaching at last here, in Kirkstall crypt, concerning
fate and life. Here, where the dark pool reflects the chancel pillars,
and the cattle lie in unhindered rest, the soft sunshine on their
dappled bodies, instead of priests' vestments; their white furry hair
ruffled a little, fitfully, by the evening wind, deep-scented from the
meadow thyme.
§ 18. Consider deeply the import to him of this, his first sight of
ruin, and compare it with the effect of the architecture that was around
Giorgione. There were indeed aged buildings, at Venice, in his time, but
none in decay. All ruin was removed, and its place filled as quickly as
in our London; but filled always by architecture loftier and more
wonderful than that whose place it took, the boy himself happy to work
upon the walls of it; so that the idea of the passing away of the
strength of men and beauty of their works never could occur to him
sternly. Brighter and brighter the cities of Italy had been rising and
broadening on hill and plain, for three hundred years. He saw only
strength and immortality, could not but paint both; conceived the form
of man as deathless, calm with power, and fiery with life.
§ 19. Turner saw the exact reverse of this. In the present work of men,
meanness, aimlessness, unsightliness: thin-walled, lath-divided,
narrow-garreted houses of clay; booths of a darksome Vanity Fair, busily
base.
But on Whitby Hill, and by Bolton Brook, remained traces of other
handiwork. Men who could build had been there; and who also had wrought,
not merely for their own days. But to what purpose? Strong faith, and
steady hands, and patient souls--can this, then, be all you have left!
this the sum of your doing on the earth!--a nest whence the night-owl
may whimper to the brook, and a ribbed skeleton of consumed arches,
looming above the bleak banks of mist, from its cliff to the sea?
As the strength of men to Giorgione, to Turner their weakness and
vileness, were alone visible. They themselves, unworthy or ephemeral;
their work, despicable, or decayed. In the Venetian's eyes, all beauty
depended on man's presence and pride; in Turner's, on the solitude he
had left, and the humiliation he had suffered.
§ 20. And thus the fate and issue of all his work were determined at
once. He must be a painter of the strength of nature, there was no
beauty elsewhere than in that; he must paint also the labor and sorrow
and passing away of men; this was the great human truth visible to him.
Their labor, their sorrow, and their death. Mark the three. Labor; by
sea and land, in field and city, at forge and furnace, helm and plough.
No pastoral indolence nor classic pride shall stand between him and the
troubling of the world; still less between him and the toil of his
country,--blind, tormented, unwearied, marvellous England.
§ 21. Also their Sorrow; Ruin of all their glorious work, passing away
of their thoughts and their honor, mirage of pleasure, FALLACY OF HOPE;
gathering of weed on temple step; gaining of wave on deserted strand;
weeping of the mother for the children, desolate by her breathless
first-born in the streets of the city,[3] desolate by her last sons
slain, among the beasts of the field.[4]
§ 22. And their Death. That old Greek question again;--yet unanswered.
The unconquerable spectre still flitting among the forest trees at
twilight; rising ribbed out of the sea-sand;--white, a strange
Aphrodite,--out of the sea-foam; stretching its gray, cloven wings among
the clouds; turning the light of their sunsets into blood. This has to
be looked upon, and in a more terrible shape than ever Salvator or Durer
saw it. The wreck of one guilty country does not infer the ruin of all
countries, and need not cause general terror respecting the laws of the
universe. Neither did the orderly and narrow succession of domestic joy
and sorrow in a small German community bring the question in its
breadth, or in any unresolvable shape, before the mind of Durer. But the
English death--the European death of the nineteenth century--was of
another range and power; more terrible a thousand-fold in its merely
physical grasp and grief; more terrible, incalculably, in its mystery
and shame. What were the robber's casual pang, or the rage of the flying
skirmish, compared to the work of the axe, and the sword, and the
famine, which was done during this man's youth on all the hills and
plains of the Christian earth, from Moscow to Gibraltar. He was eighteen
years old when Napoleon came down on Arcola. Look on the map of Europe,
and count the blood-stains on it, between Arcola and Waterloo.
§ 23. Not alone those blood-stains on the Alpine snow, and the blue of
the Lombard plain. The English death was before his eyes also. No
decent, calculable, consoled dying; no passing to rest like that of the
aged burghers of Nuremberg town. No gentle processions to churchyards
among the fields, the bronze crests bossed deep on the memorial tablets,
and the skylark singing above them from among the corn. But the life
trampled out in the slime of the street, crushed to dust amidst the
roaring of the wheel, tossed countlessly away into howling winter wind
along five hundred leagues of rock-fanged shore. Or, worst of all,
rotted down to forgotten graves through years of ignorant patience, and
vain seeking for help from man, for hope in God--infirm, imperfect
yearning, as of motherless infants starving at the dawn; oppressed
royalties of captive thought, vague ague-fits of bleak, amazed despair.
§ 24. A goodly landscape this, for the lad to paint, and under a goodly
light. Wide enough the light was, and clear; no more Salvator's lurid
chasm on jagged horizon, nor Durer's spotted rest of sunny gleam on
hedgerow and field; but light over all the world. Full shone now its
awful globe, one pallid charnel-house,--a ball strewn bright with human
ashes, glaring in poised sway beneath the sun, all blinding-white with
death from pole to pole,--death, not of myriads of poor bodies only, but
of will, and mercy, and conscience; death, not once inflicted on the
flesh, but daily, fastening on the spirit; death, not silent or patient,
waiting his appointed hour, but voiceful, venomous; death with the
taunting word, and burning grasp, and infixed sting.
"Put ye in the sickle, for the harvest is ripe." The word is spoken in
our ears continually to other reapers than the angels--to the busy
skeletons that never tire for stooping. When the measure of iniquity is
full, and it seems that another day might bring repentance and
redemption,--"Put ye in the sickle." When the young life has been wasted
all away, and the eyes are just opening upon the tracks of ruin, and
faint resolution rising in the heart for nobler things,--"Put ye in the
sickle." When the roughest blows of fortune have been borne long and
bravely, and the hand is just stretched to grasp its goal,--"Put ye in
the sickle." And when there are but a few in the midst of a nation, to
save it, or to teach, or to cherish; and all its life is bound up in
those few golden ears,--"Put ye in the sickle, pale reapers, and pour
hemlock for your feast of harvest home."
This was the sight which opened on the young eyes, this the watchword
sounding within the heart of Turner in his youth.
So taught, and prepared for his life's labor, sate the boy at last alone
among his fair English hills; and began to paint, with cautious toil,
the rocks, and fields, and trickling brooks, and soft, white clouds of
heaven.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Liber Studiorum. "Interior of a church." It is worthy of remark
that Giorgione and Titian are always delighted to have an opportunity
of drawing priests. The English Church may, perhaps, accept it as
matter of congratulation that this is the only instance in which
Turner drew a clergyman.
[2] I do not mean that this is his first acquaintance with the
country, but the first impressive and touching one, after his mind
was formed. The earliest sketches I found in the National Collection
are at Clifton and Bristol; the next, at Oxford.
[3] "The Tenth Plague of Egypt."
[4] "Rizpah, the Daughter of Aiah."