This morning I felt too tired to go out any where; but Mr. and Mrs.
Binney persuaded me to go just a little while in to the meeting of the
Bible Society, for you must know that this is anniversary week, and so,
besides the usual rush, and roar, and whirl of London, there is the
confluence of all the religious forces in Exeter Hall. I told Mrs. B.
that I was worn out, and did not think I could sit through a single
speech; but she tempted me by a promise that I should withdraw at any
moment. We had a nice little snug gallery near one of the doors, where I
could see all over the house, and make a quick retreat in case of need.
In one point English ladies certainly do carry practical industry
farther than I ever saw it in America. Every body knows that an
anniversary meeting is something of a siege, and I observed many good
ladies below had made regular provision therefor, by bringing knitting
work, sewing, crochet, or embroidery. I thought it was an improvement,
and mean to recommend it when I get home. I am sure many of our Marthas
in America will be very grateful for the custom.
The Earl of Shaftesbury was in the chair, and I saw him now for the
first time. He is quite a tall man, of slender figure, with a long and
narrow face, dark hazel eyes, and very thick, auburn hair. His bearing
was dignified and appropriate to his position. People here are somewhat
amused by the vivacity with which American papers are exhorting Lord
Shaftesbury to look into the factory system, and to explore the
collieries, and in general to take care of the suffering lower classes,
as if he had been doing any thing else for these twenty years past. To
people who know how he has worked against wind and tide, in the face of
opposition and obloquy, and how all the dreadful statistics that they
quote against him were brought out expressly by inquiries set on foot
and prosecuted by him, and how these same statistics have been by him
reiterated in the ears of successive houses of Parliament till all these
abuses have been reformed, as far as the most stringent and minute
legislation can reform, them,--it is quite amusing to hear him exhorted
to consider the situation of the working classes. One reason for this,
perhaps, is that provoking facility in changing names which is incident
to the English peerage. During the time that most of the researches and
speeches on the factory system and collieries were made, the Earl of
Shaftesbury was in the House of Commons, with the title of Lord Ashley,
and it was not till the death of his father that he entered the House of
Peers as Lord Shaftesbury. The contrast which a very staid religious
paper in America has drawn between Lord Ashley and Lord Shaftesbury does
not strike people over here as remarkably apposite.
In the course of the speeches on this occasion, frequent and feeling
allusions were made to the condition of three millions of people in
America who are prevented by legislative enactments from reading for
themselves the word of life. I know it is not pleasant to our ministers
upon the stage to hear such things; but is the whole moral sense of the
world to hush its voice, the whole missionary spirit of Christianity to
be restrained, because it is disagreeable for us to be reminded of our
national sins? At least, let the moral atmosphere of the world be kept
pure, though it should be too stimulating for our diseased lungs. If
oral instruction will do for three million slaves in America, it will do
equally well in Austria, Italy, and Spain, and the powers that be,
there, are just of the opinion that they are in America--that it is
dangerous to have the people read the Bible for themselves. Thoughts of
this kind were very ably set forth in some of the speeches. On the stage
I noticed Rev. Samuel R. Ward, from Toronto in Canada, a full blooded
African of fine personal presence. He was received and treated with much
cordiality by the ministerial brethren who surrounded him. I was sorry
that I could not stay through the speeches, for they were quite
interesting. C. thought they were the best he ever heard at an
anniversary. I was obliged to leave after a little. Mr. Sherman very
kindly came for us in his carriage, and took us a little ride into the
country.
Mrs. B. says that to-morrow morning we shall go out to see the Dulwich
Gallery, a fine collection of paintings by the old masters. Now, I
confess unto you that I have great suspicions of these old masters. Why,
I wish to know, should none but _old_ masters be thought any thing of?
Is not nature ever springing, ever new? Is it not fair to conclude that
all the mechanical assistants of painting are improved with the advance
of society, as much as of all arts? May not the magical tints, which are
said to be a secret with the old masters, be the effect of time in part?
or may not modern artists have their secrets, as well, for future ages
to study and admire? Then, besides, how are we to know that our
admiration of old masters is genuine, since we can bring our taste to
any thing, if we only know we must, and try long enough? People never
like olives the first time they eat them. In fact, I must confess, I
have some partialities towards young masters, and a sort of suspicion
that we are passing over better paintings at our side, to get at those
which, though the best of their day, are not so good as the best of
ours. I certainly do not worship the old English poets. With the
exception of Milton and Shakspeare, there is more poetry in the works of
the writers of the last fifty years than in all the rest together. Well,
these are my surmises for the present; but one thing I am determined--as
my admiration is nothing to any body but myself, I will keep some likes
and dislikes of my own, and will not get up any raptures that do not
arise of themselves. I am entirely willing to be conquered by any
picture that has the power. I will be a non-resistant, but that is all.
May 5. Well, we saw the Dulwich Gallery; five rooms filled with old
masters, Murillos, Claudes, Rubens, Salvator Rosas, Titians, Cuyps,
Vandykes, and all the rest of them; probably not the best specimens of
any one of them, but good enough to begin with. C. and I took different
courses. I said to him, "Now choose nine pictures simply by your eye,
and see how far its untaught guidance will bring you within the canons
of criticism." When he had gone through all the rooms and marked his
pictures, we found he had selected two by Rubens, two by Vandyke, one by
Salvator Rosa, three by Murillo, and one by Titian. Pretty successful
that, was it not, for a first essay? We then took the catalogue, and
selected all the pictures of each artist one after another, in order to
get an idea of the style of each. I had a great curiosity to see Claude
Lorraine's, remembering the poetical things that had been said and sung
of him. I thought I would see if I could distinguish them by my eye
without looking at the catalogue I found I could do so. I knew them by a
certain misty quality in the atmosphere. I was disappointed in them,
very much. Certainly, they were good paintings; I had nothing to object
to them, but I profanely thought I had seen pictures by modern landscape
painters as far excelling them as a brilliant morning excels a cool,
gray day. Very likely the fault was all in me, but I could not help it;
so I tried the Murillos. There was a Virgin and Child, with clouds
around them. The virgin was a very pretty girl, such as you may see by
the dozen in any boarding school, and the child was a pretty child. Call
it the young mother and son, and it is a very pretty picture; but call
it Mary and the infant Jesus, and it is an utter failure. Not such was
the Jewish princess, the inspired poetess and priestess, the chosen of
God among all women.
It seems to me that painting is poetry expressing itself by lines and
colors instead of words; therefore there are two things to be considered
in every picture: first, the quality of the idea expressed, and second,
the quality of the language in which it is expressed. Now, with regard
to the first, I hold that every person of cultivated taste is as good a
judge of painting as of poetry. The second, which relates to the mode of
expressing the conception, including drawing and coloring, with all
their secrets, requires more study, and here our untaught perceptions
must sometimes yield to the judgment of artists. My first question,
then, when I look at the work of an artist, is, What sort of a mind has
this man? What has he to say? And then I consider, How does he say it?
Now, with regard to Murillo, it appeared to me that he was a man of
rather a mediocre mind, with nothing very high or deep to say, but that
he was gifted with an exquisite faculty of expressing what he did say;
and his paintings seem to me to bear an analogy to Pope's poetry,
wherein the power of expression is wrought to the highest point, but
without freshness or ideality in the conception. As Pope could reproduce
in most exquisite wording the fervent ideas of Eloisa, without the power
to originate such, so Murillo reproduced the current and floating
religious ideas of his times, with most exquisite perfection of art and
color, but without ideality or vitality. The pictures of his which
please me most are his beggar boys and flower girls, where he abandons
the region of ideality, and simply reproduces nature. His art and
coloring give an exquisite grace to such sketches.
As to Vandyke, though evidently a fine painter, he is one whose mind
does not move me. He adds nothing to my stock of thoughts--awakens no
emotion. I know it is a fine picture, just as I have sometimes been
conscious in church that I was hearing a fine sermon, which somehow had
not the slightest effect upon me.
Rubens, on the contrary, whose pictures I detested with all the energy
of my soul, I knew and felt all the time, by the very pain he gave me,
to be a real living artist. There was a Venus and Cupid there, as fat
and as coarse as they could be, but so freely drawn, and so masterly in
their expression and handling, that one must feel that they were by an
artist, who could just as easily have painted them any other way if it
had suited his sovereign pleasure, and therefore we are the more vexed
with him. When your taste is crossed by a clever person, it always vexes
you more than when it is done by a stupid one, because it is done with
such power that there is less hope for you.
There were a number of pictures of Cuyp there, which satisfied my thirst
for coloring, and appeared to me as I expected the Claudes would have
done. Generally speaking, his objects are few in number and commonplace
in their character--a bit of land and water, a few cattle and figures,
in no way remarkable; but then he floods the whole with that dreamy,
misty sunlight, such as fills the arches of our forests in the days of
autumn. As I looked at them I fancied I could hear nuts dropping from
the trees among the dry leaves, and see the goldenrods and purple
asters, and hear the click of the squirrel as he whips up the tree to
his nest. For this one attribute of golden, dreamy haziness, I like
Cuyp. His power in shedding it over very simple objects reminds me of
some of the short poems of Longfellow, when things in themselves most
prosaic are flooded with a kind of poetic light from the inner soul.
These are merely first ideas and impressions. Of course I do not make up
my mind about any artist from what I have seen here. We must not expect
a painter to put his talent into every picture, more than a poet into
every verse that he writes. Like other men, he is sometimes brilliant
and inspired, and at others dull and heavy. In general, however, I have
this to say, that there is some kind of fascination about these old
masters which I feel very sensibly. But yet, I am sorry to add that
there is very little of what I consider the highest mission of art in
the specimens I have thus far seen; nothing which speaks to the deepest
and the highest; which would inspire a generous ardor, or a solemn
religious trust. Vainly I seek for something divine, and ask of art to
bring me nearer to the source of all beauty and perfection. I find
wealth of coloring, freedom of design, and capability of expression
wasting themselves merely in portraying trivial sensualities and
commonplace ideas. So much for the first essay.
In the evening we went to dine with our old friends of the Dingle, Mr.
and Mrs. Edward Cropper, who are now spending a little time in London.
We were delighted to meet them once more, and to hear from our Liverpool
friends. Mrs. Cropper's father, Lord Denman, has returned to England,
though with no sensible improvement in his health.
At dinner we were introduced to Lord and Lady Hatherton. Lord Hatherton
is a member of the whig party, and has been chief secretary for Ireland.
Lady Hatherton is a person of great cultivation and intelligence, warmly
interested in all the progressive movements of the day; and I gained
much information in her society. There were also present Sir Charles and
Lady Trevelyan; the former holds some appointment in the navy. Lady
Trevelyan is a sister of Macaulay.
In the evening quite a circle came in; among others, Lady Emma Campbell,
sister of the Duke of Argyle; the daughters of the Archbishop of
Canterbury, who very kindly invited me to visit them, at Lambeth; and
Mr. Arthur Helps, besides many others whose names I need not mention.
People here continually apologize for the weather, which, to say the
least, has been rather ungracious since we have been here; as if one
ever expected to find any thing but smoke, and darkness, and fog in
London. The authentic air with which they lament the existence of these
things _at present_ would almost persuade one that _in general_ London
was a very clear, bright place. I, however, assured them that, having
heard from my childhood of the smoke of London, its dimness and
darkness, I found things much better than I had expected.
They talk here of spirit rappings and table turnings, I find, as in
America. Many rumors are afloat which seem to have no other effect than
merely to enliven the chitchat of an evening circle. I passed a very
pleasant evening, and left about ten o'clock. The gentleman who was
handing me down stairs said, "I suppose you are going to one or two
other places to-night." The idea struck me as so preposterous that I
could not help an exclamation of surprise.
May 6. A good many calls this morning. Among others came Miss
Greenfield, the (so called) Black Swan. She appears to be a gentle,
amiable, and interesting young person. She was born the slave of a kind
mistress, who gave her every thing but education, and, dying, left her
free with a little property. The property she lost by some legal
quibble, but had, like others of her race, a passion for music, and
could sing and play by ear. A young lady, discovering her taste, gave
her a few lessons. She has a most astonishing voice. C. sat down to the
piano and played, while she sung. Her voice runs through a compass of
three octaves and a fourth. This is four notes more than Malibran's. She
sings a most magnificent tenor, with such a breadth and volume of sound
that, with your back turned, you could not imagine it to be a woman.
While she was there, Mrs. S.C. Hall, of the Irish Sketches, was
announced. She is a tall, well-proportioned woman, with a fine color,
dark-brown hair, and a cheerful, cordial manner. She brought with her
her only daughter, a young girl about fifteen. I told her of Miss
Greenfield, and, she took great interest in her, and requested her to
sing something for her. C. played the accompaniment, and she sung Old
Folks at Home, first in a soprano voice, and then in a tenor or
baritone. Mrs. Hall was amazed and delighted, and entered at once into
her cause. She said that she would call with me and present her to Sir
George Smart, who is at the head of the queen's musical establishment,
and, of course, the acknowledged leader of London musical judgment.
Mrs. Hall very kindly told me that she had called to invite me to seek a
retreat with her in her charming little country house near London. I do
not mean that _she_ called it a charming little retreat, but that every
one who speaks of it gives it that character. She told me that I should
there have positive and perfect quiet; and what could attract me more
than that? She said, moreover, that there they had a great many
nightingales. Ah, this "bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream," could I
only go there! but I am tied to London by a hundred engagements. I
cannot do it. Nevertheless, I have promised that I will go and spend
some time yet, when Mr. S. leaves London.
In the course of the day I had a note from Mrs. Hall, saying that, as
Sir George Smart was about leaving town, she had not waited for me, but
had taken Miss Greenfield to him herself. She writes that he was really
astonished and charmed at the wonderful weight, compass, and power of
her voice. He was also as well pleased with the mind in her singing, and
her quickness in doing and catching all that he told her. Should she
have a public opportunity to perform, he offered to hear her rehearse
beforehand. Mrs. Hall says this is a great deal for him, whose hours are
all marked with gold.
In the evening the house was opened in a general way for callers, who
were coming and going all the evening. I think there must have been over
two hundred people--among them Martin Farquhar Tupper, a little man,
with fresh, rosy complexion, and cheery, joyous manners; and Mary
Howitt, just such a cheerful, sensible, fireside companion as we find
her in her books,--winning love and trust the very first few moments of
the interview. The general topic of remark on meeting me seems to be,
that I am not so bad looking as they were afraid I was; and I do assure
you that, when I have seen the things that are put up in the shop
windows here with my name under them, I have been in wondering
admiration at the boundless loving-kindness of my English and Scottish
friends, in keeping up such a warm heart for such a Gorgon. I should
think that the Sphinx in the London Museum might have sat for most of
them. I am going to make a collection of these portraits to bring home
to you. There is a great variety of them, and they will be useful, like
the Irishman's guideboard, which showed where the road did not go.
Before the evening was through I was talked out and worn out--there was
hardly a chip of me left. To-morrow at eleven o'clock comes the meeting
at Stafford House. What it will amount to I do not know; but I take no
thought for the morrow.