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ART AND SCENERY 
 
 IN EUROPE, 
 
 WITH OTHER PAPERS". 
 
 BSma CHIEFLY rBAGMENTS TROM THE POHT-FOLIO OF THE LATE 
 
 HORACE BINNEY WALLACE, ESQUIRE, 
 
 OF PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA ^ 
 PAEEY &L M'^MILLAN, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO a. HART, iitb CARET & HABT. 
 
/\-^'-'7S-J-t 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by 
 
 PARRY & McMillan, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the 
 Eastprn District of Pennsylvania. 
 
 eTEaEOTTPED BY aEORGE CHARLES. PRINTED BT T. li.. & P. O, COLLINS. 
 
ADYEETISEMEKT. 
 
 The first edition of the " Art, Scenery," &c. in Eurftpe, by the late 
 H. B. Wallace, Esqnire, has been for some time exhausted, The 
 merits of that work, like the merits of Mr. Wallace's other literary 
 productions, have been settled by the public voice ; and the present 
 publishers having received frequent orders for it, -which they were un- 
 able to supply, the volume has now been stereotyped in this form. 
 The letter upon M. Comte's Philosophy, which was in the first 
 edition, has been omitted in this ; and may perhaps be brought out 
 hereafter, along with some other portions of Mr. Wallace's writings, 
 to which it might be thought more properly to belong. In the place 
 of that letter, there will be found a considerable number of papers 
 upon dififerent subjects ; all of them more or less interesting, it is 
 hoped, to the general reader. An account of most of them is 
 given on page 293. These pieces are short, and so extremely dififer- 
 ent from each other in their character, that to some readers they may 
 appear to have been now printed without sufficient reference to unity 
 of thought or subject. It has been remarked, however, of Mr. Wallace, 
 that there was hardly any thing worth thinking about that he did 
 not think about and weigh ; and as he indulged himself in writing, 
 not for fame nor for reward, nor with any view to future publication 
 by any one, but apparently only as a civil duty, or to perform the 
 noble offices of humanity or friendship ; or to realize more fully, and 
 for his own satisfaction, the completeness and depth of those 
 thoughts, and that consciousness with which ordinary life surrounded 
 
 (iii) 
 
iv ADVEETISEMENT. 
 
 him — ^his writings have necessarily the diversity of his mental sub- 
 jects, and in many cases are somewhat in the nature of a journal- 
 izing record. They have, however, notwithstanding this, been 
 thought very fit to be included in volumes destined as a memorial of 
 him, and as the best record of his life, opinions, and character. 
 
 Most of the papers prior to page 293 were found in the author's 
 port-folio, at his residence in Paris, after his death there, December 
 16th, 1852, at the age of 35. They are the last which came from his 
 pen. They are all unfinished, — "immature buds and blossoms 
 shaken from the tree, and green fruit ; yet will they evince what 
 the harvest would have been." 
 
 Philadelphia, October 1.5th, 1856. 
 
AET, 
 
 AN EMANATION OF RELIGIOUS AFFECTION. 
 
 The position of an educated, but untraveled, American, in 
 respect to Art, is one, ■which, perhaps, a European would 
 hardly understand. A certain perfection of character enters so 
 necessarily into the nature of Art, in its true and highest con- 
 dition, and the difference between that consummate excellence 
 which breathes the glow of creation, and that secondary merit 
 which only transcribes and imitates, is so completely one of 
 kind, as well as degree, that it may fairly be said, that if we see 
 not Art in its supremeness, we know not Art at all. A Euro- 
 pean, of whatever country or class, has been familiar with some 
 examples of this kind from his youth. An Englishman, in 
 visiting Italy, will become acquainted with works of a higher 
 grade than any he may have met with before : yet a few good 
 pictures in the galleries at home, or at all events, the magnifi- 
 cent cathedrals of his own land, will have given him a know- 
 ledge of the nature of great Art, and an experience of the emo- 
 tions which it is fitted to produce. But of those works, still 
 existing in their completeness, which may be referred to the 
 perfection of Art, — in Greek sculpture, Gothic architecture, and 
 early Italian painting — not one example has ever been seen 
 upon the shores of the new world. The American reads of 
 Art, and conjectures what it may be, with something of the 
 wondering, half-incredulous curiosity, with which he might hear 
 of a new sense. The astonishment of delight with which the 
 1 (I) 
 
2 ABT, AN EMANATION OF [^tat. 34 
 
 glorious beauties of the master-pieces of the pencil or chisel at 
 last roll over his spirit, mingling thought and feeling together 
 in a tumultuous reaction of enjoyment, when, at some late day, 
 in the fullness perhaps of reflective sensibility, and the maturity 
 of a taste cultivated by literature and society, he comes, for the 
 first time, into the presence of a new order of illastrations of 
 divine characteristics, can be dimly apprehended by one to whom 
 acquaintance with such things has been gradual and prolonged. 
 My own preparation for these studies had been slight, and my 
 appreciation of them was, of course, limited ; yet I can scarcely 
 now write upon the subject without falling into the language of 
 enthusiasm. I am sure that the canons of the Cathedral at 
 Parma concluded me lunatic, when they saw me stretched upon 
 my back for hours, under the incomparable Assumption by 
 Correggio in their cupola. And it was with what I might, 
 without exaggeration, call a rational delirium of pleasure 
 that I viewed, through successive hours, the Madonna di 
 San Sisto at Dresden, and the Madonna della Misericordia at 
 Lucca. 
 
 But it is not the energy and beauty inherent in particular 
 productions, — the delight which they afford the taste, the expan- 
 sion they give to the imagination, or the elevation to which they 
 guide the spirit, — that constitute all the value of those exhibi- 
 tions of genius which Europe sets before us. It is as an illus- 
 tration of the properties and history of the mind, that the study 
 of Art is able to engage and reward the most animated curiosity. 
 To observe the rise, development, extension, modifications and 
 decline, of the power of Art, at various times and in different 
 countries, — to note its relations to the progress of society, and 
 its connection with the moral state of the people among 
 whom it appears, — and thus to arrive at some anticipation 
 of the fortunes of Art in the present day, — form a large share 
 of the satisfaction of ranging through the galleries of the 
 continent. 
 
 There is, at this time, throughout both Europe and America, 
 a great deal of mental interest in Art. Not only does the topic 
 employ the speculations and criticisms of the lettered classes, 
 
^TAT. 34.] RELIGIOUS AFFECTION. 3 
 
 but the popular attention, largely, is directed to it. We have 
 Art-Unions ; with their halls of pictures ; their distribution of 
 engravings ; their annual meetings, speeches and reports ; by 
 which the community is made to hear much about the matter. 
 Treatises have appeared upon the means of developing Art. The 
 value of "High Art," the importance of "aesthetic views," and 
 the nature of " artistic principles," form not only the themes of 
 articles and essays, but the staple of modern conversation. In 
 England, parliament has appointed committees to investigate and 
 make report upon the subject ; and public national encourage- 
 ment in various ways has been accumulated upon it. But with all 
 this external excitement about Art, has Art, itself, — the capacity 
 of Art in the class professing it, — improved at all ? Without 
 making any remark about America, I think that it is necessary 
 only to have walked through the rooms of the Annual Exhibi- 
 tion at London, at any late display, to be convinced that, amid 
 all these stimulating efforts, the originality and force of Art 
 have, in the last twenty years, sensibly declined. 
 
 It seems worth while to try to look into the philosophy of 
 the matter, and consider whether the methods that have been 
 made use of, reasonably tend to the creation of artist-power, and 
 how far it is probable that this age, as its character and course 
 now are, will produce schools of great painters. Modern 
 society, conscious of acute and comprehensive intellectual abili- 
 ties, and aware of exercising almost indefinite mechanical 
 mastery, has not thought of calling in doubt its own ability to 
 display the powers of Art. It looks upon the matter as a mere 
 affair of development, and takes it for granted that only instruc- 
 tion, practice and motive, are wanted to bring out the precious 
 result. It has not thought of questioning how far life now sup- 
 plies the moral staple from which Art is fashioned, or admits of 
 the circumstances requisite to evolve it fittingly. 
 
 It is clear that the art-creating faculty is not the same with 
 the purely rational and scientific capacity, but is wholly discon- 
 nected from it. The offices of the latter are perception, dis- 
 crimination and inference. The other, a more sensitive and 
 impassioned thing, reacts, according to instincts of its own, with 
 
4 ART, AN EMANATION OP [iEiAT. 34. 
 
 a modifying and moulding energy, npon every object and feel- 
 ing addressing it, so as to result in visionary conceptions and 
 ideal creations. It is to be looked upon as a separate and pecu- 
 liar faculty ; holding a place between the mere emotions and 
 the clear intellect ; partaking the properties of both, and com- 
 bining their natures in the unity of its own original character 
 and action ; as its productions also occupy an intermediate 
 position between the sensible and rational. Yet, two-fold as 
 may be the affinities of Art, in its critical analysis, the faoulty 
 that creates Art is single, distinct, original, and natural ; a gift 
 bestowed upon some and withheld from others. It implies, no 
 doubt, a cerebral organization or development of a special kind. 
 
 It is pretty obvious that no man, or society of men, can, "by 
 taking thought," add the endowment of this "faculty divine" to 
 their nature. And it lies so deep amid the impulsive and sym- 
 pathetic parts of the being, and its coming forth is so involun- 
 tary and unconscious, that it is certain that mere intellectual 
 flaggellation cannot create or stir it. It may be, to some ex- 
 tent, a subject of educational development; but only indirectly 
 and remotely ; by inward culture of the sentiments, or through 
 the establishment of great moral institutions which rouse and 
 deepen and refresh the spiritual affections of society. 
 
 To determine whether Art is likely to flourish in any country, 
 at any particular time, we must explore the nature and charac- 
 teristics of this art-faculty, the circumstances under which it 
 appears, and the laws that regulate its growth and state : and 
 in so doing, we shall derive no profitable aid from mere notional 
 theories or metaphysical speculations. We must proceed from 
 observation. We must look at those occasions in the liistory 
 of our race, in which artist-power has been manifested in genu- 
 ine and signal energy ; and by noting the antecedents and ac- 
 companiments under which it has come into action, and the 
 qualities that have marked its progress, we may discover the 
 conditions of its existence and the laws of its evolutions. In 
 traversing various nations, and viewing the monuments that 
 still remain upon earth of the capacities and accomplishments 
 that, in any former times, have belonged to mankind, we quickly 
 
^TAT. 31.] RELIGIOUS AFFECTION. 5 
 
 see that the faculty of Art has only at certain and very rare 
 periods been possessed by man ; and that it partook the aspect 
 of a real inspiration, streaming forth free from apparent relation 
 to intellect, intention and will. We shall find that it has ap- 
 peared, not as the accidental and occasional attribute of indi- 
 vidual persons, separated in place and time, and starting up 
 alone and unfollowed, in a community otherwise destitute of the 
 manifestations of such a possession, but rather as a charac- 
 teristic of a society, nation, or particular people, at certain eras, 
 and in special ages of their history. We shall find it, not 
 bursting out suddenly, in all its completeness, but rising gradu- 
 ally, advancing to a pitch of excellence which, according to the 
 purpose and capacity of the style, may be called Perfection ; 
 continuing in bright and flowing vigor for a limited time ; then 
 flickering and going out like a lamp ; or drooping and dying 
 like a plant ; or breaking and fading away like a vision-haunted 
 slumber of humanity. That light, no efforts can again re- 
 lumine ; that growth, no culture afterwards can revive ; to that 
 sweet half-conscious dream of glory, not all the drowsy sirups 
 of the world can medicine once more the faculties of that people. 
 Thus far, architecture, sculpture, and painting have shown 
 themselves the three matters best adapted to take the forms and 
 show the character of Art. There may be a reason for this, 
 and it might be suggested that literature, on the one hand, is 
 too intellectual in its essence, and music on the other too 
 sensuous in its operation, for either of them readily to assume 
 that fusion of mental and material, — to admit that perfect bal- 
 ance of the elements of the sensible and thoughtful, in its sub- 
 stance, — which Art requires. But it would be rash to infer a 
 necessary law from so scanty an experience ; and it is enough 
 to say that looking at Art historically, and taking note of the 
 actual evolution of this power through the past course of our 
 race, we shall find that it is in these three departments only that 
 those qualities of surpassing and irresistible excellence have been 
 reached, which make Art an existence and nature by itself In 
 the range of the world's experience, there seem to have been 
 but four special displays of artist-inspiration so undefective in 
 1* 
 
6 ART, AN EMANATION OF [^^^^T- 34- 
 
 their completeness, so exalted in significance, so absolute in 
 splendor, as to fill every susceptibility that our nature can con- 
 ceive to be the subject of an emotion. The reason finds in them 
 no sign of deficiency ; feeling can suggest no limit to their in- 
 terest. They stand in the mystery of an inherent perfection : 
 participating of an apparent divinity in the inscrutableness of 
 their nature, as well as in the overswaying might of their moral 
 power. Through them, the mind runs upward along the view- 
 less chain of spiritual sympathy till it loses itself in the Infinite. 
 These are Greek sculpture, Italian painting, Gothic archi- 
 tecture, and Greek architecture. 
 
 Of these, only the three first yet remain upon the earth, in 
 such entireness of preservation, that we are able perfectly to 
 appreciate and experience their power. Greek architecture is 
 no longer a presence of unimpaired and living excellence. We 
 may mentally reconstruct the crumbled and plundered temples 
 of Attica, and can infer what once they must have been ; but 
 there is no example from which we can directly feel all the 
 beauty and meaning that dwelt in those spoiled and violated 
 forms. My own acquaintance, too, even with its ruins, is so 
 limited, that I shall not pretend to make any deductions from 
 it. But I shall offer some reflections upon the nature, cha- 
 racteristics and laws of Art, which an actual observation of 
 specimens of the other three suggested to me. 
 
 In viewing these monuments of Art, or indeed any others, it 
 becomes apparent that Art has always had an intimate con- 
 nection with the character and degree of the religious sensi- 
 bility of the people among whom it has appeared : and a pro- 
 longed examination of these works in all their variety will sug- 
 gest the truth that the art-faculty is nothing else than earnest 
 religious feeling acting imaginatively, or imagination working 
 under the elevating and kindling influences of religions feelino-. 
 There is no instance, in history, of a signal manifestation of 
 art-power, except among people, and in ages, where religious 
 enthusiasm and religiousness of nature were prominent charac- 
 teristics. And further, there is no instance of supreme excel- 
 lence in Art being reached, excepting where the subject of the 
 
Mtat. 34.] RELIGIOUS AFFECTION. >J 
 
 artist's thoughts and toils, — the type which he brought up to 
 perfection — was to him an object of worship, or a sacred thing 
 immediately connected with his holiest reverence. This law,-^- 
 that the mental faculties become fertilized and expanded into 
 art-creative energy only when impregnated with religious 
 emotion, or that Art is a fervent essence of religious sensibility 
 overflowing into the moulds of imagination, — will be illustrated 
 in the examples of Art just mentioned, where the human per- 
 son, the basis of the Greek ideal in sculpture, and the Madonna, 
 which is the inspired and inspiring centre of Italian Art, were 
 to each people an image of worship; and the temple and 
 church, which were the objects of Greek and Gothic archi- 
 tecture, were sacred forms, identified with the residence and 
 glory of Divinity. Mere religious feeling, of itself, will pro- 
 bably never work out any thing like a high Art. Many other 
 attendants may be required to co-operate. At the periods 
 when great Art has been manifested, there has commonly been 
 a general movement in the nation, and a great outflow of the 
 forces of individual and social character; but these movements 
 have been connected with a predominant earnestness, sensitive- 
 ness, and depth of religious emotion, and the display of Art has 
 had an immediate relation with it. 
 
 It is not difficult to give a reasonable account of this prin- 
 ciple. The perfections of Art consist not in execution ; not in 
 the learning of the eye, or the dexterity of the hand ; but in the 
 exaltedness and fervor of the conception of the work. And it 
 would appear that the artist mind must conceive of its subject 
 with the glowing intensity of adoration, in order to reproduce 
 that form in the power and splendor which belong to the highest 
 examples of actual Art. The picture or statue must first be 
 limned or moulded in the imagination by the touches of wor- 
 shiping affection, before a model fit to be transcribed into 
 marble or canvas is brought into existence. But the con- 
 nection between religion and Art is deeper and more instinc- 
 tive than that. And here, in considering the effects of religious 
 feeling, we must not draw our impressions from the religious 
 feeling of this day, especially in Protestant countries ; where it 
 
8 ART, AN EMANATION OF [^tat. Si. 
 
 is a whipt and cowering thing, mastered by reason, subjugated 
 to convenience ; but must recur to earlier conditions of our race, 
 when it overswept intellect and interest, and was the great for- 
 ward, uTging and onward guiding influence of our nature, in 
 whose train all the other parts of man's being followed. It seems 
 to be a constitutional tendency of earnest religious sensibility to 
 fashion visible types, symbols, or images of worship. The 
 spirit, conscious of an emotion of reverence for some unseen 
 subject of its own apprehension, desires to substantiate and fix 
 its deity, and to bring the senses into the same adoring atti- 
 tude, and this can be done only by setting before them a ma- 
 terial representation of the divine. This is illustrated in the 
 universal and inveterate tendency of early nations to idolatry. 
 And among those people, who have something abstract and 
 ideal for their high, intellectual worship, if the affections and 
 more passionate part of the being exercise religious emotion at 
 all, it will be towards some art-creation of humanity. 
 
 How and why was it that the sculpture of the Greeks at- 
 tained a character so exalted, that it shines on, through our 
 time, with a beam of glory peculiar and undistinguishable ? 
 When we enter the chambers of the Vatican, we are presently 
 Btruck with the mystic influence that rays from those silent forms 
 that stand ranged along the walls ; like the moral prestige that 
 might encircle the vital presence of divine beings. We behold 
 divinities represented in human shapes idealized into a signifi- 
 cance altogether irresistible. What constitutes that idealizing 
 modification, we know not ; but we feel that it imparts to the 
 figures an interest and impressiveness which natural forms pos- 
 sess not. These sculptured images seem directly to address the 
 imagination : they do not suffer the cold and critical survey 
 of the eye, but awaken an instant and vivid mental considera- 
 tion ; and seem rather to be intellectual existences apprehended 
 by the mind, than material outlines surveyed by the sight. We 
 see that the soul of the sculptor has wrought with a transmut- 
 ing, glorifying operation upon the type that life afforded him ; 
 and, by that moral law upon which Art depends for its 
 effect, the creation of impassioned genius has force forever to 
 
iETAT. 34.] RELIGIOUS AFFECTION. 9 
 
 awaken in the spirit of those who view it, emotions kindred to 
 those from which it sprang. A matter which strikes you, 
 perhaps, most of all, as you stray through these lengthening 
 halls, is the prodigious number of works of similar excellence 
 that the genius of Greece has left us ; not all equal in degree, 
 indeed, to the Apollo, the Yenus, or the new Athlete, yet of 
 the same nature and order of merit. We learn that supre- 
 macy in sculpture among that people, was not an accidental or 
 miraculous inspiration of a single artist, or of two or three, but 
 was the heritage of a race. 
 
 The cause of the special and unapproached excellence of the 
 Greeks in sculpture wiU be found intimately connected with the 
 circumstance, that their theology was an anthropomorphous 
 one. The human form was to them an image of worship. 
 They conceived of the gods as possessing that shape. In- 
 deed, it is evident from the facility with which eminent per- 
 sons in their earlier civilization were deified, that to their natural 
 sentiments humanity partook of a divineness, and, in its higher 
 phases, passed readily into that sphere. The peculiarity of their 
 case is this, that their mental organization was such that 
 instinctively the personality of man was to them an adoration : 
 the free emanation of their religious conceptions was in a pan- 
 theon of men and women possessing merely natural impulses 
 and characteristics. This is a condition which we, who have 
 always sought and possessed a religion purely spiritual and 
 abstract, can scarcely comprehend. It is not as if we, with 
 natures adapted to moral and intellectual apprehensions of our 
 object of worship, were to turn ourselves toward human forms, 
 with a resolution to make them themes of homage. The fact 
 that the Greeks spontaneously made or found a religion in them, 
 prove that the Greek nature was exquisitely sensitive to the 
 highest impression of the human subject ; and felt its finest 
 graces, its most evanescent beauties, with a force, an emotion, a 
 delicacy of interest, which we cannot follow. The whole intel- 
 lectual being of the Greek, passioned towards this type : to him 
 it was a representative, the embodiment, in its imaginative con- 
 ception, — the very identity of divinity. All the susceptibilities 
 
10 ART, AN EMANATION OF [^tat. 34. 
 
 of his immortal spirit, all the endless enthusiasms of a nature 
 in all things, as the Apostle thought, " too superstitious," or, 
 according to a better version, " very religious," were concen- 
 trated in reacting upon this image, and glorifying and exalting 
 it. It is not wonderfal that Hellenic artists accomplished such 
 an idealization of every variety of the human shape, as Chris- 
 tian efforts have wholly failed to approach. If the process of 
 adoring an object be not simply forming and realizing progres- 
 sively higher and brighter apprehensions of its glory, at least 
 the secondary and reflective mental consequence or accom- 
 paniment of adoration must be the production of such height- 
 ened impressions. When our feelings direct themselves under 
 any emotion towards an object, our imagination quickly works 
 upon that object, to represent it as worthy to excite those feel- 
 ings, whether favorable or hostile. And thus, when our instinc- 
 tive nature worships aught, our minds speedily frame a justifi- 
 cation of this devotion by idealizing the object under traits to 
 which, if real, adoration would not be inappropriate. Thus, 
 from the fervent mind of the Attic sculptor, to whom the aug- 
 mentation of beauty was a service of piety, sprang forth a 
 throng of shapes flashing with all the lustre that the soul's 
 idolatry could lavish upon them. 
 
 It has sometimes been suggested that the superiority of the 
 Greeks in delineating the figure arose from the familiarity with 
 it which they acquired from their frequent opportunities of 
 viewing it nude, — on account of their usages, costumes, climate, 
 &c. This is too superficial an account of that vital faculty of 
 skill and knowledge upon this subject, which was a part of the 
 inherent capacity of the Greek. His superiority, in this matter, 
 is rather to be referred to that susceptibility to the mental im- 
 pression of this image which is implied in his making a religion 
 of it, — to the enduring distinctness with which it stamped itself 
 upon a moral nature, in this respect, peculiar in its organization, 
 . — to the revering interest, the pious scrutiny, the adoring earn- 
 estness of attention with which he was predisposed always to 
 contemplate and study its form — to the ethereal sensibility and 
 intensity of apprehension with which his consciousness riveted 
 
^TAT. 34.] EBLIGIOUS AFFECTION. H 
 
 itself upon it. The outflow and characteristic exercise of 
 Grecian inspiration in sculpture was in the representation of 
 their mythology, which included heroes, or deified men, as well 
 as gods of the first rank. Later, it extended to winners at 
 the public games, athletes, runners, boxers ; — but this class of 
 persons partook, in the national feeling, of a heroic or half- 
 divine superiority. A particular type of form, highly ideal, 
 became appropriate to them, as to the heroes, and to each of the 
 gods. It may be added, that a capacity thus derived from re- 
 ligious impressibility extended to a great number of natural 
 forms, which were to the Greeks measurably objects of a divine 
 regard. Many animals, as connected with the gods, or with 
 sacrifices, were sacred beings to them, and became subjects of their 
 surpassing gift in sculpture. In general, nature, — the visible, 
 the sensible, the actual, — was to the Hellenic soul Religion ; as 
 inward and reflective emotions were and are to the modern 
 European. 
 
 Italian painting is a character as definite, an inspiration as 
 special, and a perfection as absolute, as Greek sculpture. The 
 limits of the life of this spiritual plant of beauty may be fixed 
 with much precision. The first bud broke through the hard 
 rind of conventionality about the year 1220, and the scene of its 
 first growth may be fixed at Siena ; and by the year 1320 the 
 germination of the whole trunk was decisively advanced. Ci- 
 mabue and Giotto had spread examples of Art over all Italy. In 
 the next century, till 1470, all the branches and sprays that the 
 frame was to exhibit were grown ; the leafage was luxuriantly 
 full, and the buds of the flowers were formed. Memmi, the 
 Gaddis, the Orgagnas, the Lippis, Masaccio, and more than all, 
 as relates to spiritual development, Pra Beato had lived and 
 wrought. About 14T0, the peerless blossom of Perfection began 
 to expand, and continued open for seventy years, the brightest 
 period of its glow being between 1500 and 1535. Its life de- 
 clined and expired almost immediately. After 1570, nothing 
 of original or progressive vitality was produced in Italy. Pra 
 Bartolommeo had died in 1517 ; Leonardo in 1519 ; Rafael in 
 1520 ; Correggio in 1534 ; Michael Angelo, at a great age, in 
 
12 ART, AN EMANATION OP [^tat. 34. 
 
 1563. Giorgionehad died in 1511; John Bellini in 1516 ; Titian 
 survived till 15T6, at the age of 99 ; and Veronese died in 1588. 
 The complete exhaustion of the vital force of Art, in the pro- 
 duction of the great painters who were all living in 1500, is a 
 noticeable fact. With the exception of the after-growth of the 
 Bolognese school, —of whomDominichino, Guido, andGuercino, 
 alone are worth notice, — which flourished between 1600 and 
 1660, nothing in the manner of the previous days, but false and 
 feeble imitations, appeared. 
 
 The organic distinctions of the various schools, and their 
 historical development, will form the subject of another paper. 
 At present, in connection with the principle immediately in 
 hand, we shall note but two things : First, that this evolution 
 of artist power in Italy took pla-ce in direct association with a 
 great increase and action of religious feeling in Italy ; and 
 secondly, that all the subjects of the painters' toils were to them 
 objects of adoration ; the Virgin, the Saviour, the Saints. The 
 type which was earliest and chiefly perfected, and which led 
 the development, was the Virgin, who was then the principal 
 object of affective adoration ; and it was mainly in connection 
 with the adoration of her divinity that this new religious move- 
 ment took place. 
 
 I know not a spot upon which one who takes an interest in 
 tracing the mental and moral history of the world, may stand 
 and look around him with deeper reflections than will occur to 
 him upon the hillside terrace on which stands the triple church 
 of Francesco, at Assisi. The village is poor and neglected ; 
 and in the? more distant prospect little is to be seen but the bare 
 undulation of hill and valley, which gives to all that part of 
 Italy a pensive, yet engaging, elegance. But in Religion and 
 in Art, that scene is a memorable one. If there has been, or 
 now is, any reservoir or fountain of evangelical life in the huge 
 system of the Church of Rome, it is to be found in the brother- 
 hood of the spiritual Franciscans. Among them is the enthu- 
 siasm, the sympathy, the more sensuous emotion of religion. 
 The grave of the founder is beneath your feet. The cell in 
 which he lived and felt and prayed is at the base of the moun- 
 
^TAT. 34.] EELiaiOUS AFFECTION. 13 
 
 tain upon which you stand ; and the piety of modern times has 
 erected a noble cathedral to mark and defend that holy retreat, 
 whose rude oaken door is guarded as the monument of a sanctity 
 whose living influences are not yet exhausted. And when you 
 observe that the church of San Francesco beside you contains 
 upon its walls the finest museum that exists of the earliest works 
 of Italian Art, — that Perugia, identified with the original and 
 greatest movement in painting, is distinctly seen on the oppo- 
 site hill, — and that Siena and Florence lie not far beyond it, 
 the local connection between the origin of the religious revival 
 in Italy and the development of Art readily suggests the pro- 
 bability of a rational one. 
 
 It is agreed by ecclesiastical writers, that there took place, in 
 the beginning and middle of the thirteenth century, a decided 
 increase of religious enthusiasm in the church, especially in the 
 south of Europe, which was manifested by the formation of new 
 monastic orders. The most eminent of these, who, from that 
 time to this, have been the chief depositories of the devout feel- 
 ing which has sustained and extended the church, were the 
 mendicant or begging friars; the most conspicuous fraternities 
 of which were the Dominicans and Franciscans. The religious 
 passion which, on the one hand, carried such multitudes of per- 
 sons into these orders ; and on the other, caused them to be 
 honored and followed with such earnestness by the laity at large, 
 makes the establishment of these orders a monument of a great 
 augmentation of pious sensibility in the Romish Society. To 
 fix the date and peculiar seats of this Biovement, we may note 
 that St. Francis was born at Assisi, in 1182, and died at the 
 same place, in 1226 ; that St. Dominic was born in Old Castile 
 in 1170 (?) and died in Italy in 1221 ; that St. Catharine of 
 Siena was born in 134T, and died in 1380 ; and St. Bernardino, 
 of Siena, was born in 1380. 
 
 "When we inquire for the first appearances of Italian genius 
 in Art, we find that the earliest authentic jiroduction of this 
 character is a Madonna, by Guido of Siena, wliich hangs in a 
 chapel in the north transept of the church of San Dominic, in 
 Siena, and bears the contemporary date, 1221. It is a work 
 2 
 
14 ART, AN EMANATION OF [«tat. 34. 
 
 of great merit, in that stage of painting, which till then had not 
 advanced beyond the meagre and conventional types of Byzan- 
 tine figuring. The face of the Virgin has even more nature 
 than that of Cimabue's great Madonna in the church of Santa 
 Maria Novella, at Florence ; and there is much freedom and 
 grace in the figure of the child, who sits in her lap with his feet 
 crossed. Another work, by the same artist, also a Madonna 
 and child, is in the academy of that city, (No. 2.) The child 
 is well and strongly drawn, and his face is expressive. Other 
 painters speedily appeared upon the same spot; one of the 
 ablest of whom was Duccio di Buoninsegna. By this artist, 
 besides the celebrated work, in the cathedral, of the Passion of 
 Christ, and its reverse of the Madonna and Saints, is a good 
 painting, in the Academia, of the Virgin and Child, and four 
 saints in panels. A more eminent name appears about the 
 same time, at Florence, in Cimabue, whose Madonna, once the 
 adoration of the city, is a work of grand genius, and will still 
 be found in the highest degree impressive and effective. The 
 upper church, at Assisi, contains a ceiling painted by him, 
 with figures of the four Doctors of the Church, in one compart- 
 ment, and the Madonna, Christ, St. John Baptist and St. Fran- 
 cis, in another. To him succeeded Giotto, four of whose works 
 are on the vault, under the cross, in the lower church of Assisi, 
 which contains also works by his pupils, and by the early artists 
 of Perugia. I mention these brief particulars to show that Art, 
 in Italy, rose in immediate connection with that particular 
 movement in religion that carried the Bomish Or Italian church 
 into a situation in which the northern countries of Europe did 
 not long submit to be ; that this manifestation took place on 
 and near the very spot where one of the most signal events in 
 religious enthusiasm was fixed ; and the new monastery of St. 
 Francis, at Assisi, was the principal and earliest patron of 
 nascent Art. It should be added, that the monastery and order 
 of St. Dominic, early established at Florence, soon gave Fra 
 Beato and Fra Bartolommeo to Art. 
 
 There is no doubt whatever, that about the time that Art 
 thus began to appear, there was a general stirring in Italian life 
 
^TAT. 34.] RELIGIOUS AFFECTION.' I5 
 
 and character, and that, without it, this display of Art could 
 not have been produced. But it is equally certain, that an in- 
 creased intensity of a peculiar kind of religious devotion was a 
 part of this movement, and that the appearance of Art was par- 
 ticularly allied with this excitement in the church. 
 
 "When you look at the subjects in the perfecting and beauti- 
 fying of which Italian genius, from first to last, was occupied, you 
 find that all of them were holy persons, and beings adored. It 
 was in representing, visibly, the mythology of the Romish church, 
 that the art-inspiration of medieval Italy worked itself out. 
 But it was especially in the pictorial deification of the Madonna 
 that creative genius then reached the standard of ideal perfec- 
 tion which makes the glory of these schools. And here we may 
 note also, a particular historical relation between Religion and 
 Art upon this point. It was about the end of the twelfth and 
 beginning of the thirteenth century that the character of the 
 Yirgin was raised into real divinity by the establishment of the 
 doctrine of her immaculate conception. The controversy upon 
 this topic began about 1140, and raged for above a century, 
 when it may be said to have gained that ascendency and grow- 
 ing moral power which it has ever since maintained. A leading 
 characteristic of the Franciscan revival was the special exalta- 
 tion and adoration of this lady, and the enthusiasm of the order 
 became identified with this new doctrine, — a theory so neces- 
 sary to justify that inordinate worship of her which has pervaded 
 the whole church, that the Franciscans have almost obtained the 
 final seal of infallibility upon it, notwithstanding its manifest 
 heresy in point of doctrine. In all its range Italian art never 
 went beyond spiritual subjects ; so different, in that respect, from 
 the scope of our modern painters.* 
 
 * How completely painting was anciently felt to be a religious exeroige, may 
 be seen in the very curious " Ouide de la Peinture," translated by M. Didron 
 from a Byzantine Greek MS., said by the monks of Mount Athos, from whom 
 he obtained it, to be of the tenth or eleventh century, and, in his own opinion, 
 of the fifteenth or sixteenth, hut derived from earlier works and representing 
 the views and feelings of the eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The 
 work is inscribed to the Virgin, in a dedication, which, after some ardent com- 
 pliments to her beauty and graciousness, proceeds as follows : " Saint Luke, 
 
16 AUT, AN EMANATION OF [JEtat. 34. 
 
 Certainly, one of the most memorable accumulations and ex- 
 hibitions of art-capacity that the history of our race exhibits, 
 working out a completely new style or medium for the notation 
 of the conceptions of Art and then revealing and perpetuating 
 
 after having been sanctified by the precepts of the Gospel, which he proclaimed 
 by preaching and writing, desired to manifest to mankind the most sacred 
 love which he had for your gracious and divine greatness. He judged, and 
 rightly, that out of all bis treasures of science and spiritual wealth, he could 
 make you no worthy offering except in the representation of your admirahie 
 and charming beauty, which he had contemplated actually with his own eyes. 
 This holy and learned personage employed all the resources of colors and 
 gilt mosaics to produce faithful representations of this image in pictures, ac- 
 cording to the rules of his art. I, in my turn, a feeble imitator, desired to 
 follow the example of this accomplished man, and devoted myself to sacred 
 painting, with a belief that my capacity would second my good will, for the ac- 
 complishment of any duty to your sacred person, your venerable greatness, your 
 admirable magnificence." Here the beautifying, iu pictures, of the countenance 
 of the Virgin, is considered as an acceptable duty and as a religious service. 
 
 After an -address to all painters, follows ''Some preliminary exercises and 
 instructions for him who would learn the art of painting." The first exercise 
 enjoined is drawing, freely and generally, '^Noxt, let him address to Jesus 
 Christ, the following prayer, before an image of the Mother of G-od, the Vir- 
 gin the conductress, while a priest blesses him : " King of Heaven," <tc. ; then 
 the Magnificat, an invitatory and the Versicles of the Transfiguration; then let 
 him pronounce aloud this prayer," tfcc. A part of the prayer is, "Divine Lord 
 of exi&tence, lighten and guide my soul, and the heart and mind of thy servant 
 (N.) : direct his hands so that ho may worthily and truly represent your coun- 
 tenance, and those of your most holy mother and all the saints, for the glory, 
 joy and decoration of your holy church." ^' After the prayer," continues the 
 manual, "^let him study the proportions and expressions of figures," Ac. "Do 
 not begin your work," he goes on, "without reflection j but operate with the 
 fear of God and with piety, in this art, which was a divine thing." **It is a 
 divine work," he says again, *' and one which God has taught us, as is evident 
 to every one, from a number of reasons, &c. This excellent employment was 
 equally acceptable to the holy Mother of God, and approved by her, as every 
 one knows, since she encouraged and blessed the apostles and the evangelist 
 St. Luke, on account of his skill, and said to him, "The grace of him whom I 
 brought forth is spread over them for my sake." And it is not only St. Luke 
 who is blessed, but all those who labor in the production of the miraculous works 
 the sacred portraits of the Lord, of ih.Q Mother of God and the other saints* 
 for this art of painting is acceptable to God and favorably regarded by him. 
 So, all those that work with care and piety, received from heaven graces and 
 blessings." It was thus, by exalting his imagination with the idea of the 
 Transfiguration, and kindling his heart with prayer and benediction, that the 
 ancient painter approached his work. 
 
^TAT. 34.] RELIGIOUS AFFECTION. i<j 
 
 in the language of these new forms a thousand ideal sentiments 
 of sublimity and beauty, is presented to us in Gothic architec- 
 ture ; and from it we propose to draw the third illustration of 
 the principle inyolved in the present discussion. I shall have 
 occasion, in another paper, to trace the history and progress of 
 this style of Art with some definiteness ; but, for the present, it 
 is enough to say, that the first germination of this new creative 
 energy appears about A. D. 1050, and chiefly among the Nor- 
 mans of France and England, where it swelled forth with extra- 
 ordinary power and vividness ; and that, after passing through 
 a regular life, composed of an herculean infancy, a graceful 
 youth, a maturity and an old age, it became extinct before the 
 year 1550 : so completely dead, that, since that time, in no na- 
 tion of Europe have men been able to compose in that medium; 
 the forms having ceased to be vital and plastic, and the spirit 
 which once animated and disposed them, having departed from 
 the life of men ; the language thus being lost, and the sentiments 
 appropriate to be embodied in it, being no longer produced by 
 the mind. 
 
 It was in the erection and decoration of sacred buildings, ex- 
 clusively, that this new spirit of Art accomplished such extra- 
 ordinary results. The sense that the building to be fashioned 
 was to become the home of the Spirit of the All-Holy ; and the 
 enthusiastic design to raise it to a divineness worthy of the 
 shrine of his worship, and to stamp upon it a symbolism of the 
 greatness of his power and the beauty of his love ; that became 
 the actuating instinct of this earnest Art. The subject, in brood- 
 ing upon which the conceptions of these men became impregna- 
 ted with the kindling fire of creation, was to them a feeling of 
 religion. Devotion was the expanding and exalting influence 
 that wrought within their imaginations. Castles, and palaces, 
 and towers, and towns, were built in those days, but it was not 
 in their construction that this style became evolved. When 
 matured in ecclesiastical buildings, it, of course, extended to 
 other buildings ; but it originated and grew up and educated 
 itself in the service of the church ; and every thing in this archi- 
 tecture, whether as respects constructive principles or decora- 
 2* 
 
18 ART, AN EMANATION OP [^tat. 34. 
 
 tire details, is essentially ecclesiastical. Personally considered, 
 it began and always dwelt in the bosom of the church. Its pro- 
 fessors were the priesthood. Nay, to a great extent, the work- 
 ing masons were in minor orders ; and capitals were wrought, 
 and arches channeled by hands ordained to holy tasks ; so sa- 
 cred was the whole work considered. 
 
 When you look at the time when this aesthetic overflow of 
 feeling took place, you will find that it was contemporaneously 
 with a great expansion and agitation in the religious emotions 
 of Europe, especially in the transalpine nations. A memorable 
 evidence of the excess in which spiritual enthusiasm at that 
 time was generated in society, — of the enlargement of holy zeal 
 beyond what the forms, and modes, and uses of ordinary life 
 could contain or conduct — is furnished by the Crusades, of which 
 the first took place in the year 1095. Of course, the feeling, 
 which then came to a crisis, had been on the rise for some 
 years before : so that the budding forth of Gothic architecture 
 is contemporary with the commencement of one of the greatest 
 and most general augmentations or secretions of instinctive re- 
 ligious sentiment or passion that the world has ever known. 
 Moreover, this movement in favor of the Crusades took place 
 chiefly in France, England, and Germany; and the leaders and 
 armies of the invasion were principally from those countries, 
 and not from Italy ; which comports with the fact that this 
 architecture was almost wholly of transalpine growth. The 
 religious start in Italy, which has given her a supremacy in 
 spiritual things, which she has since held, did not take place till 
 the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and, as already stated, 
 was simultaneous with the rise of painting in that country. 
 
 Another indication of the superabundant religious sensibility 
 that began to appear about that time, and was immediately con- 
 nected with the production of architectural works, is the forma- 
 tion of separate, resident monastic establishments. This system 
 of a detached corps of monkish orders, strictly celibate, de- 
 voted specifically to the elaboration of the spiritual empire of the 
 church, was the work of St. Gregory the Seventh, who ascended 
 the pontifical throne in the year 10T3. The earliest of these 
 
^TAT. 34.] RELIGIOUS AFFECTION. 19 
 
 monastic orders was instituted in tlie Lamousin in the year - 
 
 The order of Carthusians was established by St. Bruno, about 
 the year 1100. Others soon followed. And it was mainly in 
 consequence of these associations of men in a religious life of 
 seclusion, that those edifices were erected. Most of the chapels 
 and cathedrals in which this architecture was used, were parts 
 of monasteries. 
 
 .From all this it may safely be concluded, that Gothic archi- 
 tecture was a direct emanation from a growing element of 
 religious fervor ; that in fact it was an assthetic exercise of 
 worshiping feeling ; an imaginative effort to continue material 
 forms that should be meet to be regarded with sentiments of 
 adoration, and felt to be types of things divine. Drawing its 
 animating energy from an overcharged religiousness, or super- 
 stition, it declined when that spiritual force, which once had 
 given it impulse, abated. The date of the extinction of this 
 art-inspiration is the era of that great diminution of religious 
 feeling, of which the Reformation is the great social monument. 
 I do not question that the Reformation gave us a purer doc- 
 trine, a sounder morality, a better society ; but it would be idle 
 to deny that it was the result and the record of an immense 
 decrease of spiritual sensibility, which had been before then, 
 no doubt, for all purposes of utility and knowledge, in excess. 
 But it was that very excess, producing a kind of idolatry of 
 visible things that were associated with the religion, that 
 engendered Art. Since the Reformation, that enthusiasm and 
 self-dedication have been spent on industry, science, and other 
 temporal engagements, which, before, were concentrated upon 
 religion. 
 
 It is obvious that as far as regards the sacred character of 
 the buildings, the same remarks which have been made respect- 
 ing Gothic architecture are applicable to Grecian. This art 
 attained its great perfection in exercising itself exclusively 
 upon temples : and thus was a collateral effect of religious 
 feeling, 
 
 If the law above stated be correctly inferred, it might be 
 expected that a people, whose objects of worship were purely 
 
20 ART, AN EMANATION OF RELIGIOTTS AFFECTION, [^tat. 34. 
 
 abstract and ideal, should be able to exhibit a powerful and 
 brilliant literature, in connection with religion, but not to attain 
 the highest eminence in the creation of forms of visible gran- 
 deur and beauty. Protestantism has never produced a great 
 artist. The last of the heroic race of painters were Rubens 
 and Yandyke ; and both were Catholics. The loftiest school 
 of our own day, that of Munich, is composed either of Catho- 
 lics or persons who being Protestant at the outset, became 
 Catholic in the process of becoming artists. But I reserve the 
 further prosecution of these reflections for a paper in which I 
 propose to consider the prospects of this age in respect to Art, 
 at large. 
 
ART, 
 
 SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVE. 
 
 Art is, in its nature, symbolical, not imitative. 
 
 Those numerous theorists who tell us that Art has its origin 
 in the instinctive disposition of man to mimic what he sees, and 
 that the interest of Art arises from the pleasure we experience 
 in meeting with a lively imitation of some real thing, give an 
 account of the matter which is erroneous in fact and in prin- 
 ciple. They found a hasty hypothesis upon the character of 
 Art as they see it in its old age and decrepitude ; and they as- 
 sume dispositions in man appropriate to sustain a supposition, 
 which upon examination will be found as superficial, as at the 
 first view it may be plausible. A reference to the historical 
 origin and progress of Art, will establish the law that Art be- 
 gins in man's efforts to deliver himself of his most inward and 
 conscience-haunting emotions : that he does this, at first, in a 
 sort of hieroglyphic shapfes which, though undoubtedly derived 
 from visible forms, or partially suggested by them, owe their 
 value in his estimation, not to what they really resemble, 
 but to what they are understood to represent ; and that, 
 although Art, in its advancement, works out its meaning 
 through forms based upon the truth of nature, yet so long 
 as it is, veritably and progressively. Art, its typical and sug- 
 gestive qualities are always predominant over its transcriptive 
 character. 
 
 It is said to be a natural instinct and pleasure of man to draw 
 
 (21) 
 
22 ART, SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVE. [iExAT. 34. 
 
 resemblances of things which have struck him in the world, as 
 is shown in the dispositions of children and savages. I donbt 
 if either one or the other is prompted to draw a likeness of a 
 sensible thing by any other feeling or motive than that the 
 thing as thus drawn or painted, or carved upon his rock or 
 sand, or slate or paper, represents to him much more than the 
 outward object in its actual and material state contains, or is. 
 This fondness in children and savages for drawing and model- 
 ing, belongs to the general system of Expression. Every 
 feeling, every sentiment, every thought, in man, impulsively 
 tends to outwardness or utterance : for, these all are agitations 
 of the interior life which are propagated towards the exterior 
 organs. As gesticulation, and singing, and talking, are modes 
 of giving vent to earnest and natural emotions and interests, 
 so is drawing the mute utterance of deep and silent movements 
 within the soul, which become typified and registered in these 
 outlines. And figures caught from nature are adopted for these 
 types, and especially the human figure is so chosen, from the 
 obvious circumstances that the imagination is more famihar 
 with them, and that they are already much associated with the 
 very feeling designed to be expressed. But, if in children there 
 be, at a tolerably developed age, a readiness accurately to copy 
 the forms of objects, for the praise of skill which it acquires, 
 which is a part of the process of education, like the learning of 
 lessons by memory, to discover what is their earliest and strong- 
 est instinct in this way, we must go back to the age, when, in 
 those endless sports, which Wordsworth finely views as life- 
 rehearsals, they turn all common objects and implements into 
 characters and properties of their little dramas, — " each" thing, 
 in quick succession "playing many parts." Imagination is 
 then so over-powerful that figurative apprehension prevails en- 
 tirely over sensible perception, and the dreams that form their 
 inward life, work themselves out in visionary scenes through 
 symbols formed from familiar articles by the typifying energy 
 of their conceptions. 
 
 The history of Art will be found to display the following law 
 as to its origin and development. It sets out with a symbolism 
 
^TAT. S4.] AKT, SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVB. 03 
 
 chiefly mental or conventional. This is its archaic state. Next, 
 it discovers and works out the inherent capacity of natural 
 forms, when idealized by the imagination, to symbolize those 
 spiritual sentiments which form the subject of Art. This is its 
 perfect condition. Finally, in its last and lowest stage, it for- 
 gets its prophetic and mediatorial function, and merely reflects 
 the dull actual : and this is the state in which Art is at the 
 present time, and to which it has been tending for two centu- 
 ries and a half. And it must be observed that this law of the 
 progress of Art, is a law of the continuous diminidion of spir- 
 itual signiiicancy. The religious feeling, — the interior meaning 
 to be communicated or represented, — is greatest in the earliest 
 epoch ; so great, indeed, at that time, as to exceed the capacity 
 of natural forms, however idealized, to convey them, and there- 
 fore requiring prescriptive types to be employed, which makes 
 the comprehension of them partly a matter of tradition and 
 learning, or, at all events, limits it to the particular race among 
 whom these types are devised. Later, when this religious pas- 
 sion, at first almost physical in its directness and vehemence, 
 has, either by the exhaustion of its own early intensity, or 
 through the increase of controling intellect, or by a social edu- 
 cation which makes it gentle and ductile, become diminished 
 into a matter of earnest sentiment, it grows capable of entering 
 into union with purely natural forms in an idealized state, and 
 of being completely carried and explained by them. To this 
 epoch, of religious sentiment, belongs the perfection of Art. 
 Ultimately, all religious motive vanishes away from the schools, 
 and it requires an argument to prove that Art was consecrated 
 for a mission somewhat higher than a juggling illusion of the 
 senses. 
 
 The symbols that are used in the archaic stage of Art, are, 
 no doubt, derived, and partly imitated, from reality. But if 
 in part or chiefly they resemble reality, they are also designedly 
 altered from it, in some degree. The type thus modified be- 
 comes determinate. In its subsequent reproductions, it is plain 
 that there is not in the artists' minds an intention to approach 
 as near as possible to nature, but on the contrary there is an 
 
24 AET, SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVE. [Mtxt. 31. 
 
 intention to adhere to the type where it differs from nature, for 
 the reason that it is in those prescriptive variations from nature, 
 that its typical significance chiefly lies. The type itself, it is 
 true, undergoes a certain evolution ; but that progress is one 
 naturally resulting from the mental reproduction of the type by 
 the successive generations of artists, and not caused by renewed 
 efforts to copy more closely from nature. This derivation from 
 reality also characterizes more or less all hieroglyphic and pic- 
 ture languages. The shapes are derived from reality, but the 
 meaning is chiefly conventional. 
 
 The greatest transition that Art ever undergoes is when it 
 passes from the use of partially conventional symbols to the 
 universal symbolism of natural forms : but the natural into 
 which the type thus passes is always that from which originally 
 it was deflected. The philosophy of this new condition of the 
 subject lies in the permanent, fundamental law, that all natural 
 and real forms have an indwelling capacity to serve the imagi- 
 nation in different degrees for the representation of moral and 
 spiritual sentiments ; and the human form possesses this power 
 beyond every other object. That principle results from the 
 relations which the Creator has established between all the 
 parts of his system ; the how and why, lie among the uncom- 
 municated secrets of existence. It is the foundation of all 
 the glorious life of high Art. It applies in some to every 
 natural and real, or, in the highest sense, useful work, as in 
 another paper I have stated ; but to the form of man above 
 all others. 
 
 But it is not natural forms in their ordinary and actual con- 
 ditions that possess, at least in any high degree, this significant 
 and expressive virtue. They must be acted upon by the imagi- 
 nation and idealized to that perfection which constitutes Beauty, 
 in order to exhibit this power. It is the imaginative concep- 
 tion, or ideal of each form, that is truly the natural language 
 of Art. To make real forms symbolic of the emotions of Art, 
 there must continue to be a mental modification of them, but 
 that modification, in the complete stage of Art, is the concep- 
 tive reaction which brings it up to its ideal beauty. Language, 
 
^TAT. 34.] ART, SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVE. 25 
 
 whether of forms or sounds, must be largely mental in its essence, 
 in order to serve as a medium for the mind ; and the mental 
 quality, that the forms of Art must partake, consists in that 
 refining and moulding influence of spiritual imagination which 
 makes them ideal ; and in proportion to the degree of ideal 
 beauty which any form possesses will be its expressiveness in 
 Art. The nature of that ideal modification of real objects 
 which produces beauty, I have touched upon elsewhere. 
 
 The principle above stated, that Art begins with an intense 
 and highly intellectual symbolism, and th'Cn passes to the use 
 of an ideal image of some natural form, and relies no longer on 
 a conventional significance in its type, but on the spiritual in- 
 fluences inherent in the perfections of the form concerned, is not 
 notional, but is inferred from observation of the arts above 
 mentioned of Greek sculpture, Italian painting, and Greek and 
 Gothic architecture. 
 
 No one familiar with specimens of both styles, will doubt 
 that Greek sculpture is derived from Egyptian sculpture. They 
 are in fact different stages of the same art ; Egyptian sculpture 
 being the archaic state of Greek sculpture, and Greek being the 
 perfect state of Egyptian. It is obvious to any one who views 
 the colossal images of Egypt, which probably in all cases repre- 
 sent deities or deified kings, that they are highly symbolical in 
 their purpose, and in a great degree conventional and fixed in 
 their mode of representation. And if we trace Egyptian art 
 upward into Hindoo, of which it was probably an advanced 
 growth, we find the forms still more fictitious, hieroglyphic and 
 conventional. And it will be observed that, in Egyptian and 
 Oriental archaic art generally, though the figures of divine and 
 mystic beings are derived from those of men and beasts, yet 
 some arbitrary change or addition is always made in or to the 
 figure, to show that it is not meant for a portraiture or imi- 
 tation of an individual person or animal, but is the representa- 
 tive of some divinity, or principle, or feeling. Portions of dif- 
 ferent animals were combined together in their sphinxes, which 
 were significant of qualities and ideas to which we have not the 
 key. jSTo one will suppose that the human colossal figures 
 3 
 
26 ART, SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVE. \_Mta.t. 34. 
 
 which are there met with, are Egypt's best endeavors to exactly 
 imitate the figure of a man. The human face and form are the 
 element from which the representation is derived ; but they are 
 modified into a peculiar and unvarying shape, so as to become 
 a token and sign of some deity or some mental or moral exist- 
 ence. The same thing may be said of their drawings of men 
 and horses, with their crooked faces and shadow-like elonga- 
 tion of legs. In these, the effort was not to portray men and 
 horses, as accurately as possible. Those fixed types, altered 
 from natural objects, were the prescriptive symbols of certain 
 matters ; so sacred that no artist might alter them, even to im- 
 prove their verisimilitude or beauty. They were settled by the 
 priests, and, like all other early arts, were a matter of religion ; 
 and consequently the types in Egypt continued unchanged 
 through centuries, being the same at the end as at the beginning, 
 though the skill in rendering the type varied and improved 
 greatly. There is every reason to suppose that each peculiarity 
 of attitude, limb and feature was considered emblematic of some 
 intellectual, moral or personal characteristic. 
 
 It was in this stage that sculpture came under the action of 
 Greek genius. Of the derivation of the early Greek school 
 from Egyptian, or rather of its identity with it, no one can 
 doubt. View, for example, a Juno which stands in the outer 
 room of the Ludovisi gallery at Home, and which belongs to a 
 very remote period of Greek Art. The hair is bound over the 
 head by a broad fillet, beneath which hang short crisp curls 
 like filberts. Behind the ears are long stiff ropes of hair coming 
 down upon the shoulders. The derivations of this costume from 
 the extraordinary wig or cap which forms the head-dress of 
 Egyptian gods and kings, seems obvious. The forehead is 
 smooth, the expression immobile, and the whole aspect un- 
 mistakably Egyptian. The Glyptothek of Munich, however, 
 affords the best opportunity for studying the connection between 
 the sculpture of the Nile and the Ilissus. The first hall con- 
 tains Egyptian works ; the second, the earliest Greek ; and the 
 derivation of one from the other is obvious. But in the sculp- 
 tures from the temple of Jupiter in iEgina, which occupy the 
 
^TAT. 34.] ART, SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVE. 27 
 
 third room, we have the metamorphosis in the very act of taking 
 place. The heads of the figures are Egyptian ; all alike ; all 
 with those thick lips which give an appearance of smiling. But 
 the limbs have the freedom, nature and brilliance of pure Greek 
 Art. The reason of the similarity and immobile expression of 
 the heads is to be found in the prescriptive sanctity of the type 
 appropriate to the half-divine beings. And it may be observed 
 that the figure of Minerva, in the centre of the pediment, is 
 more antique and Egyptian, throughout, than the others, as if 
 less liberty could be taken with the personal image of a being 
 fully divine. 
 
 The process of the change from one to the other of these 
 styles, appears to have been, that in reproducing and improving 
 the symbolic, under circumstances of greater freedom from the 
 priestly superstition that kept it unchangeable in Egypt, it was 
 at length brought to an excellence so striking, that its inherent 
 beauty was felt to have a higher power of kindling sentiment 
 than the outworn prescription of an exhausted symbol. But 
 Greek Art always retained a certain symbolism in the appro- 
 priation of a special style of ideal to the different grades of gods 
 of the higher class, and gods of the lower class and heroes and 
 men, and of particular elevated types of feature to each god : 
 and we probably trace in the fixed, abstracted, pensive counte- 
 nances of the Greek divinities, the lingering influence of that 
 mysterious Egyptian face, with its calm, strong, brooding look 
 of Pate. 
 
 In the Etruscan nation, which was partly Oriental in its deri- 
 vation, Art ran a corresponding cycle, showing that the evolu- 
 tion which in Egypt and Greece had been illustrated in the 
 case of statues, was strictly normal and natural, being essen- 
 tially the same with that which in Etruria occurred in drawings 
 upon vases. The earliest Etruscan style has Egyptian charac- 
 teristics ; its later is purely Grecian. I presume the explana- 
 tion to be, that according to the ordinary development of ima- 
 gination, in the progress of national civilization, under similar 
 circumstances, the Egyptian type and style would be improved 
 into the Greek. 
 
28 ART, SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVE. [^Etat. 34. 
 
 In Italian painting, this symbolic condition of the infancy of 
 Art, and the gradual passage outward into nature, ideally ele- 
 vated, is clearly traceable. Italian Art is derived directly out 
 of Byzantine Art, which is the first school of modern painting. 
 To speak of the constant symbolism of the Pagan Art that was 
 adopted by Christians in the early period, is beyond the range I 
 have prescribed to myself. But it may be observed in passing, 
 that the whole of that style was entirely symbolical. Enter 
 the circular church of S. Costanza near Rome, erected by Con- 
 stantine, and the brilliant mosaics in the ceiling, representing 
 grapes, vine-leaves, birds, &c., will seem to identify a heathen 
 dwelling, until you learn that all of these are Christian emblems. 
 In other mosaics of that period, the Saviour is scarcely ever 
 exhibited in his real aspect as a man, but under the likeness of 
 a lamb, a fish, &c. But all this style is to be considered as 
 Pagan Art applied to Christian purposes. The beginning of 
 genuine Christian Art in painting, — the infancy of that Art 
 which grew to perfection in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, 
 was in the school of Byzantium. That was the first time that 
 Art undertook to represent, by visible lineaments, the spiritual 
 characteristics of the' Christian life : and this style thus had 
 from its feeblest commencement a new and even antagonist prin- 
 ciple of life from the degraded Roman Art which it superseded. 
 It was as if a wind from one quarter, long failing and fitful, had 
 at length died away, and a current from an opposite direction 
 had begun to come out. And this I take to be in truth, the 
 first germ, in history, of that splendid Art of painting which 
 we justly set with pride against the sculpture of the Greeks. 
 For notwithstanding what has of late years been said respecting 
 the merit of the Greek paintings discovered at Pompeii, I must 
 adhere to the opuiion that painting, as we conceive of it, is ex- 
 clusively modern and Christian. If the frescoes in the Museo 
 Borbonico are examined, they will be found to be nothing else 
 than sculpture drawn upon a flat surface. In conception, 
 manner, and effect, they are altogether different from painting as 
 illustrated in Italy, and are essentially statuary. 
 
 The period of the origin of this Byzantine style may be 
 
^TAT. 34.] ART, SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVE. 
 
 29 
 
 fixed ia the ninth century, when the vehement dispute respect- 
 ing images having been decided in favor of the practice of 
 representation in a special w.aj, gave rise to a class of purely 
 religious and emblematic paintings, through the medium of 
 human types. This new Art was entirely an ecclesiastical pur- 
 suit : the modes of representation were settled by the church, 
 and it was practiced exclusively by monks. The purpose of 
 this style is particularized by this original and special character- 
 istic, that it undertook to express or denote, by the manner of 
 the features and limbs, the moral graces of the divine and 
 saintly characters. It took its outlines, of course, from the de- 
 graded Roman Art, then existing; but it used them with a 
 new intention and effect. The heads of saints were depicted 
 with meagre, sorrowful, ascetic expressions, which are not to be 
 regarded as attempts to imitate, in the best practicable way, 
 the natural, visible beauty and dignity of the human face, but 
 to indicate the mortification, self-denial, and carnal humihation, 
 which were the virtues glorified by the church. The beauty 
 contemplated was altogether inward and mental. So, in the 
 scene of the crucifixion, the Saviour was drawn emaciated 
 almost to a skeleton, a mode of figuring, long maintained 
 among the early German artists, among many of whom, such as 
 Wolgemuth and Albert Durer, a certain asceticism of purpose 
 is discernible. Sir Joshua Reynolds remarks, upon one of these 
 pictures, that the early artists seem to have painted the cruci- 
 fixion, upon a supposition that the Saviour died by starvation. 
 The purpose, really, was to symbolize to the thought that 
 subdual of all natural and personal glory and vanity, that victory 
 over the flesh, its pride, its boast, and its enjoyments, which 
 were identified with the Redeemer's merit in that transaction. 
 This style, thus symbolical in character, and intellectual in sig- 
 nificance, was prescribed and conventional in its methods. 
 The modes of representation were fixed by ecclesiastical autho- 
 rity, so that it was not lawful to change them. They form, in 
 effect, a hieroglyphic language, embodying theological meanings, 
 and speaking to the mind, rather than the senses. It appears 
 from the " Manuel dilconographie Ghretienne," translated by 
 3* 
 
30 AKT, SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVE. [^tat. 34. 
 
 M. Didron, and before referred to, that particular directions for 
 representing every scene and subject that the painter was per- 
 mitted to treat, was given in the monkish manuscripts from 
 which the paintings of that day were made. And it may be 
 remarked, as a curious fact, that the subjects and the method of 
 treating them, which are found throughout all the schools of 
 Italy and Germany in the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth 
 centuries, are quite the same as those contained in M. Didron's 
 manuscript ; rendering it perfectly clear that they were derived 
 from some such ecclesiastical precepts. 
 
 It was upon the types of this Byzantine school, that the 
 infant genius of Italian Art began to work in the thirteenth 
 century. It was in reproducing their forms and countenances, 
 under a condition of increased freedom from the superstitious 
 rigor of symbolism, and with a more genial sympathy with the 
 nature whence those shapes and faces originally were drawn, 
 that the earliest movements of creative power were manifested 
 in pictures. Let us recur to the Madonnas of Duccio di Siena, 
 in the church of San Dominico in Siena, and Cimabue, in the 
 Novella at Florence ; taking the former, especially, as a mona- 
 ment, because it is the oldest existing picture, or movable 
 work, of an Italian artist, and bears the date, A. D., 1220. 
 Any one familiar with the Byzantine specimens which remain 
 in the Italian galleries, will at once see that these are entirely of 
 that school in their style, and differ from good specimens in 
 nothing but the increased degree of nature and humanity that 
 softens and animates the faces. It is simply the frozen or 
 petrified type of womanhood, which had been preserved like a 
 mummy under the huge robe in which the Virgin was repre- 
 sented, now gradually melting and relaxing back into life and 
 consciousness. But Byzantine in style as these works are, they 
 are Italian in the power of their inspiration. It is rather the 
 mode, at present, as in Dante's day, to exalt Giotto at the ex- 
 pense of Cimabue; but it seems to me that, in reference to the 
 time when he wrought, the latter deserves to be considered as one 
 of the mightiest and most original geniuses that ever appeared ; 
 fit herald of the coming of Leonardo Snd Michael Angelo ; 
 
^TAT. 34.] ART, SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVE. 31 
 
 the flaming morning-star of a day that spread from the Gulf of 
 Naples to the Adriatic, bright with the splendors of Rafael, 
 Correggio, Titian, and Dominiohino. The Madonna in the 
 Santa Maria Novella is, to my feelings, a work of exalted and 
 ever-during merit, worthy to be carried, at this day, in triumph 
 through the streets. It is a great work, in comparison with 
 any age ; and has more inspiration than could be gleaned from 
 all the pictures that have been painted in Europe in the two last 
 centuries. In the east transept, for the church runs north and 
 south, stands this celebrated work. It is very large. The 
 Virgin, of colossal size, is seated on a throne, holding the 
 infant in her lap. Her robe and head-dress are extremely dark, 
 and bordered with gold. Her face is of a natural form, and 
 full of beauty and expression; the eyes open and large. The 
 child, whose right hand is held out, with two fingers extended, 
 in the attitude of benediction, as practiced in the Latin Church, 
 is a fiue figure. Along the sides of the picture, are six kneel- 
 ing forms of angels, in various positions, freely and excellently 
 drawn ; with coontenances of heavenly loveliness, and in atti- 
 tudes highly graceful. A spiritual power pervades the work, 
 which stamps it as the production of a truly great artist. 
 
 Giotto, however, is a name justly memorable, on account of 
 the prodigious advance which he made in leading Art in the 
 direction of life and reality,. — qualities for which he was more 
 remarkable than for spirituality, and in which he was not uni- 
 versally followed by the most eminent of his immediate Floren- 
 tine successors. Fortunately for the greatness of the Florentine 
 school, its passage into perfect nature was postponed for nearly 
 two centuries. That interval shows a constant progress, under 
 many varieties of manner, in developing the riches of conception, 
 and the resources of form and composition. We may note two 
 classes of these artists : those who were pre-eminently spiritual, 
 such as Fra Beato and Orcagna ; and those whose bias, like 
 Giotto's, was to the actual, such as Filippino Lippi, Benozzo 
 G^jzzoli, and Cosimo Roselli. The two characters were best 
 united in Masaccio. But in the works of all these artists, until 
 we come to Leonardo, more or less of the old conventionalism 
 
32 ART, SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVE. [^tat. 34. 
 
 stiffens the figures and distorts the composition. Something 
 of the archaic symbolism, which, in giving intensity to inward 
 expression and significance, made the attitudes and grouping 
 awkward, was always visible. But at last, by Leonardo da 
 Vinci, the conceptions of Art were embodied in forms entirely 
 natural in character, movement, and condition. In the pro- 
 ductions of that wonderful man, the spiritual and the real were 
 brought into union in a harmony the most absolute. From that 
 time. Art spoke the universal language of nature. He is the 
 author of this great transition, and the father of the perfect 
 school of Art. Then quickly followed Michael Angelo and 
 Rafael, and the style was irrevocably established. Much of the 
 freedom and actuality of manner which Leonardo and Michael 
 Angelo instituted, was derived from their anatomical studies, 
 and from their practice in modeling and casting. But the 
 general transition was principally stimulated by the redis- 
 coveries then made of the ancient works of Greek sculpture, 
 nearly all of which had been lost beneath the rubbish and 
 mould of centuries. 
 
 In the older works of Fra Beato and Perugino, the faces are 
 little else than calm mirrors of passive mental sweetness and 
 purity, and the figures serve for little but to sustain the faces. 
 If the countenances fojm deep and satisfying studies of spirit- 
 uality, it is no objection that the attitude or action be not 
 altogether lifelike. In like manner, in that earlier school, we 
 meet with many instances where, although the forms may be 
 accurately and finely drawn, the composition is wholly spiritual 
 and symbolical, and not in the least historical or dramatic ; as 
 in pictures where the Madonna is seated on a throne, with one 
 or two saints on either side of her. These seem to be derived 
 from a more ancient style of representing the Madonna on a 
 central panel, and two or four saints in separate compartments 
 adjoining her. Then the removal of the dividing frames placed 
 the holy attendants in rows beside her, as is common in Peru- 
 gino, and is sometimes found in Rafael, as, for example in the 
 Madonna di Foligno. The composition does not pretend to 
 represent any thing that did or might take place. Saints of the 
 
^TAT. S4.] ART, SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVE. 33 
 
 most various times are brought together around the mother and 
 infant. The parties are not attending to one another. Each 
 stands wrapt in meditation. The impression and interest of 
 each are meant to be spiritual ; and the company represents 
 nothing but an aggregation of pious contemplations. In the 
 succeeding style, figures are brought together only as taking 
 part in some consistent and probable action, as in Correggio's 
 St. Jerome. 
 
 The truth and greatness of this new and perfect style rest 
 upon this principle or law : that the forms and scenes of life, 
 viewed of course ideally, possess capacity to embody and repre- 
 sent all spiritual sentiments. In another department, Shaks- 
 peare has shown that society, as it moves, illustrates moral 
 truth more accurately, fully, and strikingly than any disserta- 
 tions could reveal it. But to have this representative power 
 of instruction, it must be viewed and rendered imaginatively ; 
 and in reading or seeing Shakspeare's dramas, one knows not 
 which to consider more remarkable, the truthfulness to nature 
 or the vivid imaginativeness of conception, by which that high 
 truth is brought out. The living greatness and intellectual 
 power of that dramatist lie in the naturalness of his characters 
 and scenes, and in their immense elevation above the literality 
 of the actual. To form the consummate manner of Leonardo 
 and Michael Angelo, a common approximation took place be- 
 tween the spiritual feeling on the one hand, and the natural 
 form on the other. The human figure was conceived of, with a 
 dignity, variety, expressiveness, and grandeur fit to indicate 
 every spiritual feeling ; and the spiritual was apprehended no 
 longer in the abstract and morbid manner formerly prevailing, 
 but in a concrete, personated, and individual style. The spir- 
 ituality is identified with character, and treated illustratively in- 
 stead of directly. But the spiritual still is the great and para- 
 mount subject of the artist, and living forms are but the medium 
 of its display. 
 
 If we were compelled to assign an explanation of the almost 
 instantaneous decline which this great Art underwent in the 
 middle of the sixteenth century, — the loss of inspiration that 
 
34 ART, SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVE. [^tat. 34, 
 
 befell it like the accident of a moment,— we should connect the 
 declension with that change in the purpose of artists, by which 
 the imitation of the real came to be considered the substantive 
 object of Art, and not the manifestation of moral truths through 
 the means of the natural. When in the sedulous study and 
 elaboration of living forms, undertaken, at first, to make them 
 serve a higher function, the painter became fascinated and satis- 
 fied with the mere realization of the outward and visible, then 
 Art fell like lightning from the heaven of its divineness. In 
 Leonardo, Michael Angelo, and Rafael, every limb, every fea- 
 ture, every action, — all that enters into the outlines, the compo- 
 sition, and the light and shade, — is significant of something 
 mental. After them, the material and visible predominates 
 over the inward and suggestive. Parts, or the whole, are 
 painted, for the effect on the senses, not the influence of the 
 soul. And now, critics teach and artists practice, upon the 
 maxim that Art consists in the most lifelike transfer of objects 
 from reality to canvas. To paint a figure, or other object, in 
 such a manner that it shall look in every respect like the thing 
 itself, and almost be mistaken for it, is the disgraceful boast of 
 modern Art. 
 
 Landscape, no doubt, belongs to the declining day of Art's 
 inspiration. The shapes and scenes of the inanimate world are 
 unfit to be the vehicles of the fervid, deep, impetuous emotions 
 of the early and strong hours of the life of Art : the human 
 form and face, only, can supply them with a language. Land- 
 scape, therefore, begins under the reign of later and milder 
 sentiments. Claude, Salvator, and Gaspard Poussin, appeared 
 a century after Rafael. Still, according to its capacity, land- 
 scape, in its best days and in the hands of these masters, has 
 clearly a symbolical character ; and is representative or sugges- 
 tive of certain appropriate moral sentiments. The horror of 
 the sombre forest is made tributary to an effect of fierce crime, 
 bitter remorse, gloomy contemplation, or savage cynicism ; the 
 vivid morning betokens enterprise in commencing action ; the 
 noon speaks of broad, bright, happy safety and contentment ; 
 the evening breathes domestic quiet, pensive meditation and 
 
^TAT. 34.J ART, Symbolical, not imitative. 35 
 
 sweet repose. This moral purpose and effect of landscape are 
 conspicuous in the great early masters I have named. The first 
 grand landscapes that we know of, were created to increase the 
 moral interest of a living composition which was itself the 
 direct and main theme of the painter. These are contained in 
 the Peter Martyr of Titian, in the church of San Giovanni e 
 Paolo, in Venice, and in the Saint Jerome in the Desert, in the 
 Brera at Milan, (No. 6 of the catalogue,) from the hand of the 
 same various and all-accomplished artist. In the former of 
 these, how significantly the scenery augments the sternness of 
 the deed, yet supplies the higher view of the saintly suffering. 
 The light streaming down from the open heaven upon the dark 
 trees, kindles them with a lurid illumination : terror fills the 
 woods ; but above, the placidness of the dark blue sky explains 
 and justifies the providence which permits the barbarity. In 
 the other, the matted hemlock trees which imprison the praying 
 eremite, and the mass of light which, beyond him, pours in from 
 the deep heaven, with its whitish clouds, exemplify the inward 
 condition of the solitary wrestler with sin. In all of Claude's 
 landscapes the emblematic meaning is obvious. He usually adds 
 some subsidiary composition of persons, to point the inherent 
 design ; and most of his pictures have received, from himself 
 or others, some allegorical name. The same thing is yet more 
 apparent in Salvator, whose scenes have an irresistible effect on 
 the imagination, and who often introduces figures to aid in 
 representing the sentiment of the landscape. Take, for ex- 
 ample, the two black and wild, but most powerful Salvators in 
 the Marquis of "Westminster's collection in London; Democritus 
 contemplating the end of all things, — seated in a gloomy wood 
 with a heap of skulls and bones at his feet, and Diogenes about to 
 throw away his wooden cup on seeing a man drink from a spring 
 without one. The landscape effect in both of these is princi- 
 pally and powerfully moral. When you pass to the woods and 
 fields of Ruysdael and Both, you find that the charm of the 
 scene still lies in the indication of sentiment. It is not, per- 
 haps, a spiritual, or even moral sentiment ; it may be only a 
 natural one. But still, in their works, the character of land- 
 
36 ART, SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVB. [ifiTAT. 34. 
 
 scape Art is, the production of some imaginative feeling through 
 the medium of an ideal scene. 
 
 At present, we live in a time when landscape is almost the 
 only growth that Art has strength enough to put forth, and 
 landscape, only in that last and lowest stage in which all mental 
 significance is lost, and nothing but an illusive imitation of 
 objects, for themselves, is valued ; as in Achenbach. 
 
 The law, that Art begins with an invented symbolism, then 
 takes up actual forms as the basis of ideal creations for the em- 
 bodiment of profound sentiments, and at last loses sight of every 
 such secondary meaning, and merely reproduces the real form 
 for its own purpose of its utility, with such fantastical decora- 
 tions as can be accumulated upon it, is also illustrated in the 
 history of Architecture. Gothic, Roman, Greek, and Egyptian 
 architecture are to be viewed as constituting but one vital and 
 continuous trunk ; each having grown out of its predecessor. 
 Egyptian architecture is clearly thus far symbolical, that its 
 structures are not imitated from any dwellings actually used at 
 the time, but are constructed upon some remote or imagined 
 type, adapted to denote the gloom and mystery of a sombre reli- 
 gion. If Mr. Hope's conjecture be just, that the type of 
 Egyptian buildings is the cavern hewn out of the rock, with 
 upright supports left standing to sustain the roof, that architec- 
 ture undoubtedly belongs to the first, symbolic stage, for such 
 excavations assuredly did not form the contemporary habita- 
 tions of that people, and probably did not even at the earliest 
 times. The cavernous style of India and Egypt, as well the 
 style of the Druids, was probably mystic in its character, and 
 designed to produce awe. On the other hand, Chinese and 
 Greek architecture belong to the second stage, when familiar 
 and actual forms are idealized for the type of structures ; the 
 former using the tent, and the latter the cottage. The Greeks 
 borrowed the column and entablature, with some attending ele- 
 ments, from Egypt, but applied them up to a form, which, to 
 them was a natural and familiar object of life, the cottage. 
 Roman architecture was merely Greek architecture worked with 
 such modifications as the use of the arch, in connection with the 
 
iETAT. 34.] ART, SYMBOLICAL, NOI IMITATIVE. 37 
 
 entablature introduced ; and it was the mixture of two incon- 
 gruous principles that made that style so false. When Gothic 
 passed out of Romanesque, took up the arch alone, and, there- 
 with, developed a consistent and harmonious system, it seized 
 the familiar and immediate form of the Basilica, and expanded 
 and idealized it into the cathedral. In both Greek and Gothic 
 architecture, forms previously in use were adopted as vehicles 
 of the religious sentiments which either style embodied; of 
 wide, sustained and graceful majesty in the one case, and of 
 long-drawn, lofty, still-receding vastness and solemnity in the 
 other. Architecture, now, has no fixed character at all. It 
 merely continues and repeats old forms, sometimes of the temple, 
 sometimes of the cathedral ; without any reference to imagina- 
 tive or moral effect, and aiming only at some cleverness in copy- 
 ing the original which it produces. 
 
 Before leaving this law of the transition of art, from conven- 
 tional symbolism suggested by nature, into pure and perfect 
 natural and common foi-ms, it may be noted that this transition 
 has taken place commonly when art, in its former state, has 
 past over to some other people, by whom the sacred immuta- 
 bility of the symbolic type is felt with less rigor. It is only the 
 artist of some other, though kindred country, less imbued with 
 reverence for the model, who feels freedom to improve it by 
 human amendments. Thus, the forms of Egyptian sculpture 
 were brought up to consummate nature, only when they passed 
 from Egypt into Greece ; and Byzantine symbolism in painting 
 became freed and fashioned into human beauty, not in the East, 
 where its shapes are still a religion, but in Italy, where they 
 were but a prescriptive model, not an all-sacred sign. 
 
 I have gone through this investigation for the purpose of 
 arriving at one critical principle in Art. It might have been 
 easy to produce conviction, by a comparison of examples, that 
 that style of Art, which, like Michael Angelo's, lightens forth 
 mighty truths, solemn lessons, piercing judgments, is higher than 
 that which transcribes a horse, a dog, or a rock, so faithfully 
 that you are first surprised, then amused, and finally disgusted 
 at tlie deception. But the historical survey we have made, fur- 
 4 
 
gg ART, SYMBOLICAL, NOT IMITATIVB. [-S!tat. 34. 
 
 nishes ns with an inductive demonstration, a scientific certainty, 
 founded on the origin and growth of Art, that its nature and 
 essential function, are, to communicate spiritual impressions, to 
 represent and thereby awaken moral emotions, to signalize the 
 principles of the interior and higher life; and that natural 
 forms, — the human form and the human countenance, — furnish 
 in the most complete condition of Art, the types and language 
 of its meaning, only because of their fixed essential adaptation 
 to represent and convey, through a sympathetic medium and 
 with sympathetic power, every variety of spiritual excellence 
 that can .have a personal existence. It follows, therefore, incon- 
 testably, that those modern schools of Art which rest in mere 
 transcripts of actual and visible objects, seeking no ulterior sug- 
 gestive effect, but aiming only at illusive imitation, is wholly 
 from, the native and appointed purpose of Art. Those who 
 paint in that way, are not occupied about Art, at all. The 
 modern, critical principle, which recommends and applauds the 
 most real and lifelike imitation of figures, is false and erring. 
 Such toys, as are thus produced, do not €ven form the language 
 of Art ; for natural forms must be recast in the imagination, 
 and exalted by the reflection of the mind, before they enter into 
 the symbolic dialect of inspiration. In proportion as an artist 
 makes his figures actual and real in appearance, he diminishes 
 their ajsthetic significance ; and when he accomplishes an effect 
 of deception or illusion, he has' set the seal of dumb imbecility 
 upon his work. The modern condition of Art is directly oppo- 
 site to that primitive state of things which existed in- the days of 
 Cimabue and Duccio di Siena. Art had then too many ideas 
 for its power of expression ; now, it has no ideas whatever to 
 express. In that former Art, the fervor of indwelling ideas 
 gradually raised and perfected the forms through which those 
 ideas sought utterance ; in this, the cold reality of form extin- 
 guishes all suggestions of ideas. The one was quick with the 
 glories of Leonardo, Michael Angelo and Rafael ; the other is 
 smitten with incurable barrenness. 
 
THE LAW 
 
 DEVELOPMENT OF GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE. 
 
 I HAVE already spoken of that sesthetic inspiration of which 
 Gothic architecture is the great monument; and have shown 
 that it was one of collateral manifestations of an expanding and 
 soaring increase in religious feeling in Transa.lpine Europe. 
 A minuter attention to the conditions under which that vital 
 energy evolved itself, advanced through continuous stages of 
 progressive life, and then stagnated and became extinct, will 
 throw some light on the psychological nature and laws of Art. 
 
 In tracing such history, it will be found that this creative 
 spirit showed itself almost simultaneously in England, France, 
 and Germany; a little later in Italy, the Netherlands and 
 probably Spain; modified more or less by national circum- 
 stances in each country. It was the outflow of the genius of 
 the race in these regions. No individual persons can be named 
 who made this or that advance. It may be said to have 
 evolved itself, by steps taken instinctively and blindly, here and 
 there, but constituting, when connected, a harmonious and 
 definite progression. Emanating from a part of our nature 
 much less abstract, Voluntary, and conscious than the intellect, 
 its advance may be called a veritable growth. Like religion 
 itself, of which it is a flower, it seems to shoot forth from the 
 aggregated sympathy and intelligence of kindred nations. 
 
 (39) 
 
40 THE LAW OF THE DEVELOPMENT [^tat. 34 
 
 Another important matter to be noted is, that this new style 
 of Art developed itself directly out of that which had existed 
 before ; and each successive phase of it was derived immediately 
 from the preceding one. The creative spirit of this Art began 
 to move and manifest itself before the new types and forms that 
 afterwards became identified with it, were produced. At first, 
 it clothed itself entirely in the old shapes of an outworn Art ; 
 expanding, amplifying, and newly connecting them, however, 
 into a capacity to give expression to its meanings. Gradually 
 the combinations and modifications of these forms, which its 
 operations made, educed new ones, which then became the 
 winged and sympathetic language of this eloquent inspiration. 
 But the spirit came first, and not the forms; and the spirit 
 created the forms which it required for its uses. 
 
 The first marked and unmistakable manifestation of Gothic 
 is the Norman architecture, which originated about Caen, was 
 brought at the Conquest into England, and there received a 
 splendid series of developments. This grew entirely out of the 
 Romanesque architecture of the preceding centuries, which had 
 shaped itself from the ruins of Roman Art. The Gothic ca- 
 thedral took its form and members from the Basilicas of Rome, 
 which had their nave and side-aisles, clerestory, triforium, and 
 a tribune or choir, which was generally apsidal. The Gothic 
 builders altered the proportions of these members, and pro- 
 duced new and peculiar effects, but the formal elements which 
 they used were those which had been employed before. Even 
 the characteristic ornaments of the Norman are old. The 
 zigzag, or cheveron moulding, appears in Adams's draw- 
 ings of the palace of Diocletian, at Spalatro. Besides this 
 Norman movement in France and England, there had been, a 
 little before, and about the same time, an activity in the purely 
 Romanesque architecture, as in the older parts of the cathe- 
 dral of Mentz, which yet have little or nothing of a Gothic 
 character. Bat the Norman architecture of England, while it 
 is Romanesque in its forms^ is thoroughly Gothic in spirit and 
 character, and properly to be regarded as the first full style of 
 that architecture. I can imagine nothing more completely 
 
iETAT. 34.] OF GOTHIC ARCHITEOTUEB. 41 
 
 from all rational purpose, than the discussions wWcli have 
 been carried on, about the origin of pointed architecture and 
 the pointed arch. If those who have contended for this or that 
 source of the pointed arch, under a supposition that the origin 
 of pointed architecture was involved in that inquiry, had ex- 
 plored the great Norman cathedrals of England, they would 
 have found that Gothic cathedral architecture, in every one of 
 its characteristic qualities and impressions, was developed and 
 established before the pointed arch was used. In its construc- 
 tive principles, in its imaginative conception and effect, in 
 general aspect and in particular detail, the Norman architecture 
 of England is perfectly Gothic architecture. Let any man 
 view the nave of Durham Cathedral — one of the mightiest and 
 most sublime of the structures of man, yet light, and rich, and 
 various, with the ease and power of a creative sentiment con- 
 scious of resources inexhaustible — the nave and transepts of 
 Ely — the nave and some other parts of Gloucester — and he will 
 never doubt that English Norman is a genuine style of Gothic. 
 The fact, that in nearly all the English cathedrals, a part of the 
 building is in the Norman style, and the rest in early English, 
 decorated or perpendicular, and that all these parts unite and 
 harmonize in a concord the most delightful, proves that they are 
 entirely homogeneous. The same thing is demonstrated, more 
 conclusively, by the circumstance that the Norman nave of 
 
 Winchester, constructed in , was altered in -, into a 
 
 , by merely a superficial chiseling. The only considerable 
 
 difference in the Norman is that the arches are round ; but that 
 and other differences do not separate it from any one of the 
 later pointed styles more than they are discriminated from one 
 another. Though this style seems to have begun in Normandy, 
 and been advanced with some force in France, England is the 
 region in which it swelled forth with an enthusiasm and an 
 energy, in infancy, prophetic of the mighty exhibitions its ma- 
 ture life was to display. In Germany, its shoots were feeble. 
 Bamberg Cathedral is, perhaps, one of the best specimens. 
 
 There was a great progression in the round arched English 
 Norman ; and its later forms grew far more light, and delicate, 
 4* 
 
42 THE LAW OF THE DEVELOPMENT [^tat. 34. 
 
 and enriched, than its earlier. Finally, it passed into the pointed. 
 It had lasted from the Conquest, in 1066, for about a century 
 and a half; and then, about the year 1200, the pointed manner 
 superseded it. No one, I think, can traverse England and see 
 the principal ancient churches and cathedrals of that land with- 
 out forming a firm opinion that the pointed style grew naturally 
 and easily out of the later Norman. Notwithstanding the 
 numerous plausible treatises that have been written in favor of 
 other hypotheses, an observation of a number of early buildings 
 satisfied me that the use of the pointed arch, in this architec- 
 ture, was suggested by the intersection of round arches in gal- 
 leries, and ornamentrl arch-courses. The question is not of the 
 invention of the pointed arch, which was known long before, 
 but of its employment in Gothic architecture. A strong illus- 
 tration in support of this theory may be seen in the Chapter- 
 house of the Cathedral of Bristol, which was also the Chapter- 
 house of the old Monastery of Augustine. Nothing can exceed 
 the architectural splendor and luxuriance of that apartment, 
 which is purely Norman, though the richest and most beautiful 
 specimen that I know of. It belongs to the date A. D. 1140. 
 There is a long range of intersecting circular arches round the 
 walls ; and, where they intersect, it is opened, above and below ; 
 thus forming narrow pointed arches of great beauty. All the 
 other arches in the room are round. As an evidence of the 
 richness of this Norman example, — above the- stall-arches, the 
 space is richly paneled in diamonds. 
 
 Yiew, also, the choir and transept of Canterbury Cathedral, 
 where round and pointed arches are mixed in a way that shows 
 that at that date they were used indifferently and in union. The 
 style of that part of the building, one acquainted with English 
 specimens would probably call Norman, but with pointed arches 
 freely employed in it. In the Temple Church, at London, any 
 one looking at the range of arches in the upper part of the circu- 
 lar portion of that structure would be at a loss to decide whether 
 the architect primarily intended round or pointed arches, or did 
 not equally intend both, alternately. The lower part of the 
 building is composed of pointed arches, and the upper gallery 
 
^TAT. 34.] OF GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE. 43 
 
 is, probably, an instance of pointed arches having their mould- 
 ings carried along the wall so as to form full circular arches, 
 rather than of a range designed to be round, accidentally dis- 
 covering pointed arches by intersection. It is, therefore, per- 
 haps, an example of lingering upon round arches after the pointed 
 were set entirely free ; but whichever way it be looked at, it 
 is an evidence of the close relation of the round and pointed 
 manner. A consideration which indicates such intersection of 
 round arches to have suggested the pointed style in Gothic, is 
 that the form of the pointed arch, when it thus first came in, 
 and during the whole period called Early English, is extremely 
 narrow, or lancet ; just the shape produced by such intersection, 
 and entirely different from the forms of the Eastern arch, which 
 are broad. The English arch grew wider in later times, by em- 
 bracing several associated lancet arches. Any one who studies 
 French or English Gothic historically, will not be inclined to adopt 
 the theory of an oriental origin of the pointed style. The hy- 
 pothesis which represents the pointed arch as evolved from the 
 necessity or convenience of groining elongated areas, still ac- 
 knowledges the use of this arch to be self-developed from the 
 inherent tendencies and capacities of the style. 
 
 When, in the progress of working round-headed arches, the 
 imagination of the Gothic builder became acquainted with this 
 new type, — this new formal element of combination, — the tall 
 lancet arch, it obviously suggested a new and appropriate concep- 
 tion of design and composition. And it is chiefly in composition 
 and ideal conception, that the Early Pointed differs from the 
 Norman ; and it was that arch that led at once to the soaring, 
 and shapely, and slender constructions that succeeded. Then rose 
 to heaven the gleaming needles of Salisbury's long arcades ; whose 
 arches seem to be hung down from the skies rather than raised 
 from the earth ; whose fearlessly upspringing shafts are a per- 
 petual chant of Sursum Corda ; creating an ever-upward cur- 
 rent of feelings. Then swelled on high the vault of Amiens ; fit 
 to be the portal of the world above. Then shot into the clouds, 
 the arrowy flights of Cologne's luminous choir windows, lost in 
 
44 THE LAW OP THE DEVELOPMENT [^tat. 34. 
 
 a vision of gorgeous hues, as the dazded sight droops from its 
 
 straining gaze. 
 
 .... Aeriiis telum contorait in auras, 
 Ostentans artem pariter, arcumque sonantem. 
 ^Volans liquidia in nubibus arsit arundo 
 Signavitque viam flammis, tennesque reoessit 
 Consumta in ventos. 
 
 The Norman style had previously worked itself out of the 
 massive and cavernous heaviness of its first manner into a more 
 elegant and delicate lightness ; and each one of its members was 
 ready to undergo that modification which adapted it to enter 
 into the unity of the Early English effect. The piers or pillars, 
 for example, of the later round-arch style in France and England 
 had departed from the single thick cylinder of the early period, 
 into a combination of four or more round pillars encircling a 
 central one ; and the transition from this to the clustered pier 
 of the Early Pointed was gradual and easy ; and the moulding 
 which represented the connecting band of these several shafts, 
 became the ring so characteristic of Early English. An usual 
 style of arching in the Norman and Romanesque, was to include 
 a triplet of little arches under one embracing arch ; and when 
 the large arch became pointed, and these smaller arches were 
 pressed together, the central one was lifted from its feet, and the 
 whole were brought up against the sides of the including arch ; 
 and then, coalescing with it, they formed the trefoiled arch, one 
 of the most pervading and peculiar of the Early English ele- 
 ments. In like n^anner, the cheveron became sharpened into 
 the tooth ornament. 
 
 This new style, which prevailed about a century, gradually 
 expanded, and grew more solid, and received richer and heavier 
 decorations ; the arches widened, and the pier grew broader ; 
 and, finally, it passed into a new type, the Decorated, sometimes 
 called the Perfect Gothic ; though, according to my taste, it is 
 the later and richer forms of the Early English, which in purity, 
 expression and beauty, display the perfection of the Gothic Art. 
 But the derivation of this variety, out of its predecessor, was 
 natural and continuous. In the windows of the Early English, 
 
MtiT. 34] OF GOTHIC AEOHITECTURE. 45 
 
 particularly as it advanced, we constantly find a combination of 
 two arches under one containing arch, with a trefoiled circle, or 
 several such, or some similar figures, in the head. In the Deco- 
 rated, all these coalesce into a single window, or arch ; the 
 dividing shafts being thinned away into vertical mullions, and the 
 beads of the included arches and circles or trefoils or quatre- 
 foils combining into one complex and flowing figure, by a transi- 
 tion which, in France, where chiefly it was evolved, may be 
 traced with an absolute conviction of certainty. At the same 
 time, to suit this widened type of window, the piers, which be- 
 fore had maintained the indications of a cluster of distinct shafts, 
 now ran together into one somewhat monstrous figure. Another 
 element, which perhaps is the most striking and uniform char- 
 acteristic of the Decorated style, is the angular pediment or 
 canopy raised over the arch. This appears to have been a 
 simple intrusion into the Gothic, of a Roman or classic form, 
 and probably was caught from Italy. But Gothic Art, then, 
 had vigor enough to assimilate it to itself and work it up into 
 its own system. It set crockets and a finial upon it, and, like 
 a convert to a new faith of Art, it became one of the most ortho- 
 dox and conspicuous members. This is the style which is the 
 most widely spread throughout the continent ; and in Germany, 
 it continued to the end ; for though it grew more expanded and 
 richer, and more adorned, even to capriciousness and bad taste ; 
 yet, in that country, no new, distinctive style of Gothic appeared. 
 In England, however, and in France, there remained enough 
 organizing or germinative energy, to produce, in each country, 
 one further and peculiar type, as the last flash of Gothic inspi- 
 ration. These are the Perpendicular in England, and the Flam- 
 boyant in France. 
 
 The fortunes of the life of the later Gothic seem to have been 
 principally influenced by the introduction of paneling ; which 
 was, no doubt, of classic or Italian derivation. It is found 
 copiously in the later German Gothic, but it did not enter into 
 a vital and modifying connection with it ; it merely mixes with 
 it subordinately. In England, the chief peculiarities of the 
 Perpendicular may be referred to its taking up and incorpo- 
 
46 THE LAW OF THE DEVELOPMENT [^tat. 34. 
 
 rating into itself, the form and principle of rectangular paneling ; 
 —the setting of arches in panels, and the running of paneled 
 bands and galleries around and across other members. The 
 vertical mullions in the heads of windows, which became one of 
 the most popular signs of that style, arose obviously from the 
 mixture of rectangular paneling with arches. That vertical 
 kind of tracery was probably first worked out in screens and 
 galleries, from putting arches into panels, and was then applied 
 to windows. But the earliest perpendicular compound win- 
 dows are formed by running up a square paneled frame between 
 the subordinate arches which form the window. However, when 
 once this union of vertical lines in tracery was effected, its varie- 
 ties of course became endless. The origin of the transom, which 
 in England seems peculiar to the Perpendicular, but on the 
 continent is constantly found in the Decorated, is easily explained. 
 In the French cathedrals, where the effort seems to have been 
 to reduce the walls as much as possible to windows, probably 
 for the display of painted glass, in which that country excelled, 
 we find the triforium and clerestory so much expanded and con- 
 nected that the interval between them becomes merely a tablet 
 or a little gallery. In the ends of the nave and transepts, where 
 the arrangement actually passes into one great window, this 
 little paneled or arched gallery still runs across, and gave rise 
 to transoms, which in England are narrowed down into plain 
 bars, but on the continent are often found as veritable little 
 galleries. 
 
 The peculiarities of the French Flamboyant style are by no 
 means confined, as is often supposed, to the flowing and flaming 
 tracery in the heads of windows, which would malie it only a 
 late and full style of Decorated. In galleries, screens, stair- 
 cases, &c., it evolves an original, definite, and extremely agree- 
 able style of Art. No one can look at the curious, circular, 
 porch-like fagade of the church of St. Maclou, at Rouen, or the 
 brilliant staircase in the west corner of the north transept of 
 Rouen cathedral, which leads into the library, or the splendid 
 but mutilated remains of the Bourbon chapel in the cathedral 
 of Lyons, ^without agreeing that the Tlamboyant had its own 
 
-ffilTAT. 34.] OF GOTHIC AECHITECTURE. 47 
 
 true germ of life, and that it is one of the most vital and genuine 
 of the French types of Gothic. Mainly, however, and in what 
 it differs specifically from the ordinary Decorated style, it is 
 characterized by a wavy and very luxuriant style of paneling. 
 
 The latest Gothic in all countries might fitly be called the 
 Paneled Gothic ; the paneling being rectangular or vertical in 
 England, and wavy in France. 
 
 The inquiry, whether France, England, or Germany is entitled 
 to the honor of having developed the Gothic style, is equally 
 jejune with the search after the foreign sources of the pointed 
 arch. When the discussion of a question leads only to per- 
 plexity, it may be concluded that the question does not truly 
 arise, or is not properly put. This architecture was developed 
 concurrently in France and England. The transition from 
 Norman to Early Gothic, and thence to Decorated, consisted 
 in several alterations ; and a careful examination of specimens 
 in the two countries makes it probable, that some particulars 
 were worked out in one country, and some in the other, and 
 that all being consistent, and belonging to the same advanced 
 stage of the style, they were united into one new type of Art. 
 For example, in the Early Pointed, while I am inclined to think 
 that England worked out the pointed arch, and established the 
 corresponding system of composition, I should infer that France 
 contributed the slight clustered pier, because those combina- 
 tions of slender columns surrounding a larger central one, out 
 of which it grew, are more general in France, and continued 
 there longer, as if they were native to the soil. But, upon the 
 whole, I think that England is- fairly entitled to the merit of 
 somewhat leading France in the development of the Early 
 Pointed system, as a complete style of construction, and a new 
 character of Art ; because, as far as I can determine, the Eng- 
 lish buildings in this way are a little earlier in date than similar 
 ones in France ; and because the late and light Norman, out of 
 which I think it sprang, was brought to that pregnant fullness 
 and force in England only ; and because it flourished long and 
 purely and proudly on English soil, whereas in France it passed 
 almost immediately into Decorated. But if England may make 
 
48 THE LAW OF THE DEVELOPMENT [^tat. 34.- 
 
 this boast, France justly claims the creation of the Decorated. 
 The wide arches in which it deals are connected with that love 
 of transparency which caused the French builders to make large 
 windows a principal feature in their cathedrals ; and the progress 
 of window-head tracery may be followed step by step in France, 
 which cannot be done in England. This style soon became 
 European. The Norman, Early English, and Perpendicular 
 are essentially English styles, the first and last almost exclusively 
 so ; the Flamboyant is French ; the Decorated is continental. 
 In England, the number of buildings in this last style is small, 
 in comparison with those in the other three manners. Bat view- 
 ing Gothic in its entireness, it is in England and France that 
 the rich resources of that Art were developed ; and Germany 
 adopted, employed, and illustrated the style, rather than created 
 it. I cannot repress my surprise that- Mr. Hope should have 
 maintained the opinion that Germany is the native land of the 
 Gothic, chiefly on the ground that the German cathedrals are 
 greater and finer than those of any other country. That very 
 circumstance is an indication the other way. They are grander 
 and richer and more gorgeous, because the builders of them 
 were dealing -svith a style of Art whose capacities were then 
 fully brought out, and afforded an almost boundless choice of 
 elements. The composition of the elements of Art in a vast 
 edifice is a different matter from the evolution or creation of 
 those elements as forms capable of a congruous union into 
 effective compositions. In that sort of combination, the archi- 
 tects of Cologne, Strasbourg, and Fribourg, deserve great ap- 
 plause, but little or nothing in those buildings belongs to the 
 history of the development and perfecting of the types and 
 ffisthctic materials of Gothic Art. The formation or improve- 
 ment of an alphabet or language is a distinct affair from the 
 creation of lofty works in it, when it has become settled. Mr. 
 Hope's architecture is valuable for the progress of building from 
 the time of Constantine till the appearance of Gothic ; but this 
 latter he had not studied historically or minutely. 
 
 The evasive uncertainty and illusive interest of this inquiry 
 as to the country which developed Gothic architecture, arises 
 
^TAT. 34.] OF GOTHIC AKCIIITECTURB. 49 
 
 from certain mental laws of Art, or rather laws of the miud in 
 respect to Art, which are not always considered. If any one 
 studies architectural specimens on English, Trench, or even Ger- 
 man soil, exclusively, he will probably make up his mind that 
 the development took place in the country to which he is attend- 
 ing ; because he will see there a continuous and natural pro- 
 gression, and a regular series of all the transitions that the Art, 
 in its general history, has gone through. Yet many of these 
 advancements, which seem to be growths of the spot, may have 
 been derived from abroad. For the adoption of a foreign 
 novelty in Art is not a mechanical importation of a material 
 object, it is the mental incorporation of an ideal influence ; and 
 the miud, in taking into itself any new type, always, by its inhe- 
 rent laws, recasts it into an assimilation with its own natural 
 and previous conceptions, and reproduces it under modifica- 
 tions that ally it to pre-existing apprehensions. It does not 
 take up the novelty as a new starting-point, for its labors ; it 
 works its old forms under modifications derived from the new 
 suggestion. So that, while there is a vital energy in the mental 
 constitution of Art, in any land, the progression of Art there 
 will have the appearance of being self-evolved, though much 
 may have been imitated from a distance. This, of course, is 
 while there is a life of art-power at home ; for, if that is com- 
 pletely dead, foreign forms come in, entirely, or by piecemeal, 
 by a process differing little from local transportation. 
 
 While the continent and England thus co-operated in the 
 elaboration of Gothic architecture, the former excelled in those 
 great fabrics which make the glory of medieval construction, 
 and the latter worked the successive styles with greater purity, 
 and realized in them a finer discrimination of character. Purity 
 of style probably consists in combining only those elements 
 which are strictly homogeneous, and tributary to one impression 
 or sentiment : and to seize the characteristic expression of each 
 element, and bring it out the most justly, and in conjunction 
 only with matters that co-operate to the same effect, accom- 
 plishes a purity that is essentially classic ; and this is to be seen 
 in England as nowhere else. Its Norman had a clear, definite, 
 5 
 
50 THE LAW OF THE DEVELOPMENT [^tat. 34. 
 
 and most solemn grandeur ; awing the sense, arresting the ima- 
 gination in an expectation of something to be revealed from a 
 call to reverence, so emphatic and impressive. The ordinary 
 Romanesque of the continent exhibits nothing like this. In 
 England, the Early Pointed differs from the Decorated in moral 
 significance, in imaginative impression, in inherent ideal senti- 
 ment. View, for example, the north transept of York Minster, 
 with its great window of lancet arches, called the Seven Sisters ; 
 or the long chapel of the Nine Altars at the head of Durham 
 Cathedral, forming a second transept, the most exquisite speci- 
 men of Early English in the kingdom ; what romantic grace of 
 melancholy tenderness, what pensive charm of wasted elegance, 
 — like some ballad tale of neglected and enduring sentiment, — 
 hangs around the scene I The passage from this to the Deco- 
 rated style of the nave of York is a change from the presence of 
 a love-lorn, gentle maiden, to the company of an expanded, 
 happy matron. So, in England, the latest Gothic of Henry the 
 Seventh's Chapel, St. George's at Windsor, or King's College 
 Chapel, has^a wholly different character, and a distinct ordon- 
 nance of lines, from the Decorated Chapter-house of Ely. 
 Whereas, we are not conscious of any such change of sentiment 
 or effect in passing from the early to the middle and thence to 
 the late Gothic, in France and Germany ; these vary, not essen- 
 tially in tone or significance, but only in the degree of fullness 
 and richness. In the English cathedrals, these strongly discrimi- 
 nated styles are placed side by side ; the rule apparently being, 
 that every kind of new erection, or change, or addition, should 
 be executed in the manner that was prevailing at the time. 
 They are juxta-placed, each in its own fixed character, but they 
 are never confused together. Thus, in the beautiful Early Eng- 
 lish choir of Ely, three arches nearest the- cross, which had been 
 destroyed by the fall of part of the tower, were rebuilt in a rich 
 Decorated manner in the fourteenth century. Salisbury is 
 almost the only catheJral in the kingdom which is in a uniform 
 style. The others are patchworks of several, sometimes of all 
 the four styles. England is the country in which to study the 
 language of this architecture in all its varieties ; but the finest 
 
^TAT. 34.] OF GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE. 51 
 
 works in it, though produced in some instances after the lan- 
 guage had grown a little debased, are abroad. The English 
 cathedrals are of wonderful interest and beauty, but rather from 
 the surpassing excellence with which the styles are illustrated, 
 than from the combined richness and expression of the whole. 
 In England you admire the elegant perfection of arches, piers, 
 screens, or windows ; in Prance your mind is lost in the mag- 
 nificence and power of the entire combination. But if England's 
 cathedrals are inferior to those of France, they are more beau- 
 tiful than anything else in the world. Durham and Ely and 
 Winchester and Salisbury — what needs the soul of man more 
 impressive, glorious, transcendent than these ? 
 
 There are some differences in the arrangement of the French 
 and English cathedrals. In the latter, the last end is commonly 
 square, which allows of a great window. The continental choirs 
 are generally apsidal, with chapel-flanked aisles flowing contin- 
 uously round them. This circular termination is retained from 
 the old Basilicas and Romanesque churches. Almost the only 
 square-ended cathedral that I recollect, is Laon. In France, 
 the clerestory and triforium windows are of much greater size 
 and extent, constituting almost walls of glass ; so that the illumi- 
 nation is very complete. Colored glass accordingly forms a 
 striking characteristic. Much of it is of great antiquity and 
 well preserved. The splendor and beauty of the hues are won- 
 derful. On the continent, the exteriors, and particularly the 
 fagades, are much more showy than in England. The profusion 
 of wide flying buttresses, which, in the latter country, are not 
 very common, give the French and German cathedrals a striking 
 aspect. 
 
 I have traced these brief notices of Gothic architecture, not 
 for the purpose of giving an exposition of this style of building, 
 but to illustrate by such a review, some of the characteristics 
 and laws which belong to the development and natural history 
 of Art. Gothic architecture, like Italian painting, is not so inte- 
 resting from its inherent beauty, as on account of the light which 
 it throws upon the laws of the mind in one of its most curious 
 departments. In the paper on the schools of painting, it will 
 
52 THE LAW OF THE DEVELOPMENT [Mtat. 34. 
 
 be seen that the same principles are manifested in the case of a 
 kindred faculty, and I have there discussed them somewhat more 
 at large. 
 
 Prom the remarks in a previous paper, it appears that this 
 creative spirit was an emanation or outworking of religious sen- 
 timent existing in excess ; and that when this excess corrected 
 or discharged itself at the Reformation, the life of architecture 
 went out. 
 
 The circumstances in regard to this architecture, noted in 
 the present paper, indicate that Art proceeds from an inspi- 
 ration pervading society in certain nations or regions. The 
 collective mind of a whole community appears to be the seat of 
 this creative instinct, and individuals in different places and suc- 
 cessive times are the organs of certain progressions and improve- 
 ments in the Art, which, when viewed together, are found to 
 have a systematic connection that the separate agents neither 
 knew nor intended. 
 
 It appears also, from the example of Gothic architecture, that 
 every movement in Art, whether it be such a movement as is the 
 beginning of a new style, or such an one as is only a progression 
 in that style, proceeds out of the Art which was existing before. 
 In the mental history of society, there is a perpetual continuity, 
 and the relations to previous conditions are stronger, in propor- 
 tion as the matter belongs more to the instinctive and less to 
 the abstract faculties. Art is the result of the affections work- 
 ing intellectually ; and the progress of any art forms an unbroken 
 trunk. New influences, new particulars, may come athwart 
 the progression, and be worked up into and with that which 
 was before ; but some fibres of connection run through every 
 transition. 
 
 It is further to be noted, that while the vital force of Gothic 
 architecture continued, it had in it a constant principle or im- 
 pulse of progression and evolution, so that each progress brought 
 with it still a tendency to push forward into a further stage. 
 The early Norman advanced into the late Norman; the first 
 style of Early English grew into a subsequent manner consider- 
 ably different ; and so there was an early and a late Decorated ; 
 
iETAT. 34.] OF GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE. 53 
 
 and an early and a late Perpendicular. This unconscious pro- 
 gression in the type of an art ; this successive reproduction of the 
 style under a modified variety, and not repetition of an unaltered 
 form, is one of the most important laws of Art. It furnishes a 
 certain test of vitality in Art ; and when there is no continuous 
 progression, in better or worse taste, but merely stagnation or 
 capricious and unconnected shootings in this or that direction, 
 the life of Art is gone. It indicates, also, that Art is the growth 
 of a living element, — the development of a natural germ of crea- 
 tive force. It suggests, too, that every gift of art-genius in a 
 nation, necessarily works itself out to exhaustion : and it explains 
 why artist-power always exists or is found in occasional inspira- 
 tions or schools. 
 
 When the moral force of the Gothic principle was spent, 
 architecture no longer threw itself into other and further stages 
 of existence, but lingered upon itself, and grew luxuriant and 
 corrupt. At length, Italian sentiments, ideas and forms came 
 athwart it, which it had neither character enough to resist, nor 
 reactive energy enough to subdue and incorporate ; and its long 
 and glorious career was at an end. You may trace, by monu- 
 ments, almost the year and day of this demise. It was between 
 the commencement and the completion of King's College Chapel, 
 at Cambridge. It was between the erection of the chantries of 
 Fox and of Gardiner in the choir of Westminster Cathedral. 
 It was between the date of the erection of the fagade and the 
 towers of the Cathedral of Tours. When Gothic Art admitted 
 an infusion of Italian principles, it grew depraved upon the in- 
 stant ; and when it lost its purity, it forfeited its inspiration. 
 Then succeeded a long era of oppressive bad taste, from which 
 we happily have been relieved for the last half century, by having 
 no taste at all. 
 
 Since Gothic ceased to be an inspiration, sundry small at- 
 tempts have been made to build in it, — chiefly in the poorest 
 Btyle, — ^the Perpendicular ; and two great attempts, Orleans 
 Cathedral and the new Parliament Houses. 
 
 The Cathedral was begun by Henry IV. after the year 1600, 
 and is a respectable but cold imitation of previous works with- 
 5* 
 
54 THE LAW OF THE DEVELOPMENT [^tat. S4. 
 
 out a spark of creative interest. If any one would see the differ- 
 ence between an architecture that is yet vital, and one that is 
 merely mechanical ; between a form created and a form com- 
 bined ; let him compare the Cathedral of Tours with that of 
 Orleans, which is closely modeled from it. The styles of both 
 are similar, and in both there prevails throughout a unity in 
 style. But the unity of one is made up into a variety as ex- 
 haustless as it is delightful ; that of the other is a wearying 
 monotony. The architect of Tours makes no two of his win- 
 dow-heads alike ; he diversifies them by differences of every sort 
 that are consistent with their prescribed character ; he groups 
 them variously ; he introduces galleries which, themselves, are 
 full of fine diversities. But, chiefly, he gives freedom and ori- 
 ginality, and the glow and grace of an animated existence to his 
 work by moulding it upon certain sentiments of spiritual gran- 
 deur and beauty, which charge the whole structure with signifi- 
 cance and glory. Though dealing with fixed elements, he 
 combines them into a rich, impassioned, eloquent result. In 
 Orleans, there was no foregoing instinct of a feeling or a truth 
 to be embodied or represented. It is a meaningless geometric 
 figure, filled up with a tedious repetition of arches, minted in 
 the same die. 
 
 Or, let any man make the circuit of French or English cathe- 
 drals, and then place himself on Westminster Bridge, in front 
 of one of the most boasted structures of modern times. I speak 
 not of the vicious taste which has misapplied to a great political 
 edifice, that extremely ornate style of Perpendicular which is 
 adapted only to chapels, chantries, or at most to a choir. Viewed 
 as a composition, or creation of form, the new Parliament 
 House, grandiose in dimensions and gorgeous in decorations, 
 shows not one ray of invention, not one touch of original concep- 
 tion, not one suggestion of sentiment or one breathing of life. 
 It resembles a cast-iron stove on a great scale, or a cast-iron 
 railing in which a commonplace form is repeated insipidly 
 without modification. Chartres or Ely is a tree, growl»g freely 
 and boldly, encountering obstacles, and surmounting or working 
 them in with an energy that makes deviation a new and higher 
 
^TAT. 84.] OF GOTHIC ARCHITECTUKB. 55 
 
 illustration of principle, exhibiting a thousand beauties of light 
 and shade by its interlacing branches and its flowering foliage, 
 glittering with dewy freshness, and full of the song of bii-ds. 
 The Senate House is the same tree, dead, and reconstructed 
 by the rules of carpentry into a large ornamented box. It is 
 not unfitly called a monument of Gothic Art ; for it announces 
 the death and sepulture of that whose merits it was raised to 
 display. 
 
THE 
 
 PRINCIPLE OF BEAUTY IN 
 
 WORKS OF ART. 
 
 [an UNCOEEECTBD rRAQMEKT.] 
 
 The philosophy of taste has become little else than a system 
 of verbal coufusion, because it has dealt in metaphysical con- 
 ception upon a subject that is experimental and actual. " The 
 Beautiful," as a mental essence, is an empty and unprofitable 
 notion. The attempt to explore the inherent nature and con- 
 stitution of beauty is idle. But we may reasonably inves- 
 tigate the law of the development or derivation of beautiful 
 forms. 
 
 There are indefinite varieties and degrees of beauty in differ- 
 ent objects ; and the attempt to draw a line of definition which 
 shall include all beauty on the one hand, and exclude nothing 
 that has beauty on the other, will cause the failure of all theo- 
 rists who endeavor to impound the beautiful in their hypotheses. 
 But in some material arts, we meet with examples in a style 
 which our sentiments, and the history of the world, concur in 
 indicating as the practical perfection of beauty in the subject 
 concerned. This highest beauty is the matter which in Art we 
 seek for, and the only valuable inquiry is, what is the method 
 through which it is pursued, and what are the relations under 
 which it appears. When moulded into forms of such beauty, 
 
 (57) 
 
58 THE PEINCIPLE OF BEATJTT [JEtat. 34 
 
 matter has power to make a direct address to onr highest and 
 finest sentiments: like the animated features of a person, it 
 becomes representative of emotions ; it telegraphs thoughts and 
 feelings into our spirits, with an immediateness, decision, 
 and distinctness, greater than the rational powers of language 
 can exhibit; it touches notes of sympathy which we cannot 
 reach, because they lie beyond the sweep of intellectual ap- 
 prehension. 
 
 This high, perfect beauty has never been reached but in one 
 way ; by the imagination taking up some natural or useful 
 form, and reproducing it according to the imagination's own 
 elevating and improving conception. This power of beautifying 
 forms in the process of reflecting them, — of transmuting them 
 into elegance by conceiving them — is the inherent property 
 of imagination, resulting from its rational constitution; it 
 differs in different persons, and he who is most largely dowered 
 with this brightly-moulding reactiveness of spirit, is the greatest 
 artist. Beauty, then, is an imaginative image of some real 
 form. But the natural, or useful, in its highest sense, is the ne- 
 cessary base of the highest beauty; and the recognition of 
 nature and utility, that is, reality and meaning, must extend 
 through every part of the work, and if there is any member, or 
 detail of ornament, which the imagination cannot refer to nature 
 or connect with some purpose or significance, the beauty is of a 
 low, base kind, nearer to disgust than delight. When orna- 
 ments that have not a natural or rational connection with the 
 work are added, a debased beauty is produced, gratifying only 
 to false taste. 
 
 "Why the high and true beautiful can be derived only from 
 the real and practical, no reason need or can be given. The ob- 
 servation that it is so in the great examples of such beauty that 
 the world has seen, is enough to warrant us in concluding that 
 this is a general law. But, it is in accordance with the con- 
 stitution of life. The actual, as conceived by the intellect, 
 gives us science, and the actual, as conceived by the imagina- 
 tion, may give us beauty. As the justness of the inductive 
 method is founded in the circumstance that the connections of 
 
^TAT. 34.] IN WORKS OF ART. 59 
 
 things, which the reason makes in following its own notions, do 
 not result in truth, but that we must follow the indications of 
 nature to attain it, so it seems that the forms and combinations 
 which the fancy contrives, never reach that beauty, and that 
 adaptation to human feeling, which may be found by adhering 
 to the suggestions of reality. No forms but those of nature 
 and utility can have the rational unity and homogeneousness 
 necessary to produce that instantaneous effect upon the spirit 
 which is esential to the highest effect. 
 
 A representation of reality must therefore be the basis of every 
 subject of Art, and of every ornament connected with that sub- 
 ject. As for the elevation and modification which reality must 
 undergo from the imagination in passing into the beautiful, the 
 character of that change lies hidden within the veiled chambers 
 of the intelligence itself, which no eye may inspect. Under the 
 inspirations of feeling, the exalting, and vivifying, and illuminat- 
 ing powers of imagination are almost boundless. The reflection 
 of an object in a pure, clear lake, reproduces it in all its truth, 
 but refined, and recast into some degree of beauty. When an 
 object has passed before the senses, and the memory would 
 again present it to our attention, the form, thus revived, though 
 the same, is another. But when Imagination new-creates the 
 image, under the influence of some emotion, such as reverence, 
 love, or admiration, which urges it to brighten, and raise, 
 and glorify the object, it comes forth, as it were, transfigured, 
 spiritualized, made perfect. This is the beauty-bearing func- 
 tion of Imagination ; and this explains why it must act under 
 the instigation of the religious sentiment, — which includes the 
 whole family of those sentiments which revere, admire, and love 
 — in order to realize the perfections of Art. 
 
 How was the beauty of Greek sculpture derived ? The ima- 
 gination, acting on a real object, the human object, and con- 
 ceiving it with the pleasurable glow of a natural and cheerful 
 worship, evolved those examples of excellence. Those who 
 suppose that there is one absolute standard of beauty of form, 
 existing in the spirit, and that this is approached or touched in 
 some of the great models of Greece, are following the reveries 
 
60 THE PEINCIPLE OF BEAUTY [^tat. 34 
 
 of a vicious and. exploded metaphysics. No account can h 
 given of the proportions and prevailing curvatures of thi 
 Apollo, the Hercules, or the Yenus, than to refer them to thi 
 idiosyncrasy of the imaginative mating of the sculptor's mind 
 in which they were cast. There is nothing absolute in them a 
 types of abstract perfection. These examples of beauty an 
 very numerous ; they vary greatly from one another ; all havi 
 some specific merit ; there is none of which it could be said 
 "Nothing can go beyond it." 
 
 But the objects which these remarks have principally in viev 
 is to point out the law upon which depends the special excel 
 lence of Greek architecture and of Gothic architecture of thi 
 best times, over some other styles, especially the Roman anc 
 modern Italian. It is this ; that all the ornaments are derivec 
 immediately out of the actual constitution and nature of th( 
 structure, and are, to the imagination, but reality modified int( 
 elegance without departing from its own truth. 
 
 Take, for illustration, the highest and most classic type of 
 Grecian architecture, the Parthenon. In the first place, th( 
 basis of the entire form was a real and familiar object, the Cot 
 tage. As for the proportions, they can only be referred, as h 
 the case of sculpture, to the imaginations of the architects 
 reproducing this form under the influence of certain sentiments 
 of simple majesty, chaste elegance or luxuriant richness ; anc 
 they were, therefore, as various as the resources of their ima- 
 ginations, which were boundless in conception. The whoh 
 system of ornaments depended upon displaying to the eye the 
 actual construction of the building, and incorporating into per- 
 manent decorations those appropriate adjuncts which in th( 
 actual use of the fane were wont to be connected with it. Al 
 that is the decorative is directly founded upon the real ; and 
 retains that suggestion of nature and utility which gives il 
 meaning and truth. The triglyphs, afterwards- in the Ionic, th( 
 dentils, represented the termination of the rafters when th( 
 structure was of wood ; the guttae 
 
 [Here apparently a small part of the MS. is lost. J 
 
 The wide-spreading roof, upheld by long colonnades, was in- 
 
■^TAT. 34.] IN WOKKS OF ART. 61 
 
 tended to give shelter to the worshipers as they thronged to 
 the celebrations. In fact, the conception of the tenple is not 
 that of a close building surrounded by an appendage of col- 
 umns ; it is that of a roof sustained by a colonnade upon a 
 platform, and having in the centre a small enclosure for sacri- 
 fices. Such character an^^ purpooe are wholly falsified in ap- 
 plying this form to modern building service, where the walls 
 form the real limits of the building, and the side colonnades are 
 but a superfluous addition. In the Parthenon nothing was 
 adventitious; every thing had relation to nature, use and 
 meaning. 
 
 When you come to Roman architecture, the matter is differ- 
 ent. The use of the arch brought in a new principle of con- 
 struction and support ; yet in apparent effect the Greek style 
 was adhered to. Hence, all became imposture. The arch was 
 concealed ; false entablatures were fabricated ; and as the true 
 elements of the building could not be shown, to form a basis of 
 decoration, ornaments wholly foreign and fanciful were heaped 
 on. The same remarks apply to the revived style which 
 flourished in Italy after the downfall of Gothic in the sixteenth 
 century. 
 
 The Gothic, as we have seen, worked itself out of the 
 Romanesque ; but finally it attained this characteristic of true 
 beauty, that all its decorations grew directly out of its con- 
 struction, by an evolution not only natural but almost necessary, 
 and were therefore homogeneous with it. 
 
 As for the general relation between the mental conception 
 of the building, and the illustration of that conception in the 
 construction, it must be recollected that the essential, germinal 
 principle of difference between the temple and the cathedral, is, 
 that the former is built for exterior effect, the latter for interior. 
 On occasions of worship, the multitude surrounded one edifice, 
 but £[lled the other. The temple has, as regards architectural 
 impression, really no interior at all ; for the small cella or naos 
 which hid the penetralia, entered not at all into the effect of 
 the structure. From this difference in character and design, 
 the whole diversity between the characters of Greek and Gothic 
 6 
 
62 THE PRINCIPLE OF BEAUTY [^tat. 3i 
 
 forms and decorations may be derived. To the former, viewe( 
 from witliout, an aspect of elevated repose must belong ; an( 
 all the decorations must be superficial. The elaboration of ai 
 impressive and inspiring interior led, necessarily, to soarins 
 height, and a general upwardness of all the courses ; to long 
 drawn vistas, side by side ; to grand portals to give entrance 
 and a multitude of windows to give light ; and to a genera 
 style of decoration, concave, receding and perspective. 
 
 The cathedral, in its general form and arrangement, is not i 
 fanciful contrivance ; it is but an imaginative expansion anc 
 modification of the Basihca, which had been framed for utilit] 
 and convenience. In regard to decoration, taking it at th( 
 period of its perfection, every thing is derived out of reality 
 and is representative of truth. I have already intimated tha' 
 the maturity of the Early English era embodies the highesi 
 beauty ; it will be found also to illustrate the greatest degree 
 of this sort of actuality. That elegant clustering of the piers 
 for example, is not a fantastic scolloping of a circular form ; ii 
 grows from a genuine combination of distinct shafts to whicl: 
 the architects were led by the desire to produce an effect of in- 
 definite elevation in their interiors. The nave piers sustain the 
 longitudinal and transverse arches and ribs both of the aish 
 and nave vaulting ; but while the pier was a single cylinder 
 there was a complete break, and even opposition, between its 
 plain roundness and the multitudinous arches that rose from it. 
 To obviate this, each arch, above, was furnished with its owr 
 small column, from which it rose without interruption. Thus 
 the pier became a group of attached pillars, each running uj: 
 into an arch-moulding, so that the eye was carried up the shaft, 
 which bent inward as it ascended, and instead of seeming ter- 
 minated by the arch, appeared prolonged into it. These com- 
 bined shafts then became the Early English pier, the capital of 
 which is a mere band to retain the shafts ere they begin tc 
 diverge ; a purpose more clearly intimated by there being othei 
 little bands or rings placed around the cluster at several points. 
 And it is because all this appears clearly and truthfully in the 
 Early English, and is obscured somewhat, when, in the Decorated, 
 
^TAT. 31.] IN WORKS OF ART. 03 
 
 the clusters run into one, and still more, when, in the Perpen- 
 dicular, some of the faces become flat, that our taste seems justi- 
 fied on fixing, in the period of Early English, the rational per- 
 fection of the beauty of Gothic. Again, the exquisite rib 
 vaulting and groining of the ceilings, is a mere display of the 
 actual principles upon which the building is held up. And in 
 regard to foliation and tracery, the matter to be noted as the 
 chief characteristic of the best days of Gothic, is, that the orna- 
 mental elements are but the great constituent parts of the 
 building on a smaller scale. They are arches and parts of 
 arches ; they run in combinations of lines described by the 
 compass. They are not contrivances of fancy, or importations 
 from other sources, they are derived from the organization of 
 the building. This gives not only a homogeneity to every part, 
 but a sobriety and genuineness that deserve to be called 
 classic. When you pass from these geometrical decorations of 
 true Gothic to a style of ornament like that in the windows of 
 the Or San Michele at Florence, where roses and arabesques 
 fill up the vacant surfaces, you are aware at once of the inter- 
 vention of false taste. Gothic architecture, in its true condition, 
 is a character of Art, as genuine and pure, and as firmly founded 
 in principle as Greek ; and if it be less beautiful, — which I 
 readily admit, — it is because the type, itself, the arched Interior, 
 is not capable of illustrating so high a grade of natural beauty 
 as that of the columnar and entablatured exterior, though more 
 expressive of moral and spiritual conceptions. Roman archi- 
 tecture, ancient or revived, is really a debased and promiscuous 
 thing. 
 
 [The residue of the MS., which appears to have extended to 
 some length, is, unhappily, not found among the author's 
 papers.] 
 
THE 
 
 CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. 
 
 To one who loves to view those works which serve as regis- 
 ters of man's nature and feelings in the past, no structures upon 
 earth are more interesting than the Gothic cathedrals of Europe. 
 Shrines of the piety of the years that are gone 1 Yast as the 
 enthusiasm of those who reared them I Soaring as their hopes 1 
 Solemn and beautiful, and eternal as the life they represent I 
 
 I shall endeavor to give some description of certain edifices 
 of this kind in France, Germany, and Italy. 
 
 RHEIMS CATHEDRAL. 
 
 The Cathedral of Rheims is one of the grandest and most 
 memorable in Prance. The town lies in the lowest part of a 
 wide hollow plain ; and as you come towards it, this enormous 
 structure, looming up fully two-thirds of its height above the 
 general level of the houses, looks like a great cloud hanging 
 above the city ; something that belongs to the heavens rather 
 than the earth. 
 
 Of the decorated splendor of the western front, where every 
 course and moulding runs into richness, and which blooms and 
 blushes with beauty, it is difficult to speak justly. Flowering 
 and luxuriant as it is, the distribution of the parts is regular, 
 and the unity complete. The whole of the face below the towers 
 is arranged in three grades or stories. The wide -base is com- 
 posed of, apparently, five arched portals, under crooked canopies 
 or pediments, forming together, a kind of frame which rises 
 6* (65) 
 
66 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [-^tat. 34. 
 
 pyramidically in the centre. The two at the ends, however, are 
 only low buttresses faced with arches ; the three inner ones being 
 the veritable portals. These are extremely deep, and are nar- 
 rower as they recede ; their vertical mouldings are enriched with 
 rows of statued saints, nearly of life-size, and the arches are 
 strung round with range after range of somewhat smaller sculp- 
 tures. The pediments over the doors, and also the faces of the 
 false portals at either extremity, are loaded with reliefs. The 
 arch-heads of all the portals, which are very lofty, contain cir- 
 cular windows of colored glass, the central one having a wheel 
 of great magnitude. The middle story consists of a broad 
 pointed window, almost wholly filled with a huge wheel ; and 
 on either side of it two tall, light, airy open-work lancet win- 
 dows. Above this, a range of sculptured figures standing closely 
 together on little pedestals, within open shrines, and larger than 
 life, runs like a scolloped band or crown along the top of the 
 whole fagade. The towers, which are of an elegant openwork, 
 like that at the sides of the great wheel-window below, are car- 
 ried up one story above the front, and there terminate a little 
 imperfectly. The pyramidal arrangement is attended to, through- 
 out, with great delicacy and effectiveness. The sheath of the 
 front narrows with each ascending story, and the upward line 
 of the building recedes in the same way. 
 
 Of that style of illustrated or animated Architecture, in which 
 sculpture is worked up profusely, the front of Rheims must be 
 allowed to form a very successful example. To me it is less 
 agreeable, because less natural and consistent than the method, 
 more common in England, and to be found in the earlier buUd- 
 ings of France, which uses purely architectural forms of geo- 
 metric characters. But since statuary was to be largely employed 
 — according to the type then prevalent — its assimilation with the 
 organic outlines of the compass and square, in the present case, 
 certainly show great knowledge and a mastering genius. The 
 composition of the whole fagade exhibits a varied and luxurious 
 invention, a nice sense of proportion, and a power to dispose 
 multitudinous details into grand and orderly masses, by which 
 simplicity is restored to a combination that otherwise might have 
 
^TAT. 34.] EHEIMS CATHEDRAL. g7 
 
 become embarrassed. As your eye returns over the whole fagade, 
 or lingers upon the brilliant effects which its many combinations 
 develop, you cannot but admire the creative vigor which could 
 marshal and group the elements of sculpture and of architecture 
 into union without mixture, and in a manner to co-operate without 
 losing their distinctness. The lowest story or base, consisting 
 of the portals, is exceedingly rich with sculpture, and is the 
 heaviest part of the whole front. In the middle range, with its 
 central wheel-window and the open lancet arches on either side of 
 it, there is no sculpture, except half a dozen figures between, 
 and at the outsides of these. Above this, the third story, in its 
 line o£ kings, prophets and apostles, returns upon sculpture, yet 
 in a manner lighter and simpler than that which prevails about 
 the portals. Then rise on high the towers, in airy openness, 
 altogether free from figures. Thus, the first and third stories 
 correspond in being chiefly sculptural, but the higher one much 
 less copiously so ; the second, and the towers, in being purely 
 architectural; the second, however, which allies the first and 
 third, has enough of sculpture to keep up the sense of consistency 
 and connection between them. Thus a series of sculptural and 
 architectural courses, interposed in an ascending and dimin- 
 ishing range, carries you from the gates of the church, around 
 which earthly life clings, into the pinnacles above the church, 
 which no mortal form may scale, and which may be visited only 
 by the viewless angels from the air. The clear geometric spaces 
 of the towers and of those parts of the second story which fall 
 under the towers — wholly free from statuary — intervene with 
 agreeable effect, to ventilate, as it were, the holy crowd that 
 clusters about the front of the sanctuary, and to interrupt that 
 oppressiveness which such a dense multitude even of saintly and 
 apostolic humanity might have caused. In the second range, 
 and in the towers, you have chiefly openness of effect ; in the 
 third range, made up of niched figures, you have closeness : in 
 the base, where the tall deep doors are separated by walls made 
 up of sculpture, you have openness and closeness finely alterna- 
 ting. This is like a succession of lights and shades in a picture. 
 I touch but a few points of the interest and beauty of this noblo 
 
68 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [^tat. 34. 
 
 front. Like all other cathedrals that were built while Gothic 
 architecture was yet a living and plastic essence, it must be 
 studied, in its combination and unity, as a creation of inspired 
 Art ; the forms and figures which it deals in, being but the ele- 
 ments, whose significance is derived from the moulding shapes 
 in which they are disposed. Thus dealt with, architecture be- 
 comes a symbolic medium of spiritual meaning, of imaginative 
 suggestion, not less ideal and prophetic than music, painting, or 
 song. In the rich and grand impressions which this remarkable 
 front evolves, one may see, as in an opera of Mozart, an ever- 
 gushing sensuousness of melodies, controlled, regulated and 
 toned down by a yet mightier and more commanding power of 
 harmony. 
 
 On entering the left-hand door of the front, you are struck by 
 the uncommon height, length and width of the aisle that expands 
 before you, and are awed by the glimpse which you get of the 
 nave with its richly colored clerestory and bluish triforium. As 
 you advance under the nave, the vastness of the fabric, modu- 
 lated into simplicity, dignity and strength, comes upon you like 
 the deep, slow, thunder -tones of a mighty organ. It gave me 
 the impression of being the largest cathedral I had ever seen. 
 The altitude both of the nave and the aisles is unusually great ; 
 and they are separated from one another by circular columns, 
 each of which has four smaller ones attached to it. The capi- 
 tals are low, and the arches that spring from them are stilted ; 
 elongated I mean, and running vertically a good way before the 
 bend begins. The piers nearest the front door, and the piers 
 of the cross, are more numerously clustered, and run continuously 
 to the top. The nave-aisles have no chapels, but between their 
 windows are clustered columns, which have, in their centres, the 
 ring peculiar to Early English ; and the clustered piers at the 
 cross, which go up to the vault, have three such rings in differ- 
 ent parts of their height. The capitals of the several columns 
 are of rich leaf and grape-bunch mouldings, and are of a yellow 
 color, probably painted ; yet resembling the fresh tones of the 
 Caen quarries, of which some of the English cathedrals are built. 
 Two of the mouldings of each arch are of the same color. The 
 
^TAT. 34.] EHEIMS CATIIEDTIAL. 69 
 
 ribs of the roof, in like manner, are yellow, and the vault is blue, 
 starred over with gold fleur-de-lys. 
 
 The architecture of the building is, for the most part, uniform 
 throughout. The triforium is a gallery of single pointed arches, 
 resting on single detached circular columus of good size ; and 
 having the inner wall, behind, of a blue or other dark color. 
 The clerestory consists of a range of large arches going up to 
 the vaulting of the roof; and each containing a circle enclosing 
 a seifoil, in the head, and under it two pointed arches. This 
 arrangement runs round the whole church. The side windows 
 of the nave-aisles are similar ; but they are short, and high, 
 not coming to the ground. A range of three or four steps, 
 forming seats, extends along those aisle walls ; and above them, 
 covering the lower part of the windows, are ancient tapestries. 
 
 The transepts are short, but broad, and with aisles. At the 
 end of the north one is the organ, with a fine rose window over 
 it. The end of the south transept is especially beautiful. 
 Above the door, are, first, three thin lancet windows of 
 thoroughly Early English character ; the two circular little col- 
 umns between them standing out clear. Over these are three 
 round-headed arches cut out in the wall, with their two dividing 
 columns also clear, and containing in their tops, three round 
 windows filled with seifoils. Above the whole, a wheel-window 
 with painted glass. 
 
 The choir is round at the end, and its circling aisle is sur- 
 rounded with open chapels of much elegance, which indicate a 
 more advanced stage of Art. Many of the columns of the 
 choir are simply round. The chancel, or ecclesiastical choir, as 
 in Westminster Abbey, comes far down into the body of the 
 church, embracing three arches of the nave. It is raised 
 several steps, and surrounded by a lofty open iron railing. The 
 high altar is directly between the piers of the cross at the en- 
 trance of the choir of the cathedral. At the upper end of the 
 choir is another altar. 
 
 The clerestory windows, throughout the building, and the rose 
 windows, are filled with stained glass, which for splendor and 
 beauty, I prefer even to Chartres. In each of the two arches 
 
70 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [^tat. 34. 
 
 into which the clerestory windows of the nave are divided, are 
 two saintly figures on a colored ground, producing a fine im- 
 pression. Two of those windows about the centre of the nave, 
 are filled with a mosaic glass of various colors, scarlet, blue, 
 green, the most gorgeous, I think, that I ever beheld ; and appa- 
 rently of the greatest antiquity. The windows of the ground 
 floor are not colored, except those in the chapel at the extreme 
 end of the choir, which seem to have modern glass. As you 
 stand near the entrance of the nave, and look along the massive 
 vista which is ended by the three splendid windows of the cle- 
 restory at the end of the choir, and by the windows of the 
 chapel below them, the effect is excellent. But the most 
 striking feature of the interior, is the view towards the great 
 front window of the cathedral. Place yourself under the cross 
 and look towards the western wall, and the spectacle is one of 
 unsurpassed magnificence and glory. The nave there terminates 
 in one stately arched window formed of many windows. The 
 top of the great arch is occupied by a vast wheel filled with 
 glass of scarlet and green, which in brilliancy and purity is, 
 without exception, the most powerful I am acquainted with. 
 The intervals of the arch, above and below the wheel, contain 
 smaller wheels, all of which are glittering with similar colors. 
 The triforium, which runs along under the large wheel, is open 
 through and glazed ; and blazes with forms of saints glowing in 
 robes that are radiant with a lustre caught from the inmost 
 heaven. The tall arch-head of the centre door, also, has its 
 rose ; and is wholly filled with glass of a blue and fawn color. 
 Around the three doors, and filling the intervals that they do 
 not occupy, are ranges of marble sculptures, set in recesses, and 
 having an effect very original and agreeable. The incomparable 
 richness of the varied influences that united in that picture — 
 the forms of arch and circle joined in a complication that never 
 became confused — the hues in which the tliick crystals, admitting 
 no glare and dimming no ray, turned the stream of the setting 
 sun into a glory of rainbows, blent in endless diversity of com- 
 bination, whose harmonic tones spread through the air like a 
 music audible to the soul alone, — this made up a vision, fit 
 
-*!tat. 34.] BOURGBS. -jl 
 
 rightly to inspire and attune tlie musing hopes of those who 
 bowed beneath that canopy. 
 
 If one were called to determine this building's place inHht 
 chronology of architecture, merely from the structure itself, upon 
 what may be called internal evidence, one might confidently 
 refer it to an early and rudimentary period of the style, on the 
 other side of the channel, called Early English. Some of the 
 columns of the choir are circular, as in the Romanesque or 
 Norman ; then, in the nave, the circular columns, with smaller 
 columns attached, indicate a transition toward the clustered and 
 ringed piers which are seen in other parts, and which are alto- 
 gether of the Early English character. But I have found in 
 the interior of Rheims no example of a trefoil arch ; which is 
 one of the most fixed characteristics of Early English. On the 
 outside, the pointed arches of the nave and choir along the 
 sides of the building, have, around their outer moulding, little 
 rose-like ornaments, closely resembling the double-toothed 
 ornament, and producing a similar effect. But within, the 
 impression is not like Salisbury. It is French altogether. In 
 the columns of the naive-aisles, and the manner in which they 
 are carried up above the first capitals, you may see a strong re- 
 semblance to Chartres ; this being apparently a more advanced 
 stage of the same style. It has a solidity and polished plain- 
 ness, not free from melancholy, which makes it fit to have been 
 through many ages the scene of the coronation of the descend- 
 ants of Clovis. 
 
 Erom documents, it appears, I believe, that this cathedral 
 was begun about 1211, and at least the choir finished in 1241. 
 The fagade certainly belongs to the beginning of the 15th 
 century, and must be nearly contemporary with that of 
 Strasbourg. 
 
 BOURGBS. 
 
 Of all the cathedrals I have seen, I know of nothing of such 
 imaginative, spiritual, ethereal beauty, as the interior of Bourges. 
 In regularity and simplicity, it exceeds perhaps even Salisbury ; 
 
72 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [^tat. 34. 
 
 yet in every line of its fabric, the vivifying touch of creative 
 genius is visible. The elements are the finest and most delicate 
 that were ever combined for so great an effect as this ; but it is 
 the inspired ideality of impression with vrhich these forms are 
 played upon ; the poetic significance and suggestiveness of the 
 composition, that constitutes the mental charm of this half- 
 heavenly erection. Beneath his hand who fashioned this struc- 
 ture, — arches, vaults, columns, surfaces, — were as the finest 
 notes of an organ under the fingers of a master, who, forming in 
 his mind some airy conception of the beautiful and exalting, 
 steeps it in sounds, that crystallize around it, until some one 
 of Art's deathless existences is formed for the glory and gladness 
 of the world. Matter, under the contagious fires of such an 
 artist's handling, becomes animated and co-operative : his 
 touch seems to shoot electric energies of intelligence into me- 
 chanical substances ; to infuse instincts of forms by which they 
 voluntarily marshal themselves into the array of beauty. 
 
 The chief peculiarity of Bourges consists in the absence of 
 transepts, and in there being double aisles, so that the eye ranges 
 along five unbroken vistas of arches, stretching away into the 
 dimness of airy distance ; and as the columns throughout are 
 very lofty, slender, and open, an indefinite variety of perspective 
 combinations are offered to the observer in different parts of the 
 building. As you enter the portal of the west front, next to 
 the centre, the view which you catch of the long and lofty per- 
 spective of the highest side aisle, reaching as it seems to the 
 clouds, and extending so far that persons at the opposite end 
 can scarcely be distinguished, is like the stroke of a romancer's 
 wand upon your senses, nor are you at all disenchanted, as ad- 
 vancing further, the whole of the simple, yet rich effect is shed 
 in beauty upon your spirit. The nave, sustained by light and 
 shapely clustered pillars, and displaying a magnificent loftiness,* 
 extends uninten-uptedly into the apsidal choir ; and is flanked 
 on both sides with aisles that rise to the height of 65 feet, next 
 to which, are lower aisles, and out of these open chapels with 
 
 * 117 feet, or 33 feet more than Salisbury. 
 
iETAT. 34.] BOURGSS. Y3 
 
 richly painted flamboyant windows. The height of the first 
 range of side aisles is so great, that the effect produced is not that 
 of double aisles, but of a winged nave, or a nave descending by 
 gradences into its side aisles ; and the impression thus produced 
 is wonderfully original, expressive and rich. The clerestory 
 and triforium windows of the nave, the former filled with colored 
 glass, consist of series of slender and delicate arches, simply 
 pointed or trefold, grouped in clusters of three in the clerestory 
 and six in the triforium. The first and highest side aisles have 
 similar clerestory and triforium windows, except that the former 
 are grouped in pairs and the latter in sets of four. At the end 
 of the nave is a fine west window, extending nearly across it, 
 composed of two great arches with a wheel in a diamond in the 
 head between them, the whole richly colored ; and beneath is 
 the organ over the chief door, which is low. The choir is sur- 
 rounded by a light iron railing, and is raised above the nave by 
 three low steps ; at the upper end rises another step, and be- 
 yond it another, on which platform stands the high altar. The 
 columns that surround the choir with open arches are slenderer 
 than in the nave, and shooting up to an extraordinary elevation, 
 the effect which they produce surpasses any thing that I am 
 acquainted with. In the eastern apoe, (?) and the eastern part of 
 the cathedral generally, the lowest windows of the outer aisles, 
 and the clerestory windows of both the inner aisles and the nave, 
 are filled with ancient stained glass, blue and crimson, of extra- 
 ordinary splendor, and when the morning sun streams upon it, 
 the illumination is magnificent. 
 
 Although the style of the interior is uniform from end to end, 
 the building discloses in every direction as you pass to different 
 points of view, an innumerable variety of perspective arrange- 
 ments and graduated effects. Looking across the cathedral, 
 you see five succeeding rows of elegant little arches, mounting, 
 with delicate variations, one above another till they seem to 
 scale the heavens. First are the arches of the low outmost 
 aisles, athwart which also you catch sight of the highly colored 
 and decorated flamboyant windows of the chapels ; next above 
 come the triforium and clerestory archlets of the first or inner 
 7 
 
if4 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE COKTINENT. [jEtat. 34 
 
 aisles ; and then mounting still upward, the scolloped lines of 
 the clerestory and triforium of the nave. The ground vaultings 
 of the double aisles, when you are looking directly across, pro- 
 duce still additional rows of arches. It might seem that in this 
 significant construction the sacred artist meant to typify the 
 church of God under that vision, in the Patriarch's sleep, of 
 steps stretched to heaven, whereon seraphs ascended and de- 
 scended, and the angel of God himself struggled with humanity, 
 when its grosser qualities were laid in slumber by the solemn 
 influences of the scene and hour. The simple arrangement of 
 having the choir discriminated from the nave merely by a low 
 triple step, and the great altar placed at the summit of a triple 
 platform, united full ecclesiastical suggestions with unimpaired 
 architectural effect. The glassy choir might have seemed to 
 him fit to be the luminous canopy of the angels, who beneath 
 the moon of Bethlehem sang the jubilee of Peace on earth and 
 good-will towards men. To me the musiclike sweetness of the 
 structure, seemed to embody a translation into visible forms, of 
 the delicate caroling of some celestial band. The chords of 
 those exquisite lines of small arches that swept in successive 
 ranges along the building, flowed out into effects like Beethoven's 
 harmonies. They were like successive waves in the Summer- 
 ocean of Beauty, which rolled along one after another tUl in the 
 distance they were dissolved into light. 
 
 The particular in which it seems to me that the founder of 
 Bourges Cathedral exhibits a deep, and accurate, and fearless 
 genius, is in wholly discarding the system of transepts. The 
 cross form is, in my judgment, inappropriate in Gothic architec- 
 ture. Its proper employment is in connection with the dome, 
 as in the Byzantine and Italian structures, and its most true 
 condition, is that of the equilateral cross, as in the matchless 
 type of Santa Maria Degli Angeli, and in the face of St. Peter's 
 as determined by Michael Angelo : for then the whole comes 
 into one definite view. But the characteristic effect of Gothic 
 consists in developing long continuous vistas of arched avenues ; 
 and the transept only breaks and defeats this impression. Tran- 
 septs never enter into the general effect of a Gothic cathedral. 
 
iEiAT. 34.] BOTJEGES. f 5 
 
 They are distinct and detached limbs, contributing to the feel- 
 ing of variety and size, but nothing more. It was the inherent 
 permanence of a traditionary type in Art, particularly connected 
 with religious symbolism, which caused it to be continued in 
 the Gothic structures. Yet " many artists have felt the evil and 
 labored to defeat it. In the Cathedral of Siena, for example, 
 the vaulting of the nave and aisles, including the triforium gal- 
 lery, which there is a vast apartment, is carried right along 
 through the transepts, which are thus reduced to truncated arms 
 cut off and dangling uselessly at the sides. This produces not 
 only a strange multiplicity, but an awkward confusion. At 
 Lucca, another device is tried. The arched walls which form 
 the sides of the nave are carried on across the transepts, making 
 a couple of open shields athwart them. The objection to this, 
 is that the upper arched spaces in this wall have absolutely no 
 meaning. They unite or separate the airy extent of the tran- 
 septs from those of the cross : but they can neither be regarded 
 as in the nature of windows nor of doors. They lack that sense 
 of purpose, utility, or meaning, which is indispensable as an 
 ingredient in the beautiful. They betray themselves for an 
 architectural shift, or device intended to produce a particular 
 effect. They gave me the impression of a ruin. The builder 
 of Bourges has solved the difficulty, in the method that is correct 
 in principle, and decisive in effect. Adopting the bold, and 
 admirable suggestion of discarding the transepts altogether, he 
 has made the most exquisite and only faultless Gothic interior 
 in Europe. 
 
 One circumstance which gives to these great cathedrals pe- 
 culiar interest as symbolic creations of Art, is the impersonal 
 character which belongs to them. The builders or designers 
 of Strasbourg, of Friburg, and of Milan are known : but with 
 these and perhaps one or two other exceptions, the cathedrals 
 of ^the Middle Ages come down to us as emanations of the 
 sesthetic energy of society at large ; as symbolical and typical 
 embodiments of the ecclesiastical inspiration, in an age whose 
 power was eminently constructive. This merging of the indivi- 
 dual in the universal, in the history of the buildings, is especially 
 
76 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [^tat. 34. 
 
 appropriate in works meant to symbolize religion. Iq scarcely 
 any instance — Cologne is almost the only exception— have any 
 plans, designs, or sketches for these works come down to us. 
 They seem to have ^ inspirations or instincts of creations ; efSii- 
 ences of the action of imaginations combined into mental 
 unity, by the action of one feeling, animated by one faith. 
 Yet what a race of artists thus cheat the toll of Fame ! Here 
 were persons who possessed a variety and power of composition 
 that might set them on a level with Michael Angelo or Rubens ; 
 conceptions of beauty scarcely less exquisite than Rafael's ; a 
 feeling as sensitive as FraBartolommeo's ; a spiritual sensibility 
 and thoughtfulness as profound as Leonardo's 1 Yet they sur- 
 vive to us, only in their works ; known not, nor whispered 
 among men, honored not on their rolls of renown, is the name 
 of him whose genius hung in the dim air the storied arches of 
 this cathedral nave of Bourges ; in which, rising gallery above 
 gallery, in light and varied range, and seeming to bridge the 
 interval between earth and heaven, stand in the highest clerestory 
 in glittering robes, against the light, Prophets, and Saints, and 
 Martyrs, and Apostles, beckoning us upward to their glittering 
 home. Yet that this is throughout the conception and plan of 
 one man — on whom all' a poet's soul, and a builder's science 
 largely had been poured — no one will doubt who views the 
 harmony and order of these complex details — who considers 
 how the artful combination of regular elements works out not 
 only a grand and combined impression, but fills up the progress 
 of the work with innumerable passages of elegance, running 
 athwart and throughout the majesty of the composition, till the 
 result is as entire and single as a shapely tree, and the parts as 
 varied and free as the leaves and branches that contribute to 
 form it. 
 
 The exterior front of Bourges is unworthy to indicate to the 
 world the rare elegance of the fairy beauties within. The iive 
 portals, enriched all around the arches with graceful sculptured 
 figures, separated in rows by mouldings of rich leaf-cordage (?) 
 are unsurpassed. The principal tower,— a noble one, — beara, 
 like one of those of Rouen Cathedral, the humiliating name of 
 
^TAT. 34.] CHURCH OF ST. OTJEN. Y t 
 
 the butfer-tower, having been built with money derived from 
 the sale of indulgences to eat dainties in Lent. A humiliating 
 title it may be called, as it shows that this glorious structure 
 was the offspring, not of men's piety, but of their infirmities, 
 and that while it is a monument to God's glory it is a memorial 
 of his creatures' weakness, and even of the corruption of his 
 best gift, the Church. 
 
 ROTJEN CATHEDRAL. 
 
 Rouen possesses two specimens of these interesting struc- 
 tures. The Cathedral and the Church of St. Ouen. The im- 
 pressive effect of the fagade of the cathedral, arises chiefly 
 from its extraordinary breadth ; which, with the two towers, 
 that stand, in fact, at the sides of the building, in a line with 
 the front wall of the nave, is greater, I think, than any other 
 in Europe. The north tower, which is capped with a dumpy 
 spire, is in an early style, probably of the twelfth century, with 
 some tall-pointed arches closed up. The other, called the 
 butter-tower, is in a rich decorated manner, crowned with an 
 octagonal, which has probably served as a model for the more 
 modern one of Orleans. The architecture of the interior 
 has many peculiarities with which it is needless to fatigue the 
 reader. The effect is antique, yet brilliant and imposing. One 
 of the most memorable circumstances connected with this ca- 
 thedral was its being the burial place of many sovereigns, 
 warriors, and statesmen, much connected with the history of 
 England. 
 
 CHURCH OF ST. OTJEN. 
 
 But the Church of St. Ouen is by far the most beautiful of 
 the monuments of this town ; and is one of the most original 
 and delicate creations in medieval constructive Art. Viewed 
 either from within or without, it seems like a vast cross-shaped 
 lantern. The outer walls of the nave aisles, which are without 
 chapels, are composed of a range of broad, decorated windows, 
 1* 
 
78 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [JEtat. 34. 
 
 pretty high from the ground, and separated on]y by rather 
 slender clusters of columns. The triforium is absorbed into the 
 broad clerestory windows. It consists of a double gallery, 
 glazed on the outside, and separated from the clerestory by a 
 slight horizontal course, with two or three ranges of little arches 
 under it, so that the whole space above the lower aisle arches 
 has the effect of being one range of vast windows divided in the 
 middle by a transom, and having the lower part arched as the 
 upper. This arrangement, above and below, prevails through 
 the whole church, nave, transepts, and choir. Every where the 
 walls seem to have run to windows. Except the low wall which 
 runs around under the aisle windows, like a parapet or bulwark, 
 the entire structure below the roof is of glass divided and sup- 
 ported by slender piers, buttresses and clustered shafts. The 
 great number of tall, shapely-banded pillars, and the great 
 height and length of the church, in comparisou with its width, 
 produces a striking result. You feel as if you stood in some 
 avenue in a forest of tall trees, sacred to purity, and peace, and 
 stillness. As the glass for the most part is richly colored, the 
 impression, when the sun is bright, is the most enchanting and 
 bewildering that can be conceived. How strongly we must 
 admire the creative fancy, the forbearing taste of those who, in 
 erecting a building of such consequence, could remain true to 
 the simplicity of a plan so slight in its design, but so certain 
 in its effect I A clear and deep moral conception must have 
 been the guiding and sustaining genius of this work ; and it is 
 instantly revealed in it : St. Ouen must have been the suggestion 
 of some gentle spirit whose wide human sympathies viewed 
 religion only as the loveliest emanation of that beneficent 
 Nature, whose all-circling compassion woos to restoration all 
 whom it has made. The material and complicated grandeur of 
 other cathedrals fits them to be symbols of that artificial and 
 metaphysical church catholic upon earth, whose system, won- 
 derful and venerable as it may be, is essentially of human elabo- 
 ration and structure. Its mighty and enduring vastness sub- 
 stitutes to your mind an earthly conception of the Infinite. The 
 more it works out in scientific and aesthetic operations and 
 
iETAT. 34.] CATHEDRAL OF AMIENS. ij9 
 
 details, illustrations of the divine, the more thorougnly is 
 man's character stamped upon it. But St. Ouen embodies that 
 elder, wider, and wiser view which contemplates Revelation 
 only as the fullness and assurance of a grace previously devel- 
 oped in Natural Religion. It gladdens the spirit of the wor- 
 shiper with the mild brightness of the heaven of Nature. It 
 shuts not out, but rather gathers in, the glory of the open 
 universe. It is a house of garnered light, whose rich, soft, 
 iris-lustre is only a revelation to us of a glory before inherent 
 in the common day, though invisible : as Redemption was in 
 humanity. These lovely tones that here pervade the air, are but 
 the Church's interpretation to us of a refining beauty in life; 
 but which, without that revealing interpretation, never could 
 have been unsphered to us. It renders to us only natural 
 light ; but in the glory of its elemental fiineness. Touched by 
 the appeal of its simple and natural sanctity, the hand of revo- 
 lution, which destroyed so many monuments in this region, 
 spared its graces ; and though plundered by those savages of 
 spiritual life, the religions Jacobins of the sixteenth century, the 
 Huguenots, its frame remains uninjured. It was begun in 
 1318, but not finished till 1500. 
 
 The front, unfinished for many centuries, has lately been com- 
 pleted according to the original design, with two fine spired 
 towers, lightly and elegantly arched and decorated. It is of 
 great beauty and in good taste. 
 
 CATHEDRAL OF AMIENS. 
 
 It was about half an hour after ten o'clock on Sunday 
 morning when I entered Amiens Cathedral. The bishop and 
 his gilded canonry were engaged in celebrating high mass. As 
 the chapels that surround the apsidal choir are almost formed 
 of large windows, of which the efi'ect is, to shed a flood of 
 roseate and orange light through the whole eastern end of the 
 cathedral, it seemed as if, like the promised miracle of the 
 temple of old, the Spirit of God was present in effulgence, and 
 the glory of the Lord overshadowed the altar of his worship. 
 
80 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. -[Mtxr.Zi. 
 
 The interior of the cathedral is extremfily beautiful, and in a 
 taste which no criticism can reprove. The style is quite uni- 
 form, and recalls Salisbury at once ; but it belongs clearly to a 
 rather more advanced stage. I should call it Early English, 
 just flowering and half flowered into Decorated. The triforium 
 windows of the nave and transepts, — the gallery round the west 
 front within, — and the lancet-headed windows or open arches 
 around the apse of the choir — are decidedly Early English : 
 but the other large windows, the triforium of the choir, and the 
 rest of the style, generally would, in England, rather be referred 
 to Decorated. The central columns which sustain the vault at 
 the cross are remarkably light and graceful. The aisles of both 
 the nave and choir, on both sides, are surrounded with chapels. 
 The triforium of the choir and east sides of the transepts is a 
 clear-story, having double windows, the outer glazed. The 
 plain design of the builders has been to accumulate light in the 
 eastern part of the cathedral. There are fine wheel-windows m 
 the ends of each transept of the nave. The vault of the nave 
 rises to the magnificent height of 132 feet ; which is nearly 50 
 more than "Westminster. There is an opening in the vault to 
 which you may ascend, and look down from it upon the people 
 below, who appear like pigmies. But a better view of the 
 building is from the high gallery that runs along the interior 
 west wall. In the north transept, I found a Latin inscription 
 to Gresset ; recording that his bones, having long rested else- 
 where, were, in 1811, moved thither and interred with great 
 pomp. The west front is in a rich style of Decorated Gothic. 
 The mouldings of the three portals are deep ; the upright 
 columns being enriched with saints or bishops, and the arches 
 adorned with strings of sculptured figures, and the door-heads 
 having ranges of bas-reliefs ; the centre representing the Last 
 Judgment. All this is quite like Rheims. Over the doors is 
 a range of gallery windows, in a style like Early English : and 
 above this is a splendid rose window. The proportions of the 
 front are agreeable ; and the manner in which each successive 
 story or stage recedes behind the other, and grows lighter as it 
 goes higher, is commendable. The view from the towers la 
 
^TAT. 34.] CATHEDRAL OP AMIENS. gl 
 
 good. The valleys of the higher and lower Somme, beautifully 
 wooded, lie beneath your eye. In one of the turrets you are 
 shown a small chamber, whence Henry IV. observed the retreat 
 of the Spanish army ; and in the centre of it a round stone 
 table, where he afterwards breakfasted with a joyous appetite. 
 The fleche or spire is extremely thin and arrowy : quite con- 
 temptible indeed. 
 
 The age of this building agrees pretty well with the character 
 I have assigned it as a mixture of Early English and Early 
 Decorated. It was begun in 1220. and completely finished in 
 1288. Salisbury was begun in the same year, 1220, but pushed 
 forward so rapidly, that a large part was finished in five years, 
 and the whole was completed in 1258. Thus, begun in the 
 same year, the completion of Amiens extends over thirty years 
 later than the conclusion of Salisbury. Tintern and Netley 
 belong to the year 1240, and Westminster Abbey, the Chapel 
 of the Nine Altars at Durham, and the choir of Ely, 1240-50. 
 So that Amiens was building, after the best Early English 
 monuments in England were completed. 
 
 The interior of Amiens certainly commands one's mental 
 admiration. There is nothing that a severe taste can condemn ; 
 indeed every thing that it must admire. The altitude, particu- 
 larly, is glorious. Yet altogether it fails to excite much enthu- 
 siasm. It wants character and expression. Its monotonous 
 regularity and uniformity make it more an illustration of rules of 
 architecture, than an embodiment of the spirit of Art. I find 
 not in it those daring outbreaks of creative power; those 
 unconscious workings out of deep sentiments ; those bold and 
 varied compositions ; those individual characteristics, in which 
 the conventional outlines of the science become subordinate to 
 absorbing influences of special genius : which I do see in Tours, 
 and Rheims, and Bourges. We pronounce it faultless and near 
 to perfection ; yet we do not find it so delightful as some 
 others. 
 
82 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [MTi.T. 34. 
 
 CATHEDRAL OP TOURS. 
 
 TBis Cathedral is the exquisitely fragrant full-blown flower 
 of Gothic Art in France. The interior is in a style of which it 
 would be difficult to convey any notion to a person familiar only 
 with those combinations which are found in England : for here 
 are columns which might have been transported from Salisbury, 
 or the Nine Altars at Durham, and there arches and panels 
 that are kindred to St. George's at Windsor, or the Seventh 
 Henry's chapel at Westminster. I know not any nave which, 
 viewed from the choir, presents so impressive and elegant a 
 coup d'oeil. From the front door to the transepts, it consists 
 of eight arches on either side, delicately clustered in an Early 
 English manner ; the capitals of the side aisles being of rich 
 grape-leaf mouldings, but the pilasters fronting on the nave 
 running up to the roof, which is neatly vaulted with iinely cut 
 bosses (?) in the centres. The piers of the nave nearest the 
 door of entrance, advance somewhat into the nave, forming a 
 kind of tower, and rise continuously in very delicately clustered 
 lines to the roof The nave piers at the opposite end, also, 
 forming the corpus of the cross, project to the same extent, and 
 come into line with those nearest the door, and rise to the vault 
 with elegant mouldings, like them in every respect. As you 
 stand in the choir, the combination of these two sets of pillars, 
 rising above eighty feet, uninterrupted by side-aisle capitals, 
 and limiting the nave between two shapely and very lofty and 
 magnificent portals, forms a composition of irresistible grandeur 
 and beauty. Each of the arches that connect the nave with its 
 side aisles, is on the nave side, set in a plain panel, with the 
 horizontal line of which it is connected by a small square, set 
 lozenge-wise, on the top of the arch. Above this, you see an 
 illustration of that tendency of French Gothic to run into 
 windows, wherever it is practicable to do so, in the triforium 
 and clerestory expanding and coalescing into great sheets of 
 glass. The triforium consists of pairs of variously-headed 
 flamboyant arches, each set in a panel, and forming a continuous 
 
iETAT. 34.] CATHEDEAL 0)7 TOUES. 
 
 83 
 
 gallery, haying corresponding ones on its outer side, some of 
 which are glazed, others walled up wholly or in part. Immedi- 
 ately over the triforium, and separated from it only by a slight 
 horizontal moulding, are the double clerestory windows, of 
 great size, going to the roof, and forming continuous sides of 
 glass around the upper part of the whole cathedral. In fact, 
 the clerestory and triforium constitute a series of great windows, 
 separated in the midst by transoms, double-arched below. The 
 view which, from the choir, you get of the interior west front, 
 set in the frame of the snow-white portal-like arches I have 
 described, is excellent. Over the low door are two square 
 panels, side by side, their angles rounded off, and filled with 
 flamboyant patterns of stained glass, and over these a stilted 
 arch flamboyant, glazed and colored. Above this, is the same 
 arrangement as the clerestory and triforium galleries of the 
 sides of the nave, but here unequivocally producing the effect 
 of one vast window, divided by a transom, having a double 
 range of arches below it, both filled with colored glass, and 
 having a little gallery along the base : the top of the upper 
 part having a grand wheel-head. There are lofty side aisles to 
 the nave, and on each side of them capacious chapels of the 
 same height, connected with one another, and giving the effect 
 of double aisles. Many of the high and large windows of 
 these chapels are filled with very brilliant painted glass with 
 figures ; probably not of much antiquity, but producing a 
 showy effect when seen from the nave. 
 
 The same arrangement of clerestory and triforium which I have 
 noted in the nave, continues around the transepts, except that 
 the arches of each are in triplets ; there being two such in each 
 transept side. This fine and free variety of detail in connection 
 with an uniform general plan, produces a fresh and agreeable 
 impression. The end of the north transept has an enormous 
 wheel-window filling its whole width ; and under it, a gallery 
 of quatrefoils with a double range of six arches below, the out- 
 side range glazed, and the whole thing filled with colored glass. 
 The end of the south transept is chiefly occupied by a great 
 organ ; but, above it, glitters the top of a splendid window, run- 
 
84 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINEITT. [^tat. 34. 
 
 ning quite across, and with a sort of diamond-wheel in the top, 
 finely colored. 
 
 The choir, which is apsidal, is wider than the nave, and its 
 aisles also widen upon those of the nave, and form fine spaces 
 surrounded by chapels. The lower arches immediately sur- 
 rounding the choir are tall, narrow, and lance-like ; set in 
 panels with the spandrils decorated with flowers in bas relief. 
 Over these, the arrangement of triforium and clerestory windows 
 is like that in the nave, only that the triforium windows are 
 sometimes triple or quadruple, and always have a little gallery 
 of qnatrefoils or of low arches running along the base. The 
 rich yet simple and elegant impression of these three ranges of 
 arches in the choir, is extremely good. The upper double cir- 
 cuit of windows is filled with very ancient, gorgeously-colored 
 glass, so that the whole air is resplendent with crimson and 
 blue. The windows of the outer chapels, at the end of the 
 apse, are also filled in a similar manner. It would be difficult 
 to conceive a more striking and captivating effect of colored 
 glass. The glass windows, which form the upper sides of the 
 nave, are plain ; and as you enter the west door you see no 
 colors, except at the end of the choir, through which streams a 
 gloriously varied purple lustre. The colored windows there, 
 are disposed so as to produce at the top, in the very tall and 
 broad clerestory, a continuous wide sheet of violet light broken 
 into a mass of fragments by the little figures that fill it, and 
 which are distributed throughout in flamboyant patterns of 
 flowing richness. In the middle or triforium range, is a nar- 
 rower and more interrupted entrance of light; and in the 
 lowest range, there is a still thinner extent of lustre, from the 
 end chapel, seen through the choir arches. The three ranges 
 together thus form a fan-shaped illumination, expanding as it 
 ascends, till it seems to open into the broad difi"used glory of 
 the courts of heaven. The kindled splendor of the skies seems 
 to form the canopy of the sanctuary, into which the narrow 
 rays from the altar, streaming upward, radiate and are absorbed. 
 An example of the wonderful freedom and care with which 
 these ancient builders dealt with the forms that were before 
 
^TAT. Si.] STEASBOTJEG CATHEDRAL. §5 
 
 them, may be seen in the marked eifect occasioned by the choir 
 and' its aisles being so much wider than the nave with its aisles. 
 The nave seems like a long avenue leading into the church 
 which might seem to begin with the transepts and choir. Such 
 an arrangement, however, would have caused the nave to appear 
 too narrow, were it not for the great height and width of the 
 side aisles, which come to the relief of the true nave, and the 
 adjacent chapels, which produce a great expansion, and restore 
 to the body of the church that pre-eminence of grandeur which 
 it ought to possess over the choir. 
 
 The lofty and wide fagade of this cathedral, up to the point 
 where the towers begin to rise above the roof, comes upon the 
 imagination of the spectator like a suffusing shower of unex- 
 hausted richness and beauty. Flamboyance, in all its gorgeous 
 luxury, "here reigns, and revels here." The canopies, which 
 hang like veils of lace over the little tribunes surrounding the 
 deep-set doors, have lately been restored with skill, but the 
 statues beneath are not. But, while up to that point all is 
 glorious, all beyond it is bad. The towers are sadly goitred, 
 being too wide for the bases, and are in an impure style. The 
 term between the erection of the fajade and of those towers, 
 would fix pretty distinctly the date of the corruption and death 
 of the Gothic. 
 
 STRASBOURG CATHEDRAL. 
 
 The front of Strasbourg Cathedral is one of those productions 
 in which the work of man rises so high in the sphere of sublimity 
 and great perfection, as to seem fit to take its place among the 
 sileat and eternal monuments of Nature. A vast interior may 
 produce the impression of a profound and mystic grandeur; 
 but that is chiefly because it is viewed apart from standards of 
 comparison, and thus the mind's solemn feelings flow forth and 
 distend the space into an ideal immensity corresponding with 
 an emotion of reverence that grows within the spirit. But look 
 upon the front of Strasbourg Cathedral from some point where 
 you may view at the same time the noble mountain ranges of 
 8 
 
86 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [^tat. 34. 
 
 the Vosges and the Black Forest, divided by the broad waters 
 of the grandest river of Europe ; view it when the sun in heaven 
 stands in splendor beside its sky-piercing spire, and sends down 
 upon it a gushing tribute of enkindling lustre, or when the 
 ancient stars come forth upon the sky to gladden themselves 
 with its beauty, and the new-born moon walks over the whole 
 circle of the heavens to view the entireness of the wondrous 
 pile ; then, even then, in the presence of such objects, which 
 are the joy of creation, the representatives of the energy of the 
 Infinite — Strasbourg Cathedral seems, and ever shall seem, " a 
 glorious work"* of power, of beauty, and of grandeur. 
 
 The extraordinary height to which the vast breadth of this 
 facade rises, shooting thence still upward in the fountain-like 
 jet of its spire, furnishes some explanation of this effect. As 
 you come upon the place where it stands, it seems to rear itself 
 aloft like the wall of the world coming athwart you, as if it 
 would stop all progress and all view. It is enough to say, that 
 it is the highest human structure upon the face of earth. The 
 Great Pyramid of Egypt has always been deemed a considerable 
 elevation ; but Strasbourg surpasses it by twenty-four feet. St. 
 Peter's, at Rome, buries its head among the clouds of wonder 
 and amazement ; but this spire, from the pavement, is forty 
 feet loftier than the top of the cross of St. Peter's. The sohd 
 facade, before the solitary tower begins, is 230 feet, which is — 
 
 feet than the spire of Trinity Church in Xew York. This 
 
 is not the real height of the vault of the nave, but is occasioned 
 by the wall of a tower and the space between them being 
 carried up solidly about half the height of the real front below, 
 thus producing a sort of screen running back the depth of the 
 towers. The composition and plan or ordonnance of this fagade, 
 differs entirely from that of Rheims, with which a careless eye 
 sometimes compares it. The fagade, or broad front of Rheims, 
 is its own "be-all and end-all ;" and is intended to be complete 
 and sufficient without towers or spires. Its controling lines 
 
 ^f Anvo Lomiiii 1277, in die heati Urhanl lioc gloviosnvi optis inchoavit 
 mafjinter Erunnus de Steinhach. — Inscription formerly existing on tlio arch of 
 the north portal. 
 
iETAT. 34.] STRASBOURG CATHEDRAIi. gf 
 
 are horizontal, and distribute the whole into three galleries of 
 several ranges. The lines and divisions of Strasbourg front are 
 vertical. The whole fagade has reference to the towers, and 
 seems to be derived from them, or to be the commencement of 
 them. From the pavement upward, the front is to be conceived 
 as consisting of a pair of towers corresponding in arrangement, 
 and between these a central space filled up in a different man- 
 ner, all distributed in three horizontal courses. Thus looked 
 at, the facade possesses entire distinctness and harmony : every 
 part is tributary to one grand and characteristic eifect. The 
 decoration is generally geometrical. There is sculpture about 
 the doors; and on the head of the first story of the fagade are 
 four noticeable figures on horseback : Clovis, Dagobert, Rudolph 
 of Hapsburgh, and Louis XIV. When I stood in the pres- 
 ence of this beautiful erection, the French monarch seemed fully 
 justified in stealing Strasbourg from the emperor. 
 
 The peculiar interest of Strasbourg consists in the absolute 
 unity between the towers and the fagade ; the tower being a 
 constituent element in the fagade, and the fagade determining 
 and modifying the character of the tower and spire. What I 
 may call the dignity of the spire is admirable. Most of the 
 spires of cathedrals of great height are either thin and con- 
 temptible, or they are overheavy with lacelike ornaments. Stras- 
 bourg is airy but firm, broad and easy, and viewed from a dis- 
 tance, perhaps the tapering part of the spire appears too short : 
 but looked at from the platz below — when the tower would 
 necessarily appear foreshortened — the proportion seems to be 
 perfect. It seems like a pointed crown of light let down from 
 heaven upon the airy tower. The union of the spire and tower, 
 the touchstone of cathedral genius, is here as rare and perfect 
 as at Friburg, yet wholly different. The difficulty is solved at 
 • Friburg by the resources of consummate science. It is solved 
 there to the mental satisfaction, and by mere architectural skill. 
 Here at Strasbourg it is avoided, through the poetic powers 
 of the imagination, in the development of the spire out of the 
 tower. [MS. is here illegible.] Material form seems to be so 
 impregnated with vital force and its instincts, as to develop a 
 
88 THE CATHEDKALS OF THE CONTINENT. [JEtxt. Si. 
 
 growth of forms tarmonized by the affinities of natural evolu- 
 tion. The octagonal spire itself begins in the same octagonal 
 form at the very roots of the tower ; and the tower is formed 
 merely by four tourelles or tall slender turrets, attending the 
 included octagon like buttresses for a certain distance, and con- 
 stituting the quadrangular tower, which will be found to include 
 an octagon all the way to its base. Their cessation follows the 
 continuance of the spire, which then acquires a steplike pointed 
 form, from the vertical lines stopping one after another, beginning 
 from the outer and coming inwards. Thus the spire seems to 
 rise out of the tower like a flower out of the stalk which bears it 
 aloft. A little calix or rind forms the connecting member, and 
 the spiritual germ unfolds itself in light, and loveliness, and fra- 
 grance. Thus all notable transitions from tower to spire, from 
 square to octagon, from cylindrical to pointed, is avoided. This 
 furnishes an example of original and various invention of those 
 great composers in stone — those artists in mechanical forms — 
 who exhibited all the glories of creative art in the 13th, 14th, 
 and 15th centuries. 
 
 There are three fine portals separated from one another, one 
 under each tower and in the centre. Their heads are pointed 
 with rich pediments over them, and a good deal of sculpture. 
 In the next, or middle portion of the fajade, there is in the 
 centre an immense and resplendent marigold window ; and on 
 either side of it, under the towers, one large open pointed win- 
 dow. Above, in the third and highest range, in the centre, two 
 pointed and pedimented windows ; and on either side a pair of 
 three lancet windows. In the same plane with the outer line 
 of the four buttresses which run up, defining the two towers, are 
 bars of stone running up vertically and forming a kind of net- 
 work, which gives a delightful chiaro-scuro effect to the fagade. 
 It produces that effect of depth which charms so in Leonardo's 
 or Correggio's pictures, and throws an ideality over the mass 
 which is peculiar. It creates artificially a kind of aerial per- 
 spective, which softens and shadows the masses of stone. The 
 plain, stern outline of the fagade and tower, as marked by 
 the buttresses and columned angles, keep up the simplicity 
 
iBTAT- 34.] STRASBOUKG CATHEDKAL. 89 
 
 and grandeur of feature required for true effect in so great a 
 building, while the veil of delicate lines hung across the inter- 
 vening spaces, and shedding fineness and finish on the retreat- 
 ing breadths of the front, seem like a rich atmospheric medium 
 through which the structure is viewed, and by whose influence 
 it is beautified. 
 
 The proportions of the whole front appear to be unexception- 
 able ; formed especially for grandeur and majesty. Whether 
 you regard the distribution and regularity of the principal parts, 
 or the elegance, consistency, variety, architectural purity and 
 propriety of the details and decorations, the display is among 
 the finest in the world. 
 
 The fagades of the south and north transepts are also worthy 
 of attention. The former consists, at the base, of a double Ro- 
 manesque door, deep and loaded with sculptures. In the range 
 above are a pair of double-pointed windows, and between them, 
 images of the Virgin and child, set in a shrine of the rarest 
 delicacy and richness ; and over it an astronomical clock. In 
 the third and highest range, are two rose windows filled with 
 circular lights of colored glass. Before the north transept, and 
 in advance of its fagade, is a porch exceedingly rich with sculp- 
 tures and flamboyant arch mouldings ; the whole obviously 
 built on, long after the regular front of the transept. In the 
 centre of this porch is a representation, in sculpture, of the En- 
 tombment, and around the columns at the sides are numerous 
 figures of saints. Over this porch, in the fagade of the transept, 
 are two rose windows, scolloped in a Romanesque style ; above a 
 gallery of Romanesque screenwork, and, in the pediment, a rose 
 again. Over the upper rose is a semicircular capping or outer 
 moulding with the billet ornament of the English Norman. 
 Around the nave on the outside runs a wall with decorated 
 windows. On the south side this is roofed over, and used as a 
 workshop for masons ; on the other it is not roofed. 
 
 The interior nave of Strasbourg is striking, not for airy alti- 
 tude or vistaed length, but for breadth and fullness, and for a 
 certain creamy richness of color. It has massiveness of outline 
 combined with an elegance of outward finish, solidity of propor- 
 8* 
 
00 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [Mtxt. 34 
 
 tions, and parity of arcliitecture. The material is a stone of 
 light and dark brown intermixed, which has an effect, which if 
 you wanted a terrifying illustration, might be compared to a 
 snake, but if you wanted a true one, to the color of castile soap ; 
 a little recalling the black and white zebra style, as Hope calls 
 it, of the Cathedral of Siena. 
 
 As I entered the door of the north transept, the nave was 
 filled with a thousand worshipers, who were kneeling towards 
 one of the side chapels, while female voices were chanting the 
 Ave Maria. The windows being all richly colored, a sacred 
 dimness filled the nave. Anon, the great organ began slowly 
 to peal through the minster. The congregation rose and crossed 
 themselves, and withdrew through the various doors, and I was 
 left in solitude to pursue my architectural researches. 
 
 From the west door to the cross, are eight elegantly clustered 
 columns ; the first from the door, which support the tower, 
 being of an enormous mass, but superficially clustered so as to 
 assume an air of grace and lightness. These columns have leaf 
 capitals at the height of the aisles on three sides ; but in front, 
 on the nave, they run up to the centre of the clerestory windows 
 before they form capitals for the roof, which consists of a plain 
 groining of stone ribs like the columns, on a white ground. The 
 triforium, between each pair of piers, consists of two sets of 
 double decorated arches set in rectangular panels, and open 
 through, and filled with colored glass. The clerestory windows 
 are broad, filling the whole space between the pilasters, and 
 reach to the roof Against one of the columns of the nave is 
 a very rich carved pulpit, of the end of the 15lh century. 
 
 In th-e side aisles, opposite to the first arch from the wesi; 
 door, there is a tall window on each side with a grand wheel in 
 the top, filled with deeply colored glass. Then follow very 
 broad double windows, with decorated heads. The great 
 breadth of these windows, in proportion to the height, forms 
 one of the most marked features of this cathedral. Under 
 them, and round the whole base of the side-aisle walls, runs an 
 open screenwork of Early English trefoil arches or columns. 
 After this, towards the transepts, the side aisles expand into two 
 
iETAT. 34.] STEASBOURG CATHEBRAL. 91 
 
 chapels on eacli side, wWcli are entered, each of those on one 
 side under two lancet arches, and each of those on the other 
 under three such arches entu-ely Early English in character. The 
 outsides of the clustered columns of these arches are adorned 
 with sculptured images in very rich, light tabernacles. The 
 head of the west window of the north chapel is quite in the per- 
 pendicular style. 
 
 The columns at the cross, at the head of the nare, are of 
 immense solidity, consisting of short clustered Romanesque 
 columns mounted on an octagonal base, eleven or twelve feet 
 high ; the effect being entirely consistent with that of the nave 
 columns. The arches of the cross are pointed. The intersec- 
 tion of the cross is separated from the transepts by a tall, round 
 column, having a single leaf capital in a Roman style. In the 
 centre of the north transept is a similar round column support- 
 ing the groining of the transept. In the centre of the south 
 transept is a column, consisting of a slender circular column, 
 with four small attached columns at equal distances, and between 
 them three ranges of angels and saints of considerable height, 
 each in a shrine. In this transept is the celebrated toy-clock. 
 The choir is very short. The choir and transepts, within and 
 without, are in a Romanesque style, and are obviously much 
 older than the nave. The building has been so often destroyed 
 by fire and rebuilt, that it is difficult to determine from docu- 
 ments the age [MS. is here illegible.J They have been ascribed 
 to the age of Charlemagne ; but an eye familiar with the chro- 
 nology of architecture in France and Germany, would hare no 
 difficulty in referring them to the 12th century. 
 
 The present nave was begun by Erwin de Steinback, and 
 finished by the same architect in 12T5.*' In 1298 a great fire 
 consumed all the combustible part of the structure, and after it 
 the windows were reconstructed with greater elegance. The 
 massive outline indicates the middle of the 13th century ; the 
 windows and other ornaments the 14th and 15th. 
 
 * Notice mr la Cathcdrale. Strasbonrg, 1850, p. 9. 
 
92 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. {Mtat. 34. 
 
 FRIBURG CATHEDRAL. 
 
 If any one wishes to see, in an architectural form, an earthly 
 image of Perfection, — to behold a material structure that is ra- 
 diant with the beauties of exhaustless grace, and yet pervaded 
 by severeness of purity, — to study a model of scientific skill 
 which, to the most learned, might teach some new resources of 
 invention, — let him give hours and days of delighted survey 
 to the tower of the Cathedral of Friburg in the Breisgau. It is 
 one of those rare facilities of creation which glowing Art, — in 
 the controlled vigor of its maturity, — inspired by genius, fur- 
 nished with knowledge, and aided by a thousand favoring acci- 
 dents, — at times lances forth from the spiritual life of Beauty 
 into the visible immortality of Fame. A brilliancy of tone is 
 imparted to the composition by the clean simplicity of arrange- 
 ment which predominates throughout all the delicate richness 
 of the fiinish ; and the integrity of the pervading outline is 
 maintained so distinctly and entirely through the whole work, 
 that the inherent majesty of the form seems to keep in subordi- 
 nation all that is adventitious in the decoration : and thus a 
 certain moral charm is added to the constructive graces of the 
 vision, to make it a true exemplar in the best and highest taste. 
 As the composing parts of such a work separate and arrange 
 themselves under our scrutiny, and element after element 
 marshals itself into the combined impression as with a fresh 
 contingent of effect, we say to ourselves in doubt, " Could the 
 builder, indeed, have meant all that we behold ? Does his 
 production set before us a soul-conceived type of divineness, or 
 does our kindling imagination illuminate and deck his work 
 with a significance and suggestion, to which his mind, it may 
 be, was a stranger ?" A question asked in a trifling vein, but 
 capable of being answered in a profound one. In truth, 
 ajsthetic sense is so much a social consciousness, a spiritual 
 communion, that the vital medium of Art is reproduced only in 
 the reaction between the creator's work and the admirer's soul. 
 The production itself is but the dim hieroglyphic mark which 
 
^TAT. 34] FKIBUEa CATHEDRAL. 93 
 
 the glance of intelligent sympathy brightens into luminous and 
 significant power. The glory, the divinity of Art exists only 
 for and in those minds which are capable of being provoked by 
 it into emotions which are almost creative in their energy of 
 conception : oftentimes it is a relation to some instinct of the 
 author's mind, who, for the residue of his life, may alone com- 
 prehend what only he has created. The true beauty of the 
 Apollo, or the San Sisto Madonna, inheres not in the canvas 
 or marble ; it lives only within that tumultuous splendor of the 
 observer's imagination which, impregnated by the work into a 
 sensibility receptive of creation, finds realized in its recesses of 
 thought a glory of form, which the production itself only calls up. 
 The Cathedral is well placed, in a considerable Platz, and is 
 approached in front by a street, though somewhat obliquely. 
 The lower part of the tower forms a porch in front of the nave ; 
 and its low, wide portal is defined by deep, receding ranges of 
 slender shafts quite plain. The sides of the interior of the 
 porch are surrounded by double seats, probably for catechu- 
 mens, and above them, against the walls, is a screen of trefoil 
 arclies under canopies, and over them small saintly figures, 
 under open pinnacles. The vault of the porch has formerly 
 been painted with figures, which are now nearly obliterated. In 
 the centre there is a circular opening, which corresponds with 
 similar ones in the upper stories, so as to enable one to look 
 down almost from the summit of the tower. The door which 
 leads into the cathedral is strung round with sculpture like Stras- 
 bourg and Rheims. The interior, which is of gray stone, with 
 light clustered piers, has a good effect. The nave aisles are ex- 
 tremely wide, and contain six broad decorated windows, with 
 rich colored glass, partly modern, partly ancient, the latter of 
 exquisite beauty ; below these, against the wall, runs a screen 
 or gallery of open decorated work, a foot and a half high, and, 
 beneath it, an open screenwork of trefoiled arches. The 
 nave, which is divided from its aisles by six arches, is very lofty 
 and narrow, without triforium, and with a clerestory formed at 
 a great height by the side arches of the vault. On the front of 
 each nave-pier, is a saintly figure as large as life, under a rich 
 
94 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [^tat, 34. 
 
 canopy ; and as you look along this fine vista to the distant 
 choir, which is long and apsidal, and full of light, you are re- 
 minded of Amiens. The choir is raised a few steps above the 
 nave, and contains large colored clerestory windows, which are 
 transomed, but with decorated heads ; and the lower windows 
 of the chapels that surround the choir aisles also contain much 
 bright and luxurious color. The choir has an elaborately 
 sculptured monument to Marshal De Root, distinguished under 
 Maria Theresa ; and tombs with efiSgies of the Dukes of Zahr- 
 ingen. Under one of the kneeling figures is this inscription : 
 " Conradus D. Z. Fr. Bertoldi III. ccepit hanc cedem cum 
 turre A. D. Mcxxin. Finiit fere cum vita iv. non. Jan. 
 MCLii." But this was, probably, put there long after his death, 
 and the dates must certainly be inaccurate. The transepts, 
 which are short and chiefly Komauesque, are likely to be of 
 that period ; but the nave and great tower must be a century 
 later. 
 
 The tower at Friburg forms the entire front of the Cathedral ; 
 an arrangement existing also at TJlm. It consists of three parts, 
 which, though strongly distinguished in form and character, yet 
 melt into one another with an organic continuity in transition, 
 which must ever be the admiration of the beholder. The lower 
 part, to the top of the roof, is square and solid, with heavy 
 flank buttresses at the angles and front ones on either side of 
 the door, which are divided by set-ofPs into half-a-dozen stages. 
 Above this rises a very tall, open, and airy octagonal lantern, 
 with long, slender-pointed windows, each divided into three 
 compartments by two thin barlike mullions, with transoms over 
 trefoil heads, and the tops filled with lacelike flowing tracery. 
 In front of the alternate faces, and corresponding with the angles 
 of the square base of the tower, stand buttresslike pyramids of 
 the richest and lightest pinnacles, rising one out of another. They 
 consist of a solid triangular base, with rectangular faces, upon 
 which rise, in the tapering form just mentioned, two or three 
 stones of little saint-enshrining tabernacles, terminated by crown- 
 like finials. This lantern passes into a lofty octagonal spire, 
 the triangular faces of which contain, in height, six or seven 
 
^tAT. 34.] FRIBUEG CATHEDEAL. 95 
 
 ranges of foliated ornaments like roses, wrought in open stone- 
 work, each range different from the others. On the outside, 
 along the ribs of the spire, are exquisitely moulded crockets 
 terminated in human heads. At the very summit, expands a 
 cross-shaped flower, which crowns the fane like a star let down 
 from heaven. 
 
 The calUda jimctura, by which the open lantern of the centre 
 is jointed into the solid tower of the base, and the octagonal 
 shape of the former harmonized with the square form of the 
 lower part by means of the four buttresslike pinnacles that stand 
 beside it throughout its whole elevation, and thus make its mass 
 at once octagonal and rectangular, is worthy to receive unbounded 
 approbation. In the solid base of those buttresses, the keynote 
 of the lower tower runs on into the composition of the lantern ; 
 and, again, in the small statue-holding shrines which appear 
 about the top of the solid tower, and about the head and sides 
 of the entrance portals, you have an anticipation or souvenir of 
 the delightful style of the central lantern. 
 
 Not less elegant is the vanishing away of the lantern tower 
 of the centre, into the spire of the highest part. The ribs of the 
 faces of both are in continuous lines, and the vertical piers of 
 the tower run up some distance till they terminate in pinnacles. 
 The top of the lantern, as already remarked, ends in a fringe of 
 decorated arches, which are richly canopied : and thus the spire 
 rises out of a coronet of pinnacles, and arches, and canopies, 
 like a loyal nature soaring aloft from amidst a throng of humbler 
 ministers that gird and glorify it. They seem to attend it on 
 its way with banners of rejoicing ; and when it shoots upward, 
 far beyond their following, they send their exulting sympathies 
 straining after it. 
 
 The whole of this steeple, and, indeed, the whole exterior of 
 the edifice, is built uniformly of stone of a reddish color, the 
 effect of which is agreeable. The entire height of the spire is 
 380^ feet, which though 93^ feet less than Strasbourg, is a 
 hundred more than Trinity Church in New York. 
 
 In viewing again and again this best inspired of earth's efforts 
 to beautify matter into a fit tabernacle for the indwelling of 
 
96 THE CATHEDRALS OP THE CONTINENT. [^tat. 34. 
 
 Heaven's presence, you are, above all things, impressed with 
 the exquisite proportion of the ascending parts of the tower ; a 
 proportion that is founded upon some mental considerations, 
 and neither settled nor regulated by merely mechanical rela- 
 tions ; the central and highest members being elongated, beyond 
 a mere linear proportion, according to the degree in which 
 they are lighter and more pierced. It is not, therefore, a pro- 
 portion depending merely upon form ; and if the lantern and 
 spire were solid, like the base, it is probable that they would 
 appear too high for it. But the mind, taking in an accompany- 
 ing reference to the airy lightness of these upper members, re- 
 cognizes the propriety of their greater altitude, and the imagina- 
 tion draws a peculiar pleasm's from a construction tha,t seems 
 to comply with it even to a deviation from the rigidness of ma- 
 terial rules. Next to the profound and subtle proportion of 
 the parts, should be noted the finely discriminated and empha 
 sized expression of each different member : the broad, solid, 
 pyramidal base, all firmness and strength ; the light, bright, 
 joyous, self-sustaining fabric of the central part : the delicate 
 lines of the " starry-pointing " spire, its edges, fretted like a 
 cloud in the wind, its sides seeming to be crumbled by the con- 
 suming air, and the whole just mouldering, as it were, into the 
 vaporous medium that envelopes it. But the highest and most 
 characteristic beauty of Friburg consists in the connection or 
 identity of the tower with the body of the church, as parts of 
 a combining whole. The lower part of the tower does not seem 
 planted apart from the nave ; it is but its front : and the entire 
 church is the true base of the spire. The same ordonnance of 
 composition prevails throughout the whole exterior of the ca- 
 thedral ; the body of which is surrounded by an army of flying 
 buttresses, pinnacled and statued, and tabernacled like the lan- 
 tern ; and has, at the angles, between the transepts and choir, 
 two tall turrets, Romanesque for some distance, but decorated 
 like the lantern, as to the upper parts, and terminated with small 
 spires resembling the great one. The side view is striking : 
 statues and spout-monsters of every sort, with richly crocketed 
 pinnacles, crowd the view. With the exception of the round 
 
^TAT. 34.] IRIBURG CATHEDRAI,. gf 
 
 arched galleries at the end of the transepts within, and something 
 in the same manner on the outside of the south transept, the 
 style of the cathedral is pure ; and the exterior of the tower and 
 nave display, not only great richness, but a perfect propriety 
 and correspondence. Viewing the whole mass of the building 
 and spire in combination, and noting the numerous flame-shaped 
 turrets that start up at every point, the cathedral seems like a 
 vast censer of naphtha, streaming towards the skies ; one great 
 leading jet being surrounded by smaller spurts of upward-stretch- 
 ing fire. There, circled by the wild and frowning hills of the 
 Black Forest, which are piled around it, in variety of confusion, 
 stands this unmatched type of the Beauty of Holiness ; fit sym- 
 bol of the Grace of the whole earth. Lingering around this 
 lovely pile, through the mild hours of the earlier autumn, — 
 climbing often among the pinnacles of its spire, to me, it ever 
 appeared a mythic representation of the Catholic Faith. Its 
 wide, walled, crowd-containing body seemed like that visible 
 constitution of the church, which, founded on the plain of Truth, 
 reared by the spiritual energies of the past, and buttressed with- 
 out, by a thousand feelings, and interests, and thoughts, is a re- 
 fuge from the storms of Nature, an altar of ever-burning worship. 
 Above, and, as it was evolved out of the structure beneath, like 
 an air-flower out of the material stalk which nurtured it, hangs 
 the finely-shafted frame of light, like the mysterious temple of 
 spiritual consciousness, which religion opens out, for each heart, 
 above the thronged tabernacle of visible communion, the home 
 of beautiful peace, a tower of high and calm perception, a lan- 
 tern, full of the illumination of the upper sphere : yet not limit- 
 less, not the true heaven, but even there, where it seems most 
 delightful to the sight, closing upon the view and narrowing 
 away till it becomes nothing but a pointing line to the star that 
 hangs above to indicate a dwelling that awaits us within the 
 invisible, not made with hands, whose glories mortal eye may 
 not see, nor living heart conceive. 
 
 The tower of Friburg may safely be pronounced the finest in 
 Europe. In point of height it is the fourth. Strasbourg being 
 414 feet ; St. Stephen's, at Yienna, 469 feet ; Antwerp, 404 
 9 
 
98 THE CATHEDRALS OP THE CONTINENT. [JEtat. 34. 
 
 feet; Friburg, 380 J. Of the other famed spires, that of the 
 Town Hall at Brussels is 364 feet high ; that of Malines is 348 
 feet ; of Chartres, 304 feet. Antwerp, which has neither grace 
 nor proportion, and in which both the courses and their deco- 
 rations are crowded together oppressively, has no pretension to 
 be compared with it. As little has St. Stephen's ; in reference 
 to which it may be observed, that whUe the outline of Friburg, 
 from the outer base to the apex, constitutes, like it, almost a 
 regular pyramid, that general form is, in the case of Friburg, in- 
 terrupted and varied with a freedom and diversity as delightful 
 as the monotony of St. Stephen's is stupid and commonplace. 
 Admirable as Strasbourg is, the spire is- rather one pinnacle of 
 a mighty fagade, than the tower of a cathedral ; and in com- 
 pleteness, unity, proportion and a sweet and harmonious variety, 
 it must yield to the smaller minster on the other bank of the 
 Rhine. Next to Friburg, Chartres is perhaps the most elegant 
 on the continent, yet it lacks the dignity, fullness and noble self- 
 assertion of the Oerman. In most spires, the builder seems to 
 have been anxious to hurry over and confuse the connection of 
 the spire and the base tower, and then to bring his spire to its 
 point as rapidly as possible. In Friburg the deliberateness 
 with which these difficult parts are handled, and instead of 
 being abbreviated or concealed, are expanded and exposed, 
 accomplishes the finest solution of the problem. The secret of 
 the beautiful effect of this tower, in comparison with others, 
 consists, first, in the great height of the open lantern which 
 mediates and interprets between the solid tower below and the 
 tapering spire above, and next in the lofty and slender lightness 
 of the final spire. In Friburg, I cannot perceive that any fault 
 is present, or that any beauty could be added without en- 
 dangering the simplicity and clearness of the outlines. I tore 
 myself away with the reluctance of a lover from this captivating 
 form of beauty ; and I shall always retain a conviction that 
 there is one perfect thing in the world, — the tower and spire of 
 Friburg Cathedral. 
 
iETAT. 34.] EATISBON CATHEDRAL. 99 
 
 EATISBON, OR REGENSBIJRGH CATHEDRAL. 
 
 The Cathedral of Ratisbon, or Regensburgh, as it is called 
 by the Germans from the river Regen, which there comes into 
 the Danube, is a work of the first class, and one of the best in 
 Germany. King Ludwig, whose energy and liberality, guided 
 by a correct judgment, led him to create much that was new 
 and improve all that was old, in every part of his dominions, 
 had induced the canons to clear out all the rubbish of altars 
 and monuments with which the bad taste of the seventeenth 
 century had choked so many of the northern continental 
 churches ; and a room or two in the cloisters is filled with the 
 mass of trumpery thus purged out. The interior is now clear ; 
 and as the stone is of a soft rich gray, and the coltiinns neatly 
 clustered, and the proportion in all respects excellent, the effect 
 is impressive and agreeable. The choir is apsidal, with three 
 faces, which are filled above and below with rich windows. The 
 building exhibits the whole history of the progress from an early 
 form corresponding with Early English down to the late style 
 of Decorated, in which the paneling characteristic of the English 
 Perpendicular already appears. The side windows consist of 
 double lancet arches trefoiled, and enclosed in a larger arch, 
 with a trefoiled circle in the head ; entirely like Early English. 
 The windows outside have the angular canopy richly crocketed, 
 which characterizes the Decorated. The aisles, which do not go 
 up as far as the-choir, are circularly apsid ; and as high up as to 
 the second story they are built out as wide as the transepts. 
 The great breadth thus obtained, produces a fine effect. The choir 
 windows, as well as some others, have fine ancient colored glass. 
 The side and west windows contain modem stained glass ; some 
 from Munich, the gift of King Ludwig ; some from Nuremberg. 
 The western front is wide, consisting of two unfinished towers 
 with bold square buttresses at either angle, and a central space 
 in the same plane between them. In the south transept is a 
 well under a rich and elegant canopy, with figures of Christ 
 and the Samaritan woman on the columns. It is declared by 
 
'100 THE CATHEDEALS OP THE CONTINENT. [^tat. 34. 
 
 the common people to be the identical well at wMch the scene 
 occurred ; an opinion which, as a Churchman, I am prevented 
 from agreeing to, since it is well known that the scene really 
 occurred at a well in the centre of the cloisters of the Lateran 
 at Rome. A magnificent object in the centre of the nave, is a 
 monument to the Cardinal Bishop, Prince Philip William of 
 Bavaria, consisting of a lofty rectangular base, upon which, 
 before a high crucifix, kneels, in his costume of Cardinal, the 
 venerable figure of the high-bom saint. 
 
 The Esel tower, called so because constructed for the ascent 
 of the asses employed to carry materials to the summit, leads to 
 the roof, whence the view is excellent. There is some elaborate 
 and beautiful old sculpture along the top of the parapet, that 
 surrounds this covering. The windows and other ornaments of 
 the two towers do not correspond; and, notwithstanding the 
 size, the whole has a feeble air. A triangular projecting porch 
 forms the central entrance, and though much adorned, has a 
 mean appearance. The cloisters, which are Romanesque of the 
 eleventh or twelfth centuries, and have the pavement filled with 
 richly cut slabs, covering bishops and other dignitaries, are 
 curious. 
 
 CATHEDRAL OF MAGDEBURG. 
 
 The Cathedral of Magdeburg is a noble relic of religious 
 Art, and it were worth the traveler's while to turn aside to visit 
 it, were it only to cool and freshen his spirit in the atmosphere 
 of silent and solemn grandeur in which its ancient aisles still 
 garner the influences of a distant age, to which heaven, with its 
 high cleansing calmness, was nearer than it is to ours. Within, 
 this cathedral has much of the look of an English late Norman 
 church, an effect partly due to its style, which is a transition from 
 Romanesque to Early Gothic, partly to its great size, and to its 
 being cleared of altars and other marks of Romish worship, and 
 having the aspect of a merely historical monument of something 
 passed away. It is now used by the Protestant-Lutherans, and 
 when I entered, an ordination was taking place. Let not the 
 
^TAT. 34.] CATHEDRAL OF MAGDEBURG. JQl 
 
 anti-Puseyite unduly be alarmed, if I report that two candles 
 were burning on an unquestionable altar, on which also rested 
 an unmistakable crucifix. These supposed badges of Romanism 
 are usual in the Protestant Church of Prussia. The choir is 
 apsidal, and as you enter it, through a screen, with double 
 doors, quite in the English Perpendicular style, with a railing 
 on the top, you find it separated from its surrounding aisle by 
 open lancet arches, unequivocally Early English in effect. Be- 
 tween these and the triforium are some square openings, 
 with sprawling trefoil arches over them, resting on orna- 
 mented little pillars in the wall, and at the sides of them 
 are small standing figures of saints cut in the wall. These, 
 as well as some very small figures seated in niches, in the 
 wall around the choir aisles, seem to be remnants of an 
 older church which stood here, and which have been built up 
 into this one. Of the triforium windows, some are lancet, and 
 others round-headed, but long and ringed in the centre like the 
 Early English shafts. The large clerestory windows above, are 
 filled with modern painted glass. Around the choir runs an 
 apsidal aisle with chapels outside of it. The nave has massive 
 piers, consisting of squares with circles clustered about them like 
 many specimens of late Norman in England. It has no trifo- 
 rium, but very long clerestory vrindows. The windows of the 
 side aisles are long, narrow and numerous ; and their heads, as 
 well as those of the clerestory, contain three circles. At the 
 ends of the transepts are large decorated windows. Many in- 
 teresting old monuments surround the walls. The cloisters are 
 quite perfect, forming a complete square. The side which is 
 opposite and parallel to the cathedral, appears to be of great 
 antiquity. It consists of triple small arches under one con- 
 taining arch ; the westernmost dividing column of each triplet 
 being curiously carved throughout, and each differently from 
 another ; the remaining column being plain. It calls to mind 
 the cloisters of the Lateran at Borne. The fa§ade [MS. lost.] 
 9* 
 
102 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [^tat. 34. 
 
 BAMBERG CATHEDRAL. 
 
 It was with feelings kindred to those that Johnson, with sucTi 
 pathetic eloquence, has expressed, in connection with the ruins 
 of lona, that in a dull afternoon of October, I clambered up 
 the paved steep on which stands the ancient couYentual and 
 cathedral church of Bamberg. Once it was a very sanctuary 
 and citadel of the church : venerable at home for the company 
 of spiritual persons who there found refuge for study and prayer : 
 famed and feared abroad for the armies which its mitred chief 
 commanded in those battlesome gusts of mediaeval life which 
 caused the lamp of piety and learning oftentimes to flicker, and 
 sometimes for a season to be extinguished. All now has passed 
 away. The city is an undistinguished member of the kingdom 
 of Bavaria. Its religious glories live only in the innumerable 
 monuments and sepulchral slabs that crowd its church and 
 cloisters. Its library has been scattered, and many a portly 
 volume from its shelves have I purchased in America, in years 
 when I little expected that, in person, I should moralize in the 
 veritable scene of the " Mouasterium Bambergense." 
 
 The cathedral, which has lately been restored and put in com- 
 plete order, is perhaps the most elegant and interesting speci- 
 men of the latest Romanesque or earliest Gothic, in the north 
 of Europe. It stands on a sloping platz opposite to the Schloss 
 or palace, from one of the loftiest windows of which the weak 
 and worthless Berthier, who had married a princess of the house, 
 fell to the pavement beneath, in a fit of remorse, ennui, or ver- 
 tigo, — which of the three no one valued him enough to inquire. 
 The east front has, at the angles, lofty Romanesque towers, 
 with several ranges of small round-headed windows, and termi- 
 nated by slender spires. These towers have, in front, rich doors 
 like English Norman ; and that in the southern one is orna- 
 mented with zigzag, but as the stone is fresh, one cannot be 
 sure that the design also may not be recent. The east end, be- 
 tween the towers, projects in a rich five-sided apse, which has, 
 high up, a range of round-headed windows, and in a higher story, 
 
iEiAT. 34.] BAMBERG CATHEDRAL. 103 
 
 directly under the cornice, a row of small round-headed open 
 arches in triplets. Under the large windows are horizontal 
 mouldings, exhibiting a resemblance to the ornaments of the 
 English Norman arches ; a circular billet, a double-tooth, which 
 is to be seea also upon the exterior of Magdeburg, and a wedge 
 or sharp cheveron. The west end of the church, which is in 
 a late style, has also two steepled square towers ; but at the 
 four corners of each story or course are small open lanterns, 
 formed by groups of four columns, producing a rich and bril- 
 liant effect. 
 
 The interior presents a long nave, with apsidal choirs at 
 either end, and a transept. Towards the east end, the nave 
 rises by steps ; and beneath, is a cryptal church, lighted by win- 
 dows from without, and from the nave and aisles of the cathedral. 
 The elevated east apse has, below its large windows, a gallery 
 of small arches on pillars variously ornamented, some being 
 twisted, others knotted in the centre, a caprice to be found 
 elsewhere in Romanesque churches, such as the cathedral of 
 Modeua. The groining of the western apse is extremely ele- 
 gant ; and its ceiling is painted in antique figures of a Greek 
 type in reddish colors ; as also a trifoiled gallery in the lower 
 part of that apse is similarly painted ; the remains of ancient 
 frescoes. 
 
 This cathedral is a mausoleum of departed piety and renown. 
 A hundred monuments in brass and marble cover the walls. A 
 brow that once ached under the load of the tiara, and hands 
 that have wielded the sceptre of Caesar, moulder together be- 
 neath this pavement. Pope Clement the Second, who had been 
 Bishop of Bamberg, rests within the western choir : and in the 
 nave is the highly wrought tomb of the Emperor Henry the 
 Second and Cunegund his wife : the cathedral, like the church 
 which it represents, being capacious enough to hold calmly 
 within its enclosure, the rival glories of Pope and Emperor. 
 Against a pillar, near the eastern choir, is a monument of King 
 Stephen of Hungary, consisting of an equestrian statue under 
 a canopy. Among the dead here honored, is the name of 
 Hohenlohe, an ancestor of the miraculous prince. But nothing 
 
104 THE CATHBDEALS OF THE CONTINENT. [^tat. 34. 
 
 within these historic walls appeared to me so full of pathetic 
 interest, as an inscription against the north side of the church, 
 under a bronze full-length figure on a tall stone pedestal, and 
 under a stone canopy. It is in Latin, and records that the 
 " Venerable line of Bishops, Princes, and Dukes of Herbipolis, 
 illustrious through a thousand and sixty years, ended by the 
 death of George Charles, Bishop of Bamberg and Wurtzberg, 
 Prince and Duke of East France," (Franconia). He died 
 in 1808. 
 
 " Venerabilia series 
 
 Episcoponim, Principum, Dacum 
 
 Herbipolensium 
 
 Per mille et sexaginta annos gloriosa 
 
 Desinit obita 
 
 Georgii Caroli 
 
 Episc. Bamberg, et Wirseburg. S. K. I. Principis 
 
 Et Franciae Orientalis Ducis." 
 
 The chapel of the Holy Nail, a long apartment on the south, 
 has its walls lined with bronze monuments of canons, many of 
 them well executed. 
 
 CATHEDRAL OF ULM. 
 
 The Cathedral of Ulm is one of the most noticeable of 
 these great structures in Germany. Its dimensions within are 
 of extraordinary magnitude. The nave piers are flat on the 
 sides, but round-clustered towards the nave and aisles. The 
 arches between them are of elegant lancet shapes. The very 
 broad aisles are divided, each by a row of cylindrical columns, 
 and are elaborately groined. There are no triforium windows. 
 The choir is apsidal, and contains fine old painted glass. The 
 stalls are most elaborately and beautifully carved. Along the 
 desks, where the passages to the seats behind intervene, there 
 are busts of figures as large as life, in ordinary costume, carved 
 in dark-brown wood, and looking so lifelike that I took them 
 at first for real persons. A very rich tabernacle, to hold the 
 sacrament in Catholic times, of great height, and similar to the 
 one in St. Laurence's Church, Nuremberg, stands on the left of 
 
.fflTAT. S4ri ST. STEHPEN'S, AT VIENNA. 105 
 
 the choir. The cathedral is now in the hands of Protestants, 
 who form the great majority of the inhabitants ; and I found a 
 malignant perversely praying at the opposite end of the build- 
 ing, with a crowd of standing listeners before him. There is a 
 box for the receipt of contributions to finish the Dom, as at 
 Cologne ; but I refused to lavish a single kreutzer on a fanati- 
 cism which would be incapable of making proper use of the 
 temple when it might be completed. 
 
 Outside, the aisles and buttresses are of brick, but the sides 
 of the upper part of the nave, and some other parts of the out- 
 side, are of stone. The tower, which stands single at the west 
 end of the church, is all of stone, and though but half-finished, 
 it almost threatens the supremacy of Strasbourg and Friburg. 
 It was intended to have been carried up 491 feet, but the actual 
 height is only Sit feet. In front, it projects, by means of but- 
 tresses, so as to form a very elegant porch. The outer doors 
 are triple, tall lancet arches, the columns of which are light, and 
 have along them little sculptured figures in tabernacles. The 
 inner doors consist of a double-pointed arch, with sculptures 
 above. Thence the tower ascends with a finely tapering incli- 
 nation. In each of the second and third stories, it has two 
 windows ; those in the upper, very tall and slender. Over 
 them is an elegant gridiron work of thin circular bars or 
 columns, in the Strasbourg style, producing an excellent effect. 
 They terminate at the top in delicate and rich finials. So far 
 as this tower goes, it is unexceptionable, and, had it been com- 
 pleted, it might have been the most magnificent in Europe. 
 But, unhappily, like most of man's upward efforts, it stops far 
 too short of Heaven. 
 
 ST. STEPHEN'S, AT YIENNA. 
 
 St. Stephen's, at Tienna, deserves to be ranked among the 
 great cathedrals of Gothic Germany. It stands in the centre 
 of a considerable platz in the heart of the city. It is of great 
 height. The roof stretches up with extraordinary elevation, 
 with ranges of little windows, and is tiled in various colors, and 
 
106 THE CATHEDRALS OP THE CONTINENT. [^tat. 34. 
 
 in various figures of zigzag. In one place is a huge Austrian 
 eagle. The lofty, isosceles-triangle character of the roof; the 
 numerous pediments that run along the tops of the walls ; 
 and, above all, the peculiar shape and character of the tower, 
 which begins to taper, spire-fashion, from the ground, and is 
 covered with ranges of crocketed pediments, or angular sub- 
 stitutes for arches, gives the whole structure a tented look, not 
 inappropriate to a building so much connected with the history 
 of the wars of the Christian defenders of Europe and the 
 Turkish Moslem. The west end is of an antique, Romanesque 
 character, probably of the eleventh or twelfth century ; the rest 
 is rich and luxurious. The tower, which is 465 feet high, is 
 the second in Europe, being, in fact, only nine feet less than 
 Strasbourg. 
 
 The prospect from it is admirable, and is the only point 
 from which you can obtain a satisfactory view of the city. 
 The arrangement of that capital is peculiar. It has not the 
 vertebrated construction of a great street or two, running 
 lengthwise through it, but a star-fish organization, or spider's- 
 web arrangement, consisting of circling streets, pierced by 
 numerous avenues radiating from the centre. On this account, 
 on the plain, there are scarcely any fine continuous views. But 
 when you ascend the tower of St. Stephen's, which stands in 
 the centre of the inner town, the whole lies clearly and effec- 
 tively beneath you. Around the base of the cathedral is clus- 
 tered the city proper, surrounded by a circular wall. Outside 
 of this extends the broad, circling, grassy, and shaded glacis ; 
 and outside of these the suburbs, like a belt, surrounds the plane- 
 tary citadel. The line of the glacis which faces towards the 
 glacis (?) is occupied by large and fine public buildings, which, 
 when thus seen in connection, offer an imposing appearance. 
 The whole surrounding landscape of hill and plain is singularly 
 impressive. On one side, at the distance of a mile or two, 
 is a tumbled pile of hills, through which the Danube cleaves its 
 resistless way ; and on another, the endless plain of the March- 
 field, stretching away into the expanses of Hungary, and ex- 
 hibiting the battle-fields of Wagram, and Espern, and Essling, 
 
^TAT. 34.] ST. STEPHEN'S, AT VIENNA. 107 
 
 and the Isle of Lobau, in full view, almost at yonr feet. With " a 
 thousand heavy times that had befallen" in the wars of Turk and 
 Christian, is that town, which was the reconnoitring point for 
 the commander of the city during the sieges of Yienna, con- 
 nected; and with scarcely less exciting scenes in recent times 
 of revolution and civil war. It was on the 30th of October, 
 1848, that the gallant but unfortunate Messenhauser, after the 
 capitulation of the revolted city to the imperial troops had 
 already been negotiated, ascended this tower to descry the for- 
 tunes of the battle which was taking place between the be- 
 leaguering Austrians and the Hungarians who had marched to 
 the relief of the city, and which, even in the last moment, gave 
 new hopes of safety and independence. The thickness of the 
 fog rendered it impossible to see the contending lines ; and the 
 vicissitudes of a contest on which his own life depended could be 
 inferred only from the direction and distances of the firing, 
 which sometimes approached, sometimes receded, sometimes 
 broke out in one quarter, and sometimes in another. From 
 time to time, as any change, favorable or otherwise, appeared 
 to take place, he dispatched bulletins to the people below, who 
 crowded the cathedral and the platz around it, half mad with 
 eagerness, hope, and terror. After high expectations had 
 several times been raised, a final bulletin told them that all was 
 lost. Messenhauser was soon after tried and shot. 
 
 The interior of St. Stephen's is one of the most impressive, 
 sombre-eublime things that I have ever seen : very dark, — of a 
 pure but extremely rich Gothic, — the columns elegantly clustered 
 or channeled, and loaded with sculptures of saints under cano- 
 pies of delicate fretwork, looking as if carved out of ebony. The 
 altars are against the columns of the nave. The choir is with- 
 out light, except from two tall, slender vnndows at the end of 
 it, which are filled with antique glass, and shed a golden lustre 
 upon the high altar. There is a mysterious blackness of dark- 
 ness in the interior of this cathedral by no means comfortable. 
 Yet the services are exhibited here with great effect. Vienna, 
 being the most licentious capital in Europe, is also, not unna- 
 turally, the most devout. I shall not quickly forget the touch- 
 
108 THE CATHEDRALS O'S THE CONTINENT. [^tat. 34. 
 
 ing beauty of a vesper service; here so different itom such 
 scenes in Italy, where there are an army of priests but generally 
 no congregation at all. The whole floor of the cathedrjil, as I 
 entered one afternoon, was covered by a kneeling throng ; and, 
 when the organ struck up, the entire body of worshipers- 
 soldiers, peasants, ladies, children, servants, princes— joined in 
 the chant with an effect irresistibly pathetic. In Germany, all 
 sing as well as smoke ; and the Catholic service, when .the 
 entire congregation take part in the syiging, makes a depth and 
 breadth of harmony which has an unearthly grandeur. 
 
 MILAN CATHEDRAL.* 
 
 The pointed architecture of the Teutons took root in Italy, 
 and produced copious fruit, more especially in Lombardy. But 
 it is a light, thin, timid, and exotic growth ; always retaining 
 the slight and slender forms of the earliest style of the Trans- 
 alpine nations, and never swelling and advancing into the luxu- 
 rious expansion and fervent vitality of Germany, France, and 
 England. In Naples, are specimens of a forciga Gothic im- 
 ported into that region. But one specimen, perhaps the only 
 one, of early German Gothic in Italy, is to be seen in the triple 
 church of San Frf.ncisco at Assisi. It was built by a German 
 artist, and the ribbed vaulting of the upper church, and its 
 lancet windows, speak a pretty pure Teutonic dialect. Other 
 things than its architecture render it one of the most interest- 
 ing buildings in the world ; for its ceiling is covered with fres- 
 coes by Cimabue, some of which are as fresh and bright as 
 while they were yet damp from the hand of the great father of 
 modem Art ; and its middle crypt is a museum of the early 
 Florentine and Perugian schools, being painted all over by 
 Giotto, Cavallini, Taddeo Gaddi, L'Ingegno, Lo Spagna. In 
 two other instances German architects have been employed in 
 Italy ; in the Certosa near Pavia, and the Cathedral of Milan. 
 The interior of the former shovv's many particulars of pure 
 Gothic, but joined with more that is not. 
 
 * Endorsed by Mr. Wallace " Very unfinished." 
 
^TAT. 34.1 MILAN CATHEDRAL. 109 
 
 The Cathedral of Milan, stands alone in the fields of Art. It 
 is like nothing else in the world, before or since. It seems as 
 if upon the confines of the Teutonic and Ausonian territory, 
 the pure and fervid spirits of German Gothic and of the half 
 classical Italian Gothic had coalesced, and their several excel- 
 lences had become identified in the strange and almost super- 
 natural loveliness of an offspring, which, though absolutely 
 special and individual, and not one of a race of such, is yet 
 consistent in its novel organization, and irresistible in its fasci- 
 nating effect. It is not that mechanical minglement of two styles 
 which forms a debased Art ; the combination of the elements is 
 a vital assimilation of the two germs, which produces a variety 
 upon both species, more elegant than either. There was just that 
 degree of specific nearness in the two, which allows of a produc- 
 tive union ; for the Italian Gothic is a cross between true Gothic 
 and classical, and thus German Gothic, when crossed with this 
 mixture, is still joined with something homogeneous. We have 
 seen many instances of Gothic constructions controlled by classic 
 ideas and decorations, and the effect has been fatal : but here 
 is a partially classical construction swayed and moulded by 
 Gothic spirit and conception, and the result is admirable. The 
 exterior of the building has not the outlines of a cathedra], ^ 
 but rather the massive and spreading repose of a Greek temple ; 
 yet the dress of decorations in which it is arrayed is Transalpine 
 and still not inappropriate. Within, the vaulting seems not to 
 be true Gothic : the piers, the relation of the nave to its aisles, 
 with the incidents of triforium and clerestory, are quite remote 
 from the cathedral structures of the north, yet the pervading 
 tone, — the resulting impression, is Gothic of the most refined and 
 spiritual sort. It is a monster, perhaps, according to the botany 
 of architecture, but it is like the peerless and perfect rose, which 
 passes out of the family of order, only to become the queen over 
 all orders : and we may grant pardon to a deviation which 
 works out an affluence of charms that bewilders the mind in ad- 
 miration and makes faint the sense with delight. This cathedral 
 is not the child of law and calculation, but of nature and love; 
 and its glowing beauties catch a higher, warmer color, from those 
 10 
 
110 THE CATHEDRALS OE THE CONTINENT. ;[^tat. 34. 
 
 instincts of feeling which gushed into forbidden union for its 
 ; creation. I leave to architects to chronicle its departure from 
 this or from that type of the schools : as an enthusiast wor- 
 shiper of the beautiful, I care not for the rank or genealogy of 
 my idol. Wherever beauty blooms, there glow the feelings of 
 my heart's devotion. 
 
 There is wild grace in the delicate and luxurious ele- 
 gances of Milan, which inflames the admiration into an ecstacy 
 of pleasure. I shall not speedily forget the revelation of joy 
 born of beauty, that opened in an instant upon me, as on the 
 morning after my arrival in Milan, I walked forth from the Inn 
 of Gran' Bretagna along one of the streets, without plan or pur- 
 pose, and presently found myself upon the piazza of the gorgeous 
 duomo. The fa§ade is bad, on account of the Roman doors 
 and windows which have been let into it. But stand off towards 
 the south side, and view it diagonally, so as to bring the side 
 and roof well into combination, and you will confess that a more 
 singular and more enchanting vision never rose beneath your 
 eye. It was a clear morning in the early November, the air 
 was bracingly cool, with something of Alpine purity, the tur- 
 quoise-blue of the unclouded vault of heaven, was then, to my 
 unaccustomed eye, a ravishment of unreality. Beneath this 
 glowing canopy, and from out the violet atmosphere that filled 
 the whole space between earth and sky, rose the snowy masses of 
 the cathedral, whose crowd of pinnacles seemed to tremble and 
 tingle with diamondlike light. Thought and feeling seemed to 
 melt together in the thrill of the senses' enjoyment, and for an 
 instant I knew not whether to regard that blue heaven as a pic- 
 tured dream of passioning Art, or that silvery pile as a crystalli- 
 zation of the glorious crown of Nature, who, lavishing her grace 
 on Italy, as she had her grandeur upon Switzerland, might seem 
 here to have formed a glacier of loveliness — a Mont-Blanc of 
 beauty. A white-robed, glittering band of seraphs seemed to 
 have just lighted upon the summit of each turret and buttress 
 and finial, and to stand there with pearl-pale spears pointed up 
 to Heaven. Listen ! Listen ! For as the sun-rays glance 
 among the myriad figures, and all seems life and interchange — 
 
Mtjli. 34.] MILAN CATHEDRAL. HI 
 
 imagination, which oftentimes confuses which sense it is that 
 brings its strong report, will not believe but that the crystal- 
 vested troop are chanting forth some chimes of airy music, or 
 some according strains of triumph in the tones of their delight. 
 A flight of most delicately colored pigeons lights at times upon 
 the pavement ; at times covers every " coin of vantage" on the 
 cathedral. Sacred and mystic birds 1 They are of the family 
 of those pearly-feathered tribes of St. Marc, which are said to 
 have come, like much of that temple and its religion, from the 
 mysterious East. A pair of these birds were brought to Milan 
 a few years ago, and there is now a numerous flock. 
 
 A striking peculiarity of the duomo of Milan, is that it is 
 built entirely of statuary marble. Some portions of the stone, 
 especially above the roof, have a roseate or reddish hue, which, 
 wrought into statuettes and bas-reliefs, form a delightful effect. 
 The darkening of this stone by age has produced an appro- 
 priate and agreeable effect ; for the tower part seems to have 
 shared the stains of earth to which it is rooted, while the 
 higher portions bloom in the arumlike whiteness of their virgin 
 quarry. The roof is nearly flat, and very neatly paved with 
 marble ; and numerous turrets and pinnacles, set with statues 
 or statuettes, rise around and upon it. The number of the 
 figures now peopling the exterior is said to be above 3000 ; . 
 and the design when completed will include 6000. Many of 
 these figures are by sculptors of the first reputation ; three or four 
 by Canova. They bear, and, indeed, require examination by a 
 glass. That higher, open temple which is thus built and popu- 
 lated upon the top of the duomo, vaulted by the heavens, and 
 lighted by the sun and stars, is a world of curious and delightful 
 intricacy. The religious finish of every fagette, and figure, and 
 bas-relief, even in places where the eye cannot approach them 
 except by extraordinary aids ; the inscriptive dedications beneath 
 the little shrines, so removed that human gaze cannot decipher 
 them, produces a singular and profound feeling. It seems as 
 if they might be shrines which were wrought for the glory of 
 heaven and the solace of God's nightly angels. The view which 
 the summit commands, with the whole line of the russet-tinted 
 
112 THE CATHEDKALS OF THE CONTINENT. [Mtat. Si. 
 
 snow-peaks of the Alps along the north, and the ocean-plain of 
 Lombardy in the south, with the great roads that radiate from 
 the city, so foreshortened that they seem as if rising directly 
 upward, is one of rare and memorable interest. Walk at twi- 
 light or evening upon the plain that surrounds the walls of the 
 city ; and you will see the countless pinnacles of this temple 
 shooting up through the gray air like some light play of the 
 borealis ; and you will fear that it will have vanished in the 
 moonbeams before you can reach it. 
 
 When you enter this cathedral, if the splendid expanse before 
 you be not sublime, it is only because it is so beautiful that 
 wonder is absorbed in exquisiteness of enjoyment. The dimen- 
 sions are imposing. The height of the nave is 153 feet, it ex- 
 tends between a series of nine arches through a magnificent 
 distance to the transept. There are double aisles on each side 
 of it, also of great width ; and the slenderness of the piers throws 
 the whole into one general effect. The piers rise to a prodi- 
 gious height, and seem to bend gracefully at the top like the 
 expanding cup of a lily. They seem too slight to support, with 
 so slender arches, the lofty roof; but look ! clustered round 
 the top of each pier is again a band of angels, who seem to have 
 taken the building under their especial care, and who give 
 assurance that the elevated vault will safely be sustained. 
 
 ST. PETER'S, ROME. 
 
 Prom whatever part of the surrounding country you look at 
 Rome, the object that chiefly strikes the eye and the mind is 
 St. Peter's. In visible, as in moral impressions, it forms, in 
 modern times, the great representative feature of the Historic 
 City. As you come in from Civita Vecdhia, along the sternest 
 and dreariest road upon earth, through the blasted reign of 
 Tarquin, crumbled over with ruins of such antiquity that, in 
 comparison with them, the oldest remains of Rome seem to be 
 of a modern date, — suddenly, from a rise in the road, you get 
 sight of the dome, lifting up its whole mass above the crest of 
 Monte Mario. So distinct is it, that it looks within a stoue'3 
 
^TAT. S4.] ST. PETER'S, EOME. II3 
 
 throw ; yet the distance is fifteen miles. As you whirl impa- 
 tiently along, with accelerating pace, the huge object becomes 
 larger and larger, till, in your excited and confounded imagi- 
 nation, it seems expanding into a vastness that only astonish- 
 ment and wonder can embrace ; and when, at last, you pass the 
 barrier of the hills, and enter the Porta Gavalleggieri, and the 
 glittering vision of immensity is dashed, in its entireness, upon 
 your spirit, you shrink, almost, with a sense of your insignifi- 
 cance, and feel as if St. Peter's were Rome, and Rome were the 
 world. Thus far, not a tower or temple or palace, save this, 
 has met your eye, and none was needed. The whole idea of 
 Roman majesty and Roman force, — in arms, in laws, ia faith — 
 classic, mediaeval, and modern — all that swells upon the memory 
 and the soul, when the name of Rome is sounded, is flashed be- 
 fore the sentiments in that great, dazzling structure. As your 
 eye labors upward from its mountain-founded base to its sun- 
 silvered pinnacles, or follows the endless sweep of its colonnade, 
 . — all the notional little differences of sects and country melt 
 into nothing ; and your kindled sympathies snatch this universal 
 temple from all partial appropriation, and claim it as Man's 
 great monument of tribute to the All-Sovereign, — as the natural 
 and everlasting shrine of the Religion of humanity. It asks no 
 inscription of its character or purpose ; it needs no solemn 
 dedication from Pontiff borne on high by mitred train ; it wears 
 eternally, in its own greatness, its own inherent stamp of 
 spiritual significance and divine awe ; — holy through its vast- 
 ness and its beauty ; — self-consecrated to acts of worship and 
 thoughts of reverence, by the creative inspiration which it 
 embodies and represents. Its glory was conceived within that 
 element which is the supra-moi-tal in man, and it will ever re- 
 produce kindred emotion in him that approaches it. It is a 
 spectacle to set on flame religious sensibility, where it exists, 
 and waken or create it in hearts where it slumbered or was 
 wanting. 
 
 If you travel from Naples, and enter the city on the southern 
 side, the first view you have of Rome is irom the hill of Albano, 
 some fourteen or, sixteen miles ofi"; a sight to be much remem- 
 10* 
 
114 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [^tat. 34. 
 
 bered of him upon whose eyes, for the first time, it opens. St. 
 Peter's is at the most remote edge of the capital, and your view 
 of it is athwart all that rears itself aloft of the yet living power 
 of princes, and all that remains of the grandeur of a line of 
 emperors — the Coliseum being the nearest object to you. Yet, 
 at all this disadvantage, St. Peter's seems to be the urbs Roma, 
 and all the rest only irregular suburbs cowering around its base. 
 Stand at mid-day, and look from the Alban lake or mountain 
 towards the pale masses of the seven-hilled metropolis, which 
 the golden richness of the languid atmosphere melts into an airy 
 and mystic spectre of departing power. St. Peter's, with its 
 beakhke cupola rising out of the yellowish masses that flank 
 it, assumes to the musing fancy the mythic semblance of an 
 eagle — Rome's once tutelary and ever-symbolizing bird — ^lonely, 
 drooping, and forlorn, yet ominous ; crouching on the height 
 whence of old it flew with a shriek over the world ; quenching 
 in dim listlessness those orbs from which once flashed fires that 
 were the light, the lode-star, and the terror of the nations ; 
 folding feebly around itself wings which, when stretched abroad 
 in pride of flight, darkened, to half the earth, the sun in 
 heaven. 
 
 From no position, however, does St. Peter's appear in such 
 strange, solemn, mysterious impressiveness, as from the hill- 
 slopes of Tivoli. From that point of view, the Campagna lies 
 gloomily beneath you, covered with the dark purple of the low 
 mist which always rests upon it, and bounded in the distance 
 by the golden waters of the Mediterranean. jS'ot a battlement, 
 ■ — not a turret, — not a spire of Rome can be made out, — save 
 one. From the centre of the sombre plain below you, the whole 
 
 dome of St. Peter's looms up against the bright horizon, 
 
 black, weird, portentous. The Campagna looks like an ocean 
 of dusky waters, and St. Peter's like a huge ship riding alone 
 upon its wastes. 
 
 What a world within Life's open world is the interior of St. 
 
 Peter's ! — a world of softness, brightness, and richness ! fusing 
 
 the sentiments in a refined rapture of tranquillity, — gratifying the 
 imagination with splendors more various, expansive, and ex- 
 
^TAT. 34.] ST. PETER'S, ROME. 115 
 
 haustless than the natural universe from which we pass, — typical 
 of that sphere of spiritual consciousness, which, before the in- 
 ward-working energies of Faith, arches itself out within man's 
 mortal being. When you push aside the heavy curtain that 
 veils the sanctuary from the [MS. wanting] without, what a 
 shower of high and solemn pleasure is thrown upon your spirit 1 
 A glory of beauty fills all the Tabernacle. The majesty of a 
 Perfection, that seems fragrant of delightfulness, fills it like a 
 Presence. Grandeur, strength, solidity, — suggestive of the fixed 
 Infinite, — float unsphered within those vaulted spaces, like clouds 
 of lustre. The immensity of the size, — ^the unlimitable richness 
 of the treasure that has been lavished upon its decoration by 
 the enthusiastic prodigality of the Catholic world through suc- 
 cessive centuries, — dwarfs Man and the Present, and leaves the 
 soul open to sentiments of God and Eternity. The eye, as it 
 glances along column and archway, meets nothing but varie- 
 gated marbles and gold. Among the ornaments of the obscure 
 parts of the wall and piers, are a multitude of pictures, vast in mag- 
 nitude, transcendent in merit, — the master-pieces of the world, 
 ■ — the Communion of St. Jerome, — the Burial of St. Petronilla, 
 . — the Transfiguration of the Saviour, — not of perishable canvas 
 and oils, but wrought in mosaic, and fit to endure till Time itself 
 shall perish. 
 
 It is the sanctuary of Space and Silence. No throng can crowd 
 these aisles ; no sound of voices or of organs can displace the 
 venerable quiet that broods here. The Pope, who fills the world 
 with all his pompous retinue, fills not St. Peter's ; and the roar 
 of his quired singers, mingling with the sonorous chant of a host 
 of priests and bishops, struggles for an instant against this ocean 
 of stillness, and then is absorbed into it like a faint echo. The 
 mightiest ceremonies of human worship, — celebrated by the 
 earth's chief Pontiff, sweeping along in the magnificence of the 
 most imposing array that the existing world can exhibit, — seem 
 dwindled into insignificance within this structure. They do not 
 explain to our feelings the uses of the building. As you stand 
 within the gorgeous, celestial dwelling — framed not for man's 
 abode — the holy silence, the mysterious fragrance, the light of 
 
116 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [«tat. 34. 
 
 ever-burning lamps, suggest to yon that it is the home of invisible 
 spirits, — an outer court of Heaven, — visited, perchance, in the 
 deeper hours of a night that is never dark within its walls, by the 
 all-sacred Awe itself. 
 
 When you enter St. Peter's, Religion, as a local reality and a 
 separate life, seems revealed to you. Far up the wide nave, the 
 enormous baldachino of jetty bronze, with twisted columns and 
 tintlike canopy, and a hundred brazen lamps, whose unextin- 
 guished, flame keeps the watch of Light around the entrance to 
 the crypt where lie the martyred remains of the Apostle, the 
 rock of the church, give an oriental aspect to the central altar, 
 which seems to typify the origin of the faith which reared this 
 fane. Holiest of the holy is that altar. No step less sacred 
 than a Pope's may ascend to minister before it : only on days 
 the most august in the calendar, may even the hand which is 
 consecrated by the Ring of the Fisherman be stretched forth to 
 touch the vessels which rest on it. At every hour, over some 
 part of the floor, worshipers may be seen kneeling, wrapt each 
 in solitary penitence or adoration. The persons mystically 
 habited, who journey noiselessly across the marble, bow and 
 cross themselves, as they pass before this or that spot, betoken 
 the recognition of something mysterious, that is unseen, invisi- 
 ble. By day illuminated by rays only from above, by night 
 always luminous within — filled by an atmosphere of its own, 
 which changes not with the changing cold and heat of the seasons 
 without, — exhaling always a faint, delightful perfume, — it is the 
 realm of piety — the clime of devotion — a spiritual globe in the 
 midst of the material universe. 
 
 As a creation of Art, — that is to say, as a work symbolic of 
 spiritual conceptions or emotions, — St. Peter's stands in a class 
 by itself It belongs to a different generic order of Art from 
 the old Teutonic cathedrals of Germany, France and England ; 
 and is as perfectly an aesthetic embodiment of the modern or 
 Italian Catholic religion, as they were types of that elder, wilder 
 and more spiritual faith that held in solution with it those vital 
 elements that afterwards passed off in the form of Protestantism. 
 The Gothic artist, rearing a vast structure, sought to make it 
 
^TAT. 34.] ST. PETER'S, EOME. H^j 
 
 appear yet loftier and more extended than it was. He meant 
 that the imagination should lose itself in the effort to compasa 
 and measure its endless vistas ; should falter and droop on the 
 wing in its endeavor to soar to the summit of its dizzying con- 
 cave. To this end, the height and length of the cathedral, 
 especially in France and England, trhere, and not in Germany, 
 this architecture developed itself most intelligently, were great 
 in proportion to the width. The pillars are usually lofty in com- 
 parison with their thickness, and stand at small intervals from 
 one another. A slight jointlike capital connects them with the 
 pointed arches, which, continuing the same moulding and exhibit- 
 ing almost the same ordonnance, appear not to be a different 
 member, but rather a prolongation of the upright shafts, which 
 have an appearance of converging at the top, from the great 
 height to which they are extended. Thus nothing intercepts, 
 but all things aid, the illusion which carries the eye upward 
 along the clustered pillar till it loses itself into the gently-bend- 
 ing arch. In like manner, if a stranger, entering one of the 
 western doors, sought the cloven tongue of fire which, in the 
 sanctuary, ever hangs like an aureole around the summit of the 
 sacred candlestick upon the altar — a memory and a sign of that 
 flame which, in worship, comes down from heaven to kindle the 
 hearts of the faithful — it was to be seen trembling at the dim 
 extremity of a forestlike vista of arching shafts, which a thou- 
 sand cross-lights bewildered the eye in its attempt to traverse. 
 The finite melting itself into the infinite, — the material shading 
 away into the ideal, — were the effects which the religious build- 
 ers of Prance and England contemplated. A different faith 
 possessed their souls who framed St. Peter's — Roman as distinct 
 from Catholic, — and a variant inspiration, by consequence, in- 
 formed their imaginations. When I stood for the first time 
 within St. Peter's — newly from the great cathedrals of the Gothic 
 race, to which also Milan, built by German architects, belongs 
 . — it was with a feeling of that sort of surprise which flickers 
 upon the edge of disappointment. No such trancing emotion 
 as that which Ely, and Winchester, and Amiens, and Strasbourg 
 bad dashed over me was I conscious of Nay, the moment I 
 
118 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [^tat. 34; 
 
 began to analyze the methods that were employed in the work, 
 it appeared obvious that the artists had made use of every me- 
 chanical means that could cause the building to look smaller 
 than it otherwise might. I must either suppose that the joint 
 master-piece in architecture of Michael Angelo, Rafael, and Bra- 
 mante, was a combination of errors — a series of violations of the 
 plainest laws of effect in Art — or, I must reverse my conception 
 of the idea, purpose and sentiment of this new style of creation, 
 and study to derive its design and laws from the work itself. 
 My intellectual reverence for Michael Angelo quickly deter- 
 mined which of these views to adopt. The true sesthetic no- 
 tion of St. Peter's, I take to be this : 
 
 The artist sets out with a structure, really and actually, of 
 stupendous dimensions. For example, the height of the roof of 
 the nave arch from the floor is the same with the height of the 
 choir of Cologne, or the choir and transepts of Beauvais, — those 
 Titanic fragments of a mightier age which itself broke down 
 under the impracticable task it had assumed ; — and that is twice 
 the height of the Abbey at Westminster. Tet at Rome's St. 
 Peter's, this vast altitude is only the base, the pedestal, whence 
 the real elevation of the building soars on high. According to 
 the true apprehension of these Byzantine temples — for such, in 
 origin, are all these dome-crowned crosses — it is the great cen- 
 tral canopy which constitutes the body of the structure ; and 
 that, here, standing upon the nave, choir, and transepts as upon 
 a supporting platform, swells thence aloft to more than twice 
 their height. Of the airy space comprehended within the build- 
 ing, an impression may be derived from the circumstance before 
 referred to, that the atmosphere has a fixed, mean temperature 
 of its own, not sensibly changed by variations in the outer air — 
 so that it always feels, and is comparatively, warm in winter and 
 cool in summer ; a phenomenon not observable, in a decided 
 degree, in any other structure in the world, but to be found in 
 some certain natural cavities of great extent — such as the Mam- 
 moth Cave in Kentucky. A magnitude, positively and veritably 
 immense, being thus assumed, the artist's design is to deal with 
 it in such a way as to bring it as near as possible to the com- 
 
iETAT. 34] ST. PETER'S, ROME. 119 
 
 mon apprehension and sympathies of the spectator : not, literally 
 speaking, to make it look as small as possible, — an expression 
 which would be faulty, inasmuch as it would treat the eye and 
 not the imagination as the medium addressed by a production 
 of Art, — but yet, at least, to make- its unminishable greatness 
 familiar and conciliating to his affections. Note what at once 
 presents itself to your attention as you pause in the centre of 
 the nave, and look round you to observe and feel. The size of 
 objects that are at a distance above the. eye is clearly increased 
 in far more than may be called the just proportion of their re- 
 moteness ; so that the capitals of pilasters above an hundred 
 feet off have a distinctness that makes them seem but a little 
 way off from us. Where the vault of the nave springs from the 
 side piers, the upward lines are broken by a heavy, terminating 
 cornice, and by a broad, transverse architrave ; and further to 
 baffle and expel all possibility of continuity with the marbled 
 and fluted pilasters, the ceiling is composed of small, richly- 
 gilded panels. The width of the nave and aisles is also exceed- 
 ingly great ; so as to bring down the height. But, without 
 going into detailed illustration, it is enough to note, generally, 
 that the following principles are acted upon throughout the 
 whole interior : — The lines, whether straight or curve, are every 
 where broken as much as possible ; a highland fine degree of 
 finish — embracing particularly a great diversity of rich and warm 
 coloring — is exhibited throughout every part, — over the distant 
 surfaces of the airy cupolas and the retiring nooks of wall and 
 ceiling. Remote things,' — such as statues, inscriptions, mosaic 
 figures, — are made to seem strangely near at hand, in conse- 
 quence of the exaggerated dimensions in which they are executed. 
 There is, therefore, nothing overwhelming in the first effect of 
 the interior of St. Peter's. Tou are not overpowered, bowed 
 down, abased in terror or in tears, as you are upon going into 
 almost the meanest of the English cathedrals. When you gaze 
 upward through the gray wastes' of Beauvais Cathedral, which 
 has about the same height, you draw back appalled — you 
 shudder with the fear of a mental aneantissement. But, the 
 stupendous, the monstrous, the prodigious,— which were effects 
 
120 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [^tat. 34. 
 
 inherent in the dimensions of St. Peter's — ^have been completely 
 absorbed, or dissipated, by the multitudinous resources of Art 
 and Diligence which the genius of the builders has diffused over 
 the work. 
 
 This, then, is the characteristic impression of the interior of 
 St. Peter's — to approximate the vast, — to familiarize the great. 
 And from this springs the moral enjoyment which it produces ; 
 an emotion at once stimulating and soothing, — at the same time 
 inspiring and satisfying. Tou seem to taste, as it were, of super- 
 human elements ; to have a mortal fruition of the Unbounded, 
 the Ever-during, the August : and the intellectual sensation is 
 exquisitely sweet. The moral and the spiritual seem to become 
 exquisitely sensuous in the strong beauties of this shrine of the 
 world's hope and comfort. To the fancy of the soul, the mighty 
 structure seems like a vast mystic organ, distpling to our hearts 
 out of the common air of life, the music of inward and indestruc- 
 tible Peace ; for, often as I paced those marble floors, lost in 
 every delicious emotion that gratified intellect and taste could 
 supply, the glories — inexhaustible, inexpressible, and irresist- 
 ible — of that tabernacle, always translated themselves to my 
 spirit in strains of ideal harmonies, — touching, attendering, ex- 
 alting. Assimilating from it those heavenly impressions into 
 our sad and sorrowing natures, we become insensibly chastened, 
 and thereby pardoned. Surely the very Angel of Consolation 
 makes those vaulted roofs his ever-chosen dwelling-place. Thou, 
 who, disappointed in others, or, more fatally, disappointed by 
 thyself, mayest have sought restoration from Nature, from 
 Thought, or from Endeavor, go, tread those long-drawn aisles, 
 day after, day, and hour with hour; — mingle thy tears with the 
 dust that pilgrim-feet bring thither from the earth's remotest 
 borders, and thou shalt hear from the Great Loveliness in- 
 dwelling there, whispers of a reconciliation with thyself and of 
 contentment in thy hopes. 
 
 And, thus, St. Peter's stands a perpetual type and symbol of 
 the ultra- Montane, (?) or Italian Catholic system. Of all Art, 
 the guiding instinct ever is some religious conception. Art is 
 one of the means by which man strives to realize or represent to 
 
^TAT. 34.] ST. PETER'S, ROME. 121 
 
 himself, in beauty, his spiritual apprehensions ; in order that he 
 may pour in upon his senses, through the avenue which com- 
 mands the finest sensibilities of the material frame, the rich ec- 
 stacies of spiritual consciousness. The just interpretation — the 
 true critical canon — of every system of Art, will be found in the 
 prevailing religious emotions or practices of the people among 
 whom it springs. It is the character of the Romish system, to 
 materialize the mysteries of spirituality : to make faith, in all 
 things sensible : to give visibility and palpableness to the whole 
 body of religion : to affect the soul through the senses by first 
 charging physical things with the representative sanctity of an 
 indwelling divineness : to realize on earth and in mortal forms, 
 the kingdom of God in its absolute completeness, even to the per- 
 manent presence of the Head of the Church, and the judicial 
 inquisition and sovereign remission of sins. And thus does St. 
 Peter's, grappling the Indefinite in its Glory, bring it down, 
 through symbolic media, to our most familiar recognition and 
 appropriation. Thus do its broad and heavy arches, expand- 
 ing our thoughts to a certain extent, but restricting them from 
 beyond that extent, — crusted over with splendors that make the 
 sense almost smart with pleasure — seek to embody all the mag- 
 nificence and all the beauties that imagination could accumulate 
 in a further and future world — and seem to say, " Here rest, 
 here feed on Adoration as a Joy : here is the excellence of exist- 
 ence, the fullness of Perfection. " The Protestant system, and 
 that older, freer faith of the unsevered Church of Christ, sent 
 man aloft to heaven, by teaching him to feel the nothingness of 
 himself and earth : and so did the Gothic cathedrals, that in 
 the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, were the unconscious 
 workings, through an aesthetic avenue, of that spiritualism of the 
 English, French, and German nations, which a little later de- 
 tached itself altogether in the theory of Protestantism, annihi- 
 late the worshiper upon the threshold of the temple, and leave 
 him in humble astonishment and awe, at the sublimity of the 
 court of the worship of the Lord. The modern Italian system, 
 which is the residue of the Catholic faith after the rational ele- 
 ments had been drawn off in Protestantism, brings down heaven 
 11 
 
122 THE CATHEDRALS OF THE CONTINENT. [^tat. 34. 
 
 to man, and fills the persons, places, implements and services of 
 the church with the full inspiration and virtue of divinity. A 
 northern cathedral gratifies by what it suggests and leads to ; 
 St. Peter's suggests even more by the inexpressible moral grati- 
 fication which it infuses. Like the rites of the church, while it 
 pours a flood of half-bewildered joy through the spirit, yet com- 
 poses, calms and satisfies. This fabric, which the uniting genius 
 of Rafael and Michael Angelo gave to the church that lavished 
 its patronage upon them, unfolds almost a new means of grace ; 
 and embodies well-nigh a new sign of faith. St. Peter's is the 
 Sacrament of Art. 
 
YISIT TO NETLEY ABBEY. 
 
 ISLE OP WIQHT — THE BOLENT — NETLET ABBEY 
 
 Netley Abbey, June 6, 1850. 
 
 I REACHED Ryde on a fine day about noon, and took a sailing 
 wherry, mounting two small masts and a jib, for Netley Abbey. 
 The water-view of Ryde, looking like a nosegay made of green 
 trees and white cottages, and thence along the Solent coast of the 
 Isle of Wight, to where, in the distance, the yellowish towers 
 of Osborne House glitter above the forests, and glimpses of 
 the gray, round masses of Norris Castle, like some stern, steel- 
 clad warrior, are betrayed through the trees upon a point of 
 high land beyond — forms a scene not less interesting for its ex- 
 quisite elegance, than as significant of English character and life 
 and taste. Near the long pier stands the stately club-house 
 of the Victoria Yacht Club ; next it, a low cottage built and 
 occupied by the late Duke of Bucks ; and further on, girt by 
 trees, the residence of the late Earl Spencer. Then, bowered 
 among profusest expanses of foliage, the lovely church and 
 rectory of Binstead — a few thatched cottages nestled in a 
 "boundless contiguity of shade" — the trees being just not too 
 crowded to prevent the form of each from being seen. Imme- 
 diately beyond, are the ruins of the old Cistercian monastery 
 of Quarr — the recumbent ground presenting to the river a clear, 
 bright sward, not less enchanting than the woods of Binstead ; 
 the gray, lancelike arches of the wasted Abbey overtopping the 
 woods that strive to hide the wrong. The view upon the oppo- 
 
 (123) 
 
124 VISIT TO NETLET ABBEY. [^tat. 33. 
 
 site side of the Solent, towards Portsmouth, though of a very 
 different character, is also fine. In the distance, on the end of 
 Portsdown Hill, Nelson's monument is distinctly seen. As I 
 was wafted gently along the calm waters, I saw upon the muddy 
 edge of the wave, the tide being low, a bending, venerable 
 figure, which might have served for the type of Wordsworth's 
 Leech-Gatherer. He was engaged, as I learned, in fishing for 
 shrimps. He used a hand-net, with which he scraped along the 
 weeds on the margins of the little inlets that indented the shore. 
 Another mode of taking these favorite little dainties, is by a 
 kind of cage, which is baited with small crabs, and let down 
 into the water, to attract the fish into it. Great quantities of 
 shrimps are obtained along the coast. 
 
 Moving onward, a few tiltings of the boat over the glassy 
 wave brought us opposite to the domain of Osborne House. 
 On the edge of these grounds stands a lovely cottage with a 
 lawn in front, ctcled by a ring of oaks coming down to the 
 water. The spot is called the King's Cave, and is identified 
 by tradition as the covert where King Charles was caught 
 among the trees, when he had made an escape from Carisbrook 
 Castle. It would appear from this legend, which I think is 
 not taken notice of in the histories, that the oak, which a little 
 later became a royal tree, was at that time in the Parliamen- 
 tary interest, and was as unfavorable to the hopes of the father 
 as it afterwards became propitious to the fortunes of the son. 
 The cottage was built by Lady Holmes, but the site has 
 recently been purchased by the Queen and annexed to Osborne, 
 and now forms the eastern boundary of her manor. The lesson 
 of Frederic and the windmill, it seems, was repeated in the case 
 of the adjoining estate, which her majesty is said to have been 
 extremely anxious to buy, but which the proprietor still stoutly 
 refuses to sell to her. The view of Osborne House from the 
 water is good. It stands at the top of the ascending ground, 
 about three-quarters of a mile from the shore, is built of 
 cream-colored stone, and consists of a large square building, 
 connected with a tower on either side, by means of galleries, 
 having two rows of ample arched windows. Adjoining the 
 
iETAT. 33.] VISIT TO NETLEY ABBEY. 125 
 
 west tower is a wing ; and it is intended to construct one on the 
 other side to correspond with it. The grounds have little 
 elegance. An irregular park, with a few straggling trees, 
 bounded on either side, by thickly-forested hills, descends to the 
 beach, where a pier is built for the Queen to land. The little 
 steamer Fairy brings her down, and in fine weather anchors off 
 this shore, and the Queen lands in a small boat. If the wind is 
 high, the steamer comes-to at Trinity Wharf, East Cowes. 
 There are three private steamers in the service of royalty — the 
 Fairy, a richly decorated and elegant little craft, which she uses 
 at the Isle of Wight — a larger one, equally exquisite, though 
 plainer, and more businesslike, which she employs on more dis- 
 tant excursions — and another, called the Milk-boat, which 
 brings supplies and despatches, and is almost constantly shoot- 
 ing between the Medina river and the Portsmouth dock. The 
 flag now streaming from the turrets of Osborne, proclaims that 
 her Majesty is beneath its roof. 
 
 JN'ext beyond Osborne, is a place of infinite interest and 
 beauty — N orris Castle, built by the late Lord Henry Seymour, 
 and now owned by Mr. Bell, who has expended forty thousand 
 pounds in improving it. A sea-wall embankment sustains a 
 lawn of clean, bright velvet turf, diversified by clumps of neat 
 shrubbery, and rising gently to a considerable height. The 
 castle, which stands within three hundred yards of the water, 
 presents a grand and noble appearance. It is in that stern, 
 yet elegant style, called in England, not incorrectly, the Norman 
 Gothic, and is of great extent and magnificence. It has several 
 light square towers, and one enormous round keep tower, 
 which immediately summons up visions of the days of the 
 donjon, the moat, the barbican, the portcullis, and all those con- 
 ventionalisms of the Middle Ages which we read of so profusely 
 in Scott and James. The towers, and almost the whole struc- 
 ture, are mantled by thick, dark ivy. Lord Henry, of whose 
 patrician toils and lonely thoughts it was long the haunt, ap- 
 pears to have been one of those characters not very uncommon 
 among the younger sons of the highest nobility — an eccentric 
 but kindly recluse, whose birth and honors, recorded with great 
 11* 
 
126 VISIT TO NETLET ABBBT. [^tat. 33. 
 
 simplicity upon a tasteful slab in the village church of Whip- 
 pingham, I had read a day or two before, but whose true 
 epitaph was to be found in the comment of the weather-stained 
 tar beside me, who observed, with a wistful shake of the head, 
 that 
 
 •< ^e feag fcerg gM^ to t|j Pooi." 
 
 He lived here to a great age — one of that wise class of men 
 called bachelors — spending his whole income upon his estate, 
 and always employing seventy or eighty men at work. He 
 wrought habitually among his laborers, as one of themselves, 
 and was not to be distinguished by dress, wearing a blue jacket, 
 duck trowsers, and a glazed hat. As you come opposite the 
 Medina river, a stream which divides the Isle of Wight into 
 two nearly equal parts, the view of East and West Cowes, on 
 opposite sides of the stream, is extremely neat ; the former pre- 
 senting, at the point, a circular lawn of shining verdure, varied 
 by a profusion of clustered trees ; the other circling and crown- 
 ing a lofty hill, its houses relieved by quantities of elms, while 
 at its base frowns the grim, burly, old, storm-whitened fortress 
 of Cowes Castle. 
 
 The channel, or sound, as we should term it, which separates 
 the Isle of Wight from England, is called the Solent Sea. 
 Nearly opposite to Cowes, there extends into the land an 
 estuary or bay, called Southampton Water, at the head of which 
 is the town of that name. Stretching across in that direction, 
 ray little craft glided pleasantly along, under a breeze just 
 moderate enough to suffer the eye to linger as long as it loved 
 upon the many picturesque sites that succeeded one another in 
 all directions. Westward of Southampton Water, bowered in 
 the outskirts of New Forest, famed as the scene of the death 
 of Rufus, stood Eaglehurst Castle — a romantic assemblage of 
 low towers, surmounted by one slender tower shooting far into 
 the air. It is now the residence of the Lord Craven. Round- 
 ing the point, we pass under Calshot Castle, standing on a flat 
 blank hook of sand that reached out into Southampton Water, 
 surrounded by a fortification bristling with cannon. This is 
 
^TAT. 33.] VISIT TO NETLET ABBEY. 12t 
 
 the principal stronghold of the men engaged in the preventive 
 service, but was originally built by Henry VIII., to defend the 
 coast from pirates ; and its vast swollen rotundity suggests the 
 notion that the cincture of the royal stomach must have served 
 as the model of its proportions. Nearly opposite, on the 
 Hants coast, is a beautiful place called Hornby Castle, the seat 
 of an East Indian Governor of that name. 
 
 The shores of Southampton Water, as you sail upward, pre- 
 sent on either side, a brilliant variety of light green iields and 
 dark rich forests ; with small churches, cottages and stately 
 dwelling-houses interspersed through the scene. Sometimes 
 you pass in front of a, wheat field clothing a slope in yellow 
 vesture ; sometimes you view a smoothly shaven lawn, extending 
 to the water's edge, with a few round-topped trees shedding 
 their quiet shade upon the bright herbage ; sometimes your 
 fancy is caught and bewildered by masses of sombre forest. On 
 the left, one catches a gleam of Cadland, the noble home of Mr. 
 Drummond, hardly to be discerned for the prodigality of foliage 
 that envelopes it. On the right, as you advance, is a large 
 stone dwelling, of fine castellated aspect, the property and resi- 
 dence of Sir Arthur Paget. A short distance further brings us 
 to Netley Castle, a substantial, towered structure, rising out of 
 the water ; the castle, built by Henry VIII., and the tower 
 added of late years by Mr. Chamberlayne, the proprietor of 
 the whole of Netley. The popular belief is, that a subterranean 
 passage, which is seen leading from the Abbey, connects it, or 
 once connected it with the castle ; but this, I believe, is but an 
 old woman's tale. As I had reached my destination, we called 
 a man from the shore, who came off in a small boat, and landed 
 me at the castle, while the honest tar who had brought me 
 from Ryde proceeded to Southampton with my luggage. 
 
 I have rarely witnessed a scene of more tranquil and touching 
 loveliness than that which extended around me as I advanced, 
 through a short walk, to the Abbey. Ascending a gentle ele- 
 vation, I passed through a lane skirted by trim hedges and 
 shaded with small trees, glittering with that freshness, delicacy, 
 and elegance, which are peculiarly characteristic of the English 
 
128 VISIT TO NETLET ABBEY. [iSTAT. 33. 
 
 landscape. The day was mild and unusually clear. A cloud- 
 less sky expanded its soft and pearl-like hues overhead ; and 
 the voices of nightingales and thrushes resounded among the 
 branches. A turn in the road presently brought me upon the 
 magnificent remains of this famous Abbey. The lofty, roofless 
 walls, with numerous ash-trees of great size growing within 
 and around them, and the empty window arches, lined with ivy, 
 or sprouting with shrubs, aided by a religious stillness which 
 seemed to be deepened rather than disturbed by the occasional 
 discordant scream of birds high in the air, snatched me away 
 from the present, startling the fancy like a wierd memento of 
 by-gone ages, which had long outlived • its time, and projected 
 the life of the thirteenth century into the nineteenth. A flight 
 of jet-black rooks and daws, cawing an ominous requiem, 
 hovered above the fallen form of greatness, and seemed to 
 announce to the passer-by the unburied remains of violated 
 sanctity. 
 
 A pretty complete picture of ecclesiastical life, six centuries 
 ago, would be furnished by filling up and reclothing, in imagi- 
 nation, the skeleton which the dismantled apartments of Netley 
 present. The building was founded about the year 1240, and, 
 being erected at the time when the Early English was at its 
 perfection — being refined from its first plainness, and not yet 
 dilated into the luxuriousness of Decorated — it is a good 
 specimen of the richest and best type of that style in its purity. 
 It was a monastery of the White Monks or Cistercians, a re- 
 formed scion of the Clugniac order, whose own degeneracy, ere 
 long, roused the unsparing hand of a more fierce reformer. It 
 is honorable to the religious character of the founders, that the 
 principal and largest, and by far the most splendid portion of 
 the monastery, was the chapel. I entered the Abbey by the 
 west door of the chapel, over which is a large window, there 
 being also windows at the side of it, terminating the side aisles. 
 Advancing a little way up what was once the nave, I obtained 
 an interior view of the spacious ruin, which was wonderfully 
 grand, and impressive, and beautiful. The form is the usual one 
 of a cross, and the walls are perfect, except the north transept, 
 
^TAT. 33.] VISIT TO NETLBY ABBEY. 129 
 
 which has been demolished. The length of the church is about 
 two hundred feet, and the width sixty feet. The length of the 
 cross, when perfect, was a hundred and twenty feet. The walls, 
 long-wise, comprise eight sets of beautiful triple lancet windows, 
 enclosed in one larger lancet arch. On the south side of the 
 nave the windows are open only at the top, being shortened on 
 account of the cloisters which were ranged along the outside. 
 The great east window is still perfect, and of the utmost beauty ; 
 the arch-mouldings being surprisingly rich and delicate, and 
 deep. No part of the roof remains, except over the side aisle 
 of the south transept, where the bosses are of great delicacy 
 and finish. A few ornaments over the arches of the end of 
 the south transept, and a leaf moulding or two, and the end of 
 some of the corbels, and the slight, shapely terminations of the 
 arches of the ceiling, which still extend a foot or two above 
 their spring, all denote that the ceiling was once vaulted and 
 fretted in a style of airy and sumptuous tracery work. At the 
 corner made by the choir and south transept, a neat spiral 
 staircase in the wall leads to the roof of the side aisles, around 
 which there is a safe walk over a great part of the church. 
 The prospect, as you look southward from the balcony at the 
 top of the staircase, is a flash of tenderer beauty upon a scene 
 already charming, like a snowy smile upon a countenance which 
 before had seemed too exquisite for reality. Bordered by grassy 
 slopes, besprinkled with villas and trees and castles, and 
 bounded in the distance by the shores of the Isle of Wight, 
 spread the blue expanses of Southampton Water, upon whose 
 calmness a few drooping sails, floating with the tide, impress a 
 more earnest quiet. The very spirits of peace, and purity, and 
 happiness, seemed to rest upon the landscape, and to breathe 
 their consecration over it. Such a scene, looked out upon in 
 by-gone days, might have stirred to a deeper religion hearts 
 that were fresh from the fervors of the sanctuary. With this 
 spectacle before one, there would be no great hesitation in as- 
 senting to the etymology which the learned assign to the name 
 of Netley — which they tell you is corrupted from Letley, an 
 English abbreviation of Lcelus Locus, or Pleasant Place; 
 
130 VISIT TO NET1.EY ABBEY. [^tat. 33. 
 
 Ahhaiium de Lceh Loco being the Latin name given to the 
 place in Dugdale, and other ancient chroniclers. 
 
 Passing through a door in the east aisle of the south transept, 
 you enter a small roofed apartment, which was probably the sa- 
 cristy, where the sacred vessels and furniture of the church were 
 kept. Thence, in a line with the transept, extend the domestic 
 apartments of the monastery. The first is the Chapter-house, 
 where the official business of the Abbey was transacted. It is 
 about thirty-six feet square, and the roof remains entire. Three 
 very elegantly moulded arched doorways adjoining to one another, 
 opened upon the cloister court, or fountain court, as it was 
 called ; but two of them are now blocked up, and only one is 
 open for passage. On the opposite side are three beautiful 
 triple windows, corresponding with the doors. The brackets, 
 from which a groined arch formerly sprang, remain in the cor- 
 ners. Next is an arched passage-way, giving admission from 
 the east court, and beyond it, in the same line, is a kind of ante- 
 room to the refectory, which we may suppose to have served as 
 a drawing-room for the monks. Then comes the refectory, a 
 grand apartment, a hundred and forty-five feet in length by 
 twenty-five, formerly with groined arches, now roofless and open 
 to the sky. In the very centre, shoots up an enormous ash, at 
 least two feet in diameter, and apparently not less than two 
 centuries old. Its enormous gnarled roots seem to clutch the 
 earth as with the fierce talon of a thing of prey. Next is a cor- 
 ner-room, supposed to have been a pantry, and adjoining it, on 
 the east, is the large kitchen, forty-eight feet by eighteen, and 
 once vaulted. The chimney, particularly, attracted my atten- 
 tion. It is entirely in the style of the rest of the building, but 
 massive, and appropriate to its place and purpose. It projects 
 far, and in the corner which it makes with the wall, is a stone 
 shelf, also thoroughly in keeping. To trace, in the several 
 apartments of the monastery, the gradations and adaptation in 
 the characteristics of the style of architecture, from the exquisite 
 poetry of the chapel, almost spiritual in its delicacy, and bound- 
 lessly lavish in its elaboration, through the intermediate rooms, 
 till you come to the solid and plain kitchen-chimney and kitchen- 
 
^TiT. 33.] VISIT TO NETLEY ABBEY. 131 
 
 shelf, affords an illustration not only of the fine and true taste 
 of the builders of these houses, but of the resources and duc- 
 tility of the art they dealt with. All is beautiful, and all of 
 the same character of architecture, but varying in degree of 
 elegance according to the Uses of the place. This stone shelf, 
 for example, is not only as thoroughly Gothic, but it is as dis- 
 tinctively Early English Gothic, as the gorgeous wheel in the 
 top of the great east window of the choir ; yet the one is as suit- 
 able for the repose of dredging-boxes and skewers, as the other 
 is worthy to receive the first golden rays of the festal morning. 
 The whole structure is one homogeneous creation of Art — an 
 Art so complete that nothing could soar above its powers of 
 expression, and nothing could fall below the range of its appro- 
 priate forms. You may trace the same air running through the 
 whole composition, though it one while blossoms into melodies, 
 and at another roughens almost into discord — traversing with 
 natural grace the entire gamut of human sympathies, from the 
 high sacred to the low sensible. 
 
 Going back to the Chapter-house, and stepping out through 
 the door which remains unclosed, you come into what is called 
 the fountain court. It is a quadrangle, formed by the south 
 side of the nave aisle as its north boundary, the south transept 
 and range of domestic apartments as its east side, and lofty walls 
 on the south and west. It is, no doubt, the cloisters ; and the 
 west and north walls formerly supported ranges of rooms for 
 the monks, as is yet indicated by numerous corbels along them, 
 whence the arched roofs of those apartments sprang. It was to 
 accommodate these dormitories that the side windows of the 
 south aisle of the nave are open only at the top. At the south 
 side of this court is the principal doorway to the Abbey. 
 
 I threaded my way back into the church, and reposed myself 
 at the foot of one of the large trees that stand within it. Three 
 centuries of decay rest undisturbed upon the shrine of ancient 
 Faith. The floor is covered with the rubbish of arches and 
 columns, and overgrown with a profusion of flowers. Bushes, 
 almost trees in size, grow upon the top of the wall over the east 
 window. An immense mass of black ivy, from the outside, fills 
 
132 VISIT TO NETLET ABBET. [^tat. 34. 
 
 up the side windows of the choir, and pushes far into the chapel, 
 with the omnious, menacing aspect of a dark, ruthless foe press- 
 ing on resistlessly to overwhelm his devoted victim. The lofty 
 and thinly-foliaged ash trees, that overtop the chapel and cover 
 it in, serve as a sort of embowered roof, and cast that shaded 
 light through the interior which its ancient character as well as 
 its modern condition render appropriate. It needed but little 
 aid from fancy to feel that Nature, with religious instinct, had 
 been busied in concealing and repairing the ravages of man ; 
 had pleased herself, through successive years, to arch anew the 
 fallen ceiling, and reconstruct the long perspective of the aisles. 
 I sat musing for some time in this interesting ruin, which is now 
 an august and lovely cathedral of natural sentiment as it once 
 was of holy truth. Every few minutes a great cawing of rooks 
 or jackdaws would break out, or a sudden -flight of those dusky 
 birds would darken the checkered earth. Ruin seemed to have 
 invested itself in its most enchanting traits, as if to reconcile us 
 to its devastation of so much elegance ; and I knew not whether 
 most to mourn the structure which once was so peerless, or to 
 love the destruction which had made it yet more captivating in 
 overthrow. It was a spot to supply the artist with studies of 
 the picturesque ; to inspire the poet with suggestions of senti- 
 ment ; to instruct and reprove the moralist with lessons of human 
 passion and earthly vicissitude. Like a ruined maid, with her 
 thin locks disheveled around her wan yet winning beauties, sit- 
 ting in the patience of her long despair, the pensive graces of the 
 spot seemed almost to touch the sources of personal sympathy. 
 I have viewed Tintern, and Melrose, and Roslin, and Holyrood ; 
 but I remember nothing that approaches the pathetic loveliness 
 of Netley. I brought away with me a few ivy leaves from the 
 east window, and a flower or two from the floor of the chapel, 
 as remembrances of the meditative hour which I passed beneath 
 the shadow of this twice sacred fane ; and I bade adieu to beau- 
 tiful Netley with emotions of melancholy and delight. A walk 
 of a couple of miles along the water brought me to Southampton. 
 
NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 August 21, 1850. At Bale, I met again tlie fervent Rhine ; 
 email in size, but shooting past with a copious mass of whirling 
 waters, as green as malachite. The town, once famed in letters, 
 is now uninteresting. We loitered away an hour or two at the 
 museum, examining numerous sketches and portraits by Hol- 
 bein, and turning over some volumes of autograph correspond- 
 ence between Martin Luther, Zuinglius, and Melancthon. The 
 cathedral is a quaint, Romanesque affair, of the twelfth century, 
 chiefly memorable for the tomb of that wittiest of the good and 
 gentlest of the learned, Erasmus. 
 
 On the following day, I set out for a tour through Switzer- 
 land. We left Basle at six o'clock, for Bienne, through the 
 Miinster Thai, or Yal Moustier, a defile formed by the connect- 
 ing valleys of the Birs and the Suze, which, running in opposite 
 directions, cleave the Jura through the midst, and give entrance 
 to the heart of Switzerland. The morning was fine, but the 
 mists yet lingered in the ravines, and as the sun lighted them 
 up, they resembled solid bridges of silver, connecting the adja- 
 cent hills. As your eye glanced along these vapor-filled valleys, 
 and caught sight of a fleecy cloud beyond, it seemed as if a 
 celestial ocean lay before you, stretching away in eternity. The 
 Birs is a bright, green stream, rapid and dimpling ; and the 
 route follows its course from its mouth, at Basle, to its source, 
 in some fountains in a cleft of the Pierre Pertuis mountain, 
 which is the summit that divides the rivulets that flow towards 
 12 (133J 
 
134 NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. [^tat. 33. 
 
 the Rhine from those that fall into the lake of Bienne. It 
 takes its name from an arched rock that crosses the road, re- 
 sembling the Natural Bridge of Virginia, though much smaller 
 than that magnificent and beautiful object. It formerly marked 
 a boundary between two of Csesar's Gallic acquaintance, and 
 upon one side of it, is a defaced inscription in which the name 
 Augustus may yet be read. Beyond the Pierre Pertuis, the 
 road follows the Suze from near its source till it empties into the 
 lake Bienne. These streams, several times, cut their course 
 directly through the mountain, which skirts the way on either 
 side by enormous walls of rock, along which shrubbery grows 
 in successive ranges. The scenery, throughout, is upon a stu- 
 pendous scale. The finest portion is on the Bienne side of the 
 rock. The Suze, there, breaks through the vast barrier, and 
 forms a cascade, of which the roar comes to the ear from a great 
 distance below. It seems as if the Jura, when the traveler is 
 about to leave him, were determined to give one last full dis- 
 play of his terrors, and accumulate and range his mightiest 
 shapes in lines to overawe and appall. You move along between 
 cleft rocks, so high that the trees that grow on the top edges 
 can scarcely be distinguished. Looking back, you perceive 
 yourself to be in a colosseum of nature ; an enormous amphithe- 
 atrical valley, upon whose walls the sky seems to be resting. 
 You turn the angle of the left slope of the Jura, and begin to 
 descend into the plain, and the whole panorama of Switzerland 
 bursts upon you in one splendid spectacle. Below, at the right, 
 lies the deep-blue lake of Bienne, and, further on, glitter the 
 waters of Neuchatel. In front, are the plain and valley of the 
 Aar, comprehending the space from Thun and Berne to Soleure 
 and Bienne ; and beyond it, the entire line of the Bernese Alps. 
 To the left, in the distance, are seen the hills of Lucerne, and 
 Zug, and Zchwytz. 
 
 Perhaps no intellectual emotion of our maturer life comes 
 upon us with so much novelty, and strength, and delight, as 
 that shock of surprise and pleasure which we receive from the 
 sight of the snowy pinnacles of the Alps, shooting up into the 
 blue heaven, and standing together in silent mysterious vast- 
 
^TAT. 33.] NOTES OP A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. 135 
 
 ness. It provokes not to expression, but sinks upon the stilled 
 heart, with a strange, exquisite feeling, essentially spiritual in 
 its solemnity and depth. Our native and familiar earth is seen 
 expanding into the sublimity of the heavens, and we feel as if 
 our destiny were exalted along with it. The wonder and sensi- 
 bility of childhood return upon us. Niagara, — the ocean, — 
 cathedrals, — all these, when seen for the first time, touch chords 
 of immortality within our being. But none of them in quickness 
 and fineness and depth of force can be equaled to the aspect of 
 the Alps. Material and moral qualities combine to render it 
 the most awing and ennobling that can pass before living eyes. 
 There is a calming, elevating, consoling influence in the quiet- 
 ness of power, the repose of surpassing magnificence, in which 
 these mighty eminences rest, living out their great lives in silent 
 and motionless serenity ; and our turbulent and troubled souls 
 are reproved and chastened by the spectacle. 
 
 The lake of Bienne is a small but beautiful water. In the 
 middle of it, rises to a considerable height, the little island of 
 Pierre, which was for some time the residence of Rousseau. On 
 the north. Jura cools his feet in its wave ; and, towards the 
 south, the Oberland shows its sky-piercing peaks. The town 
 of Bienne is a vn^etched village, with few inhabitants, and those 
 ill-looking and uncleanly. "We were glad to resume our journey 
 to Berne. From the top of a hill, a mile or two on the road, 
 the view of the Jura range became perfect. It stretched away, 
 obliquely, toward Soleure, and was enveloped in the indistinct, 
 refracted lustre of the evening sun. Its masses of land, rising 
 one after another, in forms of massive greatness, conveyed an 
 image of tranquil and inherent majesty. The more distant sum- 
 mits, that were shaded from the declining sun, were delightfully 
 soft and rich. The effect of the Oberland, on the opposite 
 quarter, grew, every moment, finer. 
 
 The scenery of Switzerland cannot fairly be compared with 
 that of the Rhine,- or of any other part of the world. It is 
 essentially different. The near view of hill scenery is another 
 thing from the distant view of great mountains. The sources 
 of interest in the two cases, are distinct, and the nature of the 
 
136 NOTES OP A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. {iEiAT. 33. 
 
 beauty dissimilar. In a close view, as along the Rhine, excel- 
 lence consists in the particular shape of a peak, — in the group- 
 ing of several together, — in the character of the surface, whether 
 smooth or irregular, whether bare or covered with vegetation, — 
 upon the relation of one part with another, and upon a thousand 
 minute circumstances that enter into the formation of a good 
 picture. But, for a great distant view, there is needed, chiefly, 
 vast height and immense range ; and the effects depend upon 
 bold outlines, and simple and massive contrasts of light and 
 shade. Undoubtedly, the latter is a higher grade of impression 
 than the other. It alone brings out that which distinguishes 
 mountain scenery in its greatest display from all other objects 
 upon the earth. Great mountains are like great men ; the true 
 picturesque point of view is a remote one. Now, it is only the 
 greatest that have any character or interest when so seen. Por 
 this, Switzerland is incomparable. I consider the distant and 
 general views of the Alps as superior to any views in their midst. 
 
 Berne is the least refined and least respectable city that I saw 
 in Europe. I found but one gentleman in it, and had the 
 pleasure of giving him some cakes.* The town is worth visit- 
 ing, chiefly on account of the comprehensive view which it affords 
 of the Oberland. To obtain a prospect which is somewhat noted, 
 I walked up the Enghe hill ; but found a better one from the 
 Uraine, behind the Bear's Graben, and one still finer from the 
 top of the Minster. From that position you enjoy a vision 
 such as no other place in Switzerland gives with equal advan- 
 tage. It is midway between the two chains that enclose the 
 land of Helvetii upon the north and the south. The long 
 line of the Jura is seen in unequaled grandeur along one 
 horizon ; and the greatest of the high Alps tower upward on 
 the other. 
 
 The following day I spent at Thun ; and, on the next, came 
 to Interlaken, an agreeable place, colonized by English. These 
 two days were blanks in the enjoyment of the country, for the 
 clouds were heavy and low. I determined to wait at the gate 
 
 » The public authorities of Berne keep a huge living bear in one of the fash- 
 ionable resorts. — Ed. 
 
^TAT. 33.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. 13t 
 
 of the Oberland for that bright weather, without which 
 Switzerland were but a glorious picture covered with a vail. 
 Soon it came, in all the magnificence of cloudless blue. During 
 the 30th and 31st of August, the tops of the mountains had 
 been invisible ; but when I awoke, at Interlaken, on the 1st of 
 September, and sprang to the window to catch the omens of 
 the day, the summits of the Jungfrau, with its sharp peak of 
 the Silverhorn, the broader mass of the Grosshorn, were 
 gleaming in snowy brilliance on the depths of the blue sky ; so 
 sharply defined, that they seemed to be within arm's-reach ; so 
 ethereal, that they might be thought infinite in remoteness : 
 like heaven itself, at once the most distant from us, and the 
 nearest. Not a vapor fed the hungry clearness of the air around 
 those far pinnacles of ice and granite. The Jungfrau rises at 
 the opposite end of the Lauterbrunnen valley, and is seen 
 through an opening in the nearer hills. The glorious spectacle 
 smote me with a paroxysm of impatient delight. 
 
 I set off in a chaise at eight, with a guide, and drove to 
 Lauterbrunnen, a distance of seven miles, to begin thence the 
 ascent of the Wengern Alp on foot. On the right is passed, 
 near Interlaken, the ruined castle of TJnspunnen, which popular 
 feeling, fond of giving particular locality to the fictions of 
 genius, has identified with Manfred's Castle. The road runs 
 at the edge of the Liitschine, which foams along as white as the 
 snows from which it takes its rise. A few miles further up, 
 where the Black Liitschine, coming down on the left, from 
 Griudenwald, and the White Liitschine, from Lauterbrunnen, 
 unite, the prospect is magnificent. At the head of the scene 
 is Wengen-Berg ; on the right, the Eisenfluch ; and on the left 
 a vast mountain mass, shattered in the middle into a number 
 of needle-shaped peaks. Through the valley of the Black 
 Liitschine, there burst upon the sight the grand mass of the 
 snowy Wetterhorn, — glittering in the sanctity of its stain- 
 less white — crescent-shaped on the top, as if it might serve for 
 the resting-place of the young moon when she descended to 
 woo the embraces of Endymion. Pursuing the Lauterbrunnen 
 valley, you pass along through the rocky walls of great height, 
 12* 
 
138 NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. [^tat. 33. 
 
 till the glaciers of the Brighthom, a part of the Jungfrau, 
 come into sight. Further on, you see all the crests of the 
 Jungfrau. The aspect of these silvery ridges against the dark 
 side of the Hunnenflue, on the left, is inconceivably splendid. 
 
 Near the head of the valley hangs the airy waterfall of Staub- 
 bach ; apparently creeping downwards from its lofty rock, a 
 thousand feet on high ; seeming to throw itself timidly into the 
 abyss, and to win slowly against the mass of air. This retarded 
 appearance in the fall is caused by its being broken into mist 
 soon after it leaves the shelf over which it is precipitated. The 
 distant view of the cataract, from the road, when you see it 
 plunging in the face of the snowy piles of the Jungfrau, is, 
 perhaps, the most imposing that there is. When you are near, 
 you see a series of shoots of water, successively dilated into 
 mist. The fall, in its centre, is purely vapor ; but, the rock 
 advancing somewhat towards the base, it collects again into 
 water as it strikes it, and forms a stream at the bottom. Ap- 
 proaching closely, you are covered with spray, but see a strong, 
 well-defined brilliant rainbow. This singular cataract seemed 
 to represent the destiny of a Christian soul that casts itself -into 
 eternity. For a time it is absorbed in the ethereal immensity 
 of the medium it would traverse, but afterwards regains its 
 identity under a glorious bow of promise, and flows on for ever 
 in the mingled stream of ceaseless life. 
 
 The whole of that mountain is dripping with waterfalls. One 
 of them I observed shoots over exactly like a rocket. The val- 
 ley of the Lauterbrunnen, seen from the road on the right, 
 affords a beautiful scene of Alpine pastoral life. It is occupied 
 by a large village of cottages, placed at considerable and irreg- 
 ular distances over the broad ascending glade. These cottages 
 generally have no gardens near them, and you observe no paths. 
 They rise directly out of the green sward. At first, you see 
 but one or two ; but letting the eye wander on, it detects cot- 
 tage after cottage, until at length a large village is made out. 
 
 Here I dismissed the carriage, took an alpenstock — a six- 
 feet pole shod with an iron point, — and attended by the guide, 
 began the ascent of the Wengern Alp. The glittering glacier 
 
aiTAT. 3S.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. I39 
 
 of the Brighthorii at the upper end of the valley overhangs 
 you throughout a third part of the ascent. When you are 
 half-way up, and wind round the mountain so as to get directly 
 above the ravine from which you have ascended, the noise of 
 the torrents of the Lauterbrunnen, inaadible when you were 
 below, comes to you in a mingled roar, like a deep chorus of 
 waters. Here a man was blowing upon a long, crooked Alpine 
 horn, and the mountainous response was most singular and 
 beautiful. When the tune on the horn was ended, the Alps 
 made, not an echo, but a reproduction of it, in an improved 
 and heightened character. They took it up, and chanted the 
 air again with infinite sweetness, and a dancing grace that was 
 delightful. They seemed to constitute a natural instrument 
 of music, to which the horn was but the awakening breath, 
 and which transmitted the original impulse, varied into the 
 richest melody. When this repeated tune was done, there came 
 a soft, long gush of sound, as if the vocal mountains breathed, 
 after the protracted air they had executed. Further up, and 
 almost at the top of the Wengem, were herds of kine, and 
 sheep, with their keepers. The bleating and lowing of the 
 cattle, the tinkling of their bells, and the piping of the boys, 
 amid the stillness of all but natural sounds, formed a fine 
 specimen of the picturesque in sound. 
 
 Soon you come into the immediate presence of the high Alps, 
 and they continue before you the rest of the way. The walk 
 along the inner side of the Alp, with these grand piles directly 
 opposite, is one of unrivalable magnificence. You are separated 
 from them by a single valley or chasm, of no great width, though 
 of fearful and dizzying profundity. The air in that valley be- 
 neath, was as blue and deep as the heaven which it seemed to 
 mirror in its almost opaque medium. Some time before arriving 
 at the actual summit or ridge I stopped, and sat down for above 
 an hoar directly in front of the Jungfrau. It is the nearest 
 view that you can obtain of the most interesting, and august, 
 and splendid peak in Switzerland ; for Mont Blanc, while it 
 exceeds it in apparent mass, and in actual height, in every 
 quality of effect must yield to it. The day was perfect ; of the 
 
140 NOTES OF A TOUR IS SWITZERLAND. [iExAT. 33. 
 
 brightest clearness, but with a few white clouds rolling and 
 whirling, and dashing about with swiftness before the westerly- 
 wind, to diversify the scene ; sometimes enveloping the summits 
 and hiding them from view ; then drawing off and letting them 
 flash out in unshrouded effulgence. The contrast between the 
 pearly white of the foaming clouds, the metallic radiance of the 
 icy mountains, and the profound blue of the sky, was inde- 
 scribably fine. Immediately before and above me, was the broad 
 dazzling summit of Jungfrau ; a little nearer, the Silverhorn ; 
 which is a projection upon its breast, in shape like a bent wave, 
 or half-curled leaf of pure snow, as lustrous as silver. Ou 
 either side of them were a throng of Alps. The avalanches 
 were falling at brief intervals. The sight is nothing, but the 
 sound is magical. You see, perhaps, a few fragments of ice 
 slide over the surface of the mountain ; and after it has all fallen, 
 you begin to hear a phinging sound, echoing along Hke soft- 
 ened tones of thunder. It is as deep as thunder, but not so 
 sharp and harsh. The vision from the summit of the Fauld- 
 horn, in vastoess and brilliance, and diversity, suffers nothing to 
 be brought into comparison with it ; but for moral impression 
 the Jungfrau, as seen from the Wengern Al-p, stands alone in 
 its transcendant majesty. It is the apparent nearness, yet sense 
 of untraversable remoteness, of that august form, that shines so 
 distinct, and still so distant, that belongs to earth, and yet is 
 visited and companioned by the clouds. You seem to be in the 
 inner court of the mundane heaven of Alpine glory ; to have 
 approached within the vail of the recess of that sublimity which 
 sends its light over the land for hundreds of miles. In the 
 beauty of that scene, grandeur is exalted into holiness. 
 
 Upon the crest of the mountain, there is a chalet, and here 
 the valley of Grindenwald opens ; and you begin to descend. 
 The prospect is impressive, but stern and savage. Poor Lord 
 Byron's blasted forest of pines, in which he found so sa.d a like- 
 ness to his own domestic desolation, stands there to this hour, 
 exactly as he has described it in his Journal and in Manfred. 
 On your right, the great Alps form a precipitous wall, bristling 
 with terrors. Directly over your head Eagher pierces the clouds 
 
^TAT. 33.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. I4I 
 
 like a vast dagger of rock, sheathed in snow. Then comes the 
 smaller Eagher, and further on, the Wetterhorn. Beyond the 
 valley of Grindenwald, afar, the great Shriedeck and the 
 Schwarzwald rear their heads. Here a fellow was stationed 
 with a small cannon, which I gave him three batz to let off. 
 There was an almost indefinite prolongation of the roar. It 
 seemed to be telegraphed along the side of the mountains, soft- 
 ened and made richer as it advanced, — ^till it had traversed the 
 whole line of Alps ; and then, when nearly extinct, shot across 
 the valley, and spent itself like a rocket that has burst into a 
 shower of light. The valley of Grindenwald is extremely beauti- 
 ful. It may be called the seat of an Alpine summer city ; the 
 chalets being very numerous, and sprinkled about among the 
 green turf. Here are two glaciers ; the lower one formed be- 
 tween the Eagher and Mittenberg, and the upper between the 
 Mittenberg and Wetterhorn. The Black Lutschine flows from 
 them. The smaller one has an arched aperture at its base, 
 from which a stream issues. The under side of it is a deep 
 green. 
 
 It was half past five when I reached Grindenwald, having 
 been six hours and a half on foot. I arrived without any fa- 
 tigue, but excessively heated by the run down the mountain. 
 As the sun went down, the snowy peak of the Eagher was bathed 
 in a deep rosy or purple light, long after the valley had grown 
 dark. 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 The following morning being entirely clear, I determined to 
 ascend the Fauldhorn ; and took the upper and greater glacier 
 by the way. The mass which forms the top of the glacier, and 
 lies among the highest Alps, looks like ordinary snow freshly 
 fallen. The middle part has an efflorescent appearance, and 
 the lower portions have a crystalline, or half organic charac- 
 ter, and are split into sharp clefts or peaks, divided by crevices 
 of a deep green. In advance of the ice, lay an enormous cube- 
 
142 NOTES OP A TOUE IN SWITZERLAND. [^tat. 33. 
 
 shaped rock of flint, which a glacier had brought down fifteen 
 years ago. Its side was round, and worn in furrows. The bot- 
 tom of the glacier, which rests upon the earth, is constantly- 
 melting, so that the icy mass is hollow within. There is a side- 
 opening into the vault, which we entered. A smaller rib of ice 
 within, supports you, and enables you to advance some distance, 
 and see the water gashing from the inner regions of the glacier. 
 The ice, when you are under or in the glacier, is semi-transpa- 
 rent, and of a bluish green. Near the entrance, it looks purple. 
 Prom this point, I struck across the ravine, and began the ascent 
 of the Fauldhorn ; not taking the ordinary road, which would 
 have obliged us to go back to Grindenwald, but traversing the 
 fields and going up the steep side of the mountain. In fact it was 
 an almost perpendicular climb ; but the rich fine sod afforded a 
 more agreeable footing than the road, and we saved in length 
 what we lost in ease of ascent. The lower part of the moun- 
 tain is covered with a delightful mossy turf, entirely like that of 
 an English park ; which, excepting in these Alpine valleys, I 
 have seen in no other part of the world. The higher glades 
 were one glowing sheet of flowers, — crimson and blue. Among 
 them were familiar pinks, blue-bells, and a species of forget- 
 me-not. 
 
 The flora changes twice, almost entirely, as you ascend ; so 
 that there are three several zones, all richly but differently 
 flowered. It was not far from the top that my attention was 
 caught by a small star-shaped flower, of a deep metallic blue 
 shading upon green, that flashed through the grass with a moist, 
 lustrous softness, like the sensitive eye of a maiden. I soon re- 
 cognized it as the smaller gentian ; dear to the poet's heart and 
 verse. There are three varieties of the gentian, commonly met 
 with in the Oberland. 
 
 About the base, while you are yet in the valley of Grinden- 
 wald, the grand objects of view, are the Eagher, the Mittenberg, 
 with the Walcherhorn's great wall of ice behind the interval, 
 and the Wetterhorn, with the Schrieckhorn behind the interval 
 between it and the Mittenberg. They seem to be directly over 
 your head. Between the three foremost, were two stupendous 
 
^TAT. 33.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. I43 
 
 basins of snow, from which the glaciers descend. As you mount 
 higher, the splendid peak of the Finster-Aarhorn rises into 
 sight. Then, the Spenglehom is seen peering up across the 
 lower range of the Bagher : then, the Silverhorn. By degrees, 
 Jungfrau, Monch and the Blumlis Alp, come into line ; and the 
 whole array of the Bernese Alps is before you. 
 
 The day was magnificent. Not a cloud was visible ; and, 
 directly before me, these snowy summits blazed in the glory of 
 the noontide. As I crossed the several vales that diversify the 
 mountain, different views presented themselves ; sometimes of 
 one part of the chain, sometimes of another, sometimes of all 
 together. Though brilliantly clear, a rich atmosphere of pur- 
 plish blue invested the rocky sides of the mountains, while the 
 tops gleamed in celestial brightness. Very high up, we came 
 upon a deep-blue lake, formed from melted snow and rain. 
 We fell in the common road about half-way up ; but, leaving it 
 again, struck to the right, and clomb up the steep eastern side 
 of the mountain; part of the course being along an almost 
 vertical wall of loose rock ; traversing also a huge hollow filled 
 with hard snow, and seeing several others like it. I gained the 
 summit about three o'clock, fully half an hour before parties who 
 had set out from Grindenwald on horseback, that same space of 
 time before us. 
 
 For extent and variety, and for the greatness of the objects 
 that compose it, I must think that the view from the top of the 
 Fauldhorn, is unequaled in Europe. It is like looking down 
 upon all the kingdoms of the earth, and the glory thereof. The 
 height is more than 8000 feet above the sea : and the loftiest points 
 in Berne are only between thirteen and fourteen hundred.* The 
 situation is exactly in the centre, between the range of high 
 Alps on the south and east, and the lower mountains that lie 
 between them and the Jura on the north and west : and the 
 whole multitude of peaks of and within those great chains on 
 two sides, and between the seas of Zurich and Geneva at the 
 other ends, are around and beneath you. For a clear and com- 
 
 * MS. thousand ; an apparent error. 
 
144 NOTES OF A TOim IN SWITZERLAND. [^tat. S3; 
 
 manding view of the high Alps, nothing can exceed it. When 
 you see the summits of this great chain, from a low point, you 
 imagine them to be so many different mountains ; but from this 
 position, you see that it is one great broad wall of snow-covered 
 rock, rising occasionally into pinnacles, which might seem to be 
 watch-towers along the stupendous barrier that nature has set 
 between the North and South of Europe. 
 
 Beginning at the south-eastern corner of the panorama, and 
 looking across the Shriedeck, the Schwartzhorn, and the Bach 
 Alp, whose dark masses shoot up near the base of the Faaldhorn, 
 you see a cluster of sharp peaks, supporting a vast plateau of 
 pure deep snow. These are the Englehorn family and Will- 
 horn, sustaining the glaciers of Rosenlaui and Schwartzwald. 
 Following the great chain in a south-westerly direction, we have 
 the Wetterhorn with its double peak ; and next to it, the half- 
 reclined and shelving mass of the Shrieckhorn, or Peak of 
 Terror. These are filled with snow, and between them lies the 
 upper glacier of Grindenwald, propped up in front by Met- 
 tenberg. Then flashes aloft the soaring and glittering spear of 
 the Finster-Aarhorn, the highest and one of the most magnifi- 
 cent of the chain, being four hundred feet above the Jungfrau. 
 This peak, vrith the Walcherhorn, the Viescherhorn, and the 
 Eagher, form a stupendous amphitheatrical elevation of snow, 
 holding within them these vast masses which contribute to the 
 lower glacier of Grindenwald. The round mass of the Monch 
 follows, and beyond it, immortal Jungfrau. The actual apex 
 of this splendid rock is a short point, but the general mass of 
 the peak resembles a broad, thin, rounded blade. On its breast 
 rise three snowy prominences; the farthest and highest of 
 which is distinguished as the Silverhorn. Lord Byron calls it 
 the i)ent d'Argent. Perhaps he mistook the guide's name of 
 Come d'Argent. In shape, however, it is quite like an eye- 
 tooth. It looks like a solid form of pure ice, and glitters with 
 enchanting splendor. Further on, are Breithorn, a grand 
 hatchet-shaped ridge, and Grosshorn. Near them, a little out 
 of line, is Schengelhorn. Then, as the first of a new ridge 
 parallel to the first, the Blumlis Alp, a series of wedgelike peaks. 
 
iETAT. 33.] NOTES OF A TOUK IN SWITZERLAND. 145 
 
 These gorgeous summits and the whole line from which they 
 rise, are covered with snow. Viewed in conjunction, they re- 
 semble enormous waves of some mighty ocean of old time, 
 which had been driven up by the tempests of chaos into the 
 highest crests, and just as they were about to break, were frozen 
 into ever-during fixedness. 
 
 Looking towards the west, you see an innumerable throng , 
 of Alps, not snow-crowned, though magnificent ; the mountains 
 of the Simen Thai and the Saanen Thai, and the mountains of 
 Priberg ; and nearer, the pyramidal mass of the Niesen, and 
 the rough summit of Stokhorn, both of them just beyond Lake 
 Thun. All along the north, and forming the nearer barrier of 
 the scene, — for the eye could reach far beyond them, — runs the 
 long line of the Jura; and in the same direction, close at hand, 
 were the rocky ridges of Harder, and Brienzergrat. To the 
 east, the ragged crest of Pilatus loomed grandly up ; the 
 Righi was plainly seen ; and the mountains of the Canton of 
 Uri stood banded together like an army with spears. Lake 
 Lucerne was clearly visible, almost in its entireness ; Zug more 
 dimly. Lake Brienze lay at the foot of the Fauldhorn, divided 
 by one of its ridges into two parts ; and further on, was Lake 
 Thun, both of a deep dark blue. 
 
 Such were the material and earthly elements of this unrivaled 
 scene. Viewed in picturesque combination, with the inde- 
 scribable advantages of atmospheric relief, and aided by the 
 contributing glories of a luminous and sensitive sky, the entire 
 effect was beyond all power of describing. Three hours before 
 sunset, there were scarcely any clouds about the higher and 
 nearer parts of the prospect ; but the air of the valleys to the 
 north, and east, and west, had become of a bluish green color, 
 and partially opaque, so as to look like very translucent water. 
 As you gazed toward the north-west, whither the sun was 
 traveling, the vast expanse beneath your feet had the appear- 
 ance of an ocean, in which mountains were floating. On the 
 edge of the horizon, above a stratum of blue air, some cumulous 
 white clouds were lying, and the miragelike impression of the air 
 brought the mountains into such resemblance and unison with 
 13 
 
146 NOTES OF A TOUE IN SWITZERLAND. [^tat. 33. 
 
 these unsubstantial, distant shapes, that the gazer would have 
 declared that peaks still more stupendous than Ju)-vgfrau and 
 Eagher were disclosed to sight upon the north, the west, 
 and the north-east. The splendor of this whole spectacle — 
 where the sun was streaming all the magic of his deluding 
 beams to cast upon the land an enchantment greater than its 
 own — was such as to overwhelm the soul with admiration and 
 astonishment. Earth seemed no longer to be earth; and the 
 spectator felt as if the. multitudinous unrevealed magnificences 
 of heaven itself were poured forth around him in a flood. 
 
 As the sun declined, a mass of white fleecy clouds, rising 
 from the earth, gathered over the valleys of Brienze, Interlaken, 
 Thun, and others that lay more remote, the Lake of Thun, 
 itself, meanwhile, blazing like a sheet of gold. The atmospheric 
 changes, at this time, were rapid and wonderful. An extremely 
 thin fragment of pearly cloud which had got behind our posi- 
 tion, suddenly flashed into pure prismatic colors. Gradually, 
 thickening clouds formed into a solid silvery vault over all the 
 valleys, completely opaque ; through which the heads and ridges 
 of the mountains, such as Neisen, and Stokhorn, and Harder, and 
 Pilatus, pierced in dark masses. This floor of clouds was above 
 two thousand feet below us. "We were eight thousand one 
 hundred and forty feet above the sea ; Stokhorn and Pilatus 
 are about six thousand five hundred feet above the same level, 
 or one thousand six hundred feet beneath our station ; and the 
 clouds were from five hundred to one thousand feet below their 
 tops. Overhead, the hues of the cloudless sky now became 
 transcendently bright. Directly above us, the tone was a deep, 
 purple blue ; half-way towards the sun, of a very light turquoise 
 blue. Then came a stratum of the most vivid grass green, and 
 beyond it, along the horizon, the richest lake color. As the 
 sun neared his goal, and was looked at across the pavement of 
 clouds beneath, it seemed like a car of fire driven over a cause- 
 way of beaten silver. The glowing effulgence grew each mo- 
 ment more intense till the orb touched the horizon ; and a darker 
 shade mingled itself into every color, as he gradually sunk 
 below it. ''«'» 
 
^TAT. 33.] NOTES OP A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. 147 
 
 All this changeful history belongs to the region that lay be- 
 tween the Fauldhorn and the setting sun, and is confined to the 
 lower mountains. Upon the mighty line of the high Alps, 
 ■which soared aloft, behind us, there passed no variation. Amid 
 all the airy revolutions that were taking place in the world 
 below, they stood in their own clear, unaltered grandeur, in 
 every particular almost, just as they had seemed at noonday. 
 Their life was apart from that of the crowd of peaks that started 
 out of the valleys, and a different destiny belonged to them. 
 Not a cloud approached even their feet. The only matter to 
 be observed was, that the air of their ravines which had been 
 bluish at mid-day, now purpled with a warmer splendor ; and 
 ■when the sun to us had disappeared, the summits of Jungfrau 
 and Eagher were tinged for a moment ■with a rich carmine glow. 
 When he was entirely set, the still deepening rose color with 
 which the sky behind them was tinged, threw their white masses 
 into a stronger relief. Perhaps, the most striking circumstance 
 in all the wonderful display, and one that added a graver tone 
 of sublimity to the matchless brilliance of the scene, was the 
 very slight effect which so considerable an occurrence, as the 
 setting of the sun, had upon these great objects, while the infe- 
 rior realm had been in a tumult of agitation. It seemed as if 
 they had an atmosphere, an illumination of their own, so posi- 
 tive and settled, that the changes of light between mid-day and 
 evening made no impression upon them. 
 
 I never expect again to behold a spectacle so grand as that 
 sunset above the clouds; in the midst of the highest Alps. 
 
 Chapter III. 
 
 On the following morning I was on the spot at a quarter be- 
 fore five o'clock, to see the sun rise. The morning star yet 
 glittered like a diamond over the peak of Finster-Aarhorn, and 
 the crescent moon was lingering above the snowy piles. The 
 sky was cloudless ; and the principal thing to be noted was the 
 
148 miBS OV A TOUR IN SWITZERl/AND. [MtAf. ?X 
 
 roseate blnsh with which the high A lp» respondw] to hf» firfifc 
 rays, befoi'e any other pealis had become couscions of hi« corrjlng, 
 Schrieckhorn first canght the messenger ray of the morning } 
 but, in an instant after, Jnngfrau was ii<!,Ujvr, and the radiance 
 streamed along the whole of the lofty range, 'Vhl^ actual rising 
 of the snn is not visible from the top of Fauldhoni, at least at 
 that particnlar season. It is hidden by the Hchcidcck and 
 Schwartzhorn, which intervene, and we saw the sun only as it 
 came over their shoulders, 
 
 At nine o'clock I began to descend ; taking leave with pro- 
 found regret of these snow-capped summits, wifh which for 
 nearly two days I had been in intimate companioriship. ThCTe 
 i.H something inexpressibly intcrcrsfing in snch society, , In their 
 age, and in their duration without change, — in the complete 
 inability of human power to act upon them in any way whatever, 
 — they carry with them such snggcstions of sublimity, and they 
 are in themselves, of such peculiar and surpassing fjeanty, that 
 one conceives almost a [las^ionate affection for their exalted 
 presence. 
 
 My path lay along the side of the Fanldh<mi and across the 
 Greater Scheidcck towards Myriri^^en. When we were ofipo- 
 site the Wellborn, and with the glacier of Scbwarfzback before 
 ns, the majestic solitude of the scene was interrnjited by an eagle 
 of the largest size, who came wheeling ronr.d the Finster-.A »r- 
 born, and turned the Schrieckhom and soared up the valley ; 
 then returned and gyratefl abont the head of the fJiv h Alp for 
 a long time, disclosing ocea.sionally the white j>lamage on the 
 back of his wings. He seemed to be drinkirig the morning fton- 
 light. Further along the valley, we arrived at the lofty needle 
 rock called Englehom ; resembling a snccession of fountains 
 shot into the sky, and congealed into rocks ere they fell, be- 
 tween them and Wellborn is the glacier of Rosenlani. In going 
 np to it, frir it lies a little ont of the rontc, the path crosses a 
 torrent which lie« above two hundred feet below, between rocks 
 about five feet apart. Here also arc a conple of f.irtoresqne 
 waterfalls. The glacier is not so broarl as those of (irinden- 
 wald, bot deeper or higher. There are three apertures by which 
 
^TAT. 33.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. 149 
 
 it may be entered. The outside is of granulated snow, but the 
 inner surface is pure solid crystal of ice. 
 
 Pursuing the valley, I soon reached the Falls of Reichenback ; 
 the upper one of which is one of the most singular and graceful 
 I have seen. I passe4 the night at the Reichenback inn, near 
 Myringeji. 
 
 On the following morning I set out for the glacier of the 
 Rhone, through the valley of the Aar, and across the Grimsel 
 and Furca pass. This day's march brought to view some of 
 the wildest and sternest scenery that I haVe met with in Switzer- 
 land. As you leave Myringen and come up the lower part of 
 the ravine, which is called the valley of Hasli, the view at once 
 becomes grand. On your right, the cataract of Reichenback 
 roars down the lofty side of the mountain. On the right front, 
 the huge pyramidal masses of Plattenburg rear themselves. 
 Further ?.long, upon the left, is the snowy Hasliberg ; and be- 
 tween them, like a, watch-tower at the head of the way, the lofty 
 white peaks of Susterhorn cleave the sky. In a short time ypu 
 enter upon the valley of Imhof or the Upper Hasli, a circular 
 basin of land, said to have been once the bed of a lake, now the 
 seat of, picturesque cottages and fruitful fieldsi As you stand 
 in this silent and solemn valley, the prospect is magnificent. 
 Like a wall on one hand the rocky side of Engelberg rises 
 almost vertically. Two other mountains stand at the valley's 
 mouth like vast and- lofty turrets. Numerous snowy peaks shoot 
 up through the intervals between the nearer piles. At a dis- 
 tance, athwart the valley of the Grimsel, lies the high broad 
 crest of Nagales-Gratli, as rough and jagged along the summit, 
 as the edge of a wave which the storm raiseth and blows into 
 fragments. It holds within its arms a mass of snow. 
 
 Striking again into a narrow gorge, the road goes over the 
 heel of the Plattenberg, and the scenery becomes sublime. Aar, 
 foamiiig itself as white as snow, roars far beneath. The valley 
 is bounded by a succession of mountain peaks, down whose sides 
 rivulets flow or cataracts tumble, and between which piles of 
 snow are lying. The rapidity with which the successive scenes 
 of varied grandeur open upon the traveler, fills him with wonder. 
 13* 
 
150 NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. [^tat. 33. 
 
 Sometimes we were in a thick, dark forest of young pines ; 
 s-oraetimes on a broad smiling glade ; one while piles of rocks 
 were scattered around us, and at another time we were threading 
 a deep, close defile. Presently we came to the base of the wide 
 Nagales-Gratli, famed in the memorable campaign of 1*799, 
 when the genius of Massena stayed for years the destiny of 
 Europe, by repelling that formidable power which afterwards 
 intervened with conclusive weight. When the Austrians were 
 in possession of the Grimsel, the French came up the valley to 
 this point from Myringen : a part of their force then ascended 
 to the higher ridges of this mountain, and went along it to 
 Grimsel, while the rest advanced through the ravine. The dis- 
 comfiture of the Austrians was complete. Crossing the Aar, I 
 reached a finely-shaded glade containing a fountain, beside 
 which I sat down and gazed with astonishment upon the savage 
 cliffs, which, on the opposite side, rise almost to the clouds. 
 
 In perfection and magnificence of visible beauty, the external 
 and front views of the Great Alps, such as I had enjoyed on 
 the three previous days, are unrivaled ; but for the mental im- 
 pression of crowded power, and awe almost amounting to horror, 
 this prospect within the midst of these appalling masses of wild 
 and fearful desolation is supreme. Like some monster of fable, 
 splendor may illuminate the front, but terror freezes at the heart 
 of these solitudes. Upon this region, the vivifying and order- 
 ing syllables of creation seem never to have passed ; a realm of 
 chaos reserved to the primeval empire of the Formless and the 
 Void ; where there is brilliance without warmth, summer with- 
 out foliage, and days but no duties. Through every opening 
 the front of death seems to start up under the aspect of livid 
 rock, mantled in glassy ice. The sun rolls his purple tides of 
 life through the air that surrounds these summits, but his beams 
 wake no seed-time and ripen no harvest. The moon and the 
 stars rise and move and decline along the horizon, century after 
 century ; but the sweet vicissitudes of seasons and of time move 
 not the sympathies of these pale, stern peaks, over which broods 
 one eternal winter to the senses, one visionary night of gloom 
 to the soul. 
 
iETAT. 33.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. 151 
 
 Advancing further along the valley, upon the right, the Aar- 
 land mountains become visible in a vast hollow circuit; like half 
 of a huge crater, whose sides and summits are filled with crevices 
 between which the snow rests, and descends almost to the val- 
 ley. Soon, through another opening in the nearer rocks, one 
 of the Aarland glaciers is seen. The lower part has melted 
 away, leaving nothing but a field of small black stones lying 
 against the mountain. But at the top, immense piles of snow 
 are propped up, from which a small stream flows down through 
 the rubbish of rocks. A number of small, uprooted pines, 
 ■which an avalanche had torn out, were lying about. 
 
 The cataract of the Aar now begins, consisting of long, tum- 
 bling, foaming rapids, forming an occasional shoot of ten or 
 twelve feet, over which rainbows played, some of them extremely 
 bright. The ravine, for a considerable distance, forms a valley 
 of rainbows. Presently appears the Falls of Handek, Just 
 over the ledge, from which the water springs, a rock lies athwart 
 the stream that passes under it, so that, as you look from below, 
 It appears as if an immense fountain there welled forth from the 
 centre of the vertical cliff. Mounting to the top, you see one 
 of the most wild and singular falls in Switzerland. Upon one 
 side the Aar, descending in a copious yellowish mass, precipi- 
 tates itself into the deep, narrow gorge of rock, that opens out 
 to the depth of 200 feet. At the same time, from an adjoining 
 ledge, the Erlanbach, which flows down from an immense field 
 of snow on the top of a mountain at the side of the valley, 
 flings itself over in a flood of silvery drops ; and the torrents 
 mingle half-way down, while the spray rushes forth with irre- 
 pressible fury. Above the mists that contended in this dun- 
 geon of furious waters, an iris was formed ; not bow-shaped, 
 and having none of the serenity of the Arch of Hope, but whirl- 
 ing and flickering in a blaze of blue, green, and orange ; some- 
 times forming a solid pillar of lurid fire, and anon breaking and 
 flashing, as the spray rose and fell. It seemed like a flame from 
 hell-mouth bursting forth from the deep crevice, and checked 
 but not extinguished by the two streams poured in to quench it. 
 
 Above the Handek, the scenery becomes even more savage 
 
152 NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. [^tat. 33. 
 
 than before, and not less picturesque. Numerous waterfalls 
 Rlrcara down the rocky walls that bound the valley. One of 
 the most beautiful is the Gemlerbach, which descends in snowy 
 brilliance from a small lake, beyond the ledge of the lofty preci- 
 pice, in the rear of which rise the splintered peaks of the Gem- 
 lerhorn. The Aar presents several fine cascades. A grand 
 view occurs where the Giesbach flows into the valley over the 
 surface of a round mountain, and there mingling with the Aar, 
 the two torrents sweep over an' immense globed mass of rock 
 that rears itself athwart the path. 
 
 After some time, we arrived at the circular valley of the Rae- 
 terisboden, much washed by the stream, but giving shelter to 
 one cottage. The French halted and formed here before at- 
 tacking the Grimsel up the valley of the Aar. They utterly 
 destroyed the enemy, who fled through the mountain passes. 
 Arms and fragments of clothes are yet found at times among 
 the rocks. The guide told me that a drum had been picked up 
 the year before. Masses of snow were lying within a foot of 
 the path. At one point the Aar flows under a snow-bridge, 
 fifty feet below the traveler. 
 
 At length, the valley of the Aar-glacier opens on the sight, 
 guarded by three lofty peaks that stand sentinel about the cradle 
 of the torrent. One of these is the Finster-Aarhorn ; another 
 takes its name from Agassiz, who ascended it. Leaving now 
 the rugged channel which the Aar has opened for itself amidst 
 these frightful piles of granite, the road winds round to the left, 
 and we reached the Hospice of Grimsel, a stone house of good 
 appearance, looking towards the valley of the Aar-glacier, and 
 nestled in the hollow of the rocky mountains that on three sides 
 rise around it. Behind it is a deep blue lake, which empties 
 itself into the Aar. As I was determined to see the glacier of 
 the Rhone, before I closed my eyes that night, we continued 
 our march without stopping, and ascended the rocky ridge that 
 towers behind the Hospice. The summit of the pass is 6600 feet 
 above the sea, and is one of the dreariest and saddest solitudes 
 I have ever traversed. We crossed some large beds of snow, 
 which lie in the cup-shaped crest of the ridge. The surface 
 
^TAT. 33.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. I53 
 
 was SO much inclined as to make it difficult to keep one's foot- 
 ing. At the bottom of the declivity, lay the dim Lake of the 
 Dead. A few masses of rock, in a line, constitute the boundary 
 between Berne and Vallais. We foUo'wed the road called 
 Meyenwald. A light cumulous cloud, which had been gradually 
 rising from the lower parts of the scene, now completely envel- 
 oped us. The effect was chilly and damp, and at one time drops 
 of rain fell. It was impossible to see the guide, though he was 
 but a few feet in advance of me. The vapor, however, presently 
 blew off, and gaining the opposite side of the ridge, which de- 
 scends precipitately, 1 beheld, at a distance of 1200 feet below 
 me, the magnificent white mass of the glacier of the Rhone, a 
 wonderful and beautiful spectacle. It is an enormous mass of 
 snow, gracefully shaped like the sole of a pointed slipper ; the 
 heel part much higher than the front, the central portion break- 
 ing down toward the point by an inclination of half a right 
 angle, and the fore part lined with innumerable cuts or clefts of 
 a greenish hue. Behind the pile lay the ice-encumbered peaks 
 of Gallenstock. The glacier far exceeds in beauty the Mer-de- 
 glace ; and for grandeur and interest, the glaciers of the valley 
 between Grindenwald and Myringen make no comparison 
 with it. 
 
 I seated myself on the lofty edge of the Meyenwald, and 
 watched the play of the clouds in the immense chasm beneath 
 us, as they rolled about in changeful glory. A light mass 
 would come down from the valley of the Rhone-glacier, which 
 would be met by another coming up ; a third from the cleft 
 which we had been crossing, would join battle athwart the 
 others ; and the rapid tumultuous flying hither and yon of these 
 misty squadrons of the air was extremely curious. The whole 
 scene of war was a little below our feet ; and as the vapors 
 were driven one way or the other, or opened and divded on the 
 fortunes of the battle, the superb silvery ridges of the Plauenberg, 
 filled with glittering snow, flashed up ; and the mists overhead 
 clearing away, the rich blue sky, filled with lofty, orange-colored 
 clouds, smiled down upon us. The hues, the movements, the 
 character of the skiey scenery were wholly different from what I 
 
154 NOTES OF A TOTJE IN SWITZERLAND. [^tat. 33. 
 
 have ever seen from lower points. By a steep winding path, 
 we descended to the inn near the end of the glacier. It is a 
 humble tenement, inhabited only in summer, for the approaches 
 to it are hopelessly blockaded with snow for seven months in the 
 year. I arrived a little before seven o'clock, having left My- 
 ringen at nine, and been above nine hours on foot. My dinner 
 was served by one of the handsomest women that I have 
 seen in Switzerland. Her dignified, mild features, set off by the 
 peculiar gilded turban of the Tallais, which resembles a coronet, 
 might have graced the proudest court in Europe. They did 
 more. They diffused a charm through the rudest hut in Chris- 
 tendom. As I was retiring. for the night, I opened the case- 
 ment of my chamber, and found that the wall was washed by a 
 milky rivulet, in which it was difficult to see a promise of the 
 broad, mighty stream that sweeps past the towers of Lyons 
 and Avignon. I fell asleep, with the murmurs of the infant 
 Rhone in my ears, and visions of crowned Madonnas in my 
 fancy. 
 
 Chapter IV. 
 
 On the following morning, at half an hour after eight, I set 
 out for the Hospice of San Gothard, across the Furca Pass. 
 Going along the left bank of the glacier, we enjoyed an excellent 
 view of its formidable mass. It is not crevassed with wide 
 splits, like those of Grindenwald, but its clean surface is marked 
 by a great number of small cracks and lines. The upper, or 
 central parts, where the snow seems to have rolled over in 
 avalanches, is tumbled into conical piles. The view across its 
 whiteness to the clear blue sky beyond, was beautiful. We had 
 scarcely left it, when we came in sight of the Beren-gletscher, 
 another large glacier on our right, propped up between two 
 mountains, and not split or rifted, but lined on the top by 
 innumerable cuts, like ice upon which a crowd of skaters have 
 been traversing. Ascending to the summit of the Furca, a 
 
^TAT. 33.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. 155 
 
 rude cross, near to a large stone, marks the boundary between 
 the Cantons of Vallais and TJri. From that position, a great 
 view of the cluster of High Alps expanded behind us. Tower- 
 ing in the centre of the group, and highest of them all, was 
 Finster-Aarhom. On the right of it, Viescher-Aarhorn held 
 on high a vast snow-filled cup of rock. Other sharper peaks 
 of rock and ice glittered on either side. I had scarcely begun to 
 exult in the splendors of the prospect, when a cloud enveloped 
 us, and every thing became invisible. This pass is about 8300 
 feet above the sea. Through a gloom of mist, we pursued our 
 way across several beds of snow, from all of which streams were 
 running. In these mountains, in fact, almost every little hollow 
 or valley holds a bed of snow or ice, which melts variably at 
 the bottom, not the surface. It may be taken for certain, that 
 all the streams that descend from these elevations, come either 
 from a glacier, or from a lake formed of snow. 
 
 By a quick descent, we now came into the valley of the Sidli 
 Alp, at the bottom of which the Reuss roars along. This 
 ravine affords an agreeable relief to the rock-wearied eye, as it 
 is covered with mossy turf to the top. It opens into the valley 
 of Urseren, the mountain ridges of which display not only grass, 
 but low, creeping pine trees, not uncommon in these regions. 
 Upon one side, .numerous rivulets flow down into the Reuss. 
 Here stands the Capuchin Hospice of Realp, where is now also 
 the Hotel of the Alps. A walk of four miles brought us to 
 the Hospice at St. Gothard. On an eminence, in advance of 
 the refuge, is a watch-tower, with a round window in it, to 
 enable the inmates to look up the valley in winter, and descry 
 forlorn travelers who may be lost in its wastes. Several fine 
 snowy peaks stand in front of Hospenthal, separating it from 
 the G-risons. 
 
 I got in about one o'clock, and after dining, took a carriage 
 to Altdorf. For five days I had been traversing regions where 
 no carriage road existed, and I had made the whole expedition 
 on foot. The guide, I believe, was as much delighted as his 
 employer, to add the charm of repose to the fine enjoyment of 
 the unrivaled scenery. A drive of a few miles brought us to a 
 
156 NOTES OF A TOTJE IN SWITZERLAND. [^tat. 33. 
 
 spot where the sublimity of nature is met and mastered by the 
 higher sublimity of the mind of man. A huge rock, coming 
 athwart the valley, juts over the very edge of the torrent. The 
 road pierces it by a tunnel, winds back along a gallery on its 
 outer surface, and, by a couple of arches, not unfitly named the 
 Devil's Bridge, spans the Keuss, just below its terrific cascade, 
 and within the full sweep of its foaming spray. The streams 
 leap down with three or four infuriated plunges, like a troop of 
 white Arabian coursers springing down frantically into the 
 chasm. A cloud was driving swiftly and irregularly up the 
 valley, rendering a savage scene more wildly turbulent. The 
 true Devil's Bridge is an older one, of a single arch, very narrow 
 and without parapets, which still remains a little below the one 
 which is now made use of. 
 
 The road that leads the traveler with ease and safety along 
 this formidable defile is a magnificent structure, equally ad- 
 mirable for the arrangement of its route and for the perfection 
 of its masonry. In some parts, it returns in a course directly 
 parallel to its previous direction ; and the descent is so judi- 
 ciously distributed, that one is not conscious of any considerable 
 deviation from a level path. Numerous stone bridges carry 
 the road from side to side ; some of them are very lofty, and all 
 of them add to the picturesque effect. The upper part of the 
 valley is stern and gloomy ; lower down, it contains dells of Ar- 
 cadian loveliness, — rough and irregular enough in surface, but 
 covered with bright, short grass as delicate as the vesture of an 
 English lawn, and the stream is bordered with soft and beau- 
 tiful shrubbery. But the torrent, itself, forms the pre-eminent 
 charm. It is one ceaseless cataract from Andermatt to Ansteg, 
 falling, altogther, above 2000 feet. Every movement that is 
 grand or beautiful in the course of rushing waters it seems to 
 be the mission of this stream to illustrate. The wild, tlie 
 pensive, the elegant — the fierce and the fantastic — the exquisite 
 and the odd — may here be studied as in a museum of the pic- 
 turesque. The afternoon was mild and clear. I drove very 
 slowly along, watching the endless varieties of beauty till the 
 imagination grew sated with excess of enjoyment. Several 
 
^TAT. 33.] NOTES OF A TOITE IN SWITZEELAND. 15f 
 
 cataracts cling, like draperies, to the sides of the precipitous 
 mountains, enriching a scene whose attractions needed not 
 such added decoration. One of these, the Fellabach, was en- 
 ehantingly beautiful : a slender stream, falling by several cas- 
 cades ; where it was in motion, as white and delicate as the 
 newest lace, but of a purple blue where it lay in pools. It 
 comes, doubtless, from a mountain lake. The Reuss itself is 
 quite blue or green. It issues from the lake of Lucendro. 
 The Maderannerbach, a considerable brook that flows into it, 
 at Ansteg, is of a milky hue. 
 
 It is easy to determine by the color of an Alpine stream, 
 whether it flows directly from a glacier or snow-bed, or comes 
 from or through a lake. The water that comes from masses of 
 melting snow or ice is of a chalky hue, owing probably to the 
 quantity of triturated rock that becomes mingled with it. When 
 water, formed in that way, rests for a time in a pool, the dis- 
 coloring particles that were in solution with it are precipitated, 
 and the stream issues forth of transparent clearness, but with a 
 pale green or violet-blue tone. If a glacier rivulet overflows 
 and forms a pool at the side of its channel, the rivulet will be 
 white and the pool blue. It is certain that some of these lakes 
 and lake-born rivers appear to be green and others blue ; but 
 this difference I suspect not to be fixed and local, but resulting 
 either from differences of depth, or from the condition of light 
 on the atmosphere.' It appeared to me that wherever a lake is 
 found with a very high mountain or mountains rising from its 
 edge, the hue seems to be a purple blue. This may be owing 
 to the greater depth of the water where mountains rise at its 
 side, or it may be that the shadow of adjacent heights, or the 
 exclusion of part of the mass of light that would otherwise fall 
 upon the lake, makes the same water look purple, which sur- 
 rounded by low banks would appear of a bright green. It was 
 in descending the Danube, the waters of which are usually gray, 
 that I was first struck with the blue color it assumed where a 
 mountain rose beside the shore. The blue or purple effect is 
 perhaps increased by looking down upon such bodies of water, 
 from an elevation. One would ascribe the blue color to depth 
 14 
 
Igg NOTES OP A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. [.Stat. 33. 
 
 alone, if there were not many shallow tarns in the Alps which 
 are blue. The Rhine takes its rise from a glacier, and is of a 
 lime color till it enters Lake Constance. The waters of that 
 lake, which is not skirted by mountains, are green, and the 
 Rhine issues from it below Constance perfectly transparent, but 
 as green as beryl. The Rhone enters the Lake of Geneva of a 
 chalky color, and leaves it of a clear violet ; and the deviation 
 from green, I imagine, may be ascribed to the lofty heights that 
 rise upon the south. It appeared to me that the upper end 
 of the Lake of Geneva, where the mountains rise nearer to the 
 water, and to a greater elevation, was of a deeper blue than 
 in the immediate neighborhood of Geneva. Zug, which the 
 Righi overshadows, ordinarily appears of a purpler blue than 
 any other lake, and yet in certain aspects it seems green ; 
 Lucerne is also one of the bluest lakes. In short, the natural 
 color of the clear and settled water in these regions is one that 
 appears blue or green according to the depth, or to the state 
 of the light. 
 
 In approaching Altdorf we crossed the stream of Shaoken, 
 in whiati, according to tradition, Tell was drowned in attempting 
 to rescue a child that had been swept away by a freshet. We 
 visited a small and curious chapel some distance from the road, 
 which is said to be built upon the spot where Tell's house 
 stood, very near the church. Its walls are covered with pic- 
 tures representing the events of his life ; his refusal to salute 
 the cap of Gessler, the shooting of the apple on the head of his 
 son, his leaping from the boat, the death of Gessler, &c. The 
 chapel is stated to have been built in 1522 ; but the pictures, by 
 their style, are certainly two centuries later. Some miles fur- 
 ther back, the remains of Gessler's chateau on the summit of 
 a mountain were pointed out ; and below, on the opposite side, 
 is an old stone tower, said to have been the prison used by 
 him. It is called Zwing-TJri, or Uri-jail. 
 
 Altdorf is interesting on account of its association with the 
 life of Tell. In a street of this village are two fountains. The 
 pillar in the centre of one of them is surmounted by a figure of 
 Tell, holding his boy under one arm, and pressing his bow to 
 
-ffiTAT. S3.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. 159 
 
 his bosom vdth the other. According to the popular belief, it 
 marks the spot where Tell stood when he launched the fearful 
 arrow. The other fountain is placed where Gessler's tree stood, 
 and where the child was also stationed. It seems a long shot 
 from one to the other ; and the tradition, as to the precise lo- 
 calities of these incidents, if the history be genuine at all, may 
 well be distrusted. Near the second fountain, stands an ancient 
 square tower, on the outside of which are painted the scenes of 
 Tell's history. 
 
 Chapter Y. 
 
 The next day, I came from Altdorf to Fluelen, and there em- 
 barked in a steamer for Lucerne, upon the lake of the Four 
 Cantons. It is scarcely possible to imagine any combinations 
 of beautiful water and bold mountains, more striking, more 
 effective, and more lovely than the scenes that meet the view 
 in traversing this charming sea. A dozen different mountains, 
 advance into the lake and check themselves suddenly in the 
 depths of the glowing waters. Bare, steep, turretlike rocks, 
 hanging amid the cloud, — rich, lawnlike grass in the inter- 
 vening glades, sparkling with cottages and gardens ; and luxu- 
 riant copses of delicate shrubbery clustering down to the water, 
 succeed and blend with each other in infinite and delightful 
 alternation. As we approached Lucerne, Pilatus scowled upon 
 the left, and the sunny bays of Alpnacht and Kussnacht 
 stretched away upon the other side of the main water. This 
 part of the lake, for beauty, variety, and charming brightness, 
 is not less remarkable than the other end is for stem and 
 towering sublimity. The deep green-blue water adds a bril- 
 liance to every prospect. 
 
 Several memorials of the romantic hero of Swiss indepen- 
 dence are presented to view along the banks. Not far from 
 Fluelen, you pass upon the right the Tellen Platte, or Tell's 
 
ICO NOTES OF A TOTJE IN SWITZERLAND. [^tat. 33. 
 
 chapel,— land where Tell leaped ashore. It is a small structure 
 with two arcades open in front, and painted with pictures of his 
 exploits. Over it, far on high, the rock mountain swells out 
 like a round castle of old feudal days. On the opposite side, is 
 Grutli or Rutli, a green platform where the three confederates, 
 Werner of Schwytz, Arnold of Unterwalden, and Walter Furst 
 of TJri, met in the beginning of the fourteenth century, and laid 
 the foundations of Swiss independence. On the same side, nearer 
 to Lucerne, is the projecting steep promonotory of Wytenstein, 
 along which grows to the water's edge a rich, bright shrubbery 
 of birch and walnut. Against this prominence, stands a 
 curious stone resembling a coffin placed vertically on its head. 
 It was here that Tell saved the life of Baumgarten. 
 
 The town of Lucerne has little that is interesting except the 
 Dying Lion of Thorwaldsen, which forms the monument to 
 the Swiss guard who were massacred at Versailles in defence of 
 Louis XVI. It is cut in a huge rock, which is surrounded by 
 *a pool of water, and inclosed in a garden. The attitude and 
 expression of the expiring beast realize all that one could re- 
 quire of dignity and grandeur in the parting life of the monarch 
 of the desert. Near by is a small chapel consecrated to the 
 memory of these brave Helvetians, with a pompous but elo- 
 quent inscription in Latin. 
 
 After a few hours, I continued my journey to Arth, for the 
 purpose of ascending the Righi. A little beyond Kussnacht, 
 the road cuts through a hill and is closely shaded by small birch 
 trees. Near the end of this sombre defile, is pointed out the 
 spot, at the road-side, where Tell stood when he aimed the fatal 
 shaft at Gessler, who was journeying towards Kussnacht. On 
 the bank, a chapel dedicated to the glory of this event, which is 
 pictured upon the exterior, sanctifies crime in the religion of 
 patriotism. 
 
 In the presence of so many memorials of the deeds of the hero 
 of the Free Confederacy, it is difficult to feel any sympathy with 
 the doubts which bookish students have suggested as to the reality 
 of Tell's existence. In addition to the monuments which I have 
 mentioned, the exterior of many old houses in Altdorf, Arth, and 
 
^TAT. 33!] NOTES OF A TOTJR IN SWITZERLAND. Igl 
 
 Schaff hausen, are painted with representations of facts in his his- 
 tory, and with figures of the Men of Grutli. These paintings 
 may be a century old. In Schaffhausen is a fountain having an 
 old wooden or stone figure of Tell with his bow and arrow ; on 
 the base of which is the date 1682. As records of the events 
 thus exhibited, these things are of no value. But as evidences 
 of an antecedent and general popular conviction and feeling they 
 are entitled to have some weight. Their existence in four or 
 five different cantons, now separated by disagreements in reli- 
 gion and alienated from one another by political jealousies, 
 seems to carry back the date of these feelings to a period when 
 all were animated by a common interest and enthusiasm. 
 
 From Arth, I ascended the Righi, and reached the summit 
 about a quarter before six o'clock. The view from this moun- 
 tain diifers from the Fauldhorn as a gazetteer differs from a 
 poem. Yet here, the maplike beauty of the level landscape, 
 with forests, meadows and ploughed fields intermingled ; with 
 houses and villages scattered profusely around ; and with lakes, 
 rivers, and mountains, diversifying the scene, possesses a peculiar 
 and characteristic charm. The sun, hidden from our sight' by a 
 horizontal bar of cloud, was shedding down broad pencils of 
 rose-colored and golden rays upon the glittering scene of pros- 
 perity and happiness. On the other side, the High Alps had 
 their tops covered with clouds, but lay in a mystic, dim sublimity 
 that was highly impressive. 
 
 At sunrise, on the following morning, the Culm was enveloped 
 in mist ; but about seven o'clock, the scene became glorious. On 
 the north-east,.thc peaks of Glarnish, Sentis, the Mitre of Schwytz 
 and the sullen mass of Rosenberg, were mixed with fragments 
 of white clouds ; and the sun pouring a silvery flood over the 
 whole, kindled it into flashing lustre. It lay before us in a tu- 
 multuous prodigality of splendor, from which the fancy summoned 
 up a vision of Homeric gods sitting together on high, and view- 
 ing all the grandeurs of creation beneath them. 
 
 In descending, the aspect of the valley of Arth, from the plat- 
 form of the mountain about half-way down, is of singular beauty. 
 In the centre the town of Arth stands upon the shores of Zug, 
 U* 
 
162 NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. [iETAT. 33. 
 
 whose purple waters mirror the snowy walls. Behind Arth, 
 are fields traversed by lines of trees ;' then comes the village of 
 Goldau ; and behind it are the brown, horrid masses of Rosen- 
 berg, overlying the yet buried town of old Goldau, which it 
 overwhelmed with all its inhabitants in its fall. Further along, 
 glitters the little lake of Lauertz, and the prospect is bounded 
 by the obelisklike peaks of the Mitres. 
 
 Quaint and picturesque in manners as in aspect, is the ancient 
 Catholic town of Zug. It reminds one of some of the old Flemish 
 cities, such as Bruges. Among its towns and walls, as in the 
 spirits of its inhabitants, time seems to have slumbered for three 
 centuries. Human character appears to consist of two opposite 
 varieties ; one, that makes a. fetiche of the past, and shrinks from 
 change as from a rude immorality ; the other, that dashes for- 
 ward impatiently after progression and development. In most 
 states and cities, these temperaments are brought together in 
 the diversity of persons ; and the reforming and conserving 
 influences work out in harmony the course of society. But 
 occasionally we come upon communities where nothing but con- 
 servatives are generated ; and then there is an absolute stand 
 still in all things, whether mental, or moral, or material. These 
 form political anachronisms. They remind us of vessels that 
 have grounded upon mountains in a former state of the water, 
 and which, when the tide has gone down, stand high and dry 
 above the current. Such places are Nuremberg, Zug, and many 
 towns in Italy. As an example of old-time tastes yet lingering 
 about Zug, I found in its neighborhood the only considerable 
 specimens of the antiquated Topiarian art, that I met with in 
 Europe ; consisting of trees cut into the forms of arm-chairs, 
 birds, and other objects. 
 
 At Zurich, I visited the town-library, and read three Latin 
 letters of Lady Jane Grey to Zuinglius. They are signed 
 "luanna Graia," and are written in a neat, clear, legible hand. 
 They are interesting as expressing a warm gratitude to Zwingli 
 for his friendship. She quotes Hebrew and Greek in their own 
 letter. I saw, also, an Aldine folio of the Septuagint, which 
 
^TAT. 33.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. 163 
 
 was the family Bible of Zwiiigli. He had recorded at the end 
 the births of his several children. 
 
 I pursued my journey to Schaffhausen, and at Eglisau, crossed 
 the Rhine, which is there a full and rapid stream, not very broad. 
 It is intensely green, and without any touch of blue. We soon 
 reached the Hotel Weber, which is opposite to the Falls of the 
 Rhine. 
 
 These falls are among the most ieautiful of great cataracts ; 
 with just so much of terror as beauty has, or ought to have, for 
 one who knows how fatal or fated a thing it is wont to be. 
 They are also the most picturesque of European cascades. They 
 are entirely Rhine-like, in their character, presenting that com- 
 bination of copious water, gray rock, and graceful foliage, which 
 makes the peculiar charm of this river in its lower course. They 
 are divided into three parts, by one tall rock near the right bank, 
 and by two other rocks which lean towards one another, and 
 form almost an arch in the middle of the stream. These foam- 
 fretted islands are covered with bushes which now were glowing 
 with the tints of autumn. I took a boat with three men, and 
 rowed out to the principal and central one. The water which 
 we traversed was whirling and surging with eddies of white and 
 green. The cascade seems to be formed by a pile of irregular 
 points or peaks of granite, rising up in the midst of the impe- 
 tuous current. Looking up from the base of the rock where I 
 landed, the waters above, on both sides, appear to be shot for- 
 ward horizontally as from a mortar. A winding path leads to 
 the top ; about half-way up, you pass near the central shoot, 
 and there its waters starting up and over the hidden obstruc- 
 tions that would arrest it, seem to gnash as with a kind of rave- 
 nous fury. From the summit, the best view is had, for there 
 you see the whole composition of the cataract. A little above 
 the fall, the stream appears divided and diffused in innumerable 
 directions, — sideways, backwards, forwards, crosswise ; then, 
 gathering its forces, it springs through the openings of the pil- 
 lared rock, with headlong rage and terror. 
 
 I descended and rowed across to the Schloss, and gained a 
 balcony where a favorite view is had : but it is not equal to 
 
164 NOTES OF A TOUK IN SWITZERLAND. [JEtat. 3». 
 
 that which I had left. Tou see but a part of the river, and 
 even that is much lost in spray, which in itself, however, has a 
 good effect, being from time to time, hurled upward as if from 
 the depths of the river. There is another position below the 
 falls, where a grand confused image of turbulent power is flutig 
 upon the mind. That is the museum of rainbows. From that 
 position, the central island shows finely. Leaning forward 
 against the coming torrent, the roclis seem like mighty but- 
 tresses, based upon the centre of the earth, and upholding the 
 river, which else might plunge down with all-overwhelming 
 madness. 
 
 At Schaffhausen I took the steamer up the Rhine to Con- 
 stance, and thence to Lindau. Six weeks later, about the 
 middle of October, I came down from Ulm to Friedrichshafen, 
 at the upper end of Lake Constance, and crossed to Rorschael 
 with the intention of going into Italy by the Splugen road. 
 In the beginning of that month, the winter had set in at Berlin 
 with continued cold rain, and I fled precipitately southward ; 
 but I had no sooner reached the shores of this lovely water, 
 than I found myself in a wholly different climate, where a mild 
 fine autumn yet lingered, and a soft west wind invited to delay. 
 The seasons in Switzerland are later than in Germany. The 
 summer comes up more slowly ; but it tarries longer. I resolved 
 to profit of the charming weather, and dash across to Geneva, 
 that I might take one more view of the snowy crests which had 
 delighted me so highly. The Lake Constance presents an 
 aspect of calm, attractive beauty. On the south, the shore 
 rises gradually and is richly cultivated, to a considerable dis- 
 tance ; and then terminates in the glorious mountains of Appen- 
 zell and -Glarus. The great range of heights which form the 
 eastern wall of this sea, appear to be a solid pile of snow rising 
 out of the purple waters. 
 
 At Schaffhausen, I at once became aware of being on Swiss 
 ground, by seeing on the large house in front of the steamer's 
 landing-place, fresco pictures of the three men of Grutli ; one 
 holding a short-handled flag with a cross upon it; the cen- 
 tral one leaning on a spear; and the third sustaining a tall 
 
JEtat. 33.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. 165 
 
 standard which rested on the ground ; all wearing swords. 
 About noon I set off for Zurich. The day was clear and de- 
 lightful : and upon arriving at the top of a hill, about a mile 
 from Schaffhausen, the whole circle of the Alps, from Lake 
 Constance to the hills about Berne, blazed up into full, glittering 
 view, covered with recent snow, ; and Sentis and Disdi and the 
 triple broad mass of the Righi and the spiked banner of Glarn- 
 ish. This afternoon afforded one of the finest feasts of the 
 Alps that I have yet enjoyed. The peaks of Glarus and Ap- 
 penzell, form, ordinarily, to the Swiss traveler, a side dish, not 
 much attended to ; but are capable of being made pieces de 
 resistance of a luxurious banquet. At Berne, the weather on 
 the 16th of October was magnificent, and the^sun as bright as 
 in July. The Oberland was lying out in the clearest, sharpest 
 outline, flashing and exhaling in the cloudless sun. We reached 
 Lausanne on the following morning. 
 
 Gibbon is, of course, the specialite of the place. We were 
 received at the Hotel Gibbon, a stately structure on a terrace 
 overlooking the lake. The historian's house is next to it. It 
 is now occupied by M. Constantine Grigner, a legal functionary, 
 whose mother bought it upon Gibbon's death. It is a com- 
 modious dwelling, with an extensive terrace garden, commanding 
 a fine view of the mountains of Savoy. Mont Blanc, however, 
 is not visible. In this respect the English philosopher showed 
 less taste than Voltaire, from whose house and grounds at 
 Ferney, the monarch of mountains is seen to great advantage. 
 In the garden an elm was pointed out, said to have been planted 
 by Gibbon, and under which he is said frequently to have rested. 
 I doubt the tradition ; as the tree does not appear to be above 
 thirty years old. The acacias have been entirely destroyed. A 
 new apartment, which the owner is now erecting, occupies the 
 place of the Berceau, and also of a curious room made of the 
 bark of trees, which Gibbon himself had constructed, and which 
 was suffered to remain until it became utterly decayed and 
 ruinous. 
 
 The next day I went up from Geneva to Chamouny. The 
 weather was perfectly clear, and the sky cloudless. In the 
 
166 NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. [JEtIt. 33. 
 
 evening, a full moon was shining over Mont Blanc. The fol- 
 lowing morning we ascended the Fl''^gcre. In going up, the 
 stillness was broken by several avalanches, which sent a long 
 crackling roar through the valley, resembling the discharge of 
 cannon at a distance. One of these which we were lucky 
 enough to see, was caused by the fall of a ibass of ice from the 
 Mer-de-glaee over the rocks which rise up and occupy half the 
 space of the mouth of the glacier. The white mass crumbled 
 ■ as it struck the rock, and poured down like a cataract of pow- 
 dered ice, reverberating prodigiously as it descended. From a 
 low point of view, the attendants and supporters of Mont 
 Blanc occupy the most prominent position, and almost hide the 
 sovereign ; and it is necessary to rise to a considerable height, 
 in order to see the true relation of the chief to the inferiors, and 
 to contemplate the principal eminence in its towering and un- 
 shared grandeur. The view from the Croix de la Flegere com- 
 mands the entire valley and all its confines ; and the whole 
 prospect, taken together, presents probably as sublime and im- 
 pressive a spectacle as nature can exhibit. It is a scene of 
 almost fearful wildness and desolation. A horror seems to 
 brood over the abyss which divides the enormous precipices 
 that yawn around it. Mountains, whose soil yields no growth 
 but of deadly snows, and valleys, where unfathomable glaciers 
 usurp the place of corn and vines, succeed one another in a 
 barrenness to which the little vegetation that struggles into life 
 serves only to add greater gloom. The bases of the rocky piles 
 are occupied by clumps of fir trees that stand crowded together 
 like an army of dark-plumed soldiers sternly guarding the access 
 to the appalling regions above. 
 
 But from whatever position Mont Blanc be seen, its height I 
 think is less striking than that of the Bernese peaks. The 
 latter rise more precipitously, and soar upward in a more lonely 
 and detached elevation. The Mont Blanc is so much sur- 
 rounded by huge companions and allies, which intercept and 
 share his grandeur, that all the effect of his majesty is not 
 directly felt. Monarch undoubtedly he is ; but a constitutional 
 monarch, girt about by greatnesses that diminish his individual 
 
.aETAT.33.] NOTES OF A TOTJE IN SWITZERLAND. lQ>j 
 
 lustre in givicg a broader base to his throne. The mass of the 
 mountain is certainly enormous; and when one reflects upon 
 certain particulars which show to the mind how great is the 
 elevation, the height becomes profoundly impressive. For 
 example, the Aiguille Verte seems, from the Flegere, to be but 
 very little higher than the Aiguille du Dru; yet, in fact, it 
 stretches nearly two thousand feet above it. I am inclined to 
 think that the remote view of Mont Blanc from Geneva, where 
 it seems to lie on high like the silver floor of heaven, is more 
 striking than any other. 
 
 Chapter VI. 
 
 At length I turned my steps towards Italy. It was towards 
 the close of a fine mellow autumnal day that I came up from 
 Geneva to the Hotel Byron, which stands between Chillon and 
 Yillenenve. A storm of two or three days, which had im- 
 prisoned me in the Hotel des Bergues, had cleared away, and 
 mild, still, pensive weather had succeeded. For richness com- 
 bined with grandeur, for voluptuous softness around, and im- 
 pressive majesty above, not Como, nor Lucerne, nor any other 
 lake, is superior to the upper end of Geneva. Some beams of 
 Italian lustre seem, there, to have gushed through the mountain 
 pass, and to kindle the rock-cinctured atmosphere with the love- 
 breathing hues of the glowing south. The view from the lofty 
 terrace in front of the hotel was grand and touching. The 
 stream of summer tourists had passed by. I was the only in- 
 mate of the large and melancholy pile. The air was delicate ; 
 the lake calm and somewhat hazy ; all nature seemed in unison 
 with the tranquil loveliness of the scene and its associations. 
 Behind, rose the lofty heights of the Dent de Jaman and Dent 
 de Noye, not stern with frightful rocks, but luxuriantly wooded 
 to the summits, and now glorious with the varied colors of 
 
168 NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. [Mt\t. SS. 
 
 autumn ; the foljiigo powclon^d witli newly fallen Know. To 
 the right along the lake, ChirenH lay dclloiously ncsllod in a 
 gentle ravine of the mountains, whieh rise to a great height be- 
 hind it. On either side of it, by the shores, are recumbent 
 fields of neat, trim vines; but ilwelf was embraced by russet- 
 tinted trees which extended up the ravirje till they expand into 
 a great forest that scales the top of the mountain. Notliing 
 can seem more modestly retired, without being hid. Further 
 on is Montreux, more deeply buried in a valley. A little more 
 distant, across a small bay, stood the gray towers of Chillon, in 
 the water. On the left front, the mountain views were rniignili- 
 cent. The Dent d'Oche rose in a lofty peak aknost immediately 
 from the water's edge, and beside it were innumeral)le wild, frag- 
 mentary, capricious crests. The sides of all these were now 
 covered with a scarlet mantle of foliage. On the extreme left., 
 up the valley of the Rhone, the vast snow and iee-eovered piles 
 of the Dent da Midi reared themselves. As the kiiti sank be- 
 hind the Dent d'Oche, and threw into bright relii;f these dark 
 forms with their fretted outline against the yellow sky, and 
 tinged the snows of the Dent du Midi with a faint rose color, a 
 passion-flush of beauty seemed to suffuse the scene. The waters 
 of the lake in front of me were still and soft, and as clear aa 
 crystal. The shores at the opposite end were not seen, being 
 hidden by the mistiness of the air ; and you might have thought 
 that you wore looking out upon the limitless ocean charmed 
 into rcjiose by the inagie influences of the hour. A single small 
 Bail whitened the blue expanse. A short distance out from I ho 
 shore, and towards Chillon, stood a little island, scarcely twetity 
 feet in width, bearing what seemed but a single tree, but was in 
 fact a cluster of three trees, gleaming with a yellow hue through 
 the languid air. Associations of ]Jyron and his lone prisoner 
 threw around it a pathetic lustre. 
 
 The next morning I walked along the gray pebbly shore to the 
 Castle of Chillon. Around its walls the sublime story of Bon- 
 nivart cast,s an interest, bi-Core which the sentimcjital fancy of 
 Byron's talc fades into insignificance. I know of nothing in 
 history so extraordinary as the grandeur of his endurance, c.v- 
 
JEtat. S3.] NOTES OP A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. 169 
 
 cept its reward. Chained for six years to the dungeon pillar 
 of a tyrant, he was set free at last by a double revolution, 
 political and religious, which created a republic in the night of 
 despotism, and established Protestantism in the midst of the 
 Romish church. Could such a daring anticipation have entered 
 into the strength that fortified his heart ? Let hope never 
 grow extinct in the spirit of man 1 If Bonnivart might be de- 
 livered, who might not trust to be relieved ? 
 
 The castle stands upon a solid rock, and completely out in 
 the lake, though not now actually surrounded by it, an embank- 
 ment of stone excluding the water from encircling it upon the 
 land side. A bridge of four or five piers leads over the now 
 dry foss to the double gates, whose iron gratings still hang 
 there, brown with the rust of centuries. In the Middle Ages 
 the Hall of Public Justice, and its important appendage, tho 
 rooms and instruments of probation and punishment, which 
 according to the morality and reason of those times consisted 
 largely in tortures, were commonly in the same building with 
 the residence of tho sovereign. Some of these establishments 
 have been kept up for the curiosity of visitors, and are often 
 referred to for the purpose of sharpening the passions of tho 
 day against the cruelty of the despots who ruled in those times. 
 They illustrate, however, the mental views of the age, rather 
 tliiin the mischiefs of a particular government ; for they were 
 part of the public law of all countries ; and the most revolting 
 display of the system is to be seen in the dungeons of the free 
 city of Ratisbonne, where the inquisitors were not solitary 
 tyrants, but a municipal council of sober and liberal burghers. 
 Chillon Castle now serves as one of the three military maga- 
 zines of tho Cauton Vaud; but the apartments in which the 
 feudal severities of tho times were administered, are maintained 
 with scrupulous completeness by the republican authorities. 
 
 Passing through the court-yard, I was conducted to the 
 prison rooms, which are below its level. The first chamber is 
 about eighty feet long, and divided by a row of arches on col- 
 umns. It formed tlio hall of the corps-de-garde. The floor, 
 which is covered with gravel, is high enough to allow tho lake. 
 15 
 
IVO NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. [^Etat. 33. 
 
 to be seen through the windows. Beyond it is an apartment 
 twelve or fifteen feet wide, on the inner side of which is a mass 
 of the natural rock rising four or five feet high, and forming by 
 its top a smooth inclined shelf which follows the dip of the 
 stone, perhaps thirty degrees from the horizontal. According 
 to the explanation given on the spot, this was the couch upon 
 which prisoners were laid after being tortured in the chamber 
 above, and here the sentence of death was read to them. In 
 the next room, which is quite dark, a couple of arches supported 
 on a pillar, run transversely across the room, and between 
 the pillar and the upper cross wall is the potence or gallows, 
 a mere beam of wood ten or twelve feet high, with grooves 
 around it, which are said to have been worn by the ropes. Two 
 thousand Jews are reported to have been hanged or strangled 
 here, upon a charge of poisoning the fountains, but really for 
 the purpose of confiscating their wealth. Opposite the gallows, 
 hung formerly a picture of the Virgin, on which the dying man 
 might look ; a solace that must have been particularly welcome 
 to the Jews. Next is a little apartment enclosing the stone 
 stairs which ascend to the Hall of Justice ; and beyond it, 
 through a small door, you enter the principal prison. 
 
 It is an apartment about a hundred and twenty feet in length, 
 and divided by a row of round sandstone columns, and double 
 ranges of pointed arches. It bends somewhat towards the 
 other end to accommodate the circular corner of the castle, and 
 the whole effect, which architecturally is very beautiful, exactly 
 resembles the aisles of a church, for which, indeed, it is said 
 at one time to have been used. It is cut out of, or into, the 
 solid rock, which is of a slaty texture, and much inclined. The 
 windows are high, and though they exhibit large wide openings 
 upon the inner surface of the wall, they narrow towards the ex- 
 terior, so as to dwindle down to apertures a foot in length by 
 three or four inches in width. It is impossible to see any thing 
 through them from the floor of the dungeon ; but when the sun 
 is bright at mid-day, the light is reflected from the lake upon the 
 roof, and is said to show a blue tint; and at certain seasons the 
 horizontal sun finds its way in. When the water of the lake is 
 
JEtat. S3.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. I7I 
 
 liigh, as it was in 1846, the prison is below its surface; ordina- 
 rily, however, it is not "so. 
 
 In one of the central columns is the ring to which Bon- 
 nivart was fastened by a chain about four feet in length. The 
 holes worn in the rocky floor by his stern solitary pacings are 
 still perfectly distinct. 
 
 Let none those marks offnoe ! 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God ! 
 
 A channel, three or four inches below the general surface, marks 
 the range of tread ; but within it, you see three still deeper 
 cavities produced by the daily tramp of his feet. The length 
 of his chain permitted him to take only three steps, but to the 
 limits of this fettered license, he seems to have taken daily and 
 vehement exercise, determined to keep himself alive for whatever 
 issues Providence might provide. The whole prison apartment 
 is now an open space ; but when Bonnivart was here, walls ran 
 between the columns, forming a series of pei-fectly close cells. 
 These trampings, therefore, must have been made as he strode 
 from wall to wall, riveted to the corner of a dark dungeon, by a 
 chain four feet long. 
 
 The person who showed the castle told mo, that while Byron 
 was meditating his Prisoner of Chillon, he used to come to the 
 scene every day with his servant. He finally wrote the poem 
 in two days, in a room of the Anchor Inn at Ouchy ; but it 
 appears that he had been mentally composing it for some time, 
 and by the aid of diligent study on the spot. At that time he 
 was not acquainted with story of Bonnivart. He learned it 
 afterwards when he went to Geneva. My conductor said that 
 Byron's ignorance might be accounted for by the fact, that the 
 persons who, at that time, showed the Castle, were not in the 
 habit of explaining the apartment, and that the woman who 
 then kept the keys did not herself know any thing about Bon- 
 nivart. Another reason, the guide thought, might lie in the 
 fact mentioned last year by an English family who were heie, 
 that Lord Byi-on did not speak French, though he did speak 
 Italian. 
 
172 NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. [^tat. 33. 
 
 Among a thousand sad histories that have perished from 
 recollection, one tradition, scarcely less touching than the legend 
 of Bonnivart, still attaches to this remarkable chamber. At 
 the lower end of it, against the wall which crosses and limits 
 the apartment, are some drawings four or five feet in length, 
 which display great feeling as well as skill. They represent 
 St. Christopher, holding the infant Christ, and supporting him- 
 self by a tree; St. John, with an inscription in Gothic letter 
 over his head, " St. Johes ;" and the Saviour on the cross. 
 These were thus drawn in total darkness by the young Coquet, 
 a pupil of Bonnivart, who had attempted the deliverance of his 
 teacher, but was detected and thrown into this cell, which at 
 that time was walled up on the other two sides. He succeeded 
 at length in breaking his fetters, and when his keeper came to 
 bring him food he overpowered him, fastened him in the dun- 
 geon, and escaped up stairs into the Hall of Justice. Here he 
 threw himself from a window into the lake, but unhappily fell 
 upon the rocks and was killed. 
 
 Several interesting autographs in stone, testify to the deep 
 feeling which this scene has inspired. On one of the sandstone 
 pillars in the centre, the name of " Byron" appears, carved by 
 his own hand, somewhat crookedly. On the same column are 
 "L. Hunt," "H. H. Milman, xlix.," "A. D. M." (Alexander 
 Dumas,) and others. On the natural rock which forms the inner 
 side of the chamber is the name of " Shelley," in large capitals 
 cut by himself 
 
 In the upper story of the building is shown the Hall of Jus- 
 tice, so called from the injustices judicially performed there. It 
 is a large room with ceilings paneled in the fifteenth century. 
 Next it is the torture room. A wooden pillar stands in the 
 centre of it, with a pulley at the top of it to allow the prisoners 
 to be drawn up and then thrown violently down. While thus 
 suspended, red hot irons or lighted torches were sometimes ap- 
 plied to their feet ; and the lower part of the pillar is charred 
 in many places. From this dismal chamber, a grated window 
 looks out over the blue, placid, lovely water. Near by is a 
 small room where a furnace stood to heat the irons. Adjoining 
 
^TAT. 33.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. 1>JS 
 
 the Hall of Justice on the other side, is a spacious apartment, 
 divided along the middle by wooden pillars. It formed the 
 kitchen and dining hall of the Dukes of Savoy. 
 
 Another small structure across the court-yard, but within the 
 walls of the castle, must not be forgotten. It contained the 
 Oubliette. When a prisoner's fate was settled, he was told that 
 he was about to be set free, and was conducted hither that he 
 might approach a statue of the Virgin to give thanks, and then 
 descend a staircase and pass out of the Castle. He descended 
 three steps, when the staircase terminated, and he was thrown 
 into a well fifty feet deep. These three steps, and the well be- 
 neath them are still there. If it was the design that the victim 
 should die a lingering death of starvation and broken bones, he 
 was suffered to remain here. If a speedier end was intended, 
 a trap-door in the bottom of this vault was opened, and he 
 was flung down forty feet further. All this has certainly a very 
 apocryphal sound, and a reader of such matters would be inclined 
 to pronounce the whole story as an idle legend, recited for the 
 entertainment of gaping tourists. It is- certain, however, that' 
 quite similar accounts are given at the old castle near Baden- 
 Baden, and elsewhere ; and that the appearances of the apart- 
 ments sustain the explanations which are given. My con- 
 ductress at Chillon was a shrewd and rather witty woman, who 
 either from naitive inclination or out of compliment to my 
 country, displayed a vigorous democracy. She would conclude 
 every fresh exhibition of terrors by saying, " And all this was 
 in the good old times !" Being a show-woman and a radical, 
 perhaps the duskiness of the scenes took a " browner horror" 
 from her glosses. 
 
 Chapter VII. 
 
 It was about three o'clock in the afternoon of a fine day, at 
 the close of October, that I left Yilleneuve for Italy, by the 
 Simplon road. As the season was late, and snow had already 
 15* 
 
1T4 NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. [iEiAT. 33. 
 
 fallen in large quantities among the higher Alps, and it was 
 somewhat doubtful whether the road on the summit was open, I 
 got rid of the responsibility of clearing the pass by taking my 
 place in the corner of the government corriera. I hardly know, 
 even in that land of beauty, a finer scene than the valley of the 
 Rhone up to St. Maurice. The broad, fertile plain, between 
 the mountains, is covered with vegetation ; and, at its edges, at 
 either side, rise precipitately the snow-crowned Alps. The 
 road winds along their base. The ragged crest of the Dent de 
 Midi towers in sight all the way. The declining sun was 
 kindling the ice-topped peaks with a furnacelike lustre, not 
 pink or roseate, but like shining silver. In approaching the 
 line of the Vallais, the effect becomes almost startling. The 
 mountain strikes into the stream and throws the road from its 
 abrupt side : the rocks on either hand jut over the river, which 
 has forced its passage by wearing away their bases : a bridge 
 of a single arch carries you over the Rhone ; and you are 
 within the cachot of St. Maurice. You feel as if you had been 
 betrayed into the dungeon of the white-haired giant turnkey 
 of the Alps, who had been nodding ominously above you for a 
 long time, and who had now closed up the mountains across the 
 path which you had entered. St. Maurice lies at the bottom 
 of a well-like ravine, whose granite sides rise almost perpen- 
 dicularly to a prodigious height. The material grandeur of 
 the scene can hardly be exceeded. It must be dim and chill, 
 there, at noonday ; and night closes in long before the purple 
 waters of the sunlight have ceased to dash against the peaks 
 abovei As I was falling asleep, I thought I saw an old hob- 
 goblin face, with white locks matted over it, thrust up several 
 times against the glasses of the carriage, to see if his prey was 
 safe. But I shut my eyes, and was soon lost in dreams of 
 Italy, aMost as bright as the reality. 
 
 When I looked out the next morning, we were nearly at the 
 summit, and the cold was extreme. The sky was clear, but 
 pale ; and an ocean of snowy peaks and snowy valleys spread 
 around. All was snow. A few stinted pines, with their iced 
 branches pinned down to their trunks, stood at wide intervals 
 
^TAT. 33.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. I»f5 
 
 amid the waste ; and here and there was a chalet, closed and 
 deserted : but these memorials of departed life and habitation 
 only struck a deeper loneliness into the scene. On one summit, 
 a little chapel was visible ; and a series of stations, marked by 
 rude crosses, led to it ; but it was now abandoned and inaccessi- 
 ble. Eren the last social, guarding, redeeming influence seemed 
 extinct in the glittering beauty of death. It was the sublimity 
 of desolation. 
 
 We had exchanged our wheels for a sledge, and were moving 
 along behind seven horses. Two men, with shovels, accom- 
 panied our train, and we stopped, occasionally, till they cleared 
 away the avalanches which had slid down from the heights above. 
 We presently passed the hospice, where the courier delivered 
 a gazette. The news appeared to be the only human interest 
 that survived in the dreariness of this solitude. We may smile ; 
 but, after all, what is the love of gossip, but a rather undignified, 
 perhaps slightly irregular manifestation of that spiritual affinity 
 which identifies man with his fellows ? that nil humani alienum, 
 which is the sacred consciousness of humanity itself. Exiled 
 into these arctic wastes, the inmates of the hospice still crave 
 the exercise of those sympathies which link their natures to the 
 crowded city and the scheming court. 
 
 We began to descend, and, resuming wheels, rolled rapidly 
 along through a magic panorama of slate-colored rocks, cleft 
 into shaded ravines, whose walls seemed to reach to the firma- 
 ment ; with unnumbered cascades pitching from the summits, or 
 dripping along the sides ; and ferns and flowers softening the 
 ruggedness, like those snatches of tender sentiment which some- 
 times intervene in the ferocity of a ruthless character. The 
 southern side of the Alps is steeper and more storm-worn than 
 the northern, seeming to rise up directly over the plain, and 
 scowl down in jealous fury upon a loveliness which it is destined 
 always to look upon and never to partake. My imagination 
 had been so steeped in mountain elements of all kinds, — water- 
 falls, rocks, ravines,- — that there was no longer that mental 
 action upon them which is necessary to enjoyment ; and I 
 turned away with an indifference approaching to disgust from 
 
ne NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZEKLAND. [iETAT. 33. 
 
 the barbarous north, whose last hospitalities I was fleeing, and 
 threw my spirit forward into glowing thoughts of Italy. 
 
 It was night when we reached Domo d'Ossola, at the foot of 
 the mountains. Domo d'Ossola 1 how purple with Italian 
 richness was the very name I The inn was in the form of a 
 quadrangle, and I was shown to my chamber along an open 
 gallery that ran around the interior court-yard, whence one 
 looked up to the deep blue, starry sky. All was strange, and 
 all enchanting. 
 
 The following morning I drove along the margin of Lago 
 Maggiore, passing Baveno and Arona. It was Sunday. The 
 air was mild and clear, and it seemed like the paradisal Sab- 
 bath of a world yet unconscious of sin. It was not as when 
 yon view a single object, or listen to a single symphony, 
 from which you snatch keen pleasure : the whole encircling 
 scene, — all that touched the sight, the sense, the mind, — above, 
 around, beneath — all was beauty and all was delight. There 
 was just enough of pearly haze over the sky to tone its blue 
 tints into soft blending with the waters, and with the mountains 
 on their north. At the upper end of the lake, gleamed the 
 rhalky villas around Locarno, and behind them was Monte 
 Rosa, with its snowy masses, suffused and glowing with purple. 
 The crystal lake, reflecting the quaint terraces of the Isola 
 Bella, green with tropical verdure, was on the left ; and on the 
 right, the slopes were profusely covered with roses in full bloom, 
 violets and daisies. A voluptuary in landscape enjoyments 
 could not have craved a richer scene. The choicest glories of 
 the north and south were brought harmoniously together. 
 Switzerland and Italy set forth the rarest perfection of their 
 characteristic splendors in rivalry for the admiration of the 
 visitor. From the luxurious hues and forms around, yon looked 
 across the fairy lake, and, after gazing on the lovely mansions 
 upon its edge, the eye lost itself amid the infinitely varied out- 
 line of white hills that seemed dissolving into the northern air. 
 I declined to visit Isola Bella ; for a restless, fiery impatience 
 possessed me to precipitate myself into the bosom of Italy. I 
 
^TAT. 33.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. lijij 
 
 felt, until I reached Milan, as if I were not unmistakably and 
 irrevocably in Italy. 
 
 We stopped a few moments to visit the odd colossal monu- 
 ment of San Carlo Borromeo, and then halted at Sesto Kalende. 
 There is no difficulty in recognizing in that name a lingering 
 trace of Rome. Here we encountered, once more, the imperial 
 bird. 
 
 Qui per piu devorare 
 Porta due beochi,* 
 
 whom I have ever found an honest, well-bred, courteous bird. 
 It would be well for the traveler if his great wings flapped away 
 from the whole of Italy the tormenting native flock of becca- 
 ficas that peck unremittingly at the pockets. 
 
 From Sesto to Milan, the Simplon road passes through the 
 cultivated plain of Lombardy, planted at regular intervals with 
 the mulberry, and with vines hanging in festoons from tree to 
 tree. The sleepy luxuriousuess of autumn loitered over the 
 fields, and at a distance were the snowy mountains. Winter 
 rarely comes nearer to those delicious plains than to look down 
 at them from the neighboring heights. As we rolled on through 
 village after village, the church-bells, with their sweet silvery 
 clamor, kept up a perpetual jubilee of sound, exulting to pro- 
 claim the more essential beauty that Italy prized above all ma- 
 terial boasts, that of being stainlessly Catholic. The music, 
 breaking out from time to time, then pausing, then beginning 
 again, as if each campanile were animated by varying feelings, 
 made a charming accompaniment to the bright spectacle around. 
 The delight, which almost tranced the being, was not like a new 
 or strange emotion. It was a familiar feeling of spiritual enjoy- 
 ment, brought up to the surface, and made sensuous in an intense 
 and delicate consciousness of the realization of a life-long dream. 
 I was reposing in the sweet arms of the violet-crovraed maiden 
 of the family of nations : her soft, warm breath was upon my 
 cheek : her large, blue, loving eyes looked down upon me. 
 
 An era is it in the history of any man, when for the first time 
 
 * The arms of Austria bear a double-headed eagle. — Ed. 
 
11^ NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLANt). [^tat. 33. 
 
 lie crosses the Alps. A sympathy is touched and developed, 
 that shall vibrate and expand for ever. Upon that soil, we 
 learn that Imagination and Sentiment are the Italian elements 
 of our nature. All things seem ideal, poetic, visionary. Splen- 
 dors that the northern world knows only by half-heavenly flashes 
 that fade before they can be felt, here are natural and perma- 
 nent. From the valleys and plains of Italy the lustre of sum- 
 mer is never wholly withdrawn, and winter seems but a tardier 
 spring. Elsewhere we have glimpses of her life in conservato- 
 ries, and when we enter the guarded retreats where orange-trees 
 and olives and myrtles are garnered np as creating around them 
 a kind of sacred soul-life, we say, " This is like Italy." Its atmo- 
 sphere is fragrance, its soil is beauty, its canopy a glory unim- 
 aginable. Its air is a prism to turn the common light into 
 enchantment. What melodies of color, — violet, rose, purple, — 
 roll along its steeps. Yet the true fascination of Italy is of the 
 soul ; and the features of the scene enjoy our devotion on 
 account of the Spirit that looks out from them, and which they 
 
 typify- 
 
 It is the clime of Art, — the temple of the sacrament of the ma- 
 terial transfigured into the spiritual, — of the perpetual marriage 
 of the formal with the divine. Life, thought, passion, manners, 
 all things, partake an assthetic quality. An ethereal stream of 
 ideal sentiment seems to float over the land and refract all per- 
 ceptions, feelings, and objects into beautiful outlines and hues. 
 
 It is the land of Antiquity, the school of History, the home 
 of the Past. No time is recorded when Italy stood not fore- 
 most in the annals ; a scene where great things were thought 
 and wrought. Etruscan, Roman, Pontifical, these civilizations 
 have succeeded one another, and no later one has effaced the 
 vestiges of that which preceded it. All now dwell together; 
 and the face of the land is as a self-registering chronicle of all 
 that has been felt and done upon its surface. Here, under the 
 calm, grave eye of the venerable Past, the Present moves mo- 
 destly, and with self-distrust. Here you may stand in the reli- 
 gious presence of the Older Day, and imbibe a temper which is 
 more than wisdom. The active, the striving, the destructive, 
 
ffiTAT. 33.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. lijg 
 
 we leave behind when we cross the mountains. Existence here 
 is moral, consultative, intellectual. It seems like an Elysium, 
 where life is fancied, and interests notional ; the blissful future 
 state of an existence gone by, where shadowy forms rehearse in 
 silent show the deeds that once resounded, or elsewhere resound. 
 It is a land where all is ruin ; but where ruin itself is more 
 splendid, more permanent, and more vital than the freshest per- 
 fections of other countries. 
 
 Above all things, it is the soil of religion. Here, and only 
 here, is realized, in uncrumbled and undimmed completeness, 
 that vision, which in other nations is but a fragmentary dream, 
 or a dim tradition, — the Catholic Faith. And deny it, over- 
 look it, forget it, as we may, that is the deepest spell of all the 
 enchantments that Italy holds in store for us. Of its truth or 
 utility let theologians and economists dispute : as a sentiment, 
 as a civilization, humanity has evolved nothing so beautiful, so 
 refining, so delightful. In this land, it is an inward, soul-heard 
 music, to which all life regulates its movements. It is as a 
 solvent of moral grace, melting and rounding all the forms of 
 existence into picture-like and pleasing shapes. 
 
 Chapter VIII. 
 
 After a few days at Milan, I went up, in the beginning of 
 November, to Como. The railway is well appointed and com- 
 fortable. The first part of the route presented the fertile plain 
 of Lombardy, planted with mulberries, locusts, and chestnuts : 
 soon the snow-covered hills appeared in sight, and on reaching 
 Camerlata, we were among the mountains. The scenery around 
 Como is highly picturesque ; the heights terminating in multi- 
 tudinous peaks, clothed with red foliage, and sprinkled on the 
 tops with snow. 
 
 As I think, that to dash forward in a crowded steamer is no 
 true way to enjoy these lakes, I took a small boat with a couple 
 of oarsmen, and set out early in the afternoon to woo the en- 
 chantments of the watery scene, at leisure, and alone. The 
 
180 NOTES OB A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. [^tat. 33. 
 
 wherry was luxuriously furnished with scarlet cushions, a table 
 in the middle, and a circular frame overhead, on which was an 
 awning of canvas, to be raised and lowered at pleasure. The 
 diversified hills which rise almost from the line of the shore, were 
 covered with green and purple foliage ; and innumerable ele- 
 gant villas lined the banks. Grandeur, softness, endless mag- 
 nificence of architectural decorations, and an almost luscious 
 richness of color, united to form a refined and gorgeous spec- 
 tacle which it would be vain to look for out of Italy. The 
 atmosphere in the low regions had the effect of clear, lustrous 
 crystal, and higher up was a warm, deep iodine tone, which 
 made the breasts of the mountains ruddy with a morbid blush. 
 Beneath glittered the glassy wave ; and a sky of cloudless, pro- 
 found blue, was hanging above. 
 
 On the left hand, as you come out from Como, is a palace 
 with long Italian colonnades, overhanging the waters. It is the 
 villa Raimondi ; formerly Odescalchi. A little further, through 
 an opening in the nearer heights, you catch a view of the peaks 
 of the distant Alps. Then is seen the small village Cernobio ; 
 and beyond it, in a nook embraced by a high promontory, is the 
 villa d'Este, for nearly three years the residence of Queen Caro- 
 line, and the scene of the Bergamo adventures of non mi recordo 
 fame. It is a very large establishment, consisting of a tall wide 
 house with two capacious wings : and behind it is a conserva- 
 tory which might mistake itself for a princely villa. This place 
 
 was formerly occupied by General , one of Napoleon's 
 
 ofiBcers, who took Tarragona by assault ; and he constructed, at 
 the foot of the hill which forms the further boundary of the estate, 
 an imitation of that city, with several towers and fortifications 
 running along the heights. Beyond, lies the villa Pizzo, the 
 summer residence of the Viceroy of Italy. In former years it 
 was occupied by the Archduke Regnier ; but since the last 
 revolution, he has resided at Bolsano. It consists of half-a- 
 dozen detached buildings, with numerous terraces. Further on 
 is Passalacqua. 
 
 On the opposite side, within Torno, lies the large villa Tanzi, 
 which was inhabited by Lord Sandwich while Queen Caroline 
 
^TAT. 33.] NOTES OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. Igl 
 
 lived at Cernobio. In rowing upon the lake, he observed the 
 proceedings at the Villa d'Este, and it vs^as he vpho first made 
 report of them in England. Below this are the villas of Pasta 
 and Taglioni. As we passed between Pizzo and Blevio, we 
 encountered several small boats laden with lemon trees, the 
 effect of which, upon the water, was extremely pretty. They 
 were coming over from the villa Taglioni, to be wintered in the 
 green-house of the villa d'Este, the many-twinkling feet of their 
 owner being just about to make a pirouette to her palace in 
 Venice. Nearer to Blevio are two houses belonging to a 
 Russian ; one of them on a promontory, the other in a complete 
 cavern, hollowed out of the mountain. 
 
 The view opposite to Blevio, as I returned to Como, glowed 
 with a fine, delicious loveliness, to which the ruder greatness of 
 Switzerland is a stranger. At my back, beyond Tourno, were 
 snow-covered hills. On the left, the mountains behind Blevio 
 rose almost vertically ; but they were furrowed with innumerable 
 ridges, into the greatest variety of surface, and covered with 
 rich green grass to the top, and with trees, not matted together 
 in close forests, but sprinkled just widely enough to allow their 
 forms to be seen, and occasionally the mossy turf between them. 
 The feathered outline of these foliage hills fretted the blue 
 heavens. A cove, formed by the projection of a promontory on 
 which the villa Cornaggia stands, lay in deep shadow, while the 
 declining sun threw a bright visible stream of rays along the front 
 of the recess. The promontory was dark, with rich green olive 
 and laurel ; numerous summer houses were scattered among the 
 hills behind it ; and gardens glittered along its slopes with 
 every attraction that art and nature could combine. Deep 
 purple masses of light were resting on the bosoms of the other 
 mountains. On the right, through the valley at the side of 
 Cernobio, there appears a magnificent view of Monte Rosa with 
 its many peaked masses of rose-colored snow ; and as we moved 
 on, the double cones of the lesser St. Bernard loomed up. The 
 immortal spirit. Beauty, who elsewhere gives but glimpses of 
 her heavenly charms, here seemed to lean down from her eternal 
 viewless dwelling, and unveil from out the violet air all the full 
 16 
 
182 NOTES OP A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND. [iE.TAT. 33. 
 
 magic of her rapturous countenance. As I gazed in intense 
 and breathless admiration, the silence was broken by the deep 
 toll of a bell from one of the villages, which was soon responded 
 to from another; and anon arose a multitudinous but most 
 musical clangor from every side, swelling and rolling, and re- 
 echoing among the mountains. I turned to the stalwart boat- 
 man to ask an explanation. Crossing himself reverently, he 
 replied, "La Ftsta dei Tutli Morli!" The Fete of all the 
 Dead !* It wag one of those august and touching appoint- 
 ments by which the Catholic Church summons the deepest 
 sympathies of our nature to join her in her mediation between 
 the visible present and the invisible infinite. At three in the 
 morning, and three in the afternoon, the churches are crowded 
 with worshipers, and the bells ring out an awakening notice to 
 all who rest at home or journey by land or by water, to unite in 
 feeling with the human host that turns from the present and the 
 actual, to send its memories backward over the past, and to 
 waft its prayers of love upward to the skies. I know not when 
 I have been more profoundly moved. The scene, before, was 
 beautiful, almost to religion ; there wanted but one sound, one 
 note, to touch into full adoration the feeling which already 
 trembled on the verge of it. This call from the voice of the 
 church, amid a spectacle of such earthly glorious perfection, 
 reminding of the sad, but not stern, sentiments that belong to 
 the contemplation of the departed, was fraught with a divine 
 appropriateness and power. The festival of all the Dead ! 
 What living soul is not reached by that appeal ! Into what 
 affecting brotherhood are we not all brought and bound by that 
 sublime conception I 
 
 Beautiful Como I I may never again behold thee visibly : but, 
 through coming years, when Thought draws inward from the 
 vexing and degrading world, and seeks the purest, loftiest, love- 
 liest image that Memory holds within her shrines, then, in 
 spirit, I shall be with thee I 
 
 * The Feast of All Souls, which follows that of All Saints. The English 
 Church has retained the latter, but disused the other, more interesting and 
 quite us harmless. 
 
THE ROMAN FORUM. 
 
 [A FKAGMENT.] 
 
 [This appears to be the last piece which ever came from the pen of its la- 
 mented author. In the progress of writing it his eyesight became somewhat 
 disturbed ; and his health almost immediately after gave way hy rapid steps 
 of declination. In its disconnected handwriting, it bears the mark of having 
 been written with physical diiBoulty and pain, and breaks off abruptly in the 
 midst of its interesting subject. Of course it is a first draft and wholly un- 
 corrected.] 
 
 "Quae maxima semper 
 Dicetur nobis, et erit quae maxima semper." — VlRG. 
 
 The traveler through the old world, who would do justice to 
 every part of his subject, should see the whole of Europe before 
 he enters Italy, and the whole of Italy before he visits Rome. 
 The morbid and ethereal elegance that invests the clime and 
 life of Italy, relaxes the taste so much that it can scarcely come 
 in a proper spirit to the less poignant interests of Germany, 
 France or England. And every thing that even Venice, Flor- 
 ence or Naples can offer, appears frivolous and almost profane, 
 in presence of the august impression that Rome inspires. He 
 whose spirit Rome has once touched with her sceptre, is struck 
 insensible to vulgar and earthly interests. 
 
 Rome seems to be the magnetic pole of our moral sensibili- 
 ties. In all other places they tremble toward it, in it they 
 become riveted to the soil. 
 
 Her galleries are stored with countless treasures, the master- 
 pieces of Grecian sculpture ; yet so far are they from constituting 
 
 (183) 
 
184 THE ROMAN FORUM. [iEiAT. 33. 
 
 the secret of Rome's attraction, that we view even the Apollo 
 with an imperfect enthusiasm, seen amidst the blaze of that 
 atmosphere of brightness which surrounds it. The landscape 
 has peculiar and characteristic beauties ; yet the chief interest 
 with which we view it, arises from the reflection, that we are 
 looking upon the country of Rome. Gorgeous in spectacle and 
 enchaining in significance are the ceremonies of her church, 
 whose development is the history of fourteen centuries of Eu- 
 rope. Yet their chief interest arises from the background 
 against which they are viewed. It is not in any nor in all of 
 these things that lies the secret of that spell, by which this city 
 strikes and fascinates our spirits : the charm, the mystery, the 
 power, is in the moral atmosphere that infects the scene, where 
 moralists and legislators once lived and acted. Splendid even 
 now is the Rome of the eye and of the taste ; but that before 
 which the visible city lapses into nothingness, is Rome of the 
 mind. It is the thrilling memories which overhang it like an 
 electric cloud, that makes this city a place of intense and undecay- 
 ing interest, and in the presence of which we turn our backs 
 upon Pope, and Cardinals, and Princes, and regard the romance 
 and adventure of the princely battlings of the Middle Ages, and 
 the palaces of Colonna, Corsini, Borghese, and Doria, as vain 
 and empty shows. 
 
 And why is it that Rome thus awes us as we draw nigh it, 
 and strikes a fascination into our spirits when we are within it ? 
 affecting stongest minds the strongliest. It is because we ap- 
 proach the shrine of the morality of the world ; are within the 
 precincts of that Temple whence oracles of Justice went forth 
 that still are the inspiration and the guides of Life. Lawgiver 
 of the nations ; parent of Institutions that give civility and de- 
 velopment to society ; inventress of the Arts that establish right 
 through reason ; source of that social wisdom which is civil 
 power ; the all-imperial city sits throned in the ever-during rever- 
 ence of the mind ; girt with a divinity invisible perhaps by the 
 frivolous, but irresistible to the thoughtful mind. 
 
 I know not of any scene more fitted to touch every chord of 
 intellectual emotion in a reflective spirit, than that which ex- 
 
iETAT. 33.] THE ROMAN FOETJM. 185 
 
 pands before the observer who mounts to a platform that is over 
 the upper arches of the Coliseum, directly above the entrance, 
 and looks down thence into the Roman Forum. That high 
 terrace was a favorite resort with me on the clear and soft after- 
 noons of a winter that was lovelier than the brightest spring or 
 summer of the north. The air below was usually like a medium 
 of transparent crystal, faintly purpled here and there by violet- 
 colored flakes of sunlight, that seemed to float in it like stain- 
 less passion-dreams of the pure element. The prospect consists 
 only in a short and narrow valley, bounded on both sides by 
 hills, and terminated at the opposite end by a lofty and precipi- 
 tous rock. Ruined arches, solitary columns, fragments of ivy- 
 clustered walls, define the ground : 
 
 Keliquias, vetorumque vides monameuta virorum. 
 
 Thrice a thousand years have rolled by since jBneas found 
 Evander and Pallas celebrating on yonder hill those services of 
 religion, for which Rome has always been noted, and through 
 which she has always been great. The " passimque armenta 
 videbant Romanoque foro,^^ is strangely renewed in the name 
 of the Campo Vaccino; and the stately " Carinas," once splen- 
 did with the mansions of Pompey and Cicero, is again a neglected 
 region, doubtfully identified by the title of the Church of San 
 Maria in Carinis. The aspect of the spot has returned to the 
 condition of the Arcadian's ancient reign ; but what a world 
 of history lies between 1 That small region before your eye 
 is the scene of the entire history of Rome from Romulus to 
 Constantine ; and there, in the councils of statesmen, the me- 
 ditations of philosophers, and the enthusiasm of orators, the 
 history of mankind not only then, but through all time to come, 
 was ordained, and settled, and rehearsed. Fixed on that spot, 
 as by a kind of spell, dwelt that mental force, which in becoming 
 the genius of Rome became the fate of the rest of the world. 
 
 The Palatine rises upon the left ; the original city of Romulus 
 and scene of those Livian legends which Beauty will still pre- 
 serve though Truth abandon them ; now covered by the endless 
 and inextricable ruins of the Palace of the Caesars. On that 
 16* 
 
186 THE ROMAN FORUM. [^tat.33. 
 
 hill's edge, by the arch of Titus, stood the kingly house of Ancus 
 Martius. The eminence on your right is the Esquiline ; me- 
 morable for the residences of Maecenas, Horace and Virgil. 
 Directly opposite to you soars aloft the Capitoline, and at its 
 base you see the remnants of the Temple of Concord, built by 
 Augustus on the site of that temple in which Cicero assembled 
 the Senators, (at night ?) to reveal to them the conspiracy of 
 Cataline ; and beside it, that old Mamertine prison constructed 
 by Ancus Martius and Servius Tullius, in which Cathegus per- 
 ished, as Jugurtha had perished before him, and Sejanus perished 
 afterwards. Between your position and the Capitoline, you 
 may view the remnants of the Forum of Julius, ever memorable 
 for that scene, when the Roman Senate was received by the 
 Dictator seated ; an indignity, which though it cost an emperor 
 his life, became an epoch in the decline of Roman liberties ; the 
 sites of the old and new rostra of the Senate House ; and may 
 view the uncovered stones of the Via Sacra, once swept by con- 
 querors in triumph. That hollow space, bounded and terminated 
 between these three hills and the clivus of the Via Sacra, is the 
 Roman Forum. 
 
 Silent, deserted, crumbling is the scene ; trodden only by the 
 steps of peasants, as they loiter from their toils, or of monks, 
 as they pass across it to their evening chants. Yet with spiri- 
 tual tenants how thronged, bow glittering is the place ! To the 
 intellect, how intense, how vital the influences of the spot ! On 
 the rock that bounds your view, once stood the Refulgent Capi- 
 tol ; and in front of it, above the Tarpeian platform, still stands, 
 in memory's vision, a figure yet more sublime than that of the 
 citadel he defended, blazing with a glory to dim the brightest 
 lustre that the morning sunshine ever cast about it. 
 
 Custos Tarpseia Manlius arcis 
 Stabat pro templo, et capitolia celsa tenobat., 
 
 There, beneath you, was the daily meeting-place of those who by 
 circumstances were the Senate of Rome, but by nature the Pa- 
 tricians of Earth. From these councils went forth protection 
 to oppressed right, punishment to lawless violence throughout. 
 
^TAT. 33.] THE ROMAN FORUM. Ig7 
 
 the globe ; till Rome became the tribunal of states, the con- 
 science of the world. 
 
 As one ponders oyer this spot, that counsel-hall seems like 
 an earthly Olympus, whose material shows have vanished, but 
 whose fineless empire still sways mankind ; and each Senator, 
 robed in sternness and mystery, passes before you an embodied 
 type of Truth and moral Destiny 1 It was the cradle of all 
 civilized polity ; the nursery where grew those forms of state 
 which are yet the unshaken deities of the mortal scene, whose 
 empire is deep as our nature and continuing as our race. In 
 this atmosphere, personal character grew august, because it be- 
 came a temple of Honor, Faith, and Duty, on whose altar the 
 first sacrifice offered was self. From all the crowd of greatness 
 that fills this space — from Caius Marius and Lucius Sylla and 
 Scipio Africanus — fancy turns away to fix its reverent scrutiny 
 upon one lonely figure — that hides the greatest soul that is re- 
 corded in mortal annals. Arrived in Rome, from a distant cap- 
 tivity, he visits not his own dwelling, but has hastened instantly 
 to the Forum and the Senate ; he puts away from him his little 
 sons and the kiss of his chaste wife, as a man disgraced, and 
 casts his darkening countenance to the ground ; whilst he urges 
 the hesitating Senators, by every appeal that patriotism can 
 suggest or feel, to vindicate the character of Rome by consign- 
 ing him to captivity and death. Such counsel never did another 
 give 1 Conscious of the barbarian tortures that await him, the 
 conqueror of fame opens out his way among the friends that 
 oppose, and the people who would delay, his return, not other- 
 wise than if, having gained some tedious process of his clients, 
 he was setting off for the green slopes of Venafrum or the breezy 
 cliffs of Tarentum. And what a triumph he was hastening to 
 consummate I He gave to Carthage a brief life, and won from 
 her a glory so transcending, that Humanity itself grows exalted 
 in the contemplation. 
 
 In the moral apprehension of these men, the State was a Re- 
 ligion. Society was known to be a divine existence, from which 
 each drew great impulses, and to which all owed sacred reve- 
 rence. The national consciousness was felt as the true identity 
 
188 THE ROMAN FOETJM. [^tat. 33. 
 
 of the citizen, into whose high, eternal force individual passion 
 was taught to burn. Thus legislation was their instinct ; govern- 
 ment, justice, and equity, their familiar reason. Prsetors here 
 gave decrees that are precedents for all time to come. Em- 
 perors, faithful to the hereditary divinity of their ofSce, here 
 gave responses which are garnered into the oracles of jurispru- 
 dence. And this valley became the chancery of earth's justice, 
 "Templum sanctUatis, amplitudinis mentis, consilii puhlivi, 
 caput urhis, aram sociorum, portum omnium gentium.^'' That 
 discipline, that organization, that divinity in society, which 
 controls men's individual dealings, and moderates even between 
 contending nations — LAW — ^has its original development in 
 this scene. The tree which now spreads protection and shelter 
 over the world, has its roots in the gray soil of yonder 
 [A complete break in the MS. appears here.] 
 There are two objects in the view beneath us which seem to 
 possess a peculiar interest, as great moral landmarks in history, 
 and connecting Rome peculiarly with the evolutions of hu- 
 manity, and the perpetual interests of the race. I mean the 
 Arch of Titus and the Arch of Constantino. They are near to 
 one another, and directly under your eyes ; and both are in 
 almost perfect preservation. Time and Fortune, which have 
 accumulated such interest upon Rome, have left these two 
 monuments to explain to us why it is especially that Rome 
 impresses us so intimately, and with such vital interest. 
 
 Protestant countries, in their jealous reverence for the written 
 volume of God's dealings with man, overlook too much that 
 large portion of the scheme of divine guidance and blessing of 
 mankind which is not registered or explained in that book, but 
 left to be studied and comprehended by man's natural reason. 
 All that is miraculous is contained in the letters of that witten 
 volume. The Bible is the infallible record of the history of spi- 
 rituality, so long as it was a thing existing mystically — pro- 
 phetically — by anticipation — in a chosen and peculiar people — 
 or in a select gens among that people — down to the time when, 
 in the person of the divine Son of God, and in his teachings, 
 that which had been a thing before inspired specially only, be- 
 
jfflTAT. 33.] THE ROMAN FOEUM. Jgg 
 
 came a thing revealed to all the world — an ever-continuing gift 
 to men. This revelation to the nations of the Immanuel, or 
 God within us, took place, we are told, "in the fullness of 
 time ;" that is, when the nations had been duly prepared to re- 
 ceive and appropriate it. The record of this preparation, — the 
 explanation of the instrumental means which God had gradually 
 prepared or evolved for the establishment and diffusion of 
 Christianity in the world, — is not given in the Holy Scriptures. 
 It belongs to the history of God's ordinary providence, whilst 
 acting gradually and by intermediary agents. The medium pre- 
 pared for the distribution and application of Christianity through 
 the world was the universal Empire of Rome — the civil organi- 
 zation which it had infused throughout all the world — ^the politic 
 and legal constitutions which it set up in every kingdom where 
 it swayed. Spirituality was the great function of the Jewish 
 people, for that is a thing revealed and enforced preternaturally. 
 But its elements are implanted in man's nature and evolved by 
 society's experience. The development of morality was not the 
 office of Judea. That august mission was assigned to Rome, 
 and by her nobly performed. When the whole framework of 
 society was civilized and constructed and regulated by Roman 
 policy and laws, it was ready to receive the finer infusion of 
 spirituality, and to convey it throughout all nations. The con- 
 nection of Rome with the spiritual history chronicled in the 
 Scriptures is impressively registered by these columns. One 
 records the conquest of Judea by Rome, under the auspices of 
 Titus ; and the bas-reliefs which exhibit the golden candlesticks, 
 the table, and the trumpets borne in his triumph, are still per- 
 fect. The other, in honor of Constantine's victory over Maxen- 
 tias, which it ascribes to an "instinctus divinitatis," is the first 
 gleam of the Sun of Righteousness over the imperial towers of 
 Rome, which was thenceforth to reflect them in never-fading 
 lustre. Among the last temporal dominions swallowed up in 
 Rome was Judea, by which the purely spiritual nature of the 
 kingdom of the new Messiah became historically established. 
 When Christianity had become systematized and illustrated 
 under the regime of apostles and martyrs, and the church was 
 
190 THE ROMAN TORUM. ^tat. 33 
 
 fully matured and strengthened, and required only to be diffused, 
 it coalesced with the Roman constitution in the person of Con- 
 stantine, and thus was spread abroad over the world. It went 
 hand in hand with Rome's civil constitution. 
 
 Identified with the Roman law, that law triumphed every 
 where by its superiority of equity and reason ; and Christianity 
 has shared its triumph. The moral, and social, and legal insti- 
 tutions of Rome were the divinely appointed channels and aid 
 by which Christianity, in going forth through the world, was to 
 be conveyed and enforced. Spirituality has so feeble a hold 
 upon man's nature, that, without supports and alliances it can- 
 not, except by miracle, prevail against the passions and interests 
 of the world. 
 
 The whole fabric of European law, in its most comprehensive 
 sense, is, to this day, Roman : and the dominion of the civil 
 law is increasing, not diminishing. The intense insular nation- 
 ality of England alone developed the system of the common 
 law in exclusion of the civil law ; but it was not long before 
 Equity, which is a true praetorian law, gained an ascendency 
 over the logical forms of the native system ; and the maxims 
 and morality of the civilians have, under this name, been the 
 paramount and controlling rule of English life for three cen- 
 turies. Nay, the common law itself exhibits symptoms of ex- 
 haustion, and both in England and America will probably be 
 broken down by the superior pretensions of the code, either by 
 the fusion of equity with law, or the complete aholUion of the 
 English system. [The MS. here ends abruptly.] 
 
ASCENT OF VESUVIUS. 
 
 On the 29th of January, in the year of grace one thousand 
 eight hundred and fifty-one — it was one of Italy's brightest and 
 bluest mornings — I set out at an early hour from Naples to 
 ascend Vesuvius. The air was fresh and balmy, and full of the 
 glorious intoxication of that unrivaled climate. I am of a 
 social temper; but in Nature's most heavenly scenes I can bear 
 no companionship, but the dearest and most social, — such as 
 thoughts of the absent, memories of the departed. These, in 
 such spots, throng around me, and crowd my musing with de- 
 lightful fellowship. That I might be escorted by a full attend- 
 ance of this spiritual band, I went alone. 
 
 As I drove along the mole, Vesuvius, in its brightest magni- 
 ficence, opened upon me. From the summit of the mountain — 
 erect, massive, glittering white as a mighty column of the 
 marble of Pentelicus, rose straight upward a huge column of 
 vapor, which, after ascending unbroken, and firm enough, ap- 
 parently, to hold up the falling sky, gradually floated off, and 
 became one of the clouds that are the footstool of the Lord of 
 Heaven. It was that same cloud, which, at its first appearance, 
 near two thousand years ago, attracted the curious gaze of the 
 elder Pliny at Misenum, and made Mm set off in his galley to 
 view it more closely ; and which the younger Pliny describes as 
 resembling a pine tree, shooting up, with a straight trunk, to a 
 great height, and then branching off at the top. To me, in the 
 pure, still, holy morning, the volcano seemed rather like a vast 
 standing encensior, from which earth was sending up a homage 
 
 (191) 
 
1 92 ASCENT OF VESUVIUS. [^tat. 83. 
 
 breathed out of the deepest recesses of its "bosom, and not un- 
 meet to mingle among the high airs of heaven. The early rays 
 were tinging the delicate mist, from which an Italian landscape 
 is never free, into deep violet tones ; and the grand old moun- 
 tain seemed to raise himself aloft in true imperial state, robed 
 in purple, and crowned with a pearly diadem. 
 
 Leaving my carriage, to await my return, at Resina, — which, 
 by the by, stands directly over the ancient Herculaneum, parts 
 of which have been excavated beneath — I took a horse and a 
 mounted guide, and sat out for the summit of the mountain. 
 This is the best arrangement for men, as the canter up and down 
 the hill is a pleasant part of the excursion ; but for ladies it is 
 advisable to drive up in a carriage as far as the Hermitage or 
 Observatory, recently established by the King of Naples. There 
 is nothing which strikes you as different from an ordinary moun- 
 tain, until you are about half-way up, when the masses of lava, 
 which lie about the roots of the volcano, black as death, come 
 upon your view. From that point, the spectacle that expands 
 below you on the other side, as you look away from the hill, is 
 one to which all the resources of earth show nothing superior. 
 I consider it as one of the great views of the world. Beneath 
 your feet rests the arching bay of Naples, defined by Misenum 
 on the right and Sorrento on the left. From Resina, towards 
 Naples, and on through it to Posilippo, the entire circuit of the 
 shore, which the Castle del'Uovo divides beautifully into a 
 double scollop, is one unbroken, glittering range of white build- 
 ings, presenting a grand and regular outline. At that extremity 
 of the line rise the pyramidical masses of Ischia and Procida, 
 and other headlands that guard the retiring beauties of the 
 voluptuous Baioe. Naples sparkled forth like a cluster of signet 
 gems set in hills, with a range of loftier heights behind it. The 
 waters of the bay, near the circling beach — always blue — looked 
 more deeply so from the elevation at which I stood : while on 
 the opposite side, towards Sorrento, the sun — itself hidden from 
 us by clouds — streamed down in blazing effulgence upon the 
 water, and the isle of Capri loomed up in the middle of the 
 gulf, like an iiTegular mass of bronze rising out of a sea of 
 
iBTAT. 33.] ASCENT OF VBSTJVIUS. I93 
 
 liquid gold. On the right, behind Naples and Portici, to the 
 line of the distant mountains, extended a vast hollow plain, in 
 which lay a dozen white and closely-built villages, scattered 
 about, and, in the intermediate spaces, single houses, peeping 
 out like stars on the approach of evening ; at the first glancing 
 look you might see none, but afterwards, at every point on which 
 your eye might rest, a villa would seem to reveal itself to your 
 scrutiny.* Beyond the hills that etched a relieving back- 
 ground to the plain, spread the dark, broad waters of the Medi- 
 terranean, in the Gulf of Gaita. The air between the Bay of 
 Naples and the sky above it, was one conflagration of azure 
 light ; upon the plain, at the side, lay a purple atmosphere, 
 deep enough to color and illuminate the picture, not obscure it. 
 It seemed as if I had come at last upon the very court, and 
 home, and dwelling-place of Aurora; and the snowy villages 
 which sparkled with brighter show amid a spectacle where all 
 was brilliant, looked like garlands of white flowers, which the 
 early hours had scattered beneath her forthgoing steps, and 
 which still lay glittering on the ground. It was a treasury of 
 the glories of earth and air. 
 
 A good carriage-road reaches to the Hermitage, and thence, 
 there is a bridle-path half a mile further, to the base of the vol- 
 cano, where the ascent on foot begins. You clamber straight 
 up over fragments of hard lava of the size of paving-stones, till 
 you reach the summit. The guide, who, like aU his tribe, was a 
 sheer nuisance from beginning to end, here produced a ma- 
 chinery of ropes and sticks, and proposed to tie me or himself, 
 or both of us, round the body, and to drag me, or get me to 
 drag him, I forget which, up the steep. As I had passed the 
 summer in Switzerland, and had served an apprenticeship to 
 mountain-climbing, at the Pauldhorn, the Wengern Alp, and 
 the Bighi, I had no notion of being brought to the strappado, 
 although I was under the tyranny of Naples. Declining, there- 
 fore, " the unusual punishment" of the rope, which I took to be 
 inconsistent with the constitution concerned, I bade the knave 
 
 * See Wordsworth's Evening Voluntaries, 1. 
 17 
 
194 ASCENT OF VESUVIUS. [JEtat. S3. 
 
 look out for himself, and I set forth upon a rush up the vertical 
 precipice. Nothingbut the roughness of the lava surface, and 
 its softness, which enable you to anchor your legs knee deep 
 in the soil, renders the ascent practicable. A series of vehe- 
 ment rushings brought me at length to the top and I.found that 
 I had accomplished the race in half an hour. 
 
 The first thing that I came upon here Vfas the great crater of 
 the eruption of IT 94, — now dry and scorious, and black as a 
 bosom in which sensual passion has burnt itself to exhaustion. 
 Though crusted over and closed, it was steaming and smoking 
 through sundry apertures. Traversing it, I arrived at the large 
 crater of 1850, — a still raw and open ulcer of earth. The wind 
 was blowing from us, and the circumstances were favorable for 
 viewing the cavity. It was filled with a dense volume of white 
 gas, which was whirling and rapidly ascending ; but the breeze 
 occasionally drove it to the opposite side and disclosed the 
 depths of the frightful chasm. It descended a prodigious distance 
 in the shape of an inverted truncated cone, and then terminated in 
 a circular opening. The mysteries of the profound immensity 
 beyond no human eye might see, no human heart conceive. "We 
 hurled some stones into the gulf and listened till they struck 
 below. The guide gravely assured me, that ten minutes elapsed 
 before the sound was heard ; I found, by the watch, that the inter- 
 val was, in reality, something over three quarters of a minute ; — 
 and that seems almost incredibly long. When the vapor, at 
 intervals, so far thinned away that one could see across, as through 
 a vista, the opposite side of the crater, viewed athwart the mist, 
 seemed several miles distant, though, in fact, but a few hundred 
 feet. The interior of the shelving crater was entirely covered 
 over with a bed of knob-like blossoms of brilliant white, yellow, 
 green, red, brown — the sulphurous flowers of Hell. I cannot 
 describe this spectacle, for, in impression and appearance alike, 
 it resembles nothing else that I have seen before or since. It 
 was like Death, — which has no similitudes in life. It was 
 like a vision of the second death. As the sun gleamed at times 
 through the white breath that swayed and twisted about the 
 maw of the accursed monstrosity, there seeemed to be an activity 
 
^TAT. 33.] ASCENT OF VESUVIUS. I95 
 
 in the vaulted depth, — but it was the activity of shadows in the 
 concave of nothingness. It seemed the emblem of destruction, 
 itself, extinct. There was something about it revoltingly beauti- 
 ful, disgustingly splendid. One while, its circling rim looked 
 like the parched shore of the ever-absorbing and ever-empty sea 
 of annihilation. Another while it seemed like a fetid cancer on 
 the breast of earth, destined one day to consume it. To me it was 
 purely uncomfortable and wholly uninspiring. It seemed to 
 freeze back fancy and sentiment to their sources. It was not 
 terrible, it was merely horrible. It is a thing to see once, but I 
 care not to see such a thing again in this world ; and Jesus 
 grant that I may see nothing like it in the next. 
 
THE GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 [This accoant of the Great Exhibition at London, in 1851, was written for 
 the "Home Journal," and at the request of the author's friend, its senior 
 editor, General Morris."] 
 
 London, May 12, 1851. 
 To the Editors of the Home Journal: 
 
 Gentlemen : — A traveler by profession, like myself, comes 
 to regard all sorts of shows as in the nature of mortal enemies, 
 that must be slain by seeing them ; Paynim foes of enchantment, 
 whose spell consists in invisibility, and whose terrors are dissi- 
 pated only by lancing at them a stroke of the eye. Through 
 successive years, I had been following up the inirdbilia of the 
 Continent, from Moscow to Madrid ; and was about to embark 
 from an Italian port, to do, in like manner, the East for a second 
 time. But in the midst of glowing and glorious Italy, my tran- 
 quillity was disturbed by rumors of a new and formidable sight 
 that had sprung into existence behind my back ; and I, who 
 boasted of seeing every thing, was likely not to see the greatest 
 of all things. My dreams at night were tormented with visions 
 of this London Exhibition, sometimes assuming the form of a 
 glassy sea-beast, sometimes scowling in the likeness of a mon- 
 ster with ribs of iron. I was on the summit of "Vesuvius, look- 
 ing down on the little village of Nola, in which the Imperial 
 Augustus closed his theatrical career. The guide thought me 
 absorbed in meditations upon the natural and historical interests 
 of the scene ; but I was really immersed in thinking how I 
 should feel if a cockney tailor, such as I had met that morning 
 n* (IST) 
 
2 98 THE GREAT EXHIBITION. [^tat. 31 
 
 on the road, should push his thimble-nose in my face and ask 
 me if I had seen the London Exhibition. "Bah I" cried I, at 
 length, as I recalled Irving's inimitable anecdote of the grizzly- 
 bear in Astoria ; " It is not worth while to be grinned at all 
 day by a varmint;" I will e'en see the Crystal Palace. I de- 
 scended rapidly the precipitous cone, mounted my horse, which 
 I had left at the Hermitage, and stopped not till I reached 
 the " Grande Bretagne," where, having packed my valise, I em- 
 barked on board the Castor, and in three days landed at Mar- 
 seilles ; another three days brought me to London. 
 
 In the course of a sojourn on the Continent, I have seen well- 
 nigh all that Europe has to exhibit of splendid and mighty, in 
 structures, in ceremonies, and spectacles. I have viewed, I be- 
 lieve, every cathedral between Magdeburg in the North, and St. 
 Januarius on the South, and from the mystic gloom of St. Ste- 
 phen's, at Vienna, to the lanternlike brilliance of St. Ouen, at 
 Rouen ; and in many of these it has been my lot to witness the 
 most august and imposing services of the Catholic worship. I 
 have traversed the gilded halls of royal palaces, from the tragic 
 glories of Versailles and the rival prodigalities of Potsdam, to 
 the quaint, antique vastness of the Bohemian Hradshin, and the 
 pathetic elegance of the Austrian Schonbrnnn. I have mused 
 in the halls of sculpture ; I have lingered in the gorgeous gal- 
 leries of pictures ; I have roamed through the majestic gardens 
 in which the ambitious vanity of princes and pontiffs has im- 
 posed upon Nature the formalities of Art, and expanded Art 
 into the magnificeoce of Nature. The pride of military reviews, 
 the pomp of civic processions, and the various magnificence of 
 the ecclesiastical exhibitions of the Romish Church, I am fami- 
 liar with, under the finest conditions of their display. In all 
 my wanderings, and they have been extensive ; in all my sojourn- 
 ings, and they have been numerous, I have met with nothing 
 which in its effect upon the eye and upon the mind alike, — 
 which in the brilliance of its iirst impression, and the interest of 
 its prolonged and studious contemplations — can be placed be- 
 fore the Exposition in Hyde Park. It is at once the most showy 
 pageant that ever glittered before the vision of wonder-loving 
 
^TAT. 33.] THE GEE AT EXHIBITION. igg 
 
 curiosity, and the richest field of instruction that was ever 
 submitted to the scrutiny of profound and comprehensive 
 thought. 
 
 I have wandered day after day among the endless aisles and 
 passages of this airy cathedral of science and industry, delighted, 
 astonished, impressed ; — gathering each moment so much new 
 information, struck by so many new points of view in which the 
 thing presented itself, visited by such a concourse of emotions, 
 as it is impossible to bring together under a single conception 
 of the subject. The details of the show are endlessly curious 
 and engaging ; but it is the associated effect of the vast aggre- 
 gation of particulars, that forms the special and characteristic 
 interest of the display. That -which each moment rises and 
 swells upon the mind with still expanding grandeur is, the 
 double reflection of the greatness of the conception, and the 
 perfect realization of that conception — the entire and exact exe- 
 cution of the mighty and most complex scheme — performance 
 stretching onward and filling up the farthest reaches of the great 
 design. It is perhaps the largest human idea that was ever 
 thoroughly carried out in practice, to the fullest exigence of its 
 mental requirement. As it lies beneath your eye, it fully an- 
 swers to the sounding title by which it was announced, as an 
 Exhibition of the Industry of the World. In that point of 
 view, the spectacle is one irresistibly touching to the sympathies 
 of the beholder. As I paused at the corner of one of the 
 galleries, where the nave and transept intersect, and looked 
 down upon the collections from almost all the nations of Europe 
 and Asia and Africa, attended by natives of the respective coun- 
 tries — the thing seemed to me scarcely less than sublime. It 
 was like beholding all the kingdoms of the earth and the glory 
 thereof. Beneath me were Egypt and Greece, and on the oppo- 
 site side were Tunis and China, Canada, Van Diemen's Land, 
 and Ceylon ; here were the fabulous glories of Indian magnifi- 
 cence, and there the romantic elegancies of Spanish fancy ; here, 
 in varied prodigality, were the choicest efforts of the taste and 
 toil of Germany and France and Belgium and Italy, and yonder, 
 in extent unmeasurable, in diversity inexhaustible, stretched the 
 
200 THE GREAT EXHIBITION. [^tat. 33. 
 
 majestic proofs of the invention, tlie science, the taste, the ac- 
 tivity, the enduring forces, the limitless resources of England. 
 
 The visible splendors of the outward spectacle faded into 
 dimness before the more glowing interests that belonged to the 
 moral aspects of the occasion. What a scene for a statesman 
 to contemplate 1 Here was each famous land, represented by 
 its characteristic arts and fabrics — the type of its moral quali- 
 ties, the measure of its intellectual development, the basis of its 
 political power. Here, as in a mystic glass, one might read the 
 eventful histories of national progress or decline — might take 
 the gauge of present social condition — or might write sure 
 prophecies of future destiny. 
 
 As I gazed upon this great review of the armies of industry 
 —this august congress of rival and partly hostile national inte- 
 rests, — I thought of Burke 1 What a view he would have given 
 us of the real significance and true grandeur of the spectacle we 
 are looking upon I How his wonderful knowledge, so general 
 in its range and so minute in its accuracy, would have kindled 
 into enthusiasm at the sight, till it overflowed in streams of in- 
 formation that would have reflected from his intellect a glow 
 like inspiration ! How would his combining mind have taught 
 US to associate an interminable mass of details into one compre- 
 hensive scheme of the industrial economy of society ! Those 
 forms and arrangements, which the thousand strollers through 
 these halls gaze or gape upon with momentary wonderment, aa 
 the unenlightened look upon hieroglyphics, would have flashed 
 up under the glance of his genius into symbols of great truths, 
 from which he would have expounded the dignified lessons of 
 political wisdom. 
 
 But if an understanding not less supreme than Edmund 
 Burke's were required to apprehend all the mental indications 
 of this extraordinary display, it would demand some equally 
 eminent master of the graphic art to represent to you by de- 
 scription the outward appearances of the show. The most 
 complete view, perhaps, that can be had of the whole scene, is 
 from one of the galleries at the point where the transverse pas- 
 sage crosses the length of the building, which is at the centre. 
 
iTTAT. 33.] THE GREAT EXHIBITION. 201 
 
 This cross arm of the strnctnre is arched, and like all the re5t 
 cf the erection, is of glass. You may form some notion of its 
 height when you know that four aged and stately elms — the: 
 fathers, of the park — are included within it, and that they look 
 merely like ordinary shrubbery of lemon and orange trees. The' 
 transept, which is about four hundred feet in length, exhibits a 
 fine horticultural display, and contains a large number of 
 statues ; and at the centre of the intersection with the longer 
 arm is a prodigious glass fountain of the loftiest and most 
 elaborate architecture. Looking upwards and downwards along 
 the nave or greater passage of the building, your eye sweeps 
 through a perspective of above eighteen hundred feet. Along 
 the centre, from one end to the other, extends a line of striking 
 objects — large statues — equestrian groups — the Sheffield trophy, 
 composed of silks of every dye — the largest mirror ever made 
 — a chapel, erected to display windows of painted glass — and 
 an endless quantity of similar things. From the point where 
 we stand, the first object that meets your eye in this central 
 line is a portrait of the Queen and another of Prince Albert, 
 both as large as life, in Sevres porcelain. Next is the famed 
 diamond, Koh-i-noor, a monument of eastern conquests scarcely 
 less dazzling than itself Then comes a shield inlaid and 
 wrought with wonderful elaboration, a gift from the Majesty 
 of Prussia to his godson, the young Prince of Wales. From 
 the point where we linger you may behold from thirty to fifty 
 thousand persons daily circulating along those spacious avenues ; 
 and such is the capacity of the building that there occurs no 
 obstruction, — there is no such thing as currents moving com- 
 pulsorily in one direction, but every one is at liberty to go just 
 as it suits him. The neighborhood of the great central foun- 
 tain is the favorite resort of loungers ; and here you will see a 
 mob of lords, and ladies, and foreign ministers, and perhaps 
 their foreign masters. " The Duke," generally with a lady on 
 one arm, and always with a white-handled umbrella under the 
 other, may commonly be seen for a few hours, S'topping in front 
 of some remarkable article, and pointing with two joined fingers 
 to this or that part of the thing, while with a brief, strong, 
 
202 THE GREAT EXHIBITION. [^tat. 33. 
 
 deep tone of voice, he demands the meaning or the use. At 
 an early hour the Queen and Prince may frequently be en- 
 countered. Their domestic habits are very exemplary; and 
 they often arrive at half after eight o'clock, and linger till about 
 half an hour after the building is thrown open to the public, 
 which is at ten o'clock. It is to the active patronage bestowed 
 by the Queen — who as a leader of ton is omnipotent — that the 
 great social success of the exhibition is to be ascribed. 
 
 The most natural, and perhaps the most satisfactory way of 
 becoming acquainted with the fine effects of this Great Expo- 
 sition, is to enter at the southern end of the hall, and examine 
 the several national compartments in order. Upon your first 
 jentrance your attention is caught by the rich, varied, and har- 
 monious impression resulting from the colors that glitter through 
 the scene 1 The blue, white and yellow hues of the painted 
 iron-work of the upper portion, show delightfully against the 
 bluish color of the light through the glass of the roof. The 
 scarlet hangings that extend along the balustrades of the gal- 
 leries, and which line all the compartments and cover the ex- 
 hibiting tables, give a carnival gayety to the halls. Many of 
 the statues, especially the plaster casts, in various parts, are 
 backed by hangings of scarlet, and the contrast of the colors 
 produces a rich impression. As you cast your eye along the 
 line of objects which I described as extending down the centre 
 of the nave, you perceive conspicuous above the rest, two plaster 
 casts of colossal horses rearing on high and held by grooms ; 
 beyond these, the huge Bavarian lion ; then a bronze copy of 
 Kiss's large group from Berlin, of an Amazon on horseback 
 attacked by a lion ; then the vast, towering equestrian statue 
 from Brussels, of Godfrey of Bouillon, brandishing his sword 
 on high. As you catch a view of these various striking figures, 
 the long line looks to you like a gorgeous procession of the 
 Middle Ages, of kings and warriors and caparisoned steeds, 
 advancing along the centre of the nave. The most remarkable 
 object on going in, is the statue of the Greek Slave, which is 
 allowed to be the finest marble in the exhibition, and is con- 
 stantly surrounded by a throng of admiring gazers. The Queen 
 
^TAT. 33.] THE GREAT EXHIBITION. 203 
 
 and her little train the other morning, before the doors were 
 open to the public, sat for more than half an hour in front of it. 
 You remember my enthusiastic admiration of this work before I 
 had seen the master-pieces of old Greece. My estimate of it, 
 since I became familiar with the Apollo and the Venus, is not 
 at all less — perhaps even greater — than it formerly was. 
 Viewing it fresh from the Vatican and the Tribune, I was struck 
 with a certain dryness in the limbs, characteristic of an earlier 
 age of Greek sculpture than belonged to the voluptuous round- 
 ness of the two great models of taste, and in general with the 
 predominance of a moral character in the limbs over the purely 
 natural perfection of the heathen exemplars. 
 
 Going on to view the alcoves or apartments which are ranged 
 along the sides of the large central passage, and which are 
 assigned to each separate nation ; we will pass by America, as 
 being, thus far, not at all fairly represented. Expectations are 
 entertained that additional objects will be sent out ; but, in the 
 nature of the case, a contiaent so remote can be considered as 
 entering but partially and imperfectly into the comparative 
 array of the European nations. The absence of America, in 
 her greatness, from the field of rivalry, illustrates a truth which 
 is constantly forced upon the attention of the American traveler, 
 and which is the explanation of many circumstances that else 
 might be mortifying to us — that the Eastern Hemisphere is one 
 world, and the Western is another. Proceeding by the left, we 
 come to the small chamber allotted to Sweden and Norway, 
 which is respectably filled with minerals, metals, and cutlery, 
 with some silks, damasks, and coarse calicoes. The energies of 
 Denmark, which stands next, seem to be identified with the 
 genius of Thorwaldsen ; for her room is nearly filled with casts 
 of his statues and bas-reliefs. The Zoll-Verein — which includes 
 strictly, I believe, all the German States excepting Austria and 
 Bavaria, but which, in the present classification, appears also 
 to embrace Bavaria — next unfolds its numerous and diversified 
 treasures. Here is Saxony, with such linens, damasks and 
 cloths as only Saxony can produce, and laces and embroideries 
 of captivating elegance ; here is curious japan and lacquered 
 
204 THE SKBAT EXHIBITION. [^tat. 33. 
 
 work from Wurtemberg ; and a singular display of stuffed 
 animals, in comic attitudes, from the same kingdom. Here are 
 silks, and ribbons, and velvets, from Enfeld and Yiesen, and 
 Elberfield, in Rhenish Prussia ; fine woolen shawls and worsteds, 
 from Dusseldorf ; silk stuffs, porcelains, and zinc castings, from 
 Berlin. One of the seven and twenty unquestionable successors 
 of Jean Farina, keeps up the fragrant fame of the most ill- 
 savored capital in Europe by a small fountain which casts a 
 fairy stream of odorous water. In the show of cloth manu- 
 factures, Prussia is particularly remarkable. Many evidences 
 of her inventive genius will also attract attention. One may 
 note especially the paintings produced by chemical process, de- 
 posited by Dr. Rumge, of Oranienburg, near Berlin. 
 
 Experience, and the knowledge which it imparts, are the 
 great remedy against prejudice. An American, whose mind 
 has been enriched with the select lore of newspapers, comes 
 abroad with the notion that Austria is one of the most benighted, 
 torpid, restricted lands in the world. If he have not time to 
 visit that country, let him view its contributions to this Fair, and 
 he might perhaps infer that an imperial regime is not always 
 necessarily a retrograde and stifling system, as relates to industry 
 and arts. Here is a store of that unrivaled colored gla^s and 
 porcclian which is identified all the world over with the name of 
 Bohemia ; here are quantities of fine calicoes and exquisite 
 cloths from Bohemia and Moravia, and especially from Brunn ; 
 in another quarter are superb velvets and silk damasks from 
 Vienna, and an extraordinary collection of lithographic and 
 xylographic engravings, especially of maps, from the same city. 
 The same government furnishes some grand specimens of carved 
 bedsteads and carved book-cases; and in a higher department of 
 Art, the imperial establishment at Vienna submits some porcelain 
 paintings which fairly rival the glories of Sevres. The truth is, the 
 Austrian supremacy has something better to rest upon than 
 ignorance, violence, and a false system of repressive and retro- 
 grade politics. We confuse together the odious foreign domin- 
 ation of the Imperial cabinet, and its rightful and judicious 
 domestic administration. In Italy, where the German dominion 
 
Mtxt. 38.] THE GREAT EXHIBITION. 205 
 
 is an alien oppression, resting only on conquest, the govern- 
 ment is a military tyranny, with all the sternness and rigor that 
 belong to that policy ; in Austria, Bohemia, Moravia, where 
 the rule of the Kaisers is the natural and normal constitution of 
 society, the government is parental and protective, animated by 
 that public spirit, and sharing that enlightenment, which have 
 always been characteristic of the States of Germany. The in- 
 ternal strength of Austria is secured by a wise, comprehensive, 
 and practical scheme of industrial policy, and rests upon a well- 
 developed and increasing basis of manufactures and arts. 
 Nowhere in the world, except in Prussia, is popular education 
 so sedulously cultivated. The pre-eminence of Austrian influence 
 in Germany, and the predominance of Austrian force out of 
 Germany, are, therefore, not exceptional, inexplicable and transi- 
 tory accidents, but are connected with usual and received laws 
 of social prosperity. A person disposed to inform himself 
 candidly, may take many a profound lesson upon the politics of 
 Europe from the thoughtful examination of this museum — and 
 not the least useful would be that which might give him a new 
 and truer respect for German Austria. I had corrected many 
 prepossessions and false opinions upon this subject by a personal 
 visit to the Austrian kingdom ; and what we there learned of 
 the well-organized and efficient action of industry in that region 
 is confirmed and illustrated by the display upon these tables. But 
 in human affairs, the shade commonly lies near by the light, and 
 benignity in one set of relations is no security against ruthless- 
 ness in another. We enter a chamber crowded with the choicest 
 productions of the chisels of Milan, Brescia and Verona ; and 
 we start and half suspect an error in arrangement when we read 
 the name of " Austria" upon the scarlet ensign which is hung 
 above the entrance. A little recollection puts us in mind that 
 we but read the simple record of a fact. But not the least 
 striking impression which We receive in this great school of the 
 Actual, is that by no pathetic assumption of Romance^ — by no 
 indignant exaggeration of Patriotism — but in the cold registry 
 of an official calendar— Italy is not, she inherits no longer even 
 the sad, proud glory of a name. Her identity, even, is lost in the 
 18 
 
206 THE GEEAT EXHIBITION. [^tat. 33. 
 
 tyranny that envelopes her. It awakes an impatient sigh to re- 
 flect that the consecrating light of genius should be shedding 
 the calm sanctity of its rays upon a form which so sternly strove 
 to extinguish it — ^that the violated loveliness of the soft, peerless 
 maiden of the family of nations, should be weaving garlands for 
 the brow that scowls over her dishonor — that the last conso- 
 lation of the enslaved should become the boldest boast of the 
 enslaver. I stood for a long time gazing upon that word 
 "Austria," over the portal that led into this beautiful gallery of 
 sculpture, and absorbed in desponding recollections. I felt as 
 if Humanity itself was wronged by this injury done to its liveliest 
 sympathies, and I could have plucked the unworthy name from 
 its usurped position. But words are things ; and names are the 
 brief epitomes of enduring facts. A long and dark story of 
 weakness, error, and misfortune, of fraud, violence, and daring, of 
 the crimes of some, and the anguish of multitudes, was summed 
 up in that single word there inscribed alone. And Europe 
 must be agitated to its base, and men's opinions and feelings be 
 convulsed as by a whirlwind, and battles lost and won, in order 
 that, on the catalogue of some future World's Fair, another name 
 may be inscribed over the hall that holds the native excellence 
 of Northern Italy. 
 
 To come back from politics to criticism we must observe that 
 among the best productions of the chisel, in the Exposition, are 
 the numerous statues from Milan. This is in some measure 
 to be ascribed to the permanent patronage in favor of that 
 art created by the demands of the Cathedral of that city for.fine 
 sculpture. The design of that magnificent structure calls for 
 about six thousand large and small statues in the rich marble 
 of Carravara, near Lago-Maggiore, of which some three thou- 
 sand remain to be executed. The Austrian vice-royalty, before 
 the revolution, expended yearly about thirty thousand dollars 
 upon the work ; and by this encouragement, a little school of 
 Art has been fostered and developed there, and in the neighbor- 
 ing towns of Lombardy. Monti is the most eminent of the 
 Milanese sculptors. 
 
 The several apartments of the German States contain a va- 
 
^TAT. 33.] THE GREAT EXHIBITION. 20T 
 
 riety of beautiful works of design ; but there is one lofty cham- 
 ber, inscribed with the name of " Deutsch Zoll-Verein," which 
 is devoted entirely to exhibitions of porcelain painting. It is a 
 fine octagonal room, fitted up with scarlet hangings, and a 
 showy Gothic roof, and filled with the choicest specimens of 
 that costly, but luxurious and elegant craft. It is the best place 
 to learn how extensively this industry is cultivated, and to survey 
 the comparative value of the performances of diiferent manufac- 
 turers. Here is a collection of exquisite pictures after Titian, 
 Rafael, and Guido, from the establishment at Meissen, in Sax- 
 ony, some of great merit from Berlin ; others of a small but 
 beautiful description, from Stuttgard, in Wurtemberg, numerous 
 examples from Nymphenburg, near Munich, and some un- 
 usually fine ones from Bamberg, in the same kingdom of Bavaria 
 — both the result of the active encouragement of the truly royal 
 spirit of the late king, Ludwig. I have elsewhere noted that 
 Vienna is a prominent candidate for renown in this fine rivalry ; 
 and the Austrian department shows, by several magnificent 
 painted vases, that her contests with the South are not those of 
 arms alone. 
 
 Pass we onward to the rich display submitted by Belgium — ■ 
 for uncommon variety and general excellence, scarcely surpassed 
 by any part of the museum. Here are cloths and linens, and 
 flannels and worsted, furniture, machinery, and jeweler's work. 
 The wood carvings from Louvain exhibit some of the most 
 original and beautiful forms in modern creative Art. The Cor- 
 onation of the Yirgin, with Angels, by Charles Geerts, of that 
 city, is a group of charming interest ; showing that the re- 
 fined and quaint and winning grace of Van Byck and Memling 
 still lingers round the spirits of their countrymen. France also 
 makes a very large and undoubtedly brilliant show ; yet there 
 is less that is novel than in many other countries. There 
 is a quantity of orfeverie, of bronzes, of wood-carvings, of 
 modelings in plaster, of splendid lamps, of jewelry — among 
 which Le Monier's case of diamond bouquets is particularly 
 glittering — and of silks, and shawls, and calicoes. There is a 
 superb tapestry carpet from Troyes, and a number of glossy 
 
208 THE GREAT EXHIBITION. [^tat. 33. 
 
 rosewood pianos. But while the number and showiness of the 
 French articles rather exceeded expectation, I must acknowledge 
 for my own share, that I was disappointed, in respect to the 
 good taste of their forms and decorations generally. One ex- 
 planation suggested is, that the late revolution, in impoverish- 
 ing employers and purchasers, had driven the best workmen into 
 England, part of whose triumph is to be carried to the account 
 of France. A truer reason probably is to be found in the de- 
 votion of the French to varying Fashion, and the circumstance 
 that at this moment the fluctuations of taste have brought 
 into vogue a "style de renaissance" — a revival of antique shapes 
 which, genuine and characteristic under the stately manners of 
 the old monarchy, are now heavy, florid, and tawdry. This style, 
 if never inherently elegant, was once interesting as being repre- 
 sentative of a corresponding condition of society : but the re- 
 vival of " rococo" forms, without a restoration of " rococo" feel- 
 ings, principles, and habits, produces an effect which, as a term 
 of description, and without any moral allusion, I should qualify 
 as vulgar. The French Exhibition looks like a collection of show 
 things — of things made expressly for this display, to let the world 
 see how fine they could be made. In philosophical instruments, 
 clocks, watches and delicate machines of all sorts, France as- 
 serts her old and honorable supremacy. 
 
 The name of Switzerland calls up to the thoughts the image 
 of a mighty palace, where Nature sits in the lone sovereignty 
 of her sublimeness ; and Berne, St. Gall, and Zurich are as 
 magic spells to people the imagination with snowy visions of 
 still peaks that glitter in the depths of the blue heavens — with 
 mistlike waterfalls that seem to flow from the open windows of 
 the sky — with glaciers as white as the cheek of terror — with 
 lakes as blue as the starred gentians that fringe them. We are 
 somewhat astonished to be reminded that the seeds of human 
 industry take strong root in these rocky fastnesses, and blossom 
 with all the glowing flowerage of arts. Each canton is ad- 
 mirably represented here by its characteristic productions. 
 Here are ribbons from Basle ; magnificent embroideries from 
 Appensell and St. Gall ; fine shot silks from Zurich ; good 
 
^TAT. 33.] THE UEEAT EXHIBITION. 209 
 
 cottons and calicoes from Glarus ; and exquisite wood-carvings, 
 the peculiar and uncopied skill of Berne. Attention is especially 
 due to the models of the Beautiful Fountain (the Schon-Brunn) 
 of Nuremberg, and of the Cathedral of Strasbourg, fashioned 
 entirely by the penknife. The spiry perfection of the former, 
 with its prophets and apostles, is imitated with living exactness ; 
 and the representation of the latter is one of the most perfect 
 and carious examples of elegant toil that I have ever examined. 
 The proportions of the fagade, vrith its myriad details, are ex- 
 actly preserved ; the statues that crowd the niches, and the four 
 equestrians that ride along the open gallery, are minutely 
 finished ; and the effect of that singular grate-work of columns 
 and bars which sets the sculptures and ornaments in a kind of 
 atmospheric relief, is reproduced with the genuine power of an 
 artist. I thought these two things among the most covetable 
 articles in the exhibition. 
 
 From the region of North Germany, Hamburg sends a 
 copious and creditable contribution : — elegant table-covers, 
 painted silks, fine shawls, beautiful rosewood pianos, side-boards, 
 and book-cases, inlaid and decorated with much taste. Dantzic 
 particularly distinguishes itself by an abundant and unequaled 
 display of amber-work. Holland gives the world a provoking 
 glimpse of that domestic luxury of appointments which marks 
 the bourgeois aristocracy of that exclusive land. Velvet 
 damasks, cloths and flannels of ideal fineness of texture, snowy 
 linen, summon recollections of those cleanly, stately dames that 
 treasure such homely goods as other ladies treasure jewels. 
 She sends in also, carpets in imitation of Turkey, superb bronze, 
 gilt, and brass candelabra, quaint varnished screens, and other 
 commodities, which indicate that the influence of a connection 
 with the East still lingers upon the taste of that commercial 
 country. 
 
 Turn we hence to the land of chivalry — ^the home of proud 
 manners, and the theatre of passionate adventure. Though 
 Spain condescends to occupy a position in the palace of indus- 
 try, she mingles in the plebeian throng with the haughty 
 elegance of a spirit whose exertions are subservient, not to the 
 18* 
 
210 THE GREAT EXHIBITION. piiAT. 33. 
 
 uses of the vulgar, but only to the grace of knightly pride and 
 festal gayety. Here are vails of black lace, as fine as air, 
 adorned with figures of cavaliers in pointed hats, and ladies 
 attended by lovers with guitars — suggesting remembrances of 
 the blacker eyes that are fashioned to flash beneath them. 
 Here are silks and straws from Valenciennes ; musical instru- 
 ments from Malaga; guns, swords, and pistols, with handles 
 and stocks highly wrought and richly inlaid, the costly toil of 
 Madrid. In this department is a Koyal Ordnance Toledo 
 sword, a rodlike blade, kept in a sheath exactly circular, and 
 which, when drawn out, is as straight as an arrow. But the 
 marvel of the Spanish contingent is a small table, with a circular 
 top moving on a hinge, and composed of wood-mosaic. It is 
 said to contain six millions of pieces of wood of different colors, 
 put together like Roman mosaic, so as to form a picture of the 
 arms of Great Britain, and bearing a device presenting it to 
 the Queen. It is an offering to the presiding Goddess of the 
 Temple, from Perez & Co., of Barcelona. 
 
 Portugal submits a collection, remarkable for variety, though 
 not for quantity. She makes a pretty show in manufactures — 
 silks, velvets, and prints — and in marble table-tops. A snuff- 
 taker would look wistfully at the nice barrels of that more than 
 gold dust from Bio Janeiro. A species called Impalpable 
 Snuff, ought to be particularly spiritual in its qualities. Italy — 
 beauty-teeming land of Art, to the minds of whose children 
 elegance is as a native atmosphere, tinging every growth with 
 the hues of taste — Italy is here with some specimens of the 
 enchantments with which she laps in sweet captivity the hearts 
 of those who frequent her. Sardinia vindicates her advances 
 in the line of useful development by examples of fine silk velvets 
 and other manufactures from Genoa and Turin. Tuscany sends 
 us works in alabaster — white and pink — statues, Florentine mo- 
 saics, and anatomical models. Rome rests her claims proudly 
 upon cameos and mosaics, which the world beside must admire, 
 but never can imitate. In the latter department, a pair of very 
 large pictures of the landscape and temples of Poestum set the 
 
iBTAT. 33.] THE QEEAT EXHIBITION. 211 
 
 grinding-wheel and hammer of the mechanic on a level with the 
 pallette and pencil of the artist in oil colors. 
 
 Greece, too, immortal Greece, has descended from the starry 
 heights of old Olympus, to claim a place on the broad plains 
 of industry and useful genius. And what has the glorious old 
 creature brought us ? Carpets, gold tissues, marbles — ah 1 and 
 something yet brighter and more enduring — sprung from her- 
 self alone, wrought by only her sons, still her grandest, het 
 never-fading boast — words — ^the divine porcelain forms of the 
 mind — yet bright and picture-glowing as when the fair shapes 
 leaped into life from the resounding harp of Homer. To come 
 upon the language of gods and heroes inscribed over an arcade 
 of modern wares in the Industrial Emporium of London and 
 the nineteenth century, startles us with a sense of unreality, and 
 sends our thoughts backward over the gulf of ages, to other 
 periods of time and other conditions of humanity. The Crystal 
 Palace is an industrial Epic — as noble a one, in its way, as the 
 Iliad ; alas, that it is hand-wrought of the dull forms of glass 
 and iron, and not soul-cast of the all-vital substance of Imagi- 
 nation and Thought. Material Utility is the boldest son of 
 Time ; but Intellectual Beauty is the fairest daughter of 
 Eternity. 
 
 Near by stands Tunis, with curious rug-like carpets of pro- 
 digious thickness, striped woolens, and dresses half fabricated 
 of gold. Tonder lies Turkey, with Egypt in her arms ; and 
 the importance of that province to the Porte may be seen in 
 the very large proportion which its productions bear to those 
 of the residue of the Empire. Here are those red velvet sad- 
 dles, covered with gilding, which at once bespeak the sumptuous 
 manners of the East ; and here our venerable friends, the stuffed 
 crocodiles, so closely identified with the land of the Pharaohs. 
 The Turkish ambassador and his suite — smooth, cigar-visaged 
 lads — may generally be seen lounging in this apartment, in their 
 red caps with long blue tassels. On the opposite side is China, 
 with all those toy-like commodities which we are familiar with 
 from our childhood — porcelains, and shawls, and carved ivories, 
 and painted woods and papers, and immemorial lanterns, and 
 
212 THE GEBAT EXHIBITION. [^tat. 33. 
 
 girlish-looking attendants moving about among them like ante- 
 lopes. 
 
 Crossing the transept, we pass from the continent of Europe 
 to the world of Great Britain ; and if any man would have a 
 practical illustration of the extent of the empire " on which the 
 sun never sets," let his eye trace the national names that are 
 inscribed over the various alcoves in this region of the building. 
 On one side, India, Malta, the Ionian Isles ; on the other, 
 Canada, Van Dieman's Land, British Guiana, Western Africa, 
 Birra ; and beyond, the various shires of England. Especial 
 pains apparently have been used to present a full representation 
 of the productions of the British Possessions in the East ; and 
 the collection of Indian commodities is, without doubt, the 
 most magnificent and complete display of the ancient native arts 
 of that country that has at any time been brought to Europe ; 
 and they certainly sustain, and even extend, all our old, glowing 
 conceptions of the domestic splendors of "the gorgeous Bast." 
 The "trashy fabrics of India," to use one of Burke's unfor- 
 getable expressions — the Patnas and Poonas and Madrases, 
 that used to figure in the advertisements of our shop-people — 
 have sunk beneath the sterner rivalry of Europe ; but in the 
 solid and massive tissues woven of gold and silver thread, 
 which are hung in this department with such profusion and 
 variety, the competition of the "West falls to insignificance. 
 Indestructibly sovereign in her style and state — regal still in 
 manner, though no longer so in might — the antique reign of 
 Aurungzebe yet dazzles our imaginations ; and, like some cap- 
 tive king in the train of a Roman conqueror, moves even in 
 servitude and dependence with a braver show than belongs to 
 the boaster that leads the triumph. Here you may learn what 
 "pearl and gold" it was that the East "showered on her kings 
 barbaric." Many of the articles that blaze in this collection 
 have doubtless adorned the. ostentation of monarchs whose 
 names are in the half-fairy annals of oriental magnificence. 
 Here is a small chamber, fitted up in resemblance of the select 
 retreats of royal luxury, and glittering with crimson, and gold, 
 and velvet, and silk, in a way to bewilder the sobriety of the 
 
JEtat. 33.] THE GEE AT EXHIBITION. 213 
 
 gazer. There you behold pearls as large as the finest Roman 
 pearls ; beside them, rare crystals ; further on, state umbrellas 
 of unimaginable gorgeousness. The models of native ships and 
 buildings are not the least curious of the extensive list of Indian 
 contributions. 
 
 Near by, Malta expands her beautiful gold and silver filigree 
 — delicate and glittering as the morning frost-work — in which 
 she is not exceeded even by Genoa. She sends us, also, her 
 peculiar Maltese lace, and her inlaid marbles, in the style of 
 Florence. The Ionian Islands show their peculiar silk scarfs 
 and embroideries ; and the little island of Jersey appears with 
 knit wools and carved woods, the homely trophies of native 
 toil. If India represents the past, her vis-d-vis, Canada, may 
 be considered as the type of the future ; her hemp, and timber, 
 and minerals, are tokens of a yet undeveloped strength. 
 
 But interesting and admirable as so much that we have sur- 
 veyed undoubtedly is, the whole combined sinks into a secondary 
 rank when compared with the contributions of England. She, 
 of course, had great advantages over every other country, in 
 being so near to the scene of display, and in being the spot 
 where the scheme originated, and where, of course, the feeling 
 in favor of it was infinitely strongest. The collection here 
 brought together is a perfectly complete exhibition of the arts 
 and manufactures of England. I could perceive no branch that 
 was omitted or slighted. That cannot be said of the contribu- 
 tions of any other country ; least of all, of America. It is not 
 that America being represented here, is apparently inferior to 
 other countries ; it is that she is almost wholly unrepresented. 
 I fully believe that if as complete and select an assemblage of 
 American arts were made as is here seen of English arts, my 
 own country would compare most advantageously with the 
 elder land from which she sprung. But America cannot be 
 said to have come into the field at all. In admitting, therefore, 
 the infinite superiority of the grand and orderly exposition of 
 the whole force of British industry to the handful of common- 
 place things that have been huddled together in the American 
 department, I admit no inferiority in the manufactures and 
 
214 THE GREAT EXHIBITION. [^tat. 33. 
 
 productions of my own country. Acquainted as I am with the 
 prodigious resources of republican enterprise and ingenuity, I 
 feel so little jealousy of the splendid show of English industry, 
 that nothing disturbs the cordial and delighted admiration with 
 which I traverse the long passages lined with the productions 
 of this noble little island. 
 
 In space and quantity, the English articles form more than 
 half of the entire exhibition, and the variety which they com- 
 prise is all but incredible. Nothing has struck me more, on 
 becoming acquainted with England, than the evidences every 
 where presented of great wealth, and that not confined to a few, 
 but shared by very large numbers. I found some explanation 
 of it in the limitless diversity and high development of indus- 
 trial arts here exhibited. To tell you of the prodigious masses 
 of diamonds and other gems sent by the great London jewelers 
 — the profusion of silver plate, comprising most of the pre- 
 sentation-pieces that have been made in the last twenty years, 
 such, for example, as the one given to Macready on the termi- 
 nation of his management — the extraordinary elegance and 
 variety of porcelain, which constitutes, perhaps the very best 
 portion of the English contribution — the cut-glass, the carpets, 
 cloths, silks, shawls, calicoes, cutlery, and every conceivable 
 thing besides — would lead you through columns of description. 
 One end of the building called the " Naval Arch," is devoted to 
 models of vessels, and specimens of every thing connected with 
 navigation. A very large apartment is filled with machines in 
 operation, comprising every invention in that way that England 
 has made in the last thirty years. The liberality with which 
 she throws open to the study of other nations all her most 
 cherished methods of operation, has, I know, excited the admira- 
 tion of some of our own practical mechanics, who have told me 
 that they found there what they had never expected would be 
 shown. The. orderly arrangement of the English department— 
 the judicious proportion by which the extent of the display of 
 any one branch of industry is accommodated to the relative 
 importance and interest of that branch — the successful efforts 
 every where employed to give a beauty and visible effect to the 
 
2ETAT. S3.] THE GEE AT EXHIBITION. 215 
 
 show — are matters that enter largely into the merit of those who 
 have presided over these appointments. 
 
 I am sensible that I have failed to convey any adequate 
 notion of this marvelous monument of the complex civilization 
 of the nineteenth century. Like one of Mr. Robbins's villas, 
 "it must be seen in order to be appreciated." I advise every 
 one who can spare a couple of months, to come over and visit 
 it. Three weeks at least will be necessary for even a hasty 
 view of the whole display, and several months might well be 
 employed in the study of its contents. If the statesman would 
 explore the actual condition of the various kingdoms of Europe, 
 and would contemplate great practical illustrations of the 
 sources and forms of the " wealth of nations" — if the philoso- 
 pher would measure the exalted state of the development of the 
 faculties of man in this day — if the ethnologist would note the 
 modifications which the same civilization undergoes in its adapta- 
 tion to different people of the same race — if any man would 
 acquaint himself with the number, nature, fitness, and beauty, of 
 those appliances and implements which human ingenuity has 
 devised and fabricated for human utility and enjoyment, let theoa 
 all come to this great theatre of the achievements of practical 
 genius, and each will find abundant recompense for his efforts, 
 and abundant occupation for his thoughts. 
 
 I am truly yours, J. A. 
 
EEMAEKS UPON PAINTEES. 
 
 MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 If Leonardo, Correggio, and Rafael, sit together in the highest 
 circle of the heayenly council of imaginative creation, unchal- 
 lenged Dii Majarum Gentium, Michael Angelo dwells supreme, 
 even above gods, the all-powerful, self-inspired, Olympian Ju- 
 piter of Art. He moves with a benignant complacency among 
 the great forms that he calls into existence for his own satisfac- 
 tion, — a lofty, lonely, lordly spirit, but gentle, sensitive, and 
 overflowing with sympathy. The other great artists satisfy and 
 delight every sensibility of our purer nature : he raises our con- 
 sciousness to a higher condition, and expands our spirits and 
 feelings with the joyous power of thoughts and emotions appro- 
 priate to beings of a grander frame. The supremacy of Michael 
 Angelo is of the mind : it lies in that mighty soaring of intel- 
 lectual power, that profound range of moral comprehension, 
 which make his works a subject for reverence as well as en- 
 thusiasm. His imagination was as fervent as his thoughts were 
 piercing, and he could embody all the force, and all the fineness 
 •of his convictions aud of his dreams, in forms as expressive as 
 they were magnificent. In understanding and in spirit, he seems 
 to me to have been one of the greatest natures that ever exhi- 
 bited itself through the medium of Art. As a creator, in his 
 department, not less marvelous or less inspired than Shakspeare 
 himself ; and to be studied with the same careful and reverent 
 attention. 
 
 19 (21t) 
 
218 EEMAEKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tat. 34. 
 
 If greatness of conception characterizes Michael Angelo as a 
 thinker, a commensurate greatness of style distinguishes him as 
 an artist. In that particular he stands alone. Rafael and Cor- 
 reggio caught from him an expansion of manner that made their 
 noblest excellence : but no one ever rose to that lofty platform 
 upon which he habitually moved. He stands among his con- 
 temporaries like the last outliving example of a race organized 
 upon a larger intellectual and imaginative scale. Leonardo, 
 Correggio and Rafael had high and deep sentiments to commu- 
 nicate ; but they made use of personal forms of the ordinary 
 mould, and relied upon outline and expression as the medium 
 of suggesting their interior meanings. Michael Angelo, for the 
 representation of his great views of character, employed figures 
 of superhuman and heroic proportions : a principle no doubt 
 founded in the truth of human nature, for we instinctively conceive 
 of extraordinary intellect or dignity under a form of superior 
 magnitude, and a certain degree of physical pre-eminence seems 
 to be the natural and appropriate type of greatness of nature 
 and of ability. His ideal is the reproduction of a perfect hu- 
 manity ; but with every thing magnified ; both physiological 
 and mental ; vaster power, loftier intelligence, deeper sensibility, 
 nobler soul. In the effect produced, the surpassing greatness 
 and power of his beings are pre-eminently and essentially moral ; 
 qualities of the soul, not of the frame. For that extraordinary 
 development of material strength which his subjects possess, as 
 employed by him, is always representative of a spiritual grandeur; 
 and he uses exaggerated physical types only as a means of repre- 
 senting, — as under his treatment they altogether do represent — ■ 
 an heroic statute of the inward nature. The greatness of his crea- 
 tions is inherent, natural, essential ; not the result of excitement 
 and effort. It is his characteristic manner to represent power in 
 repose. His beings appear to be persons capable and possessed 
 of irresistible force and energy, were they called forth : but they 
 are commonly shown as quiescent, or as recovering from disturb- 
 ance, or as self-restrained. They are natures of mighty and in- 
 tense susceptibility, but under the spell of Art, gentle and calm : 
 beings whose reflections, passions, sufferings, and delights arp, 
 
JEtat. 34.] MICHAEIi. AWQEEO. 21 g 
 
 ■when stirred, of Titanic vehemence and" vividness, but who exhibit 
 nox their emotions by bodily agitations and distortions, which 
 are the weakness, not' the strength of nature. The mildness, mo- 
 desty, and pleasantness of temper that seem to animate his Cy- 
 clopean populatiottj shed a charm of : harmlessness over them. 
 whioh reconciles thera to our. sympathy. The utmost modera- 
 tioUj aad quietness, and goodness, endear them to our respect 
 and love. This, repose of spiritj in connection with such power, 
 has a double virtue; it is suitable to the character of Art, and 
 it tends to stamp a moral, impression upon the figures whose 
 physical qualities are tiius controlled and softened. He is al- 
 most the only person who has been able to exhibit greatness of 
 force otherwise than in a dynamic condition. The somewhat 
 twisted' attitudes in which he often exhibits his subjects are in- 
 tended to aid the representation of their inherent power, with- 
 out the figure being, thrown into violent action, and losing its 
 pre-eminently moral characteristics. One of his devices for 
 indicating strength in a condition of composure, is to bend 
 the hand' somewhat inward at the wrist; by which development 
 of muscle is shown with an impression of force kept in upon 
 itself; This in Vasari and other imitators,, becomes a tedious 
 mannerism. Some hasty critics have spoken of Michael An- 
 gelo's delighting to throw his subjects in unusual positions for 
 the purpose of making' an arbitrary display of his knowledge of 
 the anatomy of the figure. I doubt if any instance of such im- 
 becility can be authenticated/throughout the whole range of his 
 creations. I certainly have seen no example in which the pecu- 
 liarity of the attitude, however strange it might be, did not 
 appear to me exclusively intended to accomplish a moral signi- 
 ficance and effect, and in which it did not seem fully to accom- 
 plish it. 
 
 But the capacity to use these mighty anatomical forms as 
 hieroglyphics of a spiritual composition, passed not to the 
 scholars and imitators of the great master. They copied his 
 gigantesque types, but they could express nothing with them 
 but physical power ; and that only by putting the limbs into 
 action, often inappropriate or extravagant. Thus in Vasari's 
 
220 KEMAEKS UPON PALTERS. [^tat. 34. 
 
 emnlation of his teacher, in the frescoes in one of the chapels in 
 S. Pietro de Casinensi, at Perugia, the show of excited power 
 without a sufficient object, is not less than burlesque. In the 
 marriage of Cana, in that series, some men are carrying a dish, 
 and one of them has his limbs in such a condition of effort and 
 force as would haye been suitable in Hercules upholding the 
 world. So in the Sala de' Giganti, in the Palazzo del Te, near 
 Mantua, where Julia Romano has attempted Michael Angelo's 
 manner in the war of the Titans against Jupiter, all is action, 
 and all the action of material power. 
 
 But greatness of sentiment and manner forms not the only 
 superiority of Michael Angelo. "Where is there a tenderness so 
 deep, a sensibility so earnest, a sympathy so irresistible in its 
 appeal, as in the grave, calm, controlled faces and forms of his 
 subjects ? From him we learn that nothing is so touching as 
 the repressed softness of strong, great souls. His creatures hide 
 beneath their pensive reserve, a world of mighty emotion. Where 
 is there a beauty, higher, clearer, truer, than in some of the 
 female figures on the ceiling of the Sistine chapel ? Free from 
 every thing showy, voluptuous, or meretricious, it does not 
 stimulate sentiment, but rather impresses, chastens and exalts 
 it. It is the token of a bright, unstained, intellectual goodness, 
 within : not abstract and commonplace, but identified with tha 
 moral personality of the character, and appropriate to her rela- 
 tions ; firmly allied to virtue, not weakly tempting to eviL 
 But it is in an elevated, intense, yet calm religions sensibility 
 and purity that Michael Angelo's special and incomparable 
 value consists. His was a pencil framed to incarnate in form, 
 the souls of Prophets and Apostles ; and in his frescoes, they 
 appear surrounded with the same atmosphere of holiness, utter- 
 ing the same exalting exhortations, breathing the same sympa- 
 thy with heaven, that belongs to them in the recorded word. 
 The thoughtful contemplation of his works is a mental service 
 of confession. He inherited a grand, cathedral spirit, in which 
 every form and sound and color, through beauty, became sub- 
 servient to religion. I know not how to abstain from placing 
 him above all other artists ; for I know that after passing an 
 
^TAr. 34] MICHAEL ANGELO. 221 
 
 hour in the Sistine ohapel, I was spoilt for the Stanza of tho 
 Yatican. Glowing from Michael Angelo's ever-present light- 
 nings of thought, majestic depth and power of feeling, and inex- 
 haustible copiousness of creative energy, even Rafael's perfec- 
 tions seem coldj insipid and dull. 
 
 In fresco painting, the ceiling of the Sistine chapel is the 
 principal and sufficient monument of Michael Angelo's inex- 
 haustible moral invention, his powers of various illustration, 
 his- rich conception of beauty, his profound reach and range of 
 thought. A- series of compartments' along the centre of the 
 vault represent, as is well known, successive events in the early 
 biblical history of man : in the angles cut off by the arches of 
 the ades are seated figures of the Prophets and Sibyls, alter- 
 nately ; and on the arches, a series of compositions illustrating 
 the genealogy of the Saviour. The full appreciation of this 
 multitude of profound' studies would require the examination of 
 w^eks. As an example of the nature of these productions, I 
 shall give a brief description of the series of the Prophets and 
 Sibyls. 
 
 There is one of these figures at each end of the ceiling, and 
 four along either side of it, making in all ten. They are all in 
 the attitude of being occupied with recording the prophetic 
 illumination which they will presently utter, and the variety of 
 modes in which they are exhibited as receiving this instruction, 
 and the appropriateness of each mode to the special character 
 ef each of the prophetic persons, furnishes striking evidence of 
 the copious- imagination of their author. 
 
 First, on the side series, sits Jeremiah ; a grand, sublime, 
 melancholy figure ; leaning forward with his right arm rested 
 upon his knee, and the hand shading his mouth ; the other arm 
 hanging listlessly over his lap ; both bent at the wrist with that 
 characteristic tension which indicates a suppressed excitement 
 of the nerves ; his long beard drooping down to his lap ; his feet 
 crossed; thoughtful, absorbed and wrapt, yet quick in every 
 fibre with the ethereal fire of pervading inspiration. He seems 
 to be preparing to receive the foreboding communications of an 
 avenging God ; waiting, depressed but great, for those awful 
 19* 
 
222 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tat. 34 
 
 messages which it is his glory and his grief to convey. Behind 
 him stand two beautiful but sad figures, attending till their 
 lord, the prophet, has imbibed the terrible inspiration, which, 
 received in the silence and gloom of the gathering storm, will 
 give itself forth, anon, in the fury and magnificence of the ra- 
 ging thunder-tempest. August and impetuous as the organ of 
 divine utterance ere long will be, he now sits drooping in human 
 gloom for the fate of others, feeling through holy sympathy that 
 sorrow for their sins which they feel not for themselves. The 
 coloring of this figure is clear, strong, and pretty high ; and is 
 fresh and well-conditioned. 
 
 Next sits the Persian Sibtx, writing intently in a book held 
 up near to her face ; her head averted sideways in the eagerness 
 of her interest to record every revelation of truth ere it be with- 
 drawn forever. The excitement and blaze of enthusiasm are 
 quivering in every limb of her noble form. Behind stands a 
 man of mature years, his arms crossed upon his breast, wait- 
 ing the issue of the Sibyl's fervor. 
 
 Then comes Ezekiel. An angelic figure, of female beauty 
 indescribable, — vivid and rapid, as becomes the swiftly-descended 
 messenger of the Omnipotent, who pauses on earth only for a 
 period, — directs the attention of the prophet upon a roll at the 
 side of the picture, on which are wi'itten the eternal judgments of 
 the All-holy. The seer, half starting from his seat, with his arms 
 stretched forth in an attitude of reverent submission, leans for- 
 ward in keen, astonished earnestness, to read the truths of ever- 
 lasting moment that there burn before his eyes. He holds in 
 his other hand the roll on which he will presently record the 
 message he thus receives. It seems that the vision is vouchsafed 
 to him but for one moment, and he explores and pierces the 
 scroll, as one who must snatch in an instant, the startling truths 
 which it is fatal for him not to possess and to communicate. The 
 eagerness of a servant of the Lord, vehement to know, fervent 
 to adopt, impetuous to execute the will of his Jehovah, is splen- 
 didly and powerfully lightened forth from this glorious figure. 
 A grand profile is firmly set off with a short, white, curling 
 
^TAT. 34.] MICHAEL ANQELO. 223 
 
 beard, and a turban. He wears a red tunic, and a gray mantle 
 which streams in the current of the angelic visitation. 
 
 The Erythr^an Sibyl is a grave, composed, lofty, and 
 beautiful figure, seated before an open volume placed upright, 
 her knees crossed, one arm hanging by her side, the other placed 
 upon the book, saddened yet calm, more possessing, than mastered 
 by the inspiration of her nature. 
 
 The last personage on this line is Joel, an aged and some- 
 what emaciated figure, who holds with both hands, and reads 
 with pondering and studious care the roll on which are the 
 words that he has written ; while, behind, are two angels wait- 
 ing his behest. A calm, earnest, profound interest in the accu- 
 racy of his message, is the characteristic expression of this fine 
 figure. The coloring of the scarlet mantle over the rich tunic 
 is more brilliant and agreeable than in most of the others. 
 
 On the end is Zachariah, a still more aged and most vene- 
 rable figure, with bald head and copious beard. His face is 
 meek and saintly ; refined from all earthly passion, and animated 
 only by the constraining love and adoration of God. He reads 
 intently in a book, which may be the law that it concerns him 
 to preach. In the background are two lovely figures, one of 
 them with his arm over the shoulder of the other. 
 
 As we go up along the other side, the nearest is the Delphto 
 Sibyl ; and nothing displays the fine intellectual genius of 
 Michael Angelo more strikingly, than the discrimination which 
 he has here made between the Jewish and the classic inspira- 
 tion. This is the type of an enthusiasm which is not spiritual, 
 but essentially heathen in its elements and aesthetic in its char- 
 acter. The figure is charmingly beautiful, and seems to hide 
 within it a lovely nature. It is not disturbed by the illumina- 
 tion with which it is animated ; its lines are all graceful and 
 composed, though grand and majestic. From the face seems 
 to be streaming, in visible glory and power, the prophetic light 
 and truth, of whose meaning, her nature, who is the vehicle of 
 it, is all unconscious. It is this absence of identification be- 
 tween the afflatus and the mind that transmits it, — the singular 
 impersonality of the inspiration that dwells upon and within the 
 
224 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. .SStat. Si. 
 
 being, lighting it up and making it radiant with the graces and 
 histre of a higher and mightier existence, that gires this iigure 
 its peculiar and fascinating expression. She seems to be afraid 
 of the power of which she is the minister, and almost shrinks in 
 timidness or modesty from the revelations which it is her destiny 
 to transmit. How different is the dogmatizing, relentless, all- 
 fervid impetuosity of Hebrew passion, mingling itself into the 
 divine which it communicates, and absorbing into his human 
 consciousness all the force of the overpowering Godhead 1 In 
 the sad, lovely, youthful yet care-worn brow, there is something 
 inexpressibly touching, and engaging. Dominichino must be 
 allowed to have borrowed the face and expressiou of his Cu- 
 mtean Sibyl from this figure. Indeed it is the original of nearly 
 all his female heads. 
 
 Next sits BsAiAS. The prophet, youthful in years, yet gray 
 and worn with the thoughts and feelings that quickly take away 
 the glow of life, has been meditating on the volume of the law 
 which stands, with his finger still in it, upon the seat beside 
 him. Two infant angels seem announcing to him the ap- 
 proaching breath of the fire of the Lord. He turns startled 
 and awed ; reverential yet almost repentant ; on his face is. 
 gathering the cloud of awe that precedes and dimly foretypifiea 
 the tremendous emotions that are soon to surround and possess 
 Mm. 
 
 If the Delphian Sibyl is the most beautiful of these figures, 
 the Ctim^an Sibyl is the most sublime. She is an aged crone, 
 of vast height and limbs of majestic power, who turns half-way 
 round, and resting on a column the book of Fate, which she 
 holds partly open with both hands, spells out, with keen and 
 painful intentness, the hidden mysteries of truth. Her knees 
 are closed together, as if she drew herself up in the possessing' 
 energy of her sacred meditations. She seems not so much the 
 minister and oracle of Tate, as one of the Pates themselves, 
 pondering what she shall decree. 
 
 Next is Daniel, the "man beloved;" youthful, beautiful, 
 blazing with sentiment, soft with those affections which are full 
 of hope and forward-looking fervor. He is earnestly writing- 
 
^TAT. 34] MICHAEL ANGELO. 225 
 
 upon a roll from an open volume, wMcli an angel who has 
 brought it to him, supports before him. 
 
 Last of that line is the Libyan Sibyl ; a slight figure, full 
 of sensibility, turning round to put away from her the rolls and 
 volumes of inspiration. She has read them till her soul has 
 become sad and sick with the deadly secrets of inevitable Fate, 
 and unable any longer to endure the overwhelming truth, she 
 seems vainly endeavoring to put aside her fearful mission. The 
 pathetic tenderness and beauty of her face, seen in connection 
 with the youthful delicacy and light grace of her feet and limbs, 
 are exquisitely winning. 
 
 At the end of the apartment sits the prophet Jonas; a 
 graceful form, swelling with emotion. The roll of revelation 
 lies at his side, and overwhelmed apparently by the immensity 
 of the feelings which it excites, he throws himself back, away 
 from it, and looks up to heaven with a face of imploring agony, 
 appealing to Omnipotence if there be no remission to man from 
 such a doom, no exemption to himself from the communication 
 of it. In all this college of half-heavenly humanity, there is 
 not a face and form more impressive than this. 
 
 I can conceive of no subjects more elevated, more complicated, 
 more profound, than such a series of impersonations of judicial 
 prophecy ; human in every feature and every feeling ; trans- 
 cendent by the vastness and intensity of moral thought and 
 moral sensibility. They draw our deepest interest towards 
 them through the sympathies of mind and conscience ; then 
 soar away into sublimity and bear our spirit upward with them. 
 Isaiah, and Daniel, and Jeremiah, — ^how vast the design of em- 
 bodying those ideas of an all-piercing intelligence, — whose 
 illumination is supplied from the light of goodness, — an all-re- 
 buking severity whose indignation is mingled with the fervors 
 of love, — an august dignity pervaded by a melting tenderness, 
 — which belong to our conceptions of those mystic beings and 
 invisible forms which shall re-awake those sweet impulses of 
 reverent affection, with which our youth regarded those great, 
 yet gentle fathers of our spiritual life. Need greater praise be 
 given than to say, — what all will feel may be said with truth, — 
 
22B REMARKS UPON- PamTERS. [^tat. 34- 
 
 that the pencil of Michael Angelo reveals in even heightened 
 grandeur, the souls, the understandings, the characters, and the 
 aspect of the Great Prophets of the Most High. 
 
 One striking and most impressive peculiarity in a-U these 
 figures is their uniform and deep sadness. 
 
 The significance and power of the-Last Judgment, which is 
 painted on the end wall of the Ghapel, are so entirely subjective 
 and moral, that the eye which wanders over its surface, in a 
 commonplace and exterior mood, will probably see nothing but 
 a confused mass of distorted limbs. It must be studied silently 
 and reverently ; and the mind must be gradually pressed, as it 
 were, to a high focus of reflection and feeling, before it can re- 
 ceive the perfect image of thought which this vast composition 
 is adapted to produce. The scene is meant to embody to the 
 imagination but a single, mere absolute conception, — that of 
 Judgment. It is a representation of the whole human world as 
 it would appear under the operation of divine Justice alone. 
 Mercy, long-suffering, compassion and forgiveness are qualities 
 of the Divine nature ; but their sphere is elsewhere ; in the time 
 past or the time to come. Probation, mediation, remission, are 
 parts of the heavenly system ; but none of them are in place or 
 in action in this awful moment, when Judgment only lightens 
 forth through the whole scene, and in terror sweeps from the 
 east to the west, and from the north to the south. The Son of 
 God puts off the lineaments of Redeemer, Saviour, Intercessor, 
 and starts forth in the awful aspect of the inexorable Just 
 Judge. We may suppose that Michael Angelo meant an ideal 
 view of the Christian world as would appear, if the single test 
 of Justice were brought to bear upon it ; or if he be thought 
 to have intended a prophetic picture of a scene that will one 
 day become actual, we must consider that he has chosen that 
 instant, when Judgment alone is rising to go forth, and the 
 other antagonist influences of the scheme have not yet risen to 
 obviate and counteract it. The Judge seated on his throne 
 fulminates throughout- the universe the blazing terrors of divine 
 Justice. Before the burning glance of him, " in whose presence- 
 
aiTAT. 340 -MICHAEL, ANGBLO. 227 
 
 shall no man living be justified," the «-vil:fall in anguish of 
 horror; the good, even, are smitten with dismay; martyrs, in 
 akrm, hold forth the instruments of their suflferings, to appeal 
 through them for merpy and acceptance ; apostles and saints 
 are frozen with awe ; even the Virgin, : shrinking, vails her face 
 and seems unable to look upon the countenance of the Judge. 
 One penetrating throb of terror chills the whole of creation. 
 
 The mighty moralist of Art had reached his sixtieth year, 
 when, in the loftiness of an integrity, fit to rebuke pontiffs ami 
 cardinals, he approached this great task in a spirit to leave ja 
 memorable lesson for a corrupt and profligate court. Heap- 
 pealed to them with this reflection, that, if in the terrors of that 
 fearful day, even canonized and sainted persons — the adoration 
 of the church — tremble and sink, how will you appear — rsensu- 
 alists, reprobates, atheists I 
 
 Sculpture grew from the religion of • the Greek, which was 
 "a natural faith," and its office was to embody the natural sen- 
 timents of Intelligence, Power, Beauty, Swiftaess, Strength, 
 Dignity. Painting is the offspring and appropriate instrument 
 of the Judaico-Ghristian inspiration, and its trtte function is 
 spiritual, mterior, figurative. I think it may be affirmed that 
 nowhere has the character of this faith, in.alliits. depth, fullness, 
 and peculiarity,'been brought out in Art as it has been in these 
 great works of Michael Angelo, who has compassed every note 
 of this great scale, and marked it in forms and colors. As in 
 the galleries of the Vatican, you may see explained in greater 
 truth and distinctness than in the fables of the poets, the whole 
 mythology of a xace that deified every natural and intellectual 
 .trait of man, so in this series of forms and scenes has Michael 
 A.ngelo expressed every leading characteristic virtue of the 
 spiritual system in a perfection worthy of the ; sanctuary and 
 citadel of the .piety of the church. 
 
 The Paoline chapel, at the :other end of Sala Regia, contains 
 two large frescoes by Michael Angelo, which are among his 
 greatest works. On one side is the Crucifijdon of St. Peter. 
 ■The saint, fixed to the cross, in a reversed attitude, turns up his 
 iead and tooks round. in :ajnanner to take away the painful im- 
 
228 EBMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tat. 34. 
 
 pression that would otherwise be produced by that distressing 
 position. The face is full of deep, manly pathos, and embodies 
 an earnest, touching, ennobled expression. The group engaged 
 in fastening him to the cross, forms as fine a composition as 
 painting can exhibit. On the other side is the Conversion of 
 St. Paul : the Lord, attended by angels, appearing in the air; 
 St. Paul thrown on the ground his horse prancing wildly, and 
 the attendants in various attitudes of astonishment and dismay. 
 The form of Saul is such as only Michael Angelo could have 
 drawn. Flung upon his back, his arms stretched out, his figure 
 crouching and shrinking into the earth, as if his very soul fled in 
 horror from the aspect of Christ, he is abased as only a divine 
 terror could bow down a mortal spirit. The foreshortening of 
 the limbs is remarkable. It is a picture of the highest interest. 
 I must include also among Michael Angelo's great works in 
 Rome, the Descent from the Cross, in the Trinita de Monti, 
 executed by Daniel da Yolterra, the drawing of every line and 
 lineament of which bears conclusive marks of the master's 
 hand. To me it appears to be one of the most vivid, expressive, 
 and lifelike compositions in the world. In the raising of Lazarus, 
 in the National Gallery at London, the figure of Lazarus, and 
 of the man under him, who is unloosing his bauds, are clearly by 
 Michael Angelo. The right leg and foot of Lazarus, and the 
 throwing back of his left shoulder, are unmistakably his. On 
 the other hand, the figure of Christ, and all the other figures in 
 the picture are, as obviously, not his work. They are mean, 
 weak, and vacant. 
 
 Among his easel pictures, the Holy Family, in the Tribune, is 
 perhaps the most remarkable. It shows how essentially sculp- 
 turesque was the genius of Michael Angelo. The group con- 
 sists of St. Joseph, kneeliiig on one knee, in front of whom, 
 and lower, is the mother, who, seated on the ground, raises the 
 infant over her head, and hands him to Joseph, who takes him 
 from her. The three figures constitute a perfect statuary com- 
 position ready to be blocked out in marble. The relief is vivid, 
 but produced in an unusual way ; not by light and shade, but by 
 one color being set against another to produce a bold opposi- 
 
^TAT. 34] MICHAEL ANGBLO. 229 
 
 tion. The heads are full of great feeling, but in a way charac- 
 teristic of Michael Angelo, who had probably derived from tho 
 models of sculpture his method of representing emotion in a 
 dormant and repressed condition. Fra Bartolommeo, Rafael, 
 and Correggio, represent the Madonna's love as brooding over 
 its object in the highest intensity of spiritual enthusiasm ; the 
 mother's countenance here is composed and even melancholy, 
 but it is the countenance of one who, under the impulse of ma- 
 ternal duty, in defence of that child, would brave not only sword 
 and fire and the wrath of tigers, but heaven and hell and all 
 infinite things. The Saviour's head shows the endeavor to repre- 
 sent a superior nature — an inherently superior nature, and not a 
 nature elevated only by the exaltingness of an indwelling spirit. 
 It is the head of a variety of the human kind above the ordinary 
 race. We are so much habituated to see this head made inter- 
 esting by features of the ordinary stamp being illuminated by 
 the influence of an interior mind of divinity, that we do not at 
 once appreciate the method of making the person of the Sa- 
 viour characteristic and emblematic of his spiritual superiority. 
 It is a method suggested to Michael Angelo by his Miltonic 
 power of imagination, which tended to give visible representa- 
 tion to every conception of the mind. It belongs to a more 
 complete and creative order of Art, than that which would ex- 
 press divinity in man, by imitating on the countenance the 
 very expression itself. For sculpture it seems indispensable; 
 and Michael Angelo had developed in painting a new and cor- 
 responding mode of typifying the exaltedness of the Son of 
 God, blended of the human and divine. Every thing here, as 
 more or less in his general manner, shown in fresco, has qualities 
 of a statuesque character. 
 
 There is another beautiful and interesting work at Florence, 
 recently discovered, but well authenticated as drawn by him. 
 It represents Fortune as a lovely woman, seated on a revolving 
 wheel, flinging sceptres, crowns, and laurel wreaths, from her 
 right hand, and letting thorns fall from the other. Her 
 character is conceived as an amiable and benignant one ; throw- 
 ing the blessings with a hearty good will and suffering the evU 
 20 
 
230 REMAEKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tat. 34 
 
 tokens reluctantly to slip from her hold, clinging to them as 
 long as possible. Her features have a pensive, placidly melan- 
 choly cast, mixt with the dignity of a goddess : seeming to sympa- 
 thize with the sad lot of the mortals on whom her duty compels 
 her to cast at random the arbitrary symbols of weal and woe. 
 She looks a little upward, so as not to see on whom fall the 
 objects which it is her destiny to dispense. The soft atmo- 
 sphere of the eyes is full of spiritual significance and attraction. 
 The coloring is rich and fine ; much superior to the one in the 
 Tribune. It is probably not executed by M. Angelo. 
 
 LEONARDO DA VINCI. 
 
 Among all that wonderful company of men whose genius, 
 about the beginning of the 16th century, conferred such glory 
 upon Art, none was more extraordinary than Leonardo da 
 Vinci. Others may stir a more glowing admiration, or impart 
 a warmer pleasure, but none inspire so much astonishment or 
 such insatiable curiosity. He is the founder of the modern and 
 perfect style of Italian Art. Beyond all others, his labors con- 
 tributed to that great transition by which Nature became the 
 language of Art. He first demonstrated that the forms of 
 actual life are varied and expressive enough to embody every 
 thought and feeling that genius can desire to communicate. He 
 explored and illustrated the boundless field of character in man. 
 The human face, that marvelous index of the soul, that register 
 of the life and mirror of the passions, was his especial and un- 
 tiring study. The collections of drawings throughout Europe, 
 at Milan, the Louvre, Lille, &c., abound with heads in crayon, 
 by Leonardo, obviously sketched from observation. They include 
 the most grotesque, ludicrous, horrible countenances ; and show 
 that, as others sought beauty or grandeur, he ceaselessly fol- 
 lowed character. This intense, microscopic scrutiny of moral 
 expression in countenance, gave him at last the power to paint 
 
^TAT. 34.] LEONARDO DA VINCI. 231 
 
 "the mind's construction in the face," with an inteHigence and 
 power that would have been pronounced impossible. The 
 subtlest ether of vital feeling that exhales from the features, be- 
 came fixed and visible beneath his pencil. The several lines of 
 sad anxiety and earnest striving, whose loneliness seemed to 
 secure their being noted only in the book of God, are all num- 
 bered in the lineaments left to us by his extraordinary hand. 
 His aim is not expression, which signalizes passing emotion, 
 but character, which forms the resultant of the life's experience. 
 Beneath his eye, the countenance becomes the soul's confes- 
 sional. In capacity to superinduce a mental significance and 
 illumination over features not disturbed from absolute quiescence 
 . — to convey utterance from the spirit of the pictured subject 
 to the feelings of the picture-gazer, through some other medium 
 than physical action and excitement, Leonardo stands supreme 
 and wonderful. Hence, the mysterious, unfathomable faces of 
 his women ; the features dignified and mild, but with a weird 
 and witch-lilie fascination ; and the dark, smiling eyes, hiding 
 or revealing a world of sentiment. The essential nature, 
 with all its unconscious wiles and its illusive charms, being 
 figured upon the lineaments, woman stands revealed upon 
 Leonardo's canvas in her true quality as the sorceress of Nature. 
 Sometimes, the face is almost sadly " sicklied o'er with the pale 
 cast of thought." 
 
 The dogmatizing scepticism of German critics, after torment- 
 ing literature and religion by the arrogate of doubts which 
 " end where they began," has come into the fields of Italian 
 genius, and perplexed the traditions of Art, by assigning, conjec- 
 turally, to this or that scholar, works which had always been con- 
 sidered the genuine productions of the master. Leonardo has suf- 
 fered so much under this process, that there is scarcely a single 
 easel picture of which this artist retains the undisputed credit. 
 As these deniers vary widely among themselves, every observer 
 must judge upon the subject independently of them all. The 
 difficulty of determining the genuineness of pictures ascribed to 
 da Vinci is undoubtedly greater than in the case of any other 
 great painter. It seems unquestionable that he employed cer- 
 
232 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [jEtat. 34. 
 
 tain of his pupils, especially Luini and Salai, to color pictures 
 which he had drawn, and probably elaborately worked out in 
 chiaro-scuro. Salai also, who possessed the talent of imitating 
 his master with great plausibility, is charged with having fabri- 
 cated works in the style of Leonardo, for the purposes of decep- 
 tion. Strangely enough, too, so singular an affinity prevailed 
 between the manners of Holbien and Leonardo, that some pic- 
 tures, among them the portrait at Dresden, No. 1051, called 
 Ludovico Sforzza, long ascribed to the latter, are now known 
 to have been painted by Holbein. In respect to those works 
 which there may be a temptation to ascribe, wholly or in part, 
 to Luini or Salai, the intellectual power of the faces will gene- 
 rally determine whether the drawing has proceeded from Leo- 
 nardo. In determining who has been the colorist, a reference to 
 certain unquestionable productions of Da Vinci's hand, would 
 suggest that his characteristic tone was something like an olive 
 brown. The fine frescoes of Luini in the Brera, and his oil 
 pictures elsewhere, would warrant us in ascribing to his beauti'- 
 ful pencil the coloring of those works of Leonardo which are 
 distinguished by a violet or lake tone, such as the Christ Disput- 
 ing, in the National Gallery at London, the* at the 
 Belvidere in Yienna, and the* in the Tribune. 
 
 A small work of Leonardo's, the authenticity of which seems 
 to be certain, is in the leronymite convent of St. Onofrio at 
 Rome, the Sanctuary in which Tasso breathed his last, and in 
 which his bones now rest. It was a favorite resort with me on 
 the clear cool days of the delightful winter of 1851, for it is not 
 only profoundly touching from the associations of the scene with 
 Tasso, but it affords perhaps the finest view of Rome and its 
 surrounding country, that the visitor to that region of magnifi- 
 cence can any where command. It stands near the summit of 
 the Janiculum, and it is a toil to clamber to it. At your feet, 
 to the left, lies St. Peter's, and directly beneath you is Rome, 
 with its unnumbered cupolas and towers, its columns and obe- 
 
 * These blanks occur in the MS. They were obviously left that the author 
 might refer to his catalogue, to get the popular name of the picture. 
 
^TAT. 34.] LEONARDO DA VINCI. 233 
 
 lisks. Beyond, yoa see the Alban mountain, the Sabine hills, 
 and the Mount Soracte ; and further off, the purpled snowy 
 ridge of the Apennines. The ruined trunk of the oak beneath 
 which Tasso often mused upon his sorrows, till their bitterness 
 passed away from him in melody, still is rooted under the crest 
 of the hill. 
 
 The picture to which I have referred, does not give a worthy 
 impression of Leonardo, and justifies the suspicion which has 
 been expressed, that within the shadow of the Yatican, his sen- 
 sitive genius was rebuked by Michael Angelo and Rafael, " as 
 they say Mark Antony was by Caesar." It is painted upon the 
 wall at the end of one of the halls, and it is said to be in fresco. 
 It is a lunette, containing the Madonna and child ; with an 
 old man, the patron of the picture, kneeling at the side. The 
 ground is brown, and is painted in imitation of mosaic. The 
 dress of the Virgin is a deep blue, with a green mantle gathered 
 up over one shoulder. Her hair is red, and she wears a small 
 cap far back upon her head. Her face is pallid, and displays a 
 faint but sickly smile. The eyes are downcast, so that the orbs 
 are not seen. The expression has something deathlike about 
 it. The child in her lap stretches forward, to bless with two 
 extended fingers, the kneeling old man. The child's figure is 
 softly painted, but with little color. The Virgin head is small : 
 indeed, the drawing of the whole is characterized by a timidity 
 and contraction of manner that indicates weakness. A glass is 
 over it, and the preservation is good, excepting, perhaps, that 
 the flesh tones have somewhat fled. 
 
 This picture makes it probable that the Vanity and Modesty 
 in the Sciarra palace, in the same city, is a genuine production 
 of Leonardo, though very likely to have been colored by Luini. 
 The tones are high, and the finish elaborate ; the power and 
 thought, and sentiment, that are stamped upon it, give it a fas- 
 cination not entirely comfortable. 
 
 The Christ disputing with the Doctors or with the Pharisees, 
 is supposed also to have borrowed its delicate rosy tints from 
 the pencil of the same assistant ; but the mighty soul of Leo- 
 nardo is to be traced throughout every part of the design. It is 
 20* 
 
234 EEMAKKS UPON PAINTERS. [JEtat. 34. 
 
 the most delightful picture itt the collection where it is. The 
 coloring is rich ; and for mere beauty of the work, is entitled 
 to take a high place. But the spiritual significance which it 
 breathes, constitutes its peculiar and greatest value. The Doc- 
 tors, four in number, are not exhibited as stern, carping, malig- 
 nant priests : they are good and pure and upright men. One, 
 in particular, on the right hand of the Saviour, with white hair 
 on his brow and lip, is a being whose countenance a life of pious 
 deeds, and an old age of holy thought on heavenly things, has 
 refined from earthly grossness, and left a frame fitted to be the 
 shrine of a better existence. The point of the artist's purpose 
 lies in making the discrimination between the character of the 
 divine face, and the expression of even the best and most ele- 
 vated of human countenances. The intelligence that dwells in 
 them is in report with the outward. They indicate an atten- 
 tion habitually summoned forth by external life, and instinctively 
 responding to its calls ; they bear its lines and furrows on the 
 surface. Their calmness tells of a victory over the world, but a 
 victory gained by a long, close, earnest straggle with it. The 
 Saviour's face is the vail of a spirit that is wrapt within itself, 
 and broods upon a consciousness apart from earth. Its sources 
 of inspiration are in abstraction from the visible scene. The 
 features are still, unmoved, unexercised ; yet charged with in- 
 spiration and with feeling. The contrast, thus strongly con- 
 ceived and finely registered, is extremely touching. 
 
 The pendant, or companion piece to this picture, resembling 
 it in size and shape, and equal to it in every particular, is the 
 Madonna and child, No. 11 of the 11th chamber of the Ester- 
 hazy gallery at Vienna, strong in thought, rich in beauty, and 
 glorious in power. The mother is in the centre. Her right 
 hand is around the body of the infant Saviour, who stands on a 
 platform and leans over, turning the leaves of a book. The left 
 band is held up in wonder. She wears a green robe : and her 
 eyes are cast down. On her right is St. Catharine with a 
 palm ; her eyes raised. On the left is St. Barbara, gazing on 
 the infant. The figure of the little Saviour is inimitable. For 
 vigor, brilliance, and divine expression, I can conceive of 
 
aiTAT. 34.] LEONARDO DA VINCI. 235 
 
 nothing beyond it. This noble work has recently l3een assigned, 
 upon mere conjecture, to Luini. A work, confessedly by him, 
 hangs next to it ; the same subject. No. 10. It is one of his 
 good pictures ; but it shows feebly and washy beside the Leo- 
 nardo which it adjoins. There is an indescribable spell of 
 mental enchantment, — a magnetic power of thought almost 
 painfully vivid, — in this Madonna, as in the Christ amid the 
 Doctors, that tells of a mighty and mysterious soul ; whose 
 revelations, the superficial and sensuous sweetness of Luini 
 might beautify by decorating, but could never have conceived. 
 
 A picture of the same class, that is, drawn by Leonardo, and 
 colored by Luini, is the Ilerodias receiving the head of the 
 Baptist, in the Tribune. It is the fashion at present to ascribe 
 the four last works, and especially the Herodias, to Luini 
 entirely. It appears to me that all of them have proceeded 
 from the same mind ; and I think that a careful consideration 
 of the Madonna of St. Onofrio, though it is confessedly one of 
 Leonardo's least able works, will convince any one that they 
 proceed from the same mind with it, as an inspection of the 
 frescoes at the Brera, charmingly beautiful as they are, will 
 prove that Luini's imagination was not capable of holding con- 
 verse with the morbidly profound and protracted reflection that 
 is graven on the faces of all of those pictures. There is about 
 them an elaboration, not of execution, but of intellectual pre- 
 paration which is characteristic of no man but Leonardo. The 
 mental conception seems to have been baked to thorough dry- 
 ness in the furnace of studious thoughts, before it came out to 
 be clothed in forms and color upon the canvas. 
 
 A work, acknowledged, I believe, to be entirely genuine, is 
 the head of Leonardo with a long beard, by himself, in the 
 Uffizzi at Florence. For depth, softness, and power, it is a 
 miracle of Art. It is a wonderfully great and majestic head ; 
 of calm features, but with a pursuing power of glance alto- 
 gether marvelous. It is like the portrait of a mind. 
 
 The head of Medusa with Snakes, in the same collection, is 
 too well known from Beckford's vivid description to need any 
 notice here. The aspect and atmosphere of death, in the mouth 
 
236 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tat. 34. 
 
 and eyes are very powerful. This gallery has also a portrait 
 by Leonardo, formerly supposed to be a Rafael, and an Ado- 
 ration of the Magi in chiaro-scuro, unfinished. These four 
 appear to be entirely by Leonardo. 
 
 Two works in the Louvre seem also to be wholly from his 
 pencil. One of them (299) the portrait of woman, is a most 
 remarkable picture. The face is serene and undisturbed, yet 
 strong as Fate : soft and unintense, yet inevitable and irresist- 
 ible. Its glance seems to follow you about the room like an 
 embodied conscience. It gazes upon you in still, cold sover- 
 eignty, as if it possessed all the secrets of your soul, and was 
 conscious of a moral sway not to be evaded. The general 
 color is an olive-green ; and the light falls upon the side of the 
 head and face with delicate and beautiful effect. A similar 
 picture exists in the Palazzo Mozzi del Garbo, at Florence. 
 Such a fund of expressiveness, in combination with quiet, un- 
 moved features, none but Leonardo could accumulate in any 
 countenance. 
 
 The Madonna and Children in the Louvre, No. 296, is a 
 lovely picture, probably altogether from his hand. The face 
 of the Virgin, which is of transcendent sweetness and purity, 
 and yet is calm in aspect, is a fine illustration of Leonardo's 
 capacity to throw a powerful moral expression into a counte- 
 nance left in perfect repose. The prevailing tints are brown ; 
 the Virgin's dress green. The light and shade about the limbs 
 is very strongly marked. 
 
 In the Ambrosian library at Milan there is a head of John 
 the Baptist, exhibited as just cut off; ascribed to Leonardo. It 
 is finely conceived and as finely executed ; the eyes are half 
 open, and the features not yet at all sunk. In the museum at 
 Basle is another representation of the same subject, at a more 
 advanced time ; and assigned also to Leonardo. It is of a 
 greenish olive-white color, and is exquisitely delicate and beau- 
 tiful. It bears so strong a resemblance to the portrait at 
 Abbotsford of Mary, Queen of Scots, after decollation, in the 
 manner in which the features are collapsed, and in the sickly 
 softness of the expression, as to indicate that it had been 
 
^TAT. 34] LEONARDO DA VlSm. 23Y 
 
 painted from reality. The Arabrosian library contains also a 
 large Holy Family, after a drawing by Leonardo ; admirable in 
 all respects ; also, a very good profile portrait by him of Bea- 
 trice d'Este, the wife of Ludovico il Moro, whose monument 
 may be seen at Certosa ; and a most interesting profile head of 
 Leonardo, in red chalk, by himself, with long, white hair and 
 beard, large nose, small, delicate mouth, and an expression of 
 great delicacy about the eyes. 
 
 But the work upon which rests Leonardo's claim to take a 
 place among the greatest painters of the world, in the same 
 rank with Rafael and Correggio, is, of course, the Cenacolo, or 
 Last Supper, a production which, as repeated in engrayings, 
 and circulated throughout the world, is more extensively known 
 and admired than any other great work of Art. Fortunately, 
 its essential excellencies have been perpetuated by the inspired 
 burin of Morghen ; who conceived his subjects with the sensi- 
 bility of an artist, and reproduced them with a spirituality and 
 power that set the interpreter "on a level with the author.'' 
 His engraving will to future times be the true original of this 
 matchless work. I shall offer no comment upon the work itself, 
 but shall merely describe its position and present condition. 
 
 It is painted upon the wall of the Refectory of the suppressed 
 convent of Dominicans adjoining the church of Santa Maria 
 delle Grazie, at Milan. The convent is now, (1851,) chiefly 
 occupied as a caserne for the Austrian troops. Making my way 
 into the interior of a large quadrangle, the court-yard of which 
 was filled with the refuse of the stables, I entered the refectory. 
 It is a long room, with a brick floor, a lofty ceiling, and side 
 windows very high up. On the wall at one end, is a Crucifixion 
 by Montorfano, and opposite to it, and pretty high up, is the 
 Last Supper. It is painted, not in fresco, but in oils, and the 
 figures are larger than life. It seems as if casualty and igno- 
 rance and imbecility had actively combined together for the 
 extinction of this glory of Art and Religion. The situation of 
 the room is low and damp ; and it is subject to inundations. 
 Twice hag the picture been painted over, not by ordinary bun- 
 glers,- against whose stupidity some rays of excellence might 
 
238 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tat. 3i 
 
 have struggled ; but by caitiffs who seem to have been animated 
 by the spirit of destruction. A door was cut through the centre, 
 which took away the feet of the Saviour, and a large part of the 
 table-cloth. The room was used by the French, both as a barn 
 and a stable. Even now it stands exposed to all the vicissi- 
 tudes of heat and cold, and dampness. A large piece has re- 
 cently scaled off from the neck of the Saviour. Its overthrow 
 is complete and irretrievable : yet from beneath the vail of ruin 
 still gleams the lustre of a divineness of beauty and majesty 
 which "cannot, but by annihilation, die." There yet lingers 
 around this robbed and violated shrine of genius, an interest and 
 impressiveness which enchain the observer's mind. The com- 
 position may still be admired in all its force and perfection ; and 
 in distribution and variety, action and significance — for the 
 union of individuality with harmony — ^it cannot be exceeded. 
 The principles upon which composition maybe made to depend, 
 are various ; and the key to the quality by which the composi- 
 tion is produced will commonly be found in the faculty, or talent, 
 for which the artist is most eminent. Leonardo's favorite con- 
 templation was of the effect of the passions upon the face and 
 frame, in diversified characters ; in this instance, the arrange- 
 ment and attitudes of the group are entirely worked out by the 
 play of the moral feelings. 
 
 Of the figures, none retains any really effective power, ex- 
 cepting the head of the Saviour. In spite of all that fatality 
 and folly have done to dim and defeature it, the essential divi- 
 nity which once was impressed upon it, still shines forth with 
 obscured but unextinguishable grandeur. Mild, sad majesty, — 
 sorrow sharp as the blade of death, and the grace of a spiritual 
 sweetness which the treason of friends and the triumph of ene- 
 mies disturbs not, but deepens, — are stamped in glorious power 
 upon this matchless face. The flowing hair, the bowing head, 
 the submitting expostulation of the hands, form certainly the 
 worthiest image of the Blessed Saviour that ever came from 
 mortal thought. In the moment in which his humanity is so 
 potently signalized by the gloom that fills his sonl and bends 
 his venerable form, his divinity is revealed the more earnestly in 
 
^TAT. 34] FRA BAETOLOMMBO. 239 
 
 the abstraction and inwardness of musing that separates him 
 mysteriously from his followers. Shrouded in the mist of long 
 decay, the dulled lustre of that heavenly form yet has a power to 
 dazzle and rebuke. The fable that Leonardo left the head of 
 the Saviour unfinished, and that it was completed by some 
 meaner hand, is one of those foolish idle figments which a certain 
 class of minds delight to repeat. 
 
 As the colors now are, the figure of the Saviour is arrayed in 
 a scarlet tunic, with a blue robe over the left shoulder and arm. 
 The left hand has been badly painted over, and the right hand 
 is much gone. In the face of St. John, though the outline has 
 almost entirely vanished, there lingers still some faint vestiges 
 of an expression that was put there by Leonardo. In like man- 
 ner, the face of St. James the Greater, whose mouth is opened, 
 and his arms stretched out, aghast, bears decidedly his mark. 
 St. Thomas has been painted over and changed. St. Philip 
 has been painted black, and is the most ruined head of all. St. 
 Matthew is also depraved. St. Thaddeus retains some expres- 
 sion ; though nearly white. St. Simon's head is quite washed 
 out of shape, by the damps ; and his hands are badly painted 
 over. St. Bartholomew and St. James the Less are totally 
 altered. St. Andrew is one of the freshest and brightest figures ; 
 but I imagine it to be totally changed from its original condi- 
 tion. St. Peter's face is quite good ; and Judas has an expres- 
 sion of much character. To show how much the painting is 
 obliterated, it is quite Impossible to make out the salt-cellar 
 under Judas' hand, which is in the engraving. The effect of the 
 light behind the blue hills in the distance, remains good. 
 
 FRA BARTOLOMMEO. 
 
 In the first order of great names in painting — high among 
 those who have bequeathed to Art an impulse and an impress 
 which it yet retains — should be reckoned Baccio della Porta, 
 known to fame under his monastic title of Pra Bartolommeo. 
 
240 REMAKES UPON PAIKTERS. [^tat. 34, 
 
 After Leonardo, perhaps no on« of that time did more than 
 this extraordinary person to mature the current language of Art, 
 to give fluency to the expressive forms of the canvas — to en- 
 rich with new idioms and a colloquial facility, the speech of the 
 pencil — to accomplish forever the transition from the archaic 
 and individiial types of earlier laborers to that well-developed 
 freedom, ease and grace which, since then, have been the com- 
 mon heritage of the studio. Rafael improved into surpassing 
 brilliance and power, notions which he caught from others, but 
 Leonardo and Tra Bartolommeo increased the practical ele- 
 ments of Art ; extended the manner of representation, and 
 enlarged the painter's stock of conceptions. Bartolommeo is 
 the most spiritual of perfect artists ; but he represents spirit- 
 uality, not in the metaphysical, notional abstractness of Fra 
 Beato, but as embodied in character and life. He does not 
 paint spirituality as typified in personal forms ; he paints per- 
 sons as purified, refined, and sanctified by spirituality. His 
 heads are purely natural ; a somewhat square type of skull, 
 peculiar to himself. Like most Florentines, he exulted in dra- 
 pery ; but was sometimes tempted, by his mastery of it, into a 
 profuse and cumbersome display of it. His manner, in this 
 respect, forms a striking contrast to the scant patterns in which 
 Perugino dresses his subjects. In some of his countenances we 
 find an anxious, unhappy look, characteristic of the imagina- 
 tion of an ascetic and monastic recluse. He painted flesh with 
 a clearness, transparency, and refinement, that seems worthy to 
 render it a meet tabernacle for the souls of saints. As a color- 
 ist, he attained incomparable softness and brilliancy, in a mellow 
 and juicy style ; and is particularly marked by a light, fleecy 
 tomato tone, which predominates in many of his works. In de- 
 scending from his elevations into heaven, he might be thought 
 to have dipped his pencil in the tints of the rosy clouds that 
 float at sunset beneath an Italian sky. Yet he never attained 
 the solidity, truth, or perfect harmony of the Yenetian people ; 
 but, to the last, had something of the thinness and flare of the 
 Florentine coloring. He improved, by prodigious strides, as 
 he grew older; and the works painted in 1515 and 1516, but 
 
^TAT. 34.] FEA BARTOLOMMEO. 241 
 
 one and two years before his death, indicate that, had his life 
 been spared, he would have soared to an excellence that would 
 have made him supreme among the highest. These later ef- 
 forts are on a large, full scale, and have an apocalyptic subli- 
 mity and splendor that place them almost alone in painting. 
 
 Florence contains, perhaps, the largest number of his pic- 
 tures ; but not his latest and most important. One of the most 
 noted in the Pitti gallery, is the St. Mark, seated in a tribune- 
 like chair, holding the volume of his gospel, and a pen, and 
 musing with intense awe upon the subject of his record. (No. 
 125.) It is a grand figure. The drapery is majestic and 
 graceful ; yet so much in excess as to appear embarrassing and 
 uncomfortable. The face has a disturbed, uneasy, half crazy 
 expression. In the Palace of the Quirinal, at Rome, are figures 
 of St. Peter and St. Paul, intended to correspond with the St. 
 Mark. One of them, left unfinished by the Fra, was completed 
 by Rafael. Another work in the Pitti, (No. 159,) represents the 
 Saviour risen out of the tomb, and four Apostles standing around. 
 It is a good picture ; of that class so often painted by Peru- 
 gino and other early masters ; not displaying an actual scene, 
 and therefore not calling for a consistent composition, but being 
 merely suggestive of certain sentiments and doctrines. There 
 is a Piete in the same collection, (No. 84,) the coloring of which 
 is very brilliant, but somewhat inharmonious. The face of St. 
 John is an instance of expression, going beyond nature and 
 propriety. An Ecce Homo, in fresco, (No. Sll,) is more suc- 
 cessful. The face is of high and heavenly beauty ; and the 
 mind that illumines it is truly divine. The convent and 
 c'hurch of San Marco, of which this artist was an inmate, con- 
 tain but two of his works, and they are not valuable. One in 
 the church, is a picture of some size, representing the Yirgin 
 and Saints, which has grown very dark ; another, in one of 
 the passages, is a group of three figures, Christ and the Disci- 
 ples at Emmaus. 
 
 As a painter of the Holy Family, he established an appro- 
 priate 'sentiment and style of treatment which Rafael adopted 
 from him, and which Andrea del Sarto and many other artists 
 21 
 
242 KEMAEKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tAt. 34. 
 
 afterwards worked with unexhausting copiousness. Of this 
 class is No. 243, in the Pitti, the best specimen of the artist in 
 that gallery. In the centre is the mother, with the two infants, 
 who are occupied with one another. On one side is the withered 
 face of Elizabeth, and on the other is St. Joseph, leaning on a 
 sack. The coloring, though brilliant, is harmonious. There is 
 a great deal in this picture that is like Rafael. The Virgin is 
 very much his type of face. It is not easy to determine which 
 artist borrowed from the other. It is probable that Bartolom- 
 mco caught from Rafael many hints for the beauty of his coun- 
 tenances ; but that he instituted this character for St. Joseph, 
 as looking on the scene in quiet contemplation, and perhaps, 
 also the face of Elizabeth, and that Rafael then took from his 
 friend the conception of this whole composition. 
 
 Another very fine Holy Family, or Repose in Egypt, by Bar- 
 tolommeo, is in the Tosi Gallery in Brescia. The mother kneels 
 before the infant with her arms folded on her breast ; and St. 
 Joseph sits looking upon him. The face has the beauty, purity, 
 and heavenly loveliness of Rafael, but the features are of a more 
 natural cast. The face of Joseph is the original of all of Del 
 Savto's Josephs, and may be traced again in Correggio's Repose 
 in the Tribune, and in many other artists. The color is very 
 high, but of exquisite softness and airiness. The light falls 
 charmingly over and through the limbs. 
 
 The livst specimen by which I became acquainted with the 
 Era Bartolommeo, was the Holy Family in the Grosvenor Gal- 
 lery, at Loudon ; (No. 46 of the catalogue ;) and it struck me 
 more than any thing in that fine collection. The outlines are 
 hard, and the coloring bloodless : but the spiritual halo that 
 breathes from the faces, the ethereal expression that lights them 
 up, the infinite purity that seems to transfigure them from crea- 
 tures of mortality to beings above the world, are extremely en- 
 gaging. The calm, thoughtful, pallid face of Joseph, on the 
 left, wrapt by worship into a mental fruition of divine happi- 
 ness, seems purged of all the dross of humanity, and just ready 
 to bfr translated into heaven. The hand of the Virgin, on the 
 right, seems to illustrate St. Paul's conception of a " spiritual 
 
MtA.t. 34,] FRA BARTOLOMMBO. 243 
 
 body." It is a human member, transfused with spiritnality. 
 The picture, in many respects, recalls Kafael ; and, if it be an 
 early woric, as, from the low tones of the coloring, seems pro- 
 bable, it shows how much Rafael had caught from him. 
 
 To appreciate the splendid genius and potent Art of Fra 
 Bartolommeo, it is as necessary to visit Lucca, as to know the 
 grandeur of Correggio it is indispensable to go to Parma. 
 Lucca contains three of the best works of the inspired monk, 
 among which is his master-piece, the Madonna della Miseri- 
 cordia. The cathedral has one of them. The Virgin, with a 
 tunic of blue around her, is seated upon a throne, with the in- 
 fant. On one side stands St. Stephen, in a full, rich, cherry- 
 colored dress, with a countenance of charming goodness. On 
 the other, is St. John Baptist, wrapped in a wild skin ; ema- 
 ciated, yet with a countenance of the most essential purity and 
 sweetness. An angel, in the form of a bright, natural, delicious 
 boy, is seated in front, playing upon a lute. Above the Virgin, 
 two angels, finely foreshortened, and flying freely, are putting 
 a crown upon her head. 
 
 The Church of San Romano contains the other two. One 
 of them, which hangs on the left wall of the body of the church, 
 near the door of entrance, represents the Magdalen and Saint 
 Catherine of Siena, kneeling at the opposite ends of an open 
 tomb, and, above them, the Father, who is seated, and holds an 
 expanded book, on which are the letters Alpha and Omega. 
 The head and figure of the Magdalen are exquisite. Iler face 
 has the calm, clear, lovable beauty of a nature redeemed back 
 to its unfallen integrity. A light, airy vail hanging down from 
 the baqk of her head, mingles with her soft ringlets to produce 
 a rich and sweet effect. The arrangement of her drapery is 
 original and elegant ; the tunic, of which the breast and arms 
 alone are seen, is of cherry color ; and she holds up, with one 
 arm, against her person, a darker robe, that covers the rest of 
 her figure. St. Catharine, in a nun's dress, is gazing up at the 
 Lord with all the ecstasy of an enthusiast. The Father is ex- 
 hibited as throned upon the cherubim of heaven. His foot rests 
 upon the head of a cherub ; and, beneath him, in the skirts of 
 
244 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [iETAT. 34. 
 
 his drapery, are other cherubs' heads, supporting him. Pour 
 angels -fly below him, two on either side, with variously colored 
 wings. The flesh tints of their bodies are extremely soft and 
 natural, and delicate lights and shades fall among the limbs. 
 The least excellent part of the work is the head of God the 
 Pather, which is solid and material. The picture bears the 
 date 1509. 
 
 Superior as it is, it is yet far below the grand Madonna della 
 Misericordia, which hangs in a chapel at the north-east angle 
 of the same church, which is not only incomparably the finest 
 work of this artist, but deserves, along with the Assump- 
 tion of Titian and the San Sisto Madonna of Rafael, to rank 
 among the great pictures of the world. In composition, color, 
 drawing and chiaro-scuro ; in spirituality of character, and 
 beautiful unity of effect, it is one of the most powerful and 
 brilliant works I have ever seen. 
 
 In the lower part of the picture appears a crowd of persons 
 of all ages, ranks and sexes ; women, monks, children, princes ; 
 bending and kneeling in animated supplication. On a throne, in 
 the centre, which is raised by several steps, stands forth the lofty, 
 radiant form of the Virgin. Her attitude is that of intercession, 
 mediation, or intervention with power. Her right arm and 
 hand are stretched out to stay and put back the wrath of God ; 
 her left drawn back and extended below, as if to explain her 
 arresting act, by an entreaty in behalf of the multitude at her 
 feet. She is arrayed in a tunic of a light lake color ; the dra- 
 pery of which has all the ease, grace, simplicity, and elegance of 
 Rafael. Her blue robe is raised entirely off from her figure ; a 
 part of it covering her head only, and the rest held up behind 
 her by two angels, whose heads, wings, and arms, appear above. 
 Above, at the top, the Saviour appears, looking down in com- 
 passion ; his extended arms finely thrown out by a scarlet dra- 
 pery, which is stretched out like wings on each side of him. 
 The lower part of his figure is cut off or concealed by a tablet, 
 on which is 
 
 Misoreor Sup- 
 Turbam : 
 
^TAT. 34.] FRA BARTOLOMMEO. 245 
 
 Througii the tablet run ribbons, wliich ai-e held up by two 
 full length angels flying freely in the air ; and under it is a soft, 
 sweet head of an angel who holds up one hand against it. The 
 whole upper part of the picture is blazing with all the terror of 
 the Glory of Heaven ; a terror, of which overpowering beauty 
 is the mightiest element. The background of the heavens 
 above the Virgin's robe is very bright ; but with a great variety 
 of delicately blending light and shade, which gives it an appear- 
 ance of flashing, and makes you feel as if, each moment, the full 
 unmitigated blaze of heaven would burst out in flame through 
 the clouds. You see light behind shade, shade behind light, pro- 
 ducing the effect of a succession of bright vapors rolling among 
 themselves, and giving glimpses into the endless depths of the 
 holy abodes. At the same time, there is no glare or dazzle; all 
 is soft, cool, and agreeable to the eye. The heads of the five 
 angels are wholly different from one another, and all are ad- 
 mirable. The chiaro-scuro by which the two full-length ones 
 who, in attendance upon the Saviour, fly the highest and hold 
 the strings of the tablet, are relieved against the luminous air 
 behind them, is not exceeded by any thing in Correggio. The 
 uppermost of them, on the right of the Saviour, is looking down 
 with an expression of keen sensibility and infinite love, — pure 
 and burning ; the one on the other side has a countenance of 
 great power, made intense by a brooding consciousness of the 
 majesty and awe of the God he adores. They seem to typify, 
 severally, the seraphic and cherubic character. Their wings 
 are blue, relieved with white and gray. The head directly 
 under the tablet is like a lovely heaven-born babe-angel. Q^ 
 the two whose heads and arms are seen upholding the robe of 
 the Virgin, the one on her right is like a glowing boy. The 
 other is the most glorious head in the picture ; an intense face, 
 with short hair, disheveled in a Rafaelesque way, and with a 
 stream of rich lustre setting him on fire with splendor. His 
 wings, and those of his fellow, are red, shaded with dark and 
 gray ; much the same as with the angels at the bottom of the 
 San Sisto Madonna. This rush of heaven-attended deity, this 
 incession of light-rayiug godhead, in the upper part of the 
 21* 
 
246 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. ^Mtat. 34. 
 
 composition, is one of the most powerful and beautiful effects 
 in the pictorial Art. 
 
 Behind, and on each side of the Virgin's throne, the company 
 of worshipers present a variety of heads, altitudes and dresses, 
 altogether astonishing. The picture is said to contain, in all, 
 forty-four figures ; and though they are so numerous, there is 
 no sense of crowding or confusion. This arises in part from 
 the steps directly in front of the throne being clear. The beauty, 
 expression, nature and interest of the faces could not be ex- 
 ceeded. The action of the whole group is most animated and 
 varied. Some of them are occupied with one another ; some 
 with the Virgin ; some are overwhelmed with adoration ; some 
 are gazing with astonishment. Family parties express their 
 mutual delighted affection. In the foreground, to the left of 
 the Virgin, is an exquisite group, consisting of a young mother 
 in a light green dress, with a countenance full of happy passion, 
 who holds a noble infant in her arms, while a child a little older 
 clasping her back with both his arms looks over her shoulder, 
 and an old woman behind them, probably the grandmother, with 
 wrinkled but good face, and with a mantle of lighter green en- 
 veloping her head, places her arm tenderly around them all. 
 Just below, on the extreme left, is a man of rank, in a scarlet 
 mantle, on whose shoulder a monk in a white dress rests one 
 hand, while with the other he directs the devout and kneeling 
 noble to the Virgin. A Magdalen-like form is kneeling in front 
 of them ; and above the monk is a girl with an exquisite oval 
 face, equal to any one of Leonardo's women, whose youthful 
 bloom is finely contrasted with a grand old head a little higher. 
 On the right of the Virgin, in front, a female, in a very light 
 dress, of which the body and skirt have a faint chocolate tinge, 
 and the sleeves are between a yellow and a lake color, kneels 
 towards the Virgin, supporting a child who sits on the step, in 
 a graceful infantile attitude, with one finger to his mouth. 
 Behind her, are two sweet young people, a girl and boy ; a man 
 with a head nearly bald ; an old woman with a mantle of the 
 faintest green ; above them, one man with naked shoulders and 
 back, devoutly adoring ; another in a rich scarlet dress : and 
 
^TAT. 34.] FRA BARTOLOMMEO. 24t 
 
 snndry other clear and finely discriminated heads. Several of 
 the figures are members of the family for whom the work was 
 painted. 
 
 A fine effect is produced by the return to strong lights in the 
 bottom of the picture, occasioned by the high color of the steps, 
 and the brightness of the greenish and yellowish dresses of the 
 women upon them. This brings out a balance and counterpoise 
 to the powerful light above. It is the most luminous picture I 
 have ever seen, except the San Sisto, and it has more variety 
 of light than that. As a study of coloring, it is incomparable. 
 The tones are firm, clear and natural ; free from that fleecy, or 
 woolly character seen in the Frate's earlier works ; and displaying 
 the soft, transparent brilliancy which Andrea del Sarto after- 
 wards attained. There is a good deal that is like Titian, both 
 in the coloring and in some of the heads. If this work was 
 painted before Titian's Assumption, and Rafael's Dresden 
 Madonna, as seems to have been the case, it may claim the 
 praise of having furnished important suggestions to both of 
 those great productions. It is scarcely possible to doubt either 
 that the Roman and Venetian artist before painting those 
 works had seen this picture, or that the Fra had seen theirs 
 The priority seems to be with the pious Florentine. And if 
 that be so, Titian derived his Virgin of the Assumption from 
 this one. The attitude, countenance and color are similar. 
 But this is all purity, grace, and refined emotion : in that every 
 thing is corporeal and palpable. 
 
 On the base on which the Virgin stands is inscribed : 
 
 MR PIETATIS ET MIE 
 P. S. V 0. P. 
 
 And on the lower step in smaller letters is 
 MDXV. 
 F. BARTHOLOMEVS OR. PRE. 
 PICTOR FLORENTTNVS. 
 Though three centuries have swept over it, the dews of its 
 first creation are yet fresh and splendid upon it. It looks as if 
 its power defied time and triumphed over accident. It has 
 
248 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [Mtat. 34. 
 
 been varnished, but not retouched ; and is in perfect preserva- 
 tion in every particular. 
 
 Of the same class, and probably of the same period, is the 
 Assumption of the Virgin in the Museo Borbonico at Naples, 
 (No. 3'73), over the door. Its authenticity cannot with any 
 plausibility be questioned ; for if it be not the Era's, no artist 
 can be named by whom it could possibly have been executed. 
 In the figure of the Virgin he has sacrificed grace and ease to a 
 bold expression of spiritual feeling. The attitude is so peculiar^ 
 that if the purpose is not clearly understood, it would be sup- 
 posed to be ill-drawn. But for significance and beauty, it is a 
 gl.orious wort. The Virgin, throned on the clouds, is just 
 throwing herself into an adoring, half-kneeling posture. Her 
 hands are expanded in prayer ; her face is melting in a wor- 
 shiping fruition of the rapturous godhead, into which she is 
 becoming absorbed. The invisible deity, approaching from 
 above, seems to sublimate her translated being into the glory 
 of a higher essence. Her dress is that plain attire in which we 
 may suppose her to have been buried. She has a tunic of a 
 lakish hue, the sleeves of which are turned up at the wrists ; and 
 a dark-blue mantle, which is thrown around and behind her in 
 such a way as to form a dusky background for her figure. The 
 face and attitude are full of a deep, beatified emotion of woman- 
 hood kindled into divinity. On her right is an infant angel 
 with green wings, flying clear, and playing upon a violin. On 
 the other side, nearer to her, is another angel, playing on a 
 guitar, and having rod and green wings, exactly like those of 
 one of the boys in the San Sisto Madonna. One angelic head 
 is below the Virgin, pulling her dress, one is directly under her 
 fret, sustaining her; sundry little heads are in the clouds. All 
 of these are the most airy and delicate in execution, realizing 
 tlic conception of heavenly substances. The angels playing, 
 and especially the one with the violin, which for drawing and 
 softness of flesh coloring is not exceeded by anything in art, 
 have their hair disordered just in the way that Rafael adopted 
 in his Christ and Angels at Dresden, and in his Christ in the 
 Transfiguration. It is obvious that one of these great masters 
 
^TAT. 34] FRA BARTOLOMMEO. 249 
 
 derived much from the other. There are whitish-gray clouds 
 under the figure of the Virgin, and a strong, yellow light 
 behind and above her. The richness, delicacy, variety, and 
 ethereal play of lights in this part of the picture are enchanting. 
 A stream of glory is sweeping down, enveloping all the figures 
 in a splendor that is born only of the presence of the Omnipo- 
 tent. On the earth, is the empty tomb, with flowers upon it. 
 On one side is St. John kneeling and pointing upwards ; his 
 face, full of thought and holy feeling, being turned towards the 
 spectator. On the other, a female saint with a palm, kneeling, 
 displays a countenance full of beauty and devout expression. 
 Her dress consists of a green body, yellow sleeves and reddish 
 skirts. Beyond the saints, the clear definite horizon sky of the 
 common day contrasts finely with the fleecy glory of the heavens 
 that surround the Virgin. The painting, though full of de- 
 licious softness, has a greater firmness of tone than is usual with 
 the Frate. 
 
 The Presentation in the Temple, in the Belvidere at Vienna, 
 Chambre 4, No. 29, is of the year 1516. It is a most remarka- 
 ble picture ; one blaze of red. Reubens is said to have found 
 in this work a model for that effulgence of tints which he poured 
 with such power over the canvas. 
 
 In the following year, at the age of 48, this profound genius 
 was snatched away, not in the perfection, but amid the rapid 
 and copious development of his admirable powers. One of his 
 latest works, which he did not finish, is a large picture in chiaro- 
 oscuro in the Uffizzi gallery, in which the Patron Saints of 
 Florence are introduced. The Madonna, with the infant, is 
 seated on the throne, and angels are around and beneath her. 
 Behind and above is St. Anna, with arms stretched out to 
 Heaven. Still higher, is a singular head, intended to represent 
 the Trinity; having three profiles of nose and mouth, and one 
 pair of eyes. Saints and saintesses are at the sides. The 
 composition is extremely grand and rich; and for drawing 
 and expression, it is one of his best. But many of the faces 
 have that unhappy look which has already been noted as ob- 
 servable in his pictures. 
 
250 KEMAEKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tat. 34. 
 
 The relations of Rafael's mind to that of Fra Bartolommeo, 
 form a subject of interesting inquiry. It is to be regretted that 
 the Italian writers upon Art have not taken more pains to iix, 
 with precision, (from the evidence of documents,) the dates of 
 the principal works of the most eminent painters ; not only for 
 the purpose of showing the course of the development of the 
 genius of the person concerned, but to determine how far he 
 gave or received influence as respects his contemporaries. The 
 Frate was born in 1469, fourteen years before Rafael, and died 
 in 1517, three years before him ; being at the time of his death 
 48 years old. It cannot be doubted that in passing from the 
 statuesque rigidness of Perugino's manner, to nature and that 
 angelic grace, variety and freedom which his mature years dis- 
 play, Rafael derived many an inspiration from the breathing 
 softness of Bartolommeo. It seems equally evident that in the 
 Frate's later works, the strenuous firmness and full-toned 
 strength of the Roman had re-actcd upon his genius with a 
 greater return than it had received. In the Misericordia 
 Madonna there is much that is Rafaelesqne, particularly in the 
 higher severity and force tliat belongs to his earlier pictures. 
 The head of the cherub who holds the Yirgiii's robe, on her 
 right, is very much one of Rafael's boys. The date of the 
 Fuligno Madonna, 1512, where one of these glorious heads 
 appears in the angel holding the tablet, must assure to Rafael 
 the praise of controlling the peculiar direction of Bartolommeo's 
 later genius. The working out of the idea of the glorified 
 Madonna by the concurring minds of these two artists, supplies 
 an interesting study. Rafael established the type in the Fuligno 
 Madonna. The Frate expanded and elevated and enriched it 
 prodigiously on the Lucca Misericordia and the Naples As- 
 sumption : and so gave it back to its author, who, profiting of 
 all that his friendly rival had added, carried it to transcendent 
 perfection in the San Sisto. I have said nothing of the Ma- 
 donna del Baldecchino in the Pitti, which was formerly ascribed 
 to the Frate ; but which of late years has been attributed to 
 Rufael, and is now often referred to as an instance of his in- 
 debtedness to the Florentine. For my own part, I can see 
 
^TAT. 34.] ^ PEKUGINO. 251 
 
 nothing of Rafael in that picture, I should take it to be the 
 work of Raifaellino del Garbo. I think it necessary only to 
 look at a Madonna and two children by that painter, in the 
 Corsiui palace at Florence, or to a Madonna by him in the 
 south transept of the church of San Spirito in that city, to 
 arrive at that conclusion. The latter exhibits the Madonna 
 between two saints, seated, and in front St. Benedict and St. 
 John ; and as an evidence of the resemblance of the styles of 
 the two painters, the three first figures are ascribed to Rafael 
 by the ecclesiastics of the church, and the two last to Del 
 Garbo. No doubt the whole is by him. In this picture, also, 
 are two angels sustaining a kind of Baldacchino drapery over 
 her head. 
 
 PERUGINO. 
 
 In the centre of the fine apartment which constitutes the 
 Lihreria of the Cathedral of Siena, stands an antique marble 
 group of the Graces, one of the most beautiful remains of 
 classic sculpture. According to the Guide-books it was dis- 
 covered in digging the foundations of the building in the 
 thirteenth century. It is entitled to occupy an important 
 position in the history of Italian painting, for there is little 
 doubt that it supplied the original of that memorable type of 
 the human figure which, developed in great power by Pietro 
 Perugino, became the characteristic of his whole school, defined 
 and occupied the youthful genius of Rafael, and may be con- 
 sidered as the embryo form of even his latest and most exalted 
 creations. In viewing the works of Perugino, Rafael, and 
 their school, what strikes you most as the characteristic dis- 
 tinction between them, generally, and the Florentines is, that 
 the figures of the former are founded on the type of Greek 
 sculpture, while the latter seem derived from nature. The 
 draperies also follow this distinction : those of the Perugian 
 being simple and severe, those of the Florentine, as in Fra 
 
252 KEJIARKS UPON PAINTERS. [.Etat. ;:4. 
 
 Bartolommeo and Micliael Aiigelo, being very profuse aud 
 folded. I attribute to tbis group of the Graces the first sug-- 
 gestion of that type, because at the time it was adopted by 
 Boufigli and Penigino it was almost the only ancient statue 
 known. Xo Greek work had been seen at that time iu Florence ; 
 and the Apollo, and other great works at Rome, were not found 
 till after the beginning of the sixteenth century. The fresh 
 character of this group iu the school of Perugino, is indicated 
 by Rafael's having made a drawing of it, which is said to exist 
 at Venice. 
 
 Giotto's style constitutes, as it were, the reservoir from which, 
 through various channels, were led the rivulets that fed the 
 Perugian, Florentiaii, aud Venetian schools. The derivation of 
 the first of these may be satisfactorily traced ; aud no where so 
 clearly as upon the walls of the church of San Francisco at 
 Assisi. The lower church there has four curious works by 
 Giotto ; and not far from them is the very striking crucifixion 
 by Pietro Cavallini, the pupil of Giotto, who worked between 
 the years It is a work of great energy. The white 
 
 figures of Christ and the thieves against a blue back ground, 
 have a powerful effect. The iirms of the thieves are twisted 
 back over their crosses. Above, are a number of angels, 
 wringing their hands, aud expressing the utmost degree of 
 anguish. It is easy to see in the faces, here, the beginning of 
 the Perugino type. The work seems to form one of the links 
 between Giotto and Perugino. Another link is supplied in the 
 several frescoes by Matteo da (jualdo and Pietro Antonio di 
 Foligno in the small chapel of Santa Caterina in Assisi, where 
 a fuller dawn of the Pcruginesque character may confidently be 
 traced. Rut a more decided development of the same concep- 
 tion is to be seen in Boufigli, the master of Perugino. Ilis 
 authentic works are rare ; the adoration on St. Dominico 
 at Perugia being more probably attributable to Gentile da 
 Fabriano. In the academy connected with the university of 
 Perugia, there is a picture by Boiifigli, but so much scaled off 
 as to be of no value. The church of San Pietro de Casincnsi, 
 in that city, has a Pi.'ta by him, with the date HGS. The 
 
iETAT. 34.] PERUGINO. 253 
 
 mother holds the dead Saviour on her knee and embraces him. 
 Her figure, though ill-drawn, is wonderfully full of earnest and 
 intense affection ; liis figure is very hard and awkward. But 
 very far superior to this, and probably the best preserved and 
 most characteristic work of his in existence, is the Annunciation, 
 which hangs in Ihc shop of Bartelli, the bookseller at Perugia. 
 Opposite to the Virgin, who kneels on a low bench, stands the 
 announcing angel with his finger raised, apparently just stopped 
 from his swiftly descending flight. Between them, St. Luke, 
 with his bull, is seated on the ground, recording the event iu a 
 book. His head Is a noble one. Over the apartment in which 
 this scene takes place, in the sky, is seen God the Father attended 
 by angels. The white Dove has descended from him on a long 
 line of light to- the Virgin. So that the conception is repre- 
 sented as following instant upon the annunciation ; the word of 
 the Lord being ever itself the act. The same fine thought is 
 found in Piuturicchio's treatment of the same subject at Spello ; 
 and is usual iu the works of the early Rhenish and Flemish 
 schools. In fact, in the earliest ]!yzaut.ine iconographies this 
 method of representation is prescribed. Li the Guide de la 
 Peinture, translated by Didron, Part 2d, page 155, this mode 
 of figuring the scene will be found. The most note-worthy 
 circumstance about this picture is, that the head of the angel 
 making the annunciation is purely Grecian ; the forehead even 
 having that little prominence over the nose which is seen in the 
 Greek heads of gods and goddesses. It is obvious, therefore, 
 that the type of Greek sculpture had been adopted by this 
 school, not only long before llafael, but oven earlier than Peru- 
 gino, who developed and strengthened it. The Virgin, in Bou- 
 flgli's picture, is a beautiful face, but of a more natural and 
 human east. 
 
 But the great founder and master of this school, is Pietro 
 Vannucei, known by the name of Perugino, who was born oY 
 years before Rafael, and survived him four years, having died 
 at the age of 78. lie forms an extraordinary figure in the his- 
 tory of Art. His range was limited, his manner uniform ; but 
 the force and truth of the ideal which he bequeathed to Art, 
 22 
 
254 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tat. 34. 
 
 have never beeii exceeded. No man ever lived whose peculiar 
 mental conception predominated, one might almost say, despo- 
 tized over succeeding minds so strongly and extensively. A 
 considerable school, composed of Grannuola, Lo Spagno, &c., 
 sustained itself almost wholly by the repetition of this image. 
 Pinturicchio drew all his inspiration from it. The two Fran- 
 cias — Francesco and Giacomo — worked it under certain modi- 
 fications which brought it nearer to nature, and made it a 
 vehicle for the expression of pure human affection. Eafacl, for 
 several years, did nothing but reproduce it, with some increased 
 freedom and ease ; afterwards he elevated and strengthened it 
 by renewed inspirations from the source whence it was drawn ; 
 but even his last and brightest forms seem but flowers, of which 
 the buds are in Pcrugino. It was again used by his followers, 
 Rafaellino del Garbo, &c. : and if at last it broke down, and 
 degenerated into a cold, metallic hardness and insipidity, what 
 type had ever endured such repetitions ? Even in this day, 
 when the reviving religion of Art seeks an appropriate medium 
 for its earnest apprehensions, Pcrugino supplies the vehicle : 
 and the pictures of Overbeck at Rome are nothing but revivals 
 of Pcrugino and the early manner of Rafael. The reason of 
 the wonderful continuance and depth of this form is, that it em- 
 bodies the essential truth and nature of the human face and 
 form as they are abstracted in Greek sculpture ; and hence these 
 heads and countenances have a universality that exceeds all 
 other schools. The ideal of Bellini, Giorgione, Titian and 
 Veronese has something Venetian in it : Leonardo's faces are 
 decidedly Italian and Florentine : the features in Van Eyck, 
 Dnrcr and Holbein have a lu^avy German look : but the type 
 of the Pcrugian and Roman schools, is free from every peculi- 
 arity of locality, nation or race, and represents the high, per- 
 manent, universal image of humanity. 
 
 The forms of Perugino, as I have said, are derived from 
 sculpture ; and it might not be fanciful to say that we see in 
 them that easy, indolent, reposing grace which characterises 
 the group in the Liberia at Siena. The drawing has great 
 simplicity of outline, with distinctness, force and truth, but some- 
 
iETAT. 34] PEKUQINO. 255 
 
 times becomes dry and hard. The draperies are particularly 
 BCivere. The inward and moral characteristic of the school 
 which determines its especial place and value, is the expression 
 of transcendent purity, sanctity and sweetness in the faces, — a 
 certain quidisin of wrapt, calm, meditative adoration. This 
 mystic expression seems to have been the matter upon which 
 Turugino principally relied. His compositions do not involve 
 much that is natural and dramatic, but form a collection of faces, 
 each typifying some refined and holy sentiment. One of the 
 best of these is a Deposition in the Hall of Jupiter in the Pitti 
 Palace, which has many figures. Tiie faces have much expres- 
 sion of feeling, but their features are scarcely disturbed from 
 repose. Another of much celebrity is the Assumption, which 
 is repeated, with some variations, in a chapel in the Annunziata 
 at Florence, in the public gallery at Lyons, in the picture gal- 
 lory at the Musee Bourbon in Naples, (No. 264,) and on the 
 wall of the north transept of the Cathedral of St. Januarius ; in 
 the last of which are inti'oduced Cardinal Corafe, a great pa- 
 tron of the church, kneeling on the right, and behind him St. 
 Januarius standing with his mitre. In this picture, the Virgin 
 [is ?] in the clouds in an oval, looking adoringly up, three an- 
 gels' heads being around the clonds on which she stands. Four 
 angels stand in a line, above, playing : and beside her are two 
 angels j)laying. Below, in two groups, are the apostles ; St. 
 John, standing, or in some, kneeling, between them, and look- 
 ing np. His face is of great beauty. Two of his best composi- 
 tions are in the Sistinc chapel, the Baptism of Christ and the 
 delivery of tiie keys to St. Peter. 
 
 The sa('risty of San Piotro de Casinensi in Perugia, contains 
 a range of six heads by Perugino, framed and glazed. Tlie 
 faces of St. Maurus reading, and of Petre Abbot pointing lo an 
 open Bible which he holds in one hand, are exquisite produc- 
 tions, full of the deepest spiritual sensibility, and executed with 
 the most careful and minute lines and shadings. They are 
 written full with the moral history of the persons, showing 
 years of lofty thought, deep feeling, and keen self-searching ac- 
 tion of the inward soul. The sacristy of the church of Sta. 
 
256 KEMARES UPON PAINTERS. [^Etat. 34. 
 
 Maria Nuova, in the same town, contains three exquisite little 
 pictures by Perugino of the Annunciation, Nativity and Baptism, 
 which have a resemblance to the pictures of the Annunciation, 
 Adoration and Presentation by Rafael in the Vatican, which 
 formed the predella of his picture of the Coronation of the 
 Virgin, and may have been his model. The church of S. Agos- 
 tino, in the same place, contains, opposite to one another, two 
 altar-pieces by Perugino, which though probably the work of 
 his declining years, are yet highly interesting. In one of them 
 the Virgin and St. Joseph are seen adoring the infant, who lies 
 on the earth, and in the back ground at a distance, are two an- 
 gels kneeling also in worship. It is in this manner that many 
 of these early schools treat the Nativity. The purity, neatness, 
 and chaste beauty of this picture are admirable. The face and 
 figure of the Virgin are the perfection of an innocent, spotless, 
 and refined lady ; her dress in exquisitely simple taste. The 
 head of St. Joseph is fine ; but one of his upraised hands has 
 an appearance of being distorted, which produces an unpleasant 
 appearance. In the opposite work, the figure of St. John, tall, 
 thin and severe, but soft, and. purged of drossy passion, and full 
 of a high beauty, is an impressive type of the human character, 
 cleansed and chastened by mortification and natural morality. 
 
 In the Manfrini gallery at Venice are two excellent Perugi- 
 nos. One is the Madonna, with the child, to whom an angel 
 is showing a book; another angel is behind.' It is in his best 
 and most luxuriant manner. The coloring is high and in finely 
 blending tints. The faces are rich, beautiful and Rafael-like. 
 All the persons have red hair. Another most interesting pic- 
 ture represents the Saviour washing the feet of the Disciples. 
 The Lord, kneeling, is about to wash those of St. Peter, who 
 gracefully, with gestures, deprecates such condescension. Christ 
 points with his right hand to heaven, as if saying, " Thus it be- 
 comes us to fulfill all humility." The others stand in a row 
 beside. The composition is formal, but it is as fine an assem- 
 blage of countenances as in any picture I know of. All are 
 different, and all admirable. The light falls with a slight illu- 
 mination on the head of each. The coloring is pure and good. 
 
^TAT. 34.] PEEUGINO. 257 
 
 It must be allowed that both of these works have something of 
 the character of Jean Bellini. The last, moreover, has a variety 
 and maturity of style which renders it a little difficult to ascribe 
 its authorship to Perugino. 
 
 In the Stcedel Museum at Frankfort, there is a Madonna and 
 child with St. John, a work of saintly beauty and purity. The 
 mother's face is infinitely sweet, dignified and chaste. She has 
 that fulness about the temples which Rafael afterwards worked 
 out as a strong and marked characteristic of his female heads. 
 She wears a red underdress and a green robe over it. The 
 horizon of the landscape is brilliant. The color is high, 
 but has been a good deal rubbed off in cleaning. There is a 
 repetition of this at Munich, (Salle IX., No. 551.) In the 
 Academy at Bologne, (No. ISt,) there is an extremely brilliant 
 and fine work by Perugino, of the Madonna, and four saints 
 below her. The figure of St. John Baptist has scarcely ever 
 been exceeded by B-afael. The Lichtenstien gallery at Vienna 
 also contains a very superior Perugino ; in which an angel holds 
 the infant Saviour, and the mother, with a countenance grave 
 and even sad, kneels adoringly before her offspring. The in- 
 fant looks up with child-like adoration to heaven, — an expres- 
 sion of enchanting interest. The drapery is rich and soft. On 
 the ground in front and at the side, strawberries and some small 
 white flowers are painted with exquisite minuteness and perfec- 
 tion ; which serves to show, as several other of his works might 
 be cited to prove, that Rafael had derived, through his master, 
 this pleasing Florentine method of enriching his landscape. On 
 a rock at the side is written, "P. Perusinus P." The third 
 chambre of the Belvidere gallery, in the same city, contains two 
 excellent works of the same master. No. 12, representing the 
 Madonna with the infant Saviour on her knees, and behind her 
 two holy women, the one with her hands clasped, and the other 
 with a palm in her hand, has probably been the model of the 
 Francia at Munich, and in the Esterhazy collection. The deli- 
 cacy, the ethereal light that plays around the heads, the grace 
 of- feminine purity that glows in these wonderful faces, are in- 
 exhaustibly engaging. No. 43, the same subject but having 
 22* 
 
258 nUMARKa UPON PAINTKKa [MfAt. Si, 
 
 tho A'irg-in stMUoil on a tlinmo, and siiriMiiml(>il by four siihils, 
 St. I'olor iiud St, Ji'i'omo dii llio cig'lil, mid St.. I'mil ami St. 
 .loliu ISiiiilust on thu Kil't, is a Siti'oug, woll-coloml, iui\vtM'i\il 
 incliirc, and of li\rgo si/.c. ll sliow.s I'orugluo Id liavo liciMi 
 crtpiiblo of a v'u'lmo.ss luul i'on'o imhuiI to llio purity oi' his oIIum" 
 ]\iadoiinn8. 'riioi'o is a Madonna and I'luld by I'oniKiuo in tho 
 Ijonvi'O, (No. ;iS8.) llor I'm'o is ol' oonsiinimalo dig'nity luid 
 luilinoss; of a vicli oxprossion, ytit g'ravo and clovatod. llor 
 dross is 111' a high culor. 'riioro is ft sti-onj!,' rnsinnblaiu'ii botwoon 
 thoi'liild and motlior which pvoducos an ugrooable ofTtH't. 'I'liu 
 Niitiunal Oiilltn-y at lioiidon also I'lainis to possess a Holy I'a- 
 luily by this artist. Thu doloi' has Uod ; but tho couulinianoos 
 nro iniiofont and lovely; not divino and spiritual, but oiirtlily- 
 ])nvo and homoly-good. IVu'u^iao is ('oiislii4i(ly woognized, nud 
 to many persons is ehiofly known, by HinKlo llgnriis of tho Ma- 
 donna and inlant, or Iho sanio nttondod by two or I'onr saints, 
 which nro to bo found in almost every colkuMion. Many of Ihoso 
 arc no doubt by his pupils. Uiannioola, in particular, soouis to 
 have ])ussessed the I'licidty of iinitaling his master with g'l'eat 
 iidelity. In tho Academy at I'erugia is a largo (Uory by lliis 
 artist, consisting of a nnmbor of saints standing below, lunniig 
 tlunn 8. Sebnslian, and above, Christ and tho Virgin BOiilml, 
 and angels. At Hrst sight any one would take it for a I'eriigino i 
 though aflerwiirds, a groatcr ilneness and a certain pvlituMv of 
 forms, more than in I'ictro may be seen. Tho llguros are neat, 
 clear an<l well dclliicd, J'robably (llannieola painted many of 
 tho rernglnoa that go nliont Kiirope, As I'erugino iiaiutod 
 diligontly through a long life, great inequality may bo seen in 
 his works. At one time lio I'ell into a very highly colored mon- 
 nor, of which a llaming S]ieciinen nniy bo seen in tho Academy 
 of Fino Arts in Kloronco. Lattorly, hl.s coloring grow thin, 
 watery and palo. 
 
 Nor does it appear that Rafael's genius ronctcd at all upon 
 Perugino's ; or that rerugino iinil,aU)d or derived nuy thln:g 
 from him. On tho contrnry, at tho period wlien ItaiaorH rich, 
 brilliant manner was developing itself, I'erngino was rocoding 
 into an Inoreasod drynosa ; and just us ilafaul wus warmintp and 
 
^TAT. 34.] PERUGINO. 259 
 
 bringing Perugino's type into perfection, the original master 
 himself was departing into a decided imitation of the Florentine 
 school. Upon an inquiry of this kind, no picture can be ad- 
 mitted in evidence which does not bear its date, or the date of 
 which is not otherwise established by direct external evidence. 
 In the Villa Albani is a picture, in three compartmentSj of an 
 altar ; representing the Nativity, or the Adoration of the new- 
 born Infant by the Virgin, Joseph and angels. On the col- 
 umns of the picture are the words, 
 
 " Potrus do Perusia pinst. In XVIIII." 
 
 Primo. 
 
 It possesses high and characteristic beauty and loftiness : but 
 so far from approaching Rafael's sensuousness, it has rather 
 more dryness than is usual with Perugino. In the Palazzo 
 Rinuccini in Florence, is an interesting picture of three saints 
 in tribunes, on the bases of which are the names, S. Hierony- 
 mus, S. Marcus, S. Gerardus (?) ; and on the canvas is wriUen 
 apparently, or painted in imitation of writing, 
 
 " Pietro Perugino 
 pinst. anno 1512." 
 
 It has very little resemblance in the faces or the coloring to the 
 ordinary manner of Perugino. Instead of his solid, heavy co- 
 loring, it is in the thin, watery style of the Florentines. It 
 must be observed also, that in the south transept of the church 
 of San Spirito at Florence, is a fine picture representing God 
 the Father, surrounded by an oval of cherubs' heads, sustaining 
 the Crucifix, St. Catharine kneeling on one side, and a St. Mary 
 on the other. It is a beautiful work, the head of St. Catha- 
 rine, in particular, is exquisite. The ecclesiastic who showed 
 the church referred it to Perugino. It is so much wanting in 
 the ordinary characteristics of his manner, that this is hardly 
 likely to be a conjecture ; it probably rests upon tradition. But 
 it has so much of the Florentine style of the Rinuccini Perugino, 
 that on the strength of that specimen it may be ascribed to his 
 hand, at about the same period of 1512. Not long after his 
 
260 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [^Etat. 34. 
 
 powers began to decline. The Sebastian -in the church of S. 
 Francesco at Perugia, dated 1518, is pale and weak. 
 
 He appears to have been in the plenitude and perfection of 
 his powers about the year 1493-94. He painted as late as 
 1521. The church of S. Maria Maggiore at Spello, has a 
 Pieta and a Madonna with saints by him, on one of which is 
 the inscription, " Petrus de Castr. Pleh. Pinsit. M. D. xari." 
 They are quite feeble. The figures by him in the chapel of 
 the convent of San Severo, which have the same date, are ut- 
 terly imbecile. 
 
 Some, not a considerable portion, of the fame of Rafael justly 
 belongs to Perugino, who is entitled to take a higher rank 
 among great artists than has usually been given to him. Rafael 
 originated none of those forms of the Virgin and child with 
 which his immortality is associated. He only added that na- 
 ture and vitality to the forms of Perugino which were required 
 to bring them to perfection. It was Perugino who created 
 them upon the hints of his predecessors, and he deserves a 
 great share of fame for founding and casting the type which 
 Rafael afterwards polished into completeness. The expan- 
 sion which this type underwent in the mind of Rafael, was, in 
 gome degree, natural in the progress of Art, under the in- 
 fluence then prevailing, of a tendency towards recurrence to 
 nature, under the impulse of the newly discovered works of 
 Greek statuary ; and it received concurrently a similar develop- 
 ment in the works of Pinturicchio, Lo Spagno, L'Ingegno and 
 Grannicola, who drew from Perugino, not from Rafael. But 
 Perugino himself, in several of his works, brought his style to a 
 pitch of force and perfection, which would not be credited by 
 those who know him only through a few pale Madonnas in 
 foreign galleries, the work of his immature or his declining 
 days. It has been the practice of the German critics, who dog- 
 matize upon conjecture, to say, whenever any superior touch of 
 graceful nature is found in Perugino, that it is probably or 
 clearly the work of Rafael. But upon a question whether a 
 certain excellence was derived by Rafael from Perugino, or by 
 Perugino from Rafael, the tradition which ascribes an entire 
 
^TAT. 34.] PEKUGINO. 261 
 
 picture to Perngino ought certainly to be followed, or we are 
 wholly without -any rational guidance. But the pretensions of 
 Perugino are susceptible of proof by a reference to works 
 which were painted by him before Rafael ever handled a pencil ; 
 as all of Perugino's greatest productions really were. 
 
 The best easel picture by Perugino that I am acquainted 
 with, is in the church of St. Augustino at Cremona. It is of 
 considerable size, and represents the Virgin seated with the 
 child in her lap, St. James the Apostle on one side, and St. 
 Augustine on the other. The child with his sweet face turns 
 lovingly towards St. James. The Yirgin is one of the finest 
 female figures that painting can exhibit. In rich, free, natural, 
 flowing grace, Rafael never excelled this form, though he has 
 often copied it. She wears skirts of blue, a red tunic, and a 
 green robe over it ; and her posture is one of matronly ease 
 and dignity. Her face is of exquisite beauty, free from that 
 puckered expression of the features which Perugino's women 
 often have. Its character is delicate, neat, lovely. The heads 
 of the saints are a little dry and pinched, though of great 
 purity. I do not know that Rafael in his ordinary Madonnas 
 ever went beyond the grade of intellectual merit which this 
 picture indicates, though he adopted certain methods which 
 heightened the agreeable effect of his works and added to 
 their popularity ; for example, by throwing in a light or illu- 
 minated background. The coloring here is as rich as in the 
 best of Rafael's Madonnas ; but the picture is wanting in light, 
 and has, therefore, a heavy and gloomy look. That Rafael 
 had no participation, either in the execution of this charming 
 work, or in supplying its model, appears from the inscription on 
 the base of the Virgin's throne : 
 
 Petrua Perusinus Pinxit 
 MCCCCLXXXXIIII. 
 
 It was painted when Rafael was eleven years old. 
 
 But the scene upon which Perugino appears in the highest 
 power, and where he really displays the greatness of a master, 
 is the Sala del Cambio at Perugio, a small apartment, of which 
 the walls are painted by him in fresco. It is divided into two 
 
262 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [iEiAT. 34. 
 
 parts by an arch ; and on the pilaster beneath it, is cut the date 
 1493, which there is no reason to doubt is the true period of 
 the execution of these works. Rafael at that time was ten 
 years old. He did not come to Perugio till two years after. 
 On the right hand wall are painted the prophets and sibyls, with 
 the Almighty in a glory above. The prophets stand in order : 
 Isaiah, Moses, Daniel, David, Jeremiah, and Solomon. The 
 four last are admirable and grand figures. In head and form, 
 the David is scarcely less than sublime. The drapery is free, 
 rich, graceful, and finely colored. The Daniel, who is somewhat 
 in the rear, behind the others, and whose face, with his upraised 
 hand before his breast, alone is seen, is an extremely beautiful 
 countenance. A little behind David, on the other side, is Jere- 
 miah, whose pallid, thoughtful, worn face is full of character 
 and interest. At the end of the line is Solomon, in whose fea- 
 tures regal dignity, personal passion, and intellectual pride, are 
 finely mingled. In a distinct group, on the other side of the 
 prophets, are the sibyls, in the following order : the Erythraean, 
 Persian, Cumsean, Lybian, Tiburtine, and Delphian. The finest 
 is the CuniEean. The Tiburtine also is excellent ; all of them carry 
 scrolls. This fresco is clearly the capo d'opera of Perugino, 
 who here displays a freedom, variety, and power, hardly below 
 the level of single figures in Rafael's Roman frescoes. 
 
 On the other side of the wall, which the arch divides into 
 two compartments, are representations of ancient heroes and 
 philosophers. The compartment nearest the door of entrance 
 contains standing figures in the following order : Fabius Maxi- 
 mus, Socrates, Numa Pompilius, Curius Camillus, Pittacus, and 
 Trajan the Emperor ; and, over them, figures of Prudence and 
 Justice. The further compartment has the following heroes 
 standing in order : Quintius Licinius, Leonidus of Lacedsemon, 
 Horatius Codes, Scipio, Pericles, and Q. Cincinnatus ; and, 
 above them, figures of Fortitude and Temperance. On the 
 dividing pilaster, under the date, is a portrait of Perugino, by 
 himself, a very strong, clean, well painted head. It may be ob- 
 served that there is another portrait of Perugino, by himself, 
 one of the most remarkable in the Uffizzi gallery at Florence ; 
 
JEx^t. 34.] PEKUGINO. 263 
 
 hard, but very clear, and of astonishing strength and expression ; 
 where he holds in his hand a scroll on whicli are tlie words, 
 " Timete Deum." There is also in the Lichtenstein gallery at 
 Vienna, a head of Perugino, by Rafael, of great hardness, and 
 in a dress of brilliant color. 
 
 On the end wall of the Sala del Cambio, are two more frescoes 
 by Perugino : one of them the Transfiguration ; the other, the 
 adoraHon of the infant Saviour by the Virgin, Joseph, shep- 
 herds, and angels. In the former, the figure of the Saviour is 
 full of majesty and beauty ; the head is particularly well drawn. 
 The two prophets are kneeling beside him on clouds. On the 
 mount lie the three apostles ; one of them with his arm raised 
 up over his eyes, to shield them from the light, as in Rafael's 
 Transfiguration. The whole work is able and brilliant. The 
 Adoration is upon the level of Perugino's best performances. 
 
 On the front wall, at the side of the door, is the figure of Cato, 
 by the hand of Perugino. Upon the [sides ?] are mythological 
 subjects connected with astronomy. In the centre, is Apollo 
 in his chariot ; and over other parts are the seven planets, re- 
 presented by human figures riding, &c. The entire distribution 
 and decoration of this room are excellent. Perugino thus took 
 the lead among the artists of that period, in representing the 
 sibyls, in connection with the prophets, as religious and inspired 
 personages. Several years afterwards, in 1508, Michael Angelo 
 adopted Perugino's conception, representing the prophets and 
 sibyls in company. Sabsequently, Rafael painted four sibyls in 
 the church of Santa Maria della Pace, in Rome, and furni.shed 
 drawings for the figures of the prophets, which were executed 
 by another hand ; and a few years later, L'Ingegno represented, 
 also, four sibyls and four prophets with great beauty, in a 
 chapel in the church of S. Francesco, at Assisi. Perugino 
 also here led the way in that recurrence to classical and mytho- 
 logical subjects in which he was followed by Rafael and Giulio 
 Romano. There seems to be no sufficient reason for ascribing 
 any part of these frescoes to Rafael. The custode, however, 
 assigned to Rafael the figure of Luna upon the ceiling, who is 
 represented by a female driving in a chariot, with two other 
 
264 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tat. 34 
 
 females running ; on no other ground, apparently, than because 
 they exhibit the rich, full grace and beauty for which Kafael, 
 SCYeral years later, became distinguished. Even if we supposed 
 that these frescoes were painted in 1500, as has been assumed by 
 some writers, we should find it impossible to attribute any of 
 these figures, much less the best of them, to Rafael, whose 
 powers at that date were by no means sufficiently developed to 
 have painted with the force, freedom, and beauty here mani- 
 fested. These works are decidedly beyond any thing that Rafael 
 produced until after 1505 ; as may be seen by his Coronation 
 of the Virgin in the Vatican, 1503 ; the Spozalizia, in 1504 ; 
 the Last Supper, in S. Onofrio, at Florence ; the Lunette, in 
 S. Severo, at Perugia ; all of which bear the date 1505. 
 
 Another evidence that much of Rafael's excellence consisted 
 in a natural development and perfecting of the vital type which 
 was evolved in the school of Perugino, is found in the Rafael- 
 esque elegance and grace attained by another of Perugino's 
 scholars, Pinturicchio, prior to the time when Pi-afael had ex- 
 panded into excellence. A fine composition by this artist is 
 the Finding of the Cross, in the vault of the Tribune of Santa 
 Croce in Gerusalemme ; of which the figures are full of that 
 grace and dignity which we find in Rafael's Peruginesqne forms. 
 The colors are very high and fresh ; not shading into one an- 
 other, but each object having its own strong color clearly 
 separated from the others ; probably the result of a clumsy 
 retouching. This was executed (prior to 1495). In the col- 
 lection at the University of Perugia is a set of six pictures 
 together, by Pinturicchio, which are altogether like the best of 
 Perugino. On one panel is the angel making, and on another 
 the Virgin receiving, the Annunciation, with a white dove 
 coming to her from the window. The face of the Virgin is of 
 the utmost loveliness and beauty. But incomparably the finest 
 productions of Pinturicchio that I am acquainted with, are the 
 three large frescoes on the walls of a chapel in the church of 
 S. Maria Maggiore, in Spello, executed in 1501, when Rafael 
 was but eighteen, and had done nothing that conlil have con- 
 tributed to the character of this excellence. On one of the 
 
^TAT. 34J PERUGINO. 265 
 
 side walls is the Aununciation ; the white dove, as before indi- 
 cated, flying in towards the Virgin at the same time that the 
 angel is announcing the condescension. On one side is a por- 
 trait of the painter, looking out of the window, and below it 
 " Bernardinus Pictoricius Perusinus." Upon the end wall of 
 the chapel, is the Adoration of the Infant by the Virgin, St. 
 Joseph, and some shepherds; the Magi approaching in the 
 distance. All these figures are admirably painted, as regards 
 nature, strength, and grace. The face of the Virgin is not 
 exceeded, if it be equalled, in beauty, expression, and loveliness, 
 by any thing in Rafael. The latter introduced an increased 
 naturalness and actuality of head ; but the type declined pro- 
 portionably in spirituality of expression. The third fresco, on 
 the remaining side of the chapel, is Christ disputing with the 
 Doctors; and it is, perhaps, the best of all. The youthful 
 Deity, a figure of much sweetness and grace, is standing be- 
 tween learned sages on both sides of him ; some of whom are 
 wondering, others listening, others pondering. At the side, 
 Joseph and Mary, attended by some female figures, are com- 
 ing in. The face, figure, and action of the mother are admi- 
 rable. Her eyes are cast down, and her flushed face indicates 
 a modest embarrassment and alarm at finding her son in so 
 conspicuous a position ; something of a fear lest he may expose 
 himself. She has caught th^ belt of Joseph's robe, who is in 
 front of her. Altogether, it is a composition of the highest 
 richness, variety, and power. It is interesting to trace the pro- 
 gressive development in the several heads of the Virgin. The 
 first, which is the Aununciation, is of faultless beauty, but calm, 
 and not much disturbed from the natural condition of the fea- 
 tures. The Adoration is a face upon which the gushing tides 
 of natural feeling have overflowed, till they have dissolved its 
 natural beauty into a celestial radiance of loveliness too exalted 
 for an earthly destiny. Then, in the mother of the growing 
 youth, is seen the fullest, deepest, tenderest maternal solicitude. 
 In the church of S. Francesco, in the same town, is a Madonna 
 with saints, by Pinturicchio, but not equal to the frescoes. It 
 contains a curious letter to him from the Lord of Perugia 
 23 
 
266 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. t^TAT. 34. 
 
 (i?ee it).* Id 1503, Pinturicchio, aided in some degree by 
 Rafael, and probably others of the same school, decorated the 
 walls of the Libreria, at Siena, with historical compositions em- 
 bracing a great profusion of figures. Rafael is known to have 
 furnished drawings for two of these paintings, which are not 
 decidedly superior to the others ; and how closely the entire 
 series comes to Rafael's general standard may be inferred from 
 the circumstance, that a few years ago the whole were attri- 
 buted to him. There is a good deal of carelessness in the 
 execution of these figures, but they show clearly that the fine 
 heads and attitudes introduced into Rafael's Roman frescoes 
 were but finished reproductions of models long before in use in 
 the school of Perngino. 
 
 The most striking display of the fine talents of the other 
 members of the Perugino guild, is to be seen in the frescoes 
 of the Chapel of St. John the Baptist, adjoining the Sala del 
 Cambio in Perugia, which, for the beauty, splendor and good 
 taste of its pictorial decorations, is scarcely excelled by any 
 chapel in Europe. They are executed by that master and 
 several of his scholars. The date of these, as I was informed 
 by the custode upon the spot, is 1500; but, although the parts 
 executed by Perugino cannot be much later, it is impossible to 
 doubt that some other portions, by his scholars, have been done 
 after the full development of Rafael's style at Rome had taken 
 place. In the centre of the ceiling is God the Father, in clouds, 
 encircled with cherubs' heads, and three or four little angels of 
 free and graceful attitudes, playing among the clouds at his feet. 
 His head is of the most elevated, pure, majestic type that I 
 know of; almost an exact portrait of Bishop AVhite. The 
 drapery is also admirable. This, and a three-quarter figure on 
 the altar front, are by Perugino. At the end, over the altar, is 
 the baptism of Christ by St. John, and on one side of it, the 
 angel making the Annunciation, and on the other the Yirgin 
 
 '■i- The reader ■will readily observe by this and other indications, aa on pp. 
 108, 188, 190, that these pages are printed from a first draft, which was in- 
 tended by the author to be corrected, enlarged, and entirely re-written. — Ed. 
 
JEtat. 34.] PERUQINO. 267 
 
 receiving it. These three are said to be by Giannicola. The 
 angel, running, with drapery of glowing pui'ple, is thoronglily 
 Rafael. It is incredible that it should have been painted much 
 before 1520. The ceiling, which is distributed into compart- 
 ments, divided by gilded panelings, is of a blue ground, with 
 gold stars, and is painted with figures of the four evangelists, 
 the four doctors of the church, and sundry saints, connected 
 with the city. On the side-walls are four large pictures of the 
 Visitation, the birth of St. John, his decollation, and the feast 
 of Herod ; together with reclining figures of two Sibyls. In 
 several parts of the room, and under the arches, are beautiful 
 arabesques, and small pictures. The four evangelists, and the 
 two sibyls, are ascribed, by the custode, to Rafael. The heads 
 have much of his quality ; but, in the figures and limbs of each, 
 there is some one or more great fault in drawing, which makes 
 it obvious that Rafael had no hand in it. The head of St. John 
 the Evangelist, and those of the Sibyls, are so entirely ot his 
 style as to render it clear that several Rafaels in Europe may 
 well be by the artist who executed these. Many of the heads 
 are of his finest Greek type. The gilding of the panelings of 
 the ceiling has been restored ; but the paintings are in excellent 
 preservation. They have never been engraved, but persons are 
 now copying them for the purpose of translating them by the 
 burin to that form. 
 
 It is impossible to view the various works of Perugino, of 
 Pinturicchio, and others of his followers, without perceiving 
 that many of those ideas of beauty, grace and expression, which 
 we connect with Rafael's name, are the joint property of a 
 school of Perugino's followers. Rafael evolved to perfection 
 the idea of Peruginism, which also the master and his other 
 pupils more or less successfully developed : and the ancient 
 Greek statuary was fully comprehended and plentifully wrought, 
 as the type of this school, before and apart from Rafael. He 
 unquestionably reacted most powerfully upon the whole school ; 
 but, still, Rafaelism, in Art, was an idea in commission and 
 transmission among several. 
 
268 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [Mtj^t. 34. 
 
 RAFAEL. 
 
 If vastness of intellectual and moral thought, communicated 
 through forms of patriarchal grandeur, and with a power as 
 " gentle," yet as extending and as resistless as " the morning 
 light," constitute the characteristic of Michael Angelo, the 
 name of Rafael calls up to our recollection a family of angelic 
 shapes, in which beauty is superinduced upon grandeur, and 
 dignity melts into consummate grace ; which are illuminated by 
 imagination and tinged by the hues of sentiment. Michael 
 Angelo is an illustrator of powerful thoughts ; Rafael a creator 
 of perfect forms. In one, the abstract and mental purpose is 
 so supreme, absorbing and intense, that all primary and in- 
 dependent consideration of the figures that express it is lost ; 
 as, in the glow of poetry we note not severally the syllables 
 which convey the fire. The other labored, by the perfecting 
 and beautifying of natural forms, to communicate those senti 
 ments which are indwelling in beauty, grace and the imagi 
 native perfections of personal forms. The mind is the realm 
 of Michael Angelo's dominion ; and hence he enjoys a prodi- 
 gious fame, but a meagre popularity. The sentiments are the 
 circle of Rafael's enchantments, more conformably, perhaps, to 
 the true character of Art ; and therefore his popularity is as 
 universal as his fame. But the sentiments which engaged his 
 genius were the most dignified that our nature and life evolve ; 
 oftentimes divine. Nay, he succeeded in investing intelligence 
 itself with the grace and character of sentiment, and could in- 
 carnate the highest conceptions of divinity in visible beauty. 
 Perhaps, therefore, it is not that he is less earnestly a thinker 
 and a teacher than Michael Angelo, but only that he is more 
 effectually an artist. He gives personality to sanctity and 
 truth, and reaches and cleanses the soul through the imagina- 
 tion and the heart. If Michael Angelo is the prophet of the 
 Old covenant, to drive men from evil by terrors, Rafael is the 
 apostle of the New, to win them to the loveliness of virtue. 
 Nature was the home of his genius ; the channel, if not the 
 
;Etat. 34.] RAFAEL. 269 
 
 source of his inspirations. If his burning inspirations often 
 transfigure nature with an ethereal splendor, he returns, with 
 constant love, to its repose and simplicity ; and sometimes 
 sacrificed a higher praise in his too faithful rendering of the 
 character of reality. 
 
 The peculiar purpose of Rafael's inspiration, as an artist, was 
 to interpret between nature and spirituality, and to conciliate 
 them into union, in the radiant truthfulness of his heaven-breath- 
 ing forms. To develope and demonstrate the spiritualism of 
 nature seems to have been the intellectual instinct of his deep- 
 divining soul. He loves to explain the mysteries of divinity to 
 us as the only, the possible perfections of human life, purified 
 and raised by social affections, and chaste meditations or severe 
 thought. His works seem to be founded on the view that the 
 divinity of the Saviour and his saints was not merely a special 
 and extraordinary fact, but also the revelation and illustration 
 of a restoration capable of being developed even out of fallen 
 humanity ; that religion is the permanent realization of Deity 
 made known "in the flesh;" the manifestation of "God with 
 ns." Never was there an artist of such intense spiritual sensi- 
 bility, whose imagination reproduced natural forms with such 
 unperverted truth — such genuine tone. Generally, in such cases, 
 the morbid metaphysical power of the feelings re-acts upon the 
 imagined form so powerfully as to pinch and bend its shapes 
 into stiff and narrow types, half-conventional in their meaning. 
 But Rafael's imagination acted with perfect fearlessness and 
 freedom, to bring the form up to its highest inherent excellence ; 
 and, in that state, his genius seemed to baptize it with a lumi- 
 nous suffusion of spirituality, with which it shines forever. 
 Some painters, such as Pra Beato, may represent a more strenu- 
 ous and high-raised spirituality than Rafael : others, such as 
 Titian, may give us a more forcible and real representation of 
 nature : the special and lovely greatness of Rafael is, that his 
 works present the greatest degree of spirituality that was ever 
 inspired in forms so glowingly instinctive with the sympathies 
 of nature. 
 
 It is as the painter of the Madonna that Rafael is known to 
 23* 
 
2'70 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tat. 34. 
 
 the admiration and affections of the whole world ; and the 
 variety, not of style and composition, but of purpose and sen- 
 timent, which he has exhibited under that notion, is remarkable. 
 His Madonnas may be distributed into three distinct classes. 
 Pirst, those in which the Madonna is the representative, 
 simply, of motherhood; and typifies only the natural sanctity 
 of woman, in her relation to her first-born. In other words, 
 the representation of the human mother and her human child 
 is taljen as the symbol of the peculiar divinity of the Madonna 
 and Infant. Tlie second may be called the Historical Madonna ; 
 giving us a view of what might have been the actual of the 
 divine infant ; sometimes with Joseph and Anna ; sometimes 
 with neither. The third class is the Spiritual and Divine Ma- 
 donna, viewed in her permanent, ecclesiastical and doctrinal 
 character, and generally in glory. 
 
 The first of these conceptions of the Madonna has a more 
 profound and moral significance than at first might be sup- 
 posed. It proceeds upon the feeling that womanhood, seen in 
 the purity of its holiest function as mother, has in it a ray of 
 divineness fit to make it the symbol of the Blessed and her 
 Christ. In view of the suggestion that the Catholic worship 
 of the Virgin Mother is but an instinct, or recognition, of an 
 inherent divineness in humanity, insphered in woman, this pecu- 
 liar class of Rafael's Madonnas proceed upon a deeper philo- 
 sophy than a casual glance might detect. 
 
 To this class belongs the charming mother and child, in the 
 Berlin gallery. No. 248, known as the Madonna di (?) Casa 
 Calonna. In this extremely beautiful picture, the color of which, 
 though now faded, seems once to have been brilliant, the child 
 is held on the mother's knee, in a somewhat struggling attitude, 
 and has his left hand upon the top of her dress near her neck, 
 his right upon her shoulder. His face is that of a child only, 
 with nothing of divinity ; her's is the countenance of a merely 
 human mother. Her hair is reddish, in the Venetian manner ; 
 a suggestion which Rafael may have derived from Perugino's 
 Madonna in the Manfrini gallery. 
 
 Another of this style is the Madonna della Casa Tempi, now 
 
^TAT. 34.] EAFAEL. 271 
 
 in the Pinacothek at Munich, cabinet six., No. 6031. In this 
 admirable picture, the color of which also seems faded, the 
 mother, standing, holds up the child's head against her face, 
 and presses him earnestly to her breast in almost an ecstasy of 
 maternal emotion. la these we have the mother and child only ; 
 and, judging from engravings, there are several other of his 
 Madonnas with the infant, which are altogether similar to these 
 two in character. But there is another branch of this class, in 
 which the infant St. John appears ; and, in accordance with the 
 general design, merely under the type of an ordinary infant. 
 He frequently bears the cross, indeed, but that is only a tradi- 
 tionary mark, like the arrow in St. Sebastian, to indicate what 
 character he represents. But with the exception of some con- 
 ventional sign of that kind, which, in the case of the Virgin, 
 may be a gilded ring around the head, there is in these works 
 nothing in expression or attitude to denote that the woman is 
 ether than an ordinary mother, — that one of the children is a 
 god, and the other his herald. There is nothing of conscious- 
 ness, either, in respect to their own divine character or that of 
 the others, in the faces or positions of any of the persons. St. 
 John, however, is represented in a somewhat subordinate and 
 secondary, or attendant position : as standing and looking at 
 the Saviour, who is seated on the mother's knees, or as bringing 
 something to amuse him. The design of the artist being to 
 generalize the relation of the Saviour and St. John into a 
 representation of an ordinary scene in human life, where the 
 superior nature is attended or aided by an elder but humbler 
 promoter. 
 
 Of this class is the Madonna del Cardonella, in the Tribune, 
 a work of mild yet exquisite beauty. The mother, arrayed in 
 a red tunic and blue robe, is seated, holding a book. A hea- 
 venly radiance seems to settle and rest on her head and brow. 
 The Saviour, standing between her knees, extends his arm 
 with a somewhat lofty air, to take a goldfinch which St. John, 
 whom the Virgin encircles with her arm, brings to the other 
 with great satisfaction. In this simple, delicate, vigorous little 
 work, every thing in the heads and expressions is purely natu- 
 
272 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tat. 34. 
 
 ral. [Passeggio same class — Madonna della Segiola of same 
 class.] 
 
 There are some Madonnas of ttis class, in which Joseph 
 appears alone with the mother and infant, and the group forms 
 a symbol of the sanctity of the child and mother in the family 
 relation. Others in which St. John is added to the composi- 
 tion ; as in the Repose in Egypt, in the Belvidere gallery at 
 Vienna, where the infant St. John humbly offers some fruits ia 
 his lap, which the mother holds the Saviour down to take, 
 while Joseph grasps St. John by the arm to raise him up. 
 Sometimes Elizabeth appears instead of Joseph. 
 
 In those representations of the subject, which may be called 
 historical, or actual, the parties appear in their real and pecu- 
 liar characters, conscious of themselves, and recognizing one 
 another. The principal infant is obviously a divine being, and 
 so is felt to be none other than the One Incarnate. The other, 
 also, is the St. John Baptistes of the Gospel, enlightened by an 
 inspired recognition of his master, and exercising his mission 
 of pointing him out, or yielding adoringly to his higher 
 sanctity. 
 
 Sometimes, in these, we have the infants alone with the 
 Virgin ; as when she reveals the Saviour to the young St. John. 
 In the small, but exquisitely pure and pearl-like group in the 
 Louvre (No. 418), called the Vierge au Linge, of which there 
 are repetitions, the mother lifts the vail from her slumbering 
 offspring, to show him to the son of Elizabeth. In that pic- 
 ture, the infant lies profoundly and richly asleep ; a celestial 
 softness of atmosphere is about his brow and eyes. The infant 
 St. John kneels in humble homage ; or, in some repetitions of 
 it, stands and points to him, with earnest and decided air. The 
 drawing of the sleeper's figure, which is extended, with one arm 
 stretched back, is perfect. Of the Louvre illustration, the 
 color has greatly faded. But most frequently, in this class, the 
 Holy Family, including Joseph and Elizabeth, is represented ; 
 as in the Madonna del Impannata, where the holy child is the 
 object of reverent solicitude to the. three adult persons, while 
 the little St. John, seated at the side, in all the solemnity of a 
 
^TAT. 34.] EAPAEL. 2T3 
 
 prophet, points to him, as if he would say, " Behold the Lamb 
 of God. " In the same rank is the popular and agreeable pic- 
 ture of the Holy Family, in the Musee Bourbon, at Naples, 
 No. S'lO, sometimes called the Madonna col divin' Amove. The 
 mother is seated, with her hands folded in adoration of her 
 miraculous oifspring, who, astride of her knees, with extended 
 arm, is giving the divine benediction to St. John, who, bending 
 upon one knee, and placing his band upon his breast, seems to 
 supplicate it. The "Virgin wears a dress of pale lake color, 
 with a blue robe going over her knee. Elizabeth, with her 
 withered face, is behind the infant Christ, and holds him with 
 one hand. There are square pillars in the background ; and 
 between them, towards one side, is Joseph, who looks round at 
 the group. 
 
 The third [wholly unfinished. In this class, of course, would 
 come the Madonna di San Sisto, or Dresden Madonna.] 
 
 In the sacristy of the church of S. Pietro Je Casinensi, in 
 Perugia, is preserved a small picture of two infants : the Sa- 
 viour and St. John, seated together on a gilded bench, one of 
 them having his arms over the shoulders of the other. The 
 color is pallid, but some delicate pinkish flesh tints still linger 
 about the limbs. It is represented to be the earliest remaining 
 work from the pencil that afterwards drew the Madonna di San 
 Sisto ; and it is characteristic of the early path in which Rafael's 
 genius moved, that this should be a copy from Perugino. In 
 the first room of the Borghese gallery at Rome, No. 46, there 
 is an unfinished picture attributed to Rafael, which, if genuine, 
 must be the work of his very early years. It represents Christ 
 lying on the ground, with a cross ; St. John kneeling to him ; 
 the mother also kneeling, and two angels with trumpets ; and is 
 entirely Peruginesque in its elements and character. In the 
 Berlin gallery there are three pictures of Rafael's earliest years, 
 representing the mother and child. In one of them, No. 141, 
 the child holds a bird ; in another. No. 145, they are attended 
 by St. Jerome and St. Francis ; and in the third. No. 14T, by 
 St. John, who stands with his arms folded on his breast, and 
 
274 REMARKS UPON PAINTEES. [^tat. 34. 
 
 holding a cross. All of these have much beauty, but still are 
 purely Perugian. [See Waagen's Catalogue.] 
 
 The portrait of a Florentine lady in the Tribune must be re- 
 ferred to a period when E,afael, in his earliest manner, was yet 
 far short of his master's excellence. It is hard, iat, and dull. 
 The face is melancholy and the hands brown ; the drawing of the 
 figure pinched and timid. The catalogue says that it is painted 
 in the style of Leonardo. It has that stiffness and confinement 
 which some of his pictures show, but not the expression which 
 they all have. It might be taken for an early work of Francesco 
 Francia. 
 
 Another work generally agreed to be Rafael's is, certainly, 
 very early, and before any decided advance upon his master had 
 been made by him. It hangs in the royal palace in Naples, and 
 exhibits the Virgin seated on a throne, and two female saints 
 beside her ; the infant is upon her knee, and St. John, stand- 
 ing, reaches to him ; on either side, in front, are St. Peter 
 and St. Paul. When I first looked at it, I was confident that 
 it was a work of Perugino. After a longer examination, one 
 may find in the standing St. John, a greater richness and full- 
 ness of limb than is usual in Perugino. His face and figure 
 have a striking resemblance to those of the infant in the Seg- 
 giola Madonna. The Virgin's face is full of loveliness; but 
 most of the others have precisely the puckered features of old 
 Perugino. The heads have golden circles around them. Upon 
 the whole, were one to judge from internal marks alone, there 
 would be little hesitation in assigning it to Perugino rather than 
 Rafael ; yet it appears to be perfectly authenticated as a work of 
 the latter, and only proves that at that time he did nothing more 
 than literally re-combine the types of his teacher. The corona- 
 tion of the Virgin, painted for the church of S. Francesco, at 
 Perugia, but now in the same room with the Transfiguration, in 
 the Vatican, is also almost completely Perugino ; and the Pre- 
 della subject, in an adjoining room, appears, as already re- 
 marked, to have been imitated upon some similar works by 
 Perugino, at Perugia. This is said to have been painted in 
 1503. To the same period, I think, should be referred the 
 
^TAT. 34.] RAFAEL. 215 
 
 small Risen Christ, in the Galleria Tosi, now belonging to the 
 city of Brescia. It is about a foot in breadth, and a foot and 
 a half in height. The Saviour points with his left hand to the 
 wound in his side, and with the other to heaven. His left hand 
 shows a wound in the back. He wears the crown of thorns. 
 The figure, which is beautifully drawn, is given only to the 
 middle ; and with the exception of a red robe round the right 
 shoulder, and over the base of the picture, is undraped. The 
 face, and especially the eyes, are thoroughly Perugino. This 
 work has generally been referred to the year 1505, but appears 
 to me too entirely a school-work to belong to the period of 
 the frescoes of San Severo. The Adoration of the Kings, at 
 Berlin, is so entirely effaced that it is scarcely worth while to 
 refer to it. All of these works are probably anterior to 1504. 
 
 In that year, when Rafael was twenty-one, was painted the 
 Sposalizia, or Marriage of the Virgin and St. Joseph, now in 
 the Brera at Milan. This might be compared to a transpa- 
 rency of Perugino, through which a stronger, brighter, ruddier 
 light than emanated from his mind was shining. There is 
 great distinctness, brilliance and power in all the figures ; and 
 the work gives us a high idea of Rafael's genius. And yet all 
 his merit consists in the more animated, spirited, and master- 
 like style in which his teacher's thought is represented. It is 
 Perugino reproduced in the vital mirror of an imagination 
 larger, more fervid and more sensitive to the Beautiful than his 
 own. The composition, with two groups on either side of the 
 high priest, and an architectural design behind, with steps, is 
 derived from Perugino's Delivery of the Keys to St. Peter in 
 the Sistine chapel. Several of the faces are exactly copied 
 from Perugino's models. There is a dryness about the coloring 
 characteristic of his manner. The flesh tones, though clear, are 
 pervaded by an olive tint. The draperies are variously and 
 highly colored, yet have much severity of outline. It is impos- 
 sible to point to any particular in the type of the figures, their 
 character, expression, grace or dignity, in which Rafael l\ere 
 displays any invention. Yet he already renders the transmitted 
 type with a grandeur, fullness, and accuracy of drawing, which 
 
216 EEMAEKS UPON PAINTERS. [JEtat. 34. 
 
 surpasses any previous examples. And he displays one artist 
 quality which gives this work, for popular effect, an immense 
 advantage over Perugino. He has thrown a general light into 
 the air behind the figures, which sets them in fine and most 
 agreeable relief. This atmospheric brightness of background 
 is one of Rafael's most uniform and important characteristics, 
 and he had thus early learned its value. The Yirgin in this 
 picture is beautiful, and the girl behind her has an animated 
 and interesting countenance ; but Joseph looks rather tristful. 
 
 Rafael may be considered as displaying gratefully in this pic- 
 ture, and to the highest possible advantage, the entire mental 
 patrimony which he inhei'ited as part of the school of Perugino ; 
 as if he had meant the Sposalizia to show in his later works 
 with what surpassing power of wing, making the last limit of 
 Perugino his starting point, he could soar away into splendors 
 invisible to the keen strong eye that taught and guided his early 
 flights. His works in the following year show the independent 
 workings of his own imagination. They are not equal in grace 
 and beauty to the Sposalizia : but they are far more valuable ; be- 
 cause they show that imitation had at last provoked an original 
 action of the mind. There is an aspect of painfulness in the 
 countenances of Rafael's works in the year 1505, which indicates 
 that the sensibility of his imagination was then greater than its 
 tone, and that his spirit suffered in giving birth to its own strong 
 conceptions. To this period belongs the fresco of the Last 
 Supper, which was discovered in 1845, in a room in the Via 
 Tedesca in Florence, which had formerly been part of the con- 
 vent of St. Onofrio. On the border around the neck of the dress 
 of St. Thomas, are the words " Rap. VRS. MDV. : " and no 
 rational doubt can be entertained of the authenticity of the 
 work. A good deal that is Peruginesque still hangs about the 
 habit of its author's mind ; yet the controlling outlines have an 
 original character, and the expressions have a force, and an 
 individualness of thought beyond the master. Some of the 
 apostles look frightened ; others look anxious or unhappy ; but 
 all the faces have a decision and intenseness that show a mind 
 determined to leave its mark in Art. St. John lies with his 
 
JEtat. 34.] EAFAEL. 211 
 
 head upon the table ; Judas sits in front, holding the bag, and 
 looking out of the picture. Some of the apostles appear to 
 be attending to what Jesus says ; others are eating and drinking. 
 The name of each is painted under his feet. The background 
 is a tapestry of figured green. In a compartment above, is the 
 Agony in the Garden, with small figures. In other compart- 
 ments, tall slender young trees are painted, like those often seen 
 in Rafael's pictures. 
 
 Another interesting fresco partly by Rafael in this year, and 
 partly by Perugino a few years later, exists at Perugia, in a 
 chapel in the convent of San Severe, over the altar. It is of 
 two parts. The upper, by Rafael, consists of God the Father, 
 with two angels below him at the sides. Beneath the Father, 
 is the Dove, and still lower the Saviour, on either side of whom 
 are three saints. On one side, beginning on the left, are St. 
 Maurus, St. Placidus, St. Benedictus (or Severus) ; on the 
 other, St. Romnaldus, St. Benedict and St. John. The figures 
 of God the Father and one of the , angels are entirely effaced. 
 The other angel has a freedom, force, richness, and boldness of 
 foreshortening, thoroughly Rafaelesque. The head of the Sa- 
 viour is finely and beautifully drawn ; and his upraised arm and 
 head are quite like those in the Transfiguration. Below this 
 work of Rafael, are a range of half a dozen saints by Perugino, 
 the work of his extreme old age. The faces are feeble and 
 vacant. Below these, on both sides, are inscriptions, one of 
 which states that Rafael's work was painted in 1505; the other, 
 that Perugino's was painted in 1521. So that we here see in 
 conjunction, one of the earliest of the pupil's and the latest of 
 the master's productions. It is probable that the Last Supper 
 was executed earlier than this work at San Severo ; as Rafael 
 was at Florence in the end of 1504 and beginning of 1505. 
 
 In this year, also, are said to have been painted the two por- 
 traits of a man and woman of the Doni family, now in the Pitti 
 gallery, Nos. 59 and 61 of the Hall of Apollo. The former is 
 the better of the two ; but both are stiff and hard ; still they 
 have immature touches of those qualities of outline and color 
 which afterwards grew into the nectarine richness of Rafael's 
 24 
 
218 EBMARKS UPON PAINTEKS. [^tat. 34. 
 
 forms. About the same time was painted the portrait of Rafael 
 by himself in the TJfBzzi. There is in the expression something 
 of melancholy, as of a spirit haunted by its owu too earnest 
 thoughts ; the coloring has a richness that seems repressed by 
 timidity or severity. 
 
 The only picture that I am acquainted with that bears upon 
 itself the date MDVI., is the Virgin and two children in the 
 Belvidere gallery at Yienna, called the Virgin in the Meadow, 
 No. 55 of Chambre 3. The faces of the boys have something 
 of the rich expression of the Seggiola picture. It is beautiful, 
 yet simple and pure. It must be allowed that the Perugino 
 manner is still visible in this work. 
 
 In the following year, we behold another influence coming 
 athwart the soul of the youthful painter, and inspiring it with a 
 grandeur and strength, and upwardness of aim that raised him 
 into that front rank of great painters which he afterwards occu- 
 pied. I mean the emulation of Michael Angelo ; the source 
 or stimulant of all that was great in Rafael. The first picture 
 in which this is unmistakably shown is the Entombment, in the 
 Borghese ; No. 3*7 of the second room ; which bears the inscrip- 
 tion, Rafael TJrbinas MDVII. We here find no resemblance 
 to Perugino. Whatever types may have been derived from 
 him have been matured into such higher grade as to make them 
 truly originals ; and this chiefly by Rafael's own independent 
 study of Greek sculpture. The predominant characteristics of 
 face and attitude are derived from Michael Angelo ; with 
 whose force, and daring, and grandeur, the artist's soul seems to 
 have been set on fire. Both the composition and the coloring 
 have gi-eat variety and force at the expense of harmony. The 
 female heads are of great beauty. The countenance of the wo- 
 man behind the Virgin, who has her arm around her fainting 
 form, is of uncommon loveliness. Altogether you see a work 
 in which the embodying powers of the artist come not up to the 
 conceptive ardor of the creator, and which therefore has a cold- 
 ness and stiffness not quite agreeable. But on the other hand 
 you see an ambition, a skill in drawing individual figures, and 
 a pervading greatness, that give assurance of a speedy march 
 
JETAT. 34] RAFAEL 219 
 
 of triumph into the highest regions. It is a prodigious advance 
 upon all that Rafael had done before that time, and it belongs 
 to the same order of works as the Vatican frescoes and the 
 Transfiguration. 
 
 In the following year, 1508, Rafael began the frescoes in the 
 Camera della Segnatura in the Vatican, — consisting of Theo- 
 logy, or the Dispute of the Sacrament ; Poetry, or Parnassus ; 
 Philosophy, or the School of Athens ; and Jurisprudence — 
 which occupied three years, and were finished in 15II. The 
 merit of these works consists chiefly in the dignity, grace, 
 beauty, and intellectual and noble expression in single figures. 
 The compositions are somewhat cold, lifeless, and heavy. The 
 worst in that respect is Theology, and the best the School of 
 Athens. But as single figures, nothing can exceed the serene 
 and lofty gace of the type which here for the first time and for- 
 ever Rafael associated with his name. It is altogether his own ; 
 yet he was undoubtedly led to it through the forms which had 
 grown into his mind in the school of Perugino. The diligent 
 study of the antique sculpture which now became familiar in 
 Rome, gave variety and expansion to that system ; and Michael 
 contributed something in the grandeur of manner. Yet from 
 whatever sources suggested and supplied, the forms in their final 
 issue, have an absolute unity, originality, and character. 
 
 The year 1511 (?) was marked by an event memorable in the 
 history of Art, and of the development of Rafael's genius, — the 
 throwing open to the public of Michael Angelo's frescoes in the 
 Sistine chapel. The first impression seems to have overset Rafael 
 altogether : and in the figure of Isaiah in the Church of S. Angus - 
 tino at Rome; he appears to have forgotten all confidence in his 
 own native inspiration, and to have produced little else than a 
 caricature of the mighty Florentine's manner. Subsequently, he 
 learned to make the true use of Michael Angelo's great ex- 
 ample ; in catching the sentiment which it breathes, and quali- 
 fying and advancing his own characteristic style by feeding his 
 s})irit upon the atmosphere of grandeur and high thoughtful- 
 ness which the Sistine frescoes exhale. The expulsion of Heli- 
 odorus, in the stanza of that name in the Vatican, is, in parts 
 
280 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tat. 34. 
 
 at least, the most vivid, single, and powerful composition that 
 Rafael over produced. The group that sweep the dcsecrator 
 from the fane, seem launched with swiftness from the altar of 
 the Lord; instant as lightning, the rush of vengciince springs 
 upon the offender, and he is overwhelmed in the whirlwind of 
 indignation. That group cannot be called an imitation of 
 Michael Angelo. It is altogether original and Rafaelesque, 
 and may be considered as an evidence that Rafael when pro- 
 voked by an exalting emulation, could develop from his own 
 genius, qualities fit to be mated against the august master of 
 power. In some other parts of the fresco there is some adop- 
 tion of Michael Angelo's manner of twisting the figure, which 
 does not here produce that impression of power which it docs 
 in the Florentine. 
 
 lii this year of 1512, Rafael's genius seems to have been 
 deepened into a sensibility to beauty, exceeding any thing he 
 had displayed before ; and perhaps a little too morbid for the 
 purity and dignity of perfect Art. It may be observed, in pai-- 
 ticular, that the sentiment and faculty of color, at this period, 
 became developed in him with almost excessive energy ; and 
 much e.xceeding both earlier and later manifestations. This 
 might, by some, be attributed to an effort to educate his powers 
 in a different direction from that which characterized Michael 
 Angelo, and to excel in a department in which that master was 
 notoriously deficient : or, by others, to his having caught a 
 sympathy with the Venetian school, of which there are other 
 traces in some of his works. But it may most reasonably be re- 
 ferred to the temporary condition of his mental faculties in the 
 co-progress of their changeful and comprehensive development. 
 Color is a mental or cerebral faculty ; intimately allied with the 
 general state of the intellectual qualities, or, perhaps, resulting 
 from them ; and, probably, Rafael's organization was, at this 
 time, in that condition of sensuous spiritualism of which color 
 is a natural accompaniment and exponent. The Madonna di 
 Puligno, which bears the date 1512, may be referred to as an 
 evidence of the somewhat morbid hyper-susceptibility of Rafael's 
 
^TAT. 34.] RAFAEL. 281 
 
 imagination in that year. The figures show an intensity of 
 conception that is not quite healthy. 
 
 One of the works which belongs to this period is the lovely 
 Fornarina of the Tribune, which, in fact, bears upon it the date 
 1512. It is the face of a most beautiful woman. She is fully 
 and carefully dressed ; with ear-rings, a finger-ring, and a gold 
 chain passing round her neck, and coming to the top of her 
 dress. But the small, thin curl of a few hairs, hanging loosely 
 over her forehead and cheek, is a grace of nature truly Rafael- 
 esque. Off one shoulder hangs a panther skin, which is held 
 by her hand. The rich, warm, "purple light of love" hangs 
 voluptuously over the picture. The whites of her dress are 
 yellowish, and the harmony of all the coloring is admirable. 
 It may be observed, that in the Pitti gallery, (No. 245,) is a 
 portrait, by some ascribed to Rafael, but called in the catalogue. 
 Anonymous. It is obviously the same head ; and it has the 
 same peculiarity of a slight curl coming down loose over the 
 face. The coloring and drapery are not like Rafael, being 
 more broken, ragged and intricate than is usual with him. I 
 am by no means sure that the Fornarina of the Barberini palace 
 at Rome, does not represent the same woman, in later years ; 
 for, though very differently conceived by the painter, the char- 
 acter of the faces is much the same. The one has the poetry 
 of a female face, beaming with the inspiration of full dress, and 
 further idealized perhaps by youthful love : the other is the 
 prose of a figure, which age and custom have worn, and which 
 is seen en desliabille, in the light of mere actuality. If the latter 
 be really by Rafael, it is in his later years, when he had fallen 
 into that literal style, of which we shall speak elsewhere. It is 
 precisely such a face as you see at this hour, among the Roman 
 women of the lower order. But its having the word " Rafael" 
 on the arm is, perhaps, not so conclusive of its authorship, since 
 a repetition of it in the Borghese, confessedly by Guilio Ro- 
 mano, copies the same word. It must be allowed to have some- 
 thing of the metallic style of Guilio, who perhaps put the name 
 there to denote the subject, not the author. 
 
 As a pendant to the Tribune Fornarina, may be mentioned 
 24* 
 
282. EEMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [JEtat. 34. 
 
 the exquisite portrait of Bindo Altoviti, now at Munich ; form- 
 erly called a portrait of Rafael. It is on a green ground, and has 
 a wonderfully lifelike and yet ideal look. The coloring has 
 the freshness and softness of a picture finished yesterday. Of 
 the same luxurious coloring is the Repose in Egypt, in the 
 Belvidere at Vienna, Chamber 3, No. 53. The richness, depth, 
 warmth and lustre of the tones are as delightful as, to one ac- 
 customed to Rafael's earlier and ordinary manner, they must be 
 surprising. Nothing, in all respects, can be more remote from 
 the cold purity of his youthful manner, or the rather dry deli- 
 cacy of his later years, than this. The forms and attitudes of 
 the children are admirable. It giyes one quite a new impres- 
 sion of Rafael.* In the Esterhazy gallery, in the same place, 
 (No. 56, Salle 10,) is a picture, formerly called a portrait of 
 Rafael, by Perugino, but confidently stated to be a portrait of 
 the Due d'Urbino, by Rafael. It is of a very bright, airy 
 color ; and the features seem to have the illumination and quiver 
 of nervous life. 
 
 There are a few pictures of Rafael in which one sees a pre- 
 dominance of yellow tone, which was much used by some of hia 
 followers, as may be seen in the Loggie of the Vatican. It is 
 probable that these were partly executed by Rafael, and were 
 colored by some of his pupils. Of this class is the Saint Cecilia 
 in the Bologna gallery, (No. 132,) which appears not to have 
 been completed till some years after it was commenced. If we 
 suppose it taken up in an unfinished state by one of his pupils, 
 and colored, we shall be able to account for the heaviness of ex- 
 pression which is now felt to be unsatisfactory in a work where 
 the conception and composition are able. Of the same order 
 is the Madonna del Passegio, (No. 2T8,) of the Naples mu- 
 seum, where the Mother, standing, holds the Saviour, to whom 
 the infant John presses closely to kiss. Joseph, who is walk- 
 
 « Very similar in manner is u, Rafael in the gallery at Parma, called the 
 The landscape strongly resembles that of the Repose in Egypt, in 
 
 Vienna ; so do the high plum-colored tents. The face of the Saviour resem- 
 bles that of the infant in the San Sisto. Its authenticity ha^s been doubted; 
 and it has been ascribed to some of his pupils ; but I take it to be genuine. 
 
^TAT. 34.] RAFAEL. 283 
 
 ing away, in the back ground, turns his head round. He has 
 a yellow dress, and white streaming hair and beard, as seen in 
 some of the figures of the Loggie, and often adopted by Rafa- 
 el's followers. It is a small and slight picture, and yet has 
 some marks of genuineness. We might plausibly conjecture 
 that this was drawn by Rafael at an early period, and after- 
 wards colored by some scholar. 
 
 There is a class of portraits by Rafael, at a somewhat later 
 period, in which, either from an excessive devotion to the Vene- 
 tian materialistic manner, or from his own characteristic ten- 
 dency to Nature gaining too great an ascendency over his ideal- 
 izing powers, he fell into a style which seems to aim at nothing 
 more than illusory transcription of physical forms. These are, 
 to me, not pleasing works. There is, one might almost say, a 
 cannibalism of materiality, which goes below Rembrandt, and 
 indicates a false view of Art that seems inexplicable in Rafael. 
 The most marked of these is the picture of Leo X. and two 
 cardinals, in the Pitti gallery, (No. 63,) of which there is a 
 repetition or a copy in a gallery at Naples, (No. 3*71.) The 
 Pope, with a book in his hand, sits at a table, on which is a 
 bell. The bell and the. figures of the table-cloth are given with 
 a deceptive literality of imitation that would have made the 
 reputation of a Dutch painter. The iigures have a heavy, un- 
 relieved, beef-like solidity, that belongs to no high school of 
 painting. The Pitti also contains a portrait of Cardinal Bib- 
 biena, (No. 176,) which, though brilliant, is hard and cold ; and 
 one of Inghirami, (No. IH,) which is dry and stony, though 
 clear. Of the same general class is the portrait of a Cardinal 
 in the Leuchtenberg gallery, at Munich, (No. 39,) the effect of 
 which is massive, but too material. The countenance is a rich 
 and ripe one, strong, but without effort or stare. The white, 
 soft beard falls over a red dress, delicately painted. The color- 
 ing is solid and pure : the high colored robe over the dress, 
 the red cap, and the drapery generally, has too decided an 
 illusory effect to be satisfactory. This material style of por- 
 traiture 
 
 [Here this essay upon Rafael, which, as has been already 
 
284 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tat. 34. 
 
 said, was left by its author in a state obyiously intended for 
 revision and exfoliation, terminates abruptly. On some loose 
 pieces of paper are found some further, but disconnected, re- 
 marks, as follows :] 
 
 The inclination of Rafael's genius, it may, perhaps, be said 
 with truth, was not to invention but to perfection. And that 
 is not only the highest, but the true characteristic and the nor- 
 mal action of Genius. In Art, perfecting is the genuine me- 
 thod of creating. Art does not consist in representing forms ; 
 it consists in causing forms to represent thoughts, sentiments, 
 emotions. He who merely transfers to canvas a shape from 
 nature or his own fancy, has done but little that would not have 
 been accomplished if the image had been allowed to remain 
 where it existed before. But he who ideals this form ; who ex- 
 alts it into the grandeur and beauty of a higher expressiveness 
 by 
 
 It would be extremely untrue to say, that Rafael was not a 
 great master in composition, for he has left to Art the most 
 perfect examples of composition which it possesses ; and in the 
 department of Compositions of Action, he passes all rivalry and 
 all imitation. 
 
 Yet it may be said, that his pictures are more often defective 
 in composition than in any thing else. Those large pictures 
 which exhibit compositions in repose, often fail in that particu- 
 lar, apparently on account of the excessive intensity with which 
 single figures or separate groups in the whole piece are con- 
 ceived ; each having, as it were, its own focus of power, and not 
 being subordinated to a controlling organization of the whole. 
 It seems as if nothing else than an earnest, impetuous action in 
 the whole combination of figures, could furnish a medium po- 
 tent enough to absorb and melt down the strenuous individual- 
 ness of his separate conceptions of them. He is, therefore, of 
 compositions of action, the greatest master that existed ; but it 
 is in statical compositions that the least successful displays of 
 his power are to be found. If we ever feel a want in viewing 
 Rafael — if the vague suspicion of failure ever occurred to us in 
 
iETAT. 34.] EAFAKL. 285 
 
 that ever glorious presence ; it would be in reference to works 
 of that character. 
 
 And here we see the diversity which he was able to create be- 
 tween his sphere and Michael Angelo's. He disdained to imi- 
 tate the great Florentine, or to cope with him in a style which 
 he had created ; his resources were adequate to the creation of 
 a new method, style and manner of greatness ; a new realm of 
 grandeur which might be set beside the elder world of the other, 
 for the independent and equal admiration of mankind. 
 
 Michael Angelo's prevailing instincts, as a sculptor, made 
 him subject to the law of repose in iigures and in compositions ; 
 which he carried into his great compositions in fresco. Where 
 an action is represented by him, the moment chosen is one of 
 temporary stillness and rest ; as in the Vision of St. Paul and 
 the Crucifixion of St. Peter. He has not painted motion — ^the 
 actual transition of time, and acts, and attitudes. This is a 
 characteristic greatness of Rafael, in which he has been followed 
 by none so ably and decidedly as by Dominichino. The dyna- 
 mics of composition are the creation of Rafael. Rubens, in a 
 later day, showed an energy to cope with both Michael Angelo 
 and Rafael in their own greatest strength. 
 
 When the several figures were not involved in one great 
 action, he felt a difficulty in combining them into one expres- 
 sion ; and thus occasions a defect of chiaro-scuro ; which seems 
 to me to have been the greatest want of Rafael. His tendency 
 to action in compositions is seen in his first great composition, 
 on the Entombment in the Borghese. Not only is the entire pro- 
 cession in actual and hurried movement, but the several figures 
 are in almost tumultuous variety and agitation. [Mention the 
 Heliodorus.J Another composition, of which only a fragment 
 from his own hand remains, in the Cartoon of the National Gal- 
 lery, is the Murder of the Innocents, being one of the second 
 series of tapestries in the Vatican. This is of matchless excel- 
 lence. Here the divergencies of many individual impulses of 
 terror and ferocity are brought to a common centre of unity 
 the most complete. A prodigious variety in the attitudes and 
 conditions of the several struggling sets, is made to tend to 
 
286 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tat. 84. 
 
 one exclusive and irresistible effect. Tlie moral impression has 
 an entireness and force that never were exceeded. The interest 
 of violent contest is still at breathless height, yet you see that 
 such is the position of each murderer in relation to each infant, 
 that the destruction of each Innocent is inevitable. No back- 
 vrard-working hope or possibility of escape conflicts against 
 the concentrated expression of certain doom that every line of 
 the action combines to form. The discordant cries of the 
 group come to our ears, blended into one piercing shriek of 
 childless motherhood. Guido (and Poussin ?) have represented 
 this scene ; but the forces of their canvas are divided and scat- 
 tered. The deliverance of St. Peter, in a stanza of the Vatican, 
 is another charming instance of a hurried, agitating action, 
 treated with beautiful delicacy and interest. Equally success- 
 ful is the representation of movement in the Incendio del Borgo ; 
 the figures of the men letting themselves down the wall and 
 clinging with their hands to the parapet, and of the women 
 carrying water with a swiftness that sends their drapery flying 
 on one side and the other, produce a delightful effect in con- 
 trast with the calm air of the Pope, who appears at a window 
 to arrest the flames with a motion of his hand. We readily see 
 in this picture one of the models upon which Dominichino 
 formed himself. But the battle of the Ponte Molle, in the 
 Stanza of Constantine in the Vatican, which was executed by 
 Guilio Romano after Rafael's death, and of which a portion of 
 the original cartoon exists in the Ambrosian Library at Milan, 
 may be considered not only as Rafael's most difficult and great- 
 est composition, but as the most masterly representation in ex- 
 istence of a multitudinous and complicated action reduced to 
 distinctness and connectedness of impression. Several of the 
 tapestries also display admirable examples of great force in 
 motion. 
 
 [MS. here ends abruptly. Whiat follows in regard to certain 
 pictures of Rafael are lead pencil entries in a pocket journal 
 made on the spot. It need scarcely be added that they are 
 mere notes of fact, and not even unfinished critical disquisi- 
 tions.] 
 
Stat. 34.] RAFAEL. 28T 
 
 Hampton Court, Wednesday, 19<7i June, 1850. — The cele- 
 brated cartoons of Rafael at Hampton Court are on paper 
 and colored, about twelve feet broad by eight high. They 
 were cut into slips about two feet wide for the convenience of 
 working into tapestry ; but the parts have been put together 
 again, in some instances perfectly, in others not well. Much 
 of the coloring of some of them has flown. They are all, ex- 
 cept two, under a strong front light, which is very unfavorable 
 for seeing them. Yet their effect is immense. The best, I 
 think, is St. Paul preaching at Athens. It is in the best pre- 
 servation as to color and as to the junction of the pieces. It is 
 worthy of Rafael. The company before him does not form a 
 group, blended into one mass ; the distinctness with which the 
 moral individuality of each is marked, is aa ^irable ; you see 
 the word in its effect upon each mind and heart. The working 
 of the word upon each hearer is the great subject the artist has 
 illustrated. The whole is combined into 
 
 Next to it I would rate the Death of Ananias ; the action of 
 the piece there is inimitable. The Miraculous Draught of 
 Fishes is a noble and glorious thing, but unluckily greatly dam- 
 aged and the colors much impaired. In the " Peed my Sheep," 
 the group of Apostles is exceedingly lovely and beautiful. The 
 three other cartoons pleased me less. As for Hampton Court, 
 I think it could not have been elegant at any time, and it is 
 now dismally gloomy. I should not envy a Royal Pensioner 
 any thing — except the pleasure of seeing the cartoons. 
 
 Dresden, 29th September, 1850. — Rafael's Madonna di San 
 Sisto. This picture surpasses all my expectations. It is be- 
 yond criticism, because it is free from mannerism ; you can only 
 characterize it by saying that it is the perfection of the highest 
 grace and beauty. As you gaze at it, it produces a concentrat- 
 ing and awing impression. The august glory of heaven was 
 never more powerfully displayed. It is one delicious blaze of 
 celestial, holy beauty. To analyze the qualities in which this 
 great effect consists, to trace the methods by which so aston- 
 ishing a result has been brought out, is quite impracticable. The 
 greatness of the work lies in the majestic radiance in which the 
 
288 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [JEtat. 34. 
 
 subject presented itself to the transcendent sensibilities of the 
 painter's imagination, who appears to have rendered simply 
 that which he had conceived divinely. Never was the effect of 
 a picture less dependent, apparently, upon any devices of ex- 
 ecution — upon color, drawing, light and shade, or composition. 
 All the magic seems to be in the mental conception of the 
 scene. 
 
 The peculiar interest of the mother's face seems to be twofold ; 
 consisting, first, in the union of virgin girlishness with maturity; 
 and, secondly, in the charging of a human countenance with all 
 the sensibility of imparted divinity. The whole catholic concep- 
 tion of motherhood superinduced upon the unviolated innocence 
 of virginity, and of the mortal overshadowed and absorbed by the 
 glory of the Godhead, is realized in that face. The balance 
 between all these is kept with consummate judgment. In re- 
 verencing the effulgent sanctity of the face, you are not so much 
 struck with the extent to which a divine elevation has been at- 
 tained, as by the firmness and skill with which a human con- 
 sciousness and human sympathies have been kept. There is in 
 the face a sadness wholly free from pain ; it is not that anxious 
 sadness of motherhood, which Francia often threw into his 
 Madonnas : it is the sadness of humanity invested with a divinity 
 before whose infiniteness its nature grows almost appalled. 
 
 The face of the child is glowing and distended, as it were, 
 with the forces of an in-dwelling spirit all-God. It seems to 
 be communing in an intense intercourse with the Invisible Om- 
 nipotent, and to expand in the apprehension of its own exalted 
 being. It broods and kindles over the thought of its transcend- 
 ent destiny. It fires with all the sanctity of the Godhead, and 
 something of its severity. It is holy even to sternness. 
 
 The figure of St. Barbara combines the greatest simplicity 
 with the most delightful grace and beauty. Grandeur, ele- 
 gance, and loveliness are combined in it with an expression of 
 the utmost ease and nature. 
 
 The two angels who lean over upon the platform below, are 
 perhaps the most remarkable and effective things in the whole 
 work. They are children, and yet all heavenly. The face of 
 
^TAT. 34.] KAFABL. 289 
 
 the one whose finger is on his upper lip, seems fixed upon the 
 far throne of the Infinite, in the ardent, bold, eager, sympathetic 
 adoration of a spirit which partakes of that which it worships. 
 The attitude of the third finger resting on the upper lip, in a 
 musing self-forgetfulness, imparts an exquisite naturalness to 
 the figure. The power of that countenance, which yet is thor- 
 oughly child-like, is truly astonishing. 
 
 The painting of every part of this matchless work is as per- 
 fect as the design. The flesh seems to palpitate under your 
 gaze. The clouds on which the Tirgin stands are exquisitely 
 beautiful. There is no doubt that the picture has been over- 
 cleaned ; and the colors are, generally, paler than in the early 
 days of its glory. But, unlike the Notte of Correggio, the cha- 
 racteristics of the work have not been destroyed, and its expres- 
 sion still triumphs over all the accidents and injuries of time. 
 
 To describe the composition : The Virgin appears standing 
 on snowy clouds, and holding the infant in her arms. St. Six- 
 tus, covered with a gilded vestment of his ofiSce, kneels on the 
 clouds, on her right, and is pointing to something in front. On 
 her left, kneels St. Barbara on the clouds. On a platform below, 
 the two angels lean with their arms. In the blue vault, behind 
 the Virgin, are an innumerable throng of cherub heads, faintly 
 indicated in white against the blue. The whole scene is repre- 
 sented as behind a green curtain on a rod, which is withdrawn 
 on both sides. The picture has a glass before it, and is on 
 hinges. This great work is a proof that the higher displays of 
 Genius and Art return to Nature and simplicity. 
 
 Borne, Thursday, IBth March, 1851. — I sat for a long time 
 in front of the Transfiguration, trying to discover the causes 
 why a picture which has so much that is admirable in it im- 
 presses me so little. After having seen it many times, and 
 studied it long, I must avow that I am disappointed in the effect 
 of the Transfiguration. The first time that I saw it was with 
 a blank and total disappointment, from which I could not re- 
 cover. On the subsequent occasions, the first impression has 
 been similar ; and though, after careful examination of all its 
 parts, I have been impressed with great admiration for the ge- 
 25 
 
290 REMARKS UPON PAINTERS. [^tat. 31, 
 
 niU9 and skill of the artist, I have still always gone away un- 
 moved, and but little delighted with the picture itself. The 
 details are fall of genius and artist power ; the combined effect 
 is unimpressive. And this, I think, is characteristic of Rafael, 
 and fairly illustrates the strength and weakness of his powers. 
 In the drawing of the figure he was unsurpassed ; in the imagi- 
 native power, which conceives of a whole scene with unity and 
 energy, he was weak. I find that in him the spirit of the par- 
 ticular and local predominates over that of the general and en- 
 semble ; but the Correggiesque power of fusing all the elements 
 together in one burning whole, was not his. 
 
 The division in the action and character of the picture strikes 
 me as a fatal fault. After all my efforts, I cannot make one 
 picture of it. It remains to me two pictures ; and two pictures 
 not merely distinct and not contributing to one another, but in- 
 consistent, and respectively impairing and interfering with one 
 another. The perspective effect appears to me to fail utterly. 
 The chiaro-scuro is decidedly bad. The mountain, and the 
 figures on it, and the figures above, are all very near you in the 
 foreground. The same thing, in a greater degree, may be seen 
 in the Madonna di Fuligno, where the Virgin has got her foot 
 almost in the mouth of one of the saints. This appears to be 
 a defect in Rafael's genius, arising from the want of vastness 
 and vigor of imagination. The light around the Saviour seems 
 quite too feeble ; the atmosphere of glory in which he is in- 
 volved quite too thin. It also is confined to the Saviour, and 
 does not fully embrace the saints with him. Moses is clearly 
 eeen against a tree, and against the natural sky, whereas they 
 were all enveloped in cloud ; and there is even more occasion 
 to wrap them in a visionary lustre than so to wrap the Saviour. 
 The artist, who has copied the picture in mosaic, in St. Peter's, 
 has perceived this, and has extended the glory so as fully to 
 take the saints in. There is a want of light in the whole pic- 
 ture. The dark background below, which Rafael rarely used, 
 and perhaps did not know fully how to deal with, has probably 
 absorbed much of the lighter colors. The picture has grown 
 darker by time. But the great excuse is, that it is certainly 
 
iETAT. 34.] RAFAEL. 291 
 
 much more unfinished than we generally are told. The light 
 above, I am sure, would have been greatly extended and strength- 
 ened. Remembering the Madonna at Dresden, I am especially 
 struck with this. The elements and details here are doubtless 
 fine ; and I imagine that it is artists, studying them, who have 
 made the great reputation of the picture. Its popular char- 
 acter would not be so high. 
 
CONTRIBUTIONS 
 
 TO THE EPHEMERAL PRESS. 
 
 Although engaged professionally and with constancy in writing upon the 
 law, a habitual student in the departments of Greek and Boman letters and of 
 Art, and holding no connexions of office or of profit whatsoever with the pub- 
 lic press, Mr. Wallace, it has been already stated, was a frequent contributor 
 to it of short articles upon such subjects as he thought were fit to occupy its 
 columns. These were always anonymous ; and the contribution of them seems 
 to have been performed by him only as a discharge of the duty which every 
 citizen owes to his country. " The various obligations which the government 
 undertakes in other countries," he remarks in one place, " are, with us, in 
 commission among such of the people as are adapted to the discharge of them. 
 By bonds of patriotism and honor, as invisible and as little to be shunned aa 
 the air that surrounds him, every man among us is a debtor to his country 
 for the exertion of his best efforts in directing aright the course of his coun- 
 trymen, and advancing their condition to the highest good." The great " Com- 
 mittee of Public Safety" among us, he declares, " is the Press j and of that 
 committee every man of ability and information ought to make himself, not 
 professionally indeed, but occasionally, an active member. To correct the 
 excesses of enthusiasm, to abate the violence of false notions before they 
 overrun into actions, to point out neglected fields of efifort and to urge to their 
 occupancy, are the methods by which all ivho can handle a pen, may acquit 
 themselves of the service which they owe to a system which gives them safety 
 and pride." 
 
 A few of these pieces, the only ones upon topics of general interest 
 which it has been practicable to recover, are presented in the pages which fol- 
 low. Their value, in a literary point of view, may not be thought great; but 
 they are interesting as an exhibition of thought and character ; and it is hoped 
 they may prove valuable as illustrating a department of their author's 
 character very worthy of imitation. 
 
 (293) 
 25* 
 
ART EDUCATION IN AMEEICA. 
 
 TO DO— TO BE. 
 
 " Other arts and sciences liave their use, no doubt," says Jef- 
 frey, "and heaven knows they have their reward and their fame. 
 But the great art, is the art of living ; and the chief science, is cha 
 science of being happy." We imagine that there is no country in 
 the world where this capital branch of human knowledge is less 
 attended to, and less systematically practiced, than in America. 
 External and natural interests here, are so intense and absorbing, 
 that there is neither inclination nor necessity for cultivating the 
 resources of enjoyment. Every one is so occupied with the 
 desire to do, that there is no leisure merely to he : accordingly at 
 some periods of life, most persons have occasion to fulfill the 
 other function of the verb, and suffer. In a dynamircal point of 
 view, — in its adaptation for action, and development, and pro- 
 gression — this country is in the finest possible state ; but the 
 statics of American society are in a much less favorable condi- 
 tion. Accordingly, here, when men cease to move rapidly for- 
 ward, either from having acquired that which is the great ob- 
 ject of pursuit, wealth, or from having been hopelessly thrown 
 off the track, their minds are apt to become, as Bacon expresses 
 it, "poor, meagre, shrunken things." Now it is well enough 
 to bear in mind that there is a husbandry by which, when 
 the natural harvest which the soil of life sends up, is exhausted, 
 a more abundant and finer yield of enjoyment may be obtained. 
 Abroad, this matter is much attended to. Perhaps nothing 
 strikes an intelligent American more, in making acquaintance 
 
 (295) 
 
296 ART EDUCATION IN AMERICA. [^tat. 30. 
 
 with English and European society, than the extent to which 
 the practice, if not the theory, of agreeable sensations, forms a 
 positive and definite oject of thought and effort. Cultivated 
 people of the old world make it a point, regularly, to seek for 
 sources of pleasure, and then to enjoy them deliberately and 
 fully. The pleasures of taste are largely cultivated. Art and 
 the beauties of Nature, are made to furnish large supplies of 
 gratification. The exlent to which Art is studied, as a source 
 of refined and soothing delight, and its capacities for contenting 
 the uneasy spirit, or stimulating the sluggish one, are developed; 
 and the faculties which are appropriate to the perception and 
 fruition, of its elevating and tranquillizing effects are educated and 
 exercised, is altogether surprising to a visitor from these States. 
 On this difference in the social state of the countries, we think that 
 we find one of the causes of the want of patronage of galleries 
 of the Fine Arts in America. The moral necessity of such 
 things is not yet felt. Perhaps the period in which it shall be 
 felt, ought to be wished far distant, for it may mark the stand- 
 still of a nation's commercial prosperity, or the commencement 
 of its decline. 
 
 AMERICAN ENJOYMENTS. 
 
 It was a shrewd and just remark of Oarlyle, that there is no 
 nation in the world where there is so little misery, and so little 
 happiness, as in America. And the sources of this blessing and 
 this evil lie side by side ; or, rather, these two results are but 
 different workings of the same moral principle. The undy- 
 ing instinct of self-advancement, — the unresting aspiration after 
 social improvement — the restless energies of temper that delight 
 in toil for its excitement, and crave the stimulus of risk with a 
 passionate interest — the keen intellectual invention — the intense 
 tenacity of purpose — the daring enterprises — which operate so 
 magnificently upon our general and public progress — are at- 
 tended by a certain inward reaction not so favorable to the en- 
 
^TAT. 30.] AMERICAN ENJOYMENTS. 297 
 
 joyment of the individual. Americans become the slaves, and 
 even the victims, of the spirits that they have called up to labor 
 in their service. Those ambitious sensibilities which are, at 
 first, powers to push us up to independence and material com- 
 fort, when their just operation is spent, remain as feelings to 
 plague us with vague disquietudes, and longings which have no 
 object. After a certain point in the upward scale of physical 
 amelioration, appetency is developed in a higher ratio than 
 there are interests to absorb and gratify ; and the larger our 
 worldly possessions are, the more profoundly and despairingly 
 discontented we have become. This calamity envelopes us all 
 equally. Authors and their readers — counselors and their 
 clients — merchants and their customers — the capitalist and the 
 day-laborer — men of the country and of the town — all alike are 
 affected by the sad working of the irreversible law, that the 
 prince of this world's good waits upon mortal bidding up to a 
 limited period, only on the condition that, after that date, places 
 shall be changed, and he shall become the ruler. We con- 
 sider the joyless state of the class which popular estimation re- 
 cognizes as our upper class — the want of sources of mental oc- 
 cupation and. satisfaction of those who have placed themselves 
 above the grade in which provision for the needs of life is the one 
 ■ engrossing and sufficient concern — ^to be the specific evil of our 
 society, which to a large extent counterweighs the multitudin- 
 ous and mighty advantages which our system possesses. An 
 unsatisfied and unquiet state of feelings reacts unfavorably upon 
 the moral nature. The habitual experience of some pure en- 
 joyment — ^the frequent realization of heartfelt pleasure — the dif- 
 fusion within the breast of man, of the serenity of spiritual com- 
 fort and delight — we take to be most potent agencies for good 
 in human nature. They produce that inward peace, and calm- 
 ness, and strength, and hope, which are the plants of our im- 
 mortal consciousness, whose fragrance is an inspiration of good, 
 and whose leaves are full of healing. The want under which 
 our country suffers is an absence of objects for the indulgence 
 and gratification of the tastes and sentiments. These are the 
 calming, composing, and equalizing elements of our being, as 
 
298 ART EDUCATION IN AMERICA. [^tat. 30. 
 
 the intellect on the one hand, and the passions on the other, are 
 the quickening, the stimulating, and the disturbing qualities. 
 The arts, in their wide and comprehensive conception, are the 
 appropriate ailment and delight of these central faculties of our 
 intelligence. Wext to Religion — which is, of course, the highest 
 spring of man's purest joys — Art is the truest, safest and fullest 
 fountain of that delight which propagates its genial and restor- 
 ing influences throughout the whole mental frame of its recipient. 
 Those who have not been somewhat familiar with the elevating, 
 cleansing and soothing happiness inspired by the presence and 
 contemplation of Art, and become a little educated into impressi- 
 bility of such sort, vrill hardly be aware of the moral power of 
 this agent. We look upon a taste for Art not only as among 
 the most exalted and unfailing securities for personal content- 
 ment, but as among the few efficient means of working out the 
 higher stages of national civilization. The subject, therefore, is 
 one which commends itself to every patriot, and especially to 
 those who direct the public press, and whose profession, as it 
 were, is to labor for the improvement and refinement of society. 
 Much apathy has been protected under the opinion that Art 
 could not be, on any useful or large scale, introduced into this 
 country. Such an impression results from a narrow and nn- 
 philosophical view of what Art consists in. The notion is just 
 enough in regard to the great works of painting, and some other 
 of the illustrations of the creative spirit of beauty : but the 
 manifestations of the character of Art are more numerous and 
 diversified than is popularly supposed ; and many of them are 
 quite as practicable and appropriate to this country as to 
 Europe. 
 
 POPULAR EDUCATION. 
 
 The present age, in America, is favorably distinguished for 
 the diffusiveness with which the means of elementary instruc- 
 tion have been spread throughout the community. But though 
 
iBTiT. 30.] POPULAR EDUCATION. 299 
 
 the field over which the benefits of ordinary knowledge are 
 extended has thus been increased, there has not been such a 
 corresponding advance in the depth and thoroughness and com- 
 prehensiveness of our systems of culture, as the case readily 
 admitted of, and the irhprovement of the country, in all physical 
 respects, might seem to demand. The truth is, that, over all 
 the world, Education — as a science and as an art, as a doctrine 
 and as an institution — is yet in its infancy. The bold paradox 
 of Helvetius, that all the differences between man and man are 
 the results of education, was exploded with too hasty a ridicule 
 to allow of its being observed how much truth was distorted in 
 the extravagance of thB maxim. The world has no conception 
 of the extent to which humanity is the subject of improvement 
 by culture. The object of education in its completeness, must 
 be the development in man of all the sources of power of which 
 his nature is susceptible, and of all the capacities of enjoyment 
 which his situa,tion will allow of. For this great design, the 
 entire being of the person must be acted upon; his whole 
 character, in all its complex and multiform varieties, of quality, 
 must be roused and stimulated and disciplined. Education 
 with us, in its common application, operates but upon a few of 
 the more obvious and prominent of the intellectual faculties. 
 If the reflective powers have been exercised in some of the 
 usual forms of the schools, and stored with certain principles 
 of experimental knowledge, we consider that the task of the 
 teacher has been ended. The most that can be said is, that 
 those capacities which are employed about science, are drilled 
 and strengthened : all that part of our nature which is addressed 
 by the productions of Art, is almost entirely left out of considera- 
 tion in the methods of cultivation with which this nation is 
 familiar. Now though, undoubtedly, the former discipline is 
 of far higher importance for all the great interests of business 
 and ambition, yet those other properties form a large and vital 
 portion of our constitution, and were intended to play a great 
 part in the work of elevating the condition of our race, and 
 multiplying its resources of happiness and glory. That kind 
 of moral intelligence, or that species of rational sensibility 
 
300 ART EDUCATION IN AMERICA. [^tat. 30. 
 
 which, when it acts creatively, is a genius for Art, and when it 
 exerts itself only perceptively, is a taste for Art — is an endow- 
 ment as definite in its character, as universal in its distribution 
 among men, as the mental gift itself. It is quite as much the 
 creature of cultivation and exercise ; and in its full maturity of 
 strength and extension, it reacts with almost limitless influence 
 upon the individual character and the social condition of those 
 among whom it becomes prominent and potent. 
 
 In regard to all this matter, we are a little behind some other 
 parts of the world. Our tardier progress in this direction was 
 indeed inevitable from the circumstances of our history. No 
 peculiarity is more striking to an observant person, who for the 
 first time goes hence to the more advanced nations of Europe, 
 than the increased degree in which Art enters as an element into 
 the civilization of England, France, and Germany, for example. 
 The best classes of society seem to live in an atmosphere of Art. 
 It forms the most frequent topic of conversation : under one shape 
 or other, it is the principal interest of the thoughts and occupa- 
 tions of the wealthier and better circles. This unquestionably 
 marks a more advanced stage of national refinement ; and it is 
 so nearly connected with all that we deem valuable in the 
 characteristics of a people, as to be well worthy the attention of 
 the patriot and philosopher. Art, indeed, will never communi- 
 cate to a nation that ehergy and endurance and sagacity — ^that 
 vivid enterprise and that earnest self-control, which make a 
 country great ; but it will adorn its greatness with a lustre, the 
 purest, the brightest, the least transitory. We have no concep- 
 tion that it will ever regenerate a degraded world, or take the 
 place of moral principle or Divine grace. But to all it may 
 come in aid of both these influences ; and it may act beneficently 
 on some who are insensible to either of the others. Next to 
 the affections, the sentiments are the great natural absorbents 
 and safety-valves of that sensibility which, when left to run 
 wild, breaks forth into the fiery turbulence of the passions. 
 And it is the sentiments, and the most lofty class of them, that 
 are addressed and quickened by the appeals of Art. It elevates 
 the tone of the character, and gives expansion to the aims of a 
 
^TAT. 30.] POPULAB EDUCATION. 301 
 
 community. It tends to dissipate that sordid temper wHcli is 
 the unseemly rust of wealth : it is at war with sensuality and 
 grossness: it dissipates those low fogs of selfishness which 
 gather about the mind : and it surrounds it, instead, with the 
 breezy air of chaste and healthful feeling. 
 
 That the living spirit of sesthetic susceptibility is as native 
 and inseparable an element in man as reason itself, certainly no 
 one can deny. That it is, to precisely the same extent, the 
 subject of cultivation, is a principle of which we entertain no 
 doubt, and the general reception of which by society will mark 
 the commencement of a new era in the history of education. 
 You cannot, by instruction and discipline, make a Rafael, a 
 Mozart, or a Thorwaldsen, out of every child that is presented 
 for tuition. It is equally impracticable to teach every boy to 
 become a great lawyer, a consummate physician, or a successful 
 merchant; and yet no one would say that, to be fitted for any 
 of these professions, requires a special grant of energy from 
 heaven — a peculiar inspiration beyond that conscious soul which 
 is the inheritance of the race. To make a productive progress 
 in Art, as well as in science, or in business, demands a larger 
 share than ordinary of this divine emanation ; but to under- 
 stand, and to discriminate, and to feel, all the glory of the 
 beautiful, and to respond with vital earnestness to its influence, 
 are results which cultivation may look for in every instance of 
 ordinary capacity. All the moral and all the intellectual bene- 
 fits derived from Art, are within range of his powers whose eye 
 is illuminated by no ray of creative vision — whose spirit is unani- 
 mated by a single touch of inventive energy. Painting, sculp- 
 ture, and music are, in our opinion, just as capable of being 
 taught to every one, as mathematics, languages, and moral 
 sciences; and the duty of making them parts of the universal 
 education of the country, follows inevitably from the power of 
 developing the corresponding faculties by practice and culture, 
 for the improvement of every capacity is the first and universal 
 law of natural obligation. What new sources of happiness — 
 what rich and exhaustless prospects of improvement in refine- 
 ment and civility — would be; opened in the adoption of this 
 26 
 
302 ART EDUCATION IN AMERICA. [^tat. 38. 
 
 conception throughout all parts of our country 1 How much 
 that our nation wants would be insensibly supplied ! — how much 
 that it possesses would be heightened and beautified by a system 
 of instruction which, instead of being limited to half the nature 
 of the being it operates upon, and that the rougher and 
 coarser half, should summon into social action all those fine 
 and purifying sympathies of this being, which now are 
 usually left in dormant and dreamy repose 1 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF ART. 
 
 It will be found, that besides the external and direct efl'ects 
 which the mental faculties of man are adapted to accomplish, 
 one of the natural and incidental results of their rightful exercise, 
 is the insensible yet certain elevation and refinement of the 
 whole social condition of the community. The imaginative 
 power, for example, independently of ihe specific radiance 
 which it casts upon the business and the pleasures of existence, 
 is capable, from an indestructible lustre that inheres in it, of 
 shedding upon all the other properties of the character, and 
 upon the general action of life, an exalting and ennobling energy. 
 In the degree in which this influence is interfused throughout 
 the passions and instincts and hopes and conceptions and pur- 
 poses of men, the entire tone of their conduct is raised and 
 purified : every one has, whether consciously or not, a certain 
 ideal in his thoughts — an abstract and general notion of pro- 
 priety, dignity, or beauty, which becomes the type of all his 
 plans and designs — the mould upon which aU his being and 
 thinking and acting spontaneously form themselves. As this 
 ideal is lofty and powerful, the career of the person is lifted 
 above the line of mediocrity and commonplace. The develop- 
 ment and proper direction and control of an intellectual agency 
 so important, is, in some degree, a matter of moral interest. 
 The most effective and safe and valuable cultivation which can 
 
^TAT. 30.] THE EDUCATION OP ART. 303 
 
 be given to this faculty, nnder this point of view, is produced 
 by a judicious employment of Art as one of the means and 
 instruments of education. That the advantages of this practice 
 are to some extent appreciated in this country, particularly in 
 regard to female instruction, is shown by the prominence given 
 to music in the tuition of young ladies of every rank in society. 
 It appears to us, however, that the arts of drawing and painting 
 are fitted to work out results far more useful and extensive ; and 
 that they might, with signal benefit, be substituted for that 
 mechanical proficiency in the management of the forte-piano 
 which constitutes the most engrossing, but by no means the 
 most profitable, concern of the education of women at the pre- 
 sent day. 
 
 Of all the fine arts, music is the most sensuous and the least 
 intellectual. Except in rare instances, such as the harmonies 
 of Beethooven, its relations with the more analytic powers of 
 the mind are distant and feeble : it absorbs, in its production, but 
 a small amount of the rational and reflective faculties ; and its 
 exercise, accordingly, reacts upon them with but little of quick- 
 ening and strengthening force. It refines the passions into 
 sentiments, but it does not tend, as painting does, to raise the 
 sentiments into ideas. It opens the sources of feeling, but the 
 feelings are motive, rather than guiding powers. Pictorial Art 
 is conversant with forms, and form mingles in almost every 
 operation of thought, and is intimately allied with all the 
 highest faculties and processes of the understanding. Impres- 
 sions of that nature, entering by one avenue, tone, as it were, 
 through all the chords of intellectual being, and have an effect 
 upon its action in all directions. Conceptions of grace and pro- 
 portion which a young lady shall derive from the outlines which 
 the pencil traces, become the model shapes upon which the fancy 
 works in a thousand other employments ; and the vital principle 
 of a beauty thus received shall be reproduced in all that engages 
 her attention — in dress, in manner, in deportment. 
 
 Music is stimulating, because it disturbs the balance between 
 emotion and feeling, by overcharging the former : painting is 
 satisfying and calming, because it brings them into just and 
 
304 AET EDUCATION IN AMERICA. [^tat. 34. 
 
 harmonious relation. That apprehension of something fairer 
 than the present, that craving for something more vivid than 
 ordinary life — which so often set the young upon reckless and 
 desperate experiments — are appeased and gratified by produc- 
 tions which seem to feed the reason upon the delicate and dainty 
 food of imagination, and to bring home to actual and familiar 
 consciousness the airy dreams of restless Hope. One of these 
 pursuits is as closely connected with reflection as the other is 
 with action: one is meditative and the other impulsive: one 
 imparts gentleness to the sensibilities, softness to the temper, 
 and elegance to the taste, while the other is prone to engender 
 a fiery, impatient, and impetuous enthusiasm. The moral influ- 
 ences of the pencil are as healthy as those of music are morbid and 
 extreme. The latter is a jealous and engrossing love, which 
 seems to produce an indisposition to take interest in or draw 
 pleasure from other occupations or objects: but painting inclines 
 and fits its pupils to derive increased enjoyment from almost all 
 the departments of Nature and life. To one whose views have 
 been opened and informed by a practical acquaintance with 
 designing and coloring, landscape scenery becomes impressed 
 with a significance and power which it never had before : rock 
 and stream, and tree and flower, are charged with an exhaust- 
 less beauty, from which the eye and the mind together may draw 
 the deep, fervent life of spiritual and intelligent enjoyment. In 
 all the conditions of individual experience, in all the scenes of 
 society — wherever the curiosity wanders and wherever the atten- 
 tion lingers — there is delightful aliment for such a taste, and 
 abundant field for such knowledge. Beyond almost all other 
 acquirements, the perception and skill derived from the exercise 
 of the pencil are tributary to the demands of conversation when 
 in company, and of thought when in solitude. Nothing can so 
 agreeably enrich the personal character, or so wonderfully mul- 
 tiply the resources of social entertainment, as this accomplish- 
 ment in the case of a person of fertile and active mind. It may 
 be made to bear upon everything ; it is capable of difl'using 
 lustre and interest upon almost every situation and pursuit. In 
 Europe, Art has now fairly come to be made a part of the gen- 
 
^TAT. 34.] NATIONAL GLORY AND THE ARTS. 305 
 
 eral elementary instraction of society generally ; and to this may 
 be attributed in a great degree that superiority in the conversa- 
 tion of French and English women which a candid traveler is 
 compelled to acknowledge. 
 
 NATIONAL GLORY AND THE ARTS. 
 
 The most valuable patronage that can be conferred upon Art, 
 is that which proceeds from the State. It has the right moral 
 character, for it neither humiliates nor enslaves what it fosters ; 
 and in its indirect influence, as much as its direct operation, it 
 aids inspiration, while it imparts encouragement. It is the 
 more beneficial, because it is exercised in immediate connection 
 with legitimate civil duties, the perpetuation of national glories, 
 the decoration of public places, and the encouragement of patri- 
 otic sentiment. Those half-divine heroes, who appear in the 
 early stages of every history that is destined to be an enduring 
 and resplendent one, have always been the appropriate subjects 
 of the artist's devotion ; and the popular reverence for them be- 
 comes the best reward of the genius that brightens their fame. 
 None of the results of legislation are of a higher and more endur- 
 ing moral good than those which tend to deepen and strengthen 
 in the public bosom the pride of nationality, by promoting an 
 ever-present reverence for the character of those whose career 
 is identified with the glory of the nation, and a living sympathy 
 with their excellence. Intellectually, the future may as well be 
 left to develope itself as it will, according to the instincts that 
 are within it, and the necessities that are around and before it ; 
 but morally, the Past ever has that about it which may be made 
 to react advantageously on the progress of the Present. What 
 greater benefit could be conferred upon the social condition of 
 our people — how more efficiently could be seconded the en- 
 deavors of our foremost statesmen, to keep the government of 
 our country in the line of that magnanimous policy which pre- 
 26* 
 
306 ART EDUCATION IN AMEBICA. [^tat. Si. 
 
 sided over the formation of our TJnioii — ^than to bring the visi- 
 ble images of those earlier legislators and heroes before the 
 eyes of the community of this day ? What national Temple en- 
 shrines the forms of more or mightier tutelary deities than those 
 which our own history includes within its hallowed precincts ? 
 But these august figures are withdrawn into the dimmer re- 
 cesses of traditionary memory, when their majestic countenances 
 ought to be prominent in all the meeting-places of the people, 
 recalling ancient virtue, rebuking unworthy aims, and diffusing 
 that light of chastening purity which rays forever from the can- 
 onized excellence of the apostles and saints of public merit. 
 
 The Americans have sometimes been charged with an in- 
 ordinate estimation of their country and its achievements ; and 
 with that real sensitiveness which is their greatest infirmity, 
 they often fall short of a just appreciation of those things which 
 belong to their renown, from a fear of being deemed excessive 
 self-adulators. No impression is more erroneous. No people 
 upon earth, with so much reason to boast, make so little of their 
 own unquestionable claims. We cannot consider such mod- 
 esty a virtue ; on the contrary, we regard it as a serious fault. 
 However interesting and graceful a timid abnegation of one's 
 mind and rank may be in the individual, it is, in our judgment, 
 the duty of those who are charged with the conduct of a nation, 
 to inspire in the general breast an earnest, immovable, and 
 glowing confidence in the greatness and glory of the father- 
 land. And how is this to be done so well as by magnifying 
 and multiplying the present, palpable and continuing fame of 
 the heroes who represent us to other lands, and recall our own 
 best aspirations to ourselves ? In Europe, at present, this is 
 everywhere the policy. To decorate the capitals with the 
 images of those whose renown has lightened over the nation — 
 to set up the statues of local worthies in the provincial towns 
 once benefited by their abilities — is now the scheme promoted 
 both by governments, and by those patriotic persons who labor 
 in private stations for the advancement of the public good. 
 When a stranger visits England, and especially London — 
 though it is not confined to that city—he is particularly struck 
 
^TAT. 33.] NATIONAL GLORY AND THE ARTS. 'gOY 
 
 by the memorials of the glory of Nelson and Wellington that 
 meet his eye on all sides, in the shape of statues erected to those 
 heroes. Enter Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's and they 
 seem rather temples of fame than of religion, for the altars 
 which attract the public homage, are the monuments surmounted 
 with the marble figures of almost every one who has increased 
 the military, or political, or literary glory of England. In 
 France, the palace of Versailles has been created into the most 
 magnificent historical gallery that the world has ever seen ; and 
 statues of every eminent man, and pictures of every celebrated 
 event in the annals of the nation, there fill the admiring gaze 
 of citizen and foreigner. In Germany, the munificence of 
 King Ludwig, of Bavaria — as boundless in its extent as it was 
 judicious in its direction — developed this connection betweeen 
 Art and national glory in its most splendid completeness, and 
 his example became the model upon which Prussia and other 
 German States are pursuing a kindred design. Besides indi- 
 vidual statues in Munich and other cities and towns, of persons 
 illustrious for genius or virtue, that royal enthusiast has 
 consecrated three temples to the intellectual glory of United 
 Germany. On the summit of a picturesque mountain on the 
 banks of the Danube, about five miles below Ratisbon — far 
 glittering over the plain that extends southward to the Salz- 
 burg — shines the snowy fane of Walhalla — matchless in mod- 
 ern times for the perfection of its Greek-like elegance — a con- 
 summate monument of studious taste. In its form and propor- 
 tions, it is almost an exact reproduction of the Parthenon. 
 Ascending the lofty flights of steps that lead, to its portal, yon 
 enter its walls, and behold one of the most singular and impres- 
 sive spectacles that ever greeted your eye. The floor is inlaid 
 with polished marbles of every color, and the ceiling represents 
 in blue and gold the starry skies of the night. Around the walls, 
 on brackets, are busts of every man and woman of German ori- 
 gin who at any time has been conspicuous in arts, or empire, or 
 war. On another hill, further up the same, now stands a cir- 
 cular temple, designed to commemorate, in like manner, the 
 heroes of the war of German liberation from the tyranny 
 
308 ART EDUCATION IN AMERICA. [Mtat. 33. 
 
 of Napoleon, not yet completed. Near Munich, also, rises 
 the Rumeshall, a Doric portico resembling the Propylsea at 
 Athens, which will be adorned also with busts and statues. The 
 great bronze figure of Bavaria — ^the largest ever cast — which 
 has recently been inaugurated, stands in the centre of the area 
 of this bnilding. The late admirable sculptor, Schwanthaller, 
 was almost wholly occupied in commemorative statues and em- 
 blematical groups, connected with German history, and called 
 for by the patriotic ardor of King Ludwig. The painters of 
 Munich have at the same time been kept actively employed on 
 innumerable frescoes, representative of great occurrences in 
 the past. 
 
 This is the proper kind of patronage. This is the proper 
 direction for an interest in national Art, and a love of national 
 greatness to take. It enlivens genius by the infusion of that 
 public feeling which is its best impulse and guide, and secures 
 a genuine and native character for its conceptions. This is 
 the course which we wish to see this country pursue. We de- 
 sire that the various governments of this country should furnish 
 patronage to Art, by ordering works illustrative of men and 
 deeds that constitute the abiding fame of this land. In thus per- 
 petuating the older glory of the country, they augment its present 
 greatness by the development which they afford to that now de- 
 pressed or unaided spirit of Art which struggles for growth. 
 The Capitol at Washington ought to exhibit in its rotunda, 
 statues of every great person who is identified with the Rev- 
 olution ; that strangers visiting that building may under- 
 stand what sources of proud sentiment are supplied to the 
 statesmen of America. Every state Capitol should thus pay 
 honor to the names that throw a special lustre upon the local 
 sovereignty to which they have belonged. Something in this 
 way has already been done — by none more than by Virginia. 
 Years ago, while Washington lived, she secured a life-like im- 
 personation of her great son, by sending to France for the ser- 
 vices of Houdon ; and the figure that now stands in her public 
 hall at Richmond, is a treasure of memory and of nrt, which all 
 the other treasures of the world could not buy from her. She 
 
^TAT. 33.] A NEW GALLERY OF AET. 309 
 
 has lately, also, giyen an order to Crawford for a colossal group 
 illustrative of the fame of the State — consisting of an equestrian 
 atatue of Washington, surrounded at its base by statues of six 
 other Virginians — Marshall, Henry, etc. Besides the several 
 States it is an appropriate and legitimate object of the ex- 
 penditure of cities to decorate the squares and public buildings 
 with the figures of those exalted persons, who in past times have 
 made such cities the particular theatres of their reputation. 
 Why has nothing been done in this way by New York ? There 
 once stood in the Exchange a statue of Hamilton, which was 
 destroyed by fire. Why has it not been replaced? There 
 ought to be upon the highest grounds of New York, upon the 
 summit of a pillar visible widely over the waters, a figure which 
 should announce to the European that he is about to tread 
 the land of Washington. There ought to be in the streets and 
 parks of that city statues to remind its people that they dwell 
 upon a soil once dignified — forever benefited — ^by the virtue, 
 the learning, the ability, the patriotism of Hamilton, of Jay, of 
 Schuyler, of Hobart, of Kent. If orders were given by our 
 municipal and state authorities for works that are properly re- 
 quired for the adornment of our cities, and called for by the 
 duties which the public representatives owe to the memory of the 
 "great men" that "have been among us," our artists would find 
 all the patronage that they could require, and Art in this country 
 would soar far beyond the level it has ever yet attained. 
 
 A NEW GALLERY OF ART. 
 
 The least careful observer has not failed to be struck with 
 the increased attention which has been given to Art within the 
 last few years in this country, and the heightened interest and 
 pleasure with which its productions are valued and studied. 
 The multiplication of Art-Fnions throughout the country, is 
 one of the consequences of this awakened feeling, and in turn is 
 
310 AET education m AMEHICA. IMtat. 83. 
 
 a cause of its further propagation. Sucli institutions are now 
 in successful operation in New York, Philadelphia, and Cin- 
 cinnati, and are about to be launched in Boston and in Balti- 
 more. The public galleries in several of the cities have been 
 extended and improved ; private collections have been formed ; 
 and the native artist finds himself encouraged and supported. 
 For the first time in our history, a single statue has been ex- 
 hibited throughout the States, not as heretofore, to the detri- 
 ment of the proprietor, but with large pecuniary profits.* In 
 kindred departments of taste, a corresponding advancement has 
 been witnessed. The Opera, which twenty years ago was a 
 strange and unwelcome novelty, is now a necessity of our na- 
 tional existence. Within half that period, Ecclesiastical Archi- 
 tecture — the only vital branch of that art in modern times — has 
 started up, and spread throughout the land, with a luxuriance, 
 which, if somewhat wOd and rank, attests, even in its faultiness, 
 the vigor from which it springs. 
 
 All this, as we take it, belongs to an era in our history, and 
 marks the arrival of a new period in the general life of the 
 country. Art has ever played a most important part in the 
 development of the beauty and the strength of national char- 
 acter. The sympathies which it suggests, the ambition which 
 it inspires, the tempers vfhich it educes, the faculties which it 
 stirs and quickens, seem to be indispensable for working out the 
 higher stages of intellectual and moral civilization. No empire, 
 no commonwealth has expanded into the perfectness of its ap- 
 pointed organization and powers, without its appropriate Art ; 
 no race or people has passed into the immortality of history 
 otherwise than through the accompanying influences of this 
 kindling, exalting, refining energy. When the first tumultuous 
 excitement of fighting ourselves into national existence has been 
 allayed — when the keener concernment of vindicating an indi- 
 vidual standing-place and breathing-spot upon the public plat- 
 form of the country has been satisfied — our nature requires 
 other, and higher, and calmer interests ; its deeper emotions, its 
 
 » The Greek Slave.— Ed. 
 
^TAi. S3.] A NEW GALLERY OF ART. 311 
 
 fiaer and freer sensibilities will not respond but to appeals which 
 have a relation to the pure, the permanent, the ideal. The 
 glittering forces of the intellect, indeed—a disciplined, but mer- 
 cenary troop — will yield their best and readiest service at the 
 summons of transitory and worldly passions ; but behind or 
 above the intellect, dwell other, not less potent faculties, of 
 gentler lineage and a nobler tone — conceptions, that are 
 charged with something of creative fervor — sentiments, half im- 
 mortal in their sympathy — tastes, which remember the pleasures 
 of a higher life, and seek to realize thetn in the world around. 
 If these do not sink the broad foundations, and raise the vast 
 pillars of the social temple, at least it is theirs to fashion the 
 finer tracery of the arches, and mould the flowering capitals, 
 and fret the roof into varying and endless luxuriance, and to 
 make the structure a joy to them that frequent it, and a boast 
 and beauty of the earth. These are the patrician properties of 
 humanity. Partaking of the divine in their essence, they turn 
 from the vulgar glare of earthly lights to gladden their vision 
 with those forms upon which the aureole of perfection sheds a 
 mild, rich light — the primal source of whose ray is from far be- 
 yond the solar sphere ; they withdraw from the noisy scenes of 
 time to dwell amidst those pursuits over which broods the 
 sacred stillness of eternity. 
 
 In a moral view, it appears to us that the diffusion of a taste 
 for Art is especially desirable in our own country. Our char- 
 acter and manners are wanting in repose : the contemplation of 
 the beautiful in form and color — ever suggestive of the higher 
 beauty of truth and goodness — tends always to induce a calm- 
 ness upon the spirit — to allay the fierce craving after something 
 which is not of the actual and the quotidian — to interpret ami- 
 cably between the different parts of our nature, and bring them 
 into harmony and counterpoise. We need too, in this country, 
 some remission from the intensity of mere and single intellectual 
 exertion : yet our disposition is not inclined to sports and games 
 and pastimes. We have nothing of a national and general kind 
 which may be called an amusement, excepting politics. Wearied 
 with business, with thought, with science, we rush into it for 
 
312 ART EDUCATION IN AMBEICA. [JEtat. 33. 
 
 diversion and restoration ; we throw ourselves into its periodical 
 contests witli an acharnement of interest, which, while the phi- 
 losopher must pronounce it ridiculous, and the moralist dis- 
 creditable, the economist must condemn as an utter and grievous 
 waste of force and feeling and time and means. The Fine Arts, 
 holding an intermediary position between the spiritual and the 
 sensible, are adapted to relieve the mind without lowering it, 
 and to refresh the soul without coarsening or perverting it. 
 
 In America, at this moment, there is no lack of creative 
 ability in Art ; but there is a want of stimulating encourage- 
 ment and fostering patronage. The true patronage, however, 
 under which genius expands and flourishes, is not merely pecu- 
 niary recompense for meritorious works ; it consists rather in 
 the public admiration and respect — ^in the earnest appreciation 
 of the value of the artist's pursuits, and the dignity of his aims — 
 in the manifestation of a general, and intimate, and just interest 
 in his profession. To produce this result, you must bring the 
 community acquainted with the deep pleasure that is to be de- 
 rived from Art ; you must make them know and feel its ex- 
 cellence in the splendor and power of its mightiest productions. 
 Art, like Nature, vindicates itself by a direct appeal to our 
 being, without the aid of education or argument. But unless 
 it is seen, it can never be esteemed. There are millions within 
 this America of ours, that have never experienced the sensation 
 of that delight which is produced by the master-pieces of the 
 pencil ; who are strangers to the fact that the contemplation of 
 statuary can send through the frame a thrill of enjoyment as 
 chaste — we were about to say — as Religion ; as sensuous and 
 vivid — we may better affirm — as the rapture of the grape. To 
 make the people value music, you must rehearse its enchant- 
 ments before them, in the concert and the opera : to make them 
 esteem pictures, you must show them the best and the greatest 
 that the world contains. But how is this to be done ? Re- 
 mote from the repositories in which thesB miracles of genius 
 are stored, how shall we appropriate an excellence which trea- 
 sures could not transfer to us ? 
 
 We propose the formation of a great Public Gallery, to be 
 
iETAT. 33.] A NEW GALLERT OP ART. 313 
 
 filled with good copies of all the best productions of all the 
 truly excellent painters in the past. In the way of originals, 
 we can never expect to see upon these shores, any thing but the 
 second-rate pieces of tenth -rate artists ; the study of which, by 
 misguiding the practitioner as to the nature of excellence in 
 Art, and abusing the public as to the dignity of it, will, to the 
 one and to the other, be in danger of doing much more harm 
 than good. Half the amount that would be paid for a worth- 
 less, or injurious original Teniers or Rubens, would put us in 
 possession of a work which might daily send down upon the 
 hearts and minds of thousands of Americans, if not almost all, 
 certainly a great deal of all that elevating, informing, trancing, 
 magic of beauty and sublimity which streams from the canvases 
 of Michael Angelo, Rafael, and Titian. The estimation which 
 is attached to original pictures is not quite rational ; it is 
 founded not upon the impracticability of multiplying the essen- 
 tial merits of the production, but upon the consideration that 
 they bring us into direct communication with the hand of the 
 artist whose toil is expended upon them. Quite beside their 
 higher value as conceptions of beauty, they have, therefore, an- 
 other and less intrinsic esteem as the autographs of genius. 
 We know that in many cases it has been doubtful whether cer- 
 tain pictures, even of Correggio, were originals or transcripts ; 
 and no one can look over the crowd of easels that block up the 
 approach to the great works of Rafael, at Rome, without see- 
 ing one or more that present, if not everything that is important 
 in the originals, certainly all of it that it is possible for us ever 
 to possess. Good copies, we repeat, for all valuable esthetic 
 purposes, will serve in many respects as well as the originals. 
 
 The gallery in which they are exhibited should be in the 
 Gothic style; and divided, as that architecture permits, into 
 numerous high compartments. The great church pieces may 
 thus be seen at the appropriate elevation and distance, and 
 separately from one another. Our plan would be, to employ the 
 most promising young American artists to execute the copies. 
 If this scheme were worthily carried into effect, in a great city 
 like New York or Philadelphia, it would not only improve our 
 27 
 
314 ART EDTJCATION IN AMERICA. [^tat. 34. 
 
 painters, by affording ready access to those transcendent ex- 
 amples which for centuries have fixed the despairing admira- 
 tion of the world, but would create in the community such fond- 
 ness for Art, and such enjoyment of its beauties, as would lead 
 to an extensive and abundant patronage of our own painters. 
 And this re-active influence I regard as one of the best effects 
 which would be produced. In the literature of Art, as in the 
 literature of letters, the foundation of all true taste must be laid 
 in the study of the classics. And those who have laid their 
 foundations deep in a study of Titian, Michael Angelo, Rafael, 
 and Correggio, will be the persons the most ready and the most 
 capable justly to appreciate the merits of Huntington, of Sully, 
 and of Birch. The suggestion here made in regard to such a 
 gallery, may be commended to the many active and enlightened 
 friends of improvement which all our chief cities now contain. 
 Art-Unions have excited a wide and strong interest in the 
 general subject ; the nation is now fitted for this further and 
 loftier step in the march of refinement. 
 
 PARKS AND PARKING. 
 
 One reason why the people of New York and Philadelphia, 
 of the former city more especially, have been somewhat 
 apathetic about new Parks, is, that the parks or "squares" 
 which they have heretofore maintained have either been so 
 very small, or have been kept in such a dismal condition, as to 
 damp all enthusiasm in favor of Nature within the walls. 
 What can be more sombre or disconsolate than the appear- 
 ance of the Washington Parade Ground and the Battery in 
 New York, or of the State House Yard and the Centre 
 Squares in Philadelphia 1 The coarse, neglected, matted grass 
 — the sickly trees, disposed in geometrical stiffness — ^the trist 
 formality and jejuneness of the whole ground — rather induce 
 a true lover of woods and turf to wish that the unpretending 
 
^TAT. 34.J PARKS AND PARKING, 315 
 
 monotony of brick pavements and stone walls had usurped 
 the space so mournfully burlesqued by these travesties of 
 landscape. 
 
 Ornamental gardening is, in truth, one of the Tine Arts, and 
 capable of exhibiting a richness of beautiful effects scarcely less 
 brilliant and various and impressive than architecture itself. If 
 so, it must be the province of an artist ; it must be consigned to 
 the labors of a man gifted with genius in the particular depart- 
 ment in question, and instructed in the principles and experience 
 appropriate to the pursuit. The arrangement and planting of 
 grounds really intended to be places of delight to the eye and 
 the fancy and the senses, must be allotted to a person who loves 
 the occupation with the passion of a creator, and follows it up 
 with the devotion of sensibility and pride. This is the course 
 which has recently been adopted, with the most satisfactory 
 results, in "Washington. The President has handed over a 
 large portion of the waste grounds of that "city of magnificent 
 intentions" to the competent hands of Mr. Downing, who is 
 thus enabled to illustrate, in visible display, the theoretic 
 maxims which he has long cultivated and taught in his writings. 
 He will, without doubt, render them the most elegant and 
 attractive pleasure grounds in the country. No man in this 
 country understands the subject so well. He has for years 
 ■made it a matter of studious inquiry; and has traveled in 
 Europe for the purpose of making, himself familiar with the best 
 examples of excellence there. 
 
 What we should like to see would be this. We should like 
 the city authorities of our large cities to invest Mr. Downing 
 with the entire control of all new parks and of the old parklets 
 ■ — supposing Mr. Downing to be willing to accept the post. 
 Let them obtain from him an estimate of the sum necessary 
 to put them in the highest state of tasteful decoration, and 
 then let the requisite funds be voted for the object. Unless 
 we are to have a melancholy failure with the large parks now 
 proposed in some of our cities, and which, we trust, are certain 
 to be opened in all those that are able to pay for them, the 
 matter must be put into the hands of a professional landscape 
 
316 AET EDUCATION IN AMERICA. [Mi at. Zi. 
 
 gardener. Aldermen and street commissioners, and inspectors 
 of city property, may be most worthy men, but without special 
 gifts and a long course of special education, they are no more 
 fitted to lay out a park than they are competent to build a 
 cathedral or paint a picture. 
 
 Perhaps no man who has not crossed the water, has a con- 
 ception of the enchanting effects— the truly aesthetic character 
 . — of which parks and gardens are susceptible. What strikes 
 with most surprise a voyager from the New World to the Old 
 World, as he moves about France and Italy and England, is 
 less the wonders of Art in those countries, than the perfections 
 of Nature. He supposes his own land to be the one where all 
 natural beauties and glories are in the highest condition, and 
 he is astonished to discover that that in which the Europeans 
 most excel us is a matter in which we might compete with 
 theni on equal advantage, if we only had the knowledge, the 
 taste, and the determination. Ask any one of ready and appre- 
 ciant sensibilities who has returned from the pays d'outre mer, 
 what struck and delighted him most in that varied region — 
 what he would report as the most note-worthy and admirable, 
 and proper to be imitated — and we venture to say that he will 
 make answer, not the galleries, not the buildings, but the gar- 
 dens, villas, and parks. The subject there has long been con- 
 sidered a distinct and specific Art — on a level with any other 
 of the Fine Arts. The fame of Le Notre, in Prance, of Cham- 
 bers, in England, rests upon ingenuity, invention, and judgment, 
 in the disposition and decoration of ornamental gardens; and 
 when we look at the monuments of their genius that remain, we 
 do not wonder that they were put upon a footing with great 
 builders, sculptors, and painters, in the power to deal with soil, 
 and shrubs, and trees, in a manner to impress the imagination 
 and the sentiments with every grand and every pleasing emotion. 
 Who has not felt, as he has wandered in absorbing admiration 
 through the princely avenues of St. Cloud, that he was in the 
 presence of a creation not unmeet to be compared with the 
 master-pieces of Mozart in music, or Wren and Jones in architec- 
 ture ? How exquisite, in its neat yet stately simplicity, is the 
 
:a!TAT. 34.] PARKS AND PARKING. 31^ 
 
 beauty of the gardens of the Tuileries ! Do any of the pictures 
 that adorn the walls of the Luxembourg impart deeper and 
 richer delight, or leave a more abiding impression upon the 
 memory, than the lovely grounds which surround them ? Are 
 not all the qualities of pictorial combination — composition, 
 form, perspective, relief, variety of coloring — exhibited in the 
 imperial grounds of the Schonbrunn as much as in one of Rubens's 
 magnificent canvases? In England, are not Kew Gardens, 
 and Hampton Court, and Studley Royal, and Fountains Abbey, 
 captivating exhibitions of Nature in its hallowed union with 
 refining Art ? Or, to go to the land where all things sensible 
 are nearest in impression to divine — where that which is else- 
 where homely becomes elegant, and that which in other climes 
 is lovely, flowers into the splendor of unapproachable perfection 
 — what structure in Florence, in invention, greatness, and beauty, 
 is superior to the gardens of Boboli ? Amid all the marvels of 
 almighty Rome, what leaves forever a more definite and glowing 
 picture upon the soul of the visiter than the finely-adorned 
 expanses of the villas Borghese and Pamfili Doria, or, yet more 
 wonderful than all, perhaps, the villa Albani ? He that has 
 entered the Albani grounds, on a fine morning in winter or 
 spring, with the blue sky of Rome overhead, and the purpled 
 snow-peaks Soracte and Monte Gennais in the distance, has 
 viewed a scene which will be the last to be erased from the 
 tablet, even in the approach of dissolution. No old patrician, 
 in the days of Rome's most ostentatious pride — not Lucullus, 
 in the glory of rank, and power, and wealth, and military fame 
 — ever surrounded himself with a scene more palace-like and 
 peerless. And what does it all consist in ? Simply in walks, 
 and shrubbery, and flowers, and trees, arranged in appropriate 
 forms, and aided by vases and statues, copied, for the most part, 
 from accessible models. What is there here that we might not 
 as easily have ? Nothing is wanting for the reproduction of 
 such beauty among us but money, taste, and science — all of 
 which we may command. England has, in its ever-moist atmo- 
 sphere, an aid in the production of that "gay, glad green" 
 which fascinated Chaucer's eye, which our parching summers 
 7* 
 
318 ART EDUCATION IN AMERICA. [^tat. 34, 
 
 forbid ns to emulate ; and we can never hope to rival her mossy 
 turf, starred with daisies. Italy may also exult in the profusion 
 of her perennial violets, growing spontaneously and widely as 
 the grass. But these are not important. We have every 
 advantage of air and soil which the French planters possessed ; 
 and why should not our Parks be as beautiful as theirs ? 
 
NATUEE. 
 
 THE ENJOYMENT OP NATURE. 
 
 [This literary scrap was •written by Mr. Wallace, after returning from a 
 summer visit to the Lakes and Niagara, along the beautiful scenery of the 
 Mohawk and the Hudson. Calling, on his way home, in New York, to visit a 
 friend there, then engaged in editing a literary paper, and finding him confined 
 to his chamber by a sudden indisposition which threatened to arrest the next 
 day's issue of his sheet, Mr. Wallace sat down at a table before him, and while 
 the printer's boy was waiting for " copy," scratched off the following piece, 
 which was printed from the first hasty and untouched draftj and filled up, on 
 the next morning, (the 29th of July, 1848,) the editorial chasm. It called 
 forth a communication from a respected clergyman of Philadelphia, who in a 
 letter signed Clerictjs, endeavored to show that its doctrines were very dan- 
 gerous. The letter was sent to Mr. Wallace, who returned by the next mail his 
 reply, the "Dramatic Bream;'' which, with the communication of Clericus, is 
 appended to the original article. — Ed.] 
 
 Vaeioits and admirable as are the means of instruction now 
 abounding in tills country, we cannot help thinking that there 
 is a department of human faculties, the development and disci- 
 pline of which are not sufficiently provided for in our ordinary 
 systems of education^ If the intellectual powers have been 
 exercised and informed, and the principles rendered quick and 
 strong, we commonly consider that the furthest duties of the 
 teacher have been discharged: we forget how largely refined 
 tastes may be made to contribute to the happiness of life, and 
 how important a part they may play in baffiing the low tempta- 
 tions that beset our career, and keeping us true to virtue and 
 to honor. The sentiment of the Beautiful is the most nearly 
 spiritual of all our natural sympathies ; and so fine, so exquisite, 
 BO powerful a sensibility has not been implanted in our character 
 
 (319) 
 
320 NiTTJIlB. [^TAT. 30. 
 
 but for lofty and interesting purposes. This delicate emotion 
 is susceptible of almost indefinite advancement by appropriate 
 indulgence and culture ; and it seems to us to be a duty of men 
 to expand and strengthen, as much as by ordinary effort may 
 be done, this ethereal and half-divine capacity of our natures. 
 The full appreciation of Beauty as displayed in the Fine Arts, 
 presupposes, perhaps to some extent, an adaptation of the 
 senses or the mind ; it demands, also, a decided exercise of the 
 reflective powers ; and, moreover, to most persons this means 
 of gratification is not accessible. There is another class of 
 iEsthetics, as expanded in its range as creation itself, simple and 
 direct in its action, and capable of shedding into the spirit the 
 fullness of pure and essential joy : — we mean that which belongs 
 to the beauties of Nature. The amount of substantial and high 
 delight that is capable of being derived from this source, is not 
 to be believed by one who has not, by systematic practice, 
 through years of studious observation, proved all the deep 
 power of exalting pleasure that dwells in a fervent communion 
 with the mysteries of the visible word. For ourself, an enthusiast 
 lover of the scenes of Nature, we must avow that we ask for no 
 more real consolation amid annoyance and discomfort — we cherish 
 no more elevated hopes — than are connected with the vivid 
 magnificence of the rising sun, and the multitudinous splendors 
 of his declining orb — the snowy elegance of the- wreathed clouds 
 at mid-day — the fairy play of light and shade in a still forest in 
 summer — the gorgeous hangings of the hills in autumn- — and all 
 the varied and exhanstless pomp and glories of land and sea and 
 air. Dreamy as they may seem, these things are to us vital and 
 earnest realities ; and dark will that day be — with the gloom of 
 a cloud that gathers never to be dispersed — in which these 
 visions shall no longer touch our spirits as with the energies of a 
 fresh creation — in which we can no longer draw from them, as 
 from the sources of a divine current, the restoring forces of life 
 and peace and strength. 
 
 In this traveling season of the American world, when thou- 
 sands are passing along the landscape gallery of the Hudson; — 
 when tens of thousands are gathered beside the "beached margents 
 
^TAT. SO.] THE ENJOYMENT OP NATURE. 32I 
 
 of the sea," which, howerer, they will never look at except from 
 under a bathing-cap — it is lamentable to think how many exqui- 
 site views will be seen, and not seen from want of knowing and 
 having felt the genuine pleasures that are to be derived from 
 those scenes in which the infinite diversities of form and color 
 contribute to make up the richest, softest symphonies of beauty. 
 Could we, amidst the snow-storm of books that is ceaselessly 
 pouring down upon us, bring ourselves to desiderate the addi- 
 tion of a single fiake, it would be our wish to see a classified 
 and critical catalogue of the choice master-pieces in scenery- 
 painting which Nature has accumulated in the museum of this 
 great continent. Delightful to the corporeal sense as are these 
 spectacles of sublimity, their changing shapes are the mystic 
 symbols of a deeper significance, which it should be the duty 
 of the prophet-sons of genius to combine and interpret. They 
 are like magic mirrors, which catch the images of unutterable, 
 and almost unapprehended sentiments and thoughts and feelings 
 that float throughout our being, and reflect them in palpable 
 representation to the mortal eye. Chaste, serene — glowing 
 without turbulence, and intense without passion — the frescoes 
 of the sky, the mountains, and the waters, wake and expand 
 within our being a subtler, purer, vaster consciousness than that 
 of our common being. They startle our hearts as with the flash 
 of memory ; they speak to us of something, instantly understood, 
 though never to be explained. On the rays that flash to us from 
 them, our existence, in a moment, with the swiftness of a trance, 
 rushes back into that Eternity from which we proceeded and to 
 which we tend : time and locality are forgotten, and we plunge 
 with a breathless rapture into the ocean of the Infinite, and bathe 
 in its waters of light. This apprehension of a distinct life within 
 our being, of another world surrounding our universe; this 
 sense of something which is not material, and is not intellectual, 
 yet is as real as the one and as delicate as the other ; this recog- 
 nition of relations which escape the scrutiny of reason, are of 
 inestimable service in giving us conviction of that mighty truth 
 which Religion stands to testify to the Ages as they pass by to 
 Futurity — that, incarnated within the physical, is the deathless 
 
322 NATURE. [iSTAT. 30. 
 
 divinity of a spiritual essence, which, in the dissolution of the 
 frame which enshrines it, will expand to the just proportions 
 of its native majesty. 
 
 It has always seemed to us to be in some sort a duty of man- 
 kind to avail themselves fully of all those resources of simple 
 pleasure which life brings before them. To taste some enjoy- 
 ment every day — ^to realize that inward repose which arises 
 from the complete satisfaction of the cravings of our nature — is 
 of salutary moral consequence. It rights the disordered elements 
 of character, and brings our being back to its proper balance. 
 The constant goading of anxiety and care produces a certain 
 recklessness in the temper; it generates an uneasy discontent 
 which is alien from the calm and gentle tone of goodness. 
 The tension of the over-tasked faculties is remitted, and the 
 genial and kindly sentiments come forth to soften the severities 
 of feeling, when the seals of the spirit are melted by the glow 
 of an innocent happiness. Of such refreshing and pure felicity, 
 none can be found more potent and more unreprovable than 
 that which flows in upon the heart, like a tide of rapture, from 
 the spectacles of sublimity and loveliness that are daily spread 
 along the heavens, and hourly may be seen by him that seeks 
 them by shore and hill and river. Nothing can give more 
 abundantly to our hearts that peace, that hopeful patience, which 
 withdraws our souls from a thousands shafts of ill and bring us 
 under the fullest power of good. A taste, therefore, for the fair 
 grandeur of the scenes of Nature, ought, we think, to be studi- 
 ously cultivated, and every occasion of experiencing the joy 
 that is to be inhaled from them ought to be improved by those 
 who would develope all the faculties of their life, or taste the 
 highest comfort that is appointed for their solace upon earth. 
 
 LETTER OF CLERICUS. 
 Messre. Editora. 
 
 Gentlemen: — I have been a subscriber to your Journal from its commence- 
 ment, and have ever found it an agreeable companion for a leisure hoar. But 
 permit me to say that some expressions, in fact the whole tenor of the leading 
 article, in your last number, entitled, "The Enjoyment of Nature," consider- 
 ably shocked my orthodoxy, and my sense of what is due to Nature's God. 
 
 I conceive that you have violated the precept, "Render unto Csesar the 
 
^TAT. 30.] THE ENJOYMENT OF NATURE. 323 
 
 things that be Csesar'a, and nnto God the things that be God's," by exalting 
 Nature above "all that is called God, and -worshiped." This was not done 
 willfully and knowingly. Tou fell into error from having run way with your 
 subject. But there it is, error still; and coming from an Editorial chair so 
 much respected as yours, its poison may be conveyed to many minds. The 
 evil spoken of, is none other than downright Pantheism. This heresy is 
 defined to be a philosophical species of Atheism, in which the universe, or 
 Nature, is considered as the Supreme God. It now prevails to a great extent 
 in Germany. It is held by some erratic minds in this countryj and it grieves 
 me to see that your paper has come forward (unconsciously it is true) to its 
 support. 
 
 But to the proof. Ton say that the "beauties of Nature are capable of shed- 
 ding into the Spirit, the fulness of pure and essential joy." Why, gentlemen, 
 the fullness of pure and essential joy is all that the Eternal God himself can 
 convey to the soul — if Nature can do it, then. Nature is God, and we should 
 apply to her (since she is so " evidently set before us") in preference to Him 
 who made us. 
 
 Tou further remark. "For ourself . ... we must avow that we ask for no 
 more real consolations amid annoyance and discomfort. We elierisli no ■more 
 elevated hopes, than the vivid magificenoe of the rising sun," <fcc. 
 
 The consolations of the Gospel, and its hopes of glory, honor and immor- 
 tality, in the mind of the Editorial chair of the Journal must yield in impor- 
 tance and value, to ''the mysteries of the visible World!" 
 
 Tou attribute to Nature "the sources of a Divine current and the restoring 
 forces of life and peace and strength." 
 
 After speaking of the wakening and expanding power of the frescoes of the 
 sky, the mountains and the waters, how they startle your heart with the flash 
 of memory, you conclude with the words, "time and locality are forgotten, 
 and we plunge into the Ocean of the Inftnitej and bathe in the waters of life." 
 This ocean and these waters are not God, but Nature ! 
 
 Tou conclude with the words, "Nothing can give more abundantly to our 
 hearts, that peace, that hopeful patience, which withdraws our souls from a 
 thousand shafts of ill, and bring ua under the fullest power of good," than 
 what? Surely a journal like yours will say, than the Beligion of the Cross, 
 than commnnion with Him who is the fountain of all peace and comfort, and 
 the treasury of eternal bliss. No. There is another creed, — I believe in 
 Nature as the source of happiness. 
 
 Gentlemen, I speak plainly, but sincerely and respectfully. I could wish 
 that the article complained of had never appeared from your pen; or that 
 in writing it, you had suffered your better judgment to control your imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 True, it is not to be expected, that your paper shall accommodate itself to 
 all the tastes of religious people; sermonizing is not your legitimate business 
 or province. But may it not be justly required that you do not preach up 
 Nature as every thing, leaving the carnal mind to regard God and grace as 
 nothing f May it not be asked, that you render unto Nature only the things 
 
324 NATURE. [iETAT. Sa. 
 
 which are Nature's— and let the Deity remain as the object whicli can alone 
 purify and satisfy the soul? 
 
 I admire the beauties of Nature as mucb as any one. They are to me a 
 source of great pleasure. But I never can forget that these beauties are but a 
 faint expression of the glory and perfection of Jehovahj and that the satisfac- 
 tion to be derived from them sinks into insignificance before the pleasures 
 which are at His right hand. 
 
 Gentlemen, separated from the excitement and the bustling folly of this 
 world, I am the ministering priest of a country parish. My aspirations are 
 to please God, and to do my duty in the limited sphere of life in which I am 
 placed. Imeddle not in other men's matters, and seek not to engage in contro- 
 versy abroad and bring myself into notice. I am not a restless "seeker out" 
 of heresy, nor prone to the indulgence of a captious spirit. But I could not 
 resist the impulse which moved me, to bear testimony against the romantic 
 and dangerous views of Nature contained in your last paper. Clbricus, 
 
 ADKAMATIC DREAM. 
 
 "which was not all a dream." — Btron. 
 
 Scene: — The Editor^ private study. One of the editors is discovered sitting in a/auteuH 
 near a table. Time, afternoon, dose upon the evening. The postman enters arid deposUes 
 sundry letters, one postrmarlced, "Philadelphia, Aug. 2." TJie editor runs his eye over 
 their contents, dwelling some time upon the last, and then lapses into profound meditation. 
 At length he begins to nod, and simuUaneously soTue remarkable changes take place in the 
 articles in the room. One of the letters stands upright on the floor, jerks up its shoulders, 
 stretches out its legs, and assumes the eidolon of a gentleman dothed in black, with a white 
 cravat rather carelessly tied. Sis countenance is thoughtful, penetrating, and benignant. 
 An ingenuous love of truth, and a disposition fearlessly to vindicate it, mingled with a 
 mild and engaging gentleness, are marked in his features. 
 
 The man-letter. — Good morrow, Mr. Editor. My profession and purpose 
 will serve as an excuse for my intrusion. My name is Clebicus. 
 
 Editor. — {^Rising and bowing respectfully, and then motioning with his hand the 
 stranger to he seated.) — The visits of the Order of Truth and Peace can never be 
 intrusions, and can never require excuse from mortals. They are ever most 
 welcome to this office. Whether the mission be to commend or to reprove, we 
 shall ever receive the message with earnest deferenoe. 
 GtERicus. — I am pleased to find so candid a disposition. 
 Editor. — I speak sincerely. The responsibilities of the press are scarcely 
 less than those of the pulpit. We are humbler and ruder workmen in the 
 cause of promoting the moral improvement of mankind. But we enjoy not 
 the felicity of pursuing exalted ends by consecrated means. We have no other 
 promise of an accompanying guidance than such as is implied in the discharge 
 of duty. That we should sometimes err where we have meant the best, is a 
 thing often to be looked for, but always to be regretted. 
 
 Clebicus. — I have been a subscriber to your journal from its commence- 
 ment, and have ever found it an agreeable companion for a leisure hour. 
 (Editor bows.) But permit me to say that some expressions, in fact the whole 
 tenor of the leading article in a recent number^ entitled "The Enjoyment of 
 
^TAT. 30.] THE ENJOYMENT OF NATURE. 325 
 
 Nature,*' considerably stocked my orthodoxy and my sense of what is due to 
 Nature's Grod. Separated from the excitement and the bustling folly of this 
 world, I am the ministering priest of a country parish. My aspirations are 
 to please God, and to do my duty in the limited sphere of life in which I am 
 placed. I meddle not in other men's matters, and seek not to engage in con- 
 troversy abroad and bring myself into notice. I am not a restless "seeker 
 out" of heresy, nor prone to the indulgence of a captious spirit. But I could 
 not resist the impulse which moved me to bear testimony against the Roman- 
 tic and dangerous views of Nature contained in your paper of the 29th of July. 
 ' Editor. — {Profoundly moved.) — I should be grieved to think that these 
 impressions on your part were well founded, but I should be far more deeply 
 grieved to feel myself capable of declining an investigation in order to con- 
 ceal a fault, or of refusing to acknowledge it when I had once become con- 
 vinced of it. I pray you proceed. But let us first have before us the corpus 
 delicti. — [The editor rises and taJces from a pigeon-hole The Journal for July 2^, 
 Opening it, he reads aloud the article entitled "The Enjoyment of Nature.") — 
 Faults literary — manifold and mountainous do I see; faults of sense and faults 
 of style: but of moral or religious error, none can I discern. It is overdone 
 undoubtedly; it is the production of a pen heated by the rapidity of its own 
 motion. But much should be pardoned to the necessities of a journalist whose 
 unlucky destiny it is often to be compelled to fabricate something out of 
 nothing — to make a good leader out of no subject at all. 
 
 Clericus. — I conceive that you have violated the precept, "Render unto 
 Cajsar the things that be Caesar's, and unto God the things that be God's," 
 by exalting Nature above "all that is called God, and worshiped." This was 
 not done willfully and knowingly; you fell into error from having run away 
 with your subject. But there is error still, and coming from an editorial 
 chair so much respected as yours, its poison may be conveyed to many minds. 
 The evil spoken of is none other than downright Pantheism. This heresy is 
 defined to be a philosophical species of Atheism, in which the Universe or 
 Nature is considered as the Supreme God. It now prevails to a great extent 
 in Germany. It is held by some erratic minds in this country, and it grieves 
 me to see that your paper has come forward (unconsciously it is true) to its 
 support. 
 
 Editor. — {Breathing more freely.) — I am relieved. No man in writing, 
 unless copiously charged with the genius of wrong-headedness, can very 
 decidedly have inculcated a doctrine which has no existence in his own mind. 
 I hold the dogma — I will not say in aversion — but in utter contempt — as a 
 thing fit to be scorned by the sense of children, and incapable of being em- 
 bracod but by one whose character is wretchedly defective in some of the 
 most indispensable elements of a complete man. In fact, you have fallen into 
 the greatest misconception of my views that^it was possible to have made. 
 You are conversing not with a Pantheist, a materialist, but with an intense 
 spiritualist — one whose apprehension of a soul within himself, and of a "soul 
 of our souls, and safeguard of the world," around him and beyond him is so 
 intimate and perpetual, that he sees in the images of the sensible universe 
 
 28 
 
326 NATURE. [^TAT. 30. 
 
 before him, only types and shadows and hieroglyphics of that infinite Exist- 
 ence, which, as it was before all things, and is above all things, so, if we err 
 not in using an Apostle's words, is in all things; tokens of one who never 
 left himself without witness, sent in infinite mercy and goodness, by the invisi- 
 ble Grod, to speak to our spirits of Him whose name is "Our Father." To me, 
 the splendors overpowering of Nature preach in tones like thunderj and the 
 echo of their sound within my soul is — God. Pantheism is an error of the 
 understanding only; depend upon it, it never flowed from the imagination or 
 the heart. The barren intelligence seeking to explain to itself the cold and 
 dry phenomena of physical apprehension which alone it can recognize, and 
 wholly incapable of the infinite, mysterious fervors which they kindle up 
 within the spirit, may rest in such a system; but no man of quick sensibility 
 ■ — no man whose nature has bowed down before that inefifable majesty of the 
 Unseen which surrounds and clothes the palpable — has ever thought of a 
 scheme so nugatory. Haunted, enveloped by the everlasting consciousness of 
 Deity — I may not have expressed particularly that which I took for granted 
 in my readers as in myself. So far from questioning whether there be any 
 God, the only doubt with me, would be whether there be anything else than 
 God. I have reverenced Nature for that which it suggests, and that which, 
 in my imperfect judgment, it was divinely framed to suggest. If, in this 
 paper, I have ever taught my reader to rest in it — if I have extolled it for 
 what it is, and not for what it is linked with in the associations of the reflec- 
 tive mind — if I have spoken of it as that light which lighteneth every man 
 that cometh into the world, and not merely as something placed to bear wit- 
 ness of that light — point out the fault and I will bare my back. 
 
 Clericus. — Well, to the proof. You say that the "beauties of Nature are 
 capable of shedding into the spirit the fullness of pure and essential joy,'' The 
 fullness of pure and essential ^oy is all that the Eternal God himself can convey to 
 the soul — if Nature can do it, then Nature is God, and we should apply to her 
 (since she is so "evidently set before us,") in preference to Him who made us. 
 
 Editor. — By '*the fullness of pure and essential joy," I mean, undoubtedly, 
 the very fruition of the presence of God. And I have said, not that the beau- 
 ties of Nature could shed this delight, (for you have quoted me incorrectly) 
 but that "the class of aisthetics which belongs to the beauties of Nature" could 
 accomplish this result. I meant that the contemplation of those sublimities 
 of beauty which the imagination creates as it gazes upon the natural world, 
 bring the mind into communion with that Creator whose power and love are 
 mirrored so livingly in the scene that we look upon. Wordsworth, I think, ia 
 regarded as a Christian man, free from "heresy and false doctrine." 
 
 Clericus. — He is so avouched by bishops and other clergy. 
 
 Editor. — {Rising and taking the "ExcurBion" from the shelf.) — Then let me refer 
 to one of many kindred passages in his most approved and excellent productions. 
 
 {Reads.) 
 
 *' Such was the Boy — but for the growing youth, 
 AVhat soul was his, when, from the naked top 
 Of some bold headland, he beheM the sun 
 Rise up, and bathe the world in lightl He look'd — 
 
iETAT. 30.] THE ENJOYMENT OF NATURE. 327 
 
 Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
 
 And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay 
 
 In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touch'd, 
 
 And in their silent faces did he read 
 
 Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 
 
 Nor any voice of joy : his spirit drank, 
 
 The spectacle: sensation, soul and form 
 
 All melted into him: they swallow'd up 
 
 His animal being: in them did he live 
 
 And by them did he live; they were his life. 
 
 In Gueb access of mind, in such high hour 
 
 Of visitation from the living God, 
 
 Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. 
 
 No thanks he breathed, he proffer'd no request; 
 
 Rapt into still communion that transcends 
 
 The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
 
 His mind was a thanktigiving to the Power 
 
 That made him : it was blessedness and love." 
 
 Of these gorgeous lines, it is as impossible to deny the truth as to doubt the 
 intensity and rectitude of the religious sensibility in which they had their 
 origin. 
 
 Clericus. — Tou further remark, "For ourself, we must avow that we ask 
 for no more real consolations amid annoyance and discomfort — we cherish no 
 more elevated hopes, than the vivid magnificence of the rising sun," etc. The 
 consolations of the Gospel, and its hopes of glory, honor and immortality, in 
 the mind of the editorial chair of this Journal, must yield in importance and 
 value to " the mysteries of the visible world." 
 
 Editor. — Again you have grievously misquoted me, and most completely 
 mistaken me. I wrote "than are connected with the vivid magnificence," etc, 
 I meant that the musing spirit connects intensely with these great manifesta- 
 tions of glory in the material world, the most real consolations and the most 
 elevated hopes which the mind cherishes; which are none other than those so 
 fully explained iu the Gospel of Christ. 
 
 Clericus. — You attribute to Nature "the sources of a divine current, and 
 the restoring forces of life and peace and strength." 
 
 Editor, — Another miscitation. I said that I draw from "these visions," 
 which the spirit sees as it meditates upon the ethereal splendors of the sun- 
 rise and sunset, "cm from the sources of a divine current, the restoring forces 
 of life and peace and strength.'' 
 
 Clericus, — After speaking of the wakening and expanding power of the 
 frescoes of the sky, the mountains and the waters, how they startle your heart 
 with the flash of memory, you conclude with the words, "time and locality 
 are forgotten, and we plunge into the ocean of the Infinite^ and bathe in the 
 waters of life." This ocean and these waters are not God but Nature ! 
 
 Editor. — Certainly. I was referring to natural feelings : the ocean of the 
 infinite in space, and the waters of sunlight that surround the world. I wrote, 
 also, not "the waters of life," but "its waters of light." Tou seem to be under 
 the influence of the spirit of misquotation. O- 
 
328 NATUEE. [-^TAT. 30. 
 
 Clericus.— Tou conclude Tvitli the words, "N'otMng can give more abundantly 
 to our hearts that jieace, that Aojae/it^ ;?a(tcnce, which withdraw our souls from a 
 thousand shafts of ill, and hring ua under the fulleet power of good/' than 
 what? Surely a journal like yours will say, than the Religion of the Cross, 
 than communion with Him who is the fountain of all peace and comfort, and 
 the treasury of blisff. 
 
 Editor.— By " the fullest power of good," I obviously mean that very reli- 
 gion and communion which you justly name as the source of bliss; and I 
 intended to convey the idea that Nature inspired a peace and patience in the 
 natural man eminently favorable to the reception of a grace from above. Let 
 me again bring Wordsworth to the rescue : — 
 
 . "Well-pleased to recognize 
 
 In Nature and the language of my sense, 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart and soul, 
 Of all my moral being/' 
 Perhaps in saying that "nothijig" could so much produce that peace which 
 inclines to piety, as Nature, I was guilty of an extravagance, as Wordsworth 
 was when he sang that Nature was the soul of "all" his moral being. But 
 this is a fault for the grammatical or rhetorical critic, not the divine, to cen- 
 sure. And now, since the case against the defendant is closed, I would beg 
 you, as an act of simple justice, to read this one sentence from the much 
 abused article, and I shall be willing to go to the jury. 
 
 Clericus. — [Reads frovi a paper handed to kirn hy Editor:) — "This appre- 
 hension of a distinct life within our being, of another world surrounding our 
 universe: this sense of something which is not material, and is not intellectual, 
 yet is as real as the one and as delicate as the other; this recognition of rela- 
 tions which escape the scrutiny of reason; are of inestimable service in giving us 
 assurance of that mighty Truth which Religion stands to testify to the ages as 
 they pass by to Futurity, that, incarnated within the physical, is the deathless 
 divinity of a spiritual essence, which, in the dissolution of the frame which 
 enshrines it, will expand to the just proportions of its native majesty." 
 
 Editor. — Is that the language of a Pantheist — of a "Philosophical Atheist?*' 
 Could I have spoken more plainly without fairly inditing a sermon? 
 
 Clericds. — I am much more gratified to find myself mistaken as to your 
 creed than I should have been to discover that my views were correct. 
 
 Editor. — I have not a doubt of it. I have entire confidence in the candor 
 of your purposes, and I am sure that you have the same in mine. Let me 
 recall to your attention the different positions in which you and I are placed. 
 Had I spoken from the pulpit as I have written in this newspaper, I had justly 
 been chargeable with fault, because I would have been setting mere human 
 fantasies in the place of the Gospel. In preparing a paragraph for the Journal, 
 I consider that I am operating wholly apart from the system of the church — 
 
 a friend beyond the citadel — an ally without the camp. I trust that ■ 
 
 {The door opens: at the same moment the chair of Clericus hecomes vacant. The Editor 
 
 rises to grasp his hand, and finds hivisdf veliemenUy shaking tfie hand of the boy who has 
 
 hroughi in some proof) 
 
^TAT. 30.] TOWN AND COUNTET. 329 
 
 TOWN AND COUNTRY. 
 
 Bacon says that a little knowledge inclines men's minds to 
 atheism, but a thorough progress therein brings them back to 
 religion. If this is the law of the progress of an individual 
 mind, very similar is the effect of the development of material 
 arts and practical inventions upon the habits, characteristics, 
 and usages of society. When the resources of science begin to 
 act upon the condition of communities, the first effect seems to 
 be to make life more artificial ; to surround us with a host of 
 conveniences and powers which wean us from all capacity to 
 endure the meagerness of common and natural existence ; and 
 to substitute a factitious, a contrived condition of being for the 
 plain and unforced state of primitive customs. The interest 
 and value of earlier modes of life seem to fade, and civilization 
 seems to be advancing into a progressive disavowal of all that 
 once gave it strength and health ; and we grow alarmed lest it 
 should become wholly divorced from all human and spontaneous 
 sympathies. These apprehensions, however, belong only to the 
 early and undetermined stages of improvement. The perfections 
 of Art always throw us back upon Nature ; and the final de- 
 velopment of any civil progress that is really the result of ad- 
 vanced reason and science, works out a recurrence to those same 
 qualities and customs and tastes that marked the purer infancy 
 of society. The first result of railways, and of the other 
 mechanical devices by which industrial and commercial activity 
 were so greatly increased, was to bring everybody to the city, 
 and to cause a prodigious enlargement of those hives of mankind, 
 into which all the better classes of the nation seem to be crowd- 
 ing. But life is like a skillful bell-ringer, who knows how to 
 bring the peal home again, just when it seems to have lost all 
 recovery. The excess of the evil involved its own remedy. 
 Those subtle and stimulating interests of metropolitan refine- 
 ment, which once seemed so engrossing and endless, are found, 
 npon experience, to be limited in extent and easily exhaustible. 
 28* 
 
330 NATTJEE. [-Etat. 30. 
 
 The prodigious expansion of the city defeats the very pnrposea 
 of its original formation. Society becomes dissolved in the im- 
 mensity of the crowd, and company breaks down under the in- 
 ordinate accumulation of its constituent parts. The overgrown 
 capital becomes of all wildernesses the dreariest. Men's wor- 
 ried and outworn spirits turn towards a country life, with a force 
 and enthusiasm before unfelt. The appliances of Art and busi- 
 ness come in aid of this revival of natural tastes. Railways 
 and steamers afford facilities and advantages for a country life 
 that in former years were unknown. The Hudson Highlands 
 are, by virtue of the River Railroad, for all practicable purposes 
 of prompt, frequent, and agreeable communication, nearer to 
 New York at this time, than places five miles from the city 
 were thirty years ago. The habit of residing in the country 
 during at least the greater part of the year, is becoming usual 
 among more prosperous citizens. Already upon the banks of 
 this glorious stream, moving in silent and majestic course — for 
 miles above the " Storm King," till it blends its waters with the 
 Atlantic near Staten Island and the Narrows, there have gathered 
 merchants retired from active business — lawyers withdrawn from 
 the ofSce and the bar — politicians weary of the strife of party — 
 oflficers of the army and navy resting on their laurels ; all seek- 
 ing repose after their several struggles in the "Battle of Life,'' 
 and settling quietly down among thriving, contented, and liberal- 
 hearted farmers. To these circles will now be added many who 
 are yet engaged in the whirl and responsibilities which attend 
 active citizens, whose families are frequently engaged in an 
 equally arduous search after pleasure ; all ready to exchange for 
 a while the wearisome panorama of the metropolis for the 
 tranquil and soothing loveliness which dwells among these hills. 
 This trait which, while marking especially the society of New 
 York, is beginning to characterize hardly less our other chief 
 cities, we esteem as the most salutary advancement in the high- 
 est refinement and luxury of social life that has occurred in our 
 time. 
 
 For our own part, we look upon it as little less than wicked 
 for any man to live in the town in summer who is at liberty to 
 
.Stat. 30.] TO^¥N AND COUNTRY. 331 
 
 live in the fields. In the months of July, and August, and 
 September, we never pass from the city to the country, without 
 feeling that we change the ignoble bondage of a work -house 
 for the glorious atmosphere of a sanctuary, where all is free and 
 fresh, and elevating. The metropolis at this season seems not 
 only half-extinct itself, but morally infectious to all who are 
 within it. Its toils weary one, not into wholesome fatigue, but 
 into desponding exhaustion ; its pleasures excite without inter- 
 esting, and stimulate only to waste. But beneath the trees, 
 along the brooks, among the sparkling grass, are there not only 
 enjoyment to all the living sensibilities that we bring with us, 
 but endless supplies of new, and deeper, and more thrilling ex- 
 istence. Something of the purity of the first paradise lingers 
 still in a region where its visible splendors have not wholly 
 faded ; and walking there, man's nature insensibly lapses back 
 into thoughts, and feelings, and fancies, kindred to the holiness 
 of his unfallen humanity. Our imaginations become cleansed ; 
 OUT musings assume a more spiritual consciousness ; and our pas- 
 sions are touched into gentler concord with the softness and 
 sweetness of all that surrounds us. The city and country seem to 
 us to share the winter and the summer solstices between them, as 
 the twin star-brothers of the ocean divide the day and night ; 
 the one sinking into dissolution as the other glows into life. 
 In winter, the pulses of life quicken in the social frame of the 
 capital ; it becomes braced with strength, and health, and hope ; 
 and every energy of being grows intense within it. The country 
 at that period is like the breathless form of a young maiden, 
 whose beauty, and pleasure, and every thing but sanctity, have 
 fled. When the empire of the sun descends upon the earth 
 the destiny of these two existences is exchanged. The city 
 loses all its vital force and flush, and gradually withers and 
 wastes into the unsightliness of a skeleton. Its palaces become 
 stately kennels, and its magnificent avenues are a mere congre- 
 gation of alleys. The country, in all its branchings, seems 
 meanwhile to have gained all that life-sap which has flowed 
 away from the other. Its excess of inward vigor blossoms forth 
 in an endless diversity of growing and expanding riches, and 
 all seems a boundless aud infinite Eden. 
 
THE DRAMA. 
 
 THE REGULAR DRAMA. 
 
 " Op all ■im-material sensualities that I am acquainted with," 
 says Lord Byron, in one of his journals, "the most delightful 
 is good acting. " We share a portion of the noble poet's en- 
 thusiasm for that which was the proudest boast of Greece in the 
 days of her most splendid greatness ; which is identified with 
 the ablest, most brilliant, and most moral literature of all na- 
 tions ; and which, from the variety of the resources which it 
 combines, and the intensity of the effect which it produces, de- 
 serves to be regarded as the most complez and powerful of the 
 Fine Arts. Beyond every other display, it interprets between 
 the lower and the higher parts of our nature, and brings them 
 to the focus of a common consciousness. It presents us with 
 intellectual forms, richly steeped in the affections and passions, 
 and glowing with the fragrant breath of an earnest life ; it ele- 
 vates all the lower range of the emotions, and charges them 
 with the keen sensibility of thought and conscience. Nothing 
 fuses all the different elements oi the character into one vivid 
 blaze of sympathy, like viewing a great action, or a mighty 
 scene in real existence ; and next to it in power is the repre- 
 sentation of such things upon the stage. It does one's being 
 good occasionally to have the feelings — especially the nobler 
 sort of them — sent, in a surge, over the mind, drenching it with 
 their freshening energy. It breaks the wearying continuity of 
 impression ; it dissipates the tedium quotidianarum reruni ; it 
 gives one's life a new start. " Not gayety only — not merely 
 the amusement of an idle hour,'' says Mrs. Jamieson, "have we 
 owed to the great dramatic artist ; but that blessed relief froni 
 
 (333) 
 
334 THE DRAMA. [^tat. 29. 
 
 the pressure of this working-day world ; that general warming 
 up of the spirit, under the sympathetic influences of beauty, 
 passion, power, poetry, melody, which melts together a multi- 
 tude of minds in one delicious and kindred feeling." How 
 large an extent, too, of the brightest part of English literature 
 is effectively extinguished, for the public, by the closing of the 
 theatre 1 How splendid and peculiar a display of British ge- 
 nius, wit, and Art is lost to him who has never seen in action 
 the imaginative and impassioned drama of the age of Elizabeth, 
 the plays, so affluent in courtly elegance and worldly shrewd- 
 ness, of Charles the Second's days, or the more moral and truth- 
 ful, and yet scarcely less pointed scenes of a later school of 
 comedy 1 These productions may indeed be read, bat no one has 
 the inclination to read them ; and if he had, the sparkle of the 
 living scene is lost, and half the skill of the author is invisible 
 to one who ponders a dialogue contrived to be acted and not to 
 be read. In an abstract view, certainly, objections of weight may 
 be urged against the Stage ; and we are among the last to despise 
 or to oppose the feelings and principles in which these objections 
 have their origin. But looking at it practically, and that is the 
 point of view in which it ought to be regarded, it has always 
 seemed to us that the cause of the drama was connected with 
 the promotion of morals, the purity of taste, a high and sound 
 tone of public feeling, and that the moralist ought to be the 
 most active encourager of its old-fashioned forms. The love 
 of histrionic spectacles, which, through the senses, appeal to 
 the imagination and the heart, is inextinguishable in our na- 
 ture. If you will not supply the community with the higher 
 kind of entertainments, they will establish the lowest grades for 
 themselves. There is a class in every community, who, having 
 no enforced employment, must find occupation in amusements. 
 Will you lower the standard of social refinement, by sending 
 these persons to the circus and the halls of negro minstrelsy ? 
 ■ — for there they will go if you close the doors of the theatre. 
 There is a large portion of society who require excitement as a 
 necessity of existence ; to whom a stronger degree of sensation 
 than ordinary life affords, is a vehement and indispensable re- 
 
iETAT. 29.] THE REGULAR DRAMA, 335 
 
 quirement of their natures. Will you compel them to resort to 
 physical stimulants, or debasing exhibitions, or yicious hilari- 
 ties, by withholding the display of those intense interests of the 
 moral drama, which, while they agitate and delight, still cleanse, 
 and purify, and elevate ? If you proscribe the mental brilliancies 
 of Shakspeare, and Otway, and Sheridan, whose scenes expand 
 the conception, invigorate the understanding, refine the taste, 
 elevate the sentiments, and people the memory with bright and 
 noble images, society will resort, you may be sure, to the physi- 
 cal divertisements of which we speak — the clumsy, corporal dis- 
 plays of pantomime shows and tenth-rate dancing exhibitions, 
 which debase the standard of the mind and coarsen the imagi- 
 nation and the manners. Does any man doubt that, since the 
 decline of the dignified drama in Philadelphia, all descriptions 
 of inferior entertainments have increased tenfold ? 
 
 We have, indeed, always considered it one of the great justi- 
 fications of fictitious writing of all kinds, that, by furnishing a 
 species of excitement which should be moral in some of its ele- 
 ments or tendencies, it acted as a species of safety-valve against 
 more dangerous vents of passion and fancy. This, as we have 
 intimated, is the more applicable to dramatic fiction as the in- 
 terest is stronger, the purpose more decidedly moral, and the 
 class of persons reached by it more exposed to danger. It is 
 a common but miserable fallacy, that an occupation gains in 
 moral harmlessness as it descends in intellectual interest. The 
 natural affinities of thought are with virtue and purity. If 
 there be any danger in public amusement, the best counter-irri- 
 tant it can be accompanied with is something that stimulates 
 the reason, and rouses to keen attention the sentinel powers of 
 reflection. 
 
336 THE DRAMA. [Stat. 27. 
 
 DECLINE OF THE DRAMA. 1844. 
 
 Is the drama hopelessly and forever lost upon the earth? 
 Shall we never again be summoned by the spell of histrionic 
 genius within the circle of Shakspeare's magic, to yield our 
 spirits to the grateful illusions of moral sympathy ; to have 
 great truths revealed to our minds under the delightful type of 
 personal character, and great warnings signalled to our im- 
 agination in the impressive incidents of affecting action ; to 
 have our small griefs healed in the tide of the greater woes of 
 a Lear or a Constance ; to be raised up from the common 
 sphere of faint and fading consciousness, to a region of intenser 
 sensibility, by beholding The Moor, The Dane, The Jew, live 
 again before us in that vividness of power which belongs to 
 their immortality ? Almost we are constrained to think that 
 it is even so. Year after year, we have fought against the con- 
 viction that the great- days of the Stage were past. Season after 
 season, we have hoped that the long-expected revival of the 
 life and popularity of the Scene would appear. But we have 
 waited and hoped in vain. The managers do all that the re- 
 sources of their profession will permit ; but they have neither 
 materials to supply their demands, nor popular taste to se- 
 cond their exertions. We know nothing more remarkable than 
 this sudden sinking down of a great department of mental 
 art — ^this entire going-out of one of the lights of public intelli- 
 gence and enjoyment — not from any external influences of in- 
 vasion or possession, but from mere faililre of intellectual' 
 means to supply and support it. There is no drama in Eng- 
 land ; there is none in Italy or Germany. In France, Rachel 
 alone sustains the glories of the Scene, and concentrates in her- 
 self all the inspiration that the profession at this day inherits — the 
 solitary sibylline prophetess of a natural faith passed away, or 
 yet unborn. To us, this interregnum of the Stage is a matter 
 for keen regret. We regard the highest order of the acted 
 drama as the most complex and delightful of all the Arts. 
 
^TAT. 27.] DECLINE OF THE DRAMA. 1844. ^^» 
 
 It is, to every other form of literary creation, what architecture 
 is among the material modes of typifying beauty — the queen and 
 head of all of them, implying, in the unity of its noble effects, all 
 the skill that the others separately embody. When we inquire for 
 the causes of the decline which we confess, we are embarrassed by 
 the number of reasons which are offered for the solution of the 
 question. On the one hand complaint is made of the want of pub- 
 lic patronage ; and the public reply that they no longer frequent 
 the theatre, because the theatre is not what it once was. The pro- 
 prietors and conductors of the Stage blame the few persons that 
 have shown a genius for acting, that they abandon the Stage ; 
 and the Macreadys and Kembles reply that there is no Stage for 
 them to return to. It is not quite reasonable to say that any one of 
 these is the cause of any other. When a public art or amuse- 
 ment is on the rise to perfection, the genius of the artists, the skill 
 of the managers, and the taste of society, are all developed con- 
 currently in the direction of success : when it is on the decline, 
 all the conditions of life, internal and outward, seem to fail 
 together. The decadence of the drama appears to us to be 
 nothing more than an accident which any year may remedy. 
 From some influences which no man can fully- explain, scenic 
 genius of every sort has set in another direction — that of the 
 Opera. All that we can make out upon the subject is, that the 
 drama and opera have never flourished together. In England, 
 when Drury Lane and Covent Garden were illuminated by such 
 hghts as Garrick, Kean, Kemble and Siddons, the opera never 
 thrived in Loudon ; as they became extinguished, it rose into 
 favor and popularity. Here, too, we must be content with the 
 change. We may console ourselves for the absence of Coopers 
 and Woods and Cookes by the reflection that Bosio and Salvi 
 reign in their room ; and when the opera seems to be retro- 
 grading, we may say to ourselves that the prospects of the Stage 
 begin to brighten. 
 29 
 
338 THE DUAMA, [^tat. 31. 
 
 PROSPECTS OF THE DRAMA. 1848. 
 
 We recollect no period in the last twelve years when the pros- 
 pects of the higher drama were so encouraging as they are in 
 relation to the coming season. We have long been firmly 
 convinced that, to give re-animated action and popularity to 
 -the theatre, nothing was wanting but performers; and that 
 deficiency is now likely to be supplied. Mr. Porrest — always 
 acceptable to the people — is among us; Mr. Macready's speedy 
 arrival is certain ; Mrs. Butler's appearance is spoken of with 
 confidence by those who profess to be informed ; and the late 
 English papers announce the probability of a visit from the 
 new tragedian, Mr. Brooke. These are strong materials ; and 
 if they be properly combined, it is not easy to see how the 
 management should fail of success. To assert that the public 
 taste for theatrical entertainments has declined — that amuse- 
 ments of this class have fallen into disfavor, and that the want 
 of encouragement from the community is the cause of the 
 inferior condition of the Stage — is to contradict the plainest 
 evidence of daily and nightly observation. There never has 
 been a time when the attendance upon scenic performances, of 
 one kind or another, has been so numerous and so steady as dur- 
 ing the last year, and at this present inoment. The number of 
 theatres of all description open, and the number of persons 
 habitually frequenting them, is far greater now than in what are 
 termed the "palmy days" of tlie profession. And this remark 
 may be applied, with «qual truth, to New York and Philadelphia. 
 To be sure, many of these exhibitions are of very humble preten- 
 sions in point of intellect, refinement, and taste. That only 
 illustrates our position, that the fault is behind the lights and 
 not before them ; for that very inferiority shows how strong 
 and general must be the fondness for this art, when the benches 
 are regularly filled even by the moderate attractions which it 
 is in the power of the managers to offer. All those who now 
 collect to witness some commonplace farce, would crowd with 
 
^TAT. 31.] PKOSPECTS OF THE DRAMA. 18i8. 339 
 
 greater eagerness to behold the mighty scene of Shakspeare, if 
 they could but see it as adequately presented : his tones of strength 
 and beauty speak to the sympathies of the coarsest commonalty as 
 earnestly and as enchantingly as to those of the studious, the 
 refined, and the exclusive. The triumph or the failure of the 
 stage, or of any other great institution or art, was never yet 
 dependent upon the inclinations or habits of the most elevated 
 class of society. They can neither make nor mar the fortunes 
 of a company. Its fate is determined by the countenance or 
 neglect of the middle classes. The destinies of the drama reside 
 with the pit, not the boxes. And that this community, at large, 
 are essentially play-lovers and play-goers, is a fact which no 
 one who will look at the first brick wall, not a house wall, that 
 he meets with, or will make the tour of the theatres any night 
 in the week, will feel a disposition to deny. The prostrate con- 
 dition of the loftier drama arises, unquestionably, not from the 
 fault of the public, but from the fault, or folly, or deficiency of 
 some sort of those on the other side of the curtain. 
 
 If the stage is to become, once more, the dignified and 
 delightful resort of society in general — if it is to be redeemed 
 to the respect and affection of the educated, the thoughtful, and 
 the polite — it is obvious that an entirely different method must 
 be established from that which has prevailed for some years 
 past. The fate of that method is pretty conclusively settled. 
 The star-system has been the destruction of the drama. It broke 
 down the stock companies, and now the stars themselves are 
 broken down for want of adequate support from the regular 
 companies ; and there has ceased to be anything that can be 
 called a permanent theatre. The evil arose from a short-sighted 
 and mistaken policy of managers in former years, who imagined 
 that the great profits derived from the engagement of stars for 
 short periods, would more than counterbalance the longer time 
 that a stock company play, and did not see that the system 
 involved the ruin of the whole profession. The work of recon- 
 struction, upon another principle, must be begun. The pros- 
 perity of the Stage is regulated by two very. simple piaxims — 
 which, plain as they are, have been fatally forgotten or departed 
 
340 THE DRAMA. [^tat. 31. 
 
 from. To enact dramas, you must have a regular dramatic 
 company ; and to enable a company to make their impression 
 upon the community, it is indispensable to have a regular 
 dramatic season. Now, neither a theatrical company nor a 
 theatrical season, in the proper sense of the words, and as they 
 were once understood, has existed in any part of this country 
 for twenty years ; hardly at all, indeed, since the break-up of the 
 old company of Wood and Warren. The question whether a 
 single actor can sustain a play of a dozen parts, of which the 
 star-ers maintained the affirmative, has at last been decided by 
 experiment beyond the reach of any further controversy. It is 
 equally well demonstrated, by repeated trials, that the interest 
 and beauties of the dramatic art cannot be satisfactorily exhibit- 
 ed to the public by mere occasional flashes, even if the flashes 
 be of lightning, but require the illumination of a continual and 
 unflickering light. If there is to be a restoration of the once- 
 flourishing empire of dramatic taste, the performers must be 
 again organized into fixed companies, obedient to the appoint- 
 ments of a manager ; and those companies must engage in the 
 representation of an extensive and sustained series of the best 
 and greatest plays, so that society may form an appetite for the 
 pleasures of the Stage, and may come to count upon the play 
 as one of the constant and dependable sources of gratification 
 for the winter. People will not go into the house at all, unless 
 they have formed the habit of going ; and to create such a habit, 
 there must be a steady succession of interesting and varied and 
 brilliant entertainments. 
 
 As we have hinted above, the elements of a Stage are exist- 
 ing abundantly; it is the organizing and controlling energy that 
 is wanting. We look te the managers: with them, as we 
 believe, rests the power — and, if so, the duty — of restoration. 
 Let the intelligent and experienced managers who preside over 
 the theatres of our great cities come to an understanding with 
 one another ; and let them propose to the eminent performers 
 whom we have named above, and to the dozen or twenty other 
 asteroids of various magnitude, who make their transits across 
 the scene during the year, to organize themselves into two com- 
 
^TAT. 31.] PROSPECTS OF THE DRAMA. 1848. g^l 
 
 panies, bound together by fixed engagements, from a certain day in 
 the autumn until a certain day in the spring. Then let the com- 
 munity receive assurance that a prolonged and diversified range of 
 the most celebrated tragedies and comedies will be brought out. 
 Let Mrs. Butler be the attraction for one evening, Mr. Macready 
 for another, and Mr. Forrest for a third. In some plays — such, for 
 example, as Macbeth — Mrs. Butler and Mr. Macready could 
 appear together. Mr. William B. Wood, knovra to us all as 
 an actor of the first pretensions, and Mr. Charles Kemble, 
 his equal in many parts, played for several weeks together, in 
 such plays as King John, Othello, The Gamester, Venice Pre- 
 served. Mr. Wood and Mr. Macready had previously done 
 the same; while Mr. Wood and Mr. Cooper played to each 
 other for years upon years together. Why shall not Mr. Tor- 
 rest or Mr. Macready be made to do the same thing now, with 
 other actors of character ? A system based on this code of 
 principles would once more make the Stage, morally and artisti- 
 cally, respectable ; a strong and general interest in the subject 
 would speedily be created throughout the city ; and the rival 
 merits of the chief actors, properly sustained by the secondary 
 people, would enkindle discussions, which would extensively 
 promote the advantage of all. If some of the persons princi- 
 pally concerned in such an arrangement should prove refractory 
 — which we think certain — let the managers say to them : — ■ 
 "The scheme which we present to you is dictated by considera- 
 tions of common benefit : it is the only reasonable plan of re- 
 establishing the Stage : if you will not frankly and fairly co- 
 operate in this effort, we decline to engage you, on any terms 
 whatever." In playing at lower rates, they would find more 
 than a compensation in the greater length of their engagement. 
 The interest of all parties must, surely, be first to restore and 
 re-institute the stage. Unless the theatre can be brought again 
 into a real existence, none of those who are connected with it 
 can enjoy much prosperity. As it now is, the Stage has fairly 
 broken down under these famous tragedians ; their calling has 
 completely caved-in under their individual success. What are 
 their talents and their distinction worth, if the vocation in 
 29* 
 
342 THE DRAMA. [^tat. 31. 
 
 which they are to be exercised has ceased to he ? What avails 
 the lonely lustre of the star, if the orbit in which it is to move 
 is blocked up or overthrown ? That is precisely the present 
 state of things. While you are doubting whether Mr. Mac- 
 ready or Mrs. Butler would condescend to such terms, the 
 true question to be considered — and one which we know is 
 altogether uncertain in its issue — is whether either Mrs. Butler 
 or Mr. Macready, separately or in conjunction, can at this 
 momGnt obtain any profitable engagement whatever, in any 
 theatre in this country. Mr. Macready, eminent and admirable 
 as he is in all that belongs to himself, has by his rejection of 
 all second parts and his excision of some minor parts alto- 
 gether, fatally overlooked the principle, that no man can long 
 flourish on the ruins of his own profession. In his desire to 
 make himself the "be-all and the end-all" of the play — gener- 
 ally reducing and sometimes sacrificing the parts of other per- 
 formers to make himself the single feature of the evening — he 
 has proceeded, as we have already intimated, on an assumption 
 fatal to the performance of the drama as a public entertainment. 
 We offer these suggestions to both managers and actors, from 
 the concern which we seriously feel in an art which has ever 
 been to us a source of lofty and intimate gratification, and which 
 we regard as one of the best contributors to social enjoyment 
 and edification. If they are not attended to, or if they are 
 found impracticable, we see but a melancholy prospect for the 
 future. 
 
SUMMER TRAYEL IN AMERICA. 
 
 THE MIDSUMMER CONGRESS. 
 
 It may be observed that those great discoveries and inven- 
 tions which have played a signal part in the progress of society, 
 have rarely been entirely accidental in point of time, but have 
 usually had a relation with some considerable event, or some 
 interesting period, to the demands of which they were specially 
 adapted to contribute. In some instances, the necessity for a 
 new instrument of power has existed before the means of its 
 satisfaction have been provided ; and the advancement of the 
 world has appeared to stand suspended until the requisite ele- 
 ment has been supplied. In most cases, however, the addition 
 to human knowledge or capacity has distinctly preceded, yet 
 by no extended interval, the occasion which it was particularly 
 to subserve, as if Providence, like a judicious master-workman, 
 would fashion beforehand the tools that were required for his 
 operations, and would instruct his agents in the management of 
 them, yet would not give them forth to curiosity or to neglect, 
 much previously to the time when they were wanted. Thus, in 
 the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, a thousand converging 
 causes were, about to awaken the intelligence of Europe to a 
 higher enlightenment, and to stimulate its energy to a far keener 
 exertion ; and just before it begins, writing paper is contrived 
 in one part of Germany, and printing from movable types is 
 thought of in another. A little earlier, one man perfects the 
 use of the mariner's compass, as an amusing philosophical toy ; 
 another takes it up, and in his hand it becomes the revelation 
 of a new continent, destined thenceforth, throughout all time, 
 to act and re-act with still repeating vigor upon the condition 
 
 (343) 
 
344 SUMMER TRAVEL IN AMERICA. [^tat. 30. 
 
 of the old world. Paper, printing, and the magnetic needle 
 were not the causes of the regeneration of Europe and the dis- 
 covery of America ; they were instrumentalities which the agen- 
 cies that wrought out those events made use of, and without 
 the co-operation of which those agencies could never have ac- 
 complished the results. In like manner, we consider that the 
 discovery of steam had a prearranged connection of the same 
 kind with the majestic fabric of the American Union. Steam- 
 boats and railway-cars havfe been indispensable conditions in 
 the establishment of that stately confederation which, like a 
 grand entablature, crowns, completes, and beautifies the columns 
 which rose in separate elevation from the earth. The various 
 colonies, it is true, had already existed, and it is possible that 
 our country might have expanded to the physical limits which 
 it now presents, even without this amazing instrument of ma- 
 terial force ; but our political scheme could never have been 
 brought to perfection. The original divisions between the 
 States would have become deeper and more decided with pro- 
 gressive years ; and that creation of separate communities into 
 one mighty organization — that fusion of multitudinous systems 
 into the unity of a single nation — that identity of the whole 
 amid the variety of so many parts — which is the pride of our 
 strength, the marvel of history, and the name of our enduring 
 greatness — could not, by any human possibility, have been ef- 
 fected without this influence. We give to Hamilton and Madi- 
 son the glory of our political consolidation ; but perhaps hardly 
 less entitled to that honor are Pulton and Stevens. 
 
 Foreigners sometimes smile at what they term our national 
 mania for locomotion. They consider us as a community who 
 enjoy a kind of Chinese existence in boats ; or who, like Pope's 
 spider, " live along the line" of endless railroads. They do not 
 perceive that this circulation forms the very life of our system. 
 The moralist may censure the vanity of those Bedouin habits 
 which seize upon our people as the summer advances, and send 
 them wandering over the continent — precipitated in masses 
 upon some favorite spot, by shore or spring, or scattered in 
 tireless vagrancy over hill and lake and river. The man of 
 
^TAT. 30.] THE MIDSUMMER CONGRESS. 345 
 
 taste may question the delicacy and the comfort of emerging 
 into public view at the season when retirement seems to be the 
 most agreeable — of exposing oneself to be grilled in a rail-car, 
 when the cool grove and sequestered vale would be the most 
 natural dwelling-places ; of sweltering in a crowd, at hotels, at 
 a period when seclusion and domestic privacy are rendered de- 
 sirable by every consideration of fitness and enjoyment. But 
 the philosopher, who has heard that " private vices are public 
 benefits," will reflect that individual follies may conduce to the 
 national good. Fashion has, undoubtedly, contributed power- 
 fully to sustain, at various times, the tottering fabric of mon- 
 archy ; it is not unreasonable that she should exert her potent 
 influence to aid, in her own peculiar way, in building up the 
 fabric of the republic. For ourselves, we regard the ebb and 
 flow of population that takes place throughout the land during 
 the summer and autumn of the year, as very tides of the life of 
 our Constitution. These periodical currents serve a more im- 
 portant purpose than some of the noisier and more pretentious 
 of our institutions. We look upon the immense assemblages 
 that at present are gathered together at Saratoga and New- 
 port, as so many great national congresses on a social platform. 
 The north, the south, the east, and the west send hither a con- 
 course of sovereigns, who mingle in familiar intercourse, and 
 give and take a portion of the peculiar tastes and feelings and 
 opinions that the differing sections of the land send forth. In- 
 sensibly to themselves and to others, these unconscious diplo- 
 matists are engaged in negotiating relations of amity and con- 
 cord — in concluding treaties of friendship, and making mutual 
 interchanges of confidence and respect. The good understand- 
 ing effected in summer at the Springs tells strongly upon the 
 winter at Washington. Important political connections estab- 
 lish themselves along that chain of intercourse which was 
 strengthened and brightened in the promenade, the drawing- 
 room, and the bowling-alley of some great resort. Thus it is 
 that the organizing power of Nature — like the artificer, who 
 fabricates from the gossamer tissues of a worm the garments of 
 men and the hangings of palaces — weaves out of the idleness, 
 
346 ^ SUMMER TRAVEL IN AMERICA. [JBtat. 29. 
 
 the Tanity, and the caprices of humanity, those viewless but in- 
 dissoluble bands — delicate as the air when at rest, and mighty 
 as the same element when winged with the tempest's swiftness 
 — which hold society itself together — which baffle the devices 
 of men and triumph over Time with all his accidents. Let us 
 not, therefore, in the dignity of our wisdom, denounce too se- 
 verely the bad taste of the annual Olympics of Saratoga and 
 Newport. " From dirt and sea-weed as proud Yenice rose," 
 so from the cohesion of this social admixture may be formed 
 that cement of our public union which, when it has grown as 
 hard and as glittering as marble, will bear no trace of the trivial 
 source from which it sprang. Let us attempt to regulate 
 rather than to abolish, to reform and to refine rather than to 
 destroy the modes and habits of these national transits and as- 
 semblies by which our people are thus brought into union for 
 their benefit. 
 
 NEWPORT. 1846. 
 
 To the Editor of The National Press. 
 
 Newport, Sept. 21, 1846. 
 
 Dkab General : — Kemmeyrer's band left us last week. From 
 that time, society at the Ocean House may, with great literality, 
 be said to have been dis-banded. A few belles, who, like the 
 leaf in Christabel, seem determined to be " dancing as often as 
 dance they can," still give us an occasional E-edowa, though 
 reduced to a piano and a lady-partner. In my opinion, the 
 really pleasant season at Newport is just beginning. Old New- 
 port — genuine, quiet, unostentatious, social Newport, which 
 has been entirely submerged under the irruption of fashion, is 
 now beginning to be visible above the retreating waters. I ar- 
 rived about the middle of August ; and upon inquiring for the 
 Newport in which I had been wont to enjoy my summers, dis- 
 covered that the place was in bondage, but not destroyed. I 
 
^TAT. 29.] NEWPORT. ^il 
 
 therefore waited patiently until this tyranny should be overpast : 
 and now I am beginning to taste the reward of my endurance ; 
 for while you are laboring under exhausting days and sleepless 
 nights, I breathe a balmy light, and snore yigorously under one 
 or two blankets, with the privilege of conversation with a very 
 chosen society. Not, by the bye, that I did not enjoy the sea- 
 son of high fashion very keenly, for a crowd of blooming belles 
 and well-dressed beaux always give a bachelor like myself, 
 something to amuse and entertain him, or, which is as good, an 
 opportunity of doing so to others. 
 
 Another year, if this kind of society at Newport is to con- 
 tinue, there are certain matters which must be provided for, on 
 a different footing. In the first place, there must be one common 
 assembly room, not attached to any of the lodging-houses, and 
 to which visitors at any of them shall be admitted upon equal 
 terms. During the past season there were jealousies on this 
 subject between the different hotels ; and there being nobody to 
 give responsible invitations, where the dance was not a sub- 
 scription one, and nobody to receive the guests who came from 
 other houses, there was an awkwardness, and a want of freedom 
 in the intercourse on such occasions. In the next place, there 
 must be a general master of ceremonies — a regularly instituted 
 king of Bath, invested with comprehensive jurisdiction, and 
 armed with plenary powers. Such an officer is indispensable ; 
 not merely for the purpose just indicated, of representing the 
 host, and giving persons occasion of feeling themselves at home, 
 and on a perfect equality with all others, but also to enforce 
 the obvious requirements, not perhaps of strict etiquette, but 
 at all events, of ordinary human propriety and decorum. Under 
 
 the reign of such a monarch, M. Leopold de M would not 
 
 be allowed to appear at a dance when ladies are in full dress, 
 apparelled in harlequin pantaloons and a frock coat ; nor Mr. 
 
 1 , of ^ to wear his hat in the ball-room ; nor others to 
 
 present themselves in such costume that it is impossible to de- 
 termine whether it is a waiter who has got entangled in the 
 quadrille, or a gentleman who is arranging the lamps. Very 
 special xjoalities will be required for such an office ; he must be 
 
348 SUMMER TRAVEL IN AMERICA. [^tat. 29. 
 
 a man of mature years, of great usage of the world, of character 
 and manner to enforce respect, of good temper and of good 
 sense ; in a word, totus, teres, atque rotundus. He must not 
 belong to a clique in society, nor must his appointment be dic- 
 tated by any set or rank in society ; on the contrary, he must be 
 chosen by the proprietors of the houses at Newport, out of the 
 best class of persons in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, or 
 Baltimore. 
 
 Such a magistrate, possessed of legislative, judicial, and ex- 
 ecutive functions, must bring some degree of common sense to 
 bear upon the system established at Newport, especially as to 
 hours. Instead of dancing beginning at ten o'clock and con- 
 tinuing till one o'clock — a custom preposterous in summer and 
 at a watering place — moderation must be enforced by ordering 
 the lights to be extinguished at eleven o'clock. In short, the 
 social intercourse of the place must have something else to re- 
 commend it, than extravagance, absurdity, and irrationality. By 
 the appointment of a dictator of this kind, who should be a Ly- 
 curgus to make laws, a Draco to affix the penalties, and a 
 _ Minos to enforce them, the evils and inconveniences which now 
 deprive life at these places of its comfort and respectability, 
 might be extensively remedied. It should be understood that 
 this officer would be wholly irresponsible to any of the visitors 
 for any act done in the execution of his office, and that for any 
 such act, no challenge could be sent to him. 
 
 Connected with Newport, you will naturally ask me, if there 
 are any memorials still remaining of Bishop Berkley ? The or- 
 gan in Trinity church was presented by him ; it bears on its 
 summit a gilt crown and two gilt mitres, and in front, the in- 
 scription — " The gift of Dr. George Berkley, late Lord Bishop 
 of Cloyne." The house in which he resided is still shown, but 
 is not remarkable for any thing but some rather common Dutch 
 tiles about the chimney-piece in one of the rooms. A cavity in 
 a very prominent rock, called the Hanging Rock, commanding 
 a magnificent prospect of the ocean, is identified as the spot in 
 which he was in the habit of composing, and here it is said 
 to have written " The Minute Philosopher. " There is an entry 
 
^TAT. 29.] THE MONARCHY OF NEWPORT. 349 
 
 on the church books, of his arrival at Newport, in which it is 
 recorded, that being on a voyage to the Bermudas, he was driven 
 in a storm upon the island of Nantucket, and being there in- 
 formed by the Indians, that there was a church of England on 
 the island of Rhode Island, he came thither to visit it ; the en- 
 try expatiates at some length on the courtesy and sauvity of 
 address with which he received, in his robes, inhabitants who 
 came to welcome his arrival. I found out two traditionary anec- 
 dotes preserved among the people, in relation to this excellent 
 and extraordinary man. One contained the reason of his 
 placing his dwelling-house, not on the summit of a hill, (Honey- 
 man's,) from which the view is extremely impressive, but at the 
 distance of a mile or more beyond it ; which was, that if he could 
 view the scene at any time, he probably, in fact, would never 
 look at it at all, and familiarity with it would destroy its charm, 
 but that if he only saw it when he was crossing to the town, 
 he would enjoy it more and perhaps see it oftener ; a reason 
 quite characteristic of his subtle discrimination and practical 
 good sense. The other was, that he was in the habit of 
 stopping as he rode to or from town, at a particular house which 
 is pointed out, and calling for his dram; this dram consisted 
 of a cake of gingerbread, which was regularly produced for the 
 refreshment of the good dean. Perhaps you will be led to seek, 
 as I was, for the point of the Bishop's pleasantry ; but at all 
 events, "I warrant it proved an excuse from the glass." 
 
 THE MONARCHY OP NEWPORT. 1851. 
 
 The confederated republic of American watering-places seems 
 to be rapidly resolving itself into the supreme and unlimited mon- 
 archy of Newport. Other resorts are local in their fame and at- 
 tractions ; it alone is national. It has been gradually assuming 
 the eminence and universality of a social capital ; while other 
 spots, once primary and independent and sovereign in pretensions, 
 30 
 
350 SUMMER TRAVEL IN AMERICA. [^tat. 34, 
 
 have declined into narrowness and subordination. In visiting 
 lately the thinned and shrunken haunts of a famous summer scene, 
 once wont to be glowing and distended with excess of popularity, 
 we were almost inclined to summon up, as of kindred melan- 
 choly, the recollection of the fate of Babylon the Great ; and 
 if we had had a pocket copy of Volney's Ruins by us, we 
 should have meditated upon the warnings of that volume, with 
 deepened interest, amid empty ball-rooms, neglected prome- 
 nades, and " cottages to let." So far as permanency onght to 
 be predicted for anything dependent on the changeful qualities 
 of taste and fashion, Newport bids fair to enjoy a very tolerable 
 immortality of empire. There are sufficient reasons for the 
 ascendant which it has gained, and for the continuance of that 
 ascendant. 
 
 In the first place, the climate is as near perfection as can fall 
 to the lot of an earthly watering-place. It is the only place in 
 the country where, in the hottest weather, and at all hours of 
 the day, you are certain of being able to be cool. The temper- 
 ature, moreover, is more equable than on any part of the conti- 
 nent ; and the place is thus free from the greatest evil of 
 American weather. The range of the thermometer, both during 
 the day and throughout the year, is less than in other places. 
 It sems, in fact, to enjoy an insular climate of its own. Nestling, 
 bride-like, in the bosom of the sea, imparting ornament and de- 
 riving benefit, it is guarded by the power of the trident alike 
 from the scorching heats and from the northern blasts that 
 revel in alternating excess along the adjacent coast. As far as 
 our experience extends, we are disposed to infer that the best 
 climates are to be found in small islands ; especially such as are 
 near to the mainland. Venice, the Isle of Wight, and Newport, 
 much resemble one another in the peculiarly delightful qualities 
 of the atmosphere ; and to each has been vouchsafed a specific 
 charm to rob the summer of its oppression and the winter of its 
 severity. 
 
 The natural beauties of Newport pass quite beyond compari- 
 son with any sea-side resort in this country. The romantic va- 
 
^TAt. 34] THB monarchy OF NEWPORT, 351 
 
 riety and picturesque elegance of its coast scenery, where the 
 salt spray, foaming against the roclts, momently dashes itself 
 into rainbows, present the most enchanting splendors of impres- 
 sion that land, sea, and sunshine, in their combinations, can pro- 
 duce. A walk along the cliffs is like a ramble through a select 
 gallery of Birch's marine views. To sit on high upon some 
 " coin of vantage" in the rock, and gaze upon the white waters 
 wrestling in undying wrath with the eternal bases of the earth, 
 while the Spirit of Beauty, prevailing over both, transmutes the 
 terror into glory, and spreads out before the imagination an ex- 
 haustless banquet of visionary delight, is a pleasure that invests 
 that region in a spiritual lustre, and consecrates it to the en- 
 thusiasms of the poet as much as to the enjoyments of the gay 
 and the crowd-loving. It is not to be wondered that gentle 
 and pensive souls like Berkley and Channing — the "temple- 
 haunting martlet" spirits of humanity — ^that resort " where the 
 air is delicate," and who "approve by their loved mansionry where 
 heaven's breath smells wooingly," should have found especial 
 inspiration for their holy fancies and their kindly feelings, in 
 scenes where the pure and beautiful and the majestic in Nature 
 combine to shed their most calming and exalting influences upon 
 the mind and heart. 
 
 The atmospheric effects which may be observed around New- 
 port almost approach those iris-like enchantments that glorify 
 Southern Italy in the memory of a landscape-liking traveler. 
 Those airy fascinations — roseate purple and violet — with which 
 the hills and rocks and waters of Naples are so profusely in- 
 vested, are here poured forth in delicate profusion, to heighten 
 almost to an intoxicating charm forms that were already more 
 than lovely. The drives in the neighborhood of the town are 
 numerous and varied and beautiful. They have the advantage 
 of affording unwearying entertainment to eyes and hearts devoted 
 to Nature's lofty service, and of giving parvenus, whose interests 
 must of course be considered, an opportunity of displaying their 
 showy equipages. 
 
 Social Newport is as delightfully different from all rival as- 
 gembling-places, as the natural qualities of the scene are superior 
 
352 SUMMER TRAVEL IN AMERICA. [^tat. 34. 
 
 uo all near or distant competition. Hotel life at Newport — an 
 unrefined life everywhere — is happily on the decline. But cot- 
 tage life — which is the true life of Newport — is extending and 
 improving. In other words, the floating capital of favor that 
 circulated about the region is becoming permanently funded ; 
 and these investments imply as well as promise a permanent in- 
 terest. Newport is a place in which a long time ought to be 
 spent in order to appreciate and appropriate its particular ex- 
 cellencies. It does not abound in startling and stimulating en- 
 joym-ents, which may be best snatched with a rapid hand, and 
 which pale and perish under a prolonged and familiar gaze — 
 
 '* You must love it, ere to you 
 It shall seem wortby of your love." 
 
 Tou must experience the gradual, insensible alteration which 
 the mild invigoration of the air produces vrithout shock or ex- 
 citement, after some weeks' residence ; you must feed upon the 
 refined and quiet beauties of the landscape until your taste has 
 become purged from the love of the turbid interests of the city, 
 and educated into a capacity to be thrilled by the soft splendors 
 of a mellow sunset, and to find unfailing attractions in foam- 
 fringed rocks and cavernous cliffs ; you must make yourself at 
 home with the permanent society of the place, and enjoy the 
 comfort of an intercourse, elegant but unceremonious, intellect- 
 ual but free from pedantry. Newport, like the highest class 
 of personal characters, gives not forth its best effects to casual 
 acquaintance ; and must be known familiarly to be understood 
 at all. Hire a cottage for a season — surrender yourself to the 
 easy but refined existence which prevails here — make the rocks 
 and caves of the shores acquainted with your footsteps — and 
 you will be tempted to make the place your summer retreat for 
 at least a part of every season. The interests and amusements 
 of Newport society are more European than those of any place 
 we know of An odor of Art — of all life's perfumes ever the 
 most freshly sweet — enriches the atmosphere delightfully. It 
 was the home of Malbone and Stuart — a favorite residence of 
 Allston — and now the haunt of more than a single votary of 
 
^TAT. S4.] MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 353 
 
 the pencil : and the iniuence which these presences dispensed 
 lingers to refine and elevate the scene. Music has this summer 
 been one of the highest enjoyments. Among the lady visitors 
 there had been one — a lady of Union Place, New York — ^the 
 finest amateur singer that this or any other country has in my 
 time produced ; and musical matinees and soirees, of which she 
 had been the feature, have given an appropriate and perfecting 
 charm to the pleasures that are native to the spot. 
 
 MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 
 
 The learned are familiar with the history of an extraordinary 
 malady which made its appearance in Germany and the north- 
 ern parts of France, about the middle of the sixteenth century, 
 and was known by the appellation of the "dancing mania." 
 When visited by this singular contagion, individuals, families, 
 and even whole communities, felt themselves seized by a nervous 
 agitation, which compelled them, irresistibly, to join in a wild 
 kind of dance, and whirl along in dizzying circles, till the access 
 of the malady had passed, or the sufferer sank from exhaustion. 
 Epidemics, it is known, have their periods of recurrence, and 
 their reappearance may be looked for after certain cycles of 
 greater or less duration. From a comparison of the character- 
 istics of the disease, the season of the year at which its power 
 was greatest, and the general symptoms which attended it, we 
 are satisfied that the excitement which prevailed at Newport, 
 and some other places of resort, during the past summer, (1846,) 
 was really nothing else than a return of the afflicting disorder, 
 with which the inhabitants of the Black Forest were disturbed 
 three centuries ago. The purposes for which Newport is visited 
 in the summer are obvious enough ; they are repose, refreshment, 
 and a new supply of vigor. A climate which approaches 
 nearer to perfection than any other on this continent, or perhaps 
 in the world, which diffuses a delightful calm over the spirits 
 30* 
 
354 SUMMER TRAVEL IN AMERICA. [^tat.-34. 
 
 while it braces "the nerves and finer fibres," and in which it is 
 impossible, by any exposure, to take cold — enables the stran- 
 ger, by passing his time principally in the open air, to recruit 
 from the wastingness of heated rooms and a city residence 
 during the winter. The splendid variety of the sea, sometimes 
 rolling majestic billows along an expanded beach, and dashing 
 the snowy foam upon the rocks in mingled terror and beauty, 
 invites him to forget the vexations and frivolities of life in the 
 strength and greatness of the ever young spirit of Nature. The 
 season, too, seems to call for a suspension of ceremonies, and 
 a truce to the contest of conventionalities. In a word, you go 
 there to exchange society and its restraints for a country life — ■ 
 its freedom and its peace. Yet, under the influence of the dis- 
 tressful contagion which we have referred to, the air, the ocean, 
 the rocks, the walks, were neglected or forgotten ; and the 
 hundreds who had resorted thither for rest and restoration, shut 
 themselves up in the great houses, and passed the evening and 
 morning in the monotonous and exhausting gyrations of the re- 
 dowa, the polka, and the waltz — robbing night of its natural 
 repose, and the day of its invigorating exercise, to the exhaus- 
 tion of spirits, the overthrow of health, and the destruction of 
 female beauty. Persons of unquestionable sense and dignity 
 were involved in this unhappy mania, for its power overbore all 
 reason. Individuals the most prominently engaged condemned 
 and regretted it ; but it was stronger than the will. Could it 
 be any thing else than a formidable infectious disease — a lament- 
 able nervous malady — which thus triumphed over good sense, 
 and real inclination, and ease, and comfort, and all the fitness 
 of time and place ? The subject, we think, deserves the atten- 
 tion of the philanthropists. The name by which this maniacal 
 influenza, in its present reappearance, is known, is — Fashion. 
 
Mtat. si.] an appeal to women. 355 
 
 AN APPEAL TO WOMEN. 1848. 
 
 Thus far, American civilization has developed two peculi- 
 arities : one of them, politeness to women ; the other, an irre- 
 pressible gregariousness in the summer months. The former 
 is the very flower of our native virtue ; we boast of it as the 
 ornament and jewel of our national character : but we cannot 
 regard the other with quite the same complacency. Society 
 quickens the mind and refines the taste ; but' retirement and 
 rural seclusion are the true home of the moral sympathies — the 
 true scenes where the exhausted spirit renews its vigor from the 
 undefective sources of Nature, and refreshes once more its ener- 
 gies and its hopes. The lives of the younger people among us 
 — especially of the younger women — are passed too constantly 
 and exclusively in company. We think highly of the advan- 
 tages to be derived from social communication of the best kind ; 
 we consider its multiform benefits to be so unquestionable, that 
 a certain degree of general intercourse with our fellows has 
 always presented itself to us in the light of a moral duty. It 
 developes the finest of our powers ; it provokes the genial play 
 of various feeling ; it keeps us in tune with the actual, the pre- 
 sent and the real. But there is another part of our being upon 
 which it breathes no elevating, no strengthening inspiration. 
 It is when company becomes the perpetual and unchanging con- 
 dition of life that we begin to dread its power. We object to 
 a system where there is no remission of its excitements ; where 
 the individual instincts of the character are never suffered to 
 expand and exert their forces ; where the tyranny of external- 
 ity perpetually rebukes and represses the deeper inward emo- 
 tions and aspirations ; where the flash of public display ever 
 dims the calmer glow of private and personal consciousness. 
 It is a striking circumstance, that though we may have been 
 born and brought up within the limits of a city, we never feel 
 thoroughly at home except in the country : the town always re- 
 tains something of strange and alien which we cannot familiar- 
 
356 SUMMER tRAVEL IN AMERICA. [^tat. 31. 
 
 ize and appropriate to our affections. And something like the 
 healthful influence of the domestic circle and the old paternal 
 hearth, is exerted upon the mind by the presence and commu- 
 nion of country scenes. There is no nation in which the richer 
 and higher classes have so little to do with the country as in 
 ours. We are dwellers in the city, occasionally visiting the 
 green fields and breezy forests : the patrician English have their 
 permanent and hereditary homes in the provinces, and encamp 
 in the metropolis for a few months in the year, for the conduct 
 of business or the enjoyments of society. We cannot but think 
 that by a system like theirs, the genuine strength, the most ex- 
 alted dignity, the truest loyalty to the high sovereignty of good- 
 ness, truth, and honor, are most sure to be encouraged and ad- 
 vanced. 
 
 In our land we are sure that it would be felt as a most grate- 
 ful relief, if Fashion should undergo a complete interregnum 
 during the summer ; if society, instead of seeking coolness at the 
 Springs or by the ocean, should hide from the heat in a " vacant 
 inter-hiemal cave ;'' if company should be wholly disbanded, 
 and merged again into its aboriginal individuality. If young 
 ladies could realize how sadly their charms exhale and fade 
 away, when they are forever in the sight of the public eye ; if 
 they would note — as certainly some of them might often do — 
 how the brightness of the cheek and the lustre of the glance 
 grow dim under the exhaustion of incessant gayety ; if they 
 could suspect — as probably none of them will ever do — how 
 fatally that downlike bloom of the spirit — which is, after all, 
 the true talisman of a woman's fascination — is worn away and 
 ruined by ceaseless exposure to the world, they perhaps might 
 join us in our wishes for a change. Wearied with one another, 
 fretted into mutual disesteem, all persons would feel the com- 
 fort occasioned by the temporary withdrawal of their acquain- 
 tance, and the refreshment derived by their own characters from 
 a return to the privacy and solitudes of country existence ; all 
 would come together again in the autumn, with renewed ener- 
 gies and reinvigorated spirits. 
 
 We have no expectation, however, of reforming the nation 
 
^TAT. 31.] AN APPEAL TO WOMEN. 35^ 
 
 by a paragraph. N"ewport will this summer, as usual, assemble 
 its thousands ; Saratoga will give to tens of thousands the heal- 
 ing draughts of its waters. No persuasions will lessen, by a 
 unit, the immensity of the throngs. But may we not indulge 
 a hope of seeing some modifications introduced, by which the 
 system may be rendered a little more consonant with good sense 
 and good taste ? In the name of everything reasonable and 
 comfortable, we protest against the revival of the formalities 
 and etiquette of ball-room display in scenes which are visited 
 for rest and recruit. We hope that the time is coming when 
 summer feelings and summer moods may indulge the careless 
 unrestraint that belongs to that free and genial season, and not 
 be vexed with the senseless, underbred intrusion of customs and 
 habits and manners that belong to other scenes and another 
 temperature. It is in the power of a few women of established 
 character and commanding influence to control these evils, and 
 restore society at the watering-places to a rational and useful 
 condition. Let them unite in breaking down the absurd, vul- 
 gar, and irksome system of dressing and visiting which is kept 
 up by second-rate people for purposes of self-illustration and 
 setf-importance. Let them determine that the late hours — 
 which transfer to places of repose and restoration the exhaust- 
 ing customs of the winter — shall be abandoned. It is a mighty 
 power which the feminine chiefs of society wield : by averting 
 the light of their countenance from any practice or habit, and 
 thus casting upon it the faintest shadow of le mauvais ton, they 
 can blight it more effectually than a thousand moralists with 
 all their philosophic artillery. We invoke their omnipotent aid. 
 They could not distinguish themselves more signally, or rise to 
 higher and firmer power in their respective spheres, than by re- 
 ducing the " fierce democracy" of Fashion into subjection, for 
 a period, to the "law and order " of a reasonable existence. A 
 smile, a word, a look might do it. 
 
358 SUMMER TRAVEL IN AMERICA. [Stat. 34. 
 
 RAILWAY HINTS. 
 
 The Railroad system of the United States, considering the 
 popular character it has been compelled to assume, and the 
 multitudinous travel to which it must be subservient, is, gene- 
 rally speaking, creditable to the genius of the country. Sooner 
 or later no doubt, all our companies will be forced to the adop- 
 tion of double tracks, as the only safe or even economical plan. 
 Our courts of law will compel them to it. Indeed our best rail- 
 road companies have them already. Others are desirous to lay 
 them. At the same time, there are a few regulations and usages 
 on the European railways which, with that constant disposi- 
 tion to proceed in melius so characteristic of our people, 
 might advantageously be attended to even by our best compa- 
 nies. We shall mention two or three of them. 
 
 I. — It ought to be a standing order on all railways where 
 there is occasion for such a provision, that in passing through 
 tunnels, the lamps in the carriages should always be kept lighted. 
 This, we believe, is a precaution never neglected on any Euro- 
 pean railroad. In England and on the Continent alike, when 
 a tunnel is to be passed, lanterns let down through the top 
 of the cars are lighted at the preceding station and extinguished 
 again when the passage is performed. This prevents that 
 " horror of great darkness" to which, in this country, we are ex- 
 posed on such occasions ; and which, disagreeable to all persons, 
 is absolutely terrifying and distressing to women and those of 
 weak nerves. It recommends itself by so many obvious con- 
 siderations of convenience and propriety, that it is surprising 
 it should have been neglected so long. We invite the attention 
 of the Reading and of the Long Island Railroad Companies to 
 the subject, who try the courage of their passengers not a little 
 by the long tunnels on their roads. 
 
 II. — There ought to be attached to every train a few car- 
 riages corresponding with the first class in Europe, in which 
 invalids, persons with young children, and persons who choose 
 
^TAT. 34.] RAILWAY HINTS. 359 
 
 to travel iu greater seclusion than the omnibus coaches allow, 
 may, by paying a little more, be enabled to avoid the crowd 
 and tumult of the public throng. To aged people, and those in 
 feeble health, and to ladies accustomed to shun the eye of curi- 
 osity, the exposure to the rude bustle and jostling disturbance 
 of the general cars is painful, and almost impracticable. To 
 mothers with young children, how annoying is it to feel that 
 the cries which they cannot prevent are disturbing a hundred 
 other people, without the power of relief to either party 1 To 
 bridal companies, who often must have occasion to voyage in this 
 way, how unkind the necessity that compels them to endure the 
 approach and gaze of a promiscuous multitude 1 But besides 
 these and other special cases of necessity or high fitness, there 
 may be a thousand reasons why a gentleman or a man of busi- 
 ness may desire to travel with privacy ; and we are unable to 
 see why the power to gratify such an inclination should be with- 
 held. It is fair, of course, that a higher charge should be made 
 for a particular luxury of that nature. All our railway cars 
 correspond with the second class of cars in most of the countries 
 of Europe : though in many parts of Germany, even the second 
 class consists of comfortable carriages, scarcely differing in form 
 or furniture from the first. The great mass of travelers, even 
 of the best condition, make use habitually of the second class. 
 On many railways, the first class differs from the second in 
 scarcely any thing but price ; but that is an advantage, because 
 it enables you to be private. It is a common saying in Grer- 
 many, that nobody travels in the first class of cars, except wo- 
 men, ill people, and fools. For the interests of the last-named 
 class we are not especially solicitous ; but the two former have 
 a claim to be considered. We do not perceive that the scheme 
 could be objected to, on the ground of its being aristocratic. 
 The new carriages need not be called "the first class." We 
 have ourselves enough of the American spirit of equality, to 
 find the distinction between first and second classes uncomfort- 
 able to our feelings. Let them be known as the " private cars. " 
 We have private boxes at the theatres ; private state-rooms, as 
 
360 SUMMER TRAVEL IN AMERICA. [^tat. 34. 
 
 distinguished from cabin-berths, on the steamboats : what ob- 
 jection is there to private railway carriages ? 
 
 III.' — A regulation is posted up on the station-houses of the 
 new railway from Genoa to Turin, which seems to us so judi- 
 cious, that we anticipate its adoption here. It provides, in re- 
 gard to the general carriages, that any one of the passengers 
 may enforce the closing of the windows on that side from which 
 the wind blows. The windows on the other side must always 
 be sufficient for ventilation ; and we have known so many in- 
 stances in which a considerable company has been incommoded, 
 and exposed to the certainty of taking severe colds, by the per- 
 verse predilections of a single passenger for a current of air 
 from a north-west wind, especially in autumn or winter, that we 
 consider it a proper subject of regulation by by-law on the part 
 of the proprietors of the road. In all partnership action, if it 
 is only that between fellow-travelers for a day, melior est con- 
 ditio prohiberdis is the plain maxim of justice. 
 
 THE RAILROADS. 
 
 " To us, much revolving this perplexing subject" — as Lord 
 Brougham, in his classic-loving mania would say — it has ap- 
 peared wonderful that there should be so striking a difference 
 between the elegance and comfort of the accommodations with 
 which the community is supplied in steamboats, and those which 
 are met with in railway cars. In the former class of convey- 
 ances, the business of improvement has been steadily going on 
 through every successive year, until at last a degree of conve- 
 nience and luxury has been attained that leaves nothing more to 
 be desired. In all directions, by day and by night, you may 
 journey upon the waters surrounded, not merely by the splen- 
 dors of a private mansion of the first class — for perhaps there 
 has been " something too much of that" — but with every valu- 
 
iETAT. Ui] THE RAILROADS. ggl 
 
 able source for enjoyment — spacious and well appointed sleep- 
 ing rooms — airy and richly furnislied sitting rooms — and free- 
 dom to move about whither you will, and to choose your rest- 
 ing-place among half-a-dozen equally commodious and inviting 
 apartments. But in regard to the rail cars, absolutely no improve- 
 ment has been made from the day when they were first set 
 whirling along their iron tracks. With a kind of Chinese con- 
 tradictoriness, all the powers of invention that belonged to the 
 case appear to have been exhausted upon the first wonderful 
 contrivance, and since then to have rested in a complete inaction. 
 As the matter now stands, the provision that is made for ths 
 accommodation and privacy and refreshment of the traveler is 
 not such as the demands of the public reasonably call for. As 
 the number of carriages that may be dragged by a locomotive 
 is almost unlimited, and the space at the disposal of the com- 
 panies is consequently not a matter of any consideration, there 
 is no excuse for the crowded and cramped condition in which 
 people are compelled to pass the weary hours of a railway jour- 
 ney. Instead of bee-hives, in which fifty persons are boxed up 
 as closely as it is practicable to pack them, there ought to be a 
 large number of roomy vehicles for the use of fewer passengers, 
 and a supply of private conveyances which may be occupied by 
 parties of half-a-dozen. Instead of the hard, narrow, miserere 
 seats in which the voyager is now " cabined, cribbed, confined," 
 we ought to see such truly delightful, deep, capacious, easy fau- 
 tenils and sofas as are found in the best class of steamers. 
 There is no reason whatever why these things should not be 
 found in cars as well as in boats. Increased attention, also, 
 should be given to the object of furnishing the carriages with an 
 adequate supply of fresh air. Instead of the present necessity of 
 opening a window, which admits a draft of dust and smoke and 
 cinders, holes should be drilled around the top of the apartment 
 just under the roof, and in other places indicated by the proper 
 principles of ventilation. In truth, there is no end to the ad- 
 vantageous changes that might be suggested ; and there would 
 be no difficulty in accomplishing every one of them, if, on the 
 part of the managers of the roads, there existed a desire to 
 31 
 
862 BUMMER TRAVEL IN AMERICA. [^tat. 34. 
 
 gratify the public to the utmost. The conclusion at which we 
 have arrived, as to the cause of the inferiority of the steam con- 
 veyances by laud to those on water, is that the former are 
 usually in the nature of monopolies, and sometimes are mo 
 nopolies themselves. The Hudson and the Sound are open to a 
 hundred competing boats ; and in the rivalry, that one will be 
 preferred which presents most that is attractive to the traveler. 
 But he who comes from Philadelphia to New York, depends 
 upon a corporation which holds the community at its mercy. 
 Whether a reformation will ever take place, we greatly doubt ; 
 but, meanwhile, we relieve our consciences by giving a witness 
 to the truth. 
 
THE EIGHTS OF LITERATURE. 
 
 AN INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT. 1851. 
 
 No one who has kept watch over the fortnnes of literature in 
 this part of the world, can fail to be struck with the fallen and 
 languishing condition of authorship in our country within the 
 last two or three years. Never, in the last thirty years, has 
 there' been a time when literary production seemed to be so 
 scanty, and the prospect of an independent literary class be- 
 coming established so doubtful. The horizon, which but re- 
 cently seemed brightening and hopeful, has grown overcast 
 and dim. Much of this decline may be attributed to the con- 
 viction that has taken possession of the minds of writers, 
 that the establishment of an international copyright law be- 
 tween America and England is now hopeless. A few years 
 ago there was such a probability of it as kept alive a promise 
 of better things, and served to encourage a wide activity on 
 the part of those young men among us who were conscious 
 of a capacity to add to the literary stores of the country. 
 Every such expectation has now become extinguished; the 
 fatal usage of cheap reprints has become an inveterate and 
 crushing system ; and the result is seen in the lifeless con- 
 dition of our native genius. This state of things ought to 
 be deplored by every American. It is the duty of every 
 American to labor to obviate it. The literature of a people 
 is the noblest emanation and truest measure of the intellect, 
 and earnestness, and progression of that community. That of 
 America ought to be as aspiring, as copious, and as brilliant 
 as the spirit, resources, and destiny of the nation of which we 
 are a part. It would he so if that development were not 
 
 (363) 
 
364 THE RIGHTS OF LITEKATXJRB. [^tat. 34. 
 
 counteracted and repelled by a legislation which discriminates 
 against domestic talent. American authors ask no protection, 
 they demand no aids, no bounties : they simply ask not to be 
 put at a disadvantage with British competitors. They ask only 
 for the favor of contending with these competitors on equal 
 terms — the privilege of meeting them in fair contest. At 
 present the authors of Great Britain are protected against our 
 fair competition ; the laws give them an in-esistible superiority 
 in their rivalry with us. Their works are offered to our pub- 
 lishers free from the charge of the cost of production to which 
 ours must necessarily be subject. They are, therefore, in this 
 country exempt from a tax which attaches to us. On the 
 other hand, they find a protection and support from the laws 
 at home, which is denied to us. Protection, where they, have 
 it, is a strength to them, and where they want it, a hinderance 
 to us. Protection, where we have it not, is to them a relief, 
 and where we have it is a clog to us. Thus, in all ways, the 
 present system operates to tread down and extinguish the 
 literature of this country Under the advancing mass of English 
 production. It is time that the legislation of the country, on 
 this important subject, should be set free from the thraldom 
 of that short-sighted selfishness which has hitherto fettered and 
 degraded it. It should seek suggestion from those sentiments 
 of elevated justice and public honesty which are the sources 
 of judicious counsel, and should act in that spirit of perma- 
 nent and comprehensive wisdom which alone gives assurance 
 of deep and expanding benefits. Had an equitable copyright 
 system been established ten years ago, we should now possess a 
 literature capable of supplying every taste and requirement 
 of our people. But the ability which would have sought this 
 field of occupation has been diverted into more profitable 
 departments ; and our people, who would not cultivate the 
 native harvest, are to be fed upon the refuse of the order- 
 supply of England. We are kept forever in a state of colonial 
 dependence upon a country which neither values us nor de- 
 serves our devotion. Every effusion of British bad taste is to 
 Be propagated through our land, as a model of propriety and' 
 
.:ffiTAT. 34.] AMERICAN LITERATURE. 365 
 
 refinement. Our minds are to be frivolized by trash wliich 
 vulgarizes the imagination and vitiates the judgment. The 
 tone of the reading class among us is as much lowered as the 
 power of the writing class has been paralyzed. An organized 
 literature— national in its basis, original in its character, inde- 
 pendent in its aims — is less probable among us now than it 
 was twenty years ago. There can be no decided literature 
 in any country where authorship is not. a firm, reliable, and 
 safe possession. And it can never become a secure or dig- 
 nified possession where it does not stand on a level with other 
 callings, in the enjoyment of those fair advantages that ought 
 to result from an industrious exercise of reasonable abilities — 
 where it is outlawed from the protection that is usually afforded 
 to property. It is time that one final effort should be made to 
 redeem the literature of the nation from the disgrace to which 
 the action of Congress has consigned it. Some hopes have 
 been entertained that the recent course of decisions in England, 
 tending to recognize a copyright in foreigners, might result in 
 giving relief to American authors, so far as the English market 
 might be concerned. These hopes are unfounded. The case 
 between England and America rests on special clauses in the 
 English statute, and the late decisions apply only to continental 
 authors. It is only by a movement on this side of the water 
 that any real relief can be hoped for. 
 
 AMERICAN LITERATURE. 
 
 rt appears to us that, abstractedly considered, there never 
 were circumstances in any land more favorable to the develop- 
 ment of a powerful national literature, than those which now 
 exist in this country. It is a time when the elements of human 
 thought are stirred from the foundation — when feelings the 
 deepest, fiercest, most intense, and most turbulent, are working 
 .uneasily in the bosoms of the community ; when the whole 
 31* 
 
3G6 THE RIGHTS OF LITEEATXJIIE. [2Etat. Si. 
 
 political system is convulsed, social institutions are rapidly 
 changing, and tlie very principles of morals are in a state of 
 fusion in men's minds. It was at an epoch like this that the 
 philosophy and oratory of Greece came into being, and that 
 the intelligence and passion of Europe blazed up- into so 
 splendid an exhibition of Art in the sixteenth and seventeenth 
 centuries. In our political maxims and constitutions we stand 
 alone, as it were, in a state of armed antagonism against the 
 society of Europe, just as Greece asserted independence against 
 the great king, and England vindicated Protestantism against 
 the Continent, in the days of Salamis and the Armada, the 
 echoes of which strife live eternal in the verse of ^schylus 
 and Shakspeare. We own a country whose magnificent ex- 
 tent fires the imagination ; whose rapid energy of progress 
 amazes the judgment ; whose past is full of pride, and whose 
 future is boundless in its promises of power. Why then have 
 not the immense forces which are moving irregularly through 
 our American character yet deployed into Art ? Why has 
 there not arisen some great author, who should embody in the 
 productions of his pen those grand conceptions which belong 
 to the condition of his country, and be, as it were, the anti- 
 type in literature of the sublime sentiments which seem to 
 float around the history of America ? Of the writers who 
 have become distinguished among us, a part appear to be 
 struck and enchanted by admiration of English models — a 
 noble exemplar, undoubtedly, but one whose elaborate per- 
 fection, in its kind, condemns all imitation to a hopeless infe- 
 riority. Another portion have been fascinated with the quaint 
 and affected intonations by which the pedantic muse of Ger- 
 many has sought the praise of originality, and have bent all 
 their forces to waken from our native hills an answer to the 
 thrice-reflected echo of a sound which, in its origin, was arti- 
 ficial and empty. The self-dependent, strenuous, deeply-souled 
 and widely-minded American creator in letters, has not yet 
 arisen among us ; he whose profound and quick spirit shall be 
 sensitive to seize all the influences that are native to his nation, 
 and faithful to give them back in the vivid harmonies of Art ; 
 
^TAT. 34] AMERICAN LITEKATURE. 357 
 
 whose sympathies shall absorb the mighty, but, as yet, silent 
 inspiration with which the American character is teeming, to 
 reproduce it in vocal majesty and power ; whose soul, attuned 
 like JSolian chords, shall be held forth to catch every breath 
 and every passionate gust of national emotion, and touch them, 
 as they pass, into natural and enchanting melody. Por the 
 appearance of such a power among us at some time or other 
 we have always looked with great confidence ; and, with the 
 neglect of our laws to foster the literary genius of the country, 
 it is not a matter of surprise to us that it has not taken place 
 hitherto. Independently of this, the one great and greatest cause, 
 the development of Art, is a result and test of nationality ; and 
 it cannot be expected, until in the progress of their advance- 
 ment, a people has come to feel a sense of individuality — to 
 have an independent consciousness as a nation — to recognize 
 its identity and its distinctness from others — that it will devote 
 itself to working out those forces of life which it feels to be 
 stirring within it. In the years that are passed, American life 
 has been little else than European life projected into a new 
 continent, and subjected to new conditions ; and it is not until 
 now that we begin to exhibit the peculiarities of an original 
 national existence. As this stream of native consciousness 
 goes on developing itself more extensively, and starting into 
 action yet deeper sources of energy, until our country stands 
 forth marked and separated from every other in character and 
 quality of tone and temper, it is not to be doubted that the 
 flag of Art, .which is the signal to mankind that a new nation 
 has taken its place in the family of history, will go up among 
 us with exultation, and float conspicuous on the unchanging 
 breezes of eternity. 
 
 All that we noio want is an International Copyright ; and 
 until we do have an International Copyright, we shall have no 
 literature that is distinctly American. But we have already 
 enlarged upon this topic. 
 
368 THE EIGHTS OF LITERATUEB. [^tat. 34. 
 
 MR. COOPER AND THE PRESS. 
 
 [So completely do little iDcidents, which are made by popular feeling to impair, 
 and for a time almost to destroy, a great man's fame, pass into entire oblivion 
 after his death, that Mr. Cooper is scarcely now remembered by any class, other- 
 wise than as an author who did honor to the country, and to whom all are 
 indebted for instruction and delight. Yet it was much otherwise with his 
 name for a short time before his death. Having seen fit to prosecute — as he 
 undoubtedly had a perfect right to do — a few papers in New York, for libels 
 upon his works and character, a large portion of the press of that and other 
 cities seemed to regard his acts as an offense done to their whole vocation ; 
 and his death, which at any other time would have been lamented by them all 
 as a public calamity, was suffered to pass by, with no record but the most un- 
 worthy. Soon after this a literary gentleman of New York took very public 
 measures to assemble the literary men of the country, and to T>btain from them 
 an expression of their views as to the honors which were due to Mr. Cooper's 
 name and memory. It is to the facts above recalled that the following pieoa 
 has reference. — Ed.J 
 
 We must express our satisfaction at the step taken at New- 
 York upon the death of Mr. Cooper, in summoning together 
 the literary men of the country, to plan measures for appropri- 
 ate tributes of honor to the name and memory of one of the 
 most eminent literary characters of the nineteenth century. It 
 was a proper thing to be done ; and by no man was it more 
 proper to be done than by him, in whose public-spirited zeal 
 for the dignity of American authorship this most respectable 
 and commendable movement had its origin. We must confess 
 that we have observed with astonishment and grief the insensi- 
 bility with which the intelligence of the death of such a man as 
 Cooper was received by this country. It was not creditable to 
 the moral sense of the nation. We verily believe that if it had 
 not been for the solitary and determined efforts of one single 
 man, the author of " The Spy," the " Red Rover," the " Last of 
 the Mohicans," and a long list of matchless works besides, who 
 has shed upon the literary reputation of this land a lustre which 
 will never fade, would have descended to his grave with less 
 circumstances of respect than attends the departure of the poor- 
 est scribbler that ever foamed his nonsense through the columns of 
 
^TAT. 34.] MR. COOPER AND THE PEESS. 359 
 
 a morning journal, or the most worthless vagabond that ever 
 put on the disguise of a patriot in order to earn the laurels of a 
 pirate. There is something wrong in this. The Press " is too 
 much with us." They who belong to that arm of the service are 
 bound to speak freely upon this subject ; and to speak fearlessly 
 because they speak the truth. The press is a great power ; but it 
 is not the highest literary estate in the country I After all, it 
 represents only the present and the fugitive, while another order 
 of effort embodies the permanent and the far-seen. The near- 
 ness with which it comes to us, confuses our sense of the pro- 
 portion of things. The press is a great power ; but unless that 
 power is exercised conscientiously and unselfishly, and with a 
 just sense of its own limited rights, and a full recognition of 
 its own extensive duties — it will become an odious tyrant instead 
 of a beneficent ruler. The self-sycophancy of the press, and its 
 animosity towards those who do not flatter it, are sometimes 
 pushed to an extent that overrides the claims of justice and of 
 truth. Is that a fosterer of our true literary greatness which is 
 so administered, that the puniest hanger-on of a tenth-rate paper, 
 shall have his motions chronicled, his name periodically blazoned, 
 hie death made the subject of a claim to the national attention, 
 while a gentleman who chooses to stand apart in the indepen- 
 dence of his own dignity, and in the unquestionable rights of his 
 freedom of thought and speech, on all subjects, shall forfeit all 
 acknowledgment of those great merits that were identified with 
 the best fame of his country, and have a genius which no one 
 dares to deny passed by and ignored, upon a system of stupid 
 and dishonest silence ? The thing has been carried to a pitch of 
 indecency. No differences of opinion or taste should ever have 
 been allowed to prevent the press of this country from rendering, 
 cordially and generously, constant recognition of Mr. Cooper's 
 genius, and heartfelt tributes of gratitude and admiration for 
 noble achievements, once done, forever to be cherished. A 
 man of splendid faculties and exalted nature — exhibited in mani- 
 fold performances of the highest excellence — may be betrayed 
 in such weaknesses and errors that the puniest caitiff of the 
 press may insult him with his malice, or injure him by his silence y 
 
310 THE EIGHTS OF LITEEATDEE. IJStat. i 
 
 yet the relations of things are not altered by injustice ; the oi 
 is still a glorious creature, the pride and pleasure of the work 
 and the other is but a poor miserable animal, little better thi 
 an overgrown vermin. The literary among us is too much tl 
 victim of the political, the commercial, and the personal. ^ 
 sincerely trust that some signal manifestation will be made, in 
 permanent form, of the admirable and delightful genius of Jam 
 Penimore Cooper. 
 
 Among the letters which were written in reply to the iny 
 tation to the late meeting of literary men, there was a par; 
 graph of Mr. Bryant's, which struck us forcibly by its trut 
 and the deep feeling which it indicates, but not indulges. " 
 is melancholy," is the reflection of that fine spirit, "to thii 
 that it is not until such men are in their graves, that justice 
 done to their merits." And again — he was " one to whom v 
 were too sparing of public distinctions in his lifetime." Tl 
 truth is — and it may as well be frankly spoken — for a series c 
 years, we have all been unjust to Mr. Cooper. It is needle 
 now to inquire what misapprehensions were the cause of this ii 
 justice. The first step in a right direction, should be founded upc 
 each one's own inward recognition of the fact. The misfortui 
 is, that we are too sparing of public distinctions toward all oi 
 great literary men. We mean to make that sentence of M 
 Bryant's letter the text of a homily on a future occasio; 
 Meanwhile, one effective way to manifest our value for the livir 
 is to pour out honors upon the dead. 
 
 HONORS TO LITERARY MEN. 
 
 If literature is to flourish in this country, the calling of tl 
 literary man must be made dignified, and honorable, and em 
 nent. The love of distinction is probably the most prevailin 
 influence in American society. It is gratified so promptly an 
 so poignantly in political and editorial life, that few of tl 
 
^TAT. 34.] HONOKS TO LITERARY MEN. 3U 
 
 bright spirits that might vindicate for themselves abiding places 
 upon the calm heights. of fame, can withstand the temptations 
 that are presented to youthful sensibility by systems whose pro- 
 mises are felt at that age to be rewards, and whose rewards are 
 found at a later period to be only promises. The Present, like 
 the poet's monster — barking, restless, and voracious — always 
 feeding, and always famished — seems to be eternally devouring 
 the Permanent, yet becoming no better favored for its banquet. 
 How many great authors — we mean great authors of great 
 works — will the now rising generation in our country give to 
 renown ? The glory of a hundred writers is in all our news- 
 papers — and there, alas 1 it will remain forever. We fear that 
 the future historian of letters, as he looks backward over these 
 days, will have little to record but a series of fair auguries, 
 fading away just as they seemed to be blooming into fulfillment 
 — a tale of noble natures snatched into the captivity of an ig- 
 noble enlistment which drowns the individual in a nameless mass, 
 and, with an infinite effusion of power, earns only the boast of 
 having been able to endure a great waste. Our system tends 
 to the over-supply of all the lower and meaner channels of lite- 
 rature, by draining all the larger and loftier reservoirs. We 
 have many incomparable articles — few valuable books. We 
 have many to whom the poor and pitying tribute is paid, half 
 in melancholy, and half in contempt, "What he miglxl have 
 done I" few of whom we feel " What great things he has done !" 
 We view these tendencies of our country with regret ; we note 
 them, not to insult, nor to repine, but to urge amendment. The 
 great reason why so few are disposed to dedicate themselves to 
 the lonely and retiring toils of genuine authorship, is, that the 
 social character of that calling is not distinguished adequately, 
 according to its true and inherent superiority. We again gene- 
 ralize, and repeat the remark of Mr. Bryant, that we are too 
 sparing of public honors to our great authors during their lives. 
 It ought to be felt that literature is an order of eminence in 
 the State, brighter and higher and purer than every other ; and 
 for the persons of those who are of its highest ranks, specific 
 honors should be reserved. 
 
312 THE-RIGHTS OF LITERATURE. [iEiAT. 34. 
 
 It is a common-place philosophy to deride honors paid to 
 the dead as empty and mocking. The feeling is an unthinking 
 one. Such honors are wise and beneficial, and have ever been 
 observed by the most moral and reflecting people. It is by ac- 
 cumulating testimonies of homage and regret about the graves 
 of any class of persons, that society teaches how profoundly it 
 values and reverences that class. The departed are insensible, 
 perhaps, to these tributes ; but their surviving brethren reap 
 great advantage. We view the meanest pageantry of burial 
 with interest, for it tends to the dignity of poor human nature ; 
 we look upon pompous exhibitions at the mortality of genius 
 and virtue as a duty, for they belong to the acknowledgment 
 of the merit that was revealed in them. We entertain a hope 
 that the occasion of Mr. Cooper's death will be made to teach 
 a useful lesson, and to be the commencement of a proper system 
 of usage. It may become the beginning of a measure for the 
 proper illustration of literary merit in the eyes of the nation. 
 Why should we not have a Westminster Abbey — at least for 
 literary men ? Why would not Trinity serve for a Poet's Cor- 
 ner ? We should be glad to see the remains of Mr. Cooper 
 brought to 'New York, and carried in public procession to that 
 venerable spot, and deposited as the first occupant of a build- 
 ing which should become the mausoleum of the genius of the 
 nation. Let those hereafter, who rise to a genuine and national 
 reputation, be laid beside hun, until the place becomes a tem- 
 ple of the reverence that is due to mental greatness — a shrine 
 of the homage of a people towards those who have made them- 
 selves the benefactors of them and their posterity. Nothing 
 would tend to create in the hearts of literary men that just pride 
 which is the foundation of great virtues and the fosterer of 
 great endeavors, than the existence of an institution like this, 
 to remind them ever of the dignity of their vocation, and to 
 propose a token of public and permanent respect as the reward 
 of unswerving labors in the highest walks. Let us begin the 
 task of perpetuating. Let us learn to incorporate into the en- 
 during whatever has become valuable in the passing time. It 
 is lamentable to think how entirely the names and memory and 
 
:^TAT. 34. THE RIGHTS OF LITEEATURE. 373 
 
 noral influence of the great men whom we have had through 
 hree parts of a century, have crumbled away into nothingness. 
 We exceed all nations in our energy to gain from the future, 
 3Ut none loses so much as we on the side of the past. Let us 
 earn to garner up into the treasure-houses of an always-present 
 md vital remembrance, whatsoever appears among us adapted 
 ;o exert good effects upon the days hereafter. As a nation, we 
 ire spendthrift of everything ; but most, and worst, of the re- 
 jown of our citizens. 
 
 32 
 
DEFENCE OF THE COUNTRY. 
 
 AMEEICAN SOCIETY AND SCIENCE. 
 
 [This piece, with several which follow it, was written at a time when nearly 
 the whole secular Press of G^reat Britain was pouring out those expressions 
 of ridicule and contempt against the United States of America, in which it 
 from time to time so unbecomingly indulges. The absence of any national re- 
 presentation of this country at the Great London Exhibition of 1851, was the 
 subject of unintermitted and insulting comment. American taste, American 
 Art, and American science were denied, disproved, and ridiculed. Not long 
 before this, the pretensions, as a discoverer, of oar countryman, Professor 
 Morse, were wholly set aside in favor of British superiority : and the modest 
 genius to which science everywhere has since been forced, by the power of 
 truth, to do homage, was scouted with expressions of contempt hy the beat 
 tnown and most influential paper in the world. These denials of his merits 
 were seized on in America, also, with the worst effects to his interests, by 
 piratical invaders of his rights. It was just as this systematic course of 
 assault was exhausting itself, that the great Eegatta of England was cele- 
 brated at Cowes, before Osborn House ; and that " The America," a yacht of 
 the New York Yachting Club, gained its well-known victory over every 
 vessel of the yachting clubs of England. The event to which the atten- 
 tion of all England had been directed, produced hardly less effect than a 
 victory in arms would have done, and the tone of the English press was sud- 
 denly changed. The Americans, who before had been stigmatized by nearly 
 every opprobrious epithet, were now discovered to be worthy descendants of 
 an honored stock j — true sons of England, and their victories only added 
 honor to the fame of Britain. — Ed.] 
 
 A HtFNDKED years ago, Montesquieu said that a republic 
 could not exist in a large country. In the condition of science 
 and arts at the time he wrote, the remark was correct. The 
 necessity that a common sentiment and kindred habits and 
 usages should prevail throughout the whole, and that the popu- 
 lar sense should act promptly upon legislation, and should be 
 kept enlightened, in order that it might act intelligently, seemed 
 
 (375) 
 
3t6 DEFENCE OF THE COtlNTEY. [^tat. 32. 
 
 to forbid this form of polity in a nation which it would require 
 months to traverse, and of which the different parts, from want 
 of intercommunion, would constantly diverge from one another 
 in temper, manners, and pursuits. But it has been a portion 
 of the same providential appointment, whose wisdom and benefi- 
 cence are visible in every feature of our history, that America, 
 as she went along, should create for herself the means of her 
 own continuance — should evolve the conditions of her own per- 
 manent existence. It is a significant, but natural circumstance, 
 that the names identified with those great modern discoveries 
 by which space and time have been vanquished, in both the ma- 
 terial and mental relations of the country, are all those of Ameri- 
 cans : Franklin, Fulton, Stevens, Henry, Morse, and Hoe — 
 these names are invested with a political as well as a scientific 
 lustre ; for their researches and inventions have contributed to 
 clamp and rivet together into the unity of an arch-like struc- 
 ture, masses of population that were else detached and frag- 
 mentary. 
 
 What or where would the Union have been without the ap- 
 plication of steam to the purposes of locomotion ? What is it 
 that binds together Boston and Chicago, Pittsburg and New 
 Orleans, with " bonds of perdurable toughness ?" It is the 
 myriad-fibred cordage of commercial relations — slight in any 
 iadividual instance, but indissoluble in their multitudinous com- 
 bination ; it is that perfect identity of purpose, interest, intelli- 
 gence, and feeling, which render them divided parts of the same 
 city, rather than different cities. All this moral and social ap- 
 proximation of places removed from one another as far as Mos- 
 cow is from Paris, is due wholly to steamboats and steam cars. 
 How wonderfully, as a consequence of this interfusion of the 
 thoughts and passions of distant regions, have the national cha- 
 racteristics of the conservative East and the daring West reacted 
 upon one another with infinitude of mutual benefit 1 The senti- 
 ments, designs, and principles of New England have expanded, 
 insensibly, from intercourse with a section of country where en- 
 terprise is as boundless as the range of its own borderless prai- 
 
JEtat. 32.] AMERICAN SOCIETY AND SCIENCE. gijij 
 
 ries, and action is as grand and mighty as the lakes which it 
 has enslaYed to its own sovereign uses. On the other hand, 
 
 " The pulse's maddening play, 
 That thrills the wanderer of the trackless way" 
 
 of Western adventure and ambition, has been cooled and so- 
 bered by the firm and temperate touch of the paternal hand that 
 was reached forth to clasp it across a thousand miles. 
 
 Look, then, at Printing. What an immense effect the circu- 
 lation of newspapers and cheap periodicals has had upon our 
 national condition 1 It has brought the minds of millions of 
 men to become as one mind, to adopt one system of views, to 
 sympathize with one set of feelings, to respond to one class of 
 appeals. Every step in the history of printing is a marvel ; 
 but the miracle which throws all earlier wonders into neglect, 
 and to which the prodigies of the daily and weekly press in 
 America are due, is Hoe's Printing Press. It would be delight- 
 ful if the limits of a contribution to a newspaper permitted us 
 to give a detailed description of one of the most wonderful in- 
 ventions of the age — an everlasting honor to American ingenu- 
 ity, and a memorable illustration how matter may be made to 
 return upon the intelligence of men an inspiration and a power 
 not less than those it has derived from it. This interesting and 
 attractive subject requires, however, a formal essay. 
 
 But the most remarkable — and destined, as we think, to be the 
 most effective of all the various agencies that have been brought 
 to bear upon the social state of our country by the faculty of Our 
 citizens — is to be found in those simple but profound contri- 
 vances of science by which the wild and tameless spirit of the 
 storm — born amid the clouds of thunder, and reveling in the 
 tumult of the tempest, the fiercest terror among a host of such 
 • — the electric fire of heaven — has been subdued into the servant 
 and messenger of man— to obey the voice of his will — to do 
 the biddings of his pleasures. The Cabbalists fabled that the 
 8age of their mystic lore had elemental beings — sylphs, sala- 
 manders, and gnomes — to speed through air and earth and wave 
 to execute his missions. The achievements of the gifted men 
 32* 
 
318 DEFENCE OF THE COUNTET. _[^tat. 32. 
 
 of our own soil and time have realized, in iliteral exactness, all 
 that gave glory to the morning dreams of still-slumbering 
 science. And, in this department, the glory is exclusively and 
 unquestionably American. Electricity was essentially begun, 
 developed, and finished by Pranklin. No important progress 
 has been made in it since his day. In the affiliated subject of 
 electro-magnetism, Professor Henry's researches are of the first 
 olass of distinction and importance. These able men brought 
 the sciences they dealt with up to that point of theoretic com- 
 ■ pleteness where they were ready for application to the arts ; 
 and Professor Morse stepped forward to present a method of 
 employing these winged invisible influences, which, whether you 
 consider the grandeur of its conception, the dignity of the in- 
 terests which it subserves, or the importance of its ultimate ef- 
 fects on men and things, will stand unsurpassed in the records 
 of human achievement. Meanwhile, Morse has met with the 
 usual lot of all great discoverers — that of having his fame ac- 
 knowledged in distant empires, and disparaged at home. " The 
 Kings of Arabia and Saba bring gifts" to a shrine which is neg- 
 lected or persecuted in the land which it immortalizes : dis- 
 tant eyes behold a star which nearer ones cannot see, through 
 mists of prejudice. We must congratulate the inventor of the 
 electric telegraph upon circumstances which set the seal of 
 certainty to the greatness of his discovery. We would have 
 wanted the usual evidences, of unquestionable importance in 
 the work which he has accomplished, if there had not sprung 
 up some other claimants to a glory which the clearest proof 
 the thing admits of, refers, beyond all doubt, to him. The oc- 
 casions of making grand popular discoveries are so rare, and 
 the reputation attending them is so dazzling, that when such an 
 occurrence is announced, vanity impels every man whose studies 
 had any connection with the matter, to thrust forward a pre- 
 tension to its authorship : and multitudes are found hastening 
 to " pursue a triumph" which they could not have won, and to 
 " partake a gale" of distinction which they never could have set 
 in action. We believe that it may be asserted, with exact truth, 
 that no celebrated discovery or invention has been made, for 
 
^TAT. 32.] ENGLAND, AMERICA, AND PEOP. MORSE. 37:9 
 
 the last three hundred years, to which rival claims have not con- 
 fidently been advanced. But the world soon gets right on 
 these subjects ; it may be misled for a few days or years, but 
 not forever. It has an admirable organ for scenting the truth ; 
 and though its instinct may be puzzled for a while by the tricks 
 of people who burn deluding incenses under its nose, yet, when 
 these practisings are discontinued, it recovers its native dis- 
 crimination, and snuffs the right with infallible accuracy. To 
 go not beyond our own day : take the discoveries of Leverrier 
 and Daguerre. In the former case, it was first said that, though 
 a prediction had been fulfilled, it was an Englishman who had 
 made it. It was then ascertained that no prophecy had been 
 verified ; for the planet of the telescopes was not the planet of 
 Leverrier's calculations. But it is now incontestably settled 
 that a magnificent discovery was made, and that Leverrier is 
 entitled to all the glory of it. In Dagnerre's affair, Mr. Pox 
 Talbot, for a time, divided the public wonder ; but his shadowy 
 title to another's honor has long since vanished into air. The 
 rivalry in Mr. Morse's case rests on less plausible grounds than 
 iu almost any other of the cases. The testimony to the com- 
 plete originality of his contrivance is overpowering. We our- 
 selves possess a personal and contemporary knowledge of the 
 history of his work. "We perfectly well recollect Professor 
 Joseph Henry's explaining to us the suggestion which Mr. 
 Morse had communicated to him, and with great candor ac- 
 knowledging its merit and predicting the certainty of its prac- 
 tical success. And this was years before the date which the 
 English claimants assign to their inventions. 
 
 ENGLAND, AMERICA, AND PROF. MORSE. 
 
 Long after the progress of civilization has made a complete 
 change in the modes of life and the forms of external manners, 
 nations retain the instincts of their origin, and the impressioij 
 
380 DEFENCE OF THE COUNTRY. [^tat. 34 
 
 of early habits, in the temper which they carry into new pur 
 suits and occupations of an opposite tendency. The first ap 
 pearance of the English people in history is as a race of pirates 
 The strenuous pride of modern British glory resolves itself, a; 
 we go backward, into a daring system of marine freebooting— 
 "from dirt and sea- weed as proud Venice rose." And as thi 
 latter, in the dignity of its fiercest state, retained something oi 
 the treacherous and oozy qualities of its first foundation, so 
 amidst the multitude of streamers which England gives to thi 
 breeze, as she sails among the nations, one may always disceri 
 the little black flag of the buccanier — the true symbol of he 
 character and course. The policy of her fame — not only ii 
 political and military achievement, but in literature, science 
 invention, art — ^has always been prendre son Men partout ell 
 le trouve, to seize upon and appropriate the intellectual dis 
 coveries of other countries, as things naturally belonging ti 
 herself — ^things which she intended to discover, and in effec 
 did so, though perhaps not quite so soon as some other people 
 She seems to think that she has a prerogative of discovery, b; 
 force of which invention elsewhere is unofBcial and irregular 
 and not to be morally and historically recognized. If other 
 do the thing first, from their own resources, it is only for th' 
 purpose of showing England how to do it for her reputation 
 and to whomsoever the fact may be ascribed, the glory right 
 fully pertains to her. Her title to much of her mental renown 
 like that to her kingdom, depends on conquest. Others ma; 
 point to creations ; she exhibits spoils. Her gallery of scien 
 tific monuments is but a museum of pirated trophies, illustrating 
 indeed, her courage, but at the expense of her originality 
 From the time that Newton snatched from Leibnitz the fam^ 
 of the sole discovery of the method of fluxions, the progres 
 of science will exhibit a constant record of attempts, on th 
 part of England, to gain for her own sons the reputation ol 
 inventions honestly achieved by others. No sooner does th^ 
 intelligence of some grand discovery or contrivance, practicall; 
 and completely efiected, in France, Germany, or America, trans 
 pire through the world, than England produces some modes 
 
iETAT. 34.] ENHLAND, AMERICA, AND PROP. MORSE. 381 
 
 country curate, or retired fellow of a college, who had done 
 essentially the same thing. As for the question of priority — 
 why, allowing for variety of watches, and the difference of lon- 
 gitude, and giving, full force to the presumption in favor of 
 English sagacity and against foreign honesty, there can be no 
 doubt that the little island is authorized to come in, if not ex- 
 actly for the undivided honor, at least for the credit of simul- 
 taneous discovery. . The doctrine of " simultaneous discovery" 
 is a favorite theory with her authors, who of course take care 
 that the position of their own candidate shall be determined 
 without any reference to the pretensions of the rival country. 
 
 It has always been agreed, among the candid historians of 
 science, that the evidence of Leibnitz's originality in the idea 
 of the diiferential mathematics was incontestable ; but such was 
 the profound reverence for Newton's integrity, that when he 
 affirmed his own independent arrival at a similar device, it was 
 allowed, on the strength of his moral reputation. The recent 
 revelation of Newton's treatment of Flamstead calls for a rec- 
 tification of the popular and traditionary impression about the 
 affair with Leibnitz ; and it is not doubtful that future re- 
 viewers of that celebrated controversy will, by the light of 
 Barrow's accounts of Newton's unfairness and bad feeling, see 
 the pretensions of Leibnitz in a clear and paramount position. 
 To pass over a long intermediate time, and come to recent days, 
 M. Daguerre no sooner astonished Europe by the announce- 
 ment of one of the most brilliant and valuable discoveries in 
 Art, than the columns of " The Literary Gazette" were filled with 
 papers asserting that the merit of the first conception of this 
 new and admirable invention belonged to Mr. Pox Talbot, of 
 England. M. Leverrier proclaimed the recognition of a new 
 planet, and forthwith it appeared that a Mr. Adams, a Cam- 
 bridge undergraduate, had sent the Royal Astronomer, months 
 before, a communication stating exactly where a new planet 
 might be found, but that the Royal Astronomer had not 
 thought it worth while to direct his telescope in accordance 
 with the indications in the letter. America has long been a 
 field for similar, acts of the rapine of glory. Many years ago, 
 
383 DEFENCE OF THE COCNTET. [^tat. 34 
 
 Dr. Hare contrived an arrangement called the compound blow- 
 pipe, by which the most intense heat was produced for fusing 
 purposes, with great facility and entire safety. Dr. Clarke, of 
 Cambridge, made some alterations for the worse in this fine 
 conception of the American chemist, by which its security was 
 much impaired, and introduced it into England as his own : 
 and English books of science to this day discourse largely or 
 the brilliance and value of "Dr. Clarke's blow-pipe." A 
 recent English paper announces to the world, as an evidence 
 of British superiority, the invention of a machine for turning 
 objects with absolute precision after any given models. The 
 machine thus invented in England is identical with that one 
 invented by Mr. Blanchard, of Boston, which was described bj 
 him in 1822, in British works of science, and which has been 
 in public use, from that time to this, for turning gnnstocks 
 and gun-barrels, in our national armories at Springfield and 
 Harper's Ferry. In 1802, Dr. Physic gave to the world his 
 well-known operation with the seton, in the case of a fractured 
 humerus ; one of the brilliant achievements of modern surgery, 
 and one most productive of benefit to suffering humanity. 
 How England received the record of this achievement, the 
 " Surgical Lectures" of Mr. William Lawrence inform us. Now 
 confessed by the world to be a great one, it was then so mis- 
 represented and so undervalued by Mr. Lawrence, that the 
 public might have well supposed it was an operation of nc 
 %'alue at all. So, too, in another well-known achievement foi 
 a painful malady. While the manuscript Case Book of the 
 Pennsylvania Hospital recorded the operation as performed bj 
 Dr. Physic there in 1809, and there were thousands ready tc 
 attest that this great surgeon had taught it publicly, from 1805 
 to 1821 as his, the credit of it was given, by nearly everj 
 English journal to Dupuytren, a subsequent discoverer ; and ii 
 was not until 1835, when Ronx, the successor of Dupuytren, 
 stated publicly to his class that Dr. Physic, and not Dupuytren, 
 was its author, that the claim of Dr. Physic was admitted ir 
 England with anything but extreme reluctance. 
 
 The fate of the fame of Fulton and Stevens, in connectior 
 
^TAT. 34.] ENGLAND, AMERICA, AND PROE. MORSE., 383 
 
 with the history of the steamboat, is known to all our readers. 
 Hos ego feci — tulit alter honores might well be the motto 
 of many an American man of genius in relation to his English 
 competitors. 
 
 There is, however, one of these systematic schemes for trans- 
 ferring from the brow of an American, laurels whose fresh- 
 ness can never fade — which, from the flagrant dishonesty of 
 the design, and the fact of its taking place under our own eyes, 
 is adapted to rouse a just indignation. We allude to the 
 attempts to obscure the well-earned glory of Professor Morse, 
 and to parcel out among two or three English experimenters 
 the honors of the electric telegraph, which, by the clearest 
 possible right, belong wholly to this country. The world has 
 by this time become too well acquainted with the Pistol-like 
 propensities of England to " convey" to its own side of the 
 water the renown of all great discoveries abroad, to attach 
 importance to the assertions in derogation of the plain title of 
 the cis-atlantic inventor. The name of " MorSe" is immortal in 
 the memory and admiration and gratitude of the civilized 
 world ; and it will stand forever a monument of the ingenuity of 
 America and the dishonest jealousy of England. It is a mat- 
 ter of regret to us, however, that our countrymen, especially our 
 literary men, are by no means so active and earnest in the con- 
 stant assertion of our true titles to the credit of these disputed 
 inventions, as the English are in the stubborn maintenance of 
 their false claims. It is by a popular process of " continued 
 claim" that they have, in sundry instances, created a plausible 
 public opinion in their favor. These international " Exposi- 
 tions," or " World's Pairs," of which this of 1851 is but the first 
 of a long series, are likely to afford a fair occasion for the vin- 
 dication of the just claims of various nations to the merit of 
 their own scientific discoveries and inventive arts. At the 
 next Crystal Palace ■ that shall be erected, the subject of 
 American genius and ingenuity in practical matters must be 
 taken up systematically, displayed in its full, comprehensive 
 extent, and established by complete and conclusive evidence. 
 The insulf which this country has received from the flippancy 
 
384 DEFENCE OF THE COUNTRY. [^tat. 3J 
 
 of British editors, gives ns a riglit to ask tliat the whole eas 
 between us and them should be gone into, and that we shouh 
 be allowed to prove our title to some of the inventions of whicl 
 England boasts the loudest. At such new Exhibition, a com 
 mittee of competent persons should be appointed in thi 
 country, who should, in the first place, collect funds adequat 
 for the purpose, and then make the fullest provision for bring 
 ing together, in the great arena of rivalry, all the best produc 
 tions of the national mind in arts and inventions, not onl 
 recent but remote, and fortifying all disputed cases with copiou 
 and sufficient documents and testimony, and referring the adjt 
 dication to the disinterested arbitration of continental nations 
 If such a course were now adopted in regard to Professc 
 Morse, while the evidences are present, and popular error an 
 injustice have not grown inveterate, the glory of his gran 
 conception would be rescued from the enemy, and brought hom 
 to give added lustre to that land which he has honored, an 
 which will ever delight to honor him. 
 
 THE GREAT EXHIBITION OF 1851. 
 
 It is much to be regretted that the Exposition in Londo: 
 which was intended to commemorate and promote the peacef 
 interests of nations, should become signalized by a sharp quarr 
 between two great people, who, of all others, ought to hai 
 manifested the utmost decency and benignity of mutual inte 
 course. The American Department in the Great Pair hi 
 called out a flood of contempt from a portion of the Englis 
 press ; and this has been met by a torrent of resentment fro 
 this side of the water. We wish to discuss this subject wi 
 candor and truth. Were we now writing in reply to " The Times 
 or addressing a circle of British readers, we might possibly co 
 sider it our duty to hurl back sneers and sarcasms, and all tl 
 small artillery of mortified vanity. But we converse at prese: 
 
J!tat. 31.] THE GREAT EXHIBITION OF 1861. 385 
 
 only with our own countrymen. And we think well enough of 
 their good sense and manliness of feeling, to be sure that they 
 would rather we should examine the case fairly and rationally, 
 than blaze out in a valiant flourish of scorn and defiance. 
 
 Now in the first place, we wish people to remember one thing 
 which has some bearing upon the merits of this international 
 and internecine war of the press : we mean the incontestable 
 fact, that American arts and manufactures and inventions are 
 almost wholly unrepresented in the house in Hyde Park. The 
 articles are wretchedly few in number, and are not characteristic 
 of our taste, our skill, or the range of our resources. Before the 
 British critics had uttered one word in print upon the subject, all 
 the Americans on the spot, without exception, acknowledged the 
 entire insufficiency of the trans-Atlantic specimens, and wholly 
 disavowed them as a fit measure and indication of the industry 
 of their country. There has been no failure of our arts upon a 
 comparison with the British arts — the failure has been in the 
 efforts to collect together a tolerable display of our charac- 
 acteristic arts. It is not that our army has been routed in 
 a pitched engagement in the field — it is that our forces have 
 not arrived upon the field at all. A few straggling militia ad- 
 venturers, "fighting upon their own hook," have been mistaken 
 in the dark for the combined regular army of the thirty-one 
 sovereign States. There is to us something a little diverting in 
 the spectacle of the British press supposing that they had all 
 America before them, and falling to work at the task of belabor- 
 ing the imaginary form of their hated rival. They have exulted 
 over the inferiority of that which is not America. Their victory 
 has been as easy as it is inglorious. 
 
 The causes of this general neglect to send forward proper 
 contributions, are we think easily explicable. Up to the last 
 moment, every body looked to Congress, expecting not only an 
 adequate appropriation, but the appointment of persons charged 
 with the duty of summoning artizans and manufacturers to bring 
 out their specimens, and furnished with authority to select, re- 
 ject, and dispatch what they approved of. When Congress ad- 
 journed, it was too late to organize, by private and voluntary 
 33 
 
386 DEFENCE OF THE COUNTRY. [^tat. 3< 
 
 efforts, an efficient system of means for xirawing out the full re 
 sources of our industrial strength. Without a comprehensiv 
 and most active organization for that purpose, it is impossibl 
 that any satisfactory result should be attained. In England 
 the machinery employed for bringing into the Fair a complet 
 exhibition of the arts and manufactures of the kingdom, was o: 
 vast extent and was constantly in exercise. A central board o: 
 commissioners was formed, consisting of a large number of th 
 most intelligent and active friends of the scheme. This boar 
 was daily in session, the Prince devoting his whole time and a1 
 tention to its objects. It addressed applications for money t 
 all persons supposed capable of contributing, and it raised i 
 this way nearly a hundred thousand pounds. Local committee 
 were formed in every town and district throughout the kingdon 
 which were in communication with the central one. Througl" 
 out the year 1850, advertisements in great letters might be see 
 in all railway station-houses, inns, and other public place; 
 giving notice of the character of the Exhibition, and invitin] 
 the attention of all artificers. Small books were also distributei 
 in every town containing lists of the sort of articles that wouli 
 be received. Everybody who dealt in such articles sent his bes 
 specimens to the local exhibition, where the contributions o: 
 each district were collected and reviewed. Everything that wa 
 defective, or in bad taste, was rigorously rejected ; such thing 
 as were accepted, were sent forward to London without expens 
 to the contributors. It is to the sedulous refusal of all inferio 
 specimens that the faultless excellence of the English Depart 
 ment ,in the Exhibition is to be ascribed ; and it is from the war 
 of such diligent weeding, that the American quarter presents s 
 many things to excite condemnation and ridicule. Everybod 
 being at liberty to send what he chose, a number of tradesme 
 have sent out their cheap and worthless commodities by way o 
 speculation, establishing agencies for the sale of them in Londoi 
 and using the Exhibition as a mere advertising shop. 
 
 Upon a view of the whole case, there is no reason why ou 
 countrymen should feel discouraged or humbled in regard to th 
 comparative merit of their manufacturing arts. We are entirel 
 
^TAT. 34.] THE GREAT EXHIBITION OF 1851. 381 
 
 confident that if the same efficient means were adopted here 
 which were in operation in Great Britain, to bring out an ade- 
 quate representation of the national productions, the fruits of 
 our industry would make not only a creditable, but eyen a dis- 
 tinguished figure, beside those of every nation in Europe. In 
 some things we should fall short, but in many we should greatly 
 surpass them. But what are we to do, to withdraw ourselves 
 from- the unfortunate condition into which accident and neglect 
 have betrayed us ? How are we to set ourselves right in the 
 judgment of other lands, and vindicate our just title to general re- 
 spect? Nothing can be done for the present Exhibition. It is too 
 late, and the subject cannot now be taken up systematically ; 
 and we would rather let the present trial pass completely by de- 
 fault. But there will be a repetition of this great display. We 
 have no doubt that in the course of eight or ten years, another 
 World's Fair, on even a grander scale, will take place. What 
 part is America to take on that occasion ? Shall she take 
 counsel of her wounded sensibilities, and remain sullenly at 
 home ? Shall it be said that she has been sneered, and sniffled, 
 and scouted off the field ? that she dare not show her face in the 
 congress of her sister nations ? By no means — not at all. 
 America must be there, in all her manifold and mighty strength, 
 and by the full display of her real and unquestionable excel- 
 lencies, she must answer and silence the unworthy contumely of 
 the British editors. 
 
 That this country, when her forces are fairly marshaled, may 
 flank the lines of any nation on the globe, let no American doubt. 
 Let us look at one single department — ^the highest, most diffi- 
 cult, and most honorable — sculpture. England has a roomful 
 of marbles and plaster casts ; Austrian Italy furnishes another 
 equally large. These are probably the most creditable and 
 most admired contribution in the whole collection. Yet Amer- 
 ica had it in her power to submit a display of works of this 
 kind, which would have thrown Austria and England into infe- 
 riority. We have a tolerable familiarity with the productions 
 of the chisel of every nation of Europe ; and we defy any man 
 to contradict us, when we affirm that the American school of 
 
388 DEFENCE OF THE COUNTRY. [^tat. 34, 
 
 sculpture is at this time the best in the world. It is a pro- 
 position that admits of no dispute. And how was this — the 
 first of all the classes of exhibited objects, in which to have tri- 
 umphed would have given us the apiartta of the whole contest — 
 how was this filled up by our countrymen ? Will it be believed 
 that the native land of Powers, of Greenough, of Crawford, anc 
 of Browne, sent not one single statue, not one single cast of 
 any sort whatever ? Yet it is even so. By a happy suggestior 
 of Mr. Lawrence — who, seeing the pitiable collapse of th( 
 American effort, thought of borrowing the Greek Slave — on( 
 single specimen of the genius of our sculptors is there ; but it ii 
 there by the liberality of an Englishman. As it is, that solitary 
 block of marble constitutes our highest pretensions to respect 
 and of itself saves us from indignity. We undertake to assen 
 that at the next Exhibition, America can fill a room with twent] 
 statues, the least meritorious of which shall be as good as th( 
 best that any other nation shall farnish. For what has Italy 
 Germany, or England produced, in the last fifteen years, that ii 
 better than Crawford's Orpheus or Proserpine — than Green 
 ough's Medora, or than the group now in his studio at Florence 
 than Powers' Eve, or his heads of Webster and Marshall ;— 
 or others which we might enumerate ? 
 
 The matter of sculpture is but a specimen of all the rest 
 There is not an inch of American cloth in the present Exhibi 
 tion. There are no calicoes, except some half-dozen very com 
 monplace pieces sent by one single company. There are no car 
 pets. In short, in linen, cotton, woolen, and silk stuffs, theri 
 is absolutely no show whatever. There is no machinery. Oi 
 the thousand admirable patent inventions which have been ori 
 ginated here, not half-a-dozen are to be seen. We ourselve 
 could make out, at five minutes notice, a list of fifty philosophi 
 cal instruments of the first repute, contrived by the science am 
 ingenuity of our citizens, of which not one is on the spot. Th 
 locomotives of this country are in use in Italy and Russia, an( 
 preferred to the English. Yet, though England sends speci 
 mens of all of hers, America sends not one. Is it wondrou 
 that our share of the Exposition is a failure, when we have re 
 
^TAT. 33.] THE VrCTORT AT COWES. 389 
 
 fused or neglected to send such things as we have referred to ? 
 America can compete with Europe in manufactures, and at the 
 next Exhibtion she must do it. 
 
 THE VICTORY AT COWES. 
 
 [" In the memory of man," says an English paper, in giving an account of 
 the great contest of August 22, 1851, to which the following paper refers, 
 "Cowes never presented such an appearance as on Friday last. There must 
 have been upwards of one hundred yachts lying at anchor in the roads; the 
 beach was crowded, the esplanade thronged with ladies and gentlemen and 
 with people who came by hundreds. It was with the greatest difficulty tha 
 little town gave space enough to the multitude that came from all quarters to 
 witness an event so novel and so interesting ; and the hotels were quite inade- 
 quate to meet the demands of their guests. At ten o'clock, the signal-gun 
 for starting was fired, and before the smoko bad well cleared away, the whole 
 of the beautiful fleet was under weigh. The only lagger was 'The America.' 
 Steanters, shore-boats, and yachts, of all sizes, buzzed on each side of the 
 course, and buzzed away for miles over the rippling sea. Such a sight the 
 Adriatic never beheld in all the pride of Venice. * The Gipsy Queen,' with 
 all her canvas set, took the lead after starting, with the 'Beatrice' next; 
 and then, with little difference in order, ' The Volante,' ' Constance,* ' Arrow/ 
 and n flock of others. ' The America' went easily for some time under main- 
 sail, with a small gafl" topsail, while her opponents had every cloth set that 
 the club regulations allow. She soon began to show a touch of her quality, 
 and now was creeping upon them. In a quarter of an hour, she had left them 
 all behind. As the glorious pageant passed under Osborn House,- the sight 
 was surpassingly fine — the wholo expanse of sea, from shore to shore, being 
 filled, as it were, with a countless fleet. The Yankee flew like the wind, 
 leaping over not against the waters, whilst the cutters were thrashing through 
 the water, sending the spray over their bows. 'The America' was as dry as 
 a bone. At 5.40, ' The Aurora,' the nearest yacht, was fully seven miles and 
 a half astern, ' The Freak' being a mile more distant, and the'rest * no where.' 
 ' Th-c America' was, at this time, near the Needles. The Royal Yacht went 
 past the Needles to meet the squadron, having the Queen and Prince Albert 
 on boiir-l. * The America' int-tantly lowered her ensign. Commodore Stevens 
 took ofi" bis hat, and all his crew remained with uncovered heads Until they 
 had passed the yacht. The cannons announced the arrival of * The America' 
 at 8.35, when the whole air rang with loud cheers. It may be imagined, 
 that the most intense cicitement prevailed, nut oaW at the Isle of Wight, but 
 
 33* 
 
390 DEFEKCB OF THE COUNTRY. [^tat. 3i 
 
 in London^ as soon as it was known that an American yacht had beaten all tl 
 far-famed yachts of England." 
 
 " ' The America' won another prize yesterday (August 25). Robert Stepher 
 son, Esquire, M.P., owner of the iron schooner yacht ' Titania/ accepte 
 Commodore Stevens' challenge to sail his yacht against any English yach 
 with a six-knot breeze. The stakes were £200. At ten o'clock yesterda 
 morning, ' The America' left Cowes, and went to the Nab light, to compel 
 with ' The Titania.' At eleven, the two yachts left the Nab for a race of fort 
 miles out, and the same distance in. At five o'clock, * The America' was seei 
 from Portsmouth, about ten miles outside the Nab, and ' The Titania' was n( 
 in sight. 'The America' won the stakes with the greatest ease."— Ed.] 
 
 The success of the Collins' steamers on the Atlantic, an 
 the triumph of ' The America' in the Solent Sea, will cause tt 
 year of grace fifty-oue to be long conspicuous in the backwai 
 ^iew of two great nations. It marks an era in history and i 
 feeling. England had long boasted an exulting primacy amon 
 the people of the world in maritime rank ; and her prescripti^ 
 title seemed to herself to be among her least questionable po 
 sessions. As a reality, this superiority has for some time be« 
 at an end ; but the crown which so long covered her bro 
 that it almost seemed to be a part of her nature, is now v 
 sibly snatched from her front, for the first time, and foreve 
 In the proud Regatta of Nations, a craft which, in distant 
 and neglect, had long exercised itself for great achievemenl 
 emerging at times to the level of the contempt of the glitterir 
 vessel that rode in lonely state before the attending thron 
 suddenly strikes into the race, in an instant passes her coi 
 petitor, and transfers to her own name honors that for centuri 
 have gathered around the others — the vanquisher of the wor 
 is vanquished. England is at last distinctly beaten ; and "ther( 
 an end of the auld sang." Upon the waves, the prestige 
 Britain's invincibility, the substance of Britain's material sup 
 riority, exists no longer. The experiment has been fairly, ai 
 fully, and variously tried, and the result unmistakably is, th 
 her position is henceforth a secondary one. In the first pla( 
 in running against time, our steamers, by numerous examph 
 establish their clear superiority. Then, in the last outwa 
 passage of the Atlantic, the two champions come into dire 
 
^TAT. 33.] THE VICTORY AT COWES. 391 
 
 and immediate concun-ence, meeting the same winds and riding 
 the same waves ; and the American arrives sooner from New 
 Torlc than the English boat does from Boston. And now, at 
 the proud annual gathering of all the " crack" vessels of the 
 empire, amid a crowd of nobility, and in the presence of roy- 
 - alty itself, the Yankee dashes, gallantly and alone, into the 
 circle, and in a moment eclipses all their pride into extinction. 
 In a ten hours' race, he leaves their swiftest sail seven miles 
 behind, and this in a new ground, where he knows nothing oi 
 the currents ; he sails round their finest yachts ; outruns the 
 Queen's steamer " Fairy ;" and afterwards, in the race with " The 
 Titania," the Yankee had it all his own way, and arrived at 
 the Nab fifty-two minides before his competitor I Like an 
 eagle in a dove-cot, he " fluttered" their whole array. 
 
 We like this. " The justice of it pleaseth us. " We love 
 the English cordially. We admire them highly. We are 
 proud of them. They are our brothers — our "kith and kin," 
 and all that — of course. But, after all, there is, and ever was, 
 and always will be, between these two fraternal and affectionate 
 people, one paramount sentiment — that of intense and life-deep 
 rivalry. While these two countries hold their places upon the 
 globe, there is but one relation between them. Whatever 
 "forms, modes, shows" of outward courtesy, and compliment, 
 and greeting, our intercourse may put on, the eternal feeling 
 between the. two lands is that of earnest and unextinguishable 
 rivalry. With them, it is a primary and ever-present emotion, 
 disguised sometimes under a lofty and patronizing approval of 
 what they cannot but admire ; but breaking out on other occa- 
 sions in vehement abuse and contempt. We have not for- 
 gotten — this country probably never will forget — the language 
 of " The Times" in regard to the American participation in the 
 "World's Fair." It had so happened that the United States 
 had sent to this scene but a miserably partial and defective 
 representation of its vast and multiform ingenuity ; and " The 
 Times," thinking that it had a sure case against its old antago- 
 nist, broke out into an effusion of pitiless sarcasm upon the in- 
 telligence, taste, good sense, and entire practical character of 
 
892 DEFENCE OE THE COUNTKY. [^tat. 
 
 the American people. The injury done to us was nothing ; I 
 the spirit manifested by the attack was not to be mistalcc 
 We have, therefore, enjoyed not a little of this daring trium 
 of " The America" at Cowes. We offer our compliments to " T 
 Times" upon the subject. We commend his editorial attenti 
 to the incident. 
 
 The affair at the Isle of Wight is not a mere anecdote — 
 accidental and unconnected occurrence — " the be-all and 1 
 end-all" of itself. That which thus relates to the worL 
 attention, in the shape of a holiday's triumph — the winning 
 a cup or £200 in a summer day's sail — is a long, and wide, a 
 thorough contest between the two nations, tasking all 1 
 science, enterprise, invention, and taste of both, and affordi 
 in the result a satisfactory measure of the general capacity 
 the two people. Maritime affairs have long been the princi] 
 and favorite interest of both countries. Each has concentral 
 its best capacity upon the task of bringing nearest to perfi 
 tion the models of its vessels, and its methods of rigging a 
 of sailing. In England, for years, the patronage of arisi 
 cratic wealth has been directed to the development of t 
 national resources in this department. Noblemen and gent 
 men have lavished their superfluous fortunes in affording < 
 couragement to naval architects. All the influence of ro] 
 presence and approbation has been systematically exerted 
 stimulate to the utmost the efforts and ingenuity of buildi 
 and owners of yachts. The English were satisfied with t 
 results to which they had attained. They deemed that th 
 had arrived at the most perfect models that the matter admitt 
 of. America, during the same period, has been following 1 
 independent course. Without the assistance of patronage 
 prizes, she has followed the instincts of her own irrepressil 
 originality, unresting inventiveness, and experimental scienc 
 and at the end of the period she sends across the water a spe 
 men of what her sagacity has led her to adopt, and asks that 
 may be compared with some of the results of English ingenu: 
 in the same branch I The result is known. 
 
 The point of view in which the thing principally strikes i 
 
.^TAT. 34.] ANOTHER VIEW OF ^HE QUESTION. 393 
 
 and to which we desire to direct attention, is, that we have 
 here a fair measure of the respective intelligence, and capacity, 
 and the practical art, of the two people. The English say 
 that in another year they will have something afloat that will 
 give the America a strain. Like enough : they can adopt our 
 models, and no doubt will do so ; but the evidence of intellec- 
 tual superiority in mechanical construction, afforded by the faf+ 
 that in the course of a few years of independent movement, we 
 worked out conclusions infinitely superior to them, will remain. 
 They may share in the utility of our discoveries : the glory 
 they partake not with us. The Collins' steamers show the 
 same supremacy of our national capacity. It is not to the 
 size of these ships, and the weight of their engines, that their 
 speed is due : it is to the perfection of their build, and the 
 nicety of their sailing. The same thing is seen in every branch 
 of the packet service. In the whole extensive department of 
 marine architecture, America has incontestably triumphed over 
 England. That triumph attests much, and promises more. 
 
 ANOTHER VIEW OF THE QUESTION. 1852. 
 
 It is not a little amusing to observe the change of designa- 
 tion which this country undergoes at the hands of the British 
 press, accordingly as we distinguish or discredit ourselves in 
 their estimation. When any misadventure is supposed to hap- 
 pen in our affairs — for example, when it was thought that we 
 had made a great failure at the London Exposition — then we 
 were the Yankees, or at best, the Americans ; at any rate, a 
 wholly distinct people from the English. As soon as we had 
 gained victories in Mexico which rivaled the French triumphs 
 in Europe, and dimmed the lustre of Indian conquest ; and now 
 that our yachts and steamers show an easy and incontestable 
 superiority over those of our neighbors, our national title be- 
 comes completely altered. We are no longer aliens, foreigners, 
 
394 DEFENCE OF THE COUNTRY. [^tat 
 
 strangers : our successes are merely a new evidence of the 
 questionable ascendency of the Anglo-Saxon race — a new pr 
 that, after all, John Bull is the first man in the world. II 
 vanquish French, Indians, and Spaniards — nay, when we i 
 quish the English themselves — it was they who taught us 1 
 to do it. Their own discomfiture, when it comes from 
 hands, is but fresh illustration of their own exclusive claim; 
 glory. When we triumph at their expense, they still congri 
 late themselves that the praise of victory is " in the family." 
 It is a trait of the English to despise those whom they 1 
 beaten, and to love those who beat them. We have no c 
 plaint to make of the terms of respect in which they usu 
 speak of us. We " grew by their neglect of us :" we 1; 
 fought our way into their admiration ; and we are content 1 
 the position which we hold. But when they assert that 
 successes are a triumph of Anglo-Saxonism — that we are vi 
 we are, because we are English in origin — we must decline 
 distinguishing compliment, because it is neither historically 
 morally true. It is to the infusion of blood in our veins, 1 
 is not Anglo-Saxon — it is to the great extent to which we 
 not descendants of John Bull— it is to the un-English elen 
 of our mingled nationality — that we owe our superioritj 
 England. And this assures the permanence and reality of 
 advantages over them. If we were essentially the same pec 
 our superiority to them in ingenious and useful inventions m: 
 be referred to accident ; and they would come the next 1 
 into the field with prospects equal to our own. But the c 
 position of our character is really very different from theirs, 
 far richer and more complex ; and it is this fullness and di 
 sity of mental gifts which sets us so much above them, and g 
 us promise of a continuance and increase of that supren 
 which already in so many departments we have manifes 
 Mr. W. E. Robinson, in a very spirited discourse at Clin 
 in Oneida county. New York, has examined this subject 
 torically and statistically, and established some important i 
 elusions. It appears from his figures, that from the ear 
 periods of our settlement, up to the present time, the emi; 
 
iETAT. 34.] ANOTHBK VIEW OF THE QUESTION. 395 
 
 tion from England has been but a small fraction of the whole 
 immigration into this country. Making a liberal estimate of 
 the Anglo-Saxon constituent of our population, and throwing 
 the colored people out of consideration, it would appear that 
 not more than one-sixth part of our community is Anglo-Saxon 
 by descent. Computing those of English origin among us at 
 three millions and a half, those of German stock would be found 
 to amount to five millions and a half, those of French, Italian, 
 or Celtic blood, and in no wise Saxon, would number three 
 millions, and those of Irish race, who, if Saxon, are not Anglo, 
 would count four millions and a half. It is obvious that Eng- 
 land has no title to claim the honor of our origin, as against 
 Germany or Ireland. That English is the dominant tongue, 
 proves nothing. In a people of mixed origin, one language 
 supplants others, and the English is not only, as the Latin once 
 was, a superior and prevailing speech, but being the language 
 of the colonial governments, which were derived from England, 
 naturally obtained an ascendent. If our minds sometimes over- 
 look or forget the great extent to which almost every family in 
 our land is derived from other sources than England, our blood 
 remembers it in the instinctive jealousy and antagonism which 
 is ever springing into life between the two nations. How few 
 persons among us can trace through three or four generations 
 a descent purely English. If you pass from the historical in- 
 quiry, the moral and physiological mdications of the two coun- 
 tries point clearly at a distinctiveness of nationality. No one 
 can go from England to America, or from America to England, 
 without perceiving that he is among wholly different people. 
 An American himself feels this strangeness most uncomfortably, 
 in spite of a resembling language ; and he finds more similarity 
 and sympathy among the Irish, French, Italians, and even Ger- 
 mans, than among "his own kith and kin of the Anglo-Saxon 
 rage." The English and Americans are different people in 
 their minds, feelings, tempers, and manners ; and these differ- 
 ences may be traced to the characteristics of nations who have 
 mingled the stream of their life with the current derived from 
 England. The Americans are a people of infinitely quicker 
 
396 DEFENCE OP THE COUNTRT. [MtAT. 34. 
 
 sensibilities, both of affection and of wrath ; kindlier in their 
 gentle mood ; far fiercer and more fiery when irritated. Coupled 
 with these flashing tempers, is a subtlety of invention, a discur- 
 siveness of inquiry and experiment, a keen quest of novelty, a 
 defiant aversion to the cause of precedents in arts, which con- 
 trast strongly with the sober, conservative, and sluggish uni- 
 formity of English movements. We have derived from Eng- 
 land valuable qualities ; but we have derived from other sources 
 qualities which England had not to give us. We have incorpo- 
 rated into our national greatness their many high virtues ; we 
 have escaped many of their infirmities. We have inherited 
 their high and calm courage, their good faith, their persistency 
 in policy, their lofty honor ; we have disclaimed and renounced 
 their narrowness, their excessive caution, and that immovable 
 self-estimation which makes them soon believe that they have 
 attained perfection. We must decline the praise of having 
 drawn from them the mental and moral qualities which have 
 led us to launch upon the ocean vessels new in build and rig, 
 which leave all competition behind them. They will excuse ua 
 if we refuse to share with them the laurels of Cowes. This oc- 
 casion sets our un-English originality in visible relief, and we 
 shall treat it as a triumph, not through, but against our Anglo- 
 Saxon progenitors. 
 
 COCKNEYISMS— AMERICANISMS. 
 
 In the three-quarters of a century which has elapsed since 
 England and America ceased to be one, the insensible distinc- 
 tions of national custom have established some striking difi'er- 
 ences in the use of language in the two countries. With charac- 
 teristic arrogance, our insular neighbors assume that their prac- 
 tice is, in all cases, correct ; and they sneer at all variations on 
 our part, as Americanisms 'and vulgarisms. In the spirit of 
 Queen Elizabeth's reply, when her ambassador, Melville, stated 
 
^TAT. 34.] COCKNEYISMS— AMEUrCANISMS. 39^ 
 
 that the Queen of Scots was an inch taller than, her majesty — 
 "then she is an inch too tall ;" they take themselves and their 
 own habits as the natural and absolute standard of truth and 
 taste and reason and propriety. All this is fair enough ; for 
 what Mr. Pelham says of persons, is more especially applicable 
 to nations : — " If they do not think well of themselves, how can 
 they expect that others should think well of them ?" In ex- 
 change for our damns, we simply insist upon the pelimus- 
 que vicissim ; and we further maintain that our claim to supe- 
 rior accuracy is founded, not merely on assumption — as theirs 
 is — ^but in justice and right. Independent of any inquiry into 
 particular cases, America has as good a pretension as England 
 to establish the standard of their common speech ; and an ex- 
 amination of the special instances of deviation will show, we 
 are well satisfied, that it is the continent which has adhered to 
 the ancient and sound usage, and the island which has departed 
 from it. It might, indeed, be anticipated that a large country, 
 broken into many detached systems, and having no one central 
 authority to overbear the rest, and control them according to its 
 caprices, would be less subject to the influences of those affec- 
 tations and conventionalisms which are the great corrupters of 
 a mature language, than a small kingdom despotically ruled by 
 a single city. And so, undoubtedly, it will be found. The in- 
 stances in which England and America are at variance, are in- 
 stances in which English usage has become perverted by the 
 spurious authority of fashion ; they are cases in which cockney- 
 isms have infused themselves into the general dialect, and have 
 usurped the distinction of national authority. In such cases, 
 the correct practice is to be found in this country. A few illus- 
 trations of this may be referred to. 
 
 One of these differences, now pretty firmly established, and 
 often sneerily alluded to by British travelers, occurs in the em- 
 ployment of the words sick and ill. The Americans use them 
 synonymously for bodily indisposition, or disease of any kind : 
 the modem English insist that sick shall be applied only to the 
 condition of the stomach ; and that all other sorts of maladies 
 are to be termed illnesses. Unquestionably, in this matter, our 
 34 
 
398 DEFENCE OF THE COUNTRY. [^tat. 34. 
 
 own countrymen are right. Doctor Johnson gives as the first and 
 principal meaning of the word ''sick^^ — " afflicted with disease," 
 and cites many authorities ; as its secondary and less direct sense 
 he gives — " disordered in the organs of digestion — ill at the 
 stomach ;" and for this signification he does not vouch the au- 
 thority of any author whatever. Any one who will consult 
 Richardson, will find that the earliest English authors in a host 
 Concur in using sick to denote every species of disease. To 
 those instances we may add a few of standard writers of a more re- 
 cent date. From Shakspeare we might cite a thousand instances. 
 
 When I was sicJcj you gave me bitter pills ; 
 
 And I must minister tlie like to you. 
 
 Ttoo Gentlemen of Yerona, 
 BrutuH. — I am not well in health, and that is all. 
 Portia. — Is Brutus sick ? and is it physical 
 
 To walk unbraced, and suck up the humors 
 
 Of the dark morning ? What, is Brutus eick ? 
 
 And will he steal out of his wholesome bed, 
 
 And dare the rheumy and unpurged air, 
 
 To add unto his sickness ? — Julius Ccesar. 
 
 Again, in the same play : 
 
 Lucius. — Here is a side man, that would speak with yon. 
 
 t- ■-;■:■ * -^ * 
 
 Brutus. — Would you were not sick ! 
 
 Ligariue. — I am not sicky if Brutus have in hand 
 
 Any exploit worthy of the name of honor. 
 
 What's to do ? 
 Brutus. — A piece of work that will make sick men whole. 
 Ligarius. — But are not some whole that we must make sick? 
 
 Milton often has the same sense of this word. For example : 
 
 " Despair 
 Tended the sick, busiest from couch to couch." 
 
 So Pope : 
 
 *' Shut, shut the door, good John ! fatigued, I said j 
 Tie up the knocker j say I'm sick — Fm dead." 
 
 Indeed, it will be difficult, if not impossible, to find in the 
 whole range of English literature, an example in which this 
 
fflTAT. 34] COCKNETISMS— AMERICANISMS. 399 
 
 word, wheD used quite apart from other expressions or circnm- 
 Btances which qualify its meaning, is ever limited to the undig- 
 nified signification to which English affectation has restricted it. 
 Another instance in which we are made chargeable, where the 
 trror is, unquestionably, on the side of the English, is in the 
 fase of the words luggage and baggage, as applied to the effects 
 Pfhich a traveler carries with him on his journey. The former, 
 which of late years has obtained great vogue in England in 
 this acceptation, properly signifies such ponderous and bulky 
 movables as an army, or a family when moving, transport with 
 them ; and is wholly misapplied when used in reference to the 
 light and commodious articles which a steamboat or railway 
 voyager carries with him. Johnson says that luggage is " any 
 thing cumbrous and unwieldy that is to be carried away : any 
 thing of more weight than value." And Richardson defines it 
 as " that which is pulled or dragged (heavily) along ; and, con- 
 sequentially, heavy, cumbrous baggage, or package." The best 
 authors use the word in this sense : — " My lumber and luggage 
 may be here on earth, but my treasure is above," says Bishop 
 Hall. Drayton has a stanza, beginning — 
 
 ''"When, witli tlie luggage, such as lagged behind, 
 And that were set the carriages to keep," <fcc. 
 
 Milton, in Paradise Regained, says : 
 
 " Think not thou to find me slack, or need 
 Thy politic maxims, or that cumbersome 
 Luggage of war there shown me." 
 
 Baggage, on the other hand, is said by Johnson to be " the 
 furniture and utensils of an army : the goods that are to be 
 carried away." The phrase "bag and baggage," as meaning 
 all that a traveler takes with him, was formerly in constant use 
 in England, and is found repeated by the best writers of an 
 eai'lier day. Melmoth, the elegant translator of Pliny, uses the 
 word baggage precisely in the way in which it is daily employed 
 in this country : — " You have long desired a visit from your 
 granddaughter accompanied by me. For this purpose, our 
 baggage is actually making ready," etc. 
 
400 DEFENCE OF THE COUNTRY. ' [Mtlt. Si. 
 
 A tMrd case in which the English are in error, is in re- 
 gard to the word clever, as applied to intellectual or literary 
 talent of a superior degree. Properly, this signifies any adroit- 
 ness, dexterity, or manual capacity. It is applied also to men- 
 tal performances when it is meant to disparage them, as being 
 a mere knack, or trick, or mechanical exercise of the wits. Its 
 application to genuine talent and ability, in a serious and com- 
 mendatory way, as is habitually done in England, is unques- 
 tionably acockneyism and a mistake ; and no good author can 
 be cited to justify the practice. But how is it with the Ameri- 
 can use of the word, as applying to an agreeable, well-natured 
 fellow ? Johnson gives four significations of clever : the first 
 is, "Dexterous, skillful;" the second, "Jnst, fit, proper, com- 
 modious ;" the third, "Well-shaped, handsome ;" but under the 
 fourth head he says, " This is a low word, scarcely ever used 
 but in burlesque or conversation ; and applied to any thing a 
 man likes, without a settled meaning. '' Now this last is exactly 
 the meaning of American clever. A likable, accommodating 
 person, we term clever; and Johnson shows that that has 
 always been its colloquial, familiar sense. The dignity of the 
 word is not in question : it is still among us what the great 
 lexicographer calls "a low word," that is, " scarcely ever used 
 but in burlesque or conversation ;" but its correctness, as em- 
 ployed among us, is not to be doubted by any one who admits 
 the authority of Johnson. 
 
 We might extend these illustrations very considerably, and 
 at a future time shall probably do so. In the meanwhile, we 
 would advise our countrymen to adhere to such modes of 
 speech, and such use of words, as they find current in the good 
 society of their own country, and not to suffer their own accu- 
 racy to be overborne by the affectations and vulgarisms of 
 another people. The English have many meritorious quali- 
 ties ; but their arrogance is at least equal to their other excel- 
 lencies ; and in dealing with them, the only way, until they 
 learn to behave themselves, is to maintain your own and beat 
 aown their assumption by a more dogmatizing confidence. 
 
iETAT. 33.] POWERS' GREEK SLAVE. 401 
 
 POWERS' GREEK SLAVE. 
 
 A wi'iter in the August number of " Eraser's Magazine," 
 makes the following observations on Powers' statue of the Greek 
 Slave : — " We are much perplexed by the statue of the Greek 
 Slave. In what respect is it Greek ? And is a manacle upon 
 a delicate wrist the only means sculpture possesses of expressing 
 the sorrow and anguish of slavery ? The fact is, there is no 
 meaning whatever in the face, which has anything in the world 
 but Greek or slavery written on it ; and if the head and ma- 
 nacles were lopt off, the rest of the figure would be very beau- 
 tiful, as a study of form. It is full of grace from the shoulders 
 down, especially at the side and back ; but the artist has utterly 
 failed in the attempt to convey anything more." 
 
 The insensibility displayed in this paragraph to the spiritual 
 and moral, and the capacity to perceive only the physical, can 
 hardly be paralleled by anything that we know of, except a 
 noted anecdote in the life of the Princess Pauline Borghese. 
 They render the character of the critic interesting as a phe- 
 nomenon. "Thus," says Walter Landor, "have we seen carp, 
 in a pond, treat some new and choice morsel which has been 
 thrown into their pond. Some touch it gently with their 
 barbe, pass deliberately by, aud_ leave it ; others wriggle and 
 rub against it more disdainfully ; others, in sober truth, know 
 not what to make of it, swim round and round it, eye it on the 
 sunny side, eye it on the shady ; approach it, shoulder it, flap 
 it with the tail, turn it over, look askance at it, take a pea-shell 
 or a worm instead of it, and plunge their heads again into the 
 comfortable mud." Works of sentiment should be inscribed, 
 for the benefit of such persons, with the epigraph which one 
 finds in some of the old books under a vignette of a laurel bush 
 approached by a pig : Apage, non tibi spiro. From the rest 
 of the article the writer appears to be one of those dense, dull 
 men who write in the London magazines, as a horse works in 
 a mill, for life and for livelihood, and who get up a paper on 
 34* 
 
402 DEFENCE OF THE COUNTRY. [^tat. 33. 
 
 any given subject without the least reference to their ability to 
 bring to it the qualities indispensable to its just appreciation. 
 As, however, this is the first instance, as far as our knowledge 
 extends, in which any one, at home or abroad, has viewed that 
 statue and failed to perceive its surpassing greatness as a work 
 of expression, we cannot but observe how strange it is that a 
 man should think it worth while, by a published remark of 
 that kind, to call the attention of the world to the singular de- 
 ficiency of perception and sensibility under which he labors. 
 If a person were to visit the Vatican or the Tribune, and to 
 let us know that he saw nothing uncommon in the head of the 
 Apollo, or the bust of the Venus, we should feel that he made 
 no remark at all about the statues, but that he recorded a very 
 singular fact about himself. We enter into no vindication of the 
 Greek Slave. The world has long since make up its opinion 
 about it. Its character is positive, absolute, settled. When 
 it is discussed, the subject that is brought into judgment, is not 
 its merit, but the mind and soul of the observer and writer. 
 But to show how differently the same thing will strike different 
 persons, we take occasion to refer here to some remarks written 
 by us when the Greek Slave was brought to this city to be 
 exhibited, five years ago. These observations, not conceived 
 controversially or defensively, but the simple record of our im- 
 pressions on a single view of the work, seem yet to afford as 
 complete a reply to the English writer, as we could deliberately 
 make : — 
 
 "In approaching this delicate creation of chaste imagina- 
 tion," we then wrote, " after the first shock of delight from the 
 gentle rush of her beauty, wave-like, upon the spirit, is past, 
 we are arrested and enchained by the profound and lofty inte- 
 rest of her countenance. It is an expression of offended dig- 
 nity — of expostulating rebuke — of placid and pitying con- 
 tempt. Confident in an unassailable moral safety — feeling that 
 no material subjugation or injury can ever harm the soul — she 
 stands in the pride of her unapproachable purity ; insulted, but 
 not abased — outraged, but not degraded. There is no touch 
 of shame in her features ; she feels that she is not responsible 
 
^TAT. 33.] POWERS' GREEK SLAVE. 4O3 
 
 .for the condition in which she has been placed : an instinctive 
 gesture of self-protection — an involuntary averting of the head 
 from the wrong that has been done her by such exposure — are 
 tributes to the natural delicacy of her character. There is no 
 shade of fear in her attitude ; her whole being, absorbed into 
 intense consciousness of an impregnable spiritual existence, 
 dwells in composure upon the calm heights of a more intimate 
 and essential life. Never was the native majesty of the chaste, 
 refined, and high-toned soul of woman, embodied in nobler 
 form and more enchanting grace. Never was it more admirably 
 shown, with what energetic sincerity virtue can look down upon 
 her oppressors, and chastise their unworthiness ; never was the 
 contrast between the humiliating circumstances and a mental 
 elevation more gloriously flashed forth. Over those who are 
 disgracing themselves by this treatment of a woman, she seems 
 to feel such infinite superiority, that reflection interposes to 
 temper its excess by some infusion of compassion. Her look 
 reproaches them for exhibiting conduct so ineffably dishonoring 
 to them. She appears to blush for the degradation of her race, 
 by the display of a behaviour so discreditable to men. What, 
 in a critical point of view, we chiefly admire, is the moderation 
 which the sculptor has imposed upon himself, in the material 
 working out of this conception — the exquisite temperance 
 which he has observed in the degree in which a temporary 
 feeling is allowed to prevail over\the native and habitual repose 
 of the features. Fixing the expression unmistakably upon 
 the countenance, he has, with consummate taste, abstained from 
 interrupting the serene beauty of loveliness, further than to 
 waken in the observer a train of emotion which no heart can 
 fail to carry out to its full result. Such is the impression which 
 this divine emanation of the artist's power gives us. It is well 
 called the " Greek Slave," for it is the bondage of that ethereal 
 essence whose incarnation is identified with Attica ; it is an 
 everlasting vindication of that supremacy of mind over con- 
 dition which Greece first taught, and Grecian fame forever 
 attests." 
 
 This seems a pretty full answer, by anticipation, to Eraser's 
 
404 DEFENCE OP THE COUNTET. [^tat. 33. 
 
 critic ; and we but recorded the language which the figure 
 spoke to us, never having heard from the artist or his friends 
 what his special design had been. On a subsequent view of 
 the Slave, in later years, we observed two particulars not at 
 first noted by us, which proved the correctness of our impres- 
 sion that the figure is under intense but suppressed sensibility. 
 One of these is a prominence and rigidity of the tendons of the 
 neck — slight, but enough to show that the inward soul is quiv- 
 ering with emotion. The other is the stretching down of the 
 finger to the pillar beside her — with an effort constrained and 
 almost ungraceful — but indicative of that tension of the nerves 
 which mental suffering occasions. These cannibal criticisms 
 that descant to us upon the elegant conformations of shoulders 
 and limbs are well in their place ; but where they end, the true 
 appreciation of the Slave begins. The spirit of that creature 
 is agonizing with a contest of emotions ; it is anguishing with 
 every mental and moral distress that exposure, and danger, and 
 terror can inflict on a nature most fitted to feel all their keen- 
 ness. Calm and sustained as her dignity is, the blood pulses 
 through her frame like heated quicksilver. If ever sensibility 
 of heart was incarnated in matter, under that repose which Art 
 demands ; if ever soul, in all the suffering of its sensitiveness, 
 was insphered in motionless form, it is done in the Greek Slave. 
 
VARIOUS SUBJECTS. 
 
 CONCLUSION OF THE MEXICAN 
 WAR. 18 4 8. 
 
 In the peace which is now assured to us, one of the most 
 important occurrences in our national annals is brought to a 
 completion. The alarm and anxiety which filled all breasts but 
 a few weeks since, are changed to gratitude and joyous antici- 
 pation : the citizen, whom duty had for a season converted into 
 the soldier, returns to receive and to give congratulation. The 
 sympathies of the hour are animating and cheering ; and we 
 are disposed to partake their genial exhilaration. Laying 
 aside all thoughts of the political controversies which vexed 
 the progress of the event — a matter on which our opinions are 
 sufficiently known — let us see what omens of the honor and 
 greatness of the whole country we can draw from a matter 
 which now belongs to our permanent history. In the first 
 place, the war shows that our federal system of union and go- 
 vernment is as admirably adapted to the designs of foreign 
 conquest as to the purposes of domestic advancement and com- 
 fort ; and has proved what speculative writers had often denied, 
 that our nation possesses a complete and perfect organization, 
 as adapted for hostility as for repose, and as eflBcient in its 
 dynamical as in its statical conditions. In unity of counsel — 
 in promptness of action — in all the arrangements by which the 
 interior forces of a country are brought to bear with directness 
 and energy upon an exterior point — the operations by which 
 men are marshaled into distant service, and credit is made to 
 concentrate and give to public objects the diffused wealth of 
 millions of people — our Constitution has apDioved itself not 
 
 (.405) 
 
406 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. [^tat. 31. 
 
 inferior in tliose things which monarchies and aristocracies 
 have vaunted as their peculiar excellencies. In the next place, 
 in the use vi^hich we make of acquired territory, our system 
 gives to foreign war a character of virtue and benignity which 
 no other polity has imparted. Other governments conquer, in 
 order that they may subjugate, despoil, and tyrannize : we van- 
 quish, in order to elevate, improve, and bless. "We exalt our 
 defeated enemies into an equality with ourselves ; we share with 
 them, upon fraternal terms, the beneiits of our own civilization 
 and institutions : we make them partakers with us, in full and 
 free abundance, of all the priceless advantages of our liberties, 
 our laws, our name, our honors. Such use of victory has no 
 other nation, ancient or modem, made. It is a divine rather 
 than a mortal trait, thus to exert superior force — not to appro- 
 priate a triumph, but to diffuse a blessing — not to set ourselves 
 above our equals, but to raise up the depressed and wretched 
 to a generous community in all that our fathers' valor won for 
 us, and our own wisdom has maintained for our posterity. It 
 cannot be, but that Providence shall favor the outgoing armies 
 of such a people. Pre-eminence belongs, in natural heritage, 
 to the nation which thus employs its successes. In this benig- 
 nant use of power — this capacious and dispassioned wisdom — 
 rather than in any supposed destiny of the race — we read the 
 assurance of progressive extension, and the splendid prophecy 
 of the imperium sine fine. A system which thus embraces where 
 another would have trampled — which bestows what no con- 
 queror never before left, freedom and independence — must 
 have a promise of almost indefinite permanence ; for the dis- 
 positions which it makes are in accordance n'ith nature, justice 
 and truth — not forced or violent. The conquest that is fol- 
 lowed by subjection and spoliation, carries in itself the cer- 
 tainty of its ultimate dissolution : we know that it is main- 
 tained by constant force, and that new tumults and fresh blood- 
 shed must intervene before the repose of right is attained. 
 But our brief wars, by propagating a political system founded 
 in nature and reason, leave behind them the legacy of enduring 
 and almost endless peace. 
 
ffliAT. 31.] CONCLUSION OF THE MEXICAN WAE. 401 
 
 As to ourselves, the moral to be drawn from these reflections 
 is, that the duty of maintaining uninjured and unlowered this 
 establishment, which God and our forefathers hare given us, is 
 of infinite responsibility. This Constitution — to which we owe 
 all that we are of great, and have of valuable, and hope of 
 glorious — is given to us as a sacred trust. We must preserve 
 it in form and in spirit : its wisdom and its good-nature — its 
 comprehensive and various sagacity — its harmonizing and re- 
 conciling tact — its moderation and good sense — we must emu- 
 late in our administration of it. The Common Law, too — 
 that " perfect law of liberty" — the origin of our independence 
 . — the tutelary attendant of the Constitution — we must main- 
 tain in all its healthful vigor. We must advance, as best we 
 may, in all practical good ; for if we are to become the model 
 upon which a continent of nations are to mould themselves, it 
 behooves us to exhibit a noble example of everything that can 
 adorn a state. This extension of our material boundaries 
 ought, likewise, to be felt as an incentive to keener effort in 
 every department of Literature and Art — for our mental ought 
 to keep pace with our physical predominance ; and we must not 
 allow it to be said that, outstripping other nations in perishable 
 greatness, we fall behind them in the grandeur which is above 
 the earth, the glory which passes not away with the generation 
 which produced it. 
 
 It is a mighty prospect which is now opening upon our 
 country. Many of the trials which threatened our infant or- 
 gaaization have been passed ; and though we have some ele- 
 ments of great danger yet among us, the nation seems likely, 
 we think, to surmount them all, and, going steadily onward, to 
 reach to an almost indefinite period of life, in the compactness 
 and unity of its well-balanced system. England stands firmly, 
 and may hold together yet for many a year ; but the forces of 
 her progressive strength are apparently spent — the limit of her 
 increase in power has been reached ; henceforth, she is sta- 
 tionary, at the best. France, full of convulsive energy, seems 
 to have lost that equipoise of powers, that concentration and 
 singleness of national character and purpose, which are neces- 
 
408 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. [^tat. 33. 
 
 sary to the attainment of political eminence. But we are just 
 starting in the race of glory — abounding in energy — thrill- 
 ing with strength and confidence and hope — uniting the mature 
 experience of the nation from which we sprang, with the eager 
 aspiration — the fervid enthusiasm — the undefined and wild ad- 
 venture — inseparable from a new and unworn continent. We 
 have no doubt that the recent extension of our domain by con- 
 quest will give increased force to our national character ; it 
 will add to our self-respect, and to the respect with which we 
 are regarded by other countries. The influence of this upon 
 our literature wiU be good. Our productions want not fertility 
 or power ; but they want independence of tone, fearlessness of 
 utterance, genuineness of development. The arrogance of a 
 prescriptive superiority abroad has rebuked our younger spirit ; 
 and we have feared to give a free vent to the instincts of our 
 taste. As we realize, by triumphs so magnificent, the sense of 
 our inherent greatness, and gradually become conscious, through 
 repeated successes, of a destiny that vriU brook no ascendency, 
 it cannot but be that in Art we shall give a freer vent to those 
 vehement and exalted passions which are stirring within the 
 depths of our national feeling. The mighty impulses, the luxu- 
 riant strength, the daring temper, that now sway our political 
 being to irregular, but dazzling grandeur, will then give them- 
 selves noble and more enduring monuments in the painter's, the 
 sculptor's, and the author's master-pieces. 
 
 AMERICAN INTERFERENCE IN EUROPE. 1851. 
 
 When time enough has past by to allow the public character 
 of Washington to be seen in its just perspective, and when the 
 subject of his' administration is approached by a writer com- 
 petent to apprehend and represent the greatness of patriotic 
 dignity that inspired his designs, and the far-extending wisdom 
 that guided his counsels, nothing will be found more worthy of 
 
^TAT. 33.] AMERICAN INTERFEEENCE IN EUROPE. 409 
 
 contemplation and admiration than the foreign policy which 
 he established for the nation. It is a matter worthy of being 
 made a special study on the part of our statesmen and histo- 
 rians, for it has not been appreciated in its full, clear, dis- 
 tinctive completeness, as an intelligent and comprehensive sys- 
 tem of action. Much as this people are beholden to him for 
 his services in the War of Independence, and for the conduct 
 of his domestic administration — to his foreign policy, as much 
 as to either of them, is to be ascribed the magnificent greatness 
 to which the country has advanced in half a century, its firm 
 prosperity at home, the commanding superiority of its reputa- 
 tion abroad. The high purpose for which Washington seems 
 to have been qualified and sent into the world by Providence, 
 was the development and security of the inherent nationality of 
 the country, to set it free from all dependent, derivative or re- 
 lated conditions, and to launch it upon its own free, separate 
 career — original, primary, and self-guided greatness. Having 
 been chiefly instrumental in terminating the legal subjection 
 of the country to England, he was determined so set it free 
 from every political and even moral subserviency to the Euro- 
 pean powers. As France had aided in delivering the new 
 States from the dominion of England, she was inclined to con- 
 sider the country as a colony which she had conquered from 
 her old rival and foe. A faction in this country seemed dis- 
 posed to favor the views of the French government — to iden- 
 tify our conduct and feelings with its interests and passions — 
 and to make us a party with it to all the cabals of continental 
 diplomacy. Washington saw the peril, and provided a pro- 
 tection for us against it. With special reference to the selfish 
 and sinister domination which that country aspired to attain 
 over us, he left the warning counsel to abstain from all " en- 
 tanging alliances" with European politics. It was the inten- 
 tion of Washington that these United States should be put 
 into the foremost rank of nations ; nay, that it should be the 
 first power in the world — influenced by none — responsible to 
 
 none ^brooking suggestion from none — independent even to a 
 
 fierce haughtiness — following no guidance but the impulses of 
 35 
 
410 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. [JEtat. 33. 
 
 its own honor and free inclination — like the ocean that circles 
 its shores, " going forth alone." The foreign policy of Wash- 
 ington has been generally followed by his successors ; and the 
 noble conception which he formed has been made real in the 
 lofty dignity which America now enjoys. 
 
 The power of this great position being gained, the question 
 arises, How is it to be employed ? It was not the intention 
 of Washington that this country, having forced her way up to 
 the first rank of material and moral greatness, should stand a 
 cipher in the family of nations ; that, owing her own exist- 
 ence to certain principles of human rights, and identified with 
 them in the eyes of the world, she should stand an unconcerned 
 spectator of the disgrace of those principles ; that she should 
 look with cold and selfish unconcern upon the fate of humanity 
 in other lands. He meant that the power which his policy 
 should secure for the nation, should ultimately be made use of 
 for wise, virtuous, and beneficent purposes. He contemplated 
 that the land which he loved so well should stand forth, in the 
 admiring gaze of mankind, not a lonely monument for curiosity 
 and pride, but a tower of protection and strength to the na- 
 tions. We think that the time has arrived when the moral 
 weight of America ought to be felt in the scale of continental 
 action ; when her protesting or rebuking voice should be heard 
 in favor of reason, and humanity, and right, too often trampled 
 on and outraged. It becomes important to determine on what 
 principles and in what cases this intervention should be made, 
 iind when it should not be made. 
 
 We take it to be entirely clear that this country has no duty 
 and no right to interfere between contending parties in a state, 
 when one of those parties seeks to subvert or change the ex- 
 isting form of government. All such matters belong to the 
 demestic policy of the country, with which other lands have no 
 concern at all. The principle which lies at the base of Ameri- 
 can independence is, that every nation has a right to establish 
 for itself its own form of government, and foreign interference 
 would of course be fatal to the free exercise of this right. 
 Prima facie, the existing government must be taken to be that 
 
^TAT. 33.] AMERICAN TNTERFERENCE IN EUROPE. 4II 
 
 which the nation has established for Itself. The fact that it 
 exists is evidence that the preponderance of the national will 
 is in its favor, and that presumption continues until the govern- 
 ment is successfully changed. " Revolutions," said Rousseau, 
 with obvious truth, " are always the work of minorities." Any 
 foreign power, therefore, which aids a revolutionary effort in 
 any country, advances the cause of the minority, and violates 
 the democratic rnle, that the will of the majority has a right to 
 prevail. Besides this, we must declare that the cause of the 
 revolutionary party at present in Europe is not the cause of 
 republicanism in any sense in which that word is understood 
 by Americans. Those who labor now to overthrow the mon- 
 archies in Europe have neither the capacity nor the intention 
 to set up in their place anything that shall have the nature 
 of a democratic republic. Their 
 
 " craft holds no consent 
 With anght that breathes the ethereal element" 
 
 of law-sustained liberty, and freedom founded upon integrity 
 and truth. They are not entitled to have the sympathy and 
 co-operation of the American republic. 
 
 There is another class of cases in which it is more doubtful 
 whether the effective intervention of America may not be pro- 
 perly called for. It is the case in which a people possessing 
 historically, morally, and socially, the identity and distinctness 
 of a national existence, has by untoward accident been made 
 subject to the abnormal, unreasonable, unnatural control and 
 tyranny of a foreign nation, and is engaged in a struggle to 
 re-establish its just 'and legitimate independence. That was 
 in effect the case between the American colonies and Great 
 Britain. The integrity and mutual independence of existing 
 nations is a part of the public law of the world ; and if it be 
 seriously and injuriously violated in Europe, America has an 
 interest, and, therefore, a political right to interfere. Such a 
 principle, we are happy to believe, would have embraced several 
 of the most iniquitous transactions which have defiled the 
 
412 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. [^tat. 32. 
 
 annals of modern Europe, and which have left their evil effects 
 upon the condition and progress of Europe almost ineffaceably, 
 and which enlisted the popular feeling of the country most 
 earnestly. For our own part we should have felt sincere satis- 
 faction, if the just application of this rule had been found to 
 include the case of Venice in its late straggle with Austria. 
 That ease differed essentially from every other in Italy. The 
 independence of the Venetian republic had been struck down 
 so recently ; it perished in a mingled storm of fraud and vio- 
 lence so unreasonably, so unrighteously, so unnecessarily ; the 
 Austrian possession of that state is an obtrusion so completely 
 alien and irregular, that we should have been glad to find that 
 a careful examination of this question had been thought to 
 justify our country in saying to the noble champions of pa- 
 triotism and liberty that the late excitements in Europe pro- 
 duced, " We are with you in spirit. We will be amongst you in 
 our power." We cannot think that the Lombardic provinces 
 fell precisely within the same rule. The Austrian title to them 
 was ancient, settled, and, in a great measure, regular. 
 
 The true principle and limit of the right and duty of Ameri- 
 can interference in European concerns is this : Whenever her 
 own interests and honor are threatened, and whenever the great 
 public law of Christendom, sometimes called the Law of Na- 
 tions, is violated, it is not only her just privilege, but her clear 
 propriety, to intervene and to act. The nature and extent of 
 these principles, and their application, will be explained in 
 another paper. * 
 
 THE PRESIDENCY. 
 
 Detached from party sympathies, and viewing the strife with 
 the calmness of a spectator, we may be indulged perhaps in a 
 
 * This paper is not found among the author's MSS. — Ed. 
 
^TAT. 32.] THE PKESIDENCT. 413 
 
 word of respectful remonstrance and advice to botli of the great 
 political bodies which are now preparing to try their respective 
 strength. Something else than the triumph of a favorite candi- 
 date is involved in the struggles which on a vast scale are re- 
 newed at every lustrum throughout the nation ; the dignity of 
 the country and the decorum of social relations, are concerned 
 to some extent in the manner in which the contest is conducted. 
 The majesty of the trust which we administer, in the mainten- 
 ance of a stable system of free government, we may now appreci- 
 ate in observing how frequently and how hopelessly othernations 
 have failed in establishing such a polity, though proceeding 
 with high abilities, and a candid wish to arrive at a satisfactory 
 result. The periodical election of a chief magistrate to preside 
 over our institutions, and represent us towards other nations, 
 is the most impressive act in the striking drama of republican 
 display. How much is the general respectability of the exhibi- 
 tion impaired by the fanatic virulence of individual abuse, the 
 revelry of profligate vituperation that mingle in the scene with 
 a purpose so meaningless and a power so degrading. The pre- 
 sidential candidates are usually the representatives of some dis- 
 tinct and important principles ; and the matter decided by their 
 election is the ascendency throughout the country, of one or 
 another leading system of policy ; how great a departure is it 
 from the august sobriety of such a proceeding, to resolve the 
 issue into a trivial, paltry strife of personalities, in which every 
 reference to the interests at stake is buried and forgotten. How 
 remote from the mutual deference which is becoming to the citi- 
 zens of one equal commonwealth, how opposite to the fraternal 
 kindliness and regard which ought to prevail among persons habi- 
 tually mingling in the same circles of business and society, and 
 now engaged with a common good faith in the settlement of a 
 question equally important to both, are the wild, ferocious, intol- 
 erable scorn, contempt, and disgust that are poured out upon those 
 whom a great party have selected as the men whom they most 
 desire to honor and trust. If these extravagant effusions of idle 
 abuse and calumnious charges, and false and foolish aspersions, 
 contributed in any degree whatever to the advantage of the 
 35* 
 
414 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. [^tat. 32. 
 
 party making use of them, some apology might be found in that 
 necessity of succeeding, which warmed champions come at last 
 to feel. But in fact, they do more harm than good. They mad- 
 den the opposing faction into an intensity of exertion which 
 could not otherwise be called forth : they create in moderate per- 
 sons a disposition to take the part of one attempted to be borne 
 down by rough and foul proceeding ; and they confer oftentimes 
 upon a mediocre or insignificant candidate an importance which 
 greatly aids him in his ambitious prospects. The instances in 
 our own history are not few in which men have been blackened 
 into distinction and maligned into ofBce. The country itself 
 suffers — perhaps permanently — in the injury done to character 
 in these wanton outrages of excited passion. One or the other 
 of the unfortunate beings whose reputation has been pierced 
 through and through with imputations of boundless wickedness 
 or pitiable imbecility, is to be the President of the nation. 
 Some portion of the obloquy, so unsparingly thrown, continues 
 to adhere to him ; the feelings roused against the candidate, at- 
 tend to survive the career of the officer ; and his honest name 
 throughout all history, and before distant nations, stands tinged 
 with the offensive soilure of the political campaign. Something 
 is due to truth ; and some claims upon the justice of the com- 
 munity have the good repute and private feelings of the persons 
 principally concerned, who have been guilty of no crime in • 
 yielding their names to the sincere attachment of millions of 
 their fellow citizens. A senator stands well before the country, 
 in public and in domestic report ; well seen, through a long 
 life, in all the great offices of executive, diplomatic and legisla- 
 tive action ; esteemed and commended by all. A general wins 
 for his native flag as brilliant honors as modern warfare has fur- 
 nished, and reveals to his countrymen a character of sterling 
 honesty and winning truthfulness and simplicity : his name is 
 familiar to every lip and his character endeared to every heart. 
 Bath become candidates, without intrigue on the part of either. 
 Shall the civilian, whose merits until now were respected, at 
 once be traduced and insulted and vilified ? Shall the soldier, 
 whose reputation had been cherished with enthusiasm, now 
 
^TAT. 32.] THE PRESIDENCY. 415 
 
 suddenly be sneered at and detracted from ? How poor a part 
 do we play in thus making our judgments the eager slaves of our 
 passions, and in allowing our views of character to be deter- 
 mined by the relations which the party sustains to our favorite 
 notions 1 
 
 "We venture, deferentially, but earnestly, to expostulate 
 against the continuance of this system ; a system as puerile as it 
 is gross. Look back upon some of the party contests which 
 have taken place in the last twenty years ; and passing by the 
 unfairness and cruelty of atrocities of speech and writing that 
 ontfiended the infernal imps, consider the effects upon the char- 
 acter and manners of the nation. Could anything tend more to 
 coarsen, to vulgarize, to degrade the minds and tempers and 
 feelings of society at large ? Has any thing contributed, in a 
 greater degree, to retard the moral elevation of a people who, 
 towering above all others in external and physical advantages, 
 ongbt to exhibit upon all public occasions a conspicuous and still- 
 brightening example of decency, propriety, and refinement ? 
 There is no science in the world more noble than politics ; there 
 is no profession requiring a higher training than such participa- 
 tion in the government as our Constitution ensures to every citi- 
 zen : but every conception of science and training — every idea 
 of merits to be considered and duty to be performed — ^becomes 
 the " arch mock" of ridicule itself, in the tumultuous, wretched 
 ferocity which animates both parties and fires every bosom. 
 We devoutly hope that in the contest which is now beginning or 
 begun, milder and worthier auspices will rule the hour; and 
 that a struggle upon which suoh great consequences stand in 
 issue, will be conducted in another spirit, and with other ex- 
 hibitions, than such as would discredit a horse race. 
 
416 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. [-Stat. 32. 
 
 GENERAL TAYLOR'S CABINET. 1849. 
 
 [So rapidly do political events, when once past, become, in this country, 
 almost forgotten, that it requires a pause before the reader can recall even 
 those which have produced great effects, and which are still of recent date. 
 When the convention of the Whig party, to nominate a. candidate for the 
 Presidential chair, assembled in 1848 at Philadelphia, it was the earnest hope 
 of the friends of Mr. Webster, that this great statesman would receive from 
 their voices that mark of their respect which was so justly du-e to him from 
 the party of which he had been so long the pride, the leader, and the cham- 
 pion. Extreme whigs — the friends of special measures — were desirous that Mr. 
 Clay should be the nominee. The friends of both gentlemen deprecated the 
 nomination of any person whose attractions were military. The failure of 
 General Harrison, on his first nomination, showed that his " availability" had 
 been no greater than that of either of the statesmen whom we have just 
 named and whom others had preferred; while in no other respect had it ever 
 been at all pretended that his value, in civil affairs, was the tithe of either of 
 theirs. His election, on a second nomination, had been a triumph worse than 
 any defeat. It had failed to secure a single one of the objects which it was 
 designed to secure ; and the party had not only been betrayed, but dishonored 
 also. When, therefore, a portion of the Whig party proposed at a later date, 
 again to place a military chieftain before the country, on this same ground 
 of " availability," the best men of the nation opposed themselves to such a 
 nomination. They felt, as they had felt before, and as the event had now proved, 
 that such a nomination was a departure from the principles on which nomina- 
 tions for civil office should be made j and that the party which made it would 
 deserve to be, and sooner or later would be, broken up. Interests, however, 
 ruled the hour, and the nomination of General Taylor was made. A portion 
 of those to whom it was unsatisfactory — the advocates of extreme Whig 
 measures — withheld their support from it altogether; Mr. Clay, and some 
 of his friends in Kentucky, among them. Deeply injurious as, in a political 
 view, the nomination of General Taylor was deemed by Mr. Webster to the 
 permanent interest of the country and its best party, and greatly wronged as 
 he could not but feel that he personally had been, he did not withhold his 
 efforts in what he deemed the cause of the country. He regarded the elec- 
 tion of General Taylor as a less evil than the election of his opponent; and 
 declaring emphatically that the nomination was " a nomination not fit to 
 BE MADE,*^ he yet gave his hearty testimony to the merits of General Taylor's 
 military and personal character; he showed great grounds of hope for the 
 success of his civil administration, and by every effort which he could exert, 
 was most instrumental in advancing the election of that person. The Presi- 
 dential struggle of 1848 was a memorable one. Taylor was elected, and the 
 country began nowtoinquirewhat men he would callaround him. The thoughts 
 
^TAT. 32.] GENERAL TAYLOR'S CABINET. 41 J 
 
 of wise men were turned to Mr. Webster; but men wbo had been chiefly in- 
 strumental in nominating General Taylor wore crowding about him, and 
 clamored for the appointment of another to the chief office of his cabinet. 
 Another was appointed : and most of the remaining offices of tho cabinet were 
 filled by influences similar to those which had filled the department of state. 
 The history of that cabinet is known. — Ed.] 
 
 When a great popular conflict in politics is over, the first 
 question is, " Who has succeeded ?" the next, and more im- 
 portant, and often more difficult one, is, " What has succeeded ?" 
 In the field and at the polls, it has frequently happened that a 
 battle has been won, and no success been reaped. The true 
 victory depends upon the use that is made of the triumph ; and 
 the conqueror's first movement after the contest is hardly less 
 important than any of his movements before it. It is pretty 
 generally known, we suppose, that in the Ides of November 
 last, there took place throughout this country a vehement and 
 stern collision of the two great parties, which resulted in the 
 discomfiture of one and the predominance of the other. Yet 
 the moral nature of that revolution — the question, what prin- 
 ciples were established, what policy was overthrown — what ele- 
 ments of social life there gained the mastery — all this remains 
 as obscure and undetermined as before the issue of the election 
 was announced ; and will not become known and settled until 
 the cabinet of President Taylor is gazetted. Whether the 
 auspicious morning of a long and genial day begins, or whether 
 the gloomy omen is to be renewed, that the sun rises but no 
 day follows it, cannot till then be seen. The President's first 
 appointments are therefore expected by all who gave their 
 votes for him, with an anxiety, profound on all sides, and hope- 
 ful or doubtful, according to the temperament or views of the 
 observer. As to what they will be, we personally know little ; 
 but that little satisfies us that the public at large know nothing. 
 
 Not relying upon any information of General Taylor's in- 
 tentions or opinions, but reasoning from the plain and over- 
 powering proprieties, obligations and necessities of the case, 
 and the President's unavoidable recognition of them, we have 
 felt from the beginning, and we now feel with an increased con- 
 
418 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. [^tat. 32. 
 
 fidence, that it is impossible that the first place in the new 
 cabinet shall not be filled by Mr. Webster. We believe Gene- 
 ral Taylor to be a perfectly candid man — free from all petty 
 jealousies and vanities — shrewd enough to know the right 
 policy, and wise enough to adopt it — sincerely desirous to 
 give the country the best and ablest government that circum- 
 stances admit of. It is impossible that such a man should 
 make so great a mistake as not to insist that the chief seat in 
 his council shall be occupied by him who in legislative and 
 executive capacity has approved himself, to the judgment of 
 his country and other countries, as the first and greatest states- 
 man of the age. 
 
 We do not admit that the president of a republic has a 
 right to follow an irresponsible, arbitrary, and wholly personal 
 will in the distribution of the great offices of state. He pos- 
 sesses, legally, an unlimited power of appointment ; but in a 
 free constitution, which is necessarily a government by parties, 
 the exercise of this power is circumscribed and influenced by 
 certain moral obligations of reason, good faith, and implied 
 engagement — distinctly felt, however difficult to be defined — 
 which no wise man will fail to consider. The power, therefore, 
 which is given by the Constitution to the President, is affected, 
 in his hands, by a very delicate but real trust — which is en- 
 forced alike by good sense, true honor, and high prudence. 
 The proper statement of the duty which he thus owes to the 
 views and the feelings of the community we take to be this : — 
 That the principles which have predominated in the country 
 should be made to prevail in the cabinet, and that the persons 
 who have contributed principally to the acquisition of the su- 
 premacy should share in its management ; — not upon any such 
 pirate maxim as that "to the victors belong the spoils," but from 
 the natural consideration that the intellectual and moral in- 
 fluence which wrought upon the public such conviction as caused 
 a transfer of political power, ought to take part in the guidance 
 of that power. 
 
 The question then comes back, " what" was it that triumphed 
 at the late elections, "who" was it that most importantly 
 
iETAT. 32.] GENEEAL TAYLOR'S CABINET. 419 
 
 aided in the acquisition of the triumph ? Now for our part 
 we take it to be clear that the late election was a triumph, in 
 general, of Whig principles, and in particular of that modifica- 
 tion of them which has been called " moderate Whig. " No 
 doubt a thousand collateral and accidental circumstances con- 
 curred ; " the stars in their courses fought against Sisera ;" but 
 the great resultant to which each separate influence contributed, 
 and at which the whole combined movement arrived, was a de- 
 cisive condemnation and expulsion of Jackson-Yan-Buren-Polk- 
 aud-Cass Democracy, and a cordial restoration of that party 
 whose principle, both at the beginning and now, was and is a 
 systematic opposition to this banded conspiracy against the 
 honor and welfare of the nation. Now, what relation has Mr. 
 Webster to this great party and this extraordinary occurrence ? 
 He has this relation to the party — that we do not characterize 
 Mr. Webster by reference to Whig principles, but we ascertain 
 Whig principles by reference to Mr. Webster's character and 
 mind. He is the author, the organizer, the conservator, the ex- 
 pounder, the type and image of Whigism. The obligations of that 
 party to Mr. Webster cannot be overestimated. He presided over 
 its formation in the days of General Jackson. He then drew 
 those lines of defence from which, after twenty years' beleaguer- 
 ment, the friends of the Constitution now advance against a 
 baffled and retreating foe. Again and again he has rallied the 
 courage of the party. He has defined its principles. There 
 have been times when only his efforts prevented the party from 
 narrowing into a faction on the one hand, or dissolving into a 
 rabble on the other. He has made the profession of the Whig 
 name respectable in the judgments of candid men throughout 
 the land. Maxims which he has fixed, views which he has dis- 
 closed, hopes which drew from his indomitable spirit all their 
 enthusiasm, formed, for years, the very identity and vitality of 
 the party. Many men in New England, who are really great, 
 have found that their highest wisdom was to understand and 
 second his guiding intelligence ; and some men in New Eng- 
 land, who are large without being great, have had their essen- 
 tial insignificance rendered almost imposing by the prestige 
 
420 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. [^tat. 32. 
 
 shed upon them by being thought his sustainers and friends, 
 and have swelled up like sponges by imbibing a portion of his 
 consequence. Squeezed and drained of their absorbed im- 
 portance, these looming statesmen would be poor shrunken 
 pulps of reputation. 
 
 But though it is a great Whig triumph which the late elec- 
 tions signalize, we hold it to be equally undeniable that it is a 
 triumph of the " moderate Whig" school ; — a school with which 
 Mr. Webster is especially identified, as having been, not only 
 its institutor, but among conspicuous persons, before General 
 Taylor's adoption of it, its only member. Prom the very be- 
 ginning, in Jackson's days, Mr. Webster's doctrines were 
 pitched to the same key-note of practical and moderate po- 
 licy, in favor of which, as we believe, the nation has now borne 
 its testimony. The essentially practical character of his sense — 
 the averseness of his understanding from all abstract and abso- 
 lute dogmas upon so complex and varying a subject as politics 
 ' — led him naturally into this line of thought and conduct. 
 Accordingly, when the bank war began, — while others, not 
 capable of distinguishing between an accidental institution and 
 a permanent principle, made that special establishment of a 
 chartered bank the unchangeable watchword of their political 
 course, Mr. Webster took the ground, merely, that it was the 
 duty of the general government, constitutionally and commer- 
 cially, to make provision for a uniform currency ; and that as 
 the existing system accomplished that fully and safely, and had 
 become a basis upon which great interests had founded them- 
 selves, sound policy was clearly against its overthrow. The 
 accession of Mr. Tyler developed the inherent distinction be- 
 tween these schools into a still widening divergency. Upon 
 the question of a federal credit-currency, Mr. Webster was 
 decidedly adverse to the revival of the particular institution 
 which had just been destroyed after such a terrific contest. 
 
 Standing just where he did in principle, but modifying his 
 policy to suit the change in circumstances, he sent in a report, 
 through the Secretaiy of the Treasury, recommending, not a 
 bank — much less the bank — but a simple fiscal establishment, 
 
iETAT. 32.] GENERAL TAYLOR'S CABINET. 421 
 
 which should secure a uniform circalation, and become a nucleus 
 around which the extensive commercial relations that had been 
 so wantonly struck down might renew their life and growth. 
 He counseled that the Whigs should act rationally, and not re- 
 ject a good which could be obtained because it was not the 
 best that might be couceiTed. But he could not make his voice 
 heard among them. Under the influence of other advisers, the 
 whole party went off in a different direction, and determined to 
 take their stand for a bank and for the bank. They went to the 
 polls chiefly upon this issue, and were defeated. In the con- 
 vention at Philadelphia, this conflict between the extreme and 
 moderate portions of the party were renewed in the contest for 
 the nomination ; it resulted in the choice of the moderate candi- 
 date, and under his auspices the party triumphed. There has, 
 therefore, been a double revolution ; a revolution throughout 
 the country, of the Whigs prevailing over the Locofocos, and a 
 revolution within the party, of the moderate branch prevailing 
 over the bigoted absolutists. General Taylor, we think, can 
 hardly fail to recognize this as the true view of the late occur- 
 rences, or to organize his cabinet in conformity with the wisdom 
 which it teaches. If he should fall into the error of selecting 
 any of the Kentucky school of Whigs, he would stultify one of 
 the essential principles upon which and by which he was raised 
 to the Presidency. The country is unquestionably animated- by 
 a Whig spirit and Whig sentiments ; but it is not in favor of 
 extreme Whig measures ; and an attempt to go over the ex- 
 ploded ground of national bank, high tariff, &c., will only lead 
 to another conflict and another overthrow. Referring to the 
 past, we confidently affirm that Mr. Webster is the man who, 
 more than any other man, represents and embodies that tone 
 of feeling and policy which, by the late elections, the country 
 has sought to stamp upon the administration. Of the bank 
 subject we have already spoken. On the tariff his views have 
 been of a corresponding consistency and practicability. He has 
 maintained, as a fixed and unchangeable principle, that there must 
 be protection for domestic industry ; but in arranging the mode, 
 and extent of it, he has always been desirous of occupying a 
 36 
 
422 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. [^tat. 32. 
 
 safe, practical, and reconciling ground. His observations at 
 Baltimore, on the subject of international commercial treaties, 
 always seemed to us to embody the principles upon which this 
 vexed subject may and one day will be compromised and settled 
 to common satisfaction. 
 
 There is another consideration which, though Mr. Webster, 
 we are assured, has too much dignity even to think of it as the 
 ground of a claim. General Taylor, we are doubly sure, has too 
 much justice and candor not promptly to aclinowledge as a 
 matter of right ; — we mean the immense extent to which Mr. 
 Webster's personal exertions contributed to the success of the 
 late struggle. It must be remembered that, after all, our suc- 
 cess, decisive as it became, was most narrowly and difficultly 
 gained ; and that though we won a great victory, we were as 
 near as possible to being defeated. Pennsylvania would have 
 turned the scale. New York would have turned the scale. 
 Massachusetts with some other New England State would have 
 given the day another result. Now we readily admit that, 
 without General Taylor, it would have been impossible for the 
 Whigs to succeed ; but we believe it to be equally certain that 
 without those strenuous and most honorable efforts which Mr. 
 Webster put forth in aid of him, he would have been defeated. 
 The danger, of course, was from the free-soil faction. That 
 movement was setting in with the swelling and over-sweeping 
 violence of a spring freshet ; it was setting equally against both 
 parties. Mr. Webster alone of the Whig leaders instantly ap- 
 prehended the magnitude of the danger, and stretched forth his 
 arm to avert the torrent from the Whig position, and to send it 
 . — retortis violenter undis — to devastate the ranks of the enemy. 
 His speech in the Senate, in August, 1848, delivered his friends 
 from the danger. He there declared that the Whig party was 
 a free-soil party ; that no Whig — if he wished to establish the 
 Wilmot proviso — ought to think of leaving the Whig ranks. 
 
 This doctrine was at that time wholly novel ; for at the 
 date of that speech the Whigs, as a party, stood wholly, un- 
 committed upon the subject of the Wilmot proviso. It was 
 obvious, also, that the chiefs and organs of the party, generally, 
 
iETAT. 32.] GENERAL TAYLOR'S CABINET. 423 
 
 were laboring to keep it uncommitted. It would have remained 
 uncommitted, and if it had done so, it would have been defeated. 
 Webster, alone, saw the indispensable necessity of cutting away 
 that ground from under Mr. Yan Buren. He alone had the 
 power to place the party in a position to supplant Mr. Van 
 Buren's devices. No man but Mr. Webster had authority and 
 moral influence to declare that such a thing was a principle of 
 the Whig party, — or, perhaps, we must say, to make it a prin- 
 ciple of the Whig party ; for, with all our confidence in his 
 candor, it seems to us that his declaration had something of 
 creative efficacy. He made it a Whig principle, and by so 
 doing made General Taylor President. His lead was soon fol- 
 lowed by others. His doctrine was especially preached in 
 Pennsylvania. The Whig orators everywhere forestalled the 
 Van Buren demagogues, by affirming that the Whig party was 
 a Wilmot proviso party. Unless they had done this — and 
 they did it upon Mr. Webster's authority — we feel confident 
 that Mr. Johnson could not have been elected governor, and if he 
 had not been elected governor. General Taylor certainly would 
 not have received the electoral vote of Pennsylvania. The doctrine 
 was preached in Massachusetts by Mr. Webster himself, and by 
 Mr. Ashmun and others ; and Massachusetts was saved from 
 the ineffable disgrace of giving her vote to Martin Van Buren. 
 If it had not been for Mr. Webster's painful exertions in that 
 commonwealth, she would certainly have been lost to the Whigs. 
 Thus he saved the Atlantic States. In Ohio and the North 
 West, where other influences were felt, and where Mr. Webster's 
 authority did not extend, the free-soil party ruined the Whig 
 cause. We do not know a more striking instance of Mr. Web- 
 ster's prompt and far-seeing sagacity, than in his thus at once 
 thoroughly and earnestly committing the Whig party to the 
 Wilmot proviso. It was a bold play ; but it saved and swept 
 the stakes. 
 
 In a merely personal view, we cannot but express our 
 admiration of the truly dignified and great conduct of Mr. 
 Webster in his support of General Taylor. Not concealing, but 
 openly acknowledging that he disproved of the nomination of a 
 
424 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. [^tat. 32. 
 
 soldier for the presidency, yet perceiving that the nominee 
 could not be defeated without the overthrow of the best hopes 
 and best interests of the country, he cast aside all temptations 
 to give indulgence to private feelings, and came forward like a 
 man to battle for the public cause. Suppose that he had played 
 the part of the mortified Achilles, and had remained sullenly 
 in his tent ; where would Pennsylvania and New Tork and 
 Massachusetts have been ? His Marshfield speech it was that 
 shattered the Clay organization in New Tork, and gave the 
 Empire State to Taylor. Nothing would have been easier than 
 for him to secure the votes of Massachusetts and New Hamp- 
 shire for himself, and to make what terms he chose with General 
 Taylor. But he flung aside every selfish consideration, and 
 cast the whole weight of his vast power into the scale of the 
 Whig party, and the Whig party's candidate ; determined that, 
 whoever might contend for the presidency, he would win the 
 victories of patriotism and magnanimity. 
 
 But in urging his friends to the support of a man the 
 selection of whose name all the world knew that he condemned, 
 he compromised neither the truth of the case, nor the dignity 
 of his character, nor the disinterestedness of his purposes ; and 
 while he became an advocate for the election of the nominee, he 
 bore testimony against the principle upon which the nomination 
 had been made. He declared it a nomination "not fit to be 
 made" by a party who had come into existence for the purpose 
 of substituting the influence of principles and policy for the 
 power of personal popularity and the domination of personal 
 character ; a wise, and true, and noble declaration — worthy of 
 the foremost statesman of a great republic — sublime under the 
 circumstances of its utterance — a thing to be engraven on 
 columns, and written in an epitaph — which the lovers of his 
 fame never will let die. We have heard it said, by those who 
 made the littleness of their groveling tempers the measure of 
 General Taylor's really great and manly spirit, that this decla- 
 ration would form a bar to Mr. Webster's being placed in the 
 cabinet. If General Taylor make any approach, in fact, to 
 that character of respectability and dignity which we have 
 
^TAT. 32.] GENERAL TAYLOR'S CABINET. 425 
 
 ascribed to him, he will admire, and esteem, and confide in, and 
 honor Mr. Webster far more cordially for a sentiment which he 
 himself knows to be true, and the utterance of which by Mr. 
 Webster, he must feel to have been the conscientious per- 
 formance of a moral duty. 
 
 What extent of power over men's judgments and feelings 
 is wielded by Mr. Webster may be learned by a reference to 
 his arrangement of our foreign relations in Mr. Tyler's time. 
 So entire was the conviction of his wisdom and patriotism, and 
 so great the ability with which the justice of that conviction 
 was vindicated to mature reflection, that the transmitted and 
 accumulated perplexities of twenty successive cabinets were 
 finally determined by him, to the perfect satisfaction of two 
 nations. 
 
 Upon the success of General Taylor's administration de- 
 pends the fate of the Whig party ; and the party have a right 
 to ask that, in the management of interests which they intrast 
 to him, he should consult with their great intellectual chief, in 
 the reality of whose mental superiority their confidence is deep 
 and universal. General Taylor should remember that his nomi- 
 nation was in opposition to the judgment of a vast body of 
 most respectable persons, who still regard his accession with 
 much distrust. The only proper way to treat these opinions 
 will be to give the country the same guidance which it would 
 have had if the best civil nomination had been made and had 
 prevailed. Coming to an occupation new to him, and encount- 
 ering many prejudices, he should evince his entire capacity for 
 the post, by forming the strongest and best cabinet that cau 
 be constructed. And whatever choice he may make, if Mr. 
 Webster be not in his cabinet, it will be a second-rate affair." 
 36* 
 
426 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. [^tat. 30. 
 
 EMIGRATION TO CALIFORNIA. 
 
 We have been somewhat surprised that the Press, which is 
 the principal conductor and brakeman of the great steam-car of 
 modern society, has not whistled one unanimous note of warn- 
 ing on the subject of the hasty and tumultuary expeditions that 
 are now forming for the Pacific. Let us not be misunderstood. 
 We are entire believers in the existence of immense mineral 
 wealth in California. We see no reason to think that the 
 opinions which have been generally formed in regard to the 
 wondrous stores of gold, platinum, and mercury deposited in our 
 new conquest, have been exaggerated. The mistake which many 
 of the public have made, and which we desire to point out, is 
 not a statistical, but purely a logical one ; a mistake not in the 
 premises but in the conclusion which has been drawn from them ; 
 an error not of fact, but of inference. Admitting as we fully do 
 the presence of gold mines of vast range and exhaustless pro- 
 ductiveness, still it does not follow that this precipitate and ex- 
 cited rush to the valley of the Sacramento, with bowls and pans 
 and hammers, is any thing else than a delusion of folly and ig- 
 norance. Gold is there ; but it is there, we must suppose, under 
 the same conditions in which it exists everywhere else in the 
 ■world. It is imbedded in the earth ; it is veined through the 
 rokcs ; it is compressed between strata of earth far down beneath 
 the surface. The lumps of pure metal which have been found 
 on the surface, and the grains which have been detected in union 
 with the sand of the valleys, are merely fragments which have been 
 washed down from the crumbled granite of the higher lands. 
 Labor, Labor, Labor, — the three unvarying conditions upon 
 which Nature gives us everything that is worth a rational wish, 
 will then have to be brought into unceasing requisition, ere we 
 can avail ourselves of that which is our own. The broiling sun 
 by day — the pinching frost of night — the bending figure — 
 the anxious eye — the oft deluded search — these are the realities 
 to which the enthusiast is hastening. 
 
 We should be extremely sorry to discourage emigration to 
 
iETAT. 30.] EMIGRATION TO CALIFORNIA. 42^ 
 
 California. We think that no place in the world offers such 
 attractions to the youthful and hardy adventurer. Fortune and 
 distiuction are sure to await the judicious and industrious set- 
 tler in that region. But let it be done deliberately — reasonably 
 — prudently. This mad torrent of emigrants to the shores of 
 Panama is very absurdity. Thousands must wait there for 
 weeks and months for the means of transportation to San Fran- 
 cisco. When arrived there the prices of commodities are so ex- 
 travagantly enhanced, that mining or gold-hunting is probably 
 the least profitable undertaking that men can follow. Farming, 
 blacksmithing, and all the mechanical employments, are no 
 doubt, at this time, more productive than the occupation of 
 earth-washing in the valley of Sacramento. It is a principle of 
 universal application, that the price of a thing is precisely 
 the value of that which it costs to produce it. The Mexicans 
 have always said with literal truth, that every dollar that they 
 send to Europe costs them a hundred cents. If the thing pro- 
 duced has a permanent standard price like gold, the equality is 
 produced by raising the price of all commodities up to the new 
 proportion of the abundance of the treasure. Before this rise 
 takes place, the lucky discoverer of lumps or grains of the glitter- 
 ing ore makes a prodigious gain. But it has already taken place 
 in California to the fullest extent. We have seen a letter stat- 
 ing that the price of half a bullock in San Francisco was five 
 hundred dollars — that eighty cents was paid for a tenpenny 
 nail — and that a sheath-knife cost thirty dollars. It is obvious 
 that the standard of value is totally changed. Gold in relation 
 to commodities is depreciated below the level of assignats, when 
 men paid five thousand francs for a cup of coffee. We have 
 not the smallest doubt, that making allowance for wages of 
 labor proportioned to the rate of provisions, every ounce of gold 
 that is bottled up along the Sacramento costs the proprietor 
 sixteen dollars. We would not deter a single person from em- 
 barking for this new Dorado. Bid; we would earnestly advise 
 those who are now crowding the offices of shipmasters, to pause 
 and look ahead, and proceed more coolly. Let them not set 
 out at this season of the year, but wait until the spring ; and 
 
428 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. [JEtat. 31. 
 
 then engage a passage in some line certain to carry them to 
 San Francisco. 
 
 If any young man meditating a journey California-wards, 
 will listen to our advice, we will ensure him wealth and emi- 
 nence in the land, with absolute certainty and without any draw- 
 back. Let him collect what capital he can, and make his ar- 
 rangements for embarking in the spring. Let him settle himself 
 at San Francisco, engage in the exercise of his trade or pro- 
 fession, whatever it may be, and invest all his gains in land. 
 But, first and foremost, let him make a covenant with himself, 
 and under every temptation of place and time and circumstance 
 let him resolutely adhere to it, never to spend one hour in gold- 
 hunting. If this condition is introduced into the policy, we 
 will, for a very small premium, underwrite any sensible, worthy 
 emigrant for California, for wealth, respectability, honors — 
 " what he will." But without it, we would not, for the largest 
 premium that was ever paid, for a desperate risk, ensure any 
 man against ruin. 
 
 DB LAMARTINE. 1848. 
 
 [On the overthrow of the Orleans dynasty in the French Revolution of 1848, 
 De Lamartine, hardly hefore known but as a poet and man of letters, was sud- 
 denly elevated to a very conspicuous place in the popular cabinet. His first 
 post was that of Minister of Foreign Aifairs. On a decree for taking elections 
 for the National Assembly, he was elected for no less than ten different places; 
 his majorities in all of them being almost unprecedented. While Louis Blano 
 and Albert, {ouvn'er,) received in their districts but two and a half per cent, 
 of the votes, De Lamartine received in his, ninety-five per cent. When the 
 Assembly in the Spring of 1848 appointed an Executive Committee for the 
 nation, De Lamartine was placed at its head, and in the opinion of many 
 persons, he was certain to be elected to the new office of President of the 
 French Republic then proposed to the nation. But the prophecy contained 
 in the following piece was destined to be fulfilled. The decline of his popu- 
 larity was even more rapid than its rise. His present condition is known to 
 the world. — Ed.] 
 
iETAT. 31.] DE LAMAETINB. 429 
 
 "Poets and philosophers," says Shelly, "are the unacknow- 
 ledged legislators of the world :" but we fear that it is only so 
 long as it is unacknowledged that their legislation is genuine 
 and efficient. It is only, we mean, while the bard and the sage 
 continue to act upon the minds and hearts of men, through the 
 insensible agency of guiding thoughts and kindling feelings, 
 that they exercise their just and normal sway. When they place 
 themselves at the head of the visible government, they barter 
 the viewless charm of true might for the bauble of a spurious 
 sceptre. Like Semele, they enjoy the divinity of moral sway, 
 safely, only so long as they are content that it shall remain un- 
 seen ; if they insist upon its becoming palpable and material, 
 they are destroyed, and it disappears. M. de Lamartine is a 
 man of genius ; the brightest intelligence, and most elevated 
 spirit, perhaps, in France ; designated by Nature, it may be, as 
 the thinking head and the directing hand of a young, enthusi- 
 astic, and hopeful republic. But his rightful throne was his 
 study, and his proper sceptre was the pen. With the magic of 
 words, and from the vantage-ground of the press, he might 
 have ruled, with an ennobling tyranny, that "wilderness of free 
 minds" into which France had suddenly resolved itself. He 
 made, as we think, a fatal mistake when he allowed himself to 
 exchange an essential sovereignty for a nominal power. Con- 
 scious of an understanding adapted to enlighten, and of abilities 
 capable of controlling a nation, in the excitement of the mo- 
 ment he was duped by the delusion that the apparent head of 
 the country was its real guide. We have no belief that De 
 Lamartine can sustain himself in the position in which he is. 
 The successful conduct of great affairs depends more upon tem- 
 perament than upon reason. Napoleon possessed an intellect 
 as beaming, as direct, and as far-piercing as a sun's ray ; a com- 
 prehension as vast as the world ; an information almost bound- 
 less in variety and range. But it was not by such qualities 
 that he mastered the world. It was by the emphasis of his cha- 
 racter, the vehemence of his will, the dauntless audacity of his 
 temper, that he controlled men and things with a power almost 
 divine. " I have received from Nature," said he, to the Chamber 
 
430 VAKIOTJS SUBJECTS. [^tat. 31. 
 
 of Deputies, when, in the hour of his misfortune, they rose to 
 insult the glory which their subserviency had betrayed, " a firm 
 and fierce character. If I had not possessed an indomitable 
 temperament, I should never have placed myself upon the first 
 throne in the universe." Of all characteristics, those of the 
 literary man are, perhaps, the most remote from the practical 
 exercise of political business. That vocation demands not the 
 abstract qualities of speculation, but a direct good sense, which 
 never embarrasses itself by refinements, nor perplexes the co- 
 operation of others by the excessive complication of its designs : 
 it exacts that ready sagacity and prompt decision in which "the 
 firstlings of the mind" are always "the firstlings of the hand." 
 The meditative, scheming disposition of the author — full of vis- 
 ions, searching ever after novelties — is as little suited to the 
 counsels of public wisdom, as this sensitive, excitable, morbid 
 spirit is for the commotions and conflicts of the state. Chateau- 
 briand exhibits greater discretion than M. de Lamartine. He 
 exerted for years a most commanding influence, without con- 
 necting himself with the physical machinery of the political 
 system ; and from the privacy of his closet showed how potently 
 sentences may be wielded against swords. 
 
 The public fame of the author of " Jocelyn," we think, is des- 
 tined to a speedy declension. Nevertheless, let us do him honor 
 for good that he has already accomplished. In the brief period 
 of his ascendency he has rendered great services to France and 
 to humanity. It was his heroic front and his eloquent speech 
 that mastered the demon of revenge and bloodshed at the be- 
 ginning of the revolution. Over the chaos of a turbulent anar- 
 chy, the first rays of the returning day of order and reason 
 shone forth from his genius. In the crisis of the fate of his 
 country, he gave a benignant character and a pacific direction 
 to the tumultuous feelings of the Parisians. By much of the 
 difference between the old reign of terror and the present calm- 
 ness of France, the world is a debtor probably to him. This 
 will not be forgotten ; and if to older minds and firmer arms 
 the task of organizing in detail the civil power of France is re- 
 served, honor will always be given to the lyre of the poet at 
 
iSiAT. 30.] FRANCE AND THE MAN. 431 
 
 whose magic strains the walls of safety first rose around the 
 new-created society, and security was given against the inva- 
 sions of Iaw;lessness and barbarity. 
 
 FRANCE AND THE MAN. 1848. 
 
 After a great convulsion of the elements — a tremendous 
 storm in the natural world — there usually intervenes a period 
 of stagnant, damp, uncertain weather, before it becomes evident 
 from what quarter the wind will come out. Such is the con- 
 dition of things at present in France. Whether that nation 
 will, as on the former occasion, precipitate itself against the 
 rest of Europe, and wreak upon foreign war the madness of 
 its superfluous energy ; or whether the steady and healthful 
 breeze of regular freedom will expand the sails of industry 
 and enterprise, and waft the ship of state into " the open sea 
 of the world's praise ;" or whether a sullen tyranny of military 
 force will compress the turbulence of the people into a stern 
 and gloomy quiet — are questions which no wise man would 
 undertake at present to solve. Sooner or later, some one force 
 in society will predominate ; and the action of the country 
 will take a determinate course with concentrated and earnest 
 powers. The wind will issue forth with strong and constant 
 current ; and with it will appear some man capable to " ride 
 the whirlwind and direct the storm." It is easy to see that all 
 this rubbish of savans and poets and printers that now litter 
 the scene — this rabble of idealogues, as Napoleon used to call 
 them — will be swept away the moment that the real life of the 
 nation is resumed, and the business of the state begins again 
 in earnest. The Aragos, the Marrasts, the Louis Blancs, and 
 the rest of the Provisional Government, will be brushed off 
 the platform into the original seclusion of their closets. As 
 to Lamartine, he seems already to have verified the remark of 
 Walpole's witty friend, Madame de Coigny, in relation to the 
 
432 VAEIOTJS SUBJECTS. [iEiAT. 30, 
 
 destruction of D'Epremenil's bust — that rien ne hrule sitot que 
 les lauriers sees. He has been scorched and destroyed by the 
 heat of his own popularity. We give not the slightest heed 
 to the wild suspicions which connect him with the diabolical 
 atrocities of the late insurrection. We acquit him of every 
 sinister and dark and ruthless design. But his day is over for- 
 ever : the delusion on this subject — ^for it was nothing else — has 
 passed. Posterity will regard him as an amiable enthusiast — 
 full of irregular but generous sensibility, who, being gifted 
 with an inspiration of boldness in the hour of danger, success- 
 fully vindicated for a season the supremacy of human and 
 pacific feeling, and postponed the outbreak of that moral can- 
 nibalism which only the cannon of Cavaignao was competent to 
 subdue. The world has now taught him what he would never 
 otherwise have learned — that though "words are things," syl- 
 lables are not always words : and he will now retire to his 
 desk to gasp agonies of despair and ecstacies of hope in verse 
 wild enough to be taken for prose, and prose exalted enough to 
 be read as verse. Who or what the great man of the era — the 
 new Ifapoleon of the second revolution — will be, none can 
 conjecture. Nature has her own way of getting np the drama 
 of actual life ; and in the grand revolutionary spectacle with 
 which from time to time she treats mankind, she commonly 
 follows certain rules of construction, as uniform and absolute 
 as if she had learned her canons in the school of the Stagirite. 
 Her method is to send out first upon the stage the fanatic, 
 passionate, over-eager characters : they open the piece, work 
 up the interest, and wear out themselves : later in the per- 
 formance, amid the pause, half of disappointment and half of 
 expectation, that succeeds the wordy turbulence of the opening, 
 the true hero of the story, calm, strong, and clear-sighted, 
 comes forth : the rest are seen to be but his heralds or his 
 attendants. He is not more the embodiment of the spirit of 
 the piece, than he is the reaction against it ; he countervails 
 the very power upon which he rises ; and he mounts the zenith 
 of his glory when the elements which exalted him are declining 
 in their strength. 
 
^TAT. 34.] PLAGIARISM. 433 
 
 PLAGIAEISM. 
 
 The literary community was, of late, extensively disturbed 
 by an alarm on the subject of plagiarism. Startled by the 
 suggestions of an acute and ardent critic* — one whose eccen- 
 tricities always attract by their brilliancy, and whose greatest 
 errors seem but the excesses of a too subtle understanding — 
 the public had become wellnigh worried into a panic terror. 
 It suddenly imagined that the continued enthusiasm of a nation 
 was a palpable "error of fame;" and began to feel for more 
 than one celebrated poet, instead of admiration, that rage and 
 indignation which we are commonly inclined to entertain for 
 those who have duped us of our approval, and defrauded us of 
 our praises. With an ingenuity of fearlessness, as singular as 
 it was mistaken, this critical agitation set chiefly against an 
 Eastern bard,f who, above all the poets of this country, or of 
 this time, as to tone, effect, style, conception, all, in short, that 
 really constitutes the character of poetry, and gives individuality 
 to the genius of an artist, is original and peculiar — original 
 even to strangeness, and peculiar almost to mannerism. Mean- 
 while, the public, which, in its quiet way, detects a false alarm 
 as speedily as it does a real imposture, has gone on reading 
 and enjoying Mr. Longfellow and his suspected brethren, much 
 in the spirit of Charles the Second, who, when he was told that 
 all of Dryden's plays were stolen, answered, that he wished that 
 those who said so would steal him as good plays as Dryden's. 
 For our own part, we have always met these charges of plagia- 
 rism, when put forth in an uncandid and hostile spirit, with a 
 blank and absolute incredulity. We refuse even to listen to 
 them, regarding them as founded in complete error and mis- 
 conception. They are constantly flying through the air, and as 
 they produce a great deal of annoyance, we desire to express 
 our estimate of the merits of this hereditary and standing con- 
 troversy between the poets and the critics. 
 
 « Xhe late Edgar Allen Poe. f Longfellow. 
 
 37 
 
iSi VAEIOUS SUBJECTS. [^tAt. 34. 
 
 It appears to us that there is a total misapprehension, on all 
 sides, of the nature and effect of the fact of plagiarism, as the 
 word is ordinarily understood ; a mistake among poets as well 
 as critics, aS'to the influence which that fact ought to have, 
 even when most decisively proved, on our judgment, of the ex- 
 tent, vigor and genuineness of the creative genius of him to 
 whom it is imputed. So far from leading to any presumption 
 unfavorable to the fertility and strength of the poetical faculty 
 of the author, against whom it is proved, it seems to us, gene- 
 rally, to afford the most conclusive indication of the existence 
 of those very qualities, in their utmost delicacy, and energy. 
 In other words, this tendency to plagiarize, is a certain and 
 almost inseparable characteristic of the poetic faculty. A cold 
 and lifeless transcription from the writings of another, is, of 
 course, a wholly distinct affair. That is a question not of in- 
 ference, but of evidence : it is an imposture, which, when once 
 discovered, stands exposed forever. But that instinct of imi- 
 tation — that disposition to reproduce the thoughts and images 
 which have been seen in others — that affinity for beauty and 
 brightness, wherever they are to be found, which leads to the 
 appropriation of brilliant and lovely conceptions, whenever pre- 
 sented — that delicacy of the mental sympathies, which render 
 the intellect subject to be seized upon and haunted by the 
 notions of other persons, to a degree that defies all power of 
 expulsion — these qualities — whose operation it is that is com- 
 monly termed plagiarism — are the very elements of sesthetic 
 capacity, of whose strength and sensibility, their extent and 
 prominence is almost the measure. Originality, in any depart- 
 ment of rational effort, — what is it ? . . . The notion that 
 thoughts or feelings can be evolved out of the recesses of the 
 understanding or the spirit, and given forth to the world 
 as revelations from another existence, is the chimera of an 
 obsolete and exploded philosophy. The outer world is the 
 origin and source of all our inner consciousness ; and ideas 
 and sentiments are but the record of our experiences, trans- 
 mitted through the refining and exalting medium of our intel- 
 lectual energies. To repeat the thought of another, and not 
 
^TAT. 34] PLAGIARISM. 435 
 
 to think it ourselves, is, no doubt, a plagiarism of that thought ; 
 but "if I think as Plato thought," says Montaigne, with his 
 usual penetration and shrewdness, "then it is as much according 
 to Montaigne as according to Plato." But originality in 
 CBsthetic action is a matter of even far less signilicance than in 
 intellectual operations. In truth, invention is not the essential, 
 or even a very valuable portion of a great poet's craft ; novelty 
 so far from a necessary attribute of the best art, is not even au 
 appropriate, and scarcely, in strictness, a legitimate quality of 
 it. The beautifying of thought — the elevation of feelings — the 
 improvement of images — the perfecting of conceptions — these 
 are the normal operations of the poet's faculties. To snatch 
 our feelings from us, in order to give them back to us in plea- 
 sure — to present our own reflections to us, cast into the shapes 
 of lovely images — to mirror the universe of reality in mingled 
 truth and splendor, from the surface of a delicate and dazzling 
 ideality — this, which is the literary creator's trae task, requires 
 not only no exclusive search after originality, but demands that 
 novelty should be sacrificed whenever its pursuit would violate 
 that truth of Art which is beauty. The partial or imperfect 
 conceptions of others form as lawful a subject for the amending 
 and exalting exertions of the poet^ as the natural objects or re- 
 lations which those conceptions concern; and to advance the 
 creations of preceding authors into a higher beauty, is the same, 
 in dignity and in difficulty, as to perform the first change by 
 which Nature is raised into elegance. 
 
 If there be any share of pertinency in these speculations, it 
 will follow that the existence, in any poet, of the traces of 
 familiarity with the productions of other poets, furnishes no 
 just suspicion as to the vigor and value of his artistic abilities ; 
 on the contrary, the presence of such evidences of the power 
 of others' thoughts upon his mind, ought to be deemed an in- 
 dication of superior sensibility and delicacy in those qualities 
 which form his true character, and the absence of them might 
 well raise some serious doubts as to the genuineness of that 
 spirit, which thus lacks its most characteristic affections. The 
 true test of the poet's power, is to be found in the use which he 
 
436 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. [^tat. U. 
 
 makes of those matters which he takes from others — in the re- 
 action of his own mind upon them, after they have come into 
 its treasures. If he has deprayed and injured any image which 
 has been furnished to him by another, he shows a want of 
 ability ; but if he has improved and raised it, either by giving 
 it a new effect, or, through some skillful touches, bringing out 
 more fully that effect which the original author had contemplated, 
 it might, in our opinion, be plausibly contended that he displays 
 more and higher art, than if the whole conception, as he pre- 
 sents it, had been the direct suggestion of Nature to himself. 
 Thus, a warm and intelligent admirer of Gray has called atten- 
 tion to the lines — 
 
 " The dauntless child 
 Stretch'd forth his little arms and smiled ;" 
 
 which differ but by a single epithet from a passage in Sandys ;. 
 
 "The child 
 Stretch'd forth his little arms and smiled/' 
 
 and has noted the exquisite skill of Gray, who, by adding one 
 word, so appropriate and descriptive, has imparted tone and 
 finish to the picture, and lighted it up as a flash of sunshine 
 lights a landscape in April. 
 
 We have found but one critic who appears to us to have taken 
 a right view of the subject which we are discussing ; and his re- 
 marks about Lord Byron, and some others, are so striking and 
 just, that we beg leave to cite them in support of our theory. 
 They are in the recent collective edition of the writings of an 
 author, whom we take to have been, on the whole, the best 
 critic that ever lived, and tahave possessed the soundest under- 
 standing of any of his cotemporaries, with the exception of 
 Sir James Mackintosh. " Lord Byron," says the discriminating, 
 able, and candid Jeffrey, " like all other persons of a quick 
 sense of beauty, and sure enough of their own originality to be 
 in no fear of paltry imputations, is a great mimic of styles and 
 manners, and a great borrower of external character. He and 
 Scott, accordingly, are full of imitations of all the writers from 
 
aiTAT. 34.] PLAGIARISM. 43Y 
 
 whom they have ever derived gratification ; and the two most 
 original writers of the age might appear, to superficial observers, 
 to be the most deeply indebted to their predecessors." {Jef- 
 frexfs Essays, iii. 165.) The same sagacious author prefaces 
 an inquiry into Moore's imitations, by the remarliable, but sound 
 observation, that " all poets who really love poetry, and lii-6 in 
 a poetical age, are great imitators." (iii. 230.) 
 
 It is certain that this charge of plagiarism has been made 
 against every great poet that has appeared in the world : and, 
 what is more to the purpose, it is as certain that in every case 
 it has been justly made. Chaucer's obligations to the Italian 
 and Provenceaux romances are unbounded. A few hundred of 
 Spencer's plagiarisms may be found in Dr. Jortin's observa- 
 tions. Shakspeare, it is admitted, in almost every instance stole 
 his plots ready make; and seemed, indeed, to have lacked the 
 power of constructive invention as completely as Ben Jonson, 
 who possessed it in perfection, wanted every other. But many 
 of the most admired expressions in Shakspeare, also, are 
 adopted from his predecessors ; for example, "my mind's eye'' 
 is merely Chaucer's " eyen of his mind," (Cant. Tales.) As to 
 Milton, it is scarcely worth while to track his furtive course 
 through the Adafnen Exul, &c., when every scholar perceives 
 that the metal in which he wrought, instead of being digged 
 newly from the earth, is like that Corinthian brass of the ancients, 
 which was melted up from the spoils of a city. There is scarcely 
 one of the mellow cadences of Pope in which your ear shall not 
 catch, mingled with it, some echoes from the ruder harmonies 
 of Dryden, Cowley, or Milton. And, to come down to our 
 own days. Lord Byron has always proved, to our judgment, the 
 vastness of his genius, by the enormous powers of assimilation 
 which he displayed. 
 
 We shall cite one or two examples from Lord Byron, whose 
 poetical powers are, taking all things in the account, greater 
 than any man has exhibited save Milton ; and we beg that the 
 so called plagiarisms of Mr. Longfellow may be compared with 
 them. 
 
 In " Marino Faliero," act 1, scene 2, we read as follows: 
 37* 
 
438 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. [^tat. 34. 
 
 " Aa yet 'tis but a chaos 
 Of darkly-brooding thoughts ; my fancy is 
 In her first work, more nearly to the light 
 Holding the sleeping images of things, 
 For the selection of the pausing judgment." 
 
 A magnificent, even sublime conception 1 but bearing some 
 resemblance to this passage in Dryden's dedication of "ThaRi- 
 val Ladies" to the Earl of Orrery: — "A confused mass of 
 thoughts tumbling over one another in the dark; when the 
 fancy was yet in its iirst work, moving the sleeping images of 
 things towards the light, there to be distinguished, and then 
 either chosen or rejected by the judgment." (Sir Walter Scott's 
 edition of Dry den, ii. 1 13.) Byron knew how to appreciate the 
 eshaustless munificence of godlike and " glorious John," and 
 coming often to his table, honored it in the true, manly way, 
 by helping himself with freedom. The expression in " Manfred" 
 act 1, scene 2 — 
 
 "We, 
 Half dust, half city, alike unfit 
 To sink or soar" — 
 
 was probably suggested by the line in the " Duke of Guise" — 
 
 *' Man, in his body's mire. 
 
 Half soul, half clod, sinks blindfolded in sin." 
 Scotia DrydeUf vii. 110. 
 
 The beautiful allusion in the " Corsair," 
 
 " Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear. 
 Shall soothe or lull — or should it vex thine ear. 
 We'll turn the tale by Ariosto told 
 Of fair Olympia loyed and left of old" — 
 Canto If xiv. 
 
 was no doubt derived from Queen Leonora, in Dryden's great- 
 est tragedy, "Don Sebastian" : 
 
 " To soothe my sadness. 
 
 Sing me the song which poor Olympia made. 
 When false Bireno left her." 
 
 Act 5, scene 1. ScotVs Dryden, tI. 464. 
 
 The line at the commencement of the " Corsair," 
 
 "Par as the breeze can bear the billows foam," 
 
iEiAT. 34.] PLAGIARISMS. 439 
 
 certainly is very similar to a passage in Dryden's " Hind and 
 Panther," — 
 
 "From pole to pole, 
 
 "Where winds can carry, or where waves can roll ;" 
 
 Scott'a Dryderij a. 179. 
 
 and, oddly enough. Pope had set him an example in this matter, 
 by copying those identical lines of Dryden's into his imitation 
 of the sixth epistle of Horace, without the change of a syllable. 
 Byron, in fact, took his own wherever he found it. The line in 
 the " Irish Avatar," referring to Grattan, 
 
 "And corruption shrank soorch'd from the glance of his mind," 
 
 is but a tuneful echo of Burns' emphatic appeal, in the dedica- 
 tion of his Poems to the noblemen and gentlemen of the Cale- 
 donian Hunt, in ItSt : " May corruption shrink at your kindling 
 indignant glance;" but how the thought is glorified and made 
 intense by the introduction of the epithet, " scorched 1" Ar- 
 nold's reflections on deformity in the "Deformed Trans- 
 formed,'' are derived from Bacon's essays, by a fine process of 
 poetical sublimation : for example : — 
 
 " There is 
 A spur in its halt movements, to become 
 All that the others cannot, in such things 
 As still are free to both, to compensate 
 For stepdame Nature's avarice at first : 
 Ihey woo with fearlesss deeds the smiles of fortune. 
 
 Part 1, section 1. 
 
 "Whosoever hath anything fixed in his person that doth induce 
 contempt, hath also a perpetual spur in himself to rescue and 
 deliver himself from scorn ; therefore all deformed persons are 
 extremely bold." (0/" Deformity.') A classical reader might 
 readily have suspected that the lines in the "Monody on Death," 
 
 " Ah ! little- do they know 
 That what to them seem'd vice might be but woe ;" 
 
 were transferred from CatuUus's wild and Sheridan's heart-bro- 
 ken lament, 
 
 " Id, Manli, non est turpe ; magis miserum est ;" 
 
 Carm. 68, ad Manlinm. 
 
440 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. [^tat. S4. 
 
 of which they are a pretty exact translation; did we not know, 
 from an entry in one of his lordship's journals, that he had in 
 fact stolen them from Sheridan himself, in conversation, who 
 had plagiarized it, not from antiquity, but from the remem- 
 brance of his own maddening anguish. 
 
 We might extend this list of Lord Byron's conve^z-ances 
 considerably. We have alluded to these instances of appropri- 
 ation in one whose imagination, assuredly, was " a Crcesus in 
 creation," in order to illustrate our position, that the tendency 
 to attract to itself, from the most remote and various regions, 
 every thing that is cognate to its purpose, is a natural charac- 
 teristic of the magnetic ardor of genius. 
 
 We have a very strong feeling on the subject of these charges of 
 plagiarism. We deprecate such imputations as in the highest 
 degree mischievous. They are not merely unjust, in making an 
 individual responsible for what is a professional characteristic ; 
 but they are eminently injurious to Art, by diffusing the notion 
 that originality is the first excellence of poetry, whereas beauty 
 is its only legitimate search, and by sending its followers in 
 quest of remote and strange inventions, instead of leaving them 
 to develope the truth of Nature in freedom and peace, and to 
 telegraph to us the inexpressible thoughts of a higher life by 
 every intelligible signal that association can supply. Those 
 from whom these charges proceed, show an ignorance of the 
 distinctions and limits of the different departments of human in- 
 telligence in regard to originality. In wit, he only creates who 
 suggests an absolutely new combination of ideas ; in philosophy 
 "he discovers who proves," says Dr. Paley ; in mechanics, he 
 iuvents who puts in practice; and in art, he originates who 
 beautifies. 
 
^Etat. 28.] LEGISIiATION AND ITS SYSTEMS. 441 
 
 LEGISLATION AND ITS SYSTEMS. 
 
 We look upon Legislation as a system of moral medicine and 
 surgery, by which the health of the body politic is to be pre- 
 served amidst the shocks which spirit, as well as flesh, is heir 
 to. Tariffs may be regarded as courses of quinine for bracing 
 and strengthening the action of the system j bank charters are 
 stimulating cordials, more immediate in their operation, and 
 less safe in their results ; police and riot acts, — alien and sedi- 
 tion laws (now disused from the violence supposed to be done 
 by them to the constitution) — and indeed the whole criminal 
 code — are a comprehensive scheme of phlebotomy, designed 
 for relief against accesses of fever. Oar friend of " The Tri- 
 bune" may be considered as professing a system of dietetics, 
 which, by prescribing to every man the kind of food he is to in- 
 dulge in, and measuring out to him the precise quantity he may 
 partake of, promises to stave off at least all those diseases — a 
 very numerous progeny — that spring from overtasked digestion, 
 disturbed secretions, and excessive humors of all sorts through- 
 out the frame. Besides the general standing College of Physi- 
 cians in congress assembled, whose dispensary agents, in the 
 shape of law officers, swarm through the land, there are nume- 
 rous societies devoted to particular branches of the healing 
 art, some of which often hold their parliaments in this city. 
 Here is the Church Convention, which attends to the state of 
 the nervous system ; there, the Industrial Convention, which 
 takes care especially of the fibrous system, and the concerns of 
 the tendons, ligaments, and muscles ; there, again, is a Musical 
 Convention, but whether it applies only to diseases of the au- 
 ditory organs, or relates to some new method of acting on the 
 whole body by remedies taken in at the ear, we cannot very 
 clearly make out. Amidst all this internecine war of theories, 
 — ^this polygonal dueling between discordant practices — we 
 stand up for the Homceopathic system in Legislation ; that ad- 
 mirable doctrine — as applicable to the body politic as to the 
 
442 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. I^tai. 28. 
 
 body corporate — wHch asserts, that the nearer the dose amounts 
 to nothing, the better it is. This may be called the next-to- 
 nothing system ; and it is obvious that its natural extension and 
 completeness will be found in the absolvMy nothing system ; 
 and it is in that improved version, that we desire it to be under- 
 stood as receiving it. To the bleeding and calomel doctors in 
 church and state, we say that the science of infiniment pelits 
 will accomplish as miraculous results in morals as it has done 
 in mathematics. To the spiritual professors, whose province it 
 is to attend to the nervous part of the frame, this advice is es- 
 pecially applicable. The disease of the patient, in that particu- 
 lar, is an excessive consciousness; a state of super-sensibility, 
 which treatment of any kind only aggravates, and for which the 
 only remedy is repose, regularity, and employment about other 
 matters. The virtues of perfect rest as a restorative condition 
 in regard to the physical man are a familiar topic in medicine ; 
 and they are as eminent in moral matters. Peace is not only 
 the priceless end, but the most potent means, of the religions 
 system. It is written of it, "In quietness and confidence shall 
 be your strength :" the Church, which has been well-nigh 
 ruined by excess of confidence, may best recover by ensuing 
 quiet. 
 
GEOEGE WASHINGTON 
 
 It is a truth, illustrated in daily experience, and yet rarely 
 noted or acted upon, that, in all that concerns the appreciation 
 of personal character or ability, the instinctive impressions of 
 a community are quicker in their action, more profoundly ap- 
 preciant and more reliable, than the intellectual perceptions of 
 the ablest men in the community. Upon all those subjects 
 that are of moral apprehension, society seems to possess an in- 
 telligence of its own, infinitely sensitive in its delicacy, and al- 
 most conclusive in the certainty of its determinations ; indirect 
 and unconscious in its operation, yet unshunnable in its saga- 
 city, and as strong and confident as Nature itself. The highest 
 and finest qualities of human judgment seem to be in commis- 
 sion among the nation, or the race. It is by such a process, 
 that whenever a true hero appears among mankind, the recog- 
 nition of his character, by the general sense of humanity, is in- 
 stant and certain : the belief of the chief priests and rulers of 
 mind follows later, or comes not at all. The perceptions of a 
 public are as subtly-sighted as its passions are blind. It sees, 
 and feels, and knows the excellence which it can neither under- 
 stand, nor explain, nor vindicate. These involuntary opinions 
 of people at large explain themselves, and are vindicated by 
 events, and form at last the constants of human understanding. 
 A character of the first order of greatness, such as seems to 
 pass out of the limits and course of ordinary life, often lies 
 above the ken of intellectual judgment ; but its merits and its 
 infirmities never escape the sleepless perspicacity of the common 
 sentiment, which no'novelty of form can surprise, and no mix- 
 ture of qualities can perplex. The mind — the logical faculty 
 .^comprehends a subject, when it can trace in it the same ele- 
 
 (443) 
 
444 A CHAKACTEK. [iETAT. 30. 
 
 ments, or relations, which it is familiar with elsewhere : if it finds 
 but a faint analogy of form or substance, its decision is em- 
 barrassed. But this other instinct seems to become subtler, 
 and more rapid, and more absolute in conviction, at the line 
 where reason begins to falter. Take the case of Shakspeare. 
 His surpassing greatness was never acknowledged by the learned, 
 until the nation had ascertained and settled it as a foregone 
 and questionless conclusion. Even now, to the most sagacious 
 mind of this time, the real ground and evidence of its own as- 
 surance of Shakspeare's supremacy, is the universal, deep, im- 
 movable conviction of it in the public feeling. There have been 
 many acute essays upon his minor characteristics ; but intellect- 
 ual criticism has never grappled with Shaksperian art, in its 
 entireness and grandeur, and probably it never will. We know 
 not now wherein his greatness consists. We cannot demon- 
 strate it. There is less indistinctness in the merit of less emi- 
 nent authors. Those things which are not doubts to our con- 
 eciousness, are yet mysteries to our mind. And if this is true 
 of literary art, which is so much within the sphere of reflection, 
 it may be expected to find more striking illustration in great 
 practical and public moral characters. 
 
 These considerations occur naturally to the mind in contem- 
 plating the fame of Washington. An attentive examination 
 of the whole subject, and of all that can contribute to the forma- 
 tion of a sound opinion, results in the belief that General Wash- 
 ington's mental abilities illustrate the very highest type of 
 greatness. His mind, probably, was one of the very greatest 
 that was ever given to mortality. Yet it is impossible to es- 
 tablish that position by a direct analysis of his character, or 
 conduct, or productions. When we look at the incidents or 
 the results of that great career — when we contemplate the quali- 
 ties by which it is marked from its beginning to its end — the 
 foresight which never was surprised, the judgment which noth- 
 ing could deceive, the wisdom whose resources were incapable 
 of exhaustion — combined with a spirit as resolute in its ofiScial 
 duties as it was moderate in its private pretensions, as indomit- 
 able in its public temper as it was gentle in its personal tone — ■■ 
 
^TAT. 30.] GEOEGE WASHINGTON. 445 
 
 we are left in wonder and rererence. But when we would enter 
 into the recesses of that mind — when we would discriminate 
 upon its construction, and reason upon its operations — when 
 we would tell how it was composed, and why it excelled — we 
 are entirely at fault. The processes of Washington's under- 
 standing are entirely hidden from ns. What came from it in 
 counsel or in action, was the life and glory of his country ; what 
 went on within it, is shrouded in impenetrable concealment. 
 Such elevation in degree, of wisdom, amounts almost to a 
 change of kind, in nature, and detaches his intelligence from 
 the sympathy of ours. We cannot see him as he was, because 
 we are not like him. The tones of the mighty bell were heard 
 with the certainty of Time itself, and with a force that vibrates 
 Still upon the air of life, and will vibrate forever. But the 
 clockwork by which they were regulated and given forth, we 
 can neither see nor understand. In fact, his intellectual abili- 
 ties did not exist in an analytical and separated form ; but in a 
 combined and concrete state. They " moved altogether when 
 they moved at all." They were in no degree speculative, but 
 only practical. They could not act at all in the region of im- 
 agination, but only upon the field of reality. The sympathies 
 of his intelligence dwelt exclusively in the national being and 
 action. Its interests and energies were absorbed in them. He 
 was nothing out of that sphere, because he was everything 
 there. The extent to which he was identified with the country 
 is unexampled in the relations of individual men to the com- 
 munity. During the whole period of his life, he was the think- 
 ing part of the nation. He was its mind ; it was his image and 
 illustration. If we would classify and measure him, it must be 
 with nations and not with individuals. 
 
 This extraordinary nature of Washington's capacities — this 
 impossibility of analyzing and understanding the elements and 
 methods of his wisdom^have led some persons to doubt whether, 
 intellectually, he was of great superiority ; but the public — the 
 community — never doubted of the transcendent eminence of 
 Washington's abilities. Trom the first moment of his appear- 
 ance as the chief, the recognition of him, from one end of the 
 38 
 
446 A CHAEACTEK. [^tat. 30. 
 
 conntry to the other, as the man — the leader, the counselor, 
 the infallible in suggestion and in conduct — ^was immediate and 
 universal. From that moment to the close of the scene, the 
 national confidence in 'Js capacity was as spontaneous, as en- 
 thusiastic, as immovable, as it was in his integrity. Particular 
 persons, affected by the untoward course of events, sometimes 
 questioned his sufficiency ; but the nation never questioned it, 
 nor would allow it to be questioned. Neither misfortune, nor 
 disappointment, nor accidents, nor delay, nor the protracted 
 gloom of years conld avail to disturb the public trust in him. 
 It was apart from circumstances ; it was beside the action of 
 caprice ; it was beyond all visionary, and above all changeable 
 feelings. It was founded on nothing extraneous ; not upon 
 what he had said or done, but upon what he was. They saw 
 something in the man, which gave them assurance of a nature 
 and destiny of the highest elevation — something inexplicable, 
 but which inspired a complete satisfaction. We feel that this 
 reliance was wise and right ; but why it was felt, or why it was 
 right, we are as much to seek as those who came under the di- 
 rect impression of his personal presence. It is not surprising, 
 that the world, recognizing in this man a nature and a great- 
 ness which philosophy cannot explain, should revere him almost 
 to religion. 
 
 The distance and magnitude of those objects which are too 
 far above us to be estimated directly — such as stars — are deter- 
 mined by then: parallax. By some process of that kind we 
 may form an approximate notion of Washington's greatness. 
 We may measure him against the great events in which he 
 moved ; and against the great men among whom, and above 
 whom, his figure stood like a tower. It is agreed that the war 
 of American Independence is one of the most exalted, and 
 honorable, and difficult achievements related in history. Its 
 force was contributed by many ; but its grandeur was derived 
 from Washington. His character and wisdom gave unity, and 
 dignity, and effect to the irregular, and often divergent enthu- 
 siasm of others. His energy combined the parts ; his intelli- 
 gence guided the whole : his perseverance, and fortitude, and 
 
^TiT. 30.] GEORGE WASHINGTON. 447 
 
 resolution, were the inspiration and support of all. In looking 
 back over that period, his presence seems to fill the whole scene ; 
 his influence predominates throughout ; his character is reflected 
 from every thing. Perhaps nothing less than his immense 
 weight of mind could have kept the national system, at home, 
 in that position which it held, immovably, for seven years ; per- 
 haps nothing but the august respectability which his demeanor 
 threw around the American cause abroad, would have induced 
 a foreign nation to enter into an equal alliance with us upon 
 terms that contributed in a most important degree to our final 
 success, or would have caused Great Britain to feel that no 
 great indignity was suffered in admitting the claim to national 
 existence of a people who had such a representative as Wash- 
 ington. What but the most eminent qualities of mind and feel- 
 ing — discretion superhuman — readiness of invention, and dex- 
 terity of means, equal to the most desperate affairs — endurance, 
 self-control, regulated ardor, restrained passion, caution min- 
 gled with boldness, and all the contrarieties of moral excellence 
 • — could have expanded the life of an individual into a career 
 such as this ? 
 
 If we compare him with the great men who were his contem- 
 poraries throughout the nation, in an age of extraordinary per- 
 sonages, Washington was unquestionably the first man of the 
 time in ability. Review the correspondence of General Wash- 
 ington — that sublime monument of intelligence and integrity — 
 Bcrutinize the public history and the public men of that era, and 
 you will find that in all the wisdom that was accomplished or 
 was attempted, Washington was before every man in his sug- 
 gestions of the plan, and beyond every one in the extent to 
 which he contributed to its adoption. In the field, all the able 
 generals acknowledged his superiority, and looked up to him 
 with loyalty, reliance, and reverence ; the others, who doubted 
 his ability, or conspired against his sovereignty, illustrated, in 
 their own conduct, their incapacity to be either his judges or 
 his rivals. In the state, Adams, Jay, Rutledge, Pinckney, 
 Morris — these are great names ; but there is not one whose wis- 
 dom does not vail to his. His superiority was felt by all these: 
 
448 A CHAKACTBE. [^tat. 30. 
 
 persons, and was felt by Washington himself, as a simple mat- 
 ter of fact, as little a subject of question, or a cause of vanity, 
 as the eminence of his personal stature. His appointment as 
 commander-in-chief was the result of no design on his part, and 
 of no efforts on the part of his friends ; it seemed to take place 
 spontaneously. He moved into the position, because there was 
 a vacuum which no other could supply ; in it, he was not sus- 
 tained by government, by a party, or by connections ; he sus- 
 tained himself J and then he sustained everything else. He sus- 
 tained Congress against the army, and the army against the in- 
 justice of Congress. The brightest mind among his contempo- 
 raries was Hamilton's ; a character which cannot be contem- 
 plated without frequent admiration, and constant affection. His 
 talents took the form of genius, which Washington's did not. 
 But active, various, and brilliant as the faculties of Hamilton 
 were, whether viewed in the precocity of youth, or in the all- 
 accomplished elegance of maturer life — lightning-quick as his 
 intelligence was to see through every subject that came before 
 it, and vigorous as it was in constructing the argumentation by 
 which other minds were to be led, as upon a shapely bridge, 
 over the obscure depths across which his had flashed in a mo- 
 ment — fertile and sound in schemes, ready in action, splendid 
 in display, as he was — nothing is more obvious and certain than 
 that when Mr. Hamilton approached Washington, he came into 
 the presence of one who surpassed him in the extent, in the 
 comprehension, the elevation, the sagacity, the force, and the 
 ponderonsness of his mind, as much as he did in the majesty 
 of his aspect and the grandeur of his step. The genius of Ha- 
 milton was a flower, which gratifies, surprises, and enchants ; 
 the intelligence of Washington was a stately tree, which in the 
 rarity and true dignity of its beauty is as superior, as it is in its 
 dimensions. ***** 
 
 The political services which Washington rendered to the 
 country and to mankind, after the peace, were not less, or less 
 exacting, than those which were concluded by the termination 
 of his military career. But it is beyond the scope of the pre- 
 sent essay to enter upon that topic. 
 
iETAT. SO.] GEORGE WASHINGTON. 44 c 
 
 In military subjects, the abilities of Washington were, un- 
 questionably, of a high order ; and they were various and com- 
 plete. In their character, they were fitted to the circumstances 
 and the time in which he was called upon to act. The wisdom 
 of his system was vindicated, sometimes in the success of his 
 counsels, and sometimes in the disasters of those who departed 
 from them. The peculiar nature of the contest — ^the slight and 
 frail military establishment over which he presided — the infinite 
 political and social difficulties with which his operations were 
 complicated, rendered a profound caution the first dictate of 
 policy. The object to be accomplished was, in effect, a revolu- 
 tion of opinions— a change of national relations. Until that 
 was realized, the revolutionary war could not be at an end. 
 The most brilliant victory in the field would not have gained 
 the purpose of the Americans ; a single complete defeat would 
 probably have frustrated it forever. It must be remembered 
 that Washington was in a situation in which time was his most 
 important auxiliary ; the war was in its nature a prolonged one ; 
 and to maintain a military resistance, which should be always 
 respectable in its force, and occasionally formidable in its opera- 
 tions, was all that a wise mind could have proposed to itself. 
 The plan of the campaign which preceded the loss of New 
 York, cannot, in a military point of view, be considered as ju- 
 dicious ; but, as Napoleon observed with regard to his delay at 
 Moscow, it was more important at that time to act upon politi- 
 cal than upon military considerations. The operations in New 
 Jersey, in 1'1'16^'J, exhibit the highest range of military science. 
 The movements of Washington, from the moment when Fort 
 Lee was abandoned, and he extricated himself by a series of 
 prompt retreats from the dangers into which he was thrown by 
 the advance of Lord Cornwallis, till, at the opportune moment, 
 he fell upon the enemy, in their divided state along the Dela- 
 ware, and, soon after, struck a part of Lord Cornwallis's army 
 at Princeton, and delivered himself from the peril of the other 
 part — the whole compaign of that month — may be set beside 
 any campaign that is recorded in history. The promptness with 
 which the plan against Cornwallis, at Yorktown, was conceived, 
 38* 
 
450 A CHARACTER. [^tat. 30. 
 
 and the energy witli which it was executed, entitle the com- 
 mander-in-chief to the highest commendation. 
 
 In moral qualities, the character of Washington is the most 
 truly dignified that was ever presented to the respect and admi- 
 ration of mankind. He was one of the few entirely good men 
 in whom goodness had no touch of weakness. He was one of 
 the few rigorously just men whose justice was not commingled 
 with any of the severity of personal temper. The elevation, 
 and strength, and greatness of his feelings were derived from 
 Nature ; their moderation was the effect of reflection and disci- 
 pline. His temper, by Nature, was ardent, and inclined to 
 action. His passions were quick, and capable of an intensity 
 of motion which, when it was kindled by either intellectual or 
 moral indignation, amounted almost to fury. But how rarely 
 — how less than rarely — was any thing of this kind exhibited 
 in his public career 1 How restrained from all excess which 
 reason could reprove, or virtue condemn, or good taste reject, 
 were these earnest impulses, in the accommodation of his nature 
 to " that great line of duty" which he had set up as the course 
 of his life 1 Seen in his public duties, his attitude and character 
 — the one elevated above familiarity, the other purged of all 
 littlenesses — present a position and an image almost purely 
 sublime. 
 
 No airy and light passion stirs abroad 
 To mffio or to soothe him ; all are quelVd 
 Beneath a mightier, sterner stress of mind : 
 ■Wakeful he sits, and lonely, and unmoved, 
 Beyond the arrows, views, or shouts of men ; 
 As oftentimes an eagle, when the sun 
 ^ Throws o'er the varying earth his early ray. 
 
 Stands solitary, stands immovable 
 Upon some highest cliff, and rolls his eye. 
 Clear, constant, unobservant, unabased, 
 In the cold light, above the dews of morn. 
 
 But when viewed in the gentler scenes of domestic and 
 friendly relation, there are traits which give loveliness to dig- 
 nity, and add grace to veneration ; like the leaves and twigs 
 
^TAT. 30.] GEORGE WASHINGTON. 45] 
 
 which cluster around the trunk and huge branches of the co- 
 lossal elm, making that beautiful which else were only grand. 
 His sentiments were quick and delicate ; his refinement exqui- 
 site. His temper was as remote from plebeian as his principles 
 were opposite to democratic. If his public bearing had some- 
 thing of the solemnity of puritanism, the sources of his socia 
 nature were the spirit and maxims of a cavalier. His demeanoi 
 towards all men illustrated, in every condition, that "finesi 
 sense of justice which the mind can form." In all thing! 
 
 ADMIRABLE, IN ALL THINGS TO BE IMITATED ; IN SOME THLNGi 
 SCARCE IMITABLE AND ONLY TO BE ADMIRED. 
 
 The End.