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MAN IN ART 
 

 
 
Man in Art 
 
 STUDIES IN RELIGIOUS AND HISTORICAL ART, 
 PORTRAIT, AND GENRE 
 
 BY 
 
 PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON 
 
 HONORARY FELLOW OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF PAINTER ETCHERS 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 “ETCHING AND ETCHERS,” “THE GRAPHIC ARTS” 
 
 ETC., ETC., ETC. 
 
 WITH FORTY-SIX PLATES IN LINE-ENGRAVING, MEZZOTINT, PHOTOGRAVURE, 
 HYALOGRAPHY, ETCHING, AND WOOD-ENGRAVING 
 
 Ifottiimt 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK 
 
 1892 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
PREFACE 
 
 MON GST publications on the fine arts the expensive illustrated 
 volume has a place of its own, entirely beyond rivalry in its 
 department. This is due to the possibility of costly illustration, and 
 especially of costly plate-printing, so that the text of a book of this kind 
 may be accompanied by illustrations of a quality superior to that which is 
 attainable by cheap printing in large numbers. This is the real artistic 
 reason for the existence of these books which appear to be (I know not 
 why) almost offensive to some critics. Perhaps it is the material costliness 
 chat displeases them ; but unfortunately it so happens that material, costliness 
 is almost inseparable from the perfect presentation of works of art. The 
 picture requires a gilded frame ; picture and frame together require a 
 handsome, almost a palatial room. In the same way a collection of fine 
 book-illustrations involves some extravagance in the paper and print, not 
 only of the illustrations themselves, but of the text which is associated with 
 them. There is a luxury in these matters that is false and foolish, and a 
 luxury that is genuine and wise. False luxury consists either in giving 
 many illustrations when the quality is inferior, like the numerous dishes of 
 an inferior French dinner, all which together are not worth a well-cooked 
 mutton-chop, or else in wasting money on idle ornament — such as an 
 elaborate and expensive border round a worthless engraving. True luxury, 
 le luxe de bon aloi , consists, first, in the quality of the work of art itself, and, 
 when that has been secured, in a full sufficiency of those material adjuncts 
 which are necessary to exhibit it to perfection. The finest engraving cannot 
 look well unless it is carefully printed on good paper, and with a sufficient, 
 though not an excessive, margin ; and it is plain that when the utmost has 
 
VI 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 been done for the illustrations, the typography of the text must be in 
 harmony with them. This leads inevitably to an expensive book, and the 
 more surely that although with a known author and good illustrations the 
 publisher may calculate with some certainty upon a moderate sale, he may 
 not permit himself any illusory expectations of a large one. This is how it 
 comes to pass that the desire for what is best in illustration leads the 
 publisher to two consequences — the high price, and the limited edition. In 
 the case of the present work the edition is even more limited than those of 
 the author’s previous works of the same class, except the third edition of 
 Etching and Etchers. 
 
 Regrets have often been expressed, both by reviewers and readers, that 
 my books are not made accessible to purchasers of small means. It is a 
 regret that I share myself ; indeed, I am so far from taking any pride in 
 the material or market value of my works that it would be a pleasure to me 
 to see them circulating in half-crown editions ; but it has always been my 
 practice to leave questions of price to the knowledge and experience of 
 publishers. The habit of reading in the easy chair, instead of at the 
 reading-desk, according to the practice of students in less self-indulgent 
 times, has led our contemporaries to look upon any volume heavier than a 
 manual as a thing physically unmanageable. It is therefore much to an 
 author’s interest in these days to avoid ponderous volumes, and the book 
 that is made large and heavy for the sake of noble illustrations is likely to 
 be less read than the literature of the railway bookstall. There remains, 
 however, always the possibility of a few readers, severe and critical in 
 proportion to the smallness of their numbers and the special nature of their 
 interest in the subject ; and besides this, there is the prospect of less 
 expensive reprints in the future, which in my own case is a certainty in 
 America, and almost a certainty in England. One cannot, therefore, 
 afford to treat these expensive books lightly as if they were mere letter- 
 press, written to accompany illustrations ; and for my part, I have always 
 taken as much pains about them, and written them as carefully, as if 
 they were bought only to be read, like French and English , or The 
 Intellectual Life. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 vn 
 
 I notice that the most prevalent way of criticising what is itself a work 
 of criticism is to point to the omissions in the book and the narrowness of 
 the author’s mind. The anxiety to escape from the charge of omission is 
 disastrous to literature, because it leads to mere recapitulation of what has 
 been said already elsewhere, and to the insertion of so many names, dates, 
 and titles of works, that the book ceases to be readable and becomes no 
 better than a mere catalogue. Under a title so inclusive as that given to 
 the present volume, a very comprehensive series of historical tables might 
 be devised, with memoranda by way of illustration, that would be useful for 
 occasional reference. Any attempt to write a full and accurately proportioned 
 history of the representation of human beings in the graphic and plastic arts 
 would be a work of simple literary industry that I might, perhaps, have got 
 through as well as anybody else. The literature that affects to be completely 
 inclusive, impersonal, and impartial, the literature that pretends to know 
 everything, is a mechanical business requiring method and access to a great 
 library. It would be fortunate for a critic if he were naturally catholic in 
 his tastes, but the virtue would go out of his writing if he tried to say 
 everything that might be said. Criticism is as personal as the art of 
 painting itself, and as painting has its negative side in the art or practice of 
 omission, so criticism passes over everything that is not, for the moment, 
 the material exactly needed for its own work. It is a mistake to try to be 
 impersonal in criticism — to write without consulting one’s own tastes and in 
 reference to some abstract standard of taste which could never be anything 
 more certain than some temporary phase of an ever-changing public opinion. 
 Still, it is possible for tastes that appear at first sight contradictory to unite 
 themselves in the same individual. I am conscious of a keen delight in the 
 liberty of the best linear etching, and also of a profound satisfaction, of a 
 different nature yet equally sincere, in the stern perfection of discipline 
 maintained in the finest linear engraving, the line, in the two cases, having 
 qualities which are not only quite different, but opposite and incompatible. 
 So I have always intensely enjoyed the wildest nature — that which has 
 never been modified by man ; but as for gardening, I prefer that which is 
 most severely and visibly regulated by the discipline of art. On the other 
 
Vlll 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 hand, I am conscious of preferring painting to sculpture of equal excellence 
 — a preference almost universal in our English race, which is far more 
 graphic than plastic in its artistic tendencies. We cannot help this 
 narrowness, and we may console ourselves with the reflection that the 
 ancient Greeks, whose practical gift for sculpture was probably accompanied 
 by an appreciation of it more intelligent than ours, were blind to forms of 
 art that we thoroughly understand. It is likely that they had a closer 
 sympathy with the art of Phidias than any which is possible for us ; but 
 there is no probability that Phidias himself could have appreciated the 
 qualities of a Rembrandt, a Constable, or a Turner. 
 
 I may, perhaps, take this opportunity of explaining that there is a sort 
 of general scheme or plan in my writings on art which are intended to 
 cover the whole field, so far as I have time or opportunity for exploring it. 
 The Graphic Arts frankly took the technical side, and so, with reference to 
 a special art, did Etching and Etchers. Landscape , and Imagination in 
 Landscape Painting , quitted the technical ground for other considerations. 
 The present work advances to the study of the art that deals with Man. 
 The title has been purposely left sufficiently comprehensive to permit 
 reference to all the varieties of art in which Man is represented — a liberty 
 that will afford opportunities for comparison, traversing technical differences. 
 This work is not intended to be, in its essence, technical, and what there is 
 of technicality in it has been collected together in separate chapters for the 
 convenience both of the student who wishes to know where to find it, and 
 of the general reader who prays to be delivered from it. 
 
 As the book is not technical, so it is not written with any purpose of 
 inculcating a doctrine or advocating a reform. If the reader will think over 
 what has been effected by art-criticism, he will discover that no critic has 
 ever accomplished any revolution or even reformation of a permanent kind 
 either in the practice of artists or in the taste of the public. When a critic 
 appears to be most influential he happens (by a coincidence of his own 
 tastes and desires with those of militant contemporary artists) to accompany 
 some movement in art, and to make himself its literary spokesman. In this 
 way he may help the movement, but he cannot turn the currents of art into 
 
PREFACE 
 
 IX 
 
 new channels. They are set in motion by mysterious causes ; they last 
 only for a time, and always ultimately spend themselves. All we know 
 about them is that they belong to fashion, like the arts of dress. But, 
 through all its vicissitudes, art itself survives, and its subject of most 
 unfailing interest is Man. It studies him, idealises him, portrays him with 
 careful fidelity, or makes him ridiculous by caricature ; but unless compelled 
 to abstinence by an irresistible religious authority it never neglects him. 
 The love of landscape or the love of animals may lead this or that artist 
 away from the great central subject of study, it never leads away a whole 
 school. The majority of famous artists, in every country and in every age, 
 have given their best efforts to the representation of human beings, and 
 made all else subservient to that. And such is the keenness of the interest 
 which the human race takes in itself and in its doings, that it has never yet 
 grown weary of seeing itself represented even in the most trivial acts of its 
 existence. The human world may lose all faith in its gods, it will never 
 cease to be interested in itself; it will never lose its curiosity about the 
 drama of earthly life, with its contrasts of splendour and poverty, of health 
 and disease, of gaiety and sorrow. 
 
SCHOOLS OF ART 
 
 MORE OR LESS REPRESENTED IN THE ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 SCULPTURE. Egyptian, Greek, Graeco-Roman, French, Italian, English. 
 
 Painting. Italian, Spanish, Dutch, French, English. 
 
 DRAWING. English, French, Spanish. 
 
 Mezzotint-Engraving. English. 
 
 Line-Engraving. German, French. 
 
 Etching from Pictures. English, French. 
 
 Original Etching. Dutch. 
 
 Original Wood-Engraving. French, Japanese. 
 
 Drawing from the Antique. English and French. (The work 
 was done by advanced students kindly recommended by Mr. 
 Calderon of the Royal Academy, and Professor Muntz of the 
 Ecole des Beaux- Arts .) 
 
THE ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 A STATEMENT having been made by an influential review that I 
 submit to be “bound hand and foot” by illustrations supplied by 
 publishers, I will explain how the illustration of my books is usually 
 managed. It may happen, though it has never happened to me, that a 
 publisher, already the owner of a number of plates, invites an author to 
 write a text intended to serve as an accompaniment. I remember a case 
 of this kind in France when a publisher, having at his disposal a quantity 
 of plates that had served to illustrate a catalogue, asked a well-known 
 French critic to write an essay that might unite them in the form of a book. 
 The critic was a skilful literary workman, and so contrived that the plates, 
 for any one not in the secret or not initiated in the book-trade, might seem 
 to have been ordered as illustrations of his essay. Cleverness of this kind 
 is scarcely compatible with whatever little dignity may belong to the 
 business of authorship, for the writer affects to be playing the first violin in 
 a duet where his real position is that of a second. When the writer does 
 take a secondary position he should do it frankly by writing notes that are 
 obviously explanatory and subordinate — as, for example, those by Mr. 
 Wornum on engravings from pictures in the National Gallery. Or, again, 
 a publisher may wish to select pictures that will engrave well and be 
 popular, and yet at the same time he may want the text to be as good 
 literary work as he can get. In that case no intelligent publisher would 
 spoil the text by forcing the writer to allude inconveniently to works out of 
 the line of his argument. The author would have to preserve his own 
 independence by saying what he had to say without troubling himself about 
 
THE ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 xii 
 
 the illustrations. This used to be done by M. Albert Wolff in his annual 
 publication on the Salon , and in such a case the illustrations bear no real 
 proportion to the text, which often passes over them slightly, and dwells on 
 other works not reproduced, whilst the notices of pictures are often so far 
 away from the reproductions that there is no visible connection between 
 them. All systems of illustration are inadequate unless the text is strictly 
 limited to notes on the engravings themselves ; forasmuch as the engrav- 
 ings can only be a selection of a very few things when the author has 
 alluded to many. To remedy this inconvenience illustrations have some- 
 times been so multiplied that there is one to every paragraph, almost to 
 every sentence, and the temptation to this multiplicity is the greater in our 
 time that we have processes by which plausible, though often defective, 
 representations of works of art can be printed in the text itself. Repro- 
 ductions of this kind have a certain documentary value, and this is the 
 reason why historians of art are unable to resist the temptation to give them 
 in deplorable abundance. For the class of illustrations that may be called 
 documentary, the simple outline, as employed in the handbooks to painting 
 published by Mr. Murray, is still much less offensive than the bad process- 
 block, that pretends to give the tone and texture of the original picture, 
 whilst it falsifies and vulgarises both. Some critics may answer this with a 
 tu quoqne , as there are process-blocks in my French Life of Turner , which 
 answer exactly to this unfavourable description ; but the truth is that my 
 share in the illustration of that book was confined to the selection and 
 superintendence of the simple linear illustrations that reproduce fairly well 
 for typographic printing, and are certainly not offensive. It was the French 
 publishers who, in their eagerness to make the illustrations numerous and 
 effective, added the “ tint-blocks,” as they are called, which I dislike, and 
 have good reasons for disliking. This is absolutely the only instance in my 
 experience when a publisher has inserted illustrations in a book of mine 
 against my own judgment, and even in this case there was no obligation to 
 make the text conform itself to the blocks. Mr. Seeley has often interfered 
 negatively by declining proposals of mine for some reason of his own, but 
 he has never supplied me with illustrations to be inserted against my will, 
 
THE ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 xiii 
 
 or asked me to turn the course of my writing aside that they might be 
 brought in. Messrs. Macmillan and Messrs. Adam and Charles Black 
 simply allow me a sum of money for the illustration of a book, and leave 
 me to lay it out in my own way. This system is satisfactory to an author, 
 because it enables him to follow out a definite scheme of his own ; but he 
 pays for this satisfaction by a burdensome increase of labour and responsi- 
 bility, which nobody but a publisher can understand. As to the present 
 volume I had to decide from the beginning whether the illustrations were 
 to be explanatory and documentary, or to have a value of their own. 
 For the explanatory illustration of a work like this I should have had 
 recourse to pen-drawings or sketches, entirely linear and clearly reproduced, 
 to print with the text. I would have had no confused and much reduced 
 typographic representations of engravings or pictures. Much might have 
 been done by simple linear work, and it would have thrown many side- 
 lights upon the text ; but there is now this fatal objection to pen-drawings 
 reproduced as blocks, that however admirably the drawings themselves may 
 have been executed, and however accurately they may be reproduced, they 
 must always have been irremediably cheapened beforehand by the illus- 
 trated papers and exhibition catalogues, and also by comparatively cheap 
 illustrated books. It is only the most philosophical minds that value what 
 can be had for a small sum of money, and what is already possessed by 
 thousands. An excellent pen-drawing is better as a work of art than an 
 etching not quite so well drawn, but the etching is likely to be more 
 precious — that is, to fetch a higher price , and to be esteemed according to 
 the price that it will fetch. I observe that in the reviews of illustrated 
 books there is little discrimination between good and indifferent process- 
 blocks ; the reviewer usually passes with the same indifference the excellent 
 ones that delight an artist and the dreadful ones that make him shudder ; 
 or else, from mere weariness of their multiplicity, he condemns them all, 
 without form of trial, in a sentence. I remember that when my Saone 
 voyage was published it was illustrated by process-blocks from pen-drawings 
 chiefly by Mr. Pennell, and one reviewer affirmed that the drawings, which 
 he had never seen, had been badly reproduced. Mr. Pennell had seen 
 
XIV 
 
 THE ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 them, having made them, and his opinion was that the reproductions, by 
 their clearness and soundness of line, were of superlative excellence. 
 
 In illustrating the present volume it has been decided to economise the 
 cost of process-blocks in the text, notwithstanding their utility as memor- 
 anda, and to make the outlay on plates. I regret that, in the nature of 
 things, these cannot be more numerous, and I know that forty or fifty 
 plates can be no more than an accompaniment to a text in which many 
 more works of art are alluded to. This, however, is inevitably, in some 
 degree, the defect of all book -illustrations whatever, unless in scientific 
 works, like Bentham’s British Flora , when every plant has its own clear 
 and simple wood -cut, showing leaf, and flower, and seed. Nobody could 
 so completely illustrate a poem, a novel, or a book of travels on that 
 principle. There is, moreover, this to be said in behalf of a book of art- 
 criticism, that as it constantly guides the reader’s attention to works of art 
 outside of itself, it provides indirectly for its own illustration. Some of the 
 most successful works in art-criticism published in England, France, Ge r- 
 many, and Italy have appeared without any illustrations whatever. 
 
 I therefore decided that the. illustrations should be valuable in them- 
 selves, without any pretension to an impossible completeness, and that the 
 text should not be in the slightest degree cramped or turned out of its own 
 course by any anxiety about including direct references to the illustrations. 
 Most people will turn over the pages and look at the plates ; they will, I 
 hope, find an interesting and varied collection. A few (my particular 
 friends) will read the text, and I h ne my best for them independently 
 of the plates. 
 
 Some of the plates are called " hyalographs,” which may deserve a few 
 words of explanation. A hyalograph is a drawing on glass — not common 
 ground glass, but dispolished for the purpose with a very fine and even 
 grain. The instruments used are chiefly the lead-pencil, the stump, and a 
 brush charged with more or less diluted Indian ink. The drawing is trans- 
 ferred by light to a sensitized etching-ground, though the camera is not 
 employed and there can be no reduction. The process was invented by 
 M. Dujardin, the well-known heliograveur, and employed for scientific 
 
THE ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 xv 
 
 purposes. It has scarcely been used hitherto for fine art, because the 
 drawing, in every case, has to be made expressly on the glass, so that no 
 drawing by an old master can be reproduced in this way ; it can only be 
 copied. The process is, however, excellent for original work, because the 
 reproduction, being so very direct, loses less than by any other process 
 known to me — in fact, the loss is almost imperceptible, which cannot be 
 said for any other photographic process. In the hyalograph the interven- 
 tion of photography is reduced to a minimum — the passage of light through 
 the glass. The plate is bitten like an aquatint. The entire liberty of 
 correction enjoyed by the artist whilst drawing the hyalograph, and its 
 extreme fidelity to the work of the draughtsman, make it very agreeable to 
 artists and most easily adaptable to all the varieties of personal idiosyn- 
 crasy. Three artists have produced hyalographs for this volume, and their 
 different idiosyncrasies are as strongly marked as if they had etched directly 
 on the copper. It is my belief that the hyalograph might be excellent for 
 landscape on account of the truthfulness with which it reproduces the most 
 delicate tones, the freedom of its linear expression, and the rich, deep 
 quality of its darker shades. I hope to try some experiments with it in 
 landscape effect, but have been hitherto prevented by more pressing 
 engagements and occupations. 
 
 The reader may perhaps wonder why I have had drawings made from 
 sculpture at all when it can be so easily photographed. No doubt the 
 direct photography of sculpture is more authentic, but there is a charm in a 
 drawing due to the skill of the draughtsman, and I had a little secondary 
 scheme in the illustration of this volume ; I wished it to illustrate still 
 further what I have written elsewhere about the graphic arts. The book 
 is, in fact, a little school of graphic art in itself, containing drawings from 
 the antique, etchings from pictures, examples of line-engraving in metal 
 and on wood, with reproductions of pictures and original drawings by 
 different kinds of photogravure and heliogravure. Some of the reproduc- 
 tions have offered considerable difficulty, and have either been attempted 
 more than once or else entirely abandoned. Here I wish to thank Messrs. 
 Macmillan for allowing me the costly liberty of withholding from publica- 
 
XVI 
 
 THE ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 tion plates that did not finally come up to the expected standard. A nega- 
 tive decision in these things, as in most things, is quite as important as a 
 positive one ; it is as desirable to keep a defective plate out of a book as to 
 strengthen the volume by inserting a perfect one. 
 
 There is another matter on which a few words may be said. The great 
 majority of the illustrations in this volume are hitherto unpublished, but I 
 have admitted a few plates that have already appeared on the Continent on 
 condition that they were excellent of their kind, and that they had not been 
 in the slightest degree deteriorated by use. I do not think that the book 
 loses so much as it gains by a few arrangements of this kind. For example, 
 there are some plates by old masters, and I might easily have had these 
 reproduced specially for the present work ; but as M. Amand- Durand had 
 already made reproductions of unsurpassable excellence, and as his plates 
 have been regularly steeled and preserved with the utmost care, they are in 
 the same state as when first bitten, so that it would have been a foolish 
 plan to order new ones likely to be inferior. I therefore preferred to buy 
 from M. Amand-Durand the right to print an edition from his own coppers, 
 and this has been done by his own printer, who has charge of them. Let 
 me give another example. I had commissioned a plate from the picture of 
 St. Monica and St. Augustine by Ary Scheffer, and after it was executed 
 I discovered that a print publisher had given a commission to M. Didier 
 for a line-engraving of the same picture. M. Didier is one of the very few 
 engravers still living whose work is comparable to that of the great masters 
 of his art. His engraving of Scheffer’s picture is quite of the highest 
 quality now to be had in the world, and as soon as I saw it I at once 
 determined to purchase, if possible, the right to print an edition, whilst 
 sacrificing our own plate entirely. It would be easy to represent the 
 insertion of M. Didier’s plate as a parsimonious arrangement, but it was 
 exactly the reverse. The line-engraving by M. Flameng of “ CEdipus and 
 the Sphinx,” after Moreau, appeared some years ago in the Gazette des 
 Bsaitx-Arts. The copper is in the most perfect condition, and it seemed 
 to me better to have this plate, which is one of the very few examples of 
 severe modern line-engraving on simple old principles, than to order, let 
 
THE ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 xvn 
 
 us say, an etching which would not have been half so well adapted to the 
 classical sense of the subject. There is nothing new in this occasional 
 admission of plates already published when their interest makes them 
 desirable. In the first edition of Etching and Etchers I admitted many 
 plates by old and modern masters that had been printed in their lifetimes, 
 and in the third edition there were many of Amand-Durand’s reproductions. 
 
 It is time that we all accustomed ourselves to regard the question of 
 impressions in a new light. The invention of steeling has taken away the 
 reason for prejudices that still survive, and are cunningly traded upon by 
 the unscrupulous. As plates are protected now, all copies printed from the 
 steeled surface are equally good. The only distinction of any real import- 
 ance is between impressions taken from the bare copper and those from 
 the steel afterwards laid upon it as a protective armour. It is not that the 
 steel fills up even the finest lines — it is too thin to do that — but the bare 
 copper gives a richer and pleasanter quality to the proof. It is time that 
 public credulity should cease to let itself be imposed upon by “ proofs 
 before letters,” which can be made at any time by simply de-steeling 
 the plate and effacing the inscription. The only real evidence of early 
 proofs is the width of the copper margin. If the margin was wide for 
 large-paper copies, and reduced before subsequent editions were printed, 
 the early proofs may be recognised at once by their plate-marks. 
 
 It would have been a pleasure to me to give more encouragement to 
 original etching and engraving of all kinds, but the practical difficulties are 
 almost insuperable. One can commission an engraving from a picture and 
 have some idea of what it is likely to be ; but it is impossible to foresee, 
 with the freakish spirit of experiment now prevalent in modern art, what an 
 engraver (or etcher) is likely at a given moment to produce from his own 
 unaided invention. The artist himself does not know what he will do. 
 “The etcher,” says Professor Herkomer, “is under a spell whilst at work, 
 for he is not wholly conscious of the actual character of the work he is 
 doing; but by an inexplicable sub-conscious action of the brain, which 
 amounts to a spell, his hand produces something that his plain every-day 
 wakeful mind could not have devised or done by cold calculative effort. 
 
xviii THE ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Thus it is that all (original) etching must be uncertain, as it can never be 
 subjected to conditions that are measurable or wholly under control.” The 
 only safe way of getting original work is to select it from what is already 
 executed and still in the artist’s possession. This is why we give com- 
 missions for etchings from pictures. I should prefer original work il it had 
 always equal interest, and could be produced with equal certainty — but it 
 cannot. 
 
 There is an omission that I regret. There ought to have been one or 
 two illustrations of fighting. Combats painted by the old masters are usually 
 studio compositions in which every man and horse acts with proper con- 
 sideration for the artistic arrangement. They have no real interest for me. 
 The best military pictures are French and German illustrations of the last 
 war, but I thought it prudent to keep French soldiers out of the book, as I 
 am so often accused of being a “Gallophile,” an unpopular personage in 
 England. I had several German or English works in view, but there was 
 always some practical difficulty or objection. Meanwhile time slipped on, 
 and whilst I was still seeking it became necessary to close the list. I regret 
 it, but the delays and disappointments attending a selection of this kind 
 never end until the publication of the volume. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PART / 
 
 Cultute 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introductory .......... 3 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 The Education of the Figure- Painter — Literary .... 6 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 The Education of the Figure- Painter — Scientific . . 17 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 The Education of the Figure -Painter — Technical . . -25 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 The Study of the Nude . . . . . . . . -33 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Clothing and Nakedness in Finished Art 40 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Amateurship in the Study of the Figure . . . . -45 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Culture going beyond Nature 53 
 
 d 
 
XX 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PART II 
 
 TBeautp 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 The Idea of Beauty 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Beauty and Interest ..... 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Beauty and Unity ..... 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Beauty and Custom 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Beauty and Sumptuousness 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 The Analogies of Beauty .... 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 The Human Claim to Supreme Beauty 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The Variety of Artistic Interests in Man 
 
 PART III 
 
 Religious art 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Of Gods, Men, and Monsters 
 
 PAGE 
 
 59 
 
 65 
 
 68 
 
 7 1 
 
 74 
 
 78 
 
 82 
 
 88 
 
 95 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 XXI 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Pictorial Representations of Deity 103 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 The Earliest Christian Art 107 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 The Primitive Device of giving Importance by Size . . .109 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Intellect and Sympathy in Early Christian Art . . .111 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Material Luxury in Medleval Religious Art . . . .116 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Of the Quality called “ Holiness ” in Art 1 2 1 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The Archaic Element in Sacred Art 125 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 The Incompatibility between Realism and Religion . . .128 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 On Truth to Fact in the Illustration of the Bible . . .131 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Raphael’s Principle in Biblical Illustration . . . 134 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 The Influence of Roman Catholicism on Religious Art . -139 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 The Influence of Protestantism on Religious Art . . 143 
 
XXII 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Protestant Art — Rembrandt . . • • • • • ■ 1 47 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 The Effect of Unbelief upon Religious Art . . . .152 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Religious Art from Life . . . • • • • 1 57 
 
 PART IV 
 
 J^istorp anD IRctntials 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 The Descent of Man . 163 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 The Alliance between Art and Archaeology . . . -171 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Dignified and Rational Views of Historical Art . . 1 79 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Imagination in Historical Painting . . . . . .186 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Style in Historical Painting . . • 191 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Historical Genre .... 197 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Biography in Painting ... ... 203 
 
CONTENTS xxiii 
 
 PART V 
 
 Portrait 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Rank of Portraiture in the Arts 21 1 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Painting and Carving the Soul . . . . . .224 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 The Religious Portrait . . . . . . . . .232 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 The Analogy between Portrait and Landscape . . . .236 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Evils of Elaboration in Portraiture ...... 240 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 The Portraiture of Pride ........ 243 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Portraiture without Pretension . . . . . . .250 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Imaginary Portraits 259 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 The Body in Portrait . .262 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 The Hair and Beard in Portrait 269 
 
XXIV 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PART VI 
 
 life HOtisettieD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Figure in Landscape 281 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Of Rustic Life 287 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Technical Conditions of Bucolic Art 302 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 War . . . . . . . . . . . .311 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 War Idealised . . . . . . . . . . .320 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Soldiers in Peace 326 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Nobles and Citizens in Peace 328 
 
 EPILOGUE ,,, 
 
 INDEX 
 
 34i 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 TO FACE PAGE 
 
 Head of a Deity or King, Egyptian, drawn by F. Walenn ... 2 
 
 Hercules Reposing, Graeco-Roman Marble, drawn by F. Walenn . . 22 
 
 The Laughing Faun, Greek Marble, drawn by G. de Roton . . .28 
 
 Marsyas, Greek Bronze, drawn by F. Walenn . . . . . .34 
 
 SlLENUS, original Wood-Engraving, by Pierre Gusman .... 36 
 
 A BISHOP, by Sir John Gilbert, R.A. Heliogravure ..... 40 
 
 Study of a Girl, by Alma Tadema, R.A. Heliogravure ... 50 
 
 The Venus of Arles, Greek Marble, drawn by G. de Roton ... 60 
 
 Aphrodite, Bronze Mask, drawn by T. E. Macklin ..... 64 
 
 Portraits of an Old Man and a Child, by D. Ghirlandajo ; etched by 
 
 H. Manesse ........... 66 
 
 Woman Scouring a Pan, by G. Schalcken ; etched by C. O. Murray . 70 
 
 Taste, by Gonzales Coques ; etched by G. W. Rhead . . . .78 
 
 A CONTRAST, by Sir F. Leighton, P.R.A. Heliogravure . . . .82 
 
 The Widower, by Luke Fildes, R.A. ; etched by G. W. Rhead ... go 
 Mercury, Bronze, by Rude, drawn by G. de Roton ..... 94 
 
 Satyr Playing with Infant Bacchus, Graeco-Roman Marble, drawn by 
 
 T. E. Macklin ........... 98 
 
 CEdipuS, by Gustave Moreau ; engraved by L. Flameng . . . .102 
 
 The Blood of the Redeemer, by G. Bellini. Photogravure. . . no 
 
 St. Monica and St. Augustine, by Ary Scheffer; engraved by A. Didier 122 
 St. Anthony and St. George, by Vittore Pisano. Photogravure . .126 
 
 Virgin and Child, St. John, and Angel, by Botticelli. Photogravure. 140 
 Jesus and the Doctors, by Rembrandt. Heliogravure . . . 150 
 
 An Episcopal Procession, by Daniel Vierge. Heliogravure. . . 158 
 
XXVI 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 TO FACE PAGE 
 
 Abel Dead, by Camille Bellanger. Heliogravure . . . . .166 
 
 The Education of Gil Blas, by Daniel Vierge. Heliogravure . . 174 
 
 Cardinal de Richelieu, by Philippe de Champaigne ; etched by C. O. 
 
 Murray . . . . . . . • • • • .180 
 
 Portrait of a Young Man, Venetian School; etched by G. W. Rhead 216 
 Portrait of Ouevedo, by Murillo; etched by H. Manesse . . . 224 
 
 Tennyson, Portrait by G. F. Watts, R.A. ; Mezzotint by F. Short . . 230 
 
 Family PORTRAITS, by Borgognone. Photogravure . . . . 232 
 
 The Blessed Dominicans, by Fra Giovanni Angelico. Photogravure . 234 
 
 An Old Man, by Rembrandt. Heliogravure . ... 240 
 
 LORD Lawrence, by G. F. Watts, R.A. ; engraved by Norman Hirst . 252 
 
 THESEUS, Greek Marble, drawn by G. de Roton . . . ... 260 
 
 A Monk Writing, ascribed to Luca della Robbia ; drawn by T. E. Macklin 262 
 
 Thomas Combe, Marble Bust, by T. Woolner, R.A. ; drawn by G. de Roton 274 
 
 The Archbishop of Maintz, by Albert Durcr. Heliogravure . . 276 
 
 A Meditation at Moonrise, Japanese Woodcut ..... 280 
 
 The Gleaners, by J. F. Millet; etched by B. Damman .... 290 
 
 The Backgammon Players, by David Teniers ; etched by C. O. Murray 298 
 
 Head of an Old Woman, by Frank Dicksee, A. R.A. Photogravure . 300 
 
 The Milkwoman, by Lucas of Leyden. Heliogravure .... 308 
 
 COSSACKS, by Caran d’Ache. Heliogravure . . . . . .326 
 
 The Cradle, by Nicholas Maes; etched by C. O. Murray . . . 330 
 
 Bedtime, by G. D. Leslie, R.A. Photogravure . . . . . 3 3 6 
 
 A Dead Lady, by N. F. O. Tassaert. Heliogravure . . . . 338 
 
MAN IN ART 
 
 PART I 
 CULTURE 
 
 B 
 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 ’ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
HEAD OE A DEITY OR RING 
 
 Egyptian 
 
 Hyalograph drawn by F. Walenn 
 ( British Museum') 
 
 This work is said by Egyptologists to belong to the twenty-fifth or twenty- 
 sixth dynasty. According to Mariette and Lepsius, who differ to some 
 extent in their Egyptian chronology, this would place the work somewhere in 
 the century between 715 and 685 B.c. 
 
 I selected it as a remarkably fine example of Egyptian work, and also for 
 its absolutely and severely conventional treatment of the beard. Compare, 
 for example, this beard with that of Combe in the bust by Woollier. The 
 Egyptian artist was in his own way as right as the Englishman in his, 
 though he made no attempt to imitate hair, but gave only a simplified mass. 
 
 There is so much vitality in the expression of the face that it makes us 
 forget the great size and height of the mitre. The work is in perfect 
 preservation. It remains exactly what it was at the beginning of the twenty- 
 four centuries of its existence. 
 
 Mr. Walenn’s drawing is a very favourable example of the qualities 
 attainable in a hyalograph. 
 
IMr.CHARDON-Wl’TTMAIlN PABI« 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 INTRODUCTORY 
 
 r I ''HE representation of human beings in the fine arts affords matter for 
 infinite critical disquisition, and has indeed already been so exten- 
 sively written upon that a large library might be formed of works in 
 different languages almost exclusively relating to this subject. The present 
 addition to their number is intended as a companion to my work on “ Land- 
 scape,” and its special utility, so far as utility is sought after in writings upon 
 art, will be to present a synthetic view of a subject concerning which our 
 ideas are usually scattered from its very immensity. It may be objected 
 that this immensity would have deterred a prudent writer from attempting 
 to deal with it in one volume when a single department, such, for example, 
 as Portrait , would alone have supplied an ample choice of material both for 
 the illustrations and the text. I can only answer that this is not the first 
 time, nor is it likely to be the last, when an attempt is made to take in 
 comparatively few pages a comprehensive survey of materials sufficient for 
 many volumes. It is done continually by writers on the natural sciences, 
 and I have myself already done it in my works on “ Landscape” and “The 
 Graphic Arts,” each of which might easily have been expanded to several 
 times its bulk. When, however, a writer goes too much into detail, it is 
 difficult for him either to keep the attention of the reader or his own breadth 
 of view ; and for my part I prefer that method of literary treatment which 
 follows out a few leading ideas, and illustrates them by reference to those 
 examples only which are the most interesting, and especially the most 
 significant. 
 
 It is my belief that whenever art itself, as distinguished from science, is 
 in question, there can be little positive doctrine. It will be found, on 
 examination, that all indisputable matters supposed to be in the domain of 
 
4 
 
 INTRODUCTORY 
 
 PART I 
 
 art are in reality scientific, and that art itself always refuses to be rigidly 
 bound by scientific laws when there is, or appears to be, some artistic reason 
 for emancipating the artist from their yoke. Much of modern criticism, 
 which appeals to science against art, is therefore otiose, and, for myself, I 
 have now for some time past come frankly to the conclusion that the search 
 for a positive standard of criticism is vain. This might afford a triumph to 
 the more narrow-minded artists (who seldom hesitate to express contempt 
 for all study of art that is theoretical and disinterested), were it not that it 
 affects all opinion equally, so that artists themselves escape no more than 
 we do from the inconveniences and contradictions that the absence of a 
 positive standard entails. The truth is that so soon as any one, whether he 
 be artist, or amateur, or purely theoretical philosopher, attempts to lay down 
 anything about the fine arts he is sure to find, before long, that the subtle 
 spirit of art itself escapes from the meshes of his 'net. We cannot catch this 
 Proteus. We cannot say, “here and not elsewhere, is his dwelling.” We 
 can only say “he is, or has been here,” without prejudice as to any appear- 
 ance of him in other regions of production. 
 
 It is an effect of this subtlety and unseizableness in the spirit of art 
 that the idiosyncrasy of the critic himself has always a certain importance. 
 Whether it is a consequence of my northern blood, or of my literary 
 and Christian education, the fact is that I have a strong bias in favour 
 of the mind of Man in comparison with his body, so that I have never 
 been able to look upon the representation of naked muscles as essentially 
 higher art than the expression of intelligence or feeling in the face. On 
 comparing Man with other animals, what strikes me most forcibly as his 
 point of superiority is his remarkable power of association, and of using both 
 the inventions and the knowledge which have been bequeathed to him by 
 former generations of his own species. In a naked statue we see nothing 
 of this, and consequently, however ably the muscles may be imitated and 
 the bones indicated, it seems to me that Man himself is not generically 
 represented here, but only the body of some well-made or idealised individual. 
 The nude appears to me an excellent subject for study, but quite inadequate 
 as a representation of Man, who is not truly himself, in his sovereignty over 
 the earth, until he is clothed with the tissues that he has woven and armed 
 with the tools or weapons that he has invented. I would even go so far as 
 to say that Man in a desert, though clothed and armed as Arabs are when 
 crossing some dreadful nefood , is still not Man in his perfect strength. He 
 is most himself — not as an individual but as a representative of his race — 
 when his associated forces are occupied in industry or war, and seen together 
 with the accumulated results of his previous labours, such as the city, the 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 INTRODUCTORY 
 
 5 
 
 fortress, or the fleet. The sense of this has led artists into interminable 
 artistic difficulties, the reason being that art itself, the purely artistic per- 
 fection, has nothing to do with the celebration of powers that are alien to 
 art except so far as they can be made subservient to it. When Sir Frederick 
 Leighton undertook to illustrate “The Arts of War” and “The Arts of 
 Peace ” in the well-known frescoes at South Kensington, he warily avoided 
 such subjects as modern textile manufactures or the forging of cannon and 
 ship armour, though these are the fullest and most recent developments of 
 peaceful and warlike industry. He took us back to an earlier time, and 
 grouped his figures under a bright Italian sky, thus sacrificing industrial 
 progress, and even the patriotic interest of English nationality, to a purely 
 artistic convenience.' 
 
 We are aware then of a certain conflict between the artistic and the 
 human interest of life, a conflict that may be observed even in literature, 
 where the accurate repetition of language as it is commonly and inelegantly 
 used by men is incompatible with perfection of style, so that they must either 
 be made to talk as they do not talk in reality, or the page must be disfigured 
 by expressions repugnant to the scholarly sense. Nor can we be entirely 
 sure whether that preference of the mind to the body, which I have just 
 confessed in my own case, is not also anti-artistic in another way, as tending 
 towards the philosophical rather than the plastic and graphic appreciation of 
 things. In these ways it may come to pass that not only the assertion of 
 human sovereignty over the earth by the practical arts, but even an increased 
 intellectual interest in our fellow-creatures and a more lively sympathy with 
 them may lead us from “ Man in Art” to Man as he is in reality. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE- PAINTER— LITERARY 
 
 A VERY eminent painter, who is represented by engravings in this 
 H volume, told me that he was strongly in favour of a good general 
 education for painters quite independently of their technical training. This 
 is one side of the question. Another side may be represented by a 
 distinguished painter who had taken a degree at Oxford, and who told 
 me that he deeply regretted the time spent there as entirely lost to his 
 art. A third said that the principle of success was to choose your object 
 and sacrifice, without hesitation, everything to that. He himself had 
 attained reputation by an adherence to this rule, and knew little outside 
 of the studio and the picture-gallery. Another case which appears to 
 confirm the last is that of a student who began by receiving an excep- 
 tionally good general education, but who afterwards, though not sorry to 
 be himself intellectually educated, found himself eight or ten years behind 
 his contemporaries, who had worked seriously at drawing when they were 
 children, and at painting when they were boys. 
 
 Each of us is sure to start with a prejudice on a subject of this kind. 
 My own innate prejudice has always been strongly in favour of a good 
 general education, and the origin of it is my respect for painting, and my 
 wish to look upon it, if possible, as a liberal profession. What is the 
 distinguishing quality that makes a pursuit liberal ? Littre tells us that the 
 liberal arts, as opposed to the mechanic, are those which exact a great 
 and perpetual intervention of the intelligence, and that the origin of this 
 denomination is in the antique prejudice against manual labour, considered 
 unworthy of a freeman because it was given over to slaves. On applying 
 this test to pictures, we find that some of them have, no doubt, required “a 
 great and perpetual intervention of the intelligence,” whilst others exhibit 
 much manual labour, reaching the point of extreme manual dexterity, 
 but without any more than the degree of intelligence which, in every 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE-PAINTER 
 
 7 
 
 common trade, must be present to direct the hand to the accomplishment 
 of its appointed task. As painting is actually practised it is, if we apply 
 this test, sometimes a liberal, and more frequently not a liberal, profession. 
 Those who, with the present writer, wish to see it maintaining a high rank 
 and exercising an ennobling influence, are anxious to see the liberal side of 
 it insisted upon ; those who look to immediate practical results, in the shape 
 of canvas covered rapidly in a workmanlike manner, seek for the shortest 
 road to these results, and desire the fewest possible encumbrances when 
 travelling upon that road. 
 
 Now, with regard to the liberal character of the fine arts, Mr. Parker, 
 as an Oxonian somewhat hostile to the pretensions of painting, speaks of 
 liberal arts in the university sense of the term, and goes on to observe : — 
 
 “ This term is not the exact equivalent of the ingenues antes. The 
 latter were any pursuits which one of free birth might take up. The 
 liberal arts are more strictly defined. They are not simply the non-servile 
 pursuits, but are studies which need no technical or manual instruction, 
 being of a purely intellectual kind. Hence was formed the idea of a 
 university, which Newman has described as a centre of intellectual activity. 
 It does not appear that these seven arts which are now known as the seven 
 university arts were, when the Faculty of Arts was established, rigorously 
 necessary. They were a type, and as occasion required one might be 
 omitted or others added ; but they gave the Faculty of Arts its character, 
 and by means of it decided the general character of the universities of 
 Europe. At the present day a complication has resulted. There is on 
 the one hand a desire, almost universal, to support the view that the fine 
 arts can be taught, as the liberal arts are taught, theoretically. On the 
 other, the University of Oxford has for the first time in its history, with 
 one doubtful exception, departed from the traditional ideal and included 
 practical instruction.” 
 
 If painting is considered from this point of view, the result will be 
 nearly the same as before, for the truth is that many things about painting- 
 may be explained theoretically, but not all. It would be possible in most 
 cases to explain pictorial composition theoretically, and a good deal might 
 be said theoretically about the interpretation of character and passion. 
 Theory may even enter upon the technical domain itself, and show the 
 broadest and most essential differences between methods of drawing and 
 the reasons for employing them ; but theory could never explain the 
 difference between good colour and bad, except by the use of such vague 
 expressions as “charm” and “harmony,” which are destitute of any exact 
 meaning so long as the qualities which charm and the concordances 
 
8 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE-PAINTER 
 
 PART I 
 
 which harmonise remain in their essence inexplicable. The result, then, 
 of applying Mr. Parker’s test (that a liberal art is an art that can be 
 theoretically taught) would be the not very novel discovery that painting is 
 of a mixed nature. It is partly a liberal and partly a manual art. It is a 
 handicraft always mixed up with a good deal of science, and in some cases 
 with a powerful and affecting element of poetry. The nature of it may be 
 partly imagined by supposing that some great poet was obliged to write 
 out his verses in exquisitely beautiful manuscript, and that the beauty of 
 the caligraphy would be considered first, and the poetry get no praise 
 unless the caligraphy were excellent. This comparison is, however, 
 accurate only up to a certain point, as it gives no equivalent for the 
 important scientific element in painting. 
 
 It is, I fear, much easier to maintain the handicraft theory of artistic 
 education than the intellectual. The clever craftsman who sells his 
 pictures, whilst remaining outside of intellectual interests, is called an 
 artist ; the man of far wider culture, but whose technical skill remains just 
 below what is marketable, is called an amateur, and these days of intense 
 competition are not favourable to incomplete talents in anything. What- 
 ever is offered for sale in our time must have at least the appearance of 
 thorough workmanship. The handicraft theory of education is founded 
 upon this fact. Its argument may be stated as follows: — “ Any teaching 
 you bestow upon youth is an evil if it occupies time that might be devoted 
 to the acquisition of technical skill. It is that, and that alone, which 
 distinguishes the painter from the amateur. What you call education in 
 the university sense of the term is useful to literary men, but an encum- 
 brance to artists, who can always procure without waste of time any 
 information they may need.” In his work on the School of David, the 
 French classical painter, M. Delecluze, describes a low class of artists 
 called in French praticiens — the journeymen of painting, who learned 
 their craft in the School of David, and being incapable of giving it any 
 intellectual direction, produced works executed with considerable manual 
 skill, but utterly destitute of interest. M. Delecluze tells us that their 
 way of studying composition was to make many hasty sketches after the 
 antique, or from prints by great masters ; and then, in the absence of 
 ideas, they would take up Homer or the Greek tragedians (in translation, 
 of course), or more frequently a mythological dictionary, to get by chance 
 some subject for which they made up a composition out of recollections or 
 imitations. They had also, it appears, the habit of laughing at the old 
 gods and goddesses whom they vainly attempted to represent — a silly habit 
 due to ignorance of the profoundly interesting mental processes which led 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 LITERARY 
 
 9 
 
 to the unconscious formation of the antique religions. This habit of 
 ridicule did not make their pictures comic, but it made them dull and dry 
 from the total absence of imaginative sympathy. 
 
 Here we have handicraft without mental elevation, and we see what 
 comes of it. To this, however, it might be answered that artists of much 
 distinction have been uneducated, such as Perugino and Claude. Perugino 
 was one of the least lettered men of his age, and so, in a later time, was 
 Claude. Not only were they ignorant of literature, but even incapable of 
 expressing themselves in writing with common perspicuity, and their know- 
 ledge of orthography was below the average of their time. Claude, being a 
 landscape painter, does not concern us ; it is possible that landscape painters, 
 as they live more outside of human interests, may feel less than painters of 
 the figure the need of humanising studies ; they, perhaps, may dispense with 
 the “humanities.” But when we come to a painter like Perugino is there 
 not plain evidence of some narrowness in his practice that a more liberal 
 education might have enlarged? Surely we must admit that there is. If 
 you take the work of Perugino as a whole, it is the work of a practised 
 painter and an uneducated man. It is difficult to share in the belief about 
 Raphael’s learning into which M. Muntz has been led by his admiration of 
 that great master. M. Miintz finds evidence of something like scholarship 
 in Raphael, and this appears excessive. There is, indeed, little evidence 
 that the great Italian masters were what in the present day we should call 
 educated men. They were usually apprenticed to art in early boyhood, 
 sometimes when mere children, and they worked hard in the master’s work- 
 shop at such tasks as grinding colours and preparing grounds, or in the more 
 profitable employment of painting easy parts of the master’s work. Perugino 
 was apprenticed at the age of nine, Andrea del Sarto (to a goldsmith) at 
 seven, Fra Bartolommeo at ten, Michael Angelo at fourteen, Raphael 
 (according to the most recent evidence) about sixteen, but Raphael learned 
 drawing under his father at an earlier age. The only evidence that M. 
 Miintz is able to bring forward in favour of the early education of Raphael 
 is that his father was fond of reading and able to write verses. This implies 
 a probability that the father would give his son the rudiments of a literary 
 education, and try perhaps to inculcate the love of letters, but it cannot be 
 accepted as evidence that the boy attained any degree of scholarship. On 
 the contrary, we have some proof that at a late period in his short life he 
 was unable to read Latin. Fabio Calvo, of Ravenna, translated Vitruvius 
 at the request of Raphael, and for his use as a student of architecture. This 
 does not prove that the artist was wholly ignorant of Latin, but it certainly 
 shows that he could not read it easily. He was probably like English 
 
 c 
 
IO 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE-PAINTER 
 
 PART I 
 
 schoolboys of the present day who leave school early, but with the differ- 
 ence against him that he had spent time over the rudiments of practical art. 
 
 Raphael, however, had the less need of learning in his own person that 
 he was in constant communication of the most friendly kind with distinguished 
 ecclesiastics and scholars, who would always be happy to place at his disposal 
 the results of their own investigations ; and as Raphael was very intelligent 
 and open-minded, and a man of the world, he would seize with promptitude 
 upon all the information that he wanted. His mind was not likely either to 
 let slip what was essential or to burden itself uselessly. He was neither 
 neglectful nor pedantic, and being admirably situated in an incomparable 
 centre of intelligence he did not require much personal study except of 
 matters closely appertaining to his art. He was saved from a too narrow 
 speciality by his interest in architecture and archaeology, a living interest 
 constantly kept awake by the great architectural works of the period and by 
 the archaeological discoveries and discussions incessantly going on around 
 him. His criticism of Gothic architecture, though (of course, with his 
 training) absolutely unsympathetic, is keenly intelligent, and hits upon some 
 of the undeniable faults of Gothic. 
 
 Lionardo da Vinci does not appear to have had much literary training, 
 but the versatility of his mental nature effectually preserved him from being 
 a narrow specialist in painting. In his case variety was gained by mathe- 
 matical and mechanical studies or amusements rather than by literature. 
 His treatise on painting is more a scientific than a literary work, it concerns 
 rather the science of natural appearances than the essentially artistic element 
 in the fine arts. It is generally clear in exposition and does not waste 
 words ; it is also original in observation, but it gives no evidence of scholar- 
 ship. The author’s well-known sonnet on the wisdom of restraining our 
 desires within the limits of our powers, and of desiring only those things 
 that are at the same time possible and right, is well turned in expression 
 and elevated in thought. 
 
 The variety that Lionardo gained through his mechanical pursuits was 
 ensured to Rubens by two different but most harmonious elements of his 
 genius. He was at the same time a linguist and a man of the world, 
 delighting in the use of different languages, and delighting also in meeting 
 with able and distinguished people in every country where they were to be 
 found. A most cosmopolitan nature, not Flemish but European, or rather 
 European including Flemish as the greater includes the less. This cosmo- 
 politanism in Rubens is marked especially by the extreme naturalness and 
 ease of his correspondence in foreign languages. His French and Italian 
 letters coulent de source without any effort of composition ; they are not 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 LITERARY 
 
 1 1 
 
 written with the assistance of the dictionary. He could write Latin, too, as 
 people wrote it for ordinary purposes in his time, and he could understand 
 Latin of finer quality when read to him, as he painted, from the pages of 
 Cicero, Livy, or Seneca. Here would be a certain proof that a literary 
 education need not interfere with the development of a painter, were it not 
 evident that Rubens belonged to a peculiar class, that of the born linguists 
 who assimilate languages with a minimum of effort. In our own country 
 and time Sir Frederick Leighton is a conspicuous example of the same gift. 
 To him the four leading languages of Europe are like four windows looking 
 out upon different prospects, but all equally accessible to the master of the 
 house. In neither of these cases has the knowledge of languages interfered 
 with artistic production, nor is there any reason to suppose that if these two 
 artists had been ignorant men they would either have produced more or 
 painted better. The production of Rubens, as we all know, is a wonderful 
 evidence of energy. That of Leighton is an equal evidence of sustained 
 care and application, of a constant search for the beautiful. We have 
 another famous artist amongst us, whose career would have been made 
 impossible from the beginning by ignorance of the past. Without his 
 archaeology, Tadem a would have been excluded from the ancient life that 
 has been to him the richest of mines, and without modern languages his 
 own life would have been confined to the limited area of Holland. Instead 
 of being what he is, an artist of European fame, interesting to all who care 
 about antiquity, he might have attained a purely technical reputation as a 
 skilful painter of objects in bronze or marble. And in his case, as in that 
 of Rubens and Raphael, the knowledge of things that may seem to lie 
 outside of the fine arts has not prevented the utmost diligence in the 
 practice of painting itself. Unspoiled by success, Alma Tadema works still 
 in the spirit of a student, always simply endeavouring to do his best, y 
 
 The truth appears to be, with reference to studies outside of those which 
 are strictly professional, that some painters are endowed with a secondary 
 gift of Nature that makes another study easy to them and attractive, so 
 that without losing their hold on painting they may attain the secondary 
 object, as it were, by merely holding out the hand. In the case of Lionardo 
 it may be suspected that painting itself was the secondary object ; his nature 
 was first scientific, and secondly artistic, he being now more famous in art 
 simply because art was more advanced in his time than science, and a genius 
 who was in the front rank of both would seem greater to posterity in art. 
 So in our own time it may be suspected, and for my part I am fully con- 
 vinced, that the pictorial gift in Rossetti was inferior in natural strength to 
 the poetic, though it was more sedulously, because more professionally, 
 
I 2 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE-PAINTER 
 
 PART I 
 
 cultivated. In Mr. Woolner the literary gift is subordinate to the plastic. 
 He is strong and masculine as a sculptor, and has a poetical gift which, 
 though genuine, is neither so strong nor cultivated to the same degree. 
 Samuel Palmer had a decided and original literary faculty, which included 
 what is best in criticism, the power of appreciating great authors. He had 
 not the faculty of a linguist, which shows itself in the rapid assimilation of 
 modern languages, but his power of sympathy with another tongue is proved 
 by his intense enjoyment of Latin poetry. 
 
 The two most famous French artists of the present century had each a 
 secondary talent. In the case of Ingres it was music. His father had 
 taught him to draw and play the violin from infancy, these two studies being 
 almost the whole of his education, and it was for some years uncertain 
 whether painting or music was to be the chief pursuit of his life. At the 
 age of thirteen he successfully performed a concerto by Viotti in the theatre 
 at Toulouse, and about the same time he entered the studio of an artist 
 established there. At sixteen he became a pupil of David, nor did he 
 change his occupations in after life, for music still remained his secondary 
 pursuit. His mind was narrow, not being enlarged by literature, and his 
 character lacked the amenity that might perhaps have come from a more 
 scholarly cultivation. Eugene Delacroix, on the contrary, has a reputation 
 for general culture, probably because it was rare amongst the artists of his 
 time. Fie passed through the usual classical French curriculum, though 
 incompletely; however, this implies a training in Latin and French. 
 Charles Blanc said he had “ a tincture of Latin, sufficient for him to live 
 with the learned,” and in mature life he tried to learn English, and wrote a 
 few letters in our language, not comparable to the idiomatic French and 
 Italian of Rubens. He even became a contributor to the Revue des Deux 
 Mondes, but he said, “ The pen is not my tool ; I feel that I think accurately, 
 but I am frightened at the necessity for literary method. Would you believe 
 that the mere having to write a page gives me a headache?” This is not 
 the feeling of a born writer, even when composition is difficult for him. 
 However, if Delacroix had the “ dread of the pen,” which is not uncommon 
 amongst painters, he was fond of reading in early manhood. In mature life 
 he felt inclined to throw all books aside as repertories of commonplaces. 
 “What they have to say about love and friendship is nothing better than a 
 play upon half a dozen ideas that were current a thousand years ago. There 
 is not one of them that has ever painted the disenchantment, or rather the 
 despair, of maturity and old age. You have never seen in books what you 
 feel about that, stated as you feel it. You get nothing but rhetoric and 
 phrases.” This is the criticism of a man soured by infirm health and the 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 LITERARY 
 
 13 
 
 approach of old age or death, which is the alternative we all have before us 
 when middle-age draws to its close, but it is not the criticism of an unthink- 
 ing or an ignorant person. He has tried literature, and found it wanting. 
 Others, in the same circumstances (Mark Pattison, for instance), have found 
 it dearer in the darkening of life . 1 
 
 It is needless to accumulate examples, though it would be easy to adduce 
 others. My own inference from these and all other cases known to me is 
 as follows. It is clear, in the first place, that culture, outside of what is 
 purely technical, is not absolutely necessary to a painter of physical man ; 
 that is to say, that the human body may be effectively painted by a trained 
 art-student who has learned the anatomy of bones and muscles, but when we 
 come to painting the mind, or so much of it as can be represented on canvas, 
 the problem becomes more complicated, and may call for a less simple pre- 
 paration. However, even with regard to mind, it does not appear that a 
 literary education would be necessary in all cases. For example, a painter 
 of ignorant peasants would need to understand the minds of persons of that 
 class in order to represent them dramatically ; but he would attain this better 
 by watching them in their daily life, that is, by observing Nature for mind 
 as well as for body, rather than by reading books, even though the books 
 described the class he had to paint. It does not appear either that the sort 
 of intelligence which learning may communicate or sharpen can help us much 
 to understand ignorant persons. Scott regretted that he was not what is 
 called a scholar, Burns despised scholarship in comparison with genius 
 observing nature ; neither of the two would have described Scottish 
 peasants better for having overcome the difficulties of Greek. The learn- 
 ing of Rubens would have been useless to Teniers when painting the 
 interior of a Dutch ale-house. When, however, the painter chooses his 
 subjects from a higher class of society, the need for some degree of literary 
 culture becomes more apparent. In the case of the elder Leslie there can 
 be no doubt that it was his love of the best English authors which sharpened 
 his intelligence, and gave that keenness of perception and refinement of 
 humorous observation which make his works so much superior to ordinary 
 pictures of genteel comedy. The value of the kind of reading, which for 
 Leslie was a constant study through life, may be illustrated by a comparison 
 with another art. The observation of nature is, no doubt, necessary to the 
 actor, but the studies that lead an actor to eminence are, in great part, 
 
 1 Delacroix objected strongly to the habit of copying Nature, and compared Nature to a 
 dictionary which was to be often referred to and never copied. The illustration was excellent, and 
 the reader will notice that it was purely literary, and very accurate from the literary as well as from 
 the artistic point of view. 
 
14 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE-PAINTER 
 
 PART I 
 
 literary studies, and the power of observing nature itself is strengthened 
 and stimulated by the attention first given to literature. If literary studies 
 are to be profitable, they ought not to be too remote from the kind of 
 subject that the artist usually paints. I remember a young landscape- 
 painter who was advised to read Latin and Greek authors in order to 
 improve his mind. Here the connection is not distinctly visible, as the 
 descriptions of landscape in classic authors are both brief and rare ; but if 
 the young artist had devoted himself to the illustration of classical figure 
 subjects, then he would have gained by literary studies, which bring one 
 nearer to the thought and culture of the ancients. 
 
 Finally, it is impossible to avoid the conclusion that there is something 
 fundamentally unsatisfactory in the whole of this question about the literary 
 education of painters, because the technical merits of a picture are its most 
 necessary merits, and intellectual attainment in the artist himself is never 
 accepted as a substitute for them. Therefore the temptation to throw aside 
 intellectual labour as useless is almost irresistible, and it rarely happens that 
 any persevering attempt is made to resist it. The general education given 
 in public schools and universities is felt to be an advance in the direction of 
 what Mr. Parker would admit to be liberal professions — that is, professions 
 which can be taught theoretically — but the technical difficulty of painting 
 places it in another category. The system of university training prepares 
 the mind, so that it may afterwards be easily directed either to theology, law, 
 politics, or literature, and even to several of these pursuits in turn ; it would 
 only prepare for the history and theory of art, or, in other words, partly 
 educate the student for the functions of a Slade Professor. We know how 
 easily the educated man changes from one department of activity to another, 
 as politicians successively occupy different ministries ; whereas if a workman 
 has engaged himself for years in any manual speciality, it is most difficult for 
 him to get out of it, so that we too often find him absolutely starving at an 
 unprofitable trade, yet unable to turn to anything else. When a handicraft 
 has once taken full possession of a man, he is bound to it for the rest of his 
 days. W ell for him if he can remain in it contentedly, as the bee goes on 
 with its industry ; woe to him if he strives to get out of it, like that skilful 
 painter Botticelli, who, “without a grain of learning, scarcely knowing how 
 to read, undertook to make a commentary on Dante.” 
 
 Our advocacy of a better literary training for painters of the figure is not 
 intended to make them learned commentators on the great poets. We know 
 that it must be subordinate to the necessity for technical training, and it 
 cannot include any heavy intellectual labour, such as the study of ancient 
 Greek. Still we maintain the necessity for some intellectual education, if 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 LITERARY 
 
 15 
 
 the fine arts are to be more than the manual trade which is contained in 
 them. And there is an especial reason for advocating something like 
 mental culture at the present time, when the tendencies of the modern 
 schools exhibit a discouraging indifference to it. 
 
 One is not absolutely alone in an advocacy of this kind. From time to 
 time some leading intelligence in the artistic world itself is painfully struck 
 by the anomalous state of education amongst artists. M. Guillaume, who 
 was at one time director of the Ecole des Beaux Aids, saw much of the 
 artistic fraternity both in the preparatory and the more advanced stages of 
 the profession, and it seemed to him a lamentable contradiction that men 
 who ought to be amongst the dlite of the cultivated world were so often 
 below the most ordinary average of the educated middle class. “ The 
 immense void,” wrote M. Guillaume, “ the irremediable hiatus left in the 
 talents of young artists by the total absence, I will not say of culture, but of 
 notions about literature, is a fact that touches me more and more.” A pro- 
 fessorship of literature was afterwards established in the school, the business 
 of the professor being to read aloud, with vigorous elocution, and to com- 
 ment upon the most stirring works of the greatest authors, of course in 
 French translations. It is said that the young men take pleasure in these 
 readings, which do really often awaken an interest in literature and give 
 them a sort of acquaintance with great masterpieces. The dramatic 
 imagination that often accompanies the painter’s instinct is roused into 
 activity, and the pupil acquires in some measure the literary sense. He is 
 no longer in absolute ignorance, like the utterly illiterate. Unfortunately, 
 however, the struggle amongst artists in the present day, the struggle for 
 fame and employment, for existence even, is now more than ever technical, 
 more than ever it is fought out on the ground of handicraft rather than on 
 that of intellect, sentiment, or taste. 
 
 Towards the close of the Paris Universal Exhibition of 1889 a number 
 of prizes were bestowed for excellence in art, and the awards were the more 
 interesting that the jury was professional. We were thus enabled to detect 
 the dominant professional preferences, which were quite unintentionally 
 revealed to us. The intellectual qualities of art appeared to count for 
 nothing, the most empty and thoughtless work having quite as good a 
 chance of a prize as the most nobly imagined — I mean in the way of 
 subject and conception. Refinement, too, seemed to count for nothing 
 whatever, being often either entirely overlooked or insignificantly rewarded, 
 whilst open vulgarity was not an impediment to success. When, however, 
 rewards are given by competent judges, there must be a valid reason for 
 giving them, and it may be independent of unprofessional objections. 
 
THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE-PAINTER 
 
 PART I 
 
 I 6 
 
 We may dislike coarseness and vulgarity, professional judges may pass over 
 these defects, or be insensible to them, and seek for positive qualities of a 
 technical kind that have nothing to do with intellect or taste. In Paris 
 that which attracted notice and reward appeared to be almost uniformly 
 executive skill, or not skill only but power , the power of the bold and 
 masterly hand. The reader knows what this means on the Continent ; it 
 means dashing brush-work, on a large scale, with plenty of material paint. 
 Some of the most favoured pictures were vulgar in this sense, that they 
 could never have been painted by any one of delicate perceptions and a 
 cultivated mind, but the manual power displayed in them was always 
 accompanied by professional knowledge, the kind of knowledge that is 
 to be gained by working for several years in a French atelier. I remember 
 greatly admiring a very refined picture, faultless in taste, modest but 
 harmonious in colour, and full of pensive sentiment. It was the picture 
 most liable to be overlooked ; however, it did obtain the doubtful honour 
 of a third-class medal. Not very far from it a study of three oxen, with a 
 herdsman, all boldly brushed as large as life, and staring and glaring in a 
 coarse imitation of full sunshine, was ticketed Grand Prix. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE- PAINTER— SCIENTIFIC 
 
 TAANTE ROSSETTI once said to me in his own studio, “The 
 antithesis of art is science.” Poetry and painting seemed to him 
 the product of one state of mind, and science the accumulation of facts 
 and truth ascertained in another and an opposite state of mind. Never- 
 theless on another occasion, when speaking to Mr. Hall Caine, he 
 compared his own system of painting to a science. “ Now I paint by a 
 set of unwritten but clearly-defined rules, which I could teach to any man 
 as systematically as you could teach arithmetic.” In the same conversation 
 he compared the craft of painting to a mechanical trade. “In painting, 
 after all, there is in the less important details something of the craft of a 
 superior carpenter, and the part of a picture that is not mechanical is often 
 trivial enough.” Here we find the poet-painter maintaining that an art 
 usually assumed to be unteachable is as teachable as arithmetic, and that an 
 art usually regarded as far above all mechanical occupations is comparable 
 to carpentry. He said that, beyond the fundamental conception of a 
 
 picture, there was “not much” that could not be done by rule. He 
 laughed at the idea of making a picture in a “fine frenzy” of inspiration, 
 and seemed to agree with Thackeray in the opinion that after the first jet 
 of invention the art of painting was the application of workmanlike method. 
 
 Mr. John Collier, in his excellent opusculum A Primer of Art, frankly 
 accepts science as a help to art. “There are some people,” he says, “who 
 affect a great horror at the idea of science intruding upon the domain of 
 art. This feeling is, however, dying out now that science is becoming 
 better understood. After all, science merely means knowledge. To say 
 that one has a scientific acquaintance with a subject means that one has 
 an accurate knowledge of it, neither more nor less ; and it is difficult to 
 maintain at the present day that a man who follows any pursuit is likely 
 to do it the worse the more he knows about it. ’ 
 
 D 
 
1 8 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE-PAINTER 
 
 PART I 
 
 There are the two sides of the question, the only inequality being that 
 it has been stated more powerfully and more completely in favour of 
 science. Let me, then, attempt a fuller exposition of Rossetti’s apothegm. 
 What did he mean at the moment by saying that art and science were 
 antithetic ? 
 
 The expression “scientific knowledge” might be criticised as tauto- 
 logical ; it is like saying “knowing knowledge,” and yet in consequence of 
 a peculiar sense that the word “scientific” has acquired we cease to be 
 aware of the tautology, and, indeed, for this reason the tautology does not 
 exist for us. Mr. Collier’s affirmation that science is only knowledge 
 comes, on the other hand, with a little shock of surprise. We ask 
 ourselves if the knowledge that is called “science” is not, in some way, 
 different from that which is not called “science”; surely there must be 
 a difference since different words are used. Here is an illustration. I 
 happened to say to Matthew Arnold about culture (which was a favourite 
 subject of his) that in my humble opinion the culture of the intelligence 
 could not be complete unless it included literature, art, and science, though 
 not necessarily in equal proportions. What I intended to say was that the 
 cultivated intellect was one capable of following the different processes of 
 thought which are those of the writer, the painter (or sculptor), and the 
 man of science ; that he ought to be able to read books that are literature, 
 to follow a scientific argument, and to understand the expression of mind 
 in the graphic and plastic arts. Well, Arnold readily admitted this with 
 regard to literature and art, but demurred when he came to the scientific 
 side. Clearly, then, he perceived a difference between the knowledge that 
 belongs to literature and art and that which belongs to science. There 
 was, no doubt, a time when this distinction was not rigorously established 
 — a time when “ knowledge ” and “ science ” were regarded as convertible 
 terms. In the present day what is called a scientific truth is a truth that 
 can be intelligibly stated and verified by an appeal to the fixed order of 
 the universe. A scientific doctrine is a doctrine that affirms something 
 about the natural order ; it may be more or less of the nature of an 
 hypothesis, but it invariably asks to be tested by reference to the order 
 which really exists, and if it fails to stand the test it is rejected as not 
 scientific. The scientific elements in literature and art are those which 
 will bear this test, but there are other elements of the utmost importance 
 that will not bear it at all. 
 
 If pictures were to be expelled from public galleries for scientific error, 
 there would be a surprising clearance. Impossible lighting is so common 
 in Rembrandt and Turner as to be the rule with them, Titian’s favourite 
 
CHAP. Ill 
 
 SCIENTIFIC 
 
 19 
 
 effect combines a landscape in late twilight with figures illuminated some 
 time earlier. Raphael had no knowledge of visual effect, but simply drew 
 human beings and architecture as definite objects with clear outlines. On 
 the other hand we find a few artists who are strictly scientific in their work, 
 but they are never so truly artists as those who hold somewhat loosely to 
 natural law. Diirer had no science of effect, but he had a scientific temper 
 in the love of clear definition and in his way of giving an accurate graphic 
 description of every object. On this point I may take the opportunity for 
 offering an apology to Diirer. There is a plane in the foreground of the 
 “ Melencolia,” and I ventured to say in one of my books that the cutter was 
 inclined the wrong way if we judged from the position of an upright handle 
 which I believed to be situated at the stern end of the tool. An American 
 reviewer corrected me by saying that Diirer’s plane is still in use in some 
 parts of Germany, and that he represented it with perfect accuracy. Of 
 course he did, I might have been sure of that ! Another American reviewer 
 said that Diirer made out construction so carefully that his plates might 
 serve to-day as working drawings for a cabinet-maker. As to this possi- 
 bility a correspondent informed me that a table actually had been made 
 from the clearly engraved design in the plate of Dtirer’s “St. Jerome.” 
 Diirer’s work is scientific in the extreme precision of its information about 
 things (see the construction of the compasses and scales in the “Melencolia”), 
 and the manual workmanship is so clear and accurate that it has never been 
 equalled in its own way. The desire to take a tangible object and describe 
 it with the most perfect definition is a scientific and not an artistic desire. 
 Diirer was a peculiar combination of a first-rate mechanic, taking a great 
 interest in all sorts of tools and all varieties of construction, with a religious 
 moralist, in mind not very unlike a pious Scotch locksmith of the present 
 day, who has a lively interest in scientific lectures. But Diirer was not by 
 instinct, and he never became by culture, an artist in the essential meaning 
 of the term. He had no notion of the artistic effect, favourable or 
 detrimental, that one object has on another that is seen near it. The 
 “ Melencolia ” is spoiled, for the eye, by the heavy angular stone that is 
 put awkwardly to signify the inertia of things when human labour is 
 suspended. Diirer did not understand either sacrifice or composition. 
 Mystery and suggestion lay quite outside of his capacity. He had 
 scientific knowledge, that is the knowledge of hard facts that can be 
 definitely stated and tested, but he had not the artistic knowledge of 
 elusive and unseizable truth, nor the artistic sense of relation. Our own 
 age and country have produced several painters who are really men of 
 science expressing their knowledge with the brush. The most perfect 
 
20 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE-PAINTER 
 
 PART I 
 
 example of these was Mr. Edward Cooke. He began by studying 
 perspective and architecture under Pugin, then he illustrated botanical 
 works and interested himself in naval construction, etching fifty plates of 
 shipping which are still esteemed for their accuracy. He painted a large 
 number of pictures, every one of which contains a scientifically accurate 
 representation of buildings, shipping, or landscape. Geologists who usually 
 despise the confused geology of landscape-painters were satisfied with his. 
 The biography of Cooke in “ Men of the Time ” closes significantly by 
 telling us that he was a Fellow of the Linnsean, Zoological, Geographical, 
 and Geological Societies. Could there be better evidence of a scientific 
 bent ? Cooke’s election as an Academician was probably due to his manual 
 skill, for though the absence of the artistic sense is not so obvious in him 
 as it is in Dilrer, Cooke was not a born artist like Turner. He was born 
 to excel in science and in handicraft. There is at the present time a 
 French painter of great ability named Foustaunau, who is strikingly scientific 
 in his tendencies, being completely in harmony with military science. It 
 is his pleasure to paint such scenes as the trial of a military balloon, or 
 the work of the engineers when rapidly establishing a military bridge to 
 restore an interrupted railway, and he represents subjects of this kind 
 without the slightest artistic repugnance for the ugly material, the rigid 
 iron beams, and the unpicturesque landscape. He paints quite as truly 
 as Cooke, is as good a workman, whilst, as in the case of the English 
 Academician, all that he does can be brought to the test of scientific 
 criticism. Foustaunau is, in fact, even more scientific than Diirer, for he 
 represents objects as accurately, and in addition to object -drawing has 
 studied light and atmosphere with close attention, whilst his military 
 instincts make him think and observe like an officer of engineers. Such 
 painting as his may be truly described as the antithesis of that romantic 
 art, which endeavours to convey to our minds the poetry of ancient battle 
 as Tennyson has conveyed it in his verse. Modern warfare is an 
 application of science, and here the scientific painter has his place. 
 Knowledge of the same kind might be applied to the accurate delineation 
 of unlovely railway bridges that span our rivers, with the steamboats 
 plying under them. In interiors the same patient observation has already 
 given us absolutely faithful pictures of laboratories and asylums, such as 
 M. Pasteur’s laboratory for the cultivation of the virus of rabies and 
 the students watching an hysterical woman under M. Charcot at the 
 Salpetriere. 
 
 Literature is so closely connected with painting that we may observe in 
 it the same clear distinction between artistic and scientific knowledge. A 
 
CHAP. Ill 
 
 SCIENTIFIC 
 
 2 I 
 
 student who reads the Faerie Queene gains no scientific information beyond 
 the simple fact that such a work is a part of literature, and he might learn 
 that without reading it, whilst a single canto would give him a sufficient 
 idea of the nature and quality of the performance. When, however, we 
 consider the Faerie Queene as a work of literary art, it is like a rich and 
 extensive gallery. The consequence is that as education becomes more 
 scientific there is a steady tendency to substitute the science of literature 
 (that is the bare knowledge that such and such books have been written, 
 with a synopsis of their contents) for the study of literature itself, which 
 requires both more time and a much more sympathetic intelligence. In like 
 manner the world is now substituting the science of religions, that is the 
 knowledge of what has been believed and an investigation into the origins 
 and modifications of beliefs, for religion itself, which is the personal par- 
 ticipation in some faith whilst it is still vigorous and alive. 
 
 The scientific study of the figure preceded the scientific study of land- 
 scape by about three hundred years. Painters of the figure learned anatomy 
 about three hundred years before landscape-painters directed their own 
 attention, for exactly the same kind of help, to botany and geology. Even 
 in the present generation French critics laugh at English landscape-painters 
 because some of them possess a little botanical knowledge ; and there are 
 still artists who imagine that botany means poring over minute dissections 
 with a microscope, not seeing that it has anything to teach about dominant 
 laws of growth in such important things as treesr However, in the art 
 which represents the human form the victory of science has been long since 
 assured. There are few critics living, and still fewer artists, who would 
 maintain that a figure-painter can be the better for ignorance of anatomy. 
 The only argument in favour of ignorance is that knowledge is apt to assert 
 itself too emphatically, and to transgress the truth of Nature by insisting on 
 facts of internal structure that Nature partially veils. The painter who 
 studies muscular anatomy may be led to exaggerate muscles and to make 
 them not only too important, but too much separated by definite markings. 
 That this has been frequently done by artists since anatomy was first 
 studied is so evident that it is one of the commonest reasons for the secret 
 dislike that is felt for “ Grand art.” I confess that I never saw the “ St. 
 Symphorien ” by Ingres, which is considered his masterpiece, without a 
 feeling of dislike which is chiefly due to the exaggeration of muscle in the 
 foreground figures, and in the engraving this is still more unpleasantly 
 accentuated. An English anatomist, Dr. Knox, describes a race that in 
 his opinion is degenerating, and these, according to him, are some of the 
 proofs and evidences of degeneration. He says “ in both sexes the adipose 
 
22 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE-PAINTER 
 
 PART 1 
 
 cellular cushion interposed between the skin and the aponeuroses and 
 muscles disappears, or at least loses its adipose portion ; the muscles 
 become stringy and show themselves ; the tendons appear on the surface.” 
 Nobody can read these words without being struck by their exact concord- 
 ance with the display of anatomy in art, at least so far as the male body is 
 concerned. Is it not true that in painting and engraving, when the object 
 is to display the artist’s anatomical knowledge, he does exactly what nature 
 does when she is ruining one of her own races by the fatal process of 
 degeneration ? Does not the artist cause the adipose cellular cushion 
 interposed between the skin and the muscles to disappear ? Do not the 
 muscles in his drawing become stringy and show themselves ? Are not the 
 tendons made visible on the surface ? One would imagine that Dr. Knox, 
 instead of being a critic of living races, was an art-critic describing the work 
 of some master with a reputation for anatomical acquirement. 
 
 The desire to make anatomy too visible ought not, however, to be a 
 reproach against scientific education generally, but only against the pre- 
 dominance of a speciality in science. For if the tangible form of a dead 
 and dissected muscle is a fact of science, so is the exact degree of its 
 visibility in the living frame, and the evil that has just been recognised is 
 merely due to the insistence upon one science to the exclusion of another 
 which, for the artist, is even of greater importance. It is as much a 
 scientific truth that a muscle is visible or invisible in the living body under 
 special conditions of movement, as it is that it can be found by dissection in 
 the dead one. Therefore a painting which shows muscles and tendons 
 more than nature shows them in life is not really more scientific than a 
 painting faithful to visual truth, but much less so, and, in fact, the unnatural 
 display of anatomical knowledge is a display of scientific as well as artistic 
 ignorance. If we try to imagine a completely learned painter we shall be 
 led irresistibly to the conclusion that his knowledge would be unobtrusive. 
 It could not be otherwise, because complete knowledge would prevent each 
 special science from obtruding itself at the expense of other sciences equally 
 well known. 
 
 Painters, like other people, appreciate the utility of those sciences which 
 they have themselves acquired, and despise as useless those that they have 
 never learned. We have an excellent instance of this in Lionardo da Vinci 
 himself, who, being fully aware from his own experience of the value of 
 anatomy to artists regarded it as the best of safeguards against vulgar 
 errors. “The painter,” he said, “who has obtained a perfect knowledge of 
 the tendons and muscles, and of those parts which contain the most of 
 them, will know to a certainty, in giving a particular motion to any part of 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ,, . , . ■ 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
HERCULES REPOSING 
 
 Graeco-Roman Marble Statuette in the Townley Collection 
 Hyalograph drawn by F. Walenn . 
 
 ( British Museum ) 
 
 Given as an example of a thick and muscular figure that has attained its 
 complete development. 
 
 The sculptor has endeavoured to realise the idea of strength without that 
 fatness which the Japanese associate with it. In this figure the joints are 
 clean and not overburdened with flesh, whilst the flesh itself is pure muscle. 
 Still the proportions are not the most perfect even for a Heicules, the chest, 
 for example, is relatively small. 
 
 Although we have no means of determining scale, the impression 
 produced by this statuette is that of a short, very robust man. In real life 
 men of this mould are usually short. 
 
 It may be observed that although the classic artist intended to display 
 muscular force to the utmost he did not exhibit the anatomy of the muscles 
 so much as was afterwards done by the painters of the Renascence. The 
 arms of this Hercules are not so muscular as certain arms by Raphael, 
 Michael Angelo, and Ingres, in which those artists had no intention of 
 exhibiting extraordinary strength. The antique sculptor kept within the 
 limits of nature. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
CHAP. Ill 
 
 SCIENTIFIC 
 
 23 
 
 the body, which and how many of the muscles give rise and contribute to 
 it ; which of them, by swelling, occasion their shortening, and which of the 
 cartilages they surround. He will not imitate those who, in all the different 
 attitudes they adopt, or invent, make use of the same muscles in the arms, 
 back, or chest, or any other parts.” This is the language of practical 
 common sense, giving reasons for preferring knowledge to ignorance, yet 
 the same artist and philosopher approved Botticelli’s foolish and ignorant 
 remark about landscape, that it is but a vain study, “since, by throwing a 
 sponge impregnated with various colours against a wall, it leaves some 
 spots upon it, which may appear like a landscape.” Perhaps, if Lionardo 
 had applied the same principles of study to the component parts of land- 
 scape that he did to bones and muscles, he might have painted something 
 at the same time more beautiful and more truthful than the pasteboard 
 rocks behind “ La Vierge aux Rochers,” or the feeble mountainous 
 distance that spoils the perfection of his Mona Lisa. 
 
 There is but one real danger in the scientific studies of artists, and it 
 ought never to be lost sight of by professors, whether they hold chairs 
 of fine art in the universities or lecture within the walls of the Royal 
 Academy itself. The danger lies in cultivating and encouraging a 
 scientific spirit to such a degree that the artistic spirit may become 
 inactive. This is a figurative expression, but it is convenient and intelli- 
 gible. A man has but one mind ; his brain is not inhabited by five or 
 six intelligences, yet he may employ different faculties at different times, 
 and may develop some of them at the expense of others, and so we speak 
 of his working in this or that spirit as if he contained several different 
 persons within himself. The natural gift of poetry is compatible with 
 very prosaic gifts, such as those of order and economy, and with very 
 prosaic studies, such as grammar ; and when the poet exercises his prosaic 
 gifts he must for the time be acting in a prosaic spirit, but his power as 
 an artist in verse consists in being able to lull that prosaic spirit into 
 complete inactivity for the time, and to awaken another spirit into energy. 
 The complete poet is one who can disembarrass himself at will of prosaic 
 ideas and expressions, and live, whilst at work, in a region where all 
 thought and all language are poetical. The reader is sure to be familiar 
 with an expression very frequently used by religious people ; they insist 
 upon the necessity for a religious spirit, or what they often call “a prayerful 
 spirit,” and they tell us, if we write scientifically, that we do not understand 
 religion, that our minds have not access to religious truth. No doubt they 
 are right in this, that the scientific spirit is as remote from the spirit of the 
 saint as it is from that of the artist, and it is conceivable that the constant 
 
24 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE-PAINTER 
 
 PART I 
 
 habit of scientific thinking might so bind down the mind to what can be 
 measured or tested that it might become almost incapable of realising 
 in itself an order of what are called “spiritual truths,” which must be, by 
 their nature, beyond the reach of science. There is, I believe, a remark- 
 ably close analogy between the religious and the artistic spirits, even 
 though they may be unintelligible to each other. Both are gifts, 
 instinctive and unprogressive. Men were as religious in ancient Judaea, 
 as artistic in Greece, as in the days of the Puritans, or of the artistic 
 renascence. The religious mind and the artistic are both compelled 
 to take some account of science, but they do so unwillingly, and are 
 not really at home in it. I am not speaking of those theologians and 
 artists who have a natural scientific bent : in their case the divergence 
 to science is a relaxation. A clergyman may have a turn for calculation 
 like Colenso, but algebra is not religion. An artist may be a linguist 
 like Rubens, or an engineer like Lionardo, but when he produces he 
 must live wholly in the artistic spirit, or the produce will not be fine art. 
 The dislike felt by many artists, especially landscape-painters, to science, 
 the feeling of irksomeness with which many students apply their minds 
 for a short time to perspective and anatomy, the much closer sympathy 
 that painters usually have for music and poetry than for scientific pursuits, 
 may all be accounted for by an instinctive apprehension that a predominant 
 scientific spirit might enfeeble the artistic, and so far paralyse it as to 
 make production itself no longer artistic but mechanical. The fear is 
 not groundless, especially in an age like ours, when all kinds of positive, 
 measurable knowledge are more than ever valued, and when a spirit 
 so delicate, so dreamy, and so peculiar as that of fine art, seems by 
 contrast a mood of idleness. The ideally perfect artist would be a 
 dreamer without any conscious formulising of knowledge in his mind, 
 but with a memory so vast and sure that he could call to his mind’s 
 eye at any time, and instantaneously, as much of natural truth as happened 
 to be needed for his work. A being so perfectly constituted for art would 
 not be under any necessity for working from nature, he would observe 
 as a poet observes, and his product would be a natural birth rather than 
 an artificial construction by a Frankenstein. We have not, however, as 
 yet, known any instance of the artistic faculty in such a condition of 
 ideal purity and vigour. In almost all known instances it has needed 
 succour from faculties outside of itself. The appeal to the help of science 
 is a confession of imperfect ocular observation, and of weakness in the 
 ocular memory. Science is to the artist what spectacles are to the dim- 
 sighted, and note-books to the forgetful. 
 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE-PAINTER— TECHNICAL 
 
 T F it were true, as we are sometimes told, that painting can be learned 
 but cannot be taught, we might perhaps be permitted to ask what is 
 the use of French ateliers and English schools of art? 
 
 The truth is that there are teachable and unteachable elements in 
 painting as there are in literature. The subject may perhaps be best 
 understood by considering briefly, in the first place, the education of a 
 writer of books. 
 
 Authors have never been taught to write books, they have never been 
 apprenticed to the trade. Matthew Arnold did not go to study poetical 
 composition under Tennyson or criticism under Sainte-Beuve. Still we 
 cannot say that Matthew Arnold was either an untaught or a self-taught 
 author. His father was the most notable schoolmaster of his time, the 
 schoolmaster who excelled all others in influence over boys and in the art 
 of awakening their minds to a living interest in their work. Matthew 
 Arnold began with the best classical education that could be got in the 
 England of his day, and this education was the better and the more vital 
 in his case that he thoroughly believed in the value of it. Nor did he stop 
 short in his education at the close of his university career. His mind was 
 too open for him to remain satisfied with a single modern language ; he 
 studied German, and entered more fully into the spirit of French criticism, 
 and appreciated its quality better, than any other contemporary Englishman. 
 All this did not teach him to write, but it was a preparation, and without 
 such preparation Arnold could never have written as he did. Imagine 
 Arnold with the education of Burns ! Look through his pages of exquisitely 
 felicitous prose ; look through his poems, too few in number, but so perfect 
 in workmanship, so superior to the false ornaments of a vulgar taste, so 
 disdainful of mere vigour, and then try to take out of them what is due 
 to education, leaving only the native gift ! You will find that it is im- 
 
 E 
 
2 6 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE-PAINTER 
 
 PART I 
 
 possible ! Arnold’s education is everywhere in his literary work ; it is in 
 every page, although so little showy that, in his poetry at least, it manifests 
 itself chiefly in a classical reticence and simplicity. Now, turn to another 
 poet whose literary education was not so extensive as Arnold’s — Dante 
 Rossetti. He had not Arnold’s classical training; he never learned Greek, 
 which was a part of Arnold’s being. He remained at school till his fifteenth 
 year, and acquired “the elements,” says his biographer, “of Latin, French, 
 and German.” He continued German for a time after leaving school, but 
 afterwards abandoned and in great part forgot it. Here, then, is a case of 
 literary education defective by its incompleteness, the common literary 
 education of artists and other men in the working middle-class who are 
 obliged to leave school at the age of fourteen or fifteen, the sort of educa- 
 tion that Professor Seeley looks upon as going part of the way towards an 
 education. Well, if Rossetti had enjoyed no more complete training than 
 that, it is probable that his literary career would have proved abortive, but 
 it so happened that he was prepared for poetry in a quite peculiar and 
 exceptional manner. His father was a celebrated Italian poet, and not 
 only that, but a devoted student and professor of Italian literature. Dante 
 Rossetti, therefore, got in his youth such an introduction to that literature 
 as no Englishman ever enjoyed before, and he profited by it to the full, 
 loving and delighting in the great Italian poets as much as Arnold delighted 
 in the ancient Greeks. Now, it so happens that Italian literature is the 
 only literature of Europe which attained perfection of form at the beginning 
 of the modern time, and therefore Rossetti found in his Italian studies 
 examples of sound literary workmanship comparable to those for which 
 the ordinary student goes back to Roman or Greek antiquity. “ If 
 ever,” said a distinguished Oxonian to me, “ if ever we have to abandon 
 Greek and Latin there will be no substitute so good as the best Italian 
 literature, because it attained literary perfection so early.” This was 
 said quite without reference to Rossetti, but observe how exactly it 
 applies to him ! 
 
 Finally, there was a preparation that Arnold and Rossetti had in 
 common, the study of English literature ; and here I think that Rossetti 
 had the advantage, not in extent of critical acquirement, but of more 
 passionate sympathy with the elder English literature, especially on its 
 tragical side. Another preparation common to both poets was that they 
 were taught the English language and bred under scholarly influences. 
 
 Now, if the reader will ask himself how literary instances of this kind 
 may be profitable in the study of art, he has only to state the case in more 
 general terms. The special art in these cases was not taught, but it was 
 
CHAP. IV 
 
 TECHNICAL 
 
 27 
 
 prepared for. The students were made familiar with the technical medium 
 (language), and they were led to study the finest examples of noble work 
 under good and experienced guidance. Could as much as this be done for 
 a young painter? Certainly it could. If we go further and ask whether it 
 would be possible to do more for him, the answer is very doubtful. 
 
 There are two elements common to poetry and painting, one of which 
 is absolutely incommunicable and the other communicable only when the 
 pupil and master happen to be in the closest possible sympathy, a case 
 which is extremely rare. The first is invention, and the second taste. In 
 all good poetry and in all first-rate painting these two qualities are present ; 
 but invention is always fresh and personal, and taste hardly less so when it 
 reaches the degree of distinction, as the word itself implies. It is therefore 
 useless to attempt the teaching of invention, and as for taste, the utmost 
 that can be done is to put the pupil in such a situation that good taste will 
 surround and influence him, which is effected in literature by the choice of 
 books written in good language, and in life by keeping as much as possible 
 in the most civilised society. However, I do not insist in any way upon 
 the teachableness of taste, having known instances where the utmost 
 endeavours were made to inculcate it without the smallest commencement 
 of success. 
 
 Let us consider what is really teachable. A pupil can be taught the 
 art of study (I am still speaking with equal reference to literature and 
 painting). He can be taught, what he would not find out for himself till 
 too late for use, the art of applying his powers to the right difficulty at the 
 right time, which includes the art of neglecting for the present what is 
 ndgligeable, as the French say. And now, to come to what specially con- 
 cerns painting, the pupil can be taught not only the art of studying as he 
 might in literature, but the special craft of making studies and the use of 
 them, and how to test his acquired knowledge by making studies from 
 memory of different kinds for different purposes. He cannot, as I have 
 said, be taught to invent ; nevertheless, he can be invited, under the most 
 stimulating conditions of emulation, to test for himself and for his masters 
 whatever powers of invention he may naturally possess. 
 
 The present French system of technical education includes, I believe, 
 all that is necessary for the figure-painter, and is the most rational that was 
 ever invented, because it wastes no time upon non-essentials, and apportions 
 wisely the time given to what is more or less essential, neither neglect- 
 ing anything that ought to be admitted nor allowing it disproportionate 
 attention. As an example of what I mean by disproportionate attention 
 I will not shrink from mentioning the labour which for many years was 
 
28 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE-PAINTER 
 
 PART I 
 
 bestowed by English students on giving a pretty texture to their drawings 
 by means of stippling. It was not their fault; it was due to a most 
 mistaken encouragement of that kind of finish coming from an artist at 
 that time in a very influential position. This led to what was considered 
 hi 'h finish, but was in reality an industrious kind of idleness, in the minor 
 schools which prepared students for the Academy — schools which modify 
 their methods according to Academical demand. The practice seems to 
 have extended all over the country, for Mr. Poynter says that the drawings 
 sent up by Government schools of art to the central competition at South 
 Kensington must have required at least six weeks of “painful stippling 
 with chalk and bread.” He adds in a footnote that this understates the 
 case ; that he “ found students at work on drawings from the antique which 
 had already occupied them a considerable portion of the previous term (five 
 months) and were not half finished." This foolish waste of time was not 
 only unprofitable as art, but it was enough to stupefy any human intelligence. 
 The practice of stippling simply leads to manual skill in stippling itself ; 
 it cannot lead to any improvement in drawing , it teaches nothing about 
 nature, and as for art one may learn more of that by the active application 
 of the mind during a few well-occupied hours than by an eternity of manual 
 toil combined with mental inertness. I may now pass to another, though a 
 rarer, misemployment of the student’s time, and that is laborious shading 
 with the pen. The modern demand for etchings and pen-drawings may 
 occasionally lead a student to draw from life with a pen in order to give 
 himself the special kind of skill that is useful in book illustration. If he 
 confines himself to rapid and very simple work — such as the pen-sketching 
 of Raphael — the time employed is not likely to be wasted, because that was 
 nothing but a clear and firm setting down of a few selected facts or ideas ; 
 but when laborious finish is attempted — like that of much modern etching 
 from pictures — the pen is not a desirable instrument for study. The 
 recognised principle in French art-education is that the quickest means are 
 best, provided, of course, that the object is fully attained. For studies 
 without colour nothing has hitherto been found so convenient or, on the 
 whole, so rapid as chalk or charcoal, with a free employment of the stump. 
 Sir Frederick Feighton, one of the few English artists who trouble them- 
 selves to make studies, habitually uses black and white chalk upon brown 
 paper — so habitually that he rarely employs anything else. 
 
 In the time of Ingres it was not the custom to teach painting at the 
 j&cole des Beaux Arts , but only drawing, and he used to maintain that 
 painting was a secondary and superficial acquirement, ridiculously easy. 
 This was because, as Charles Blanc said of him, Ingres himself always 
 
THE LAUGHING FAUN 
 
 Greek Marble 
 
 Hyalograph drawn by G. de Roton 
 {Louvre) 
 
 This is not properly a bust, though it looks rather like one. It is part of a 
 statue, and it is said that other fragments of the same statue were found in 
 the same place ; that is, at Vienne in Dauphiny. 
 
 This work is of peculiar interest on account of its great vivacity of 
 expression, rare in antique sculpture. The laughing face is not a caricature 
 though purposely of an inferior type. The laughter is that of simple joy and 
 gaiety, it is not cynical or devilish. 
 
 The only restorations are the right ear and the point of the left. 
 
 The statue was found in the year 1820. 
 

CHAP. IV 
 
 TECHNICAL 
 
 29 
 
 subordinated colour to drawing in his own practice. Here is a statement 
 of the case in his own words : — 
 
 “The School of Fine Arts, it is true, has not a school of painting 
 properly so called ; it teaches nothing but drawing, but drawing is every- 
 thing — it is the whole of art. The material processes of painting are very 
 easy, and may be learned in a week ; by the study of drawing, by lines, are 
 learned the proportion, the character, the knowledge of all the varieties of 
 mankind of all ages — their types, their forms, and the modelling which 
 completes the beauty of the work .” 1 
 
 Ingres then referred to the authority of the old masters, who never 
 painted their studies, but always worked from drawings. 
 
 Stated in fewer words, the doctrine of Ingres amounts to this : “ Learn 
 to draw, and let painting take care of itself.” It is distinctly the advice of 
 a draughtsman who despises painting for a supposed facility. He does not 
 in the least perceive the difficulty of colour — not because he is naturally so 
 gifted as to overcome it easily, but because he has never encountered it. 
 There is also the question of texture. An artist professing, like Ingres, 
 the utmost respect for painters who did not study texture or the quality of 
 surfaces, could at any time intrench himself behind their authority when he 
 found it simpler to follow them than to imitate nature. 
 
 It has been proved by many examples that it is not impossible to 
 make pictures in colour from drawings in black and white, the colour being 
 afterwards sufficiently supplied from memory or invention. It was the 
 constant practice of Millet to work from uncoloured sketches, many of 
 which, done boldly and simply with the pen, did not even pretend to give 
 the values of local colour in light and dark. I am told that there are living 
 men who, having become skilful in the kind of clever pen-drawing which is 
 now reproduced for illustration, have passed from that to painting with a 
 surprising suddenness and facility. Mr. Fildes, the Academician, having 
 been an excellent draughtsman, became, it is said, a painter all at once. So 
 that there is really something to be said in favour of the theory that would 
 make art-education essentially the education of a draughtsman. On the 
 other hand, when art-education is made to extend over several years, there 
 is a wholesome desire for variety in the minds of the students themselves. 
 They want a change, and there is no change so interesting as that from 
 form to colour. It is not proved that colour can be taught, and it is 
 proverbially impossible to argue about it. Our impressions concerning it 
 
 1 This curious sentence, which mixes up the varieties of mankind of all ages with the modelling 
 which completes the beauty of a work not designated, may be taken as a proof that the eminent 
 writer on artistic education might have profited by some literary training. 
 
30 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE-PAINTER 
 
 PART I 
 
 are always strictly personal. My own impression about the colouring that 
 comes out of French schools is that, with a few exceptions, it is crude, and 
 very inferior to the drawing. However, whether the result be in itself 
 satisfactory or not, the pupil does at least gain practice in colouring, and 
 that from the best of all models, a naked human being. It is sometimes 
 thought that pupils may be best initiated into colour by copying bright 
 chromatic objects such as butterflies and flowers or the plumage of tropical 
 birds. This is due to the childish and barbarous confusion between colour 
 and colours. A naked man — say with brown eyes and hair and very little 
 red in his cheeks — is a much better study than a humming-bird ; and the 
 palette used by Etty in his studies from life — a palette of extreme simplicity 
 and made up of the commonest pigments — is better for early practice than 
 that which would be necessary to imitate one gleam of the humming-bird’s 
 iridescent throat. It was a mistake on the part of Ingres to say that colour 
 is easy, but he might have affirmed that it is only too easy to lay very 
 bright colours side by side upon canvas. The reader may, if he is elderly, 
 remember years when many of the English artists who at that time were 
 young and enthusiastic, but did not know very much about painting, were 
 engaged in a sort of competition for intensity of hue. If, on a ground of 
 pure flake white, you lay certain pigments one over another, not thickly but 
 so as to make them palpitate, and if you are careful to put certain other 
 colours close to them for contrast, you can effectually dazzle the eyes. This 
 is the simple application of a well-known receipt, like the art of dyeing. 
 When, however, you come to paint a study from a naked figure that offers 
 no brilliant colours, and have to do it with a dull palette, there is nothing for 
 you but to learn the very art of painting itself. In a word, the advantage of 
 the figure as a model for colour is that it forces the student to paint , and will 
 not permit him to amuse himself with anything like heraldry or illumination. 
 
 It is, I believe, an undisputed truth that form can be taught far more 
 surely and satisfactorily than colour, because faults can be more positively 
 demonstrated. There is, however, a sense in which severe discipline 
 is equally valuable in both. It is the best protection of the student 
 against the unenlightened opinion of people ignorant of art ; it gives 
 him a ground of his own to stand upon ; it establishes him from the 
 beginning in a sort of professional esoteric wisdom which is, and ought 
 to be, quite independent of the tastes of the outside world. The 
 student works only for those who know. If he has to do a sketch for 
 a composition he knows that the forms are not expected to be finished. 
 If he sketches roughly and rapidly for colour he knows that the intelligent 
 master will not look for anything else. Even in a finished colour-study 
 
CHAP. IV 
 
 TECHNICAL 
 
 3i 
 
 the student has the comfortable assurance that a very plain unattractive 
 method of painting will be not only tolerated but approved, that he is 
 not called upon to be charming, dexterous, or attractive. “ It appears 
 to me obvious,” says Mr. Poynter, “ that if, in making his study, he can so 
 match on his canvas the colours and tone of the object he is painting that 
 an exact resemblance shall result, nothing further can be wished for. . . . 
 The right tones placed in the right places and the work is done. That is 
 the whole mystery of painting for a student.” 
 
 This is very different from the varieties of encouragement or dis- 
 couragement that a student is likely to get from his relations. Rough 
 notes for composition will strike them as ill-drawn ; notes of colour, 
 especially in oil, will seem to them what they call “daubs,” and the 
 less of trick and prettiness there is in the young man’s work the more 
 despairing is likely to be their view of his future prospects. 
 
 I have said more about French teaching than about English in this 
 chapter for two reasons, one being that French teaching is really more 
 familiar to me, and the other, because I believe that under the keepership 
 of Mr. Calderon the influence of the Royal Academy is likely to produce 
 a beneficial change in the practice of young men who prepare themselves 
 for its classes. It would therefore be a mistake to condemn, as if it were a 
 permanent national error, that tendency to foolish finish in the study itself, 
 which used to be the peculiarly English waste of time. On one point in 
 art-education the English are greatly superior to the French. So far as I 
 know, they associate art with civilisation, whereas in French schools of 
 art, not excepting the Ecole des Beaux Arts itself, we see the wisest 
 technical discipline completely separated from any idea of social discipline, 
 and the students behave sometimes as children let loose (for example, 
 when they ride cock-horse on their easels round the room), sometimes 
 like lunatics (as when they set up their easels in a row and fling stools at 
 them), and sometimes like wild animals (as when they yell and howl like 
 jackals or hyaenas). When occasionally allowed to eat in the establish- 
 ment, during the contest for the Prix de Rome , we are told that they 
 will break the plates and glasses and throw eggs at each others’ faces. 
 This is only uncivilised, but there have been occasions, in their brimades , l 
 when their proceedings, instead of being merely silly or noisy, became 
 truly diabolical. These doings are not tolerated at the Royal Academy, 
 nor in any other English school of art. 
 
 1 The French word brimade is untranslatable. The dictionaries give “fagging” for it, but there 
 is no real fagging in France. Brimade means the torture and persecution of one by many, the one 
 being generally a new pupil. 
 
32 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE FIGURE-PAINTER 
 
 PART I 
 
 Lastly, I write it with regret, but a certain proportion of the pictures 
 exhibited in France by men who have passed through important private 
 ateliers, and through the lacole des Beatix Arts, must be accepted as 
 plain evidence that the education has been simply technical, and has not 
 had a civilising influence. Pictures are exhibited by young men fresh 
 from these schools, which show great manual power along with coarseness 
 or callousness of feeling, and an absolute deficiency of taste. Un- 
 fortunately, too, the manual cleverness displayed makes the mental 
 insensibility pass, and gives it even the prestige of authority. Now, 
 there was a time when we used to be told, and when many of us fondly 
 believed and repeated, that the fine arts were a civilising influence, but 
 how can we maintain such a pleasing theory when we see them employed 
 to express a perfectly barbarous state of mind — a state of mind that dwells 
 with satisfaction upon scenes of the most brutal cruelty and lust — a state 
 of mind more nearly resembling the dreadful calm of a Roman watching 
 the slaughter in the arena than the sensitiveness of a modern European ? 
 It is not from effeminate delicacy of nerve, but from awakened pity and 
 sympathy and increased strength of imagination, that the civilised man 
 shrinks from thinking about those horrors to which he can bring no 
 remedy. The past is past, and the best that can be said about its 
 cruelties is that the victims writhe no more. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE STUDY OF THE NUDE 
 
 T T is always difficult for people whose culture has been of opposite kinds 
 -®- to arrive at a common understanding. Here is a word, the nude, 
 which conveys the most different ideas to the clergyman, the middle-class 
 respectable provincial woman, and the artist who has passed through the 
 schools. The first sees in it a falling off from ecclesiastical civilisation 
 (always extremely clothed) and a return to a kind of Paganism ; the second 
 sees only a shameless immodesty ; whilst to the third, the artist, the word 
 “ nude ” conveys simply the idea of discipline in study, as the word 
 “grammar” does to a scholar, or “dissection” to a physiologist. 
 
 The current objection is that men are not purely spiritual beings, but 
 animals with natural instincts, and an idea prevails that clothing is a 
 protection against these. Amongst the much-clothed Europeans there is 
 a belief that the sight of the body is a peril for morals, though Europeans 
 of both sexes do not shrink from travelling in countries where nudity is 
 habitual. The repugnance to it is in great part affected, in deference to 
 public opinion. Even when sincere it may be little more than a shock of 
 surprise caused by the unaccustomed, surprise that would be speedily 
 removed by the habit of working from the life. Such is the inconsistency 
 of our conventionalism, that degrees of nudity in women are modest in the 
 evening which would be indecorous in earlier hours. Again, with reference 
 to the pursuits of artists themselves, it is well known to all who are 
 interested in the fine arts that men study from the nude in great capitals, 
 where their pursuit is tolerated, whilst the same artists could not work 
 from the life in any small provincial town without exciting a local 
 scandal. 
 
 “ The Life ” to an artist, means what the Bible means to a Protestant 
 theologian. It is the abundant source of divine truth, the one object of 
 study that can never fail and never be exhausted. The study of it is 
 
 F 
 
34 
 
 THE STUDY OF THE NUDE 
 
 PART I 
 
 the way, and the only way, to excellence, to perfection in practice. Day 
 by day, year after year, he who drinks at that well of truth finds his 
 strength renewed. Those who have come to it most frequently all tell the 
 same tale. They all say that the knowledge gained at this source surpasses 
 all other knowledge, and even includes it, at least in the sense of making it 
 an easy conquest afterwards. The fact is undeniable that, in the graphic 
 and plastic arts, the most various kinds of excellence, apparently quite 
 unconnected with the study of the living body, appear when it is most 
 assiduously pursued, and never appear in times or countries where it is 
 neglected. It might be thought, for example, that landscape-painting was 
 quite independent of this study, as it is certainly practised on different 
 principles — for colour, effect, and sentiment rather than form — yet it is a 
 significant fact that great landscapes have never been painted in any age or 
 country where men did not study the naked figure from the life. In the 
 ages when religious authority made that study impossible, and compelled 
 the artist to copy stiff vestments instead of the human body, landscape 
 backgrounds were like the attempts of children. Not only have great 
 landscape-painters been contemporary with painters of the naked figure, but 
 they have lived in the same cities, and more or less under the same 
 academic influences. Claude was born in Lorraine, but did not live there ; 
 he lived in Rome, where the study of the figure had been carried to per- 
 fection by Raphael and Michael Angelo. Turner lived immediately under 
 the influence of the English Royal Academy, and throughout life was 
 strongly attached to it both as an institution and by personal ties, one of his 
 dearest friends being Chantrey the sculptor. Constable was an Academy 
 student, and his friend Leslie said, “ I have seen no studies made by 
 Constable at the Academy from the Antique, but many chalk drawings 
 and oil paintings from the living model , all of which have great breadth of 
 light and shade, though they are sometimes defective in outline.” In 1802, 
 Constable wrote a letter to a friend about anatomy. “ I am so much more 
 interested in the study than I expected, and feel my mind so generally 
 enlarged by it, that I congratulate myself on being so fortunate as to have 
 attended these lectures.” The experience of form and colour gained in 
 painting from the living model helped Constable to see landscape in masses 
 without losing himself in details of leaves and twigs, whilst the study of 
 anatomy enlarged his mind, as he says, by giving it sound ideas of con- 
 struction. Corot, the most famous of modern Continental landscape- 
 painters, lived in Paris at a time when the study of the naked figure was 
 most seriously taught by Ingres; and although Corot did not put much 
 drawing into his works, it is clearly evident, from the grace and style with 
 

 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 ' 
 
 
 ' 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 ■ , , 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
MARS Y AS 
 
 Bronze Statuette 
 Hyalograph drawn by F. Walenn 
 (. British Museum') 
 
 GIVEN as a fine and animated example of well-developed manly form holding 
 an intermediate position between the slight forms of the Satyr with the Infant 
 Bacchus and the thick limbs of the Hercules Reposing. This figure indicates 
 activity and amply sufficient athletic power without that excess of it which 
 exhibits itself in useless feats of strength. 
 
 The exact meaning of the attitude, which seems very expressive and 
 significant, must be a matter of conjecture, as we do not know how the figure 
 was grouped with another. That other is believed to have been Athene. 
 
 The statuette is from Patras, and belongs to the fourth century P..C. 
 
WITTMAHN PARID 
 

 
 
 
 
CHAP. V 
 
 THE STUDY OF THE NUDE 
 
 35 
 
 which he introduced nude or semi-nude figures, that he had been strongly- 
 influenced by a very mature kind of figure-painting. Corot was himself a 
 far more mature figure-painter than Botticelli, for example, though he had 
 nothing of Botticelli’s linear discipline. He painted sometimes from the 
 model, and always believed that one of his models, who posed in his studio, 
 lost his life in consequence of the coldness of the room. There are certain 
 qualities even in Corot’s trees which are never seen in the flat and cut-out 
 representations of trees that occur in primitive art, that is, in art produced 
 where the naked figure is not studied. 
 
 In ornamental work of all kinds nothing of first-rate excellence has ever 
 been produced at any great distance, either of time or space, from a school 
 of painting founded on the life. I am, of course, fully aware that much 
 well-invented ornament was produced in our own Middle Ages, chiefly from 
 leaves and flowers, whilst in Mahometan countries such as Turkey and 
 Persia, where the study of man is forbidden by religious ordinance, we find 
 endless examples of elaborate ornament in textile manufactures and in 
 utensils or on decorative objects in pottery or metal. It might be objected, 
 too, that there is much delightful ornament on Japanese vases and arms; 
 but the Japanese are rather outside the question, because the sight of the 
 naked figure is as familiar to their artists as it was to the ancient Greeks. 
 Keeping, then, to our own mediaeval work, and to that of Mahometan 
 ornamental designers, and fully acknowledging the beauty of it in its own 
 place, where figure-drawing of an educated kind is not present, I can only 
 say that neither Christendom nor Islam ever produced any ornamental art 
 good enough to be associated with learned figure design. The semi-pagan 
 Renascence, on the contrary, did produce ornament to bear that severest of 
 all tests, and the improvement is attributable to the study of the naked 
 figure and to nothing else. I cherish no prejudice against mediaeval work, 
 having, like most Englishmen of my time who care for art at all, passed 
 through my own mediaeval period. I have been passionately interested in 
 Gothic architecture, heraldry, and illumination, but there came a time when 
 my eyes were opened to the far superior qualities of design apparent in the 
 delicate carvings of the Renascence and in the best French work of our 
 own day, and I soon discovered that these qualities were not the effect of 
 any unaccountable efflorescence of talent, but were always explicable by 
 study from the life. 
 
 It is sometimes erroneously supposed that in Gothic sculpture, such as 
 that upon the west front of the cathedral at Amiens, the floral and leafy 
 ornaments are good and the human figures not so good, because the artists 
 were clever enough to deal with ornament, but not, to the same degree, 
 
36 
 
 THE STUDY OF THE NUDE 
 
 PART I 
 
 with man. The case may be better understood by a reference to figures 
 as they are introduced by landscape-painters into their work. Suppose 
 you paint a group of trees, and a cottage, exactly as a clever landscape- 
 painter would paint them, and, after that, suppose you introduce a figure, 
 if you deal with it in the same manner as the other objects, that is, for tone 
 and colour rather than form, you are sure to get a landscape-painter’s 
 figtirine. So, in Gothic sculpture, carve your floral ornaments as they are 
 carved at Amiens, then undertake the sculpture of statues in the same 
 sense, and you come inevitably to the kind of statuary you find there — 
 statuary which is acceptable up to a certain point, that is, for character and 
 attitude and the architectural disposal of drapery, but in which you will not 
 discover so much as a finger or a toe that an educated sculptor would 
 acknowledge. If now you pass to the decorative designs in the loggie 
 of the Vatican, executed under the superintendence of Raphael, you meet 
 with a variety and prodigality of fanciful invention fully equal to the variety 
 in a Gothic palace, and here, too, both the vegetable and animal kingdoms 
 are made to contribute materials ; but you will not find a fruit, or a flower, 
 or a leaf that does not call for good figure-drawing as its accompaniment. 
 This relation between quality of ornament and science in figure-design is 
 so inevitable, so inherent in the nature of things, that when modern French 
 decorative sculptors, who have drawn from the nude in the ateliers , have 
 been set to imitate Gothic ornament for purposes of restoration or imitation, 
 they have been compelled to affect ignorance in their representations of 
 Man, that all might be of a piece. 
 
 On the other side then, of art, not only is the study of the naked figure 
 the basis of all painting and sculpture that deals with the human form, but 
 it is one of those widely influential studies that have a favourable influence 
 on others with which, at first sight, they have no apparent connection. If 
 the world could be deprived of this study by the laws of nations, the closing 
 of life schools would be followed by a general decadence. All figure- 
 painting would go down at once, sculpture would become Gothic carving, 
 landscape would survive with difficulty, and decorative art would be on a 
 level with that of the heraldic illuminator. In a hundred years the fine arts 
 would be again in those dark ages when the Church, in the name of the 
 spirit, discouraged attention to the body. 
 
 Of this, however, there is no fear. Modern liberty of thought and 
 recurrence to nature in all things as the source of truth have installed the 
 study of the nude for art as securely as that of anatomy for science. The 
 only serious opposition to it is made, not in the name of a Church, but of 
 morality. The objection is not specially ecclesiastical. 
 

 
 S : 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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SILENUS 
 
 Original Wood-Engraving 
 By Pierre Gusman 
 
 Original woocl-engraving can hardly be done directly from nature on the 
 wood. What is meant by it is that the artist draws on the wood himself and 
 engraves his own drawing. 
 
 The advantage of uniting the draughtsman and engraver in one person are 
 that there cannot be any conflict of interpretation, and also that the engraver 
 is not likely .to neglect any quality in the work of the designer. 
 
 I selected this woodcut, hitherto unpublished, for its quality, and also 
 because it illustrates the advantage of nudity in the chest and shoulders as an 
 accompaniment to the naked face. It thus escapes from one of the greatest 
 difficulties in modern portraits of men with white collars and black coats. 
 Observe, for example, the peculiar effect of the two white collar-corners to 
 right and left of the beard in the portrait of Tennyson. 
 
CHAP. V 
 
 THE STUDY OF THE NUDE 
 
 37 
 
 The subject is a most difficult one to discuss, but there are some aspects 
 of it that may possibly be new to the reader. Let me first invite his 
 attention to the completely neutral character of the study of nature so far 
 as morality is concerned. The work done in a life school is not moral, 
 like an essay in favour of chastity, neither is it in the slightest degree 
 immoral, either directly or by suggestion, as so much literature is. This 
 neutral character of study from the life soon produces its own effect on the 
 minds of students, and it ought to be remembered that they are led up to 
 it by the study of antique marbles which are almost invariably severe and 
 calm, whether they happen to be draped or not. In a place like the life 
 school of the Royal Academy there is no encouragement for any other 
 ideas than those of work and discipline, of which the model himself, or 
 herself, sets the example by the patient exercise of a very trying profession. 
 The models are well aware of the moral protection they enjoy from the 
 neutral character of their work. They are a respectable class of people, 
 almost of necessity, as the loss of firmness implied in a loose and disorderly 
 life would of itself disqualify any one for a business which is all patience. 
 They often take a serious and intelligent interest in art. M. Miintz, the 
 learned Professor at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, tells me that a model there, 
 possessing eight thousand pounds, bequeathed the money for an artistic use. 
 The interest of it is destined to provide models for students competing 
 for the prix de Rome. 
 
 Now, if from artistic we turn to literary studies, we cannot, I think, 
 pretend to claim for them anything like that neutral character as to morals 
 which belongs to the artistic study of simple nature. I could easily adduce 
 overwhelming evidence on this subject, but there is a conventionalism 
 which permits the printing and dissemination of ancient books, and even 
 places them in the hands of youth, whilst it does not permit the quotation 
 of incriminating passages. In this manner the liberty of the press is 
 accorded to authors who lived long before the invention of printing, 
 whilst it is partially denied to ourselves. I can only say, then, that any 
 young man who reads Horace or Virgil, or even Plato, or moralists like 
 Plutarch and Marcus Aurelius, has met with references to ancient and 
 horrible vices which compel him to think about them if he would understand 
 his author, and force his mind out of the condition in which it has not to 
 trouble itself about morality, one way or the other. This may be an 
 advantage as leading to a clearer understanding of the abysmal depths of 
 possible human iniquity ; I only say that it is incompatible with that serene 
 condition of the mind in which it does innocent work that has no reference 
 to immorality. And I will venture to add that the student whose thoughts 
 
THE STUDY OF THE NUDE 
 
 PART I 
 
 38 
 
 are neither moral nor immoral, but simply and innocently observant, has 
 a better chance of keeping his mind healthy than if he wept for the sins 
 of the world. 
 
 Another consideration not to be lost sight of is the habit of coolly 
 criticising nature which accompanies experience in drawing. That habit 
 is intellectual ; it belongs essentially to the intellect, and is as much outside 
 of sexual passions as the criticism of music or architecture. The imperfec- 
 tion of nature strikes the artist as frequently as it strikes the man of science. 
 The evidences of it always become more obvious with the increase of our 
 knowledge. It is explained in various ways; the theological explanation 
 is the Fall of Man; another is the absence of care, in Nature, for the 
 individual. In the experience of artists the perception that nature is 
 imperfect is the cause of a peculiar kind of dissatisfaction, necessary to art, 
 as it impels the mind towards the ideal. The dissatisfaction of the artistic 
 mind with nature, its reasoned criticism of nature, its quest of the ideal, are 
 evidences of a state of feeling that is very widely removed from the passions 
 of the lower animals, either sexual or aggressive. It may perhaps be 
 possible to trace back our cesthetic instincts to a male animal’s pride in its 
 own strength or desire for its female, but it is like telling a singer that his 
 voice is only the cry of a brute that has been gradually modulated by 
 culture. 
 
 In concluding this chapter a word may be said on a subject now more 
 and more gaining in importance — the artistic education of women, and 
 especially their admission to life schools. Fully persuaded that all serious 
 study of the body is in itself innocent, I still remember that in all high 
 civilisations that have hitherto existed a certain delicacy has been attached 
 to the ideal of maidenhood, so that there were truths in nature that it was 
 deemed better for the maiden not to know. It is easy to represent this as 
 a prejudice, but the prejudice is founded on a delicacy of sentiment that it 
 ought not to be necessary to explain. Well, there is a tendency very 
 distinctly visible in our time to ignore certain old-fashioned delicacies of 
 sentiment, and I think this tendency is unfortunate not only for girls 
 themselves but for all society. It is good for them and it is good for us 
 that our respect for them should be mingled with a guarding tenderness. 
 Girls may draw from the life and remain pure in mind ; the study of the 
 nude is neutral in respect of practical morality, but here we have to do with 
 a finer and more exquisite sentiment than the sense of definite right and 
 wrong. The most advanced young women of the present day feel them- 
 selves unfairly treated if they are not permitted an equal share in all 
 masculine studies, including this study of life. Some of them take the 
 
CHAP. V 
 
 THE STUDY OF THE NUDE 
 
 39 
 
 matter into their own hands and work from the most naked nature in the 
 same room and at the same time with students of the other sex. They are, 
 no doubt, simply hard workers who are anxious to get on. Nobody would 
 be unjust or cruel enough to accuse them of misconduct, or even of levity ; 
 they do their work, no doubt, in the same serious spirit as that of a female 
 medical student who is occupied with a dissection, and their own feeling 
 probably is the sense of conscious courage in the pursuit of a certain kind 
 of learning, no worse than reading Greek. Still, one feels for them a 
 certain commiseration. They have sacrificed, not the flower of maidenhood, 
 but the delicate perfume of the flower ; they have lost an intangible some- 
 thing that can never be replaced, and in exchange for what ? For a bare 
 chance in a profession strewn with the wrecks of human lives — a profession 
 in which all the energy of manhood is not sure of reward, and in which 
 the highest feminine success hitherto recorded has been that of a popular 
 cattle-painter. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 CLOTHING AND NAKEDNESS IN FINISHED ART 
 
 r 1 'HE nude is absolutely necessary for study ; is it necessary or desirable 
 in the finished picture or the statue ? 
 
 The distinct nature of the two cases is not always sufficiently realised. 
 From time to time the sense of public propriety is offended, in a curiously 
 intermittent way, by the nudity of pictures in the exhibitions, and during 
 these times of hyperaesthesia in the public conscience the delusion always 
 prevails that if clothing could be imposed upon works of art the study of 
 the nude figure might be abandoned. Possibly it might if the figures were 
 all hidden beneath plate-armour or ecclesiastical vestments. A shining 
 cuirass or a stiff embroidered chasuble would spare the necessity for 
 studying either chest or back ; even the lawn-sleeves of an English bishop 
 would make the drawing of an arm superfluous, and the long cassock of the 
 French priest might hide much ignorance of the leg. If, however, there is 
 to be any drapery in the classical sense of the term, the study of the nude 
 must still, it is to be feared, continue. 
 
 The question of study being decided beyond dispute, there does 
 undoubtedly remain the very different question of nudity in works of art 
 that are not studies, but intended to be the ornaments of our homes or to 
 give pleasure of a high kind to all classes of the people. The tradition of 
 art, from the supremacy of ancient Greece to the present supremacy of 
 France, has been persistently in favour of the nude or the classically draped, 
 except during the interim of the Middle Ages. The doubt, then, might 
 be set at rest by experience, were it not that it comes up again with every 
 fresh assertion of the rights of realism. In our own time realism is more 
 self-asserting than ever ; it claims the right to represent everything as it is 
 with reference to truth only, and therefore without any aspiration after the 
 ideal or any preoccupation about taste ; and it cannot be denied that this 
 realistic spirit does, in fact, open a question which, without it, might have 
 
Boussod .Valadon ft- C’. c -Paris 
 
 uinte 
 
chap, vi CLOTHING AND NAKEDNESS IN FINISHED ART 
 
 4i 
 
 been considered closed. The ideal is a clothing in itself, like Lady Godiva’s 
 chastity ; realism is the removal of it. 
 
 The times we live in are remarkable for no artistic development so 
 much as the growth of manual skill without mental grace or delicacy. 
 We are therefore in perilous days for the nude in art when men can 
 paint it so truly that to look at their picture is like peeping into a 
 bathroom, and when they bring to it so little imagination that they keep 
 us in the common world. Rembrandt did this occasionally from sheer 
 lack of the kind of ideality which is needed ; the moderns appear to do 
 it in cynical indifference. 
 
 An extreme instance has occurred recently with reference to the 
 “Olympia” of Manet. His admirers wished to present that picture 
 to the Louvre, but the authorities refused permission, granting, however, 
 a place in the Luxembourg, on the understanding that it should not 
 imply a subsequent entry to the greater gallery. “What,” it may be 
 asked, “can be the ground of exclusion? What objection can be 
 made to the ‘Olympia’ of Manet which is not equally cogent against 
 the ‘Nymph and Satyr’ of Titian?” Both the figures are reclining, 
 and in Titian’s picture there is a plain suggestion in the curiosity of the 
 satyr which Manet has avoided ; the other figure in the “ Olympia ” 
 is a negro woman-servant who brings a bouquet. The artistic intention 
 for contrast in colour is exactly the same in both cases, Titian seeking 
 it in the brown skin of the satyr, and Manet in the black one of the 
 negress and the variegated hues of the flowers. Why, then, is the 
 Titian not considered an indecent picture whilst the Manet is doubtful 
 as to decency? The answer is that the “ Nymph” is an ideal of feminine 
 beauty, whilst “ Olympia ” is a real girl to be met with anywhere in 
 Paris. Her shape is vulgar, though natural, and it is this natural 
 vulgarity that makes her seem almost indecent, though her attitude is 
 extremely modest, and her attendant, if of a different colour, is of her 
 own sex. 
 
 Amongst living painters I may mention two very celebrated ones 
 whose treatment of the nude affords a similar opportunity for comparison. 
 Sir Frederick Leighton, like all painters of a strongly academic turn of 
 mind, delights in the study of the nude, and always thinks in the nude , if 
 I may so express the habit of thought which conceives figures as men 
 and women first, and clothes them, if necessary, afterwards. His 
 draperies are sometimes extremely studied and elaborate in their folds, 
 but they are never used to spare thought or labour in the setting-up 
 of the figure itself ; we see that the artist enjoys the study of drapery as 
 
 G 
 
42 
 
 CLOTHING AND NAKEDNESS IN FINISHED ART 
 
 PART I 
 
 a secondary pursuit, but that the life is never forgotten. A painter with 
 these instincts might have been more at home in the Italian Renascence 
 than in the English Victorian age, yet for some reasons in the deepest 
 nature of the fine arts, he has quietly pursued the study of the body 
 without giving offence to any but the most Philistine English. There 
 are two distinct reasons that may account for this. The first is ideality 
 in conception, and the second is a careful, or rather instinctive, avoidance 
 of vulgar realism in technical execution. The mere love of the line, 
 which is conspicuous in all the President’s work, is of itself a security 
 against realism, because it leads the artist to seek for a beauty never 
 perfectly realised in Nature, and also makes him insist upon it to a degree 
 that carries his work beyond the imitative stage. In the frescoes at South 
 Kensington the linear definition is so firm that there is no pretence to the 
 popular truth of effect, whilst the composition is so obvious that the least 
 critical visitor feels it to be appropriate only in the realm of abstract art. 
 
 If from Sir Frederick Leighton we pass to M. Gerome, we find a 
 remarkable power of accuracy in drawing with very little ideality in 
 conception. A picture by M. Gerome was exhibited in the Salon of 
 1885, and entitled “Grande Piscine de Brousse.” The subject is a 
 large public bath for women at Brusa in Asiatic Turkey, and about 
 a dozen bathers are enjoying either the bath or the rest after it. A 
 picture of this kind may be painted quite without any perverse intention, 
 but the extreme fidelity of the drawing in it, and the want of idealisation 
 alike in the forms and the attitudes of the women, place us in the position 
 of some over-curious spectator who has bribed the bath-keeper for a 
 furtive inspection of the scene. The feelings excited by a work of this 
 class are as different as possible from the charm of the ideal. We see 
 at once that the painter has told us the plain truth, and that he supposes 
 we shall like to know it. He offers us knowledge — too much knowledge — 
 in place of a dream of beauty ; and as in these matters truth is the real 
 nakedness, his picture does not appeal to our aesthetic sense, but to a kind 
 of curiosity best described by the French word inavouable. 
 
 The realism of Gerome is to some extent neutralised by the small 
 scale of his figures, and by the refinement of his execution. When, 
 however, the naked figure is painted the size of life, with literal veracity 
 joined to a combined coarseness of sentiment and cleverness of handling, 
 the result does unquestionably place the art of painting upon a very low 
 moral and intellectual level, and does go far to prove that it may become, 
 in unworthy hands, a degrading instead of a civilising agency. Nothing 
 is to be said on the side of art in favour of such works as I am now 
 
chap, vi CLOTHING AND NAKEDNESS IN FINISHED ART 
 
 43 
 
 alluding to, for the reason that the refinements of art are not to be found 
 in them, whilst at the same time they are quite devoid of intellectual 
 interest, and might have been painted by craftsmen destitute of culture. 
 The return to mere nakedness, without any elevation by the ideal, is in 
 truth a kind of abandonment of civilisation, a casting aside of all social 
 dignities and distinctions. The naked figure, though at first it may seem 
 to represent man with the most perfect frankness, tells little or nothing 
 about him except the physical condition of his body ; it gives little insight 
 into his habits or mode of life. Napoleon’s expression, “There never 
 was a naked King,” whilst intended to imply that a king needs much 
 more than clothing, is true also in the literal sense that a king is not 
 a king without his clothes. 
 
 The nudity of the body has a destructive effect on the intellectual 
 expression of the face. The rivalry between body and mind is set up in 
 the nude figure to the advantage of the body ; or rather the whole man 
 becomes a body only, of which the face is merely a part. Hence the right 
 treatment of the naked figure requires a minimum of expression in the face ; 
 and the finest art has the calm of the Greek statues — a calm evidently 
 intentional, as it was contrary to the lively habits of the Athenians. If this 
 rule is neglected or set at defiance, we come to the vivacious sculpture of 
 Carpeaux, in which the faces are too animated, too conscious, for a right 
 association with the nudity of the body. This is not objectionable in a 
 bust like the laughing Satyr in the Louvre. For the same reason the 
 bust permits all the varieties of intellectual expression which are suitable 
 in clothed statues, and most suitable in those which are heavily robed, like 
 Woolner’s statue of Lord Bacon. 
 
 The conclusion is that the representation of the nude in works of art 
 (as distinguished from studies which do not here concern us) is permissible 
 only when it is elevated by idealisation. If the idealisation is truly ennobling 
 and thorough, so as to “ inform,” in the ancient sense of the word, the whole 
 being of the painted man or woman, then the nude is not only a pure kind 
 of art, but in a certain intelligible sense the very purest of all, as it has been 
 chastened by a special purification. When, however, we pass from the 
 question of purity to that of intellectual rank, we enter upon considerations 
 of a more complex order. Painters of the nude have been in the habit of 
 looking upon their own department of art as the highest, perhaps because it 
 is so essentially academic — so directly founded upon academic discipline and 
 that in which such discipline counts for most ; whilst the lack of it is most 
 visible here, and results in the most undeniable incompetence. A good 
 picture of the nude is for painters a scholarly performance, and they value 
 
44 
 
 CLOTHING AND NAKEDNESS IN FINISHED ART 
 
 PART I 
 
 it as sound Latin composition is valued in a university. The claim for 
 supreme rank is, however, somewhat difficult to maintain in favour of an 
 art which can never be the most intellectual. I have a hearty respect for 
 Etty as a colourist, but his life’s work, however rich in a knowledge of 
 flesh-colour, is so poor intellectually as to contain hardly any evidence of 
 mind. That of Ingres shows more mind, but not in his naked figures, 
 except perhaps in the calm gaze of CEdipus as he thinks and listens in the 
 dread presence of the Sphinx. A painter devoted to the nude as Etty was 
 might perhaps reply that what scholars and writers call mind is not the 
 highest power in a graphic or plastic art ; that in such art we are in a 
 region of beauty rather than of thought or speculation ; and that E tty’s very 
 rare power of painting flesh placed him in the highest rank amongst painters, 
 though his women have neither the wit of Beatrix nor the intellect of 
 Aspasia. This would drive us to the conclusion that the most effectual 
 powers in these arts are rather the sensuous than the intellectual, and would 
 justify the old antagonism of educators against them as being a seduction 
 leading men away from intellectual pursuits rather than a discipline that 
 leads up to them. 
 
 On the moral side the usual Philistine objection deserves attention when 
 the art is that of realism, and there may be another objection that would 
 even include the most eminently ideal interpretations of the naked figure. 
 Simple people imagine that there is in them an immodest intention remote 
 from the artist’s thought, which they are unable to understand. For him 
 the nude is the most serious study he can undertake ; for them it is 
 lascivious or indecorous. Then occurs one of those cases of “offence” 
 alluded to in the New Testament, when experience has not sufficient 
 consideration for ignorance and inexperience, but places or leaves a 
 stumbling-block in its way. One would be glad if certain pictures and 
 statues could be reserved for persons of some culture, who understand the 
 higher forms of art and the serene spirit that leads to their production. 
 This, however, is not a practicable arrangement. The best works of 
 painting and sculpture cannot be excluded from national galleries, nor can 
 the common people be denied an entrance there ; so we have the situation, 
 which has often been humorously illustrated, of decent folks who have 
 somehow wandered in and are shocked and perplexed by sights contrary to 
 all that they have been taught about propriety. To place the nude figures 
 in a reserved gallery by themselves would be to do what we most wish 
 to avoid, namely to recognise the vulgar prejudice against them, and to 
 stigmatise the works themselves in a manner which they do not deserve. 
 The only hope is that the scandal may cease through familiarity. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 AMATEUR SHIP IN THE STUDY OF THE FIGURE 
 
 r I 'HE word “Amateur” is used in two senses in its own country. In 
 -*■ France an amateur is a lover of art whether he practises it or not ; 
 in England he is always a lover of art who studies practically and endea- 
 vours to produce, but does not work for money. The English use of the 
 word refers, in fact, to the pecuniary question entirely, for all who sell 
 pictures are called “artists,” without any consideration for the presence or 
 absence of the artistic faculty, and those who never attempt to sell are 
 “ amateurs,” whatever may be their gifts. 
 
 This use of the terms has fixed itself in the English language as a 
 matter of convenience to avoid the employment of adjectives such as 
 “professional” and “unprofessional,” or of explanatory phrases such as “he 
 paints but does not attempt to sell.” Still the distinction, as founded upon 
 money, is essentially vulgar, and, what is more, it is often inaccurate and 
 unreal. The men who are called artists, or workers for money, have often 
 done much of their work in direct contradiction to their pecuniary interests 
 and for the sake of art itself. Turner, by his frugal life, soon became com- 
 pletely independent, and made pictures as an expression of his mind, to be 
 kept for the nation ; Mr. Watts has for some years been working in the 
 same spirit and with the same intention. Another English painter of the 
 highest distinction showed me some of his works in progress and observed, 
 “ I need not tell you that pictures of this kind are in their nature unpopular.” 
 Even young students have frequently pursued art at a sacrifice of pecuniary 
 interest, as Corot did when he contentedly embraced poverty and landscape- 
 painting, though a good commercial position was within his reach. Mr. 
 W. M. Hunt, the American painter, observed, when he studied in Paris, 
 that the young men never talked about money. “In Couture’s atelier, 
 among all the boys there, you never would hear them talking of what 
 people in general thought of their work. It was nothing to them. Neither 
 
4 6 
 
 AMATEURSHIP IN THE STUDY OF THE FIGURE 
 
 PART I 
 
 would you hear about orders or chances of selling pictures. Not a word 
 of painting with the idea of making money by it. Occasionally a boy 
 would say he must go off to the Louvre that afternoon and do some copy- 
 ing to pay for his lodging. But that was the only time when you would 
 hear a dollar mentioned.” 
 
 It would be desirable, though it is difficult to introduce a new habit, 
 that the word “ artist ” should be reserved for a higher use, as it is in 
 literature. Here it is carefully kept for those authors who practise 
 literature as an art , in distinction to those who practise it for some purpose 
 outside art and in some manner that is not in itself artistic. The word 
 “artist” is very rarely applied to an author, and then with a special 
 significance, and as a rare distinction. It was applied to Goethe both 
 because he composed like an artist and because he had the sense that 
 understands and sympathises with art. We ourselves say that Lord 
 Tennyson is an artist ; one might even go so far as to say that whilst 
 Shakespeare’s nature is the most powerful and the most versatile, Tenny- 
 son’s is the most purely artistic amongst all English literary idiosyncrasies ; 
 I mean that the sense of art, the instinctive desire for artistic perfection 
 and success, is most constantly and most unfailingly present in him. On 
 the other hand, we have Mr. Llerbert Spencer, a man of immense intel- 
 lectual calibre, to whom all who think are indebted either for direct help 
 or for some kind of stimulation, yet Mr. Herbert Spencer is not in the least 
 an artist — he has nothing of the artistic power. Browning, in this respect, 
 stood between the complete philosopher and the complete poet. He was 
 sometimes the artist, sometimes the thinker, and passed from one condition 
 of mind to the other in his writings, often quite suddenly and unexpectedly. 
 The case of Wordsworth is one of the most interesting with regard to the 
 artist nature, as his work is occasionally artistic by a happy inspiration, and 
 at other times absolutely the opposite — that is, the work of a moralist 
 whose method is the negation of art. If now we apply the test to painters, 
 reserving the title of “artist” for those who have always art for a motive, 
 and who work constantly in a state of artistic feeling, I should say that 
 Turner was most essentially an artist, and Canaletti never an artist at all ; 
 that Stothard was certainly an artist, but hardly Landseer ; whilst amongst 
 Frenchmen I should have no doubt about the artistic nature of Gericault, 
 but should say that David, though severely disciplined and admirably 
 dignified in his intellectual intention, was seldom truly an artist either in 
 motive or in feelingf. 
 
 Now, amongst the numerous company of amateurs the probability is that 
 the artistic nature occurs not less frequently than it does amongst pro- 
 
chap, vii AMATEURSHIP IN THE STUDY OF THE FIGURE 
 
 47 
 
 fessional men. The genuine artist may be born in any situation ; his gift 
 comes to him at birth ; it is not a prize bestowed by an academy. A good 
 critic, examining the attempts of amateurs, might be able to distinguish the 
 artistic from the inartistic natures ; he might be able to detect the presence 
 of invention, the sense of composition, the eye for colour, the incommuni- 
 cable grace that might one day have developed into nobility or elegance 
 of style. But all this would be like examining plants that had never 
 flowered, and discovering by the aid of science what their floral glory might 
 have been. It is a melancholy, but not altogether an unprofitable occupa- 
 tion. The dull critic sees only the actual product, the intelligent one goes 
 beyond and thinks of the mind itself, with what were once its possibilities. 
 Unfortunately, the one decisive experiment that would settle the question 
 is an experiment that can never be made. It would be to have Raphael 
 and Titian created over again and permitted to work only as amateurs. 
 We should then see how far the gifts of drawing and colour could develop 
 themselves in an unprofessional career. We may be sure, however, that 
 the laws of man’s nature and development would be rigorously the same 
 for these men of genius in any case, that they would accomplish nothing 
 without work, and that the result would answer exactly to the quantity of 
 work done and the wisdom with which it was directed. The amateur may 
 rest assured that whilst he probably had the same natural gifts as the 
 professional workman, he is undoubtedly subject to the same laws, and that 
 Nature no more makes an exception in his favour than she has an especial 
 care or tenderness for the amateur sailor or mountaineer. Partial in the 
 bestowal of her gifts, she displays a rigorous indifference in her discipline. 
 
 I hope I have disposed of the theory that an artist is a painter or 
 sculptor who works for money. The genuine artist labours to express 
 himself, because expression in the form of art is a necessity of his nature, 
 and his success is to have put his conceptions adequately into visible 
 forms. There is, however, in all handicrafts — and painting and sculpture 
 include handicraft — a tendency to produce a spirit of trades-unionism. 
 The craftsman is jealous of his rights as a skilled hand, and is ready to 
 turn upon the amateur with the question, “Who are you, and where were 
 you apprenticed to the trade ?” If this peculiar kind of jealousy does not 
 exist in literature it is because literature happily does not include a 
 handicraft. 
 
 Even in the graphic and plastic arts the artist cannot be produced 
 by rule. A regular apprenticeship does not always give the expected 
 result, nor is it absolutely essential to success. There are numerous 
 instances of students who have gone through the French atelier or the 
 
48 
 
 AMATEURSHIP IN THE STUDY OF THE FIGURE 
 
 PART I 
 
 English Academy to become only craftsmen — hardly even that — and 
 there have been a few examples of men, undeniably artists, who never 
 went through any systematic training in the handicraft of art. I have 
 mentioned Gericault as an example of a real artist ; well, many who 
 are called “amateurs” have gone through a severer and more persistent 
 training than that which Gericault received from his masters, Vernet 
 and Guerin. He studied horses for a very short time under Vernet, 
 and afterwards worked under Guerin for six months. Next he studied 
 privately, according to a plan of his own preserved in written notes — a 
 plan including anatomy, antiquities, music, and Italian. One year he 
 gave up the month of February to the style of great masters and to 
 practising composition “without quitting the house, and always alone!' 
 Troyon, too, was unquestionably an artist, but he never had a master. 
 He received a little elementary teaching from his godfather, M. Riocreux, 
 who was a painter of flowers on porcelain at Sevres. Then he began 
 to work from nature, and one day met with an artist in the wood 
 near St. Cloud, Camille Roqueplan, who explained to him some of 
 those necessities of art which the unaided student of nature is so long 
 in finding out. Roqueplan gave Troyon permission to call upon him, 
 in his own studio, where the young man received further counsels, 
 and these, with the sight of works by Jules Dupre and others, con- 
 stituted the whole of his education. Surely many an amateur has had 
 a more rigorous training than that! Nobody who knows anything 
 about art would dispute the right of Mr. Watts to the title of “artist.” 
 He is an artist in the most essential meaning of the term. Whatever 
 he does, the idea of art is always as present with him as it is with 
 Tennyson. Well, he received scarcely more of a technical education 
 than Troyon. He remained only “a few weeks” in the schools of the 
 Academy, and afterwards used to call upon Behnes as Troyon did upon 
 Roqueplan. Mr. Watts has said himself, “ I received no teaching ; I 
 visited no painter’s studio or atelier. Disappointed as to the Royal 
 Academy, I used to haunt the studio of Behnes, but I never studied 
 under him in the ordinary acceptation of the term.” In short, Mr. 
 Watts was taught a little drawing, and gained a knowledge of a sculptor’s 
 ways by watching them, but was never taught to paint. I myself 
 have known several amateurs who have had a far more systematic 
 training than that. I remember one in particular, a rich young English- 
 man, who worked steadily in Paris for many months each year, and 
 who could paint a study from life in a manner absolutely indistinguishable 
 from that of his professional brethren. 
 
chap, vii AMATEURSHIP IN THE STUDY OF THE FIGURE 
 
 49 
 
 When one of the most illustrious artists of our age answers exactly to 
 the current definition of our amateurs, since he does not work for money, 
 and has received no technical training, it may perhaps be time to abandon 
 the old prejudices. An amateur of independent fortune would, in fact, 
 be more favourably placed than any one for artistic success, and it 
 may be shown that many of the most distinguished artists became, 
 in fact, amateurs of independent fortune as soon as they had amassed 
 enough to live upon, and could afford to work for artistic purposes 
 alone. The real difficulty is not a question of money but one of time. 
 The amateur who is master of his time may unquestionably become an 
 artist if naturally gifted, and if he has been permitted to begin early. 
 The amateur who has some other predominant occupation need not 
 hope to overcome the purely technical difficulties. Let us state the 
 case fairly : in the art that deals with the human figure an external 
 and visible success is not merely difficult for him, it is utterly unattainable. 
 It is not quite unattainable in landscape. There is a Frenchman, M. 
 Pointelin, who is a regular and recognised exhibitor at the Salon ; he has 
 received the usual series of medals given to a successful French artist, and 
 finally the Legion of Honour. M. Pointelin has succeeded in painting by 
 attempting nothing beyond the expression of a genuine sentiment, through 
 simple subjects and effects. He is undeniably an artist, yet the main 
 business of his life is to be a professor of mathematics in the university. 
 This is an instance that cannot be paralleled amongst amateurs who 
 paint the figure. There is no example of an amateur following a pro- 
 fession other than art who has won a strong public position in figure- 
 painting. The reason is the difficulty of drawing the human body. Mr. 
 Poynter affirms that no amount of practice in drawing other objects 
 will enable one to draw that. When we look more closely into the 
 matter we find that the figure demands a higher power of draughts- 
 manship rather than a peailiar power. It is not that the figure-draughts- 
 man has acquired a trick of handicraft, but that he draws, of necessity, in 
 a superior way, that is, more accurately and beautifully both in line and in 
 modelling than other draughtsmen, because if he did not his drawing would 
 exhibit its own imperfection much more evidently than theirs. 
 
 There is less of trick, less display of an amusing and seductive clever- 
 ness, in drawing from the naked figure than is usual in other work. The 
 draughtsman who deals with landscape and picturesque buildings is not 
 only tempted to adopt a “clever,” that is a tricky style, but he is expected 
 to do so, and if he dislikes that kind of performance he will seem to be 
 wanting in ability. The naked figure, so far from repelling a serious 
 
 H 
 
50 
 
 AMATEURSHIP IN THE STUDY OF THE FIGURE 
 
 PART I 
 
 worker, makes claims upon all his seriousness. The naked figure is not what 
 is called a picturesque object, like an old fishing-boat that one is expected to 
 sketch and blot with pen and ink in a few minutes. If the reader could 
 only realise how much falsehood and exaggeration go to make what is 
 generally admired as clever and picturesque drawing, he would get sick of 
 the picturesque and of cleverness at the same time, and he would understand 
 how it is that the discipline of the life school is the most steadying and 
 sobering that is to be had in art. The study by Mr. Alma Tadema, in this 
 volume, may be taken as an example. It is as careful and quiet as that of 
 a young student ; there is not the slightest display of dexterity ; the curves 
 are nowhere exaggerated to get a bold and sweeping line, nor is the 
 modelling exhibited in startling relief, yet all necessary truth is there. 
 However, to execute an unpretending little study like this, the draughtsman 
 must be a very accomplished artist. It is certain that work of this quality 
 would have been beyond even its gifted author itself if he had been tied 
 down to some other profession and permitted to use a pencil only in his 
 leisure hours. 
 
 Ought the amateur, then, to deny himself the study of the living form ? 
 I have not said so, and have never believed it. The study of nature is 
 open to us all, whether we pursue it by scientific or by artistic methods. If 
 we were to limit our minds to those subjects that we could absolutely 
 master, there would be nothing left for us but the narrowest specialities. 
 We do well to avoid the confusion between knowledge and mastery. They 
 are physiologically different, implying different conditions of the nervous 
 system. Knowledge is simply the enriching of the memory through 
 observation in order to supply data for judgment ; mastery implies in- 
 numerable repetitions of the same action in order to establish nervous con- 
 nections between the brain and some other organ such as the larynx of the 
 singer, the fingers of the violinist, or the toes of the public dancer. When 
 there has been practice enough, and the nervous connections have been 
 completely established, actions at first impossible and then difficult become 
 unconscious and automatic, so that the power of the will may be directed to 
 some superior end, such as expression in music or persuasion in oratory, 
 without being embarrassed by those imperfections of nervous connection 
 that are commonly called technical impediments. The truth about skill is 
 recognised in the popular expression “ he has it (the accomplishment) at his 
 fingers’ ends,” meaning that there is now a nervous connection between the 
 ends of his fingers and the brain. The distinction between knowledge and 
 mastery may be best understood by reference to a language. Many 
 Englishmen have a very considerable knowledge of ancient Greek, not one 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 - r; 
 
 
 ‘ t . • - • - - 
 
 . - - - 
 
 ,i. , .. . • ... / . - - - •' w • 
 
 • - v 
 
 
STUDY OF A GIRL 
 
 Drawn by Alma Tadema, R.A. 
 
 Reproduced in Heliogravure by Boussod and Valadon 
 
 Not having seen the model, 1 cannot say how far the artist has idealised his 
 stibject, but think it probable that the drawing is extremely faithful, with a 
 slight idealisation such as a painter of taste usually acids unconsciously to 
 every study. The attitude is at the same time graceful and quite natural. If 
 anybody objects to the absence of drapery, 1 can but repeat the royal motto, 
 “ Honni soit qui mal y pense.” 
 
 Selected as an example of the degree of thoroughness in study, which is 
 necessary to the training of a great figure-painter. Work of this kind is so far 
 from being idle or frivolous, that it is in itself one of the severest forms of 
 discipline by which the faculty of observation can be educated. 
 
 I owe hearty thanks to Mr. Alma Tadema and to Mr. Humphry Ward, 
 the owner of this beautiful study, for their permission to publish it. 
 
Photo -a^uatinte Boussod.Valadon fr C 1 ? -Paris 
 

chap, vii AMATEURSHIP IN THE STUDY OF THE FIGURE 
 
 5i 
 
 has a mastery of it ; for that would imply the power of writing ancient 
 Greek with unconscious facility and of speaking it with Athenian fluency. 
 An intellectual student cannot rationally be forbidden to include the fine 
 arts amongst the subjects of his research. They are as much open to 
 intellectual study as anything else. Every educated man has imperfectly 
 mastered a dozen different studies, and if it is asked “What is the good of 
 them ? ” the answer is breadth of mind , the enlargement of the mind’s 
 horizon. Here I am on firm ground, that of universal experience. The 
 fundamental principle of culture, as distinguished from the apprenticeship to 
 a trade, is that the object of it is neither the acquisition of some kind of 
 facility, nor the production of some saleable object, but the enrichment of 
 the student’s mind. Or we might define it metaphorically as the opening 
 of kingdoms and worlds, the admission to regions that the absence of 
 culture closes against us. And as the traveller can see and observe without 
 possessing all that comes within his view, so the mind, in its travels, has 
 more need of observation than of mastery. By our study of ancient litera- 
 ture we no more expect to master the languages than our amateur need 
 hope to master the violin, but we obtain an insight into the life and 
 thought of antiquity that no translations give. Even modern languages 
 are beyond mastery, except under special conditions of gifts and oppor- 
 tunities. It takes years of residence in France, with very exceptional 
 powers of observation and imitation, to learn to speak French properly, and 
 only a few natives can speak it with a grace and perfection comparable to 
 the painting of a great artist. Even these few require constant practice 
 either in public speaking or in society ; without it, either hesitation comes 
 in, or speech is degraded by an inferior choice of expressions. 
 
 I believe the study of art (including music) is the only pursuit in which 
 unprofessional students are set in a class apart and supposed to be wasting 
 their time in a vain and illusory endeavour, or in a nugatory though 
 harmless amusement. The reason is that the amateur is always supposed 
 to have an ambition beyond his powers. The best advice I can offer him 
 is to be as selfish as possible — to work for his own knowledge and not for 
 the praise or pleasure of others, never to show his studies except to those 
 who are aware how difficult art is, and to remain contented with the 
 consciousness of seeing both nature and art avec des yenx dessillds. 
 
 There is at least one consolation for the unprofessional student of the 
 figure. It is a positive study, in which accuracy is sure to be acknowledged. 
 In landscape there is nothing positive — not from the absence of laws in 
 effects of light, or of exquisitely-perfect structure in vegetation, but because 
 nobody thanks the landscape-painter for accuracy in drawing ; and those 
 
52 
 
 AMATEURSHIP IN THE STUDY OF THE FIGURE 
 
 PART I 
 
 elements which are appreciated in his art — namely, colour and effect, and 
 quality of tone — are beyond ascertainment, and incapable of demonstration. 
 Meissonier is a most careful and accurate draughtsman, but if a landscape- 
 painter drew landscape as Meissonier painted the distance in his “ Napoleon 
 III. at Solferino,” he would be told that he had neither taste nor imagina- 
 tion, and would see the most loose and negligent drawing preferred to his. 
 It is hardly possible to go beyond Turner in want of accuracy, yet Corot 
 did succeed in surpassing him in the elimination of material substance and 
 structure. In those works of Corot which are now most appreciated there 
 is least of positive reality; and if they are called by names of places situated 
 on some river of France or lake of Italy, they have nothing topographic 
 except the title. During those very years in which Corot was winning 
 fame by substituting the vague for the real, and soft sentiment for hard 
 knowledge, Tadema was diligently earning it by giving a new and welcome 
 precision and exactness to our notions of ancient life. The whole tendency 
 of figure -art has from the first been towards firm knowledge. In early 
 landscape the statements of ascertainable fact were often perfectly decided, 
 and there have been a few earnest and respectable attempts in our own 
 times to reassert the claim of exact drawing ; but the success of them has 
 been doubtful from the first, and it may now, I regretfully admit, be taken 
 as finally decided that landscape is not to be the art of the draughtsman, 
 but of the colourist, the composer, and the tone-poet. The study of the 
 figure answers to the science and physical materialism of our age, and is 
 accompanied by the same materialism in its accessories ; landscape-painting, 
 like music, is an expression of the dreamy side of the modern mind, and, 
 disregarding what can be measured or dissected, vaguely sets forth what 
 remains to us of hope or reminiscence of a paradise. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 CULTURE GOING BEYOND NATURE 
 
 MAY perhaps be permitted a word of explanation here to prevent a 
 A possible misunderstanding. I find that when I have said something 
 merely because it was true, and a neglected truth, it has been assumed that 
 I wished to have it so, which is not a warrantable inference. And, with 
 regard to strict fidelity, certain statements in my writings about the difference 
 between art and nature have been taken to mean that I did not appreciate 
 veracity. The answer is that it is precisely the love of veracity in criticism 
 that so often leads one to make what a lawyer would call damaging 
 admissions. 
 
 The simple early creed of all who begin to study art is that if one could 
 copy nature as in a mirror the result would be an excellent picture. In the 
 same manner those who, like myself, are ignorant of theatrical matters, may 
 imagine that if actors behaved as people do in real life the play would go on 
 prosperously and quite to the satisfaction of the audience. Those who 
 understand acting tell us that if it were done naturally, that is without art, it 
 would seem not only less beautiful and affecting, but even much less natural 
 than it does now. They say that in real life (which the actor is supposed to 
 copy) we are constantly doing things that would ensure our dismissal if we 
 were actors ; in other words, that our real life, if criticised as an imitation, 
 would be a bad, because an inartistic imitation of reality. The bare, un- 
 deniable fact of its reality is all that makes it tolerable or acceptable ; if 
 considered as art, it would be intolerable. 
 
 So with conversations in novels. The bad novelist comes fairly near to 
 the diffuseness, the hesitancy, the ill-constructed and commonplace language 
 of ordinary talk ; the good novelist (being an artist) abridges, concentrates, 
 and selects only what is artistically significant. The bad novelist may really 
 be more natural, and yet the master of the craft will give a stronger im- 
 pression of nature. 
 
54 
 
 CULTURE GOING BEYOND NATURE 
 
 PART I 
 
 Now, with regard to the representation of the figure, there are several 
 things in art which are not justifiable as an imitation of nature, but which 
 have their own artistic reason for existence. The most obvious is the 
 idealisation of forms. This is not only justifiable, but much more, it is a 
 merit and a necessity. Culture leads us to receive a suggestion from the 
 natural form, and the artistic instinct impels us to realise, not the form itself 
 (which exists already in reality) but that which it makes us wish for. This 
 is the foundation of all ideal art, and a very strong foundation it is, deep 
 in the desires of man. Here, certainly, culture leads or impels the artist 
 towards a certain perfection that is not exactly natural, although it is 
 suggested by nature. 
 
 The art of grouping and arranging figures in good compositions is easily 
 overlooked, because one great object of the artist is always to make it appear 
 as if his personages had been so arranged by a happy accident. Certainly 
 in nature groupings do occur, especially in the free and innumerable motions 
 of children, which often have, for an instant, the appearance of good com- 
 position ; but it may be doubted whether, even in exceptional cases, a 
 composer would accept the group from nature without correcting it. I have 
 occasionally seen what looked like perfect natural groupings, but there is 
 hardly ever time to examine them critically before they change, and we are 
 always liable to substitute what Nature suggests for that which she actually 
 presents to us. The accidental groups caught by the instantaneous 
 photographer are usually spoiled by one or more straggling or intrusive 
 personages, and sometimes they are ridiculous in their contradiction to the 
 plainest artistic common sense. It would be uncandid to claim for art a 
 general excellence in composition ; few artists have the gift in its perfection, 
 and many who are manually skilful and intellectually observant appear to 
 be almost destitute of it. Instead of making progress in composition, the 
 contemporary' schools of Europe appear to have conceived a sort of dislike 
 for the study as too artificial for an epoch of uncompromising naturalism. 
 Still, after all these admissions, the fact remains that there is incomparably 
 more composition in painting where, at least, some sort of judgment or 
 discrimination is always exercised, than there is in nature, where everything 
 is left to pure accident, and where a fortuitous appearance of grouping may 
 at any time be spoiled by the most trivial human necessities or desires, or 
 even by the intrusion of some animal, or by the awkward presence of some 
 inanimate object. 
 
 If from composition we pass to the results of invention, we find the 
 human creative faculty transcending nature in the most decided manner. 
 Events happen in the natural world without more order or conclusiveness 
 
CHAP. VIII 
 
 CULTURE GOING BEYOND NATURE 
 
 55 
 
 than in the narratives of children : the genius of the novelist gives them 
 an artificial order that satisfies our sense of proportion and our desire for 
 a conclusion. In reality things are constantly happening to each of us 
 which are not in any rational relation to the main tenor of our lives. 
 Our time and powers are absurdly wasted, and our careers are made to 
 deviate from their true course by the most irrelevant and trivial causes. 
 The inventive novelist makes great use of irrelevant causes, but with the 
 difference that in his compositions they are only apparently irrelevant, 
 since he always makes them ultimately subservient to his artistic purpose. 
 This satisfies the human desire for reasonableness in things, a desire which 
 is never satisfied by the tangle of accidents in the course of actual events. 
 Much of what is best in the invention of novelists escapes the uncritical 
 reader, who nevertheless appears to appreciate the results of it, for it is 
 only the inventive novelists who attain any eminent reputation. The 
 superiority of art to nature is shown still more in plays when they are of 
 first-rate excellence, as in these compositions a story has to be conveyed, 
 without being told, through conversations which are concentrated to the 
 utmost possible degree and yet must seem easy, natural, and unconstrained. 
 Nothing can be further removed from the diffuse disorder of real talk than 
 the consummate art of a first-rate French playwright, and so there is no 
 literature more profitable to the student who can see the work done, the 
 actual distilling of the quintessence. The operation of the inventive faculty 
 is more obvious to the general public in musical composition, for which 
 Nature provides nothing but unordered sounds like the whistling of the 
 wind, the reverberation of thunder, or the indefinite murmurs of the sea. 
 Music is pure invention. What answers to it most closely in painting is 
 colour, which is much more the result of invention than is generally believed. 
 Natural colour has its own beauties, but it is not colourists’ colour; neither 
 is the colour of two distinguished colourists ever the same, which is the 
 best proof that it is not, in any narrow sense, natural. The real truth 
 about it is that what is called “colour” in painting is personal. It is a 
 human invention suggested by certain aspects of the natural world. 
 
 Manual execution may be said to have reference to nature because the 
 motive for it is an endeavour to interpret natural truth ; and yet so soon as 
 manual execution is visible, as it is in all vigorous brush-work, and in all 
 powerful pen-drawing or etching, it presents something which is absolutely 
 non-existent in nature, though we may like to see it in art because it is 
 interesting to see a great human power in its manifestation. What nature 
 really is may be described in a very few words. As seen by the human 
 eye, all natural scenes and objects present spaces of colour always gradated, 
 
56 
 
 CULTURE GOING BEYOND NATURE 
 
 PART I 
 
 but not equally so, and various in texture but never really less finished in 
 one part than in another. The finish is absolute, transcending the powers 
 of the microscope. Taken at any distance, a natural object, if only in 
 the distinctions of its tones and the delicacy of its gradations, is finished 
 beyond human imitation and with a refinement to which all “ handling ” 
 must of course be utter destruction, like rubbing the bloom from a plum. 
 Many people who have no understanding of art are offended by work that 
 seems to them coarse, by impasto in oil painting and by strongly bitten 
 wiry lines in etching. Their feeling of offence shows a want of under- 
 standing of art, as a human expression, but 1 do not think that it betrays 
 ignorance of nature. They seem to have perceived the refinement and 
 finish of natural things and to have expected the same in art, not caring 
 for human power or valuing its manifestation. On the contrary, when 
 we understand art as something distinct from nature, we come to attach 
 a high value to manual power and to the mental force which summarises 
 natural appearances in a masterful way, even at the cost of considerable 
 deviation from the truth. We come also to value personal accent very 
 highly, and to look for it as the sign manual of genius ; yet there is assuredly 
 no such thing as accent in the natural world. It is we who accentuate, not 
 Nature ; she is indifferent, not emotional ; it is we who are emotional. 
 
 Lastly, from the nature of the case, there can be no omissions in 
 nature, but half the work of a master in fine art consists in the unrecognised 
 yet not less real labour of omission. Here, most decidedly, Culture goes 
 beyond Nature. When Culture omits it is in obedience to the exigencies 
 of the idea which demands the rejection of everything at variance with 
 itself, and even of everything useless to it. 
 
 The final result is that when Culture goes beyond Nature, as she 
 constantly does, it is in obedience to some law, dictated by an ideal 
 necessity, which is often obscure and often obeyed only by instinct ; yet 
 which, whenever it can be formulated or explained, is invariably found to 
 be in accordance with the soundest and highest reason. Even the 
 exaggerations and the partial statements of passion, which do not seem 
 reasonable at first sight, as they are always violations of accuracy, are 
 nevertheless seen to be reasonable when regarded from a point of view 
 elevated enough to see them in their true relations to the universe of 
 art where all human expression finds a place. 
 
MAN IN ART 
 
 PART II 
 BE A UTY 
 
 i 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 THE IDEA OF BEAUTY 
 
 T T would have been pleasant to me, for several reasons, to speak of 
 beauty as something positive. The self-love of a writer on art would 
 undoubtedly be gratified if he could lay down a kind of geography of that 
 land of the beautiful which is the especial realm of the fine arts, and it would 
 be some consolation for the many hours that he has spent in the investiga- 
 tion of this most difficult and elusive subject if he could exhibit some 
 tangible result. That, however, is a satisfaction that grows only more 
 remote with the increase of one’s experience. A young writer might 
 naturally feel confident, because he would take the impressions received by 
 his own idiosyncrasy for positive and objective facts. It is natural to say 
 “ this is beautiful because I see it to be so, and this is ugly because it gives 
 no pleasure to my eyes.” And when there is a difference of opinion it is 
 natural to take dissent as an evidence of uneducated taste. When, how- 
 ever, the dissenter is at least as much cultivated as ourselves, our self-con- 
 fidence may be a little shaken ; and when, after a lapse of time, we find our 
 present selves disagreeing with our past selves, when we find things that 
 were once beautiful for us now beautiful no longer, we may begin to under- 
 stand the truth about beauty, which is that it is not an object but a pleasure, 
 and like all pleasures ultimately nothing but an agreeable nervous sensation 
 in those who feel it, whilst there is no use in attempting to explain a 
 pleasure to those who are insensible to it. Nor is there any probability 
 that even amongst the little groups who believe themselves to be in agree- 
 ment about beauty, the sympathy is perfect enough for them to feel the 
 same sensation in view of the same object. We have curious and quite 
 satisfactory evidence on this point in the different interpretations of nature 
 given by various artists, each of them seeing and insisting upon some 
 quality to which no other artist is quite equally sensitive, whilst each of 
 them has his own special negligences and omissions. If two artists travel 
 
6 o 
 
 THE IDEA OF BEAUTY 
 
 PART II 
 
 together, either they will not select the same subjects or else they will 
 interpret them so differently that they are not the same in the interpreta- 
 tions. These divergences of testimony about nature are enough to make 
 one doubt not only about beauty as an objective reality, but even about 
 truth itself, seeing that all art is contradictory. For the present, however, 
 it is beauty alone which concerns us. 
 
 My own belief concerning beauty, to which I have no desire to attach 
 any dogmatic authority, is that there is no such thing in the world around 
 us, but that we (or some of us) are so constituted that the external world, or 
 certain things in it, may produce pleasurable sensations in us which we call 
 the enjoyment of the beautiful. The true nature of the case may be most 
 conveniently illustrated by sound and colour. It is well known to all who 
 have some elementary knowledge of science that what we call colour is not 
 in the object that we see, but is a cerebral disturbance caused by a certain 
 number of vibrations that are somehow communicated, by a very delicate 
 apparatus, to the brain. The invention of the telephone has made us all 
 familiar with the complicated effects produced by the vibration of a disc, 
 and we understand how it is that if the disc were removed, or the wire 
 broken, the telephone would be silenced. The same effect would be pro- 
 duced by the destruction of our own auditory apparatus, and if it were 
 destroyed in all creatures there would be no sound in the world. That is 
 the correct way of stating the case, it is merely a popular error to believe 
 that there would still be sounds, but that they would be inaudible. There 
 are no unheard sounds and there is no unseen colour, because the vibrations 
 external to us are neither sound nor colour in themselves, and those internal 
 vibrations that we call sound and colour cannot be produced without the 
 necessary living apparatus. The scientific reader will pardon me for 
 repeating a truth that is, of course, familiar to him ; perhaps he may follow 
 with more interest the application of it to the beautiful. My belief is that the 
 case is exactly of the same kind. What we mean by a beautiful object is an 
 object that has the power of producing in us a sensation that we call beauty, 
 so that if it is impotent to produce the sensation it is not called beautiful, 
 and, indeed, it is not beautiful in reality. A very curious deduction from 
 this is that an object, wdthout any structural change, may be beautiful at 
 one time, then cease to be so, and afterwards become beautiful again. The 
 case has actually occurred in the history of antique sculpture, which was 
 beautiful when first made, which ceased to be beautiful (that is, became 
 impotent to produce the sensation of beauty) in the time of the Christian 
 iconoclasts, which became beautiful again with the new Paganism of the 
 Renascence, and has ever since continued, with some variations, to be so. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ‘ 
 
 ■ -■ 
 
 1 
 
 _ 
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE VENUS OF ARLES 
 
 Greek Marble 
 
 Hyalograph drawn by G. de Roton 
 {Louvre) 
 
 The great beauty of this head induced me to give it more importance than 
 would have been possible if the whole body had been represented, besides 
 which there is but a small restoration in the head (the end of the nose) ; 
 whereas in the body the restorations are too important, for they include the 
 whole of the right arm and the left fore-arm. The head was found first in the 
 theatre of Arles, at the foot of the columns that are still standing, in the year 
 1651, and the body later. The restorations were made in 1684 by Frangois 
 Girardon. As for the date of the statue -itself, nothing is accurately known. 
 We only know that it is Greek, and of a good school. 
 
m rr-rrm R cro rrwi TTW*n rrPAWrs 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 THE IDEA OF BEAUTY 
 
 61 
 
 Even in the present day, however, antique sculpture is beautiful only 
 for a few. The proof that it is not beautiful for the multitude is that the 
 magnificent halls where it is exhibited in Paris and elsewhere are 
 deserted, though surrounded by teeming populations. In like manner 
 the art of engraving, the severe and genuine art of engraving with 
 firm clear lines and neither texture nor local colour, is one of the most 
 perfectly beautiful arts for a few students, but the public does not 
 find it beautiful, that is, the people know that it is impotent to give 
 them that pleasure which is called the enjoyment of the beautiful. 
 
 The reader who has followed me so far may now be tempted to say 
 that we know certain things to be beautiful in themselves by the authority 
 of great men. I regret my inability to accept authority in these matters, 
 but there is at least the compensation that I never attempt to impose it. 
 My reason for rejecting authority is that nobody can argue about the 
 sensitiveness of another person’s nervous system, and it is upon this 
 sensitiveness, whether natural or acquired by culture, that the sensation 
 of the beautiful depends. We have it on the authority of Raphael (which 
 if there were authority at all would surely be a high one) that Gothic 
 architecture is not beautiful. I have no doubt that Raphael was quite 
 right, if we understand his statement to mean that Gothic architecture 
 failed to produce the sensation of the beautiful in him ; and also that 
 he was entirely mistaken if he considered it unable to produce that 
 sensation in all others, or that if they felt such a sensation it would 
 be a proof of their own incompetence. At the same time, if nobody had 
 the peculiar kind of nervous sensitiveness that is affected by Gothic 
 architecture, then Raphael would be absolutely right ; and if ever the 
 time shall come when all men will agree with Raphael, in that day Gothic 
 architecture will really have ceased to be beautiful. It will be like a poem 
 in a forgotten tongue that has lost all the powers of poetry, having become 
 unable to arouse poetical emotion in any human mind. 
 
 What is called the beauty of poetry will be found, on analysis, to consist 
 not only in the choice of language and the music of poetic numbers, but 
 also in its power of recalling various pleasures to the imagination. All 
 those passages of poetry which refer to the pleasures of love are unmean- 
 ing for readers who are incapable of sexual attachment. Even the poetical 
 celebration of minor pleasures, such as those of sailing and the chase, is 
 not beautiful for those who do not enjoy boating or the saddle. If the 
 whole world embraced the doctrine of total abstinence there would no 
 longer be anything but metrical beauty in the numerous poems that have 
 been written in praise of wine. It would then be said that the poetical 
 
6 2 
 
 THE IDEA OF BEAUTY 
 
 PART II 
 
 writers of former times had a depraved taste for an injurious beverage, 
 and their praises of it would be attributed rather to a strange kind of 
 insanity, making them lower than the brutes, than to the love of a joyous 
 ideal. 
 
 If the doctrine that beauty is an emotion in ourselves appears difficult 
 to the reader, he may consider those cases where there does not seem to 
 be any physical impediment, yet where the emotion that we call beauty is 
 not produced. We have all known people whose hearing was excellent 
 in the sense that they could hear sounds well at a distance, yet to whom 
 that which we call “music ” w r as only an unmeaning noise. In these cases 
 beauty is not perceived, and indeed although the hearer’s tympanum duly 
 vibrates he does not hear mtisic any more than if he were stone-deaf. It 
 appears that men belonging to races that live quite apart from European 
 civilisation are in the same case ; our music does not affect them — it seems 
 to them only noise. Now, if we can imagine a Beethoven, himself being 
 deaf, making compositions in a world exclusively inhabited by such people, 
 the performance of those compositions would not produce music, because 
 that effect upon us of certain ordered noises which we call “ music ” is a 
 purely personal emotion. As there is no sound without a nervous system, 
 so there is no music without that peculiar nervous delicacy which predis- 
 poses to the emotion of the beautiful. It may also be easily proved that 
 there can be no melody without memory in the hearer, as the sounds are 
 successive and depend for their melodious effect on his recollection of those 
 which have gone before. Without memory he would hear a note and then 
 another note substituted for it, and he would probably not even be aware 
 of the substitution. 
 
 Beyond this, our notion of beauty is dependent on a certain average 
 delicacy of our senses themselves. They must not be too dull, and they 
 must not be too acute. The beauty of a lady’s skin depends, for us, on 
 the average acuteness of our sight. With what is called bad sight we 
 should not perceive it, and to sight of more than human acuteness the 
 skin would present the unattractive appearance that it does when seen 
 through a microscope. Even taking human organs as they are, it is 
 probable that the best beauty of landscape, its synthetic beauty, is rarely 
 felt by persons of excessively acute vision because they see it too much in 
 detail. An average acuteness of sense is not less necessary for the enjoy- 
 ment of music. A lady who had formerly a keen appreciation of music, 
 but who has become partially deaf, tells me that, as she misses most of 
 the pianos and all the pianissimos, music has now lost a great part of its 
 meaning for her. On the other hand, if we heard music as through a 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 THE IDEA OF BEAUTY 
 
 63 
 
 microphone, the emotional significance of the softer passages would be 
 lost to us. It is one of the misfortunes of the partially deaf, that although 
 they can still hear words uttered in what others call a loud voice, human 
 speech is not beautiful for them, because they cannot hear modulated speak- 
 ing, and the beauty of speech depends entirely on modulation. 
 
 This view of beauty as an emotion in ourselves may at once explain and 
 excuse the language of those who see nothing in what we most admire. If 
 they deny the presence of beauty, their only error is in the use of a popular 
 form of language. Translated into a more unassailable form it would 
 amount only to this, that a certain object, or a certain performance, has not 
 the power to awaken in the speaker the delightful emotions of the beautiful, 
 a statement that is likely to be true. Even the most philosophical of critics 
 is obliged to use popular language for his own and his reader’s convenience. 
 He cannot go on repeating that an object does, or does not, awaken in 
 himself the emotion of the beautiful ; he will say, like other people, that the 
 object is, or is not, beautiful in itself. The convenience of popular language 
 is all the greater that it saves us from the necessity of explaining an emotion 
 which is in reality inexplicable. I may describe the emotion of the beautiful 
 (speaking from my own experience, which in such a matter is absolutely all 
 I have to go upon) as a kind of satisfaction, the satisfaction of the aesthetic 
 desire, and differing from other satisfactions (such as the desire for utility) ; 
 and I might add that the satisfaction is not active but receptive, at least we 
 seem to receive an impression that causes the emotion of the beautiful, yet 
 even this requires some cerebral activity in us. Beyond this, the whole 
 subject is a mystery, and what may be the exact concordance of cerebral 
 movements in which the emotion itself consists no human being knows, or 
 has ever known. 
 
 The preceding considerations may seem to point to the conclusion that 
 beauty is illusory. On the contrary, as our sensations are all we know, and 
 beauty is a sensation, it has its place amongst the firmest realities of 
 existence. The pleasure which is called the enjoyment of the beautiful has 
 the great advantage that it need not be mixed up with any deception 
 regarding matters of fact. When we say that a picture or a poem is 
 beautiful we mean simply that it has given us the sensation of beauty, and 
 we accept it on that ground ; we do not say or mean that the picture is true 
 as a representation, or the poem accurate as a narrative. The search for 
 beauty is therefore never misleading if that special pleasure is exclusively 
 kept in view, and amongst human pursuits it is one of the least vain. There 
 are few satisfactions that tend so constantly to happiness, that can be 
 
64 
 
 THE IDEA OF BEAUTY 
 
 PART II 
 
 renewed so frequently by the same object, or that last better as we approach 
 old age. 
 
 The lovers of beauty have often incurred the reproach of selfishness 
 because that which they seek is an enjoyment, and natures which are so 
 constituted as to be incapable of that pleasure frequently despise it as an 
 effeminate self-indulgence. The delight in beauty is so far selfish that we 
 have it within ourselves ; but it is absolutely unselfish in this, that we never 
 desire to be alone in having it. In this it is strikingly distinguished from 
 some other passions, such as those of rarity and rank. There is a clear 
 distinction between the love of beauty and the satisfaction in having a 
 bigger diamond than any one else. I myself have never known a lover of 
 beauty who did not desire that houses should be externally beautiful, so that 
 all might enjoy them, or who did not feel pained by the destruction of 
 beauty in the country and by the exclusion of the public from beautiful walks 
 that belonged to churlish landowners. I have never known a lover of 
 beauty who did not profoundly regret that so many lives should be deprived 
 of it ; and some good men, like Mr. T. C. Horsfall, have felt that their own 
 access to the sources of beauty was accompanied by feelings of compunction 
 unless they gave work and money in order that their poorer brethren might 
 have access to them also. That “golden gate of the Beautiful,” which a 
 German poet has declared to be the entrance to the land of wisdom, may be 
 the entrance also to a land of loving-kindness. 
 

 ' 
 
 
 
 
 • c 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
APHRODITE 
 
 A Bronze Mask 
 
 Hyalograph drawn by T. E. Macklin 
 {British Museum) 
 
 It is not quite -certain that this is intended for Aphrodite. 
 
 The mask is from Satala in Cappadocia. It is given here as a fine 
 example of the classical profile, the head of the V enus of Arles not having been 
 given in profile. It is also a good example of the simple and beautiful antique 
 way of dressing the hair which was so suitable for plastic representation. 
 
. CHAR DON- WnYMANN PARIS 
 
 T- EyRt-flAC-KMIi 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 BEAUTY AND INTEREST 
 
 A LL artists are, I believe, agreed upon elementary principles of beauty 
 T*- as exhibited in very simple forms, but in all these cases, without 
 exception, I find that in their opinion the more interesting of two simple 
 forms is sure to be reckoned the more beautiful, and this leads me to the 
 conclusion either that beauty and interest are not clearly separated in the 
 human mind, or else that they are in some degree convertible terms. This 
 is, however, applicable only to forms which are destitute of intellectual or 
 sympathetic interest — or, in other words, of mind and feeling ; for when- 
 ever this human interest exists in a picture, even of the inferior kind 
 which is destitute of story or incident, it becomes at once predominant 
 enough to hold its own without beauty, and is not confounded with 
 beauty. There is a remarkable instance of this in a picture in the Louvre 
 by Domenico Ghirlandajo, representing an old man whose face is spoiled 
 by an enlarged nose ; but he is looking down affectionately to a little boy, 
 and the child is looking up affectionately to him, so that the picture is 
 interesting for its human sympathy, and is plainly intended as an illustra- 
 tion of that marvellous power of love by which it overcomes our natural 
 repugnance to ugliness. In this case, however, it might be maintained 
 that there is beauty of a higher kind, that of feeling, and that the physical 
 beauty of the picture is knowingly sacrificed to this, yet not wholly sacrificed 
 either, as the face of the boy is beautiful. 
 
 To return, however, to our simple elementary forms for whatever 
 instruction they may afford. 
 
 The most elementary question is that concerning the relative beauty 
 of the square and the oblong. The oblong is not what any one would 
 call a beautiful shape, but it is considered more beautiful than the square — 
 that is to say, it is more pleasing, in some way, to the eye. If we compare 
 the two we shall find that they have all characteristics „in common except 
 
 K 
 
 O 
 
66 
 
 BEAUTY AND INTEREST 
 
 PART II 
 
 one. All the angles in both cases are right angles, the opposite lines are 
 parallel, and both figures are equally destitute of curvature. The only 
 difference is that in the square the four lines are of equal length, whilst 
 they are of two different lengths in the oblong. The consequence is that 
 the oblong is the more interesting because the less uniform of the two 
 figures ; and from this it would appear either that there is some confusion 
 in our ideas about interest and beauty, or else that interest is really in itself 
 an element of beauty. Amongst figures with curved outlines there is a 
 similar comparison between the circle and the ellipse. The circle is even 
 a more uniform figure than the square, because the square has sides and 
 angles, whilst the circle is destitute of angles. However, as curved lines 
 are considered more beautiful than straight ones, and are in themselves 
 more interesting, the circle is held to be more beautiful than the square. 
 A square sun or moon would not be an ornament, except by effulgence, in 
 the sky. The ellipse is considered more beautiful than the circle', because 
 it has some variety of dimension and of curvature, also in being longer than 
 it is broad, and having differences of comparative roundness in the outline. 
 The gallop of the horses in an elliptic hippodrome is felt by all spectators 
 to be more interesting and more beautiful than the monotonous round of 
 a common circus. Even, however, amongst very simple figures there is 
 one that is more interesting than the ellipse, and that is the oval or egg- 
 outline. In this the interest is enhanced by the bigness and roundness 
 of one of the ends, and the comparative sharpness and smallness of the 
 other, producing great changes in intensity of curve. 
 
 These comparisons are already familiar ; but as I find it is impossible to 
 make any recapitulation of known things without incurring the accusation 
 of the “commonplace,” I hasten to add that nobody seems to have dis- 
 engaged beauty from interest in these elementary figures, the more inter- 
 esting being always called the more beautiful. This holds good also when 
 we come to the question of relief. Ornament of a cheap kind may be 
 sawn out of any board, and this kind of ornament is used freely for 
 unpretending decoration, such as that of a Swiss chalet. When, how- 
 ever, we come to decoration of a higher kind, it is felt that the flatness 
 of the sawn-out ornament is in itself a lack of beauty, as such ornament has 
 nothing but outline to recommend it. Nobody could call it ugly if the 
 linear design were good, but there is a negative kind of fault in it, which is 
 the absence of relief. Now, in all kinds of carved ornament that are 
 employed upon edifices of some importance there is invariably some degree 
 of relief, from the bas-relief, in which the forms of nature are all consider- 
 ably but never entirely flattened, to the statues that stand out from the 
 

 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■' ■ " • - ) ' 
 
 ' 
 
 ■ 
 
 . 
 
 - 
 
 . 
 
 . . 
 
 
 . . . • 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
PORTRAITS OF AN OLD MAN AND A CHILD 
 
 Painted by Domenico Ghirlandajo 
 Etched by Henri Manesse 
 ( Louvre ) 
 
 Selected as evidence that the beauty of the person represented is not 
 absolutely necessary to the charm of a picture. 
 
 Here the beauty of the old gentleman has been entirely spoiled, if he ever 
 had any. 
 
 The picture interests us by the charm of affectionate expression. The 
 persons must be a grandfather and little grandson. The old man loves sadly 
 and tenderly, the child with all his young heart. The subject might be called 
 “ Love triumphing over Ugliness.” 
 
 I was glad to include this pleasing example of childhood and old age from 
 the art of the fifteenth century. 
 
 In the etching (or engraving, for there is a good deal of engraver’s work 
 also) M. Manesse has purposely followed simple, early principles of work. 
 There is very little cross-hatching, and what there is, is of the most elementary 
 kind. 
 
■ e sc. 
 

CHAP. II 
 
 BEAUTY AND INTEREST 
 
 67 
 
 background, as the figures did in the pediment of the Parthenon. Evi- 
 dently, then, relief is felt to be an element of beauty, but here again we 
 find an increase of interest at the same time in the presence of a third 
 dimension, which is also very various in degree, there being much more 
 relief in some places than in others. 
 
 So far beauty and interest go together. If now we add colour to the 
 work, there is a new beauty and at the same time a new interest, and so 
 it is with the addition of varieties of quality and texture in substances. 
 In the new cathedral at Marseilles, the architect Vaudoyer enhanced the 
 interest of his work by a variety of materials, and this is certainly felt 
 to be at the same time an increase in the pleasure of the eye. There are 
 more than six hundred columns, of rose-coloured granite, of gray granite 
 from the Lago Maggiore, of marbre griotte , of green marble from Corsica, 
 of Alpine marble, and Levanto. The arches are built alternately of hard 
 stone from Cassis and red marble from the Var. It might be argued 
 that the mere variety of interest is not in itself enough for beauty, and that 
 the edifice might have been spoiled by the injudicious employment of the 
 same materials. I have not ventured further than the assertion that beauty 
 and variety increase together in very simple forms. Beyond these they 
 may possibly go together, as in the cathedral at Marseilles, or you may have 0 
 an increase of interest at the expense of beauty, as when chapels in dis- 
 cordant styles are built round a simple edifice. The interest of West- 
 minster Abbey is enhanced by its collection of monuments, but it would 
 gain in beauty by their removal. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 BEAUTY AND UNITY 
 
 TTEAUTY is a very difficult study in natural subjects, such as landscape 
 and the human figure, on account of the variety and complexity of 
 the material in the first, and the subtlety and refinement of form, con- 
 tinually modified by motion, in the second. The best introduction to the 
 study of beauty is the investigation of it in some kind of artificial con- 
 struction, such as architecture ; and for my part I have learned many useful 
 lessons from the study of ships and boats. As beauty is entirely a personal 
 sensation, I was obliged to refer always to my own feelings, having no 
 hope of finding any laws of beauty independent of human feeling, and 
 being, as we all are, incapable of imagining how anything could be 
 beautiful in itself if it was not beautiful for me. My method of investi- 
 gation, an extremely simple one, was as follows. Comparing a large 
 number of accurate representations of ships and boats, as well as the things 
 themselves, whenever accessible, I found that the range of beauty and 
 ugliness in them was very wide, that each vessel invariably had qualities 
 of some kind with reference to beauty, and was sure to be, in a greater or 
 less degree, either pleasing or offensive to my taste. If it pleased me, the 
 next question was “Why?" and I invariably found to my great satisfaction 
 that there was a reason which could be formulated. To come .without 
 further preamble to the special subject of this chapter, I found, for example, 
 that every ship or boat that pleased me was sure to have the quality of 
 unity. Some vessels, good for practical purposes, have no aesthetic unity, 
 but I never found them satisfactory to the eye. Suppose a vessel has two 
 masts, like a schooner, with fore and aft sails. If the foresail and main- 
 sail are exactly of the same size and pattern, the effect will not be 
 satisfactory, because there will be no subordination. If, however, the 
 mainsail is larger, there is already a beginning of satisfaction ; and if it is 
 so placed and so cut as to carry on the lines of the foresail to a greater 
 
CHAP. Ill 
 
 BEAUTY AND UNITY 
 
 6 9 
 
 height, with little of a break, the desire for unity will be still further 
 gratified. Finally, if all the sails, including jibs and topsails, are so 
 designed that when the vessel spreads all her canvas it will be bounded 
 by a few simple and coherent lines, the gratification as to this quality will 
 be complete. 
 
 The same law prevails with regard to all ships and boats, whatever the 
 number of their masts and sails. If a line is begun by a sail forward it 
 requires to be continued by those which are further aft ; for example, the 
 upper line of the jib requires to be carried on by the gaff of the foresail, 
 and this again by the main gaff. If these gaffs, instead of an effect of 
 continuity, produced a general outline like the teeth of a saw, the effect 
 would be displeasing from the lack of unity. In a three-masted ship the 
 whole arrangement of the masts and sails is subordinated to one dominant 
 curve. 
 
 The application of this law to mankind is more obvious in groups than 
 in single figures, but even in the single figure it has great importance as a 
 regulation of attitude. The most direct violations of it, and therefore the 
 most instructive as examples, are the attitudes assumed in naval and 
 military signalling, attitudes unnatural in their stiffness, in which the arms 
 are used separately or simultaneously, like the boards in the semaphore 
 telegraph. Here the attitude has neither the unity of art nor that of 
 accident. The human frame is simplified till it has become a machine in 
 three pieces, a post with two movable arms, and the arms are never fore- 
 shortened. In the attitudes of the signalman we have an excessive 
 simplicity, but without unity. Now let us pass to an attitude such as an 
 artist likes, that of the female model in Mr. Alma Tadema’s study in this 
 volume. It is felt at once to be beautiful, and see how complete is the 
 unity, the body bending, the limbs joined, the face attentive, and all for 
 one purpose, which may be trivial as an action, but is admirably chosen 
 as a motive. 
 
 The necessity for considering unity is even more strongly felt in groups, 
 and its presence or absence is one of the most marked distinctions between 
 primitive and accomplished art. For example, the illustrations in this 
 volume which show least of it are those from works by Fra Angelico and 
 Borgognone. It is true that they are only compartments in larger com- 
 positions, but even if we take this into consideration, there is still very 
 little unity. The attitude of a figure is considered in itself without 
 reference to other figures near it. In Angelico’s picture the blacks and 
 whites come anyhow, all over it. There is, however, in the complete 
 composition a dawning sense of artistic unity in one respect ; splendour of 
 
70 
 
 BEAUTY AND UNITY 
 
 PART II 
 
 colour is kept chiefly for the central compartment, where Christ is, and 
 black is at first sparingly introduced on each side, whilst it becomes common 
 only at a distance from the effulgent source of glory. In the set of family 
 portraits by Borgognone, originally part of a silken standard, there is no 
 artistic unity whatever ; the profiles are in their places by a sort of accident, 
 and that not a happy accident, and one of them seems to have been 
 inserted as an afterthought. The hand, too, so singularly introduced in 
 the corner, is without any artistic connection with the rest. Even here, 
 however, there is at least a moral unity, since, as in the picture by 
 Angelico, all the personages are joined in a common act of devotion. 
 
 If from these primitive attempts we turn to the work of a thorough 
 artist, Sir John Gilbert, we are always sure of unity. Observe, in the 
 picture of “The Bishop,” the complete subordination of one of the two 
 figures to the other, the answering lines of the composition rhyming in the 
 crozier and the book, the alb and the chasuble, and both culminating in 
 the mitre. Even the heavy carving in the front of the episcopal throne is 
 echoed by a bracket above. Nor is the unity of employment less complete 
 in this instance than in the two we have just considered, for both figures are 
 working together, in their several ways, in the ordered service of their 
 Church. 
 
 The beauty that is connected with unity, or the sense of satisfaction 
 hardly distinguishable from beauty, may be understood by a careful study 
 of the Dutch masters, whose personages are very rarely beautiful in them- 
 selves, and yet the pictures which represent them satisfy us almost in the 
 same way as beauty itself does. “ The Cradle ” by Maes, the “ Old 
 Woman” by Schalcken, in the National Gallery, are both good examples 
 of that completeness of satisfaction which we gain from perfect unity. In 
 each of these pictures the unity is as absolute as it is in Sir John Gilbert’s 
 work. The little girl is minding the baby in the cradle, the woman is busy 
 with her pans : there is nothing to disturb their attention or to distract ours. 
 It is true that Schalcken indulged himself with a butterfly, probably just at 
 the last in a moment of relief when the work was done, but the busy house- 
 wife has something else to do than admire the pretty colours of its wings. 
 
r 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 ; ■ . 
 
 ' 
 
 . 
 
 • . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
WOMAN SCOURING A PAN 
 
 Painted by Godfried Schalcken 
 Etched by C. O. Murray 
 (. National Gallery') 
 
 This picture is an instance of the way in which the painters of the seventeenth 
 century in Holland made excellent art out of the commonest life around them. 
 No incident could be more ordinary than this, and the woman is in her 
 working dress, yet, in reality, the picture combines all the qualities of a 
 portrait with those of a study of still life. The oppositions of light and dark 
 adapt it well to this kind of etching, which has given almost everything except 
 colour. 
 
 The catalogue of the National Gallery calls the plate simply “ An Old 
 Woman.” That title does not seem to me sufficiently explanatory, and 
 besides, the woman is not so very old, she is only about fifty, an age that 
 seems almost youthful to people of sixty or seventy, and is indeed only the 
 autumn, and not yet the winter of life. Probably the industrious Dutchwoman 
 lived to scour many a pan after this one. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 BEAUTY AND CUSTOM 
 
 /^USTOM appears to affect our impressions of beauty chiefly on the 
 favourable side, for those persons who have what is called a feeling 
 for the beautiful affirm that the frequency with which an object is seen does 
 not make it appear less beautiful to them, whilst they gain a sort of toler- 
 ance or even indifference to ugly things if they see them every day, and 
 have no power to remove them. The inhabitants of cities become insensi- 
 tive to ugliness in their own cities, but they seem to regain their sensitiveness 
 when they visit another place. A Londoner told me that he did not 
 perceive the ugly houses in London, as he never looked at them, but on his 
 rare visits to Manchester he was painfully' shocked by what seemed to him 
 the obtrusive hideousness of the town and the foulness of its atmosphere. 
 He appears to have received exactly the same impression from the capital 
 of the cotton-trade that a Parisian receives from London. The Parisian 
 himself is not more remarkable for his pride in the beauty of Paris than for 
 the extreme facility with which he overlooks the many things that are not 
 beautiful there, and the many other things that are uninteresting and 
 monotonous. 
 
 The favouring influence of custom is seen in the rapidity of our recon- 
 ciliation to fashions that seemed at first outrageous and extravagant. In 
 a -short time we take no notice of them, and reserve our astonishment for 
 their successors. After a very few years, fashions that have become 
 obsolete seem so ridiculous that our past toleration of them is incredible. 
 It is true that the tolerance men have for what is customary, and their 
 intolerance of the unusual, are not directly connected with the beautiful, yet 
 they are so indirectly, for the delight in beauty is always a serious feeling, 
 often even a melancholy one, and therefore it is incompatible with a spirit 
 of mockery and derision. The tendency of shallow people to laugh at 
 everything in foreign countries which is externally different from what they 
 
72 
 
 BEAUTY AND CUSTOM 
 
 PART II 
 
 are accustomed to see at home was one of the chief reasons for the repug- 
 nance with which English painting was so long regarded by French critics. 
 They complained of its essentially English character, quite forgetting that 
 French painting is not less essentially French, and that the representation 
 of some Homeric or Biblical scene by a western European is as likely to 
 be tinged with his own nationality if he lives on one side of the Channel as 
 on the other. The same difficulty about national usage is a great impedi- 
 ment to our enjoyment of foreign literature. The strange idioms appear 
 absurd until we have got so completely accustomed to them that the 
 absurdity has disappeared ; but so long as our knowledge of the language 
 is imperfect, the absurdity of the idiom makes it impossible for us to 
 attune our minds to beauty which, as I have said, is always a serious 
 pleasure. 
 
 This is probably a reason why the nude in art is associated by artists 
 themselves with seriousness in the pursuit of beauty. They feel that the 
 nude is more completely disengaged from custom than clothing can ever be. 
 Next to the nude, the dresses least likely to incur that kind of criticism 
 which prevents the enjoyment of beauty are those which change least, such 
 as sacerdotal vestments, or which disarm criticism by an extreme simplicity. 
 The costume of Sisters of Charity, and that which used to be worn by 
 Quakeresses, are not unfavourable to the effect of a pretty face, though they 
 were never designed for the enhancement of feminine charms. 
 
 The famous opening of “ Endymion ” contains two assertions about “a 
 thing of beauty,” that it gives perennial pleasure, and that the loveliness of 
 it increases. If the reader will refer to his own experience, he will probably 
 find that the pleasure given by anything truly beautiful is inexhaustible, yet 
 that its nature changes. We are constantly making discoveries of new 
 beauty in scenes, and even in persons that seemed to us perfectly beautiful 
 at first. The early impression is modified, but unless our sense of beauty 
 is very weak and very liable to become blast, subsequent impressions will 
 give equal pleasure, though of another kind. The difference is that there 
 is less excitement than at first. There is nothing in human experience like 
 the first sight of the ocean or the Alps, and yet the painter who studies 
 either of them for years finds that the beauty of them constantly increases 
 for him with the growing delicacy of his perceptions. There is also a 
 growing beauty in scenery which is often at first condemned as dull and 
 uninteresting, but which, like shy and retiring persons, allows us slowly and 
 gradually to discover qualities that we never suspected. The Saone 
 appeared to me at one time a dull river, yet after a few voyages I began to 
 perceive a world of beauty in its broad and open waters and its infinite 
 
CHAP. IV 
 
 BEAUTY AND CUSTOM 
 
 73 
 
 distances. Even the desert became beautiful to Fromentin, and its beauty 
 seemed incomparable with any other. 
 
 There is one very curious effect of custom which closely concerns the 
 special subject of this volume, and that is the power of fashion or present 
 custom in opinion which makes people really and unaffectedly admire what 
 they never would have admired unless they had been so directed. In 
 Madame Recamier’s lifetime it was the fashion to look upon her as a 
 supremely beautiful woman. Several portraits of her have come down to 
 us, notably the important one by David, and they fail to produce that strong 
 impression upon us, because our ideals have changed with the change of 
 fashion. Even a change of taste in head-dresses is enough to affect our 
 judgment. There is the famous portrait of Lucrezia Crivelli, by Lionardo, 
 commonly called “ La Belle Ferronniere.” I am old enough to remember 
 a time when Lucrezia’s style in dressing the hair would have been con- 
 sidered absolutely right — modest, tasteful, unimpeachable in all ways. To 
 our present taste it is inartistic. The hair is all plastered flat without any 
 natural grace, the outline of it cuts sharply against the forehead and comes 
 to the corners of the eyes, whilst the ears are completely hidden. Certainly 
 our changed taste about hair-dressing must interfere, in this instance, 
 with our judgment of beauty. The hair of the Venus of Arles happily 
 does not offend us in any way, and being in marble it escapes even that 
 fashion about colour which at one time requires hair to be dark and at 
 another golden. 
 
 L 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 BEAUTY AND SUMPTUOUSNESS 
 
 HOUGH these two qualities of things are very frequently confounded 
 
 together, especially by the vulgar, it is plain that there must be a 
 distinction, seeing that the pleasure given by beauty is perennial, whilst that 
 derived from sumptuousness is soon exhausted by familiarity. Indeed, it is 
 questionable whether sumptuousness can be said to give any real pleasure 
 except by the gratification which it affords to the pride of those wealthy 
 enough to display it, and even to them it is often wearisome, especially 
 when they have cultivated minds. 
 
 The reader may remember a passage in Jane Eyre which is a powerful 
 expression of the effect of experience in altering our estimate of splendour. 
 It is in the conversation between Rochester and Jane Eyre after Mr. 
 Mason’s departure from Thornfield. 
 
 “Come where there is some freshness, for a few moments,” he said; 
 “ that house is a mere dungeon ; don’t you feel it so ?” 
 
 “It seems to me a splendid mansion, sir.” 
 
 “The glamour of inexperience is over your eyes,” he answered, “and 
 you see it through a charmed medium ; you cannot discern that the gilding 
 is slime and the silk draperies cobwebs ; that the marble is sordid slate, and 
 the polished woods mere refuse chips and scaly bark. Now here (he 
 pointed to the leafy enclosure we had entered) all is real, sweet, and pure.” 
 The effect of habit in robbing sumptuousness of its power over the mind 
 was once expressed to me by a Parisian in this way. He said : “ The 
 splendour of palaces no longer imposes on the Parisian mind ; partly, 
 perhaps, because we have easy access to splendid rooms in the Louvre and 
 at Versailles, but mainly because our cafes are often gorgeous, and have 
 accustomed us to an abundance of gilding and other costly ornaments, so 
 that now we pay hardly any attention to this sort of magnificence.” 
 
 The effect of experience in the life of nations diminishes the power of 
 
CHAP. V 
 
 BEAUTY AND SUMPTUOUSNESS 
 
 75 
 
 splendour in the same way. Queen Elizabeth was habitually gorgeous, as 
 Henry VIII. had been before her. In those days it was a part of kingcraft 
 to study the effect of pomp on the minds of subjects. Queen Victoria is 
 habitually simple, and only resumes a little pomp of ancient royalty on the 
 rarest occasions. The loss of power in that sort of display has been rapid 
 even in our time. We have seen the old state coach in actual use, and we 
 have seen it pass into the condition of a curiosity. In France the Prefects 
 have an official costume with silver embroidery, but that is a survival ; the 
 President of the Republic, whose office, though of far greater importance, is 
 of more recent institution than theirs, has neither any official costume nor 
 the courage to invent one. Even in the slowly changing East the use of 
 splendour by rulers has remarkably diminished. The modern Shah dis- 
 played many diamonds on his first visit to Europe ; on his second visit he 
 did not glitter much ; and now, for the glorious Oriental Shah who once 
 dazzled our imaginations, we must go back to the pages of Malcolm. 
 
 It has already been found convenient to refer to the beauty of ships. If 
 they are often good examples of beauty and unity in design, they are not 
 less valuable examples of the decline and disappearance of sumptuousness. 
 It might have been supposed that with the increase of public wealth those 
 vessels, at least, which are used for pleasure would have been more 
 gorgeous than ever, instead of which all change has been in the direction of 
 simplicity. The high poop covered with carving and gilding, the sails of 
 many colours, the enormous emblazoned flags, have disappeared from the 
 seas like the clouds of a long past sunset ; but future sunsets may be splendid 
 still, whilst it is not likely that the future will renew the glories of a vanished 
 fleet. 
 
 The most interesting and instructive of all examples of sumptuousness 
 and art joined together is the chryselephantine statue. In the Pallas of the 
 Parthenon and the Jupiter of Olympia, Phidias united the utmost richness 
 of material with the most consummate art. This case is a very different one 
 from the decoration of some semi-barbarian vessel like the Henri Grace de 
 Dieu. The disappearance of the ship is but the loss of a curiosity, the 
 destruction of the statue is a calamity for mankind, and will be a subject of 
 regret to all intelligent persons down to the remotest ages. The materials 
 of the chryselephantine statues were chiefly ivory for the flesh and gold for 
 the drapery, but other precious things were also employed, especially jewels 
 for the eyes. This sumptuousness of materials may appear to us a little 
 barbarous, and the desire for it may, indeed, have come down to Phidias 
 from barbarous ages, when idols were costly and magnificent rather than 
 beautiful ; but with the single exception of the jewelled eyes there are good 
 
76 
 
 BEAUTY AND SUMPTUOUSNESS 
 
 PART II 
 
 artistic reasons in favour of his materials. He probably enjoyed both the 
 texture and the colour of the ivory statue with its drapery of pure gold. 
 The chryselephantine combination does, in fact, offer both a contrast of 
 substances and a harmony of colour. Our own experience of it is confined 
 to statuettes ; even from these, however, we may see that the Greeks were 
 right, and that the mellow tones and rich harmony of the ivory and gold, 
 with their incomparable textures, offer a beauty excelling that of marble. 
 The case here is a complicated one. The permanent interest of the work 
 lay in its quality as fine art, and was connected with the material only just 
 so far as the material itself was conducive to an artistic result. The cost- 
 liness of the material may not affect a philosopher, but it impresses the 
 people, and so has a religious use, like the costliness of the malachite and 
 lapis lazuli pillars in the cathedral of St. Isaac, at St. Petersburg, said to be 
 worth twelve thousand pounds a pair. The comparison may be carried 
 further, since the ivory and gold used by Phidias were merely external, 
 being built upon a cheap framework, whilst the Russian columns are really 
 tubes of cast-iron with a precious blue or green veneer . 1 
 
 The truly barbaric practice is to employ a material that is artistically 
 inferior because it happens to be expensive. Silver is sometimes employed 
 in this way for statues, and more frequently for statuettes. It is a bad 
 material for the purpose, the lights upon it being cold and shiny, and the 
 metal tarnishes in its hollows, as in the folds of drapery. Bronze is much 
 superior to silver, and clay to bronze, except that it is more fragile. An 
 example of foolish sumptuousness is the printing of etchings upon satin, 
 which is far inferior to paper as a material for such a purpose, the gloss 
 of it, which may please children, being an impediment to sight, like the 
 glitter of a copper-plate before a proof is taken. The rule of art in these 
 cases, as in most others, is simply a kind of common-sense, disdainful of 
 reasons extraneous to its own purposes. In this way a sailor might like 
 gold or, still better, platinum for his ballast and silk for his sails, not 
 because these materials are costly, but because platinum is the heaviest 
 metal, and silk the strongest tissue ; and an engineer would reject aluminium 
 for bridge-building even if nature supplied it more abundantly than iron. 
 
 The higher the intellectual interest of any work, the more it ought to 
 be separated from sumptuousness. I may be accused of inconsistency in 
 declaring this in what booksellers would call a sumptuous volume, yet there 
 is nothing in this book beyond what is necessary for the illustrations. A 
 gorgeous binding has a forbidding aspect for a reader. The proper use 
 of such a binding is to be exhibited under glass. Plain and light bindings 
 1 Atkinson, An Art Tour in Northern Capitals. Macmillan, 1873. 
 
CHAP. V 
 
 BEAUTY AND SUMPTUOUSNESS 
 
 77 
 
 are suitable for those books that are our friends, and strong ones for books 
 of reference. 
 
 It rarely happens that sumptuousness is united to beauty of form. The 
 most gorgeous costumes worn by historical personages have usually been 
 highly artificial disguises, concealing the human form effectually without 
 having much of their own as a compensation. Gorgeous ecclesiastical 
 vestments hide the body as a bell hides its clapper, and they fit it almost 
 as loosely. The effect of gorgeous accoutrements, in any case, is to divert 
 attention from the man to his habiliments ; and whatever may be the 
 ornament, it is sure to contradict the natural outline. What are epaulettes 
 — I mean the heavy old-fashioned epaulettes with bullion fringe ? They 
 are glittering excrescences interfering with the natural outline of the 
 shoulders. To get rid of them is an advance from sumptuousness towards 
 form. So, in the accoutrements of horses, it is always the most barbarous 
 nations that disguise form under showy trappings ; the simple English 
 saddle and bridle, which have served as models to Europe, leave the 
 shape of the animal almost entirely visible, and are in themselves neither 
 sumptuous in material and decoration nor obtrusive in colour, whilst the 
 outlines of them are a few well-designed curves. 
 
 The jay once adorned itself with peacock’s feathers, and the ass with 
 the lion’s skin, but that was in the world of fable. In the world of reality, 
 man is the only animal that despoils other creatures for his own adornment, 
 with a result that is imposing or ludicrous according to the mental pre- 
 disposition of the spectators. Sumptuous costumes succeed only in an 
 age of veneration ; our own age has become too positive for them. It 
 only inherits them as relics of a past magnificence, and whilst it inherits it 
 curtails. It cannot invent, being paralysed by its fear of ridicule. 
 
 Note . — Since this chapter was written I incline to the belief, now becoming prevalent, that the 
 ivory in the chryselephantine statues was painted flesh-colour as it has been in a recent practical 
 experiment by Gerome, but this does not affect the argument about sumptuousness, as the costliness 
 of the statues would not be diminished but even a little increased by the addition of painting. The 
 eyes of the faithful would lose, however, the delightful harmony of ivory and gold, and perhaps the 
 colouring may not have been an adequate compensation. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE ANALOGIES OF BEAUTY 
 
 T^HE position taken in the preceding chapter may be defended in some 
 degree by taking certain analogies into account, both in connection 
 with tastes that are usually ranked much below the enjoyment of beauty in 
 the fine arts, and also in connection with other desires and enjoyments 
 that are exalted equally far above it. I will consider the lower tastes first, 
 as they always have precedence in the history of mankind. 
 
 As to that kind of taste, then, which is a pleasure or a suffering caused 
 by some sort of motion in the nerves of the inside of the mouth, and 
 especially, if not exclusively, in the tongue, the enjoyment that it gives has 
 a sufficiently close analogy with that of beauty for the term “beautiful” to 
 be sometimes applied to it. When Sir Walter Scott said that lambs were 
 beautiful, and his wife, thinking of the table, answered that they were 
 “beautiful, boiled,” the idea of beauty was extended from the pictorial view 
 of nature to the gastronomical. Scientific men, such as Mr. Lewes, observe 
 an analogy between tastes and colours which brings gastronomy very near 
 to the ocular enjoyment of colour ; indeed, effects of contrast and harmony 
 may be studied both in gastronomy and painting. In gastronomy there 
 is effect by succession, as in melody, and also effect by combination, as in 
 musical harmony. Gastronomy, like music and odours, has also unques- 
 tionably an effect upon the imagination. 
 
 What concerns me here in gastronomy is that the quality which may, I 
 think, fairly and correctly be called beauty in flavours is a personal sensa- 
 tion only. We have no evidence whatever that the same dish produces 
 the same taste in any two persons, but we have excellent evidence that 
 it must often produce different tastes. There is the flavour of oysters, 
 for example, which to some is exquisitely delicate, to others indescribably 
 nauseous. I am of the former persuasion, and have often tried to discover 
 what those who feel disgust at oysters experience from their contact with 
 

 
 
 
 '■k> r 
 
TASTE 
 
 Painted by Gonzales Coques 
 Etched by G. W. Rhead 
 (. National Gallery ) 
 
 THIS is one of the few illustrations in the present volume that have been 
 
 chosen for expression chiefly. exhilaration of the spirits by 
 
 The expression here is that of a tempora > . Uectual and asce tic 
 
 the enjoyment of good oysters an gooc w • despise them, but 
 
 — - * t rc,y T.'SE, STS 
 
 canvas he lives indeed by the vivacity of his looks. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
CHAP. VI 
 
 THE ANALOGIES OF BEAUTY 
 
 79 
 
 the tongue, but all I can ascertain is that their sensations must be totally 
 different from mine. Now, how otiose would be a discussion between us 
 on the “beauty” of that flavour! The flavour is a sensation in the nervous 
 system, evidently not the same in the two cases, though produced by 
 similar objects. We are still more liable to mistake when two of us 
 appreciate the same thing. Two lovers of oysters believe that they have 
 the same taste, yet there is no evidence that they experience the same 
 sensations. All we really know is that oysters produce agreeable sensa- 
 tions in both ; but as the variety of agreeable sensations is infinite, we have 
 no means of ascertaining that in the two cases they are identical. 
 
 Gastronomical taste resembles ocular pleasure in its capability, within 
 limits, of education. I remember offering a bottle of excellent Burgundy 
 to a foreigner, and he asked me if that was “ the sour wine of the country ” ? 
 His impression of sourness (and he perceived no other quality) was due, 
 I believe, to his want of practice in distinguishing wines, as no one living 
 in Burgundy could have received it from a wine of that vintage. In this 
 case it might, however, be maintained that the foreigner came with a fresh 
 palate, and was therefore more impressionable by sourness than a Bur- 
 gundian. To this the Burgundian would reply that the accusation of 
 sourness was a mistake, as such wine in that condition has not any sourness 
 whatever. The final settlement of the question is, in its nature, impossible, 
 because education has a double effect — it makes us more sensitive to some 
 things, and at the same time, by the influence of habit, it deadens our 
 sensibility to others. 
 
 The variety of opinion about odours is good proof that the nervous 
 systems of different individuals are not affected in the same way. The 
 feelings awakened by perfumes are perhaps even more closely analogous 
 to beauty than the most exquisite flavours ; perfumes are certainly more 
 employed by the poets. I cannot remember a single instance of an allusion 
 to the taste of oysters in poetry, and if a poet were to sing their praises he 
 would excuse himself by assuming a facetious tone. All kinds of pleasant 
 odours are freely introduced by the poets, even when unfamiliar to the 
 reader, like the “ champak odours” of Shelley, that the English reader 
 takes on trust as something pleasant and poetical. The faculty of smell 
 is indeed a sort of taste that seems, as it were, spiritualised and etherealised, 
 because we cannot see the minute and widely disseminated particles of 
 matter that affect the olfactory nerves. Yet it is unquestionable that these 
 particles of matter exist, and it is equally unquestionable that the same 
 particles produce both good and bad smells in different organisations. One 
 of my friends has an extreme dislike to the odour of the rose, to another 
 
8o 
 
 THE ANALOGIES OF BEAUTY 
 
 PART II 
 
 even the faintest trace of musk is an abomination, a third is unpleasantly 
 oppressed with incense. When we pass from one kind of animal to another 
 the difference of effect is still greater. There are waters that seem per- 
 fectly sweet to human beings, and are clear as crystal, yet any horse will 
 sniff at them and refuse them. Sometimes the objection is on the human 
 side. The smell of the mouse is to me both strong and offensive, but my 
 cat, whose senses are probably more delicate than mine, must perceive 
 quite a different odour. I wonder what smell my dog perceives when he 
 has rolled himself on carrion ! His sense is of a delicacy inconceivable by 
 me, yet he has no more objection to carrion than I have to a clean shirt, 
 and my human dislike to it only puzzles him. Perhaps it is a delicate 
 perfume in his nostrils, or, it may be, simply refreshing. For him, unques- 
 tionably, it produces an effect analogous to that of beauty ; for me it is 
 hideousness unseen. 
 
 If now we pass to a region where our poor animal friends are unable 
 to follow us, the region of morals, we find the most opposite effects pro- 
 duced by the same actions. All morality of a kind elevated enough to 
 make a man act against his own interest appears silly to a man of the world. 
 The impression which the man of the world receives from acts of self-denial 
 in obedience to principle is like seeing a man burn a banknote. Such acts 
 are not beautiful for him, they are ridiculous, and so soon as they involve, 
 as they usually do, some sacrifice of family interests, they are not only 
 ridiculous but wrong. One of the most striking contrasts in moral 
 appreciations is to be found in the opposite estimates of the virtue or vice 
 of hypocrisy, whichever it may be. A few moralists detest it alike in 
 theory and practice, and no doubt it may be blamed theoretically by others, 
 but whenever it comes to a question of practice they approve of it under 
 another name. It is then called good -breeding, a becoming degree of 
 submission to the rules of society, and there can be no doubt that the 
 approbation of it is perfectly sincere. George Eliot’s father quarrelled with 
 her for her want of this virtue, and was reconciled when she assumed it. 
 
 Our greatest difficulty in understanding past ages is to feel for a 
 moment, by an effort of imagination, as if we had their moral sense. After 
 all our efforts we invariably perceive that we have not that, nor are we 
 really neutral, but we have a moral sense of our own which judges in its 
 own way as our noses do. What strikes a thinking reader most in ancient 
 literature is the manner in which actions are narrated, without blame, 
 which to us are utterly revolting. Instead, therefore, of understanding 
 past times by instantaneous sympathy, we only come to understand them, 
 if ever, after a careful study of obsolete ideas. 
 
CHAP. VI 
 
 THE ANALOGIES OF BEAUTY 
 
 8 i 
 
 Ideas that are not obsolete at all, but only foreign, are often quite 
 unintelligible to us, and this is especially true about ideas connected with 
 that sense of beauty and ugliness in actions which is called the moral sense. 
 
 I was reading lately a story by Octave Feuillet, Honneur d' Artiste, in 
 which an artist fights a peculiar sort of duel. The combatants fire shots 
 at a target, and the less successful of the two shooters is to commit suicide 
 after a certain delay. The artist is the one so designated, and his “ honour ” 
 consists in shooting himself at the appointed time, though his wife implores 
 him to live and his enemy has released him from his bond. This may 
 appear admirable to a French novelist, but it does not appear admirable 
 to me, as the engagement was one that (in my vjew) the artist had no 
 right to undertake, and the fulfilment of it was an abandonment of his 
 paternal duty. 
 
 It is plain, however, that although many actions may fail to excite 
 in ourselves the pleasure that belongs to the beautiful, they do awaken 
 in others the noble sentiment of moral approbation, and are therefore 
 so far good that they maintain the sense of moral beauty by exercising 
 it. Sometimes the feeling is of a mixed nature, as when Europeans have 
 been called upon to witness the terrible ceremony of Hara Kiri, in Japan. 
 A nobleman is condemned to death, but being too exalted to pass by the 
 hands of the executioner, he commits suicide with the sword in the course 
 of a solemn function, the very moment of death being accurately foreseen, 
 as it comes in its due place in the ceremonial. Here the European spec- 
 tator does not approve of the suicide, but he cannot refuse his admiration 
 to the calm courage of the actor, and that high aristocratic training which 
 enables him to face death with so much dignity, sustained by a pride of 
 caste that endures to the bitter end. 
 
 M 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE HUMAN CLAIM TO SUPREME BEAUTY 
 
 H E weakness of this claim lies in the absence of independent testimony. 
 
 Man is juge et parti at the same time. He could hardly affirm that 
 he was the strongest or swiftest of living creatures on a planet producing 
 the elephant and the albatross, but the claim to beauty is one that, in its 
 nature, cannot be disputed, and the other animals do not, as yet, appear 
 to have formed any clear opinion on the subject. The nearest approach 
 that we know of to the opinion of another animal is that held by the 
 coloured races of our own species ; and they do not admire the European 
 complexion, which appears to them both unhealthy and unpleasant. We, 
 on our own part, limit our unrestricted admiration of the human species to 
 our own quarter of the world. The lips of the negro, the oblique eyes of 
 the Chinaman, are not, in our secret opinion, evidences of good taste in 
 Nature; and although by the caprice of fashion our women have imitated 
 the hinder parts of a Hottentot beauty in their dress, they would not go 
 so far as to pray for such a natural addition to their charms. 
 
 Our estimate of human beauty — by which we mean the beauty of one 
 amongst the numerous races of mankind, and that one, of course, our own 
 — is vitiated by a degree of self-esteem which is only beginning to be 
 diminished by the most recent teachings of science. So long as Man 
 believed himself to be the centre of the universe, the being for whose con- 
 venience the sun ran his appointed course, and whose fate as an individual 
 was important enough to be determined by combinations of the stars — so 
 long as Man believed himself to be the descendant of the gods, and resem- 
 bling them so closely that they could be represented by copying his own 
 shape — it was inevitable that he should look upon himself as the most 
 perfect of mortal beings. Then came the scientific spirit, with its sugges- 
 tion that he was more probably a rising than a degenerated creature, 
 that instead of being the descendant of gods he had some ungainly and 
 

 , 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 • • , . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A CONTRAST 
 
 Drawn r.v Sir Frederick Leighton, P.R.A. 
 
 Reproduced in Heliogravure uy Boussod and Valadon 
 
 A COMPOSITION in strong, clear outline with slight hints of shade, lliis is a 
 technical combination of which there are many examples in the drawings of 
 the old masters. Here the linear drawing is by far the more important 
 element ; there is no pretence whatever to full modelling, yet modelling and 
 light-and-shade are both faintly suggested. This kind of drawing is well 
 adapted to classical subjects. 
 
 It is interesting to see a classical master occupied tor a moment with 
 ugliness and decrepitude, which the classical spirit is usually so caieful to 
 avoid. Thanks to Sir Frederick, who kindly allowed me to have this little 
 work reproduced ; I have been able to exhibit human ugliness in what is still a 
 beautiful drawing. 
 
 In vain the unfortunate cripple looks up to the model of ideal beauty. A 
 rich man could sign a cheque and cure him of his poverty ; all that the beauti- 
 ful person can do is to exhibit to envious eyes the graces and proportions that 
 he is unable to impart. 
 
nquatinrc bouoaod-Valadon <V C’V .. Pari a 
 

CHAP. VII 
 
 THE HUMAN CLAIM TO SUPREME BEAUTY 
 
 83 
 
 inarticulate animal for his ancestor, and that the time of his perfection may 
 be rather in the future than the past. This change in the standpoint of 
 the mind leaves us free to criticise the beauty of Man. He is undoubtedly 
 the most intelligent creature known to us, but it does not follow that he 
 is the most beautiful. Even within the limits of the human race itself, the 
 highest intelligence is very rarely associated with beauty. 
 
 The reader may have observed that I have not begun by attempting 
 any definition of beauty, but rather by assuming a degree of concord on 
 the subject sufficient for a literary understanding. The chances are that 
 as the reader and myself are probably of the same race, and have been 
 educated under similar influences, we shall be nearly of the same mind. 
 For example, in Sir Frederick Leighton’s “Contrast” my opinion is that 
 the upper figure is the more beautiful of the two, and I hope to be right 
 in this. It seems to me that the heads of the Theseus and the Venus of 
 Arles, in this volume, are both beautiful, whilst that of Combe is grand 
 and majestic rather than beautiful. As to the naked figure, I never saw 
 a beautiful one drawn by Rembrandt or an ugly one by Titian. Here, 
 again, I hope to be right enough for one who pretends to no authority on 
 the subject. 
 
 On the rarity of beauty in nature I may, however, quote an authority 
 who is extensively recognised. Raphael wrote in a letter to his friend 
 Castiglione, “ Considering the rarity of good judges and beautiful women, 
 I make use of a certain idea that presents itself to my mind. I am not 
 sure that this idea has any artistic value, all I know is that I endeavour to 
 give it such a value.” In other words, it was the rarity of satisfactory 
 beauty in nature that compelled Raphael to idealise. The same reason, 
 in every age, has made idealisation a necessity for all art that is founded 
 upon beauty and not upon some other kind of interest. 
 
 The human claim to supreme beauty may come partly from the facility 
 with which we all of us idealise in imagination, and partly from another 
 cause. The other cause is the subtle and unavowed operation of the sexual 
 instinct. We know that when this instinct acts with all its strength in the 
 passion of love it always enhances and exalts the beauty of the object. In 
 a degree greatly diminished, but still not without a constant effect, all 
 persons of one sex may be inclined by the same instinct to a favourable 
 judgment of the other. Men have a persistent tendency to discover beauty 
 in women, and there is certainly in the female sex at least a willingness to 
 overlook the coarseness and frequent ugliness of men. This indulgence 
 towards masculine defects is most visible in the lower classes, where young 
 women of considerable refinement, both in cleanliness and in language, 
 
8 4 
 
 THE HUMAN CLAIM TO SUPREME BEAUTY 
 
 PART II 
 
 often accept lovers who are far less civilised than themselves. The sexual 
 influence is also visible in the well-known incapacity of men for governing 
 female servants, and, indeed, for governing women of any kind, except by 
 formal legislation, which is prudently accomplished when women are not 
 present, or hidden behind a lattice. 
 
 Artists are probably more independent of sexual feeling, as to the 
 appreciation of beauty, than men to whom the observation of natural form 
 is less familiar. They are certainly more severe than others in the criticism 
 of nature, and though, no doubt, they discover many beauties there which 
 escape the untrained eye, they are not so liable as other men to the illusion 
 that they have discovered perfection. Raphael’s studies from life show 
 plainly that he had no illusions about nature, and that his idealism was 
 consciously added afterwards, as a tire-woman puts a becoming dress upon 
 her mistress. Even Boucher (I mention him because he was to prettiness 
 what Raphael was to beauty) made heavy and unideal studies from life, 
 which he afterwards refined upon in his designs and pictures. There is 
 a Venus of his, or rather a study from nature for a Venus, which is as 
 heavy as a Flemish woman by Jordaens. Sometimes, even in Boucher’s 
 works, unidealised nature gets into his finished art, as in the knees of 
 another Venus, which are those of a fat matron. The finished pictures of 
 Raphael never dispose us to hilarity, because, in them, nature is always 
 dissimulated by the ideal. In Rubens, on the contrary, there is often 
 something that tickles our sense of humour, and that is the artist’s indis- 
 cretion in revealing too much of nature. There is a picture called “ The 
 Three Graces,” at Vienna, which represents three women holding up a large 
 basket of flowers. The subject might have been treated by a Greek or 
 an Italian without danger, but Rubens makes it ridiculous by giving us 
 three well-fed Flemish ladies without their clothes. The first idea that 
 
 suggests itself is not beauty but too much eating of beef, and the next 
 how came these ladies to be so scantily attired in the grounds of a genteel 
 residence ? The opposite extreme of natural yet inelegant meagreness 
 may be seen in Rembrandt’s etching of “ The Bathers,” and in his etched 
 study of a young man reclining, which do, no doubt, show human nature 
 as it too frequently is. A picture by Millet in the Luxembourg, finely 
 composed and good in light and shade, represents a peasant woman 
 helping another out of a river ; one sees at a glance that they are peasant 
 women, though they have no clothes. 
 
 The ludicrous element in realism comes from the contrast between 
 human pretension to beauty and the reality. If there were no pretension, 
 even such a thing as Courbet’s masterly study of the big woman (I forget 
 
CHAP. VII 
 
 THE HUMAN CLAIM TO SUPREME BEAUTY 
 
 35 
 
 the name of the picture) would not excite a smile. We see the mountain 
 of flesh, supported on its two huge columns, and we think of the dreams 
 of the poets. The sturdy or meagre reappearance of nature is the 
 unfailing source of material for the caricaturist when he depicts bathers by 
 the sea-side, with their paunches and huge breasts, or their stick-like arms 
 and spindle-shanks. Here and there amongst them appears the pretty 
 girl, attractive rather than beautiful, who “ has her hour ” in the great flux 
 of things. In a few years she too will have become thin or fat, and in 
 either case be shapeless. 
 
 There is, I believe, hardly any one of the lower animals that so fre- 
 quently fails to reach its physical perfection as we do. If the reader has 
 seen a quantity of mackerel or herring just caught in the Channel or Loch 
 Fyne, he will have been struck by the general prevalence of the kind of 
 beauty that belongs to them both in surface and in curve. There is a 
 telegraph line near my house, and in summer I can see the swallows perched 
 upon it, a hundred side by side. They are quite remarkably equal in bird- 
 beauty ; you do not see a skeleton by the side of a round ball, but that 
 moderate degree of plumpness in all of them which gives the most beautiful 
 curve to their little bodies. There is the same equality when they spread 
 their wines. The reason in these cases is that bird and fish have no 
 protection from the terrible law of the survival of the fittest, the infirm 
 being cleared away almost immediately by their failure in the struggle for 
 life ; and there is a further reason in identity and healthiness of occupation, 
 all swallows doing the same things, and those things most favourable to 
 health when they have vigour enough to endure the almost incessant 
 locomotion. Birds and fish have been admirably idealised by the Japanese, 
 and by a Frenchman of genius, M. Habert Dys, yet I do not perceive in 
 their idealisations any such elevation of beauty above nature as there is in 
 the Greek ideals of man. 
 
 The world gains greatly in variety of interest by the rarity of beauty in 
 mankind. The highest types of beauty are not many. When we descend 
 to prettiness we find already a much greater variety, and the interesting 
 cases of imperfect prettiness are not only very numerous but most curiously 
 varied in their imperfection. As a subject of simple curiosity, the field of 
 human ugliness is infinite ; it admits of every variety of monstrous shape 
 and irregular conformation. The liberty of Nature in creating ugliness is 
 like the liberty of folly in the moral world. So long as men remain per- 
 fectly wise they have little liberty of choice ; there are not many things that 
 they can do, but once emancipated from the restrictions of wisdom they 
 may commit an endless variety of extravagances. It is the rather 
 
86 
 
 THE HUMAN CLAIM TO SUPREME BEAUTY 
 
 PART II 
 
 wearisome monotony of the highest beauty that gives such charm to the 
 varieties of prettiness and such a curious interest, and even attraction of a 
 peculiar kind, to Nature’s inventions in misshapen bodies and plain faces. 
 There is unquestionably a sort of pleasure in looking upon ugliness when 
 Nature has been eminently successful in that line, just as one may detest 
 vulgarity and yet enjoy the behaviour of a thoroughly vulgar man, as 
 Charles Lever evidently did. Albert Diirer engraved ugly limbs as indus- 
 triously as a Greek would have carved beautiful ones, but in Diirer this may 
 have been due partly to insensibility and partly to his strong enjoyment 
 of incidental variety in line. Lionardo’s pleasure in ugliness was decidedly 
 an interest in deformity for itself ; the principle of his method in caricature 
 is not the exhibition of character, but the exaggeration of parts in which 
 Nature herself had already exceeded proportion. The same principle was 
 carried out (to a minor degree, but with more expression) by a member of 
 the French Assemble Nationale , M. Jules Buisson, who amused himself 
 by drawing portraits of his fellow-members which will keep a permanent 
 interest as historical documents. These portraits are a long commentary 
 on the thesis that humanity is ugly, but wonderfully varied in its ugliness. 
 The too-observant artist detected every irregularity of feature, the eyebrow 
 higher than its fellow, the crooked nose, the bumps protuberant on some 
 enormous forehead, or the hollows carved out by emaciation in some flesh- 
 less face. It was caricature, yet so truthful as to leave always a doubt, 
 very unfavourable to the subject, as to the limits where the caricature 
 began, and half its efficacy depended upon modelling, and lights and darks, 
 whereas ordinary caricature is much more an affair of line. The artist said 
 that truth, sincerity, variety, and liveliness of interest were admitted to be 
 qualities of his work, but that complaints were made about the absence of 
 beauty. He laid the blame on universal suffrage, which is not aesthetic in 
 its choice. Our own members of Parliament are immortalised by Mr. 
 Harry Furniss, and he, too, conveys the impression that ideal beauty is 
 rarely found amongst legislators. It may be fair to his models to give a 
 summary indication of his method. First, he studies the victim seriously 
 in the variety of his aspects, then he fixes upon the features that can be 
 exaggerated without losing the likeness, and gradually, in successive carica- 
 tures, insists upon it more and more till he has educated us to accept as 
 resembling the original what is really like some previous exaggeration of 
 his own. 
 
 The body may exhibit striking contrasts, as Sir Frederick Leighton has 
 shown us, and there may be inexhaustible material in nature for studies of 
 ugliness like those which had such a curious interest for Lionardo, yet the 
 
CHAP. VII 
 
 THE HUMAN CLAIM TO SUPREME BEAUTY 
 
 87 
 
 utmost difference between one body and another does but inadequately 
 represent the difference of minds. The towering height of intellect that 
 enables a man to see far over the heads of his contemporaries may be more 
 fitly compared to a great architectural elevation than to the seven or eight 
 feet of an exceptional human organism. The moral contrasts are greater 
 still, and here the prospect may be more encouraging. There is, I sincerely 
 believe, more moral than physical beauty in the human world. It has often 
 been the pleasure of novelists to exhibit some variety of moral loveliness in 
 men who were not Apollos, and in women whose profile was not comparable 
 to the Venus of Arles. Here literature has a great advantage over the 
 graphic and the plastic arts, which cannot explain, except by some occasional 
 incident, the qualities that make a whole life beautiful. The difference 
 between physical and moral beauty is so much in favour of the latter that it 
 often increases as people advance in life, and sometimes attains its highest 
 perfection in the amenity and charity, and kindly forethought for others, 
 that dignify a serene old age. On the other hand, physical deformity is 
 seen at once and we know the worst about it, which is merely, after all, that 
 a bone is misshapen or that flesh does not take the curves most agreeable 
 to the eye, whereas the peculiarity about moral deformity is that we never 
 know all about it, the base character always holding in reserve for us, as an 
 unpleasant surprise, some unexpected revelation of its baseness. The con- 
 clusion from these considerations is that the art, in painting or sculpture, 
 which is founded upon physical beauty, does not represent humanity, but 
 only a condition of the body which is rarely realised in actual life, and then 
 only for a short time, though it may be ideally desirable like life in the 
 Elysian Fields. It seems impossible that any one with a keen sympathy 
 for toiling and suffering humanity should give himself up entirely to the 
 pursuit of beauty, or that he should be always asserting the human claim to 
 supremacy in this quality, which is doubtful, when the moral and intellectual 
 supremacies of mankind, in the best races, are beyond dispute. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE VARIETY OF ARTISTIC INTERESTS IN MAN 
 
 T T has often been assumed that beauty is the special object of art, and 
 that the beautiful in man is the quality that the artist ought especially 
 to seek for and expound. When, however, we take a comprehensive 
 survey of the products that the fine arts have accumulated for us in the 
 course of many ages, we find that so far from being limited to the cult of 
 the beautiful, they have, in fact, included an almost infinite variety of 
 interests amongst which the beautiful is occasionally dominant, and that the 
 beautiful is not the catholic religion of art, but only one of several different 
 Churches into which that cult is divided. There is a vulgar error, even 
 amongst scholars, that the study of the beautiful is a kind of sensual in- 
 dulgence, because it happens to be associated, in their minds, with that of 
 the naked figure. In reality, however, it is much more a discipline of taste 
 than an indulgence of it, the best evidence of this being that works of the 
 highest beauty are never attractive to the multitude, which they undoubtedly 
 would be if they offered a sensual enjoyment. Galleries of antique sculp- 
 ture, containing the finest examples of beauty in the nude that the world 
 has ever possessed, are so deserted, even in the heart of great cities, that 
 it is possible to study there in undisturbed tranquillity. A stunted Dutch 
 boor in the most shapeless clothing is more attractive than Atsculapius 
 in his drapery. The highest price ever paid for a modern picture has 
 been given for a representation of two ungainly French rustics with 
 a wheelbarrow and a dung-fork . 1 The same popular indifference to 
 beauty prevails in the appreciation of landscape. It is not the most 
 beautiful scenery that people care to see represented, but the most 
 homely and the most familiar. They are usually indifferent to the 
 
 1 Since this was written a stilt higher price (^34,000) has been paid for a Meissonier, “ 1814 ,” 
 by M. Chauchard. This is not a beauty picture, but represents a number of grave Generals on 
 horseback. Its charms are serious truth and a stem pathos. 
 
chap, viii THE VARIETY OF ARTISTIC INTERESTS IN MAN 
 
 89 
 
 sublimities of mountain form, but they like to recognise the common 
 operations of agriculture. 
 
 Far from complaining of the frequent indifference to the highest beauty, 
 
 I regard it as fortunate for art, because it answers to the ordinary economy 
 of Nature. If art were confined to the beautiful it would have to neglect 
 common humanity to seek out the most exceptional specimens ; and these, 
 again, it would be invariably compelled to idealise. Art would therefore 
 not answer to nature generally, as it does now, but only to a very small 
 part of nature, to which it could only be faithful just so far as might suit the 
 exigencies of a cultivated and fastidious taste. The artist who is devoted 
 to the beautiful has, no doubt, a field vast enough for a lifetime, but his 
 special culture isolates him from ordinary humanity. For him the world 
 must seem to have an (artistically) uncivilised appearance. He would 
 hardly be satisfied with anything less than the best-made Athenians grouped 
 under marble porticoes in the purity of a Grecian atmosphere. Even in 
 them he would find much to criticise if he could see them in reality, the 
 truth being that the love of the beautiful is an ideal passion, never wholly 
 satisfied in this world. 
 
 Art is so far from being limited, to the beautiful that ugliness is ad- 
 missible in works, not of caricature merely, but of the most serious import. 
 An ugly man may be quite as fine a subject for a bust as a handsome one ; 
 and if there is power in his face, whilst the handsome face is weak, the 
 balance of interest will be on the side of ugliness. The face of Littre, 
 from which beauty was entirely absent, was interesting to artists by the 
 power of thought in the heavy brow, by the depth of the eyes under the 
 shaggy eyebrows, by the lines of thought in the seamed visage, and the 
 energy of labor improbus in the disproportionate lower lip. Even the very 
 awkwardness of the lank, straight hair was in harmony with the austerity 
 of the scholar. 
 
 The liberty enjoyed by artists for going beyond the limited region of 
 the beautiful opens for them the worlds of intelligence and feeling which 
 a strict obedience to the laws of beauty would have closed. This enables 
 painting, and even sculpture (though sculpture in an inferior degree), to 
 excite human interest and sympathy almost as much as literature. The 
 class of subjects, for example, belonging to the pathos of poverty which 
 has been so frequently and so poignantly illustrated in modern times, 
 especially by Joseph Israels, can hardly be associated with beauty, but 
 appeals directly to the heart. If the reader will compare any pathetic 
 scene in which beauty is cared for — such, for example, as Flaxman’s 
 design of Achilles in tears on the body of Patroclus — with one in which 
 
 N 
 
90 
 
 THE VARIETY OF ARTISTIC INTERESTS IN MAN 
 
 PART II 
 
 it is not cared for — such as the poor, dazed widower of Israels, whose wife’s 
 body is stretched on the miserable bed — he will see at a glance how great 
 a pathetic advantage is gained by the abandonment of beauty. Flaxman 
 makes Achilles pose like a muscular model, he is careful about the profile 
 of Patroclus (who does not look really dead), and he accurately draws the 
 ornaments on the couch, the helmet, and the shield. Israels finds nothing 
 ornamental in the poor man’s cottage, and the solitary living inhabitant 
 has no comeliness — he has only poverty and sorrow. You admire the 
 graceful and ingenious Anglo - Greek composition, but the picture of 
 desolation brings the moisture to your eyes. 
 
 Amongst English artists of the present day Mr. Fildes is one of those 
 who have found their way most directly to the human heart ; and although, 
 no doubt, he appreciates beauty in well -grown, handsome specimens of 
 our race, it will not be found, I think, that there is any special seeking 
 after it in his most pathetic works. The sketch of “ The Widower” in 
 this volume shows no care for beauty, except perhaps in the child ; and 
 the pathos of the subject would have been much diminished if, instead 
 of a plain English labourer with his uncouth clothing, the Widower had 
 been a good-looking gentleman in a drawing-room. 
 
 It has been said that whilst beauty and ugliness are both admissible 
 in art, and both admitted by great men, prettiness is inadmissible. Yet 
 the variety in art is large enough even to admit prettiness, which has its 
 place as an agreeable and cheering influence just as it has in nature. It 
 bears the same relation to beauty that charming conversation bears to 
 eloquence ; it is not an inferior quality of the same thing, but an essentially 
 different thing that may be considered inferior in rank, but more commonly 
 and generally acceptable. Severe art of all kinds, especially in the nude, 
 must rigorously exclude prettiness and dedicate itself either to beauty or 
 to dignity and majesty ; but there are extensive classes of art that do not 
 pretend to be severe, and which are perfectly at liberty to celebrate 
 prettiness if they please. Some of the most famous artists have painted 
 pretty women, and they have this in their favour, that whilst the beautiful 
 is very rare in nature, a pretty face is frequently to be met with. Pretti- 
 ness ought not to be associated with the nude, but with graceful and 
 elegant attire. It need not disdain even the latest fashions when there 
 is anything in them that may be available as an adjunct for the enhance- 
 ment and embellishment of itself. 
 
 There is hardly anything that man does which cannot be made a 
 legitimate subject for art, the chief difficulty being, not in man himself, but 
 in the things that he has made and with which he clothes and surrounds 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
THE WIDOWER 
 
 By Luke Fildes, R.A. 
 Etched by G. W. Rhead 
 
 TH.S is from an oil-study for the well-known picture bearing the same 
 
 "“'in the study Mr Fildes has worked simply for himself, and it happens to 
 hav u^nm a vignette merely because the at, is, --urmed , atten,^ 
 
 ltchi.1 SO with the kind consent of the painter, Mr. Rhead attempted^, 
 
 essential merit is that ^ ^ etching-, mean as 'to 
 
 Tenderness is more touching in our rough sex than > 
 
 l enciei nes ... M Tr;m es i s not wrong in attn- 
 
 - — 
 
 use in the absence of our feminine superiors. 
 


 
chap, viii THE VARIETY OF ARTISTIC INTERESTS IN MAN 
 
 9i 
 
 himself. Without presuming to set bounds to the ingenuity of artists, I 
 should say, for example, that an artistic talent would have a difficulty in 
 developing itself if confined strictly to the material in our manufacturing 
 towns. Artists are sometimes born there, but they do not employ them- 
 selves in celebrating the work they see around them, though such labour 
 is on a far more imposing scale than the occupations that artists have 
 always willingly represented. Mr. Stott of Oldham does not paint the 
 interior of cotton-mills, as Millet painted the humbler and simpler work 
 done in the cottages at Barbizon. Artists do not paint the interiors of 
 Manchester ale-houses, as the famous Dutchmen painted the ale-houses 
 of the seventeenth century in Holland. Man himself is as interesting in 
 Lancashire as anywhere else ; it is only the things about him that dis- 
 courage artistic representation. So with the externals of religious worship. 
 Protestant painters working for Protestant buyers prefer Roman Catholic 
 to Lutheran and even to Anglican ceremonies. If you propose the word 
 “Bishop” to an artist he will illustrate it with a mitre and a chasuble (as 
 Sir John Gilbert has done in the present volume), not with lawn sleeves. 
 Art is prelatical and royalist, not from partisan conviction, but from its 
 love of dignity made visible. When President Harrison entered upon 
 his term of office there was much grandeur in the description of the cere- 
 monies, but not in the illustrations, which were spoiled by the want of 
 dignified costume and magnificent architecture. The coronation of some 
 petty sovereign in the Middle Ages would have been more paintable, 
 though his territory was but a parish in comparison with that which 
 stretches from Canada to Mexico and from New England to California. 
 
 Here, then, it seems that we have come upon a restriction to the 
 universality of the art that deals with man. If it is compelled to avoid very 
 unfavourable surroundings it cannot always accompany human life, but will 
 often lag behind it in a reverie of reminiscence. Or it will transport the 
 knowledge of man which it has gained in the present to a costumed illus- 
 tration of the past. What happens in reality is that Art adapts itself to 
 circumstances by assuming dignity, or by sacrificing it, and by the employ- 
 ment of the most various technical methods. By this adaptation of itself 
 to its subject, Art does in reality include the whole of human life, even 
 those aspects of it from which the beautiful is completely absent. Art of 
 the most serious and elevated kind certainly finds a difficulty in dealing 
 with the life of the modern middle and upper classes, though even here it 
 has occasionally been dignified and truthful at the same time, especially in 
 portrait. On a lower plane, with less dignity and the admission of humour, 
 it represents our familiar existence successfully enough, even in painting ; 
 
92 
 
 THE VARIETY OF ARTISTIC INTERESTS IN MAN part n 
 
 as, for example, in the “Derby Day” and “ Railway Station” of Mr. Frith, 
 to which neither the artist himself nor any other competent judge would 
 attach much aesthetic value, yet which will have an increasing interest for 
 posterity as faithful representations of life in the Victorian age. It is felt, 
 however, that oil-painting is too elaborate and too laborious an art for the 
 abundant illustration of life which is neither beautiful nor picturesque, so 
 that the best and most constant service in this task is rendered by the pen 
 draughtsmen, a class of artists whose relative importance has been im- 
 mensely increased by the improvement of the reproductive processes. We 
 have also the woodcuts in the illustrated newspapers, which bear the same 
 relation to fine art that the newspaper paragraph bears to literature. They 
 have, as a rule, no composition, and can afford no aesthetic pleasure, but 
 their very independence of artistic exigencies makes them all the more 
 serviceable for their own special utility. All that ought to be aimed at in 
 the current illustration of life from day to day is simply the bare truth, 
 both as to costume and scenery. There has been progress for some time 
 past in the direction of plain veracity, and also, I believe, a more complete 
 abandonment of the artistic aims which are not compatible with it. 
 Draughtsmen will do well to avoid all confusion of ideas on this subject. 
 Art, in the high sense, is never compatible with perfect veracity of the 
 narrative or descriptive kind ; it has, of course, its own veracity, but that 
 is different in its nature. The reason is that things do not happen, persons 
 do not group themselves, inanimate objects do not present themselves, in 
 the manner most favourable to arrangements of line, of mass, or of light 
 and shade. The world and its incidents are, from the artistic point of view, 
 as destitute of order as a crowd is to the eye of a soldier. Even those 
 groupings of men which are orderly in another sense, such as a review of 
 troops, are not orderly, that is, they are not composed, in the artistic sense. 
 The background may contain rows of things, such as windows in a street, 
 that are equally refractory. The draughtsman cannot evoke composition 
 out of this without taking liberties that would diminish the interest of his 
 work. We ought to expect nothing from him but the nearest degree of 
 attainable accuracy. The frank recognition of this may have a beneficial 
 effect in both ways — it may make us more grateful for plain truth and leave 
 us with a keener appreciation of those infinitely precious qualities of higher 
 art which are felt to be necessities in their absence. 
 
MAN IN ART 
 
 PART III 
 
 RELIGIOUS ART 
 
. 
 
 . 
 
 ' 
 
 $ 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 r 
 
 
 
MERCURY 
 
 Bronze Statue by Rude 
 Hyalograph drawn by G. de Roton 
 ( Louvre ) 
 
 The god is preparing for flight, having just fastened his talaria. 
 
 This is one of the few statues in which transient action has been satis- 
 factorily represented. The work conveys by anticipation the idea of flight 
 itself as the god is just on the point of quitting the earth ; a moment more, and 
 he will be rushing through the air like a meteor. The attitude is one of the 
 most successful in modern art. 
 
 If the reader’s interest in the sculptor is awakened by this fine conception, 
 he will find a biography of him in my Modern Frenchmen. I remember 
 being reproached for choosing unknown men as subjects for those biographies. 
 Rude may be unknown in England, but in France he is in the first rank of 
 great sculptors, and a room in the Louvre bears his name. 
 
IMP. OH A BOON- WITTMAIIN.I'/' 
 

CHAPTER I 
 
 OF GODS, MEN , AND MONSTERS 
 
 A DISTINGUISHED critic, with whom I talked over the plan of the 
 present volume, thought that I should meet with a great practical 
 difficulty in dealing with ancient art. “You want,” he said, “to follow Man 
 in art, and instead of Man you will find the Gods. It is they and their 
 history that occupy the first place ; Man comes after, and the full interest in 
 human doings only arises when the Gods are either forgotten or set apart 
 in a region of their own.” The difficulty, though at first it may appear 
 serious, is in reality only verbal, for whatever the Gods may be from a 
 theological point of view, they are, in the plastic and graphic arts, nothing 
 more than organised beings, having the usual osseous and muscular con- 
 struction that is familiar to us in ordinary life. In plain terms, for the 
 sculptor or painter, a God is sure to be one of these three creatures : — 
 
 1. A human being — man, woman, or child. 
 
 2. One of the lower animals. 
 
 3. A monstrous composition in which the parts of different animals are 
 unnaturally joined together. 
 
 The arts of design can never escape from the limited choice here given, 
 as the God must be visible and alive, and the artist cannot possibly convey 
 the idea of life without organisation. If, then, he proceeds to organise his 
 God he must give him parts which convey the notion of something at the 
 same time active, and powerful, and intelligent. The notions of power and 
 activity are conveyed by an efficient well-nourished system of bones and 
 muscles, the notion of intelligence is conveyed by a well-developed forehead 
 and a penetrating eye. The minimum of physical representation is found 
 in Christian art when the omniscience of Deity is represented by a large eye, 
 painted by itself, but the eye is still organic, and it is human, all that is 
 unnatural about it being that a human eye could see nothing if it were 
 separated from a brain. Nevertheless, if a painter undertook to represent 
 
9 6 
 
 OF GODS, MEN, AND MONSTERS 
 
 PART III 
 
 the Divine eye by itself he would either study it from the living human 
 organ or represent it from memory ; he would not imagine some organ that 
 he had never seen, such as may exist in another planet. 
 
 The application of these ideas to the arts with which we have most 
 concern, those which illustrate the religion of Greece and Rome and the 
 Christian religion, may be made laconically as follows. 
 
 In classical paganism the Gods are men of different types. Thus, Jupiter 
 represents majestic manhood in its full maturity ; Apollo, beautiful manhood 
 having just attained physical perfection ; Hercules stands for athletic 
 muscular force in a man of the thick-set type ; Mars represents the soldierly 
 qualities ; Vulcan, the vigour of man occupied in industry ; and so on. The 
 goddesses are Woman the haughty and jealous wife, Woman the beautiful 
 and seductive mistress, Woman chaste and active, and Woman wise and 
 brave. There is a boy-god who is active and mischievous. The monsters 
 in Greek religion are “ The great god Pan,” with the fabled inhabitants of 
 the woods such as the wandering centaurs and the satyr, half-man, half-beast. 
 
 Christianity, as represented in the fine arts, includes the same elements, 
 though with much less variety. Manhood in vigorous age is represented 
 by the venerable white-bearded Father, always muscular in arms and chest 
 to indicate power, and stern in expression to indicate authority ; manhood at 
 or about the age of thirty has Christ for its representative, and He is 
 variously portrayed — as muscular and strong, or thin, thoughtful, and ascetic. 
 Woman is represented by the Holy Virgin, and infancy by the child Jesus. 
 Besides these personages, who are all purely human as represented in the 
 fine arts, there are an unlimited number of saints of both sexes, never spoken 
 of as anything else than human, even though churches may be dedicated 
 and prayers addressed to them. Of naturally organised beings inferior to 
 humanity we find one in Christian art, the dove, which is studied faithfully 
 from the familiar bird. As to monsters, the imagination of the Middle 
 Ages had free scope with Satan and as many other devils as the artists felt 
 inclined to represent ; but such is the poverty and infertility of human inven- 
 tion that it has never yet succeeded in creating a devil, but only in composing 
 one by combinations from pigs and bats. It may seem irreverent to call 
 angels monsters also, but they unquestionably are so in the fine arts, as their 
 wings do not belong to the human construction which is indicated by their 
 bodies. They are not even well-imagined monsters, since they have two 
 sets of fore-limbs, which is contrary to the economy of Nature, and they 
 possess no muscles to move their wings. The angelic beings of fine art are, 
 in fact, simply men and women with wings fastened on their backs, as you 
 might tie those of a sparrow on the back of a mouse, but that would not 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 OF GODS, MEN, AND MONSTERS 
 
 9 7 
 
 convert the mouse into a flying animal, like a bat. It is remarkable that 
 artists who studied anatomy did not make the one consistently imaginable 
 angel with arms converted into a flying apparatus that might at least seem 
 practical — not that, however well contrived, it could have lifted the body 
 from the ground. This substitution of the wing for the arm has been tried 
 as an experiment, but with the effect that the angel looked like a man whose 
 arms had been amputated, so much are those limbs, with the hands at the 
 end of them, necessary to our conception of an unmutilated human being, 
 and we cannot accept feathers as a compensation. The common practice is 
 to make the angel a complete man, ready to hold a harp or brandish a spear, 
 and then give him ample wings supposed to be moved miraculously. It is 
 still better, perhaps, to make the wings small and merely symbolical, as in 
 the little ones under the heads of cherubs, which suggest a kind of butterfly 
 fluttering, though the heads weigh several pounds. The best instance, 
 however, in all art, of this purely symbolical intention of the wings is the 
 miniature ones in Mercury’s cap, and those which he fastened to his ankles. 
 Nothing can be more beautifully ingenious, nothing is more exquisite in 
 taste, than this way of escaping from the anatomical difficulty about the 
 flying man. For Mercury is man only, having no part of his own purely 
 human organism interfered with by an inconvenient flying apparatus, only 
 when he wants to fly he puts the wonderful petasns on his head, and fastens 
 the magical talaria. This is not only a human way of setting about any 
 business, but it is the essentially human way which distinguishes man from 
 animals. Man temporarily assumes a convenience and lays it aside when 
 he has done with it, the lower animals either have to carry it about with 
 them at all times, or else are totally deprived of it. Mercury is at once a 
 human being in his form, and human in realising the desire for swiftness by 
 artificial aids. He assumes the wings that carry him “from heaven to earth 
 from earth to heaven” as we put on a pair of skates. There is even 
 a modern swimming apparatus that can be fastened like the talaria of 
 Mercury. 
 
 It is impossible, however, to accord to the classical imagination the praise 
 of consistent good taste in all its inventions. Mercury is a remarkably 
 favourable example. The satyr is scarcely better contrived than the 
 American showman’s mermaid, obtained by stitching together the skins of 
 a monkey and a fish. In the pure satyr the obvious contradiction to all 
 natural analogies is that the lower limbs are those of a goat whilst the arms 
 and hands are human. In a word, the satyr is inconsistently conceived. 
 The natures of man and beast are not really mingled together in him ; they 
 are pieced together as a rabbit-skin might be sewn to a coat tail. It would 
 
 o 
 
9 8 
 
 OF GODS, MEN, AND MONSTERS 
 
 PART III 
 
 be a problem worthy of the combined skill of a man of science and a great 
 artist to mingle the human and goatish natures completely ; but the result 
 would be revolting. The classical satyr is a human being going about on 
 goats’ legs, and being human he is capable of laughter. Of all classic 
 imaginings the most monstrous, however, is the Centaur. He is invented 
 on the same childish principle as the satyr, by mere piecing together, and the 
 result is an anatomical impossibility. Not only has the compound creature 
 two pairs of fore-limbs, but the internal anatomy is full of incompatibilities. 
 So long as we think of a solid centaur, chiselled, whose inside is full of 
 marble, or of a hollow centaur, cast in bronze, whose inside is full of air, 
 these incompatibilities do not trouble us, but they strike us when we think 
 of life as belonging to animal organisation. The man can breathe, but how 
 are his little lungs to aerate all the quantity of blood that belongs to the 
 unnatural partnership ? How are his small teeth to masticate food for all 
 that bone and muscle? Meanwhile, what are the horse’s lungs doing, and 
 how are they to get air, and how do the two separate sets of intestines work? 
 It may be said that the imagination gets over these details, but the truth is 
 that they shock and paralyse even the imagination itself. We can imagine 
 anything that has some sort of apparent compatibility with natural law, as 
 when Apollo shoots the arrows of pestilence, though they may fly super- 
 naturally far; or as when Neptune dives and swims, though he may dive 
 deeper and swim longer than our aquatic athletes ; we may even imagine 
 Mercury in his flight, having witnessed the flight of birds ; but there is not, 
 and there cannot be, anything like the centaur in the universe. 
 
 A striking proof of the inherent anti-naturalness of the centaur is that 
 his monstrosity cannot be diminished. There is a tendency in the fine arts 
 to attenuate monstrosities as taste advances. We may take the case of the 
 satyr as an instructive and interesting example. The childish idea of 
 making up a satyr is to give him the hairy hind-legs of the goat, with his 
 hoofs, and to conceal the joining of the two natures under a gradation of 
 diminishing hairiness. The animal nature is indicated again by horns and 
 by tall pointed ears. But in the most refined sculpture the form of the satyr 
 is purely and often beautifully human, with a very slight indication of horns, 
 just as Nature herself would indicate, by a mere reminder, the history of a 
 part no longer useful. The ears are sometimes pointed still, and sometimes 
 this form is merely hinted at, and is so slight as to be almost imperceptible, 
 or, finally, it may be entirely lost, and the ear come to be purely and per- 
 fectly human. Sometimes the legs, though quite those of a man, will be 
 kept meagre in reference perhaps to the spindle-shanks of the goatish 
 ancestor ; but in other statues the legs themselves are fully and beautifully 
 

 , ; 
 
 - . 
 
 . 
 
 ; ■ • - - • 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A SATYR PLAYING WITH THE INFANT .BACCHUS 
 
 From the Farnese Palace, Rome 
 Hyalograph drawn by T. E. Mack i. in 
 {British Museum') 
 
 I chose this example simply because I wanted a figure between the meagre- 
 ness of the mediaeval representations of Christ and the strength of the 
 muscular man. This differs from the ascetic mediaeval conception in being 
 at the same time gracilis and graceful. It is less spiritual, or rather not 
 spiritual at all, and more human. 
 
 In our age of reminiscences our minds are so haunted by the varieties 
 of past conceptions that we have no clear and definite conception of our own. 
 There is no modern idea of the naked figure which can be said to be 
 completely disengaged from antiquity, since it was the ancients who taught 
 us to see physical grace and beauty. But amongst antique statues there are 
 few more modern than this, probably because there are few with more 
 vitality. 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 OF GODS, MEN, AND MONSTERS 
 
 99 
 
 developed. There is a child-satyr in the Louvre which promises to become 
 a well-developed man, and there are adolescent satyrs both beautiful in form 
 and graceful in attitude, as if their families had been admitted into the best 
 of antique society, and learned deportment there, forgetting the rude old 
 sylvan life in the ancestral forest. 
 
 We do not know any process equivalent to this by which the centaur 
 could be deanimalised. The conditions of his supposed existence are such 
 that the horse must remain equine ; his legs cannot be turned into human 
 legs, nor his tail diminished to a tuft. All that can be done with the centaur 
 is to make him human as to his mind. This he was so completely as to 
 fill the responsible office of a private tutor. Chiron understood his duties 
 in this capacity in a very enlightened manner, teaching his illustrious pupils 
 music and archery and something of primitive botany, a well- combined 
 training in art, in memory, and in bodily exercise. You may think of 
 Chiron at one time as a horse (if you think of his speed), and at another 
 as a man (if you think of his acquirements), but never, certainly, as an 
 inferior type of humanity. Mr. Morris begins by describing him as 
 
 “ A mighty gray horse, trotting down the glade.” 
 
 But immediately after Chiron talks like a man, and slings a horn “ about 
 him,” and puts a ring on his finger, 
 
 “ And in his hand he bare a mighty bow 
 No man could bend of those who battle now.” 
 
 The glamour that antiquity and poetry are able to cast over imaginary 
 existence (in more recent times aided by the charm of colour in painting) 
 makes the centaurs romantic for us as we imagine them galloping through 
 vast forests, and leading a life that combined in perfection the sylvan 
 pleasures of Robin Hood with the happiness of a wild horse. If, however, 
 we allow imagination to realise such an existence more minutely, we perceive 
 at once that the human half of the composite creature would be inconceiv- 
 ably miserable, that his activity would be of the most limited kind, and that 
 any ordinary human body in fair health is far more convenient than his. 
 It is curious that some of the earlier centaurs in art were more completely 
 human and less equine, as they had human legs with the hinder half of a 
 very little pony awkwardly attached where the Alpine milkmen fasten their 
 one-legged stool. The conversion of this primitive centaur into a man 
 would have consisted simply in amputating the pony and curing the wound. 
 This reminds us of a theological work current in the eighteenth century and 
 entitled the Centaiir , which associated liberty of thought with bestial vice. 
 The author took his title and comparison from a being that never existed. 
 
IOO 
 
 OF GODS, MEN, AND MONSTERS 
 
 PART III 
 
 The intellectual and sensual elements in human nature may be more aptly 
 compared to a man on horseback. On the whole, the man governs the 
 brute, yet he is constantly more or less in danger from the strength of the 
 animal under him. 
 
 The monsters of mediaeval religion have changed like the satyr. Devils 
 in art were, for a long time, ludicrous, hideous, and grotesque, ill-contrived 
 piecings together of parts of animals that might, indeed, suggest a com- 
 bination of cruelty with brutish stupidity and lust, or at best the power of 
 some huge reptile with his armoured resistance to attack, but there is not a 
 single instance of a mediaeval Satan with an intellect equal to his position. 
 The devils even of great men like Dlirer and Raphael are most puerile 
 inventions. We have to go to literature for the first adequate conception 
 of a Satan. Bunyan’s Apollyon is vigorous, but he is made up ; he has 
 scales like a fish, wings like a dragon, feet like a bear, and his mouth is as 
 the mouth of a lion. This is only the old-fashioned way of composing a 
 monster, and the result is nothing consistent. Milton’s infernal hosts are 
 perfectly human in everything but their “ rustling wings.” As for Satan 
 himself, 
 
 “ He, above the rest, 
 
 In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
 
 Stood like a tower ; his form had yet not lost 
 All its original brightness : nor appeared 
 Less than archangel ruined.” 
 
 Here, at last, we have done with the monster and are come to the human 
 Satan. His speeches, vigorous in style and thought, give a mental portrait 
 of himself consistent with the physical description. It is Milton who has 
 delivered the Satan of the graphic and plastic arts from caricature. Even 
 in the common illustrations to Paradise Lost an attempt is made to give 
 Satan nobility of form, a well-built figure, and a beautiful face marred only 
 by its stern and desperate expression. Goethe afterwards came with a 
 new conception that has had an equal influence, though of another kind. 
 His devil is thoroughly human, even the wings have dropt away, and the 
 Satanic nature is exhibited only as intellect (wit and sharpness) without 
 heart. The keen shrewd face of Mephistopheles has succeeded to the 
 proudly desperate face of the Miltonic Arch-fiend. Goethes conception 
 gained in human interest and in applicability to the modern world what it 
 lost (and the loss was great) in majesty, terror, and sublimity. One signi- 
 ficant difference is in mere physical scale. Mephistopheles is of ordinary 
 stature ; Satan, as he lies in the burning lake, has a body of some acres 
 in extent (many a rood). He must be as tall, let us say, as the Eiffel 
 Tower, not that this enormous stature has any influence on the representa- 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 OF GODS, MEN, AND MONSTERS 
 
 IOI 
 
 tion of Satan in the fine arts, for in pictures he looks like a man, and a 
 statue of him on the largest scale would seem but the colossal statue of a 
 man. It is ever so in the plastic and graphic arts, we are always brought 
 back to man, or to the animals that we know. 
 
 Of the two remaining monsters of antiquity, the griffin and the sphinx, 
 the griffin is outside of our subject, because there is nothing human about 
 him. He is, however, the best of the mixed fabulous creatures, as the 
 aquiline and feline natures are both certainly present in him and tolerably 
 well mingled, the most serious mistake being that which is committed in the 
 Christian angel of giving wings and fore-limbs at the same time. There is 
 a creature in the natural creation, the ornithorhynchus, which does appear 
 like a mixture of bird and beast (and even, we are told, with evidence of a 
 tendency to the reptile), but although it has the bill of a duck, it has hairy 
 fore-legs instead of wings. Had it been endowed with a flying apparatus, 
 the bones for stretching it would certainly have replaced those of the 
 existing fore-legs. Notwithstanding one error, the griffin is a much better 
 invention than the common mediaeval devils, and in particular cases the 
 genius of an imaginative sculptor has been able to make him not only 
 terrible, but even for a moment credible, on condition that we do not think 
 about anatomy. 
 
 There are two distinct species of sphinx, the wingless and the winged. 
 The difference is of the utmost importance, as the wingless sphinx is a 
 mixture of two natures, and the winged of three. The Greek sphinx, 
 usually having the body of a lioness, with the head and breasts of a woman 
 and the wings of some kind of bird, is very inferior, both in dignity and 
 impressiveness, as well as consistency of invention, to the majestic wingless 
 sphinx that accompanied the masterpieces of Egyptian architecture. In a 
 combat with an armed man the Greek sphinx is hardly bigger than a wild 
 cat, and flies at the man like a combination of that animal with a hawk and 
 a woman in a passion, yet the effect of her weight and momentum is so 
 slight that he receives her coolly on his shield. The great Egyptian sphinx 
 is far superior as an imaginative conception. In the first place, two natures 
 only are mingled in her instead of three, and this is a great advantage for 
 consistency of construction. Again, the two natures are both mammalian, 
 the woman and the lioness being both placental mammals. Finally, the 
 difficulties about lungs and intestines, which make the centaur absurd, are 
 completely avoided in the Egyptian sphinx, which requires nothing from 
 our credulity beyond the belief that the cervical vertebrae of a lioness might 
 exceptionally terminate in a human instead of a leonine skull. There is, 
 in short, a minimum of absurdity in this conception, and on the positive 
 
102 
 
 OF GODS, MEN, AND MONSTERS 
 
 PART III 
 
 side, the side of constructive art, the Egyptians gave proof of the finest 
 taste in making their sphinxes keep quiet, looking wise, and holding their 
 physical strength in reserve. The consequence is that we almost accept 
 the human head on the body of the lioness as a combination possible in 
 nature ; there is, indeed, nothing in the dignity and wisdom of the face to 
 contradict the calm strength of the lioness, so long as her mighty limbs are 
 stretched in the eternal repose of granite. The conception, too, has a 
 terrible fascination for all of us, as Nature herself, like the granite sphinx, 
 remains calm, silent, inscrutable ; and though there may seem to be some- 
 times a play of sunshine on her great face, and sometimes a mystery of 
 gloom, the firm lips open never, but keep the secret of innumerable years. 
 
 The exact converse of the Egyptian sphinx is the goddess Sexet, who 
 had the body of a woman with the head of a lioness, and her statues afford 
 interesting evidence of the extreme importance of the head. Whenever 
 the human body is made to carry the head of an animal we have immedi- 
 ately the feeling that it is decapitated, even when the animal is of such high 
 rank, relatively, as the lion. The sphinx looks infinitely wise, the lioness- 
 headed goddess looks stupid and pitiable, and seems afflicted by a sad 
 cerebral deformity or want of natural development. Nothing is more 
 common in the literature that has animals for its subject than praises of the 
 intelligence of the dog, but whenever in the fine arts the human body is 
 accompanied by a dog’s "head, the effect upon us is not that of intelligence, 
 but the contrary. No god seems godlike to our apprehension unless his 
 deity is enthroned in a human brow. When we are told that the Olympian 
 deities assumed the form of animals it was for purposes of disguise, when 
 they are human it is not a disguise. Not even the head of an elephant 
 would be a fit habitation for the mind of sovereign Jove, but the body of a 
 strong man in ripe maturity is so fit for him that it is himself, and we 
 cannot think of him in any other shape. Even the sea-god is not a fish 
 in any part of him, but a complete human being down to the tips of his 
 fingers and his toes. Neither is he a complete man with the addition of 
 fins, as wings are given to the human Satan. He is a human sovereign, 
 attended by a dolphin to suggest his watery empire to our minds. In like 
 manner the English Queen has oriental attendants to remind us that she 
 has a great empire in the East. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 - . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 - 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
CED1PUS 
 
 Painted by Gustave Moreau 
 Engraved in Line by Leopold Flameng 
 
 This plate has appeared in the Gazette des Beaux-Arts, but having always 
 been protected by steeling, it is in absolutely perfect preservation. 
 
 It is one of the very rare examples of the purest possible line-engraving 
 on the old principles, applied to the interpretation, rather than the imitation 
 of a modern picture. 
 
 My opinion is that engraving of this simple, clear, and severe kind, is the 
 most satisfactory of all, when the subject, as in the present instance, is per- 
 fectly adapted to it. Of course the entire absence of tone and mystery in 
 such engraving makes it unsuitable for the interpretation of paintings exe- 
 cuted on advanced principles. This is a kind of art statisfactory in itself, but 
 not subordinate to nature, and the truth of it is not the visual truth. Every- 
 thing here is strictly conventional, from the hard interpretation of flesh to 
 the landscape and the lighting. The conception of this work is in a high 
 degree decorative. It would be admirably adapted for mural painting, indeed 
 it may be taken as a rule that if a design is suitable for severe line-engraving 
 it will be good for mural painting also. 
 
LEOP. YLAMKNC SCULP' 
 
 ViOKEAU PffiX' 
 
 Imp. A. Salmon Pane 
 
 CED1PUS 
 

CHAPTER II 
 
 PICTORIAL REPRESENTATIONS OF DEITY 
 
 HE' HE truth is that there have never been any pictorial representations 
 of Deity. No painter has ever had the opportunity of observing 
 the shape and proportions of a God. 
 
 What all the painters of Gods have done hitherto has merely been to 
 paint a man, more or less idealised, and deify him by calling him Apollo, 
 Jupiter, or Jehovah. 
 
 Christianity, by the doctrine of the Incarnation, has clearly authorised 
 anthropomorphism in art so far as the second Person of the Trinity is 
 concerned, and this has brought the art of painting into closer relations with 
 Christianity than with any other religion. The human Christ, the human 
 Virgin, may both reasonably and permissibly be represented in pictorial art. 
 
 The representation of God the Father is more repugnant to modern 
 sentiment, because modern conceptions of deity have extended with the 
 increased knowledge of “ the scale on which the universe is built.” A 
 muscular man, however physically expressive of tranquil strength, is felt 
 to be an inadequate cause for the motion of a planet. But besides this 
 insufficiency of force in a human deity, there is another defect still more 
 contradictory of what we know about nature, and this is the defect of 
 limitation. The physical strength of man is limited in its effects to a very 
 short distance from his own body. In nature, on the contrary, the organising 
 power works at inconceivable distances. Again, the action of a man is 
 limited to one or two things at once, its utmost effort of combination being 
 the synthesis of the creative faculties in art. But the power that works in 
 nature evidently does millions of things at once. If it is argued that by 
 giving a human body to the Deity it is not intended to give him a human 
 mind, the answer is very simple. The body, especially the head of a man, 
 inevitably suggests the brain and mind of a man, and it cannot suggest any- 
 thing else. But there are no minds in organised nature, as it is known to 
 
104 
 
 PICTORIAL REPRESENTATIONS OF DEITY 
 
 PART III 
 
 us, that would be capable of organising nature. A mind capable of that is 
 beyond our experience. We know enough, however, to be certain that it 
 could not think as our own minds think. Our minds go from one thing to 
 another like a scavenger with his lantern investigating the treasures of a 
 dust-heap. A mind that knew all things simultaneously and with perfect 
 clearness would have no occasion for our ordinary mental operations. It 
 would not proceed from the known to the unknown, there being, for it, no 
 unknown. It would never observe, having no need of observation, nor 
 investigate, being already at the end of every investigation. It would have 
 no need for comparison, or for induction and deduction. And, as it would 
 not study, so it would not contrive and construct in the human meaning of 
 those words. And, in fact, we do not find that things are constructed in 
 nature as ships and locomotives are by taking pieces of material and fitting 
 them together. Natural things are produced according to the ways of 
 Nature, not according to the constructive processes of Man. We do not 
 know what the organising Power is, but we know that it is as different from 
 human intelligence in the methods of its work as in the magnitude of its 
 operations. 
 
 The difficulty as concerning the fine arts is that this mysterious Power 
 is invisible and unpaintable. So long as theology remains primitive and 
 barbarous it is within the scope of art, and affords good subjects for art, but 
 as soon as it becomes enlightened it rises outside of the sphere of art. 
 Mormonism, for example, is a return to early conceptions. To suit 
 uneducated disciples it brings back the human God, and asserts that he has 
 physical parts, like a man. If the world could be converted to Mormonism, 
 the Deity would return again to art. 
 
 In the days of Michael Angelo there seemed to be no reason why God 
 the Father should not be represented. The Jehovah of Michael Angelo is 
 a vigorous and muscular old man, with a magnificent white beard. He 
 effects the creation of Adam not by any slow process of evolution from 
 inferior forms, nor by a simple exercise of will, but by extending his finger 
 towards the earth as he floats by. In the “Disputa” fresco Raphael had 
 no hesitation about painting God the Father as the Sovereign in the 
 perfectly anthropomorphic shape of an old man with a severe countenance, 
 and the orb of empire in his hand. When God the Father separates the 
 light from the darkness, he is represented as a powerful man with abundant 
 hair and beard, and hands pushing against the light clouds on one side and 
 the dark clouds on the other, the legs striding vigorously over clouds that 
 lie between. A modern Protestant feels that this attempt to represent 
 Jehovah is too audacious. The attitude is, in reality, undignified, with legs 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 PICTORIAL REPRESENTATIONS OF DEITY 
 
 105 
 
 and arms in violent action, pushing and straddling. A God ought to be 
 able to attain his ends without using his own limbs like a poor man whom 
 nobody obeys. The further we go from the old ideas the more remote 
 from us do such representations become. They belong to a state of mind 
 that an intelligent critic does not censure, yet with which he can have 
 nothing in common. He knows little about the mysterious Power that 
 governs the universe, but he relies upon its one special characteristic of 
 absolute regularity. Its force and action are as unfailing as the lapse of 
 time ; there is no effort because there is no weakness to be overcome by 
 effort, and there is nothing that can be properly called strength, as the word 
 is applied to men and animals. As we leave the old ideas more completely 
 behind us the change brings an unexpected result in our more patient 
 tolerance of the old ideas themselves. Minds nearer to Raphael than ours 
 might be offended by his Jehovah ; we do not take offence. For Voltaire, 
 Raphael’s Jehovah would have been ridiculous ; he is not ridiculous for us, 
 but only a remote conception of pre-scientific ages. And it may plausibly 
 be argued that designs of the kind we have been criticising were never 
 intended to represent any visible deity, but only to symbolise, in a form 
 convenient for art, the sovereign power of the Invisible; except, of course, 
 when it is positively stated in Scripture that God made himself visible to 
 man. Sometimes Raphael would add an invention of his own, as in “ God 
 appearing to Noah,” in which the Father is sustained in the air by three 
 vigorous boys. There was no attempt, either in that subject or others of 
 the same class, to spiritualise the Divinity by making him diaphanous ; on 
 the contrary, the figure and head are massive and substantial, and the 
 sustaining angels are well-grown youths, with nothing supernatural about 
 them except their mode of motion. 
 
 It is a descent from Michael Angelo and Raphael to Blake, but though the 
 distance in artistic power and knowledge is immeasurable, the Englishman 
 resembled the illustrious Italians in his readiness to give physical shape to 
 theological conceptions. I mention Blake, too, the more willingly that he 
 belonged to our own century, and that we find in him a very late and 
 specially interesting survival of the old ideas. Blake was exactly like Michael 
 Angelo in seeing no reason why God the Father should not be represented 
 as a noble-looking old man with an immense beard. Blake died in 1827, 
 and it is significant that Mr. James Cotter Morison spoke of the year 1829 
 as still “ in the dark ages,” meaning that those days are separated from ours, 
 in their theological conceptions, as completely as if they really belonged to 
 the dark ages. It is scarcely probable that, in the future, any artist will 
 work in such intimate sympathy with early theology as Blake. It was as 
 
 p 
 
106 PICTORIAL REPRESENTATIONS OF DEITY part hi 
 
 real for him as for an imaginative child, so real that he would scarcely have 
 been surprised to meet the white-bearded Deity walking in some English 
 garden in the cool of a summer’s day, or to see him float majestically on a 
 cloud when the mist rose from some vale in Surrey, and the morning stars 
 sang together. 
 
 I have compared Blake’s conception of Deity with that of an imaginative 
 child. Once, in my own boyhood, I happened to be on a canal bank when 
 two little girls were gazing in wonder at what appeared to them the broad 
 and dangerous expanse of water. After a solemn silence the elder child 
 said to the other, “ God could stride over the canal,” thereby expressing an 
 idea of Deity which was strictly that of antiquity, and much better suited to 
 art than the reasonings of Mr. Herbert Spencer. The child’s idea of the 
 Divine might be exactly realised in colossal sculpture by our contemporary, 
 Bartholdi. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE EARLIEST CHRISTIAN ART 
 
 T HE reader who wishes to have clear ideas about what is essentially 
 Christian in art will do well to class, in his own mind, the earliest of 
 all Christian art with antique rather than mediaeval religion. That art was 
 an inheritance from the time when the naked figure was a subject of serious 
 study ; and although the earliest Christian artists may themselves have 
 drawn little, if at all, from nature, their minds were still furnished with forms, 
 and in a great degree imbued with tastes and feelings, that had come down 
 to them as a reflection from a not very remote antiquity. The study of this 
 early Christian art is not the study of a beginning, but of a decadence ; it is 
 not a brightening dawn, but a rapidly fading after-glow. The interest of it 
 is great, both from the antiquarian and the simply human points of view, but 
 it has no historical interest except that which belongs to the art of one 
 religion compelled to labour, in the days of its decrepitude, in the service of 
 another. The art of the catacombs was not the product of Christianity, but 
 only an attempt to express, by means derived from a different and even 
 opposite culture, either those feelings which are common to all mankind, or 
 an interest in the particular events of Christian history which seemed at that 
 time the most acceptable. It is remarkable that the scene of the Crucifixion 
 was not amongst them. Woltmann affirms that no picture of the Cruci- 
 fixion appears before the seventh century. The most advanced modern 
 Protestants, such as M. Rdville, for example, would probably assign a 
 theological reason for this ; they would probably tell us that in those early 
 centuries what is now known as the Christian theology had not yet 
 developed itself sufficiently to concentrate interest in the death rather than 
 the life of Christ. Another reason has been also given. It is said that the 
 early Christians were still sufficiently near to classic times to have retained 
 the old opinion about crucifixion as not only a most cruel but a dreadfully 
 degrading punishment. Under the ancient Romans crucifixion was the 
 
io8 
 
 THE EARLIEST CHRISTIAN ART 
 
 PART III 
 
 punishment of common thieves and murderers, and it therefore remained 
 associated, in the popular mind, with persons of the lowest class and of the 
 vilest character. We who have been accustomed to see the Cross made 
 ornamental, who have seen it in silver and gold, decorated with the most 
 beautiful handiwork of the most accomplished artificers, carried high in 
 stately processions, embroidered on banners, borne in the arms of the 
 proudest and most princely houses, made into the form of precious jewels, 
 and worn in diamonds by the most distinguished commanders and the fairest 
 women, we have become disqualified, by this great splendour and effulgence 
 of the Cross, for thinking of it with the shame and horror that still clung 
 to it through the decadence of the Roman Empire. 
 
 Ancestral Christian art, the art from which our own is derived, begins 
 with the first representations of the Crucifixion. The earlier art, that of the 
 still classical centuries, is not connected with our own artistic history. Like 
 the rivers of Australia which lose themselves in the sand, it came to its own 
 end and fertilised no distant fields. Our own Christian art has its origin 
 in times of complete artistic barbarism. It began with total ignorance of 
 the human form, with ignorance of modelling, ignorance of light and shade, 
 and with the puerile conception of colour as the setting of bright pigments 
 one beside the other, like the colours of a coat-of-arms. Everything had to 
 be learned from the beginning, as if there had never been draughtsmen in 
 Greece or Rome, and as if all the antique statues had been annihilated. 
 Down to the fourteenth century the art of painting was not understood by 
 the greatest intellects in Europe. In our own day we find men of powerful 
 intellect who know nothing whatever about painting ; but the difference is 
 that all the arts are now known, at least theoretically, by their own students, 
 whilst in the thirteenth century architecture was thoroughly understood, 
 sculpture imperfectly, and painting not at all. “About a.d. 1350,” says 
 Woltmann, and the reader will observe the date, “there appear the first real 
 signs of that which had been so completely lost, a conception of the true 
 functions and capacities of painting — the first serious attempts to produce 
 by means of that art the appearance of more than a single plane, to imitate 
 effectually the solidity of objects, and to exhibit them in true relations to 
 their surroundings.” 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE PRIMITIVE DEVICE OF GIVING IMPORTANCE BY SIZE 
 
 1\ /T EDIHiVAL artists frequently interpreted importance by size in the 
 case of earthly sovereigns, who were made much taller than their 
 courtiers. The same idea was sometimes carried out with much greater 
 exaggeration in the case of great religious personages. In a picture by 
 Carlo Crivelli a monk is praying at the feet of the Holy Virgin, and if he 
 is of ordinary human size, the Virgin must be a maiden of Brobdingnag. 
 It is, as to proportion, Gulliver at the feet of Glumdalclitch. 
 
 The prettiest application of this variety of proportion in mediaeval art 
 is that of the dwarf angels who render services to Christ or the Virgin, 
 increasing their height by contrast. As a matter of artistic convenience 
 the dwarfing of angels was ingenious for the obvious reason that their 
 presence interfered much less with the principal personages than angels of 
 full human size would have done. The little immortal beings could fly 
 about like birds in their untiring activity. I do not know who first repre- 
 sented them flying near Christ on the Cross and collecting drops of the 
 precious blood as they fell from the wounded hands. Raphael used this 
 idea but did not invent it, as it is found in much earlier art. Probably it 
 is due to some artist monk of tender poetical feeling. 
 
 The dwarfing of inferior persons in the presence of greater ones arose 
 from artistic inability to give degrees of importance without alteration of 
 size. Advanced art has many resources by which such a difficulty can be 
 overcome. A clever modern artist gives importance by situation, or by 
 lighting, or simply by ordering the lines of the composition so as to lead 
 inevitably to a centre, w'here he places his important personage. Nothing 
 is more remarkable, in highly-developed art, than the small space of canvas 
 which is, in reality, occupied by the centre of interest. It may be not a 
 figure but a face, or even the expression of an eye, from which no spectator 
 can escape. The primitive artist knew nothing of these ingenuities. When 
 
no PRIMITIVE DEVICE OF GIVING IMPORTANCE BY SIZE part iii 
 
 Giotto introduced sheep in a picture where a saint was also present, he 
 made them the size of little dogs. Horses, in early art, are always ponies. 
 The same principle was carried out with regard to inanimate accessories. 
 The mediaeval tree is invariably either a bush or a thin sapling, it is never 
 a full-grown elm, oak, or chestnut. Raphael, who, for a great part of his 
 short life, retained strong traces of mediaevalism, only carried out the old 
 principle when he made the boats on the Lake of Tiberias impossibly little 
 for the fishermen. Noah’s Ark is always, not only in early painting but for 
 lone afterwards, made much too small for the animals it is said to have 
 contained. The earliest artists got over the difficulty about the Ark by 
 frankly resorting to symbolism and making it about the size of a dog- 
 kennel ; in later times it grew to the still very insufficient dimensions of 
 a canal-boat. 
 
 There is some connection between the state of mind which accepts 
 these modifications of size and that which invented heraldry, where large 
 things are reduced with equal facility and placed by the side of things 
 that are less reduced. For example, I have before me two old coats-of- 
 arms impaled together. In one are three calves, in the other three 
 hammers, and, judging by the hammers, the calves are the size of rats. This 
 would trouble nobody when the principle was acknowledged, and if any 
 ignorant person made an objection, he would probably have been quite 
 as much embarrassed by the differences of size which result from per- 
 spective in more advanced art. 
 
 It may be observed, finally, that some of the prettiest devices in 
 mediaeval art would have been impossible without great liberty as to scale ; 
 for example, it would often have been necessary to omit angels altogether 
 if an ordinary stature had invariably been given to them. And, in fact, 
 this liberty is still allowed in monumental sculpture, a well-known and 
 striking instance being the Albert Monument, where importance is given 
 to the Prince by making his statue colossal, whilst men of the greatest 
 eminence in science, literature, and art are represented on a diminutive 
 scale below him, as if they were creatures of a smaller species. Modern 
 taste permits this in sculpture but not in a picture. In the Middle Ages 
 people thought it not more extraordinary to paint a little monk at the foot 
 of a colossal Virgin than to carve small figures of saints in the mouldings 
 of a cathedral doorway, whilst statues larger than life were standing between 
 the pillars just below. 
 
THE BLOOD OF THE REDEEMER 
 
 Painted by Giovanni Bellini 
 Reproduced in Photogravure by Boussod and Valadon 
 (. National Gallery) 
 
 This picture is in various ways very valuable as an illustration. 
 
 It is an example of the old simple way of marking inferiority by smallness. 
 The humility of the angel and her inferiority to Christ are marked both by 
 attitude and by scale. In many old pictures angels are much smaller still 
 relatively to Christ or the Virgin. 
 
 Although the picture is full of hard material things very definitely repre- 
 sented, it transcends matter in its meaning. The cup is small and would 
 soon be filled, yet the blood flows copiously and eternally for the world, as in 
 the holy sacrament. 
 
 Technically, this is an excellent example of early principles in painting. 
 Above all things, linear clearness was valued by early painters. The marble 
 pavement, so full of angles and so trenchant in its oppositions of black and 
 white, is unpleasantly obtrusive, but it pleased Bellini by its sharpness of 
 definition. The legs and feet are surrounded by a strong line to detach them 
 from the pavement. The picture would have been much more beautiful with- 
 out the hard straight lines of the ugly cross, but religious significance was 
 preferred to the exigencies of art. 
 
 Early pictures of Christ have the advantage of representing a thin type of 
 physical man without caricaturing him. In modern art the thin man is always 
 ridiculed ; here he is treated not only without ridicule, but with reverence, so 
 that whatever beauty or refinement may belong to him, is fairly represented. 
 This was another reason for choosing Bellini’s picture. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 INTELLECT AND SYMPATHY IN EARLY CHRISTIAN ART 
 
 CP'HE relation of early Christian art to the intellectual life of the world 
 is difficult to define. It was a handicraft practised by ignorant men 
 (even Perugino was uneducated) ; and although their productions are now 
 objects of great interest to people of the highest culture, this is owing more 
 to the modern curiosity about “origins” of all kinds than to any intellectual 
 quality in early Christian art itself. The truth is, that the first signs of 
 emancipation in such art were not on the side of intellect, but on the side of 
 feeling. The escape from the dead forms of rigidly symmetrical arrange- 
 ments, and from the unmeaning labour involved in the imitation of costly 
 ornaments, was through human sympathy and interest. In the worst of 
 early Christian art both faces and attitudes are destitute of expression ; the 
 figures are but dressed dolls, and the composition purely formal, like the 
 setting of ornaments on a chimneypiece ; but as the feelings and sympathies 
 of the workman began to express themselves the figures became more 
 human in character and gesture, and were drawn together by sympathy into 
 better connected groups. The modern critical student seizes with avidity 
 on every sign of awakening sentiment. Weary of the desert of convention- 
 alism, he longs for the refreshment of a more living nature, and gives 
 exaggerated credit to the primitive artist for signs of feeling that he would 
 pass without notice in a contemporary. After being a passionless queen, 
 glittering in jewels, the Virgin gradually assumed the character of a tender 
 mother, and her dress became more simple as her feelings became more 
 natural. Finally she has no adjuncts of artificial grandeur, the heavenly 
 regalia are laid aside, and in the capital of Catholic pomp and splendour, 
 Mary is nothing more or nothing less than the sweetest type of purely 
 human motherhood. As a consequence of the same progress, the infant 
 Jesus loses his consciousness of royalty, his supernatural wisdom, and 
 becomes playful, caressing, delightfully free and innocent in attitude, 
 
I I 2 
 
 INTELLECT AND SYMPATHY IN EARLY ART 
 
 PART III 
 
 interested, like a child, in people and things, and therefore himself in- 
 teresting. 
 
 The sentiment of early Christian artists shows itself in the gentle minis- 
 tration of angels, like those which bend down the branches of the palm-tree 
 in Schoengauer’s “ Flight into Egypt,” that Joseph may gather the dates, and 
 like those which, in many early pictures, collect the precious blood, drop by 
 drop, as it falls from the pierced hands of the Crucified. The service of 
 angels, in the best of early art, is not merely a part of divine state, like that 
 of obsequious courtiers, it is willing, busy, affectionate. Evidently the con- 
 ception which the primitive painters had of the angelic life was that the 
 happiness of it consisted in joyful service. These winged immortals, to 
 whom fatigue of body and weariness of spirit are alike unknown, fly fear- 
 lessly in the presence of God, watchful with an unfailing readiness. For 
 them there exists no physical impediment, and though their flight is swifter 
 than the incandescent rush of an aerolite it does not disturb the folds of the 
 white robes about their feet. It is a world, this heaven of the early painters, 
 beyond all human experience so far as it is situated in the sky, but we can 
 imagine it to be blissful in that clear, pure air and that perpetual heavenly 
 light. Only one thing, to my taste, is painful in that ideal. Often round 
 the Divine Presence there is a sort of frame like two pointed arches set 
 base to base (technically called the “almond”), and in this frame the heads 
 of little living cherubs are fixed, like pinned butterflies, all in a rigid order. 
 Besides the blue-sky heaven, where the angels fly, the mediaeval artist 
 had the clear and not unrealisable conception of a paradise like a garden 
 in summer. Flere his feeling expresses itself in sympathy with innocent 
 enjoyment. The good are happy on green lawns, amidst trees and flowers 
 and rills of limpid water. They enjoy conversation and music, perhaps 
 even in the benign queenly presence of Our Lady herself. It is a fair, 
 courtly life, full of pleasantness and intelligible for all, as it is, in fact, 
 absolutely terrestrial. 
 
 But of all the manifestations of feeling in early Christian art none are 
 clearer or more touching than those connected with death and the sorrow of 
 survivors. In pictures where this kind of feeling is the dominant motive, it 
 is often strong enough to overcome the tendency to what, for us, is slightly 
 ludicrous in the na'ivetd of the uncritical ages. For example, there is a 
 picture by Perugino at Florence representing Christ, after death, on the 
 knees of the Virgin. It did not strike the painter that there is always some 
 incongruity in placing one grown-up person on the knees of another. The 
 infant Jesus is in his place on the Virgin’s knee, and it requires little art 
 to make him interesting there; but the grown-up Jesus, more than thirty 
 
CHAP. V 
 
 INTELLECT AND SYMPATHY IN EARLY ART 
 
 1 1 3 
 
 years old, is too large and heavy, as well as too manly, for such a situation. 
 There are physical difficulties that Perugino had to overcome by making one 
 person sustain the head and shoulders, and another the legs and feet. The 
 consequence is, that the group looks as if it had been arranged to be photo- 
 graphed, and the more so that the Virgin, according to the simple and 
 obvious composition of those days, is seated exactly under a central arch, 
 whilst the two upright figures are against the pillars. Still no one but a 
 most unfeeling critic could smile at Perugino’s picture. The mother’s grief 
 is tearless and silent, but profound. This elderly woman is she who once 
 held the child Jesus where now she holds the Man of Sorrows, her hand on 
 the lifeless limb, her sad eyes gazing hopelessly on the insensible face. The 
 human side of the painter’s thought will check any critical levity. 
 
 There is a picture by John Bellini at Milan representing Christ after the 
 Crucifixion, but resuscitated. In this picture a woman’s hand tenderly holds 
 that which the nail had pierced, and her face is brought close to that of 
 Jesus, under the crown of thorns. Here, also, the sentiment is so genuine 
 that the physical contact is felt to be no more than a natural expression of 
 it. The picture is one that could have been composed only in an age when 
 people were too simple-minded to have the fear of ridicule before their eyes. 
 If such a work were to appear in a French Salon of the present day it would 
 be immediately caricatured. I know exactly the sort of caricature that 
 would be made of it. 
 
 The death and burial of the Virgin are in some respects better subjects 
 for painting than those of Christ himself, as they may be supposed to have 
 taken place under circumstances more within common experience. Even 
 primitive artists could value such opportunities for awakening sympathy in 
 the admirers of their works. They gave a pathetic interest to their figures 
 by attitude chiefly. In expression they did not usually get much beyond 
 the quieter and more permanent states of feeling. They could make a 
 saint look pious, that being his habitual frame of mind, or they could make 
 mourners look sad, because sadness is an expression that may last for hours 
 or days, but they had not either the closeness of observation or the technical 
 mastery necessary to catch and record subtle and transient states of feeling. 
 Many primitive painters were thoroughly aware of the importance of the 
 hands, and although seldom able to draw them really well — I mean as hands 
 were studied and drawn by the accomplished men of a later time — they were 
 by no means insensible to their beauty and refinement, or to the expression 
 of character by their use. The privation of the study of the body which 
 followed the subordination of art to ecclesiastical rule, left to it nothing of 
 human beauty but the hands and face, so that the attention of artists was 
 
 Q 
 
INTELLECT AND SYMPATHY IN EARLY ART 
 
 PART III 
 
 I 14 
 
 concentrated upon them except when it wandered away into the endless 
 details of ornamental dress. It may be that we are even more touched by 
 expression in primitive art than by the same quality in that which is more 
 advanced. The imperfect means at the disposal of the artist do undoubtedly 
 lend a certain charm and interest to the qualities that he is able to display 
 in spite of them. When a child, in our own day, plays a simple tune with 
 feeling, we hear it with a peculiar pleasure. A skilled musician might infuse 
 still more feeling into his consummate art, but we should think it was his 
 craft and guile. 
 
 With regard to the use of the hands in mediaeval-art I may add that it 
 has exercised some influence, not only on subsequent painting, but also on 
 literature. Or perhaps the attention paid to the hands by writers may be 
 an independent manifestation of the same taste, for we find it in mediaeval 
 authors. In the description of any beautiful maiden we are almost sure to 
 observe that the hands have not been omitted. The reader remembers, of 
 course, Matthew Arnold’s exquisite description of Iseult of Brittany — 
 
 “ I know her by her mildness rare, 
 
 Her snow-white hands, her golden hair.” 
 
 I turn for a comparison to a genuine mediaeval poem, Mdraugis , com- 
 posed by a trouvere in the thirteenth century. There I find an elaborate 
 description of a maiden’s beauty, and amongst other details these : — 
 
 “ Car la pucelle avoit le chef 
 Mult bien assis et li chevoil 
 Plus blonts que plume d’orioil. 
 
 Beles espaules et biaus bras 
 Ot la pucele et blanches mains .” 1 
 
 Here you have both the golden hair and the white hands. 
 
 Rossetti, who was more under mediaeval influences than Arnold, wrote 
 one of his few Italian sonnets on a beautiful hand— 
 
 “ O bella mano, che ti lavi e piaci 
 In quel medesmo tuo puro elemento 
 Donde la Dea dell’ amoroso avvento 
 Nacque.” 
 
 We have only to turn to Petrarch, to the sonnets about Laura’s lost 
 glove, and there we find a “ bella mano ” at least equally appreciated — 
 
 1 “For the maiden’s head was very well set, and her locks fairer than the feather of the golden 
 oriole. Beautiful shoulders and fine arms had the maid, and white hands also.” 
 
CHAP. V 
 
 INTELLECT AND SYMPATHY IN EARLY ART 
 
 1 1 5 
 
 “ O bella man, che mi distringi’l ’core 
 E’n poco spazio la mia vita chiudi ; 
 
 Man ov’ogni arte e tutti loro studi 
 Poser natura e’l Ciel per farsi onore.” 
 
 And so on through three sonnets. 
 
 The influence of Christian art on the observation of the hand has not, 
 however, been so much in the direction of beauty as in that of pathos and 
 devotion. The thin hands of the martyr joined together in supplication 
 when the flames are rising around his body, the hand of the bishop in the 
 act of blessing, the laying of hands in confirmation or ordination, the join- 
 ing of hands in marriage, are all closely associated with the history of 
 Christian institutions. It is hardly too much to say that whilst the clothed 
 parts of the body became of less and less importance in Christian art, so 
 that at last they were wholly suppressed, and stiff vestments substituted for 
 them, the hand gained what they had lost, and became a more and more 
 important agent in expression. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 MATERIAL LUXURY IN MEDIAE VAL RELIGIOUS ART 
 VERY kind of art has its special determining motive. There is 
 
 always some particular reason for the production of a work of art. 
 The delight in studying Nature has been, in our age, the predominant 
 motive, but in the Middle Ages the study of Nature was not in itself an 
 object of conscious pursuit. The production of ornament was kept much 
 more consciously in view, and even this was but a means to an end. The 
 great end and aim of mediaeval art was to do honour to the personages of 
 sacred history or legend. 
 
 That was the object of the mediaeval artist, and now let us inquire into 
 his means. 
 
 It is only a very advanced kind of art that can ever do honour to great 
 personages by translating their dignity of station into the dignity of physical 
 form. Primitive artists were debarred from this by their ignorance of form, 
 and by their inability to idealise. They could not even draw nature as it is, 
 which is the necessary qualification for drawing that more perfect grandeur 
 or beauty which Nature constantly suggests but never realises. The study 
 of the naked figure, that unique source of strength and knowledge for the 
 figure-painter, had died out in the last decadence of classic art, and was not 
 destined to any revival before the still distant future of the Italian Rena- 
 scence. It would be unjust to deny to the mediaeval painters all sense of 
 natural dignity, or grace in attitude, or of nobility or sweetness in the 
 expression of the countenance, but they hardly ever ventured to trust to 
 these qualities as sufficient for the personages they desired to honour, and 
 they almost invariably had recourse to richness of ornament in costume, and 
 splendour of material surroundings. They were, in fact, though in a sense 
 not generally accepted, materialists as all primitive people are materialists, 
 by which I mean that their minds were unable to dissever moral from 
 material grandeur. Their idea of expressing respect for the Virgin Mary 
 
chap, vi MATERIAL LUXURY IN MEDIAEVAL RELIGIOUS ART 117 
 
 was to deck her person with the most elaborately wrought dresses and the 
 costliest jewellery. This feeling for the necessity of costly splendour was 
 so strong in mediteval artists that it quite overruled their respect for the 
 historical truth of the Gospels. It is not easy to arrive at an exact and 
 certain knowledge of their beliefs. It might be argued that the regalia of 
 the Virgin and Child are purely symbolical, that the artists were clearly 
 aware of the humble circumstances attending the miraculous birth, but that, 
 transcending the truth of mere fact, they gave a visible embodiment to the 
 higher truth of a sovereignty not visible at Nazareth. Or, again, it might 
 be maintained that the regalia of the Virgin and Child are true in a prospec- 
 tive sense, that as in the belief of every Catholic she did really afterwards 
 become the crowned Queen of Heaven, as Jesus became its Prince, the 
 earthly diadem and royal robes are but anticipatory by a few years of the 
 glory that was in reserve for them. It seems most probable that what may 
 be called the regalia pictures of the Holy Family were at first simply 
 suggested by the desire to do honour to the sacred personages, and that 
 afterwards the pictures and images themselves may have produced some 
 confusion of belief, like that curious anachronism by which the Saviour is 
 sometimes represented as a Child in heaven, long after the Passion, and still 
 worshipped by Catholic children as an ever infantine deity. The constant 
 tendency in early art is to take the Holy Family out of poor surroundings, 
 and to make its dwelling-place at least respectable according to mediseval 
 ideas. This begins even before the birth of Christ, when the Virgin is 
 frequently represented as a lady of quality living in a handsomely furnished 
 if not luxurious apartment, and receiving the angel’s visit with as much self- 
 possession as if he were a nobleman paying a call. The simple-minded 
 painters of those days thought they could not better manifest respect for the 
 Virgin and her relations than by elevating them to the rank of gentlefolks ; 
 and a still more curious fact is that painters, who were by no means simple- 
 minded, afterwards carried out the same principle in far more consummate 
 art. When Rubens painted “ The Education of the Virgin ” he represented 
 her as a young lady in satin with palatial surroundings, to satisfy that 
 respect for a handsome style of living which is permanent in the human 
 heart. 
 
 I have spoken of the materialism of early religious painting. If the 
 reader is at all interested in this he may study it conveniently by observing 
 the nimbus, or glory, behind or above the heads of sacred personages. In 
 modern art this is either omitted or reduced to a thin oval ring of faint 
 lambent light that hovers over the sacred head, and conveys by its very 
 immateriality a far more powerful idea of the supernatural than anything 
 
1 1 8 MATERIAL LUXURY IN MEDIAEVAL RELIGIOUS ART part hi 
 
 ponderable or tangible. If when some famous preacher is carrying his 
 audience along with him by the power of genius and eloquence, that 
 audience could see a faint ring of light forming itself in the air above his 
 head, the hardest unbeliever amongst them would be thrilled and awestruck 
 by such a manifestation of the supernatural. The very slightness of the 
 manifestation would only add to its effect upon the mind. The sense of 
 miracle would be as appalling as if a cathedral roof were lifted off and 
 suspended in mid-air, whilst all present would know that the power 
 displayed in that little thing was immeasurable and irresistible. If, 
 however, we go back to early art we find in place of this the metallic 
 materialism of goldsmith’s work. Discs of ornamented metal are put 
 behind or above the heads of the saints, and all that is miraculous about 
 them is that they do not fall to the ground. Even this supernatural 
 suspension is avoided by Francesco della Cossa in his “Annunciation” at 
 Dresden, where the angel’s nimbus is a golden disc very carefully riveted 
 to a framework on his head. Cossa belonged to the fifteenth century, and 
 the architecture in his picture, which is heavy and extremely elaborate, is a 
 fanciful variety of the Italian Renascence, but the principle of materialism 
 is the same in earlier Gothic work, I mean that the same degree of attention 
 is bestowed upon the representation of tangible things. 
 
 The reader will not be able to enter fully into the spirit of early art if he 
 does not bear in mind the close relationship that existed between all the 
 arts before the time of Raphael. Architecture, wood-carving, and gold- 
 smith’s work were at that time much more nearly related to painting than 
 they are now. Painting in the early times was little more than one of the 
 ornamental arts, and it often made itself ornamental by simply appropriating 
 the others. A picture becomes itself an ornamental object if only it 
 represents things that already are so. If a collector removed a precious 
 object from his room, and then, in the place of it, hung a picture accurately 
 and elaborately representing it, the room would hardly look poorer than 
 before. This is the explanation of much that strikes us as out of place in 
 mediseval religious painting. For example, I am thinking of an Annuncia- 
 tion in which the Virgin is at her prie-die7i in a corner behind an open 
 arcade of most elaborately carved oak. There were two reasons for this, 
 one to do honour to the Virgin by representing her as a rich young lady, 
 the other to make the picture ornamental by appropriating carver’s work. 
 There is a very well-known religious picture in the Louvre called “ La 
 Vierge au Donateur,” soundly painted by Van Eyck, with the most 
 elaborate finish. The picture gives an effect of the greatest decorative 
 richness, and this is due to its annexation of several other decorative arts. 
 
chap, vi MATERIAL LUXURY IN MEDIAEVAL RELIGIOUS ART 119 
 
 A gentleman' (the Chancellor Rolin) is at his prie-diett,, his robe has a 
 beautiful pattern. Opposite to him sits the Virgin in a long cloak with a 
 broad border embroidered and set with jewels, whilst a little angel holds an 
 elaborately jewelled crown above her head, and the Child upon her knee 
 carries an orb surmounted by a jewelled cross. We have already, then, the 
 two decorative arts of jewellery and embroidery, but in addition to these we 
 have architecture in the beautiful building, carving in every capital of the 
 marble columns, stained glass in the upper windows, and marble inlaying in 
 the floor. Even the stool on which the Virgin is seated is ornamented 
 with marqueterie , and the cushion is embroidered. All this ornamental 
 work is finished as carefully as if the painter’s only object had been an 
 imitative study of still life. The truth is that he desired to make his 
 picture beautiful as a mirror becomes beautiful when it reflects things that 
 already are so. 
 
 The desire to introduce copies of jewellery and carving diminishes as 
 the art of painting itself advances. They may, of course, be represented 
 by accident in painting of the most advanced kind, but they are not sought 
 for as a means of making it ornamental, and the most accomplished painters 
 of the mature schools deal with such adjuncts slightly and rapidly, giving 
 rather an idea of splendour than an exact inventory of the precious things 
 that produce it. This, however, will be considered further on, at present it 
 is enough to observe that early art attaches more importance to the jewelled 
 embroidery of a robe than to the figure within it, a primitive state of feeling 
 that still survives in many Roman Catholic churches, where the figure of the 
 Virgin, as in the case of the Black Virgin at Dijon, is a shapeless wooden doll 
 hidden beneath a dress as costly as that of a living queen. In some of the 
 most elaborate Byzantine pictures the faces are drawn, and so are the hands 
 and feet, but the bodies are simply omitted, and in place of them we have 
 gaudily -coloured robes, as stiff as sheets of card-board, ornamented with 
 formal patterns and imitations of jewellery. 
 
 So strong is the tendency towards ornament in all primitive art 
 that the human face and body are themselves often made parts of an 
 ornamental arrangement, and the truth of Nature is entirely subordinated to 
 the desire for definite curves or positive and glaring colours. It is not a 
 question of industry that presents itself here but a condition of mind. The 
 amount of time spent by Irish monks in the illumination of manuscripts, 
 or by Byzantine painters in the decoration of churches, would have been 
 enough for their education in art of a higher order, but they reached the 
 decorative stage, and their progress was arrested there. 
 
 The different arts are much nearer to each other in their early than in 
 
i2o MATERIAL LUXURY IN MEDIAEVAL RELIGIOUS ART part in 
 
 their advanced stages, and they seem to part reluctantly, like loving 
 members of one family when each has to go out on his own way into the 
 world. This comparison may be carried further. The family of the Arts 
 has a stepmother, the Church, and though she protected the peace of artists 
 and sheltered them in tranquil cells from the storm and stress of barbaric 
 life, she was narrow in her views and restrictive in her rule, and she held 
 the artists, for long ages, in the bonds of sacerdotal exigencies. It was not 
 permitted to them either to study freely or to produce spontaneously. 
 There is nothing more pathetic than that long bondage in the history of the 
 human mind. Most of the bondsmen would, no doubt, accept it uncon- 
 sciously as a part of the natural order of things, and would neither regret the 
 culture of a past which they had never known, nor long for the art of a 
 future that they were unable to imagine ; but there may have been amongst 
 them spirits of a higher order, who chafed under the yoke of an iron 
 conventionalism, and suffered in silence from that incompatibility between 
 natural gifts and social conditions which is the torment of exquisite natures. 
 
 Which artist was it who first placed the Virgin on a high-backed throne 
 with saints attending symmetrically on her right hand and her left ? The 
 compositions of that class are innumerable. In the Middle Ages every one 
 of importance enough to hold a court sat upon a raised seat, usually with a 
 high back to it, and in cases of great personages with a canopy over it. 
 There are scenes in old miniatures and other illustrations of the Middle 
 Ages representing audiences given by earthly potentates, and with a very 
 little alteration these might be turned into religious pictures, with an 
 enthroned Virgin or Christ, and saints for attendants. The composition is 
 exactly the same, and the attitudes are just as solemn and stately in one 
 case as in the other. In fact, mediaeval religious art is scarcely more than 
 a reflection of the more formal and stately human life of the period. The 
 Virgin is a mediaeval queen, the Child is a baby-prince, the saints answer to 
 lords or chamberlains. To do as much honour as possible to the Virgin 
 her throne was placed on a kind of high platform like a large box, with 
 smaller boxes put before it as steps, an arrangement preserved in the 
 Ansidei Raphael 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 OF THE QUALITY CALLED “ HOLINESS ” IN ART 
 
 T T OLINESS is supposed to be so generally understood that it is very 
 ^ rarely defined, and popular ideas on the subject are more compre- 
 hensive than exact. It is believed, for example, that holiness is moral 
 excellence, yet certainly it must differ from moral excellence in some 
 respects, since we all know men who are examples of the moral virtues yet 
 who have not the slightest chance of winning a reputation for holiness, and 
 who could never gain such a reputation even if they were to reach a super- 
 human degree of perfection in the kind of virtue that they practise. 
 
 Again, if we take examples of a splendid reputation for holiness, we are 
 likely to find that this reputation is not due to the possession of ordinary 
 virtues, such as industry and the performance of obscure duties to one’s 
 family, but that it has sometimes been accepted as a compensation for their 
 absence, just as a certain laxity of another kind is forgiven in men of genius. 
 St. Simeon Stylites performed no duties, he only committed slow suicide in 
 a state of complete idleness, yet he had a prodigious renown for sanctity. 
 He certainly would not have attained it by conscientiously keeping himself 
 in good health that he might work for a wife and family. In modern times 
 we have Labre, the French mendicant, who has already been beatified at 
 Rome, and will be canonised in due course. Labre did nothing but wander 
 from place to place, a kind of life which is known to be highly pleasurable 
 for those who have the nomadic instinct. Whilst indulging himself in this 
 respect, Labre avoided work and lived on charity. He had not the virtues 
 of industry and cleanliness, he shirked the duties and declined the burdens 
 of commonplace existence, but he developed a special genius for sanctity as 
 an artist might develop a peculiar talent for art. 
 
 If St. Simeon Stylites and Labre had cultivated the commonplace 
 virtues of obscure citizens we should never have heard their names. 
 
 There is another class of virtues, not commonplace, which lie so com- 
 
 n R 
 
122 
 
 OF THE QUALITY CALLED “HOLINESS” IN ART 
 
 PART III 
 
 pletely outside of holiness that they are never mentioned in connection with 
 it. I mean the intellectual virtues, and especially that of unshrinking, 
 unswerving labour in the application of the mental powers. Of this virtue 
 we hear nothing in connection with holiness. It certainly does nothing 
 to give a sanctified expression to the countenance. I was looking lately 
 through a series of portraits of illustrious contemporaries who have been 
 hard workers, and the observation occurred to me that not one of them 
 had a saintly expression on his face. On further examination one reason 
 for this appeared to be the intellectual keenness and sharpness of those 
 faces, indicating great penetrating power and a delight in penetration, but 
 neither meekness nor reverence. Then I looked at some ideal pictures of 
 saints, and found that they never had this kind of acuteness, but always 
 looked resigned, patient, and submissive. That very remarkable French 
 painter and engraver, Gaillard, had himself the religious instinct in great 
 strength, and when he represented St. Sebastian cruelly wounded by the 
 arrow, he gave him no intellect in revolt against persecution. The saint 
 looks upwards with a sad resignation, and were it not for the brightening 
 of the countenance by a serene hope that sees beyond the earthly life now 
 ending, the expression would be that of some poor dumb animal that seeks 
 not any reason for its doom. 
 
 The idea of holiness, distinguishable, as we have seen, from moral and 
 intellectual energy, is in reality that of special dedication to God. Thus, 
 consecrated water is called “holy water,” and consecrated ground is “holy 
 ground,” though the water and the ground are passive. The orders of the 
 Church are called “holy orders,” because there is a service of dedication, 
 but nobody thinks of calling the medical profession a sacred profession, 
 though its object is the alleviation of suffering. 
 
 If we apply this to the fine arts, we perceive that art may be intel- 
 lectually or morally powerful without being holy, and that the especially 
 sacred element in the fine arts is dedication. In other words, a picture is 
 not strictly a religious picture unless the artist has conveyed the idea of a 
 special dedication to God. 
 
 The difficulty of conveying this idea increases with the progress of 
 culture. In primitive art nothing can be easier, it is, in fact, simply a 
 traditional and mechanical process. The saints are painted in devotional 
 attitudes, with rings or discs of imponderable golden glory floating behind 
 their heads ; with these indications, and a proper degree of seriousness in 
 the expression, the artist’s task is accomplished. He has produced a work 
 of sacred art by an exercise of technical skill in accordance with certain 
 rules or traditions. 
 

 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 
 . 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ST. MONICA AND ST. AUGUSTINE 
 
 Painted by Ary Scheffer 
 Engraved in Line by A. Didier 
 {Louvre) 
 
 Ary Scheffer belongs to the French school by his education and residence 
 in Paris, but he was of German origin on his father’s side and of Dutch on his 
 mother’s. 
 
 His fame, at one time great, diminished after his death, when it became 
 evident that he was inferior to many other modern painters in the technical 
 qualities of colour, texture, and handling. 
 
 For translation into line-engraving the absence of these qualities is of no 
 importance, as the colour is reduced to black and white, whilst the texture and 
 handling become those of the engraver. 
 
 What Scheffer certainly had was an elevated sentiment which engraving 
 preserves. The universal acceptance of this picture amongst religious people 
 proves that he understood their sentiments. I am not sure that his own 
 religion was more than a devotion to duty along with habits of industry and 
 generosity, and I believe that this is one of those cases where a man of high 
 principles and tender feelings may imagine the religious sentiment and 
 sympathise with it sufficiently for the purposes of art. The case is not that 
 of Angelico. 
 
 The picture belongs to the year 1846, when Scheffer was fifty-one years old. 
 
 The engraving is a first-rate example of contemporary French line-engraving. 
 
Grave par Didier . 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
chap, vii OF THE QUALITY CALLED “ HOLINESS ” IN ART 
 
 123 
 
 Originality of thought is not required for a task of this kind, neither is 
 any genuineness of feeling. 
 
 As culture advances, people become able to detect manufacture in 
 religious art, and they become dissatisfied with it. The field of religious 
 art is more and more restricted by the development of the critical intelli- 
 gence, until finally the idea of holiness in art is attached almost exclusively 
 to the pious expression of faces. 
 
 Serenity, submission, resignation, patience, hope, faith sustaining the 
 weak body rather than energy animating the strong one, these are the 
 resources of sacred art in times like ours, when costume and external 
 symbols have lost so much of their efficacity. 
 
 The most successful of modern religious pictures that I remember is the 
 well-known St. Monica and St. Augustine of Ary Scheffer, now in the 
 Louvre. The first thing that strikes a critic in that profoundly harmonious 
 composition is that the present world, the terrestrial prison of the saint, 
 is almost completely excluded. Hardly anything of it is visible. The 
 figures are seated with their backs towards a plain wall, and close to a stone 
 parapet. There is nothing solid near them but this upright and horizontal 
 masonry, which is intentionally made as simple as that of a prison. Beyond 
 the parapet nothing is visible but the sea, stretching away to the far horizon, 
 and above the sea is the blue sky, cloudless up to the zenith. Here what 
 there is of the substantial world is made as unattractive as possible, and the 
 escape to the infinite is twice suggested. We are therefore already half- 
 way out of the prison-house of earth. The costume of the figures is as 
 simple as the masonry of the walls ; they are burdened neither with 
 jewellery nor embroidery, they have neither mundane nor ecclesiastical 
 vanities. The date of the subject conveniently delivers the artist from the 
 embarrassment of modern dress. Having thus got rid of everything 
 worldly, he concentrates his whole force on attitude and expression, and his 
 great endeavour has been to convey the idea of looking out of the world \ 
 beyond the present life. The expression of this idea is powerfully aided by 
 the evidently feeble health of St. Monica, and by the clinging of St. 
 Augustine to her hand in filial affection, though he, too, is gazing on the 
 infinite beyond. 
 
 I take this as a completely successful solution of the modern difficulty 
 in the representation of holiness without any of the facile devices of the 
 Middle Ages. Here we have nothing of the conventional dressing out of 
 sanctity, nor is the supernatural brought nearer to us or made visible by 
 any angelic presence in the sky. The power of the picture as an illus- 
 tration of holiness lies entirely in the expression of two human faces, 
 
1 24 
 
 OF THE QUALITY CALLED “HOLINESS” IN ART part iii 
 
 especially in that of St. Monica. For her the temporal life lies already 
 behind ; it belongs to the past, and the eternal is opening before. 
 Mother and son are saddened by the approaching separation. She 
 must leave him to go through the work of his great life without her 
 sustaining tenderness, but in the midst of their sadness at parting is 
 a serenity deeper than that of the tranquil waters before them and the 
 cloudless azure wherein, with wistful eyes, they seem to be seeking God. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE ARCHAIC ELEMENT IN SACRED ART 
 
 r | ''HE archaic element is of great importance in sacred art of all kinds. 
 
 The only modern costumes admissible in a sacred picture are those 
 which are at the same time ancient, like the vestments of the Roman 
 Church. The parallel difficulty in literature is in the use of modern words. 
 “ Thus saith ” appears a holier expression than “so says.” “Unto thee” 
 su ggests an idea of sanctity not at all conveyed by “to you.” A holy 
 personage could scarcely be spoken of as a botanist or a zoologist ; the 
 words are too modern. If it were necessary to speak of such a personage 
 as possessing botanical or zoological knowledge, a periphrase would be 
 used, such as, “he spake of trees,” “he spake also of beasts.” This is the 
 great advantage' (in the English language) of poetry over prose in dealing 
 with the subject of holiness. Tennyson could write about “The Holy 
 Grail ” in verse, admitting archaic expressions with the assumed simplicity 
 of mind that may be supposed to accompany them, whereas the treatment 
 of such a subject in modern English prose would have presented insuper- 
 able difficulties. 
 
 The natural harmony that exists between archaism and religion may be 
 understood when we reflect that no august religion, no religion that has a 
 grandeur sufficiently imposing for the purposes of art, can ever be a new 
 religion. If it is not old, it is not yet apparently venerable. In every 
 country where a civilisation is sufficiently established for the purposes of 
 art, a new religion (supposing it able to arise in spite of the crushing- 
 opposition it would certainly encounter) would come as an intruder upon an 
 ancient civilisation. It would be rejected by the upper classes, as the 
 upper classes of the Roman Empire despised and rejected Christianity. 
 Only after making its way amongst the poor could the new doctrine slowly 
 and gradually overcome the inertia of custom, and establish itself as a 
 fashionable creed. By the time that the best artists found it worth while 
 
THE ARCHAIC ELEMENT IN SACRED ART 
 
 PART III 
 
 I 26 
 
 to devote themselves to its illustration, the religion would be already old. 
 The want of poetry in a new religion is fatal to its artistic interest. 
 Painters do not illustrate Mormonism, and their abstinence is not due to 
 their want of belief in the Mormon doctrine, for they have not any greater 
 belief in the Greek mythology which they illustrate every day. 
 
 A remarkable proof of the artistic importance of antiquity in religion is 
 the continued predominance of Roman Catholicism in poetry and painting, 
 even in countries where Protestant forms of worship have been for some 
 time established. The poet and the painter have usually, so far as their 
 artistic moods are concerned, an affinity with Roman Catholicism amounting 
 to a kind of imaginative faith. The antiquity of Protestant doctrine is 
 not in question. Art and imaginative literature have little concern with 
 theological controversy — it is external and visible custom which chiefly 
 concerns them ; and it is simply true that Roman Catholic ceremonies, 
 besides being more picturesque than Protestant ceremonies, take us back 
 directly to the Middle Ages, and even to the half-fabulous times of chivalry 
 in which every imaginative mind has wandered, at least in the dreams of 
 youth. They have the same charm for the poet and the painter that an 
 old castle has for every American. Besides that, these ceremonies have 
 the advantage of harmonising completely with what is left to us of the 
 mediaeval arts, and especially with the magnificent architecture of the age 
 of faith. At Amiens all holds together, the building and the sacerdotal 
 functions ; at Westminster the building impresses by its age, but the 
 services belong to a later time. 
 
 Still, even in illustrating the services of the Church of England, an 
 artist seldom fails to be archaic so far as the opportunity allows. Many 
 readers will remember a print of three choristers singing which was, in its 
 day, the most popular of Anglican works of art. Even in this, although 
 the choristers themselves were of the nineteenth century, the ornaments of 
 the desk were mediaeval, and so was the lettering of the title. And when 
 the progress of ritualism encouraged a revival of the arts in connection with 
 the Anglican services, the forms adopted were invariably archaic. This 
 answered to a want of the religious mind which desired to surround itself, 
 in service-time, with objects remote enough from modern life to have a 
 religious aspect. It is for the same reason that most people consider 
 Gothic architecture especially suitable for churches. From the simply 
 rational point of view, it would be difficult to select a style so ill-adapted for 
 the practical needs of a preacher. He ought to be -heard, yet the acoustic 
 properties are bad ; he ought to be seen, but pillars hide him from half the 
 congregation. If the windows are filled with stained glass, there is not 
 
ST. ANTHONY AND ST. GEORGE 
 
 Painted by Vittore Pisano 
 
 Reproduced in Photogravure p.y Boussod and Valadon 
 (, National Gallery) 
 
 The original is a small tempera picture on wood. It belongs to the first half 
 of the fifteenth century, and is a good example of the kind of excellence that 
 the painters of northern Italy were then aiming at. The art is primitive in 
 principle, valuing clear detail more than visual truth, but it is interesting, and 
 has a certain distinction. 
 
 The vision of the Virgin and Child in the sky seems to have been given 
 in by the painter as a kind of second and independent work, for neither of the 
 two saints pays the slightest attention to it. 
 
 1 chose this picture partly for the costumes. That of the knight is 
 curious and very beautifully represented. It could not have a better foil than 
 the dark and simple dress of the hermit saint. I thought it desirable to have 
 at least one representation of armour in the volume. 
 
 This is a good example of the unhesitating way in which the early masters 
 altered the scale of things for pictorial convenience. To get the formidable 
 dragon into the picture Pisano reduced him to the size of a large bird. This 
 would be done, as in heraldry, without really intending to affirm anything 
 about dimensions. The dragon is only there to remind us of St. George’s 
 principal exploit. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
CHAP. VIII 
 
 THE ARCHAIC ELEMENT IN SACRED ART 
 
 1 27 
 
 light enough for old people to read their prayer-books. The style is the 
 most expensive of all styles in proportion to the accommodation, and it is 
 not durable. Surely these are weighty objections, yet public feeling takes 
 no account of them. It loves and values the archaic influence too much, 
 it prizes above all practical convenience the association with the poetry of 
 the past. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE INCOMPATIBILITY BETWEEN REALISM AND RELIGION 
 
 ' 1 ''HERE is a misunderstanding in modern times about the application 
 of realistic principles to religious art from which earlier ages were 
 happily preserved by their own intellectual simplicity. Not having any 
 clear and accurate conception of fact, being destitute of that analytical 
 power that separates fact from fiction, having no word in their language 
 corresponding to “ideal,” “idealise,” “idealisation,” the men of the Middle 
 Ages were neither resolutely scientific nor consciously poetical as we are. 
 They could idealise without knowing that they idealised, and they could 
 mingle fact and fiction together with the easiest unconsciousness. There 
 was no faculty in their minds that could perceive any objection to an 
 anachronism, and they had not a word to express it. They were not 
 shocked, as we are, by incongruity ; they fell into it innocently, and when 
 they avoided it their escape was due rather to healthy instincts than to 
 reflection. In a word, their minds had free play between truth and error in 
 regard to fact and between curiously minute realism on the one hand and a 
 sublime idealism on the other, whilst they were ready to believe equally 
 in both. 
 
 The condition of mind prevalent in the upper classes during the Middle 
 Ages may still be understood by observing an uneducated peasantry. My 
 own experience has been that I could explain many things to a shrewd and 
 intelligent yet untaught man provided that I remained strictly in the region 
 of fact, but that it is quite impossible to make him comprehend the action 
 of the mind in idealisation. He can understand invention in a lie or a tale 
 when the invention is made to resemble truth as closely as possible, but 
 the elevating and beautifying action of the mind is unintelligible for him. 
 Well, this may throw some light on a great question concerning religious 
 art. We must bear in mind that a religion is and must be a great popular 
 institution. A philosophy may be the property of a small intellectual Ilite ; 
 
chap, ix INCOMPATIBILITY BETWEEN REALISM & RELIGION 129 
 
 a religion must be popular or it will be unrecognisable as a religion. This 
 being so, it must follow that if there has been any process of idealisation in 
 the making of the religion itself, that process must remain unintelligible for 
 the people, although they unconsciously accept the results of it. What the 
 people always do in such cases is to accept the ideal as a hard fact until 
 they begin to think that it is not a fact, after which they reject it angrily as 
 an imposture ; they are incapable of accepting the ideal as an ideal only, 
 and quite incapable of perceiving that the ideal may do good service in 
 elevating the mind and purifying life long after it has ceased to claim any 
 qualities but its own. The popular notion of a believed religion is that it is 
 a collection of facts on the principle of accurate newspaper reporting, and 
 the popular notion of a religion no longer believed is that it is a parcel of 
 lies, like the wilful inventions of a false witness. The popular tendency, 
 therefore, with regard to religious art, will naturally be to associate willingly 
 a matter-of-fact kind of art with a religion that is believed, and to look upon 
 the illustration of religions no longer believed as a kind of fiction in which 
 truth is a matter of indifference. The notion of the ideal will be equally 
 absent from the popular estimate in both cases. 
 
 This refers to the popular tendency in an age like our own when the 
 increase of consciousness has led to a steadily increasing sharpness of 
 separation between fact and that which is not fact. It is not that we have 
 discarded imagination, on the contrary, the most imaginative artists are still 
 the most successful. The head of English literature in the nineteenth 
 century is incomparably more imaginative than the pedestrian versifiers of 
 the eighteenth. Amongst musical composers the most imaginative hold the 
 highest rank. The most poetical of English landscape-painters occupies an 
 unapproachable throne. Even in society and politics whatever strikes the 
 imagination has in it a vitality, a chance of success, that is wanting to dull 
 men, however meritorious, and to uninteresting measures, however bene- 
 ficial. Still, the separation between the matter-of-fact and the imaginative 
 is becoming clearer and clearer in our consciousness. We are beginning to 
 be aware, for example, that the peculiar function of royalty, that function 
 for which it is so much better adapted than any substitute that has yet been 
 found for it, is to strike the imagination effectually, and that its costly 
 and complicated machinery of palaces, yachts, state-carriages, diamonds, 
 is a kind of realised poetry like an acted story of the Arabian Nights. 
 Monarchy is in this respect better understood than religion. The terrible 
 matter-of-fact spirit, with its rudely literal way of interpreting everything, 
 takes possession of some beautiful belief that grew naturally from human 
 sentiment and imagination in earlier ages, and thinks that it belongs to the 
 
130 INCOMPATIBILITY BETWEEN REALISM & RELIGION part hi 
 
 commonplace world of fact when it ought to be attributed to the need of the 
 ideal. It is this spirit which misunderstands the relation between religion 
 and the fine arts. It does not see that religion belongs to the ideal, that 
 each religion is an aspiration having a very close affinity with ideal art 
 both in painting and sculpture, and a still closer affinity with music, but no 
 affinity with such a literal art as photography, for example, or with painting 
 that is like photography. 
 
 It follows from this that when tangible objects, such as agricultural 
 implements, are introduced in religious pictures, it is always prudent to 
 avoid too complete a degree of realisation. They may be drawn accurately 
 as to general form, but with a certain intentional simplicity and severity, 
 refusing that kind of finish which brings objects into the common world. 
 Puvis de Chavannes has thoroughly understood this. In his great mural 
 compositions no object is ever realised, everything is treated with the 
 distinct intention of avoiding the matter-of-fact and the actual, so that the 
 imagination of the spectator is free to leave the contemporary world and 
 to dwell vaguely in some distant primeval time. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 ON TRUTH TO FACT IN THE ILLUSTRATION OF THE BIBLE 
 
 'T'HE modern love of accuracy in matters of fact, and an almost complete 
 loss of the child-like uncritical credulity of earlier ages, have led some 
 artists of the nineteenth century to undertake the illustration of the Old and 
 New Testament, or of passages in them, on the principle of close attention 
 to every fact that could be positively ascertained. For example, the light 
 and scenery of Palestine may still be studied from nature, and even the 
 forms of hill and valley have been but little altered ; the ethnological charac- 
 teristics of the inhabitants are believed to have been persistent, or nearly so, 
 and we are told that much in the rural life of Palestine is still almost 
 what it was when Isaac met Rebecca at the well. The attempt to 
 resuscitate the biblical past has therefore been made by many travelling 
 artists of different European nationalities, and there was at one time a 
 certain enthusiasm for this kind of fidelity, but this enthusiasm cooled for 
 the following reasons. 
 
 The truth could be given with considerable accuracy in some things of 
 minor importance, such as the geological character of the country or its 
 flora ; but in a much more important matter, the portraiture of personages, 
 the truth was not ascertainable. We have not one authentic portrait of a 
 single biblical personage from Adam and Eve down to the preaching 
 apostles. St. Paul travelled in countries where the art of sculpture was 
 understood, but no marble has perpetuated his features. Of Jesus a con- 
 ventional type-portrait has been evolved in the course of time. The face 
 wears a short beard, the hair is long and parted in the middle, the features 
 are regular, the expression serious and benign. But the conception of 
 Christ took shape in the imagination of men long after the death of all who 
 had looked upon the living face. The first Jesus in the fine arts is utterly 
 different from that. He is a young man with a classical face, and the chin 
 is beardless. 
 
132 
 
 ON TRUTH TO FACT IN THE 
 
 PART III 
 
 The poverty of materials is not limited to the absence of graphic design. 
 The simple kind of literary composition that was natural to the writers of 
 the Bible took it for granted that a name stands effectually for a person. 
 The modern literary artist, whether historian, poet, or novelist, is well aware 
 that a name in itself is nothing unless it can be attached to something like a 
 living image. T he art of describing men and women in written portraiture 
 was carried to the extreme of minutely observant skill long before the 
 present day, as we see in the self-portraiture of Larochefoucauld. There 
 are descriptions so accurate and so well done that they almost replace paint- 
 ing. We search in vain for descriptions of this kind in the plain language 
 of the New Testament or the burning sentences of the prophets. 
 
 Now, although the historian may substitute a name for a human being, 
 the painter cannot substitute shapelessness for shape. He is, therefore, in 
 the absence of graphic documents, compelled to draw from imagination or, 
 worse still, from some living model, a difficulty that may well give rise, as it 
 did in the case of Lionardo, to the greatest anxiety about the adequacy of 
 his conception or the fitness of his choice. 
 
 Beyond this difficulty lies another connected with the pictorial suitable- 
 ness of subjects. An artist who painted for historic truth would endeavour 
 to represent events as they actually took place. If he did this, the result 
 might be called a painting, but it would seldom, if ever, be a picture. Com- 
 position, though it may be craftily hidden, is always necessary to a picture. 
 The entire absence of composition, with the manifest awkwardness which 
 that deficiency produces, is now plainly seen in instantaneous photographs, 
 which demonstrate, better than any quantity of lecturing, that composition 
 is not a luxury for the eye, but a necessity for the satisfaction of the mind. 
 
 To compare nature and art, let us imagine what would happen if a 
 miracle were to be really performed in a public place. There would be a 
 dense and excited crowd attracted already by the mere presence of the 
 miracle-worker. He and the subject of his power would be hidden in the 
 very centre of the crowd, and hemmed round as closely as possible. The 
 few who really saw the effect of the miracle would have their backs turned 
 to us, and the gathered multitude, ring beyond ring, would be eagerly trying 
 to peer over their shoulders. The painter disposed to paint the exact truth 
 might study the backs of the outsiders. This may be an extreme case ; yet 
 if the reader will quietly think out for himself how incidents most probably 
 did happen he will rarely find that they happened conveniently for artistic 
 treatment. Excited people do not put themselves in the positions which 
 least interfere with the sight of what is going forward. This is done on the 
 stage, it is not done in life. 
 
CHAP. X 
 
 ILLUSTRATION OF THE BIBLE 
 
 133 
 
 From the historical and religious point of view it might have been 
 interesting to represent biblical personages exactly as they lived, but it 
 is probably an advantage for art that their real forms and features are 
 unknown. The nobility of a man’s character does not in real life manifest 
 itself by physical dignity ; and yet, as art can only deal with those qualities 
 that can be made externally visible, the painter needs physical dignity as 
 the symbol of that which is purely moral. It is fortunate for him, as artist, 
 that he should be free to choose his own physical types. The real body 
 does not represent the mind. It is difficult, if not impossible, to believe on 
 seeing a faithful portrait of Turner that within that form and behind that 
 countenance dwelt a mind as poetical as Shelley’s and as refined, in art at 
 least, as that of Raphael. On the other hand, one who studied the refined 
 features of the great Napoleon might perhaps guess that he was pitiless, but 
 would never imagine that he was vulgar. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 RAPHAELS PRINCIPLE IN BIBLICAL ILLUSTRATION 
 
 HE first characteristic of Raphael’s work is negative. He paid no 
 
 attention to local truth. He made no attempt to imitate oriental 
 colour and light, or to paint oriental places. His personages are Europeans, 
 such as he was accustomed to see in Italy ; their costume is what was 
 most convenient for the arrangement of draperies ; his architecture is fancy 
 architecture of his own; his Athens is not Athens; his Jerusalem is not 
 Jerusalem ; his Sea of Galilee has Italian shores. 
 
 From the historical or the archaeological point of view it is easy to find 
 fault with inaccuracy of this kind, but it may be effectually defended. Think 
 of the impression on Raphael’s contemporaries! No artist of that time 
 could paint the East. The orientals themselves had no painters ; the 
 Europeans were too unfamiliar with oriental nature to paint it with any 
 truth. Let us suppose, however, for the sake of argument, that Raphael 
 had known the East as John Lewis knew it, and that he had painted it 
 as accurately. Nobody would have understood him. The effect of the 
 unfamiliar in art is not to please and to charm, but to shock, surprise, 
 awaken question and protest. It requires a whole education to lead the 
 mind up to the acceptance of exotic things in art. Raphael took art as he 
 found it, advanced it in some respects, but not so far as to get beyond the 
 range of his public, and therefore remained truly an artist. If ever he 
 became an experimentalist and discoverer, it was strictly within artistic 
 limits. Instead of the shock of doubt and surprise he gave nothing but 
 pure satisfaction, not in the least disturbing either the aesthetic prejudices 
 or the religious contentment of the believers of his time. 
 
 To illustrate a great religion which claims to be universal is not the 
 same thing as to give a traveller’s description of a province. Even in our 
 own day the local veracities of realism in the representation of the life 
 of Christ are offensive to Catholic sentiment ; yet this same Catholic 
 
chap, xi RAPHAEL’S PRINCIPLE IN BIBLICAL ILLUSTRATION 135 
 
 sentiment, tender as it is and so ready to feel a wound, is not offended in 
 the least by the manifest untruth of those representations that appear to 
 honour the Virgin by excessive and unsuitable ornaments. 
 
 Raphael paid homage, in his own way, to the great personages of 
 religion, and that his way was intelligently chosen is proved by the eager- 
 ness with which it was accepted by one of the ablest of the Popes. Being 
 gifted with consummate sense and tact, Raphael perceived that a Church 
 at the very summit of worldly grandeur and authority would desire to see 
 her origin ennobled, and his manner of achieving this object was charac- 
 teristic of a cultivated mind. In the maturity of his art he rose far above 
 the barbarous device of giving dignity by mere costliness of dress. He 
 made his personages themselves dignified, and he possessed, in an extra- 
 ordinary degree, the art of heightening their dignity by situation. The 
 only objection to these artifices is that they are too obvious. Well, they 
 are visible enough to an artist or to any competent critic, but they are not 
 visible to the public which they subjugate. They are a part of artist-craft, 
 as the elevation of the priest on the steps of the altar is of priest -craft. 
 The common people do not think “ those steps have been placed there to 
 give the priest an advantageous situation,” nor are they aware of the skill 
 with which Raphael subordinates minor personages to St. Paul. Nobody 
 in Raphael’s time would have accused him of unfaithfulness to truth, but if 
 anybody had told him that St. Paul had a mean appearance, he might 
 have answered that a mean appearance could only convey a false impres- 
 sion of the most powerful of the Apostles, and that, as painting is com- 
 pelled to interpret the invisible by the visible, an artist had no resource 
 but to lend an apparent grandeur. This was Raphael’s principle, acted 
 upon without hesitation in the cartoons of “The Sacrifice at Lystra”and 
 “Paul Preaching at Athens.” In both these compositions the figure of 
 Paul is made larger and more imposing than the others, and its stature is 
 additionally heightened by placing it upon one step in the first and three 
 steps in the second. Another very skilful and less obvious artifice is the 
 introduction of the boys with the little altar in the Lystra cartoon. They 
 are standing on the ground and close to Paul, who thus, by contrast, is 
 made to appear gigantic. The nearer foreground figures, that might other- 
 wise become dangerous as rivals, are, in both cartoons, made either to 
 kneel or to bend. 
 
 The cartoon of “The Rebuke of Elymas” attains the same object in 
 another way. Here it was impossible to elevate Paul artificially on steps, 
 as the highest place had to be given to the Pro -Consul, who is placed 
 without hesitation on a central throne standing upon a carved and inscribed 
 
136 RAPHAEL’S PRINCIPLE IN BIBLICAL ILLUSTRATION part iii 
 
 pedestal. Paul is therefore put quite in the foreground — in fact so much 
 in the foreground that his feet almost stand upon the base-line of the 
 picture, an arrangement that would be condemned as a fault in a modern 
 artist. The perspective alone is enough to make him gigantic, and the 
 effect is further increased by the short stature of Elymas, and by his 
 bending attitude as he stretches forth his hands. In the cartoon of 
 “ The Death of Ananias ” the arrangement is reversed. Here Peter is in 
 the second plane, like the Pro -Consul, and the inferior persons are in the 
 foreground, but Peter stands on a platform, and the entire composition 
 is arranged to give him the utmost importance, whilst the foreground 
 figures are all bending or kneeling, and Ananias has already fallen in the 
 throes of death. 
 
 In the cartoon of “ The Charge to Peter ” we have the same subordina- 
 tion of inferior personages to the principal figure, but it is attained in 
 another way. Jesus is set apart and is made more important by the sheep 
 immediately behind him. The nearest Apostle is made to kneel, one or 
 two others bend forward, the rest are massed in a group to deprive them 
 of individual importance. Jesus himself exhibits the arm and shoulder of 
 a Plercules, which is a translation of moral authority into physical power. 
 
 In these cartoons, as in all other compositions by Raphael, the realisa- 
 tion of the incident as it actually occurred is quite outside of his intentions. 
 Probably he never once thought of inquiring how an incident was most 
 likely to have happened ; certainly he cannot have believed that in moments 
 of intense excitement people would take care to place themselves in the 
 most effective scenic order, with draperies gracefully arranged. Was he, 
 then, indifferent to truth ? The answer is, that to historical and visible 
 truth he was indifferent to a degree that we can hardly realise in these days, 
 but that he paid great attention to truth of another kind. His religious 
 personages belong to a triumphant rather than a nascent and despised 
 religion ; they are true to the fulness rather than to the beginning of 
 religious history. Raphael’s Apostles, with their grand manners and noble 
 gestures, are predecessors that the Vatican might acknowledge. There is 
 a kind of truth in investing the past with something of that dignity which 
 the subsequent course of events has given to it. 
 
 In our day we may see in Raphael too much of the religious painter, 
 because most of his subjects were religious. He was, in fact, a fashionable 
 court painter in an exceptional position. The Court that he served was 
 theocratic. Its King was mysterious and invisible, but represented by a 
 magnificent Viceroy. Its Queen, whom Raphael painted continually, was 
 no longer upon earth, and had not been seen, save in dream or vision, for 
 
chap, xi RAPHAEL’S PRINCIPLE IN BIBLICAL ILLUSTRATION 137 
 
 nearly fifteen hundred years. Its Prince was an ideal Child, long since 
 grown up to manhood and cruelly put to death. The great personages of 
 this royal court were apostles and saints, equally beyond the range of a 
 painter’s study and observation. And yet the courtly aspect of all visible 
 surroundings, and the courtly ideas, were maintained in their full strength 
 by the living and present Viceroy. What wonder, then, if a great stateliness 
 and decorum should have marked all the religious conceptions of a painter 
 in such a situation ? He enjoys the full favour of God’s Vicegerent, and 
 so feels himself nearer than other artists to the splendours of the heavenly 
 throne. The great “ Disputa ” fresco, which represents theologians argu- 
 ing about the Eucharist, was for this court painter a subject as much within 
 his business as a coronation picture for some English Royal Academician. 
 
 The religious art of Raphael is popular mainly in his Madonnas. The 
 interest here is human rather than theological. The secret of Raphael’s 
 success in comparison with that of his predecessors is his combination ol 
 the human sympathy which awakens interest with the ideal grace and 
 charm which excite admiration and give rarity and distinction to a work. 
 All simple and unsophisticated minds must of necessity fall into a harmless 
 illusion about the Madonnas of Raphael. The art is so well concealed, the 
 attitude and expression always so natural, that nature seems entirely 
 predominant ; yet it is not so ; it is art which is predominant in every 
 curve, and it is exactly this artistic element that raises the work into that 
 region of the ideal where art and religion are very easily confounded. It 
 is in this artistic element that the religious sentiment unconsciously finds 
 its account. This is one of those cases, more numerous than is generally 
 supposed, in which artistic idealisation, not being in itself intelligible by 
 the ordinary public, is supposed to have a religious character. What is 
 elevating and impressive in architecture and music is at once taken to be 
 religious if it is only associated with pious feelings by the adoption of some 
 scriptural or saintly title. In like manner an idealised picture of any well- 
 chosen model becomes a Madonna simply by being called so. 
 
 The justification of Raphael lies here, in the ideal character of religion 
 itself ; but the subject is very difficult to discuss, because all ordinary minds 
 take religion literally, and either accept it as a plain matter of fact or else 
 reject it in the same spirit as if it could not be of any use unless its narra- 
 tives were accurate like the best newspaper reporting. A few under- 
 stand that both religion and art belong to the region of the ideal, and that 
 their elevating power is due to their not being matter-of-fact as science and 
 business are. Seen in this light such compositions as the cartoons of 
 Raphael, his Virgins, and his biblical illustrations generally, are, if not 
 
 T 
 
138 RAPHAEL’S PRINCIPLE IN BIBLICAL ILLUSTRATION part hi 
 
 exactly religious, at least very nearly related to religion. They are much 
 more nearly related to it than crude realism ever can be. We do not 
 know whether Raphael himself was religious or not, or to what degree. 
 It is very difficult for us in these days to understand the religion of the 
 Italian Renascence, which embarrasses us by its toleration of worldliness 
 and immorality. Raphael was a man of the world and he kept a mistress ; 
 but whilst indulging so far in the laxity which the age allowed and the 
 Church tolerated, he may still have been a sincere believer in the divinity 
 of Christ and in the august mission of the Apostles. The one principle 
 that Raphael followed in representing them was to invest them with the 
 utmost conceivable dignity, not by the childish device of material magni- 
 ficence, which can never be more than an adjunct, but by making that 
 dignity their own. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF ROMAN CATHOLICISM ON RELIGIOUS ART 
 
 ' I ^ H E vast production of works of art, which for many centuries has 
 been encouraged by the Church of Rome, has given an impression 
 that she is favourable to the fine arts. A close acquaintance with Roman 
 Catholic countries, and a careful observation of the employment of the 
 fine arts for religious purposes, whether in churches or in private houses, 
 leads rather to the following conclusions. 
 
 The Church of Rome is eminently favourable to the production of 
 qiiantity in religious art. Under her auspices there is a vast and incessant 
 production of religious images and pictures. The sacerdotal encourage- 
 ment of the fine arts does not, in itself, go beyond quantity, but as the 
 quantity is enormous, it includes good work as well as bad, and therefore, 
 in this sense, but, not in any other, it may be said that the Church of Rome 
 is the patroness of excellence in art. 
 
 Her influence on religious art may be compared with that of the general 
 demand on secular. It is so comprehensive, it includes so much, that good 
 art gets a chance almost proportionate to the production of it in the world. 
 At the same time, the influence of the Church of Rome is distinctly un- 
 favourable to the improvement of art, because it is undiscerning. She is as 
 impartial as Nature herself, who permits good painting and bad with equal 
 indifference. And as Nature neither protects good w T orks of art by any 
 special interference for their preservation, nor yet destroys them with any 
 spite of vandalism, so the Church of Rome is at the same time an inefficient 
 conservator, and yet free from the reproach of iconoclasm. Pictures are 
 admitted into continental churches, but they are treated with remarkable 
 indifference. They are often hung in situations where it is impossible that 
 they should ever be seen ; their frames are left without regilding, and the 
 canvases abandoned to dinginess and dirt. If the work is an altar-piece, 
 tall candlesticks are likely to be placed before it so as to impede the view, 
 
140 THE INFLUENCE OF ROMAN CATHOLICISM ON ART part hi 
 
 and the smoke of the candles may blacken the painting in time. In the 
 same building with one of the world’s master-pieces may be hung in equal 
 honour or equal neglect a collection of things that would discourage a 
 country auctioneer. It is with painting as with sculpture and architecture, 
 they are matters of necessity in the Church of Rome, and not of choice or 
 taste. She takes the good and the bad together, and finds a use for all. 
 The statues of her saints may be from the chisel of a Michael Angelo, or 
 they may be cheap and gaudy images from the shop of some insignificant 
 tradesman. In the present day she is ready to accept the most cultured 
 art of Paris and the mechanically manufactured pictures for the chemins 
 de croix. 
 
 I have always thought it characteristic of the Church of Rome that she 
 should first have ordered the “Last Supper” of Lionardo da Vinci, and 
 afterwards failed to preserve it. No doubt it was an extreme instance of 
 indifference when the prior of the Dominicans cut a doorway through that 
 picture and amputated the feet of Jesus, but the act was Roman Catholic 
 in this double sense, that there was neither hostility to the work of art nor 
 any care for its preservation. The monks wanted a door there, and made 
 a hole accordingly ; they did not destroy from hostility like the soldiers 
 of Cromwell or the men of the French revolution. When Napoleon’s 
 legionaries stabled their horses in the refectory it is said that, in a spirit of 
 rough jesting, they threw bricks at the heads of the Apostles. Monk or 
 priest would never have done that, but he would have allowed, and in this 
 case actually did allow, any common bungler to paint over them. 
 
 It is a delicate and difficult business to define superstition. We all 
 use the word to describe beliefs in the action of supernatural powers which 
 are held by others, never by ourselves. Amongst these beliefs which to 
 me appear superstitious because I do not share them, is that which attributes 
 magical or miraculous virtues to particular images and pictures. It is 
 probable that most of my readers agree with me in looking upon beliefs of 
 this nature as pure illusions of the imagination, yet they are very prevalent 
 in the Church of Rome, though many Roman Catholics are as superior to 
 them as we ourselves can be. I mention them in this place only to observe 
 that so far from being an encouragement to excellence in the fine arts, 
 they act in a contrary direction by investing with the superiority of sanctity, 
 works that may be destitute of art. 
 
 The case closely resembles that of a special reputation for sanctity in 
 men which has often elevated useless ascetics of a low type of intelligence, 
 and with small energy in action, to a kind of sacred eminence that seems 
 to place them far above the most valuable servants of mankind. Both in 
 
V 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE VIRGIN AND CHILD, ST-. JOHN THE BAPTIST, AND 
 
 AN ANGEL 
 
 Painted by Alessandro Botticelli 
 Reproduced in Photogravure by Boussod and Valadon 
 ( National Gallery') 
 
 This picture is in tempera, on wood. 
 
 It was selected for various reasons, first, as a very perfect study of ex- 
 pression both in the abstracted meditative look of the Virgin, who seems 
 absorbed in thoughts of the future, and then in the tender reverence of the 
 angel, and the humble, affectionate adoration of St. John. It serves also as 
 an illustration of healthy infancy and the most innocent maidenhood. 
 
 Technically, the picture belongs to the early schools of purely linear design ■ 
 and patient representation of detail, but it is relatively advanced art ; this is 
 proved by the full and well-studied modelling. 
 
Photogravure Goupil -Paris 
 

chap, xii THE INFLUENCE OF ROMAN CATHOLICISM ON ART 141 
 
 the cases of the famous saint and the miraculous idol an adventitious quality 
 is supposed to exist which gives them place and permanence by lifting them 
 above the region of rational comparisons. 
 
 A miraculous image is a plague to the eyes for ever. It outlasts the 
 generations of mankind. No potentate dares to destroy a thing that the 
 people believe to be miraculous. Such objects are uniformly bad as works 
 of art ; some of them are hideous dolls, such, for example, as the Black 
 Virgin at Dijon, which is preserved in honour, clothed with cloth of gold, 
 adorned with a Byzantine superabundance of jewellery, and treated, from 
 age to age, as if she were conscious of her greatness. 
 
 The present influence of the Church of Rome is strong in private 
 habitations. She disseminates immense quantities of holy images which, 
 without being reputed miraculous, are still venerated for their subjects 
 though generally valueless as art. In like manner the clergy spread abroad 
 millions of engravings both separately and as illustrations to devotional 
 literature. The prevailing tendency in art of this class is always towards 
 an unmeaning smoothness of execution in the figures. The faces show 
 little individuality of expression, but have a pious air either in the beatitude 
 of the accepted saint or the patience of the suffering martyr. Much labour 
 is bestowed on the execution of elaborate ornamental borders, a practice 
 that has come down from the decorated manuscripts of the Middle Ages. 
 It seems difficult to believe that these feeble productions, which are 
 beneath all serious criticism, can be encouraged by the same great Church 
 which employed and appreciated Michael Angelo, and yet this contrast is 
 only one of many examples of the all-embracing comprehensiveness of that 
 prodigious institution which accepts and utilises everything that can extend 
 her influence. The frescoes of the Sixtine are not more elevated above 
 the common imagerie religieuse than the serious architecture of a great 
 cathedral above the tawdry vulgarity of some new and cheap rustic church. 
 
 The case may be better understood by comparison with another which 
 at first sight seems very different from it. The Protestant Churches give 
 little encouragement to the graphic and plastic arts, but they make great 
 use of literature, and they accept the services of able and inferior writers 
 indiscriminately when both are equally useful in doing good from the 
 religious point of view. If we were asked whether the Protestant Churches 
 were favourable to literature, or not, the answer would be that they are 
 certainly favourable, yet not by selection or by any special encouragement 
 of literary excellence, but simply because amongst such enormous masses 
 of published matter there will always be found the natural proportion of 
 talent, and even of genius. It is only in this very general sense that the 
 
142 THE INFLUENCE OF ROMAN CATHOLICISM ON ART part in 
 
 Church of Rome can now be said to be a nursing mother of art. Her 
 p-reat Popes of the Renascence were men of exceptional gifts and attain- 
 ments that no ecclesiastical rank, however elevated, could of itself confer. 
 They helped art by encouraging the production of the best. The modern 
 Church only helps it by encouraging production generally amongst which 
 the best may be occasionally discoverable. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF PROTESTANTISM ON RELIGIOUS ART 
 
 TT ARLY Protestant iconoclasm was not so much a rebellion against art 
 
 ' as a condemnation of idolatry. In this it confounded the use of 
 sculpture and painting in religious edifices with the worship of images. 
 The use of sculpture might, however, without any such confusion, be for- 
 bidden as a general measure of prudence, and a safeguard against the 
 occasional development of idolatry. Without any narrow-minded intoler- 
 ance of the innocent use of art a Protestant might argue as follows. He 
 might say that although the use of statues in the Church of Rome is in the 
 great majority of cases no more than an innocent help to the imagination, 
 and, in fact, exactly like the fictitious statues of early kings whose portraits 
 we do not possess, there is still a possibility, when such statues are admitted 
 in great numbers, that a few of them here and there may assume, in popular 
 belief, the quality of idols. This really does happen in the Church of Rome 
 whenever one particular image is supposed to have virtues of its own, and 
 to be not merely a representation but a power. To prevent popular 
 aberrations of this kind it may, I think, be reasonably argued that 
 the total exclusion of figure sculpture from churches is not too great a 
 sacrifice. 
 
 Idolatry, in Christian times, is not favourable to the fine arts, because 
 the popular credulity belongs naturally to an uneducated state of mind, and 
 does not attach itself to works of artistic merit. On the other hand, the 
 prudence which excludes all figure sculpture from a dread of idolatry is 
 obviously unfavourable to art, and that which admits secular but not 
 religious art into churches is discouraging to the religious sentiment in art. 
 There are churches in Protestant countries where the ecclesiastical authori- 
 ties would admit the statue of almost any distinguished layman on a monu- 
 ment but not a figure of Christ upon the Cross. In Westminster Abbey 
 how much sculpture commemorates the acts of military officers and how little 
 
144 INFLUENCE OF PROTESTANTISM ON RELIGIOUS ART part in 
 
 glorifies the acts of the Apostles ! That edifice has now become far more a 
 secular museum than a monument of the history of Christianity. 
 
 All lovers of art are naturally opposed to the iconoclast, and they have 
 the better reason on their side that the iconoclast acts under the impulse of 
 indiscriminating anger. Nevertheless, although the first Protestant icono- 
 clasm was an expression of temporary anger, it left an enduring repugnance 
 to certain forms of art in connection with religious services. This repug- 
 nance has greatly varied, not only in degree, but in the remarkable differences 
 of its application. In some Protestant communities it went so far as to 
 banish art altogether, including ecclesiastical architecture and instrumental 
 music. Others admitted not only architecture but even the representation 
 of religious personages in stained glass. In the Church of England, altar- 
 pieces, though rare, are not absolutely excluded, and figure sculpture is 
 admitted, not only in architectural decoration, but behind and above the 
 altar in bas-relief or reredos. The most notable of recent examples, the 
 reredos of St. Paul’s Cathedral, has given rise to a controversy too subtile, 
 perhaps, for laymen to appreciate, from which it appears that sculptured 
 figures forming part of a structural whole are admissible in Anglican 
 churches, but that isolated figures are more objectionable. Even if the con- 
 troversy were settled in this sense, it would still leave room for figure sculp- 
 ture of an advanced and elaborate kind. The Anglican clergy seem willing 
 to accept almost all art that is decorative, whether painted or carved, but 
 they hesitate with regard to that which is representative, and they have 
 always had the good taste to avoid that low and gross realism which appeals 
 to the childish instincts of the most ignorant. It is not in an Anglican 
 church that you would find a carved and painted wooden figure of Christ 
 in a garden of Gethsemane with plants of painted zinc in the calculated 
 obscurity of a side-chapel. 
 
 Whilst Protestantism has greatly discouraged figure art in churches, it 
 has disseminated it in illustrations of the Bible, and in pictures and engrav- 
 ings of sacred subjects for the adornment of private houses. The tendency 
 of Protestantism is far more to encourage the graphic than the plastic arts. 
 Pictures and engravings illustrating the life of Christ are common in Pro- 
 testant communities, but statues are infinitely more rare. The statue seems 
 already half an idol, since a certain possible degree of veneration would turn 
 it into one ; the picture seems more innocent, though the eyes of a painted 
 virgin have been known, it is said, to weep or wink. There is no evidence 
 that any one ever made an idol of an engraving. 
 
 In endeavouring to understand the action of Protestantism upon art we 
 cannot forget that Protestantism is, in its nature, a protest, an antagonism. 
 
chap, xni INFLUENCE OF PROTESTANTISM ON RELIGIOUS ART 145 
 
 The feeling of antagonism is strongest when Protestant communities are 
 in the first heat of their fight for independence ; as they gain a sense of 
 security it gradually declines, and finally, when the power of Rome is no 
 longer dreaded, the Churches independent of her almost forget to protest, 
 and the old spirit of hostility is considered to be in bad taste. The Pro- 
 testant objection to figure art declines along with all other objections to 
 Romish doctrines and practices. It is no longer thought evidence of idola- 
 try in the Romanist that he uses a crucifix or an image of the Virgin as an 
 aid to his religious imagination. The cultivated and refined Protestantism 
 of our day is, in fact, hardly Protestantism at all, for it does not protest. It 
 is a form of Christianity, simpler in its practices than the Roman, yet almost 
 without hostility to Rome. The tendency is rather to minimise than to 
 exaggerate the danger of idolatry, and the time may come when that danger 
 may seem too remote to be taken into consideration. I mean that in such 
 a Church as the Anglican, for example, it may seem utterly unlikely that 
 any one, however ignorant, would attribute miraculous power to a graven 
 image. When the danger of idolatry seems as unreal as that of witchcraft 
 there will remain no valid reason for the exclusion of either the graphic or 
 the plastic arts, which may then be employed in the service of religion as 
 freely and innocently as music and architecture are now. 
 
 One of the consequences of Protestantism has been the transference of 
 sacred art from churches to public galleries, a change of destination quite in 
 harmony with our habit of valuing religious paintings rather for their tech- 
 nical qualities, such as colour and composition, than for their fidelity to the 
 religious ideal. In this way the cartoons of Raphael, instead of being hung 
 in a church or in some suitable chapel, were first preserved in a royal palace 
 and afterwards in a popular museum. When the Ansidei Raphael (the 
 Virgin enthroned) was purchased at great cost by the State, nobody once 
 thought of placing the picture in a church, which would have been its 
 natural destination ; it was hung in a collection where religious and profane 
 pictures are mingled indiscriminately, and where no visitor is expected to 
 maintain a religious frame of mind. In short, religious pictures are con- 
 sidered artistic merchandise like any others, and the visitors to our public 
 collections admire at one moment the attractions of some Venetian beauty, 
 and at another the dignity of the Holy Virgin. 
 
 There may, perhaps, be a special office for Protestantism in the develop- 
 ment of religious art. The Protestant temper, with its desire for simplicity 
 and its dislike to pompous ornament, may encourage a kind of realism quite 
 foreign to the thoughts of Raphael. It may have a confidence in the bare 
 fact, the simple truth, that he did not venture to indulge. Not that it seems 
 
 u 
 
i 4 6 INFLUENCE OF PROTESTANTISM ON RELIGIOUS ART part hi 
 
 a very hopeful enterprise to subordinate religion to realism, for the religious 
 sentiment is much more in harmony with the artistic ideal, and can never 
 feel at ease when tied down rigorously to the positive and the prosaic. At 
 all events, it may be safely predicted that whatever place realistic art may 
 win for itself in picture galleries and private houses, it can never, under any 
 circumstances, be in its proper place in association with public worship. 
 They who meet together for that purpose seek instinctively those great 
 arts, such as architecture, oratory, and music, which have the power to lift 
 them above the petty details of ordinary life. If painting and sculpture are 
 called in as auxiliaries, they ought not to be less inspiring than a mass by 
 Mozart or the architecture of the Sainte Chapelle. All the great arts ought 
 to exercise the same powers in the service of religion, and these indeed are 
 one power only, that of exaltation. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 PROTESTANT ART— REMBRANDT 
 
 'T'HE fundamental principle of Raphael was, as we have seen, to reflect 
 back on the lives of religious personages the posthumous importance 
 they have gained by the worldly success of a magnificent ecclesiastical 
 organisation. For Raphael the Church was first a splendid human hierarchy 
 reaching up to the very gates of Heaven, and the Supreme Pontiff sat 
 enthroned so near to the celestial Court that his own ways of imposing 
 upon the imagination might be supposed to prevail in the region immedi- 
 ately above him. If Raphael did not adorn his Apostles with jewellery and 
 embroidery in the mediaeval fashion, it was only because he knew that their 
 dignity might be better enhanced by draperies that could be made to fall 
 invariably in noble folds. In his partial use of nudity in religious art (as for 
 example the naked arm and chest of Christ in the Charge to Peter, or the 
 four limbs of St. Paul in the scene of his conversion), Raphael was only 
 translating power of another kind into physical power, and a strong arm 
 seemed mightier than a silken sleeve. 
 
 Rembrandt had an entirely different conception of religious history. 
 He took no account whatever of the increment of importance gained by the 
 lapse of time, and by the increase of sacerdotal authority and wealth. The 
 success of the Church as a worldly institution — that social and political 
 success which gives it importance for a man of the world — evidently had 
 not the slightest interest for Rembrandt. On the contrary, he tried to get 
 above the magnificent river to its humble sources on the distant hills ; or, 
 to compare the case with the history of a human family, he made no attempt 
 to ennoble the Church’s ancestors, but tried as he best could to imagine 
 them in their original rank in life. For this way of dealing with his subject 
 Rembrandt was greatly aided by the circumstances of his own social con- 
 dition. He lived amongst people without pretension, kept to his work like 
 any other workman, and saw the humble world around him with a complete- 
 
148 
 
 PROTESTANT ART— REMBRANDT 
 
 PART III 
 
 ness of interest and sympathy that would have been impossible for a courtly, 
 or even for an aristocratic, artist. The sympathies awakened in Rem- 
 brandt’s mind by the constant observation of life around him were easily 
 transferred to the field of artistic and religious imagination. He had few 
 books, but amongst them were a Bible and a translation of Josephus. The 
 Bible he had certainly read well and knew familiarly. Amongst his 
 numerous illustrations of religious subjects it is not possible to mention any 
 that relate to the history of the Church as a sacerdotal institution ; they all 
 relate to biblical history exclusively, and most of them illustrated those 
 biblical incidents which bring religion most directly home to the common 
 people. In a word, the Christianity illustrated by Rembrandt is that which 
 preceded sacerdotalism, and I suppose that every Protestant who reads this 
 will say that such is the kind of Christianity that he desires to believe and to 
 practise. 
 
 A limited life usually gains in strength and intensity from its very 
 limitations. Rembrandt knew his Bible and something of Josephus; his 
 library consisted of these two and seventeen other volumes. There is 
 strong negative evidence in his art that he took but little interest in anything 
 outside of living humanity and his Bible. He hardly ever attempted secular 
 historical painting, and there is not a single instance in the whole range of 
 his performance of anything like that romantic and legendary sense which 
 in our own day has given to poets and painters a sympathy with mediaeval 
 Catholicism. It is probable that his intellect, like others of small literary or 
 critical culture, could have no place for legend unless accepted as true in the 
 most matter-of-fact sense. For the uncultivated a story is true or a lie, a 
 religion is a fact or an imposture, neither tale nor faith is a product of the 
 creative imagination. P'or Rembrandt no religion not literally believed 
 could ever have the imaginative charm it had for the profoundly romantic 
 intellect of Rossetti. The consequence to his art of this simple condition of 
 mind was an intense reality and life. No interpretation of religious subjects 
 has ever possessed more vitality than that of Rembrandt. He carried all his 
 observation of real life into his biblical reading. With his Bible in his hand 
 the world he knew became transformed into the miraculous world of 
 prophets and apostles. In going back sixteen or twenty centuries his mind 
 was not solitary or unattended. He took with him an entire population of 
 keen-witted or simple folks at every stage of human life, from the infant in 
 the arms to the child scrawling thoughtlessly with his finger on the ground, 
 the truant boy fetched home by his parents, the wasteful youth returning 
 after his prodigality, the plain, ordinary-looking young preacher, the acute 
 business-like Jew, the sapient elders, and the weary oldest men and women 
 
CHAP. XIV 
 
 PROTESTANT ART— REMBRANDT 
 
 149 
 
 of all, bent, poverty-stricken, and decrepit. The intensity of Rembrandt’s 
 popular sympathies and his dislike to fine society gave him a great ad- 
 vantage in the illustration of the earliest Christianity which began almost 
 exclusively amongst the poor. A genteel religion was never in Rembrandt’s 
 way ; he had never perceived the advantages of the alliance between the 
 Church and the beau monde. 
 
 It is a Protestant characteristic in Rembrandt to treat accessories of all 
 kinds with a certain carelessness or disdain. This separates him from the 
 whole spirit of mediaeval art in which nineteen-twentieths of the time and 
 labour given are bestowed on matters without any vital importance. Even 
 in Raphael, though his accessories are less elaborate (his art is much 
 simpler as to material than that of the Middle Ages) they are wrought with 
 a sustained attention and a patient care, whether by himself or his assistants, 
 that implies more respect for them than Rembrandt would have considered 
 them to be worth. Raphael never shrank from the repetition of details. 
 In a rough sketch his figures and accessories were treated with equal 
 rapidity and freedom, but whenever Raphael had time to draw the figure 
 carefully he drew furniture with the same care. In the Pitti picture of the 
 Madonna the numerous quatrefoils in the waggon - vault above her are 
 clearly drawn one by one, and so are the separate scallops in the valance 
 hanging from the canopy of the baldacchino. In the “ Expulsion of Helio- 
 dorus from the Temple ” the architecture is all made out as coolly as in an 
 architect’s elevation, the emotion of the exciting scene not having com- 
 municated itself, in the slightest degree, to the hand that designed the arches 
 and pilasters. In Rembrandt all accessories are treated as if the artist did 
 not care to waste much time upon them unless they happen to be in small 
 quantity, like the jewelled scabbard and hilt of Abraham’s dagger in the 
 picture of the “ Sacrifice at the Hermitage.” Rembrandt had ample oppor- 
 tunities for inventing rich architecture if it had interested him, yet nothing 
 is more remarkable in his representation of scenes in the Temple than the 
 poverty of the building itself. In his two etchings of Jesus disputing with 
 the Doctors there is not even a beginning of architectural invention ; the 
 figures are everything, and the little masonry there is serves only to place 
 them on conveniently different levels. A plate that pretends to more 
 architecture is that of “ St. Peter healing the Lame Man at the Beautiful 
 Gate.” Even here we find no architectural beauty or interest, though the 
 subject called for it. The gate has no more adornment than the arch of a 
 common bridge ; the Temple, as seen through it, is a confused mass of 
 barbarous construction ; the columns on each side of the altar are only big 
 rounded posts. There is neither grace of construction nor richness of 
 
PROTESTANT ART— REMBRANDT 
 
 PART III 
 
 150 
 
 detail anywhere in the whole plate. Another well-known etching-, “ Christ 
 driving out the Money-changers,” represents an incident in the Temple 
 itself; but although M. Charles Blanc said, “La scene se passe dans un 
 Temple dont l’ordonnance est riche,” the plain truth is that there are only 
 some vaults and columns very slightly sketched, and not invented with any 
 taste or care. At the best they resemble the architecture of some very 
 ordinary Dutch church. Again, in “The Presentation in the Temple” the 
 building is representatecl by a vacant and gloomy vault, resembling nothing 
 so much as an extensive wine-cellar. If from architecture we pass to 
 costume, w T e find Rembrandt better supplied with materials, but scarcely 
 more archaeological. Vosmaer suggests that Rembrandt got his oriental 
 costumes from the eastern merchants whom he saw at Amsterdam, and 
 from Turkish costumes in books. We know from his portraits of himself 
 that he had a taste for oriental dress. That a nearer approach to archaeo- 
 logical accuracy was unnecessary is proved by our own easy acceptance of 
 Rembrandt’s unlearned orientalism. It is far more satisfying than Gothic 
 or Byzantine bedizenments, and here too we find the influence of Protest- 
 antism which is satisfied with reality, or with its own conception of the 
 past, and does not want to make sacred personages look richer than they 
 really were. If the reader will compare any of Rembrandt’s religious 
 pictures with those Roman Catholic paintings that represent magnificent 
 dignitaries of the Church, he will see how the mind of the Dutch artist had 
 preserved a Protestant homeliness. The very few works of his that show 
 any sense of sacerdotal pomp are imposing rather by nobility of attitude 
 than by the accumulated details of complicated ritualism. Even in the 
 etching called, “The Presentation; in Rembrandt’s dark manner,” one of 
 the rare examples of priestly pomp in the whole production of the master, 
 the immense dignity and importance of the tw T o priests, especially of the 
 one who stands behind, are due more to attitude than to jewels or em- 
 broidery, and the jewels are not painfully imitated, but sketched in the 
 quickest and most summary manner, a sort of execution that says plainly 
 enough, “I do not choose to waste my time over these gewgaws.” In 
 some of his portraits he would paint the pearls of a necklace one by one, to 
 amuse himself and please the lady. 
 
 If the spirit of Rembrandt is easily distinguishable from that of Roman 
 Catholic artists, so, on the other hand (and this too is a mark of Protest- 
 antism), it is outside of the pagan spirit. There was no real sympathy 
 between Rembrandt and classical paganism. He cared nothing about the 
 beauty of the body. PI is Adam is a hideous anticipation of the modern 
 belief in our descent from anthropoid apes. His studies of the nude form 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 f 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
JESUS DISPUTING WITH THE DOCTORS 
 
 Etching by Rembrandt 
 
 Reproduced in Heliogravure by Amand-Durand 
 
 Selected as an example of the indifference of Rembrandt to the decorative 
 richness of accessories and of the concentration of his mind on the human 
 interest of a situation. The sketch is full of dramatic power, and it is not 
 decorative in the least. The boy Jesus keeps his place, in the social sense, 
 whilst he is embarrassing his present superiors in learning' or in the reputation 
 for it. The crowd press listening behind. 
 
 At the same time this plate shows what genuine sketching is. There is 
 abundant evidence in Rembrandt’s work that he could finish with the utmost 
 perfection when he chose, but here he has put down an idea and left it. 
 Genuine sketches do not please people who are not satisfied so long as the 
 joints of every little finger are not accurately drawn, and others are displeased 
 when tones and textures are not carefully made out. For intelligent criticism 
 every work of art is satisfactory if it is consistently conceived and harmonious 
 so far as it goes. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
CHAP. XIV 
 
 PROTESTANT ART— REMBRANDT 
 
 1 5 1 
 
 in woman are utterly without ideality. All his naked figures are inspired 
 by an honest but crude and even vulgar realism. This indifference to the 
 beauty of the body is one of the marks of Protestantism as opposed to the 
 Paganism of antiquity or the Renascence. The reader may test this for 
 himself by considering whether he has ever met with naked statues or 
 pictures of the naked figure in strictly evangelical households, or whether in 
 such households he has ever observed that openly-expressed delight in 
 physical beauty which is common (and in its way perfectly innocent) 
 amongst the Pagans of the present day. In some of Rembrandt’s sketches 
 of the dead Jesus the body is so poor and so devoid of beauty that the con- 
 ception gains in pathos what it lacks in grace. The force of his genius was 
 directed to the representation of action and emotion, which always seem 
 natural in his works, and occasionally the conception is so intense and 
 passionate that the touch of nature abolishes time and distance, and brings 
 us actually into the presence of a patriarch as he gives his blessing, a saint 
 on her deathbed, or a sovereign in his innermost chamber forgetting crown 
 and dignity as he prays to the King of Kings. Rembrandt’s own sense of 
 reality was so strong that when left to himself and not working, as he 
 sometimes did under Italian influences, he failed to idealise when there was 
 an urgent necessity for idealisation. An angel is unavoidably an ideal 
 creature, as no painter has ever painted one from life. Rembrandt had 
 never seen one, and he ought to have imagined the best he could. This 
 he certainly did in the St. Petersburg picture of “ Abraham entertaining 
 Angels,” where the spiritual messengers are represented by human forms 
 not altogether unworthy of them ; but in the well-known etching of the 
 same subject, where the Deity is sitting at table with angels whilst Abraham 
 serves the company, they are like Dutchmen dining in a garden. Still, 
 with all its faults, the religious art of Rembrandt is as consistent as any 
 other, and as acceptable even in the present day to all but the fastidiously 
 critical. It is faithful to its own principle of homely veracity; it is ob- 
 servant of details that are really significant, and disdainful of those that are 
 not. Above all, it is constantly human, as becomes the religion of the 
 Son of Man, and it most precisely follows the example of Jesus himself in 
 never treating the poor, the aged, the infirm, with ridicule, indifference, or 
 contempt. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE EFFECT OF UNBELIEF UPON RELIGIOUS ART 
 
 HTHE attitude of mind which is called in religious language 
 “unbelief” will invariably be found, after sufficient inquiry or 
 analysis, to be equivalent to the rejection of miracle, either partial or 
 complete. And of this attitude of mind we have, all of us, a sufficient 
 experience to enable us to understand it. The best of Protestants 
 disbelieves the numerous miracles by which the Church of Rome, down 
 to the present day, proves the authenticity of her descent from the 
 Apostles, and the most pious Romanist, in his turn, disbelieves the 
 miracles that the zeal of Islam has attributed to Mahomet. Therefore, 
 to the Romanist, Protestantism appears what Deism is to the Protestant, 
 that is, one of the numerous degrees or forms of “ infidelity,” and the 
 Romanist himself, on landing in a Mahometan country, is looked upon 
 and designated as an “ Infidel.” 
 
 All these, however, are but instances of partial unbelief, for the 
 Protestant believes in some miracles, the Romanist and the Mahometan 
 in others. Even the pure Deist believes in the miraculous creation of the 
 universe. In our time “unbelief” takes a still wider signification than the 
 Deism of the last century. It now means the total unbelief in miracles, 
 including the miracle of creation. Modern unbelief, as represented, for 
 example, by Haeckel, includes all the past in the category of the natural, and 
 although there is one great difficulty, the origin of life, the unbeliever in 
 miraculous creation thinks that the beginnings of life were themselves as 
 much natural processes as its continuation. 
 
 It is this complete unbelief in miracle which is especially characteristic of 
 our time. It is extending and increasing, and is now looked upon with so 
 little moral reprobation that a great writer avowed it in the plainest terms, 
 and yet after his death was honourably commemorated by a bust in West- 
 minster Abbey. It is certainly shared by many artists, — indeed, the artistic 
 
chap, xv THE EFFECT OF UNBELIEF UPON RELIGIOUS ART 153 
 
 profession is less religious than most others — possibly because an exercise 
 of the emotions (which is one reason why religion is so valuable in an age 
 of hard material interests) is supplied in a great measure by art itself. 
 Professor Seeley perceived the truth when he observed that the artist seemed 
 irreligious to others because art was his religion, and I may be able to carry 
 that idea a little further than Professor Seeley did, without falling into any 
 exaggeration. He saw that the artist’s ideal included the emotional study 
 of beauty which is an elevating passion, but I think he failed to do justice 
 to the artist on the side of patience in labour and perseverance against 
 difficulties. The artistic professions (including, of course, both music and 
 the art of writing) are followed with a degree of courage very rarely under- 
 stood or appreciated by those who have not practised them, — a courage that 
 would be utterly beyond the strength of human nature, if it were not 
 sustained by that emotional force which always accompanies the true artistic 
 gift. That emotional force is the “sacred fire” without which nothing can 
 be done. It is well known to every artist that without this enthusiasm a 
 student will not have the necessary indomitableness. They who have it not 
 are the weak brethren who faint and fail upon the way. 
 
 Now, by whatsoever name we choose to call it, the emotional force that 
 makes men strive so hard and so long for the attainment of an ideal 
 excellence is so closely allied to religion that the slightest imaginative effort 
 will carry the artist immediately from the one to the other. Unbelief in the 
 literal fact of miracle is therefore a very slight obstacle to the artistic 
 imagination. The modern painter or poet goes back easily to an earlier 
 state of religious feeling. The artistic sense takes pleasure in the archaic, 
 it deeply enjoys a return to the past, it does not coldly turn away from the 
 youth of humanity but recurs to it with fondness. The most cultivated of 
 poets assume a simplicity, even a credulity in verse, that are foreign to their 
 prose. This is because in poetry they are artists, and art is willing to 
 believe, or to dream that it believes. 
 
 Now, with regard to the artists of the past, there have been 
 whisperings of doubt concerning the orthodoxy of some of the greatest, 
 circulated at a time when the accusation of religious heresy was as dangerous 
 and as dishonouring as that of witchcraft. Lionardo was suspected, not of 
 heresy only, but of total unbelief. Vasari printed a statement in his first 
 edition (afterwards omitted) that Lionardo had been led by his studies in 
 natural history “ to conceive such heretical ideas that he did not belong to 
 any religion, but esteemed it better to be a philosopher than a Christian.” 
 His religious pictures have not in the least suffered from his liberty of 
 thought, whatever may have been the degree of it. No one could set about 
 
 x 
 
154 THE EFFECT OF UNBELIEF UPON RELIGIOUS ART part hi 
 
 a religious picture in a more serious or thoughtful temper than his, or take 
 more pains to give adequate dignity to Christ and the Apostles. His Virgins 
 are painted with as complete a respect for the subject as those of any other 
 artist. There is no trace in Lionardo, I will not say of levity, but of that 
 indifference which might be easily attributed to a sceptic. He worked, in 
 fact, with the most scrupulous and reverent care. 
 
 It may be answered that the accusation of unbelief must in this instance 
 have been exaggerated, as Lionardo took the Sacrament on his death-bed. 
 The truth is that we know hardly anything about the real opinions of artists 
 and philosophers who lived in ages when utterance was not permitted, and 
 our ignorance leaves room for the most complete uncertainty even with 
 regard to men who are supposed to be religious. Whatever may be the 
 pretensions of criticism, it is, in practice, quite unable to distinguish between 
 the art that comes from genuine belief and the art that is but the expression 
 of imaginative sympathy with belief. That imaginative sympathy may be 
 complete to such a degree that no dissimulation is necessary on the part of 
 the artist. He is for the moment, to all artistic intents and purposes, a true 
 believer. A good Protestant who has not at times felt himself a Roman 
 Catholic, and even a Mahometan, must be poorly gifted with imagination. 
 Sir Walter Scott was on due occasion as good a Romanist as need be, 
 praying to the Virgin and believing in the Papal Power. Tennyson was 
 at one time a Mahometan : — 
 
 “ When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free 
 In the silken sail of infancy, 
 
 The tide of time flow’d back with me, 
 
 The forward-flowing tide of time ; 
 
 And many a sheeny summer-morn, 
 
 Adown the Tigris I was borne, 
 
 By Bagdat’s shrines of fretted gold, 
 
 High-walled gardens green and old ; 
 
 True Mussulman was I and sworn, 
 
 For it was in the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid.” 
 
 I remember that when George Eliot’s identity with the translator of 
 Strauss and Feuerbach first became known to the public, there were good, 
 honest, simple-minded people who were shocked to think that all the 
 religious parts of Adam Bede were hypocritical make-believe. How hard 
 it is to explain to simple minds that whilst George Eliot was intellectually 
 an unbeliever, her sympathy with the feelings of religious people was 
 absolutely sincere, and her imagination powerful enough for the dramatic 
 expression of such feelings without hypocrisy ! Perhaps I may make this 
 
chap, xv THE EFFECT OF UNBELIEF UPON RELIGIOUS ART 155 
 
 clearer by reference to a religious practice now abandoned by the great 
 majority of English people, that of praying for the dead. Any one with 
 feeling and imagination must understand the profound consolation that there 
 is in a practice which makes it seem possible to be of use to the dead, to do 
 them some good, to send after them into the unknown region beyond the 
 grave, whither no material gift can pass, winged spiritual messengers of 
 earthly loving-kindness, and to believe that still, by the grace of the 
 Almighty, such expression of human love is neither impotent nor wrong ! 
 Now, it is the privilege of artistic expression, whether in literature, painting, 
 or music, that without in any way engaging the conscience of the artist it 
 permits the complete expression of his sympathy ; and whatever may be the 
 unbelief of the future, whether it settles into some form of Deism, or 
 Pantheism, or even darkens into that dreaded Atheism which is now said to 
 be coming upon us like the shadow of an eternal night, there will still be 
 room, in all imaginative natures, for sympathy with every beautiful belief. 
 Nay, there may even be a preference, a regretful preference, for those lost 
 hopes, those saintly ideals and aspirations for which modern science has 
 never one word of encouragement; and we may look back to them wistfully 
 as men whose life is narrowed by impoverished age, look back to the infinite 
 dreams of youth. “ I am not ashamed to confess,” says a modern scientific 
 reasoner, “ that with this virtual negation of God the universe to me has 
 lost its soul of loveliness; and although from henceforth the precept to ‘work 
 while it is day’ will doubtless but gain an intensified force from the terribly 
 intensified meaning of the words that 1 the night cometh when no man can 
 work,’ yet when at times I think, as think at times I must, of the appalling 
 contrast between the hallowed glory of that creed which once was mine and 
 the lonely mystery of existence as now I find it — at such times I shall ever feel 
 it impossible to avoid the sharpest pang of which my nature is susceptible.” 
 The state of feeling expressed in this quotation would be singularly 
 favourable to the production of religious art, for art is the one kind of 
 utterance which permits the fullest expression of feeling without com- 
 prising honesty. The unbeliever cannot pray to Christ, but he may paint 
 the Good Shepherd or the Man of Sorrows ; he recites no litany to 
 the Queen of Heaven, but he may paint the Virgin Mother; the Holy 
 Ghost is not in his creed, yet he may poetically behold and describe 
 that mystic tree — 
 
 “ Within whose secret growth the Dove 
 Is sometimes felt to be. 
 
 While every leaf that His plumes touch 
 Saith His Name audibly.” 
 
156 THE EFFECT OF UNBELIEF UPON RELIGIOUS ART part hi 
 
 We desire to know a little more by legend than a severe criticism 
 permits to us. In this legendary way the western nations associate them- 
 selves with eastern tradition, for did not the three Maries land at last, after 
 the death of Christ, on the far distant coast of Provence ? And did not 
 Joseph of Arimathsea bring the Holy Grail to our own England ? 
 
 “ The cup, the cup itself, from which our Lord 
 Drank at the last sad supper with his own. 
 
 This, from the blessed land of Aromat — 
 
 After the day of darkness, when the dead 
 Went wandering o’er Moriah — the good saint 
 Arimathaean Joseph, journeying brought 
 To Glastonbury, where the winter thorn 
 Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our Lord. 
 
 And there awhile it bode ; and if a man 
 Could touch or see it, he was heal’d at once, 
 
 By faith, of all his ills.” 
 
 There is belief enough here for the purposes of art, and the vividness of 
 the poetic faith is repeatedly proved by the poet’s vision of the “holy 
 thing” on those very rare occasions when it appears to the most pure. 
 Even a creed of this poetical kind contains a strong element of sincerity. 
 The modern thinker is not remote from ancestors who thoroughly believed 
 in supernatural visitations ; he inherits a strong tendency to believe which is 
 checked by scientific severity concerning evidence. This severity can only 
 be agreeable to the most disciplined intellects, and it is agreeable even 
 to them only in their hours of self-restraint. Poetry and painting come 
 to them as a deliverance from science, and from the terrible absolutism of 
 regularity that pervades all natural law. They give liberty to the imagina- 
 tion, and the most frequent use that it makes of this liberty is to fly back 
 instinctively to an earlier time and make itself young again. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 RELIGIOUS ART FROM LIFE 
 
 T N this chapter I shall endeavour to establish a distinction between two 
 departments of religious art, one of which is never founded on the 
 observation of life, whilst the other always is. 
 
 In all the roll of distinguished artists who have illustrated religious 
 subjects, it is not possible to name a single painter who has witnessed, for 
 example, the effect of a miracle on a crowd. Miracles, and the effects of 
 miracles, can only be painted from imagination. They are always distant 
 from us in place or time, or in both, and they are never announced before- 
 hand, so that an artist might be prepared to observe them as astronomers 
 are for predicted astronomical events. They never occur in great capitals, 
 which are the modern seats of the fine arts. 
 
 The interest that belongs to representations of events that the artist 
 can have had no opportunity of watching with his own eyes, must either be 
 ideal or purely technical. Some recent attempts have been made to give 
 reality to the past by the intentional anachronism of modern costume, as in 
 certain pictures by Edelfelt, Skredsvig, and others, illustrating the life of 
 Christ, but this device is unsatisfactory, as we feel that it does nothing for 
 the ideal, or for veracity either. 
 
 After what has been said in the preceding chapter about the sufficiency 
 of an imaginative belief, it may seem almost superfluous to regret that the 
 painter cannot have the authority of an eye-witness, but there is in the 
 popular mind a desire for veracity which happens now to agree with the 
 scientific temper of the more instructed. We should all of us like historical 
 painting to be faithful, and much religious painting would acquire a novel 
 interest if it could be made truly historical. As the absence of authentic 
 portraits, and the want of opportunities, makes this kind of accuracy un- 
 attainable, religious pictures have no serious interest as representations of 
 events that happened, or are believed to have happened, in the past. The 
 
1 5 8 
 
 RELIGIOUS ART FROM LIFE 
 
 PART III 
 
 best of them hold their place in our own day by their technical merits rather 
 than by the interest of the subject or any supposed veracity in its repre- 
 sentation. If the reader objects that I am placing art on a low ground when 
 referring to this kind of fidelity, I can only answer that it is in human nature 
 to like a representation to be true, and that there is a wish to be able to 
 believe the painter even in times of the most searching criticism, though in 
 such times (and we live in them) it becomes increasingly difficult to do so. 
 
 Is there, then, any kind of religious painting that may be unquestionably 
 accepted as true ? 
 
 Yes, there is the representation of genuine religious emotion, observed 
 in actual life. The art that deals exclusively with this does not offer so 
 wide a field for the imagination as that which takes for its province all the 
 true or legendary past, but it requires delicate and complete sympathy, and 
 the influence of it may be most favourable to the culture of the sincerest 
 religious feeling, both in artists and in the public. 
 
 A large class of pictures, both in England and on the Continent, 
 illustrate prayer ; and in Protestant countries the reading of the Bible affords 
 an excellent subject from the grouping of the household around a common 
 centre, as in the “ Cottar’s Saturday Night,” so often illustrated, when 
 
 “ The sire turns o’er, wi’ patriarchal grace 
 The big ha’-bible, ance his father’s pride.” 
 
 The solitary bible-reading of a lonely old shepherd in the Highlands 
 is an excellent subject of the same class, having an element of pathos in 
 the solitude itself, and in the recourse to the religious ideal amidst the 
 poor surroundings of a very hard reality. Even after death, the signs of 
 religious faith may give a kind of hallowed interest. An old Scotch grand- 
 mother is lying dead, and the Bible is shut, with her spectacles in it where 
 she was reading yesterday for the last time. In a French cottage there is 
 the little “chapel,” the tiny altar against the wall, with its plaster image and 
 cheap vases filled with common flowers. 
 
 Amongst modern artists M. Legros has been especially successful in the 
 expression of the religious frame of mind, which he has carefully studied 
 in rustic French churches. That the expression of humble piety may be 
 dissociated as far as possible from the things of this world, Legros avoids 
 wealth, luxury, and intelligence, putting his whole force into the expression 
 of patience, meekness, and a wistful yearning for that which the world 
 cannot give. 
 
 Some other French artists have imposed upon themselves the much 
 more difficult task of making the fashionable and worldly lady look truly 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . • 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 • . -i 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
AN EPISCOPAL PROCESSION AT SANTIAGO 
 
 Drawn by Daniel Vierge 
 Reproduced in Heliogravure by P. Dujardin 
 
 An original drawing done from recollection of the actual scene. 
 
 This is not the entire drawing. 1 had it first completely reproduced, but 
 the figures, by reduction, were too minute to be easily distinguished, so the 
 most important part was chosen and limited by the artist and myself 
 together. 
 
 The drawing is inserted as an example of the most modern work with 
 the pen executed on purpose for reproduction. In this particular intention it 
 differs from all drawings by the old masters. In the original the broad blacks 
 were added with a brush charged with Indian ink more or less diluted. 
 Their true values are preserved in heliogravure, which has also given the 
 lines accurately. 
 
 Work of this kind unites some of the qualities of etching with some 
 qualities of woodcut. 
 
 Daniel Vierge is a Spanish artist, his real name being Urrabieta. He 
 has had more influence than any other artist on modern drawing for purposes 
 of illustration, and is unquestionably a rare genius. 
 
CHAP. XVI 
 
 RELIGIOUS ART FROM LIFE 
 
 159 
 
 instead of conventionally pious. This can only be accomplished by making 
 her unconscious of her fine clothes, and praying side by side with the poor, 
 and on a cheap rush-bottomed prie-dieu, not more luxurious than theirs. 
 When Christian equality before heaven is expressed in this manner with 
 perfect tact, the subject may have an interest of its own. The humility of 
 the poor seems only natural, but when that religious virtue is found in the 
 luxurious classes the power of religion seems enhanced. 
 
 The artistic value of religious sentiment and practices has been curiously 
 demonstrated by the celebrity of Millet’s “Angelus.” Apart from its 
 religious sentiment there is very little in that picture. The composition is 
 exactly what a child would be likely to invent, the landscape consists of a 
 large flat potato-field with a commonplace village on the horizon, the figures 
 are ugly, without even any rustic distinction or grace of attitude, the acces- 
 sories uninteresting and commonplace. The picture is quite without beauty 
 of any kind, except that the colour is better than in some other works by the 
 same artist. On the other hand, this picture is one of the best examples of 
 religious realism in existence. It is quite in harmony with the modern spirit, 
 because it expresses nothing that we cannot easily believe. There are no 
 angels flying about, with wings impossibly glued on behind the shoulder- 
 blades, there are no levitated saints, nor is there any attempt to make 
 portraits of unknown faces. The artist paints his own time and puts his 
 whole force into the expression of a perfectly genuine sentiment. Our sense 
 of the genuineness of the sentiment is only enhanced by the calculated 
 poverty in everything else. Towards the close of a long day of labour these 
 two poor people hear the evening bell, and they pause, as they stand, for 
 prayer, he, reverently, with head uncovered, she bending forward with 
 joined hands. It is the poetry of the religious ideal touching softly, like the 
 evening light, the hard, prosaic existence of the poor . 1 
 
 Before the monks were expelled from the monastery of La Pierre qui 
 Vire , it was their custom not merely to pause but actually to kneel at the 
 sound of the Angelus, as described in my novel of Wenderholme. 
 
 “ The monk promised to lead the Colonel to Philip Stanburne. They 
 passed along wild paths cut in the rock and the forest, with rudely carved 
 
 1 It has been affirmed, with reference to the choice of this subject, that Millet took it, not from 
 reality, but from his own imagination, that as a matter of fact peasants do not pray in the fields 
 when they hear the Angelus. The custom, however, is still quite sufficiently prevalent to authorise 
 a painter in the illustration of it. The peasants in the Autunois pray, or do not pray, when they 
 hear the evening bell, according to the degree of their religious belief. When it is strong and intact, 
 they do not fail to pray, and the most pious kneel. When the belief is only half-belief, they pay 
 little or no attention. The Angelus is the evening bell, sounded, not according to the hour, but in 
 the gloaming. The name is from the first word in Angelus Domini nuntiavit Marice. 
 
i6o 
 
 RELIGIOUS ART FROM LIFE 
 
 PART III 
 
 bas-reliefs of the chief scenes of the Passion erected at stated distances. 
 They saw many monks engaged in the most laborious manual occupations ; 
 some were washing linen in the clear river ; others were road-making, with 
 picks and wheel-barrows ; others were hard at work as masons, building the 
 walls of some future portion of the monastery, or the enclosures of its fields. 
 All worked and were silent, not even looking at the strangers as they 
 passed. At length the three came to a little wood, and, having passed 
 through the wood, to a small field on the steep slope of a hill. In the field 
 two men were ploughing in their monastic dress with a pair of white oxen. 
 
 “Suddenly the Angelus rang from the belfry of the monastery, and its 
 clear tones filled the quiet valley where these monks had made their home. 
 All the monks heard it, and all who heard it fell instantaneously on their 
 knees in the midst of their labour, wherever they might happen to be. The 
 masons dropped their stones and trowels, the washermen prayed with the 
 wet linen still in their grasp, the ploughman knelt between the handles of 
 his plough, and the driver with the goad in his right hand. The Colonel’s 
 guide dropped upon the ploughed earth, and prayed. All in the valley 
 prayed.” 
 
 Plere, as it seems to me, is an excellent subject for a religious picture of 
 the most modern kind, in which the religious sentiment may be very power- 
 fully expressed without a single incredible circumstance. 
 
MAN IN ART 
 
 PART IV 
 
 HISTORY AND REVIVALS 
 
 Y 
 

CHAPTER I 
 
 THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 'PHE subject of this chapter could not be stated in the limited space 
 -*■ of a title. We all of us believe or imagine something about the 
 origin of the human race. Do our beliefs on this subject affect the 
 representation of man in the fine arts ? Are they likely to favour or to 
 discourage the pursuit of the artistic ideal ? These are the questions that 
 I shall endeavour to answer in this chapter, the title being no more than 
 a suggestion or indication. 
 
 Let me first endeavour to state quite fairly the two great leading beliefs 
 that divide European opinion between them. The first, perhaps, may be 
 but rarely held at the present date in that absolute completeness which 
 was almost universal in the first half of the nineteenth century ; but there 
 is so much difficulty in ascertaining the exact shades of contemporary 
 beliefs, and so much delicacy, as well as knowledge, would be needed to 
 state each of them in a manner likely to give perfect satisfaction to the 
 holder, that I renounce the attempt as beyond the range of a treatise on 
 the fine arts. What I call “the old belief” is that which was held, or at 
 least professed, by all authoritative teachers in the time of my youth, and 
 received without question by all women and by an overwhelming majority of 
 men. On reference to one of my own schoolbooks I find a clear statement 
 that the world was created four thousand and four years before the birth 
 of Christ. Five days later the first man was made from the dust of the 
 earth and miraculously endowed with the power of language ; then a 
 woman was made from one of his ribs, and she had the same gift. 
 
 The essentials of this belief that concern the fine arts are — first, that 
 man was formed by the Creator as a perfect human being, or at least as 
 a perfect body, for the breath of life was breathed into him afterwards. 
 He was not an improvement upon some previous form, being made from 
 “the dust of the ground.” The idea of creation as received by all of us 
 from the most ancient books is not that of sudden magic, but of contrivance 
 
1 6 4 
 
 THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 PART IV 
 
 and execution — the execution, though inconceivably rapid, being still work , 
 resembling human work in being perfectly distinct from rest, and distinct 
 also from unceasing natural action, such as the equable motion of a planet. 
 The first man is therefore not what we call a natural product, but a piece 
 of divine art ; and however much his descendants may have deviated or 
 degenerated, we cannot for a moment suppose that he himself, as God’s 
 own handiwork, could be anything less than a type of physical perfection. 
 As to intellectual acumen, the case is not the same, since intellectual acumen 
 requires the prolonged experience of a populous and contentious world. 
 We therefore imagine that Adam must have been as superior physically to 
 Voltaire as he was inferior to him in intelligence. Eve, too, is a special 
 work of the Creator, who removed one of Adam’s ribs and used it as 
 material out of which He fashioned a woman, as an artist models in wax. 
 We naturally suppose that a woman made in this direct manner by the 
 Divine Artist would be pre-eminently beautiful. 
 
 And this physical aspect of the matter is not all. The Creator cares 
 for Adam and Eve, and places them in the garden of Eden, where He 
 visits them personally, warning them, and showing a direct interest in 
 them as individuals. It is true that He punishes them, but that is a proof 
 of personal concern. The Creator in Genesis is not a God who makes a 
 world to abandon it ever afterwards to blind and pitiless natural laws, or to 
 the regime of pure accident. This gives a certain dignity to Adam and 
 Eve in the time of their disaster. They are expelled from Paradise by a 
 special divine decree, and the gate is guarded, not by some savage animal, 
 but by an appointed angelic sentinel, armed with a flaming sword. 
 
 Now in all this conception of the origin of man there is, from first to 
 last, nothing that is unfavourable to art, and much that is in the highest 
 degree interesting and available from the artistic point of view. The 
 biblical narrative is at the same time exactly adapted to the apprehension 
 of primitive minds, and welcome, in another way, to the poetic sense of the 
 most cultivated intellects. It was perfectly acceptable, at least as a poetic 
 motive, to a mind with the splendid gifts and the extensive culture of 
 Milton ; and although for Shelley it was not credible in the matter-of-fact 
 sense, it largely satisfied the needs of his imaginative nature. The secret 
 of the charm is that the story of a lost paradise does not need to be literally 
 true. Dead hopes and past activities are lost paradises, and few of us 
 reach ripe age without having been expelled, not by a punishing Deity, 
 but by anonymous forces equally irresistible. And when we have once 
 been expelled, the gate is guarded against us so efficiently that there is no 
 need of a flaming sword. 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 165 
 
 If we turn now to contemporary beliefs about the origin of man, we find, 
 in the first place, no assurance of a date. Instead of the agreeable fixity of 
 4004 b.c. we have nothing behind us but an infinity of time. It is like 
 being lost in the abyss of space beyond the confines of the sidereal universe. 
 We have nothing fixed to measure from. Our scientific guides can only 
 tell us that by transitions so gradual that there is no fixing of definite 
 epochs, the human race, as we know it, has emerged from some inferior 
 stage of existence which was itself an improvement on an earlier stage that 
 preceded it, and so going back from lower to lower, a true history of man- 
 kind, if such could be written, would lead, they say, to some primitive and 
 very simple form of life. From the artistic point of view this is inferior to 
 the old explanation, because it gives no reason for supposing that primitive 
 human beings possessed physical perfection. On the contrary, the scientific 
 opinion is that men and women have risen to better forms instead of falling 
 towards inferior ones. Science no more laments a loss of beauty than it 
 tells of a lost paradise. In the picture entitled “ B.C.” by Mr. Watts, repre- 
 senting a prehistoric man making a gastronomic experiment with the first 
 oyster, his wife curiously looking on, both figures are intentionally repre- 
 sented as of a comparatively low type that has still much progress to make 
 before it attains even the perfection that we see in living men and women, 
 not to speak of the classical ideal. That picture is an interesting result of 
 the reversal of our notions about our ancestors which has been accomplished 
 by scientific investigation. In former times painters looked back to the 
 past as a time of perfection, Man having naturally been at his best when 
 fresh from the hand of his Maker, for are not made things best when new ? 
 
 There was also a feeling, prevalent though unexpressed, that creatures 
 which came into the world by birth, according to the ordinary processes of 
 nature, might be God’s work in a general sense, but were not each of them 
 specially made by God as Adam and Eve were made. People thought of 
 deformed children as misshapen by some physical mischance affecting them 
 before their birth, but nobody imagined the Deity deliberately setting to 
 work to make a deformed child purposely in order that it might have a 
 miserable life, neither did any one suppose that the Creator made deformed 
 children from temporary inability to do better. The new views of the origin 
 of mankind do not, therefore, very sensibly affect our opinion of the men and 
 women we see around us. The strongest supporters of divine creation see 
 glaring defects in the organisation of men and often make them a subject of 
 ridicule, whilst no one who wanted to sell a horse would venture upon the 
 argument that the animal must be perfect because an infallible Creator made 
 him. We all look to breeding, to descent, and to what we call accident, as 
 
1 66 
 
 THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 PART IV 
 
 the causes of the defects that we see in animal organisation, so that there is 
 no perceptible difference, in judging these defects, between the most ancient 
 and the most recent ways of thinking. The essential difference goes much 
 further back. According to what our forefathers believed, God acted 
 directly at certain ascertainable and comparatively recent dates, whereas 
 according to the modern theory of natural creation there has never been 
 any more direct or personal intervention of a Deity than that which we are 
 able (or unable) to detect in the breeding of animals at the present day. 
 
 So far as the interest of this question is purely historical or scientific, it 
 does not concern our subject, but it is artistic also. The old belief gave 
 birth not only to the magnificent poem of Milton, but to many other poems, 
 and to an innumerable progeny of works in painting and sculpture. The 
 question is whether anything equivalent to these could have been suggested 
 by the modern theory of evolution, and the answer can only be a decided 
 negative. I am far from denying that the scientific theory offers a vast 
 field for the imagination, but the defect of it is that it offers nothing definite, 
 no definite human action, and no divine action whatever. Instead of Adam 
 and Eve in Paradise and God walking in the garden in the cool of the day, 
 instead of a conversation between Man and his Maker, science only tells us 
 of incalculable ages of savage life before the birth of civilisation, savagery 
 lower and lower as we go further into the unrecorded past, till finally our 
 ancestors are not even human, but have the manners and customs of the 
 gorilla or the chimpanzee. In this unlimited past of inferior and ever inferior 
 existence there is nothing for art to celebrate with any pleasure or any pride. 
 There is indeed a vast field of most pitiful interest, but there are no persons 
 any more than amongst fishes, nor any events that can be more definitely 
 fixed upon than the impact of nameless icebergs in an unvisited polar sea. 
 Man, in those early times, went to his grave without name, fame, or record. 
 The subject is not inspiring. No Milton will ever tell in majestic verse the 
 wretched struggle for bare subsistence and the suffering from hardships of 
 climate, and the undignified, unheroic bloodshed, which filled up the miser- 
 able days of prehistoric Man. Neither is his condition much better when 
 he first emerges into the light of the written chronicle. “ I know no study,” 
 says Professor Huxley, “which is so unutterably saddening as that of the 
 evolution of humanity, as it is set forth in the annals of history. Out of the 
 darkness of prehistoric ages man emerges with the marks of his lowly 
 origin strong upon him. He is a brute, only more intelligent than the other 
 brutes ; a blind prey to impulses which as often as not lead him to destruc- 
 tion ; a victim to endless illusions, which make his mental existence a terror 
 and a burden, and fill his physical life with barren toil and battle.” 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ' _ . • ■ :\d ■. ■ - { ; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ABEL DEAD 
 
 Drawn by Camille Bellanger 
 Reproduced in Heliogravure by P. Dujardin 
 
 This is a study for a well-known picture in the Luxembourg. 
 
 In selecting an illustration of death I was anxious to avoid the horrible 
 and the ugly ; and the consequence is, that I have chosen a drawing which 
 may be quite true as a representation of death, but which gives only what (so 
 far as outward appearances are concerned) it has in common with sleep. I 
 have certainly seen peasants asleep, under the shadow of a tree in a harvest- 
 field, exactly in this attitude. The attitude of a dead man (until the body has 
 been put in order, according to the tastes of the living) has usually some 
 peculiarity which is entirely unexpected. My impression is that this study 
 was not taken from a corpse, but from a living model acting death under the 
 direction of the artist. If it was really from a dead body that body was 
 arranged purposely, as we here see it. 
 
 However this may be, death and sleep are so nearly allied that in some 
 religious communities the accepted expression in announcing a death is “ our 
 dear brother fell asleep in Jesus,” and poets have called death a “sleep” in 
 every age and country. So this drawing answers to the ideal view of the 
 subject. 
 
SKwSg&j 
 
 'M IK; ■■ 
 
 mmm 
 
 
 |Kll» 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 167 
 
 Painting, like poetry, requires some aliment for the imagination, and the 
 past history of the human race, as science tells it, is too miserably mean 
 and barren. There is but one element in savage life that is admirable for 
 us, the endurance of hardship, but that is painful when prolonged. The 
 imagination wants to be stimulated by tales of ancestors grander and nobler 
 than ourselves, and instead of this the condition of humanity gets worse and 
 worse as we penetrate further into the past. On behalf of science the 
 answer may be made that a clearer knowledge of the past makes no differ- 
 ence whatever in the present condition of Man, that he is what he is, and 
 that the discovery of his descent from Gods or from animals could not affect 
 the reality of his present condition. It may even be argued that the 
 scientific view is more hopeful than any other, since it tells of a marvellous 
 progress already accomplished, and so gives reasonable ground of hope for 
 an unimaginable improvement in the future. It may also be readily shown 
 that the dread of a low origin for the human race is illogically derived from 
 the feelings of a family which likes to be well descended, so that it may have 
 a superiority over other families in its neighbourhood and be respected by 
 them ; but it is obvious that the analogy fails when the whole human race is 
 in question, seeing that, as a race, we have no external admirers but the 
 lower animals, and these respect nothing in us but our powers of reward 
 and punishment. 
 
 These arguments in favour of scientific views, and the one overwhelming 
 unanswerable argument that the object of science is not what is agreeable 
 but what is true, may settle the question so far as literature is concerned. 
 It is indeed too late to write a Paradise Lost when Paradise is lost in a far 
 deeper and wider sense — lost, not to one man and one woman, but to the 
 imaginative memory of mankind. Still, though literature may accept the 
 scientific view, and may even find in the vastness of the antiquity now 
 opened behind us a sublimity compensating in some degree for the vanishing 
 of the archangels and the ever-increasing remoteness of their Lord, it is 
 impossible that the arts of painting and sculpture should contentedly replace 
 Paradise by a primeval forest, and “ our first parents ” by a horde of anthro- 
 poid apes. These arts have still the resource of feigned or fictitious belief, 
 and it is there that they will take refuge. Their subjects, if chosen from the 
 early history of the race, will either be treated on the sternly realistic prin- 
 ciple, if the artist takes a bitter pleasure in exhibiting the unpleasant aspects 
 of things ; or else, if he shrinks from that, they may be idealised so as to 
 make beautiful works of art with handsome human bodies showing against 
 a background of leaves and flowers. A good example of realism is M. 
 Cormon’s picture of “Cain,” at present in the gallery of the Luxembourg. 
 
1 68 
 
 THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 PART IV 
 
 It is an illustration of travelling in prehistoric times. An old man (who 
 may be Cain or any other) wanders through a country as yet uninhabited at 
 the head of his family and folk. They have the rudest and most primitive 
 means of transport, even the most elementary wheeled conveyance not 
 being as yet invented, and they do not appear to have subjugated animals 
 for burden. They are tramping from one nameless place to another name- 
 less place over the roadless, unmeasured earth. This is the true pathos of 
 the distant past. In a work of this class there is no idealisation of form, 
 neither is there any attempt to lend a charm to the picture which must have 
 been lacking to the reality, but there is a field for great vigour of conception 
 and execution, and there is nothing to prevent excellence in composition. 
 M. Cormon’s picture, which is on a very large scale, is executed with a kind 
 of rudeness very much in harmony with the absence of all soft civilisation in 
 the subject. On the contrary, when the motive of a design is pleasantly 
 ideal, as, for example, the innocent, beautiful life of the first human pair in 
 Paradise, it is natural that the painting should be refined and delicate. So 
 it is in the picture of Adam and Eve by Palma Vecchio, in the Brunswick 
 Museum, in which the forms and attitudes of the nude figures are as graceful 
 as possible, and the colouring very rich and mellow, with that kind of 
 amenity in execution which makes painting acceptable for itself . 1 
 
 The belief that Man has an animal origin might affect the pursuit of the 
 ideal in one of two opposite ways. It might, in some minds, discourage it 
 altogether, and induce them to content themselves with a low interpretation 
 of human forms as but little above the brute. In others, on the contrary, 
 the very knowledge of the close connection between human and brute form 
 might lead to a more emphatic representation of those qualities which are 
 furthest from the lower animals. For example, in certain faces there are 
 still very striking simian characteristics. A man may have eyes placed like 
 a monkey’s eyes, and with an expression startling by its resemblance to the 
 quick and cunning look of a baboon ; or he may have a low, retreating fore- 
 head and a prognathous jaw, reminding one forcibly of a gorilla. In dealing 
 with human beings of this unfortunate class, who preserve in themselves but 
 too plainly a record of “ the descent of Man,” the artist with a keen zest for 
 what is characteristic might be tempted to insist upon, and even exaggerate, 
 the signs indicating a survival of the brutish nature ; whilst, on the contrary, 
 the artist who looks for what is most human and most advanced in humanity 
 
 1 “ La carnation est ambree et doree, surtout dans la personne d’Adam ; le ton est un peu plus 
 delicat dans le corps d’Eve. Les figures se detachent en lumi^re avec leurs ombres moelleuses et 
 mysterieuses contre le feuillage du fond.”- — Vosmaer. This picture has been beautifully engraved 
 by Unger. 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 1 69 
 
 will avoid the simian characteristics when he meets with them, and seek 
 always for the highest beauty. One matter deserves notice in connection 
 with this subject, as a curious indication of the desire common amongst 
 artists to elevate man as much as possible above the brutish level. Man is 
 often represented without clothes, and in pictures of the nude he is invari- 
 ably painted as a hairless animal. He is, no doubt, much less hairy than a 
 gorilla, but when artists represent him as hairless they are idealising by the 
 suppression of a brutish characteristic. The fact is that the hairiness of men 
 differs greatly with different races, and also with different individuals. 
 Europeans are a hairy race, and many of them have thick hair on the 
 breast, on the shoulders, under the armpits, and on the arms and legs, so 
 that when the man is dark he is blackened by his hair, though not equally 
 nor all over. The tacit consent of artists to omit this and paint the skin 
 only (what artists call “ flesh ’’) may have been simply a matter of taste, but 
 it is difficult to avoid the inference that they have been guided by an 
 instinctive repugnance to hairiness as a mark of kinship with the brute. 
 Darwin looked upon this hairiness as probably due to a partial reversion to 
 an earlier stage of existence. Elsewhere he said, “ There can be little 
 doubt that the hairs thus scattered over the body are the rudiments of the 
 uniform hairy coat of the lower animals.” He observed also that “idiots 
 are often very hairy,” and that “they are apt to revert in other characters 
 to a lower animal type.” 
 
 The dominant tendency of the fine arts is to look forward to a higher 
 development of man, especially in physical form. It is possible that this 
 utterance in art and literature of the human desire for a better and more 
 noble condition may be the foreshadowing of a future realisation in life 
 itself. In the literature of the past we find frequent expression of the 
 human longing to overcome impediments of space and time by rapid travel 
 and the instantaneous communication of thought, a longing which is now 
 most amply satisfied. In social matters the dissatisfaction with what was 
 then the present, which animated most of the considerable thinkers of the 
 eighteenth century, has been followed by a partial realisation of their dreams. 
 I am optimist enough to believe that what are called ideals may be in many 
 cases an anticipation of a future reality. All literature of the higher kind 
 represents stronger and nobler thinking than that which is now common in 
 human intercourse ; perhaps this may be an anticipation of a future when 
 people will think more vigorously and express themselves more clearly and 
 eloquently than they do now. We have only to suppose an improvement 
 in the constitution of the brain for such an advance to be actually realised. 
 And as to those ideals of bodily form which sculptors and painters set before 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 PART IV 
 
 170 
 
 us, we have but to imagine, as a consequence of wiser living, a steady 
 physical improvement during Nature’s great spaces of time for such ideals 
 to be equalled in living men. The main difference, then, between a scientific 
 and a pre-scientific age is likely to be that, whilst the pre-scientific mind 
 looked to the past for its ideals, or imagined them as belonging to the past, 
 a scientific age will look to the future and have the inspiration of hope 
 rather than that of a frequently delusive retrospect. Or, if the artists of the 
 future look to the past, still it will be in the purely poetical spirit which in 
 our own day has led the most famous poets of the age to choose their sub- 
 jects in antique or mediaeval history or legend. In short, there is but little 
 reason to apprehend that the Darwinian account of the Descent of Man, 
 however generally accepted, can have much practical effect upon the fine 
 arts, which will naturally try to embody some kind of ideal, whether it be 
 suggested by a poetical interest in the legendary past or by a scientific hope 
 for the illimitable future. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE ALLIANCE BETWEEN ART AND ARCHAEOLOGY 
 
 HESE two pursuits are in their nature entirely distinct. It is possible 
 
 to be a great artist without knowing anything accurately about the 
 past, and we have evidence in the life and work of many contemporaries 
 that a high degree of archaeological learning is compatible, not only with 
 practical incapacity in art, but even with a complete want of critical under- 
 standing of the artistic aspects of things, so that the archaeologist may be as 
 remote, in reality, from art as if he were a civil engineer, though he 
 frequently concerns himself with architecture, sculpture, and various kinds 
 of graphic art, especially mural painting, illustration, and gem-engraving. 
 Archaeology is a pursuit by itself like law, and as a lawyer may be con- 
 cerned in cases relating to the sale of pictures which involve questions of 
 date and authenticity, so the archaeologist has frequently to take cognisance 
 of things which happen to be works of art, but the interest of them, for him, 
 is in the degree of light which they happen accidentally to throw upon the 
 dates of past events, or the manners and customs of our ancestors. 
 
 I wish to establish this distinction clearly, because this is one of those 
 cases in which there is an almost inevitable confusion of interests and 
 purposes. I have known a certain number of archaeologists, and I happen 
 to have lived for many years in a neighbourhood where archaeology is the 
 prevalent pursuit amongst intelligent men. It happens, too, that I have a 
 turn that way myself strong enough to give me a quite unaffected interest in 
 the discoveries of specialists, and to establish between them and me the 
 kind of sympathy which exists between those who know and one who is 
 willing to learn. Now, I remember an English archaeologist, no longer 
 living, who used to maintain the thesis that as each period of history had its 
 own forms of art, it was wrong to attempt any revival. His desire was for 
 each epoch to keep its mark, and this seems reasonable till we come to the 
 application. The domestic architecture and the furniture of that time were 
 
172 
 
 ART AND ARCHAEOLOGY 
 
 PART IV 
 
 both at the lowest possible ebb. There was no idea prevalent but those of 
 physical comfort and material convenience. Art, in the higher sense, was 
 simply dead. The somewhat barbaric richness of the Elizabethan and 
 Jacobean ages was in the remote past, the meagre yet harmonious elegance 
 of Queen Anne’s time was almost equally far from the heavy and stupid 
 present. And yet it was proposed, and by an archseologist, to maintain that 
 present in its dulness, and to learn nothing from the artists and workmen of 
 more inventive and intelligent ages. The truth was that my friend looked 
 upon all modern carved oak, for example, as a counterfeit. He would buy 
 a carved cabinet if it were three hundred years old, but his idea was that as 
 the art of carving in oak belonged to a past epoch the attempt to revive it 
 in our time was no better than a kind of forgery. Here we have an 
 instance of the archaeological instinct jealous for the past and willing, rather, 
 that an art should be completely dead than that it should live in rivalry 
 with its own earlier productions. But, from the artistic point of view, if a 
 work has good qualities of design and execution the date of it is a matter of 
 indifference, and an artist is always willing to learn from the past, and to 
 adopt old methods if they are excellent. The best modern sculpture, that 
 of the French school, is founded avowedly on that of ancient Greece. 
 Sculpture is a revived art, etching is a revived art, architecture is a revived 
 art. Even literature itself owes most of its present clearness and method to 
 the revival of classical studies at the Renascence. In a word, from the 
 artistic point of view, all human effort seems to take place rather in one 
 great continuous present, than with that sharp distinction between past and 
 present which prevails in the mind of an archaeologist. In the artistic sense 
 the ancient Greeks are much nearer to us than the ancient Britons. The 
 revival of etching has put many of us in such perfect sympathy with Rem- 
 brandt that he seems almost to be living amongst us. 
 
 Now, suppose the artistic and archaeological instincts to be united in the 
 same person, what must be the consequences of the union ? The archaeo- 
 logist has his special interest in the past which must give him a keen 
 delight in the representation of it, and the artist comes with his strong 
 sense of ever present life which must give a vitality to the work, beyond the 
 range of the purely antiquarian imagination. The question is what do we 
 really know about the past, and how far is a painted restoration of it 
 possible ? Our knowledge of persons in the past is exceedingly limited ; 
 we have not many portraits before the time of Holbein, and the few we 
 have are limited to personages of importance, nor were their portraits taken 
 frequently enough for us to have them at all periods of their lives, besides 
 which we are not sure of the likeness when the artist is scarcely able to 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 ART AND ARCHEOLOGY 
 
 173 
 
 draw. Our knowledge of events appears considerable so long as we read 
 history, but when we come to pictorial illustration we realise the insufficiency 
 of authentic data. There is, however, an art of reviving the past without 
 pretending either to the portraiture of personages or the illustration of 
 particular events. The artist may propose to himself, in general terms, 
 such a task as the illustration of life in the thirteenth century, and then 
 accumulate all attainable data for matters of architecture, furniture, utensils, 
 manners and customs, and temporary fashions in dress. The evidence on 
 all these subjects is abundant. We know with considerable accuracy how 
 the people of the thirteenth century lived, and the character of all the 
 objects that surrounded them. We have evidence from miniatures that the 
 attitudes and gestures of people in the Middle Ages were much the same 
 as our own. The human body has undergone no essential change since the 
 time of the Crusades, and therefore a skilful artist of the present day can 
 paint a crusader much more truthfully than any of his own contemporaries 
 could have painted him. Owing to our more scientific knowledge of light- 
 and-shade, we can represent the interior of a thirteenth-century cathedral 
 better than the architect who built it. Our modern study of texture and 
 colour makes us better able to represent the rich costumes of the Middle 
 Ages than the miniature painters who have recorded them for us in their 
 simple and primitive manner. There is not a piece of armour that any 
 modern student would not interpret with more visual truth than primitive 
 draughtsmen who saw armour worn every day. As to external nature — the 
 sky, the fields, the trees, the waves of the sea — all that is represented in our 
 contemporary art with a fidelity unattainable in ages when the knowledge of 
 effect was a science beyond the intellect of the time. Even simple sunshine 
 was quite beyond the power of the mediaeval artist. He could, indeed, 
 nominally place his crusader in Syria, but he could not surround him with 
 the Syrian light. That can be done to-day. Our modern study of nature 
 has enabled us to paint the sunshine of six hundred years ago with a 
 veracity unknown to those who enjoyed or suffered from its warmth. I 
 have shown elsewhere that pictorial art is inferior to literary art in the 
 domain of history, because it has to affirm too much when little is positively 
 known, a difficulty that the literary historian evades by precautions in the 
 use of language. The advantage is on the side of the painter when 
 instead of historical events the theme of his picture is simply the life of the 
 past. He is not, like the novelist, obliged to make his personages talk. 
 This is the inevitable cause of unsatisfactoriness in the historical novel. 
 The people must talk, yet the novelist cannot make them use the language 
 of their time, first because of his own imperfect knowledge of it, and 
 
174 
 
 ART AND ARCHAEOLOGY 
 
 PART IV 
 
 secondly because it would not be intelligible to his readers. The language 
 used by the painter is that of facial expression and gesture. Now, we have 
 fairly abundant evidence in the rude art of the Middle Ages that expression 
 and gesture differed little, if at all, from what we observe around us in the 
 present day. People laughed and wept as they do now ; astonishment, 
 pleasure, hope, fear, produced the same changes in the countenance. Even 
 so far back as ancient Greece, laughter caused exactly the same muscular 
 tensions as in the nineteenth century — witness the “Laughing Satyr” in 
 the present volume. The art of painting may therefore be considered 
 peculiarly happy in its right of silence when representing the human inter- 
 course of past ages, since the intercourse that it does represent is, so far as 
 it goes, authentic. The historical novelist is not only sure to be wrong 
 about language, but he is almost inevitably false in attributing modern 
 sentiments to generations that could not have understood them. Changes 
 of sentiment occur even from one generation to another. Some of us have 
 known people who still retained the sentiments of the eighteenth century, 
 and we may remember that it was somewhat difficult for us to converse 
 with them except by perpetually re-adjusting our mental apparatus. Had 
 they lived to the present day, our children would have considered them as 
 remote as foreigners. Yet it is far more within the limits of probability to 
 attribute an old-fashioned sentiment to the present generation than a modern 
 one to a generation that is long past, for the old sentiment may possibly 
 linger on, whilst the modern one can never be projected backwards across 
 the chasms of death. 
 
 The pictorial restoration of the past has the advantage over architectural 
 restoration that it never involves the least destruction of anything that the 
 past has bequeathed to us. The painter is an entirely innocent restorer ; 
 he can injure nothing but his own picture. The architect has the double 
 character of creator and destroyer ; he destroys the work of his pre- 
 decessors to substitute his own work in its place, and this he has always 
 done, even in ages that we erroneously look upon as more conservative 
 than ours. 
 
 It is an English habit to look to the fine arts for something beyond 
 themselves, for some kind of instruction, or for a moral lesson. This habit, 
 more than any other, has kept the English mind outside of artistic 
 sympathies, because Art, as such, has no purpose outside of itself, and 
 exists in complete independence of moral excellence and historical truth. 
 The proof that it does so is plain. The public and private galleries of 
 Europe contain many works that are archaeologically wrong, and that 
 neither preach nor teach. On the other hand, we have many accurate 
 
r 
 
 
 
THE EDUCATION OF GIL BLAS 
 
 Drawn by Daniel Vierge 
 Reproduced in Heliogravure by P. Dujardin 
 
 (Copyright) 
 
 The original drawing is in Indian Ink and Chinese White. The reproduction 
 is remarkably perfect and acknowledged lo be so by the artist. 
 
 The subject illustrated is the first chapter of the story where we are told 
 that Gil Bias in his early boyhood had an uncle, a canon named Gil Perez, 
 who taught him to read. •• Fancy a little man about three feet and a half high, 
 of an extraordinary fatness, with his head sunk between his shoulders, that’s 
 my uncle. He was an ecclesiastic who thought of nothing but good living.” 
 l'he education of Gil Bias was advantageous to his unde also, for by teaching 
 his nephew to read he himself became much more skilful in that art, which he 
 had greatly neglected. 
 
 This illustration gives us two types of the human being entirely distinct 
 from everything else in the volume, the fat short man, and a very genuine boy 
 who would rather be playing marbles than learning his letters. 
 
 The drawing is also valuable as a revival of the past. Vierge is 
 extremely careful not to introduce anything that is not of the country and 
 the time. Of living revivers of other days he is one of the most learned and 
 conscientious. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 ART AND ARCHAEOLOGY 
 
 175 
 
 antiquarian drawings that nobody would propose to hang in a national 
 collection, and it has been found advisable to remove Cruikshank’s temper- 
 ance picture, “The Bottle,” from the vestibule of the National Gallery, 
 though the lesson it conveyed was unimpeachable, whilst pictures of tippling 
 Dutchmen are hung in places of honour, and Silenus may be downright 
 drunk if only Rubens has painted him. Therefore archaeology and morals 
 have no necessary connection with art, but if the English public must have 
 something along with art, as some Frenchmen take dissolved gum with 
 their absinthe, there is nothing that mixes with it so happily as sound and 
 accurate archaeology. This science has the advantage of providing vast 
 quantities of material which may be, at the same time, strange to us and 
 harmonious, for the taste of any single age insures a kind of harmony in its 
 productions. As for the artist himself, there is no study outside of visible 
 nature likely to add so much to the interest of his own existence as an 
 intelligent investigation of some past age that he has chosen for his own 
 particular field. The archaeological painter loses absolutely nothing as an 
 artist by his study of the human past, whilst as a man he gains something 
 like those advantages that we literary students have gained from our 
 “humanities.” He selects an epoch, and studies it with a closeness of 
 attention that brings the usual reward of study. It may be doubted 
 whether one artist could assimilate many different epochs. Each of us has 
 certain affinities which give an ideal admittance to the past, but only to that 
 past which the affinities themselves determine. M. Maurice Leloir, whose 
 illustrations, of Sterne are unrivalled as a revival of the eighteenth century 
 in all its details, declined a commission that I desired to give him because it 
 required the study of another age. He said that he had been so completely 
 absorbed by his chosen epoch as to have no disposition to go back to an 
 earlier one. For him the France of the eighteenth century has become a 
 living reality ; he sees the life in the inns and streets, and the travelling 
 on the roads, without the intervention of any object belonging to his own 
 agei It is only after some reflection that we can begin to realise the 
 enormous work of elimination that this involves. The eighteenth century 
 is so near to us that it includes a thousand things that we possess, but 
 always in other forms ; for example, if a pin were large enough to be repre- 
 sented, it would be necessary to bear in mind that a pin’s head was not 
 made then as it is now. And we have so many things that our grand- 
 fathers had never imagined, all which the artist has to forget ! For all those 
 things which he does represent he requires such a sense of construction that 
 he can go back beyond the best way of constructing things to an earlier, 
 clumsier and more imperfect way, and yet he must construct quite well 
 
176 
 
 ART AND ARCHAEOLOGY 
 
 PART IV 
 
 according to that way. M. Leloir is a wonderful eighteenth-century coach- 
 builder. I believe he makes no mistakes in the hanging of his vehicles, or 
 in the relative thicknesses of the parts, and here the necessity for forgetting 
 is the greater that scientific intelligence has only been applied to carriage- 
 building within very recent times. Now, this strong sense of construction 
 is a faculty that all successful archaeological painters have in common, 
 whatever the period which they attempt to recall into existence. Mr. Alma 
 Tadema has it both in his pictures and in the world of reality. He takes a 
 great delight in things and understands them ; his own house is very 
 interesting and original, and everything in it has been a subject of thought 
 and appreciation for him, if not of direct invention. This enjoyment of 
 reality in construction is carried by the artist into those classic times which 
 he has resuscitated for us. The ancient Romans were extremely fond of 
 various marbles, which they brought from great distances to adorn their 
 villas and palaces, even in remote colonies in Gaul. It is much for an 
 artist who attempts to revive the past to have in his own idiosyncrasy the 
 tastes of the vanished race, and how much this sympathy as to material 
 things has done for the truth and interest, as well as beauty, of Mr. 
 Tadema’s work may be understood by a reference to those historical 
 painters, such as Hilton, who do not seem to have had any enjoyment of 
 the visible qualities of substances, nor any appreciation of skill and 
 ingenuity in construction. Indeed there was a time when it was con- 
 sidered beneath the dignity of historical art to show any intelligent 
 interest in these things, as if it were possible to give a truthful idea 
 of any past generation of mankind without faithfully painting its sur- 
 roundings ! 
 
 The work of the archseological painter, when taken seriously, requires 
 a degree of self-restraint that increases with the progress of knowledge. 
 In the earlier half of the present century, when an artist chose to represent 
 some ancient city of which we know little more than the name, some 
 Nineveh, Carthage, or Babylon, he considered it a legitimate opportunity 
 for allowing full liberty to an exuberant imagination, and piled up edifices 
 to the skies in almost any style that suited his fancy, and with a complete 
 forgetfulness of the common necessities of human existence. Yet in the 
 
 o 
 
 magnificent cities of antiquity the population had to be lodged, somehow, 
 as in the London of our own day, and it is not more reasonable to make 
 Rome or Carthage an accumulation of imposing architectural projects than 
 it would be to put together in one view the public buildings of London, 
 much exaggerated and idealised, with the Marble Arch in the foreground, 
 but no dwellings for the ordinary inhabitants. It is not long since we have 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 ART AND ARCHAEOLOGY 
 
 1 77 
 
 understood, in a general way, the laying-out of a Roman city or a Gaulish 
 oppidum, nor is it, even yet, very easy for us to realise the life in the 
 narrow straight streets of the Roman town, crossing each other like a chess- 
 board, with the low and simple habitations of the common people. It is 
 the common everyday life of plain folks that offers the greatest difficulty. 
 Even amongst magnificent things our knowledge has a way of stopping 
 short when we are eager for thoroughness and completeness. It is probable 
 that Mr. Poynter’s “ Israel in Egypt” is a fairly accurate representation of 
 slavery in that country during the erection of the great buildings, but when 
 he undertook to restore for us the “ royal house ” of Solomon in detail, as it 
 was when the Queen of Sheba came to admire it, even Mr. Poynter’s 
 industry and learning must have largely waited for his invention. No one 
 knows the toil involved by those revivals. The cerebral strain of trying to 
 imagine Florentine life in the time of Savonarola nearly killed George 
 Eliot, and left her with a permanent feeling of having greatly aged. Mr. 
 Cross says, “ The writing of Romola ploughed into her more than any of 
 her other books. She told me she could put a finger on it as marking a 
 well-defined transition in her life. In her own words — ‘ I began it a young 
 woman ; I finished it an old woman.’ ” In painting, the work of restoration 
 is easier when the age to be represented has already been well illustrated 
 by men who themselves belonged to it. In this manner Hogarth has given 
 us an insight into the eighteenth century which ensures a kind of authen- 
 ticity to later representations of that time. The abundance of French 
 illustrations of the eighteenth century has enabled Meissonier to perpetuate 
 it in such excellent pictures as that entitled “ Une Lecture chez Diderot,” 
 which admits us to Diderot’s library amongst his literary friends. 
 
 The conclusion is that so long as art does not pretend to be exactly 
 historical, in the representation of particular incidents for which the artist 
 cannot have adequate data, it is possible to represent the past with such a 
 degree of exactness as may make the attempt interesting and instructive ; 
 but that the alliance between archaeology and art, however permissible and 
 natural in a learned age, is still only an alliance between pursuits absolutely 
 distinct in their character, though they may work harmoniously together. 
 The only artistic advantage of archaeology is that it provides materials 
 which have a certain freshness until the public has got accustomed to them, 
 and which may have a peculiar beauty not to be found in the external life 
 of the present. So long as art itself shall be understood, no picture that is 
 well composed and skilfully painted will be rejected for an archaeological 
 blunder, nor will bad pictures fetch high prices for their historical accuracy. 
 Those who wish to see the fine arts made useful for educational purposes, 
 
 2 A 
 
173 
 
 ART AND ARCHAEOLOGY 
 
 PART IV 
 
 as an accompaniment to the labours of educational writers, may rejoice in a 
 movement which certainly supplies us with more accurate ideas about the 
 past. The movement is interesting to art-criticism as a confirmation of the 
 theory that the fine arts of every age have a tendency to rise up to the level 
 of its scientific attainments. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 DIGNIFIED AND RATIONAL VIEWS OF HISTORICAL ART 
 
 T T ISTORICAL painting, formerly considered to be the most dignified 
 of all the forms of art, was at the same time one of the least popular 
 and least remunerative. The notion of dignity may have been a consola- 
 tion for the want of worldly success, as we see in those offices which are 
 honourable but ill-paid, or which are so costly that they leave the holder 
 out of pocket, whilst they gratify the human desire for importance. Accord- 
 ing to the unintelligent classification of artists by the nature of their sub- 
 jects rather than the quality of their work, the historical painter stood 
 proudly at the head of his profession, and very much apart from the rest, 
 who were supposed to be occupied in inferior branches. All paintings that 
 represent the human figure are divided into two classes — history and genre. 
 According to the strict French classification, even portrait is included in 
 genre, and so is all representation of contemporary life. It is one of the 
 misfortunes of a writer on art that he sometimes unwittingly gives offence 
 by the unfortunate employment of a word. I once called a deceased 
 historical painter a figure-painter ; this brought me an angry letter from his 
 son, whose sense of the family importance was deeply wounded. “ Sir,” he 
 said, “you have called my father a figure-painter, whereas he was an histori- 
 cal painter \ ” I wrote humbly in reply and said that I meant nothing deroga- 
 tory to the dignity of history, but only that the deceased artist must have 
 studied the human figure, or else he could not have painted history at all. 
 
 I am inclined to believe that the dignity of history must go the way of 
 many other dignities in an age of criticism like ours. The oddest 
 peculiarity about it was its connection with the painter’s ignorance of his 
 own subjects. If he represented personages whom he had never seen, and 
 events that he had only read about in books — the books themselves having 
 usually been written when the actors had lain for two or three centuries in 
 their graves — then he was “an historical painter,” but if he painted per- 
 
i8o 
 
 VIEWS OF HISTORICAL ART 
 
 PART IV 
 
 sonages of equal historical importance that he could see alive, surrounded 
 by their own families and their own furniture, then he was only a painter 
 of “genre,” which was held to be an inferior department of art. 
 
 The plain truth is that there is no reason whatever, in the nature of 
 things, for exalting what is called “historical painting” above genre. The 
 greater part of it is not historical at all, but imaginary in the sense of having 
 no basis, not imaginative in the sense of being a noble exercise of the 
 imagination. The first essential of history is not that it should be showy or 
 dignified, but that it should be true. Written history can be true with 
 slender materials, because language never compels us to go beyond our 
 knowledge (one of the most precious advantages of writing as an art) 
 whereas you cannot do anything in painting that is to be historically 
 accurate without such an amount of documentary evidence as it is hardly 
 possible to get together. The first necessity is a supply of authentic 
 portraits, then you want endless archseological details, and when you think 
 you have got everything that is necessary to give an appearance of truth 
 plausible enough to baffle the sharp criticism of the present age, you are 
 still painfully aware that your representation of the event is not accurate 
 enough to be recognised by an eye-witness. You do not really know what 
 dresses the personages wore, nor what their furniture was, nor their 
 relative positions in a room. If you knew all this, the probability is that 
 you would find the group of figures entirely unpictorial, and that either you 
 would abstain from painting it, or make up your mind to a conscious 
 violation of the truth. This is why historical writing, though seldom 
 wholly satisfactory to any but an uncritical reader who can take everything 
 on trust, is still, nevertheless, far less discouraging to a lover of truth than 
 historical painting, although the two forms of history are suggested by 
 precisely the same need or instinct in the human mind — the desire to 
 resuscitate the past and to know more about it than can ever be really 
 known. To understand the vanity of this desire, we have only to imagine 
 the case of some very ancient family whose history has to be written and also 
 painted in the present day. Even if the family has preserved abundant 
 records of itself, the enterprise is still a difficult one, because there are sure 
 to be periods of its history for which the records fail. Still, the writing 
 historian can substitute a name for a person, and almost produce the illusion 
 that the person is known, when in reality it is the name only that is known, 
 whilst even the very meagreness of the materials themselves allows a skilful 
 historian to occupy some pages with critical estimates of their value, or an 
 exposition of their worthlessness. Meanwhile the painting historian, 
 though animated by the same desire to throw light upon the past, finds 
 

 
 - 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 . 
 
 ■ 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THREE PORTRAITS OF CARDINAL DE RICHELIEU 
 
 Painted by Philippe de Champaigne 
 Etched by C. O. Murray 
 (National Gallery ) 
 
 This is in various ways a very interesting picture. It shows the full face 
 (or nearly so) and the two profiles, which, as the reader perceives, are not 
 exactly alike. Painters have seldom been tempted to represent the whole 
 man in this way, the fatal objection being that we cannot help seeing three 
 persons instead of one. I chose this picture as an example of the relation 
 between the profile and the full face, which in many cases are so different 
 that nobody who had only seen one could truly imagine the other. Besides 
 this, these portraits are valuable as instances of the extreme difficulty there is 
 in representing mind by means of the graphic arts. Surely no one who was not 
 told would suppose from these portraits that the original had been the most 
 astute and the most powerful minister of his age. It is the face of a 
 cultivated gentleman, of a prelate who knew the world, but that is all that 
 the portrait itself has to tell us about its extraordinary subject. For the rest, 
 we must go to the writing historians. 
 

CHAP. Ill 
 
 VIEWS OF HISTORICAL ART 
 
 i 8 1 
 
 himself compelled either to affirm more than he knows, or to omit entire 
 generations from the painted history. And even when the materials for 
 the painter are abundant (which very rarely happens, and only for recent 
 centuries), the peculiar exigencies of his art compel him to deal with them 
 in a very arbitrary manner. His picture must be a composed picture, yet 
 if there is anything concerning the past about which we can be perfectly 
 certain it is that when our ancestors met together in the council-chamber or 
 the battlefield they had something else to think about than to extend their 
 arms and legs in the way most suitable for a tableau vivant. 
 
 For these reasons, I have no hesitation in saying that of all the varieties 
 of graphic art that which is usually called “ historical painting” — the art 
 which professes to represent long-past events — is for me the most nearly 
 destitute of interest. It may, however, sometimes be possible, under very 
 exceptional circumstances, to represent with considerable truth, a period 
 not yet very remote from our own, on condition that there are still survivors 
 who can be referred to on matters of detail. When Stanfield painted his 
 picture of “The Victory towed into Gibraltar after the battle of Trafalgar,” 
 there were naval men still surviving who gave the painter very precise 
 information as to the exact condition of the ship. The condition of the 
 rigging is, in the picture, exactly what it was in the reality. As for the 
 hull, the painter could refer to the ship itself, and the rock of Gibraltar with 
 the rest of the landscape was simply a study from nature. I have been told 
 by a sailor who had been an eye-witness that the carpenters suspended at 
 work upon the ship’s starboard quarter were actually in that place at the 
 time. There is consequently nothing not absolutely historical in the 
 picture except the group of boats in the foreground, and these amount to 
 little more than a general statement that there were boats about Gibraltar 
 whose occupants would, no doubt, be interested in a victorious man-of-war. 
 Here, then, we have a genuine historical picture, but the reader will observe 
 that the artist avoided most of the difficulties attendant upon a painter of 
 men. The sailors in the Victory are so distant that their faces cannot be 
 seen. We are told that the body of Nelson is on board, but when we look 
 at the picture this is, for us, a mere matter of imagination. 
 
 The most conscientious of modern historical painters was Meissonier. 
 He had once finished a picture of Napoleon in a grenadier’s costume, when 
 he invited an old servant of the Emperor to look at it, and asked the man 
 for a criticism. The likeness affected him even to tears, but he had a word 
 to say about the costume. “ His Majesty wore more frequently the tunic 
 of a chasseur than that of a grenadier , and he never would consent to 
 unfasten his epaulettes. His overcoats were made large about the shoulders 
 
1 82 
 
 VIEWS OF HISTORICAL ART 
 
 PART IV 
 
 on that account.” Meissonier had represented the epaulettes as brought 
 forward on the breast, and the overcoat as fitting the shoulders, so he 
 destroyed the costume and painted it carefully over again. The famous 
 picture entitled “1814” represents the Emperor riding with his Marshals 
 during the retreat in Russia. The sky is gray in the picture, and the snow 
 is on the ground. Whilst the artist was at work upon it the weather about 
 his own house happened to be exactly of that kind, so he dressed himself 
 like the Emperor, mounted on a saddle, and by the help of a mirror got the 
 exact values of the costume against the sky with the effect of the light from 
 the snow. Meissonier neglected no opportunity for getting information 
 from contemporaries of the great Emperor, and spared neither trouble nor 
 expense in collecting costumes and accoutrements, or in having them made. 
 He was equally studious of all natural truths that could add to the veracity 
 of his representations. No one has been more laborious in the study of 
 horses. To understand the gallop, the painter had a railway made in his 
 own grounds, on which he could keep close to a galloping horse to observe 
 its muscular action. His love of truth went so far that he denied himself 
 that cheap display of power which is managed by making warriors physi- 
 cally formidable, and which was constantly resorted to in the spurious 
 “historical painting ” of other times. Meissonier’s soldiers are not more 
 athletic than men commonly are in reality ; their chests (see that of Marshal 
 Duroc in “ 1807”) are often narrow and flat, their legs and arms not 
 muscular enough to fill their clothes ; but they are always either animated 
 by the ardour of battle, or sustained by that patience which is the passive 
 side of military courage, and of which the soldiers of Napoleon gave ample 
 proof, in Russia and elsewhere. 
 
 Meissonier lived, with regard to the Napoleonic epoch, at as great a 
 distance from it as it is safe for the historical painter to be from his chosen 
 subjects, yet he was born three years before Waterloo. The truth of his 
 pictures is due in great part to the abundance of documentary material 
 which the time of the First Empire has left to us in the way of portraits and 
 descriptions, but it would never have been complete if Meissonier had been 
 unable to interrogate contemporaries. His picture of “ Napoleon III. at 
 Solferino”is not less historical in reality than his “1814,” but it is not 
 called so, because the artist was himself a contemporary. What will that 
 signify in a hundred years ? what does it signify even now ? Solferino is 
 as much a page of past history as Waterloo, though Meissonier had the 
 opportunity of making studies from the life. 
 
 Of this truest kind of historical painting which represents contemporary 
 events, we have a recent and excellent example in Mr. Lockhart’s “Jubilee 
 
CHAP. Ill 
 
 VIEWS OF HISTORICAL ART 
 
 183 
 
 Service in Westminster Abbey.” It may be worth while to consider the 
 conditions under which this picture was painted, as they throw a vivid light 
 upon the needs of an artist who endeavours to be historically accurate. In 
 the first place, the picture was decided upon before the event , and not two 
 or three centuries after it. “On the day of the ceremony,” Mr. Lockhart 
 says, “ I was allowed to make a sort of studio in one of the doorways which 
 open on to the altar. A window was made for me at the top of the door, 
 through which I obtained a splendid view of the Abbey, and yet I remained 
 unseen. I had an ample stock of notebooks and colours.” 
 
 During the whole of the ceremony Mr. Lockhart was busy taking the 
 most rapid memoranda, as a landscape painter takes notes of an effulgent 
 sunset — that is, in artistic shorthand , pencil scrawls and blots of colour 
 intelligible only to himself. “As the crowd took their places I made hasty 
 records of the masses of colour. I made hundreds of shorthand notes, not 
 attempting for a moment to secure portraits, which would have been im- 
 possible, but getting positions and groupings. During the whole of the 
 ceremony I was hard at work making mere impressions of the colours with- 
 out attempting anything more definite.” 1 
 
 The next thing was to get a ground plan of the Abbey, with the place 
 allotted to every one. Then came an oil sketch of the whole scene, 
 arranged synthetically from the water-colour blots as a complete picture. 
 So much for colour and general arrangement, but the picture could not be 
 painted without form also, and to attain this the artist made a cartoon of its 
 full size in pencil, every portrait carefully drawn from studies made when- 
 ever possible from the life. He was often aided, as to costume, by working 
 from the dresses themselves, and when they had been altered he was helped 
 by minutely accurate descriptions. 
 
 With all this assistance, and all these opportunities, Mr. Lockhart found 
 his task by no means an easy one. He had a correspondence of a thousand 
 letters. There were considerable difficulties about the foreigners present 
 at the ceremony, but these, he says, “ were slowly overcome.” The success 
 of the picture is due to three conditions very rarely united in the production 
 of historical works— firstly, the utmost readiness in a multitude of persons 
 to give every possible assistance .to the artist ; secondly, the abundance of 
 materials still in existence ; and thirdly, a spirit of foresight and prompti- 
 tude in the painter himself which enabled him to seize upon every oppor- 
 tunity. No artist could have worked his way through such an enterprise 
 without the qualities of a man of business. 
 
 This conscientiousness in historical art is a great virtue when materials 
 1 This account was given by Mr. Lockhart himself to a correspondent of the Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
1 84 
 
 VIEWS OF HISTORICAL ART 
 
 PART IV 
 
 are accessible, but virtues are of use only when there are opportunities for 
 exercising them, and the spirit of research is a useless virtue when it is 
 condemned to a forced inaction. Even for such a subject as Munkacsy’s 
 “Milton dictating Paradise Lost to his Daughters” research can get no 
 further than a revival in past fashions in furniture and dress. Romney, in 
 his picture, spared himself that trouble by reducing both to the most 
 extreme simplicity. He knew that the poet was not rich, so the furniture 
 is as plain as possible — a chair, a table, two stools, and a bare wall behind 
 them. Milton is wrapped from head to foot in the folds of a large cloak ; 
 his daughters are covered but not dressed. In Munkacsy’s picture the 
 interior is picturesque and rather comfortable, it is not unlike a corner of 
 an artist’s studio in the present day, with carved oak furniture and a carpet. 
 Romney’s conception is, to my feeling, the finer of the two ; his Milton is 
 not without grandeur ; the Milton of Munkacsy is thoughtful, but his form 
 is too small and shrivelled ; it has no reminiscence of the manly beauty of 
 his prime. As to truth of surroundings and costume, Romney feels that he 
 knows nothing and tries to say as little as possible, but even that reticence 
 may be wrong. Milton’s furniture may not have been quite so extremely 
 simple, or his wall so bare ; there may have been a bookcase, or perhaps a 
 picture, behind him. Well, Munkacsy has felt this, and has not given us 
 bare walls, but he does not really know what Milton’s rooms were like. 
 Both artists have to venture on a guess with regard to the daughters, who 
 were probably quite unlike the young women in either picture, yet authentic 
 portraits of the daughters were indispensable to the historical value of the 
 representation. 
 
 Criticism of this kind may be considered too matter-of-fact, and I may 
 be told that I give no place to the imagination. We will take imagination 
 into account in another chapter, but as for the present we are concerned 
 with the purely historical side of art, in which fact is of the first importance, 
 I may be excused for giving it a somewhat close and rigorous attention. 
 When painting claims to be historical, it must submit itself to a kind of 
 criticism from which works of independent invention are exempt. What is 
 commonly called “historical painting" does not really answer to history in 
 literature ; it only claims to do so, and the claim is not well founded. 
 “Historical painting” has its literary equivalent in the historical novel, 
 which tries to borrow an interest outside of art by giving a closer view of 
 personages that genuine history leaves in the distance. Now, in the 
 historical novel it is just this closeness of view that is ^historical — or, in 
 other words, the very element which causes these novels to be called 
 historical is their zwhistorical element. The genuine historian, in modern 
 
CHAP. Ill 
 
 VIEWS OF HISTORICAL ART 
 
 185 
 
 times, when history is differentiated from fiction, takes as much pains to 
 make us conscious of our ignorance of the past as he does to increase our 
 knowledge of it. His work has two sides, a positive and a negative, and 
 the quality that distinguishes him from the idle story-teller is not the 
 creative faculty but the critical. The good modern historian tries to ascer- 
 tain as much as he can about the past, and states that, but he also labours 
 to distinguish between the known, the doubtful, and the fabulous or 
 fictitious. There is no such discrimination in the graphic art which is 
 undeservedly called “historical.” If it merited the title it would present 
 to us what is known, and omit the unknown ; but painting cannot do that, 
 because to leave blank spaces in a canvas is in itself a kind of falsity ; 
 neither can painting say that a thing is possible, yet doubtful. 
 
 The conclusion is that the art of painting is not suitable for dealing with 
 what are usually called historical subjects, and that it only becomes inter- 
 esting in this way when it represents either the present, or a past so near 
 to the present that the materials are still abundant. It is astonishing, too, 
 how rapidly the materials begin to lose themselves in the oblivion of the 
 past. Some readers may remember how, in the French Chamber, Gam- 
 betta (with one of those sudden inspirations of eloquence that belonged to 
 his perfervid genius) replied to a member of the Right by springing to his 
 feet and crying, as he pointed to Thiers, “ Le voila, le liberateur du Terri- 
 toire ! ” Gambetta carried the whole House with him, and the incident 
 had a real historical importance, besides being in the highest degree 
 dramatic, as the aged statesman sat in his place, pale, and profoundly 
 affected. Well, I should say that we have here a very noble subject for a 
 genuine historical picture, and it was painted by M. Jules Gamier, and 
 exhibited in the Salon of 1878, all the figures being authentic portraits. 
 It would be most difficult to paint an incident of that kind, with equal 
 veracity, when the actors were all dead. Even already, that Chamber has 
 for the most part passed away into a land from which no eloquence can 
 reach us, and where the thin voice of Thiers and the thunder of Gambetta 
 are lost in an equality of silence. 
 
 2 B 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 IMAGINATION IN HISTORICAL PAINTING 
 
 F F history were one of the romantic arts, the action of the imagination 
 A might be almost unlimited ; but as it belongs entirely to science, the 
 imagination is only free to work in it as it does in other sciences — that is, 
 in the discovery or exposition of what is certainly or probably true. I see 
 clearly how this can be done within due limits by the historian who writes, 
 but am unable to conceive imaginative action of this scientific kind in any 
 work of the historical painter that can be considered strictly legitimate. I 
 do not see how the historical painter is to tell us without the help of a 
 written explanation, which is seldom given, and would be outside of his own 
 art, what is authentic in his work and what is merely conjectural. The 
 kind of provisional synthesis by which the mind embraces more than what 
 is known is, I think, denied to the painter, not as a thinking man, but as a 
 workman in a narrowly limited craft. If a painter were, for example, to 
 paint all the conjectural part of his work in monochrome and the ascertained 
 facts in colour, the picture would not be complete as a work of art, and even 
 if this were admissible, it would not be a solution of the difficulty when 
 conjecture and invention pervade the entire performance. The only office 
 of the imagination which I hold to be perfectly legitimate in historical 
 painting is that which gives life and action to personages whose authentic 
 portraits we already possess, and which shows us their surroundings when 
 we have sufficient data for an accurate restoration. The function of the 
 painter is here one that nobody else can fill. He alone can make the dead 
 live and move before our eyes in the gloom or sunshine of long past years. 
 We may quite believe that an artist with a strong gift of imagination may 
 see Henry VIII. as he played at tennis, or Charles I. as he walked to his 
 execution. Still, even in the representation of past events for which we 
 have ample data, the imagination cannot properly permit itself much liberty 
 beyond its single business of resuscitation. If it enriches a scene with much 
 
CHAP. IV 
 
 IMAGINATION IN HISTORICAL PAINTING 
 
 187 
 
 exuberance of invention, it is going beyond its task, and passing from 
 historical science to historical romance. We are compelled then to accept 
 two conclusions, of which the first is that the historical painter cannot do 
 his proper work without imagination, and the second, that he cannot allow 
 his imagination anything like free play, consequently he is in a false position 
 as an artist. If he were to take up his true position as an artist he would 
 sacrifice truth of narrative to his own convenience in picture-making, and 
 then he could no longer be the scientific historian. Historical painting is 
 therefore what a French critic would call un genre faux — that is to say, a 
 kind of art which attempts to serve two incompatible principles. 
 
 There is an analogous case in landscape. About the middle of the 
 present century a few young English artists attempted pure topography in 
 landscape, but their works were judged in the usual way on the principles 
 of artistic criticism, so that they and their art were in a false position. Not 
 that topographic landscape -painting is in itself a genre fatix, as its own 
 principle is soundly scientific ; but when it is condemned for the absence of 
 artistic qualities, and attempts to add them to itself, then it becomes a genre 
 faux , because it tries to unite incompatible merits. You may have topo- 
 graphy or you may have art ; you cannot have both at the same time. 
 
 In every conflict of this kind it is always art that carries the day, because 
 art has imagination on its side with all its power and charm. 
 
 What we all habitually do with regard to historical painting is to accept 
 or reject it on artistic grounds without the slightest regard to its historical 
 accuracy. There is a well-known case in the fine Veronese in the National 
 Gallery, “Alexander the Great receiving the Family of Darius.” If we 
 understand this single case in all its bearings we shall understand the 
 question completely. In times when the science of archaeology had not yet 
 become diffused in the common consciousness a picture of that kind might 
 be generally accepted as a truthful representation of the scene, and it was 
 really better for those times than the truth itself, which would have shocked 
 and perplexed people by its strangeness, and prevented them from enjoying 
 that nobility in the conqueror which was the real motive of the work. The 
 purpose of art is not to shock or perplex, but to elevate and delight. Now 
 this picture is elevating and delightful, both by the dignity of its conception, 
 the charm of its colour, and the manual skill that it displays ; consequently it 
 answers all the conditions of a fine painting. It is conceivable that in 
 some future age, even more matter-of-fact than our own, an historical or 
 archaeological society might recommend the exclusion of this picture from 
 the National Gallery on the ground that it diffused erroneous ideas amongst 
 the people, and might propose in its place some careful production, the 
 
i 88 
 
 IMAGINATION IN HISTORICAL PAINTING 
 
 PART IV 
 
 result of archaeological research. The right answer would be that a National 
 Gallery existed for art and not for science, and that the picture was in its 
 proper place. Yet we have it on the authority of Paul Veronese himself 
 that he introduced figures and costumes into his pictures without regard to 
 the truth of the representation, but purely for artistic reasons. When he 
 was called before the Inquisition to answer for the liberties he took in the 
 composition of his religious pictures, he was asked, with reference to one 
 composition in particular, who were the personages that he really believed 
 to have been present, and his reply was, “ I believe that nobody was present 
 except Christ and His Apostles, but whenever there is room to spare in a 
 picture I adorn it with invented figures.” He was especially questioned as 
 to the presence of halberdiers dressed in a German costume, and he simply 
 answered that he had put them there by a licence analogous to those of 
 poets. Again, being asked whether it was decent to represent buffoons, 
 dwarfs, and drunken Germans in a picture of the “ Last Supper,” he gave a 
 most curious reply, which shows that in those days a painter could have the 
 idea of serving hors-cl' oeuvres like a cook — that is, things outside the serious 
 business of the picture for the independent amusement of the spectator. 
 He said, “ I did it on the supposition that they were outside the place where 
 the Lord’s Supper was held.” These answers fully confirm what the 
 pictures themselves prove to us — that Paul Veronese worked simply in the 
 spirit of an artist, without any serious intention of representing scenes as 
 they must have been in reality. And with reference to the picture of 
 “Alexander and the Family of Darius,” the end of the whole matter is 
 reached when we say that the fault is not in the picture itself, but in its title 
 only, for if it had been entitled “A victorious General receiving Royal 
 Captives,” no historical criticism could have impugned it. 
 
 I have elsewhere defended Raphael’s principle in the treatment of 
 religious subjects (which are also in some measure historical), on the ground 
 that even if it were possible to represent the scenes of the Bible as they 
 actually occurred (and for this we have no data), such fidelity would be 
 merely external, and would not in any way answer to the ideal dignity with 
 which saints and apostles have been invested by the action of religious 
 enthusiasm in the course of centuries since their death. I have shown that 
 whilst Raphael’s ideal compositions are certainly unhistorical (for they 
 contain no narrative or descriptive truth whatever, either of portraiture, 
 costume, grouping, or landscape background), they are incomparably superior 
 to instantaneous photographs of the real scenes (if we could have them), in 
 representing what the actors in them have subsequently become for the 
 religious consciousness of mankind. This, in its own peculiar and exalted 
 
CHAP. IV 
 
 IMAGINATION IN HISTORICAL PAINTING 
 
 189 
 
 fashion, is also a kind of truth, though it is not historical, but psychological. 
 And it has this immense advantage over historical accuracy, that by allowing 
 free play to the imagination, it is compatible with the highest art, whilst 
 historical accuracy ties the mind down to positive fact, the antithesis of all 
 that the spirit of art longs for and does what it can to realise. 
 
 The future of historical painting can hardly be considered promising, as 
 the modern critical sense, the discernment that distinguishes between the 
 known and the unknown, has deprived us of the simple credulity necessary 
 for an unquestioning acceptance of modern representations of a remote past, 
 so that the artist does not believe in his own work, and we ourselves have 
 no faith in the artist. The kind of art that is still called “ historical paint- 
 ing ” (though, in truth, there is little that is historical about it except a name 
 that it does not deserve) will be abandoned by the most imaginative artists 
 who do not want to be fettered, and by the most intelligent, who will 
 perceive that there are other and more satisfactory ways of employing 
 artistic skill in the revival of the past. Those artists who unite technical 
 skill with a conscientious desire for accuracy, and who have not much 
 imagination, will employ their abilities more usefully and more satisfactorily 
 to themselves in that genuine historical painting which records contemporary 
 events. There are pictures painted by artists whom we ourselves have 
 known that have now become perfectly historical, and yet were not con- 
 sidered so when they were painted. Nobody ever called Landseer and the 
 elder Leslie historical painters, yet they have left records of the later life of 
 the Duke of Wellington and of the happiest years of Queen Victoria, which 
 are pages of history even now. It is to these and not to our vain imagina- 
 tions of an unascertainable past that posterity will turn for the satisfaction 
 of its historical curiosity. For, as I take it, the historic sense, as distinguished 
 from the merely romantic, is a sense that seeks its gratification in the truth 
 only, consequently it does not desire to imagine anything that is not true or 
 that goes ever so little beyond what is ascertainable and has definitely been 
 ascertained. At the same time, I believe that the connection between the 
 historic sense and the artistic is purely accidental — that is to say, an 
 artist (using the title in the strictest and highest sense) might have historical 
 instincts or he might be utterly destitute of them ; and we certainly find 
 them in great strength in many antiquarians, whose desire for artistic satis- 
 factions is so feeble that ugly things, if genuine and old, are preferred by 
 them to things of the utmost beauty that are new. The final truth appears, 
 therefore, to be that we have come upon one of those accidental coincidences 
 which occur frequently in human pursuits. A man may have the painter’s 
 instinct and some other instinct along with it, such as a turn for yachting 
 
190 
 
 IMAGINATION IN HISTORICAL PAINTING 
 
 PART IV 
 
 (as in Mr. Brett or Mr. Barlow Moore), or the painter’s instinct with that 
 of the naturalist (as in Mr. Wolff), or the pictorial and literary instincts may 
 go together as they did in Rossetti. In the subject which immediately 
 concerns us I should say, for example, that the artistic and the historical 
 instincts happen to be united in Jean Paul Laurens, one of the very few 
 historical painters whose imagination of the past comes as a help to our own 
 imagination. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 STYLE IN HISTORICAL PAINTING 
 
 T HE greater the pretensions of the historical painter, the more necessary 
 it is for him to avoid all condescension in his manner of expressing 
 himself. 
 
 Condescension, in the execution of works of art, consists in trying to 
 please, conciliate, and amuse. The counterpart in human intercourse lies 
 in the social quality that we call amiability. There is no amiability in the 
 commands given by superiors to inferiors, or in the tone assumed by great 
 personages at those times when they feel it necessary not to unbend. 
 There is no place, either, for humour in dignified or authoritative utterance. 
 
 The universal feeling that the dignified and amusing qualities are incom- 
 patible has led painters to adopt a cold and dry style in pure historical 
 painting. Their higher purpose was supposed to be the elevation of the 
 mind, and it was felt that there would be some incongruity in trying at the 
 same time to delight the eye by the luxuries of colour and texture, or by 
 the magic of effect. The purpose of the highest historical painting would 
 be to present great actions in such a manner as to impress the action itself 
 on the spectator without diverting his attention to anything else. Con- 
 sidered as a representation of nature, such painting would be inadequate 
 by the suppression of minor truths and beauties. It might even go further 
 than mere inadequacy, it might be positively false from the visual point 
 of view — that is, men and objects might be represented as the human eye 
 could never see them in nature, and yet such historical painting might be 
 successful in its own way by its clear and striking representation of the 
 action, and by the exercise of imaginative power in impressing the action 
 on our minds. As nothing in art-criticism is more liable to be disputed 
 than the visual falsity of the nobler forms of art, I shall take leave to dwell 
 a little on the subject. What is meant by visual truth is simply the sub- 
 ordination of all facts and all conceptions to the receptive capacity of the 
 
192 
 
 STYLE IN HISTORICAL PAINTING 
 
 PART IV 
 
 eye. The picture that is visually true represents only just so much of every 
 object as the eye would be able to see of it in nature, under the chosen 
 effect of light, and that not by scrutinising bit by bit, in which case the eye 
 would be continually altering its focus, but by taking in the entire scene or 
 group of actors at one glance, with just so much of detail and so much 
 definition as the eye. could perceive in that way, and no more . 1 The result 
 would be a sketch, finished only at its centre of interest, and containing 
 many confused hints or suggestions of things seen imperfectly and mysteri- 
 ously, or in some vague way perceived rather than seen. Perfect visual 
 truth would be a rich medley of colours, in which drawing would consist 
 much more in the due proportion of masses, and in the right placing of 
 occasional accents, than in any careful following out of line. Such painting 
 would, in fact, be impressionist, and would resemble much more nearly the 
 latest pictures of Turner or the swiftest oil-sketches of Constable, than the 
 clear and careful linear definition of a Raphael, or his French disciple and 
 imitator, Ingres. Now, every intelligent reader will feel by a kind of 
 instinct, without reasoning, that the oil-sketching of Turner and Constable, 
 or the still more advanced and militant impressionism of Claude Monet, 
 would be wholly unsuited to historical painting of a high order. There is a 
 reason for all our instincts, though in some cases it may be difficult to 
 discover. In the present case the reason seems to be that in historical 
 painting the action is of most importance, that it is much more important 
 either than the truth or the pleasure of vision ; and since clearness and 
 definition of design do unquestionably help the narrative of an action, the 
 artist may permissibly sacrifice visual truth to historical precision. The 
 drawing of Raphael and Ingres is not visually true, but it has the advan- 
 tage of extreme clearness, owing to its perfect linear definition. If they 
 had to defend themselves it is likely that they would take shelter under the 
 authority of the Greeks, in whose arts of design, so far as we know them, 
 and so far as we have reasons for believing anything about them, there was 
 never the least attempt to render the mystery of nature, or to convey any 
 
 1 “We have to learn not to paint all we see. It is not generally known that the cause of this 
 difficulty is not so much mental as physical. We really do see more when we look for some time 
 at each separate detail than when we look at the scene as a whole, and this is not so much a result 
 of increased attention as of adjustment of the retina to the particular degree of light given out by 
 each separate part of the scene.” This extract is from Mr. John Collier’s Manual of Oil Painting. 
 The only observation I should feel disposed to add to it is, that when we look from one detail to 
 another in nature we make, by each movement of the muscles of the eye, a new centre for the 
 natural picture before us, so that if we copy each time what we see, the result must be a painted 
 study with many optical centres instead of one. The readjustment of vision to different degrees of 
 light must produce inconsistencies in light and dark as well as in detail. There are also readjust- 
 ments caused by the different distances of objects from the eye. 
 
CHAP. V 
 
 STYLE IN HISTORICAL PAINTING 
 
 193 
 
 kind of truth by hint or suggestion that the artist could not fully explain by 
 the primitive technical methods at his command. The whole matter, there- 
 fore, reduces itself simply to this, that it is better for historical painting not 
 to be too modern, that it ought not to be too advanced, and this because 
 rather primitive methods tell a story most clearly. In the representation 
 of great actions it is the actions themselves which concern us, and not 
 delicacies and mysteries of vision. Raphael would therefore be a much 
 better master for the historical painter than any of the suggestive painters of 
 what is fugitive and evanescent in nature, and Ingres, whose ambition w’as 
 to paint historical subjects adequately, was led to Raphael by a right instinct. 
 
 The next question about the style of historical painters, when once 
 clearness has been admitted in preference to visual truth, is whether they 
 ought to aim at giving pleasure by the dexterous imitation of objects. To 
 take a conspicuous, because very popular example, we may ask whether 
 the manual skill and imitative dexterity of Sir Edwin Landseer would be 
 valuable or hurtful to the style of a great historical painter. The answer, 
 as I believe, would be that such skill and dexterity would be so hurtful to 
 the work of an historical painter that he could never become great in his 
 own department of art without voluntarily and resolutely renouncing them. 
 The reason is that the serious state of mind which applies itself to the 
 narrative of great actions is incompatible with the dwelling upon truths 
 comparatively so trifling as the texture of a donkey’s coat, or the sparkle 
 of light upon his eye. It was a right instinct that led historical painters to 
 adopt that austerity of style which renounces amusing details. It is not 
 their business to tickle the thoughtless spectator by tricks with a painter’s 
 tools. A simple style of painting that tells its story plainly is all that we 
 ask of them, except, of course, that the work should be perfectly harmoni- 
 ous, that no part of it should be finished on any other principle than the 
 austere principle adopted from the first. We know all this familiarly in its 
 application to literature. We know that any serious work of literary art 
 must be kept to its own high aim, that the grave historian cannot conde- 
 scend to the tone or the details of the journalist, that it is impossible for 
 him to tell the whole truth, and that his business is to select those truths 
 which are at the same time significant and in harmony with his narrative, 
 so that they can be easily embodied with it. When, however, these same 
 principles are adopted by historical painters, their work is likely, from the 
 absence of dexterity and prettiness, to be unpopular. And, in fact, it is 
 this austerity, far more than the unsatisfactoriness of unauthentic repre- 
 sentations of past events, which has killed historical painting. The only 
 chance of its revival — I mean the revival of serious historical art, or what 
 
194 
 
 STYLE IN HISTORICAL PAINTING 
 
 PART IV 
 
 used to be called so — lies in the more general adoption of mural painting 
 as a decoration for public buildings. There are three reasons why mural 
 painting favours historical art. The first and most obvious is that refer- 
 ences to the past history of a nation at once suggest themselves as the most 
 appropriate decoration for its public edifices. It is only in a time of such 
 general apathy about the fine arts as that against which Haydon contended 
 that people can look with complacency on vast spaces of blank wall ; and a 
 nation must either have no history, or be indifferent to that which it has, 
 if it prefers some unmeaning pattern to a commemoration of what is 
 glorious in its own past. The second reason why mural painting favours 
 austerity in historical art is because deadness of surface is indispensable if 
 the work is to be seen, and this deadness is an effectual discouragement to 
 the love of texture and sparkle which indulges itself in varnished oil- 
 painting. Finally, it is evident that mural art must always be simple and 
 plainly legible, a necessity which puts an effectual stop to the imitation of 
 what is mysterious in nature, so that mural painting can never be visually 
 true, but must content itself with the conventionalism of line — a restriction 
 highly favourable to austerity. It is true that many attempts have been 
 made to reduce mural painting to the rank of a picturesque and amusing 
 form of art, and this has been made the easier in modern times by the com- 
 plete abandonment of genuine fresco and the substitution of easier pro- 
 cesses, especially oil-painting with a wax medium, now commonly adopted 
 in France. This is done on stretched canvases in studios, with all the 
 convenience and facility of easel pictures, the canvases being afterwards 
 removed from their stretching-frames and fixed to the wall with white lead. 
 All these modern conveniences have had a tendency to bring mural 
 painting down to the level of genre, with picturesque costumes for the 
 historical personages, and even effects of light in landscape distances, as we 
 see in the clever mural paintings by Francis Flameng in the grand stair- 
 case at the new Sorbonne. Or, again, the desire of the modern world to 
 see itself represented in art may lead to the representation of labour in 
 another than the political sense ; the walls of a public building may show 
 the modern workman at his toil, as for example in the large mural painting 
 by M. Gilbert in the Parisian Tribunal of Commerce, where we have all 
 the bustle of a great goods station exactly as in the reality, were it not for 
 the happy absence of noise. The most interesting example of genuine 
 historical painting which is at the same time picturesque is “ La Voute 
 d’Acier,” by Jean Paul Laurens, for the Parisian Hotel de Ville. Having 
 described that picture at some length in another volume , 1 with the advan- 
 1 The Present State of the Fine Arts in France , 1891 . 
 
CHAP. V 
 
 STYLE IN HISTORICAL PAINTING 
 
 195 
 
 tage of illustration, I will only say in this place that it represents a con- 
 ciliatory State visit paid by Louis XVI. to the municipality of Paris. It 
 therefore offered a very good opportunity for picturesque costumes, pictur- 
 esque architecture, and the concentrated interest of a telling dramatic 
 situation, whilst at the same time the subject was full of that gravity and 
 dignity which are favourable to the best historical painting. Notwith- 
 standing the picturesque element, which might have been a dangerous 
 snare for an inferior artist, M. Laurens kept well above the temptation to 
 frivolous painting, even the brilliant Court costumes having a most pathetic 
 significance so near to the tragical catastrophe. 
 
 It has always been understood that style in drawing and painting could 
 not exist without a certain largeness and comprehensiveness of manner. 
 If the reader will analyse for himself any work that possesses what is called 
 style, he will perceive that the manual or executive quality comes from a 
 certain pride or dignity in the action of the mind by which it passes over 
 details that are not significant, and idealises those truths of nature which it 
 accepts as noble and important. The same mental operation may be 
 studied at ease in literature, and though it is not quite so easy to observe it 
 in conversation, it is the presence or absence of this habit of mind which 
 makes all the difference between good talking and common chatter. 
 Historical style does not despise detail, as detail, but only rejects it when 
 irrelevant. Even the severest style — for example, that of Tacitus in 
 literature — admits occasionally a detail that may have an effect upon the 
 mind. “ Civilis, barbaro voto, post caepta adversus Romanos arma, pro- 
 pexum rutilatumque crinem, patrata demum caede legionum, deposuit.” 
 “ Civilis, by a barbarous vow (a vow usual amongst barbarians), after having 
 taken arms against the Romans, laid down (had cut off) his long fair hair 
 when the slaughter of his legions was accomplished.” The passage would 
 have been equally intelligible without the adjectives, but it gains infinitely 
 in pathos by their introduction. The shorn locks were long and fair 
 ( rutilatum may mean reddish or shining). Does not our knowledge of this 
 make the sacrifice seem to us more painful ? It would be an error to 
 suppose that because the historical style of Tacitus was remarkable for 
 brevity and simplicity he was indifferent to literary art. His enthusiastic 
 praise of the closely allied (though by no means identical) art of oratory is 
 enough to prove that he had the feelings and susceptibilities of an artist. 
 A style like his must be the product of a disciplined or disciplining will. 
 All strong and consistent styles are the result of self-discipline ; they do not 
 come from the desultory movements of the undirected mind. The notion 
 once prevalent in the classical schools of painting that style was insepar- 
 
196 
 
 STYLE IN HISTORICAL PAINTING 
 
 PART IV 
 
 able from historical art had a real foundation in the needs of our higher 
 nature, the only mistake in it was the uniformity of the style demanded 
 when all living styles are personal and ought never to be imitated. One 
 quality, however, is common to them all, and that is self-discipline, in view 
 of an ideal perfection. In historical art the aim must always be to present 
 great actions greatly — that is, to avoid pettiness of all kinds, and even to 
 refuse to the spectator the lower gratifications of the eye. This would 
 exclude rich textures, luscious colour, and shiny surfaces. It would bring 
 us inevitably to the conclusion that the most suitable form for the highest 
 historical painting is mural painting, with a dead surface, clear outlines, and 
 much reticence and reserve in colour. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 HISTORICAL GENRE 
 
 r J A HIS flourishing department of art is the result of clever catering for 
 the modern public. What the modern public finds to be most inter- 
 esting in the past is the kind of detail which connects it with our own life, 
 and yet, at the same time, by amusing differences of fashion in the detail 
 itself, marks the interval that separates us from preceding ages. The 
 public is pleased to see that its ancestors were in many respects like itself, 
 and equally pleased to see that every single thing which they had about 
 them was unlike the things in use at the present day. If the reader will 
 take the trouble to examine a few pictures belonging to this category, he 
 will soon perceive that the labour of the artist has not been spent so much 
 in painting man as the things which surround him or belong to him. This, 
 however, is but half the matter. An object may be represented in several 
 different ways. Its presence may be indicated whilst it is kept subordinate, 
 or the thing itself may be represented for its own beauty, or lastly, if it is 
 not beautiful in itself, it may be made at least artistically interesting by a 
 feat of skill in execution, and by a cunningly judicious arrangement of light 
 and shade. The way of treating objects that I have mentioned first, that 
 of simple subordination, is not the principle of historical genre, it is the 
 principle of a higher and more intellectual kind of art, and so does not at 
 present concern us otherwise than as a contrast. The representation of 
 things for their own beauty is more a classical than a modern principle, 
 but the influence of classical studies has led a certain number of modern 
 painters to enjoy the introduction of beautiful objects in their pictures, just 
 as an ancient Greek, when drawing a man, might place a purely outlined 
 amphora by his side. I notice that in many pictures of the contemporary 
 French school there is a certain unobtrusive care and taste in the choice of 
 accessory objects which one would not look for in any earlier French art 
 except that which avowedly imitated classical models. I should say, 
 
iq8 
 
 HISTORICAL GENRE 
 
 PART IV 
 
 however, that in modern art, taken as a whole, the tendency is far more 
 to the artistic interest of objects under chosen effects of light and arrange- 
 ments of colour, than to the love of beauty in an object without reference 
 to effect. This has come down to all of us from the Dutch school which 
 demonstrated that a bucket and a besom with all the aids of lighting, of 
 colour, and of marvellous execution, could be made more precious that the 
 gilded furniture of the rich. 
 
 Few pictures of historical genre have attracted more attention in their 
 day than “The Last Sleep of Argyle,” by Mr. Ward, the academician. 
 The criticism of the time said that Mr. Ward painted history as Macaulay 
 wrote it, that is, with the fullest human interest. My recollection of the 
 picture itself is still clear, and I am aided in what I have to say by an 
 engraving. The Earl is lying on the bed in his cell, sleeping, as Macaulay 
 says, “the placid sleep of infancy.” A Privy Councillor has opened the 
 door, and is struck with awe and astonishment at the tranquillity, “within an 
 hour of eternity,” of a conscience easier than his own. The light is made to 
 fall upon head and pillow, on the carefully arranged coverlet of the bed, on 
 the Earl’s costume, every fold of which is given, down to the creases in the 
 boots. Near the bed is a thick Bible and a large, almost spherical watch, 
 with the light from the window on its domed glass. The cell is picturesquely 
 vaulted, and (to get a distance) opens into another where a simple repast has 
 been served. The Privy Councillor is robed rather than cloaked, and much 
 care has been bestowed on his lawn cuffs and on the lights upon his shoe. 
 
 The same interest in the details of costume was shown in Mr. Ward’s 
 popular pictures of “The South Sea Bubble,” and “James II. in his palace 
 of Whitehall receiving the news of the landing of the Prince of Orange, in 
 1688.” These two pictures are in the National Gallery, and if they seem 
 wearisome to us now from the very excess of attention paid to the details 
 of costume, and from the multiplicity of their materials, we ought to 
 remember that at the dates of their production (1847 and 1850) this 
 detailed revival of the past was almost a novelty in England, and people 
 had not yet discovered how easily they may have too much of it. A 
 cultivated artist of the present day would rather shrink from a subject like 
 Mr. Ward’s James II., or if he undertook it, he would display no more 
 costume than was inevitable, whereas in 1850 Mr. Ward crowded as much 
 costume and furniture as he could get into his canvas, even placing a 
 cumbrously dressed courtier behind a screen. Every artistic movement is 
 at first excessive, so that the desire for truth in revivals of the past led to a 
 habit of accumulating material without stint, a habit not favourable to the 
 serenity of the higher forms of art. 
 
CHAP. VI 
 
 HISTORICAL GENRE 
 
 199 
 
 The exact opposite of historical genre is the austere art which looks 
 only to the intellectual and moral significance of the work, without trying 
 to interest the historical student by an accurate revival of the past, or to 
 amuse the eyes of the modern public with pretty colours and textures, such 
 as those afforded by the satin and velvet costumes of the eighteenth 
 century. Unfortunately an extreme austerity in artistic work may injure 
 it by denying all ocular pleasure to the spectator. A typical instance of 
 this is the well-known picture of “ The Death of Socrates,” by David. 
 Almost all English people dislike David, but he is extremely precious as an 
 example for art-criticism, because he logically carried out certain principles 
 to their utmost consequences and, in his own way, with great skill. When 
 splendid costumes were a necessary part of his work he painted them, 
 and painted them well, as in his magnificent picture of “Napoleon’s 
 Coronation.” But David did not in the least care for making pretty and 
 attractive pictures. His notion of art was the consistent expression of an 
 idea rather than the mixing of ingredients to please the eye, as a cook 
 mixes them to gratify the palate. His idea of the death of Socrates was 
 rather moral than pictorial, the conception of a moral dignity serene in the 
 most cheerless surroundings. The uncompromising plainness of the prison 
 walls, every stone in them drawn with calm precision, though it has no 
 beauty or interest of any kind, the stern simplicity of the two or three 
 indispensable articles of furniture, the draperies of the figures without 
 texture and, save one narrow border, without an ornament, make most 
 unfavourable materials for an attractive picture of still-life. But Socrates 
 is there, and for him “stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a 
 cage.” He accepts the cup of death, death that he had never either sought 
 or dreaded, and of all that little company it is he who is the least saddened 
 and the least agitated. 
 
 David tried to compensate for the extreme austerity of his subject by 
 composition and a delicate care in execution. The composition is beautiful, 
 the execution careful, but the first is more sculpturesque than pictorial, and 
 the second is not painter-like in the complete sense. This brings us to one 
 of the reasons for the popularity of historical genre. It is favourable to 
 clever painting, because its first object is to amuse and gratify the eye, as 
 artists endeavour to do in pictures of still life. In fact, historical genre 
 usually includes so much still life that a great part of the canvas is occupied 
 with it. Add to this the interest of clothed figures painted more for texture 
 and colour than for their minds or morals, and you have a predominance of 
 ocular over intellectual and moral purposes which, no doubt, is favourable 
 to skill in the craft of painting. One of the first pictures I ever described 
 
200 
 
 HISTORICAL GENRE 
 
 PART IV 
 
 in print was an excellent example of all the various interests and qualities 
 that are united in historical genre. It was a picture by Comte in the Salon 
 of 1863 entitled “ Recreation de Louis XI.” The following explanation 
 from Barante’s History of the Diikes of Burgundy was inserted in the 
 catalogue. “ In the last year of his life, King Louis the Eleventh, weakened 
 by disease, conceived this idea as a substitute for hunting which had been 
 his favourite diversion. He had rats caught in the castle, and caused them 
 to be worried by little dogs that were trained to this kind of game.” The 
 picture represented the King seated and enjoying this wretched sport, and 
 now please observe how completely the subject answered the purposes of 
 the historical genre-painter. Rat-catching is in itself a good subject of 
 Ge?ire. There is the animal-painting to be done in the representation of the 
 miserable rats, and the eager, quick, excited little dogs ; there is the 
 knowing look of the experienced rat-catcher, and the interest of the 
 different spectators. In Comte’s picture the historical element was in- 
 geniously added by showing us a great and powerful sovereign, enjoying 
 the petty sport of a villager or a school-boy. Lastly, as technical imitative 
 cleverness blends far better with the interests of historical genre than with 
 the severe style of nobler historical painting, the artist had taken the oppor- 
 tunity for an original display of technical craft and skill. I will quote my 
 own description written at the time when the picture was most fresh in my 
 memory. “ The picture is remarkable for its singular illumination. A 
 sunbeam from an unseen window strikes the floor, and part of a panelled 
 division that runs across the room, and the reflections from this in every 
 direction light the whole picture. A man is bending low as he holds the 
 dogs, and the reflection lights his red hose, thence again reverberating till it 
 illumines the face of a man who is leaning over the wooden partition. The 
 man with the dogs has a comrade in the same duty, whose shadow is visibly 
 cast upwards on the w r all from the spot of sunshine. The whole room is 
 lighted from that one bright spot. Throughout, the painting is technically 
 excellent, all textures and surfaces studied to the utmost.” It only remains 
 to be said that if technical skill is a common aim of the painter of simple 
 genre, expression is also one of his strong points, and this too has been 
 adopted in this kind of amusing historical painting. I quote again from my 
 notes on Comte’s picture. “ As a study of expression the picture ranks 
 high. The King is eager for his amusement, in a mean, rather timid, but 
 very interested manner ; the courtiers are more or less excited or disdainful, 
 a monk very happy to see the sport, one officer of the Scotch guard rather 
 interested, another evidently scorning the whole thing.” 
 
 There is still another development of historical genre. The picture 
 
CHAP. VI 
 
 HISTORICAL GENRE 
 
 201 
 
 just described represents a habit in the life of an historical personage, 
 exhibits him to us in his privacy, as other pictures have represented him 
 walking with Tristran l’Hermite in the neighbourhood of his castle at 
 Plessis-les-Tours. The painter might, however, have gone a step further 
 in exactness by fixing upon an incident instead of a habit. The desire for 
 incident has led to pictures of historical anecdote which have been abundant 
 during the middle decades of the nineteenth century, but are becoming less 
 frequent towards its close amongst the productions of ambitious or eminent 
 men. Anecdote has the advantage of attracting spectators for an instant in 
 an exhibition, but along with that it carried the fatal disadvantage of a lack 
 of permanence in its adventitious interest, as we very soon become familiar 
 with the little story that there is to tell, and the picture’s unending presenta- 
 tion of it quickly produces indifference when it does not become actively 
 annoying. Besides this drawback, there is the further one that when the 
 anecdote is at all popular, it is likely to be a stock-subject such as King 
 Alfred letting the cakes burn, or Walter Raleigh throwing down his cloak 
 for Queen Elizabeth to cross a muddy place, or Lady Jane Grey reading 
 Plato whilst her friends are out in the hunting-field. In sacred history the 
 repetition of what we should call anecdotes in secular life has not the same 
 inconvenience, because it is the peculiar characteristic of religion to confer 
 upon everything belonging to it a degree of permanence and currency 
 practically without limit. Another peculiarity of religion as a subject for 
 pictorial illustration is that the religious spirit, being always reverential, of 
 itself discourages the critical spirit which is without reverence. Faith dis- 
 poses the mind to accept the most various interpretations of holy anecdotes, 
 without perceiving that the very variety of the interpretations makes them 
 contradictory and therefore incredible. The modern painter of anecdotes 
 in secular history does wisely to avoid those which have been frequently 
 illustrated, and to confine his art to personages whose portraits are ac- 
 cessible. One of the most judiciously chosen subjects for this kind of art 
 was taken by Mr. James Hayllar for his picture of Queen Elizabeth 
 suffering from toothache. She wished to have the tooth drawn, but as her 
 courage was not equal to the occasion a courtier sacrificed a sound one to 
 demonstrate that the pain could be endured. The story had never before 
 been painted, and was interesting enough for a picture of this class, being 
 helped, pictorially, by the Elizabethan furniture and costumes. 
 
 The real object of historical genre was a popular and pecuniary success. 
 Painters knew that their predecessors had starved upon dignified historical 
 painting, and thought it prudent to avoid the decent poverty of Hilton and 
 the disasters of Haydon’s unquiet life. Plistorical genre offered, as it 
 
 2 D 
 
202 
 
 HISTORICAL GENRE 
 
 PART IV 
 
 seemed, an acceptable compromise between pure history and genre by 
 including both in the same works. Its subjects were more elevated than 
 those which the Dutch masters had adopted for pure genre. “The Last 
 Sleep of Argyle ” is an incomparably nobler subject, both pictorially and for 
 its moral grandeur, than the besotted sleep of a Dutch boor that Teniers 
 would have thought good enough for his art. Mr. Ward’s picture of 
 James II. at Whitehall does not only represent costume and furniture but 
 has the tragic interest of fate, as the time chosen is the last hour of a 
 dynasty. “ The Recreation de Louis XI.” is a homily on the petty 
 interests of declining life. Even “ Queen Elizabeth’s Toothache” does at 
 least carry with it the moral that the greatest and most famous personages 
 are subject to the sufferings and weaknesses of humanity. In ordinary 
 genre not only is the historical interest absolutely wanting, but the moral 
 interest is usually much slighter, when it exists at all. 
 
 With all these advantages it is very doubtful whether historical genre 
 will be followed, in the future, by painters of great artistic or intellectual 
 force. It is a department of art exactly suited for clever and intelligent 
 men, but not for great men. It requires an attention to small matters that 
 a great intellect would be likely to consider trifling, whilst the principal 
 exercise that it offers for the imagination is in realising, with the help of 
 costume and furniture, the external appearance of life in other times. The 
 business of it bears a close resemblance to that of a theatrical manager in 
 getting up historical plays. Considering the human interest that belongs 
 to historical genre, it may seem a strange thing to say that a great artistic 
 genius might find a more ample expression in landscape, yet I have no 
 doubt that this is so in reality. Landscape-painting expresses the moods of 
 the human mind in the presence of the natural universe, and also (for this 
 equally belongs to landscape-painting) in human labours on the earth, from 
 the humblest cottage with its tiny garden-plot to the most magnificent cities 
 with their bridges and quays, their palaces and towers. Landscape-painting, 
 no doubt, has often been literal and prosaic, but it may have the harmonies 
 and melodies of music, or the depth of sentiment that belongs to the 
 profoundest poetry. The comparative inferiority of historical genre may be 
 realised if we estimate the loss to art by the employment of Claude and 
 Turner, or even a Cox or a Corot on costumes and incidents in English or 
 French ante-chambers. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 BIOGRAPHY IN PAINTING 
 
 r PHE Graphic Arts are unsuited for the representation of a long series 
 of changes such as those which take place continually in the course 
 of life, and which the literary biographer narrates in successive pages. The 
 painter can only illustrate some of the more important phases or events in 
 human life, and he usually finds himself confronted by a difficulty arising 
 from the lack of materials. It is only in the case of exalted personages 
 who are followed by draughtsmen for the illustrated press that anything 
 approaching to a graphic biography can be said to form itself in course of 
 time ; and even in their case the sketches are often inaccurate both as to 
 the portraiture of persons and the representation of their surroundings. 
 
 I have said that the lack of materials is the common difficulty of 
 biographical painters who have to eke out their work by the help of more 
 or less plausible invention. There is, however, another difficulty which 
 often turns out to be equally formidable even in the very cases when the 
 materials are most abundant. It may happen that they are unsuitable for the 
 purposes of art, so that the painter may be compelled by a purely artistic 
 necessity to discard the truth which he knows and substitute something 
 that is not the truth but is likely to be more pleasing in a picture. There 
 is a typical instance of this in the important and very successful picture by 
 Gros, representing the historical visit of General Bonaparte to the plague- 
 stricken patients at Jaffa. The painter had not been present when the 
 incident took place, nor had he ever visited the locality, but a good deal of 
 the truth was accessible to him through the testimony of eye-witnesses. 
 Amongst other matters of importance the painter knew from Denon’s 
 information that the incident happened in a room lighted by several 
 windows ; but when Gros had made a first project for his picture, with a 
 due respect for the facts, the idea occurred to him that the scene might be 
 made more impressive by calling in the assistance of picturesque architecture. 
 
204 
 
 BIOGRAPHY IN PAINTING 
 
 PART IV 
 
 so he substituted for the bare interior the courtyard of a fine mosque, and 
 put the sufferers under the shade of what in Christian architecture we should 
 call a cloister. This afforded an opportunity for representing not only the 
 arches and other ornaments of the building itself, but also some open sky 
 with a tower and a citadel. The pictorial gain is immense, but all the 
 veracity of the scene is as much destroyed as if a royal visit to St. Thomas’s 
 hospital were transferred by a painter to the cloisters of W estminster Abbey. 
 The knowledge of this untruth makes one uncertain about everything else. 
 We do not feel sure that Bonaparte wore that very showy full dress on such 
 an occasion. He may have done so, but, as a rule, during his campaigns 
 he was exceedingly simple in his attire. Again, one may suspect that the 
 plague-stricken patients were not quite so naked as the painter has repre- 
 sented them. The groups, as he drew them, are like groups from Dante’s 
 “ Inferno.” And of one thing we may be absolutely certain, there cannot 
 have been, in the real scene, such a completely pictorial piece of composi- 
 tion as Gros put together in his atelier. Any one at all accustomed to art- 
 criticism sees at the first glance that these figures are most artificially 
 arranged. In short, the artist has not endeavoured to represent the 
 incident as it took place, but as a painter might have wished it to take 
 place. At the time when I am writing these pages there are many painters 
 in the French school who would unhesitatingly sacrifice pictorial grandeur 
 to historical accuracy, if only the truth were ascertainable. The movement 
 in the direction of veracity began, in fact, many years ago. The reader 
 may remember David’s famous and characteristic picture of Napoleon 
 crossing the Alps. David’s object was to make Napoleon look as masterful 
 and imposing as possible, and with this view, although the truth was 
 perfectly accessible to him, he represented the General on a fiery and 
 prancing charger, in full uniform, with embroidery and bullion fringes and 
 a mantle flying in the wind. Delaroche afterwards gave as much of the 
 truth as he had been able to ascertain, which was that Bonaparte crossed 
 the Alps in a plain undress, and riding a mule led by a guide. As to the 
 mental condition of the hero, Delaroche represented it as profoundly 
 thoughtful — that of a man absorbed in his own schemes. There is, no 
 doubt, a certain truth in David’s picture in the sense that it represents the 
 proud and domineering spirit of Napoleon, but there is no biographical truth. 
 The extreme difficulty of accurate narrative in graphic art may even be 
 illustrated by the picture so conscientiously imagined by Delaroche, for he 
 had no opportunity of painting either the guide, the mule, or even the 
 landscape as Bonaparte saw it, so that his work, after all, is not pictorially 
 true. 
 
CHAP. VII 
 
 BIOGRAPHY IN PAINTING 
 
 205 
 
 The art of enhancing the dignity of a hero in a biographical picture has 
 sometimes gone so far as to introduce even the supernatural. Tiepolo did 
 this in his picture of Ferdinand III. of Spain in a battle near Cadix, where 
 he represented that monarch as his own standard-bearer, with the saintly 
 nimbus floating over his head and cherubs in the sky. In cases of this kind 
 it may be argued that there is truth of another order ; the picture may not 
 represent a fact, but it certainly represents a belief ; it is true to some 
 popular or religious ideal which the bare fact would offend against and 
 perhaps destroy. 
 
 Biographical pictures often contain only one or two authentic portraits 
 surrounded by figures taken from models, or the personage himself may be 
 absent, though his presence is still felt. The most striking picture that I 
 remember in which this device has been resorted to had for its subject a 
 supper in a monk’s refectory in commemoration of the Last Supper, Christ’s 
 place being left vacant. This, by itself, would have been impressive enough, 
 but the credibility of the work was diminished, while its poetry may have 
 been enhanced, by a supernatural light above the vacant seat. 
 
 In a picture of less serious import, Mr. G. H. Boughton once amused 
 himself by depicting the alarmed faces of Peter the Headstrong’s councillors 
 when, during his absence and by his orders, his cane was laid on the cloth 
 before his place at the council-table. The most curious part of the effect 
 produced by this picture is a certain feeling of awe in ourselves when we 
 think of the invisible master. 
 
 Many readers will remember a drawing by Mr. Fildes, published in the 
 Graphic very soon after the death of Charles Dickens. It was called “The 
 Empty Chair,” and represented simply the interior of the novelist’s writing- 
 room, exactly as he left it. Few more impressive or affecting drawings 
 have ever been made, and when we analyse our sensations, we find that 
 they are due in great part to our faith in the fidelity of the representation. 
 We know that Mr. Fildes really drew the things as they were, and this is 
 why we care about them. Artists have very frequently represented empty 
 chairs, and given titles implying some reference to death, but these works 
 affect us slightly in comparison. This is because the subject of death is 
 only a general subject for us until it gains a special interest by its connection 
 with some one whom we have known or can imagine that we have known. 
 
 I was led to this consideration about death by thinking how artists 
 impressed us by painting absence ; however, it is not death but life and the 
 representation of it that occupy us at present. It unfortunately happens 
 that the lives which would most interest us pass beyond the observation of 
 artists before they have become sufficiently celebrated to attract them. If 
 
20 6 
 
 BIOGRAPHY IN PAINTING 
 
 PART IV 
 
 at later periods an attempt is made to resuscitate the youth or early man- 
 hood of men who have become famous later, the impediments to fidelity are 
 too numerous. It would be necessary, in all works that are more than 
 simply portraits, to give truthful representations not only of the principal 
 personage, but of his obscure friends and companions, sometimes even of 
 his servants, and this would involve impracticable and fruitless researches. 
 
 Biographical pictures sometimes consist in little more than a representa- 
 tion of a man in an attitude characteristic of his life and work. A sovereign 
 is enthroned, or a law-giver is formally promulgating a law. Several 
 modern painters have attempted in this way a characteristic representation 
 of historical personages. In the French school two or three of the most 
 notable pictures of this class have been Benjamin Constant’s Justinian on 
 his throne, with his councillors on lower seats ; his Theodora, also en- 
 throned ; and especially that powerful representation of the Lower Empire, 
 in which Jean Paul Laurens showed the young and stolid-faced Honorius 
 solemnly seated with the sword of empire in his right hand, whilst his 
 left rests on an orb that carried a statuette of Victory. These pictures have 
 at least the advantage of exhibiting a king as a king, whereas when the 
 paraphernalia of royalty are laid aside, and the august sovereign is dressed 
 like other people, the art of painting is incompetent to convey the notion of 
 his pre-eminence and power. In modern lives the visible truth is very 
 rarely adequate as an expression of human greatness. In our day two 
 widow ladies may sometimes be seen together, driving out perhaps, or 
 walking quietly in a royal garden. There is nothing warlike in their aspect, 
 yet one of them had considerable influence in bringing about the Crimean 
 War, and the other in causing the great conflict between France and 
 Germany. The terrible power that sends armies into the field may some- 
 times be wielded by a lady, and that in the gentlest manner, as if she 
 touched the electric apparatus that launches a man-of-war. How can we 
 express such a power by any fidelity to what is visible ? Rubens would 
 have expressed it by making a warlike empress, half a goddess, commanding 
 grim personifications of fire and slaughter. To us the mixture of biography 
 with allegory in the graphic arts appears incongruous and absurd. It is 
 now entirely banished from historical painting, and has been taken up by 
 the caricaturists because, in simply availing themselves of it, they know 
 that they will make their subject ridiculous. 
 
 I remember one unfortunate modern attempt to represent pictorially the 
 invisible truth about the story of a life. Napoleon said of his assumption 
 of empire, “ I found the crown of France on the ground, and I picked it 
 up.” A French artist, M. Realier- Dumas, materialised this metaphorical 
 
CHAP. VII 
 
 BIOGRAPHY IN PAINTING 
 
 20 7 
 
 expression by showing us the crown of France on the floor of a room in the 
 Tuileries that a revolutionary mob was leaving, whilst Napoleon stayed 
 behind and looked at it with longing eyes. The picture is useful as an 
 example of the inconveniences which attend the realisation of a metaphor. 
 We at once understood the sense of Napoleon’s words which refer to the 
 assumption of the supreme power. The painter makes him look like a 
 thief who wants to carry off a valuable piece of jewellery. 
 
 Simple portraits are scarcely to be considered biographical except as 
 representing an instant of time in the life. They do not represent a day, 
 as there are many actions in a day, nor even an hour, for there are many 
 attitudes in the most unoccupied of hours. And even when the attitude 
 remains the same for a few minutes the thoughts and the expression change. 
 The biographical interest of portraits is immensely enhanced when we have 
 a succession of them, taken at different ages, and especially when they 
 represent the subject employed in different occupations. The pride or 
 vanity of men, and their desire to pose for posterity, unfortunately induce 
 them to assume attitudes that rarely help us to understand the realities of 
 their life. A good biographical portrait painter would catch them at 
 unguarded moments when their attitudes are most personal and most 
 characteristic, and he would surround them, not with formal and dignified 
 furniture and upholstery that may belong to anybody, but with objects that 
 are their own and express their personal tastes and preferences. This has 
 already been done with happy results in two important series of portraits of 
 well-known contemporaries issued by the Graphic and the Monde Illustrd 
 The English series was rapidly sketched, the French engraved with extreme 
 elaboration, and so interesting did the furniture become from its connection 
 with the celebrated owner, that the most minute care in the representation 
 of it did not seem to be out of place. 
 
 The interest given by a celebrity to the things belonging to him is such 
 that admirers of a favourite author will walk miles to see even the outside 
 of his house, though it probably does not in the least express his own ideas 
 about domestic architecture unless, like Sir Walter Scott, he has been able 
 to build it for himself. The backgrounds of portraits are therefore by no 
 means limited in their interest to interiors, and instead of slightly sketching 
 some insignificant background of clouds and foliage, the painter might 
 enhance the biographical value of his work by placing his subject close to 
 his own home, or at least in some favourite haunt. 
 
 To be perfect, biographical pictures would be like illustrations to novels, 
 if only the illustrations were true. People would be represented together 
 as they lived, and where they lived. There are two great impediments to 
 
208 
 
 BIOGRAPHY IN PAINTING 
 
 PART IV 
 
 this kind of art, the first coming from the people themselves, who always 
 imagine that their present life is insignificant, though afterwards they will 
 be sorry that they did not preserve some record of it ; and the second 
 coming from artists who for pictures of groups with interesting surroundings 
 prefer interiors that they can arrange at their own pleasure, and models who 
 will pose conveniently in any attitude. The difficulty offered by the inartistic 
 nature of English houses and costumes in the middle of the present century 
 has now so far disappeared that artists can find what is available by the 
 exercise of some care and taste in selection. Fashions are not always 
 beautiful in our time, but they are so very frequently. Houses are still 
 often dull and mechanical in design, but the number of beautiful and 
 interesting houses has increased with the modern tolerance of invention in 
 domestic architecture. 
 
 Our conclusion must be that the Graphic Arts are valuable as an 
 assistance to biography, but hardly for biography itself, as they are not 
 continuous enough. The nearest approach to continuity in modern times 
 amongst ordinary people is reached by those who are in the habit of being 
 very frequently photographed. Unfortunately, the photographic record is 
 usually limited to the person, owing to the bad but almost unavoidable 
 practice of having portraits taken in the photographer’s own room with his 
 backgrounds and furniture that serve indiscriminately for sitters of all 
 classes and all characters. 
 
MAN IN ART 
 
 PART V 
 PORTRAIT 
 
 2 E 
 

CHAPTER I 
 
 THE RANK OF PORTRAITURE IN THE ARTS 
 
 T T is sometimes permissible, because it is sometimes useful, to refer to 
 one’s own private experience, so I may perhaps say in this place that 
 the interest of portrait, both in sculpture and painting and in all kinds of 
 original drawing by engraving, has quietly and steadily been increasing for 
 me during the last twenty years. The fact may be of some slight interest 
 for my readers, because it shows at least that the study of portrait is not 
 without reward, and that this branch of art, at first apparently one of the 
 most simple, as it seems to be the mere copyism of a living object, contains 
 more within its depths than is obvious to the beginner in art-criticism. But 
 not only has the positive interest of portrait greatly increased for me since 
 I was a young man, its relative interest is also very much greater. Por- 
 traits hung amongst other pictures attract me much more than they did 
 formerly, and in selecting illustrations for this volume I have been con- 
 stantly tempted to take noble portraits in preference to everything else. 
 At the same time, my interest in the popular kind of art that I have called 
 “historical genre,” which was lively enough in youth, has gone on steadily 
 declining, and now I find myself caring very little for arrangements or 
 accumulations of picturesque material, whilst I am most pleased with those 
 works that combine simplicity of purpose with dignity and veracity — 
 qualities that are often found together in the best portraits, both by old and 
 contemporary masters. 
 
 It was excusable enough in one whose youth was passed at a distance 
 from great capitals to infer from what he saw around him that portraiture 
 was an inferior branch of art. In those days photography was only just 
 beginning its extensive services to society and the fine arts. One of its 
 best services to these has been to undertake the enormously increasing 
 business of representing ordinary people with sufficient truth to satisfy 
 their relatives, without encouraging an inferior class of painters. Common 
 
212 
 
 THE RANK OF PORTRAITURE IN THE ARTS 
 
 PART V 
 
 portrait-painting used to be a handicraft in which success w'as held to be 
 •achieved when the workman had caug-ht a likeness. The more ambitious 
 and cultivated portrait-painters almost invariably lived in capital cities, and 
 the most serious amongst them looked back with reverence to Velasquez 
 and Vandyke, or to our English Reynolds and Gainsborough. The lower 
 class, who went about the country in search of employment, were contempt- 
 uously described by Scott in the person of Dick Tinto, in the first chapter 
 of The Bride of Lammermoor , and this is one of the very rare cases in 
 which Scott’s noble nature was sufficiently unsympathetic to speak in a tone 
 of raillery of a poor man’s struggle for existence. “ Amid his wants and 
 struggles, Dick Tinto had recourse, like his brethren, to levying that tax 
 upon the vanity of mankind which he could not extract from their taste and 
 liberality — in a word, he painted portraits. It was in this more advanced 
 state of proficiency, when Dick had soared above his original line of 
 business, and highly disdained any allusion to it, that, after having been 
 estranged for several years, we met again in the village of Gandercleugh, I 
 holding my present situation, and Dick painting copies of the human face 
 divine at a guinea per head. This was a small premium, yet, in the first 
 burst of business, it more than sufficed for all Dick’s moderate wants ; so 
 that he occupied an apartment at the Wallace Inn, cracked his jest with 
 impunity even upon mine host himself, and lived in respect and observance 
 with the chambermaid, hostler, and waiter.” The end of poor Dick Tinto 
 was to go to London to fight his way to fame, and, instead of it, find 
 poverty and a premature grave. 
 
 This was before the age of photography, which has deprived the lowest 
 class of portrait-painters of their bread, whilst it has left eminence in their 
 profession if possible more eminent than ever. A portrait of some import- 
 ant personage by a well-known artist becomes at the present day more 
 famous than at any previous period in the history of the fine arts ; and 
 although it may be difficult for any artist to go beyond the worldly success 
 of Reynolds , 1 there are more large incomes made by portrait-painting in 
 our time than by the most popular historical genre. Another striking 
 proof of the vitality of portrait is that painters who have won their fame in 
 other branches of art go to seek an augmentation of it in portraiture also, 
 — a tendency most favourable to the freshness and interest of portraiture 
 itself, as these artists bring to it new habits of sight, and so preserve it 
 from a narrow professional routine. There has, then, been a movement in 
 
 1 Taking into consideration the value of money and the relative importance of different reputa- 
 tions. In the time of Reynolds his worldly position was equal to that of any portrait-painter now 
 living, though Carolus Durand earns what is nominally a much larger income than his. 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 THE RANK OF PORTRAITURE IN THE ARTS 
 
 213 
 
 two directions — one to the ruin of portraiture as a mechanical trade, the 
 other towards its preservation and elevation as a fine art. Both, in opposite 
 ways, have been equally favourable to portraiture. 
 
 The worldly failure or success of this or any other branch of art can 
 have little interest for criticism except in one way, and that is not to be 
 overlooked. Pecuniary encouragement is important, even from the critic’s 
 point of view, though he has no private interest in it, as it determines the 
 existence or, in its absence, the extinction of a fine art. Supposing Dick 
 Tinto to have been a living personage (and it is likely that the author of 
 Waverley described him from recollection), it is evident that, with rather 
 better pecuniary success he might have studied more, worked more at his 
 ease, and enjoyed long years of progress, instead of going down prematurely 
 to his grave. He would at least have escaped from the ridicule cast upon 
 him by a more successful portrait-painter, in words, to whom we owe the 
 little that is known to us about him. In this sense the pecuniary success of 
 artists has an interest for criticism, but otherwise it is as nothing, and the 
 nothingness of it, relatively to the history of art, is best proved by the vary- 
 ing prices, not only of portraits, but of works of art of all kinds. 
 
 The true rank of portraiture amongst the fine arts must be determined 
 by other considerations. And, first, does it contain anything that is not 
 obvious at first sight ? What is obvious is the making of a resemblance to 
 a living object. From this point of view, portrait is merely object-painting, 
 like still-life, with the difference that the model is not inanimate, though, as 
 he remains perfectly still, or as quiet as he can, he tries to make himself as 
 easy a subject for the painter as if he were a bust of bronze or marble. We 
 will pass to other considerations in due course, but for the present let us 
 dwell a little on this quality of portrait as the simple representation of an 
 object. A man who stands perfectly still to be painted from nature, and 
 in the steady light of a studio, is in fact an object in the same sense as any 
 other tangible thing — in the same sense as, for example, the table by his 
 side, or the column and curtain behind him. Now, if the painter could 
 represent this living object with the same fidelity as the lifeless things 
 round him, would the result be sufficient and satisfactory ? Mr. John 
 Collier, who is a very able portrait-painter, appears to think that it would. 
 He advocates the practice of imitation, touch by touch — the picture, if of 
 life-size, to be placed close to the sitter, if smaller, at a little distance, 
 regulated by the difference in size — and then the artist is to verify every 
 touch by walking backwards to see if it comes right. This is the practice 
 of Sir John Millais, and it seems at first sight as if it would exclude 
 imagination — indeed, Mr. Collier tells us plainly that “portraiture makes 
 
214 
 
 THE RANK OF PORTRAITURE IN THE ARTS 
 
 PART V 
 
 no demands on the imagination,” and that “ the problems it presents are 
 very simple.” Still, “ from their very simplicity arises a special difficulty. 
 How is it possible to make an interesting picture out of a commonplace 
 person in the costume of the present day ? It must be acknowledged that 
 in some cases the problem is hopeless. There are some portraits which, 
 at the best, can only be interesting to artists on account of their technical 
 merits, but which to the general public must be simply ugly and dull.” 
 
 In portraiture there are two elements — the sight of physical shapes 
 which the artist copies as he makes a study from the life, and his interpre- 
 tation of the mind and character of the subject. The second part is too 
 important and complicated to be considered in the present chapter, although 
 it is certain that the rank of portraiture amongst the fine arts must depend 
 in a great measure on the validity of its pretension to interpret mind. 
 Leaving that half of the subject for the present out of the question, we see 
 that, from the physical point of view only, a portrait is equivalent to a study 
 from the living model, but as there is very little nudity, the artist avoids 
 the great difficulty of painting the naked body, or, if he is a sculptor, of 
 carving it. At this moment I am thinking of a portrait by Tintoret, in 
 which the face only is visible, the neck being entirely hidden, whilst the 
 hands are cased in great ill-fitting gloves, coming above the wrists. There 
 are many portraits of what we consider the picturesque ages, in which an 
 excess of costume covers almost the entire human being, and that in such 
 a manner as to conceal not only the skin but the forms, so that it is almost 
 impossible to know whether they are muscular or meagre, as for example 
 when they are hidden under robes of ceremony. Portrait-painting is there- 
 fore scarcely figure-painting in the complete sense, and we may perhaps 
 understand the greater respect felt by artists for studies of the nude when 
 we remember that a portrait-painter usually covers all but a very small 
 portion of his canvas either with a background that is often meaningless, or 
 with costume that can be at best only a successful study of still-life. And 
 even the face and hands themselves are usually no more than object-studies, 
 though the object is not inanimate. 
 
 These facilities and limitations of portrait-painting have exposed it more 
 than any other branch of art to the evils of manufacture. Followed simply 
 for gain, and not for art and reputation, portraiture easily sinks into the 
 condition of a manual trade, as we ourselves have known it in the nine- 
 teenth century. Any clever workman who had the gift of catching a like- 
 ness could copy a face in a few sittings, and cover a background rapidly. 
 The hands, in the regular portrait-manufacture, were treated as objects of 
 little or no importance, and often painted with slight reference to nature. 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 THE RANK OF PORTRAITURE IN THE ARTS 
 
 215 
 
 I remember the case of a clever amateur who set himself to imitate the 
 portrait-manufacturers of his time, and succeeded so well that his work 
 passed easily for theirs, though no one would have attributed to it any 
 artistic value. He could not have imitated historical painting, or genre, 
 with the same facility. Even in recent years, and in spite of the rivalry of 
 the photograph, I remember an Italian artist who carried forward the 
 business of portrait-painting on the soundest commercial principles, settling 
 down for a few months in some provincial town, and painting all the well- 
 to-do lawyers and tradesmen. On his departure he left traces of his sojourn 
 on many walls, in pictures animated enough, no doubt, and terribly like the 
 originals, but in the most frightful colour — works of art that no one would 
 ever have purchased for an aesthetic reason, yet for which the human desire 
 to see itself in paint had been willing to disburse a five-pound, nay, even a 
 ten-pound note, so that the Italian Dick Tinto lived in comparative afflu- 
 ence. The artistic results of an extensive commerce of this kind are in the 
 highest degree deplorable. Domestic affection keeps them whilst it lasts, 
 that is, for a generation, and for so long they are fixtures on the walls. To 
 remove the father and mother seems unkind to them when living, and after 
 their death undutiful, and if portraits are kept in private life in this way for 
 a few years, those of public characters may live with the celebrity of their 
 subjects. In both cases, equally, works hold their position by another 
 claim and another interest than art. The historical and biographical value 
 of inferior pictures that happen to be the only authentic portraits of famous 
 persons is always and everywhere a most efficacious protection for them, so 
 that here we have to do with a kind of art that can exist and perpetuate 
 itself independently of quality, and which, by establishing itself on the ex- 
 traneous ground of biographical interest, can set artistic criticism at 
 defiance. 
 
 Whilst, however, the art of portrait-painting may be disconnected so 
 easily from fine art, and still subsist by satisfying human affection for the 
 living or interest in the dead, it may, on the other hand, be so closely con- 
 nected with what is noblest and best in art as to live independently of all 
 interest in the person who has been painted. Thus we have, both in public 
 and private collections, immortal portraits of persons whose very names are 
 utterly unknown to us, ghosts of the far past, whose semblance has come 
 down to us like a vision seen with the utmost distinctness, yet incapable of 
 answering our questions — “ Who are you ? ” and, “ In what manner did you 
 pass through this mortal life ? ” Such portraits are the contrary of those 
 fictitious images by which we represent the illustrious dead of whom no 
 likeness has been preserved. Whether such images have been created by 
 
THE RANK OF PORTRAITURE IN THE ARTS 
 
 PART V 
 
 2 16 
 
 ourselves in our own imagination, or fixed permanently for us by the art of 
 painting, we are still certain that they cannot resemble the forms that have 
 been lost for ever. Of the unknown we have sometimes the clearest 
 details ; of the known, nothing to control or rectify a conjecture or a dream. 
 Of the two, it is perhaps the clear portrait of the unknown that most excites 
 in us an unsatisfied and unsatisfiable curiosity, since we know less about a 
 man whom we have only seen, than about one whose character and 
 thoughts have been opened for us. As for the poor nameless ghosts of the 
 past in our public galleries and private houses, they look down upon us as 
 if they were still living, and we know nothing about them — nothing of their 
 passage from the cradle to the grave, except that they were living in that 
 way at the time when the painter painted them, and we remember some 
 events of their age, and wonder what interest they took in these events, or 
 whether they had any personal share in them. “ That man,” we think, 
 “ dressed in those fashions and cultivated that moustache in the time of the 
 Spanish Armada or, “Those eyes have probably seen Rembrandt him- 
 self at Amsterdam, or Titian at Venice” — according to the origirj of the 
 picture and the school to which it belongs. And then we wonder what 
 kind of a private live the unknown man had passed through, and though he 
 seems as happy as most of us, there may be a touch of dissatisfaction in his 
 expression, as there is on the face of Montaigne, that we try to account for 
 by the idlest and most unfounded conjectures. Meanwhile, the ghost is 
 not preserved in the gallery for any of these reasons, but simply because 
 the picture is good in handling and colour, and an example of some 
 excellent artist, or a valued illustration of some particular school. 
 
 And as time goes on and on, as the slow centuries pass, the reason for 
 preserving portraits will be more and more the artistic reason, when family 
 traditions lose themselves, and even long-lived reputations die. One of the 
 increasing characteristics of modern life is apathy about ancestors, unless it 
 is possible to enhance by their means the importance of the living, as by 
 the revival of abeyant peerages. It is true that we commemorate more 
 than ever the famous and illustrious dead, especially when they have 
 occupied an exalted social position ; certainly no age wholly freed from 
 Egyptian superstitions, could have commemorated a prince more visibly 
 than by the monument erected to Prince Albert, and if statues are not often 
 gilded or placed beneath a towering canopy, the number of them in bronze 
 or marble erected in our time seems to indicate a lively desire to perpetuate 
 the memories of all who have a claim to public gratitude. But along with 
 this increased attention to the dead, who when living were either exalted 
 in rank or useful to the community, there goes an increasing indifference to 
 
PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG MAN 
 
 Venetian School 
 Etched by G. W. Rhead 
 ( National Gallery) 
 
 I have selected this as an example of simplicity and symmetry in portraiture, 
 and because I like. the original picture very' much. 
 
 The symmetry' is so complete that whatever there is on one side there is 
 on the other side also. It is only interfered with by the lighting which comes 
 from the spectator’s left, and even that (by a licence common with portrait- 
 painters in all ages) is much more marked in the face and hair than in the 
 dress. 
 
 Symmetry of this perfect kind is not possible in the earliest art, which is 
 that of profile, nor in fully developed art either, which does not try' for unity in 
 exact repetition but in variety'. This portrait marks an intermediate stage. 
 To imitate it in our time would be an intentional archaism. 
 
 By an understanding between the etcher and me he has purposely 
 adopted a primitive style of treatment which corresponds, in another art, 
 ■with the technical qualities of the painting. 
 

 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 THE RANK OF PORTRAITURE IN THE ARTS 
 
 217 
 
 the obscure and almost nameless dead whose lives were passed in the 
 performance of simple duties, or who brightened those of others by unselfish 
 affection. It is a characteristic of our time, and not a favourable or a 
 hopeful characteristic, that young people look forward so keenly to their 
 own establishment in life, with a view to pleasure and enjoyment, or, in 
 rarer instances, with a view to personal ambition, that they have not time 
 or thought for any pious interest in their forefathers. And the sight of this 
 apathy has a deterrent effect on the formation of family history itself; for 
 there is no great temptation to spend money on portraits that posterity 
 will not value, or to waste time in writing memoirs that it will never read. 
 There are young people of middling station who care so little about those 
 who went before them that they really do not know the names of their 
 ancestors two generations back — I mean that they are forgetful of such a 
 little detail of not distant family history as their grandmother’s maiden 
 name — whilst they are so indifferent to the history of their ancestors that 
 they have never taken the trouble to visit the places where they passed 
 their lives. In the upper classes this apathy is marked by the prevalent 
 ignorance of heraldry, an ignorance that confuses, for example, quarterings 
 with impalements, so that due distinctions are not maintained between 
 shields borne by different members of the same family. If to this decay of 
 family piety we add the unquestionable increase in artistic culture that has 
 marked the latter half of the nineteenth century, it becomes more and more 
 probable that portraits of obscure persons destitute of value as works of 
 art, will be replaced by paintings of no interest in the history of families, 
 but capable of affording aesthetic pleasure. Some of us have seen this 
 change in actual operation, when portraits of recently deceased relations 
 (especially if they did not look quite like gentlemen and ladies) were re- 
 moved to make way for fancy pictures from the exhibitions. 
 
 These considerations lead plainly and directly to the conclusion that 
 the artistic merit of a portrait is more than ever necessary to its preservation, 
 and especially to its continued keeping of its place in the house for which 
 it was originally intended. It is only when the original is destined to an 
 immortality of his own that his portrait is likely to inspire any permanent 
 interest in spite of mediocrity as a painting, and as all, except a very few 
 reputations, even amongst the celebrated, differ only from physical life by 
 lasting a little longer, to resemble it most precisely afterwards in the 
 completeness of their extinction, the conclusion is that unless the artist is 
 great enough to confer immortality on his subject, the portrait is destined 
 to complete and speedy oblivion. Hence the need, in ordering one’s 
 portrait, for a better knowledge of art than has been common in preceding 
 
 2 F 
 
2 I 8 
 
 THE RANK OF PORTRAITURE IN THE ARTS 
 
 PART V 
 
 generations. If we live at all in portrait, we shall live as a reward for our 
 own critical acumen in choosing an artist whose works themselves will live. 
 Nor is the present celebrity of the painter any certain guide to this futurity 
 of fame. No artists are more the playthings of temporary fashion than the 
 portrait-painters, because no artists come so closely into contact with the 
 world that makes or submits to fashion. It may sometimes happen that 
 the artist who has most chance of conferring immortality is left outside of 
 fashion, as Rembrandt when he etched “ Six,” “ The Coppenols,” “ Lutma,” 
 “ Uijtenbogaerd,” and “Jan Sylvius.” Of these names, how many would 
 have reached us without the skill of an etcher who did not make a 
 profession of etching, but scratched a plate occasionally as a relief from 
 painting, and had a clumsy wooden press to take proofs in some corner of 
 his house or of his painting-room ? 
 
 If portraits are to depend on their own technical excellence for their 
 preservation in future centuries, there is at least this consolation for their 
 subjects, that no branch of art is more favourable to excellence of work- 
 manship. The work is simple in itself, and done directly from nature, 
 so that the artist is free to devote his mind entirely to the exercise of 
 his manual skill, and it is quite true that no branch of art, unless it be 
 the nearly allied one of still-life, has done more for the development of 
 manual skill, and for the maintenance of it as an attainment. No one 
 will accuse me of under-valuing landscape (I am sometimes accused of 
 over-va\u\ng it), but I do not hesitate to say that landscape-painting is 
 usually far inferior to portrait as a craft. And one of the great reasons 
 why portraiture ought to be encouraged and maintained, is because it keeps 
 men up to a certain standard of cleverness in flesh-painting and draperies. 
 All artists, even when their specialities are so far apart as historical 
 painting and landscape, say that they find portrait strengthening as 
 practice. For young painters just emerging from studentship, it is the 
 best transition from the life-class to historical painting or genre. And if, 
 as his accomplishment increases, an artist wishes to carry portrait beyond 
 the simple representation of a single figure, there is nothing in the nature 
 of the art to impose any limitations on his invention in the arrangement 
 of groups. Of all the varieties of art, portrait is the most favourable to 
 men who have some gifts, but not all gifts, and who do not exactly know 
 what their gifts may be, or how far they will carry them. It is a branch 
 of art for which the higher gifts of taste and imagination are not indis- 
 pensable, and yet in which they never fail to tell. It seems to belong to 
 commonplace fact and prose, yet it admits of fancy and grace, and even 
 poetry. A satisfactory degree of success has often been attained in it 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 THE RANK OF PORTRAITURE IN THE ARTS 
 
 219 
 
 by men of very moderate intellectual power ; sometimes, indeed, they 
 have made fortunes more easily than men of genius, yet, at the same 
 time, the greatest artistic and intellectual force has found its expression 
 in portraiture. It absolutely requires very small powers of memory, as 
 the sitter is there, yet the rarest power of memory may be of use in 
 recalling and fixing some momentary expression which is the real revelation 
 of a man’s nature. Some portraitists have succeeded with a feeble gift 
 of colour, and with a degree of technical charm so moderate that it would 
 have been insufficient for a painter of still-life or of landscape ; this was the 
 case of Ary Scheffer, who succeeded in portrait by nothing but sound 
 drawing and good taste. Others have brought to portrait the most 
 glorious gifts of colour and technical quality, and they were as acceptable 
 in this branch of art as they would have been in history or landscape. In 
 a word, portrait is a kind of art that does not exact great talents, yet 
 affords a fine field for their exercise if the artist happens to possess them. 
 In this it is far more convenient for men of some talent, but not of genius, 
 than either history or landscape, for history requires great powers of 
 invention, and landscape a great memory, and the technical gift of the 
 colourist. 
 
 The technical rank of portrait must always be a substantial rank, 
 because it is founded in quite a peculiar degree on excellence in drawing. 
 We know how little drawing is usually put by landscape-painters into their 
 works. A few of them have had a refined sense of form, but that quality 
 does not in any sure way lead them to success, it is colour and a senti- 
 mental charm, a sort of poetry, that make the fortune of the landscape- 
 painter. Animal-painting requires much greater knowledge of form, but 
 even here there is wide liberty, as although a sheep must be distinguishable 
 from a goat, the public does not require much individuality in a flock of 
 sheep. Pictures of genre are accepted if they tell their story well, and 
 nobody asks if the faces are like the models, or the legs of the actors 
 more or less robust than Nature made them. Even in historical painting 
 a very moderate precision of form is all we care for, we like to recognise 
 the few historical personages whose appearance is, in a general way, 
 supposed to be known, but there is an end to our demand for individuality. 
 In the portraiture of living people that demand is incomparably more 
 exacting. It is not enough that a nose must be a possible nose, a feature 
 answering the general purposes of a nose, it must be of the shape and 
 relative size of the nose possessed by the subject of the picture, or else all 
 his friends will complain of the artist’s infidelity, and the subject himself 
 will think that his nose has been treated without that delicacy of considera- 
 
220 
 
 THE RANK OF PORTRAITURE IN THE ARTS 
 
 PART V 
 
 tion which is due to it. No one could have reproached Holbein with such 
 want of consideration when he delineated with the greatest care the 
 important and imposing feature that adorned the profile of Erasmus, a 
 feature no doubt delightful to the painter himself as the distinction of a 
 remarkable individuality. Our own contemporary, Mr. Ouless, did equal 
 justice to the wonderful nose of Cardinal Newman, a nose that seemed to 
 precede the rest of the face like an avant-garde , and behind which the eye 
 beamed benignant in serene security. These features, and perhaps still 
 more the thin lips of Erasmus, required much care and accuracy in drawing ; 
 but the most difficult faces of all are those in which the forms are least 
 striking and the least definite, the faces that depend for their shape upon 
 expression, and seem to have really no drawing in them, yet such form 
 as there is, with all its uncertainty, all its lack of individuality, has to 
 be drawn and made as recognisable as the well-marked features of a 
 Gladstone. And whether the portrait is linear in treatment like a Holbein, 
 or painted in broad masses of light and dark with intentionally untraceable 
 outlines, truth of form is equally indispensable in both cases, though form 
 is not exhibited in both with the same rigidity of definition. The most 
 subtle drawing of all is that which suggests truths that it does not 
 positively affirm. 
 
 It might be maintained that the practice of portraiture has taught artists 
 of all schools an accuracy in drawing that they would never have acquired 
 without it, and also that it has taught the public the rudiments of a simple 
 kind of criticism, which is not really in contradiction to the higher criticism, 
 but an early state of knowledge from which the higher criticism has been 
 developed. Rudimentary criticism is simply the ascertainment of resem- 
 blance to nature, a comparison between nature and the work of art to 
 ascertain whether the artist has been a faithful copyist or not, and, if not, 
 in what special deviations from the model before him his infidelity has 
 consisted. Now, this kind of criticism is invariably applied to portraits, 
 and applied to them with a rigour unusual in judging other kinds of art. 
 It is a sound and reasonable kind of criticism so far as it goes, and the 
 advantage of it to the public is that it tends to educate the eye in the 
 observation of form. 
 
 Another benefit which comes from portraiture is that it calls back the 
 arts to a comparatively primitive stage. I am well aware that portraits 
 may be painted in a very advanced manner, and that they are so by a few 
 artists who attract considerable attention in the present day. What I mean 
 by an advanced manner is a manner that avoids definition, and tries to 
 convey the idea that somehow disengages itself from reality, rather than to 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 THE RANK OF PORTRAITURE IN THE ARTS 
 
 22 I 
 
 imitate the reality itself. A very distinguished French painter told me that 
 the notion now prevalent amongst the younger men is that material things 
 ought not to be painted, but a sort of vision that floats as it were between 
 the things and the eye of the artist. I hope the reader understands what 
 is intended to be conveyed by this ; I think I understand it myself. It is a 
 mental conception of nature by which the artist does not look upon nature 
 as made up of tangible substances, but as an appearance only — a conception 
 not new to philosophy, but contrary to all primitive art, and indeed to the 
 whole of art, whether primitive or not, which is founded on the imitation of 
 substance rather than the interpretation of effects. Now, there is a certain 
 positivism in portrait that draws painters continually back from advanced 
 methods in the interpretation of nature to the clear and decided primitive 
 methods which never become wholly obsolete in this branch of art, as they 
 have done, for example, in landscape. One of the most noted pictures 
 exhibited in France during the year 1891 was that of a famous Parisian 
 beauty, Madame G., and the painter himself, M. Courtois, told me that he 
 had been attracted to her as a subject for his art, because, when seen in 
 profile, she reminded him so strongly of pictures by the early Italian 
 masters, and he painted her in their sense. His picture was entirely 
 successful, not only amongst artists and critics who appreciated what was 
 archaic in its taste, but amongst the general public, which does not care 
 much for the early Italians, or for primitive art of any kind. The clear 
 relief of the well and carefully drawn profile, the simplicity of the costume, 
 and a fearless serenity in the looks and attitude of the lady, who seemed as 
 if she had lived hundreds of years before this age of self-consciousness and 
 affectations, all conspired to give a certain freshness and rarity to the 
 painting which are not likely to pass away ; and although it is not usually 
 safe to predict the tastes even of the near future, not to mention the remote, 
 I do certainly believe that this is one of the few contemporary portraits 
 that have a prospect of immortality. Perhaps, in five hundred years, 
 people will look upon that frank face and think it wonderful that amongst 
 so many attractive women who lived when Carnot was President of the 
 Republic this lady was supreme, and then they will account for her 
 supremacy by a certain peculiarity and originality, remote from mere 
 prettiness, which the artist has preserved all the better by his adoption of a 
 primitive treatment. We see, then, that a recurrence to earlier art may be 
 successful, even now, in portrait, and it would be easy to adduce other 
 examples ; but if a landscape-painter were to go back to the early Italians 
 for his models, and paint landscape on their principles, he would no more 
 succeed than a coach-builder who went back to the days of Queen Anne. 
 
222 
 
 THE RANK OF PORTRAITURE IN THE ARTS 
 
 PART V 
 
 This may be fortunate for portrait and unfortunate for landscape, for this 
 reason, that as in the study of language it is always good for us to go back 
 to the rudiments and learn them over and over again, and as in music the 
 most elementary practice is constantly repeated even by accomplished 
 musicians ; so in painting the recurrence to early habits of observation, and 
 even to early patience in performance, may fortify an art that tends con- 
 stantly to a loss of strength and substance in its progress to that interpre- 
 tation of evanescent effect now known by the term “ Impressionism.” It is 
 not well to employ foreign words when an English one equally good can 
 be found, but as in this case there is no English equivalent, I may say’ that 
 portrait is the rajermissement of the art of painting ; it is in portrait that 
 the elements of this art are constantly learned over again, and it is in 
 portrait that a painter may go back to early principles of work with the 
 least risk of finding himself hopelessly out of fashion. 
 
 Although this art is simple in the sense of requiring very little imagina- 
 tion and very little intricacy of composition, and although the canvas is for 
 the most part covered with still-life painting that is easy enough, if anything 
 can be called easy in the fine arts, there remains the great technical diffi- 
 culty of flesh-painting, when colour is attempted, which nothing but great 
 natural talent, joined to indomitable perseverance, has ever entirely over- 
 come. It is like qzLCility in landscape, especially the quality of skies, which 
 is indispensable to fine landscape-painting and of immense difficulty. 
 Therefore, whilst portrait requires more perfect drawing than any other 
 branch of art, it requires at least as perfect painting as any other, and is in 
 itself a complete technical school, for it includes even composition when it 
 has to deal with groups. 
 
 In sculpture the practice of portraiture is less in harmony with the 
 highest aspirations of the art, because these tend always towards ideal and 
 abstract forms, whereas portraiture is the study of individuality, and 
 individuality is the exact opposite of the abstract and the ideal. A com- 
 promise between the two is effected by idealising the individual — that is, 
 by disengaging from the actual forms presented by nature, which have often 
 been modified by accident and disease, or by unhygienic habits of life, the 
 forms that the individual might have possessed if his habits and circum- 
 stances had always been favourable iO his own special physical perfection. 
 Every head suggests a personal and individual perfection to which it has 
 not attained. The difficulty here is in the loss of character involved by 
 seeking for what may be called the individual ideal, since, as every cari- 
 caturist knows, character is closely connected with imperfection, so that the 
 purification of the visible form involves always some sacrifice of interest. 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 THE RANK OF PORTRAITURE IN THE ARTS 
 
 223 
 
 The process followed by a sculptor in making an idealised bust is, in fact, 
 just the opposite of that followed by the caricaturist in a sketch intended to 
 be amusing, as the sculptor passes over or attenuates the peculiarities that 
 the caricaturist seizes upon with the utmost avidity, and exaggerates beyond 
 the limits of nature. Both sculptor and caricaturist are untruthful, but on 
 opposite principles. 
 
 The desire to give more life to contemporary sculpture has led it in 
 some instances away from the frigid ideal, and therefore brought it nearer 
 to painting. If, for example, the principles of Carpeaux were to prevail 
 very generally in sculpture, or rather his one dominant principle — as muck 
 vitality as marble will permit — the practice of such sculpture would be very 
 favourable to portrait, because it would be favourable to individuality. 
 Since Carpeaux put so much life into his groups there has been a great 
 increase of life in French portrait-sculpture of all kinds. Rodin, for ex- 
 ample, puts a vitality and an individuality into his busts, and an intensity of 
 personal existence, that are foreign to classical sentiment, and more allied 
 to Victor Hugo than to Racine. Ringel d’lllzac has produced a large 
 number of medallions of celebrated men, always recognisable at the first 
 glance, and full of the marks of individuality in a double sense, for they 
 show both the personality of the subject, and the strange, strong, personal 
 nature of the artist who could see his subject in such an original way. In 
 sculpture, the medallion is more favourable to character than the bust, as 
 the medallion seems to allow more freedom of exaggeration. The most 
 modern of sculptors — those who are most in harmony with modern habits 
 of thought — can hardly be accused of flattery. I remember a plain man 
 whose features were immortalised by a celebrated sculptor in a bust, and he 
 wrote an inscription for it in which he claimed equality in ugliness with 
 Socrates — a claim fully borne out by the unconscious marble. 
 
 Modern portraiture, in sculpture, does well to confine itself chiefly to 
 the bust and the medallion, as in the complete statue the difficulty of 
 costume is seldom happily overcome. But this subject of costume in 
 portraiture of all kinds is important enough to deserve more ample 
 treatment. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 PAINTING AND CARVING THE SOUL 
 
 'TT'HE highest claim advanced for the arts of portraiture is that they do 
 not represent the body of man only, but his mind and even his soul, 
 that is, his innermost and most permanent self in which he feels most 
 intensely, and thinks, hopes, believes, with the most perfect sincerity. We 
 imagine that if we could see this central being within the man we should 
 know him truly for what he is, and the claim of artists w’ho have the most 
 exalted notions about their craft, is that they are able to make this central 
 being visible for us. 
 
 The subject is extremely complex, and likely to involve a writer in that 
 kind of contradiction which comes from the employment of ill-defined terms 
 with occasional variations of meaning. If I were to say that portraiture 
 can only imitate what is physical, the obvious answer would be that physical 
 aspects themselves have a mental significance. A painter, or even a 
 draughtsman, might say “ my forms represent flesh and the bones under it, 
 but as the material shapes of a man represent his mental habits, my work 
 exhibits his mind too, though only in a second degree, and not directly as 
 might be done in a written biography.” The draughtsman might go a 
 step further than this, and argue as follows : “ I am obliged to represent 
 matter, but I am by no means bound down to the matter I see before me. 
 I am perfectly free to idealise it, and to disengage from material nature 
 what I perceive to be the mental significance of the subject.” This latter 
 part of the argument seems the stronger, that all great portraiture un- 
 questionably does idealise, and usually with a view to making the mind of 
 the subject in some way more clear to us, either in the way of intellect or 
 of character, the only exception being the kind of portraiture which aims 
 at the idealisation of physical beauty. 
 
 There are, however, two fatal objections to this reasoning, the first is 
 that the physical shapes of men, even when they seem most expressive, 
 
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PORTRAIT OF QUEVEDO 
 
 Painted by Murillo 
 Etched by Henri Manesse 
 
 Don Francesco Quevedo Villegas was bom in 1580 and died in 1645. 
 
 Few who are not Spaniards can appreciate his wit, essentially Spanish. 
 Quevedo was one of the rare men of letters who have possessed, in equal 
 strength, the distinct powers of acquisition and production. He was an 
 extraordinary linguist and scholar, a most versatile and prolific writer, and he 
 gained unusual experience as a man of the world. The victim of a political 
 enemy, then a minister, he spent the last four years of his life in a dungeon, 
 from which he was delivered in time to die in so-called liberty. This is all 
 that can be said in a short note about the brilliant and unfortunate Quevedo. 
 
 I selected this portrait because it is the only one with spectacles, by an 
 old master, that I remember, except another of the same writer by Velasquez ; 
 and secondly, because it is interesting to study the face when we know that 
 the original was a man of wit and learning — even too much wit, indeed, as it 
 is difficult to forgive him for having turned to ridicule the exquisite story of 
 Orpheus and Eurydice. 
 
Murillo 
 
 pmx. 
 
 H.Man esse sc. 
 

 
 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 PAINTING AND CARVING THE SOUL 
 
 225 
 
 only reveal a part of the mind and character, and are misleading, precisely 
 because they do reveal something but not all. If they revealed nothing 
 whatever there would be no deception ; as it is, the physical appearances 
 are constantly making us believe that we know people that we only see, 
 their faces seem so legible. In reality something is legible, but the 
 illegible part of the mind and character is quite as important, and in cases 
 of this kind an incomplete reading is as useless as the incomplete reading 
 of a physician’s ill-written prescription, when only a part of it can be made 
 out clearly, and the rest is guess-work. The truest revelation of a man is 
 not his physical appearance but his life and work, and even the life and 
 work often fail to show the man as he is, since he may have found it 
 necessary to assume a character and follow a profession that do not 
 properly belong to him. In cases where the profession was the natural 
 development of the inborn faculties, as with Napoleon and Turner, the 
 career often throws so strong a light on the nature of the man that we see 
 how little the portraits have to tell, that is, how little the physical features 
 can have revealed to contemporaries. The slight portraits that remain for 
 us give the impression that Turner was shrewd and sly, and perhaps one 
 might go so far as to guess that he had a tendency to secretiveness, and 
 that a nature like his would probably be selfish in its purposes. We should 
 say, too, that he was not, in the conventional sense, a gentleman, but we 
 should all of us go wrong on the most important point ; we should not 
 discover the extraordinary refinement of his genius, the most rare and most 
 exquisite elegance of his taste. That refinement and elegance were far 
 more delicate than what is necessary for mere current gentility, and yet 
 they do not seem to have been visible externally to any one. It is believed, 
 indeed, that Turner’s habit of solitude was due in great part to his know- 
 ledge that his outward appearance could convey no notion of his real 
 superiority. “It is evident,” says Mr. Cosmo Monkhouse, “that in spite 
 of his clear little blue eyes, and his small hands and feet, his appearance 
 was not one likely to prepossess women, or to inspire consideration among 
 men, and that one of the ills from which his painting-room afforded a 
 refuge may have often been a wounded vanity. There can be nothing 
 more constantly galling to a sensitive man of genius than to feel that his 
 appearance does not inspire the respect he feels due to him.” If it were 
 true that the physical form reveals the constitution of the mind, the genius 
 of Turner would have expressed itself in a beautiful, or at least a poetical 
 face, full of charm reflected from the loveliest scenes of nature in their most 
 enchanting hours. Napoleon, on the contrary, had a face of extraordinary 
 beauty and refinement, and, when a young man, he had a figure which, if 
 
 2 G 
 
226 
 
 PAINTING AND CARVING THE SOUL 
 
 PART V 
 
 too thin for manly perfection, was still truly expressive of his extreme 
 personal activity. The failure of Napoleon’s physical appearance is that it 
 gives a false impression of his moral nature. It did not lead men wrong 
 as to his intellectual power or his transcendent faculty of command. The 
 face combined a singular beauty with authority and severity. The beauty 
 really means nothing whatever as to character, one way or another, it is 
 simply physical form and no more, that is to say, an agreeable shape of 
 bones, gristles, muscles, covered with a smooth skin, pallid with the pallor 
 of an ivory statuette. The authority and severity are in their nature 
 entirely unintelligible until explained by written history. The authority 
 might have been the benevolent authority of a wise father who looks a 
 little stern, but is in reality full of the most self-denying and far-seeing 
 kindness, the severity might have been the self-command of the Stoic, who 
 cares little for ruling others, but is determined to be the master of his own 
 passions and the director of his own life. Who could know, without other 
 information than a portrait can supply, that the authority, in Napoleon’s 
 case, meant the resolution to sacrifice regiments and even armies to his 
 private ends, and that the severity meant the power of deciding that the 
 Due d’Enghien was to be shot like a dog in a ditch ? And even if by a 
 lucky guess, aided perhaps by the uniform, some critic were to discover the 
 military pitilessness of Napoleon, surely he could never imagine that a face 
 so full of beauty, and apparently so full of refinement, could have belonged 
 to a soldier whose way of getting on in society was by inspiring terror, and 
 who remained coarse, ignorant, and ill-bred. Few persons now living have 
 seen the terrible Emperor, but many of us remember the face of his 
 successor, which at the time of his greatest power was universally looked 
 upon as inscrutable and enigmatic. Well, then if the living face itself was 
 inscrutable, how could a portrait-painter be expected to exhibit the character 
 through the face ? Were painters to see more in it than was intelligible to 
 the most observant diplomatists who had the keenest personal interest in 
 detecting the thoughts behind the mask ? All that the artist really did 
 was to seize upon some very external expression, most commonly that of 
 reserve, if reserve is an expression at all. I remember one exception in 
 the Salon of 1863, the portrait by Flandrin which attracted much attention 
 in that year. Flandrin perceived that Louis Napoleon in his home life had 
 often a kind and soft expression of countenance, and this did not belie him, for 
 there was an amiable as well as a ruthless element in his nature. Flandrin 
 seized upon this, and made one of the best existing portraits of famous men, 
 but the student of history has nothing to learn from it as to the schemer of 
 the Coup d’etat. All that the well-painted canvas has to tell us is that the 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 PAINTING AND CARVING THE SOUL 
 
 227 
 
 Man of the Second of December was capable, at times, of looking mild and 
 benignant, as if he had never commanded any street-massacre in his life. 
 
 I have said that there were two fatal objections to the argument that 
 portrait-painters or sculptors can paint or carve the soul. The first has 
 just been stated, and may be restated more briefly as the difficulty of 
 making clearly visible in art what is never more than partially and un- 
 certainly visible even in nature itself. The second objection is that if the 
 soul could be represented by an imitation of material forms, that could only 
 be done by an artist who himself possessed mental powers of the most 
 transcendent eminence, such as there is no reason for attributing to the 
 highly-skilled craftsmen who usually portray their most celebrated con- 
 temporaries, and portray them, it is admitted, successfully. The reason 
 why we have such profound admiration for the intellect of a Shakespeare 
 or a Scott is because their minds must have included all those which they 
 represented. There is an illusion even here. We fancy that Shakespeare 
 comprehended Ccesar, and Scott, Cceur de Lion, the exact truth being that 
 each comprehended only just so much of Csesar or Coeur de Lion as he was 
 able to represent, or rather that Shakespeare was able by a process of 
 substitution to put a conception of his own in the place of the real Caesar, a 
 conception that we take as true because we know so little of the original, 
 and that Scott put a gentleman of high spirit speaking modern English 
 (which no one could ever do who had not modern ideas) in the place of a 
 Crusader who knew neither our language nor our ways of thinking. Still, 
 if these creative intellects did not include the real men whose names they 
 played with to help the illusion, they did, at all events, include their own 
 creations, and their creations speak and act, they are living souls. We 
 cannot say as much for painted canvas and marble. The poet looks on his 
 mother’s portrait and exclaims, “Oh that those lips had language!” but 
 they have not language. The hyperbole of praise is to say that a likeness 
 is a speaking likeness, yet no word breaks the everlasting silence. 
 
 The portrait represents one aspect, one moment of a life, and the 
 external aspect only for that moment. It is neither the task nor the duty 
 of the artist to see more than what is visible, the analysis of a mind belongs 
 to literature, and so does any account of its personal and peculiar ways of 
 action. 
 
 I hope that if any portrait-painter reads these pages (a most improbable 
 supposition, but the unexpected does occasionally happen), he will not 
 accuse me of any desire to lower the dignity of his art. I merely state the 
 reasons why it is possible for the art of portraiture to exist. If the artist 
 were bound to understand the mind of his subject, he would require the 
 
228 
 
 PAINTING AND CARVING THE SOUL 
 
 PART V 
 
 same experience and the same education, which in most cases would be 
 entirely incompatible with the long and laborious technical training of any 
 really accomplished artist. Now, there has been a very recent example of 
 what I may venture to call the exteriority of portraiture. M. Bonnat has 
 painted M. Renan, and the result is one of the most remarkable portraits 
 of modern or of any other times. M. Renan, in one of his most interesting 
 prefaces, speaks about what people will say of him in five hundred years, 
 and what degree of credit they will attach to the amazing legends that 
 already cluster about his name. It is, I believe, by no means presumptuous 
 in M. Renan to imagine that five centuries hence his name will not be 
 forgotten, and it would not be presumptuous in M. Bonnat to imagine that 
 when those centuries have passed away his portrait will remain profoundly 
 and inexhaustibly interesting. What will be the nature of that interest ? 
 Will it be because the painter has depicted the soul or intellect of the 
 greatest French prose-writer, and one of the most famous scholars of his 
 time ? Certainly that could not be the reason, for whatever posterity may 
 desire to know about the mental constitution of Renan it will be able to learn 
 abundantly from his writings, and better than any one except Renan himself 
 could possibly set it forth. No, the real reason why the portrait will be 
 interesting is because in its unscrupulous and unflattering veracity it shows 
 the physical nature of the man with a glimpse, not of his intellect which is 
 beyond the painter’s reach, but of his temper which is not disposed to take 
 anything, even his own labours, too seriously, and seems to amuse itself 
 equally with the adulation of his admirers and the fanaticism of his enemies. 
 The plain face, and even the fat body, are full of scarcely suppressed 
 laughter. Is this the end of so much research into the gravest problems 
 of all history ? At least the painter tells us that the burden of the doleful 
 past and the toilsome labouring in Semitic languages have weighed lightly 
 on this man’s spirit. And if we look further for some sign of the grace and 
 distinction that must always belong to a literary artist of supreme rank, we 
 find no evidence to answer any expectation. The hand that wrote the 
 perfect prose is coarse and ugly with curiously misshapen nails that 
 greviously require both scissors and a nail-brush. The picture is at once 
 a record and a criticism of personal appearance, a sort of feminine criticism 
 like that applied by ladies to the toilet of learned and too negligent men. 
 And the satisfaction that posterity will find in this account of Renan 
 painted whilst he was alive will be the satisfaction of mediocrity in finding 
 itself at least in some respects superior to eminence. 
 
 If the elegance of Renan’s genius is invisible in his portrait what shall 
 we say about the strongest characteristics of Carlyle ? Of elegance he 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 PAINTING AND CARVING THE SOUL 
 
 229 
 
 had none, but he had certain powers and also certain deficiencies, neither 
 of which are to be detected in any carved or painted portrait that has been 
 made of him. All that they tell us is that he was thoughtful and sad. If 
 we knew nothing whatever about the original we might say, “ The soul of 
 this man has gone out into the universe and come back disappointed.” 
 We might perhaps almost guess that he would consider the starry heavens 
 “a sad sight,” and we should certainly conclude that physical illness had 
 done something to produce mental depression. The presence of intellectual 
 power, of some kind, would seem probable, but we should be entirely 
 unable to determine either its nature or its limitations. We should not 
 know that the original was gifted with great literary force yet destitute 
 alike of scientific and artistic perception. We should infer perhaps from 
 the expression some degree of malevolence, but should never imagine 
 that the quiet -looking old man excelled all satirists in the faculty of 
 personal abuse, in the art of so describing his contemporaries as to 
 make them invariably contemptible. The portraits, too, would leave us 
 in complete ignorance of another gift which Carlyle possessed in a 
 remarkable degree and which was of infinite service to his reputation, 
 his peculiar kind of humour, which always aroused curiosity as to what 
 he had to say and gave the reader a kind of ill-natured satisfaction even 
 when he knew that the saying was unjust. When all these deductions 
 have been made what remains of Carlyle ? Nothing but the appearance 
 of a plain and pensive elderly man in imperfect health, but this is a 
 
 description that applies to many who are not Carlyle, and if so peculiar 
 
 a spirit as his leaves no expression of its own peculiarities on canvas or 
 in marble, how are we to expect from the graphic or plastic arts any 
 accurate reflection of spirits that have not a tenth part of his powerful 
 individuality ? 
 
 When the subject of a portrait combines in himself two distinct 
 characters, it is not the more elevated of the two that is likely to be 
 represented, but the more habitual and obvious. In Sir Walter Scott 
 the two characters were those of a country gentleman and a great literary 
 artist. The painters usually represented the country gentleman, because 
 that character being in itself simple and externally visible was within their 
 reach. A few attempts were made to give Scott a poetical character, but 
 
 it was not easy to do this unless at the expense of truth, because his 
 
 strong common-sense always prevented him from assuming poetical airs, 
 and there was nothing in his outward appearance to suggest poetical 
 rather than practical habits of thought. In complete ignorance of the 
 inner nature of the man we might, I think, get so near the truth as to 
 
230 
 
 PAINTING AND CARVING THE SOUL 
 
 PART V 
 
 take Scott for a country squire or for a lawyer with rural tastes, and in 
 any case for a very keen-witted, intelligent Scotchman, but there is no 
 evidence in his face, as it has been painted, that he possessed the rarest 
 and mightiest of artistic faculties, that of tragic invention. One of the 
 most eminent men of letters in our own day, Matthew Arnold, united in 
 himself the gifts of poet and critic. It is impossible to unite the two in 
 a portrait and, in fact, the portraits of him convey the idea of critical 
 acumen but without tenderness or sweetness, yet both are necessary to a 
 poet, and he had them. A greater poet, whose portrait is to be found 
 in the present volume, is amongst illustrious authors one of the most 
 favourable subjects for pictorial or plastic representation, but perhaps we 
 associate the head and face of Lord Tennyson with poetry because we 
 are all aware of his eminence in that art. I remember, when a very 
 young man, being a fellow -passenger, on a steamer, with the author of 
 In Memoriam, and being greatly interested and attracted by the noble 
 head and face, at that time very little known to the public. My 
 conclusion was that they indicated the artistic faculty, and in this I was 
 not mistaken, but I was unable to fix upon the kind of art in which the 
 faculty had been exercised. In the portrait by Mr. Watts a dreamy and 
 abstracted expression is insisted upon ; he may have had an opportunity 
 for observing this, and was right in keeping decidedly to one expression 
 to the exclusion of all others, still, it is only one aspect of Lord Tennyson 
 and that not the most intelligent. Here he has been eating lotos, the 
 lotos of reverie. Who would suppose that the living original was at his 
 own times a lively and humorous companion and teller of good stories ? 
 
 Intellectual faces do not appear, in nature itself, the brightest or most 
 intelligent. The appearance of brightness is due to mere cerebral activity 
 which may be of the most vain and futile kind, or the apparently intelligent 
 person may be occupied, not vainly as to the nature of his work but out 
 of season, as when an inventor toils to invent something that has been 
 invented already and superseded. Yet as it is cerebral activity only, 
 however useless, that gives an expression of intelligence to the countenance, 
 the man who has got beyond that particular activity and rests in clearer 
 knowledge will not have the apparent brightness of busy inexperience. 
 At a distance from the centres of intellectual life men may live in a 
 condition of enthusiasm for obsolete ideas. Any one who has it may be 
 brightened by it, yet it may be due, really, to his insufficiency of intelli- 
 gence, that is, to his inability to apprehend the thoughts of his strongest 
 contemporaries, so that, ultimately, it would be the laggard slowness of 
 his wits that gave them liberty to disport themselves in their own way. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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TENNYSON 
 
 Painted by G. F. Watts, R.A. 
 
 Engraved in Mezzotint by F. Short 
 
 This portrait of Tennyson as Poet Laureate, that is, with the laurel not on 
 the brow but in the background, was painted in the maturity of the poet’s age 
 (I have not the exact date), and exhibited along with the painter’s other works 
 at the Grosvenor Gallery in 1 882. A subsequent portrait shows Lord Tennyson 
 in old age, and Mr. Watts painted an earlier one in 1859. 
 
 The likeness is good, but the expression is melancholy and dreamy. No 
 doubt the painter had observed it. Future ages will care enough for our late 
 Laureate to take an interest in all his aspects and all his moods. 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 PAINTING AND CARVING THE SOUL 
 
 231 
 
 The conclusion is that whilst portraiture in the graphic and plastic 
 arts is able to convey something about the character of its subject, it 
 describes mind so partially and inadequately that its descriptions must 
 always be in themselves insufficient and misleading, and that the real 
 interest of it is either in supplementing what we know already about a 
 man with some account of his personal appearance, or in presenting the 
 insoluble enigma of a man who can be seen as clearly as if he were still 
 alive, yet of whom we know next to nothing because he does not speak 
 or act. It is not painting but literature that can adequately describe 
 mind, and for this reason it is indisputable that literature is the higher 
 art of the two. Still, as the graphic arts describe the bodily appearance 
 with an accuracy to which literature cannot pretend, their value is beyond 
 all estimate in its own way, and they may throw side - lights on mind 
 itself by contributing what is visible of the physical constitution. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE RELIGIOUS PORTRAIT 
 
 T T was a practice common in the Middle Ages and down to the 
 Renascence, and it is still a practice in making pictures or statues of 
 dignitaries of the Roman Church, to represent the subject of the portrait 
 in the attitude of prayer. The modern laity have abandoned this for 
 reasons which have never, so far as I know, been articulately expressed, 
 but which exist not the less forcibly in the modern mind. Both the 
 practice itself, and its subsequent abandonment, seem to me equally 
 justifiable. 
 
 The hour of prayer, for a real believer, is the highest and best hour. 
 If it is an honour to be received in audience by an earthly sovereign, the 
 honour must be inestimably greater when the sovereign is the King of 
 Kings. Yet he who prays, at least in the Christian forms, is saved from 
 too great self-abasement by being more than a living atom in the universe ; 
 he is entitled to claim a filial relationship to the Divinity, he does not 
 prostrate himself on the earth before some power incapable of affection. 
 The act of prayer is, therefore, in Christian worship, singular amongst all 
 human actions in its combination of extreme humility with undiminished 
 dignity, and this is a combination which shows a serious man’s face at 
 his best, as it delivers him from all the petty vanities, anxieties, and 
 conventionalities of this world of trifles which, for the time being, lies as 
 completely beneath him as if he had already quitted it. 
 
 The choice of the hour of prayer was excellent in several ways from 
 the artist’s own special point of view ; it was prudent in the interests of 
 art. The subject of the picture was not in motion, he might remain, 
 indeed, for some time absolutely motionless, so that the stillness of the 
 painted figure answered to the silence and tranquillity of the chapel or the 
 closet. And as to costume, at least a grave and decorous costume, orderly 
 in every fold, seemed called for by the function itself, as men dress 
 
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 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
FAMILY PORTRAITS 
 
 Painted by Ambrogio Borgognone 
 Reproduced in Photogravure by Boussod and Valadon 
 {National Gallery') 
 
 This series of family portraits has been chosen for two reasons : first, because 
 it contains several good and faithful studies of profiles ; and secondly, because 
 it includes, in a single picture, not less than nine devotional portraits. The 
 hand in the left upper corner is evidently typical of benediction. 
 
 This painting was executed on silk, afterwards mounted on wood. It was 
 part of a standard, the opposite part representing women in prayer, and the 
 centre of the composition God the Father. 
 
 The sincerity and simplicity of the painting are evidently so great that 
 the likenesses must have been accurate. Nobody knows who the men were. 
 Their portraits are good studies, particularly of devotional expression. This 
 is a curious instance of the immortality sometimes conferred by graphic art on 
 mere physical forms, whilst it records only one moment of a biography. In 
 the present case even the very names are lost. 
 
Photogravure 
 
 Pam 
 
 C-oupjl 
 
CHAP. Ill 
 
 THE RELIGIOUS PORTRAIT 
 
 233 
 
 carefully when they go to church, whilst in the case of high officials, 
 whether secular or ecclesiastic, the assumption of their robes of office 
 seemed without worldly pride when the wearer laid his magnificence at 
 the feet of Christ. One of the most recent examples is the kneeling 
 statue of one who was a king only by the inheritance of a shadowy 
 royalty, and who never sat upon any material throne. The pious and 
 honourable prince who was called Henry the Fifth of France prays for 
 ever in the coronation mantle that he never wore, and on a cushion near 
 him rests the crown that was never placed upon his head. The suppliant 
 appears to ask a blessing on a royalty still to be realised. When the 
 subject of a kneeling portrait is some gorgeous prelate of the Roman 
 Church kneeling at his cushioned prie-dieu , the function is not open to 
 criticism, as bishops and cardinals do really kneel in that magnificent 
 manner during the imposing services of their religion, and if a Protestant 
 thinks that personages so extremely decorative must be too conscious of 
 their splendours for the most perfect earnestness, the answer is simply 
 that these things belong to custom and tradition, and lie outside of the 
 choice of the individual. 
 
 How it came to pass that the subjects of portraits were less and less 
 frequently represented in the act of prayer after the close of the Middle 
 Ages can hardly be explained in a sentence. There is a theory that the 
 practice has been abandoned on account of the decay of faith, but in our 
 day the most earnest believers feel an objection to being painted on their 
 knees, as if there were a certain want of delicacy in exhibiting their piety 
 to all who might see the picture in present or in future times. Besides 
 this, modern formalism has curious limits and restrictions of its own, so 
 that people who do not really believe very much, and who have not much 
 faith in the practical efficacy of prayer except as a relief and a consolation, 
 are still perfectly willing to take part in customary services which are 
 followed by others of their own rank in society, but do not wish to set up 
 any individual pretension to religious orthodoxy or zeal. Lastly, we have 
 the modern scientific conception of the universe as governed absolutely by 
 inexorable natural laws, and although those who recognise them and see 
 that it is impossible to escape from them for an instant, do not always 
 rejoice in them as King David did in the theocratic law of his age and 
 country, still their very belief in the fixity of natural law, or in other words, 
 the nature of their faith itself, prevents them from petitioning for its repeal. 
 So that here, too, we have a reason why prayer is less the habitual attitude 
 of the modern than it was of the medimval sage. And in all this there is 
 no proper place for praise or blame, for ridicule or for respect, in one case 
 
 2 H 
 
234 
 
 THE RELIGIOUS PORTRAIT 
 
 PART V 
 
 or the other. If the object is to get rain, it is not more virtuous to ask for 
 it than to explode dynamite in the upper air, and when the object was to 
 avert a pestilence, it was not ridiculous in our forefathers to endeavour to 
 turn aside the wrath of God by a multiplicity of masses instead of looking 
 to their drainage and their drinking-water . 1 
 
 But from the point of view which concerns us specially at present, that 
 of the fine arts (and the same might be said of equal truth with regard to 
 poetry), everything that carries the mind and habits of mankind from the 
 region of faith to that of science is always a distinct loss, and the disappear- 
 ance of the praying portrait is infinitely to be regretted. 
 
 One reason for this regret is that it is difficult, in any other way, to 
 unite a whole family, of the most different ages, in a single elevated 
 sentiment. The praying portrait allowed the artist, without improbability, 
 to give to the younger members of a family the same seriousness and 
 dignity, and the same indifference to human observation that belonged for 
 the time being to their parents, and as all knelt gravely on the same floor, 
 in their best attire, with hands joined in the same act of adoration, the 
 picture gave an impression of domestic unity and discipline that are the 
 strength of a household when all believe alike, and when there is neither 
 tyranny in the elders nor hypocrisy in the young. In the quaint sets of 
 family portraits by Borgognone in the National Gallery, painted originally 
 on a silken standard, the men on one side, the women on the other, and 
 God the Father in the middle, the men, nine in number, are entirely 
 without that mrittial action or influence which is usually considered 
 necessary to a composition, yet although this part is but one-third of the 
 whole, the common sentiment and the gravity of expression and demeanour 
 that all the men have equally, gives a complete moral unity to the work. 
 Its pictorial unity is oddly interfered with by the intrusion of the hand of 
 some unknown saint in blessing. 
 
 In the days when great personages were frequently represented in the 
 act of praying, and saints or angels were the usual subjects of religious 
 
 1 In all cases like these when a benefit or a deliverance is desired, men take what they believe 
 to be the most efficacious means of obtaining the object of their desire. If a Parisian is anxious 
 about the effects of his impure drinking-water, he may filter and boil it, or he may burn candles at 
 the shrine of St. Genevieve. The intention, in both cases, is one of a right and rational care for 
 his own health ; he would be acting in either case with a proper selfishness, yet the burning of the 
 candles at the holy and splendid shrine is, at the same time, an act pious in itself, and surrounded 
 by most picturesque, most romantic, and most poetical circumstances, whilst the use of the filter 
 and the pan has none of these qualities to recommend it, being merely useful for the prevention of 
 disease. There is no place for praise or blame in either case, since the object is the same in both, 
 and it is a selfish object, yet one method for attaining it is religious and picturesque, the other 
 scientific and not picturesque in the least. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE BLESSED DOMINICANS 
 
 Painted ry Fra Giovanni Anoeuco 
 Reproduced in Photogravure i;y Annan and Swan 
 
 ( NatioJial Gallery) 
 
 This is one of the small compartments of the picture called “ Christ. 1 
 
 The painting is in tempera on wood and is divided into five compartments, 
 all twelve and a half inches high. The widths are 
 
 inches | 2 feet 1 inch | 2 feet 4J- inches ] 2 feet 1 inch | 8 £ inches. 
 
 The compartment here reproduced is the narrow one to the spectator’s 
 right. 
 
 The central compartment shows Christ triumphant with a choir of angels, 
 including trumpeters and other musicians. The wide compartments to right 
 and left show the most famous personages of religious history who are 
 amongst the blessed, and the narrow end compartments are occupied by the 
 blessed Dominicans of both sexes. 
 
 This is given as an example of absolutely sincere religious painting by 
 an artist who really believed and who always began his day’s work with 
 prayer. See the note on Scheffer’s St. Monica and St. Augustine. 
 
CHAP. Ill 
 
 THE RELIGIOUS PORTRAIT 
 
 235 
 
 pictures, the same work might bring together personages belonging to 
 the natural and the supernatural worlds. Instances of this are so numerous 
 that it is impossible to give a catalogue even of the most important, but 
 I may mention one as a typical example. This is an altar-piece by Rubens, 
 originally painted for a church at Brussels, but now in the gallery at 
 Vienna. It is a triptych of which the central subject represents the Holy 
 Virgin, enthroned, and giving a chasuble to St. Ildephonso, the bishop of 
 Toledo. Cherubs are flying in the air above, and the Virgin is attended 
 by a small court of quite modern maids of honour, probably ladies whom 
 Rubens knew. I have not at hand any biography of St. Ildephonso, but 
 suppose that as bishop of Toledo he must have been a real personage, 
 though the gift of the chasuble by the Holy Virgin may perhaps be 
 mythical. In one of the side compartments an Archduke Albert kneels 
 in a mantle of state, wearing the collar of an order of knighthood, and 
 beyond him stands his patron saint. The Archduchess prays in the 
 opposite compartment, and close to her stands her patron saint laying a 
 crown adorned with roses on a volume by her side. Here, then, in this 
 picture we have the most complete transition from simple portraits of the 
 living, probably good likenesses, to imaginary portraits of the dead, and 
 purely fanciful representations of disembodied spirits, the whole in a single 
 clever composition, and harmonised so perfectly as to seem quite a rational 
 arrangement, at least in the artistic sense. The praying portrait permits 
 of this mingling of the celestial and terrestial worlds, as he who prays has 
 already traversed in thought and aspiration the interval that separates 
 them. In a certain intelligible sense, though not in the literal or physical 
 sense, this composition by Rubens is true. It is true if taken to mean only 
 that whilst the Archduke and his wife were saying their prayers their 
 patron saints seemed present in their thoughts and in their closets, and the 
 Virgin and cherubs in some place not very far away where a bishop could 
 attend her little court and receive a gift from her royal hands. 
 
 And now, to realise the distance traversed in the direction of rationalism 
 since the days of Rubens, let the reader try to imagine, a modern painter 
 making two state portraits with the same supernatural surroundings. The 
 idea is so incongruous that I find I cannot, even in writing, suggest the 
 names of great personages who might possibly be painted in that way 
 without seeming to have a satirical intention, and the newspapers would 
 accuse me of sneering at royalty and casting ridicule on religion. Are we 
 only two hundred and fifty years from the days of Rubens ? It seems as if 
 we were a thousand. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE ANALOGY BETWEEN PORTRAIT AND LANDSCAPE 
 HERE is a very close and interesting analogy between Portrait and 
 
 Landscape in the phases which are called “expression” in one, and 
 “ effect ” in the other. 
 
 There is for every human being an expression that is most characteristic 
 of the person, and there is for every landscape an effect that is most 
 characteristic of the place. A judicious artist, after careful watching, 
 discovers what is most characteristic, and represents it. 
 
 But the analogy goes further, so that both branches of art present a 
 similar and all but insuperable difficulty. 
 
 It may happen that the changeableness itself is far more characteristic 
 than any single aspect, however interesting. And how is the painter to 
 convey the idea of this mobility ? How is he to explain, without the 
 use of words, that the expression or effect is not to be taken as permanent, 
 or even predominant, but is in its nature so transitory that it will be 
 succeeded by many others entirely different, and each of them an efface- 
 ment of that which went before ? 
 
 Many artists have tried to suggest this transitoriness, and though the 
 enterprise is one of the most difficult in the whole range of the fine arts, 
 their attempts have come occasionally so near to success that their 
 ambition has, at least, been justified. There is only one way of conveying 
 the suggestion and that is bv rapidity and evanescence in execution. 
 
 The precise styles of painting, dependent upon extreme firmness and 
 clearness of line, are never favourable to the suggestion of transient 
 expression or effect. The style of Holbein, for example, is not a good 
 one for this purpose, though I am well aware that there are movement 
 and expression in some of his minor designs, particularly in “ The Dance 
 of Death.” In portrait, the deliberate tranquillity of his manner and its 
 linear severity are both against him so far as this special quality is con- 
 cerned, though they tell in his favour when the object is the expression 
 of simple serenity and calm. The styles that best suggest the mobility 
 
char iv ANALOGY BETWEEN PORTRAIT AND LANDSCAPE 
 
 237 
 
 of life themselves display the vitality of the artist in the energy or lightness 
 of his execution. In some centuries these qualities are very little 
 appreciated, because they are associated with the idea of haste or careless- 
 ness, at other times they are valued as signs of life. At the time when 
 the English Pre-Raphaelite movement seemed likely to impose upon all 
 artists extreme care in execution and a minute attention to detail, the 
 lighter and swifter styles were associated with insufficiency, and almost 
 with moral wrong. It seemed as if the further and closer study of nature 
 must of necessity lead to still greater completeness of representation, but 
 it did not. It led to the desire for unity which was found hardly com- 
 patible with the multiplicity of minute details, and also to the ambition to 
 fix in art what is transitory and evanescent in nature. These desires have 
 found their satisfaction in Impressionism, in which each separate work of 
 art, whether it be an etching, a pastel, or a painting, has for its object the 
 unity which comes from the record of one idea in one work, and the 
 fixing of a mental impression before it has had time to fade away. As 
 in politics a party is asking for the recognition of the principle, “ One man, 
 one vote,” so in art there is a party that might express its aim or its 
 convictions in the formula, “ One work, one idea.” According to this 
 conception the single work of art would limit itself strictly to some passing 
 phase of nature, but have not modern landscape painters been doing 
 this for many years already in their studies ol transient effects ? And 
 have not many of the best of them, especially in water-colour, habitually 
 sacrificed detail to effect, as when the details of a mountain -side are 
 veiled by a passing shower ? It is well known that landscape-painters 
 themselves most value their rapid memoranda of effect and colour, and 
 that the subsequent development of the subject on the large painted 
 canvas is not so often done for their own satisfaction as to hold a place 
 on the walls of a salon or academy. 
 
 This would lead us to the conclusion that as the sketch of landscape 
 is often in reality the best suggestion of the changeableness in nature, 
 so in portrait 'the sketch may most effectively convey the idea of mobility 
 in the original, and therefore that visible swiftness of work may be better 
 for this purpose than tranquil elaboration. A style like that of Frans 
 Hals, for example, which was so little appreciated for a long time after 
 his death, is much better adapted to the expression of laughter, which 
 is of short duration, than the style of a Gerard Dow. 
 
 Still, even with the most favourable of all kinds of execution, that 
 which best conveys the notion of evanescence to the mind, painting can 
 only suggest that a change is probable, it cannot note the change itself 
 
238 
 
 ANALOGY BETWEEN PORTRAIT AND LANDSCAPE 
 
 PART V 
 
 as poets and novelists constantly do with the most powerful and interesting 
 effect in literature. Here, again, the parallel holds good with landscape, 
 for however inferior the word-painter may be to the colour-painter in that 
 department of art, he can not only describe the colouring of a landscape 
 as it is at one moment but follow its phases as they take place, and when 
 this is done well it gives a life to the written description that is not 
 to be attained by any other artifice. For example, no changes in nature 
 are so interesting as those of dawn and sunset, unless it be the change 
 that precedes a storm. A writer who is master of his craft will follow 
 the gradual process of substitution by which a natural scene passes from 
 one scheme of colour to another entirely different, or mark the more 
 sudden revolution that destroys some perfectly effective arrangement of 
 light and dark to replace it with another that reverses all its oppositions. 
 The novelist has equally great changes at his command, as when a bright 
 and cheerful countenance is suddenly disturbed by the receipt of unwelcome 
 news, and he may note to a second the occurrence of one of those decisive 
 epochs in the drama of human existence after which life can never again 
 be what it has been before. And here, perhaps, the analogy with land- 
 scape rather fails us, for however desolate a natural scene may be the 
 hour will surely come when it will be cheerful again with sunshine and 
 forget its gloom, whilst if human life is once darkened by one of the 
 great tragic sorrows the gaiety of the individual existence has gone out 
 for ever, and there is no encouragement but in hope for others, especially 
 for the as yet unsacrificed future of the young. 
 
 The same scene has occasionally been represented by a landscape- 
 painter under the most different effects, one study for each aspect, and 
 when many such various studies are exhibited together they have an 
 interest in the light they throw upon each other which none of them 
 could possess alone. It has sometimes occurred to me that it would be 
 reasonable, in the case of very changeable faces, to paint them under a 
 dozen different aspects, though it is to be feared that such a practice 
 would seldom please the sitter, who usually wishes to look serene and 
 dignified, if of the male sex, and agreeable, as well as pretty, if belonging 
 to the other. Rembrandt painted and etched himself so frequently that 
 this idea was actually realised in his case, and we have him in the most 
 various moods and tempers, from open laughter to a morose reserve ; 
 and though he never flattered his own features, so far as to make them 
 in any way beautiful or attractive, there are still degrees in the confession 
 of his plainness. There are variations, also, in the animation and intelli- 
 gence of the face, and especially of the eye, which is sometimes most 
 
chap, iv ANALOGY BETWEEN PORTRAIT AND LANDSCAPE 
 
 239 
 
 acute and penetrating, as in the “ Rembrandt leaning on a Stone Sill,” 
 at others indifferent and almost dull. In this he accurately followed the 
 true changes of a human face, which cannot be permanently bright any 
 more than it can be permanently hilarious. Even the beauty of the 
 most beautiful women has its variations, if I may venture to say so. 
 Those who have the privilege of knowing some beautiful woman do not 
 usually speak of her beauty as a fixed quality, like that of a statue, but 
 say to each other after meeting her, “ She was very beautiful to-day,” or 
 “ She did not look her best.” Still, the most changeful faces are never 
 the most beautiful, as beauty of a high kind cannot exist without perfection 
 of form, or a very near approach to it, and this perfection must always be 
 visible, whether it is aided by good temper and a favourable light, or 
 diminished by their opposites. The faces that most resemble the change- 
 fulness of a Highland landscape are often pleasing and always interesting, 
 which is their peculiar attraction, and their interest is of the mind more 
 than of the body. Beauty is still beauty when reduced to the condition of 
 simple existence without either thought or feeling. The neutral face, 
 which has not beauty, is nothing till it is illuminated by electricity from 
 the heart or the brain. And so, in wild landscape, there is always the 
 suggestion of a mind manifesting itself through its infinite vicissitudes. 
 The suggestion is illusory, but irresistible . 1 
 
 1 I keep the concluding line of this chapter as originally written, but on re-reading the MS. it 
 occurs to me that some reviewer will probably accuse me of Atheism, an accusation often incurred 
 by those who perceive clearly the distinction between the human and the not-human in the 
 universe. The sublime or beautiful effects of natural landscape have very frequently an appearance 
 of intention as when the lighting of a landscape seems disposed with great taste and judgment, like 
 cleverly managed effects in the scenery of a theatre, but that this impression is illusory seems clear 
 from the following considerations : — 1. The appearance of coniposititm is dependent entirely on the 
 purely accidental position of the spectator, who happens to be in the right place at the right time. 
 2. The colour is dependent on the state of the spectator’s sight, and on his previous training in the 
 study of colour. 3. The sentiment attributed to the scene is operative only on a few cultivated 
 minds. 4. The changes in natural effects, supposed to be pathetic or otherwise, go on equally 
 whether a cultivated artist, an indifferent peasant, or an unobservant animal is the spectator. 5. 
 If they were a divine message addressed to mankind such demonstrations would be most frequent 
 near the centres of dense population, whereas the contrary is the case. Picture exhibitions occur in 
 great capitals, whilst exhibitions of natural magnificence and sublimity are most frequent in the 
 most desolate solitudes. 
 
 A scientific account of the effects of what we call beauty or sublimity in wild landscape would 
 be that they result from unchangeable meteorological and optical laws, and that the sense of the 
 beautiful or sublime which they sometimes excite in us is purely human, and limited to those human 
 beings who have artistic or poetical perception. 
 
 However, these arguments, though I believe them to be unanswerable, do not affect the closeness 
 of the analogy between the changeableness of human expression and that of natural landscape, as it 
 is impossible for the artistic mind to look upon Nature as unemotional. As soon as we perceive that 
 Nature is really unemotional (which she is) we cease to be painters and poets, and become men of 
 science, at least in our conception of the universe, if not in the extent or exactness of our knowledge. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 EVILS OF ELABORATION IN PORTRAITURE 
 
 T T is much to be regretted that in past times, before the discovery of the 
 photographic processes, most people would have a finished portrait in 
 oil or none at all. The value of slight and rapid sketches was very little 
 appreciated, and the consequence was that thousands of people, still of some 
 interest to their descendants, have left nothing but their names in pedigrees 
 or on tombstones, when it would have been easy to employ for an hour 
 some competent draughtsman with a lead pencil. 
 
 Etching was thoroughly understood two hundred years before the 
 invention of photography. It afforded the most convenient means for 
 multiplying copies of a portrait which might have been distributed amongst 
 the friends of the person represented exactly as photographic positive 
 prints are now. Ever since Rembrandt showed the way, there was no 
 practical reason why whole families, from sons and brothers down to the 
 most distant cousins, should not have possessed etched portraits of each 
 other, but although they had this art with its power of almost unlimited 
 multiplication at their disposal, they made no use of it, the idea of 
 employing it seems to have no more occurred to them than book-printing 
 to the ancient Romans. And the Romans were less negligent, in reality, 
 than our forefathers, for they would have had to invent book-printing for 
 themselves, whilst the art of printing etchings was already known, even in 
 the sixteenth century, and all its subtleties had become familiar in the 
 seventeenth. When Rembrandt etched a portrait for his amusement, 
 some copies may have been given away, but it is likely that his etched 
 portraits had very little sale ; had they been a good commercial speculation 
 he would have etched his own plain face less frequently. Even in our own 
 day the etching of original portraits directly from nature has been very 
 little practised. One or two eminent etchers have executed a few chiefly 
 as a private amusement or experiment. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
AN OLD MAN WITH A LARGE WHITE BEARD AND 
 
 FUR CAP 
 
 Etching by Rembrandt 
 
 Reproduced in Heliogravure by Amand-Durand 
 
 L'NFORTUNATELY this portrait (for it is evidently a portrait) is without a 
 name, hence the long descriptive title, which is the one given by Mr. Middleton 
 in his catalogue. The usual French title for the plate is “ Vieillard au grand 
 manteau de velours noir.” 
 
 This is one of the best of Rembrandt’s etchings in all ways, both in 
 accuracy of drawing and quality of shade, texture, and local colour. Marvel- 
 lous as these reproductions are 1 hope that the reader fully understands the 
 kind of loss of quality that there always is, even in the best of them, when 
 rigorously compared with the originals. In this case the original has still 
 more refined quality in the shades. 
 
CHAP. V 
 
 EVILS OF ELABORATION IN PORTRAITURE 
 
 241 
 
 Portrait-painters must always have been draughtsmen, yet how little 
 the ability to draw, independently of painting, seems to have served its 
 possessors or the world ! It might have rendered the greatest services 
 in preserving portraits of our forefathers, and just as Rembrandt had set 
 in the most complete way the example of the etched portrait, so Holbein 
 set the example of a serious kind of portraiture in drawing, which was at 
 the same time accurate and careful without being costly, as the simplicity 
 of the work made it economical of the artist’s time. There is a typical 
 instance in the famous pen-drawing by Holbein, in the Bale Museum, which 
 represents Sir Thomas More and his family in a group, and probably (from 
 the care with which details of furniture are given) in More’s own house. 
 How infinitely precious and interesting this drawing is to us, yet it is a 
 simple work in outline, that probably cost its author no more than a few 
 hours, and how well occupied those hours were ! What could the artist 
 have done better than to give us this picture of a family then living in 
 honourable peace, so soon to be tried by the sorest trouble, and to leave 
 behind it an immortal fame, one of the purest in our history, bright with 
 manly and womanly fortitude, and sweet with a perennial fragrance of the 
 tenderest love and sorrow ! And besides this most precious drawing, how 
 many other drawings were made from life by Holbein which might have 
 served as examples for a large and inexpensive production of portraits all 
 over Europe ! 
 
 In England the appreciation of etchings and drawings appears to have 
 been limited to a very small class of connoisseurs. Even painters them- 
 selves have not usually cared much about etching, so that the etched 
 portraits by Vandyke remained practically without effect as examples, and 
 even in the present day a distinguished artist has lately told us that at a 
 time when he was already successful with his painting, he had not yet 
 taken the trouble to go to the British Museum and look at the etchings 
 of Rembrandt. I myself have known successful painters who had no 
 special interest in, or knowledge of, any kind of engraving whatever. 
 
 If our forefathers had encouraged sketching in the right way, that is 
 frequent and unpretending sketching, we might have had most abundant 
 and interesting graphic information about their lives, including their houses, 
 furniture, animals, and everything that belonged to them, and it need not 
 have cost them much money, whilst this simple kind of patronage would 
 have helped many an anxious artist who found himself excluded from 
 success as a painter because half a dozen celebrities at the head of his 
 profession had all the really lucrative business of it to themselves. 
 
 The best example of what ought to have been done abundantly for 
 
242 
 
 EVILS OF ELABORATION IN PORTRAITURE 
 
 PART V 
 
 every generation since the invention of characteristic drawing, is the series 
 of portraits of professors of the Edinburgh University, etched by Mr. Hole 
 from sketches taken from nature, and published together on the occasion 
 of the Tercentenary Festival under the title “Quasi Cursores .” 1 The 
 entire series is remarkable for the absence of the commonest vice in portrait 
 of a more formal kind. Nobody poses, not one of the professors seems 
 aware that he is being drawn. I do not mean to say that all the professors 
 are destitute of self-consciousness in other ways, but it has no reference to 
 anything like sitting for a portrait. A few seem to be aware that they are 
 learned men, and to esteem it a privilege for the students to listen to them, 
 but the majority are entirely absorbed in the matter of their lectures, so as 
 to have forgotten everything outside of it. Character is much enhanced by 
 such material adjuncts as the batteries and models of engines that surround 
 the professor of engineering, the electrical machine which is explained by 
 the professor of natural philosophy, or the skulls and brains on the table 
 before the professor of anatomy. The last reminds me that all these 
 professional portraits may be traced back to Rembrandt’s Professor Tulp 
 lecturing to his students, and that Rembrandt’s picture, in its turn, was by 
 no means alone, but belonged to quite a numerous family of works. 
 However, those were finished pictures, and what I am arguing for now is 
 the slight but characteristic sketch. Even in pictures themselves I do not 
 hesitate to maintain that there is a great advantage in the absence of too 
 laborious finish. For example, Reynolds was a very rapid painter who did 
 not finish much, though he knew how to suggest all that was necessary 
 with little labour. Had he been a very slow and careful painter, such as 
 Clouet, he would have left very little behind him, instead of his wonderfully 
 extensive and most interesting record of the manhood and ladyhood of 
 England at a time when the aristocracy of rank and manners, and that of 
 race in the sense of physical and mental superiority, were often most 
 happily associated. 
 
 1 Edinburgh : Printed at the University Press by T. & A. Constable, 1884. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE PORTRAITURE OF PRIDE 
 
 T30RTRAITURE is alone amongst the Fine Arts in being, or 
 perhaps I should rather say in having been, an instrument of 
 government 
 
 The art of government, as it has been understood in all ages that 
 preceded the democratic, included the art of imposing upon the imagination 
 by magnificence of costume, and also by reserving certain costumes for 
 special functions, so that their peculiarity, instead of exciting ridicule, as it 
 does when peculiarity of dress is the result of individual caprice, commanded 
 the respect of all. The change in feeling with regard to external pomp is 
 one of the most marked characteristics of the nineteenth century. The 
 most conservative of all institutions, the Papacy, has preserved a special 
 costume for its chief, just as he eats alone, and never travels, and in all 
 things leads a most peculiar life, the peculiarity in his case being not 
 originality or eccentricity, but the result of exaltation on an eminence of 
 rank which claims to be above all earthly thrones. But with this single 
 exception, no European potentate now wears a costume that pretends to be 
 unique. All sovereigns of the male sex wear the uniform of some grade in 
 their army. The French President has no ceremonial costume, a fact that 
 I have noticed already elsewhere as a curious evidence of the inability of 
 the quite modern mind to invent anything imposing. No modern nation 
 of European stock, whether in Europe itself or transplanted to another 
 hemisphere, could invent either a coronation dress or sacerdotal vestments, 
 if such things were not already in existence. The dread of ridicule is the 
 death of invention in these things. 
 
 The modern inability to devise costumes intended to be dignified may 
 be taken as evidence that visible dignity has itself lost much of its former 
 power as an instrument of government. We remember what importance 
 Mr. Bagehot used to attach to it in England, and how he regarded the 
 
244 
 
 THE PORTRAITURE OF PRIDE 
 
 PART V 
 
 ostentation of royalty, and even the expenditure of the peerage in dress and 
 equipages, as an important means of subjugating the common people by 
 disposing their minds to deferential sentiments. Mr. Bagehot’s theory was 
 that in England it is the business of royalty and aristocracy to be imposing 
 and act upon the popular imagination, whilst the actual work of government 
 was being done by others. The splendid classes made the people easy to 
 govern ; the working ministers governed them. 
 
 It is a curious proof of the connection that may sometimes subsist 
 between politics and the fine arts that at the time when Mr. Bagehot’s 
 theory was most true as a description of a really existing condition of 
 things, the state portrait flourished in its fullest perfection, and that with 
 the gradual decline in the political influence of ostentation, and with the 
 spread of democratic sentiments, the state portrait has gradually lost its 
 magnificent pretensions, till in our own day it is scarcely distinguishable 
 from portraiture of the ordinary kind. Its most complete perfection was 
 reached in France during the seventeenth century and the first half of the 
 eighteenth, and as at that time the painters of French courtly life were 
 seconded by some of the most skilful engravers who ever lived, their works 
 were disseminated throughout Europe and imitated in other countries, as 
 far as it was possible for less ostentatious races to imitate the incomparable 
 self-glorification of the French. It was possible to copy their attitudes and 
 costumes, but there is a grandeur of pride and vanity in the best French 
 state portraiture of the great time which could be attained only in what was 
 then the most successful of European nations. The pride of a distinguished 
 Frenchman in those days was national, his vanity was individual, and the 
 two together, aided by a strong tendency in the artist to display his own 
 talent whilst glorifying his subject, led to such lofty heights of demeanour in 
 the painted figure as must remain, for our meaner and simpler generation, an 
 admirable but unattainable ideal. Can it ever have been possible, we ask 
 ourselves, for mortal creatures to dwell in such absolute self-satisfaction ? 
 They seem to have no misgivings about anything they had to do. Their 
 tranquil dignity never deserts them, even in the most exciting circumstances. 
 There is a picture by an unknown artist representing Anne of Austria with 
 Fouis XIV. and Philip of Orleans as boys. The young king sits on a 
 small throne in the royal mantle, semd de fleurs de /is , with the collar of the 
 Holy Ghost on his ermine cape, his foot on a cushion, his crown on another 
 cushion, the sceptre in his hand (gently supported by the royal mother, as if 
 the boy could not bear the weight of it). Meanwhile a battle is going on 
 in a field visible from the window, but the royal sitters do not stir to look 
 at it. Why should they when the throne is fixed for ever in the eternal 
 
CHAP. VI 
 
 THE PORTRAITURE OF PRIDE 
 
 245 
 
 order of things ? Revolution was inconceivable in those days, and defeat 
 the lot of the enemy. 
 
 It may, perhaps, be answered that the battle seen through the window, on 
 the open space between the great curtain and the marble columns, was not 
 supposed to be really near the boy who held the sceptre, but the same royal 
 tranquillity belongs to princes on the field of battle itself. When “ Ludovi- 
 cus Delphinus, Ludovici Magni Filius,” in other words, Prince Louis, son 
 of Louis XIV., is represented within gunshot of a battle, he stands in a 
 most dignified manner under a tree, in his wig, and mantle, and armour, 
 with his marshal’s baton in his hand, yet he seems to be ordering nothing, 
 and to take no particular interest in the engagement ; he is there merely to 
 display his royal person to advantage. In those times the dignity of the 
 genre noble in portraiture was by no means confined to royalty ; it was 
 ascribed to all classes of society that could supply subjects for the state 
 portrait. It is curious, too, how the painters liked to join together qualities 
 that seem to us incongruous. Everything is for display, and in that sense 
 work itself is made a subject of ostentation ; but it is never real work that 
 absorbs the whole mind of a man, it is acted work, just like that of an actor 
 on the stage who pretends to do a little painting or to be absorbed in 
 accounts when every one can see plainly that he is not a real painter or a 
 real accountant. The generals have usually some frippery that they would 
 never wear on a field of battle, yet at the same time, as sons of Mars, they 
 are too bellicose for a drawing-room. One of the best examples (amongst 
 hundreds) of the grand military portrait is that of Louis Antoine de Par- 
 daillan, Duke of Antin, and Lieutenant-General, painted by Hyacinthe 
 Rigaud. It is an overpowering combination of peaceful and military 
 splendours. The duke wears a huge wig, a mantle lined with ermine, 
 fastened with a pearl brooch, and a lace collar, all which seem unsuitable 
 for the battle-field. At the same time, however, he is in complete armour, 
 and has his marshal’s baton in his hand, and a mediseval helmet by his 
 side, so that he is equally unfitted for the drawing-room. And the problem 
 immediately suggests itself how the bulk of the bewigged head is to be 
 packed into the helmet, and if the wig is to be taken off, why keep this 
 hybrid costume in the picture ? The artists of those days were never afraid 
 of incongruity if by its help the sitter could be made to look more pompous. 
 They even made themselves, in their pictures of artists, most inconveniently 
 magnificent with voluminous folds of drapery, yet the sitter still holds a 
 palette, and pretends to be at work, as if any human being could paint and 
 be a lay figure to carry drapery at the same time. They had a habit of 
 representing the sitter in what the French call an encadrement, that is a sort 
 
246 
 
 THE PORTRAITURE OF PRIDE 
 
 PART V 
 
 of window without glass, usually elliptic in shape, and supposed to be a hole 
 in a stone wall. The sitter conveniently happens to pause behind this 
 opening and display himself to the greatest advantage. If he has a super- 
 abundance of drapery, it comes out through the hole like a cascade issuing 
 from a grotto, and the artist arranges every fold of it so carefully that the 
 drapery almost seems to be the subject of the picture. This is so in the 
 portrait of Sebastian Bourdon by Rigaud, but it was a common arrange- 
 ment, and I cannot say who originated it. Architects in their portraits did 
 not look more workmanlike than painters. They were dressed to the 
 utmost, and have nothing about them that concerns their trade except a 
 plan, or a model, or a rule and compasses on a table. Drevet the architect 
 sits magnificent with wig and star and immense embroidered sleeves dis- 
 playing a lace cuff and a handsome hand that points to a roll of drawings. 
 That was the way with the state portraiture of those times — ostentation in 
 everything. What was the necessity for pointing to the drawings as if to 
 say, “ I am that great and eminent architect who executed them ” ? 
 
 The state portrait reached, perhaps, its highest perfection in the repre- 
 sentation of ecclesiastical dignitaries. Enormous labour was bestowed on 
 their rich costumes and their costly furniture, labour that strikes us most in 
 the engravings, many of which are marvels of patient industry and skill. 
 The conscientious toil that an engraver of the seventeenth or eighteenth 
 century would bestow on the representation of the lace sleeves or skirt of a 
 cardinal is in its way quite as astonishing as the detailed work of early 
 masters in painting, and in one respect it is better, being more subordinated 
 to the effect of the work as a whole. The engravings of Drevet, for 
 example, resemble mediaeval work in the loving care and deliberation with 
 which the most intricate and abundant ornaments are followed in all their 
 details, but it is far beyond mediaeval work in the intelligence with which 
 details are kept in their proper places. At first sight, indeed, we hardly 
 perceive them more than we do in nature ; it is only after some technical 
 study of the work that we see them in their abundance. I am fully aware 
 that this is not the most advanced of all possible conditions of the art of 
 drawing, for it is neither mysterious nor suggestive, and it does not give 
 the ocular impression so well as many a far slighter sketch by the greatest 
 masters ; still it is the most advanced kind of drawing which is compatible 
 with the representation of minute detail, since the artist does not lose sight 
 of the unity of the complete work. There is still something of mediaeval 
 sentiment left in the glorification of great men by the elaboration of orna- 
 ment on their dress. Even in the days of Drevet and Edelinck it was felt 
 that the smallest ornament on the sleeve of royalty, or of the higher clergy 
 
CHAP. VI 
 
 THE PORTRAITURE OF PRIDE 
 
 247 
 
 and the noblesse, became important through the importance of the wearer. 
 There is a portrait of Charles, Duke of Berry, painted by De Troy, and 
 wonderfully engraved by Edelinck, in which the gold embroidery of the 
 sleeve is finished in the minutest detail with an almost deceptive relief, 
 whilst the soft richness of the white lace about the neck and wrists is 
 imitated with a delicate sense of quality. There were three or four special 
 exercises for the engraver’s skill in those days — the great curling wig, the 
 velvet coat with its gold embroidery, the lace about neck and wrists, and 
 often a cuirass or other armour. When these accoutrements are deducted 
 by an effort of imagination, little remains but an expression of self-import- 
 ance that could not be so consistently maintained without them. And as 
 the splendours of the mediaeval knight had been accompanied by those 
 of the mediaeval bishop, so those of the courtiers at Versailles were accom- 
 panied by the rather feminine silk and lace of a wealthy and worldly 
 episcopate. In the fine portrait of Cardinal de Fleury, engraved by Drevet, 
 the artist followed the usual precedent of making all accessories very 
 sumptuous, as in the elaborate finish of the arm-chair and the writing-table, 
 more valuable than convenient, the importance of the personage being 
 enhanced by representing the conventional curtain in a sort of flourish 
 above his head, as if caught in a gust of wind, whilst he sits dignified and 
 serene. The ecclesiastical state portrait survives even in our own day, but 
 it has no longer the wonderful blending of the two distinctions, aristocratic 
 and clerical, that marked the Princes of the Church under Louis XIV. and 
 Louis XV. The finest of all modern ecclesiastical portraits that I remember 
 is one of the latest works of Elie Delaunay representing Cardinal Bernadou, 
 Archbishop of Sens. Technically, it was a wonderful study of various kinds 
 and qualities of red, harmonised with great courage and great art, but we 
 are not just at present occupied with colour. What is more to our present 
 purpose is that the portrait had much less worldliness than those of the 
 grand siecle. Its perfectly serious temper took us back, in spirit at least, 
 rather to the Middle Ages than to the Renascence. Perhaps both prelate 
 and painter gained additional gravity from the presentiment of approaching 
 death, for before the expiration of the year in which the picture was 
 exhibited an episcopal funeral service was held in the Cathedral of Sens, 
 and artistic Paris followed Delaunay to his grave. 
 
 The latest of all great ecclesiastical state portraits (down to the writing 
 of the present chapter) is that of Pope Leo XIII. by Chartran. Even in 
 this work, however, the modern tendency to simplification and to the 
 rejection of pomp and ceremony is very visible. The state costume of a 
 “ Supreme Pontiff” is as stiff and cumbersome as it is splendid ; the head 
 
248 
 
 THE PORTRAITURE OF PRIDE 
 
 PART V 
 
 becomes insignificant under the lofty tiara, and the body is hidden beneath 
 an almost conical cope. M. Chartran avoided the Papal regalia, and repre- 
 sented the Pope as seated, it is true, on a kind of throne, but in the white 
 dress he usually wears when giving audience. The expression of the face 
 was not at all that of pride or even of solemnity, but rather of intense 
 acuteness, lively attention to his visitor, and a sort of smiling amiability 
 that has an appearance of extreme optimism notwithstanding fifteen years 
 of voluntary imprisonment in the Vatican. In a word, it is the human and 
 personal character of a remarkable man that is represented, and not the 
 overpowering dignity of an office that claims to be the most dignified on 
 earth. Yet Leo XIII. was himself so much satisfied with this portrait that 
 he wrote Latin verses in which he compared the painter to Apelles, and 
 afterwards made him commander of a Papal order of knighthood. 
 
 The true state portrait has declined so much in the present century that, 
 like the state coaches of royal processions, it becomes less and less majestic 
 in every decade. Nevertheless, the nineteenth century does possess one 
 state portrait of supreme historical interest which is an absolutely complete 
 and typical example of this class of art, and has never been surpassed 
 in other ages, I do not say as a painting, but as an example of human 
 ostentation. This is the portrait of Napoleon I. in his coronation robes, 
 painted by Gerard, and engraved with great perfection by Auguste 
 Desnoyers. On the day of his coronation, before assuming the imperial 
 crown, Napoleon had worn a wreath of golden laurel to suggest a com- 
 parison with Caesar, and the painter judiciously preserved this, placing the 
 imperial crown on a cushion. As for the sceptre, the Emperor holds it 
 in his hand. He wears a long white silk dalmatic, embroidered with 
 gold, and white shoes also delicately embroidered. On his shoulders is 
 the great imperial mantle of red velvet, powdered with golden bees 
 and lined with ermine, and over the ermine cape is the collar of the Legion 
 of Llonour. 
 
 These vestments appear out of keeping with so active a life as that of 
 Napoleon, and it seems to us that he was more himself in boots and 
 breeches and the old familiar gray overcoat, but he became the vestments 
 well, except for his short stature, as his handsome face had pride enough in 
 in it for any pomp of sovereignty, and these adornments were but for an 
 hour, the supreme hour of an existence so dazzling that no degree of 
 splendour could, at that time, be really excessive or inappropriate. There 
 may exist in Russia some state portrait of the Czar as he stood crowned 
 and robed in the Kremlin, and that may be materially more elaborate in 
 wealth of barbaric ornament, but it is doubtful whether any imperial crown, 
 
CHAP. VI 
 
 THE PORTRAITURE OF PRIDE 
 
 249 
 
 however heavy with precious stones, would look prouder than the golden 
 laurel on the most military head of modern times. 
 
 The political uses of the state portrait now belong almost exclusively to 
 the past. To have its due effect on the minds of the people, the state 
 portrait should hang in their cottages, in brilliant colours, and almost 
 alone, that is, there ought not to be any familiar and simply human portrait 
 of the personage by the side of it, only ideal representations of Holy 
 Families and the Saints. The dissemination of commonplace portraiture 
 by photography and illustrated periodicals is, in our day, fatal to this kind 
 of exaltation. Everybody sees the most illustrious personages in Europe 
 in familiar groups, and dressed like men and women of the middle class. 
 This is rapidly leading us to a certain kind of visible equality that must 
 ultimately put an end to all the arts of pomp and pride. Even already it 
 has become impossible for the Head of the State in France to wear on any 
 occasion whatever the collar that belongs to him as Grand Master of the 
 Legion of Honour. It is too splendid to go with ordinary civilian dress, 
 and the President has no state robes. When Queen Victoria still on rare 
 occasions continued to open Parliament her robes were worn no longer but 
 laid upon the throne. The only sovereign in Europe who has ever sat at 
 table in complete regal state, that is, with his crown upon his head, is the 
 autocrat of the most backward empire. A more certain proof of the steady 
 modern tendency to abolish visible state is that whenever it has been 
 abandoned, or even diminished, no restoration of it is possible. It is 
 authorised only by the past, and depends wholly upon the continuity of 
 tradition. And the most remarkable fact in this weakening of primitive 
 instincts is that the desire for state has lost its force in those who might 
 profit by it most. The personages whose function it is to discharge the 
 ostentatious duties of government become less imposing and less decorative 
 than the public would like them to be. “Semi-state” is substituted for 
 full state, and a private style without pretension is preferred to either. 
 The tendency is, if not to Republican equality in appearances, at least 
 towards a royalty like that of the last King of the Netherlands, who was 
 more in character in a suit of gray tweed with a round hat than he could 
 ever have been with “a crimson mantle and a golden crown of pride.” 
 
 2 K 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 PORTRAITURE WITHOUT PRETENSION 
 
 I ^ VERY kind of art has its own dangers. If portraiture is not to glorify 
 its hero, it must accept him simply for what he is, both in bearing 
 and in dress. This seems at first sight to take away all possibility of 
 idealisation, and so to bring portraiture down to the barest matter of fact. 
 There is, however, still ample room for learning and discernment, and for 
 a certain exercise of taste, as we may see by the numerous examples in 
 which these qualities have not been exercised, and yet might have been 
 without unfaithfulness to the sitter or injury to the veracity of the work. 
 
 The motive of the most serious modern portraiture is the desire for 
 simplicity and fidelity. The sitter poses, of course, but he must not seem 
 to pose ; he must not be represented in some costume that he wears on 
 rare occasions, but in his every-day dress, the dress that he works in, or 
 that he wears when idling in his own garden, not his scarlet robes as a 
 D.C.L. His attitude may express thought and reflection, but not any vain 
 preoccupation about the opinion of others. If he is at work, he must be 
 really absorbed in what he has to do, not affecting to be at work, as in 
 the portraits of the eighteenth century, where the painter pretends to be 
 painting, the architect to be occupied about his plans, the soldier about the 
 movements of troops or the defence of cities, yet all alike are thinking of 
 one subject only — the appearance of self upon the canvas. 
 
 The modern tendency to simplicity and sincerity in portraiture is not in 
 itself a novelty, for it governed, within certain limits, much of the work 
 done before the Renascence. It is a return to principles that had been 
 unconsciously followed in earlier art ; but there is a vital difference between 
 the unconscious following of principles and the deliberate acceptance of 
 them as a result of criticism. Artists are willing to have it understood that 
 the critical spirit of modern times belongs to another class than their own — 
 to a writing class remarkable chiefly for its technical and practical ignorance. 
 
CHAP. VII 
 
 PORTRAITURE WITHOUT PRETENSION 
 
 251 
 
 In fact, however, the whole of modern art is founded upon the modern 
 criticism of the past, and this criticism is as prevalent amongst artists 
 themselves as amongst writers who, with reference to professional work in 
 the fine arts, are looked upon as a laity. Modern simplicity in portrait and 
 other varieties of art is like modern simplicity of manners, a consequence 
 of long experience and perfectly conscious reflection. It is as remote as 
 possible from the kind of innocence that is called naivete. It comes from 
 the knowledge that the imposing no longer imposes, and that all the 
 devices of artificial grandeur are no longer effective, because they are seen 
 through in an age too acute to be deferential. Artists cannot preserve a 
 pristine innocence of mind in the midst of a society like ours, a society 
 without an illusion left, and that is in all things “knowing” to a fault. 
 Artists are not a learned class, but they are keenly intelligent and observant, 
 and they perceive, by the mere fineness and delicacy of instinct, the useless- 
 ness of devices that were formerly successful. It is not that pretension no 
 longer exists in our society ; it exists still in other and less obvious forms, 
 so that the study of it is now rather the business of the novelist than of the 
 painter. In costume it seems to us ridiculous, and therefore does not 
 subjugate our minds ; it is still effectual in the invisible clothing of intellect 
 and sentiment, in the hypocrisies of culture and religion. 
 
 The external simplicity of modern life affects chiefly the portraiture of 
 men, as the costumes of women still supply a sufficient variety of rich 
 materials for the use of painters who care to amuse themselves and the 
 public by dexterous imitations of colour and texture. Women have still, 
 their silks and satins, their feathers and down, their laces and embroideries, 
 their rich and heavy velvets, their light and transparent tulle. A rich 
 woman may be truthfully represented in such a manner that without pre- 
 tending to be anything more than simply a rich woman she shall have 
 almost the magnificence and something like the majesty of a queen. With 
 a little art in arrangement her gilded chair becomes a sort of throne, the 
 jewels in her hair a crown, and her train of crimson velvet a royal mantle. 
 And in all this splendour there is no more than a true account of the 
 sovereignty that women exercise by the powers of beauty and wealth. The 
 two powers of the male sex are intellect and money, and neither of the two 
 in their case can make itself visible in dress. Intellect was never visible in 
 that way ; wealth made itself visible in the rich costumes of our semi- 
 barbarous ancestors, but a wind of equality has passed over the masculine 
 world and blown all those splendours away. 
 
 The loss of costume would in itself have been a very unimportant loss 
 for portraiture if the bust had been left simply naked, or draped like those 
 
25 2 
 
 PORTRAITURE WITHOUT PRETENSION 
 
 PART V 
 
 of Roman antiquity, but the change was not from magnificence to simplicity 
 only, it was from magnificence to the stiffness and ugliness of modern 
 tailoring. The tall collars of the earlier part of the nineteenth century 
 entirely concealed the beauty and strength of the neck, the shoulders were 
 made to appear higher and narrower than in nature, and the darkness of 
 black or blue cloth with the strong contrast of the white linen in the shirt- 
 collar made it difficult to avoid or mitigate what the artist must often 
 have found to be unwelcome and embarrassing oppositions. There are 
 thousands of nineteenth-century portraits in which the face is so completely 
 isolated from the dark background and black coat as to appear more like a 
 plate on a sideboard than a part of the human body ; in fact, the portrait- 
 painters became so accustomed to thinking of the face as distinct from the 
 body that they often lighted it strongly, whilst the chest and shoulders were 
 left in comparative darkness. And it has unfortunately happened that 
 the only costumes that show the chest and shoulders well, without separat- 
 ing them unnecessarily from the face, are those of our modern athletes — 
 our rowers, cricketers, and bicyclists — who are generally young men ; whilst 
 these costumes have the disadvantage, in every case, of awakening associa- 
 tions, which, however agreeable and invigorating to the body, have no 
 connection with the toils and triumphs of the mind. I am thinking at this 
 moment of the portrait of John Stuart Mill by Mr. Watts — a fine work so 
 far as intellectual character is concerned, for the face is serious and 
 thoughtful, without any trace of vanity, and the subject no more poses as a 
 philosopher than he poses as an officer in the army ; but whatever may be 
 the merits of the face on its own account, it is there entirely by itself, and 
 sufficiently lighted to be well seen, whereas the body is hidden in a black 
 coat and waistcoat, lightless, and, in Rajon’s etching at least, scarcely 
 distinguishable from the background. The reader may observe in the 
 portrait of Lord Lawrence, by the same artist, that whilst the face is full of 
 carefully studied modelling, the chest and shoulders are almost without 
 form on account of the tailoring ; but here, at least, that part of the body 
 is separated from the background by its value as a darker mass. The too 
 great isolation of the face, which in painting results from the coat and 
 waistcoat and the inconveniently excessive contrast between white linen 
 and black cloth, may be obviated by clothing the subject in gray, yet not 
 in all cases, as some men never wear gray, whilst all wear black on occa- 
 sions of ceremony, and black is connected with ideas of gravity and learning 
 that cannot in all cases be abandoned. Sometimes the habits of a man 
 leave no choice whatever as to costume. When the sitter always dresses 
 in the same w T ay the painter can only follow it ; as, for instance, when he 
 

 ‘ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 t 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
LORD LAWRENCE 
 
 Painted by G. F. Watts, R.A. 
 
 Engraved in Mezzotint by Norman Hirst 
 
 One of Mr. Watts’s series of portraits of illustrious Englishmen, chosen for 
 this work as an example of visible power, both mental and physical. 
 
 It is interesting to compare the simplicity of this portrait with the 
 accumulation of the paraphernalia of rank and authority that would have 
 accompanied such a personage in the eighteenth century. In a yet earlier 
 stage of the history of art Lord Lawrence would have been put into an 
 allegorical picture along with figures representing Mutiny quelled and 
 Ignorance vanquished. 
 
 The introduction of the familiar conventional column may have a reason 
 in this case, as it suggests the palatial edifices temporarily inhabited by a 
 Governor-General. 
 
 Mr. Norman Hirst, the engraver, was one of Mr. Herkomer’s pupils, and 
 so belongs to the English Renascence of mezzotint-engraving. 
 
CHAP. VII 
 
 PORTRAITURE WITHOUT PRETENSION 
 
 253 
 
 represents a member of a monastic order. And even when sameness of 
 dress is not an obligation, it is sometimes adopted by very regular and 
 methodical people merely to settle the question by a fixed rule. For 
 example, Auguste Comte, the philosopher, was extremely punctual and 
 methodical, and his dress is described as follows by one of his pupils : “ He 
 was invariably dressed in a suit of the most spotless black, as if going to 
 a dinner-party ; his white neckcloth was fresh from the laundress’s hands, 
 and his hat shining like a racer’s coat.” In sculpture the difficulty about 
 colour has no existence, and if it were what it is in painting, the sculptor 
 has a way of escape. He may, if he likes, represent the chest and 
 shoulders as naked, which painters never do in portraits, though I am not 
 aware that there would be any indecency in painting those parts of the 
 body. The effect of that degree of nudity in portrait may be clearly seen 
 by an illustration in this volume, the “ Silenus,” by M. Gusman. The 
 reader will at once perceive how admirably in this instance the nudity of 
 the body accompanies the nudity of the face, and how completely it pre- 
 vents the face from being isolated. Besides this, the light tones of the 
 flesh have permitted the artist to get sufficient contrast whilst keeping his 
 background pale, and this is very favourable to a quiet harmony of tones 
 all over the work which, to my feeling at least, is much pleasanter and 
 more satisfactory than a patch of light in the midst of surrounding 
 darkness. 
 
 I have alluded to one of the facilities of sculpture in its avoidance of 
 colour, yet, on the whole, the sculptor is more to be pitied than the painter 
 whilst he contends against the difficulties of modern costume. Modern 
 portraiture in sculpture does well to confine itself chiefly to the bust and 
 the medallion, as in the complete statue what is to be done with a coat and 
 trousers ? The theory that art should always be able to assimilate every- 
 thing to itself because in the past it has assimilated, not everything, but 
 many things, is too dangerous to be implicitly relied upon. Bad costume 
 is always a great difficulty, even in the hands of artists who are too experi- 
 enced and too wary to fall into any obvious snare. . Sculptors try what can 
 be done with it in repeated experiments, the very difficulty itself being a 
 stimulus and an incitement, but their perseverance has never yet been 
 rewarded as it deserved. They are fighting against conditions foreign to 
 the true nature of their art. We think our great-grandfathers were 
 ridiculous because they set up statues of contemporary generals in the 
 accoutrements of Roman emperors. They were driven to this anachronism 
 as much by artistic needs as by a fashion of interest in antiquity. It 
 seemed to them that they had found a satisfactory solution of a difficulty 
 
254 
 
 PORTRAITURE WITHOUT PRETENSION 
 
 PART V 
 
 that still torments us. We cannot accept their solution ; it does not seem 
 satisfactory to us. We are too critical for any obvious anachronism ; we 
 desire the truth, and the truth is often incompatible with fine art. 
 
 Whilst reflecting on the subject of this chapter I happened to have 
 business in a quarter of Paris where statues are now becoming rather 
 numerous, — I mean the region near the School of Medicine and the College 
 de France — and so I examined them all again with special reference to the 
 possibility of tolerating modern dress. There is a colossal bronze statue 
 of Claude Bernard just in front of the College de France. He stands by 
 a little piece of laboratory furniture, on which lies a poor dog, bound for 
 vivisection, and the anatomist has one hand upon the animal, whilst he is 
 meditating upon or professing some scientific doctrine. He is dressed in a 
 frock-coat, with waistcoat and trousers. Could that be his working dress as a 
 practical anatomist ? However this may be, the sculptor’s object was to give 
 him an air of dignity and respectability, and for this purpose a frock-coat is 
 better than an apron and shirt-sleeves. But a coat in bronze is not the same 
 thing as a coat in broadcloth ; it has not the same gravity of colour and 
 softness of texture ; it does not look either so respectable or so comfortable. 
 (I need hardly remind the reader that the notion of a metallic dress was 
 employed by Dante to convey the sense of a discomfort amounting to 
 torture.) From the plastic point of view the effect of a bronze coat is 
 deplorable, especially when seen from behind, where the huge back and 
 skirts have no more grace or beauty than the hinder parts of an elephant. 
 Exactly the same dress is employed in the statue of Paul Broca near the 
 School of Medicine, and without any better result. Within the courtyard 
 of the same school there is a bronze statue of the anatomist Bichat, ridiculous, 
 yet more interesting than the others. His costume is that of the first 
 quarter of the nineteenth century, his poor, thin legs encased in tight 
 breeches and tall creased boots. According to the fashion of those days, 
 his tail-coat seems too small for him, and to avoid the laughable effect of a 
 back view, the image is placed between two pillars near the wall of the 
 courtyard with its face towards the entrance. It is an odd reflection to 
 think that this statue was never intended to be comical, that it was set up 
 with the gravest intentions to commemorate an illustrious man of science, 
 and that it amuses us now for no better reason than a change in the fashion 
 of dress. We think that the coat is too small and the boots too important 
 because our ideas of proportion in these things have been formed by more 
 recent customs ; but with all the force of ridicule against it this old-fashioned 
 statue is even yet more sculpturesque than the Bernard or the Broca, or 
 than the statue of Aristide Boucicaut, the great shop-keeper, who was also 
 
CHAP. VII 
 
 PORTRAITURE WITHOUT PRETENSION 
 
 25s 
 
 represented in frock-coat and trousers, as became a wealthy bourgeois of 
 Paris. Having enough of these nineteenth-century attempts at tailoring in 
 bronze, we can go back to the eighteenth in the furious figure of Danton, 
 and here the dress does much better because it abounds in picturesque 
 incidents and varieties of line that amuse the eye from every point of view. 
 The variety is increased by the two half-dressed enthusiastic youths who 
 complete the group as they listen to Danton’s stirring appeal. They, too, 
 do well in bronze, though beggarly as street children by Murillo. The 
 group does not belong to the highest class of portrait-sculpture ; it is too 
 picturesque for that and too restless and energetic, whilst the statue of 
 Claude Bernard is really sculpturesque in conception ; but the Danton is 
 satisfactory because the costume permitted the peculiar kind of excellence 
 that the artist had in view. He could have done nothing with such a 
 subject if Danton had dressed like M. Aristide Boucicaut. Further west- 
 wards we meet with the sitting statue of Diderot, of course in eighteenth- 
 century costume, and although this has not the wild variety of the Danton, 
 the dress is favourable to the attitude, which is that of thoughtful repose. 
 There is some physical beauty, too, in the manly forms of the body which 
 the dress of Diderot’s time, left visible, especially in the legs, and in this 
 statue the body even gains a certain grace and elegance from the well- 
 chosen curves and folds of the coat. 
 
 Following the same street towards the east, we come to the Place 
 Maubert, and there we meet with a costume still more remote from our 
 own unfortunate fashions. The statue of Etienne Dolet, the printer, now 
 stands on its pedestal exactly on the spot where he was burnt for his 
 heretical opinions. His manly figure shows to great advantage in the 
 picturesque costume of his time. Here are two favourable elements — form, 
 that is beauty of line, and the picturesque, that is interesting and unex- 
 pected variety of line. The legs, being in close-fitting hose, are very 
 nearly as pure in line as in a statue of the nude ; they satisfy the sense of 
 form as a naked statue satisfies it, and therefore they are exactly adapted 
 to sculpture from the classical point of view. That part of the costume that 
 we call picturesque begins at the upper part of the thighs with the puffed 
 hose, and thence it continues to the chin ; but the short jerkin, fitting closely, 
 shows the form, both of chest and arms, better than any modern coat. Dolet 
 is a goodly man to look upon, and as the costume sets off his handsome 
 figure to advantage, we regret the more that it was given whilst living to 
 the flames. This is the feeling that the Municipal Council of Paris wished 
 to inspire in us, for it leads directly to indignation against the priesthood 
 that procured his condemnation to torture and the stake. 
 
25 6 
 
 PORTRAITURE WITHOUT PRETENSION 
 
 PART V 
 
 In all these statues that I have just alluded to with reference to costume 
 the absence of false pretension is equally notable. The reader will observe 
 that although the costumes are very different, they are in each instance 
 exactly faithful to the fashions of the time, and not one of the statues poses 
 for anything beyond the real nature and attributes of the man. It is true 
 that Danton is very violent and energetic, but even here there is not any 
 exaggeration. Danton had a coarse and rude nature, full of ebullient 
 energy, and the greatest power that he exercised over other men was by 
 animating them with his own ardour. It was not more the sculptor’s 
 business to polish and civilise Danton than to give him a handsome face 
 instead of an ugly one. The subjects of the other statues are more 
 quiescent, either in thought like Diderot, or in a calmly didactic attitude 
 like that of Claude Bernard or Broca. In connection with these I may 
 mention the statue of John Mill on the Thames Embankment, also quite 
 simple and natural, and in a great measure spoiled as a work of art by the 
 truthfulness of the sculptor in adopting the modern dress. As we have 
 already seen, the painted portrait by Mr. Watts avoided this difficulty by 
 almost entirely losing the costume in mere darkness along with a dark 
 background, but this way of escape is beyond the reach of the sculptor, 
 whose entire work is exposed to the same broad daylight. It is interesting 
 to observe how the difficulty of modern costume has been overcome in the 
 two equally truthful and equally unpretending portraits of Darwin by Mr. 
 Ouless and Mr. John Collier. In that by Mr. Ouless (etched with marvel- 
 lous skill and power by Rajon) the coat is a morning jacket, which is better 
 in texture and colour than the frock-coat, and in the portrait by Mr. Collier 
 (admirably etched by Flameng) the naturalist wears a long cloak, with the 
 left hand partially visible, and carrying a soft felt hat. In both works there 
 is no attempt to beautify the face, which would always have been interest- 
 ing even if the name of the subject had never become illustrious. Few 
 modern portraits have been so satisfactory as these two, as there is no fuss 
 or untruth in them whatever, either by increasing personal beauty or by 
 any kind of ostentation. The reader has only to compare such portraits as 
 these with those made in France under the magnificent monarchs to see 
 how far the plain rationalism of the present age has carried us in the 
 direction of simplicity and veracity. Even in France a great painter and 
 engraver has not shrunk in our time from the most unflattering frankness 
 in the case of an eminent prelate who would have been glorified in all ways 
 in the time of Fouis XV. The portrait of Monseigneur de Segur, by 
 Ferdinand Gaillard, is a carefully minute study of one of the plainest faces 
 that ever were, a strikingly irregular face, as the whole, left side was bigger 
 
CHAP. VII 
 
 PORTRAITURE WITHOUT PRETENSION 
 
 257 
 
 than the right, and the two bushy eyebrows were as unlike each other as 
 two things could be that had to make a sort of pair, the right being at its 
 thinnest near the nose and the left at its thickest, finishing with a peculiar 
 upward twirl and then a sudden descent towards the ear. The natural 
 irregularity of the face had been increased by the accidental loss of one eye, 
 and both eyelids were wrinkled and heavy and drooped too much, but in 
 unequal degrees. The nose and upper lip were massive and protuberant, 
 and all the face strongly modelled into bosses and hollows like a rugged 
 mountain-side. On the top of the cranium was a short, stiff crop of stubbly 
 hair. Gaillard set himself to study all the details of this curious natural 
 object as an astronomer studies the protuberances of the moon. With the 
 help of a dignified but not in any way brilliant or sumptuous ecclesiastical 
 costume, he succeeded in producing an impression both of stateliness and 
 power. 
 
 The desire to excel in portraiture by sheer strength of representation 
 and without the help of flattery and splendour of accompaniments is very 
 characteristic of our time. I should be sorry to pass without mention Sir 
 Frederick Leighton’s noble portrait of Sir Richard Burton, that superb 
 specimen of English manhood, in whom were joined together the most 
 astonishing physical and mental powers, all raised to the highest pitch by 
 training, and maintained by an activity that left no place for the rust of 
 indolence. The strength of that portrait was the more remarkable that 
 the painter had usually been more drawn to what was graceful and beautiful, 
 especially in the other sex. Another of the strong and simply-painted 
 portraits that are likely to remain historical is that of Mr. Gladstone by Sir 
 John Millais — I mean the one in the plain dress, to which no official costume 
 could have added anything. Some readers think perhaps that Mr. Glad- 
 / stone is a bad man, and others that he is a good man, but whatever may- 
 be the difference of opinion about the adjective, the substantive, at least, is 
 beyond dispute. And notwithstanding the superior grace and charm of 
 ladyhood to which so many painters have paid the homage of much study 
 and not a little flattery, it still seems that the best subject for the most 
 simple kind of portraiture is a man. His years are of little consequence if 
 there is the expression of power. I think I never saw that expression 
 more perfectly given than in the portrait of Lord Lawrence by Mr. Watts. 
 This is the man who ruled India when the great Mutiny broke out, and 
 who, with the help of other brave men, saved it. Truly, this portrait of 
 him is “Man in Art ” in the most complete sense of both words. 
 
 I have indicated in this chapter some of the difficulties of modern 
 costume in sculpture and painting, and may now add in this place what 
 
 2 L 
 
PORTRAITURE WITHOUT PRETENSION 
 
 PART V 
 
 258 
 
 might have been said in the chapter on the Evils of Elaboration in Por- 
 traiture, that these difficulties are always least felt in the slightest kinds of 
 art, which is another very strong reason in their favour. All those forms 
 of art which allow paper to be left blank in large spaces are convenient in 
 sparing the necessity for a too rigorous attention either to the form of 
 costume or its colour. If the costume is too prim and neat, it may be 
 sketched with an intentional appearance of looseness and almost carelessness 
 of line, and if one hard outline seems too definite, it may be replaced by a 
 play of several seemingly tentative or experimental lines, out of which the 
 eye of the spectator is left to make its own selection. But the great 
 advantage in sketching on paper is that it delivers us so completely from 
 the tyranny of local colour. The black coat or cravat may quite legitimately 
 be left gray or even white if the artist finds it more convenient. This was 
 frequently done by Ingres in those admirable portraits in lead pencil that 
 he used to execute for twenty or thirty francs apiece in the days of his 
 obscurity ; and it was done by Leslie in the beautiful portrait of Constable 
 that was lithographed for Leslie’s biography of him. In that work the 
 coat and stock (probably of black cloth and black silk or satin) are 
 judiciously kept much paler than in nature, so as noc to assert themselves 
 with a degree of force that would be out of harmony with the delicacy 
 of the face. 
 
 The nearest approach to this kind of treatment possible in oil-painting 
 is to leave the work intentionally unfinished, which affords an excuse for a 
 light and superficial treatment of everything but the face. I observe as 
 one result of modern sketching that a few artists have attempted to vignette 
 portraits in oil, a practice not likely to become general, as it is not very 
 suitable to the medium, but it is easy in water-colour, and affords a way 
 out of many embarrassments. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IMAGINARY PORTRAITS 
 
 C\NE of the most interesting characteristics of the human mind is the 
 pleasure that it has in pure make-believe, in self-deception of which 
 it still remains perfectly conscious. An artist paints or carves a portrait of 
 somebody that he never saw, and concerning whose person he possesses no 
 documents whatever, the chances are millions to one that there is not the 
 slightest trace of resemblance to the supposed original, yet we look upon 
 the work with quite genuine satisfaction if only it answers in some degree 
 to our notion of what the original might possibly have been like. Novelists 
 and playwrights have occasionally turned into ridicule the propensity of a 
 few self-made men to invent ancestors for themselves, and to have imaginary 
 portraits of them on their walls. If ever this has been done in real life for 
 the satisfaction of an individual, he only followed a precedent set for him by 
 humanity at large. Unable to rest content with what is really known about 
 the past, we encourage the painter or the sculptor to travel beyond the 
 confines of the known and bring back for us rich spoils out of the abyss of 
 emptiness. He is to go, like Lord Bacon, and rediscover the lost Atlantis. 
 
 The most remarkable of our inconsistencies in the love of imaginary 
 portraits is that we accept them when contradictory of each other. We 
 accept a King Alfred from the invention of one artist, and another King 
 Alfred from another artist, the two being entirely incompatible, yet we have 
 a kind of satisfaction in both. Our mind accommodates and adjusts itself 
 to different inventions as it does to different effects of light in landscape. 
 
 If we are descended from some historical personage of whom there is 
 no authentic portrait, and if some painter or sculptor makes an imaginary 
 portrait of him, we are drawn to it by an irrational but irresistible curiosity. 
 We know that it is only the portrait of some model, more or less idealised, 
 yet the mere choice of the name (which may have been decided upon at the 
 last moment after the work was done) is enough of itself to act upon our 
 
i6o 
 
 IMAGINARY PORTRAITS 
 
 PART V 
 
 own sympathy and imagination. It was perfectly natural, perfectly in 
 accordance with this human instinct, that the Duke of Westminster should 
 have set up a colossal statue of his ancestor Hugh Lupus in the grounds 
 of Eaton Hall. Nobody knows what Hugh Lupus was like, but Mr. 
 Watts, with his gift of imagination, is supposed to know, and reveals him 
 to us stalwart in his armour of bronze. Our pedigrees are often mere 
 catalogues of names ; they would be more real for us if an artist enriched 
 them with miniatures or medallions throughout the ages. Thackeray 
 touched playfully upon this desire to realise what can never be made 
 visible when he described young Clive Newcome as drawing ideal sketches 
 of his reputed ancestor the “ barber-surgeon.” 
 
 It is a vast advantage for ideal portraiture that we should not possess 
 any record of the reality. When Rubens made his portraits of the Magi he 
 was free to choose the most majestic models. If the Church had possessed 
 photographs of her prophets and apostles, Michael Angelo would have been 
 so hampered by them, and by the priestly desire for a reverent fidelity, that 
 his imaginative production of sublime personages would have been made 
 impossible. It is curious, but indisputable, that we owe the overpowering 
 Moses of Michael Angelo and his awful prophets and his stately and authori- 
 tative apostles and evangelists not to his great imaginative genius merely, 
 but to the universal ignorance about the real men which left his genius free 
 to do its best. This is but one of the many artistic advantages that we 
 owe to our ignorance of the past, for if we knew it familiarly as we do the 
 England of the newspaper age, it would be difficult indeed for any public 
 man, however strong in intellect and pure in character, to preserve that 
 ideal grandeur which the genius of Michael Angelo realised. 
 
 There is an interesting example in art-history of a kind of portraiture 
 which is not entirely fictitious, as the artist had access to materials, but 
 which, nevertheless, is in a certain degree fictitious, as the materials were 
 inadequate for paintings in which the artist affected to know more than had 
 come down to him. When Titian undertook the portraits of the Twelve 
 Ctesars for Federico Gonzaga, Duke of Mantua, he could refer to many 
 statues, busts, and medals or gems ; but a little reflection soon makes us 
 perceive how far these materials are from supplying the life in the eyes and 
 complexion, in the colour of the hair, and in the qualities of the living 
 tissues that interest a painter, and most especially a colourist. The 
 commission for this series was a strange and not altogether a prudent 
 commission to give. The impulse that prompted it was the common 
 desire to know more about the past than can ever now be ascertained, along 
 with a semi-belief that Titian could somehow gain access to it and reveal it. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
THESEUS 
 
 Greek Marble 
 
 Hyalograph drawn by G. de Roton 
 {Louvre) 
 
 The bust is called “Theseus,” but the true title is unknown. It is believed 
 to belong to the age of Pericles. 
 
 The head is a good example of what the Greeks understood by the beauty 
 of beardless man, and, although idealised, is not without individuality. At the 
 same time, if Theseus is really the personage intended, the bust is open to the 
 criticism that it does not exhibit any particular tendency to heroic human 
 action, but has rather the calm of some divinity. It is true that Theseus 
 received divine honours after his death. 
 

 
CHAP. VIII 
 
 IMAGINARY PORTRAITS 
 
 261 
 
 A nearer approach to this kind of truth might be possible for artists if 
 they were aided, as they have been in some cases, by the light thrown on 
 slender artistic materials by literary description, but this would lead us 
 away from imaginary portraiture to historical. However, the imagination 
 of a portrait-painter may sometimes find vigorous exercise in the endeavour 
 to realise a face that the artist has never seen, but for which he has some 
 slight memoranda. In such a case the kind of imagination exercised 
 appears to be purely scientific and reconstructive within the limits of 
 positive consistency and truth. Portraiture of this kind, applying known 
 laws to the reconstruction of a human face, and to the bestowal of new life, 
 is far from being an idle employment of a painter’s knowledge and ability. 
 
 Here is a case in which the imagination may be employed in the revival 
 of the past. A contemporary portrait exists, but although it answers almost 
 every question we might ask about the physical appearance of an ancestor 
 who lived, let us say, in the time of Queen Elizabeth — although it tells us 
 plainly what was the shape of his face, the colour of his hair and complexion 
 and of his eyes, the trimming of his beard and the fashion of his dress — still, 
 the work is stiff and hard, it is insufficiently modelled, and even the dress 
 itself is without quality and texture as a piece of painting, though nothing 
 could be clearer and more explicit as a mere piece of information about the 
 costume our ancestor wore. In a case of this kind a modern artist might 
 be called in, not to touch upon the old painting, which, however poor, is 
 sacred, but to realise it over again, on another canvas, with the help of his 
 greater technical accomplishment and his better knowledge of the life. 
 Here the exercise of imagination would simply be in imparting vitality to 
 the face and reality to the costume. By a process resembling in some 
 degree the transfusion of living blood, the artist would take a certain 
 quantity of life out of his own century (this present , in which life is super- 
 abundant) and carry it back to the Elizabethan age that life has quitted 
 long ago. Such a process is so common in modern literature that it has 
 ceased to attract attention. The modern biographer of a man who lived in 
 the distant past brings to his task a knowledge of life acquired from his 
 observation of the living, and he is more exposed to anachronism than a 
 painter, as there is clear evidence that the minds of men have changed 
 more than their bodies. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE BODY IN PORTRAIT 
 
 T N a previous chapter — that on “ Painting and Carving the Soul ” — I have 
 shown how limited is the power of the plastic and graphic arts in the 
 representation of mind, but as we all believe ourselves to have the science 
 of Lavater, we calmly judge of people’s minds by their faces, or by the little 
 that we are able to discover in them, and we attach very little importance 
 to the rest of their bodies, which seems to us almost superfluous in a portrait. 
 If in real life we catch a glimpse of a face at a carriage window, we feel 
 that we have seen the man, whereas if we have had ample opportunities of 
 seeing a masked harlequin at a ball, though every limb is as clearly visible, 
 as to form at least, as if he were naked, it does not appear to us that we 
 have seen the man at all, but only a sort of automaton that imitates human 
 movements. The comparative rarity of full - length portraits may be 
 explicable by a feeling that has come down to us from Christian and 
 mediaeval sentiment that the body is not the man. According to that senti- 
 ment the body is a habitation — an imperfect and temporary habitation — 
 that the real man should be prepared to leave without regret. The Church 
 has always concealed the body as much as possible, whether under rich and 
 splendid vestments or a plain monastic dress. The classical idea of costume 
 was the human figure more or less draped ; the mediaeval idea was the 
 human figure hidden in armour, vestments, or robes. The mediaeval 
 tendency to the concealment of physical forms was shown even in the ample 
 housings thrown over horses for state occasions, and which hid the forms 
 
 o 
 
 of the animals almost completely . 1 
 
 This tendency to hide the body might have pas ed away earlier had it 
 
 1 To this it might be objected that the every-day mediaeval dress for pages and other active 
 persons (jerkin and long hose) showed at least the forms of the legs and chest. So it did, as 
 activity required a certain freedom, but the dignified nobles and burgesses delighted in the ampli- 
 tude of great mantles and robes, and the ladies in long petticoats. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A MONK WRITING AT A DESK OR LECTERN 
 
 Terra-cotta Panel 
 Ascribed to Luca della Robbia 
 Hyalograph drawn by T. E. Macklin 
 
 The date of this panel is believed to be about 1450. 
 
 The subject has often been treated in designs from the Middle Ages 
 downwards. It is simply the scribe writing quietly, and it has been repeated 
 in Holbein’s portrait of Erasmus and many modern pictures. 
 
 It is admirably adapted to the purposes of art, both graphic and plastic, 
 as the scribe is a quiet personage, who may be supposed to go on for hours in 
 an occupation requiring such slight movements that they are almost equivalent 
 to immobility. In his times of reflection he may, indeed, remain perfectly 
 still. In ages when the art of writing was a rare accomplishment the scribe 
 was a person of exceptional culture, and this gave him a certain dignity, since 
 lost by the spread of education. This dignity is preserved in the work before 
 11s. 
 

 
 
 
CHAP. IX 
 
 THE BODY IN PORTRAIT 
 
 263 
 
 not been reinforced by Puritan ideas of modesty and morality. These ideas 
 were a revival rather than a novelty, for they had already caused the 
 destruction of great numbers of antique statues by the early Christian 
 iconoclasts, and for religious rather than moral reasons they had prevented 
 the study of the human body in the countries under the faith of Islam. 
 They arose again in England through the desire for assimilation with the 
 ancient Jews, which was fashionable amongst the Puritans of the seven- 
 teenth century. One of the conditions of resemblance to the ancient Jews 
 was to have no art that was founded upon the study of the body, and this 
 degree of resemblance was very easily attained, as it required nothing but 
 simple abstinence from one of the varieties of culture, and that not the 
 least difficult and laborious. The influence of Puritan ideas has prolonged 
 itself down to the present day, at least in the sense of opposition to the 
 new Paganism of the Renascence. There have been instances in the fine 
 arts when some great lady was celebrated for the beauty of her body, and 
 it was painted or carved from nature as a Venus, but these have not 
 occurred in countries where Puritanism had any influence. It may be 
 doubted even whether a Scotch lady would consent to be painted, like 
 Madame Recamier, with naked feet. 
 
 A more subtle and less obvious influence against the body in portraiture 
 is the intellectual culture which has given a special importance to all the 
 signs of mind. The face and head are considered to be everything in the 
 intellectual portrait, the body is of little or no account. Just enough body 
 is given to prove that it has not been decapitated, and even this is con- 
 cealed in black. A better kind of portrait for scientific men whose studies 
 take them out of doors is that of which Mr. Hole has given us a good 
 example in his etching of Professor Geikie, the geologist, out amongst the 
 rocks in his walking dress. And although hunting portraits are not often 
 the most satisfactory as art, one reason being the difficulty of treating 
 scarlet, they have, nevertheless, a distinct advantage over the scholarly 
 portrait in the frequent representation of an active and manly frame. It is 
 no more than just to render in this place a tribute of respect for the truth 
 and sincerity in the hunting portraits by Sir Francis Grant, a very English 
 kind of art which has little in common with the great Spanish or Italian 
 masters, but is founded on the most intimate knowledge of the class of men 
 represented, as well as of their favourite exercise. English pictures of 
 hunting-men, and also of jockeys on race-horses, are condemned by the 
 nature of things to take inferior rank, though great artists have made noble 
 pictures out of horsemanship in ruder and less cultivated forms. There 
 seems to be a law that when any art reaches a perfection of its own, that 
 
264 
 
 THE BODY IN PORTRAIT 
 
 PART V 
 
 special perfection has a character that makes it unsuitable for representation 
 in another art. In this case it is the neatness of perfect tailoring, boot- 
 making, saddlery, and grooming that spoils the hunting portrait. The 
 military portrait is very liable to be spoiled in the same way by the neatness 
 and tidiness of modern uniforms. Velasquez himself could hardly have con- 
 tended against a difficulty so pervading as that of costume. There is an 
 amazing portrait by Velasquez in the Berlin Museum, that of Alessandro del 
 Borro, an Italian captain. The painter seems to have had a profoundly 
 humorous enjoyment of his subject. Never was there a more complete 
 expression of pride and self-satisfaction. The huge chin, the enormous 
 paunch, the supercilious look of the half-closed eyes, the incomparable atti- 
 tude, all seem to translate into painting the sonorous Latin word Superbia. 
 As we look up to him — for the painter makes us look zip to him from 
 below — we wonder and admire, we exclaim, “O captain of all captains, thou 
 art indeed prodigious ! ” The strength of characterisation in this painting 
 is, however, only one of its merits. As much character might have been 
 put into a modern figure and left it little more than a design for Punch. 
 A modern Captain Borro would have amused England for a week and then 
 been forgotten, but Alessandro lives for ever ! He lives because the 
 picture is so grand and so complete, and this completeness is an affair of 
 costume. He is dressed in velvet with a handsome pattern ; he has collar 
 and cuffs, not like ours, but falling well and paintable. His stout legs are 
 not in trousers, but in well-fitting stockings — “du bronze coule dans un bas 
 de soie,” to quote the devoted Jasmin, valet of the Marquis de la Seigliere. 
 He drapes himself, his right hand lifts up a sort of festoon. What would the 
 head be without all this fulness of Alessandro’s vast and imposing personality? 
 
 I have said elsewhere that the face does not reveal the mind completely, 
 so that the portraiture of the face gives an imperfect idea of a man’s genius 
 and learning ; and although it may be easier, or seem easier, to judge of the 
 qualities of his body, even here an invisible element has to be taken into 
 account, the greater or less supply of nervous energy, and this the sculptor 
 or painter can never make apparent. It is easy to write a paragraph that 
 will go beyond the limits of all graphic or plastic art. Let me try it in a 
 brief description of one whom I knew intimately. 
 
 His complexion was pale , which gave the idea of ill-health , and his face 
 so as often thoughtful. His stature was rather below the middle height , and 
 his limbs were not nmscular. He had a remarkable power of long-sustained 
 intellectual application. In the study he allowed nothing to disturb the 
 regularity of his labour, but worked in sittings of three hours each , the last 
 as assiduously as the first. 
 
CHAP. IX 
 
 THE BODY IN PORTRAIT 
 
 265 
 
 So far, the description is paintable, the student may be represented at 
 his table — students have frequently been so represented from the monks of 
 the Middle Ages down to Maclise’s caricature sketch of Charles Lamb. 
 In what now follows I go far beyond, the range of drawing. 
 
 At the same time it would be an error to suppose that he had not great 
 physical gifts , though no one would have suspected their existence in his 
 sedentary hours. Nothwithstanding the small volume of his muscles, they 
 were of good quality , for he was a bold and expert swimmer, a keen sports- 
 man, and able to endure long-continued fatigue , not only without distress, but 
 cheer filly and even gaily. Being also of a fearless and combative disposition , 
 he much regretted that he had not been bred for the army. 
 
 Now this contradiction between the visible physical gifts and the 
 invisible forces is just what the graphic arts can never explain, so that a 
 very important part of the physical constitution must escape from their 
 cognisance. Besides this, they can only set forth the appearance of health, 
 not its reality. A novelist, in two words, can suggest the existence of a 
 disease that will be mortal but has not yet become visible ; a painter takes 
 note only of its advanced stages. 
 
 Two personages whose figures have often been painted and are likely 
 to appear very frequently in pictures during future ages are the first 
 Napoleon and Prince Bismarck. If represented quite truly according to 
 that merely external truth which the art of painting so effectively presents, 
 Napoleon would seem a man of almost contemptible physical endowments, 
 and Bismarck a son and successor of the giants. This only shows how 
 deceptive such appearances may be, for the invisible physical power in 
 Napoleon was almost as rare as his military genius. 
 
 A few words may be said in conclusion about the importance of the 
 hand in portrait. In the lowest degradation of this art the hands and 
 costume are given over to be done by assistants, and often with little or no 
 reference to the individual peculiarities of the sitter. I notice that in the 
 recent evil development of French art, where simple daubing is substituted 
 for painting, the hands are neglected because they require too much drawing 
 and too close an attention to truth of characteristic and individual detail. 
 They are daubed in hastily under pretext of concentrating attention on the 
 face. I remember one impressionist picture in which the lady wears yellow 
 gloves that fit her badly, and the gloves have simply been sketched in 
 colour and left so, with perhaps five minutes’ work to each of them. This 
 is a business-like economy of time. 
 
 Amongst the drawings left to us by the old masters, we find a sufficient 
 number of studies of hands to prove that they paid careful attention to that 
 
 2 M 
 
266 
 
 THE BODY IN PORTRAIT 
 
 PART V 
 
 member. There are studies by Michael Angelo which show that his imagina- 
 tion did not emancipate him from such details as finger-joints, which seem 
 to be beneath the geniuses of our own day, whilst the studies of Albert 
 Durer not only show the inflexions of the fingers (e.g. the bending back and 
 inside of the little finger) but they follow the veins and the wrinkles of skin 
 upon the knuckles. 
 
 In the portrait of Erasmus by Holbein (Louvre) the hands are drawn 
 with the most extreme precision even to the four rings on the first and third 
 fingers of the left hand and to the shape of the nails. We see exactly the 
 manner of writing adopted by Erasmus, his way of holding the pen, and 
 the nature of his hands, which were rather thick, short, and muscular. 
 They are drawn with the same painstaking deliberation that Holbein gave 
 to the profile of the face, and that his fidelity might be the better assured he 
 made separate studies, which give interesting evidence that he had not at 
 first quite decided upon their present position in the picture. 
 
 It would be interesting to follow the study of the hand from the Middle 
 Ages downwards. The student of art-history who did this would very 
 probably be surprised by early examples of much better drawing than early 
 general culture would have led him to expect. There are some early works 
 in which the hand is correctly and even beautifully drawn, though the 
 artist was by no means a master of bodily action and proportions generally. 
 The explanation is that the hand was a part of the body that every draughts- 
 man saw habitually in the most various forms, that he could notice and 
 compare and even draw from the living model. For the hand and face, 
 and occasionally for the feet, the mediaeval artist might be a student of the 
 nude, so we find examples of mediaeval figures with considerable individu- 
 ality in these exposed parts, but for the rest only clothes with no forms 
 inside them. So long as painting remained primitive in its technical 
 principles, that is, clear in linear drawing, the hand was at least carefully 
 outlined and modelled as far as the science of the time permitted. The 
 reader will find a pretty instance in the child’s hand in the picture by 
 Ghirlandajo in this volume. I believe it may be taken as a safe rule that 
 the love of the line, as the line is understood by painters and pure line- 
 engravers, is always a security for the sufficient study of the hand, but that 
 when painters turn to impressionism (that is, to effect) and engravers to 
 etching, the hand is often sketched hastily and treated as very subordinate 
 to the face. This may be partly because the old linear art was very calm 
 in temper and disposed to spend its labour equally over the whole picture, 
 whilst the impressionist and the etcher have often been in a hurry to realise 
 their ideas, and having given their time to the head, dismissed the extremities 
 
CHAP. IX 
 
 THE BODY IN PORTRAIT 
 
 267 
 
 too summarily. In Rembrandt, the hand is always treated with great care 
 when it can be made expressive, especially when it is pathetic in old people. 
 No one ever understood the pathos of old age in a hand better than he. 
 There is a good example of an old hand in the portrait given in this volume. 
 Another very good instance is Jacob’s right hand resting negligently on his 
 knee as he listens to Joseph telling his dream (see the small etching with 
 that title). For the hands of an old woman, I can hardly mention a better 
 plate than the little one of the old woman asleep. Rembrandt often put a 
 great deal of action and expression into his hands ; there is one little plate, 
 “ Jacob Lamenting the Death of Joseph,” in which six hands are visible, and 
 all eloquent either in demonstration or in grief. Still, it must be admitted 
 that in the slightest and swiftest work of Rembrandt the faces are usually 
 much better than the hands, and naturally so, not only because the face 
 absorbs most of the artist’s attention as the centre of expression, but also 
 because the hand is so complex and elaborate as a piece of construction 
 that if it is hastily drawn it is almost sure to be badly drawn — I mean that 
 the proportions will be wrong, and that the rapid sketch must result in what 
 we should call deformity if we met with it in nature, though we excuse it 
 more or less indulgently in art. There are so many joints in the hand 
 (fourteen are visible) and so many bones to be drawn in due proportions, 
 not to speak of the muscles and the nails, that these parts, all of them 
 important, become details of the vexatious kind when an artist has not time 
 to think of them one by one. The only satisfactory way in portrait is to 
 give ample time and study to the hand, as Holbein did in his “Erasmus,” 
 and as Bonnat has recently done with striking success in his portrait of 
 “ Renan.” Another remarkable modern example is M. Chartran’s “ Leo 
 XIII.,” where the thin fingers of the almost diaphanous pontiff, with their 
 pointed tips and delicate nails, seem scarcely strong enough to lift up the 
 golden monstrance when he says mass. 
 
 An important use of the hand in portrait has been to convey the idea 
 of aristocracy. It would tell of labour with equal distinctness, and has done 
 so in many studies of working men, chiefly fishermen and agricultural 
 labourers, which are in reality portraits, though they do not bear the name. 
 As the poor man does not pay to be painted, the realistic artist is accustomed 
 to tell the plain truth about his hands, more picturesque than those which 
 have done no manual work. In the aristocratic portrait the artist insists 
 upon the whiteness and delicacy of the hand for two reasons — an artistic 
 reason, as a fair skin is prettier than a callous one, and a social reason, 
 because all the world over people are proud of being above the necessity for 
 manual labour. The best example of this social superiority is reflected in 
 
268 
 
 THE BODY IN PORTRAIT 
 
 PART V 
 
 Chinese portraits, where persons of distinction have nails so long as to 
 resemble the claws of bears. The notion of aristocracy is always associated 
 with some sort of care and culture, either the nails are carefully preserved, 
 or they are cut with nicety in some predetermined shape, and it is the rule 
 in aristocracies, but a rule that has not always been without exceptions, to 
 keep them white and clean. As to this matter of cleanliness there is some 
 contradiction between what artists have to tell us of the cleanliness of great 
 people in the past and what we learn from contemporary observers. It 
 may have been a part of artistic idealisation to make them cleaner at the 
 same time that they were made to look handsomer and of a livelier 
 intelligence. In the early part of the eighteenth century the hand was 
 often conspicuous in portrait, and almost invariably used to enhance the 
 impression of refinement, not only by its own evident exemption from all 
 mean or servile occupations, but by the jewelled rings upon the fingers and 
 the glove they held loosely in their grasp. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE HAIR AND BEARD IN PORTRAIT 
 
 A BOUT the middle of the nineteenth century there arose in Europe a 
 ^ great rebellion against the tyranny of the razor, the ultimate conse- 
 quence of which has been the establishment of all but complete liberty to 
 use that instrument or throw it away. This has been truly a great model 
 and example of reforms, for whereas in other reforms liberty has been 
 usually no better than a pretext (the real object of the reformer being the 
 substitution of his own tyranny for that of another), we have here an 
 example of a reform, almost unique in the history of the world, in which 
 the process seems to have stopped at the intermediate stage of complete 
 liberty, the new tyranny (that long experience might have led us to expect) 
 having never as yet been able to establish itself. It would have been 
 consistent with the usual considerateness of fashion to require all men 
 whatever to grow beards, whether nature had provided them with that 
 ornament or not. They would then have worn false beards as their great 
 grandfathers wore wigs, and as ladies of the present day are in the habit 
 of mingling purchased tresses with their own. 
 
 It would be too much to expect any consistency in prejudice, but is it 
 not wonderful that at the very time when the beard was considered ugly, 
 filthy, and inadmissible in its natural reality, it was respected in works of 
 art ? Nothing proves more completely than this separation of sentiments 
 what a different thing art really is from nature, and how completely the 
 two may be separated in the popular mind. The public judged rightly of 
 the nobility of the beard in painting and sculpture, whilst looking upon it 
 on the living face as a reaction against all the benefits of civilisation, and 
 an outrage against good manners. In art the beard was worn by the most 
 venerated religious leaders, both of Judaism and Christianity; whilst in 
 real life it was a sign of ungodliness and revolution. Another wonderful 
 inconsistency in the public opinion of those days was that the beard was 
 
270 
 
 THE HAIR AND BEARD IN PORTRAIT 
 
 PART V 
 
 looked upon as anti-national, a sign of revolt against the social discipline of 
 England, whilst at the same time the walls of every great English home, 
 and the pages of every English biographical dictionary, were adorned with 
 paintings or engravings of bearded Englishmen at least as distinguished 
 for their patriotism as the shaven subjects of the Georges. 
 
 A truthful account of the unscrupulous defence of shaving is that the 
 dying authority of custom was maintained by the use of any weapon that 
 came to hand. On the principle that “ any stick is good enough to beat a 
 dog with,” the beard-wearer was accused of being dirty and ill-bred, though 
 many of the finest gentlemen in the world had been amongst his prede- 
 cessors. Now that the controversy is settled for England by princely and 
 lordly example, we are free to consider the beard simply on its artistic 
 merits. 
 
 I agree so far with the beard-haters of 1850 as to admit the wideness of 
 the difference that exists between the fine arts and reality. Things may 
 be desirable in art and undesirable in actual life. The picturesque aspects 
 of life are much more common amongst the poor, and especially amongst 
 the idle and careless poor, than amongst the careful and orderly classes. 
 The beggars of Rembrandt are picturesque ; a London banker is not 
 picturesque. It is the same with habitations; the experienced sketcher 
 seeks and finds his best subjects in the worst and oldest parts of continental 
 cities ; he does not go to the new boulevards. It may be, then, that there 
 is something in shaving analogous to such a triumph of civilisation as a 
 rich man’s well-kept garden ; and so there is, in the determination to keep 
 up a steady unrelaxing warfare against Nature. Man decides where grass 
 shall grow and where hair shall grow. He makes a desert with sand and 
 gravel, and the razor makes another little desert on his chin. The wilful- 
 ness of mastery makes him delight in the strongest contrasts of fertility and 
 barrenness. He shaves away every vestige of natural hair from his face 
 and rejoices in an enormous wig ; or he shaves his head in the Chinese 
 fashion whilst cultivating the longest possible pig-tail ; or he does just the 
 opposite by clearing the place of the pig-tail with the strictly local baldness 
 of the tonsure. On the face itself the love of trenchant contrasts is equally 
 marked. Some, like King Humbert of Italy, shave away beard and 
 whisker, leaving a moustache huge in itself, and magnified yet more by its 
 isolation. Others remove the moustache entirely whilst leaving the beard, 
 for convenience in eating and drinking. The most English fashion in 1850 
 was to clear the chin and upper lip and leave a sharp line of whisker on 
 each side of the face, this custom being then the mark of civilian respecta- 
 bility. When high foreheads are in fashion women shave their front hair, 
 
CHAP. X 
 
 THE HAIR AND BEARD IN PORTRAIT 
 
 271 
 
 according to the hideous practice that prevailed in Italy in the fifteenth 
 century ; and when it is the fashion to show as little of the face as possible, 
 they plaster their hair on each side of the eyes. All these practices, how- 
 ever apparently various, have one quality in common, that of establishing 
 more trenchant distinctions than Nature herself would have established, 
 and so giving to the face an artificial character like that which gardeners 
 give to a plot of land. It is this artificial character which our fathers 
 associated so inseparably with civilisation that the loss of it seemed to them 
 a movement in the direction of barbarism. At the same time it is just these 
 trenchant artificial demarcations that are unpleasant to the eye of a painter. 
 They occur occasionally in nature, but the rule is that between hairy and 
 hairless skin there is a soft intermediate transition of down and short hairs 
 unless the razor has cleared them away. In the finest painting the transi- 
 tion from hair to flesh is usually managed with great care, so as to avoid 
 brusqueness ; in bad painting there is no such transition, so that the con- 
 trast comes suddenly as between the wax complexion of a hairdresser’s 
 model and the sham moustache that is gummed on to it. 
 
 These may seem trifling matters, but they are full of historical and 
 artistic interest. An account of the history of the beard would be out of 
 place in the present volume, and has already been given by other writers. 
 It is enough to say in general terms that the beard has been sometimes 
 trimmed in various ways, and sometimes partially or entirely shaven in all 
 countries and in all ages that can be considered in any degree civilised. 
 It is not shaving (as used to be supposed in England) that is the mark of 
 civilisation, but the care of the beard in a great variety of ways, even 
 including the negative care about it which consists in removing it altogether. 
 The only mark of perfect savagery would be complete neglect, and this 
 is what is hardly ever met with except amongst the filthiest inhabitants of 
 the most backward countries. 
 
 The artistic point of view is independent of practices in real life which 
 may be determined by reasons that have nothing to do with art. For 
 example, priests of the Church of Rome are for the most part shaven, the 
 chief exception being missionary priests who wear the beard as the sign 
 that they have been in partibus infidelium. In the Greek Church, on the 
 contrary, the beard is not connected with the idea of travel in heathen 
 lands, but with the idea of holiness at home, so that it is the common 
 ornament of priests who are able to cultivate it, and the tradition in their 
 case may be traced back to the Jewish veneration for the beard. In the 
 Anglican Church of the present day there is no fixed rule, so that in this 
 case shaving has become at last disconnected from religion. In the 
 
272 
 
 THE HAIR AND BEARD IN PORTRAIT 
 
 PART V 
 
 military and legal professions we remember a time when the moustache 
 was considered right for cavalry men and improper for foot soldiers, and 
 yet there is no necessary connection of the moustache with horsemanship, 
 as the English hunting squires, who were first-rate horsemen, persistently 
 shaved it off. In France the shaven chin, with whiskers, is associated 
 with the idea of domestic service. 
 
 In all these cases, and others too numerous for special mention, different 
 fashions of wearing the beard come to have a significance from the 
 association of ideas which is irresistible in its effect upon the vulgar, but 
 from which nothing delivers us so completely as a knowledge of the history 
 of art. This presents the whole subject to us from a different and a higher 
 point of view. It shows us, in the first place, that fashions have been local 
 and temporary in reality, though they may have been widespread and have 
 seemed, in their day, a part of the eternal fitness of things. And again, 
 it gives us another and a better criterion than custom. There is a certain 
 artistic reasonableness which is above custom and its supreme judge. 
 
 For example, in the use of the great powdered wigs that adorned the 
 heads of our great grandfathers, there is still a sort of reason, utterly 
 artificial as they were. It was an artistic instinct that made them shave 
 their faces completely, as nothing could be more incongruous than the 
 class-fashion of the periwig with the untameable individuality of the beard. 
 The periwig was the triumph of the class over the individual ; the entire 
 class might wear the same periwig, but a man’s beard protested in favour 
 of personality. Again, there was something feminine in the long wig, as 
 many women, though few men, can grow such a quantity of hair, so the 
 smooth chin consistently completed the effeminateness of the face. Nature 
 was hidden on the head and expelled, as much as possible, from what 
 was left visible. That the triumph of artifice might be complete, the 
 hair itself was in innumerable and unnatural curls, and these were not 
 allowed to remain of their natural colour, but were made gray with powder. 
 All this is against nature from first to last, but it keeps together, it 
 is consistent art. Now, try the effect of breaking the consistency by 
 introducing nature in one part and not in another. Let the bewigged 
 grandee simply abstain from shaving, and what is the consequence ? The 
 beard goes badly with the wig, it is as out of place as natural manners 
 amidst the acting of a punctilious and polite society. 
 
 The great full-bottomed wig does well in the state portrait, provided 
 that it is surrounded with highly artificial things ; it would be ridiculous 
 without them. The dependence of artificial things upon each other may 
 be realised by imagining a nude figure in a wild natural landscape painted 
 
CHAP. X 
 
 THE HAIR AND BEARD IN PORTRAIT 
 
 273 
 
 carefully on the same principles as the face, but adorned with a wig and 
 nothing else. It would be like the negro’s full dress of an evening 
 coat only. 
 
 The masculine peruke had its feminine counterpart in the towering 
 head-dress, also monstrously inconvenient. This invention increased the 
 impression of stature, but diminished the relative importance of the face. 
 Under the loftiest head-dresses an ordinary visage became childishly 
 insignificant. Here, again, the sense of art required a compensation which 
 was given by the amplitude of the skirt, so that a woman became chiefly 
 head-dress and petticoat, and would have been extinguished altogether by 
 these adjuncts without the intelligence in her expression and the brilliance 
 of her eyes. 
 
 The classicism of the first French Empire has often been treated with 
 great contempt by more recent criticism, but it had the merit of simplifying 
 both head-dresses and costumes generally. The old absurdities died hard, 
 so that for some time after the establishment of Napoleon’s power it was 
 still the rule for hussars to wear plaited tresses of true or false hair, 
 like women, on each side of the face and a pig-tail behind, of which a 
 reminiscence is preserved for us by Meissonier in his picture of the 
 Estafette , who inspires a pathetic interest as much by the absurdity of his 
 head -gear as the hardness of his military duty. Still, the tendency of 
 Napoleon’s time was towards a rational simplicity in everything, and of 
 this he himself, when youth was past, set the example. He wore his own 
 natural hair, long at first when it grew luxuriantly, and cut short in middle 
 age. He was always artistically consistent. He shaved the whole of his 
 face together, and so did his nephew and imitator Jerome — a treatment in 
 which there is no rebellion against the principles of art, and indeed the 
 severe and classical beauty of Napoleon’s face, as we see it upon his 
 coinage, was preserved for us by the razor. A complete clearance of the 
 growth on the face is safer from the artistic point of view than a capricious 
 and partial one ; it is a decided preference, quite justifiable in many cases, 
 of classical to picturesque beauty. One cannot imagine how any kind of 
 beard could have added anything to the expression of Napoleon’s face, he 
 was martial enough without the help of the moustache, and the beard has 
 always a tendency to make the general expression softer and milder, which 
 is not what a pitiless despot would, desire. Alexander, Caesar, and Duke 
 William of Normandy were all clean shaven men like Napoleon, and in 
 our own time this tradition has been maintained by the naked face of 
 Von Moltke. The bearded conquerors include Charlemagne and several 
 Asiatic sovereigns, of whom the Assyrian despots were magnificent 
 
 2 N 
 
274 
 
 THE HAIR AND BEARD IN PORTRAIT 
 
 PART V 
 
 examples, as their noble beards were trimmed and curled with consummate 
 art. Charles the Fifth, in the portrait by Titian, is neither shaven nor 
 yet endowed with a beard imposing enough for his greatness, but in all 
 these cases there is nothing unfavourable to painting. 
 
 The pursuit of different branches of the fine arts may have some 
 practical effect on the public mind with regard to fashion in the growth of 
 the hair and beard. If we consider the subject in itself, and at first without 
 reference to examples, it seems as if the ages in which sculpture is the 
 predominant art would be on the whole less favourable to the hair and 
 beard than the ages of painting, but that sculpture might have a peculiar 
 influence of its own. Sculpture can interpret some elements of the beauty 
 of hair, but is absolutely incompetent to represent some others, so that 
 whilst sculpture can say a good deal about hair, in its own way, it is still 
 really unable to imitate it. In nature hair has very peculiar qualities, due 
 to the strength or the fineness, the greater or less degree of transparence 
 of the individual hairs, and also to their springing power, and to the degrees 
 of their natural curvature. Sculpture translates all these qualities by masses 
 of a hard and opaque substance which, whether it be marble or metal, or 
 whatever else, does not contain within itself the spaces that exist in nature 
 between the individual hairs, and therefore cannot receive light in the same 
 way. The light strikes zipon the marble beard, it entangles itself within 
 the natural beard. Again, a great part of the beauty of nature, as to hair, 
 is dependent on varieties of quality and colour as it passes from the down 
 of the cheek through the first short hairs to the longer ones, and there are 
 great differences of density in the masses, much of the beauty of nature 
 being due, in this matter, to the lightness of the hairs that finish, for 
 example, the ends of the moustache, and to their separation. There is 
 much in this description of which sculpture can take no cognizance what- 
 ever, and as for the extreme delicacy in the fair hair of little girls, as it 
 tosses in the sunshine when they run about on a summer’s day, there is no 
 substance fit for a sculptor’s use that can give any idea of it. Let him try 
 ivory, or onyx, or a mingling of silver and gold, they are as hard as a 
 smith’s anvil in comparison with the living reality. So that, notwithstand- 
 ing the undeniable power of the sculptor to describe the beard and hair as 
 being of imposing growth and noble arrangement, as in the bearded 
 portrait-bust of Rude in the Louvre, or Mr. Woolner’s equally fine bust of 
 Thomas Combe, which is not less magnificent than might have been some 
 ideal conception of a Hebrew prophet, it is still certain that the sculptor 
 praises the beauty of hair in a language that, for such a purpose, is 
 inadequate, whilst, on the contrary, his art is at its best in the representa- 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
PORTRAIT OF THOMAS COMBE 
 
 Marble Bust by Thomas Woolner, R.A. 
 
 Hyalograph drawn by G. de Roton 
 
 Chosen to represent manhood in full maturity both of mind and body, and 
 also as an example of the treatment of the hair and beard in sculpture. 
 
 I do not remember in all plastic art a more magnificent example of the 
 hair and beard taken from actual life. There are ideal examples that may 
 surpass this, but purely as mental conceptions. 
 
 The face, a most powerful one, naturally carried well the dignity of the beard. 
 To appreciate the value of the beard we have only to imagine it removed. 
 The harshest treatment of all for such a face would be to shave the chin and 
 upper lips and leave whiskers, sharply defined. 
 
 Almost without idealisation this head might represent some great prophet 
 or apostle. The sculptor himself, who kindly permitted me to publish 
 this drawing, had also a noble beard which increased in beauty as he 
 approached the old age which, alas ! he was not destined to attain. 
 
chaudon wit i wann pahis 
 
CHAP. X 
 
 THE HAIR AND BEARD IN PORTRAIT 
 
 275 
 
 tion of the smooth skin-clad muscle, and of just so much of bone as is 
 visible through the living flesh. The probability is then that sculpture, so 
 far as it had any influence on fashion, would encourage simplicity and good 
 taste rather than luxuriance in the head-dresses of women, and complete 
 shaving, like that of Napoleon, in men; or if sculpture encouraged the 
 growth of the beard at all, it would be favourable to the massive and very 
 mature beard, of which the best-known example is that of the Moses of 
 Michael Angelo. 
 
 The influence of painting, on the other hand, is much in favour of hair, 
 because although painting can never rival the beauties of natural hair, 
 there is not one of them that it is unable to suggest. In the hands of the 
 few great masters, who have done all that painting can without allowing 
 themselves to be led away by the mistaken toiling after an impossible 
 minuteness, the art has expressed the colour of hair, its softness, its 
 peculiar way of taking the light, and its emancipation from its own masses 
 —qualities all entirely beyond the reach of the plastic arts. In painting 
 the representation of hair gives a technical pleasure, in sculpture it only 
 excites intelligent admiration. We admire the artist’s power of abstraction, 
 and his prudence in avoiding insuperable difficulties. An age in which 
 painting, especially in oil, was powerful and influential, would therefore 
 probably be a beard-wearing age ; and as to the head-dresses of women, it 
 would be an age in which the tendency to naturalism would manifest itself 
 by the abandonment of stiff and lofty superstructures. In confirmation of 
 this probability we find the beard appearing in the places and times where 
 painting has most flourished. It was worn by the contemporaries of Titian, 
 Lionardo da Vinci, and Michael Angelo, by the contemporaries of Rubens, 
 Rembrandt, and Vandyke, and now again by the contemporaries of 
 Meissonier and Millais. It is true that the age of Reynolds and Gains- 
 borough was not a beard-wearing age, but the English school was young 
 at that time, and had not yet acquired any general influence over the 
 national customs. Such influence as it had was exerted on the side of 
 nature and reason, as far as was consistent with the truthful representation 
 of a society still governed by unnatural fashions. I mean that Sir Joshua 
 and his best fellow-artists made the hair in their portraits natural when they 
 could, and charmingly so in their pictures of children. The connection of 
 the beard-movement in the nineteenth century with the increased popularity 
 of painting is certainly not accidental. If we call a beard handsome or 
 venerable in a picture, it is an easy transition to the appreciation of its 
 qualities in the life. 
 
 The revival of another art may have had some degree of influence. It 
 
276 
 
 THE HAIR AND BEARD IN PORTRAIT 
 
 PART V 
 
 happens that the qualities of etching are favourable to the representation 
 of hair. The works of the old masters include some striking examples, 
 and modern etchers have successfully tried their skill on the same problems 
 of technical execution. The beard and hair have been engraved with 
 endless labour and astonishing skill by the great masters of the burin, 
 especially by Albert Diirer in the well-known portrait of himself, where his 
 long locks are copied most elaborately. The hair, too, in the portrait of 
 Bilibald Pirkheimer, though much simpler, is a good example of Diirer’s 
 method in the treatment of hair, and so are the long locks of the “ Prodigal 
 Son,” and the curly head of the wild man in the “ Shield with the Death’s 
 Head.” A minor example, yet sufficient as an explanation of method, is 
 the hair of the Cardinal Archbishop Albert of Magdeburg and Maintz 
 given in the present volume. The reader will see that burin engraving of 
 this pure kind gives the curves of hair very beautifully, and separates lock 
 from lock in a very distinct manner, but substitutes a peculiar quality of its 
 own (the quality of the burin Ime, I cannot compare it with anything in 
 nature) for that of human hair, yet I am taking as an example a bit of first- 
 rate work. If the reader will now turn to the whiskers and beard of the 
 etched portrait by Rembrandt he will find something that, without attempt- 
 ing to rival the minuteness of nature, really does convey, at the cost of 
 slight but most suggestive labour, a strikingly truthful idea of an old 
 man’s beard. As an example of Rembrandt’s treatment of the hair of the 
 head, I need only mention the portrait of himself called “ Rembrandt 
 leaning on a Stone Sill,” where the long hair descends on the shoulders 
 with the abundance, though not the formality, of a wig. 
 
 With all our respect for nature, we must admit that there is dispropor- 
 tion somewhere in the wonderful inequality with which hair is distributed 
 amongst mankind. It seems to depend simply on the fertility of capillary 
 roots, without the slightest reference to the height, or even to the physical 
 vigour of the man. There are beards so long as to be simply inconvenient 
 curiosities. Some have reached to the ground, and one, belonging to a 
 peasant in the French district of the Nivernais, is so long that it goes first 
 to the ground, then up over his arm and nearly to the ground again. 
 Others are more remarkable for abundance than for length, so that the 
 proud possessor carries before him hair enough to stuff a cushion, which 
 would be a comfortable use thereof. Human vanity finds it difficult to 
 sacrifice a natural ornament when it is exceptional of its kind ; so Meissonier 
 the painter, who was a vain little Frenchman, and the spoilt child of success 
 and fame, was proud of his wavy and divided beard, a curiously perfect 
 specimen, and painted it in a noble portrait of himself with loving care and 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■■ 
 
 
 
 • - 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE ARCHBISHOP OF MAINTZ 
 
 Line-Engraving by Albert DUrer 
 Reproduced in Heliogravure by Amand-Durand 
 
 The title given above is much abridged. The full title is “ The smaller por- 
 trait of the Cardinal Archbishop Albert of Magdeburg and Maintz.” There 
 is a larger engraved portrait by Diirer of the same prelate. 
 
 This is a very pure and perfect example of early line-engraving. The 
 reader will observe that there is but little local colour (what there is will 
 be found in the curtain behind the figure), all the lights in the face, barette, 
 and cape, being equally white. On comparing this work with the portrait of 
 Rembrandt he will at once see the differences in quality between true line- 
 engraving and etching, each of these works being representative of the art to 
 which it belongs. 
 
 Promotion came early to priests of high family in the sixteenth century. 
 This gentleman was an Archbishop at the age of twenty-three. In the por- 
 trait before us he is twenty-nine, and already a Cardinal. Truly a model for 
 boys who want to get on in the world ! 
 
^ J^AlBERTVS *MTDI- SA' SAN c * 
 # ; ^RO A\ANAE- EGCLAE *T I AN. * 
 & CHRYSOGONI-PBR-CARDINA- 
 Hj AAAGVN‘AC*MAGDE*ARCHi 
 ? l EPS ’ELECTOR’ IMPE’PRIAAAS 
 M ADAAJNI* HALBER’A\ARGHI; 
 Ik, BRAND ENBVRGEN.S' IS 
 
 SsSlC^OGVLOS iSIC'ULLE l GENAS % SIC % 
 l ORA $ FEREBAT 2 
 i A nno l e taTisgsve sxxi x,5 
 
 4 AA • D XIX- __ 
 
CHAP. X 
 
 THE HAIR AND BEARD IN PORTRAIT 
 
 2 77 
 
 unaffected admiration. He might have pleaded the example of the pastellist 
 Liotard, of Geneva, who worked and wandered much in the eighteenth 
 century, and has left a portrait of himself, now in the Rath Museum of his 
 native town, which is mainly a study of his great cascade of a beard, and 
 his hair, which (to continue the landscape simile) is like bushes above the 
 cascade. When the growth, as in this instance, is of excessive luxuriance, 
 the whole human creature becomes little more than a support for it, and 
 almost as secondary as the hop-stick to the hop. 
 
\ 
 
 MAN IN ART 
 
 PART VI 
 
 LIFE OBSERVED 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A MEDITATION AT MOON RISE 
 
 Japanese Woodcut 
 {Reproduction by Guillaume) 
 
 When I was at school the Japanese language was not amongst our subjects, 
 so I cannot translate the inscription, but this is unnecessary, as every 
 reviewer will do it for me. 
 
 The woodcut is from a Japanese book that belongs to the time of the 
 purest Japanese art, before it had become infected with European ideas. 
 
 The Japanese have constantly associated man with landscape. This 
 gentleman is walking, abroad at the most poetical hour of the evening. My 
 belief is that he must be a poet. The technical judgment shown in the 
 drawing is so perfect that our greatest European illustrators merely follow it. 
 The elements are the pure line, the white space, the black space, and linear 
 shading, without cross-hatching and invariably in the right direction. 
 
 The landscape is simple and has few tonic values, but it proves knowledge 
 and observation. The scene is probably on the shore of the inland sea. The 
 moon is rising behind a promontory or island with trees upon it which are 
 distinguishable, as in nature, against her disc, but not elsewhere. There are 
 white horizontal clouds above the gentleman’s head. The water takes the 
 moonlight in silver where the light breezes play, in the calms it is dark, as in 
 nature. No other landscape art tells so much truth with so much brevity and 
 abstraction. 
 

CHAPTER I 
 
 THE FIGURE IN LANDSCAPE 
 
 r | > HE introduction of human beings into the painted landscape varies 
 in scale and importance according to the following divisions, which 
 are not so minute as they might be : — 
 
 1. The figure is absolutely predominant, as in a portrait with a slight 
 sketch of landscape instead of the conventional pillar and curtain. 
 
 2. Figures are so grouped in a landscape as to give the scenery an 
 importance almost equal to their own. 
 
 3. The landscape is predominant as to area of canvas, but the figure 
 by dramatic significance. Much of what is called “ historical landscape ” 
 is of this order. 
 
 4. The figure has no special significance, but still holds an important 
 place in the composition, which would be destroyed by its removal. 
 
 5. The figure is, at the same time, insignificant and unimportant, the 
 landscape being absolutely predominant. The figure might be removed 
 without loss. 
 
 These five cases include the majority of pictures in which landscape 
 is introduced. The first is too familiar to need commentary; here the 
 landscape background is used merely to give rural associations when the 
 personage possesses a country-seat or has the taste of a sportsman ; he is 
 hardly in the landscape, but there is a hint of trees and fields behind him. 
 
 In the second case, the landscape may be very important pictorially 
 by form, and may have powerful imaginative influence by effect. Then 
 the figure and landscape act together to produce a calculated unity of 
 impression on the mind. This is very frequently contrived in poetry. In 
 that art pure landscape without human interest is rare, yet few poets have 
 failed to perceive the value of landscape, if carefully and judicially chosen, 
 for the completion of the poetic charm. The poets sometimes even make 
 us look out' of the window to intensify an impression already received 
 
 2 o 
 
282 
 
 THE FIGURE IN LANDSCAPE 
 
 PART VI 
 
 in an interior. In “The Holy Grail” Tennyson wishes to convey the 
 idea of solitude when Lancelot wanders through the enchanted castle of 
 Carbonek : — 
 
 “ And up into the sounding hall I past ; 
 
 But nothing in the sounding hall I saw, 
 
 No bench nor table, painting on the wall 
 Or shield of knight.” 
 
 Could this impression of solitude be enhanced ? Yes, by making 
 Lancelot look out for a view and discover — 
 
 “ Only the rounded moon 
 Thro' the tall oriel on the rolling sea." 
 
 My third division, in which landscape is predominant by area of canvas, 
 but the figure by dramatic significance, is one of the most important, 
 because it affords conclusive proof of the enormous power of human 
 interest in the graphic arts. If the lines and masses of the compositions 
 are so arranged as to lead the eye to the figures, and if the figures them- 
 selves are dramatically conceived, they may be on a very small scale, yet 
 they will hold their own effectually. In literature this goes so far that if 
 the mind and eye are directed to a spot, the very absence of a figure there 
 may be profoundly interesting. One of the best examples is the last 
 incident in the Bride of Lanimer moor, when Caleb Balderstone “hastened 
 to the eastern battlement which commanded the prospect of the whole 
 sands, very near as far as the village of Wolf’s-hope. He could easily see 
 his master riding in that direction as fast as the horse could carry him.” 
 Hitherto we have the interest of the figure in the landscape ; the close of 
 the sentence has the still more poignant interest of its disappearance. 
 “ He saw him accordingly reach the fatal spot, but he never saw him pass 
 further .” The same effect is repeated on the following page, and still 
 more powerfully. “ The sun had now risen, and showed its broad disk 
 above the eastern sea, so that Colonel Ashton could easily discern the 
 horseman who rode towards him with speed which argued impatience 
 equal to his own. At once the figure became invisible, as if it had melted 
 into the air. He rubbed his eyes as if he had witnessed an apparition.” 
 
 Painting could not go so far as this without an explanatory title, which 
 itself trenches on literature and so is better avoided. In Wilson’s landscape 
 of “ Celadon and Amelia ” the names, it is true, refer to a literary work, 
 but the incident is intelligible in itself, and the thunderstorm explains the 
 cause of death. A pictorial explanation is equally easy in pictures of 
 military incidents that occur in large landscape compositions. A weary 
 soldier tramping on a long road alone, a knight in armour riding through 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 THE FIGURE IN LANDSCAPE 
 
 283 
 
 a forest, are subjects that admit of small figures which are sure not to be 
 overlooked. In one of Rembrandt’s landscapes there are two lovers at the 
 foot of an enormous oak they are smaller in proportion than they ought 
 to be, yet it is probable that nobody ever failed to notice them. 
 
 In my fourth division “the figure has no special significance, but still 
 holds an important place in the composition, which would be destroyed 
 by its removal.” Here the importance of the figure is not dramatic or 
 poetical, but technical, and as all technical considerations have great weight 
 in the graphic arts, the figure is as important as before, though without any 
 dramatic or intellectual significance. We have now arrived at one of those 
 points of separation in the fine arts where the literary spirit goes one way 
 and the artistic spirit another. Nothing is more common in literary 
 criticism, even by eminent men, than to undervalue art which is destitute 
 of dramatic or intellectual interest. They think it is mindless. Even the 
 whole of landscape art, which is a translation of sentiment into colour, as 
 music is a translation of it into sound, may appear mindless to an intellect 
 reared exclusively upon literature. When some critics meet with an angler 
 by a painted river they say, “Ah, the usual angler, the inevitable angler!” 
 not pausing to consider whether he is intelligently or unintelligently placed. 
 If the figure is where he ought to be from the technical point of view, and 
 holds his place in the scheme of colour, or as a focus of light or dark, there 
 has been intelligence in the placing of him whether he himself is a 
 philosopher or the village idiot. 
 
 The fifth division included only those figures which are, at the same 
 time, insignificant and technically unimportant, so that they might be 
 removed without loss. In cases of this kind the interest of the figure is 
 null, it is neither technical nor artistic. The figure exists merely in 
 deference to an old prejudice, now happily almost extinct, which held the 
 presence of life to be essential in a landscape. When there is no better 
 reason than this for the introduction of a human being, he is not likely to 
 be either wisely placed or well executed, and is not worth critical attention. 
 The best that can be said in his favour is that he is unobtrusive and 
 harmless. 
 
 There is a theory that figures and landscape, when in the same picture, 
 ought to be executed exactly on the same principles and in the same way. 
 It is a very tempting and plausible theory, because it appears to insure 
 unity, which of all qualities in a work of art is the most desirable. The 
 proper test of a theory is, however, a reference to actual practice, and if we 
 look at what has been done instead of speculating on what ought to be 
 done, we find the most various degrees of difference. In the pictures by 
 
284 
 
 THE FIGURE IN LANDSCAPE 
 
 PART VI 
 
 mediaeval illuminators the landscapes are, no doubt, executed on the same 
 principles as the figures. The landscape is looked upon as an agglomera- 
 tion of definite objects, like the parts of a personage or the details of his 
 dress. This is carried out in the engraved landscapes of Dtirer, where you 
 can count the distant trees. In riper art, as in that of Raphael, there is no 
 longer the same insistence upon a multiplicity of objects, which become 
 fewer and more simplified, but they are drawn with the same care as the 
 figures, though with inferior knowledge. Titian’s distant landscape shows 
 a sense of mass that answers to the massive arrangement of his draperies 
 and his indifference to minute ornament. So far, there is a close connec- 
 tion between landscape and figures, but in the eighteenth century the 
 principle of sacrifice is understood, and landscape is sacrificed to figure by 
 the sketchy treatment of Watteau, and the professed indifference with 
 which Reynolds looks upon such distinctions as the special characteristics 
 of trees. Here we have, then, a peculiar connection between figure and 
 landscape — that is to say, the finished figure in the sacrificed landscape. 
 No more ingenious device could have been hit upon for giving importance 
 to the figure at the smallest possible cost of labour to the artist. The 
 figure-painter performs a solo, then he turns landscape-painter in his back- 
 ground, and performs a subordinated accompaniment to his own solo. 
 
 I am not aware that the converse of this is ever done by landscape- 
 painters to the same degree. Their figures are often ill-drawn, like their 
 animals, but they have never, so far as I know, maintained the theory that 
 living creatures ought to be so far generalised that it would be impossible 
 to distinguish between a man and a horse, or between a camel and a 
 cow. The utmost achievement of apparent carelessness is in the squinting 
 and dislocated figures of Turner, yet he drew them as well as his buildings, 
 and even observed such minute distinctions as those of rank, sex, and 
 occupation. His little people, more numerous than was absolutely neces- 
 sary, are all, in a strange sort of way, alive. He had a far more artistic 
 manner of dealing with the figure than Claude, who handed over the task 
 to laborious but unintelligent craftsmen, thereby introducing a foreign, and 
 as we now say, a Philistine element into his pictures, in no wise conducive 
 to their unity. The Turnerian figures seldom interfere with the unity of a 
 work. They are sometimes harmful in other ways, particularly when im- 
 portant enough to occupy more space than they deserve. 
 
 An appearance of carelessness and sacrifice is often desirable in land- 
 scape figures, in order that it may seem as if the artist had not given them 
 much thought. This is the same in principle as the apparently easy and 
 careless way in which a writer who knows his craft will seem to make 
 
CHAP. I 
 
 THE FIGURE IN LANDSCAPE 
 
 285 
 
 cursory allusions to subordinate topics, though they may have occupied his 
 closest attention, and taken quite a disproportionate part of his time. In 
 all the arts there are legitimate deceptions, and in the case that now 
 occupies us the deception is perfectly innocent. If the artist gets a little 
 more reputation for readiness than that which he quite deserves, he does 
 not receive all the credit due to him for careful and honest work. This, 
 however, matters very little, as his object is the quality of his picture con- 
 sidered as a whole. I am told that much of what now passes for very 
 vivacious and impromptu pen-drawing is wrought with calculated con- 
 trivance, and with the most careful selection of lines, on an elaborate 
 foundation in lead-pencil. 
 
 The ideal of landscape figure-painting would be this. Suppose the case 
 of a well-disciplined figure-painter taking a great interest in landscape, and 
 painting landscapes in his maturity with figures placed easily where he 
 wanted them. Such an artist would overcome at the same time the 
 difficulties of too much labour and those of ignorance. I might mention 
 both Rubens and Rembrandt as examples, but their landscape is hardly 
 mature enough to be profitably imitated in the present day. Linnell is of 
 our own time. His early practice was in portrait, and when he passed to 
 landscape he retained a better knowledge of the figure than he would ever 
 have acquired in the fields. The consequence was a complete freedom 
 from all preoccupation about drawing, of w r hich he had always enough for 
 his purposes, and this left him at liberty to harmonise figures and land- 
 scapes both in texture and in colour. 
 
 With regard to the kind of study most suitable for the landscape- 
 painter who wishes to put peasants in his fields, or the immortal angler by 
 the purling stream, I may repeat the good advice once given me by a 
 painter who kept one of the best known ateliers in Paris. “ It will not be 
 of so much use to you,” he said, “to make finished studies from the model 
 as to sketch from many points of view. Change your place frequently, 
 go all round the model and work rapidly.” The advice was excellent, and 
 the practical criticism also, for the master paid strict attention to the chief 
 proportions, without exacting much accuracy in detail. Unfortunately such 
 a system of study is impossible in a crowded life-school, where every place 
 is taken for the duration of the />ose. 
 
 An almost sufficient education may be acquired by summary sketching 
 from figures in pictures, especially if their expression depends more on 
 gesture than on subtle movements of the face. Landscape figures must 
 always act like marionettes in a pantomime hardly aided by eye or lip. 
 There is room for dramatic talent in the grouping and action of the 
 
286 
 
 THE FIGURE IN LANDSCAPE 
 
 PART VI 
 
 marionettes. If the painter has some skill in modelling, he may make very 
 helpful little figures in clay or wax, which give valuable suggestions both 
 for grouping and illumination. 
 
 In matters of this kind, which are of secondary importance, human 
 nature is not always strictly conscientious, and easily permits itself a 
 plagiarism. This is one of those cases in which plagiarism is tacitly 
 tolerated ; the landscape-painter may take his figure where he pleases, 
 provided that he makes it seem to be in its right place. This always 
 implies adaptation, requiring only less ability than invention, and quite as 
 much of the artistic sense of the congruous. No stolen figure ever looked 
 right until it had been transformed. 
 
 Next to the pure artistic imagination, which is always sure to result 
 in unity when it acts with vigour, the best advisers are local sympathy and 
 the local sense. An eminent artist said that if he were watchful as he sat 
 sketching the right figure was sure to come in sight before the sitting came 
 to an end. Amongst the living inhabitants of the place to be sketched 
 there are sure to be a few who by character and custom are entirely 
 harmonised with it. The French rustic painters perceive this relation 
 between life and locality, and set it forth with a simplicity which is one of 
 the most admirable characteristics of their art. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 OF RUSTIC LIFE 
 
 C ONDITIONS of existence not in themselves favourable to the 
 development of mind may yet be of enduring interest to the most 
 powerful and the most cultivated intellects. If it seems surprising that 
 this should be so, we have only to consider how much care and pains have 
 been devoted by powerful minds to the study of lower animals, even down 
 to the intelligence of insects and the habits of creatures much below insects 
 in the scale of nature. We may descend lower still and yet find matter to 
 interest the best of us in such a science as geology, where the substances to 
 be compared are all inanimate, whilst their revelation of past existences, in 
 fossils, does not include any creature equal to the lowest types of humanity. 
 And when we come to the sciences of chemistry and astronomy, we find 
 ourselves in regions where every star and atom obeys natural laws with the 
 most absolute regularity, because it has not the degrees of intelligence that 
 would be necessary to set itself in wilful rebellion against them. Yet no 
 one despises chemists and astronomers as mindless because the subjects of 
 their studies are without mind. 
 
 It may seem a waste of time to prove that the art that represents rustic 
 life may be followed by men of high intelligence and even genius, yet I 
 have heard the question argued against such art in a way that deserves 
 reply, because the argument is likely to crop up again, as all arguments do 
 which are suggested by the nature of things. It is said that painting which 
 represents highly cultivated and highly civilised people, that is, well 
 educated ladies and gentlemen, is of a higher class than that which exhibits 
 nothing better than a peasantry and the monotonous occupations of practical 
 agriculture. As there is more wit and culture in a drawing-room than in 
 the common room of a farm-house, it is assumed that there must be more 
 of both in the art that represents the drawing-room than in the other art 
 which interests itself in a winter evening at the farm, as such evenings are 
 
288 
 
 OF RUSTIC LIFE 
 
 PART VI 
 
 passed amongst a genuine peasantry remote from the light and luxury of 
 the urban middle classes. The fallacy lies in a confusion between the 
 intelligence of the subjects or models and the intelligence required to 
 represent them, and besides this, it overlooks something that is not precisely 
 intelligence/ but a sense or instinct that we call the artistic gift. It may 
 happen that this peculiar gift finds more to interest and occupy it in the 
 daily lives of peasants than in those of the nobility and gentry, and it may 
 happen, further, that even amongst rustics themselves the artist, guided by 
 his special instinct, may prefer a peasantry that lags behind the modern arts 
 of agriculture and life to one that has advanced along with them and kept 
 abreast of the age in which we live. The genuine artistic instinct is so 
 peculiar in its ways of selecting subjects of study, and the happiness of an 
 artist in finding what suits him best is such a peculiar kind of happiness, so 
 unlike every other, that there is a complete separation between his wisdom 
 and the wisdom of the world. But I have dwelt enough upon generalities, 
 and will come to a particular instance. We have good evidence that Jean 
 Francois Millet was a man of superior intellect; we know it from his 
 preferences in literature and from his private letters and memoranda. 
 Here is a brief extract which may seem nothing to a clever journalist 
 accustomed to produce brilliant writing in large quantities, but which 
 affords good evidence of strong mental grasp. 
 
 “ Things should not look as if they were brought together by accident, 
 but they should have among themselves an intimate and necessary connec- 
 tion. I want the people I paint to look as if they were dedicated to their 
 station — that it would be impossible for them to ever think of being 
 anything but what they are. A work should be all of a piece, and people 
 and things should be there for an end. I wish to put strongly and fully 
 all that is neccessary, so much so that I think things weakly said had 
 better not be said at all, because they are, in a manner, deflowered and 
 spoiled j 1 but I profess the greatest horror of uselessness (however brilliant) 
 and filling up. This can have no result but to take off the attention and 
 weaken the whole.” 
 
 This paragraph contains a clear statement of three ideas — the necessity 
 of composition, the need for unity in character, and the value of force in 
 execution. It ends with a protest against the intrusion of superfluous 
 details. Now, of these ideas there is only one that a commonplace mind 
 would have insisted upon, and that is force in execution. The strong 
 desire for unity in character and purpose, implying the exclusion of 
 unnecessary details, “ however brilliant,” is the mark of a superior intellect. 
 
 1 What an excellent maxim this would be for all who work in literature ! 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 OF RUSTIC LIFE 
 
 289 
 
 It may seem strange that a mind sufficiently elevated to have expressed 
 itself in the paragraph just quoted could have found contentment in the 
 unceasing study of a kind of life which, whatever else it may be, is utterly 
 unintellectual. But the paragraph itself contains the key to Millet’s interest 
 in the peasantry. He says, “ I want the people I paint to look as if they 
 ■were dedicated to their station — that it would be impossible for them to 
 ever think of being anything but what they are.” This is exactly the 
 characteristic of a true peasantry. The class lives its own life, and is 
 uninfluenced by any other class. 
 
 Each separate picture by Millet gives one phase of peasant life, com- 
 pletely separated and detached not only from other kinds of life, but from 
 all other phases of rustic existence itself. His people are so much occupied 
 with the business they have in hand that they have not liberty of mind 
 enough for any kind of momentary diversion. The artist was deeply 
 impressed by the deadening monotony of rural toil, and marked his 
 sympathy by a pervading seriousness that does not exactly answer to the 
 reality, or that only answers to the gravest aspects of reality. “ The gay 
 side never shows itself to me,” Millet said in a letter to his friend M. 
 Sensier. “ I do not know where it is. I have never seen it. The gayest 
 thing I know is the calm, the silence which is so sweet, either in the forest 
 or in the cultivated land — whether the land be good for culture or not. 
 You will admit that it is always very dreamy, and a sad dream, though 
 often very delicious.” 
 
 “You are sitting under a tree, enjoying all the comfort and quiet of 
 which you are capable ; you see come from a narrow path a poor creature 
 loaded with fagots. The unexpected and always surprising way in which 
 this figure strikes you instantly reminds you of the common and melan- 
 choly lot of humanity — weariness.” 
 
 “ Sometimes, in places where the land is sterile, you see figures hoeing 
 and digging. From time to time one raises himself and straightens his 
 back, as they call it, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘ Thou 
 shalt eat thy bread in the sweat of thy brow.’ Is this the gay, jovial work 
 some people would have us believe in ? But, nevertheless, to me it is true 
 humanity and great poetry ! ” 
 
 The reader has noticed the plain statement that Millet had never seen 
 the gay side of rustic life, and did not know where it was. It may strike 
 different observers differently. My own surprise has always been that the 
 French peasants could remain as cheerful as I have known them in a life 
 of labour and privation. That they do certainly retain a fund of cheerful- 
 ness is proved by the way in which it bursts forth in merriment when the 
 
 2 p 
 
290 
 
 OF RUSTIC LIFE 
 
 PART VI 
 
 occasion seems propitious. Here is a very good example, because it is not 
 taken from a single village only. When the vintage is about to begin in 
 Burgundy the poorer class of country people go down by hundreds from 
 the hills. They often walk all night, and it is their constant custom to 
 beguile the way with songs and jests and laughter. They are so cheerful, 
 and bear the fatigue in such a good-humoured manner, that many a dull 
 rich traveller, boxed up in the solemn dignity of a carriage, might envy 
 them if he considered mental happiness preferable to physical ease. And if 
 he had charity enough to offer a seat to one or two of the weaker members 
 of the party, he might be surprised to discover that they look upon the 
 entire pilgrimage as a pleasure trip. I am speaking now of what I know 
 quite as well as Millet knew his melancholy models at Barbizon, and I fail 
 to see how it would be possible for hundreds of the poorest country folks 
 to become suddenly capable of heroic optimism if their spirits were habitu- 
 ally depressed. I have known a few peasants who were gloomy, but 
 always for some definite reason, such as ill - health or special pecuniary 
 anxieties ; the great majority were cheerful and inclined to be quietly 
 humorous. M. Andre Theuriet, the novelist, who knows the peasantry 
 well, considers them far happier in early life than the inhabitants of towns, 
 and also happier and more natural in all that relates to courtship and 
 marriage, but after marriage their life is hard, he thinks, on account of the 
 constant necessity for hard work, and the endless succession of cares 
 imposed by the management of a farm. I may supplement this by 
 observing that the work itself varies very much in pressure and intensity, 
 that at certain times the peasant has relatively what w T ould be leisure if he 
 knew how to profit by it, whilst at others his toil is excessive. But I have 
 never observed that the times of his hardest work were his least cheerful 
 times ; on the contrary, he is never more cheerful than during harvest, 
 when he works without moderation in the full glare of a southern sun, and 
 after sunset as long as he can see . 1 
 
 In his gloomy view of peasant life Millet entirely left out of account its 
 not infrequent opportunities for convivial enjoyment, the pleasure of which 
 is enhanced to a degree that we can hardly realise by the austere temper- 
 ance of every-day existence. If it were limited to occasional private 
 indulgence in the pleasures of the table, indulgence in the peasant’s own 
 
 1 There is far more variety in peasant life than is commonly believed. The mere changes of 
 the seasons and of the weather are enough of themselves to give an interest continually renewed, 
 as the wind does to the captain of a sailing vessel. The peasant, too, has an interest in the growth 
 and ripening of his crops, which is unknown not only to the sailor who ploughs the barren expanse 
 of salt-water, but to the citizens who fancy that street pavements are incomparably more beautiful 
 and entertaining. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 j 
 
 , 
 
 ■ 
 
 • . ■ ' 
 
 
 
 H v 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
THE GLEANERS 
 
 Painted by J. F. Millet 
 Etched by B. Damman 
 
 Having written at length about Millet in the text I need not speak of him 
 here. This picture was painted in 1856 in the midst of the greatest pecuniary 
 distress and exhibited at the Salon of 1857, where it was appreciated by some, 
 and helped to found his reputation. The first sale of this picture is not 
 mentioned in SensiePs Life of Millet, but in 1858 a M. Letrone sent five 
 pictures by Millet to auction, and they fetched ridiculously low prices. This 
 sale, says his biographer, “discouraged Millet about his future pictures, his 
 embarrassments increased ; he was driven to death.” Yet he had painted 
 “The Gleaners” and “The Angelus,” which have since fetched between 
 thirty and forty thousand pounds, of which “ The Gleaners ” represents nearly 
 fourteen thousand. And the man who had created these treasures could 
 scarcely buy the plainest food for his family, and only refrained from suicide 
 because he was convinced that it was morally wrong. 
 
 Sic vos non vobis mellificatis apes. 
 
Grave par Ben.Damman 
 

CHAP. IX 
 
 OF RUSTIC LIFE 
 
 291 
 
 home, it would be far less enjoyable than it is. Every wedding in a farm- 
 house brings together a very large party, and they eat and drink without 
 stint for two or three days together. The preparations for such a feast are 
 on a scale to remind one of Homer or Rabelais — that is for meat, poultry, 
 and wine, vegetables being carefully excluded as beneath the dignity of the 
 occasion. But the peasant is not dependent on weddings for the chance 
 of a drink or a dinner. Every market-day he drives to the nearest town 
 and meets his friends and acquaintances, and they do not neglect the 
 opportunity for a feast and a bottle. One has only to walk on the high- 
 road on a market-day to meet hundreds of spring- carts, many with swift 
 horses driven at high speed, and all occupied by healthy and cheerful 
 country folks. I once heard a French lady expressing pessimistic views 
 on the distribution of happiness amongst mankind, so I recommended her 
 to meet the peasants going to a fair and look in their faces for an answer. 
 
 On one point I am almost (not quite) able to agree with Millet, and 
 that is about the sadness of old age amongst the peasantry. I have known 
 one or two happy and cheerful old people, but as a rule they are not happy, 
 being too heavily and grievously oppressed with a sense of their useless- 
 ness, so that they wish to die, and the vigorous younger people talk of 
 their probable end quite calmly in their presence. When at last it happens 
 the event causes little or no emotion ; the useless old person is carried away 
 to the churchyard, followed by a troop of men talking about the crops. 
 This is the sad end of peasant life, yet the view of death as a release from 
 suffering and uselessness may be as rational as any other. It is not senti- 
 mental, but are we any wiser in our grief for the old and the weary who 
 have gone to their rest, and is not the grief itself in many cases assumed 
 merely because we think it dutiful and becoming to assume it ? 
 
 Two conditions are necessary for a peasantry worth the serious atten- 
 tion of a painter. It must have a visible simplicity and unity in all its 
 belongings, and there must be a certain social harmony amongst the people 
 who may be brought together in the same picture. As to this I am 
 speaking, of course, from the artistic point of view. The people may hate 
 each other and quarrel, but they must be, in all their ideas and customs, of 
 the same peasant caste and class. They must have its “ common con- 
 sciousness ” and no other. This must be seen, too, in everything they 
 purchase or select ; it must be seen in their animals and all the material 
 objects that belong to them. The peasant sense is already beginning to be 
 difficult to find, at least in its completeness and perfection. The true 
 peasant’s cottage is rapidly giving place to the neat angular building with 
 blue slate. Things are bought in the towns which are not in harmony 
 
292 
 
 OF RUSTIC LIFE 
 
 PART VI 
 
 with the old furniture. In every town there are shops for the sale of 
 agricultural implements, neat and ingenious inventions in steel and iron, 
 and the peasants frequently buy them. After that what becomes of the 
 artistic unity of the farm ? Another kind of unity, that of ideas, is broken 
 down by the invasion of education. It is needless to disguise the fact that 
 the harmony of the old peasant life was founded on the general possession 
 of a rudimentary agricultural knowledge, and on the general ignorance of 
 everything else. Whatever may be said in favour of knowledge and its 
 advantages (and of these every author must be acutely sensible) it becomes 
 more evident, as the effects of popular education are more visible, that 
 certain simple, yet strong and respectable, types of character are not com- 
 patible with much knowledge, that they reach their own peculiar perfection 
 when sheltered by ignorance, but never otherwise. The perfect peasant 
 is ignorant as a condition of his perfection in his own order. Give him 
 the moderate degree of knowledge possessed by a bachelor of letters, and 
 you spoil him for the life of his fathers. It was a sure instinct in Millet to 
 want his peasants to look “ as if it would be impossible for them to ever 
 think of being anything but what they are.” 
 
 The difficulty of dealing with an ignorant and quite unintellectual class 
 is very much smaller in the graphic arts than it is in literature. We have 
 few novels in the English language founded entirely on the study of rustic 
 life ; our novelists give us occasional glimpses of rusticity, but find it 
 practically more convenient to take the reader back to the educated classes 
 after a short visit to the cottage or the farm. The difficulty is to make 
 uneducated people talk, except in the plain and simple narrative of events 
 that have taken place, or the artless utterance of their feelings. As the 
 painter’s peasants are all dumb, and express themselves only by action, this 
 difficulty does not exist for him, so that painting is a more convenient art 
 than literature for the representation of a peasant class. There are only two 
 ways of getting over this difficulty in the art of the novelist, one is by making 
 the stories short and dependent upon narrative interest, generally tragic, 
 avoiding long conversations ; the other is by lifting the whole subject, as 
 George Sand used to do, out of the real world, and placing it unhesitatingly 
 in the ideal. A converse truth in criticism is that for the representation of 
 classes that are better educated but not visibly picturesque — our professional 
 classes, for example — it is better to choose the literary art than the 
 pictorial. 
 
 Of the three countries where I have known rustic life closely and 
 intimately — England, Scotland, and France — it is in France only that I 
 have seen a peasant class in its perfection — that is, living like a separate 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 OF RUSTIC LIFE 
 
 293 
 
 nation within a nation by the guidance of its own inherited customs and 
 traditions. And I have been an eye-witness and close observer of the 
 fatal, inevitable change which is now quickly destroying the special char- 
 acteristics of the class, and mingling it with the general French democracy. 
 Now, before the change had begun to operate, the peasant life, both in the 
 fields and in the cottage, was always eminently paintable ; and if we inquire 
 how and why it was more paintable than the life of another class, such as 
 the aristocracy in the country or the bourgeoisie in the towns, we find that 
 the forms and colours of things were, from an artist’s point of view, better 
 and more harmonious. They all sprang from minds of the same order, of 
 the same tastes and education ; there was a common consciousness that 
 produced in all things a sort of style , not comparable for richness and 
 splendour to what we call the styles of architecture and ornament, but as 
 consistent as any one of them, and having a charm that they cannot have in 
 a certain nearness to nature, so that the farmer and his things belonged to 
 the landscape, and had not simply come there like navvies making a 
 railway. If we inquire how it is that the thatched roof is better than the 
 • slated roof, we find that it has more variety of form in its undulations and 
 its irregular sky-line, that its colour is richer and more various, both in the 
 grays and yellows of the old and new straw, and in the natural adornment 
 of the various mosses and graminee that so readily plant themselves upon 
 it. The roof, too, often projected beyond the wall, and gave a fine breadth 
 of shade in the glare of summer, and the wall itself had its recesses darker 
 and cooler still. The slate roof is neat and trim all round, it has no undula- 
 tions, no variety of colour, and its sky-line seems drawn with a ruler. 
 Inside, the old farmhouse was lighted chiefly from the open door, the 
 windows were small and insufficient. The consequence was a fine con- 
 centration of effects of light and colour amongst the rich browns of the 
 well-polished oak and walnut furniture, the dark, low ceiling, the umber 
 walls, the green or scarlet coverlets of the beds. There was in those days 
 absolutely nothing to spoil such an interior for an artist. The fire-place 
 was disfigured by no cast-iron abominations ; there were no stoves or stove- 
 pipes, only a pair of fire-dogs carried the smouldering wood. The modern 
 interior is brighter and warmer. Light from one or more large windows 
 strikes on the bare white walls, and there is a cast-iron stove. The first 
 would have been a good subject for Rembrandt, the second is only paint- 
 able by workmen who are ready to paint anything, even a schoolroom or 
 a barrack. In the old-fashioned peasant’s farm-yard rested his waggons, 
 ploughs, and other farming gear, made by a wheelwright of his own class, 
 and never painted or housed. The wood, so long as it lasted, took upon 
 
294 
 
 OF RUSTIC LIFE 
 
 PART VI 
 
 itself a beautiful quiet gray colour ; its angles were softened and its texture 
 became pleasant to the eye ; the ironwork of course rusted, and became 
 rich in ochreous reds and yellows. The work of the country wheelwright 
 was heavy and a little rude, but it satisfied the first of artistic requirements, 
 that a thing should not only be but look strong enough for the work it has 
 to do. The modern scientific agricultural implement is all iron or steel, it 
 looks meagre, its lines are hard, all its angles sharp, and it is painted a 
 bright blue or red. Practically it is serviceable, and it may be introduced 
 into a bad matter-of-fact scientific picture of the present day, but no great 
 master would have attempted to represent such a thing even in a study, 
 still less would he have admitted it into a work of art. For costume, again, 
 even in those parts of France which have not a brilliant traditional costume, 
 like that still worn in Brittany, the peasant’s dress was always paintable — 
 good in its coarse textures, good in its warm whites and faded blues against 
 the rich natural colouring of his sunburnt skin. As he walked by the side 
 of his powerful oxen there was nothing more incongruous in his simple 
 costume than in their primitive, antiquated harness. All his accoutrements 
 and theirs had been made in the village ; there was straw for their comfort 
 under their smooth wooden yokes ; there was straw for his comfort in his 
 wooden shoes. All day long he followed them, as in Rosa Bonheur’s well- 
 known picture of “Ploughing in the Nivernais,” making endless combina- 
 tions with the cheerful landscape and its distance of hill and woodland. 
 In exchange for this the improvements of modern agriculture offer us two 
 mechanics and a steam-plough, with a middle-class overseer coming from 
 time to time to see how the work is getting on . 1 
 
 It is wonderful how the old peasant ways keep their superiority for 
 artistic purposes even in their least favourable aspects. Out in the open 
 air they had all the advantages of sunshine, but how was it in the winter 
 evenings, in the homes where there were no books, no newspapers, hardly 
 any light, and very little conversation ? The reader will please to bear in 
 mind that the intellectual pleasures are of slight importance in a picture, 
 that books and newspapers are not especially paintable objects, and that 
 conversation, whether interesting or not, remains unheard. With the 
 
 1 Painters are now beginning to try what can be done with steam implements. One of the 
 first attempts was a picture by Rafael Correa in the Universal Exhibition of 1889, in which we 
 have a steam-engine in a field, but he got over the difficulty in some measure by a picturesque 
 thatch over his engine, which gave it rather a rustic appearance. There is now a quite recent 
 realistic and scientific school that has no objection to anything visible, and, having no aesthetic 
 preferences or repugnances, is as ready to paint a steam-engine as anything else. All that can be 
 said about this school is that its labours, however faithful as to matters of fact, lie, in reality, entirely 
 outside of the fine arts, and therefore do not concern us, as they have nothing to do with the ques- 
 tions and problems in which, as students of art, we take an interest. 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 OF RUSTIC LIFE 
 
 295 
 
 progress of knowledge peasants will sit reading newspapers in rooms 
 brilliantly lighted by petroleum, or perhaps by electricity, when they will 
 be as paintable as subscribers in the newsroom of a mechanics’ institute. 
 The old-fashioned way was this. There was the wood-fire upon the hearth, 
 maintained by pushing two stout branches to keep their ends together as 
 they consumed ; and there was an oil -lamp, requiring rather frequent 
 trimming, the wick burning exactly as in the lamps of the ancient Romans. 
 Here was at least a relative comfort when the snow was thick outside, and 
 by this imperfect light the men sat peeling hemp and the women spinning, 
 the old grandmother in the chimney-corner doing nothing, the dogs con- 
 stantly trying to edge their way to the fire, and being as regularly repulsed. 
 Such a scene may not represent the height of material luxury or intellectual 
 civilisation, but it is so completely paintable that an adequate picture of it 
 might adorn the genteelest residences. Even the imperfection of the light 
 does but give breadth and value to the shadows. There is a drawing of such 
 a winter’s evening by Lhermitte, called “ The Spinners,” which is as good 
 a subject for light in the midst of gloom as any selected by Rembrandt. 
 
 It is fortunate for coming generations that the pictorial quality of 
 genuine peasant life was recognised by French artists of strong natural 
 genius and good acquired training just before it began to pass away. 
 Troyon, the Bonheurs, Jules Breton, Millet, Edouard Frere, Courbet, 
 Bastien Lepage, and now Lhermitte, with many other sincere observers 
 of less general celebrity, have left records of it that will have both an 
 artistic and a social interest for future ages. 
 
 Jules Breton, who is a good authority on the subject, declares that the 
 whole school of truthful painters of peasant life descends directly from the 
 landscape-painters, and he traces it to the Dutch of the seventeenth century. 
 The French landscape-painters, coming after the conventional work of the 
 First Empire and the Restoration, rediscovered the existence of nature, and 
 they associated it with cattle and figures. If I mention the cattle first, it 
 is because in landscape-painting, from their size and colour, they are really 
 more important than their owners. However, the owners were painted 
 truly up to a certain point — that is, as secondary objects — and then gradu- 
 ally they attracted more and more of the painter’s attention, till finally it 
 appeared that a sentimental or poetical interest might be attached to them, 
 as in the works of Millet, and that there was a certain melancholy dignity 
 in rustic labour, especially that of the women, as Jules Breton has shown 
 us. He being one of the few painters who have expressed themselves 
 with the pen gives me the opportunity for a quotation. The passage 
 cannot be translated. 
 
296 
 
 OF RUSTIC LIFE 
 
 PART VI 
 
 “ L’ensemble sombre que formaient les gens et les choses, ou glissaient 
 encore quelques lueurs d’or, se detachait avec une prestigieuse puissance 
 du ciel safrane et des flammes mourantes irradiant derriere la vigueur des 
 chaumes.” 
 
 “ De grandes filles brunes passaient, gardant encore, dans leurs cheveux 
 emmeles, des ardeurs du jour attardees en aureoles et cernant d’un fil clair 
 leurs silhouettes diffuses. Elies semblaient plus belles et plus graves dans 
 le sombre mystere du crepuscule, avec leurs faucilles ou de froids eclats de 
 ciel luisaient comme des lueurs de lune.” 
 
 The same painter and poet who wrote this admirable description was 
 one of the first to show the connection between rustic life and the ancient 
 forms of religion. In his picture, “La Benediction des Bles,” which has 
 given an inspiration to so many imitators, Jules Breton made us the 
 spectators of a priestly procession winding through the pathways of the 
 fields, a ceremony to which old and pious beliefs assign some virtue and 
 efficacy in causing an abundant harvest. Here, again, the old rustic ways 
 are wholly on the side of art. The priest walks in state beneath a canopy, 
 wearing his splendid cope, and bearing in his hands the glittering mon- 
 strance that contains what the kneeling peasants are worshipping as divine. 
 In their view — and it is not a mere rustic superstition, but an opinion held 
 by the most learned theologians of the most powerful Church on earth — 
 the priest does actually carry God into the fields which He has made. The 
 religious belief, centuries old, the variety of shape and colour in the ecclesi- 
 astical vestments, from golden priest to scarlet and white choristers, and 
 the more sober but still valuable colouring of the peasant costumes, con- 
 tribute two elements of interest, poetical and pictorial, that are entirely 
 absent from a scientific visit of observation. When the old belief shall 
 have passed away nothing will remain but an inspection by an authority 
 from an agricultural college, with accurate notes of the year’s meteorology 
 in his pocket. His prognostication may be valuable, but how is it to be 
 painted ? His science will be invisible ; the religious procession is a 
 festival for the eyes. 
 
 I began this chapter with France and the present century, because it 
 was the most convenient way of getting speedily to the heart of the subject. 
 Any one who understands the best French rustic painters knows all the 
 conditions of rustic art, and after that he may easily see whether they are 
 found in equal perfection elsewhere. The two main conditions are a well- 
 trained school of artists and a perfectly genuine and picturesque peasantry. 
 A moment’s reflection will convince the reader that the two are very 
 unlikely to be found together. You want the artistic culture of Paris, and 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 OF RUSTIC LIFE 
 
 29 7 
 
 the backwardness of a traditional rural class, as yet quite unspoiled by the 
 modern scientific and industrial spirit. But in modern times science and 
 art are scarcely separable in that way. The same great exhibitions that 
 contain pictures by modern artists contain the most recent machinery of 
 the most advanced mechanical agriculture, and the changes to be brought 
 about by its adoption must inevitably destroy the genuine peasant life. It 
 comes, therefore, to a question of a few years on one side or the other. 
 If the industrial progress precedes the artistic, the well-trained painters 
 will be too late ; the peasant life will be already a thing of the past at the 
 time of their arrival. This actually happened in the county of Lancaster. 
 Manchester is an artistic centre, and Liverpool is another. The fine arts 
 are practised and appreciated in both, but this kind of education came in 
 the wake of successful manufacturing which had filled the valleys with mills 
 and rows of cottages, and connected them by high-roads and railways. All 
 these things are so perilous to the simplicity of mind and fixity of custom 
 which are the marks of a true rural community, that it can hardly continue 
 to exist in their neighbourhood, so that when country life in Lancashire 
 was worth painting there was nobody to paint it, and now that there are 
 artists it has become suburban. I need hardly add the expression of 
 a regret that there is no pictorial record of a past that would have been 
 interesting in widely different ways. There is evidence in the indigenous 
 domestic architecture and carved- furniture of the sixteenth and seventeenth 
 centuries that the rural life of Lancashire was not unpicturesque before the 
 introduction of steam, and as the race of men was one of the finest in 
 England, and the scenery in many parts of the county by no means dull or 
 commonplace, Lancashire might have had a rustic school of painting if 
 there had been the necessary degree of artistic preparation. The fever of 
 industrialism in the nineteenth century swept away the quieter and simpler 
 life of our forefathers, and substituted for it a new kind of existence 
 favourable to the development of intelligence, but destructive of ancient 
 peace. The old life was essentially rural, though there were many little 
 towns ; the new life is essentially urban, though grass still grows in the rich 
 green meadows, and the heather still blooms on the moorland. 
 
 In all the countries of modern Europe where painting is now practised 
 we find more or less skilful representations of peasant life, but it is very 
 difficult to judge of their fidelity without knowing the peasantry of those 
 countries, so that one is reduced to the necessity of estimating the pictures 
 simply as works of art. From this point of view I may say that when the 
 object of the artist is to give a very elaborate representation of such things 
 as ornamental peasant costumes and carved furniture, rather than simply to 
 
 2 Q 
 
298 
 
 OF RUSTIC LIFE 
 
 PART VI 
 
 make a good picture, his work seems always sure to fall into an inferior 
 class. For example, I remember some pictures of Alsatian and Breton 
 interiors on such occasions as a wedding feast, when the peasants don all 
 their finery, and the artist patiently sits down to imitate the whole of it, 
 with the texture and ornaments of the great presses or the beds. In these 
 pictures the human interest becomes secondary to a toilsome study of still- 
 life, and for my part I find no pictures so fatiguing. The simplicity of 
 Millet belongs to a far higher range of artistic thought and conception. 
 Whilst an artist of second or third-rate intellect might be attracted by very 
 elaborate costumes, such as those worn on festive occasions by the Breton 
 peasants, a truly great painter would rather be tempted to keep clear of 
 them, or if he represented them at all, it would be by a slight and sugges- 
 tive rather than a painfully imitative execution. This opinion may perhaps 
 seem arbitrary to the reader ; he may think that it has no better foundation 
 than a personal antipathy to certain high-wrought pictures that another 
 critic, with equal reason, might extol. No, it is an opinion founded both 
 on the nature of the artistic intellect and on the history of art. When a 
 painter can bestow weeks of labour on copying unnecessary pins and 
 buttons, and trimmings of jackets, and absurd edifices of head-dresses, 
 merely because they are quaint, curious, and irrational, it is good evidence 
 that his own mind is not powerful enough to sweep all these gewgaws aside, 
 and occupy itself with something serious. And as for the history of art, 
 the patient elaboration of ornament in the graphic arts belongs invariably 
 to their earlier stages. It was possible for mediaeval illuminators — it was 
 possible even for Van Eyck — it was not possible for Correggio or 
 Velasquez . 1 
 
 There is at least this good in peasant costumes, that they indicate a 
 certain degree of material prosperity. A pauper peasantry cannot indulge 
 in such luxuries. This consideration is, however, rather social than artistic, 
 as artists find a pathos in extreme poverty which is wanting to every 
 condition of life that rises visibly above it. Israels, the modern painter of 
 the poor, would scarcely have touched our hearts if his peasants had been 
 brave in velvet and embroidery. Some touching pictures of humble life 
 in the Highlands of Scotland have been painted by English and Scotch 
 artists, and in all of these the poverty of the interiors has been an essential 
 element of success. The artistic inferiority of humble life in the Highlands 
 
 1 The elaborate costumes of the Breton peasantry are often extravagantly expensive. This 
 extravagance co-exists with extreme parsimony in expenditure for knowledge, cleanliness, and health, 
 all which are a much better investment than mere finery. Brilliant and expensive costumes indicate 
 a certain degree of civilisation, because they cannot exist without skill in the minor arts, but a 
 civilisation that cannot get beyond them is an arrested civilisation. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
THE BACKGAMMON PLAYERS 
 
 Painted by David Teniers (the younger) 
 
 Etched by C. O. Murray 
 (. National Gallery ) 
 
 A picture of ordinary Dutch life in the time of the artist ; that is, in the 
 seventeenth century. No doubt the scene had been faithfully observed, but 
 there is what seems to us rather a contradiction. The table with its cloth and. 
 the backgammon board, and at least one of the two players, appear to belong 
 to a higher order of things than the other objects and people in the room. 
 It may be a wayside inn where a backgammon board is kept for the amuse- 
 ment of occasional guests, but where most of the customers are simple 
 peasants like those warming themselves at the fire. There is no real comfort 
 in the place except that good blaze and a pipe. 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 OF RUSTIC LIFE 
 
 299 
 
 is not so much in its poverty as in the lack of variety, its elements are so 
 few and simple that they continually recur. It is difficult to get much 
 variety out of the usual Highland cottage — four gray walls with a door and 
 a little window, the whole simply covered with a thatched roof shorn close 
 above the wall. As a contrast to this I remember some French farm- 
 buildings, now unhappily removed to make way for a modern erection. 
 The projecting thatch gave deep cool shadows, and there were dormer 
 windows in it, the lines of it being full of unexpected curves. The walls of 
 the houses had their projections and recesses, round the windows and doors 
 there were some good fifteenth - century mouldings, and a vine went 
 wandering over them, 
 
 I agree with M. Jules Breton in the belief that modern rustic art is 
 derived from landscape, and I see little or no connection, even in Holland 
 itself, between this modern art and that Dutch painting of the seventeenth 
 century which remains the monument of a past perfection to be admired 
 for its own qualities, but not imitated by our contemporaries who were 
 born under different influences. The chief reason why the famous old 
 Dutch masters have so little influence on modern rustic art is probably in 
 the superficial nature of its sympathy with the life and labour of the 
 peasantry. The Dutch masters looked upon the pleasures and recreations 
 of the country people with an eye that was not unfriendly ; the painters 
 seem to have thought it only natural that boors should be a little besotted, 
 that they should drink and smoke more than was good for them at the ale- 
 house, and indulge in gambols, not always either elegant or moral, with 
 free and fat women at a fair. It seemed more cheerful to paint the boor 
 in his hours of idleness than in the longer and wearier hours of toil. The 
 Dutchmen took the lighter side of peasant life, as Millet, long afterwards, 
 took the serious. Then comes the ultra-refinement of modern criticism to 
 which the boors of the seventeenth century appear lamentably sensual and 
 degraded little beings, “like a beast with lower pleasures” than ours, “like 
 a beast with lower pains.” How should a modern professor of aesthetics, 
 with the learning of a scholar and the delicacy of a lady, ever associate 
 with these creatures, even in imagination ? 
 
 A more genial and indulgent view of life and art would take the “ Dutch 
 drolleries,” as our great-grandfathers used to call them, for a record of the 
 recreative side of a life that must have been, in its hard reality, laborious. 
 It was not by smoking and drinking in low taverns that the most artificial 
 country in the world can ever have been made and maintained. These 
 are but the relaxations of a most energetic and strenuous race. And as for 
 the sensuality revealed in the Dutch pictures, the real objection to it is its 
 
300 
 
 OF RUSTIC LIFE 
 
 PART VI 
 
 inelegance, its want of conformity to the manners rather than the morals of 
 polite society. The besotted boor drinks and smokes, which is done at our 
 clubs, and he puts his arm round a woman’s waist, which is done more 
 regularly in our ball-rooms. Sometimes he plays at cards on a tub turned 
 upside down ; our leaders of society play cards also, but their tables are 
 better made and their stakes larger. There is no real objection to the 
 boors immortalised by the marvellous Dutch genre-painters, except that 
 they have the manners of their class in its hours of ease and recreation. 
 Let us be thankful for the admirable care and fidelity with which the 
 happier hours of rustic life have been preserved for us by these faithful 
 eye-witnesses. It must have had its pathetic and even its tragic side as 
 well, which they have rarely dwelt upon. The Dutch race is not demon- 
 strative, and it may be that the visible expression of the deeper emotions 
 was insufficient for the requirements of pictorial art, which values no 
 sentiment unless it can be seen. I may take Adrian Van Ostade as a 
 typical example. It is evident that he had a certain interest in peasant 
 life, but his interest was more picturesque than dramatic. I do not 
 remember amongst his etchings and pictures a single instance of profound 
 sympathy with any mental suffering. Life always runs on quietly ; a 
 woman sits in the sunshine at her door winding thread, a man stops to 
 speak to her, and these, with a cock and a chicken, are enough for a single 
 composition. In another a smiling woman is at a window in full light, 
 whilst behind her is an amorous swain in shadow, and that is all. Some 
 of the best Ostades are scenes outside the village alehouse on a sunny 
 afternoon, when the peasants sit and drink on the benches, and the 
 itinerant fiddler stops to entertain them. Very likely he watched the 
 village life himself from the alehouse bench. He saw the talkative gossips 
 meet and chat, unconscious of the flight of time. Meanwhile a smoker 
 rests his arm on his window-sill and pauses as he looks out, his pipe in one 
 hand, his pot in the other, and he, too, is a sufficient subject for an etching. 
 All this is really the outside of village life as any quiet observer may see 
 it still, but it is only the outside. The most serious subject in Ostade’s 
 works that I remember is the etching called “The Grace” — that is, a 
 peasant saying grace as he sits down with his wife and children to their 
 one dish, which is put on a three-legged stool. The subject has often been 
 treated since by artists with far greater pretensions to sentiment, but it may 
 be doubted whether any of them has more completely expressed the idea 
 of thankfulness for small mercies. 
 
 Although Ostade was intellectually inferior to Millet, having nothing of 
 his poetry, these artists have two qualities in common, the persistent desire 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
HEAD OF AN OLD WOMAN 
 
 A Study in Chalk 
 Drawn by Frank Dicksee, A.R.A. 
 
 Reproduced in Photogravure by Annan and Swan 
 
 Old age is represented in this volume for the male sex by Rembrandt's etching, 
 and for the female sex by this study. I chose it for its extreme truth, and also 
 because it is very English, like Mr. Leslie’s “ Bedtime.” 
 
 The purchaser gains by an accident. A plate was taken that I accepted 
 as admissible but no more. Before printing the edition an accident happened 
 to the first plate, so that it had to be replaced by a new one. Between the 
 two a technical improvement had been introduced into the process, and the 
 second plate is much superior to the first. It is one of the best reproductions 
 I have seen. 
 
CHAP. II 
 
 OF RUSTIC LIFE 
 
 301 
 
 for good composition, and the judgment that enabled them to make use of 
 the most simple and commonplace materials. Beyond this it may be 
 doubted whether there is any advantage in establishing the technical com- 
 parison once suggested by Fromentin to the disadvantage of Millet. It 
 may be truly said that the Dutchman lives more by his technical perfection 
 than by his human interest, whilst the Frenchman has immortalised himself 
 by a sentiment. In both cases, however truthful the works may seem, 
 there is much more than the bare truth. 
 
 It may be taken as a general rule, governing all the old Dutch painting 
 of pastoral life in the fields themselves, that the animals are at least as 
 important as the men and women, and that there is seldom any intelligence 
 in either. The character of all that pastoral art is best expressed by the 
 single substantive placidity. It is a land of peace — the peace of ruminating 
 cattle, the peace of a fine summer afternoon in a green meadow — and in 
 all that pastoral art there is never any sublimity either in human or animal 
 life, or in the landscape that surrounds it. So tranquil is the life of Paul 
 Potter’s herdsmen that there seems no reason why it should ever have 
 worn itself out. Are they not still watching calmly in the verdant polders 
 of Holland, as they do in the pictures and etchings, exempt from every 
 care but that of their well-fed kine ? 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 TECHNICAL CONDITIONS OF BUCOLIC ART 
 VERY class of subject has a persistent influence on technical practice, 
 
 especially on the selection of processes. The artist is led to adopt 
 a process, or warned to avoid it, less by its general reputation than by its 
 adaptibility to the particular work he has to do. Afterwards the process 
 itself reacts upon the artist in this way, that it attaches him more and more 
 to those subjects for which it is best adapted, and therefore for which it 
 offers the most seductive and alluring facilities. 
 
 One of the best examples has been the interchange of influences 
 between water-colour and the study of landscape. Water-colour was found 
 convenient for that kind of subject, and so the art developed itself to a high 
 degree of technical perfection. The needs of the landscape-painter made 
 water-colour what it is. It might also be maintained that water-colour has 
 made landscape-painting what it is by encouraging artists to attempt the 
 most evanescent effects. And if we ask how water-colour, more than oil, has 
 led artists in this direction, we arrive at reasons of a purely technical order, 
 especially these two, that water-colour dries rapidly and can be carried easily. 
 
 Here, then, we have a case in which the selection of a class of subjects 
 in nature has led to the practice of a particular art, and this art, in turn, has 
 led to the study of nature, and to a kind of study which would hardly have 
 been pursued without it. 
 
 The choice of bucolic subjects has had an influence both on the plastic 
 and the graphic arts. 
 
 In sculpture it encourages work in bronze rather than in marble, as 
 animals may be in a certain sense more truthfully represented in bronze — 
 that is, with less conventionalism and a nearer approach to truth of texture 
 in their coats. Bronze permits also a greater liberty of action in the 
 animals represented without artificial supports, and the dress of peasants 
 may be imitated in bronze with greater apparent lightness. 
 
CHAP. Ill 
 
 TECHNICAL CONDITIONS OF BUCOLIC ART 
 
 303 
 
 The reaction produced on the art of sculpture by the employment of 
 bronze for bucolic subjects has been steadily in favour of naturalism and 
 the picturesque. There is the same close connection between modern 
 bucolic sculpture in bronze and the modern bucolic painting of Troyon, 
 Rosa Bonheur, and Charles Jacque, that there is between classical sculpture 
 in marble and the painting of Ingres. 
 
 (I need hardly observe that when we speak of sculpture in bronze the 
 expression is used for convenience only, and is inaccurate. There is no 
 sculpture in bronze except the mere finishing of a cast. What we call 
 sculpture generally is in fact nothing more than modelling in some plastic 
 material — that is, in some material, such as clay or wax, that can be easily 
 moulded into a desired shape which it will afterwards retain. The real dis- 
 tinction is in different ways of modelling with a view to the substance of 
 which the statue or group is to be ultimately made. The work in marble 
 is, however, a piece of carving, whilst that in bronze is only a cast ; the 
 marble is usually a carved copy, finished perhaps by the original artist ; the 
 bronze only metal run into a mould.) 
 
 Bucolic subjects always have a tendency to impel all the fine arts, whether 
 graphic or plastic, in the direction of simple naturalism, but as it is found in 
 practice that naturalism in the treatment of these subjects is not convenient 
 when marble is the substance employed, the consequence is that sculptors 
 in marble are constantly thrown back upon idealism as their only resource, 
 so that, although pastoral art sends the artist to nature, the mere use of 
 marble is in itself enough to send him, in a certain sense, away from 
 nature. I may explain this more clearly by an example. 
 
 In the Salon of 1890 there was a remarkable statue of colossal size, in 
 gray marble, representing a man digging. The sculptor, M. Alfred 
 Boucher, called his work simply “A la Terre,” suggesting the abstract idea 
 of Man labouring in agriculture. If, therefore, I say that by the use of 
 marble M. Boucher was driven away from nature, I do not mean that he 
 had not studied nature to produce his statue, which gave evidence of careful 
 observation of the nude, but I mean that he did not represent the reality of 
 life as we see it. He represented simply Man — not a French or German 
 peasant, or an English labourer, but Man without any localisation in space 
 or time, dateless, like a wave of the ocean or a cloud in the sky. There is 
 a certain kind of truth in the abstract statement “ Man digs,” or “ Man has 
 dug,” but which of us has ever seen a man digging without some kind of 
 shoe upon his foot to protect it from the iron of the spade ? And who has 
 ever seen a man digging without some clothing on his back or legs that 
 would give a clue to his nationality and his class ? M. Boucher’s man is 
 
304 
 
 TECHNICAL CONDITIONS OF BUCOLIC ART 
 
 PART VI 
 
 an ideal labourer with a magnificent muscular development, yet there is an 
 inconsistency in the ideal, for he belongs to an age that uses iron tools 
 without having attained to clothing. He is Adam before the fig-leaf, who 
 has been to an ironmonger’s shop. 
 
 I have taken the trouble, for the satisfaction of my own curiosity, of 
 making a list of modern marble statues representing bucolic subjects. It 
 is, of course, very incomplete, especially because for my present purpose 
 I required either sketches or photographs or my own clear recollection of 
 the statues themselves, yet notwithstanding its incompleteness it has con- 
 firmed me in the belief that the use of marble has a tendency to drive 
 artists away from concrete reality into a region of abstraction. In these 
 statues almost all the occupations of agricultural or purely pastoral life are 
 followed by men in a state of nudity. The naked mower wields his scythe, 
 the naked ploughman pauses for a rest, the naked shepherd blows his horn, 
 or runs courageously, armed only with his crook, to defend his sheep 
 against the ravening wolf. When he shears his sheep he has no clothing 
 but the bits of wool that fall upon his smooth, bare limbs. Armed with a 
 pickaxe, the naked labourer of future ages discovers a relic of what is for 
 us the present. Who does not see that all this nudity is untrue as a 
 representation of the realities of life, that it is only permitted to the artist 
 by a convention that takes account of the temptations offered by marble 
 (it always tempts men to the nude), and of its practical difficulties ? In 
 real life the nude is very rarely seen ; it is never seen in the ordinary works 
 of agriculture. I sometimes observe naked figures in fine action when men 
 ride horses into the river, and good brown muscular figures, naked to the 
 waist, amongst men who unload barges, or fetch sand up from the river’s 
 bed, but these are almost the only examples visible in the open air. Farm- 
 labourers are invariably clothed. 
 
 To object seriously to this untrue nudity in sculpture would be a sure 
 sign of Philistinism. We may take note of it as a matter of fact; we may 
 perceive that bronze is more favourable to naturalism than marble, without 
 hostility to the sculptor’s way of translating what he sees into what he 
 believes to be the higher forms of art. In an age of commonplace realism 
 like the present it is well for the public mind that it should be occasionally 
 invited to enter an ideal world where human life and human labour are 
 presented in abstract forms — that is to say, in forms disengaged from the 
 details that accompany reality. The full beauty of action is seen only when 
 the figure is naked. We do not know the manly beauty of the mower’s 
 stride — arms, chest, and legs all acting powerfully together — until we have 
 seen it in a statue. And independently of physical beauty, the presenta- 
 
CHAP. Ill 
 
 TECHNICAL CONDITIONS OF BUCOLIC ART 
 
 305 
 
 tion of common labours with the abstraction of ideal sculpture lifts them, 
 morally, to a higher plane. In real life their true dignity is obscured by 
 the interference of trivial and insignificant details ; in ideal art these are 
 suppressed, and we see the action in itself. 
 
 It may be observed that simple realism is more compatible with the 
 bas-relief than with the statue, as the bas-relief approaches more to the 
 nature of the picture, or, at least, of the engraving. Scenes of peasant life 
 have sometimes been represented in relief with the closest fidelity, even to 
 such matters as the bad fit of a peasant’s trousers, which would be enough 
 in itself to spoil the limbs of an Apollo. A French sculptor, J. Baffier, is 
 as truthful in works of this class as any contemporary realist in painting. 
 In the statue simple realism is not enough ; the statue of a peasant in 
 wooden shoes, and exactly in one of his own attitudes, would be ridiculous ; 
 in a bas-relief he is only natural, and we immediately forget his lack of 
 beauty in a friendly interest in his work. I am thinking of a bas-relief 
 by M. Baffier exhibited in 1890, and representing a peasant and his wife 
 feeding a calf in their cow-house. The charm of it consisted in its unpre- 
 tending veracity as a work of art, and in the humble simplicity of the 
 people represented, and their entire devotion to their employment. Yet 
 all this veracity of representation and unity of purpose would have been 
 insufficient for a marble statue. 
 
 The effect of bucolic studies on the technical art of painting has been 
 to encourage the study of colour and texture rather than form, whilst the 
 inducement which they offer to the constant study of nature has led painters 
 to the discovery of many combinations of colour and light unknown to their 
 more famous predecessors. The comparative neglect of form in rustic art 
 placed the adherents of the classical school (always the school of form) in 
 a position of latent or expressed hostility with regard to it. I myself have 
 known adherents of the old classical faith who were indifferent to the rich 
 variety of picturesque material that abounds in the rural districts of France, 
 especially where oxen are employed, and not indifferent merely, but even 
 contemptuous in their judgment of the eminent artists who had revealed it 
 to the Parisian world. It seemed at first that an antagonism so decided 
 must be the result of unreasoning prejudice, but on observing it more 
 closely I found that it came rather from a severe discipline in classical form, 
 which made all drawing appear ignorant if it did not exhibit classical culture 
 and classical fastidiousness in the modulation of every line. The bucolic 
 artist might reply that he put form enough into his peasants and his oxen 
 if he drew them with fair correctness, without refining upon nature, and 
 that he saw beauties of another kind in reality — beauties that the most 
 
 2 R 
 
30 6 
 
 TECHNICAL CONDITIONS OF BUCOLIC ART 
 
 PART VI 
 
 famous draughtsmen had always persistently overlooked. “ Even Raphael 
 himself/’ the bucolic artist might argue, “ whose drawing you admit to be 
 perfection, could not paint with any truth of texture the hair and horns of 
 an ox, neither could he put the animal into a field, with a peasant beside 
 him, in accurate relations of tone and colour with the ground and the 
 distant woods. Not one of the great masters of formal drawing could have 
 painted a rural scene correctly. Those illustrious men were far inferior to 
 Rosa Bonheur in the art of setting a peasant down upon his own farm, 
 surrounded by the living things and the landscape amongst which his days 
 are passed. Your great Italian masters were so ignorant of external nature 
 that the commonest bright day would utterly baffle them. Without men- 
 tioning the more subtle and delicate effects of nature, the existence of which 
 they seem never to have suspected, they could not even paint the plain 
 everyday summer sunshine of the Italian campagna .” 
 
 All this is true to the letter. The great draughtsmen, in Italy and 
 elsewhere, have gone through life with eyes closed to a thousand beauties 
 that the modern rustic painter sees and values, and which are amongst the 
 most precious elements of his art. The change is in fact due to the trans- 
 ference of the attention from one set of qualities to another. A peasantry 
 does not present, or even suggest, that perfect form which may be attained 
 by the idealisation of carefully-selected Italian models, unspoiled by labour ; 
 and the form, if it existed, would be in great measure concealed by the 
 coarse and awkward costume of the inelegant rustic. What is a good leg 
 in an ill-fitting trouser, or a well-shaped foot in a clumsy wooden shoe ? 
 To the caricaturist whose business it is to make rural life ridiculous, the 
 bad tailoring and rude shoe-making are a constant pretext for satire ; he 
 magnifies their defects, and makes the peasant (who has other things to 
 think of) ludicrous in his unconsciousness. The serious artist has to dis- 
 cover beauties even in this unpromising material, and he finds them in the 
 tints and textures of the working dress — all the better for being worn and 
 faded — in the sunshine on the brown hand, or the shadow from the broad 
 brim of the old straw hat. He finds them in the folds of the thin blouse, 
 or, if that is not worn, in the coarse shirt, so much better for not being 
 crudely white, like the fine linen of a Parisian. All this is colour, light-and- 
 shade, and texture; form is secondary here. For these qualities oil- 
 painting is by far the best ; its textures are far richer than those of fresco — 
 richer even than modern water-colour. And rustic art has itself enriched 
 oil-painting by impelling artists to the discovery of new resources and the 
 development of new powers. Considered technically, the oil-painting of 
 Raphael is an undeveloped art in comparison with that of Troyon, and the 
 
CHAP. Ill 
 
 TECHNICAL CONDITIONS OF BUCOLIC ART 
 
 307 
 
 twilight of Titian, however judiciously chosen for his purposes as a colourist, 
 is a limited aspect of nature in comparison with all the hours of daylight, 
 from dawn to dusk, in sunny or cloudy weather, in the pictures of Jules 
 Breton or Rosa Bonheur. 
 
 In original engraving the technical effect of rural studies has been 
 against the burin and in favour of the etching-needle. The same rule holds 
 good in the work of the copyist engraver, whose less independent position 
 makes him attempt to render some of the qualities of painting. Since the 
 revival of etching it has been extensively used for the interpretation of 
 rustic pictures, and translates their tones and textures with an acceptable 
 degree of fidelity. Even before the acknowledged revival, at a time when 
 etching was unknown to the public, it was already employed in composite 
 engraving for such things as the dress of peasants and the coats of animals 
 — never convenient material for the burin. The best way to understand 
 the reluctance to employ the unaided burin for such subjects is to examine 
 carefully some of the best old burin engravings representing subjects really 
 adapted to that art, such as classical figures and draperies, with severe 
 architecture, and then turn to those in which rustic scenes are attempted, 
 such as “ The Prodigal Son ” by Diirer, or “ The Milkwoman ” by Lucas of 
 Leyden. One sees at a glance that however well trained the engraver 
 may be in the use of his burin, the result is always too stiff for the purposes 
 of bucolic art ; and if we carry our analysis to the degree of minuteness 
 which makes these matters perfectly intelligible, we find the reason to be 
 that the peasantry and their surroundings show too much picturesque detail 
 to be followed by the purifying and simplifying line of the burin, whereas 
 the nimbler etching-needle follows the sinuosities of picturesque detail with 
 the utmost ease. Again, I cannot say that there is no texture in burin- 
 work, because I know that its own textures are in their way both varied 
 and beautiful — considered, that is to say, in themselves. But the textures 
 given by the burin are never really natural. They may be agreeable to the 
 eye, and may be substituted for the textures of a field or a farm-yard, but it 
 is substitution and not imitation. You may like them better than nature ; 
 still, they are not natural. Etching, on the contrary, is in harmony with 
 all rustic things. Its methods of execution do answer to the qualities and 
 characteristics of all that belongs to a primitive agricultural life, which alone 
 is suitable for painting. The etcher is at home in copying thatch, or rude 
 masonry, or weather-worn implements of husbandry ; he is at home, too, 
 in the landscape — from the trees of the forest, where the lonely woodcutter 
 has built his hut, to the foreground of massive earth turned over by the 
 glittering ploughshare. 
 
308 
 
 TECHNICAL CONDITIONS OF BUCOLIC ART 
 
 PART VI 
 
 The reader has an opportunity for comparing the two arts in their 
 interpretation of rustic subjects by referring to illustrations in the present 
 volume. The reproduction by Amand- Durand of the engraving by Lucas 
 of Leyden is a good example of original line-engraving applied to a rustic 
 subject, a plate in which the engraver has done what was in his power to 
 attain suppleness and variety of handling. The etching by M. Damman, 
 after the famous picture by Millet, “The Gleaners,” now in the Louvre, 
 is enough to show the applicability of its own process to subjects of this 
 class. It is surely evident that no line-engraving, however excellent in its 
 own more abstract and more formal manner, could approach this etching 
 for fidelity either to the style adopted by Millet, or to the kind of nature 
 which he endeavoured to represent. 
 
 The love of pastoral subjects has done much, from the seventeenth 
 century down to our own time, for the maintenance of etching, both as an 
 independent and an auxiliary art. Millet etched a few original plates, 
 exceedingly simple in method, and fine etchings have been made from his 
 pictures by Waltner and others. Our English Samuel Palmer was techni- 
 cally opposed to Millet, as he proceeded by thoughtful elaboration, but no 
 one had the bucolic sentiment, the sense of the poetry of rural life, more 
 profoundly than he, and it was associated in his mind with an intense 
 appreciation of the technical qualities of etching as an art which seemed to 
 him well fitted to express his knowledge and feeling about rural things, 
 from the ploughman following his oxen at the dawn, to the village of 
 thatched homesteads, mysterious under the harvest moon. 
 
 Amongst arts which are now neglected, lithography deserves mention 
 for its convenience in dealing with rustic materials of all kinds. The 
 textures obtainable in lithography, and its adequate rendering of local 
 colour (as, for example, in the dark or piebald cows and oxen of Van 
 Marcke), make it practically one of the best of the reproductive arts for 
 interpreting rustic pictures and drawings. The want of sharpness in the 
 lithographic line, as compared with that of the burin or the etching-needle, 
 which is the real cause of the present unpopularity of lithography, is scarcely 
 an objection in dealing with subjects of this class. It would be absolutely 
 impossible to make a satisfactory lithograph of one of the brilliant little 
 pictures by which Meissonier first made his reputation — pictures full of 
 sharp, clear, and minute definition ; but it is quite possible 'to translate by 
 lithography a representation on a larger scale of a cottage, a haystack, a 
 yoke of oxen, or even a group of peasants at their work. 
 
 So, in those graphic arts which are practised simply for the drawing 
 itself, and without any idea of reproduction, it may be observed that, whilst 
 
- • 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ • 
 
 ~ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE MILKWOMAN 
 
 Line-Engraving by Lucas of Leyden 
 Reproduced in Heliogravure by Amand-Durand 
 
 The title given to this plate ignores the existence of the herdsman, but as a 
 man does not count for much when a lady is present, this one may find it 
 natural to be neglected. 
 
 Lucas of Leyden is a very celebrated original engraver, so connoisseurs 
 seem t'o take it for granted that he could draw well, but in reality he was a 
 most uncertain draughtsman, especially because he was never sure of his pro- 
 portions. He had great manual skill and much observation of detail. As 
 for proportion compare the ofif-hind' foot of the cow with the near one (it is 
 much more diminished by perspective than the distance warrants), or compare 
 the little face of the woman with her enormous ankles. Then why admit the 
 plate ? Because of its value in the history of rustic art. It is a forerunner of 
 the rustic art of our own century. Notwithstanding the difficulties of the old 
 formal engraving this artist was imbued with a rustic sentiment struggling for 
 expression in an art unsuitable to it. Even the thick ankles are evidence of 
 a disposition to admit truths contrary to the classical ideal. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
CHAP. HI 
 
 TECHNICAL CONDITIONS OF BUCOLIC ART 
 
 309 
 
 finely-pointed instruments have been constantly used for classical studies of 
 the figure, the rustic artists usually avoid them. There is the silver-point, 
 for instance, which gives a fine sharp line, at the same time distinct and 
 pale. It was a favourite instrument with many of the old masters, and very 
 beautiful work they did with it in studies of linear beauty, both in flesh and 
 draperies ; but I do not at this moment recall a single study of a picturesque 
 rustic subject in silver-point, though there may be some that have escaped 
 my attention. Millet made drawings in great numbers, including sketches 
 for his private use and drawings made for sale. The private sketches were 
 mostly done with the pen, and not a finely-pointed pen giving delicate 
 lines, but a common pen giving coarse, thick lines, something like those of 
 an old woodcut. With these, and not too many of them, he set down the 
 plain truths that he wanted . 1 The drawings for sale were broadly done in 
 chalk or charcoal. The present rustic painter, Lhermitte, has done so 
 much work in charcoal that it may be considered the basis of his whole 
 performance, and whatever are the qualities of charcoal, it is plain that they 
 do not include much fineness of linear definition. 
 
 To sum up. The technical conditions of bucolic art have been such as 
 to encourage the study of texture in oil-painting, and to stimulate attention 
 to colour and light, whilst in engraving they have been favourable to 
 etching and unfavourable to the burin, and in the various kinds of drawing 
 their whole influence has been against finely-pointed instruments and ultra- 
 clearness of definition, and favourable to a certain bluntness and coarseness 
 of method, not implying any real want of refinement in the artist, but 
 answering to the qualities of the things he had to represent, and establish- 
 ing a kind of harmony between the rudeness of rustic life and the seeming 
 rudeness of rustic art — still, however, in reality always fine art. 
 
 To this it may be added that when rustic subjects are treated in mural 
 painting, as they have been not infrequently since the revival of mural art 
 and the adoption of more convenient methods than true fresco, another rule 
 prevails, as all severe decorative painting of necessity ignores texture and 
 requires great clearness and precision of linear definition. Rusticity in this 
 kind of art stops far short of realisation, and depends mostly on the appear- 
 ance of rude physical strength in the personages, and on the natural 
 attitudes of the animals. Agricultural implements and buildings may be 
 
 1 I think I understand one practical reason for the linear coarseness in the private sketches of 
 Millet. He used to paint from them ; and it is very convenient for a painter to have all his memor- 
 anda as legible as possible, so that he may see what is in them at some distance from the eye. 
 A delicate little drawing is not pleasant for a painter working on a much larger scale. The best 
 studies for use in a painting-room are apparently rude and coarse, with all the facts in them so 
 plainly stated that they can be seen four yards away. 
 
3io 
 
 TECHNICAL CONDITIONS OF BUCOLIC ART 
 
 PART VI 
 
 drawn firmly to show their construction well, but without paying attention 
 to those accidental qualities of colour and light that may legitimately make 
 them attractive in an oil picture. The landscape in mural paintings of 
 rustic life may be true in a limited sense — true in the characteristic outlines 
 of hills and trees and the larger foreground plants, but there should be no 
 attempt at any complete truth of effect. As for colour, it should be 
 simplified and kept far below the brilliance and intensity of nature. It is 
 enough to affirm that a distance is blue and a tree autumnal without insist- 
 ing upon the intensity of the azure and the gold. If these precepts appear 
 arbitrary, it may be answered that they are in conformity both with reason 
 and experience — with reason, as it is evidently right that painting, to be 
 associated with architecture, should be kept subordinate (the wall must still 
 be a wall) ; and with experience, because those mural paintings which exist 
 are satisfactory only when they have conformed to these requirements. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 WAR 
 
 A WELL-KNOWN French critic once reproached English authors in 
 general, and myself in particular, with the fault of bad composition — 
 not in the sense of ill-constructed paragraphs or sentences, but in the want 
 of due proportion amongst the parts and chapters of a book. As the best 
 of what every author writes comes from his own experience and direct 
 observation (the rest being usually a kind of digest from his readings, with 
 a commentary), it is, I believe, permissible to give a larger place to what is 
 personal than to what is merely borrowed, even though a certain dispropor- 
 tion, relatively to the subject, should be the result. I do not believe it to 
 be necessary to observe proportion in literature so carefully as in sculpture 
 or architecture, because in those arts the whole w T ork is seen at a glance ; 
 whereas, in reading, the person who is supposed to enjoy or criticise the 
 work is led by the author from one field to another, like a visitor going 
 over an estate, and as when he is in one of the fields he cannot be in the 
 others, the size and shape of them are mere matters of recollection, in no 
 wise affecting the field where he happens to be for the moment. When 
 the reader is occupied with this chapter it must be a matter of very small 
 concern to him whether some other chapter, say in the first part, was long 
 or short. Most likely he has already forgotten both its title and its 
 contents. 
 
 I do not see how it is possible, in the literature of criticism, to avoid the 
 disproportion that comes from inequality of knowledge and sufficiency or 
 insufficiency of experience, and the critic has never lived whose knowledge, 
 like the rays of the sun, could throw light equally in all directions. It is 
 often a mere matter of accident whether some special kind of information 
 has been acquired or not. No critic in the world, unless he has had 
 experience of boating, can speak with any real authority about the set of 
 the sails or the tension of the ropes in a marine picture ; nobody who has 
 
312 
 
 WAR 
 
 PART VI 
 
 not been taught to play the violin can say whether a painter is right or 
 wrong in the way he represents the positions of the left hand, the action of 
 the fingers, and the peculiar pressure of the bow upon the strings. Yet it 
 is a pure matter of accident, quite independent of studies in the history of 
 art, whether the critic has been fond of boating and fiddling in his youth. 
 
 These remarks may prepare the reader for the want of proportion 
 between the treatment of rural and of military life in the present volume. 
 It so happens that I am extremely familiar with rural life in all its details, 
 whilst I have not seen much of war. I have only seen one battle, and that 
 from some distance, with a field-glass. It was chiefly an artillery combat 
 and bombardment, in which riflemen defended the outskirts of a town, 
 whilst the bombshells flew over their position, each with its little cloud of 
 smoke in the clear December air. There were no charges of cavalry, and 
 nothing was done with the bayonet. It was merely an attack and a repulse, 
 of no great interest to the war correspondents . 1 However, besides this I 
 had a few little experiences, such as can only occur in a state of actual war. 
 
 I witnessed part of the retreat of the Armde de la Loire , the disorganised 
 cavalry crossing the snow-covered hills in most miserable plight ; and I 
 have met waggon -loads of wounded from the combats in Burgundy. 
 Besides this, for many months there was the constant sight of troops going 
 and coming, and the near neighbourhood of the most picturesque garrison 
 in France. 
 
 All this amounted to something ; but the impression caused by a state of 
 war was far more mental than ocular. The peculiar sense of insecurity, 
 and the constant presence of death, either from wounds or disease, gave a 
 familiarity with what is terrible that produced a sort of callousness, and 
 changed one’s appreciation of things. In ordinary times an execution thrills 
 
 1 In my own small experiences of war, I remember nothing so impressive as hearing the 
 thunder of a battle of which we could see nothing whatever. The weather being on that day 
 extremely favourable to the propagation of sound from the battlefield to my house, we heard the 
 cannonade with extreme clearness, though the distance, in a straight line, was exactly twenty-five 
 miles. It lasted a long time — some hours— and gave the impression of being much nearer to us 
 than it was in reality. As we knew nothing about the movements of the Bavarian army, beyond 
 the simple fact that it was in our neighbourhood, the situation of the battle was a complete mystery 
 to us, except that it was somewhere to the eastward. This mystery added greatly to the force of 
 the impression. Here is a case that invites a comparison between literary and graphic art. In a 
 novel, or, still better, in a poem, the distant thunder of battle, skilfully introduced, is in the highest 
 degree effective. It has often been used by naval novelists, who tell us of sea-fights audible but 
 invisible, as the masts of the fighting ships are below the horizon. A poet may go still further, and 
 awaken our sympathies for the dying we cannot see. Besides this, the literary artist can make the 
 audible but invisible battle a cause of intense interest, by awakening anxiety as to the result. “ If 
 the enemy wins, he will be down upon us to-morrow.” All this is beyond painting. The painter 
 can give us the pale dawn of a December day, he cannot tell us that Werder’s distant artillery is 
 already loud with all its voices. 
 
CHAP. IV 
 
 WAR 
 
 313 
 
 a whole town with a horrible emotion, but we got so used to the insecurity 
 of life that the numerous executions by order of the local court - martial 
 scarcely affected us more than the shootings of lamed horses. It would be 
 easy to expatiate much longer on the strange effects that a state of war 
 produces upon the mind, but in art that is the province of the novelist, and 
 we are here concerned with what is visible. 
 
 Now, from the visible aspect of the matter, I should say that a state of 
 war differs from a state of peace in one thing mainly, and that is in rubbing 
 off the polish and disturbing the beautiful regularity of reviews. With all 
 due respect to the military class, it must be admitted that an officer in full 
 dress, in times of peace, does appear too perfect even to be painted. How 
 is art to add anything to him, since he is himself so complete a work of art ? 
 And a regiment on parade, in line or square, is even more mechanically 
 perfect than the officer. The better it is from the military point of view, 
 the worse it is for art. The reader probably remembers some lines of 
 Wordsworth, “ Written in March,” including these three — 
 
 “ The cattle are grazing, 
 
 Their heads never raising ; 
 
 There are forty feeding like one !” 
 
 Would those forty cows be paintable in that complete uniformity of 
 attitude ? And is not a company of soldiers worse than the forty cows, 
 which had at least liberty enough to scatter themselves irregularly over the 
 field ? The perfection of a company is to lift all its left legs at the same 
 time, and then all its right legs, and to keep its two hundred eyes all 
 looking steadily in the same direction. The discipline of an artillery 
 regiment is shown by being able to preserve, at full gallop, a line of gun- 
 carriages and ammunition -waggons in the same perspective as a row of 
 fixed benches in a church. On parade, before military exercises begin, the 
 merit of the soldier is to be externally neat and clean — that is, to have his 
 clothes well brushed, his shoes blacked, and all his metallic gear carefully 
 polished. Here the soldiers are like the pretty and brilliant vices and 
 chisels in an ironmonger’s shop ; in warfare they are more like old tools in 
 a smithy, for there is no dirtier work than that which has to be done in the 
 sweat and dust or in the mud and blood of a battlefield. “Amongst the 
 realities of war,” said an experienced old officer to me, “there is one that 
 you can never adequately realise, and that is its extreme dirtiness. War 
 is a state of things in which cleanliness becomes not only difficult, but 
 impossible.” He then entered into details that cannot be put into a book. 
 Occasionally a chance presents itself when soldiers bathe in some river, like 
 
314 
 
 WAR 
 
 PART VI 
 
 Michael Angelo’s “ Soldiers Bathing in the Arno,” in the famous cartoon of 
 Pisa. Even in that composition, however, the artist suggests that war has 
 no respect for ablutions, as these men are dressing hurriedly to meet the 
 enemy. The dirt of war is disagreeable, and often most offensive in the 
 reality ; in painting it is positively advantageous, if only by getting rid 
 of military perfection. For the same reason the disorder inevitable in 
 warfare, even under the best generalship, offers countless opportunities. I 
 well remember the Garibaldian army in 1870. It was said to be one of the 
 least orderly bodies of men engaged in the great war, but it was by far the 
 most picturesque, and it happened to be in a place where the backgrounds 
 were generally in themselves all that a painter could desire. Some 
 incidents remain in the memory after a lapse of time, though of little 
 importance in themselves. I remember a walk with a friend one afternoon 
 in November 1870. The little city of Autun was crowded with Garibaldians ; 
 a German attack was expected every day, and we went to visit the batteries 
 near the old Roman gateway by the river. Thousands of Garibaldians, 
 officers and men, were out in the streets enjoying the beautiful afternoon, 
 which ended with one of those exquisitely poetical twilights that sometimes 
 occur in the late autumn in Burgundy. All over the ancient city there fell 
 a magical, soft, golden light, and in this wandered the strange Italian 
 figures, some active and rapid in their red shirts, others stately in mantle 
 and plume — all of them dignified in our eyes by the imminent call to battle. 
 During that walk we saw a hundred pictures for a de Neuville or a Detaille; 
 yet it was nothing in comparison with the real, terrible drama of the war, 
 or a single scene of it like that painted by de Neuville in “The Surprise at 
 Dawn,” where in the cold, early light, half obscured by fog, a small German 
 force has found its way into a village; the French rush out, and in an 
 instant the street is strewn with corpses. When the war was over, and the 
 painters who had been eye-witnesses began to consult their own recollections 
 and such scraps of sketches as they had been able to make, they all seem 
 to have agreed upon one thing, that the proper subjects for art were to be 
 found in separate incidents and episodes, not in the encounter of those 
 great masses of men that occupy the military historian. Landseer was 
 guided by a right instinct when he represented “War” by two dead 
 dragoons amidst the ruins of a cottage, one of the horses killed and the 
 other suffering from a wound. Our powers of sympathy are very limited, 
 and they act most efficiently when called forth by a very few individuals 
 whose features we can see. The emotion caused in us by the narrative of 
 a battle with its slaughter of twenty thousand men is so far from being ten 
 thousand times that awakened in us by the death of two whose faces we look 
 
CHAP. IV 
 
 WAR 
 
 315 
 
 upon that it is even considerably less poignant. When the claim upon our 
 sympathies is so great as to be utterly beyond their powers, they simply 
 refuse to act. The reason probably is, that sympathy consists mainly in 
 imagining one’s self in the situation of the sufferer, and that it is impossible 
 for one man to imagine himself in more than a very few situations. In 
 Landseer’s picture of “ War” the artist has made no claim beyond what an 
 ordinary imagination can easily meet ; so it sets to work at once and does 
 all that is required of it. Painters have often attempted to represent the 
 havoc of a great battle-field. In the most judicious of such attempts the 
 scene is a vast landscape, in which the usual “ accidents ” of rugged ground, 
 such as boulders or small hillocks, are replaced by the bodies of dead men 
 and horses, the whole seen under a calm and quiet effect of sunshine or 
 moonlight for contrast with the previous storm of battle, and to mark at the 
 same time the complete indifference of external nature to the sanguinary 
 conflicts that divide and devastate the troubled world of men. I am not 
 aware that these pictures ever excite any stronger feeling than an increased 
 dislike of war in those who already desire some more reasonable way of 
 determining the frontiers of nations. 
 
 The truth that in these great matters a part only, and a very small part, 
 affects us more than the whole, is fully exemplified in military literature. 
 The defect of Caesar as a narrator, from the artistic point of view, is that 
 his mind, being essentially that of a general, concerned itself almost 
 exclusively with masses of men, dealing with them always in great 
 numbers, and rarely taking much interest in individuals. If one of Caesar’s 
 officers had been gifted with the talents of a Marbot, the talents of 
 observation and vividly picturesque narrative, the sympathy that follows 
 the fortunes of obscure as well as illustrious actors in the military drama, 
 and which studies even the illustrious, not as commanders only, but as 
 human beings, we should have a much clearer conception of Roman 
 military life. Nothing strikes us more, in General Marbot’s inimitable 
 narrative, than the ease with which, by simply using his eyes, he goes 
 beyond all the fictions that have dealt with the same historical events. 
 There has never been a novelist who would have ventured to invent 
 anything approaching to the following account of General Macard : — 
 
 “ General Macard, a true type of those who had risen by luck and 
 courage, and who, whilst exhibiting real valour in the presence of the 
 enemy, were none the less unfitted for high rank by their want of educa- 
 tion, was remarkable for a very strange peculiarity. This singular 
 personage, a colossus of extraordinary bravery, never failed to cry out, 
 when preparing to lead a charge of cavalry, ‘ Come, I shall dress myself 
 
3i6 
 
 WAR 
 
 PART VI 
 
 like a beast ! ’ He then took off his coat, his waistcoat, his shirt, and kept 
 nothing but his plumed hat, his leather breeches, and his big boots ! In this 
 guise, naked to the waist, General Macard exposed to public view a torso 
 almost as hairy as that of a bear, which gave the strangest aspect to his 
 person! Dressed in this manner — ‘en bete,’ as he expressed himself with 
 reason — Macard threw himself without hesitation on the enemy’s horse- 
 men, but he seldom reached them, for at the sight of the half-naked giant — 
 at the same time so odd and so terrible, covered with hair and in such a 
 strange plight, who dashed at them with frightful yells — the enemies fled 
 on all sides, hardly knowing whether they had to do with a man or with 
 some ferocious and outlandish animal.” 
 
 Compare this description, as a subject for a picture, with such accounts 
 as you will find in the pages of Thiers. The historian would have said 
 simply, “ General Macard, at the head of his brigade, charged the enemy 
 with effect,” or he might have given the numbers of men engaged. 
 
 Before bidding adieu to that brave soldier and brilliant writer, Marbot, 
 we may accept his testimony that it is possible, under very favourable 
 circumstances, for military painting of the historical kind to be substantially 
 true. The painter Gerard made a picture of the battle of Austerlitz, and 
 chose “ the moment when General Rapp, coming from the fight, wounded, 
 and covered all over with the blood of the enemy and his own, presented to 
 the Emperor the flags which had just been taken, as well as Prince Repnin, 
 who had been taken prisoner.” Marbot says that he was an eye-witness of 
 this scene, and that the picture is remarkably exact. All the heads are 
 portraits, even that of the brave cavalry soldier who, mortally wounded by 
 a ball that had passed through his body, had still courage enough to come 
 and present a standard he had taken to the Emperor, in doing which he 
 fell down dead at his feet . 1 
 
 Truth of this kind is attainable only when the painter is a contemporary. 
 In fact the picture just described might have been mentioned with equal 
 appropriateness under the title “ Portrait,” since “ all the heads,” as Marbot 
 says, “ are portraits.” 
 
 It has perhaps already occurred to the reader to inquire how it happens 
 that military painting, as a branch of art, should be, as a whole, inferior to 
 some others. No one who is acquainted with the history of the fine arts 
 would dispute the assertion that religious painting includes far more of 
 what is elevated, simply as art and without reference to sentiment, than 
 military painting does. I mean that amongst religious pictures we are sure 
 to find more works remarkable for purely pictorial excellence than if our 
 
 1 The portrait of this man was introduced into the picture by the Emperor’s special desire. 
 
CHAP. IV 
 
 WAR 
 
 3W 
 
 choice were restricted to battle scenes. To bring the matter to a sort of 
 personal test. Let the reader imagine the case of any collector who under- 
 stands and values the artistic qualities of a work, and suppose him to be, in 
 his own inclinations, outside of art, neither military nor religious. Are not 
 the chances a hundred to one that the religious pictures in his collection 
 will far surpass the military ones both in number and in excellence ? And 
 even without including religious art, if we make the comparison simply 
 between civil and military subjects, will there not be a great predominance, 
 generally speaking, in the first ? In the great galleries to which pictures 
 are supposed to obtain admission by their quality, we find religious 
 pictures, historical pictures, scenes of high life and low life, in far greater 
 abundance than military pictures, which have a tendency to get set apart 
 in galleries of an inferior order, such as the wearisome vast wall-areas of 
 Versailles, or the huge and horrifying exhibitions of a Verestchaghine. 
 The production of military pictures — often great in the sense of size, rarely 
 in any other — is in fact a distinct business that can be learned by any clever 
 youth who has a natural talent for portraying action, who has studied men 
 and horses in the ateliers, and whose industry does not shrink from a minute 
 attention to the innumerable details of accoutrements. Horace Vernet is 
 likely to remain the chief of this class of artists who may be employed upon 
 large patriotic works to celebrate the military glories of their country. His 
 present successor, Detaille, is a painter of better quality and of profounder 
 human sympathies, though he may not have those amazing gifts of memory 
 and rapidity that belonged to Vernet, and were especially convenient to 
 himself. Detaille’s picture of the “Sortie of the Garrison of H uningen ” 
 (a small garrison of which only fifty had survived a siege by immensely 
 superior forces) is one of the most touching military pictures in existence. 
 The French defenders, pale, emaciated, or wounded, come out of their 
 fortress with all the honours of war, and are greeted with profound respect 
 by their Austrian enemies. A patriotic intention is, of course, the principal 
 motive of the work, and that concerns the painter’s fellow-citizens ; but if 
 we are high-minded enough to rise above the prejudices of nationality, we 
 may all see in it a testimony to the highest of all military virtues, constancy 
 in a defence so hopeless that nothing can be saved but honour. 
 
 In seeking for the reasons why military pictures are as a general rule 
 inferior to religious pictures, and to those of ordinary life in the highest 
 qualities of art, I find two which may go far to account for an artistic 
 inferiority. The first is that, naturally, all battle-pictures must represent 
 action, and violent action is a disturbing element in the fine arts. I know 
 how easy it will be for a reviewer to mention pictures by famous artists, 
 
313 
 
 WAR 
 
 PART VI 
 
 from Michael Angelo downwards, in which action is violent and spread over 
 the whole work, but their reputation does not rest on these. Nobody 
 would say that the reputation of Rubens rested upon “The Battle of the 
 Amazons,” or that if all his works had been of that character his name 
 would have been to us what it is. There is Raphael, too, with his “ Battle 
 of Constantine.” All its over-muscled men and fat cart-horses are not 
 worth one of his virgins, nor is their confused fury worth one serene 
 minute of her divine tranquillity. That “ machine ” has been extensively 
 imitated by the classical painters of Roman combats, and in their tediously 
 artificial designs we find the same horses, with their big hams and dispro- 
 portionately little heads, the same half-naked warriors, always with huge 
 muscles, the same inclination of spears and placing of shields, according to 
 the fancied necessities of the composition. No serious critic takes these 
 things for more than exercises in the attitudes of the human figure. One 
 does not expect a painter to show the intellectual side of war ; his business 
 is not with strategy, and, in fact, he has not at his disposal the means that 
 would be necessary to make us understand the work of a Von Moltke. 
 When, therefore, he attempts to make visible for us in some measure the 
 great scale of a battle, he is reduced to about a hundred figures in a fore- 
 ground , 1 or to a battalion or two in the middle distance ; the movements of 
 armies are beyond the resources of his art. In the foreground work that 
 properly belongs to him, the military painter is so much the victim of 
 uniforms that he is not free to make purely artistic arrangements of colour ; 
 he may have to deal with blue coats or red coats, white trousers or red 
 trousers, and in either case has little liberty. Nor is he much more at his 
 ease in the matter of ornament. The ornaments worn by soldiers are 
 decided for them by authorities who act in complete independence of artistic 
 considerations. They are often ugly and ridiculous, often obtrusive, almost 
 always things that a really great painter, a Titian or a Velasquez, would 
 reject as inconsistent with the gravity and unity of his art. The mere 
 labour involved in imitating braids and buttons is an idle occupation of a 
 serious artist’s time. He would prefer a peasant’s blouse with Millet, or a 
 monk’s hood with Zurbaran. However, there have been great changes 
 and great differences in the artistic value of military dresses and accoutre- 
 ments. The greatest painters of all ages have loved armour, and leather, 
 and plain, strong, serviceable cloth. Cromwell and his soldiers would have 
 been acceptable to the greatest artists of Venice or of Spain. They had no 
 
 1 After writing the above sentence I tried to count the figures in Raphael’s “ Battle of Constan- 
 tine.” The visible heads are between ninety and one hundred, that is, about the strength of a 
 
 company. 
 
CHAP. IV 
 
 WAR 
 
 319 
 
 frippery about them, and it is the frippery that disquiets art. In our own 
 day there has been a very happy tendency towards sobriety and simplicity 
 in military uniforms, both in form and colour, which brings them more 
 within the range of painting ; and besides this there is an increased elegance 
 and a closer approximation to the natural human form which, in some 
 instances, have made them available even for sculpture. With these im- 
 provements in the subjects of their art, and a preference of the nobler tragic 
 interests of military life to mere carnage, it is possible that the art that 
 deals with warfare may raise itself to a higher plane. 
 
 This chapter has dealt exclusively with warfare by land. Naval 
 warfare, as a subject for art, is considerably less satisfactory in various 
 ways. It has usually belonged much less to figure-painting than to 
 seascape, a class of art more nearly allied to landscape, and which has been 
 practised by landscape-painters, particularly by Turner. Now, in marine 
 pictures it is the ships, and not the men, which are the principal subjects. 
 This is so true, that pictures of wrecks and abandoned vessels still interest 
 us, though there is not a human being on board ; as, for instance, Stanfield’s 
 famous picture of “The Abandoned.” Pictures of naval battles have 
 usually been occupied with great hulls of vessels and clouds of canvas 
 above them, with crashing and falling masts and yards, the whole enveloped 
 in smoke. Small figures, painted not more accurately than they would be 
 in a landscape, are visible on the decks, and in the foreground there are 
 usually a few half- drowned sailors clinging desperately to wreckage. 
 Pictures of this kind have sometimes attained celebrity, like the two of 
 “ Trafalgar ” by Turner and Stanfield ; but they belong to an unsatisfactory 
 kind of art, being artificial compositions made up from documents eked out 
 by the artists’ imagination, and not resulting from impressions received 
 from an actual sight of the reality. Stanfield, it is true, had made several 
 long voyages as a sailor, and Turner was not unfamiliar with the Channel. 
 These experiences are not worth that of William Vandevelde, who 
 witnessed from a small boat the battle between the English and Dutch 
 fleets in 1666, and afterwards painted it. His experience is most excep- 
 tional amongst marine painters. As a class they are not only much less 
 interesting than painters who have witnessed actual warfare on land, but, 
 from the human point of view, less interesting than such a novelist as 
 Marryat, who described, mainly from recollection, not only the outward 
 appearance of men-of-war, but the bodily activity and the mental sensations 
 of our sailors in the great naval age of Nelson. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 WAR IDEALISED 
 
 AR may be considered from three different points of view, the philo- 
 
 sophical, the practical, and the romantic or poetical. It is the two 
 last which immediately concern the fine arts, and especially the last of all, 
 so far as anything approaching to great art is concerned. 
 
 It is almost a digression in a work on the fine arts to pause, even during 
 the length of a single page, for a consideration of war from a philosophical 
 point of view, yet it is that alone which elevates it sufficiently to make it a 
 worthy subject for art of a high order. If war had not some important 
 purpose to fulfil in the economy of nature, and in the regulation of human 
 life as a part of nature, the brutality and barbarity of it would repel us as 
 we are now repelled by pictures of judicial torture. If we still believed 
 that judicial torture was only a direct way of ascertaining truth, it is likely 
 that we should not be more repelled by the representation of it in art than 
 our forefathers were by the reality. Few of us can now endure representa- 
 tions of torture even in a public gallery, still less in our private rooms, and 
 this passing allusion to them is all the notice they will receive in the present 
 volume. 
 
 Humane people try in various ways to reconcile themselves to war. 
 They repeat, after Von Moltke, that it is the best school of obedience and 
 of courage, and they look upon commanders as the schoolmasters. There 
 is another consideration higher and more comprehensive than that. 
 
 War has hitherto been the chief agent in the making of great nations ; 
 and as a great nation is an extensive area of internal peace, the wars that 
 made it have prepared the peace. The steady tendency of war is to 
 increase the area of nations, and so diminish the number of rulers in a 
 position to declare war. Even now we see on the continent of Europe 
 what may be the beginning of the end. Not only are the nations them- 
 selves less numerous than before, considered as independent states, but they 
 
CHAP. V 
 
 WAR IDEALISED 
 
 321 
 
 have been compelled by the force of circumstances to alienate their inde- 
 pendence still further by arranging themselves in two groups. This 
 suggests the conclusion that Napoleon I., when he practically divided the 
 Continent between himself and the Czar, was not a mere disturber of the 
 world, but an agent acting under a natural law, and pushing forward towards 
 a necessary future. He may even have conceived a future as yet beyond 
 us when he looked to the hegemony of a single Power, and his only errors 
 may have been to attempt a settlement in the nineteenth century that the 
 real course of events had reserved for the twentieth, and to believe that 
 the supreme Power was to be France when it may turn out to be Germany 
 or Russia. The Roman peace of antiquity, in which conquered Gaul was 
 kept in order by a very small force, may be the precursor of a peace still 
 vaster and more permanent, in which the dread of one great state will 
 make all others keep the peace as Holland does now, without the necessity 
 of any foreign occupation. In fact, we are already so near to this that if 
 the power of Germany were a little greater such a state of things would be 
 practically realised. According to this view, the human energy that spends 
 itself in war is a natural force, acting unconsciously and mysteriously, yet 
 with the certainty of all the great natural forces, and tending towards an 
 ultimate order and tranquillity not otherwise attainable. 
 
 This is the scientific counterpart of the theological explanation that wars 
 take place by the permission of the Almighty, and that “ Slaughter is God’s 
 daughter.” The difference is that science points to a definite political good 
 as the result of successive conflicts. 
 
 It may be asked what these speculations, of unrivalled interest in them- 
 selves, have to do with the fine arts. The answer has been already given. 
 It is that if war had not some great end to serve, it would be purely horrible 
 and repulsive, but that a larger conception of it, whether theological or 
 scientific, enables our minds to get beyond the carnage, and, in that way, 
 to endure it. 
 
 Still, the whole truth about war cannot properly be told in the fine arts. 
 During the bloody campaigns in the Soudan some illustrated journals gave 
 much more of the horrors than was compatible with higher forms of art, 
 and even they were in some respects reticent, besides which, black and 
 white do not imitate blood as it is imitated in the sickening pictures of 
 Rochegrosse. And there are horrors in war that no draughtsman dares 
 to describe, nor writer either. Sometimes a military man will tell a friend 
 in private what he has seen ; many of us have received such confidences ; 
 they are of no literary or artistic use, they pass unrecorded like a whiff of 
 carrion in the air. 
 
 2 T 
 
322 
 
 WAR IDEALISED 
 
 PART VI 
 
 What remains to the practical-minded, unimaginative painter is a kind 
 of truth, literal as far as it goes, and very careful of such details as those of 
 uniforms and the position of troops. It becomes scientific art in this way, 
 that it includes the science possessed by officers, so far as it can be made 
 visible. I notice that whenever this scientific temper attains perfection in 
 a painter, it is sure to be accompanied by a tolerance of purely mechanical 
 construction that a great artist would not be likely to have. One cannot 
 imagine a great painter like Titian copying a modern iron bridge, with all 
 its plates and rivets, as these modern military painters will. The hard lines 
 of it, and its monotonous colour, would be repugnant to his cultivated taste. 
 
 There is no influence so powerful in driving us to seek refuge in the 
 ideal as the perfection of an art that reflects reality with an excessive and 
 obtrusive exactitude. The more precisely truthful the representation of 
 modern war, the more willing are we to escape from it. The best deliver- 
 ance is in those forms of art which cast an imaginative glamour over war- 
 fare, either by dwelling on its most heroic aspects, or by throwing it back 
 into a past that is either distant or fictitious, and then describing it with 
 the most noble associations. To do this with complete success is to trans- 
 port the mind from the region of fact to that of poetry, and to dwell con- 
 tentedly in that land as only those minds can which are able to detach 
 themselves from the actual. The quintessence of this spirit, that I may 
 call the dream or idealisation of war, is to be found in the ghostly warriors 
 “of godlike stature” in the sky of Turner’s vignette, illustrating some lines 
 by Rogers in his “Voyage of Columbus.” In many pictures the warriors 
 have been on the earth, yet it is not the common earth familiar to us in the 
 world of reality, it is an ideal region, where nothing is to be seen that could 
 possibly be harmful in a picture. In that land troops are not packed into 
 railway trains like sardines in tin boxes, nor do big transport ships take up 
 whole regiments at a straight-sided quay, but a few helmeted horsemen ride 
 down the rough and winding ways, through sun and shade, or we catch a 
 glimpse of their glittering armour in the moonlight, in some glade of the 
 primeval forest. If they embark it is in little ships with wooden turrets at 
 prow and stern — little ships that seem so full of courage as they face the 
 immensity of the sea. And beyond the sea itself there are the distant 
 hostile shores, mysterious, where the Paynims dwell. Everything in that 
 land is interesting, because nothing is ever anticipated by science. We 
 consult no maps — there are none — the unexpected character of the land- 
 scape is made possible by its entire independence of geology ; even the 
 armour and the rare glories of architecture are taken in some vague and 
 uncertain past that has never been divided by dates. The splendours of 
 
CHAP. V 
 
 WAR IDEALISED 
 
 323 
 
 the thirteenth century shine in some chapel or castle of the Arthurian age, 
 and we do not think of protesting because the age is really independent of 
 chronology. It is distant in time as the stars are remote from us in space, 
 and yet, somehow, subsequent to the establishment of Christianity. The 
 truth is that this land of romance is a dreamland peopled with images 
 taken from our readings of several poets and a few historians — a dreamland 
 not unknown to the more imaginative painters, who have illustrated it in 
 their own way. Its warfare is at the same time the grandest of all warfares, 
 and the least oppressive to the instinct of self-preservation. Hosts meet 
 in furious conflict, and many a brave knight dies, but not without having 
 manfully defended himself. He is not slaughtered by a pot of chemicals 
 and an electric wire. Nor is there any oppressive claim upon our sym- 
 pathies for the wounded. Men and horses go down in the stress of battle, 
 and that is all we are told about them. There are no ambulances, no 
 military hospitals, no surgeons, no operations. We see nothing of those 
 horrors of war that are really the hardest to bear, because they have to be 
 endured without its sublime excitement. The ideal warfare may be fierce 
 and furious, it is never depressing. What becomes of the wounded in its 
 battles? Neither painters nor poets tell us, and we do not inquire. They 
 drop out of the charging squadrons, as travelling swallows drop unrecorded 
 into the sea ; they are maimed and forgotten, as the field-mouse is maimed 
 by the mower’s scythe. Only whilst we read the pages of the dreaming 
 poet, or look at the idealised picture, can we dwell for a time in that land 
 where conflict is all heroism and bravery, where swords and lances are the 
 only weapons, except the flying arrow, and where mere senseless matter 
 does least to thwart the energy of man. In that land even the landscape 
 itself, by its breadth and grandeur — nay, the very clouds in the sky — are 
 nobler than in the common world. And all nature seems to take part in 
 the action, or to wait upon it. When the horsemen ride westward in the 
 evening, the light from the after-glow gleams upon their spears. The 
 moonlight glimmers on the swirling eddies of the stream they have to ford. 
 The skies are dark and threatening over the barren plain where the bold 
 knight is riding alone, undepressed by the fearful solitude, even though for 
 him it be spirit-haunted. When an army is on the march the movement of 
 inanimate nature seems to accompany it — 
 
 “ Winds were blowing, waters flowing, 
 
 We heard the steeds to battle going.” 
 
 In Homer the rivers know that their waters are polluted with blood and 
 their currents dammed up with corpses. Scamander complains to Achilles, 
 
3 2 4 
 
 WAR IDEALISED 
 
 PART VI 
 
 “ If indeed the son of Kronos hath delivered thee all the Trojans to destroy, 
 at least drive them forth from me, and do thy grim deeds on the plain, for 
 filled with dead men is my pleasant bed ; nor can I pour my stream to the 
 great sea, being choked with dead, and thou slayest ruthlessly.” 
 
 In the “ Song of Roland,” that great epic of mediaeval chivalry, we are 
 told that whilst the battle was being fought in the defiles of Roncevaux, 
 there was a perturbation of nature even in France. From noon to vespers 
 the realm was under thick nocturnal darkness, and neither sun nor moon 
 gave any light. “ All who saw these things believed that their end was 
 come ; and well, in verity, might they be in such sadness in the hour when 
 he who led all others, when Roland died.” 
 
 The tendency to associate nature with the conflicts of armies that we 
 find in mediaeval literature may have its origin in an antiquity even greater 
 than that of Homer. The mediaeval poet would always remember and 
 believe the famous passage in very early history, where a great leader 
 “said in the sight of Israel, Sun , stand thou still upon Gibeon \ and thou, 
 Moon, in the valley of A jalon." 
 
 I wish to end this chapter with two or three supplementary paragraphs. 
 
 This is clearly one of those cases where the imaginative treatment of a 
 subject conveys a deeper truth than the literal. For, after all, it is not the 
 accidents of war (and it is full of accidents) that make its greatness, but the 
 cool and determined valour of brave men, taking, especially in modern 
 times, the form of willingness to be sacrificed, often in rather large numbers, 
 even a regiment or more at a time , 1 for the success of the military opera- 
 tions. I remember a conversation with a French officer, in which he 
 calmly told me that a general who did not understand and act upon the 
 principle of sacrifice was not a general, and that every soldier worth the 
 name was willing to be sacrificed, on due occasion, to the interests of the 
 army engaged. Every military man will take this simply as a common- 
 place of his profession ; but is there any other profession, except the medical, 
 in which men consciously incur risks of death, amounting to certainty, in 
 order that others may succeed ? 
 
 In literature an idealised account of war may also be essentially the 
 truest, for the dirt, the diseases, and other disgusting circumstances, as well 
 as the low and inadequate, and sometimes unclean, language employed by 
 uneducated private soldiers, and the depreciating slang of officers, have no 
 connection with the great purposes of war, and may be omitted without any 
 1 There was a very fine example of this at the battle of Eylau. 
 
CHAP. V 
 
 WAR IDEALISED 
 
 325 
 
 loss but that of a mean kind of veracity. There is such a dread of using 
 fine words, even when most strictly applicable, that “ heroism ” and “ de- 
 votion ” are not likely to be pronounced in armies most distinguished for 
 these qualities ; some depreciatory bit of slang would equally serve the 
 purpose. In all the higher arts the nobler kind of truth is disengaged from 
 elements of vulgarity that interfere with our due appreciation of its nature, 
 and so, in a quite intelligible sense, these elevated arts are truer than the 
 literal representation of facts and accidents, many of which it is impossible 
 to describe even in the half-scientific literature of criticism. Again, the 
 supposed sympathy of material and external Nature with the anxieties and 
 agonies of human conflict is plainly a matter of imagination ; these marvels 
 did not actually occur. Still, in a deeper sense, there is a kind of truth in 
 them, for the reason, by no means fanciful, that war itself is a part of 
 Nature, like the attacks of the wearing and wasting waves. Inanimate 
 objects do not care whether we are fighting or at peace, and it is mere fancy 
 to assume that they do ; nevertheless, they and we are alike subordinated 
 to natural law, and in that sense the fundamental likeness beween the 
 thunder of cannon and that of meeting thunderclouds is equal to the 
 remarkable similarity in their sounds. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 SOLDIERS IN PEACE 
 
 'T^HERE is absolutely no other profession in the world that presents so 
 strong a contrast between two opposite states of life as does that of 
 a land army. “ The armies of the sea,” to translate literally an expression 
 that is not English, are on a kind of active service even in times of peace. 
 They are confined to their floating fortresses, and a storm may replace a 
 battle. The incessant vigilance and activity that prevail on shipboard bear 
 some resemblance to the vigilance and activity of war. With a land army 
 the contrast between garrison duty and active service is only lessened 
 during autumnal manoeuvres. In what other profession is such a contrast 
 possible? In every other business the daily work is serious, in this it is 
 mere practice, as when a boy goes through the motions of swimming in the 
 house. The pacing sentinel watches for an enemy who has no existence, 
 the mounted escort defends a Sovereign whom nobody thinks of attacking, 
 and the regiment of infantry, formed in square, prepares to resist a charge 
 of invisible cavalry. 
 
 If the same principle of constant practice in mere drill were applied to 
 other occupations, we should see shopmen, year after year, unfolding their 
 wares before imaginary customers, barristers appealing to the clemency of 
 twelve empty chairs, and clergymen preaching earnestly to four walls. 
 Waiters would serve empty dishes to imaginary guests, and journalists 
 would go through the manual exercise of writing without shedding a drop 
 of ink upon the paper. If we were told that these exercises were serious, 
 that at some future time, as yet unknown, it might prove useful or neces- 
 sary to have gone through them, we might believe the statement, but only 
 people with rare foresight would realise it. 
 
 This is how it comes to pass that whilst a land army is respected in time 
 of war it is seldom, during a long peace, taken quite so seriously as it 
 deserves. Has not the reader observed that almost all military pictures of 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
COSSACKS 
 
 Drawn by Caran d’Ache 
 Reproduced in Heliogravure by P. Dujardin 
 
 This is rather a humorous drawing than a caricature. At the same time it 
 is a remarkably good technical example of clear linear drawing aided by 
 slight brush-work applied with great discretion and reserve. Had the brush- 
 work been 'a little in excess of what it is the lines would have been over- 
 powered by it, and it would have ceased to be a simple accompaniment. 
 
 The strength of such work as this lies in its pitilessly truthful observation, 
 which makes heroic grandeur of the visible kind impossible by exhibiting so 
 much in form and attitude that is incompatible with it. As for accurate 
 observation of nature and downright veracity in delineation 1 do not hesitate 
 to say that there is more of both in these six horses or ponies than in all 
 the fat open-mouthed prancing steeds in the battle-pieces by the old 
 masters. 
 
 I owe best thanks to Mr. Tripp for having kindly allowed me to reproduce 
 this drawing, hitherto unpublished. 
 
 Some readers may thank me for telling them that the right pronunciation 
 of d’Ache is simply Dash. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
CHAP. VI 
 
 SOLDIERS IN PEACE 
 
 327 
 
 a high class represent soldiers in war-time, not always actually fighting, but 
 during a campaign, perhaps in a retreat ; for the glory or gloom of the 
 particular situation signifies little, provided that the painter shows us the 
 realities of war ? Soldiers in peace-time, on the contrary, are the constant 
 prey of the caricaturist. Since the peace of 1871 the French and Germans 
 have been incessantly caricaturing their own defenders, not in a really ill- 
 natured spirit, but in a spirit of harmless fun, and so in minor degrees do 
 the English and Italians. The sublimity of war is apt to be forgotten in a 
 quiet garrison town, and instead of thinking about that the artist amuses 
 himself by criticising the military class which attracts attention by its 
 peculiar costume and bearing. If a foreign army comes under his notice 
 he is likely to be more cruel. The nature of this volume did not permit me 
 to include positive caricature, but I could not resist the quiet humour of 
 this drawing by Caran d’Ache. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 NOBLES AND CITIZENS IN PEACE 
 
 ' I ''HE title of this chapter has cost me some pains, and is still rather 
 -*■ convenient than complete. I wanted a brief title that would include 
 all the aristocratic classes and the well-to-do middle classes also. It is 
 impossible to express that very laconically in the English language, and 
 yet it will be more interesting to speak of these in one chapter than in two, 
 because there is a contrast, and contrasts are of the utmost value in 
 literature, both to an author for strength of effect and to the reader as aids 
 to memory. 
 
 The conception of “noble life” in countries where there is a perfectly 
 distinct noblesse is that of abstinence from work that is paid for, along with 
 bodily activity, chiefly exhibited in the chase. “ According to the ex- 
 pression of those days,” wrote General Marbot, “ my family lived nobly , 
 that is, on its own revenues without any profession or industry.” A noblesse 
 is sometimes cultivated intellectually and sometimes it is not ; that difference 
 is of immense importance in literature — I mean in those histories and novels 
 which describe a noble class ; but the importance of it in the graphic arts 
 that represent the outward appearance of the class is so small as to be 
 hardly w'orth consideration. When, however, we come to the bodily 
 activities, the case is entirely altered. It is strange, but unquestionably 
 true, that an artist’s estimate of a noblesse is nearer to that of the peasant 
 than to that of the scholar. The artist values those qualities that can be 
 seen, not those that can only be appreciated intellectually. In war time 
 a vigorous noblesse has an ample field for its courage and activity ; in times 
 of peace the same physical vigour produces uneasiness unless it has an 
 outlet, and this it finds in the chase. The consequence is that pictures 
 representing the noble classes, when they are not historical pictures, but 
 works founded upon the artist’s personal observation of high life, are almost 
 invariably connected with hunting or shooting, directly or indirectly. In 
 
CHAP. VII 
 
 NOBLES AND CITIZENS IN PEACE 
 
 329 
 
 saying this I do not refer to portraits. These are commonly painted as if 
 the subject were indoors, yet amongst open-air portraits those referring to 
 field sports are very numerous. 
 
 The favourite artist of the English upper classes in the Victorian age 
 has been Sir Edwin Landseer. That famous painter knew those classes so 
 intimately, and had so many opportunities of observing their daily life, that 
 his testimony as an eye-witness would be of the greatest value were it not 
 naturally biassed by his love of animals, and his extraordinary skill in 
 representing them. Landseer’s view of aristocratic life may be expressed 
 with an apparent contradiction in this way ; it was a barbarian life associated 
 with much external refinement. This view would in many cases be suffi- 
 ciently just, in others it would be inadequate. When field sports are the 
 main business of a gentleman’s existence, a Landseer would do him justice ; 
 but when they are only its recreation, its source of physical renewal, and 
 the life itself is in another activity (say, politics or science), then Landseer 
 is a superficial interpreter. There is another kind of insufficiency in the 
 art of Landseer, as in that of Sir Francis Grant and all other painters of 
 aristocratic existence whom I remember. They never attempt any repre- 
 sentation of its tragedy — of the tragedy, I mean, which is common to all 
 ranks, and from which no social distinction gives any of us a real immunity. 
 In this, perhaps, there may still be a kind of truth. It has been said by a 
 close observer that the chief characteristic of good society is to live in a 
 region where evil of all kinds is made to seem remote, a region where all 
 horrors and cruel sufferings are diminished as much as possible by silence, 
 or discreet and reserved speech, where everything is represented as quietly 
 agreeable, and where by a tacit convention it has been decided to ignore 
 both the fierceness of human passion and the depth of human despair. The 
 representation of high life in painting seems to answer to this conception, 
 as it seldom gets beyond the mild emotions of the drawing-room or the 
 garden party unless it takes us upon the moors and invites us to share the 
 anxieties of the deer-stalker, whose finger is on the trigger when the stag 
 pauses to listen in the glen. In this view of aristocratic life it seems to me 
 that painting is greatly inferior to literature, which analyses motives and 
 exhibits the hidden springs of character and action. What are court- 
 pictures in comparison with a few chapters by a master of historical writing, 
 or even by some observer who has watched court-life day by day ? The 
 best of such pictures are merely external, and their value depends almost 
 exclusively upon technical qualities, such as drawing, colour, and com- 
 position. Some readers may remember a picture by Winterhalter repre- 
 senting the Empress Eugenie and the ladies of her court. It was nothing 
 
 2 u 
 
330 
 
 NOBLES AND CITIZENS IN PEACE 
 
 PART VI 
 
 but a group of pretty women in a park, deftly painted in unnatural hues, 
 and suggesting a competitive exhibition of beauties decked out by rival 
 milliners. The apex of the group was the fair imperial head which seemed 
 to say, “ I reign by beauty as well as by rank and station,” and to have no 
 other idea. These vanities are the sufficient motives of the court-painter. 
 He has his place in the order of the universe as a recorder of evanescent 
 glories. The most precious element in Winterhalter’s picture is its entirely 
 unintentional pathos. It is but a few short years since all these beauties 
 were amusing themselves every day, and devising new amusements for the 
 morrow. Where are they all now? The site of the Tuileries is a public 
 garden, Compiegne is without an inhabitant, a respectable President retires 
 occasionally to a corner of Fontainebleau, and the workman are carting 
 away the last loads of rubbish from the blackened ruins of St. Cloud. 
 
 Lord Byron once said that a poet's choice in society was between high 
 life and solitude. It is simply true that poetry finds itself most at ease in 
 describing an idealised life of the highest classes, or in giving beautiful 
 forms to the meditations of some solitary philosopher. In actual life 
 crowned heads are rare, and becoming still rarer, whilst there are surgeons 
 and attorneys in every town. In poetry kings are very common, even the 
 most democratic poets tell us long stories about them (as, for example, does 
 Mr. William Morris), whilst of surgeons and attorneys we find hardly any 
 record in poetry, and the few occasional references to them are usually 
 either unsympathetic or contemptuous. In painting, on the contrary, it is 
 the middle and the lower classes that have had the largest share of 
 attention, and it is the middle classes, in particular, that have been most 
 perfectly represented in their ordinary habits of life. (The reader will 
 understand that this refers to the class of composed pictures usually called 
 “genre,” and not to portrait.) The reason for this I take to be the social 
 station that has been most commonly occupied by painters themselves. 
 As a rule, in all countries, a painter who attains an ordinary degree of 
 reputation has easy access to the homes of the intelligent and fairly wealthy 
 middle class, and forms his friendships there ; but unless he belongs himself 
 to an aristocratic family (there have been some instances of this) he has 
 not the same frequent opportunities for observing an exclusive aristocracy, 
 and therefore does not enter so easily into the realities of its every-day life. 
 
 The perfection of middle-class life in painting is to be found in the 
 Dutch painters of the seventeenth century, and what we know of their 
 existence confirms the theory that I have just proposed. Vosmaer says 
 expressly, “ Les artistes hollandais etaient issus de la bonne bourgeoisie et 
 ils continuaient a vivre dans leur monde. On ne vit que rarement des 
 
THE CRADLE 
 
 Painted by Nicholas Maes 
 Etched by C. O. Murray 
 ( National Gallery') 
 
 Selected as a faithful representation of infancy and childhood, and also 
 because this is a kind of picture that translates well in etching. There are 
 great differences amongst pictures in this respect, classical painting generally 
 being unsuitable for etching, whilst Dutch interiors, as a rule, are well adapted 
 to this art. Maes was a pupil of Rembrandt, and as Rembrandt always 
 conceived subjects like an etcher, his pupil may have caught the habit from 
 him. 
 
 There is a curious contrast in this picture between the richness of the 
 table-cloth and the bareness and simplicity of everything else. Without the 
 table-cloth we should be in a very poor dwelling, with it we are in the well- 
 to-do middle class of Holland. 
 
CHAP. VII 
 
 NOBLES AND CITIZENS IN PEACE 
 
 33i 
 
 relations un peu intimes entre eux et les patriciens.” Speaking particularly 
 of Rembrandt, the same authority says that his manner of life was extremely 
 simple, that his days were passed in study and work, as his enormous 
 productivity proves ; but that, although he liked to meet intimate friends 
 and persons whose conversation was profitable to him, he was never an 
 “homme du monde.” “ Ennemi de tout eclat et dune gloire banale, il n’a 
 pas cherche la faveur des grands. II prefera la societe bourgeoise.” 
 
 Rembrandt, however, was too great a man, too imaginative, and too 
 much inclined towards sublimity in thought and feeling, to be an entirely 
 satisfactory painter of the citizen middle class. The best painters of that 
 class have been quiet observers developing great manual skill in a placid 
 condition of intellectual somnolence and industrious contentment, their 
 minds so disengaged from all great and serious preoccupations that the 
 whole strength of them could be devoted to such objects as the correct 
 imitation of clothes and furniture, or the tones of sunshine and shadow on 
 a wall. The lives of the citizens, as represented by these masters, were 
 above all things notable for quiet satisfaction in tidiness, decency, and 
 comfort. It is these, and not any intellectual superiority, that are the first 
 aims of civilisation. The higher culture comes afterwards, and is only for 
 a few ; it cannot be in any way adequately represented in the graphic arts, 
 it can only be suggested, as in Ary Renan’s portrait of his father, by 
 surrounding the studious man with books, or, as in two or three of 
 Rembrandt’s pictures of philosophers, by representing these exceptional 
 personages as actually “ tackling ” some ponderous tome that lies open 
 before them on a reading-desk. But the bourgeois or citizen success (I 
 might have said the Philistine success had I not wished to avoid the 
 appearance of contempt for it) is of a kind that can be most completely 
 represented in painting. The handsome dresses and furniture, the perfect 
 order and cleanliness, the calm personal felicity of the well-to-do, can all 
 be even better described by the painter’s art than by that of the poet or the 
 novelist. This bourgeois art, when of the best kind, is one that leaves 
 nothing to be desired ; you may prefer some other class of subject, but this 
 in its own way has completeness. It is true that the well-dressed people 
 do not speak, but who wishes them to speak, who supposes that they would 
 have anything interesting to say ? The novelist may here envy the painter 
 his liberty to leave his personages silent. The art critic may envy their 
 silence on his own account, as there is little to be said about them beyond 
 the simple fact that, if skilfully painted, they do excellently well in a picture. 
 No one ever reached greater perfection in this kind of art than Gerard 
 Terburg, though he by no means confined himself to it exclusively. As 
 
332 
 
 NOBLES AND CITIZENS IN PEACE 
 
 PART VI 
 
 his life passed between 1608 and 1681, and as he was almost the inventor 
 of the citizen interior as a subject for pictures lying outside of portraiture, 
 it may be a convenience to remember these dates. In England during the 
 nineteenth century, art of this class has been very little practised in the 
 illustration of contemporary life. There appear to be two reasons for this 
 abstinence. The first is that during the first half of the present century the 
 furniture and costumes of English people, though physically comfortable, 
 were unsuitable for the purposes of art. The second is that the English 
 mind likes to have some kind of interest in a picture beyond what is purely 
 artistic ; it likes what has been, not inaptly, called a literary interest, and of 
 this there is none whatever in the class of subject we are now considering. 
 Painters, therefore, simply as a matter of prudence, would be led to seek 
 for more or less dramatic and interesting situations, they would not feel it 
 to be enough to paint simply the life of their own time in its moments of 
 rest and stagnation. Perhaps now that the interiors of houses are much 
 prettier and more artistic than they were in the days of our immediate 
 forefathers, and now that the nature of the fine arts is so much better 
 understood than it was formerly, the painters of England may revive in 
 their own way a kind of art which has two very valuable qualities — first, a 
 certain quietness and repose which are highly favourable to excellence in 
 colour and execution ; and secondly, an independence so complete that each 
 picture tells its own story, and has no occasion for any reference to the 
 writings of the historian or the novelist. 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
 r 1 ''HIS book closes for me with a drawerful of unused memoranda, and 
 -®- an equivalent quantity of “intentions” in my mind which cannot 
 here be carried out. I have an intense dislike to writing chapters merely 
 to bring in materials, like a builder who erects a chapel to include columns 
 and capitals that have been found elsewhere and are to be utilised by his 
 ingenuity. It seems to me that writing which makes any claim to quality 
 as literature, or which aims at any quality, must use nothing beyond its 
 own immediate requirements. If whilst the writer is intent upon the 
 exposition of some idea, or the development of some doctrine, it occurs to 
 him that there is an example to be given that will strengthen his position, 
 let him give it at once and go on with his argument, but do not let him 
 accumulate unnecessary examples only because he has them amongst his 
 materials, and do not let him go out of his way because he knows of 
 something that might be said, though it lies outside of his real purpose. 
 
 Literature and the graphic arts are so different, that what is excellent 
 material for a painter often leaves a writer with very little to say. When 
 this happens, the writer ought to respect his own art and not sacrifice it to 
 another. Many pictures are technically of good quality, but mindless 
 except so far as mind is necessary for technical craft and manual skill. If, 
 at the same time, they are destitute of incident and action, there is really 
 nothing to be said about them except that they are well painted— a simple 
 assertion that does not carry a writer far. Why should he trouble himself 
 to say more than the case requires ? A Dutch painter may have spent 
 months in painting a servant girl scraping carrots. In literature the proper 
 parallel would be a study of such a girl’s character and life in a novel ; art 
 criticism would have nothing to say about the girl herself, as it knows 
 neither her name nor her history, all that remains is to give a technical 
 account of the picture, which must either be brief or wearisome. It is only 
 after long experience in criticism that we perceive the curious differences in 
 
334 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 the availableness of artists and their works as subjects for literary treatment. 
 This availableness is independent of simple merit. Rembrandt is an 
 excellent subject, because he is full of variety and contrast, and because his 
 interest in human life was so comprehensive. Michael Angelo is not nearly 
 so good, because the two qualities of his work, science and physical 
 sublimity, can scarcely supply matter for a lengthened essay ; you say that 
 he was learned, that he understood the art of making religious personages 
 look dignified and sublime, and that is almost all that there is to say. 
 Turner is an excellent subject, because his art had such an immense range 
 and was so full of novelty, so much animated by the two stimulating spirits 
 of rivalry and discovery ; Claude is a subject for a short essay ; the art 
 of Corot may be described, in all its essentials, in a page. Amongst 
 illustrators, Gustave Dore is a much better subject than Vierge, though he 
 never drew so well ; but in writing the difference between excellent drawing 
 and that which is not excellent may be stated in a sentence, and after that 
 the greater range and variety of Dore would give interest to a longer 
 criticism. 
 
 These are merely a few examples ; it would, be easy to adduce many 
 others. It is enough to say that the numerous omissions in this volume, of 
 which nobody can be more clearly conscious than the author, are due chiefly 
 to his unwillingness to offer disconnected memoranda. It can, no doubt, 
 be done, but such memoranda are not likely to be accepted unless they 
 come from one whose authority is derived from great eminence in practice. 
 The model of that kind of composition is the “Treatise on Painting,” by 
 Lionardo da Vinci — a treatise which survives with the fame of him who 
 painted the “ Mona Lisa”; but no critic of our time could venture to write 
 so artlessly. For example, he tells us “ how to paint women ” : — 
 
 “Women are to be represented in modest and reserved attitudes, with 
 their knees rather close, their arms drawing near each other, or folded 
 about the body, their heads looking downwards, and leaning a little on 
 one side.” 
 
 Nor could a modern writer print such directions as these for the 
 representation of despair : — 
 
 “ The last act of despondency is when a man is in the act of putting a 
 period to his own existence. He should be represented with a knife in one 
 hand, with which he has already inflicted the wound, and tearing it open 
 with the other. His garments and hair should be already torn. He will 
 be standing with his feet asunder, his knees a little bent, and his body 
 leaning forward, as if ready to fall to the ground.” 
 
 Considered as literature, nothing can be easier than this style of 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
 335 
 
 composition, particularly because the precepts are isolated and may be 
 indefinitely multiplied. 
 
 Had my book been didactic rather than literary, and intended for the 
 use of art students, it would have been quite necessary to give several 
 chapters on physical action ; but that, in reality, is a strictly scientific subject, 
 and a most difficult one to deal with. Instantaneous photography first 
 demonstrated that artists had only represented what they siipposed to be 
 action , not the real action itself, and this led a few scientific men to 
 investigate the subject with their own methods and appliances. At the 
 present time these investigations are being carried out with great patience 
 and in a severely scientific manner at the Station Physiologiqzie du Parc 
 des Princes , close to Paris, an establishment belonging to the Colldge de 
 France . When the results of these investigations are fully given to the 
 world, all the artistic treatises on the subject of physical action will become 
 suddenly obsolete. We have been taught enough already by instantaneous 
 photography to be certain that no artist before our own time ever knew 
 how a horse galloped or a man jumped. If any one were imprudent enough 
 to publish a treatise on physical action at the date of the present volume, it 
 could only be a compilation and a mixture of two contradictory theories — 
 the old artistic theory, which will be extinct in a few years, and the new 
 scientific one, as yet imperfectly established. These considerations were 
 enough to deter me from the insertion of chapters on the study of motion. 
 There is also another reason. Scientific investigations or compilations 
 ought to be reserved for scientific books. When scientific work is done 
 as it ought to be, it is a thing apart from literature, and it differs from 
 literature in requiring another temper of mind both in author and student. 
 Its reward is fresh discovery, and I had no hope of discovering anything 
 that would not be soon superseded by investigators with a special 
 equipment for such work. Another reason for discouragement is that I 
 have not a robust faith in the supposed service of these labours to the fine 
 arts. For example, take the action of horses. Painters who go to 
 instantaneous photographs for the gallop may be accurate, but their horses 
 do not seem to gallop, they look rather as if they were trying to assume 
 impossible fixed positions. In course of time people may be educated to 
 see action truly in nature ; at present they cannot, and until they can do 
 that the art which goes beyond sight and relies upon knowledge will be 
 unfaithful to the first principle of visual truth. 
 
 Action and expression are very closely allied, though expression often 
 lasts much longer, as in the case of a countenance that is permanently 
 melancholy. Expression has been better investigated than action, particu- 
 
336 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 larly by the observant genius of Sir Charles Bell, who brought to his task 
 the knowledge of an anatomist with the interest of a lover of art. His 
 work on the Anatomy of Expression has been in my library forty years, and 
 has been frequently studied. One effect of it has been to deter me from 
 writing a chapter on the subject. An inadequate book already in existence 
 is a strong stimulus to write another ; a good one produces exactly the 
 contrary effect. Sir Charles Bell even goes beyond what is strictly 
 necessary — I mean when he studies those extremes of violent expression, 
 and those convulsions of disease that are not properly admissible in the 
 fine arts. 
 
 After selecting the illustrations to the present volume, I discovered for 
 the first time that my own taste, with regard to action and expression, is 
 completely in harmony with that of Lessing and Meissonier. Some readers 
 may remember that all the early works of Meissonier represent figures 
 either in complete repose, as a smoker or a reader in nis chair, or else 
 doing something that can be done slowly and with little effort, and they 
 never have any violent or excessive expression. This showed his real 
 opinion about the subjects most suitable for art. Then came the critics 
 who attributed this choice to inability to represent action, and Meissonier 
 answered them by painting “ La Rixe” (the scuffle), in which two men have 
 quarrelled and are trying to kill each other, but are forcibly held back by 
 their friends. Here the action is as violent as it possibly can be, but as 
 Meissonier had proved in this picture that he did not abstain from such 
 action from a consciousness of incompetence, the “ Rixe ” stands alone 
 amongst his works. The reasons against the choice of all subjects of that 
 class were given by Lessing in these terms : — 
 
 “Again, since this single moment receives from art an unchanging 
 duration, it should express nothing essentially transitory. All phenomena 
 whose nature it is suddenly to break out and as suddenly to disappear, 
 which can remain as they are but for a moment ; all such phenomena, 
 whether agreeable or otherwise, acquire, through the perpetuity conferred 
 upon them by art, such an unnatural appearance, that the impression they 
 produce becomes weaker with every fresh observation, till the whole sub- 
 ject at last wearies or disgusts us.” 
 
 I find that I have no objection to rapid or violent action in slight 
 sketches that are to be glanced at for a moment, but that I dislike it in 
 statues and finished pictures. It is admissible in book-illustration, especially 
 when the sketches are very numerous. Amongst the wonderful illustrations 
 to Pablo of Segovia , by Vierge, many are in violent action. I remember 
 one particularly, a youth running round a corner and a man after him with 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 ‘ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
BEDTIME 
 
 Two Studies by G. D. Leslie, R.A. 
 
 Reproduced in Photogravure by Annan and Swan 
 
 In the original one of these studies was in black chalk and the other in red. 
 They might easily have been printed so, but Mr. Leslie preferred to have them 
 in the same ink, I thank him for lending the drawing “ to an old friend ” as 
 he kindly expressed it. 
 
 From the slightly displeased expression on the young mother’s countenance, 
 and also from her attitude, which is not precisely affectionate, we may infer 
 that the child has not been altogether agreeable. 
 
 I chose the drawing with the idea that there would probably be a chapter 
 on the representation of infancy in art, but felt afterwards that I had not the 
 necessary enthusiasm about babies, so that the plate remains almost unsupported 
 by letterpress. However, it can do without, and even this brief page allows me 
 to say that I share the young woman’s evident conviction that babies are 
 “ best in bed.” In prevision of all the obloquy that this will draw down upon 
 me I hasten to add that I wish them no harm, and consider it quite wrong to 
 turn them prematurely into angels by smothering or starvation. 
 

 
EPILOGUE 
 
 337 
 
 a dagger, in furious pursuit. For an instant you see them in motion, but if 
 you pause before turning the page the effect is like a sudden stoppage in 
 the middle of a tune. This arrest in action was turned to admirable 
 account by Matthew Arnold in his description of the huntsman on the 
 tapestry in Tristram and Isezilt, where, to account for it, he supposes the 
 huntsman’s movements suspended by what he sees in the room. 
 
 I agree equally with Lessing in what he says of the extremes of ex- 
 pression : — 
 
 “ There are passions and degrees of passion whose expression produces 
 the most hideous contortions of the face, and throws the whole body into 
 such unnatural positions as to destroy all the beautiful lines that mark it 
 when in a state of greater repose. These passions the old artists either 
 refrained altogether from representing, or softened into emotions which 
 were capable of being expressed with some degree of beauty.” 
 
 To my taste the most permanently attractive of all portraits is the 
 melancholy young man by Francia in the Louvre. There is a great deal 
 of expression in that portrait, but as it is of a kind that might last indefin- 
 itely in saddened solitude, it loses nothing by the length of our contempla- 
 tion. It even gains, in this way, that the longer we look the more deeply 
 we feel the mystery of a melancholy that will remain an enigma so long as 
 the picture lasts. 
 
 I had intended to give two or three chapters on allegorical painting and 
 sculpture, but though materials were not wanting, I delayed the writing till 
 it was too late. Few artists have cared to make their allegories rational 
 and consistent, so the result of that kind of art is usually little more than a 
 certain technical advantage — that is, it permits the introduction of ideal 
 figures. Even in this there lurks a great danger of incongruousness. The 
 ideal figures may be inconsistent with each other, or they may be grouped 
 with real persons, who look ridiculous in such august society. Both faults 
 are to be seen in the well-known compositions of Rubens in honour of 
 Henri IV. and Marie de Medicis. The painter calmly presented personages 
 then living in the flesh on the same canvases with the gods and goddesses 
 of an extinct religion, and personifications of virtues and vices as well as of 
 kingdoms and great cities. If the same irrational system prevailed in our 
 own day we should have serious pictures of Queen Victoria with Erin, 
 Clemency, and Home Rule. In the same series of pictures Rubens has 
 personified France in one woman and Lyons and Marseilles in two others, 
 as if Lyons and Marseilles were not parts of France, and as if they could 
 be detached from France without disruption of the kingdom. In spiritual 
 things, we have Religion in one figure and Justice and Truth in two others, 
 
 2 x 
 
338 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 as if Religion did not herself always claim to be Truth and Justice too. 
 A mere political arrangement, the Regency, is made into a figure_along with 
 such conceptions as Fecundity and Felicity, though the first is temporary 
 and local, the others outside of time. The only safe rule in allegorical art 
 is to keep everything out of each work that is not in the same order of 
 ideal conceptions as the rest, and always to exclude reality most rigorously. 
 With the kind of consistency that this rule ensures, and a high degree of 
 idealisation, without which allegorical art is intolerable, that kind of art may 
 still continue to flourish in mural painting and in monumental sculpture. 
 Allegory is very commonly resorted to in caricature, because the sublime in 
 it is so easily turned into the ridiculous. 
 
 Amongst other intentions not carried out has been that of a chapter on 
 Death, as dead bodies have been so frequently carved and painted, and are 
 quite favourite subjects with some masters — for example, Jean Paul Laurens. 
 Until the uncompromising realism of modern war-painters and draughtsmen 
 took the subject in hand, the most dreadful aspect of death had scarcely 
 been illustrated at all, and that is a false resemblance to life, as when men 
 slain in battle appear to retain a sort of arrested activity in their limbs, and 
 stare with stony eyes. It is this false semblance of life in death that makes 
 it dreadful for divers to enter the cabins of sunken ships and find them- 
 selves alone amongst the drowned, and it is this which gave such horror to 
 the reapparition of Caraccioli’s body, whom Nelson mercilessly refused to 
 save from a hurried condemnation. The body, we are told, rose from the 
 bottom of the sea, the cannon-shot fastened to its legs serving only as 
 ballast to keep it upright, as the wind wafted it towards Naples. In war, 
 and in accidents, the dead are often seen in postures that no artist would 
 invent for them, and their faces assume the strangest expressions. All this 
 is mere chance and signifies nothing, but the boldest of us does not like to 
 be stared at by a corpse. 
 
 When art sets itself to tell the whole truth, it may undertake the repre- 
 sentation of these and other facts as a sort of conscientious duty. A higher 
 view of truth relieves art from any such obligation. For what is the funda- 
 mental verity about death? It is that the dead body neither enjoys nor 
 suffers, that the dead eye does not see, the dead brain does not weary itself 
 by thinking. If, then, there is an appearance of suffering or of effort, it is 
 an entirely delusive appearance. When the eyes of a corpse have been 
 closed by the kindly hands of the living, there is more truth, in the higher 
 sense, in the closed lids than there is in the appearance of seeing ; and when 
 the body has been laid out in perfect rest, there is more truth than in the 
 tossed arms of the stiffened soldier on the battlefield. Even the appearance 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 . . . . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A DEAD LADY 
 
 Drawing by N. F. O. Tassaert 
 Reproduced in Heliogravure by P. Dujardin ; 
 
 A STUDY of death which is absolutely truthful, without being in any way 
 repulsive. _ • 
 
 This, indeed, is the last and complete sleep. One has only to look at the 
 drawing for a minute, to feel the peculiar sensation that comes upon us when 
 we gaze upon a corpse, expecting it to stir, and it does not stir ; expecting 
 it to breathe, and it does not breathe. Then, if one gazes long, there come 
 moments almost of illusion ; it seems as if that perfect stillness had been for 
 an instant broken, yet it is never broken. The only motions henceforth will 
 be the slow changes of decay, and these it is not good for the living to think 
 about or look upon. Let them, rather, revert to the past of the earthly life 
 that is ended, or dream of the “ distant Aidenn.” 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
 339 
 
 of serenity itself is delusive, if we attribute the consciousness of serenity to 
 the dead. 
 
 The elder Leslie once wrote a chapter on the beauty of death. Not 
 only does it sometimes increase beauty for a few hours, but when the dead 
 person is old it may make the face look younger by many years. In one 
 case that came under my own observation a very old person resumed, after 
 death, the appearance of middle age, and there was even a suggestion or 
 reminiscence of what she had been in her prime. When death occurs 
 before youth is past, and when the dead person has been beautiful in life, 
 there may come, for a very brief space of time, a kind of idealisation, 
 answering to the beautiful light of the afterglow when the sun has left the 
 landscape. No funeral can be so touching as that of a fair maiden in 
 Greece, where her body, carefully dressed, adorned with flowers, and 
 exposed to the mournful gaze of many sympathising spectators, is borne 
 tenderly to her last resting-place in the clear summer twilight of Attica — 
 
 “ The life still there upon her hair — the death upon her eyes.” 
 
INDEX 
 
 Action not desirable in a picture, 336. 
 
 Actor compared to artist, 1 3. 
 
 Albert monument, 1 1 o. 
 
 Allegory in art, 338. 
 
 Amateur, the, defined, 45. 
 
 Angelico, Fra, 69, 70. 
 
 Angels as treated in art, 96 seq. 
 
 Andrea del Sarto, his early apprenticeship, 9. 
 
 Arnold Matthew, 114; on culture, 18; on 
 education, 25, 26. 
 
 Art contains little positive doctrine, 3 ; a 
 Proteus, 4 ; is to some extent scientific, 4, 18 ; 
 is a good deal influenced by theory, 7 ; pro- 
 fessional preferences in, 15; an antithesis 
 to science, 17; “ Grand Art,” 2 1 ; invention 
 and taste required in art as in literature, 27 ; 
 is not always civilising, 32 ; is not imitation, 
 53 seq. ; invention in, 54, 55; does not 
 require finished imitation, 56 ; greater than 
 beauty, 87 ; that of painting united to the 
 other arts in early times, 1 1 8 ; early art 
 decorative, 1 1 9 ; encouraged by Roman 
 Catholics, 139; has no purpose beyond it- 
 
 ■ self, 174. 
 
 Artistic interests in life conflict with the 
 human, 5 ; spirit akin to the religious, 24 ; 
 instinct, 288. 
 
 Artist, defined, an, 46. 
 
 Artists, their education, 6 ; members of a 
 liberal profession, 6 seq. ; their struggle for 
 technical excellence, 1 5 ; may be amateurs, 
 47 ; their indifference to dates, 172. 
 
 Atkinson, his Art Tour i?i Northern Capitals , 
 76 note. 
 
 Baffier, J., a realist in bas-relief, 305. 
 
 Bagehot, Mr., on costume, 243, 244. 
 
 Barante, his History of the Dukes of Burgundy, 
 quoted, 200. 
 
 Bartholdi, 106. 
 
 Bartolommeo, Fra, 9. 
 
 Bas-relief, a good medium for realism, 305. 
 
 Beauty non-existent like sound and colour, 
 60 ; a search for it is the least vain among 
 human pursuits, 63 ; not clearly separated 
 from interest, 65 ; must exhibit unity, 68 ; 
 
 its enjoyment a serious pleasure, 72 ; is not 
 popular, 88. 
 
 Beard in sculpture, 274. 
 
 Behnes, his studio haunted by Mr. Watts, 48. 
 Bell, Sir Charles, on The Anatomy of Expres- 
 sion, 336. 
 
 Bellini, John, 113. 
 
 Black Virgin at Dijon, 119, 141. 
 
 Blake, William, his theology, 105, 106. 
 
 Blanc, Charles, 28, 150; on Delacroix, 12. 
 Boats and ships good objects in which to study 
 beauty, 68, 69. 
 
 Body is not the man, 262. 
 
 Bonheur, Rosa, 294, 303, 306, 307. 
 
 Bonheurs, the, 295. 
 
 Bonnat, his “Renan,” 228, 267. 
 
 Borgognone, 69, 70, 234. 
 
 Botticelli, 35 ; his commentary on Dante, 14; 
 
 his foolish remarks on landscape, 23. 
 Boucher, painter, 84. 
 
 Boucher, sculptor, his “A la Terre,” 303. 
 Boughton, G. H., 205. 
 
 Bourgeois prosperity appeals to art, 331. 
 Breton, M. Jules, 295, 307 ; quoted, 296, 299. 
 Brett, Mr., 190. 
 
 Bucolic subjects : their effects on art summar- 
 ised, 309 ; in sculpture, 304. 
 
 Buisson, M. Jules, 86. 
 
 Calderon, Mr., 31. 
 
 Canaletti, 46. 
 
 Carpeaux, 43, 223. 
 
 Castiglione, 83. 
 
 Chantrey, 34. 
 
 Chartran, 248 ; his Leo XIII., 247. 
 
 Chauchard, 88 note. 
 
 Christ absent in a picture of The Last Supper, 
 205. 
 
 Christianity, its types of manhood, 96 ; may be 
 legitimately artistic, 103. 
 
 Chryselephantine statue, the, 75 seq. 
 
 Churches allow secular but not religious 
 monuments within their walls, 143. 
 Civilisation among English and French students, 
 31 - 
 
 Classic caste unfavourable to bucolic art, 305. 
 
342 
 
 INDEX 
 
 •Claude, 34, 202, 334 ; not much educated, 9 ; 
 
 his figures, 284. 
 
 Clouet, 242. 
 
 Collier, Mr. John, 213, 256, his Primer of 
 Art , 17, 18 ; quoted, 192 note. 
 
 Colour in painting is a personal matter, 5 5. 
 Comte, his “ Recreation de Louis XI.” 200. 
 Constable, 34, 192. 
 
 Constant, Benjamin, 206. 
 
 Cooke, Edward, 20. 
 
 Cormon, his “Cain,” 167, 168. 
 
 Corot, 34, 35, 45, 52, 202, 334. 
 
 Correa, Rafael, 294. 
 
 Correggio, 298. 
 
 Cossa, Francesco della, 118. 
 
 Couture, 45. 
 
 Courbet, 84, 295. 
 
 Courtois, 221. 
 
 Cox, 202. 
 
 Critic, his idiosyncrasy important, 4. 
 
 Crivelli, Carlo, 109. 
 
 Crucifixion not treated in the catacombs, 107. 
 Cruikshank, 175. 
 
 D’Ache, Caran, 327. 
 
 Damman, M., 308. 
 
 Darwinism will not affect the fine arts, 170. 
 David, 46, 73, 204 ; his school, 8 ; he taught 
 Ingres, 12 ; disliked by the English, 199. 
 Delacroix, Eugene : his culture, 1 2 ; he objects 
 to copying Nature, 13 note. 
 
 Delaroche, 204. 
 
 Delaunay, Elie, 247. 
 
 De Neuville, 3 1 4. 
 
 Delecluze, M., on the School of David, 8. 
 Desnoyers, Auguste, the engraver, 248. 
 
 De Troy, 247. 
 
 D’lllzac, Ringel, 223. 
 
 Dirt inevitable in war, 313; and helpful to 
 art, 314. 
 
 Dore, Gustave, 334. 
 
 Dow, Gerard, 237. 
 
 Drevet, 246, 247. 
 
 Dupre, Jules, 48. 
 
 Durand, Amand-, 308. 
 
 Diirer, Albert, 86, 100, 284 ; his accuracy, 19, 
 266 ; an apology to, 19 ; his ineffectiveness, 
 20; his hair, 276; his “Prodigal Son,” 
 3 ° 7 - 
 
 Duran, Carolus, 212 note. 
 
 Dys, Habert, 85. 
 
 Edelfelt, 157. 
 
 Edelinck, 246, 247. 
 
 Education, the handicraft theory of, 8. 
 
 Etching a good medium for the representation 
 of hair, 276. 
 
 Etty, 30, 44. 
 
 Eyck Van, see Van Eyck. 
 
 F IGURES offer material for positive study, 5 1 ; 
 their study leads to firm knowledge, 52 ; 
 
 their judicious arrangement in a picture pro- 
 duces dignity, 135. 
 
 Fildes, 29; his “Widower,” 90; his “Empty 
 Chair,” 205. 
 
 Flameng, F., 194, 256. 
 
 Flandrin, 226. 
 
 Flaxman, 89, 90. 
 
 Francia, his “Melancholy Young Man,” 337. 
 
 French, their system good for technique, 27 ; 
 their students very disorderly, 31 ; their 
 modern dress, 254. 
 
 Frere, Edouard, 295. 
 
 Frith, his “Derby Day” and “Railway Sta- 
 tion,” 92. 
 
 Fromentin, 73, 301. 
 
 Furniss, Harry, 86. 
 
 Gaillard, Ferdinand, 122, 256, 257. 
 
 Gainsborough, 212, 275. 
 
 Gamier, M. Jules, 185. 
 
 Gerard, 316 ; his “Napoleon,” 248. 
 
 Gericault, 46, 48. 
 
 Gdrome, 77 note; his “Grand Piscine de 
 Brousse,” 42. 
 
 Ghirlandajo, Domenico, 65, 266. 
 
 Gilbert, Sir J., 70, 91, 194. 
 
 Giotto, 1 10. 
 
 Gods, they were not men, 95 ; but represented 
 types of manhood, 96. 
 
 Gothic in art, taken as religious, 126, 127. 
 
 Grant, Sir Francis, 263, 329. 
 
 Gros, his “ Buonaparte,” 203. 
 
 Guerin, 48. 
 
 Guillaume, M., on education, 1 5. 
 
 Gusman, M., his “ Silenus,” 253. 
 
 Hals, Frans, 237. 
 
 Hamerton, P. G., his Landscape and The 
 Graphic Arts , 3 ; his apology to Diirer, 19 ; 
 his IVenderholme, 159. 
 
 Hand, the, in portraiture, 265 seq. 
 
 Haydon, 194, 201. 
 
 Hayller, James, 201. 
 
 Hilton, 176, 201. 
 
 Hogarth, 177. 
 
 Holbein, 172, 220, 236, 241 ; his “Erasmus,” 
 266. 
 
 Hole, 242, 263. 
 
 Horsfall, T. C., 64. 
 
 Hunt, W. M., 45. 
 
 Human interests conflict with the artistic, 5 ; 
 but have their influence on art, 282. 
 
 Humanity and landscape present different ideals 
 to the painter, 284 seq. 
 
 Idealism, its absence produces indecency, 41 ; 
 cannot be understood by the people, 128, 129. 
 j Imitation is not art, 53 seq. 
 
 Impressionists, 265, 266. 
 
 Ingres, 28, 30, 34, 192, 193, 258; a 
 
 musician, 1 2 ; his “ St. Symphorien,” 2 1 ; 
 his opinion of the relative importance of 
 
INDEX 
 
 343 
 
 colour and drawing, 28, 29 ; his “ CEdipus,” 
 44 - 
 
 Invention, the pleasures of, 259. 
 
 Israels, Joseph, 89, 90. 
 
 Jacques, Charles, 303. 
 
 Jews object to any art founded on study of the 
 body, 263. 
 
 Jordaens, 84. 
 
 Knowledge is not necessarily scientific, 18; 
 such scientific knowledge is often absent in 
 great masters, 18, 19 ; is not mastery, 50. 
 
 Labre, 1 2 1. 
 
 Landseer, Sir Edwin, 46, 189, 193; right in 
 his painting of war, 314, 315; a favourite 
 with the upper classes, 329. 
 
 Larochefoucauld, 132. 
 
 Laurens, Jean Paul, 190, 194, 195, 206, 338. 
 
 Legros, an interpreter of religious feeling, 158. 
 
 Leighton, Sir F., 28, 83, 86; his “Arts of 
 War ” and “ Arts of Peace,” 5 ; an idealist, 
 41 ; his knowledge of modern languages, 1 1 ; 
 his portrait of Sir Richard Burton, 257. 
 
 Leloir, M. Maurice, 175, 176. 
 
 Lepage, Bastien, 295. 
 
 Leslie, 34, 189, 339; his acquaintance with 
 literature, 1 3 ; his portrait of Constable, 
 258. 
 
 Lewis, John, 134. 
 
 Lhermitte, 295, 309. 
 
 Linnell, 285. 
 
 Lionardo, see Vinci , Lionardo da. 
 
 Littre, 89 ; his definition of the liberal arts, 6. 
 
 Liotard, the pastellist, 277. 
 
 Lithography, is suitable for rustic subjects, 308. 
 
 Lockhart, his “Jubilee Service in Westminster 
 Abbey,” 182, 183. 
 
 Loustaunau, 20. 
 
 Lucas of Leyden, 308 ; his “ Milkwoman,” 
 3 ° 7 - 
 
 Maclise, his “ Lamb,” 265. 
 
 Maes, his “ The Cradle,” 70. 
 
 Man seldom reaches physical perfection, 85. 
 
 Man in Art, the immensity of the subject, 3 ; 
 may lead to man as he is in reality, 5 ; the 
 true Man in Art , 25 7. 
 
 Manet, his “Olympia,” 41. 
 
 Meissonier, 52, 88 note, 177, 273, 275, 276, 
 308; anecdotes of, 181, 182; his “La Rixe,” 
 3 36 . 
 
 Michael Angelo, 9, 34, 140, 141,260,266,275, 
 318; his “Jehovah,” 104; his “Moses,” 
 260; his “Soldiers bathing in the Arno,” 
 314; not the best subject for an essay, 
 334 - 
 
 Millais, Sir John, 213, 275 ; his “Gladstone,” 
 275 - 
 
 Millet, Jean Francois, 29, 84, 91, 295, 298, 
 300, 301, 308, 318; his “ Angelus,” 159 
 
 and note ; his views of the peasantry, 288- 
 292 ; his “The Gleaners,” 309 note. 
 
 Model, morality necessary to a, 37 ; anecdote 
 of one who left ,£8000 to art, 37. 
 
 Monet, Claude, 192. 
 
 Moore, Mr. Barlow, 190. 
 
 Morison, Mr. James Cotter, 105. 
 
 Muntz, M., 37. 
 
 Munkacsy, his “Milton,” 184. 
 
 Murillo, 255. 
 
 Music is pure invention, 55. 
 
 Nature, the study of it is neutral, 37 ; its im- 
 perfections, 38. 
 
 Nude, the, is good for study, but inadequate 
 as a representation of man, 4 ; the objections 
 to it largely conventional, 33 ; its influence 
 on landscape, 34; only permissible in finished 
 works of art when elevated by idealisation, 
 43 , 44 - 
 
 Ostade, 300. 
 
 Ouless, 220, 256. 
 
 Painting, a mixed art, 8. 
 
 Palmer, Samuel, 12, 308. 
 
 Parker, Mr., on the fine arts, 7, 8, 14. 
 
 Peasantry, the characteristics of their life are 
 being destroyed, 297 ; are most perfect in 
 France, 292, 293. 
 
 Pen shading, 28. 
 
 Perugino, hi, 112, 1 1 3 ; an uneducated 
 
 man, 9. 
 
 Phidias, his “Jupiter of Olympia,” and “ Pallas 
 of the Parthenon,” 75, 76. 
 
 Pointelin, M., an amateur, 49. 
 
 Pomp, now preserved only by the Papacy, 243 ; 
 a conservative ideal, 243. 
 
 Portrait, the : trains the public in criticism, 
 220; only partially represents man, 231; 
 may be an aid to government, 243 ; the 
 state portrait flourished in seventeenth and 
 eighteenth centuries, 244 ; a royal portrait, 
 244 ; as treated before the Renascence, 250. 
 
 Potter, Paul, 301. 
 
 Poynter, Mr., 28, 31, 49, 177. 
 
 Processes and subjects, interinfluences, 302. 
 
 Pugin, 20. 
 
 Puvis de Chavannes, 130. 
 
 Rajon, 252, 256. 
 
 Raphael, 1 1, 28, 34, 36, 47, 61, 83, 84, 100, 
 109, no, 1 1 8, 133, 147, 188, 192, 193, 284, 
 306, 318 ; his scholarship, according to M. 
 Muntz, 9, 10 ; his opinion of the Gothic, 10; 
 his ignorance of visual effect, 19 ; his con- 
 ception of God, 104, 105 ; the Ansidei 
 Raphael 120, 145; his biblical illustrations, 
 134 seq. ; his Madonnas, 137. 
 
 Realier-Dumas, M., 206. 
 
 Realism 40 ; in statues, 304 ; in bas-relief, 350. 
 
344 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Reform, a model, 269. 
 
 Religion akin to art, 24. 
 
 Rembrandt, 41, 83, 84, 172, 216, 218, 240, 
 241, 242, 267, 270, 275, 276, 283, 285, 
 293) 2 95> 33 1 5 his disregard of science, 18; 
 his “The Bathers,” 84; his religion, 147 
 seq. ; his portraits of himself, 238, 239 ; a 
 good subject for an essay, 334. 
 
 Renascence, 35. 
 
 Renan, Ary, 331. 
 
 Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 212, 242, 275, 284. 
 
 Rigaud, 245, his “Sebastian Bourdon,” 246. 
 
 Riocreux, 48. 
 
 Rochegrosse, 321. 
 
 Rodin, 223. 
 
 Romanism, more artistic than Protestantism, 
 
 1 26. 
 
 Romney, 184. 
 
 Roqueplan, Camille, 48. 
 
 Rossetti, 26, 1 14, 190; more poet than artist, 
 11 ; his views of science in art, 17, 18 ; his 
 romantic religion, 148. 
 
 Rubens, 13, 24, 117, 175, 235, 260, 275, 285, 
 318, 337; a good linguist, 10, 11, 12; his 
 “ The Three Graces,” 84. 
 
 Satyr, the laughing, 43. 
 
 Scheffer, Ary, 219; the best modern religious 
 painter, 123. 
 
 Seeley, Prof., on the irreligiousness of artists, 
 1 53 - 
 
 Schalcken, 70. 
 
 Schoengauer, his “Flight into Egypt,” 112. 
 
 Science, its hostility to and alliance with art, 
 4, 17, 18. 
 
 Sculpture, its idealism, 223 ; its influence on 
 bucolic art, 304. 
 
 Skredsvig, 157. 
 
 Sphinx, the, 101, 102. 
 
 Stanfield, 181, 319. 
 
 Stippling, 28. 
 
 Stothard, 46. 
 
 Stott of Oldham, Mr., 91. 
 
 Tadema, Alma, 50, 52, 69, 176 ; his learning, 
 1 1. 
 
 Teniers, 13, 202. 
 
 Tennyson, a perfect artist, 20, 25, 46, 48. 
 
 Thackeray on art, 1 7. 
 
 Tiepolo, 205. 
 
 Tinto, Dick, 212. 
 
 Tintoret, 214. 
 
 Titian, 47 , 83, 216, 260, 274, 275 , 284, 307, 
 
 318, 322 ; his lack of scientific knowledge, 
 18 ; his “ Nymph and Satyr,” 41. 
 
 Troyon, 48, 295, 303, 306. 
 
 Turner, 34, 45, 52, 133, 192, 202, 319, 
 
 322, 334; his indifference to science, 18; 
 a born artist, 20, 46 ; described by Mr. 
 Cosmo Monkhouse, 225 ; his figures, 284. 
 
 Ugliness is not destructive of interest, 89. 
 
 Unger, the engraver, 168 note. 
 
 Vandevelde, William, 319. 
 
 Vandyke, 212, 241, 275. 
 
 Van Eyck, 118, 119, 298. 
 
 Van Marcke, 308. 
 
 Vasari, 153. 
 
 Vaudoyer, the architect of Versailles, 67. 
 
 Vecchio, Palma, 168. 
 
 Velasquez, 212, 264, 298, 318. 
 
 Venus of Arles, the, 73, 83, 87. 
 
 Vernet, Horace, 48, 317. 
 
 Veronese, Paul, 187, 188. 
 
 Vierge, 334 ; his “Pablo of Segovia,” 336. 
 
 Vinci, Lionardo da, 24, 73, 86, 132, 140, 153, 
 154, 275; his sonnet, 10; his culture, 10, 
 11 ; his views on the study of anatomy, 22, 
 and landscape, 23; his “La Vierge aux 
 Rochers” and “Mona Lisa,” 23; his por- 
 trait of Lucrezia Crivelli, 73 ; his Treatise 
 on Painting , 334. 
 
 Vosmaer, 168 note, 330. 
 
 Waltner, 308. 
 
 War, not much discussed in this book, 312; 
 must be treated in detail by artists, 314; 
 pictures of it are generally inferior, 316, 317 ; 
 horrible only in its accidents, 324. 
 
 Ward, the Academician, 198, 202. 
 
 Watteau, 284. 
 
 Watts, 45, 48, 230, 252, 256 ; his “B.C,” 165; 
 his “ Hugh Lupus,” 260, his “ Lord Law- 
 rence,” 257. 
 
 Wilson, 282. 
 
 Wings in art, 96, 97. 
 
 Winterhalter, 329. 
 
 Wolff, Mr., 190. 
 
 Woltmann, 108. 
 
 Women students and artists, 38, 39. 
 
 Woolner, 274; more sculptor than poet, 12; 
 his statue of Bacon, 43. 
 
 Work when acted not real ; produces the effect 
 of dignity in a portrait, 245. 
 
 ZURBARAN, 318. 
 
 Printed iy R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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