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VERSES AND PROSE 
 
 JOHN ALFRED WOODS 
 
A REVERIE 
 
 AND OTHER 
 
 VERSES AND PROSE 
 
 JOHN ALFRED WOODS 
 
 BONNELL, SILVER & CO. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
THE LIBRARY OF 
 CONGRESS 
 
 Two Copies Recoivec' f ^ *J 3 S' d' C 
 
 SEP 22 1903 \ r., Vt 
 
 Cl^SS «^ XXcNo 14 A "5 
 
 COPY Q, 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1903 
 
 — BY — 
 
 BONNELL, SILVER & CO. 
 New York 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The author has been persuaded, somewhat 
 J against his own judgment, to pubHsh this vol- 
 k ume, and if it is fortunate enough to emit one 
 
 gleam, the glow-worm will be satisfied. 
 
 Whatever the result may be, the author 
 gratefully acknowledges the good intentions 
 of his encouraging friends. 
 June, 1903. 
 
Facts are stubborn masters, changing not 
 
 at our behest: 
 
 But the willing flowers of poesy bloom 
 
 at love's request. 
 
To 
 
 Eva, Leonard and Lenore 
 
 My TRINITY OF 
 
 Faith, Love, and Inspiration. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 A Reverie - - - - - " " -13 
 
 Lullaby 17 
 
 Thoughts -------- 18 
 
 To Lenore - - - - - " ~ 1^ 
 
 To My Sweetheart 20 
 
 Farewell - - - - - " "' "^ 
 
 Forget --------22 
 
 rJecause ------ ~-3 
 
 At Sea -------- 24 
 
 Autumn Leaves - - - - - " 25 
 
 Waiting - - - 26 
 
 Midnight 27 
 
 Long Days --------28 
 
 Sunset --------29 
 
 December --------30 
 
 Broadway - - - - - - " " ^^ 
 
 No Thorn without a Rose - - - - - 32 
 
 Prayer -.------33 
 
 Help ------- 35 
 
Page 
 Thankfulness -------36 
 
 Affliction 37 
 
 Faith - - - - 38 
 
 " Thy Will be Done " 39 
 
 Sometime --------40 
 
 An Answer - - - - - - - 41 
 
 The Woods and Fields ------ 43 
 
 A Wild Rose 45 
 
 To my Dog --------47 
 
 Lines with a Box of Candy - - - - "50 
 
 Hope - - - - - - - - -51 
 
 My Beloved - 52 
 
 What More -------- 53 
 
 Art, Music .__---- 57 
 
 Old Masters and Modern Painters - - - - 59 
 
 Realism - - - - - - - . 71 
 
 Modern Art --------79 
 
 Schopenhauer — Pessimism - - " - - 89 
 Chopin — Poe - - - - - - -101 
 
VERSES. 
 
A REVERIE. 
 
 The drifting snow, the chilhng sleet, 
 Out in the cold, deserted street, 
 Moaning rough winter's cheerless gloom, 
 Are heralds of a coming bloom. 
 
 The burning forelogs roar and hiss, 
 Here on my hearth, and the flames kiss 
 Each other, while in fond embrace, 
 Other flames up the chimney they chase. 
 
 The hideous shapes they oft assimie, 
 Mar not my joy nor heap my gloom. 
 And all the frightful forms I see 
 Are not unwelcome unto me. 
 
 For well I know the birds and flowers 
 With Spring's refreshing gentle showers 
 Will come, and in their happy lot 
 Grim winter's night will be forgot. 
 
 [13] 
 
Oh ! Thou great power by which we live, 
 The mystery these changes give 
 Help us to understand, and see 
 How we are kin to them and Thee. 
 
 Teach us, beholding Winter's snow, 
 The dawn of brighter days to know : 
 That so the Winter and the Spring 
 May equal joy and gladness bring. 
 
 And give us, too, the wit to know. 
 Just how the pretty daisies grow: 
 And why the pine should different be 
 From oak, or elm, or maple tree. 
 
 Teach us, kind nature, the mystery 
 Of the blue violet's history. 
 And why it differs from other flowers — 
 The potency of Spring's warm showers. 
 
 [14] 
 
Tell us, we pray, where doth repose 
 The fragrance of this dainty rose : 
 And if there be no sorrow or grief. 
 When the oak tree sheds its leaf. 
 
 And tell us why the Robin's breast. 
 And why the brave Woodpecker's crest 
 Such softly brilliant colors show — 
 Tell — if it be for us to know. 
 
 But dreaming thus the hours away, 
 And urging reason all we may. 
 The bird, the flower, and the tree. 
 Will still retain their mystery. 
 
 'Twas not intended we should know, 
 Why the four seasons come and go, 
 Nor why the flowers and birds should be 
 More happy and content than we. 
 
 15] 
 
Aiid here in front of my log fire, 
 
 I see the flames of hope expire, 
 
 But glad and happy I shall be, 
 
 When Spring and flowers return to me. 
 
 [i6] 
 
LULLABY. 
 
 Lullaby baby — I watch as you rest! 
 My dear little baby, asleep in your nest. 
 Sweet is your slumber, calm your repose, 
 With little lips pouting and cheeks like a rose. 
 
 Hushaby baby — do not awake! 
 Mamma is near and Papa will take 
 Care that the least little noise is not heard 
 To rudely awaken his dear little bird. 
 
 Lullaby baby — why am I sad? 
 Seeing you sleeping, I should be glad. 
 Now you're a baby, but when you are grown 
 How do I know what you will become? 
 
 Hushaby baby — but somehow a tear 
 
 Wells up from my heart, as I think of you, 
 
 dear ; 
 What will you be when you are a man — 
 Protect him, O God, for only God can! 
 
 17] 
 
THOUGHTS. 
 
 To think of joy is vain, 
 When the heart doth languish, 
 In the long nights of anguish. 
 And unending days of pain. 
 
 I hope the dead will never know, 
 The sorrow which comes to me 
 In this storm driven sea, 
 In this wide world of woe. 
 
 The Spring will bloom again, 
 And my darling girl and boy 
 Will fill the years with joy — 
 But, oh! the " mJght have been." 
 
 i81 
 
TO LENORE. 
 
 This bunch of roses, if you but wear, 
 Will blush that they no sweeter be: 
 
 And being close to one so fair, 
 
 Will hang" their heads in jealousy. 
 
 Whence they come you may not know, 
 For many there are who love you well, 
 
 But in the Woods, some roses grow. 
 That never will their secrets tell. 
 
 [19] 
 
TO MY SWEETHEART. 
 
 I fill this glass to a winsome lass, 
 
 To a girl almost divine, 
 And while we drink, of her I'll think, 
 
 And pray she'll soon be mine. 
 
 Her eyes are bright as stars at night. 
 Her mouth a mine of pearls, 
 
 With chestnut hair and face most fair. 
 Here's to the paragon of girls. 
 
 20 
 
FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell! and may there be given thee 
 More happiness than you take from me ; 
 And, gone, maj^ all the Gods combine 
 To make sweet, fond contentment thine. 
 
 Farewell to love's bright, happy days, 
 And the altar where devotion prays ; 
 May you never hear the funeral bell. 
 Which rings to me this sad farewell. 
 
 Farewell to cherished, fond desires 
 And the heaven to which my hope aspires, 
 And while for thee my prayers shall be. 
 Faith goes, too, when you put out to sea. 
 
 [21] 
 
FORGET. 
 
 " I did not mean to make you weep, 
 Forgive me, dear," he said — 
 
 " But last night while I was asleep, 
 I dreamt that you were dead." 
 
 " Forget my foolish tears," she cried, 
 
 " Remember I am here; 
 When we're together, side by side. 
 
 There is no death, my dear." 
 
 [22] 
 
BECAUSE. 
 
 " Because we love each other 
 All surely will come right ; 
 And thy arms shall ever be 
 A haven of rest for me." 
 So spake an angel of light. 
 
 While pondering the meaning o'er, 
 Of words so welcome and sweet, 
 Doubt and darkness took their flight 
 From the sky of hideous night. 
 As when night and morning meet. 
 
 [23] 
 
AT SEA. 
 
 My ship puts out to sea alone, 
 
 With skies all dark above, 
 While all around the billows moan — 
 
 Alas for vanished love! 
 
 Slowly the months roll on and on, 
 
 And slower still the years, 
 But when sweet hope is dead and gone, 
 
 Whose is the hand that steers? 
 
 Is blind chance at the wheel of fate, 
 
 Steering the bark of life? 
 Then good-bye to hopes once great. 
 
 Good luck to worldly strife. 
 
 [24] 
 
AUTUMN LEAVES. 
 
 I hope these tears of the trees, 
 
 Will show to thee 
 
 All the beauty they do to me. 
 
 I grieve not for the dying year, 
 
 And standing at its bier, 
 
 Bid it farewell without regret; 
 
 Its sorrows and pain 
 
 Will long remain, 
 
 But, oh ! who can forget 
 
 The rich purple and gold. 
 
 The leaves of other autumn's have told ! 
 
 [25] 
 
WAITING. 
 
 If you knew what tears are shed, 
 By blazing hearth, in lonely home, 
 
 I think I'd hear your hastening tread- 
 That you would come. 
 
 If you knew what gladness laj^ 
 Within the sunshine of a glance, 
 
 You'd not remain so long away — 
 As if by chance. 
 
 If you knew that I adore, 
 The balm of smiles so sweet, 
 
 You'd hurry to my open door — 
 That we might meet. 
 
 And I believe, if j^ou but knew. 
 
 Who's most dear and fair 
 Of all in life to me, that you 
 
 Would enter there. 
 
 [26] 
 
MIDNIGHT. 
 
 How still the midnight seems! 
 No sound of hm-rying feet 
 Is heard in the quiet street, 
 To disturb a sleeper's dreams. 
 
 Distance has not the power 
 To keep fond lovers apart, 
 For the mysterious heart 
 Unites us at this hour. 
 
 Between us the wide sea 
 Is vain at the command 
 Of love, whose magic wand 
 Wafts me again to thee. 
 
 .^/ 
 
LONG DAYS. 
 
 Ever watching and waiting, 
 The long days drifting seem 
 Like the agony of a dream, 
 Which has no least abating. 
 
 Waiting for wounds to heal, 
 With anguish in the heart, 
 I watch the months depart. 
 And wait our woe or weal. 
 
 What of the coming years ! 
 Does happiness wait for thee, 
 And contentment bide for me. 
 Or will thev end in tears? 
 
 [28] 
 
SUNSET. 
 
 The sun goes down in a brilliant glow, 
 Behind the distant darkened hills ; 
 
 I wonder what other eyes saw it go, 
 What other mind its beauty thrills? 
 
 I wonder who saw, as it slowly sank, 
 A rainbow circle of colors rare. 
 
 The marvelous beauties my eyes drank — 
 I wonder whose they were, and where? 
 
 I wonder who's waited as I have done. 
 At the grave of the departed years, 
 
 And waiting for the coming one. 
 
 Has seen the old depart, through tears? 
 
 Do I wait for what never will come. 
 Like phantom ships on a phantom sea? 
 
 The sun goes down with gladness for some, 
 While I am waiting anxiously. 
 
 [29] 
 
DECEMBER. 
 
 The days are cold and dark and drear, 
 The fields are wrapped in blankets white ; 
 This is exhausted nature's night, 
 But naught is sad or sere 
 Even the dying year. 
 
 The tired birds their lutes must tune, 
 For they have sung the summer through; 
 But new songs thej^'ll bring to you. 
 Coming again full soon, 
 In perfect June. 
 
 The leafless trees all happy seem, 
 Heeding not storms nor chilling frost. 
 Nor should we count their long sleep lost— 
 This season we should deem 
 Their time to dream. 
 
 [30] 
 
BROADWAY. 
 
 The faces of the men we meet, 
 With hastening or with weary feet. 
 
 Convey but poorly to the eye, 
 Their true selves as we pass them by; 
 
 For underneath the smile of one, 
 May be the grief of a setting sun; 
 
 And smiles may, by consummate art. 
 Conceal the anguish of a heart. 
 
 And where contentment seems to reign, 
 May be the very throne of pain. 
 
 Oh, ye powers by which we live. 
 Solace the hapless ones that grieve, 
 
 And from thy storehouse of vast wealth, 
 Give bounteously of joy and health. 
 
 That so the people whom we meet. 
 May fill with joy the crowded street. 
 
 [31: 
 
NO THORN WITHOUT A ROSE. 
 
 ' ' No rose without a thorn ? ' ' yea, yea, 
 But that is only half the truth: 
 
 Now the other half as frankly say, 
 And the proverb cast aside in ruth, 
 And this new sentiment impose, 
 There is no thorn without a rose. 
 
 [32] 
 
PRAYER. 
 
 Oh, God! merciful and mighty, creator and 
 
 father of us all, 
 Thou, who made infinite space, and filled it 
 
 with countless worlds. 
 And planted in the hearts of thy children the 
 
 seeds of love: 
 Who, in thy wisdom, ordained war and hate, 
 
 pestilence and famine. 
 And gave us the priceless boon of pity, for 
 
 sorrow and pain; 
 We hear thy voice, oh, God ! in the rolling 
 
 thunder. 
 In the whisperings of love, and the song of 
 
 birds. 
 Thy power we see in mountain crags, in blades 
 
 of grass, 
 In the mighty deeps, and all the fragrant 
 
 flowers. 
 But what are we, oh, father! more than the 
 
 flowers that bloom, 
 
 [33] 
 
Or the serpents that crawl and hiss beneath our 
 
 feet? 
 We pray Thee impart to us wisdom and grace, 
 That we may with confidence ask thy blessings 
 For loved ones here at home, and far abroad. 
 For defenceless children, and suffering human- 
 ity everywhere. 
 Cleanse us from all impurities of thought and 
 
 act. 
 And so illumine us with knowledge and truth 
 That our lives may be gracious in thy sight. 
 And a joy to Thee who understands the hunger 
 
 of our souls — 
 We ask it with humility, for our transgressions 
 are many. 
 
 f34] 
 
HELP. 
 
 Father, the hfe-drops from my heart are 
 wrung 
 
 And overflow my feeble urn of clay; 
 Praj^ers lag unuttered on my palsied tongue; 
 
 I see no star to guide me on my way. 
 Help, O my father, lest in sheer despair 
 
 I perish ; help me, help me where I languish 
 In utter darkness ; hear my hungry soul 
 
 Pleading for light, and save me from my 
 anguish. 
 Praying for thy control. 
 
 ,35! 
 
THANKFULNESS. 
 
 Father of all ! new meaning of thy power 
 Comes to me in the silence of this hour. 
 I seem enthralled by the music of the world, 
 Through countless centuries hurled. 
 My soul runs over with a faith divine 
 That longs to mingle its being with thine. 
 Teach me humility, oh, God! and thy grace 
 
 impart, 
 That I may know thy will, and with a contrite 
 
 heart, 
 Bow to the universal law, that makes the good 
 
 in me 
 Hunger and thirst for Thee. 
 
 [36] 
 
AFFLICTION. 
 
 In the hot fires of affliction must all be sorely 
 
 tried. 
 But naught will count against us if the right 
 
 be on our side; 
 So never mind the anguish or the thorns that 
 
 pierce your feet, 
 Think only of the suffering that everywhere 
 
 you meet; 
 And the seeds of love sow broadcast and water 
 
 them with tears 
 That for all an ample harvest may attend the 
 
 coming years. 
 
 [37] 
 
FAITH. 
 
 Open the door of morning with faith, 
 For nature's bounties all are thine; 
 And going forth with confidence 
 Enjoy the blessings that will come. 
 
 The soul is God's allotment of Himself to thee, 
 That thou, too, maj^est become a god. 
 
 The joy each day gives, and the thankfulness 
 With which the door is closed again 
 When the day is done, measures thy faith 
 When night comes on. 
 
 [38] 
 
THY WILL BE DONE." 
 
 The last words of President McKinley. 
 
 How oft, oh, God ! we bow to Thy decree, 
 And with hearts bleeding say: " Thy will be 
 
 done." 
 At times reason questions, and faitli falters, 
 For we cannot always understand why 
 From a mother's arm a suckling babe is torn, 
 Or why a nation's prayers go all unheeded. 
 And our loved and honored President dies. 
 Oh, Father ! when life's burdens and sorrows 
 Seem more and greater than we can bear, 
 Lift Thou the dark curtain of hideous doubt 
 That faith may shine through the windows of 
 
 our minds, 
 And enlighten reason with the words sublime, 
 That inspired the dying McKinley to say. 
 As did the crucified Christ of old, 
 " Thy will be done." 
 
 [39] 
 
SOMETIME. 
 
 Sometime, in life's battles fierce, 
 That never are fought in vain, 
 
 The shafts of reason will pierce 
 The soul, and our sins be slain. 
 
 Sometime, when the heart is weary 
 From waiting for its own, 
 
 There'll bloom in places dreary. 
 Flowers that love has sown. 
 
 Sometime, in dreamy twilight. 
 
 In dust of flowers to be, 
 At noontime or at midnight 
 
 God's voice will call to me. 
 
 And an answer must be given 
 If time has been used for good ! 
 
 For earth is life's true heaven 
 When its meaning is understood. 
 
 [40] 
 
AN ANSWER. 
 
 Nay my good friend, but false philosopher : 
 Life is eternal, boundless in expanse, 
 With nothing cold or barren anywhere 
 To nature's honest worshipper. 
 
 God shows himself in every himian soul : 
 The rolling thunder, and the dainty rose, 
 The restless sea and the pearly drops of dew — 
 Who else these mysteries control? 
 
 There's law and order showing everywhere! 
 In the changing seasons, and the sunshine 
 
 bright. 
 And in the storm ; in the perfect lily and 
 The music of the birds that fills the air. 
 
 The means wherewith we think, whereby we 
 
 see 
 The changing wonders of the universe: 
 The stars above us and the flowers below 
 Are ample proof, O God, of Thee. 
 
 [41] 
 
The miracle of human hfe and death; 
 Whence came we all, and whither do we go ? 
 Mere worldly wisdom cannot yet explain 
 The meaning of a single breath. 
 
 But reason says that all is ever right — 
 
 Else life is vain; and no mere thoughtless 
 
 chance 
 Or happy accident these things explain 
 And death is not a beamless, dreamless night. 
 
 U2] 
 
THE WOODS AND FIELDS. 
 
 Again the joyous Spring has come, 
 
 Child of another year; 
 Again the pleasant fields I roam 
 
 With childish thoughts and cheer. 
 
 I welcome every shrub and tree 
 
 That greets me in my walk, 
 For every one is known to me, 
 
 And understood their talk! 
 
 And all about me in the woods 
 
 I see their gladsome smile, 
 And nature's ever ch-anging moods 
 
 My pleasant walks beguile. 
 
 Beneath the pine trees spreading arms 
 
 I lie in thoughtful mood. 
 And for kind natTU-e's woodland charms 
 
 I burn with gratitude. 
 
 [43] 
 
The wild birds leap from spray to spray, 
 For joy that the time has come 
 
 To mate, and each tree seems to say : 
 " Bide here and build your home." 
 
 Gladly the dandelions unfold 
 And show their pretty faces ; 
 
 Thus nature, lavish with its gold, 
 Adorns the barren places. 
 
 And looking like a bank of snow. 
 
 In yonder somber field, 
 The myriad daisies soon will grow 
 
 Each in the whole concealed. 
 
 And hugging tight to mother earth, 
 And half in fear and dread. 
 
 The violets will forget the birth 
 Of Spring, and think them dead. 
 
 But have no fear, my little friends. 
 
 Nature will care for thee, 
 With the same willingness it sends 
 
 Its blessings rich to me. 
 
 [44] 
 
A WILD ROSE. 
 
 A timid wild rose grew 
 Beside a rambling wall: 
 Modest little flower, all 
 Sparkling with dew. 
 
 And it seemed to say 
 As I looked in its face : 
 " I thought my grace 
 Was hidden away 
 
 Where no eyes could see 
 The beauties I show, 
 For who cares to know 
 Of graces in me? " 
 
 [45] 
 
Bashful little flower, 
 You should gladly reveal 
 And not try to conceal 
 The wealth of your dower. 
 
 For God ever shows 
 The best of His art 
 In the humblest heart 
 Of man, as in rose. 
 
 [46] 
 
TO MY DOG. 
 
 Lee, though a sorry dog you be, 
 You are far more than dog to me. 
 
 We know and gladly comprehend 
 The meaning of the good word — friend. 
 
 In thee no smallest faults I find 
 
 But Hke all lovers, perhaps I'm blind. 
 
 And the faults that other people see 
 I don't discern, my friend, in thee. 
 
 Your welcoming bark I always hear 
 Coming home late at night, my dear; 
 
 And parting, the last thing I see 
 Is your face at the window, Lee. 
 
 Poor are ye who do not know 
 The devotion a dog may show. 
 
 [47] 
 
You've told me the story of your life, 
 Your prior existence, and the strife 
 
 To forget you were a King, and control 
 The anguish of the atavic soul 
 
 From whence you came; but still to me 
 Endlessly you a King shall be. 
 
 No matter what the small sin was 
 
 For which you're doing penance, the cause 
 
 Is only known to just us three — 
 You, the old dead King, and me. 
 
 I know you often lament the fate 
 Of your past life, and even hate 
 
 Your new surroundings; but listen, we 
 Cannot all Kings' descendants be! 
 
 And in the next cycle it may be shown 
 You've come again into your own. 
 
 [48] 
 
And then as King in the chair of state 
 You can yourself determine the fate 
 
 Of those who love you not, and say 
 Unpleasant things — be merciful, I pray. 
 
 If I perchance then a dog shall be 
 Remember the tale that was told by me 
 
 In explaining all the mystery 
 
 Of the wonderful Hindoo history, 
 
 And the other lesson learned while here 
 Of transmigrating backward, my dear. 
 
 [49] 
 
LINES WITH A BOX OF CAXDY. 
 
 ' Sweets to the sweet," the poet said, 
 Tho' he who wrote the Hnes is dead. 
 But " sweets to the sweet," I sing anew, 
 And send these sweets to you. 
 
 [50] 
 
HOPE. 
 
 The clouds are black that cover me, 
 And dark the chamber of my soul ! 
 For doubts and gruesome fears I see, 
 Writing thy future on life's scroll. 
 
 1 may not question circumstance, 
 Nor yet in anguish, cry aloud ; 
 For good may come by happy chance 
 To humble heart, when head is bowed. 
 
 Happiness comes through narrow gate, 
 But wide and high the gate will be. 
 If all my prayers are heard, and fate 
 Grants the blessings I ask for thee. 
 
 Forgive my doubts, forget my fears, 
 Forgive the anguish of my soul ! 
 Leaving to God the coming years. 
 And thy clear record on the scroll. 
 
 [51: 
 
MY BELOVED. 
 
 Thank God hope fadeth not away, 
 Even when reason seems to die; 
 And in the fullness of every day 
 Faith seems forever hovering nigh. 
 
 We may not always know the reason 
 Our poor hearts oft are made to bleed! 
 But all is right, and the full season 
 Ripens our good or ill-sown seed. 
 
 Perhaps we've failed through some neglect, 
 To make our hidden meaning plain : 
 Perhaps some thorn we least suspect 
 Causes the heart's most bitter pain. 
 
 Ah well, we'll think of naught but roses, 
 Leaving the thorns of life alone ! 
 And not forget, though God disposes. 
 We always reap what we have sown. 
 
 [52] 
 
WHAT MORE! 
 
 A good dinner, good wine, 
 Good books, good pictures, good friends — 
 What more to ask? No more a king can have. 
 With these our hfe is rounded; all ends with 
 
 these. 
 So let us use the " good," that reading 
 We may learn to dine, 
 And dining, how to live. 
 
 [53] 
 
PROSE. 
 
ART, MUSIC. 
 
 Art is of Heavenly birth. 
 And Cometh not from Earth. 
 Music is spirit born, 
 And when the master'' s gone. 
 And artist ceases to be. 
 They live in memory. 
 And man, too, passes away, 
 But these fair sisters stay 
 To 7'ound the willing soid 
 Into a perfect whole. 
 For art, and music's chord 
 Come from the hand of God. 
 
 [57] 
 
OLD MASTERS AND MODERN 
 PAINTERS. 
 
 Possibly no writer of modern times, not even 
 excepting Ruskin and Hamerton, is entitled to 
 more respect for his opinions than the German 
 critic, Liibke. In his " History of Art," he 
 says : 
 
 " It was impossible for painters to find ma- 
 terial for a genuine, vigorous and lasting prog- 
 ress in the ancient cycle of thought and classi- 
 cal method of treating form." 
 
 Carefull}'^ analyzed, this answers the ques- 
 tion whether or not modern art is inferior to 
 the work produced in the sixteenth and seven- 
 teenth centuries. Much has been said on this 
 subject, and the prevailing fashion seems to 
 require unlimited praise for all art simply be- 
 cause it is old, and a sort of contempt for every- 
 thing modern. 
 
 It is strange we are modern in everything 
 but art. 
 
 [59] 
 
With due regard for the early composers it 
 is not thought necessary to sing unhmited 
 praise to the great musicians of the past, and 
 refuse to acknowledge the leadership of Wag- 
 ner, for instance. In music we know the past 
 did not produce all the harmony or melody of 
 sound. 
 
 Can it honestly be said that the old masters 
 knew more of art than the modern painters? 
 Does the mere fact of having lived in a remote 
 past, of itself, entitle them to this distinction? 
 Is it not more truthful to say the " Masters " 
 are those who teach us most. 
 
 In the sixteenth century less was known of 
 art than now, and many then lived and are now 
 called " Old Masters," but not because they 
 were great painters, as we measure genius to- 
 day. Certainly they had something to teach 
 then. They were masters of their day and 
 generation more than of ours. The old mas- 
 ters did wonderful work, but who among them 
 had a proper conception of landscape painting 
 and its possibilities, of color and its effects? Or 
 
 [60] 
 
were equal in poetic power to leaders of the 
 modern school? 
 
 Titian, Raphael and Da Vinci were old mas- 
 ters, truly, and a veritable trinity in art, but 
 can it be said that even they knew all there was 
 to learn of painting? Think of representing 
 nature with but four colors, as Titian did, when 
 to-day, a palette may contain twenty-four. 
 They had a mission to perform and did it well, 
 and we would not take one leaf from their 
 crov/n of laurel, but let us not forget what 
 modern art has done. They worked at a time 
 when the Church was rich and willing to pur- 
 chase pictures, and, that being the only outlet 
 for art, the painters were hampered by being 
 obliged to paint only such subjects as the 
 Church wanted. How much we have lost be- 
 cause they did not paint for an educated, think- 
 ing, poetic people can never be known; they 
 might have succeeded in other branches of art 
 but they did not. The old masters were strong 
 in figure drawing, but even in this they are not 
 the equals of the best modern painters. 
 
 [6i- 
 
Rubens had a better idea of color than any 
 of his compeers, but even he did not paint na- 
 ture correctly. What would he or any of the 
 other old masters have thought of the works of 
 Corot, Rousseau, Millet or Delacroix. Are 
 we right or were they? Both were right but in 
 relative degrees. The old masters were par- 
 tially correct as far as they went, but they had 
 no idea of the possibilities of modern art; the 
 child was too young to know what the man 
 would be. 
 
 Art in all its branches is of a natural growth ; 
 time is required for its development, and with 
 this element what may not the future show? 
 
 The old masters did not appreciate the 
 poetry of nature which is elemental and can 
 no more be made by mortal hands than gold 
 or rubies can. Education has taught its value 
 and we devote our energies to finding the 
 yellow earth and dull red stone — then art is 
 called upon for her services. After smelting 
 and refining, cutting and polishing, we have 
 the finished gold and perfect ruby; we have 
 
 [62] 
 
merely discovered and utilized what nature 
 was always willing we should have, but what 
 could never be appreciated until education had 
 done its work. Poet and artist are the gold 
 and ruby which our present refinement has 
 produced. The old masters did not know that 
 poetry is the soul of art and as necessary as 
 color to the perfect rose. Its influence makes 
 it possible for us to see and feel. In this we 
 have a great advantage over former ages and 
 our eyes are open to beauties they know not 
 of, for without this element painting is dry 
 realism. 
 
 The old masters reached the first rungs on 
 the ladder of artistic knowledge, but as the 
 poetical and sesthetical elements have devel- 
 oped we have been enabled to reach heights 
 they never attained. These two sentiments 
 measure artistic appreciation. 
 
 What especially distinguishes modern paint- 
 ers over the old masters is their greater accu- 
 racy of detail, the infusion of poetical tone and 
 feeling, delicacy of observation, together with 
 
 [63] 
 
a deep sensibility and remarkable truthfulness 
 in the reproduction of nature. Realism in 
 landscape painting is one of the great master- 
 ies of modern art. 
 
 The JVIunich and Diisseldorf schools of the 
 first quarter of the nineteenth century had 
 much to do with perfecting the painters of our 
 day, and while they were a sort of connecting 
 link between the past and present, they repre- 
 sented a step forward. In effectiveness of 
 color, dignity of conception, perfection of 
 form and realistic style in historical represen- 
 tation, the painters from David down to our 
 day have excelled anything ever produced by 
 the old masters. While the INIunich school went 
 into the beauty of outline and the severity of 
 drawing, the Diisseldorf school confined itself 
 more to the refinements and sentiments of art, 
 showing these traits in the careful study of 
 nature and the perfection of coloring. 
 
 The unrivalled force and vividness in scenes 
 from real life as shown in the modern painter 
 has nothing to compare with it in the old mas- 
 
 [64] 
 
ters, who were bound by the conventional ten- 
 dencies of their age. 
 
 The love and appreciation of nature made 
 our landscape painting possible and indispen- 
 sable; the artist craved something more than 
 the old masters gave. And they have painted 
 with a noble fervor and devotion to nature, 
 with a beauty of coloring full of melting and 
 exquisite softness that is unknown in ancient 
 art. Delacroix, for example, broke entirely 
 loose from the old school and from the Munich 
 and Dusseldorf schools as well, and his bril- 
 liant coloring, pictorial magnificence, and bold- 
 ness of conception are in striking contrast with 
 any of the painters who preceded him. 
 
 The more we study the works of the six- 
 teenth and seventeenth century painters, the 
 more wonderful the painting of the nineteenth 
 century appears, with its skillful development 
 and vigor of expression which gives new forms 
 and new impressions never dreamt of by the 
 old masters. 
 
 Compare the elegant Meissonier with Ru- 
 bens, who was nearest like him, and see the dif- 
 
 [65] 
 
ference in brilliancj^ of fancy and genuine 
 poetic force. Where among the old masters do 
 we find a counterpart of the somber Gerome 
 with his mastery of technical details? 
 
 Jules Breton has given us pictures that are 
 perfect marvels of poetic sentiment, truth of 
 expression, and broad, free handling. Where 
 is the Breton among the old masters? Where 
 is the Corot of the past with that wonderful 
 dreamy haze which shows in nearly all his pic- 
 tures, carrying us without our knowledge to the 
 scenes he painted, so that we breathe his atmos- 
 phere and feel it swell our lungs? Who of 
 the old masters did anything to compare with 
 the pictures of Daubigny, Rousseau, or Du- 
 pre? 
 
 In animal painting Tryon, Rosa Bonheur, 
 and the versatile Landseer were never equaled ; 
 they combine a masterly realism with poetic 
 sentiment which is entirely wanting in even 
 Rembrandt's celebrated picture of the " Pig." 
 
 After the two schools already mentioned 
 came the German which shows careful techni- 
 cal training, but less of the poetical or sestheti- 
 
 [66] 
 
cal element than the French school, some of 
 whose leaders have been named; indeed, the 
 French painters appear to have been the first 
 to appreciate the highest ssthetical pleasures 
 in art. Then came the distinctive Spanish 
 school with Goya at its head, and whatever he 
 may have been morally, he and his followers 
 have had a very perceptible influence on mod- 
 ern art. Nor should the so-called British school 
 be omitted with such leaders as Gilbert, Rey- 
 nolds, Turner, and Millais. The works of the 
 first two will always stand the severest criti- 
 cism, but Turner, great as he was, did not paint 
 from nature or a healthy imagination. Will 
 any competent judge say " Carthage Harbor," 
 for instance, with its improbable architecture 
 and ships which never existed or sailed a sea 
 outside of his brain, is a truthful picture. But 
 Turner gives us poetry in abundance. 
 
 Millais shows great strength of feeling and 
 harmony, and Alma Tadema gives us wonder- 
 ful and delicately finished works almost too 
 truthful to excite the highest poetical senti- 
 ments. 
 
 [67] 
 
Then comes the American school — and we 
 may well be proud of our artists, among whom 
 are some of the greatest modern painters. It 
 is needless to give a list of names. Art in 
 America has had a healthy growth and the 
 people have shown their appreciation of all 
 schools. 
 
 The French artist, Stevens, understood this 
 and in his delightful " Impressions on Paint- 
 ing " says: "Millet was already appreciated 
 at his proper value across the Atlantic when 
 he was still unrecognized among us. The New 
 World in love with our art, has purchased at 
 high price the masterpieces of the present 
 epoch." 
 
 With us an artist must depend upon his 
 merit for recognition ; we have no grand " Prix 
 de Rome," which gives the holder not only 
 fame but the authority of the Academies that 
 he is a great painter. 
 
 Modern art has created a new feeling, a new 
 pleasure, which the best works of the old mas- 
 ters did not and could not produce, for out- 
 side of their religious works we cannot feel 
 
 '&' 
 
 [68] 
 
the poetic sentiment modern painting ex- 
 cites. It is the hmnanity in art that makes 
 it sublime and it thrives best in the garden 
 of sentiment. Ruskin and Hamerton ex- 
 plain what this feeling is, and they have 
 educated us up to the ^sthetical understand- 
 ing, which is a joy indescribable to all true 
 lovers of Art. It lifts us out of the dry realism 
 of every-day life into an atmosphere which in- 
 toxicates us with its pleasures. It gives to the 
 imagination happj^ dreams, or what is quite 
 as satisfactory^ hours of reverie which stir the 
 very soul. This is the true aim and end of art. 
 
 We want truth in our pictures, but not abso- 
 lute, literal truth as the old masters gave it, but 
 truth in a higher, nobler sense — a?sthetic truth. 
 
 Hamerton says, " We believed that artists 
 were truthful, but after having discovered our 
 mistake we find a compensation in the new 
 sesthetical pleasure." 
 
 Art is because it cannot help itself, just as 
 the roses bloom; they do not stop in their un- 
 folding to analyze the reason of their exist- 
 ence. 
 
 [69] 
 
Art is the question, poetry the answer, and 
 together they add harmony to the grand sym- 
 phony of Hfe. And whether the old masters, 
 or modern painters, have given us this senti- 
 ment in the greatest degree can be answered 
 by the sesthetical appreciation of to-day. 
 
 l7o| 
 
REALISM. 
 
 The question is often asked, '"' What is 
 reahsm? " 
 
 To copy nature faithfully is not enough to 
 entitle a painter to the credit of being called a 
 realist. Something more than photographic 
 truth and mathematical accuracy are required.. 
 
 No matter what talent or genius a French 
 artist might possess, he could never paint cor- 
 rectly a scene from American life, confined 
 within his Paris studio. Without more, and 
 different, knowledge than books or study can 
 give, he could not get in touch with his sub- 
 ject, and faithfully depict the peculiarities of 
 our civilization. Nature must be painted out 
 of doors, on the spot, by a hand more cunning 
 than reading can make it, and guided by a 
 mind that sees and feels even more than it can 
 put on canvas. 
 
 Nature is the great teacher, and her lessons 
 are manifold and priceless. Technical study 
 
 [71] 
 
may make good draughtsmen, but not great 
 painters, and beyond the mere rudiments as 
 taught in schools, study may be a hindrance 
 to the development of the soul in art. 
 
 The advances made in all branches of learn- 
 ing during the past two hundred years are 
 too evident to require comment, and still the 
 question is often asked, " Did not the old mas- 
 ters do thus and so, and should we not do the 
 same?" No, not necessarily; for they were 
 inspired by influences different from those 
 which move modern artists, and their great- 
 ness now is measured by the amount of realism 
 thej^ employed. Titian was a great realist if 
 we compare his work with those who preceded 
 him; and Rubens shocked the sensibility of 
 his contemporaries by his bold dashes of truth 
 and realism. But from our higher plane of 
 knowledge, we smile at his red-cheeked sub- 
 jects, handsome though they be, when the same 
 models are seen in Virgins, Hebes, and Ve- 
 nuses. His very Heavens are peopled with 
 over-buxom, if not over-modest, Dutch ladies. 
 
 [72] 
 
The art of to-day shows a higher level and 
 a broader culture than at any former time, re- 
 gardless of the statement so often made that 
 the old masters stand on unapproachable 
 heights. The modern idea of this world and 
 the next is not what it formerly was, and claim- 
 ing to know but little of the world to come, the 
 artists of the present day, with realism as a 
 guide, seldom venture to depict such far-off 
 scenes. 
 
 Modern art believes in a God who has given 
 us nature, and written His law in our hearts; 
 sees and feels what was never dreamed of by 
 the ancients, and its pictures, being painted 
 with more truthfulness, make even the low, 
 monotonous tones clearer, and sparkle with a 
 living light. They who know history best un- 
 derstand that our present greatness is due to 
 literature and art. 
 
 The skill shown by some of the early paint- 
 ers in face and figure drawing, and their won- 
 derful handling of clothes, lace and jewels, is 
 amazing; and the complete lack of realism in 
 
 [73] 
 
their dull, meaningless backgrounds is surpris- 
 ing. Nor did they have any idea of perspective 
 and the effect of light and shade as developed 
 by modern painters, who would be entitled to 
 praise if they had taught no other lesson. Here 
 we might stop ; for this is realism. 
 
 It seems hardly possible that landscape 
 painting should ever attain greater perfection 
 than it has now reached, and this advance is due 
 chiefly to a wider range of thought and a 
 broader vision. Herein there is absolutely no 
 comparison between ancient and modern art. 
 No doubt the gradual decay of superstition and 
 the gro^vth of nobler religious sentiments ac- 
 counts for much of this improvement. We see 
 the change in the diiFerent methods employed 
 by the new school, which rejects the old ideas, 
 with idealized saints, clad in rich vestments, 
 seated on unsubstantial clouds, in a humanized 
 Christ differently surrounded, in a Virgin 
 JNIary more truly a mother, and so, more nearly 
 divine. Still greater changes will appear when 
 the second Renaissance in Christian art takes 
 
 [74l 
 
place, and that it is coming, who can doubt? 
 The advance is apparent when we consider 
 what modern art is doing with reHgious sub- 
 jects. What a revelation " Christ before 
 Pilate " would be, if the painters of the six- 
 teenth century could awake from their long 
 repose and compare it with any of their kindred 
 themes. And realism is the principal feature 
 in this great work, with its bolder and truer 
 generalizations fully in accord with all we hold 
 dear, with common sense, science, and religion. 
 It is evident these great truths were not for- 
 merly understood, or thej^ would have been 
 employed to some extent at least. 
 
 Idealism placed its lights on the hills of im- 
 agination long years ago, and still burning, 
 they guide us back through the ages that have 
 passed. Its influence was important and neces- 
 sary and will continue to be felt through the 
 coming generations. It was the primitive 
 music of the forest whose beauties first whis- 
 pered the possibilities of the grander harmonies 
 that have awakened us to a new life, and, with 
 
 [75] 
 
art and poetry, rounded us into a perfect 
 whole. Idealism was the natural forerunner of 
 realism, which came in the fullness of time, and 
 having outgrown the old methods, felt its 
 power, and with deft fingers smote the golden 
 chord, and lo! the sound vibrates from soul to 
 soul, until the world is filled with music, poetry 
 and art. 
 
 Realism is nature's high priest, and its in- 
 fluence has been apparent ever since its first 
 touch of truth and splendor were felt. It has 
 given us better men and women even in ideal 
 subjects, and enabled us to hand down to 
 future generations truer history than books 
 contain. This should be remembered when re- 
 citing v/hat the past has done. Nature is the 
 art of God, and poetrj'' his grandest musings, 
 and both should be as dear to us as " sacra- 
 mental wine to dying lips." It would be diffi- 
 cult to conceive how much art would suffer in 
 the loss of either poetry or music, unless their 
 relations to each other are understood. There 
 seems to be an affinity that binds them together. 
 
 [76] 
 
Education has taught us to appreciate these 
 things, but it never made the artistic soul, or 
 kindled the poetic fire. 
 
 Do we sufficiently appreciate how much of 
 life's happiness is due to art, poetry and music? 
 The golden key of poetry unlocks the fetters 
 of dry realism, plumes the wings of imagina- 
 tion with fancy's brightest hues, makes the twi- 
 light enchanting, and warms into life the pic- 
 tures so that we see through tears, the tears in 
 pictured art. JNIusic makes the noise of every 
 day harmonious to our ears; with" such a me- 
 dium, the plaintive notes the pine trees sing is 
 but her own heart's echoing. They open the 
 windows of thought that the angel of light may 
 enter and kindle the fires of fancy and pre- 
 pare for us a bed of roses, that we may lie down 
 and revel in rainbow-colored dreams. These 
 godly attributes were given that we might, 
 while here on earth, have a glimpse of Heaven. 
 They may be made to jewel every hour with 
 happiness, and every day with joy; they lead 
 us through the green pastures and beside the 
 
 77] 
 
still waters up to the very fountain of happi- 
 ness; they smooth away the roughness of ad- 
 versity, and give a crown to prosperity. Until 
 death shall throw its dart at life, and time shall 
 be no more, our days and years will be made 
 sweet and beautiful through their influence. 
 
 The value of the different schools of art 
 should not be overlooked. Each is impor- 
 tant and has a mission to perform. We have 
 outlived some, and shall outgrow others, for as 
 human nature expands, her votaries expand 
 also; they are never still; and realism is but a 
 forward movement in the great march of 
 events. 
 
 ' ' Our little system have their day, 
 They have their day and cease to be : 
 They are but broken lights of Thee, 
 And Thou, O Lord, art more than they. ' 
 
 [78] 
 
MODERN ART. 
 
 Within the past few j^ears an abundance of 
 art hterature has been launched on the sea of 
 criticism, with the usual average of good, bad 
 and indifferent. But nothing that has come 
 under our observation is at ail comparable with 
 " Impressions on Painting," by Alfred Stev- 
 ens. 
 
 There is a freshness and originality about 
 Stevens that is as invigorating as an April 
 shower; he has something to say and says it so 
 well he might truthfully be called the De 
 Rochefoucault of art. Fired with the true 
 artistic spirit he lives in its atmosphere, under- 
 stands its meaning and breathes forth its 
 promptings as the spring on the mountain side 
 sends up its clear, sparkling waters. 
 
 Stevens has been before the public of France 
 as a painter for a quarter of a century or more. 
 His early life, like that of many others, was a 
 struggle against the tyranny of custom, but 
 
 [79] 
 
he succeeded at last by sheer force of abihty 
 and freed himself from it, and his " Impres- 
 sions " abomid in sharp, crisp, well-aimed blows 
 at the old school, the academies and the con- 
 ventional. It is impossible to form a correct 
 idea of these clear-cut epigrammatical sen- 
 tences without reading them all. They show a 
 catholicity of spirit, depth of thought and liter- 
 ary value hardly to be expected from a man 
 who makes no claims to literature. He says as 
 much in a few words as some writers say in a 
 chapter. 
 
 " In painting it is an art to know when to 
 stop." How truly this might be said of many 
 writers. He hits all alike, painters, connois- 
 seurs and critics, and what he says is true. 
 
 His pictures, as might be expected, are free 
 from all restraint and conventionality, and 
 while they upset many of the well-established 
 ideas that were supposed to be necessary for 
 painters to follow, he did what a mere critic 
 could not have done as effectually in so short 
 a time, and proved by his works that he had 
 
 [80] 
 
something better to give than the old traditions 
 and superstitions. His pictures gradually- 
 forced their way into public esteem until the 
 critical verdict was in his favor; now a host of 
 followers praise his work, and the school he did 
 so much to establish, and the Academies are 
 liberal in the bestowal of medals and " honor- 
 able mention." 
 
 To see, feel and appreciate art, the eye and 
 soul of the observer must be properly attuned, 
 and susceptible to the influence that stirred the 
 artist whose skill brings forth the picture. It 
 is also necessary for both to be beyond the in- 
 fluence of the Rialto of trade. It frequently 
 happens that an artist works for years un- 
 known, until the critic discovers and points out 
 his merits. This was true of Millet and to a 
 less degree of Turner, neither of whom were 
 appreciated until Ruskin made them known. 
 Stevens understood this when he said: 
 
 " I am a partisan of good picture dealers. 
 It is they who create connoisseurs, who raise 
 our prices, who uphold and set oif our quali- 
 
 [8i: 
 
ties in the eyes of the ignorant, who save us 
 from having to sing our own praises." 
 
 It is doubtless true that the great mass of 
 people cannot appreciate the best art ; still there 
 are among those who purchase pictures a suffi- 
 cient number who judge honestly and intelli- 
 gently, and they are the best friends the artist 
 has, not only in making a market for his works, 
 but b}^ purchasing the pictures best in sub- 
 ject and execution; thus correcting errors 
 frequently acquired by artists who get too deep 
 in the grooves of custom to properly develop 
 the poetry of nature and show the individuality 
 that must appear to a greater or less degree in 
 the works of all who do not care to be classed as 
 mere copyists. 
 
 Stevens calls the attention of impressionists 
 to a fact too often neglected : 
 
 " One should know how to paint a mustache, 
 hair by hair, before allowing himself to execute 
 it with a single stroke of the brush." 
 
 It would be w^ell if the truth undertying this 
 statement were more generally understood by 
 
 [82] 
 
painters. Even the greatest genius requires 
 profound study and practice to show at his 
 best ; these are absolutely necessary, but not all 
 that is required. Indeed, they are merely step- 
 ping stones in the stairway of art — faith is an- 
 other, and in some branches of art the most im- 
 portant of all. Without an abiding faith in 
 God it is impossible to see the wonderful beauty 
 in the works of the old masters who confined 
 themselves almost exclusively to religious sub- 
 jects. We must believe in the soul> to see the 
 soul in art; or, as Stevens puts it. 
 
 " Without faith one should not attempt re- 
 ligious painting." 
 
 The head of Christ b}^ Leonardo da Vinci, in 
 the gallery at IMilan, is as beautiful, complete, 
 and finished a picture as ever came from the 
 hands of a painter; without faith, however, it 
 is merely a human face, and the greater part 
 of its beauty is lost; but with faith we see the 
 Son of God, feel the hot tears flowing down 
 cheeks furrowed with pain, realize the unspeak- 
 able sadness and the divine forgiveness the 
 
 [83] 
 
great painter saw and felt else it could never 
 have been depicted. 
 
 It is doubtless true that Leonardo and his 
 contemporaries could not have produced the 
 masterpieces of modern times, and it is also 
 true that the nineteenth century painters 
 could not, without the " faith of the Fathers," 
 produce the wonderful works of the sixteenth 
 century. We marvel at the complete mastery 
 of these old painters in figure drawing and 
 coloring, but lament the total lack of perspec- 
 tive, landscape, and all that makes our modern 
 art what it is, for, as our author puts it, 
 
 " Painting is nature, seen through the prism 
 of an emotion." 
 
 Civilization did not really begin until art and 
 literature were born and without their influence 
 but little advance would have been made from 
 the primitive state. They are still the inspira- 
 tion that will carry the world to heights not yet 
 attained. 
 
 Art, in early times, was repressed by the 
 Church, but even in the Middle Ages a new 
 era began and heralds were not wanting to tell 
 
 [84] 
 
that the priestly supremacy was on the wane. 
 Architecture, aptly called " frozen music," 
 freed itself from all restraint and the Gothic 
 came as a natural consequence, and its power 
 and charm will always have an important influ- 
 ence. This was the first step in the freedom of 
 art. The fetters once loosened, the individual 
 came forward with new ideas, and the ability to 
 express them was not far behind. Freedom has 
 done more for art and literature than all 
 other influences, just as proHfic May, shaking 
 oif the chains of Winter's confinement, warms 
 into bud and blossom the timid flowers. 
 
 It was no mere chance that produced these 
 changes, but the natural growth of a new era 
 in the springtime of art. 
 
 Painting and literature also felt the bene- 
 ficial impulse, and each step forward was ad- 
 ditional plumage in the wings of power. Archi- 
 tecture transformed the cave into a palace, 
 adorned it with art and enriched it with music, 
 while literature has bound into one common 
 brotherhood, all mankind. 
 
 Then came printing and with it still greater 
 
 [85] 
 
freedom, until nothing could longer be con- 
 fined, and the blessings were universal. Af- 
 fected by such upheaval and disintegration, the 
 mediaeval ideas and superstitions naturally 
 gave way. Then came Shakespeare and Mil- 
 ton, Mozart and Beethoven, Raphael and Tur- 
 ner, whose influence is as great in their several 
 spheres now as it ever was; indeed more, for 
 they are better understood and appreciated in 
 these daj'^s of universal knowledge. We look 
 to them as teachers, pa^^ homage to their great- 
 ness, and acknowledge their influence on litera- 
 ture, music and art. From these changes our 
 present superiority was evolved and the end is 
 not yet, for the coming cj'^cles will doubtless 
 show still greater achievements. 
 
 France has done more to encourage art than 
 most countries. The National Academies un- 
 der liberal Government support, and the 
 grand Prix de Rome, with the bounty it carries 
 have had an important influence. Here in 
 America there is a steady, healthy growth all 
 the more flattering because these things are 
 
 [86] 
 
lacking. Our artists are on the road that leads 
 to Rome, and are rapidly taking their place 
 among the world's great painters, and when 
 the foolish idea is outgrown that all art must 
 come from abroad, they will receive jvist recog- 
 nition. We must also learn that the name of 
 a painter does not necessarily indicate the value 
 of a picture. 
 
 Stevens was one of the first to appreciate the 
 Oriental charm. To him — 
 
 " Japanese art is a powerful element of mo- 
 dernity . . . They have better rendered all the 
 manifestations of the sun and moon than the 
 ancient or modern masters. . . . They have 
 made us understand that nothing in nature is 
 to be disdained, that an ant is as well con- 
 structed as a horse." 
 
 Japanese art is better understood than it 
 was a few years ago. Regardless of their 
 faults as painters, they have a lesson to teach 
 no lover of the beautiful can fail to appreci- 
 ate. 
 
 Liibke says : " The Japanese imagination, 
 
 [87] 
 
like the Chinese, constantly verges on the gro- 
 tesque." It is important despite a too dry re- 
 alism. They lack imagination and with the 
 Chinese seem to be the only people still tied 
 down by tradition, in both art and poetry. 
 Their animals, birds, and fishes show wonder- 
 ful observation, with splendid color effects, but 
 their wings are clipped and they have never yet 
 got above unimaginative naturalism. In 
 bronze work and carving they are equal, if not 
 suj)erior, to any other people, and it is not 
 strange Stevens should have felt their influence. 
 
 The artistic instinct makes us more hmiian — 
 more in love with our kind and it seeks for in- 
 formation ever>"where; no country is too old — 
 no school too " grotesque " not to Iiave some- 
 thing to teach, and the steady growth of appre- 
 ciation in Europe and America of the Oriental 
 schools is evidence of their merit. 
 
 This book of Stevens helps us to understand 
 these things. He has set an example it would 
 be well for others to follow and more " Impres- 
 sions " from his and tlieir pens would be a boon 
 to all true lovers of art. 
 
 [88] 
 
SCHOPENHAUER. 
 
 PESSIMISM. 
 
 That Schopenhauer stands at the head of 
 modern pessimistic philosophers will hardly be 
 denied. That he was a man of deep learning 
 and a writer of great power, although an un- 
 safe guide for the majority of people, is true, 
 while that to scholars his works are a mine of 
 inspiration, will hardly be questioned. 
 
 Some one has said, women, children, and 
 men who were not deep thinkers should never 
 read Schopenhauer. Such a rule would pre- 
 clude many of us from the benefits of his writ- 
 ings, but students may safely follow him with 
 pleasure and profit however much they may 
 disagree with most of his conclusions. His 
 philosophy should not be disregarded simply 
 because he takes a view of life different from 
 our own. The time is past when skeptics and 
 heretics cannot get a patient hearing. 
 
 [89] 
 
Schopenhauer's theory promises no positive 
 good and, hke other iconoclasts, he breaks the 
 idols of the world without offering anything 
 in their place. Of course, such a man is con- 
 demned by those whose temples he desecrates. 
 
 His views are fully expressed in the words of 
 an eminent poet: 
 
 " But what if all be now and here? 
 The rest, illusion, shaped by hope or fear — 
 And thou and I, with all our life and love, 
 End like this insect that is fluttering near? 
 
 If virtue be a cheat, a child to soothe, 
 And Heaven a lie, invented but in ruth. 
 To hide the horror of eternal death — 
 Knowing that madness would be born of 
 truth?" 
 
 Optimism is the natural belief of mankind 
 and whoever seeks to undermine it by appeal- 
 ing to unanswerable facts is too often regarded 
 as an enemy of humanity. The fact is, both 
 optimism and pessimism are failures per se. 
 
 [90] 
 
There are two sides to all questions which ex- 
 tremists are likely to overlook. Schopenhauer 
 and Cardinal Manning, for instance, could 
 never have reached the same conclusion on any 
 subject relating to " kmar politics," and yet 
 both are a help. Only the narrow minded fear 
 to hear the other side. We cannot know the 
 tree by digging at the roots or climbing among 
 the topmost branches. Trunk, roots and 
 branches must all be considered if the tree is 
 to be properly understood. 
 
 " In Memoriam " is one of the most sub- 
 limely religious poems in the English lan- 
 guage. Tennyson was not a skeptic and yet 
 he favored these inquiries: 
 
 " Perplexed in faith, but pure in deeds, 
 At last he beat his music out. 
 There lives more faith in honest doubt. 
 Believe me, than in half the creeds." 
 
 Many of the great problems that confront 
 the world have not yet been solved and some 
 of them possibty never will be; but the two 
 
 [91: 
 
extremes of optimistic and pessimistic phi- 
 losophj^ are nevertheless an advantage. The 
 goal maj^ be beyond our reach and the heights 
 we strive to attain be inaccessible. Still, those 
 who climb are more likely to get at the truth 
 than they who never leave the plane of indiffer- 
 ence. 
 
 Philosophy and science have done much and 
 solved many riddles, but because they have not 
 yet been able to reach the chamber of the soul 
 nor discover the source of life is no reason why 
 both may not in time be revealed. 
 
 Annihilation is impossible; that has been 
 proven as conclusively as the law of gravita- 
 tion. There is ample proof of the soul's ex- 
 istence and as death is merely a cessation of 
 physical life, what becomes of the soul? 
 
 "Oh, dreadful mystery! Thought beats its 
 
 wings 
 And strains against the utmost bound of 
 
 things. 
 And drops exhausted back to earth again, 
 And moans, distressed by vague imaginings." 
 
 [92] 
 
To expect these questions can be satisfac- 
 torily answered now is to hope for the impos- 
 sible. Still, so long as the human race does 
 hope and have faith that life is something more 
 than IngersoU's " Narrow veil between the 
 cold and barren peaks of two eternities," the 
 study of such philosophers as Schopenhauer is 
 necessary to counteract the effect of narrow 
 creeds, how'ever unsatisfactory their theories 
 may be. 
 
 Emerson in a few words said what Schopen- 
 hauer could never have understood. " We live 
 in succession, in divisions, in parts, in particles. 
 Meantime in man is the soul of the whole; the 
 wise silence; the universal beauty to which 
 every part and particle is equally related; the 
 eternal one/' 
 
 The optimistic theories of life are an un- 
 doubted benefit to the great mass of humanity 
 and the strongest proof of their truth is their 
 universal belief. But faith and hope do not 
 answer the perplexing questions reason is con- 
 stantly asking and it must be admitted the 
 greatest advances in solving them have been 
 
 [93] 
 
made by pessimistic research in spite of opti- 
 mistic theories. 
 
 The chord of mystery runs all through the 
 warp and woof of life and death. Miracles 
 meet us everywhere. Physical life presupposes 
 bodily death just as the wings of birds and fins 
 of fishes foreshadow air and water. The body 
 is merely the temple in which the soul abides. 
 We know the soul pervades and controls us, 
 but with our limited knowledge it is too subtle 
 for words to describe — too lofty for language 
 to reach. 
 
 The fact that the final fate of the human 
 race is as yet unknown, but not therefore nec- 
 essarily unknowable, favors all honest attempts 
 to solve the problems in spite of the difficulties, 
 or however old they may be. For this reason 
 the pessimism of Schopenhauer is an advan- 
 tage, just as the doubts of Celsus, Bruno and 
 Voltaire were. 
 
 Science has already shown the absurdity of 
 many religious beliefs and will wipe out many 
 more; and there is reason to think it\^'ill eventu- 
 ally prove the immortality of the soul. 
 
 [94] 
 
Schopenhauer is a great teacher, out of sym- 
 pathy with the majority of mankind; but there 
 is alwaj^s a remnant, according to Arnold, who 
 by sheer force of intellect sooner or later 
 changes the ideas of the majority. This is the 
 mission of the school of which Schopenhauer 
 was so brilliant a member. No one will deny 
 his deep scholarship and literary excellence, 
 even while justly complaining of his bitter 
 and ill-natured sarcasm. He preferred to co- 
 erce rather than flatter the world into accept- 
 ing his views, and was at times brutal in the 
 use of his intellectual strength. There is some- 
 thing more in life than wisdom. If the mission 
 of the soul is to be understood w^e must believe 
 in its existence. Schopenhauer, knowing 
 nothing of these things, w^as unable to appre- 
 ciate the spiritual. 
 
 The soul is not a mere organ or function of 
 the body, but the master of all organs and func- 
 tions. It is not the physical man but the soul 
 within that commands respect. A grain of 
 wheat buried with an Egyptian mummy thou- 
 
 [95] 
 
sands of years ago, nursed in the bosom of 
 mother earth, and watered with Spring's 
 warm showers, awakens from its long repose 
 and bursts into hfe as if it were a thing of 
 yesterday. Is it not as reasonable to believe 
 the soul of the mummy as worthy of immor- 
 tality as that of the grain of wheat? 
 
 There is one common ground on which opti- 
 mists and pessimists meet without dispute, 
 namely: that health, books, education and art 
 work for the good of all mankind. 
 
 Sir John Lubbock may be taken as an ex- 
 treme optimist. In the " Pleasures of Life " 
 he says that the world is full of blessings which 
 may be had for the asking; while Schopenliauer 
 contends that the happiness a man derives from 
 these so-called blessings depends entirely upon 
 the extent to which he is mentally able to ap- 
 preciate them. There is something glorious 
 about the excess of optimism as painted by 
 Lubbock, just as there is something disheart- 
 ening in the views of Schopenhauer. And yet, 
 if he does paint life in somber colors, there is 
 
 [96] 
 
nothing weak or uncertain about him. We can 
 at least be heroes and face the uncertainties 
 with courage. The ideal of nobility is to de- 
 serve the praise Hamlet gave: 
 
 " Thou hast been, 
 
 " As one, in suffering all, suffers nothing." 
 
 Schopenhauer's theories are forcible because 
 they were suggested by careful observations of 
 Hfe as he saw it. He holds that the various 
 religions of the world are a product of the 
 mind, just as the arts and sciences are; that 
 they differ in truth and beautj^ according to 
 the knowledge and himianity of their authors. 
 He gives credit to Christianity and Buddhism 
 for their moral teachings, but, of course, has 
 no sympathy for the supernatural in either. 
 
 In trying to free himself from the trammels 
 of other systems, Schopenhauer, like many 
 others, was caught in those of his own. He 
 tried to look at life honestly, but his theory 
 made it necessary to regard it as an unmixed 
 
 [97] 
 
evil, where everything is relative, with human- 
 ity bound in an endless round of effort and 
 failure. 
 
 Accordingly, if we confine ourselves to 
 some of the small details, life may appear to 
 be a comedy, because of the few bright spots 
 to be found here and there, but from a higher 
 point of view, these become invisible, and life 
 is revealed as a tragedy — a long painful strug- 
 gle, with the death of the hero as the final cer- 
 tainty. 
 
 Poets give play to the imagination and who 
 will say it is not the foundation of reason, but 
 Schopenhauer has no knowledge of anything 
 beyond oiu' ken and believes suffering and 
 disappointment are the lot of all, life being a 
 blind, unreasoning force, hurrying us he knows 
 not whither. He is without even the skeptic's 
 hope : 
 
 " What will be, will be, though we laugh or 
 weep ; 
 Love is the happy dream of life's brief sleep. 
 
 [98] 
 
And we shall wake at last, and know — or 
 else 
 
 In death's kind arms find slumber — dream- 
 less — deep." 
 
 There are many things in life which he thinks 
 give some satisfaction, but its pleasures are not 
 positive in their nature, nor anything more 
 than negative of suffering, as is proven by the 
 fact that, if the pleasures are given in abund- 
 ance, dissatisfaction and pain come in the form 
 of satiety. Hence the most we can achieve is a 
 measure of relief from this suffering. 
 
 It is an old saying that happiness is a de- 
 lusion, but here is a man who says the whole 
 of life is a delusion, making pain its foundation 
 and a desire to escape it the spur of all effort, 
 while most of the world's best thinkers, who 
 were quite as likely to reach the truth, have 
 thought religion and morality a positive source 
 of true happiness. 
 
 Emerson is a sufficient antidote for too much 
 of Schopenhauer. One is the gloom that comes 
 
 [99] 
 
 LofC. 
 
in the twilight of evening after a profitless 
 day; the other the faith that comes with the 
 rising sun which is to bless and cheer all it 
 shines upon. 
 
 [lOO] 
 
CHOPIN-POE. 
 
 Inspiration, or, as Emerson might have said, 
 the " Over soul " of the practical in life, is the 
 source of music and poetry, sentiment being 
 the keystone that binds them together. 
 
 There is a striking similarity between Cho- 
 pin and Poe; both express themselves in noc- 
 turnes, the disappointment of evening rather 
 than the promise of morning. The chord of 
 melancholy is woven all through the hves and 
 works of both. There was no springtime of 
 hope, no perfect day in June for them, with 
 the golden sands running through the hour- 
 glass to the music of a Verdi or the poetry of a 
 Tennyson. There are but few days in life that 
 do not commence with gladness, give ample 
 sunshine at noon and end with evenings that 
 inspire benedictions of thankfulness; but Cho- 
 pin and Poe found them not. 
 
 They had the autumnal feeling in abund- 
 ance but it was the poetry of decay, the music 
 of death. 
 
 [lOl] 
 
The October woods could not have presented 
 to them the beauties other musicians and poets 
 see and feel. The millions of flickering leaves 
 all scarlet and crimson, orange and yellow; the 
 climbing vines in gorgeous robes and banks of 
 fleecy clouds hurrying to the M^est are not sub- 
 jects for regret. Nature shows evidences of 
 gladness everywhere. Twilight is enchant- 
 ingly beautiful ; and solemn, majestic night, to 
 a health}'' imagination, is sublimely grand with 
 the floor of heaven jeweled with countless glit- 
 tering stars. But these things had quite a 
 difl'erent eff'ect on Poe, and his " Ulalume " 
 describes the feelings of Chopin as well: 
 
 ' ' The skies they were ashen and sober : 
 The leaves they were crisp and sere — 
 The leaves they were withering and sere : 
 It was night in the lonesome October 
 Of my most immemorial year: 
 It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 
 In the misty mid region of Weir — 
 It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, 
 In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 
 
 102] 
 
It is evident there were but few days in the 
 lives of Chopin and Poe that were not over- 
 hung with clouds, days when they were not 
 racked with heart-throbs of anguish as the tem- 
 pest shakes ships in a storm; days when the 
 whole scheme of creation seeming a stupendous 
 failure they would willingly have agreed with 
 the stoics that death gives the only happiness 
 and forgetfulness the only good. But this is 
 not a just or true picture. 
 
 In the ocean of life are rocks and shoals on 
 which all ships are liable to founder in storms 
 or stress of weather; wise navigators circum- 
 vent them, but genius is not wisdom. 
 
 Why so many poets and musicians are sad, 
 soul-sick men is a fact philosophy should ex- 
 plain. Sorrow and genius seem to go hand in 
 hand. Facts are not necessarily mournful al- 
 though they are often represented as being so. 
 
 Life is an epic and does not become a com- 
 edy or tragedy unless we make it so, but such 
 men as Chopin and Poe are apt to make the 
 mxistake of considering time spent in cultiva- 
 tion of ethereal sentiments as squandered. 
 
 [103] 
 
We live in the present and are masters only 
 of the to-days. Duty requires we make the 
 most of them so that the yesterdays may be of 
 blessed memories. Not miderstanding this, 
 they failed to comprehend the true meaning of 
 life. 
 
 Fenelon said: "Even justice demands an- 
 other life in order to make good the inequali- 
 ties of this." In no other way can genius be 
 understood and rewarded, or be made to com- 
 prehend its mistakes; and it will require many 
 lives before some are made perfect. The world 
 is beautiful in all its parts and complete so far 
 as we are able to judge; still the longings and 
 hungerings of the soul tell us it is not the nat- 
 ural end of the human race. We demand some- 
 thing more. Only the thoughtless are content 
 with the present conditions. Wisdom creates 
 a hunger for something better. 
 
 " Ignorance is the curse of God, 
 " Knowledge the wings wherewith we fly to 
 heaven." 
 
 [104] 
 
Genius (and education, to a less extent) be- 
 gets the desire for something more than and 
 different from what Hfe affords. It excites 
 heart-throbs of impatience, and craves for 
 higher spiritual conditions and it is reasonable 
 to believe the desired conditions will eventually 
 be found. There must be an existence where 
 the perfections longed for will be attained. 
 
 Excessive happiness is followed by feeHngs 
 akin to pain. Joy and sorrow are the two ex- 
 tremes of the same emotion. Sadness is nat- 
 ural; the grandest scenery, like a storm at sea 
 or the majesty of the mountains, excites feel- 
 ings of gloom. But there is something in life 
 besides storm and mountain crags which for- 
 tunately most poets and musicians see and feel. 
 
 In writing of Wordsworth, Matthew Ar- 
 nold says what applies with equal force to all 
 composers: "It is important to hold fast to 
 this ; that poetry is at bottom a criticism of life ; 
 that the greatness of a poet lies in his powerful 
 and beautiful application of ideas to life — the 
 question of how to live. 
 
 There is sunshine in abundance else there 
 
 105] 
 
could be no shadow. Neither Chopin nor Poe 
 saw life as it really is, and their application of 
 what they did see would lead to false conclu- 
 sions. The somber tones in which it appealed 
 to them are not the prevailing colors; hence 
 their picture lacks the fundamental truths. 
 Naught but shadows were seen by them where 
 others would have gathered sunbeams. 
 
 Genius is not to be envied, and the germ of 
 truth is contained in the fable of the crownless 
 king. They are often happiest who possess 
 the least and have not the knowledge that cre- 
 ates a hunger for more. 
 
 The early life of Chopin and that of Poe were 
 equalty mifortunate; neither came from the 
 realm where healthy dreams are born, and both 
 planted thorns in abundance instead of roses 
 for reaping in after years, and the harvest was 
 what might have been expected. 
 
 Opening this door of speculation lets in the 
 whole question of fate, free will and moral re- 
 sponsibility ; but that is necessary in consider- 
 ing the lives of such erratic men as Chopin and 
 Poe. 
 
 1 06] 
 
Both were remarkable in creative power and 
 with the touch of masters they poured out their 
 soul in 
 
 " JMusic that gentler on the spirit lies, 
 Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes." 
 
 Their sensibilities were profound, but they 
 were limited in range of thought and color, and 
 their best work is in a minor key, but the pure 
 gold of genius runs through it all. They did 
 but little compared with other musicians and 
 poets, but what they did do is perfect of its 
 kind and unsurpassed in clearness of tone, 
 depth of feeling and lofty inspiration, in which 
 the force of their whole nature seemed to have 
 been consumed. But it is a dirge nevertheless. 
 
 Still there is a charm and fascination about 
 their music that is irresistible although it leads 
 to the shades of Valhalla. In another key it 
 might have carried us to the very top of high 
 Olympus and into the presence of the living 
 Gods. 
 
 [107] 
 
They lived many lives in their short careers 
 with souls hungering for something this world 
 could not give, and the heart-throbs of disap- 
 pointment are felt all through their music and 
 poetry. 
 
 Neither had any conception of mirth, or con- 
 sidered themselves accountable for moral weak- 
 ness, and both died in the old age of youth when 
 most men blossom into the full perfection of 
 maturity. But their mission had been per- 
 formed. 
 
 It is not likely, however, that either would 
 have done better, or even as well, imder more 
 favorable circimistances, for their lutes had but 
 one string, and, that out of tune, they were 
 powerless. 
 
 Both loved — not wisety, but too well, and 
 their best works were inspired by the women 
 through whose eyes they looked to heaven. 
 
 Chopin lacked the concentration and even 
 balance of a Wagner ; Poe the spirituality of a 
 Wordsworth. Theirs was the soft plaintive 
 music of wounded birds; sad, tender and pa- 
 
 [lOS] 
 
thetic; while Wagner and Wordsworth sang 
 more truly of nature's various moods, with for- 
 ests abounding with birds contented and happy. 
 
 " Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears. 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can 
 
 give 
 Thoughts that do often He too deep for 
 tears." 
 
 Their nocturnes are soul-beats of poetic 
 dreamers, telling their life story, their hopes 
 and longings, sufferings and defeats — music 
 and poetry that appeals to all who have suf- 
 fered, hoped, and been disappointed. 
 
 This should be said in justice to both Chopin 
 and Poe; thej^ were always pure; none of the 
 sensuality of an Offenbach or the voluptuous- 
 ness of a Swinburne contaminates any of their 
 compositions. 
 
 [109] 
 
SFP 22 1903 
 
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