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 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
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EXCURSIONS IN ART 
 AND LETTERS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY 
 
 D.C.L. (OXON.) 
 COMM. CORONA ITAUA, OFF. LEG. d'hONNBOR, ETC. 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 1891 
 
Copyright, 1891, 
 Bx WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A. 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. nougbton & Co. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 rAGB 
 
 Michel Angelo 1 
 
 Phidias, and the Elgin Marbles 49 
 
 The Art of Casting in Plaster among the Anctent 
 
 Greeks and Romans 115 
 
 A Conversation with Marcus Aurelius 190 
 
 Distortions of the English Stage as Instanced in 
 
 •'Macbeth" 232 
 
EXCUESIONS IN AET AND LETTERS. 
 
 MICHEL ANGELO. 
 
 The overthrow of the pagan religion was the 
 deathblow of pagan Art. The temples shook to 
 their foundations, the statues of the gods shud- 
 dered, a shadow darkened across the pictured and 
 sculptured world, when through the ancient realm 
 was heard the wail, "Pan, great Pan is dead.' 
 The nymphs fled to their caves affrighted. Dryads 
 Oreads, and Naiads abandoned the groves, moun 
 tains, and streams that they for ages had haunted 
 Their voices were heard no more singing by shad 
 owy brooks, their faces peered no longer through 
 the sighing woods ; and of all the mighty train of 
 srreater and lesser divinities and deified heroes to 
 whom Greece and Rome had bent the knee and 
 offered sacrifice, Orpheus alone lingered in the 
 guise of the Good Shepherd. 
 
 Christianity struck the deathblow not only to pa- 
 gan Art, but for a time to all Art. Sculpture and 
 Painting were in its mind closely allied to idola- 
 tiy. Under its influence the arts slowly wasted 
 away as with a mortal disease. With ever-declin- 
 ing strength they struggled for centuries, gasping 
 
2 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 as it were for breath, and finally, almost in utter 
 atropliy, half alive, half dead, — a ruined, maimed, 
 deformed presence, shorn of all their glory and 
 driven out by the world, — they found a beggarly 
 refuge and sufferance in some Christian church or 
 monastery. 
 
 The noble and majestic statues of the sculptured 
 gods of ancient Greece were overthrown and buried 
 in the ground, their glowing and pictured figures 
 were swept from the walls of temples and dwellings, 
 and in their stead only a crouching, timid race 
 of bloodless saints were seen, not glad to be men, 
 and fearful of God. Humanity dared no longer to 
 stand erect, but groveled in superstitious fear, and 
 lashed its flesh in penance, and was ashamed and 
 afraid of all its natural instincts. How then was 
 it possible for Art to live ? Beauty, happiness, 
 life, and joy were but a snare and a temptation, 
 and Eeligion and Art, which can never be divorced, 
 crouched together in fear. 
 
 The long black period of the Middle Ages came 
 to shroud everything in ignorance. Literature, art, 
 poetry, science, sank into a nightmare of sleep. 
 Only arms survived. The world became a battle- 
 field, simply for power and dominion, until religion, 
 issuing from the Church, bore in its van the ban- 
 ner of chivalry. 
 
 But the seasons of history are like the seasons 
 of the year. Nothing utterly dies. And after the 
 long apparently dead winter of the Middle Ages 
 the spring came again — the spring of the Renais- 
 
MICHEL AXGELO, 3 
 
 sance — when liberty and humanity awoke, and 
 art, literature, science, poes}^ all suddenly felt a 
 new influence come over them. The Church itself 
 shook off its apathy, inspired by a new spirit. 
 Liberty, long do^\'ntrodden and tyrannized over, 
 roused itself, and struck for popular rigiits. The 
 great contest of the Guelphs and Ghibellines began. 
 There was a ferment throughout all society. The 
 great republics of Italy arose. Conmierce began 
 to flourish ; and despite all the wars, contests, and 
 feuds of people and nobles, and the decimations 
 from plague and disease, art, literature, science, 
 and religion itself, burst forth into a new and 
 vigorous life. One after another there arose those 
 great men whose names shine like planets in his- 
 tory — Dante, with his wonderfid '' Divina Corn- 
 media," written, as it were, vnth. a pen of fire 
 against a stormy background of night ; Boccaccio, 
 with his sunny sheaf of idyllic tales ; Petrarca, 
 the earnest lover of liberty, the devoted patriot, 
 the archaeologist and philosopher as well as poet, 
 whose tender and noble spirit is marked through 
 his exquisitely finished canzone and sonnets, and 
 his various philosophical works ; Yillari, the his- 
 torian ; and all the illustrious company that sur- 
 rounded the court of Lorenzo the Magnificent — 
 Macchiavelli, Poliziano, Boiardo, the three Pulci, 
 Leon Battista Alberti, Aretino, Pico della Miran- 
 dola, and Marsilio Ficino ; and, a little later, 
 Ariosto and Tasso, whose stanzas are still sung by 
 the gondoliers of Venice ; and Guarini and Bibbi- 
 
4 EXCURSWXS IX ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 ena and Bembo, — and many anotlier in the fields 
 of poesy and literature. Music then also began to 
 develop itself ; and Guido di Arezzo arranged the 
 scale and the new method of notation. Art also 
 sent forth a sudden and glorious coruscation of 
 genius, beginning with Cimabue and Giotto, to 
 shake off the stiff cerements of Byzantine tradi- 
 tion in which it had so long been swathed, and to 
 stretch its limbs to freer action, and spread its 
 wings to higher flights of po^Ver, invention, and 
 beaut}^ The marble gods, which had lain de- 
 throned and buried in the earth for so many cen- 
 turies, rose with renewed life from their graves, 
 and reasserted over the world of Art the dominion 
 they had lost in the realm of Religion. It is use- 
 less to rehearse the familiar names that then illu- 
 mined the golden age of Italian art, where shine 
 preeminent those of Leonardo, the widest and 
 most universal genius that perhaps the world has 
 ever seen ; of Michel Angelo, the greatest power 
 that ever expressed itself in stone or color ; of 
 Raffaelle, whose exquisite grace and facile design 
 have never been surpassed ; and of Titian, Giorgi- 
 one, Veronese, and Tintoretto, with their Venetian 
 splendors. Nor did science lag behind. Galileo 
 ranged the heavens with his telescope, and, like 
 a second Joshua, bade the sun stand still ; and 
 Columbus, ploughing the imkno\Nni deep, added 
 another continent to the kno^vn workl. 
 
 This was the Renaissance or new birth in Italy ; 
 after the long drear niglit of ignorance and dark- 
 
MICHEL AXGELO. 6 
 
 ne??. again the morniiiL:" came anJ tlie g'lorv re- 
 nirned. As Italy above all other lands is the land 
 of the Renaissance, so Florence above all cities 
 is the citv of the Renaissance. Its streets are 
 haimted by historic associations : at every corner, 
 and in every byplace or piazza, yoti meet the spir- 
 its cA the past. The ghosts of the great men who 
 have given such a charm and perfume to history 
 meet you at every tmm. Here they walked and 
 worked centuries ago ; here to the imagination 
 they still walk, and they scarcely seem gone. 
 Here is the stone upon which Dante sat and medi- 
 tated. — was it an hour ago or six centuries ? 
 Here Brimelleschi watched the gro"^dng of his 
 mighty dome, and here Michel Angelo stood and 
 gazed at it while dreaming of that other mighty 
 dome of St. Peter's which he was afterwards to 
 raise, and said. •• Like it I -^dll not. and better I 
 cannot." As one walks through the piazza of 
 Sta Maria Xovella. and looks up at the facade that 
 Michel Angelo called his *• sposa." it is not difficult 
 again to people it with the glad procession that 
 bore Cimabtie's famous picture. ^Wrh shouts and 
 pomp and rejoicing, to its altar within the church. 
 In the Piazza della Signoria one may in imagina- 
 tion easily gather a crowd of famous men to listen 
 to the piercing tones and powerful eloquence of 
 Savonarola. Here gazing up. one may see tower- 
 ing ag^ainst the sky. and falling as it were against 
 the trooping clouds, the massive fortressdike strtic- 
 ture of the Palazzo Pitblico, with its tall machico- 
 
d £XCrES/OX^ IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 lated tower, whence the bell so often called the 
 turbulent populace together ; or dropping one's 
 eyes, behold under the lofty arches of the Loggia 
 of Orcagna the marble representations of the 
 ancient and modern world assembled together, — 
 peacefully : the antique Ajax, the Renaissance 
 Perseus of Cellini, the Rape of the Sabines, by 
 eTohn of Bologna, and the late group of Polyxines, 
 by Fedi, holding solemn and silent conclave. In 
 the Piazza del Duomo at the side of Brunellesclii's 
 noble dome, the exquisite campanile of Giotto, 
 slender, graceful, and joyous, stands like a bride 
 and whispers ever the name of its master and de- 
 signer. And turning round, one may see the Bap- 
 tistery celebrated by Dante, and those massive 
 bronze doors storied by Ghiberti, which Michel 
 Angelo said were worthy to be the doors of Para- 
 dise. History and romance meets us everywhere. 
 The old families still give their names to the streets, 
 and palaces, and loggie. Every now and then a 
 marble slab upon some house records the birth or 
 death within of some famous citizen, artist, writer, 
 or patriot, or perpetuates the memory of some 
 great event. There is scarcely a street or a square 
 which has not something memorable to say and to 
 recall, and one walks through the streets guided by 
 memory, looking behind more than before, and see- 
 ing with the eyes of the imagination. Here is the 
 Bargello, by turns the court of the Podesta and 
 the prison of Florence, whence so many edicts 
 were issued, and where the groans of so many 
 
MICHEL AXGELO. 7 
 
 prisoners were eclioed. Here is the Church of the 
 Carmine, where Masaccio and Lippi painted those 
 frescoes which are still living on its walls, though 
 the hands that painted and the brains that dreamed 
 them into life are gone forever. Here are the 
 loggie which were granted only to the fifteen high- 
 est citizens, from which fair ladies, who are now 
 but dust, looked and laughed so many a j^ear ago. 
 Here are the picfzze within whose tapestried stock- 
 ades gallant knights jousted in armor, and fair 
 eyes, gazing from above, " rained influence and ad- 
 judged the prize." Here are the fortifications at 
 which Michel Ano^elo worked as an enoineer and 
 as a combatant ; and here among the many 
 churches, each one of which bears on its walls or 
 over its altars the painted or sculptured work of 
 some of the great artists of the flowering prime of 
 Florence, is that of the Santa Croce, the sacred 
 and solemn mausoleum of many of its mighty dead. 
 As we wander through its echoing nave at twilight, 
 when the shadows of evening are deepening, we 
 may hold communion with these great spirits of 
 the past. The Peruzzi and Baldi Chapels are illus- 
 trated by the frescoes of Giotto. The foot treads 
 upon many a slab under which lie the remains 
 of soldier, and knight, and noble, and merchant 
 prince, who, centuries ago, their labors and battles 
 and commerce done, were here laid to rest. The 
 nave on either side is lined with monumental stat- 
 ues of the illustrious dead. Ungrateful Florence, 
 who drove her greatest poet from her gates to find 
 
8 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 a grave in Ravenna, ^:)a^7'i'is extorris ah urbe, here 
 tardily and in penitence raised to him a monument 
 after vainly striving to reclaim his bones. Here, 
 too, among others, are the statues and monuments 
 of Michel Angelo, Macchiavelli, Galileo, Lanzi, 
 Aretino, Guicciardini, Alfieri, Leon Battista Al- 
 berti, and Raffaelle Morghen. 
 
 Of all the great men who shed a lustre over Flor- 
 ence, no one so domineers over it and pervades it 
 with his memory and his presence as Michel An- 
 gelo. The impression he left upon his own age 
 and upon all subsequent ages is deeper, perhaps, 
 than that left by any other save Dante. Every- 
 thing in Florence recalls him. The dome of Bru- 
 nelleschi, impressive and beautifid as it is, and 
 prior in time to that of St. Peter's, cannot rid it- 
 self of its mighty brother in Rome. With Ghi- 
 berti's doors are ever associated his words. In 
 Santa Croce we all pause longer before the tomb 
 where his body is laid than before any other — 
 even that of Dante. The empty place before the 
 Palazzo Vecchio, where his David stood, still holds 
 its ghost. All places which knew him in life are 
 still haunted by his memory. The house where he 
 lived, thought, and worked is known to every pil- 
 grim of art. The least fragment which his hand 
 touched is there preserved as precious, simply be- 
 cause it was his ; and it is with a feeling of rev- 
 erence that we enter the little closet where his 
 mighty works were designed. There still stands 
 his folding desk, lit by a little slip of a window ; 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 9 
 
 and there are the shelves and pigeon-holes where 
 he kept his pencils, colors, tools, and books. The 
 room is so narrow that one can scarcely turn about 
 in it ; and the contrast between this narrow, re- 
 stricted space and the vastness of the thoughts 
 which there were born, and the extent of his fame 
 w^hich fills the world, is strangely impressive and 
 affecting. Here, barring the door behind him to 
 exclude the world, he sat and studied and wrote 
 and drew, little dreaming that hundreds of thou- 
 sands of pilgrims would in after-centuries come to 
 visit it in reverence from a continent then but just 
 discovered, and peopled only with savages. 
 
 But more than all other places, the Church of 
 San Lorenzo is identified with him ; and the Me- 
 dicean Chapel, which he designed, is more a mon- 
 ument to him than to those in honor of whom it 
 was built. 
 
 Here, therefore, under the shadow of these noble 
 shapes, and in the silent influence of this solemn 
 place, let us cast a hurried glance over the career 
 and character of Micliel Angelo as exhibited in his 
 life and his greatest works. To do more than this 
 would be impossible within the brief limits we can 
 here command. We may then give a glance into 
 the adjoining and magnificent Hall, which is the 
 real mausoleum of the Medici, and is singularly in 
 contrast with it. 
 
 Michel Angelo was born at Caprese, in the 
 Casentino, near Florence, on March 6, 1474 or 
 1475, according as we reckon from the nativity or 
 
10 EXCUBSIOXS JX ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 the incarnation of Christ. He died at Rome on 
 Friday, February 23, 1564, at the ripe age of 
 eighty-nine or ninety. He claimed to be of the 
 noble family of the Counts of Canossa. He cer- 
 tainly was of the family of the Berlinghi. His 
 father was one of the twelve Buonomini, and was 
 Podesta of Caprese when Michel Angelo was born. 
 From his early youth he showed a strong incli- 
 nation to art, and vainly his father sought to turn 
 him aside from this vocation. His early studies 
 were under Ghirlandajo. But he soon left his 
 master to devote himself to sculpture ; and he was 
 wont to say that he " had imbibed this disposition 
 with his nurse's milk " — she being the wife of a 
 stone-carver. Lorenzo the Magnificent favored him 
 and received him into his household ; and there 
 under his patronage he prosecuted his studies, as- 
 sociating familiarly with some of the most remark- 
 able men of the period, enriching his mind with 
 their conversation, and giving himself earnestly 
 to the study not only of art, but of science and 
 literature. The celebrated Angelo Poliziano, then 
 tutor to the sons of Lorenzo, was strongly attracted 
 to him, and seems to have adopted him also as a 
 pupil. His early efforts as a sculptor were not 
 remarkable ; and though many stories are told of 
 his great promise and efficiency, but little weight 
 is to be given to them. He soon, however, began to 
 distinguish himself among his contemporaries ; and 
 his Cupid and Bacchus, though wanting in all the 
 spirit and characteristics of antique work, were, for 
 
MICHEL AKGELO. 11 
 
 the time and age of the sculptor, important and 
 remarkable. After this followed the Pieta, now 
 in St. Peter's at Rome, in which a different spirit 
 began to exhibit itself ; but it was not till later on 
 that the great individuality and originality of his 
 mind was shown, when from an inform block of 
 rejected marble he hewed the colossal figure of 
 David. He had at last found the great path of his 
 genius. From this time forward he went on with 
 ever-increasing power — working in many various 
 arts, and stamping on each the powerful character 
 of his mind. His grandest and most characteristic 
 works in sculpture and painting were executed in 
 his middle age. The Sistine Chapel he completed 
 when he was thirty-eight years old, the stern figure 
 of the Moses when he was forty, the great sculp- 
 tures of the Medici Chapel when he was from fifty 
 to fifty-five ; and in his sixty-sixth year he finished 
 the Last Judgment. Thenceforth his thoughts 
 were chiefly given to architecture, vAih. excursions 
 into poetry — though during this latter period he 
 painted the frescoes in the Pauline Chapel ; and 
 after being by turns sculptor, painter, architect, 
 engineer, and poet, he spent the last years of his 
 life in designing and superintending the erection 
 of St. Peter's at Rome. 
 
 One of his last works, if not the last, was the 
 model of the famous cupola of St. Peter's, vrhich 
 he never saw c'bmpleted. In some respects this 
 was departed from in its execution by his succes- 
 sors ; but in every change it lost, and had it been 
 
12 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 carried out strictly as he designed it, it would have 
 been even nobler and more beautiful than it is. 
 
 Here was a long life of ceaseless study, of un- 
 tiring industry, of never-flagging devotion to art. 
 Though surrounded by discouragements of every 
 kind, harassed by his family, forced to obey the 
 arbitrary will of a succession of Popes, and, in 
 accordance with their orders, to abandon the ex- 
 ecution of his high artistic conceptions and waste 
 months and years on mere mechanic labor in su- 
 perintending mines and quarries — driven against 
 his will, now to be a painter when he desired to be 
 a sculptor, now to be an architect when he had 
 learned to be a painter, now as an engineer to be 
 employed on fortifications when he was longing 
 for his art ; through all the exigencies of his life, 
 and all the worrying claims of patrons, family, arid 
 country, he kept steadily on, never losing courage 
 even to the end — a man of noble life, high faith, 
 pure instincts, great intellect, powerful will, and 
 inexhaustible energy ; proud and scornful, but never 
 vain ; violent of character, but generous and true, 
 — never guilty through all his long life of a single 
 mean or unworthy act : a silent, serious, unsocial, 
 self -involved man, oppressed with the weight of 
 great thoughts, and burdened by many cares and 
 sorrows. With but a grim humor, and none of 
 the lighter graces of life, he went his solitary way, 
 ploughing a deeper furrow in his age than any of 
 his contemporaries, remarkable as they were, — an 
 earnest and unwearied student and seeker, even 
 to the last. 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 13 
 
 It was in his old age that he^made a drawing of 
 himself in a child's go-cart with the motto " An- 
 cora imparo " — I am still learning. And one 
 winter day toward the end of his life, the Cardinal 
 Gonsalvi met him walking down towards the Colos- 
 seum during a snowstorm. Stopping his carriage, 
 the Cardinal asked where he was going in such 
 stormy weather. " To school," he answered " to 
 try to learn something." 
 
 Slowly, as years advanced, his health declined, 
 bnt his mind retained to the last all its energy and 
 clearness ; and many a craggy sonnet and mad- 
 rigal he wrote towards the end of his life, full of 
 high thought and feeling — struggling for expres- 
 sion, and almost rebelliously submitting to the 
 limits of poetic form ; and at last, peacef idly, 
 after eighty-nine long years of earnest labor and 
 never-failing faith, he passed away, and the great 
 light went out. No ! it did not go out ; it still 
 burns as brightly as ever, across these long cen- 
 turies to illumine the world. 
 
 Fitly to estimate the power of Michel Angelo 
 as a sculptor, we must study the great works in 
 the Medicean Chapel in the Church of San Lo- 
 renzo, which show the culmination of his genius in 
 this branch of art. 
 
 The original church of San Lorenzo was founded 
 in 930, and is one of the most ancient in Italy. 
 It was burned down in 1423, and reerected in 
 1425 by the Medici from Brimelleschi's designs. 
 Later, in 1523, by the order of Leo X., Michel 
 
14 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 Angelo designed and began to execute the new 
 sacristy, wliicli was intended to serve as a mauso- 
 leum to Giuliano dei Medici, Duke of Nemours, 
 brother of Leo X., and younger son of Lorenzo 
 the Magnificent ; and to Lorenzo, Duke of Ur- 
 bino, and grandson of the great Lorenzo. Within 
 this mausoleum, which is now called the Medici 
 Chapel, were placed the statues of Giuliano and 
 Lorenzo. They are both seated on lofty pedestals, 
 and face each other on opposite sides of the 
 chapel. At the base of one, reclining on a huge 
 sarcophagus, are the colossal figures of Day and 
 Night, and at the base of the other the figures of 
 Aurora and Crepuscule. This chapel is quite sep- 
 arated from the church itself. You enter from 
 below by a dark and solemn crypt, beneath which 
 are the bodies of thirty-four of the family, with 
 large slabs at intervals on the pavement, on which 
 their names are recorded. You ascend a stair- 
 case, and go through a corridor into this chapel. 
 It is solemn, cold, bare, white, and lighted from 
 above by a lantern open to the sky. There is no 
 color, the lower part being carved of white 
 marble, and the upper part and railings wrought 
 in stucco. A chill comes over you as you enter 
 it ; and the whole place is awed into silence by 
 these majestic and solemn figures. You at once 
 feel yourself to be in the presence of an influence, 
 serious, grand, impressive, and powerful, and of 
 a character totally different from anytliing that 
 sculpture has hitherto produced, either in the an- 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 15 
 
 cient or modern world. Whatever may be the de- 
 fects of these great works, and they are many and 
 evident, one feels that here a lofty intellect and 
 power has straggled, and fought its way, so to 
 speak, into the marble, and brought forth from 
 the insensate stone a giant brood of almost super- 
 natural shapes. It is not nature that he has 
 striven to render, but rather to embody thoughts, 
 and to clothe in form conceptions which surpass 
 the limits of ordinary nature. It is idle to apply 
 here the rigid rules of realism. The attitudes are 
 distorted, and almost impossible. No figure could 
 ever retain the position of the Night at best for 
 more tlian a moment, and to sleep in such an 
 attitude would be scarcely possible. And yet a 
 mighty burden of sleep weighs do\vn this figure, 
 and the solemnity of night iitself broods over it. 
 So also the Day is more like a primeval titanic 
 form than the representation of a human being. 
 The action of the head, for instance, is beyond na- 
 ture. The head itself is merely blocked out, and 
 scarcely indicated in its features. But this very 
 fact is in itself a stroke of genius ; for the sug- 
 gestion of mystery in this vague and unfinished 
 face is far more impressive than any elaborated 
 head could have been. It is supposed he left it 
 thus, because he found the action too strained. 
 So be it ; but here is Day still involved in clouds, 
 but now arousing from its slumbers, throwing off 
 the mists of darkness, and rising with a tremen- 
 dous energy of awakening life. The same character 
 
16 EXCUJiSIOXS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 also pervades the Aurora and Crepuscule. They 
 are not man and woman, they are types of ideas. 
 One lifts its head, for the morning is coming ; one 
 holds its head abased, for the gloom of evening is 
 drawing on. There is no joy in any of these figures. 
 A terrible sadness and seriousness oppresses them. 
 Aurora does not smile at the coming of the light, 
 is not glad, has little hope, but looks upon it with 
 a terrible weariness, almost with despair — for it 
 sees little promise, and doubts far more than it 
 hopes. Twilight, again, almost disdainfully sinks 
 to repose. The day has accomplished almost no- 
 thing : oppressed and hopeless, it sees the darkness 
 close about it. 
 
 What Michel Angelo meant to embody in these 
 statues can only be guessed — but certainly no 
 trivial thought. Their names convey nothing. - It 
 was not beauty, or grace, or simple truth to na- 
 ture, that he sought to express. In making them, 
 the weight of this unexplained mystery of life 
 hung over him ; the struggle of humanity against 
 superior forces oppressed him. The doubts, the 
 despair, the power, the indomitable will of his own 
 nature are in them. They are not the expressions 
 of the natural day of the world, of the glory of 
 the sunrise, the tenderness of the twilight, the 
 broad gladness of day, or the calm repose of night ; 
 but they are seasons and epochs of the spirit of 
 man — its doubts and fears, its sorrow^s and long- 
 ings and unrealized hopes. The sad condition of 
 his country oppressed him. Its shame overwhelmed 
 
MICHEL AN GEL 0. 17 
 
 him. His heart was with Savonarola, to whose 
 excited preaching he had listened, and his mind 
 was inflamed by the hope of a spiritual regenera- 
 tion of Italy and the world. The gloom of Dante 
 enshrouded him, and the terrible shapes of the 
 " Inferno " had made deeper impression on his 
 nature than all the sublimed glories of the '' Pa- 
 radiso." His colossal spirit stood fronting the 
 agitated storms of passions which then shook his 
 country, like a rugged cliff that braves the tem- 
 pest-whipped sea — disdainfidly casting from its 
 violent and raging waves, and longing almost with 
 a vain hope for the time when peace, honor, lib- 
 erty, and religion should rule the world. 
 
 This at least woidd seem to be implied in the 
 lines he wrote under his statue of Night, in re- 
 sponse to the quatrain written there by Giovan' 
 Battista Strozzi. These are the lines of Strozzi : — 
 
 " La notte clie tu vedi in si dolci atti 
 Dormire, f u da un angelo scolpita 
 In questo sasso ; e, percli^ dorme, ha vita 
 Destala, se no '1 credi, e parleratti." 
 
 Which may be thus rendered in English : — 
 
 " Night, which in peaceful attitude you see 
 Here sleeping-, from this stone an angel wrought. 
 Sleeping, it lives. If you believe it not, 
 Awaken it, and it will speak to thee." 
 
 And this was Michel Angelo's response : — 
 
 '* Grato mi h il sonno, e piu 1' esser de sasso 
 Mentre die il danno e la vergogna dura 
 Non veder non sentir m' h gran ventura 
 Pert), non mi desta.r; deh I parla basso." 
 
18 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 Which may be rendered : — 
 
 " Grateful is sleep — and more, of stone to be ; 
 So long as crime and shame here hold their state, 
 Who cannot see nor feel is fortunate — 
 Therefore speak low, and do not waken me." 
 
 This would clearly seem to show that imder these 
 giant shapes he meant to embody allegorically at 
 once the sad condition of hmnanity and the op- 
 pressed condition of his country. What lends it- 
 self still more to this interpretation is the charac- 
 ter and expression of both the statues of Lorenzo 
 and Giuliano, and particularly that of Lorenzo, 
 who leans forward with his hand raised to his chin 
 in so profound and sad a meditation that the world 
 has given it the name of II Pensiero — not even 
 calling it II Pensieroso, the thinker, but II Pensi- 
 ero, thought itseK ; while the attitude and expres- 
 sion of Giuliano is of one who helplessly holds 
 the sceptre and lets the world go, heedless of all 
 its crime and folly, and too weak to lend his hand 
 to set it right. 
 
 But whatever the interpretation to be given to 
 these statues, in power, originality, and grandeur 
 of character they have never been surpassed. It 
 is easy to carp at their defects. Let them all be 
 granted. They are contorted, uneasy, over-ana- 
 tomical, untrue to nature. Viewed with the keen 
 and searching eye of the critic, they are full of 
 faults, e inir si muove. There is a lift of power, 
 an energy of concei^tion, a grandeur and boldness 
 of treatment which redeems aU defects. They are 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 19 
 
 the work of a great mind, spurning the literal, 
 daring almost the impossible, and using human 
 form as a means of thought and expression. It 
 may almost be said that in a certain sense they are 
 great, not in despite of their faults, but by very 
 virtue of these faults. In them is a spirit which 
 was unknown to the Greeks and Romans. They 
 sought the simple, the dignified, the natural ; 
 beauty was their aim and object. Their ideal 
 was a quiet, passionless repose, with little action, 
 little insistence of parts. Their treatment was 
 large and noble, their attitude calm. No torments 
 reach them, or if passion enter, it is subdued to 
 beauty : — 
 
 " Calm pleasures there abide, majestic pains." 
 
 Their gods looked down upon earth through the 
 noblest forms of Phidias with serenity, heedless of 
 the violent struggles of humanity — like grand 
 and peaceful presences. Even in the Laocoon, 
 which stej)ped to the utmost permitted bounds of 
 the antique sculpture, there is the restraint of 
 beauty, and suffering is modified to grace. But 
 here in these Titans of Michel Angelo there is a 
 new spirit — better or worse, it is new. It repre- 
 sents humanity caught in the terrible net of Fate, 
 storming the heavens, Prometheus-like, breaking 
 for ill from the bonds of convention, aid terrible 
 as grand. But noble as these works are, they af- 
 ford no proper school for imitation, and his follow- 
 ers have, as has been fitly said, only caught the 
 
20 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 contoitions without the inspiration of the sibyl. 
 They lift the spirit, enlarge the mind, and ener- 
 gize the will of those who feel them and are ^vill- 
 ing only to feel them ; but they are bad models 
 for imitation. It is only such great and original 
 minds as Michel Angelo who can force the grand 
 and powerfid out of the wrong and unnatural ; 
 and he himself only at rare intervals prevailed in 
 doing this violence to nature. 
 
 Every man has a right to be judged by his best. 
 It is not the number of his failures but the value 
 of his successes which afford the just gauge of 
 every man's genius. Here in these gTcat statues 
 Michel Angelo succeeded, and they are the high- 
 est tide-mark of his power as a sculptor. The 
 Moses, despite its elements of strength and power, 
 is of a lower grade. The Pieta is the work of ' a 
 young man who has not as yet gro^vn to his full 
 strength, and who is shackled by his age and his 
 contemporaries. The Da\'id has high qualities of 
 nobility, but it is constrained to the necessities of 
 the marble in which it is wrought. The Christ in 
 the Church of the Minerva is scarcely worthy of 
 him. But in these impersonations of Day, Night, 
 Twilight, and Dawn, his genius had full scope, and 
 rose to its greatest height. 
 
 These statues were executed by Michel Angelo, 
 with various and annoying interruj)tions, when he 
 was more than fifty-five years of age, and while he 
 was in ill-health and very much overworked. In- 
 deed, such was his condition of health at this time 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 21 
 
 that it gave great anxiety to liis friends, and Gio- 
 vanni Battista Mini, writing to Lis friend Barto- 
 lommeo Valori on the 29th of September, 1531, 
 says : " Michel Angelo has fallen off in flesh, and 
 the other day with Buggiardini and Antonio Mini 
 v/e had a private talk about him, and we came to 
 the conclusion that he will not live long unless 
 things are remedied. He works very hard, eats 
 little and that little is bad, sleeps not at all, and 
 for a month past his sight has been weak, and he 
 has pains in the head and vertigo, and, in fine, his 
 head is affected and so is his heart, but there is a 
 cure for each, for he is healthy." He was so be- 
 sieged on all sides with commissions, and particu- 
 larly by the Duke of Urbino, that the PojDe at 
 last issued a brief, ordering him, under pain of ex- 
 communication, to do no work except on these 
 monuments, — and thus he was enabled to com- 
 mand his time and to carry on these great works 
 to the condition in which they now are, though he 
 never was able completely to finish them. 
 
 Of the same race with them are the wonderful 
 frescoes of the sibyls and prophets and Biblical fig- 
 ures and Titans that live on the ceiling of the Sis- 
 tine Chapel. And these are as amazing as, per- 
 haps even more amazing in their way than, the 
 sculpture of the Medicean Chapel. He was but 
 thirty-four years of age when, at the instigation of 
 Bramante, he was summoned to Rome by Pope 
 Jidius II. to decorate the ceiling. It is unpleas- 
 ant to think that Braniante, in urging this step 
 
22 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 upon the Pope, was animated with little good-will 
 to Michel Angelo. From all accounts it would 
 seem he was jealous of his growing fame, and 
 deemed that in undertaking this colossal work fail- 
 ure would be inevitable. Michel Anc^elo had in- 
 deed worked in his youth under Ghirlandajo, but 
 had soon abandoned his studio and devoted himself 
 to scidj^ture ; and though he had painted some few 
 labored pictures and produced the famous designs 
 for the great hall of the municipality at Florence, 
 in competition with his famous rival Leonardo da 
 Vinci, yet these cartoons had never been executed 
 by him, and his fame was cliiefly, if not solely, as a 
 sculptor. Michel Angelo himself, though strongly 
 urged to this undertaking by the Pope, was ex- 
 tremely averse to it, and at first refused, declaring 
 that " painting was not his profession." The Pope, 
 however, was persistent, and Michel was forced at 
 last to yield, and to accept the commission. He 
 then immediately began to prepare his cartoons, 
 and, ignorant and doubtful of his own powers, sum- 
 moned to his assistance several artists in Florence, 
 to learn more properly from them the method of 
 painting in fresco. Not satisfied with their work 
 on the ceiling, he suddenly closed the doors upon 
 them, sent them away, and, shutting himself up 
 alone in the chapel, erased what they had done and 
 began alone with his own hand. It was only about 
 six weeks after his arrival in Rome that he thus 
 began, and in this short space of time he had com- 
 pleted his designs, framed and erected the scaffolds, 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 23 
 
 laid on the rough casting preparatory to the finish- 
 ing layer, and commenced his frescoes. This alone 
 is an immense labor, and shows a wonderful mastery 
 of all his powers. The design is entirely original, 
 not only in the comjDosition and character of the 
 figures themselves, but in the architectural divi- 
 sions and combinations in which they are placed. 
 There are no less than 343 figures, of great variety 
 of movements, grandiose proportions, and many of 
 them of colossal size ; and to the sketches he first 
 designed he seems to have absolutely adhered. Of 
 course, within such a time he could not have made 
 the large cartoons in which the figures were devel- 
 oped in their full proportions, but he seems only 
 to have enlarged them from his figures as first 
 sketched. With indomitable energy, and a per- 
 sistence of labor which has scarcely a parallel, 
 alone and without encouragement he prosecuted 
 his task, despite the irritations and annoyances 
 which he was forced to endure, the constant delays 
 of payment, the fretful complaints of the impa- 
 tient Pope, the accidents and disappointments in- 
 cident to an art in which he had previously had no 
 practice, and the many and worrying troubles from 
 home by which he was constantly pursued. At 
 last the Pope's impatience became imperious ; and 
 when the vaidt was only one half completed, he 
 forced Michel Angelo, under threats of his severe 
 displeasure, to throw down the scaffolding and ex- 
 hibit it to the world. The chapel was accordingly 
 opened on All Saints' Day in November, 1508. 
 
24 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS, 
 
 The public flocked to see it, and a universal cry of 
 admiration was raised. In tlie crowd which then 
 assembled was Raffaelle, and the impression he re- 
 ceived is plain from the fact that his style was at 
 once so strongly modified by it. Bramante, too, 
 was there, expecting to see the failure which he 
 had anticipated, and to rejoice in the downfall of 
 his great rival. But he was destined to be dis- 
 appointed, and, as is recounted, but as one is 
 imwilling to believe, he used his utmost efforts to 
 induce the Pope to discharge Michel Angelo and 
 commission Raffaelle to complete the ceiling. It 
 is even added that Raffaelle himself joined in this 
 intrigue, but there is no proof of this, and let us 
 disbelieve it. Certain it is that in the presence 
 of the Pope, when Michel Angelo broke forth in 
 fierce language against Bramante for this injurious 
 proposal, and denounced him for his ignorance and 
 incapacity, he did not involve Raffaelle in the same 
 denunciation. Still there seems to be little doubt 
 that the party and friends of Raffaelle exerted 
 their utmost influence to induce the Pope to sub- 
 stitute him for Michel Angelo. They did not, 
 however, succeed. The Pope was steadfast, and 
 again the doors were closed, and he was ordered to 
 complete the work. 
 
 When again he began to paint there is no rec- 
 ord. Winter is unfavorable to fresco-painting, 
 and when a frost sets in, it cannot be carried on. 
 In the autumn of 1510 we know that he applied 
 to the Pope for permission to visit his friends in 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 25 
 
 Florence, and for an advance of money ; that the 
 Pope replied by demanding when his work woidd 
 be completed, and that the artist replied, " As soon 
 as I shall be able ; " on which the Pope, repeating 
 his words, struck him with his cane. Michel An- 
 gelo was not a man to brook this, and he instantly 
 abandoned his work and went to Florence. The 
 Pope, however, sent his page Accursio after him 
 with pacific words, praying him to return, and 
 with a purse of fifty crowns to pay his expenses ; 
 and after some delay he did return. 
 
 Vasari and Condivi both assert that the vault 
 of the Sistine Chapel was painted by Michel An- 
 gelo " alone and unaided, even by any one to grind 
 his colors, in twenty months." But this cannot 
 be true. He certainly had assistance not only for 
 all the laying of the plaster and the merely -me- 
 chanical work, but also in the painting of the ar- 
 chitecture, and even of portions of the figures ; and 
 it now seems to be pretty clear that the chapel was 
 not completed until 1512. But this in itself, con- 
 sidering all the breaks and intervals when the work 
 was necessarily interrupted, is stupendous. 
 
 The extraordinary rapidity with which he worked 
 is clearly proved by the close examination which 
 the erection of scaffolding has recently enabled Mr. 
 Charles Heath Wilson and others to make. Fres- 
 co-painting can only be done while the plaster is 
 fresh (hence its name) ; and as the plaster laid 
 on one day will not serve for the next, it must 
 be removed imless the painting on it is completed. 
 
26 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS, 
 
 The junction of tlie new plaster leaves a slight 
 line of division when closely examined, and thus it 
 is easy to detect how much has been accomplished 
 each day. It scarcely seems credible, though there 
 can be no doubt of the fact, that many of the nude 
 figures above life-size were painted in two days. 
 The noble reclining figure of Adam occupied him 
 only three days ; and the colossal figures of the 
 sibyls and prophets, which, if standing, would be 
 eighteen feet in height, occupied him only from 
 three to four days each. When one considers 
 the size of these figures, the difficulty of painting 
 anything overhead where the artist is constrained 
 to work in a reclining position and often lying flat 
 on his back, and the beauty, tenderness, and care- 
 ful finish which has been given to all parts, and 
 especially to the heads, this rapidity of execution 
 seems almost marvelous. 
 
 Seen from below, these figures are solemn and 
 striking ; but seen near by, their grandeur of char- 
 acter is vastly more impressive, and their beauty 
 and refinement, which are less apparent when seen 
 from a distance, are quite as remarkable as their 
 power and energy. Great as Michel Angelo was 
 as a sculptor, he seems even greater as a painter. 
 Not only is the design broader and larger, but 
 there is a freedom of attitude, a strength and lofti- 
 ness of conception, and a beauty of treatment, 
 which are beyond what he reached, or perhaps 
 strove for, in his statues. The figure of Adam, 
 for instance, is not more wonderful for its novelty 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 27 
 
 and power of design than for its truth to nature. 
 The figure of the Deity, encompassed by angelic 
 forms, is whirling down upon him like a tempest. 
 His mighty arm is outstretched, and from his ex- 
 tended fingers an electric flash of life seems to 
 strike into the uplifted hand of Adam, whose re- 
 clining figure, issuing from the constraint of death, 
 and quivering with this new thrill of animated be- 
 ing, stirs into action, and rises half to meet his 
 Creator. Nothing could be more grand than this 
 conception, more certain than its expression, or 
 more simple than its treatment. Nothing, too, 
 has ever been accomplished in art more powerful, 
 varied, and original than the colossal figures of 
 the sibyls and the prophets. The Ezekiel, listen- 
 ing to the voice of inspiration ; the Jeremiah, sur- 
 charged with meditative thought, and weighed 
 do\\ai with it as a lowering cloud with rain ; the 
 youthful Daniel, writing on his book, which an 
 angel supports ; Esaias, in the fullness of his man- 
 hood, leaning his elbow on his book and holding 
 his hand suspended while turning he listens to the 
 angel whose tidings he is to record ; and the aged 
 Zacharias, with his long beard, swathed in heavy 
 draperies, and intently reading, — these are the 
 prophets ; and alternating with them on the span 
 of the arch are the sibyls, — the noble Erythrean, 
 seated almost in profile, with crossed legs, and 
 turning the leaves of her book with one hand 
 while the other drops at her side, grand in the 
 still serenity of her beauty; the aged Persian 
 
28 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 sibyl, turning sideway to peruse tlie book which 
 she holds close to her eyes, while above her recline 
 two beautiful naked youths, and below her sleeps 
 a madonna with the child Christ ; the Libyan, 
 holding high behind her with extended arms her 
 open scroll, and looking down over her shoulder ; 
 the Cumsean, old, weird, Dantesque in her profile, 
 with a napkin folded on her head, reading in self- 
 absorption, while two angels gaze at her ; and last, 
 the Delphic, sweet, calm, and beautiful in the per- 
 fectness of womanhood, who looks serenely down 
 over her shoulder to charm us with a peaceful 
 prophecy. All the faces and heads of these 
 figures are evidently drawn from noble and char- 
 acteristic models, — if, indeed, any models at all 
 are used ; and some of them, especially those of 
 the Delphic and Erj^threan, are full of beauty as 
 well as power. All are painted with great care 
 and feeling, and a lofty inspiration has guided a 
 loving hand. There is nothing vague, feeble, or 
 flimsy in them. They are ideal in the true sense 
 — the strong embodiment of great ideas. 
 
 Even to enumerate the other figures would re- 
 quire more time and space than can now be given. 
 But we cannot pass over in silence the wonderfid 
 series illustrative of Biblical history which form 
 the centre of the ceiling, beginning with Chaos 
 struggling into form, and ending with Lot and his 
 children. Here in succession are the division of 
 light from darkness — the Sj^irit of God moving 
 over the face of the waters (an extraordinary eon- 
 
MICHEL AXGELO. 29 
 
 ception, whicli Raitaelle strove in vain to repro- 
 duce in another form in the Loggie of the Vati- 
 can) ; the wonderful creation of Adam ; the temp- 
 tation of the serpent, and the expulsion from 
 Paradise, so beautiful in composition and feeling ; 
 the sacrifice to God ;• and finally the Flood. 
 
 Besides these are the grand nude figures of the 
 decoration, which have never been equaled ; and 
 many Biblical stories, which, in the richness and 
 multitude of greater things, are lost, but which in 
 themselves would suffice to make any artist 
 famous : as, for instance, the group called Reho- 
 boam, a female figure bending forward and rest- 
 ing her hand upon her face, with the child leaning 
 against her laiee — a lovely sculptural group, ad- 
 mirably composed, and full of pathos ; and the 
 stern, despairing figure entitled Jesse, looking 
 straight out into the distance before him — like 
 Fate. 
 
 Here i& no attempt at scenic effect, no effort for 
 the picturesque, no literal desire for realism, no 
 pictorial graces. A sombre, noble tone of color 
 pervades them, — harmonizing with their grand 
 design, but seeking nothing for itself, and sternly 
 subjected and restrained to these powerful concep- 
 tions. Nature silently withdraws and looks on, 
 awed by these mighty presences. 
 
 Only a tremendous energy and will could have 
 enabled Michel Angelo to conceive and execute 
 these works. The spirit in which he worked is 
 heroic : oppressed as he was by trouble and want, 
 
30 EXCURSJOXS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 he never lost courage or faith. Here is a frag- 
 ment of a letter he wrote to his brother while em- 
 ployed on this work, which yAW show the temper 
 and character of the man. It is truly in the spirit 
 of the Stoics of old : — 
 
 " Make no friendship nor intimacies with any one 
 but the Almigiity alone. Speak neither good nor evil 
 of any one, because the end of these things cannot yet 
 be known. Attend only to your own afPairs. I must 
 tell you I have no money." (He says this in answer to 
 constant applications from his unwortliy brother for 
 pecuniary assistance.) " I am, I may say, shoeless and 
 naked. I cannot receive the balance of my pay till I 
 have finished this work, and I suffer nmch from discom- 
 fort and fatigue. Therefore, when you also have trouble 
 to endure, do not make useless complaints, but try to 
 help yourself." 
 
 The names of Eaffaelle and Michel Angelo are 
 so associated, that that of one always rises in the 
 mind when the other is mentioned. Their geniuses 
 are as absolutely opposite as are their characters. 
 Each is the antithesis of the other. In the 
 ancient days we have the same kind of difference 
 between Homer and Virgil, Demosthenes and 
 Cicero, ^schylus and Eui'ipides ; in later days, 
 Moliere and Racine, Rousseau and Voltaire, 
 Shakespeare and Sir Philip Sidney, Beethoven and 
 Mozart, Dante and Ariosto, Victor Hugo and 
 Lamartine ; or to take our own age, Delacroix and 
 Ary Seheffer, Browning and Tennyson. To the 
 one belongs the sphere of power, to the other that 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 31 
 
 of charm. One fights his way to immortality, the 
 other woos it. 
 
 Raffaelle was of the latter class — sweet of na^ 
 ture, gentle of disposition, gifted with a rare sense 
 of grace, a facile talent of design, and a refine- 
 ment of feeling which, if it sometimes degenerated 
 into weakness, never utterly lost* its enchantment. 
 He was exceedingly impressionable, reflected by 
 turns the spirit of his masters, — was first Peru- 
 gino, and afterwards modified his style to that of 
 Fra Bartolommeo, and again, under the influence 
 of Michel Angelo, strove to tread in his footsteps. 
 He was not of a deep nature nor of a powerful 
 character. There was nothing torrential in his 
 genius, bursting its way through obstacles and 
 sweeping all before it. It was rather that of the 
 calm river, flowing at its own sweet will, and re- 
 flecting peacefully the passing figures of life. He 
 painted as the bird sings. He was an artist be- 
 cause nature made him one — not because he had 
 vowed himself to art, and was willing to struggle 
 and fight for its smile. He was gentle and friendly 
 — a pleasant companion — a superficial lover — 
 handsome of person and pleasing of address — who 
 always went surrounded by a corona of followers, 
 who disliked work and left the execution of his 
 designs in great measure to his pupils, while he 
 toyed with the Fornarina. I do not mean to un- 
 dervalue him in what he did. His works are 
 charming — his invention was lively. He had the 
 happy art of telling his story in outline, better, 
 
32 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 perhaps, than any one else of his age. His highest 
 reach was the Madonna di S. Sisto, and this cer- 
 tainly is full of that large sweetness and spiritual 
 sensibility which entitles him to the common epi- 
 thet of " Divino." But when he died at the early 
 age of thirty-seven, he had come to his full de- 
 velopment, and there is no reason to suppose that 
 he would ever have attained a greater height. In- 
 deed, during his latter years he was tired of his 
 art, neglected his work, became more and more 
 academic, and preferred to bask in the sunshine 
 of his fame on its broad levels, to girding up his 
 loins to struggle w^ precipitous ascents to loftier 
 peaks. The world already began to blame him 
 for this neglect, and to say that he had forgotten 
 how to paint himself, and gave his designs only to 
 his students to execute. Moved by these rumors, 
 he determined alone to execute a work in fresco, 
 and this work was the famous Galatea of the Pa- 
 lazzo Farnese. He was far advanced in it, when, 
 during his absence one morning, a dark, short, 
 stern-looking man called to see him. In the ab- 
 sence of Eaffaelle, this man gazed attentively at 
 the Galatea for a long time, and then taking a 
 piece of charcoal, he ascended a ladder which 
 stood in the corner of the vast room, and drew off- 
 hand on the wall a colossal male head. Then he 
 came down and went away, saying to the attend- 
 ant, " If Signore Raffaelle wishes to know who 
 came to see him, show him my card there on the 
 wall." When Raffaelle returned, the assistant 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 33 
 
 told him of his visitor, and showed him the head. 
 " That is Michel Aiigelo," he said, " or the devil." 
 
 And Michel Angelo it was. Raffaelle well knew 
 what that powerful and colossal head meant, and 
 he felt the terrible truth of its silent criticism on 
 his own work. It meant, Your fresco is too small 
 for the room — your style is too pleasing and tri- 
 vial. Make something grand and colossall. Brace 
 your mind to higher purpose, train your hand to 
 nobler design. I say that Raffaelle felt this stern 
 criticism, because he worked no more there, and 
 only carried out this one design. Raffaelle's dis- 
 position was sweet and attractive, and he was be- 
 loved by all his friends. Vasari says of him, that 
 he was as much distinguished by his amorevolezza 
 ed unianitd^ his affectionate and sympathetic na- 
 ture, as by his excellence as an artist ; and an- 
 other contemporary speaks of him as of summm 
 honitatis^ perfect sweetness of character. All this 
 one sees in his face, which, turning, gazes dreamily 
 at us over his shoulder, with dark, soft eyes, long 
 hair, and smooth, unsuffering cheeks where Time 
 has ploughed no furrows — easy, charming, grace- 
 ful, refined, and somewhat feminine of character. 
 
 Michel Angelo was made of sterner stuff than 
 this. His temper was violent, his bearing haughty, 
 his character impetuous. He had none of the 
 personal graces of his great rival. His face was, 
 as it were, hammered sternly out by fate ; his 
 brow corrugated by care, his cheeks worn by 
 thought, his hair and beard stiffly curled and bull- 
 
34 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 like ; his expression sad and intense, with a weary 
 longing in his deep-set eyes. Doubtless, at times, 
 they flamed with indignation and passion — for 
 he was very irascible, and suffered no liberties to 
 be taken with him. He could not " sport with 
 Amaryllis in the shade, or with the tangles of 
 Neaera's hair." Art was his mistress, and a stern 
 mistress she was, urging him ever onward to 
 greater heights. He loved her with a passion of 
 the intellect ; there was nothing he would not sac- 
 rifice for her. He was willing to be poor, almost 
 to starve, to labor with incessant zeal, gTudging 
 even the time that sleep demanded, only to win her 
 favor. He could not have been a pleasant com- 
 panion, and he was never a lover of woman. His 
 friendship with Vittoria Colonna was worlds away 
 from the senses, — worlds away from such a connec- 
 tion as that of Raffaelle with the Fornarina. They 
 walked together in the higher fields of thought 
 and feeling, in the region of ideas and aspirations. 
 Their conversation was of art, and poesy, and re- 
 ligion, and the mysteries of life. They read to 
 each other their poems, and discoursed on high 
 themes of religion, and fate, and foreknowledge. 
 The sonnets he addressed to her were in no tri- 
 vial vein of human passion or sentiment. 
 
 " Rapt above earth " (he writes) " by power of one fair face, 
 Hers, in whose sway alone my heart delights, 
 I mingle with the Blest on those pure heights 
 Where man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place — 
 With Him who made the Work that Work accords 
 So well that, by its help and through His gi'ace, 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 35 
 
 I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words, 
 Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace." 
 
 In his souVs embrace, not in his arms. When 
 he stood beside her dead body, he silently gazed 
 at her, not daring to imprint a kiss on that serene 
 brow even when life had departed. If he ad- 
 mired Petrarca, it was as a philosopher and a 
 patriot, — for his canzone to Liberty, not for his 
 sonnets to Laura. Dante, whom he called Stella 
 di alto valor^ the star of high power, was his far 
 vorite poet ; Savonarola his single friend. The 
 " Divina Commedia," or rather the " Inferno " 
 alone, he thought worthy of illustration by his 
 pencil ; the doctrines of the latter he warmly es- 
 poused. " True beauty," says that great reformer, 
 '■' comes only from the soul, from nobleness of 
 spirit and purity of conduct." And so, in one of 
 his madrigals, says Michel Angelo. "They are 
 but gross spirits who seek in sensual nature the 
 beauty that uplifts and moves every healthy intel- 
 ligence even to heaven." 
 
 For the most part he walked alone and avoided 
 society, wrapped up in his own thoughts ; and once, 
 when meeting Raffaelle, he reproached him for be- 
 ing surrounded by a cortege of flatterers ; to which 
 Eaifaelle bitterly retorted, "And you go alone, 
 like the headsman " — andate solo come un hoia. 
 
 He was essentially original, and, unlike his 
 great rival, followed in no one's footsteps. " Chi 
 va dietro agli altri non li passa mai dinanzi," he 
 said, — who follows behind others can never pass 
 before them. 
 
36 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 Yet, with all his ruggedness and imperiousness 
 of character, he had a deep tenderness of nature, 
 and was ready to meet any sacrifice for those whom 
 he loved. Personal privations he cared little for, 
 and sent to his family all his earnings, save what 
 was absolutely necessary to support life. He had 
 no greed for wealth, no love of display, no desire 
 for luxuries : a better son never lived, and his un- 
 worthy brother he forgave over and over again, 
 never weary of endeavoring to set him on his 
 right path. 
 
 But at times he broke forth with a tremendous 
 energy when pushed too far, as witness this letter 
 to his brother. After saying, " If thou triest to do 
 well, and to honor and revere thy father, I will aid 
 thee like the others, and will provide for thee in 
 good time a place of business," he thus breaks out 
 in his postscript : — 
 
 " I have not wandered about all Italy, and borne 
 every mortification, suffered hardship, lacerated my body 
 with hard labor, and placed my life in a thousand dan- 
 gers, except to aid my family ; and now that I have be- 
 gun to raise it somewhat, thou alone art the one to 
 embroil and ruin in an hour that whicli I have labored 
 so long to accomplish. By the body of Christ, but it shall 
 be found true that I shall confound ten thousand such as 
 thou art if it be needful, — so be wise, and tempt not one 
 who has already too much to bear." 
 
 He was generous and large in his charities. He 
 supported out of his purse many poor persons, 
 married and endowed secretly a number of young 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 37 
 
 girls, and gave freely to all who surrounded him. 
 " When I die," asked he of his old and faithful 
 servant Urbino, " what will become of you ? " " I 
 shall seek for another master in order to live," 
 was the answer. " Ah, poor man ! " cried Michel 
 Angelo, and gave him at once 10,000 golden 
 crowns. When this poor servant fell ill, he tended 
 him with the utmost care, as if he were a brother, 
 and on his death broke out into loud lamentations, 
 and would not be comforted. 
 
 His fiery and impetuous temper, however, led him 
 often into violence. He was no respecter of per- 
 sons, and he well knew how to stand up for the 
 rio^hts of man. There was nothinsr of the courtier 
 in him ; and he faced the Pope with an audacious 
 firmness of purpose and expression unparalleled at 
 that time ; and yet he was singularly patient and 
 enduring, and gave way to the variable Pontiff's 
 whims and caprices whenever they did not touch 
 his dignity as a man. Long periods of time he 
 allowed himself to be employed in superintend- 
 ing the quarrying of marble at Carrara, though 
 his brain was teeming with great conceptions. He 
 was oppressed, agitated, irritated on every side by 
 home troubles, by papal caprices, and by the intes- 
 tine tumult of his country, and much of his life 
 was wasted in merely mechanical work which any 
 inferior man could as well have done. He was 
 forced not only to quarry, but to do almost all the 
 rude blocking out of his statues in marble, which 
 should have been intrusted to others, and which 
 
38 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 would have been better clone by mere mechanical 
 workmen. His very impetuosity, his very genius, 
 unfitted him for such work : while he should have 
 been creating and designing, he was doing the 
 rough work of a stone-cutter. So ardent was his 
 nature, so burning his enthusiasm, that he could 
 not fitly do this work. He was too impatient to 
 get to the form within to take heed of the blows 
 he struck at the shapeless mass that encumbered 
 it, and thus it happened that he often ruined his 
 statue by striking away what could never be re- 
 placed. 
 
 Vigenero thus describes him : — 
 
 " I have seen Michel Angelo, although sixty years of 
 age, and not one of the most robust of men, smite down 
 more scales from a very hard block of maihle in a quar- 
 ter of an hour, than three young marble-cutters would 
 in three or four times that space of time. He flung 
 himself upon the marble with such impetuosity and fer- 
 vor, as to induce me to believe that he would break the 
 work into fragments. With a single blow he brought 
 down scales of marble of three or four fingers in breadth, 
 and with such precision to the line marked on the mar- 
 ble, that if he had broken away a very little more, he 
 risked the ruin of the work." 
 
 This is pitiable. This was not the work for a 
 I great genius like him, but for a common stone-cut- 
 ter. What waste of time and energy to no pur- 
 pose, — nay, to worse than no purpose, — to the 
 danger, often the irreparable injury, of the statue. 
 A dull, plodding, patient workman would have 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 39 
 
 done it far better. It is as if an architect should 
 be employed in planing the beams or laying the 
 bricks and stones of the building he designed. In 
 fact, Michel Angelo injured, and in some cases 
 nearly ruined, most of his statues by the very im- 
 patience of his genius. Thus the back head of the 
 Moses has been struck away by one of these blows, 
 and everywhere a careful eye detects the irrepara- 
 ble blow beyond its true limit. This is not the 
 Michel Angelo whom we are to reverence and 
 admire ; this is an ahbozzatore roughing out the 
 work. There is no difficulty in striking off large 
 cleavings of marble at one stroke — any one can 
 do that ; and it is 2:)itiable to find him so engaged. 
 
 Where we do find his technical excellence as a 
 sculptor is when he comes to the surface — when 
 with the drill he draws the outline with such force 
 and wonderf id precision — when his tooth-chisel 
 models out, with such pure sense of form and such 
 accomplished knowledge, the subtle anatomies of 
 the body and the living curves of the palpitant 
 flesh; and no sculptor can examine the colossal 
 figures of the Medici Chapel without feeling the 
 free and mighty touch of a great master of the 
 marble. Here the hand and the mind work to- 
 gether, and the stone is plastic as clay to his power. 
 
 It was not vmtil Michel Angelo was sixty years 
 of age that, on the death of Antonio San Gallo, 
 he was appointed to succeed him as architect, and 
 to design and carry out the building of St. Peter's, 
 then only rising from its foundations. To this ap- 
 
40 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 pointment he answered, as he had before objected 
 when commissioned to paint the Sistine Chapel, 
 " Architecture is not my art." But his objections 
 were overruled. The Pope insisted, and he was 
 finally prevailed upon to accept this ccmmission, 
 on the noble condition that his services should be 
 gratuitous, and dedicated to the glory of God and 
 of His Apostle, St. Peter ; and to this he was 
 actuated, not only by a grand sentiment, but be- 
 cause he was aware that hitherto the work had 
 been conducted dishonestly, and with a sole view 
 of greed and gain. Receiving nothing himself, he 
 could the more easily suppress all peculation on 
 the part of others. 
 
 He was, as he said, an old man in years, but in 
 energy and power he had gained rather than lost, 
 and he set himself at once to work, and designed 
 that grand basilica which has been the admiration 
 of centuries, and to swing, as he said, in air the 
 Pantheon. That mighty dome is but the architec- 
 tural brother of the great statues in the Medicean 
 Chapel, and the Titan frescoes of the Sistine 
 Chapel. Granted all the defects of this splendid 
 basilica, all the objections of all the critics, well or 
 ill founded, and all the deformities grafted on it 
 by his successors — there it is, one of the noblest 
 and grandest of all temples to the Deity, and one 
 of the most beautiful. The dome itself, within and 
 without, is a marvel of beauty and grandeur, to 
 which all other domes, even that of Brunelleschi, 
 must yield precedence* It is the uplifted brow 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 41 
 
 and forehead that holds the brain of papal Rome, 
 calm, and without a frown, silent, majestic, impres- 
 sive. The church within has its own atmosphere, 
 which scarcely knows the seasons without ; and 
 when the pageant and the pomp of the Catholic 
 hierarchy passes along its nave, and the sunlight 
 builds its golden slanting bridge of light from the 
 lantern to the high altar, and the fumes of incense 
 rise from the clinking censer at High Mass, and 
 the solemn thrill of the silver trumpets sounds 
 and swells and reverberates through the dim 
 mosaicked dome where the saints are pictured 
 above, cold must be his heart and dull his sense 
 who is not touched to reverence. Here is the 
 type of the universal Church — free and beautiful, 
 large and loving ; not grim and sombre and sad, 
 like the northern Gothic cathedrals. We grieve 
 over all the bad taste of its interior decoration, all 
 the giant and awkward statues, all the lamentable 
 details, for which he is not responsible ; but still, 
 despite them ail, the impression is great. When 
 at twilight the shadows obscure all these triviali- 
 ties, when the lofty cross above the altar rays 
 forth its single illumination and the tasteless de- 
 tails disappear, and the towering arches rise un- 
 broken with their solemn gulfs of darkness, one 
 can feel how great, how astonishing this church is, 
 in its broad architectural features. 
 
 At nearly this time Michel Angelo designed the 
 Palazzo Farnese, the Church of Sta Maria degli 
 Angeli in the ruins of the Baths of Diocletian, 
 
42 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 the Laurentian Library and the palaces on the 
 Capitol, and various other buildings, all of which 
 bear testimony to his power and skill as an ai'chi- 
 tect. 
 
 For St. Peter's as it now stands Michel Angelo 
 is not responsible. His idea was to make all sub- 
 ordinate to the dome ; but after his death, the 
 nave was prolonged by Carlo Maderno, the facade 
 completely changed, and the main theme of the 
 building was thus almost obliterated from the 
 front. It is greatly to be regretted that his origi- 
 nal design was not carried out. Every change 
 from it was an injury. The only point from 
 which one can get an idea of his intention is 
 from behind or at the side, and there its colossal 
 character is shown. 
 
 We have thus far considered Michel Angelo as a 
 sculptor, painter, and architect. It remains to con- 
 sider him as a poet. Nor in his poetry do we find 
 any difference of character from what he exhibited 
 in his other arts. He is rough, energetic, strong, 
 full of high ideas, struggling with fate, oppressed 
 and weary with life. He has none of the sweet 
 numbers of Petrarca, or the lively spirit of Ari- 
 osto, or the chivalrie tones of Tasso. His verse is 
 rude, craggy, almost disjointed at times, and with 
 little melody in it, but it is never feeble. It was 
 not his aii;, he might have said, with more pro- 
 priety than when he thus spoke of painting and 
 architecture. Lofty thoughts have wrestled their 
 way into verse, and constrained a rhytlmiic form 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 43 
 
 to obey them. But there is a constant struggle 
 for him in a form which is not plastic to his touch. 
 Still his poems are strong in their crabbeclness, 
 and stand like granite rocks in the general sweet 
 mush of Italian verse. 
 
 Such, then, was Michel Angelo, — sculptor, 
 painter, architect, poet, engineer, and able in all 
 these arts. Nor would it have been possible for 
 him to be so great in any one of them had he not 
 trained his mind to all ; for all the arts are but 
 the various articulations of the self-same power, 
 as the fingers are of the hand, and each lends aid 
 to the other. Only by having all can the mind 
 have its full grasp of art. It is too often insisted 
 in our days that a man to be great in one art must 
 devote himself exclusively to that ; or if he be so- 
 licited by any other, he must merely toy with it. 
 Such was not the doctrine of the artists of old, 
 either in ancient days of Greece or at the epoch of 
 the Renaissance. Phidias was a painter and archi- 
 tect as well as a scidptor, and so were nearly all 
 the men of his time. Giotto, Leonardo, Ghiberti, 
 Michel Angelo, Yerrocchio, Cellini, Raifaelle, — 
 in a word, all the great men of the glorious age in 
 Italy were accomplished in many arts. They 
 more or less trained themselves in all. It might 
 be said that not a single great man was not versed 
 in more than one art. Thence it was that they 
 derived their power. It does not suffice that the 
 arm alone is strong ; the whole body strikes with 
 every blow. 
 
44 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS, 
 
 The frescoes in the Sistine Chapel at Rome, and 
 the statues in the Medicean Chajoel at Florence, 
 are the greatest monuments of Michel Angelo's 
 power as an artist. Whatever may be the defects 
 of these great works, they are of a Titanic brood, 
 that have left no successors, as they had no pro- 
 genitors. They defy criticism, however just, and 
 stand by themselves outside the beaten track of 
 art, to challenge our admiration. So also, de- 
 spite all his faults and defects, how grand a figure 
 Michel Angelo himself is in history, how high a 
 place he holds ! His name itself is a power. He 
 is one of the mighty masters that the world can- 
 not forget. Kings and emperors die and are for- 
 gotten, — dynasties change and governments fall, 
 — but he, the silent, stern worker, reigns unmoved 
 in the great realm of art. 
 
 Let us leave this great presence, and pass into 
 the other splendid chapel of the Medici which ad- 
 joins this, and mark the contrast, and see what 
 came of some of the titular monarchs of his time 
 who fretted their brief hour across the stage, and 
 wore their purple, and issued their edicts, and 
 were fawned upon and flattered in their pride of 
 ephemeral power. 
 
 Passing across a corridor, you enter this domed 
 chapel or mausoleum — and a splendid mausoleum 
 it is. Its shape is octagonal. It is 63 metres in 
 height, or about 200 feet, and is lined throughout 
 with the richest marbles — of jasper, coralline, 
 persicata, chalcedony, mother-of-pearl, agate, giallo 
 
MICHEL ANGEL 0. 45 
 
 and verde antico, porphyry, lapis - lazuli, onyx, 
 oriental alabaster, and beautiful petrified woods ; 
 and its cost was no less than tliirty-two millions 
 of francs of to-day. Here were to lie the bodies 
 of the Medici family, in honor of whom it was 
 raised. On each of the eight sides is a vast arch, 
 and inside six of these are six immense sarcophagi, 
 four of red Egyptian granite and two of gray, 
 with the arms of the family elaborately carved 
 upon them, and surmounted with coronets adorned 
 with precious gems. In two of the arches are 
 colossal portrait statues, — one of Ferdinand III. 
 in golden bronze, by Pietro Tacca ; and the other 
 of Cosimo II. in brown bronze, by John of Bo- 
 logna, and both in the richest royal robes. The 
 sarcophagi have the names of Ferdinand II., 
 Cosimo III., Francesco I., Cosimo I. All that 
 wealth and taste can do has been done to cele- 
 brate and perpetuate the memory of these royal 
 dukes that reigned over Florence in its prosperous 
 days. 
 
 And where are the bodies of these royal dukes ? 
 Here comes the saddest of stories. When the 
 early bodies were first buried I know not ; but in 
 1791 Ferdinand III. gathered together all the 
 coffins in which they were laid, and had them piled 
 together pell-mell in the subterranean vaults of 
 this chapel, scarcely taking heed to distinguish 
 them one from another ; and here they remained, 
 neglected and uncared for, and only protected 
 from plunder by two wooden doors with common 
 
46 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 keys, until 1857. Then shame came over those 
 who had the custody of the place, and it was de- 
 termined to put them in order. In 1818 there 
 had been a rumor that these Medicean coffins 
 had been violated and robbed of all the articles of 
 value which they contained. But little heed was 
 paid to this rumor, and it was not until thirty- 
 nine years after that an examination into the real 
 facts was made. It was then discovered that the 
 rumor was well founded. The forty-nine coffins 
 containing the remains of the family were taken 
 down one by one, and a sad state of things was 
 exposed. Some of them had been broken into and 
 plundered, some were the hiding-places of vermin, 
 and such was the nauseous odor they gave forth, 
 that at least one of the persons employed in taking 
 them down lost his life by inhaling it. Imperial 
 Caesar, dead and turned to clay, had become hide- 
 ous and noisome. Of many of the ducal family 
 nothing remained but fragments of bones and a 
 handful of dust. But where the hand of the rob- 
 ber had not been, the splendid dresses covered 
 with jewels, the silks and satins wrought over 
 with gold embroidery, the richly chased helmets 
 and swords crusted with gems and gold, still sur- 
 vived, though those who had worn them in their 
 splendid pageants were but dust and crumbling 
 bones within them. 
 
 "Here were sands, ignoble things, 
 
 Dropped from the ruined sides of kings." 
 
 In many cases, where all else that bore the im- 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 47 
 
 press of life had vanished, the hair still remained 
 almost as fresh as ever. Some bodies which had 
 been carefully embalmed were in fair preservation, 
 but some were fearfully altered. Ghastly and 
 grinning skulls were there, adorned with crowns 
 of gold. Dark and parchment-like faces were seen 
 with their golden locks rich as ever, and twisted 
 with gems and pearls and costly nets. The Car- 
 dinal Princes still wore their mitres and red 
 cloaks, their purple pianete and glittering rings, 
 their crosses of white enamel, their jacinths and 
 amethysts and sapphires — all had survived their 
 priestly selves. The dried bones of Vittoria della 
 Rovere Montefeltro (whose very name is poetic) 
 were draped in a robe of black silk of exquisite 
 texture, trimmed with black and white lace, while 
 on her breast lay a great golden medal, and on 
 one side were her emblems and on the other her 
 portrait as she was in life, as if to say, " Look 
 on this picture and on this." Alas, poor human- 
 ity ! Beside her lay, almost a mere skeleton, 
 Anna Luisa, the Electress Palatine of the Rhine, 
 and daughter of Cosimo III., with the electoral 
 crown surmounting her ghastly brow and face of 
 black parchment, a crucifix of silver on her breast, 
 and at her side a medal with her effigy and name ; 
 while near her lay her uncle, Francesco Maria, a 
 mere mass of dust and robes and rags. Many had 
 been stripped by profane hands of all their jewels 
 and insignia, and among these were Cosimo I. and 
 II. , Eleonora de Toledo, Maria Christina, and 
 others, to the number of twenty. The two bodies 
 
48 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 which were found in the best preservation were 
 those of the Grand Duchess Giovanna d' Austria, 
 the wife of Francesco I., and their daughter Anna. 
 Corruption had scarcely touched them, and there 
 they lay fresh in color as if they had just died — 
 the mother in her red satin, trimmed with lace, 
 her red silk stockings and high-heeled shoes, the 
 ear-rings hanging from her ears, and her blond 
 hair fresh as ever. And so, after centuries had 
 passed, the truth became evident of the rimior 
 that ran through Florence at the time of their 
 death, that they had died of poison. The arsenic 
 which had taken from them their life had pre- 
 served their bodies in death. GioA^anni delle 
 Bande Nere was also here, his battles all over, his 
 bones scattered and loose within his iron armor, 
 and his rusted helmet with its visor down. And 
 this was all that was left of the great Medici. Is 
 there any lesson sadder than this ? These royal 
 persons, once so gay and proud and powerful, 
 some of whom patronized Michel Angelo, and ex- 
 tended to him their gracious favor, and honored 
 him perhaps with a smile, now so utterly de- 
 throned by death, their names scarcely known, or, 
 if known, not reverenced, while the poor stern 
 artist they looked down upon sits like a monarch 
 on the throne of fame, and, though dead, rules 
 with his spirit and by his works in the august 
 realm of art. Who has not heard his name ? Who 
 has not felt his influence ? And ages shall come, 
 and generations shall pass, and he will keep his 
 kingdom. 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 
 
 The marble statues in the pediment of the 
 Parthenon at Athens, as well as the metojDes and 
 bassi-relievi which adorned the temjole dedicated to 
 Minerva, are popularly supposed to have been 
 either the work of Phidias himself, or executed by 
 his scholars after his designs and under his super- 
 intendence. This opinion, by dint of constant 
 repetition, has finally become accejoted as an un- 
 doubted fact ; but a careful examination into the 
 original authorities will show that it is unsupported 
 by any satisfactory evidence. 
 
 The main ground upon which it is founded is 
 that Phidias was appointed by Pericles director 
 of the public works at Athens, and occupiel 
 that office durino^ the buildino- of the Parthenon. 
 From being the director he is supposed to have 
 been the designer at least, not only of the tem- 
 ple, but of all the works of art contained in it. 
 This deduction is certainly very broad to be drawn 
 from so small a fact, even if that fact should 
 be established beyond doubt. It resembles the 
 modern instance of the popular attribution of so 
 many nameless statues of the Renaissance to 
 Michel Angelo. And there seems to be about as 
 much reason to suppose that Phidias executed or 
 
50 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 designed all the sculpture of the Parthenon, 
 because he was the general superintendent of pub- 
 lic works at Athens, as to attribute to Michel 
 Angelo the authorship of all the statues in St. 
 Peter's, because he was mainly the architect and 
 superintendent of the work of that great Christian 
 temple. 
 
 The fii'st fact to be opposed to this entirely gi^a- 
 tuitous assiunption is, that during the execution 
 of the great public works at Athens under the 
 administration of Pericles, Phidias himself was 
 occupied on his great chryselephantine statue of 
 Athena, which was the chief ornament of the Par- 
 thenon ; and tliis alone, without considering the 
 other great statues in ivory, and gold, and bronze, 
 on which he was probably engaged at or near the 
 same period, was amply sufficient to occupy his 
 entire time and thoughts. 
 
 The next most important fact is that no ancient 
 contemporary author asserts that any of the sculp- 
 tures of the Parthenon, with the exception of the 
 chryselephantine statue of Athena, were executed 
 by him ; and considering his fame in his own and 
 subsequent ages, it seems most improbable, to say 
 the least, that, had he been the author of any of 
 the other statues and alti or hassi relievij not only 
 no mention of this fact, but no allusion to it, 
 should ever have been made. 
 
 In the next place, it will be found, on careful 
 examination of the ancient writers and of other 
 facts bearing on the question, to be exceedingly 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 51 
 
 doubtful whether Phidias ever made any statues 
 in marble. If he did execute any works in this 
 material, they were exceptions to his general prac- 
 tice, his art being chiefly in toreutic work, and in 
 gold and ivory, or bronze. It was in these arts 
 that he established his fame ; and there is no men- 
 tion of any work by him in marble within five 
 hundred years of liis death. 
 
 Plutarch, in his Life of Pericles, says that 
 "Phidias was appointed by Pericles superinten- 
 dent of all the public edifices, though the Athe- 
 nians had other eminent architects, and excellent 
 workmen." It is plain, however, that even if 
 Phidias was director of the works, Plutarch does 
 not mean to represent him as the architect or 
 artist by whom they were either designed or exe- 
 cuted ; for he immediately adds that " tlie Par- 
 thenon was built by Callicrates and Ictinus." 
 Probably also Carpion was another architect 
 actively engaged upon it, for he and Ictinus 
 wrote- a work upon it. Plutarch then goes on to 
 enumerate other buildings built by different artists 
 at this very period during which Phidias was di- 
 rector of public works. Afterwards he positively 
 states that " the golden statue of Minerva was the 
 worlonanship of Phidias, and his name is inscribed 
 on the pedestal ; " ^ and adds that, " as we have 
 already observed, through the friendship of Peri- 
 
 1 Whether this inscription was placed there diiring' the life of 
 Phidias does not appear ; hut it is hig-hly improbable, and not in 
 harmony with the practice of the Greeks, 
 
62 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 cles, lie had tlie direction of everything, and all 
 the artists received his orders." But he does not 
 say or intimate that Phidias himself made any- 
 thing in the Parthenon except the statue of 
 Athena, unless " having the direction . of every- 
 thing " is to be understood as equivalent to mak- 
 ing everything himself. Such an interpretation 
 is, however, absolutely in contradiction with his 
 statements that the Parthenon was built by Calli- 
 crates and Ictinus ; that the Temple of Initiation 
 at Eleusis was begun by Coroebus, carried on by 
 Metagenes, and finished by Xenocles of Cholargos ; 
 that the vestibule of the Citadel was finished in 
 five years by Mnesicles ; and that the Odeum was 
 built under the direction of Pericles, by which he 
 incuiTcd much ridicule. 
 
 Strabo, however, would seem to differ from 
 Plutarch on this point, and to attribute to Pericles 
 himself, and not to Phidias, the general superin- 
 tendence of the public works. Speaking of the 
 Temple of the Eleusinian Ceres at Eleusis, and 
 the mystic inclosure, 2>/ko9, built by Ictinus, he 
 adds, " Tliis person it was who made the Parthe- 
 non in the Acropolis in honor of Minerva, when 
 Pericles was superintendent of the public works ; " 
 and in another passage he mentions "the Par- 
 thenon built by Ictinus, in which is the Min- 
 erva in ivory, the work of Phidias," — thus clearly 
 distinguishing the work of Phidias, and saying 
 not a word about the metopes, hassi-relievi, or 
 statues in the pediment, or indicating him as their 
 author. 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 53 
 
 But granting that Plutarcli is right, it is quite 
 manifest that it was impossible for Phidias to have 
 had more than an official superintendence of these 
 great works. The sole administration of public 
 affairs was conferred on Pericles in B. c. 444, and 
 it was not until then or subsequently that Phidias 
 could have been appointed to this office. Among 
 the public works built at this period were the 
 Propylsea, the Odeum, the Parthenon, the Temples 
 of Ceres at Eleusis, of Juno at Argos, of Apollo 
 at Phigaleia, and of Zeus at Olympia — the last 
 being finished in B. c. 433. Within these eleven 
 years, therefore, Phidias is supposed to have super- 
 intended all or a portion of these temples, with 
 their manifold sculptures and statues, and, in ad- 
 dition, t3 hav3 made the coloss.il chryselephantine 
 statues of Athena in the Parthenon, Zeus at Olym- 
 pia, Aphrodite Urania at Elis, and also, perhaps, 
 the Athena Areia in bronze at Platsea. 
 
 But excluding all consideration as to the other 
 temples, and confining ourselves solely to the Par- 
 thenon, let U3 see if it be possible, with all his oc- 
 cupations, for him to have executed the Athena 
 aloiie, and also executed or even designed the other 
 sculptures of the Parthenon. 
 
 In the tympanum there are 44 statues, ail of 
 heroic size. There were 92 metopes representing 
 the battles of the Centaurs and Lapithae, and 
 the frieze, which was covered with elaborate bassi- 
 rellevi representing processions of men, women, 
 and horses with riders, was about 524 feet in 
 lensrth. 
 
64 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 There seems to be no distinct statement of 
 tlie exact time when the Parthenon was begun ; 
 but it certainly was after the aj}pointment of 
 Pericles in 444 b. c, and we know that it 
 was finished and dedicated in 438 B. C. This 
 gives us six years as the outside possible limits 
 within which it was built. Now, if Phidias made, 
 executed, or even modeled or designed, only the 
 44 statues of the tympanum within this period, 
 he must have been a man of astonishing activity 
 and rapidity in his work. To do this he must 
 have made more than seven heroic statues in each 
 year, or more than one statue every two months 
 for six years. This may safely be said to be im- 
 possible, unless we mean by the term designing 
 the making of small sketches in clay or terra cotta, 
 with little elaboration or finish. But if we add 
 the 92 metopes and the 524 feet of figures in re- 
 lief, the mere designing in clay of all the figures 
 and groups becomes impossible. 
 
 But this is not enough : we know that he exe- 
 cuted in this time the colossal chryselephantine 
 statue of Athena, — and to the other statues, 
 therefore, he could only have given the overplus of 
 his time which was not needed for his great work. 
 Nor are we without data by which we can estimate 
 the probable time given to the Athena alone. At 
 Elis he was engaged exclusively from four to five 
 years upon the Zeus, in the temple at Olympia ; 
 and in the execution of this colossal work we know 
 that he had the assistance of other artists, and es- 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 55 
 
 pecially of Kolotes ; and we also know that he 
 did nothing else in this temple, the statues in the 
 two tymj)ana having been executed by Alcamenes 
 and Paeonios. In all probability about the same 
 amount of time was given to the Athena. Sup- 
 posing, then, that he began his work on the Par- 
 thenon immediately after the appointment of Peri- 
 cles, which is most improbable, he would have had 
 about a year's time in which to make all the 
 statues and reliefs in the Parthenon, and exercise 
 supervision of the public works. If he modeled 
 the designs only of the tympana in this period, 
 he must have made a statue in eight days. If he 
 also modeled the designs of the metopes, 92 in 
 number, of two figures each, he must have given 
 less than three days to each, without allowing any 
 time for the performance of his functions of gen- 
 eral director, *and supposing him also to have 
 worked without a day's intermission. Such suppo- 
 sitions must be rejected as approaching so near to 
 impossibilities as to render them utterly untenable. 
 All probabilities are in favor of the supposition 
 that, during the period in which the Parthenon 
 was constructed, Phidias was employed solely upon 
 the statue of Athena, and upon the duties inci- 
 dent to his position as superintendent of public 
 works. 
 
 This conclusion will seem all the more probable 
 when we consider that Phidias, far from being 
 rapid in his execution, was, on the contrary, a slow 
 and elaborate worker, devoting much time to the 
 
66 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 careful and minute finisli of his statues. Tliemis- 
 tius is reported by Plutarcli as saying of him, that 
 " though Phidias was skillful enough to make in 
 gold or ivory " ( it will be observed that he speaks 
 of his work in no other materials ) " the true shape 
 of god or man, yet he did require abundance of 
 time and leisure to his work ; so he is reported to 
 have spent much time upon the base and sandals 
 . of his statue of the goddess Athena." ^ 
 
 We must also add another consideration, and it 
 is this : that in the time of Phidias it was necessary 
 for a sculptor to do far more with his own hand 
 than it is now. Modern facilities have greatly 
 abridged the personal labor of the sculptor in 
 marble or bronze. The present method of casting 
 in plaster, which was then unknown, or at least 
 unpracticed, enables the sculptor of our days to 
 elaborate his work to the utmost finish, in its full 
 size, in the cla}^ model ; and when this is completed 
 and cast in such a permanent material as plaster, 
 the workman has an absolute model, which he may, 
 to a certain extent, copy with almost mathematical 
 accuracy. The greater portion of the work may 
 therefore be now committed to inferior hands, as 
 it requires only mechanical dexterity and care ; 
 while it merely remains for the sculptor himself to 
 finish the work in marble, and add such elabora- 
 tion of detail and expression as he may desire. 
 But in the time of Phidias this method was un- 
 
 ^ Themistius. Orat. adeura qui postulaverat ut ex tempore ser- 
 monem haberet. 
 
PHIDIAS, AXD THE ELGIN MARBLES. oT 
 
 kno-s^ii ; and the sculptor himself was forced to do 
 a much greater part of his work in marble. In 
 like manner, the modern method of casting in 
 bronze is so admirable that the labor of the artist 
 in finishing the cast is comparatively small : but 
 in the earlier period of bronze casting, there is no 
 doubt that the cast originally was far more imper- 
 fect, and the labor of the sculptor in fuiishing far 
 gTeater. These facts will in some measure seem to 
 account for the comparatively long time during 
 which Phidias was ensrao-ed on his works. As there 
 evidently was no full-sized and completely finished 
 model of the Athena or Zeus for the worlcmen me- 
 chanically to cop3^, Phidias was forced to work out 
 the details of his great works with his own hands, 
 mouldino^ and desi^'ninQ^ them as he went on ; 
 and tliis he was obliged to do, not in a plastic 
 material like clay, but in the fmal material of his 
 statue — whether gold, ivory, or bronze. Assist- 
 ants of course he had, and midoubtedly they were 
 very numerous. Plutarch tells us that the public 
 works gave employment to carpenters, modelers, 
 brass cutters and stampers, chiselers and engra- 
 vers, dyers, workers of ivory and gold, and even 
 weavers ; ^ and some of these men certainly 
 
 ^ T€KToves, TrXacrraiy x^^'^^'^^'''''^^ X'-dovpyoi, ^xpeTs, xpyTou 
 HaXatTTipes Kul i\e(pauTos (coypdpoiy irorKiAra?, ropevrai. This 
 passage is generally cited as a statement by Plutarch that Phidias 
 employed all these men; but in fact he is only urging, in justifi- 
 cation of Pericles, and in answer to attacks made against him for 
 expending such large sums of money in the public works, that 
 these works gave employment to the enumerated classes of ai'tists 
 and mechanics. 
 
68 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 worked for Phidias. In fact, he used the hands of 
 others as much as he could — as any sensible artist 
 would ; but a great part of his invention and work 
 was carried on in hard and difficidt materials, in- 
 stead of being perfected in a facile clay, as it 
 would be by a modern scrJptor ; and this carried 
 with it, of course, a great expense of time and 
 labor. 
 
 With these facts in view, and considering the 
 great size and elaboration of the ivory and gold 
 statue of Athena, it is quite evident that the few 
 years which elapsed between the commencement 
 of the Parthenon and its dedication would have 
 been amply occuj^ied by this work alone, — and 
 with the other duties incident to his position as 
 superintendent of public works. More than this, 
 we shall find it difficult to fix the time when he 
 made some other of his statues, unless it was dur- 
 ing these six years ; and it would seem probable 
 that at or about this time he must have been en- 
 gaged upon the Athena Areia for the Plataeans, 
 or at least upon his chryselephantine statue of the 
 celestial Venus for the Eleans. 
 
 Before proceeding farther in this argument, it 
 may be as well to give a glance at the artistic 
 career of Phidias, and the various works executed 
 by him, or assigned to him by different writers of 
 an after-age. 
 
 A good deal of discussion has arisen as to the 
 age of Phidias at his death. The date of his 
 birth is distinctly given by no one, and is purely a 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 59 
 
 matter of conjecture. Thiersch, among others, 
 supposes him to have been already an artist of 
 some distinction in the 72-3 Olympiad, or about 
 B. C. 490 — the date of the battle of Marathon ; 
 and this opinion he founds chiefly on the fact that 
 the Athena Promachos, as well as the group of 
 statues at Delphi and the acrolith of Athena at 
 Plataea made by him, were cast, according to Pau- 
 sanias, from the tithe of the spoils taken from 
 the Medes who disembarked at Marathon. Other 
 writers supjDose him to have been born at about the 
 date of the battle of Marathon, and that the 
 statues executed by him out of the spoils were 
 made some twenty - five years later. Mr. Philip 
 Smith, in his " Dictionary of Biography and My- 
 thology," taking this view, places his birth in the 
 73d Olympiad ; and Miiller is of the same opinion. 
 Dr. Brunn, on the contrary, thinks it probable 
 that he was born about the 70th Olympiad, and 
 Welcker and Preller agree substantially with him. 
 According to the supposition of Thiersch, plar 
 cing his birth at 67*2 Olympiad, or B. c. 510, he 
 would have been twenty years of age at the bat- 
 tle of Marathon (b. c. 490), seventy-two years of 
 age when he finished the chryselephantine statue 
 of Athena in the Parthenon in 85*1 Olympiad 
 (b. C. 438), and seventy-seven years of age when 
 he finished the chryselephantine statue of Zeus at 
 Olympia in 87*3 Olympiad (b. c. 433). This, 
 if we suppose that five years elapsed after the 
 battle of Marathon before the group of statues at 
 
60 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 Delphi was executed, would make Phidias twenty- 
 five years old when he made them. 
 
 Taking the supposition that he was born in the 
 72*3 Olymj^iad, and that the statues at Delphi 
 were modeled twenty-fiv^e years after, this would 
 make him also twenty-five years of age when he 
 executed them ; and fifty-two years of age, instead 
 of seventy-two, when he finished the Athena of the 
 Parthenon ; and fifty-seven, instead of seventy- 
 seven, when he completed the Zeus — shortly pre- 
 vious to his death. 
 
 Dr. Brunn's supposition that he was born in the 
 70th Olympiad, which is also held by Welcker and 
 Preller, would make him fifty-six v/hen he made 
 the Athena, and sixty-one when he made the Zeus. 
 
 In opposition to these two later suppositions, 
 there is this one undisputed fact, that on the 
 shield of the Athena of the Parthenon he intro- 
 duced his own likeness as well as that of Pericles, 
 in which he is described as representing himself 
 as a bakl old man (irpea-f^vTov <^aA.aKp(k) hurling a 
 stone, which he lifts with both hands, while Peri- 
 cles is portrayed as a \agorous warrior in the full 
 prime of manhood. He must therefore have in- 
 tended to represent himself as a much older man 
 than Pericles ; and Pericles at this time was over 
 fifty-two years of age ^ — which is the age as- 
 
 ^ The date of the birth of Pericles is xinknown, but he began 
 to take part in public affairs in B. C. 460, when he could not prob- 
 ably have been less than twenty-one years of ag-e. This would 
 place his birth at 490. He died in 429 ; and this reckonings 
 would make him only sixty-one at his death. 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 61 
 
 signed to Phidias himself by some writers. Be- 
 sides, a man of fifty-two, or even of fifty-six, could 
 scarcely be accurately described as an " old man ; " 
 and an artist making a portrait of himself at that 
 age would be inclined to give himself a little more 
 youth than he really possessed. The mere fact 
 that he represents himself as old shows that he 
 had in all probability arrived at a more advanced 
 period of life, when one accepts old age as too no- 
 torious and well-established a fact to be disguised. 
 The supposition of Thiersch, therefore, would, in 
 view of this fact alone, seem to be the best 
 founded, as this would make him seventy-two years 
 old when the Athena was completed, — an age 
 which might fairly be called old. 
 
 Mr. Smith seems to think it very improbable 
 that at the age of eighty-three Phidias could have 
 undertaken to execute the Zeus ; but the fact is, 
 that Thiersch's conjecture would only make him 
 seventy-three when the Zeus was begun, and cer- 
 tainly at this age it is by no means uncommon for 
 scidptors to undertake large works. Tenerani, for 
 instance, in our own time, had passed that age 
 when he executed the monument of Pius VIII., 
 one of his largest works, and consisting of four 
 colossal figures. Besides, it is to be taken into 
 account that the Zeus was the last work of Phid- 
 ias, and that death overtook him immediately 
 after. 
 
 On the whole, it would seem that the probabili- 
 ties of the period of his birth lie between the mid- 
 
62 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 die of the 67th 01}Tnpiad (b. c. 510) and the be- 
 ginnmg of the 70th Olympiad (b. C. 500). 
 
 There is also another consideration which is 
 entitled to weight in this connection. Suppose 
 Phidias to have commenced his artistic career 
 four years after the battle of Marathon — in B. c. 
 490 (Olymp. 72-3). From that time to B. c. 444 
 (Olymp. 83*4), when he began the Athena of the 
 Parthenon, there are forty-five years ; and during 
 this time he *is supposed to have executed six 
 colossal statues in bronze or acrolith, — two of 
 which, the Athena Promachos and the Athena 
 Areia, were from 50 to 60 feet in height — and 
 one, the Athena Lemnia, was considered as per- 
 haps his most beautiful work. Besides this, he 
 executed thirteen statues at Delphi, the size of 
 which is not stated. Nineteen statues in forty- 
 five years give a little over 2^ years to each ; and 
 if the thirteen statues at Delphi were colossal, 
 this will certainly seem insufficient for their execu- 
 tion, when we keep in mind the facts — 1st, That 
 Phidias was a slow and elaborate worker ; 2d, 
 That of necessity he must have done a great part 
 of the work in bronze personally ; 3d, That he 
 was occupied four years on the Zeus alone ; 4th, 
 That two of these statues, at least, were larger 
 than the Atliena of the Parthenon, though not in 
 the same material. It is, however, probable, that 
 the thirteen statues at Delphi were not of colossal 
 proportions, but rather of heroic size, and there- 
 fore requiring less time in their execution ; and 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 63 
 
 this would enable us to assign a longer time to the 
 mighty colossi of Athena. 
 
 Certainly, however, if we accept the theory that 
 Phidias commenced working twenty -five years 
 after the battle of Marathon, we are in very great 
 straits as to time, unless the date when these co- 
 lossal statues were made be incorrect, and unless 
 some of them were made after the Athena of the 
 Parthenon. This, again, we cannot accept ; for, 
 from the date of the completion of the Athena of 
 the Parthenon until his death, there are only at 
 most some seven years, four of which were dedi- 
 cated to the Zeus. We are then forced to be- 
 lieve that these nineteen statues were made in 
 twenty years ; and this is certainly very improb- 
 able. 
 
 In this view other difficulties also appear, which 
 it would seem impossible to overcome, if we accept 
 all the statues attributed to Phidias as having 
 been executed by him ; for in such case, not only 
 must he have made these nineteen statues in 
 twenty years, but some fifteen more at least. Tak- 
 ing, then, the longest supposition as to his age, 
 and giving him forty-five years of labor for some 
 thirty-five statues, the time will altogether be too 
 restricted. It may be as well at this point of the 
 discussion to give a catalogue of the works which 
 he is supposed to have executed, and to examine 
 into the probable authenticity of some of them. 
 The list is as follows : — 
 
 1. The Athena, at Pellene, in Achaia. This 
 
64 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 was probably his first great work, if we credit 
 Pausanias, who says it was made before the Athena 
 of the Acropolis and the Athena at Plataea. " They 
 say," says Pausanias, " that this statue was made 
 by Phidias, and before he made that for the Athe- 
 nians, which is in their town, or that which is 
 among the Platseans." 
 
 2-14. Thirteen statues in bronze, made from 
 the spoils of the Persian war, and dedicated at 
 Delphi as a votive offering by the Athenians, rep- 
 resenting Athena, Apollo, Miltiades, Erechtheus, 
 Cecrops, Pandion, Peleus, Antiochus, ^geus, 
 Acamas, Codrus, Theseus, and Phyleus. " All 
 these statues," says Pausanias, " were made by 
 Phidias ; " and on his sole authority the statement 
 stands. He does not mention their size. 
 
 15. The colossal Athena Promachos in bronze 
 in the Acropolis. This statue, which was from 
 50 to 60 feet in height, was made from the spoils 
 of Marathon. It represented the goddess holding 
 up her spear and shield in the attitude of a com- 
 batant, and was ^dsible to approaching vessels as 
 far off as Sunium. " On the shield," says Pau- 
 sanias, "the battle of the Centaurs and Lapitha? 
 was carved by Mys ; but Parrhasiup, the son of 
 Evenor, painted this for Mys, and likewise the 
 other figaires that are seen on the shield." Pau- 
 sanias, however, must be mistaken in this, since 
 Parrliasius lived about Olymp. 95 (b. C. 400), or 
 about thirty years after the death of Phidias ; 
 and it would scarcely be probable that this shield 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 65 
 
 would liaA^e remained uncarved and unpainted for 
 from seventy to eighty years after the statue was 
 executed. 
 
 16. The Athena Areia, at Platsea. This was an 
 acrolith, also made from the spoils of Marathon. 
 " This statue," says Pausanias, " is made of wood, 
 and is gilt, except the face and the extremities of 
 the hands and feet, which are of Pentelic marble. 
 Its magnitude is nearly equal to that of the Mi- 
 nerva, which the Athenians dedicated on their 
 tower" (the Promachos). "Phidias too made 
 this statue for the Plataeenses." 
 
 17. The Athena in bronze, in the Acropolis, 
 called the Lemnia, which, according to Pausanias, 
 " deserves to be seen above all the works of Phid- 
 ias." Lucian also speaks specially of its beauty. 
 
 18. Tiie Athena mentioned by Pliny as having 
 been dedicated at Rome, near the Temple of For- 
 tune, by Paulus ^milius. But whether this origi- 
 nally stood in the Acropolis is unknown. Possibly 
 or probably it was the same statue as that last 
 mentioned. 
 
 19. The Cliduchus (Key - Bearer), also men- 
 tioned by Pliny, may have been an Athena ; but 
 more probably it rej^resented a priestess holding 
 the keys, sjaiibolic of initiation into the mysteries. 
 
 20. The Athena of the Parthenon, in ivory and 
 gold. 
 
 21. The Zeus at 01}Tnpia, in ivory and gold. 
 
 22. The Aphrodite Urania, in ivory and gold, at 
 Elis. This statue, attributed by Pausanias to 
 
66 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 Phidias, "stands with one of its feet on a 
 tortoise." 
 
 23. A bronze figure of Apollo Parnopius, in 
 the Acropolis. The authority for this statue is 
 Pausanias, who states that "it is said to be the 
 work of Phidias," — Xeyova-i ^etSi'av TTotrja-aL. Tradi- 
 tion alone gives it to Pliidias. 
 
 24. Aphrodite Urania, i?i marble, in the temple 
 near the Ceramicus. This also is attributed by 
 Pausanias to Phidias. 
 
 25. A statue of the Mother of the Gods, sitting 
 on a throne, supported by lions, in the Metroum 
 near the Ceramicus. This is attributed by Pau- 
 sanias and Arrian to JPhidias. Pliny, on the con- 
 trary, says it is by Agoracritos. 
 
 26. The Golden Throne, so called, and supposed 
 generally to be that of the Athena. What this 
 was is very dubious. It could not be the throne 
 of the Athena, for she had no throne, and probably 
 was another name for the Athena herself. Plutarch 
 calls it "t^s Oeov TO xp'^aovv tSo<s,'' and Isocrates, 
 
 " TO Tj}? ^AOrjva^ eSo?." 
 
 27. Statue of Athena, at Elis, in ivory and gold. 
 Pausanias says it is attributed to Phidias, — 
 *'(f>a(TLv <l>etStoi;," — the?/ say it is by Phidias. Pliny, 
 however, says it was executed by Kolotes. 
 
 28. Statue of ^sculaj^ius, at Epidaurus. This 
 is attributed to Phidias by Athenagoras ( Legat. 
 pro Arist.) ; but by Pausanias to Thrasymedes of 
 Paros. 
 
 29. At the entrance of the Ismenion, near 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 67 
 
 Thebes, are two marhle statues called Pronaoi — 
 one of Athena, ascribed by Pausanias to Scopas, 
 and one of Hermes, ascribed by Pausanias to 
 Phidias. 
 
 30. A Zeus, at the Olympieum at Megara. 
 The head of this statue was made of gold and 
 ivory, the rest of clay and gypsum. " This work is 
 said (Xeyouo-t) to have been made by Theocosraos, 
 a citizen of Megara, with the assistance of Pliidias," 
 says Pausanias, and it was interrupted by the 
 breaking out of the Peloponnesian war. Probably 
 it was executed solely by Theocosmos. 
 
 31. The statue of Nemesis, at Rhamnus, in mar- 
 hle^ attributed to Phidias by Pausanias ; but there 
 can be little question that it was made by Ago- 
 racritos. 
 
 32. The Amazon. This statue, which is highly 
 praised by Lucian, was, according to Pliny, made 
 by Phidias in competition with Polyclitus, Ctesi- 
 laus, Cydon, and Phradmon ; the first prize being 
 given to Poh'clitus, the second to Phidias, the 
 third to Ctesilaus, and the fourth to Cydon. 
 
 33. 34, 35. Three bronze statues mentioned by 
 Pliny, the subjects not stated, and placed by Catu- 
 lus in the Temple of Fortune. 
 
 36. The marble Venus in the portico of Octavia, 
 which Pliny says " is said to be by Phidias.*' 
 
 37. The Horse-Tamer, in marble, now existing, 
 and standing before the Quirinal in Rome. 
 
 There are some other statues attributed to 
 Phidias by various writers, which may be at once 
 
68 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 rejected. Among them were the statues of Zeus 
 and Apollo at Patara, in Lycia, which were sup- 
 posed by Clemens Alexandrinus to have been by 
 Phidias, but which are clearly settled to have been 
 by Bryaxis. So also the Kairos, or Opportunity, 
 by Lysippus, was attributed to Phidias by Auso- 
 nius ; and the famous Venus of the Gardens 
 (ei/ ktJttois), by Alcamenes, was said to have re- 
 ceived its finishing touches from him. 
 
 It will, I think, be clear that many of the statues 
 in the foregoing list must also be rejected. In the 
 last ten years of his life he executed only two 
 statues, each colossal — the Athena of the Parthe- 
 non, and the Zeus at Olympia. Taking the earli- 
 est date of his artistic career at five years before 
 the battle of Marathon, according to the theory of 
 Thiersch, he would, as we have seen, have had 
 forty -five years only in which to execute the 
 other thirty-five statues, besides all the other and 
 minute work to which, as we shall see, he gave 
 his genius. Several, at least, of these statues are 
 colossal, several elaborately wrought in ivory and 
 gold ; and it is in the highest degree improbable 
 that they could have been executed in this period 
 of time. 
 
 On examination of the list, three at least will be 
 seen to rest purely on tradition. The Apollo Par- 
 nopius and the Athena at Elis are mentioned by 
 Pausanias as being " said to be " by Phidias. The 
 Venus of the portico of Octavia " is said to be by 
 Phidias," says Pliny. Little weight can be given 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 69 
 
 to current and common opinion in respect to the 
 authorship of works of art executed many centuries 
 before, about which there is no written documen- 
 tary proof. In our own time it is always exceed- 
 ingly difficult, and often impossible, to decide upon 
 the authorship of pictures and statues of one hun- 
 dred years ago. Double that period, and the diiii- 
 culty would of course be enormously increased. 
 Now Pausanias wrote some six hundred years after 
 the death of Phidias, and yet we are ready to 
 accept as authoritative his passing statement that 
 a certain statue " is said " to be by Phidias. How 
 many statues at the present day are said to be by 
 Michel Angelo, which he never saw ! How many 
 spurious Raffaelles and Titians adorn our gal- 
 leries! Do we not know that every traveler in 
 Italy sees statues " said to be " by Michel Angelo 
 in such numbers that ten Michel Angelos could 
 not have made them all? There is scarcely a 
 church that does not boast of something from his 
 hand. There is no reason to suppose that the case 
 was not similar in Greece fifteen hundred years 
 ago, and none to suppose that Pausanias was su- 
 perior in artistic knowledge and acumen to any 
 average intelligent traveler of his day. He did 
 not stop to investigate the grounds upon which the 
 popular or accidental account given him as to the 
 authorship of any work was founded, nor does he 
 pretend to have done so. He took it for what it 
 was worth. " They say the statue is by Phidias." 
 He had, besides, as far as we know, no written 
 
70 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 authority for what he said, — at least he cites 
 none. 
 
 Again, in respect to the authorship of some of 
 the statues of which he speaks, he at times differs 
 from other writers, and at times unquestionably 
 mistakes. Thus, to cite only examples in the case 
 of Phidias, the statue of Athena, at Elis, he 
 attributes to Phidias, while Pliny says it was 
 by Kolotes. Again, the statue of ^sculapius, at 
 Epidaurus, he attributes to Thrasymedes of Paros, 
 while Athenagoras says it was the work of Phidias. 
 In like manner, the statue of the Mother of the 
 Gods, which Pausanias and Arrian give to Phidias, 
 Pliny declares to be the work of Agoraeritos. 
 Still more, Pausanias distinctly affirms that the 
 Nemesis at Rhamnus was executed by Phidias ; 
 while Pliny, on the contrary, asserts it to be the 
 work of Agoraeritos. And in this assertion Pliny 
 is borne out by Zenobius, who gives us the inscrip- 
 tion on the branch in the hand of Nemesis : 
 ArOPAKPlTOS nAPIO:S Enom^EN. Strabo, how- 
 ever, hesitates between Agoraeritos and an un- 
 known Diodotos, and says it was remarkable for 
 beauty and size, and might well compete with the 
 works of Phidias ; and to confuse matters still 
 more, at a later time Pomponius Mela, Hesychius, 
 and Solon agree with Pausanias. There would 
 seem, after weighing all authorities, to be little 
 doubt that the Nemesis was the work of Agora- 
 eritos. 
 
 Nothing could more clearly show the easy way in 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. Tl 
 
 which traditions grow like barnacles upon artists 
 and works of art, than the story connected with 
 this statue. Pliny says that Agoracritos contended 
 with Alcamenes in making a statue of Venus ; and 
 the preference being given to that of Alcamenes, 
 he was so indignant at the decision that he 
 immediately made certain alterations in his own 
 statue, called it Nemesis, and sold it to the people 
 of Ehamnus, on condition that it should not be set 
 up in Athens. This is absurd enough. After a 
 statue of Venus is finished, what sort of change 
 would be required to make a Nemesis of it ? But 
 let us see how well this statue would have repre- 
 sented Aphrodite. Pausanias says that "out of 
 the marble brought by the barbarians to Marathon 
 for a trophy Phidias made a statue of Nemesis, 
 and on the head of the goddess there is a crown 
 adorned with stags and images of victory of no 
 great magnitude ; and in the left hand she holds 
 the branch of an ash-tree, and in her right a 
 cup, on which the jiEthiopians are carved — why, 
 I cannot assign any reason." Now, in the first 
 place, the assertion that it was a work of marble 
 brought to make a trophy at Marathon is a myth. 
 In the next place, these are certainly peculiar 
 characteristics for an Aphrodite. The statue it- 
 self was undoubtedly a noble statue, however, and 
 the best work of Agoracritos. As it was not the 
 custom for sculptors in Greece to inscribe their 
 names on their statues, it may have happened that 
 it soon came to be popularly attributed to Phidias, 
 
72 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 according to the general rule, tliat to the master is 
 ascribed the best work of his pupil and hi-s school. 
 Then it was, probably, that the inscri23tion was 
 placed on the statue, reclaiming it for its true 
 author. However this may be, Photias, Suidas, 
 and Tzetzes, as late as from the tenth to the 
 twelfth century, are determined that Phidias shall 
 have it, despite the inscription ; and accordingly 
 they report and publish, many long centuries after 
 — and gifted by what second-sight into the past 
 who can tell? — that though it is true that the 
 statue is supposed to have been executed by Ago- 
 racritos, yet in fact it was made by Phidias, who 
 generously allowed Agoracritos to put his name 
 on it, and pass it off as his own. 
 
 In further illustration of this parasitic growth 
 of legend and tradition may be also cited in this 
 connection the story told by Tzetzes the Gram- 
 marian, some seventeen centuries after the death 
 of Phidias. According to him, Alcamenes and 
 Phidias competed in making a statue of Athena, 
 to be placed in an elevated position ; and when 
 their figures were finished and exposed to public 
 view near the level of the eye, the preference was 
 decidedly given to the figure of Alcamenes ; but 
 as soon as the figures were elevated to their des- 
 tined position, the public declared immediately in 
 favor of that of Phidias. The object of the 
 writer of this story is to prove the extraordinary 
 skill of Phidias in optical perspective, and to show 
 that he had calculated his proportions with such 
 
PHJDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLE8. 73 
 
 foresight, that tliouglt the figure, when seen near 
 the level of the eye, appeared inharmonious, it be- 
 came perfectly harmonious when seen from far 
 below. Now ail that any artist . could do to pro- 
 duce this effect would be, perhaps, to give more 
 length to his figures in comparison with their 
 breadth. This, however, would be not only a 
 doubtful expedient in itself, but entirely at vari- 
 ance with the practice of Phidias. His figures, 
 like all those of his period, were stouter in pro- 
 portion to their breadth, and particularly stouter 
 in the relation of the lower limbs to the torso, 
 than the figures of a later period. The canon 
 of proportion accepted then was that of Polycli- 
 tus ; and the proportions were afterward varied 
 and the lower limbs were lengthened, first by Eu- 
 phranor, and subsequently still more by Lysippus. 
 Any distortion or falsification of proportion would 
 be effective solely in a statue with one point of 
 view, and exhibited as a relief ; for if it were a 
 figure in the round, and seen from all points, the 
 perspective would be utterly false, unless the pro- 
 portions were harmonious in themselves and true 
 to nature. Tzetzes is a great gossip, and pecu- 
 liarly untrustworthy in his statements ; but his 
 story is of such a nature as to please the ignorant 
 public, and it has been accepted and repeated con- 
 stantly, though he does not give any authority for 
 it, and plainly invented it out " of the depths of 
 his own consciousness," as the German savant did 
 the camel. 
 
74 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 One cannot be too careful in accepting tradi- 
 tions about artists or their works. The public in- 
 vents its facts, and believes what it invents. Very- 
 few of the pleasing anecdotes connected with 
 artists will bear critical examination, any more 
 than the famous sayings attributed on great occa- 
 sions to extraordinary men ; still the grand phrase 
 of Cambronne is as gravely repeated in history as 
 if it had some foundation in fact, and everybody 
 believes that Da Vinci died in the arms of Fran- 
 cis I. Perhaps it is scarcely worth while to break 
 up such pleasant traditions, and certainly the pub- 
 lic resists such attempts. It is so delightful to 
 think that the gallant and accomplished King of 
 France supported the great Italian artist, and 
 soothed his last moments, that it seems sheer bru- 
 tality to dissipate such an illusion ; yet, unfortu- 
 nately, we know that Leonardo died at Cloux, near 
 Amboise, on May 2, 1679, — and from a journal 
 kept by the king, and still (disgracefully enough) 
 existing in the imperial library in Paris, we know 
 that on that very day he held his Court at St. 
 Germain-en-Laye ; and besides this, Lomazzo dis- 
 tinctly tells us that the king first heard the news 
 of Leonardo's death from Melzi ; while Melzi 
 himself, who wrote to Leonardo's friend immedi- 
 ately after his death, makes no mention of such a 
 fact. 
 
 But to return from this digression to a consid- 
 eration of the list of works attributed to Phidias. 
 We have already seen that in regard to six of 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 75 
 
 the statues there are, to say the least, strong 
 doubts as to his authorship ; but still more must 
 be eliminated. The Zeus of the Olympieum at 
 Megara " is said," according to Pausanias, " to 
 have been made by Theocosmos, with the assist- 
 ance of Phidias." This again is mere tradition, 
 which is so weak that it only pretends that Phid- 
 ias assisted Theocosmos. Phidias assisting Theo- 
 cosmos has a strange sound ; and it is plain that 
 Theocosmos is the real author of this statue, even 
 granting that the great master may have helped 
 the lesser one. 
 
 Again, Pausanias tells us that of the two mar- 
 ble statues called Pronaoi at the entrance of the 
 Ismenion, that representing Athena was made 
 by Scopas, and the other of Hermes was made 
 by Phidias. These so-called Pronaoi were statues 
 standing at the entrance of the building, opposite 
 each other, a chief decorative ornament to the 
 fac^ade. Is it not strange that the statue on one 
 side should be made by Phidias, and the opposite 
 pedestal remain unoccupied until the time of Sco- 
 pas, nearly a century later ? Is it not plain that 
 the temple would not have been considered finished 
 until both statues were placed there? And is it 
 probable that the Greeks would have allowed it to 
 remain thus incomplete for a century ? Besides, 
 does it not seem singular, in view of the fact that 
 Phidias was peculiarly celebrated for his statues 
 of Athena, while Scopas was celebrated for his 
 heroic figures and demigods, that the Athena 
 
76 EXCUESJOXS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 should liave been assigned to Scopas, and tlie 
 Hermes to Phidias? When we also add the fact 
 that these statues were in marble, — a material in 
 which, as we shall presently see, Phidias certainly- 
 worked only exceptionally, if he ever worked at all, 
 while Scopas was a worker in marble, — it will, 
 I think, be pretty clear that Pausanias is mistaken 
 in attributing this statue of Hermes to Phidias. 
 
 Again, "The Golden Throne" must probably 
 be considered as a name for the Athena of the 
 Parthenon, since there is no golden throne of 
 which w^e have any knowledge ever made by Phid- 
 ias. In like manner it is most probable that the 
 Athena mentioned by Pliny as being in Rome 
 near the temple of Julian, and dedicated by Paulus 
 ^milius, was the Athena Lemnia in bronze, taken 
 from the Acropolis. These statues, which are reck- 
 oned as four, must therefore in all probability be 
 considered as only two. 
 
 There remains one other statue in the list 
 which certainly must be struck out — the Horse- 
 Tamer, still existing in Eome at the present day, 
 under the name of " II Colosso di Monte Cavallo." 
 This statue, or rather group, stands on the Qui- 
 rinal Hill, and on its pedestal are inscribed the 
 words " Opus Phidise." It is cited by Dr. Smith 
 in his Dictionary as a work of Phidias, and he 
 thinks it may be the " altrum colossicon nudum " 
 of which Pliny speaks. But Pliny cited this " co- 
 lossicon nudum " in his chapter on bronze works ; 
 and as this is in marble, he could not have re- 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 11 
 
 ferred to it. Independent of all other considera^ 
 tions, however, there is one simple fact that makes 
 it almost impossible that it could have been the 
 work of Phidias, though curiously enough this 
 simple fact has apparently escaped the observation 
 of critics. It is, that the cuirass which supports 
 the group is a Eoman cuirass and not a Greek 
 cuirass, such as Phidias would necessarily have 
 made. 
 
 The legend about this group and its companion, 
 attributed with equal absurdity to Praxiteles, is 
 curious. In " Roma Sacra, Antica e Moderna," 
 which was published in Rome in the latter part of 
 the sixteenth century, and constantly reprinted 
 for at least a hundred years, we are told that these 
 two statues were made, one by Phidias, and the 
 other by Praxiteles, in competition with each 
 other, — that they represent Alexander taming 
 Bucephalus, and were brought to Rome by Tiri- 
 dates. King of Armenia, as a present to Nero, — 
 and that they were afterwards restored and placed 
 in the Thermae of Con stan tine, from which place 
 they were transported to the Quirinal, and again 
 restored and- set up by Sixtus V., with inscriptions, 
 stating that they were brought by Constantine 
 from Greece. 
 
 The inscriptions were as follow^s : under the 
 horse of the statue professing to be by Phidias, 
 was inscribed : " Phidias, nobilis sculptor, ad ar- 
 tificii prsestantiam declarandam Alexandri Buce- 
 phaalum domantis effigiem e marmore expressit.'* 
 
78 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 On the base was inscribed : " Signa Alexandri 
 Magni celebrisque ejus Bucephal ex antiquitatis 
 testimonio Phidise et Praxitelis emidatione hoc 
 marmore ad vivam effigiem expressa a Fl. Con- 
 stantino Max. e Grsecia advecta suisque in lliermis 
 in hoc Quirinali monte coUocata, temporis vi de- 
 formata, laceraque ad ejusdem Imperatoris me- 
 moriam urbisque decorem, in pristinam formam 
 restituta hie reponi jussit anno MDXXXIX Pont. 
 IV." Under the horse of Praxiteles was inscribed : 
 " Praxiteles sculptor ad Phidiae emulationem sui 
 monumenta ingenii relinquere cupiens ejusdem 
 Alexandri Bucephalique signa felici contentione 
 
 \\ perficit." 
 
 ^ Here are a charming series of assumptions, so 
 completely in defiance of history that one cannot 
 help smiling ; and were not the fact accredited, 
 it would be difficult to believe that these inscrip- 
 tions could have been placed under these statues. 
 Phidias died probably in B. c. 432, Praxiteles 
 flourished about B. c. 864, nearly a century later, 
 and Alexander was not born till B. c. 356. Here 
 we have Phidias making a group of Alexander and 
 Bucephalus, and representing an incident which 
 occurred a century after his death, and in competi- 
 tion with Praxiteles. Absurdity and ignorance 
 can scarcely go further ; and, as we learn from 
 " Roma Sacra," it afterwards occasioned such 
 ridicule that Urban VIH. removed the inscrip- 
 tions, and substituted the simple words, " Opus 
 Phidise " and " Opus Praxitelis " under the re- 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 79 
 
 spective statues, still adhering to the legend that 
 the two groups were the work of these great artists. 
 The fact is that they are Roman works, and were 
 neither brought by Tiridates from Armenia to 
 present to Nero, nor by Constantine from Greece. 
 
 Of the statues attributed to Phidias we may 
 then strike out eleven as resting, on the face of 
 the facts, upon no sufficient authority. We still 
 shall have the large number of twenty-six im- 
 portant statues, many of them colossal, which are 
 far more than sufficient to have occupied his life, 
 even when reckoned at its longest probable term. 
 To this number it woidd be impossible to add the 
 marble statues contained in the Parthenon. 
 
 Michel Angelo lived to a great age. He was 
 throughout his life a very hard worker, devoting 
 all his time to art. It is true that he was de- 
 voted to architecture and fresco-painting, as well 
 as to sculpture, and that to these arts he gave 
 much time ; but still he was by profession spe- 
 cially a sculptor, and a large portion of his life was 
 given to sculpture. He was, besides, impetuous 
 and even violent in his marble work ; and not con- 
 tent with the labor of the day, gave to it a portion 
 of his nights, working with a candle fixed in his 
 cap — unless, indeed, this also be a legend, into 
 which it is better not to inquire too anxiously. 
 Still, in the course of his long life he executed 
 very few statues : of the really accredited statues 
 of any size, the number, I think, does not exceed 
 fifteen — and some of these are merely roughed 
 
80 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 out and left unfinislied. The explanation of tliis 
 is undoubtedly tliat casting in plaster having been 
 then just invented, and being very imperfect in its 
 development, he was accustomed at once to rough 
 out his larofe statues from small sketches in terra 
 cotta, after the probable practice of the ancients. 
 This obliged him personally to do with his own 
 hand much of the hard work which now, with the 
 increased facilities of the art and the perfecting of 
 plaster-casting, can safely be left to an ordinary 
 workman ; at all events, there are no full-sized 
 models existing of his great works. If, then, 
 Michel Angelo, with twenty years more of life, 
 and with all his energy, could produce only some 
 fifteen statues of heroic size, — and these, many of 
 them, unfinished, — it will not seem necessary to 
 suppose that Phidias must have executed double 
 that number, particularly when we remember the 
 colossal size of many of them (from forty to sixty 
 feet in height), the extreme elaboration and fine- 
 ness of the workm-anship, and the difficidties 
 growing out of the materials in which they were 
 executed. 
 
 We have already seen, by the testimony of 
 Themistius, that Phidias was by no means rai3id 
 in his workmanship, but, on the contrary, slow and 
 elaborate in his finish — just the opposite in these 
 respects from Michel Angelo. This testimony of 
 Themistius is borne out by all the ancient writers 
 who speak of him. His style was a singular com- 
 bination of the grand and colossal in design with 
 
PHJDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 81 
 
 the most minute and careful finish of all details. 
 He had a peculiar grace and refinement in his art 
 {xapi^ TYj^ T€xvr]<;), says Dion Chrysostomus, who in 
 another passage distinguishes him from all his 
 predecessors by the delicate precision of his work 
 
 (Kara T^i/ OLKpi/SeLav ttJs TTOtT^o-eco?) ; to dKpt/5es is also 
 
 attributed to him by Demetrius, in his treatise 
 on Elocution ; and Dionysius of Halicarnassus 
 celebrates his art as uniting these qualities of 
 finesse of workmanship with grandeur of design 
 
 {to (T€fxvov KOL /u,€yaA.ore;^i/oi/ kol a^njj/xaTLKOv). The 
 
 minute and almost excessive elaboration of his 
 great works, as they are described by ancient au- 
 thors, perfectly supports this judgment. Take, for 
 instance, the Zeus at Olympia, or the Athena of 
 the Parthenon — his two greatest statues in ivory 
 and gold. Not content with carefully finishing the 
 main figures, he chased and ornamented them, as 
 well as all the accessories in every part, wdth the 
 minute elaboration of a goldsmith. The surface of 
 the mantle of Zeus was wrought over with living 
 figures and flowers. Gold and gems were inserted. 
 Cedar, ebony, and ivory were inlaid and overlaid, 
 and the whole was exquisitely painted. Each leg 
 of the throne on which Zeus sat was supported by 
 four Victories dancing, and two men were in front. 
 The two front legs were surmounted by groups 
 representing a Theban youth seized by a sphinx, 
 and beneath each of these groups were Phoebus 
 and Artemis shooting at the children of Niobe ; 
 and still further on the legs were represented the 
 
82 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 battle of the Amazons and the comrades of Ache- 
 loiis. Over the back of the throne were three 
 Graces on one side, and three Hours on the other. 
 Four golden lions supported the footstool, and 
 along its border was worked in relief or intaglio 
 the battle of Theseus with the Amazons. The 
 sides of the throne were ornamented with nu- 
 merous figures representing various groups and 
 actions — such as Helios mounting his chariot, 
 Zeus and Charis, Zeus and Hera, Aphrodite and 
 Eros, Phoebus and Artemis, Poseidon and Amphi- 
 trite, Athena and Heracles, and others. What 
 wonderful elaboration exjiended on a mere acces- 
 sory of this Colossus ! 
 
 Scarcely less remarkable for its extreme orna- 
 mentation was the Athena of the Parthenon. The 
 goddess was represented standing, dressed in a 
 long tunic reaching to her feet, with the aegis on 
 her breast, a helmet on her head, a spear in her 
 left hand, touching a shield which rested at her 
 side upon the base, and holding in her right hand 
 a golden Victory, six feet in height. Her own 
 height was twenty-six cubits, or about forty feet. 
 Her robes were of gold beaten out with the ham- 
 mer ; her eyes were of colored marble or ivory, with 
 gems inserted. Every portion was minutely covered 
 with work. The crest of the hehnet was a sj^hinx, 
 on either side of which were griffins. The aegis 
 was surrounded by golden serpents interlaced, and 
 in its centre was a golden or ivory head of Medusa. 
 The shield was embossed with reliefs, representing 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 83 
 
 on the inner side tlie battle of the Giants with the 
 Gods, and on the outer side the battle of the 
 Athenians with the Amazons. Beneath the spear 
 was couched a dragon ; and even the sandals, 
 which were four dactyls high, were ornamented 
 with chasings representing the battle of the Cen- 
 taurs with the Lapithae. The base, which alone 
 occupied months of labor, was covered by reliefs 
 representing the birth of Pandora, and the visit of 
 the divinities to her with their gifts — the figures 
 being some twenty in number. The interior or 
 core of the statue was probably of wood, and over 
 this all the nude parts were veneered with plates 
 of ivory to imitate flesh, while the draperies and 
 accessories were of gold plates so arranged as to 
 be removable at pleasure. 
 
 Here is certainly work enough to employ any 
 man a very long time in designing and executing. 
 The Victory which Athena held in her hand was 
 of large life-size, and might easily have occupied a 
 year. Besides this, there are the embossed bassi- 
 rellevi on both sides of the shield, the £egis, with 
 the Medusa's head and golden serpents, the dragon 
 at her feet, the sphinx and griffins on her helmet, 
 and the relievl and chasings which ornamented 
 the base and the sandals. Yet these are merely 
 accessories. What, then, must have been the time 
 devoted to the figure itself, to the disposition and 
 working out of those colossal draperies, and to the 
 perfect elaboration of the head, the arms, and the 
 extremities ! 
 
84 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 The tendency of Phidias' mind to great elabo- 
 ration and refinement of finish is shown in both 
 of these works. Colossal as they were, august and 
 grand in their total expression, the parts were quite 
 as remarkable for laborious detail as the wdiole was 
 for grandeur and impressiveness. He is generally 
 considered and spoken of now solely in relation to 
 these great works ; but it must be remembered 
 that with the ancients he was also renowned for 
 his minute works. Julian, in his Epistles, tells us 
 that he was accustomed to amuse himself with 
 making very small images, representing for exam- 
 ple bees, flies, cicadse, and fishes, which were exe- 
 cuted with infinite delicac}^ and greatly admired. 
 His skill in the toreutic art was also very remark- 
 able ; and as a chaser, engraver, and embosser, he 
 was among the first, if not the first, of his time. 
 He might be called, in a certain sense, the Cellini 
 of Athens — vastly superior to the celebrated 
 Florentine in grandeur of conception, but uniting, 
 like him, the work of the goldsmith to that of the 
 sculptor, and, like him, distinguished for refine- 
 ment and fastidiousness of execution. 
 
 To this character and style there is nothing that 
 responds in the fragments of the Parthenon which 
 we now possess. The style of the figures in the 
 pediment is broad, large, and effective, but it is 
 decorative in its character. The parts are classed 
 and distributed with skill, but they are often 
 forced, in order to produce effect at a distance 
 and in the place where they were to be seen. They 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 85 
 
 show the practiced hands of men who have been 
 trained in a grand school, but they cannot be said 
 to be finished with elaborate attention to details 
 or minute study of parts. Whatever characteris- 
 tics of his style they may have, they certainly 
 want TO d/cpi/De?, which was the distinguishing fea- 
 ture of the work of Phidias. 
 
 The same remarks apply to the metopes and the 
 frieze. It is evident that all these works are of 
 the same period ; but in style, design, and execu- 
 tion they differ from each other, as the works of 
 various men in the same school might be expected 
 to differ. In grouping, composition, treatment, 
 and character of workmanship, the metopes are of 
 quite another class from the Panathenaic Proces- 
 sion of the frieze. Compared with each other, the 
 metopes are rounder and feebler in form, tamer 
 and more labored in treatment, and they want 
 not only the spirit and freedom of design of the 
 figures in the frieze, but also their flat, decisive, 
 and squared execution. The frieze is very rich, 
 varied, and light in composition, while the me- 
 topes are comparatively monotonous and heavy. 
 Nor do the metopes differ more from the frieze 
 than the figures in the pediment do from both the 
 frieze and the metopes. While in execution the 
 pediment sculpture is more flat and squared in 
 style than the metopes, it differs from the frieze 
 in the treatment of the draperies and in the pro- 
 portions and character of the figures. As a de- 
 sign, the figures on the pediment are disconnected, 
 
86 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 while tliose of the frieze are interwoven with re- 
 markable skill. Again, not only do these three 
 classes, as classes, differ from each other, but in 
 each class there are very decided inequalities and 
 diversities of style and workmanship between one 
 part and another, — showing plainly that they 
 have been executed by various hands, some of 
 more and some of less skill. But the treatment 
 of all is purely decorative, as it properly should 
 be. All of these scidptures were subordinated to 
 the temple which they decorated, and they were 
 executed, not for near and minute examination, 
 but to produce a calculated effect in the position 
 they were to occupy. Fineness of workmanship, 
 delicacy and refinement of detail, would have been 
 out of place and unnecessary, and evidently were 
 not attempted. This, however, was not the style 
 of Phidias, who, as we have seen, even in the 
 colossal statues of Zeus and Athena, elaborated to 
 the utmost, with almost excessive labor, not only 
 the figures themselves, but also the least of the 
 accessories. It was in his nature to do this. He 
 wished to leave the impress of all his arts upon 
 these splendid works ; and he wrought upon them, 
 not only as a sculptor in the large sense of the 
 word, but as a goldsmith, as an engraver, a 
 damascener, an embosser. Nothing was too rich, 
 nothing too large, nothing too small for him. He 
 enjoyed it all — the minute detail as well as the 
 colossal mass. It was this peculiarity of his 
 nature that led him to select, and almost to create, 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 87 
 
 the chryselephantine school of art. He had been 
 a painter in his youth, and his eye craved color. 
 The coldness of marble did not satisfy him and he 
 rejected it, not only for this reason, but because as 
 a material it did not lend itself to the art of the 
 engraver and the goldsmith. Before his time the 
 colossi had been of bronze or wood. He intro- 
 duced and perfected the art of making them in 
 ivory and gold ; and it was as a maker of statues 
 of divinities in these materials and in bronze that 
 he attained the highest renown. 
 
 But abandoning the ground that these marble 
 sculptures of the Parthenon were executed by 
 Phidias, let us consider whether they were designed 
 by him. Of this there is not a vestige of evidence. 
 It is not only not stated as a fact by any ancient 
 writer, but not even intimated in the most shadowy 
 way, imless it be deduced from the fact stated by 
 Plutarch, that he was general superintendent of 
 public works, and that he had various classes of 
 workmen under his orders. What is meant by 
 designing these works? Is it meant that he 
 modeled the designs ? If this were the case, is it 
 probable that no mention would be made of it by 
 any author ? We are told of other cases in which 
 works were executed from his designs, and from the 
 designs of other artists. We are informed that the 
 figures in the tympana of the temple at Olympia 
 were executed by Alcamenes and Paeonios ; but 
 nothing is said about those figures in the Par- 
 thenon. Is there any necessity to suppose these 
 
88 EXCURSJOXS JN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 works to have been designed by Pliidias ? Surely 
 not. There were in Athens many other artists of 
 great distinction who were fully able to design 
 and execute them, and among them w^ere men but 
 little inferior to Phidias himself, who would not 
 readily have accepted his designs, and who, by 
 profession, were sculptors in marble — not, like 
 Phidias, sculptors in bronze, or ivory and gold. 
 
 Among those men by whom Pliidias was sur- 
 rounded, and who were in these various branches 
 of art his rivals or his peers, may be named 
 Agoracritos, Alcamenes, Myron, Pseonios, Kolotes, 
 Socrates, Praxias, Androsthenes, Polyclitus, and 
 Kalamis, — all sculptors in marble. Besides these 
 there were Hegias, Nestocles, Pythagoras, Kalli- 
 machus, Kallon, Phradmon, Gorgias, Lacon, 
 Kleoitas, and others of less note, who were more 
 specially toreutic artists and sculptors in bronze. 
 Here is a wonderful constellation of genius, and 
 in it are many stars of the first magnitude. Some 
 of these men were peers of Phidias in chryselephan- 
 tine art. Some contended with him and won the 
 prize over him. Let us take a glance at some of 
 the most eminent. 
 
 Polyclitus studied • under the great Argive 
 sculptor Ageledas, and was a fellow-scholar with 
 Phidias and Myron. He was the rival of Phidias 
 in his chryselephantine works, and but little if at 
 all inferior to him in his best works. He created 
 the type of Hera, as Phidias did that of Athena ; 
 and his colossal statue of that goddess in ivory 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 89 
 
 and gold at Argos was admitted to be unsurpassed 
 even by tile Atliena of the Parthenon. Strabo 
 asserts that though inferior in size and nobleness 
 to the Athena and Zeus of Phidias, it equaled 
 them in beauty, and in its artistic execution ex- 
 celled them {rrj /xlv Te)(\'r] KaXXiara tcoj/ iravTOiv). 
 Dionysius of Halicarnassus accords to him, as to 
 
 Phidias, to a-e/xiov kol /xeyaXorexvov kol u^tco^uaTi/cof — 
 
 the character of grandeur, dignity, and harmony 
 of parts. Xenophon places him beside Homer, 
 Sophocles, and Zeuxis as an artist. Among his 
 bronze works, the most celebrated were the Diadu- 
 menos and the Doryphoros, the latter of which 
 was called the Canon, on account of its beauty 
 and perfection of proportion. If to Phidias was 
 accorded the highest praise as the sculptor of 
 divinities, Polyclitus was considered his superior 
 in his statues of men. 
 
 Nor was it only as a sculptor in bronze, gold, 
 and ivory, that he was distinguished. He was 
 celebrated also for his marble statues, among 
 which may be mentioned the Apollo, Leto, and 
 Artemis in the Temple of Artemis, and the Orthia 
 in Argolis ; as well as for his skill in the toreutic 
 art. In this last art he excelled all others ; and 
 Pliny says of him that he developed and perfected 
 it as Phidias had begun it — " toreuticen sic eru- 
 disse ut Phidias aperuisse." 
 
 Myron, his fellow-scholar, had scarcely a less 
 reputation, though in a different way. He devoted 
 himself to the representation of atliletes, among 
 
90 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 wliicli tlie most celebrated was the Discobolos ; of 
 animals, of wliicli his Cow was the m^ost famous ; 
 and of groups of satyrs, and sea^monsters, and 
 mythical creatures. He excelled in the representa- 
 tion of life, action, and expi'ession ; and such was 
 his skill, that Petronius says of him that he almost 
 expressed the souls of men and animals in his 
 bronzes. 
 
 Agoracritos and Alcamenes had a still higher 
 distinction than Myron. The famous Aphrodite 
 of the Gardens (eV ktJttoi?), a marble statue by 
 Alcamenes, enjoyed a reputation among the an- 
 cients scarcely if at all below that of the Aphrodite 
 of Praxiteles. Pliny, writing five hundred years 
 after, says that Phidias "is said to have given the 
 finishing touches to this statue." But this is one 
 of those common and absurd traditions that attach 
 to the work of almost every great artist long after 
 his death, and it may be dismissed at once. Lucian 
 gives the statue directly and solely to Alcamenes 
 — and to him undoubtedly it belongs. He had 
 no need of the help of Phidias, being himself a 
 much more accomplished worker in marble, even 
 should we grant that Phidias ever worked at all 
 in this material. Indeed, it was specially as a 
 sculptor in marble that he was distinguished ; and 
 among other works which he executed in this ma- 
 terial were the colossal statues of Hercules and 
 Minerva, a group of Procne and Itys, and the 
 statue of ^sculapius. But what is the more signi- 
 ficant in this connection is the fact, stated by 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 91 
 
 Pausanias, that it was he who executed the statues 
 representing the Centaurs and Lapithse at the 
 marriage of Pirithous, which adorned the back 
 tympanum of the Temple of Zeus at Olympia, 
 where the great Zeus of Phidias stood. Pausanias 
 speaks of him as an artist " who lived in the age 
 of Phidias, and was the next to him in the art of 
 making statues." 
 
 Agoracritos is called by Pausanias " the pujiil 
 and beloved friend of Phidias," and it is most 
 probable that he worked with him on the Athena 
 and the Zeus. His most famous statue was the 
 Nemesis at Rhamnus, which, as we have seen, is 
 attributed to Phidias by Pausanias, but which 
 clearly belongs to Agoracritos. The statue of the 
 Mother of the Gods, which Arrian and Pausanias 
 give to Phidias, was also made by him, according 
 to Pliny. 
 
 Kolotes, who was also a pupil and assistant of 
 Phidias at one time, was a sculptor in marble as 
 well as a celebrated artist in ivory and gold. 
 Among other works, he probably made a statue 
 in gold and ivory of Athena at Elis, which Pau- 
 sanias attributes to Phidias, but which Pliny 
 asserts to be by Kolotes. There is no dispute that 
 he made the statue of Asclepius in gold and 
 ivory, which is much praised by Strabo ; and he 
 is said by Pliny to have assisted Phidias in the 
 Zeus, and to have executed the interior of the 
 shield of the Athena at Elis, which was painted 
 by Panaeus. 
 
92 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 Paeonios, a Tliracian by birth, was a cele- 
 brated sculj)tor in marble as well as bronze ; and, 
 among other things, he executed the figures in the 
 front tympanum of the Temple of Zeus at Olym- 
 pia. In character and composition these figures 
 resemble those of the Parthenon, and they are exe- 
 cuted in the same spirit. A fragment from the 
 Temple of Zeus maybe seen in the Louvre, stand- 
 ing beside a fragment of one of the metopes of the 
 Parthenon. The fragment from the Temple of 
 Zeus represents Heracles with the Bull. It is 
 fuller and larger in style than the fragment from 
 the Parthenon, which, seen beside it, looks stiff and 
 meagre in character, and the body of the Centaur 
 in the one is decidedly inferior to the body of the 
 BuU in the other. This is probably a portion of 
 the work of Paeonios. 
 
 Praxias and Androsthenes, too, worked in marble 
 in the same style, and the figures in the tympana 
 of the Delphic temple were executed by them. 
 The metopes also, of which five are alluded to 
 in the Chorus of Euripides, were j)^obal;ly their 
 work. 
 
 Theocosmos, too, a contemporary of Phidias, 
 worked with him, according to Pausanias, on the 
 Zeus at Megara, which was afterwards left un- 
 finished, on account of the Peloponnesian war: 
 only the head was of ivory and gold, the rest of 
 the body being of plastic clay and wood. 
 
 But perhaps the most distinguished of all was Ka- 
 lamis, who, though probably a little younger than 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 93 
 
 Phidias, was certainly a contemporary. Among 
 other works, he executed in bronze an Apollo Alex- 
 icacos ; a chariot in honor of Hiero's Victory at 
 Olympia ; a marble Apollo in the Servilian Gar- 
 dens in Rome ; another bronze Apollo thirty cubits 
 high, which Lucullus carried to Rome from Apol- 
 lonia ; a beardless Asclepius in gold and ivory ; 
 a Nike ; Zeus Amnion ; Dionysos ; Aphrodite ; 
 Alcmena ; and the famous Sosandra, so praised 
 by Lucian. But what in this connection is pe- 
 cidiarly to be noticed is, that, besides being re- 
 nowned for his statues of gods and mortals, he 
 was celebrated for his skill in the representation 
 of animals ; and the excellence of his horses is 
 specially spoken of by Ovid, Cicero, Pausanias, 
 Propertius, and Pliny. It would therefore, in 
 this view, seem much more probable that he may 
 have designed the Panathenaic frieze than that it 
 was designed by Phidias, who, as far as we know, 
 had no particular talent for horses or animals. 
 There is no indication, however, that either of 
 them had anything to do with it. 
 
 It is useless to proceed further in this direction. 
 Here were men, specially marble workers, who were 
 amply able to execute all the marble figures of the 
 Parthenon, without recourse to Phidias ; and as 
 thei'e is no indication that he ever anywhere exe- 
 cuted similar works for any temple, while at least 
 Alcamenes and Pseonios are known to have made 
 the works corresponding to these in the Temple of 
 Zeus, there would seem to be far more reason to 
 
94 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 attribute these figures to them than to Phidias, 
 who, at the time when they were made, was too 
 much occupied with his other work to have been 
 able to execute them himself. 
 
 In the absence, then, of all clear indications as 
 to the artist who made the marble sculptures of 
 the Parthenon, it would seem more probable that 
 they were executed by various hands, and in like 
 manner as those of the Erechtheum, built in the 
 93d Olymj^iad, about twenty-eight years after the 
 building of the Parthenon. Fortunately, from the 
 discovery of certain fragments on which the ac- 
 counts of the building of the Erechtheum were 
 inscribed at the time, we are enabled to say how 
 these reliefs were made. Portions were set off to 
 different artists, each of whom executed his part, 
 as described in these fragments. The names of 
 the artists were Agathenor, lasos, Phyromachos, 
 Praxias, and Loclos. The inscription begins thus 
 — I give only a fragment of it — Tov -n-alSa rbv to 
 
 Bopv €\0VTa [A] A. ^vpo/xa^^oq K?/0icrtev9 tov v€Ovl(TKOV 
 Tov Trapa tov OiLpaKa FA. IIpa;^crias e/x McXtXT; oIkwv tov 
 LTTTTOv Koi TOV OTTLaOocjiavrj Toi' -napaKpovtiVTa HAA ; and 
 SO on. The sign TA occurs four times in the in- 
 scription. Three times the work is by Phyroma- 
 chos, and belongs apparently to the same grouji. ^ 
 
 Here we have names of artists who are unknown 
 to us, unless the Phyromachos named here is the 
 same who, according to Pliny, made Alcibiades in 
 
 1 A full transcript of these inscriptions will be found in Dr. 
 Brunn's Geschichte der griechiscJitn Kunstler, i. 249. 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 95 
 
 a chariot with four horses. And as for Praxias, 
 he cannot bie the well-known Praxias, since he in 
 all probability died before the 92d Olj^mpiad. 
 If, then, these sculptures were intrusted to artists 
 whose very names have not come down to us, 
 is it not probable that the decorative sculptures 
 of the Parthenon would have been confided to 
 artists of the same class ? In such case it would 
 seem most natural that no mention would be made 
 of them, more than of the artists who worked on 
 the Erechtheiun, since they were persons of no 
 peculiar note and fame ; while in the Temple of 
 Zeus, inasmuch as artists of distinction worked, 
 their names are given. Why tell us that Alca- 
 menes and Pseonios made the groups in the tym- 
 pana at Olympia, and omit to say anything about 
 similar works, in the Parthenon, if they were exe- 
 cuted by Phidias or any other artist of great dis- 
 tinction ? 
 
 Here, too, we see that different portions of the 
 same work were assigned to different artists, each 
 working out his subjects separately, though all 
 working in agreement, to develop a certain story or 
 series of stories. Such a practice would account 
 for all sorts of varieties of design and execution, 
 and would explain the differences to be observed 
 between the various portions of the sculptures of 
 the Parthenon. 
 
 A careful examination of the frieze alone shows 
 that it must have been executed by various artists, 
 so distinct are the different parts as well in exe- 
 cution as in design. 
 
96 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 The notion commonly entertained, that Phidias 
 was considered in his age to be vastly superior to 
 all contemporary sculptors, will scarcely bear ex- 
 amination. He undoubtedly surpassed them all in 
 his colossal chryselei^hantine statues of divinities ; 
 though even in this branch of art there was a 
 difference of oj^inion, and one other artist at least, 
 Polyclitus, was held, in his statue of Hera, to 
 have stood abreast of him. Strabo declares that 
 it excelled in beauty all the works of Phidias. But 
 in other branches of the art the superiority of 
 Phidias was not admitted ; and he was, if report 
 be true, repeatedly adjudged a second place in his 
 competitions with his rivals. Alcamenes, Poly- 
 clitus, Kalamis, and Ctesilaus were his superiors 
 in their marble statues and representations of mor- 
 tals, and we hear of no work of his in marble to 
 compete with theirs. Lucian, for instance, in his 
 Dialogue on Statues, praises equally the Venus of 
 Praxiteles, the Sosandra of Kalamis, the Aphro- 
 dite of the Gardens by Alcamenes, and the 
 Athena Lemnia and Amazon of Phidias ; and out 
 of the special beauties of each he reconstructs an 
 ideal image of the most beautiful woman. From 
 the Cnidian Aphrodite of Praxiteles he takes the 
 Lead, having no need of the rest of the body 
 (he says), as the figure is not to be nude ; and from 
 this head he selects the outlines of the hair, or rather 
 the outline of the forehead where it joins the hair, 
 the forehead, the delicately penciled eyebrows, and 
 the liquid and radiant charm of the eyes. From 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 97 
 
 the Aphrodite of Alcamenes he takes the cheeks 
 and the lower part of the face, and especially the 
 base of the hands, the beautifully proportioned 
 wrists, and the flexile taper fingers. From Phid- 
 ias he takes the total contour of the face, the soft- 
 ness of the jaw, and the symmetrical nose of the 
 Athena, and the lips and the neck of the Amazon. 
 From the Sosandra of Kalamis he takes her mod- 
 est grace and her delicate subtle smile, her chastely 
 arranged dress and her easy bearing. Her age and 
 stature, he says, shall be that of the Cnidian Aph- 
 rodite, for this is most beautiful in Praxiteles. For 
 her other qualities he draws upon the painters. 
 This opinion of Lucian is particularly interesting 
 and valuable, from the fact that he had studied 
 and practiced the art of sculpture under his uncle, 
 who was a scidptor, and his judgment is therefore 
 of far more value than that of an ordinary con- 
 noisseur. 
 
 Pliny also relates a story which has a bearing in 
 this connection, of a competition between various 
 celebrated artists, who were contemporaries at this 
 period. The subject was an Amazon. The artists 
 themselves were to be the judges ; and it was 
 agreed that the statue shoidd be held to be best 
 which each artist ranked second to his own. The 
 result was that the first prize was adjudged to 
 Polyclitus, the second to Phidias, the third to 
 Ctesilaus, the fourth to Cydon, and the fifth to 
 Phradmon. We may reject the story as a fact, 
 but its very existence proves that the fame of 
 
98 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 Phidias, great as it was, did not so entirely eclipse 
 that of other artists of his time as we generally 
 suppose. Who of us now would think that Phrad- 
 mon and Cydon, for example, stood on a level to 
 contend with him, with any chance of other than 
 a disastrous defeat ? But it is plain that the an- 
 cients did not think so, or this story would not 
 have been invented. 
 
 We now come to the question whether Phidias 
 ever worked at all in marble. His renown un- 
 doubtedly rested upon his magnificent statues in 
 ivory and gold, and especially upon his Zeus and 
 Athena of the Parthenon, which towered above 
 all his other works. So wonderful was the Zeus, 
 that it was said to have strengthened religion in 
 Greece ; and the Athena of the Parthenon was 
 held to be the glory of Athens. The poets and 
 writers celebrate Phidias always as specially the 
 creator of these great chryselephantine works ; 
 and though they praise the beauty of his bronze 
 works, and especially of the Athena Lemnia, it is 
 plain that these held a secondary place in public 
 estimation, or at all events did not stand alone and 
 apart as the others did. Thus Propertius says, 
 characterizing the sculptors : — 
 
 *' Phidiacus signo se Juppiter ornat eburno ; 
 Praxitelem propria viiidicat arte Lapis ; 
 Gloria Lysippi est animosa effingere signa; 
 Exactis Calamis se mihi jactat equis." 
 
 So Quinctilian says of him : " Phidias tamen diis 
 quam hominibus efficiendis melior artifex traditur 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 99 
 
 — in ebore vero longe citra agmulum, vel si nihil 
 nisi Minervam Athenis ant Olympiiim in Elide 
 Jovem fecisset " (lib. xii. ch. 10). But no writer 
 anywhere near this period — even within five cen- 
 turies of it — ever mentions a marble figure by 
 Phidias, or celebrates him in any way as a sculp- 
 tor in this material. 
 
 In the evidence given before a committee of the 
 House of Commons upon the Elgin collection of 
 marbles, previous to the purchase of them by the 
 nation, Richard Payne Knight and William Wil- 
 kins gave it as their opinion that these works were 
 not by Phidias, and that he was not a worker in 
 marble. This statement has been rejected by the 
 author of the work on the Elgin and Phigaleian 
 Marbles, in the Library of Entertaining Know- 
 ledge, as entirely without foundation. In this con- 
 clusion it must be admitted that he follows the 
 opinion generally entertained at the present day, 
 and repeated by nearly every modern writer. Vis- 
 conti, to whom he refers as refuting satisfactorily 
 the notion of Knight and Wilkins, thus argues the 
 question : " If it were imagined that Phidias de- 
 voted himself to the toreutic art, and that he em- 
 ployed in his works only ivory and metals, this 
 opinion would be confuted by Aristotle, who dis- 
 tinguishes this great artist by the appellation of 
 a-o(jio^ XiOovpyo^ — a skillful sculptor in marble — in 
 opposition to Polyclitus, whom he styles simply a 
 statuary, avZpiavTOTroio^ since the latter scarcely 
 ever employed his talents except in bronze. In 
 
100 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 fact, several marble statues of Phidias were known 
 to Pliny, who might even have seen some of them 
 at Rome, since they had been removed to this city ; 
 and the most famous work of Alcamenes, the 
 Venus of the Gardens, had only, as it was said, 
 acquired so high a degree of perfection because 
 Phidias, his master, had himself taken pleasure in 
 finishing with his own hand his beautiful statue 
 in marble." 
 
 An examination into these statements will show, 
 not only that not one of them is well founded, but 
 that the authorities on which they profess to stand 
 will not at all sustain them. Visconti's mind is 
 in a nebulous state as to the whole question, and 
 he confounds things which have no relation to each 
 other. The first mistake he makes is in confusing 
 the toreutic art with the art of making statues in 
 ivory and gold. I am aware that M. Quatremere 
 de Quincy, in his treatise on chryselephantine stat- 
 ues, constantly uses these two terms as equivalent ; 
 but in so doing he is admitted by all persons who 
 have critically studied the matter to be entirely 
 incorrect. The toreutic art was the art of the en- 
 graver, the chaser, the damascener, the embosser. 
 It might be employed, and undoubtedly was em- 
 ployed, by Phidias in decorating part of his statue, 
 as it might be applied to a bronze statue, or to any 
 metal surface or slab ; but it was not the art of 
 making statues in any material. Visconti's next 
 proposition is, that by the term (to<1)o<: XtOovpyo^ Aris- 
 totle meant to indicate a worker in marble as dis- 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 101 
 
 tinguislied from an av^piavTOTvoio^, who was a statu- 
 ary in bronze, and to show that Phidias worked in 
 marble, while Polyclitus worked only or chiefly in 
 bronze. Neither of these statements can be sup- 
 ported ; and it is impossible that Aristotle could 
 have meant to make them. In the first place, At- 
 0ovpy6<; does not mean a worker in marble ; XtOovp- 
 yLKYJ and XiBoTpi(^iKi] were specially the art of cut- 
 ting and polishing gems and precious stones ; and 
 a Xi0ovpy6<^ was a lapidary in relief or intaglio,^ not 
 a sculptor of marble statues. Again, di 8piai/T07r(;to? 
 does not mean a sculptor in bronze as distinguished 
 from a sculptor in marble, but merely a maker of 
 statues, of athletes or heroes, in any material, 
 whether in wood, bronze, marble, gold, or ivory. 
 
 Now, when we remember that Phidias was cele- 
 brated not only for his colossal works, but also for 
 his skill as an engraver, embosser, and damascener 
 — in a word, for his skill in the toreutic art, which 
 Pliny tells us was developed by him and perfected 
 by Polyclitus, as well as for his minutely elabo- 
 rated representations of flies, cicadse, fishes, and 
 bees — the meaning of Aristotle in applying to 
 him the title of At^ovpyo? is clear. He was a 
 At^ovpyo? in the exact meaning of that term, and a 
 very skillful one. Aristotle is equally correct in 
 applying the term drSpiaiTOTroto?, maker of athletes 
 and heroes, to Polyclitus ; for that great artist 
 had won the highest fame of his age for statues of 
 
 1 See Lysias's Frag-., ITepl rov Tvirov, also, Hullers -4nci€n< 4rt, 
 360, and King's Antique Gems, 
 
102 EXCUHSJONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 this kind, and established the laws of proportion 
 in his Diadumenos and Doryphoros. If, however, 
 as Visconti imagines, Aristotle meant to indicate 
 that Phidias was a worker in marble, while Poly- 
 clitus was not, he is clearly wrong ; for we know 
 that Polyclitus executed various and celebrated 
 statues in marble, whereas, as we shall see, we have 
 no clear proof that Phidias ever did. Still fur- 
 ther, if Aristotle intended to distinguish Phidias 
 from Polyclitus by saying that the one was a skill- 
 fid XiOovpyo^, and the other was not, he is again 
 quite wrong, whether he meant by that term to 
 indicate a toreutic artist or, as Visconti thinks, 
 a marble worker ; for Polyclitus was even more 
 skilled than Phidias in both these arts. Again, 
 if he meant to distinguish the one artist from the 
 other as a maker of ayaA/xara, or statues of divini- 
 ties, he is wrong ; for the chryselephantine Hera 
 of Polyclitus rivaled the Athena of Phidias. The 
 plain fact is that Aristotle did not mean to dis- 
 tinguish one of these great artists from the other 
 in any such way. He is perfectly right in the 
 terms he applies to each ; but he did not say, nor 
 coidd he have intended to say, that one was a 
 crocfibq \i0ovpy6<i or an dv8ptai/T07roto9, and the other 
 was not — since, as we know, both of them were 
 XiOovfiyoL and dr SpiavTowoLoi, and he must have known 
 it. 
 
 Stress has also been laid by gome writers on the 
 fact that Phidias is called a yXvcfyevs by Dionysius 
 of Plalicarnassus, and that Tzetzes speaks of him 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 103 
 as avZpia.vTa<i xaXKOvpyjJv kol yXvcfxov re ^at ^ccov, and 
 
 that Hesychius uses the phrase ^ftSiai \l0o^6ol. 
 These phrases, even were they inconsistent with 
 the view here taken, would be of very little conse- 
 quence if standing by themselves, as the earliest of 
 these writers flourished some six hundred years, 
 and the latest some nine hundred years, after 
 Phidias ; but taken in connection with the words 
 of Aristotle, they may perhaps have some little 
 weight. What is a y\vcf)€v<i, then? Why, simply 
 an engraver and a chiseler. And what does Tzet- 
 
 zes mean by dvSptaiTa? ;(aAKoupya)r KOL yXv<f)(DV re kol 
 
 iiwv ? Why, that Phidias made statues of heroes 
 and athletes in brass, and that he was a chiseler 
 and engraver. The words yAvt^rJ aod yXacfirj in 
 Greek, and sccdptura and sculjytura in Latin, 
 though originally they signified generically cut- 
 ting figures out of every solid material, were af- 
 terwards specifically applied to intagli and camei, 
 and are the art of the coelator, or Topcvr-qq, or more 
 properly, perhaps, restricted to the cutting and 
 engraving of precious stones. 
 
 The next statement of Visconti is that several 
 marble statues by Phidias were known to Pliny, 
 and that the Aphrodite of Alcamenes acquired its 
 perfection because Phidias himself finished it. 
 As to the latter branch of this statement nothing 
 more need be said. It is evidently one of those 
 idle traditions which are not worth considering. 
 But let us see what Pliny actually says. In his 
 account of Phidias he does not even pretend to 
 
104 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 state, as an accredited fact, that Phidias ever 
 worked in marble. In the chapter devoted to 
 scidptors in marble he says, " It is said, that even 
 Phidias worked in marble " (et ipsiun Phidiam 
 tradunt scalpsisse marmora) " and that there is a 
 Venus by him at Rome, in the buildings of Oc- 
 tavia, of extraordinary beauty ; but what is cer- 
 tain is " (quod certum est) " that he was the 
 master of Alcamenes, many of whose works are on 
 the sacred temples, and whose celebrated Venus, 
 called eV Krj7roi<s, is outside the walls. Phidias is 
 said " (dicitur) " to have put the finishing touches 
 to this." Pliny, therefore, by no means asserts 
 that Phidias ever executed anything in marble ; he 
 merely says that there is a rumor or tradition 
 to that effect ; but he absolutely states as an es- 
 tablished fact that Alcamenes was his pupil, and 
 executed the beautiful statue of Aphrodite ; and 
 he then goes on to say, as another tradition, that 
 Phidias assisted him in finishing it. Here he 
 clearly distinguishes between fact and tradition, 
 and his language shows that he placed no reliance 
 on the latter. He does not even pretend to have 
 seen the statue of Venus, supposed to be by Phid- 
 ias, in the buildings of Octavia ; and it is evident, 
 from the turn of his sentence, that, gossiping and 
 credulous as he generally was, he gave no credence 
 to this rumor. 
 
 The whole argument of Visconti thus falls to 
 the ground with the facts by which he attempts 
 to support it. 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 105 
 
 There remain for us to consider the marble 
 statues ascribed to Phidias by Pausanias, which are 
 as follows : 1st, The Nemesis at Rhamnus ; 2d, 
 The Hermes at the entrance of the Ismenium at 
 Thebes ; 3d, The Aphrodite Urania at Athens, 
 near the Ceramicus. 
 
 We have already seen that the Nemesis at 
 Rhamnus was not the work of Phidias, but of 
 Agoracritos ; that Pausanias disagrees with other 
 authorities in attributing it to Phidias ; and that 
 the name of Agoracritos was inscribed upon it as 
 its author. This, therefore, must be rejected. 
 
 In the next place, as to the marble Hermes at 
 the entrance to the Ismenium. This statue, as we 
 have seen, was a decorative entrance statue stand- 
 ing before the temple ; and its pendant, Athena, 
 according to Pausanias, was the work of Scopas, 
 who died a century later. The one pedestal coiild 
 scarcely be left unoccupied for a century, yet this 
 must have been the case if Pausanias is right ; 
 and for reasons which have already been given, 
 this statue is, to say the least, not without very 
 grave doubts. No other author speaks of it, and 
 it rests solely on the authority of Pausanias, who 
 lived more than six centuries after Phidias. 
 
 There remains, then, the Aphrodite Urania. 
 Pausanias is the sole authority for considering this 
 statue the work of Phidias ; and as, being in mar- 
 ble, it would be the only one ascribed to him upon 
 which there are not either the gravest doubts as 
 to his authorship or the clearest indications that 
 
106 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 he was not the author, we should accept it with 
 caution. Can we trust Pausanias ? He certainly 
 does not agree with other writers as to the author- 
 ship of various statues. The statue of Athena at 
 Elis, attributed by him to Phidias, Pliny says is 
 by Kolotes. The Mother of the Gods, said by 
 him to be a work of Phidias, is, according to 
 Pliny, the work of Agoracritos. The JEsculapius 
 at Epidaurus, given by him to Thrasymedes, is 
 given by Athenagoras to Phidias. In respect of 
 the Nemesis, he is clearly mistaken. Pausanias 
 wrote long after Pliny, when facts were still 
 more obscured by time. Tradition changes names, 
 transmutes facts, and tends always to give great 
 names to nameless works. He was a traveler in 
 Greece in the age of Marcus Aurelius, when the 
 arts, even in Rome, were in their decline ; and 
 he only reports what he sees and hears. He does 
 not pretend to be a critic or a connoisseur in art. 
 He was not one ; and his accounts of the great 
 statues in Greece are singularly dry and meagre. 
 He would naturally be told who was the author of 
 this, that, and the other statue that he saw ; and 
 he seems to have taken common rejDort without a 
 question, just as a traveler in Rome without jDar- 
 ticular knowledge or interest in art would accept 
 the authorship of the Colossi in the Quirinal, and 
 without hesitation follow the tradition and ascribe 
 them in his book to Phidias and Praxiteles. If 
 he were always accurate in these matters, or if he 
 had ever shown any critical doubts about the au- 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 107 
 
 thorship of any work, a statement by him on such 
 a subject would be entitled to more consideration ; 
 but as it is, in view of the facts that no other 
 author before him has ascribed the Aphrodite 
 Urania to Phidias, and that if it be by him it is 
 his only marble work of which we have any clear 
 testimony, little faith can be placed in the state- 
 ment by Pausanias. Add to this that no contem- 
 porary of Phidias, and no writer anywhere near 
 his age, has ever spoken of any marble work of his, 
 and I think we must reject this statue as we have 
 rejected the others. 
 
 In estimating the value of any such statements 
 as to the authorship of statues, we must keep in 
 mind the fact that it was not only not the custom 
 for the ancient Greek sculj)tors to inscribe their 
 names on their own statues, but it was not ordi- 
 narily permitted to them to do so on any public 
 work ; and undoubtedly it was for this reason that 
 Phidias himself made his own likeness as well as 
 the portrait of Pericles on the shield of the 
 Athena, to indicate that the work was done by 
 him while Pericles had the administration of af- 
 fairs at Athens. In the same way Batrachus and 
 Saurus, two Lacedaemonian artists who built the 
 temples inclosed in the Portico of Octavia, being 
 prohibited from inscribing their names on the walls, 
 adopted the device of sculpturing on the spirals of 
 the columns a lizard and a frog, which their names 
 signified, — thus punning in marble, to perpetu- 
 ate their names as architects of the temples. So 
 
108 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 also Myron is said to have inscribed his name on 
 the thio-h of his Discobolos in such minute char- 
 acters as to be visible only on the closest inspec- 
 tion. In the case of some of the great statues, the 
 names of the authors were exceptionally allowed 
 to be inscribed after their deaths ; and this was 
 probably the case with the Zeus of Phidias. Or- 
 dinarily no such practice was permitted. Such 
 being the case, the authorship of Greek statues 
 at the time of Pausanias would rest entirely upon 
 tradition — and tradition is little to be trusted. 
 
 Besides, what adds to the difficulty is that it was 
 the custom in later times to put the names of 
 ancient sculptors on works not made by them, to 
 give them a higher value ; it is of this practice 
 that Phsedrus speaks in one of his Fables : — 
 
 " ^sopi nomen sicubi interposiiero 
 Cui reddidi jampridem quidquid debui 
 Auetoritatis esse scito gratia ; 
 Ut quidem artifices nostro faciunt sseculo 
 Qui pretium operibus majus inveniunt, novo 
 Si marmore adscripsere Praxitelem suo 
 Trito Myronem argento." 
 
 Of the statues which now exist, there are only 
 some thirty on which names are inscribed, and 
 these are certainly for the most part, if not entirely, 
 apocryphal. The name of Phidias, together with 
 that of Ammonius, for instance, appears on a mon- 
 key in basalt in the Capitol at Rome ; that of 
 Praxiteles on a draped figure in the Louvre ; and 
 that of Lysippus on a marble Hercules in the Pitti 
 Gallery at Florence — not one of which is of the 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 109 
 
 least value as a work of art. So, on the torso of 
 the Belvidere is the name of ApoUonius ; on the 
 Farnese Hercules that of Glycon ; on the Gladia- 
 tor of the Louvre that of Agasias the Ephesian, 
 son of Dositheos — though these names are not 
 mentioned by any writers of antiquity. No author- 
 ity can be granted to these inscriptions, and possi- 
 bly the very fact that these names are on the stat- 
 ues is an indication that they are copies ; all have 
 IttoUl. D'Hancarville and Dallaway make a distinc- 
 tion between k-oUi and iTrotrja-ev, — the former, ac- 
 cording to them, signifying a copy, and the lat- 
 ter an original work. On the Nemesis at Kham- 
 nus was the inscription, AFOPAKPITOS HAPIO^ 
 EnoIHSEN ; and this would seem to confirm their 
 notion. On the Zeus of Phidias, also, was the in- 
 scription, <I>EIAIA2 XAPMIAOY YI02 AQHNAIOS 
 M' EnOlHSEN. 
 
 I do not recall, however, a single statue which 
 has come down to us on which the word eTvotrja-ev oc- 
 curs, except an interesting and coarsely executed 
 relief in the British Museum, representing the de- 
 ification of Homer. Where there is any inscrip- 
 tion it is cTTotet; but it is an exceedingly rare 
 exception that any ancient statue has a name in- 
 scribed on it. Almost all, if not all, the statues 
 having names of the artists are of a late date, and 
 probably most of them as late as the time of Ha- 
 drian. It was he who revived the art of sculpture ; 
 and during his reign a great number of copies, 
 more or less good, were made of the famous statues 
 
110 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 of antiquity ; but unfortunately there has not 
 come down to us a single accredited statue by any 
 of the great sculptors of antiquity. 
 
 There are only two other authorities, so far as I 
 am aware, who mention or make any allusion to 
 marble work by Phidias ; these must be consid- 
 ered. Seneca, nearly five hundred years after the 
 death of Phidias, says of him, " Not only did Phid- 
 ias know how to make a statue in ivory, but he 
 also made them in bronze." Thus far he speaks 
 absolutely ; he then continues hypothetically, " If 
 you had given him marble, or even a viler material, 
 he would have made the best thing out of it that 
 could be made." ^ This is considered by the au- 
 thor of the work on the Elgin and Phigaleian Mar- 
 bles an important statement in confirmation of 
 Pliny. In reality it contains nothing but a simple 
 hypothetical expression of belief that if you had 
 given Phidias a piece of marble he would have made 
 something excellent out of it. Does any one doubt 
 this ? Seneca states as a fact only that Phidias 
 really did work in ivory and bronze ; and it is 
 plain that he knew no work of Phidias in marble, 
 or he never would have expressed a purely hypo- 
 thetical opinion on such a matter. 
 
 The other authority which has been evoked in 
 favor of the theory that Phidias worked in marble 
 is that of Valerius Maximus, who states that there 
 
 ^ "Non ex ebore tantum sciebat Pliidias facere simulacrum, fa- 
 ciebat et ex sere. Si marmor illi, si adhuc viliorem materiam 
 obtulisses, fecisset quale ex ilia fieri optimum potuisset." — 
 
 Seneca, Epist. 86. 
 
PniDTAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. Ill 
 
 existed a tradition that he desired to execute the 
 Athena of the Parthenon in marble, but that the 
 Athenians woukl not permit him to do so : " lidem 
 Phidiam tiderunt quamdiu is marmore potius quam 
 ebore Minervam fieri debere dicebat, quod diutius 
 nitor esset mansurus ; sed ut adjecit et vilius tacere 
 jusserunt." (Lib. i. c. i., Externa 7.) 
 
 There is no authority for this tradition. It 
 comes up five hundred years after the death of 
 Phidias, and is manifestly absurd. Phidias had 
 identified himself and his fame with his great 
 chryselephantine and bronze works. He knew too 
 well his own power, and his mastery over these 
 arts, to wish to make the Athena in any other 
 material than that in which it was made. But 
 suppose he did so advise the Athenians, his ad- 
 vice was not accepted. The statue was not made 
 of marble. Perhaps also he proposed to them to 
 give it to Alcamenes, Agoracritos, or Polyclitus. 
 What sort of value can be given to a statement 
 like this appearing suddenly and solely in one 
 writer five hundred years after the Athena was 
 made ? If we are to accept such traditions as 
 this, we may as well "gape and swallow" any 
 gohemouche. Let us have at once a life of Shake- 
 speare written in Leipzig, or any other foreign 
 country at least as far away as that. 
 
 This is all the testimony we have as to any work 
 by Phidias in marble. Has it any real weight? 
 But grant all these statements, vague and visionary 
 as they are, to their fullest extent, what do they 
 
112 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 prove ? Not that Phidias was especially a marble- 
 worker, bvit only that he made, exceptionally, one 
 or two statues in marble, and was supposed by 
 some writers five hmidred years after his death, 
 to have had a connection with two more, though 
 other testimony, and the facts and dates, clearly 
 show that he could not have made them, or at 
 least throw the very gravest doubts upon his hav- 
 ing done so. In this way, we might assert that 
 Kaffaelle was a sculptor, because he is supposed to 
 have made, or helped to make, the statue of Jonah 
 in the Santa Maria del Popolo at Rome. But to 
 jump from such shaky facts to the statement and 
 belief that Phidias was the author, or at all events 
 the designer, of all the marble figures in the pedi- 
 ment, theme topes, and the frieze of the Parthenon, 
 is truly " a long cry." Where is the ground on 
 which such a belief can be founded? There is 
 not a statement or even an allusion by any ancient 
 writer to justify it. The testimony of Plutarch, 
 so far as it goes, is directly opposed to it, and all 
 the known facts are in contradiction of it. 
 
 Plutarch says that Phidias was appointed general 
 superintendent of public works ; that he made the 
 statue of Athena in the Parthenon ; and that, 
 through the friendship of Pericles, he had the direc- 
 tion of everything, and all the artists received his 
 orders. But he contradicts this immediately, if he is 
 understood to mean anything more than that Phid- 
 ias generally ordered who should be employed to do 
 this or that work ; for he distinctly says that Icti- 
 
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES. 113 
 
 mis and Callicrates made tlie Parthenon, — and 
 we know that Ictinus and Carpion wrote a book 
 upon it. If Phidias designed or executed any- 
 thing else than the Athena, why does not Plutarch 
 say so, when he takes pains to tell us he made the 
 Athena? The mention of the one excludes the 
 other. If Ictinus and Callicrates made the build- 
 ing, why may they not have made all the rest of the 
 work ? Were they not able to do it ? There is no 
 reason to doubt their ability to design and execute 
 all the decorative figures belonging to the temple 
 they built. To Ictinus was intrusted the build- 
 ing of the Temple of Apollo at Phigaleia, in the 
 sculptures of which there is sho^vn remarkable 
 ability ; and he also built the Temple of the Eleu- 
 sinian Ceres, and its mystic inclosure or Secos. If 
 Ictinus and Callicrates, or Carpion, did not execute 
 these marbles of the Parthenon, why may they 
 not have intrusted them to some of the numer- 
 ous artists with whom Athens swarmed at that 
 time ? Lib on the architect built the temple of 
 Zeus in which the Zeus of Phidias stood, and its 
 pediment figures were sculptured by Alcamenes 
 and Paeonios. Is there any reason to reject such 
 a theory ? However, as to this we are entirely in 
 the dark ; all our suppositions are purely specula- 
 tive. Nothing seems clear, except that the figures 
 were not made by Phidias. 
 
 AYhy did not Plutarch tell us who were the 
 sculptors of tlie marbles in the Parthenon ? Prob- 
 ably for the very simple reason that he did not 
 
114 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 know. He wrote many centuries after Phidias 
 was dead (about B. C. QQ'')., and tradition may not 
 have broiight down the names of any who were 
 concerned in the building of the Parthenon, save 
 those of the architects and of Phidias. He did not 
 attempt to supply the hiatus — being, to use his 
 own words, convinced " of the difficulty of arrivhig 
 at any truth in history : since if the writers live 
 after the events they relate, they can but be im- 
 perfectly informed of facts ; and if they describe 
 the persons and transactions of their owai times, 
 they are tempted by envy and hatred, or by inter- 
 est and friendship, to vitiate and pervert the 
 truth." 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER 
 AMONG THE ANCIENT GREEKS AND 
 ROMANS. 
 
 I. 
 
 The question whether the art of making moulds 
 and casts in plaster was known to the ancient 
 Greeks and Romans was discussed some years ago 
 by Mr. Charles C. Perkins, in an interesting pam- 
 phlet entitled " Du Moulage en Platre chez les 
 Anciens," ^ in which he collected various passages 
 from ancient writers bearing more or less on tliis 
 subject, and endeavored by their authority to es- 
 tablish the fact that this process was known and 
 practiced at a comparatively early period in the 
 history of art. After a careful examination of 
 all his citations and arguments, as well as other 
 authorities which he does not cite, we feel com- 
 pelled to dissent entirely from his conclusions. 
 We do not think he has made out his case. The 
 question is an interesting one, however, from an 
 archaeological point of view at least, and well de- 
 serves consideration. 
 
 The only passage among the writings of the 
 
 1 Du Moulage en Platre chez les Anciens, par M. Charles 
 C. Perkins, correspondant de I'Acad^mie des Beaux Arts, eto. 
 Paris, 1869. 
 
116 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 ancients which at first sight would seem directly 
 to ainrm that the process of casting in plaster 
 from life, from clay models, or from statues in the 
 round, in the modern meaning of that phrase, was 
 known to the Greeks and Romans occurs in the 
 " Natural History " of Pliny, and is as follows : — 
 
 *' Hominis autem imagiiiem gypso e facie ipsa primus 
 omnium expressit, ceraque in eam formani gypsi infusa 
 emendare instituit Lysistratus Sicyonis, frater Lysippi, 
 de quo dixiinus. Hie et similitudinem reddere instituit, 
 ante eum quam pulclierrunum facere studebant. Idem 
 et de signis effigieni exprimere invenit, crevitque res in 
 tantum, ut nulla signa statiiEeve sine argilla fierent. Quo 
 appavet antiquiorem hanc f uisse scientiam quam f undendi 
 seiis. Plastae laudatissimi fuere Daniophiluset Gorgasus 
 idemque pictores qui Cereris aedem Ronige ad Circura 
 Miiximum utroque genere artis suae excoluerunt." ^ 
 
 Mr. Perkins, following in substance other trans- 
 lators, thus freely translates and develops this 
 
 " Lysistrate de Sioyone fut le premier a j^rendre en 
 platre des monies de la figure humaine. Dans ces 
 moules il coulait de la cire, puis il corrigeait ces masques 
 de cire d'apres la nature. De la sorte, il atteignit 
 la resseniblance, tandis qu'avant lui on ne s'appliquait 
 qu'a faire de belles tetes. Lysistrate imagina aussi de 
 reproduire I'iniage des statues, proc^de qui obtint una 
 telle vogue, que depuis lors ni figure ni statue ne fut 
 faite sans argile, et Ton soit en conclure que ce procM^ 
 est anterieur a la fonte du bronze." 
 
 1 Pliii)'^, Nat. Hist., lib. xxxv. ch. xii. 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 117 
 
 If this translation be correct, there seems to be 
 no doubt either that Pliny was mistaken, or that 
 the ancients knew and practiced the modern art 
 of casting in plaster. 
 
 Is, then, this translation correct ? It seems to 
 us to be an utter misaj)prehension of the whole 
 meaning of the passage. Pliny says nothing about 
 mouldino^ or castino^, and thus to translate and 
 amplify the words he does use is to assume the 
 very facts in question. What he really says is lit- 
 erally as follows : — 
 
 " Lyslstratns of Sicyon, brother of Lyslppus, of whom 
 we have spoken, first of all expressed the image of a 
 man in gypsum from the whole person [that is, made 
 fall-length portraits], and improved it with wax [or 
 color, for, as we shall see, cent means both] spread over 
 the form. He first hegan to make likenesses, wdiereas 
 before him the study was to make persons as beautiful 
 as possible. He also invented expressing effigies from 
 statues ; and this practice so grew that no statues or 
 signa [which were full-length figures either painted, 
 modeled, cast in bronze, or executed in marble] were 
 made withaut white clay. From which it would seem 
 that this science [or process] was older than that of cast- 
 ing in bronze. The most famous modelers were Damo- 
 philus and Gorgasus, who were also painters, and who 
 decorated the temple of Ceres at Rome with both 
 branches of their art." 
 
 The first sentence, thus literally rendered, it 
 will be perceived, has in many respects the same 
 ambiguity in English as in Latin. The words 
 
118 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 "image," "expression," and "form" have all a 
 double signification, and the question is what is 
 their true meaning in this connection. 
 
 If it can be shown that this passage neither 
 describes nor proposes to describe the process of 
 casting in plaster, as we understand that phrase, 
 the keystone of the whole argument that it was 
 known to the ancients falls out. No other writer 
 directly asserts that such a knowledge or practice 
 existed, and all allusions to this matter contained 
 in any ancient author are purely collateral, and 
 have no force in themselves. Further, some well- 
 known facts which we shall have occasion to bring 
 forward later are entirely oj^posed to the probabil- 
 ity of such a knowledge and practice. 
 
 It is upon this passage in Pliny, then, that the 
 whole case depends. Now, in a doubtful and ob- 
 scure question like this, dependent upon the state- 
 ment of any single author, we have a right to 
 claim three things : first, that the statement should 
 be clear and fairly susceptible of only one expla- 
 nation ; second, that it should not be contradicted 
 by a subsequent statement immediately following ; 
 third, that the author himself should be trust- 
 worthy. 
 
 And in the first place, as to the author. The 
 "Natural History " of Pliny is certainly a most 
 interesting, amusing, and in many respects valu- 
 able book, but quite as certainly it is one of the 
 most inaccurate that ever was written, abounding 
 in half-knowledge, second-hand information, legen- 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER 119 
 
 dary statements, and rubbish of every kind. It 
 is, in a word, the commonplace book of an agree- 
 able, gossiping man, of a wide reading, who took 
 little pains to be accurate, who reported every- 
 thing he heard with slight examination, who was 
 exceedingly credulous, and who accepted as truth 
 and fact the most ridiculous stories. All is fish 
 that comes to his net. In his chapters relating 
 to artists and art he is singularly devoid of judg- 
 ment or accurate knowledge ; he constantly con- 
 fuses things which have no relation to each other, 
 often contradicts himself, and becomes at times 
 utterly unintelligible. Yet we are forced to turn 
 to Pliny, to give a weight and authority to his 
 words upon art, and to own a deep debt of grat- 
 itude to him, not because he is trustworthy, but 
 simply because he alone of all the ancient au- 
 thors, with the exception of Pausanias, has given 
 us a detailed account of the statues and artists 
 of antiquity. His account of the ancient artists 
 and their works is the fullest we have, and adrift 
 as we often are on a wide sea of conjecture, we 
 are glad to seize upon any straws and frag- 
 ments, "rari nantes in gurgite vasto"of blank- 
 ness and doubt ; seizing here a bit from Pausa- 
 nias, Herodotus, or Lucian, there a waif from 
 Cicero, or a floating fragment from one of the 
 great tragic poets, and glad enough to get upon 
 any such raft as that which Pliny gives us, how- 
 ever leaky and rickety. But seaworthy or trust- 
 worthy in emergencies Pliny certainly is not. 
 
120 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 In the next place, as to the passage under dis- 
 cussion. So far from its being clear and distinct, 
 its obscurity, confusion, and apparent contradic- 
 tion are so great as to have baffled every effort to 
 explain it satisfactorily ; and Dr. Brunn, one of 
 the most accomplished of archaeologists, in his 
 history of Greek art, finding it impossible to rec- 
 oncile the different sentences, does not hesitate to 
 treat a portion as an interj)olation, or at least out 
 of place where it appears. 
 
 Two views are to be taken of the process de- 
 scribed by Pliny : first, that by the term " cera " 
 he means wax ; and second, that he means color. 
 Taking the first view, let us now consider the pas- 
 sage in question, sentence by sentence, and en- 
 deavor to unravel its real meaning. Lysistratus, 
 first of all, made likenesses of men in gypsum from 
 their w^hole figure (that is, whole-length portraits), 
 and improved them with wax (or color) spread 
 over the form (core or model) of gypsum. " Ima- 
 ginem gypso e facie ipsa expressit " are the words 
 of Pliny which Mr. Perkins in common with other 
 translators supposes to mean "made moulds in 
 plaster from the face," — " prendre en platre des 
 monies." But this simple phrase cannot be 
 twisted into such a meaning. " Exprimere," ac- 
 cording to Forcellinus, is " efiingere, rappresentare, 
 assomigliare, ritrarre dal vivo.'''' " Exprimere " 
 alone would be, therefore, according to this last 
 definition, to make a portrait from life. The ad- 
 ditional words, " imaginem e facie ipsa," make 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 121 
 
 this meaning still stronger. " Imaginem " means 
 a full-lengtli figure or likeness, and not a mould, 
 as would be required by Mr. Perkins's translation. 
 " Exprimere imaginem " cannot be forced to mean 
 " made a mould," whether in gj-psum or in any 
 other material. Suppose we translate the words 
 literally, '' to express an image in plaster," and in- 
 terpret " image " to mean mould, it is plain that 
 the phrase is wrong ; it shoidd be impress and not 
 express. You cannot express a mould. It is im- 
 pressed on the face. In like manner when Plau- 
 tus says "expressa imago in cera," or "expressa 
 simulacra ex auro," he means making a portrait in 
 color or in gold. Again, " facies " does not mean 
 face, but the total outward shape, appearance, or 
 figure of a man. " Vultus " is the proper term 
 for face, and is so used by Pliny himself ; as when 
 he speaks, for instance, of the portraits of the 
 head of Epicurus as "vultus Epicuri," and dis- 
 tinguishes them from the full-length figures of 
 athletes, "imagines athletarum," with which the 
 ancients adorned their palaestra and anointing- 
 rooms. In fact, the whole chapter in which this 
 passage occurs relates to portraits, and is entitled 
 " honos imaginum." If there could be any ques- 
 tion on this point, it w^ould be settled by a pas- 
 sage in Aldus Gellius (13, 29), in which he de- 
 fines " facies " as the build of the whole body, — 
 " facies est factura qusedam totius corporis ; " and 
 Cicero, in his treatise " De Legibus " (1, 9), says, 
 " That which is called ' vultus ' exists in no living 
 
122 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 being except man," — " Is qui appellatur vnltus 
 niillo in animante esse prseter hominem jDotest." ^ 
 So Virgil in *' vivos clucent de marmore vultus " 
 means the face. " Imago," on the contrary, and 
 " facies " mean the whole figure ; only " facies " 
 means the real figure, and " imago " the imitation 
 of it. Pliny himself invariably uses them so, 
 and in one of his letters (ep. 7, 33, 2) he recom- 
 mends that we should be careful to select the best 
 artist to make a full-length likeness, — " Esse no- 
 bis curse solet ut facies nostra ab optimo quoque 
 artifice exprimatur." By the word " exjDrimatur " 
 he certainly does not refer to casting. So me- 
 chanical an operation as this surely does not re- 
 quire the best of artists. " Imaginem e facie ij)sa " 
 means therefore a full-length likeness. 
 
 Again, " inf undere " does not necessarily mean 
 pour in, but is quite as often used in the sense of 
 poured over or spread on ; as where Ovid says, 
 "inf undere ceram tabellis ; " or where Virgil says, 
 " campi fusi in omnem partem," or " sole infuso 
 terris ; " or again where Ovid uses the phrases 
 " collo infusa mariti " or " nudos humeris infusa 
 capillos," it can only mean spread over. Wax 
 cannot be poured into a flat surface like a tablet, 
 or hair poured into shoulders. 
 
 Mr. Perkins, with Forcellinus before his eyes, 
 after citing his definitions of " exprimere " says : 
 
 ^ So also Frontoin his De differentiis Vocabidorum, pnblislied by- 
 Cardinal Mai from paliinpsL'sts, says : " Vultus proprie homiiiis 
 — OS omnium — facies plurium." 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 123 
 
 " Explications qui toutes rentrent dans I'idee de 
 representer, de reproduire, de prendre sur le vif, 
 comme on dit en fran(;ais, et par consequent dans 
 I'idee du moulage." But " ritrarre dal vivo " 
 means nothing more than to make a portrait from 
 life, whatever " prendre sur le vif " may mean ; nor 
 can any one of Forcellinus's definitions be tortured 
 into an allusion to easting. " Mais," he continues, 
 " cette idee surtout est accusee dans Tacite, qui dit 
 en parlant d'un vetement que dessinait les formes, 
 un vetement collant ' vestis artus exprimens.' " 
 But surely this phrase means simply a garment 
 expressing, or as we should say showing, the limbs, 
 and has nothing more to do with '' casting " than 
 *' dessinait les formes " has to do with drawing, 
 or a " vetement collant " has to do with glue. He 
 also thinks another phrase used by Pliny — " ex- 
 pressi cera vultus^^ — has a similar significance. 
 If all our metaphors are to be subjected to this 
 strict test, we must be very careful how we speak. 
 Yet these and similar examples, which he says he 
 could multiply, '" peuvent suffire," he thinks, " pour 
 nous autoriser a croire que Pline a voulu dire que 
 Lysistrate etait I'inventeur de la reproduction des 
 statues par le platre, en d'autres termes qu'il etait 
 le premier qui avait eu I'idee de se servir du gypse 
 pour mouler." This, to say the least, is going 
 very far. With such philologic ^news, what would 
 he think of this phrase, " vera paterni oris effigies," 
 or " vivos ducent de marmore vultus," or " infans 
 omnibus membris expressa " ? Or, to take an 
 Enoflish line, what would he make of — 
 
124 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 " The express form and image of the King " ? 
 
 But if Pliny meant casting, why did he not use 
 the appropriate Latin word for that process — 
 " f undere " ? In the subsequent sentence, speak- 
 ing of casting in brass, he says " fundendi seris." 
 "Fundere " meant to cast, not " exprimere." 
 
 Besides, let us look at the practical difficulty in 
 this process. After the moulds were made and 
 the wax cast into them, as Mr. Perkins interprets 
 Pliny to mean, we have still only wax impressions, 
 and not plaster castings. And how were they got 
 out of the mould after they were cast ? We, in 
 modern times, have learned no method of doing 
 this ; we should be obliged first to make the 
 mould in plaster, then to make a cast in plaster in 
 that mould, then on that cast to make a piece- 
 mould with sections to take apart, — an elaborate 
 process ; and then we could get a wax cast, but 
 not before. The fact that the cast mentioned by 
 Pliny (supposing he means a cast) is in wax not 
 only involves quadruple labor and skill on the 
 part of the caster, but makes the process impossi- 
 ble, or next to impossible, if it were simply as he 
 is supposed to describe it. If the cast were in 
 plaster, it would resist, so that the mould could be 
 broken off from it in bits ; but with wax this 
 would be entirely impracticable. 
 
 Let us still further consider the phrase " ceraque 
 in cam formam gypsi infusa emendare instituit." 
 What does " cera in earn formam infusa " mean ? 
 Simply to cover or spread wax (or color) over 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 125 
 
 that model ; just as Ovid saj^s " infuiidere ceram 
 tabellis," to spread wax over the tablets, not to 
 pour wax into the tablets, for that was impossible, 
 they being flat surfaces, nor to cast them. Again, 
 Pliny does not sa-y that Lysistratus introduced the 
 practice of spreading wax over a core, or of pour- 
 ing wax into a form, or casting ; but only of im- 
 proving the likenesses, or working them up in the 
 wax after it was spread over the plaster : " instituit 
 emendare," he says, not " instituit infundere." 
 " Formam " here has not the signification of mould, 
 but of model or image. Undoubtedly the term 
 " forma" in Latin was used to signify a mould as 
 well as a cast, or a model, or a form ; and in this 
 respect it had the same ambiguity that the cor- 
 responding terms '' mould " and " form " have in 
 English. A " form " is a seat, as well as a shape 
 and a ceremony, and " mould " is constantly, 
 though improperly, used to indicate a model or 
 the thing moulded, as well as the real mould in 
 which it is cast ; the phrases " to model " and " to 
 mould " are often synonymous in meaning. So 
 " forma " was sometimes employed in its primary 
 significance of figure, shape, and configuration, as 
 when Quinctilian says, " Eadem cera alise atque 
 alisB formse duci solent," — various shapes may 
 be given to the same wax ; sometimes in the sense 
 of image, as when Cicero speaks of " formae claris- 
 simorum," the images of distinguished men ; some- 
 times to mean a model or shape over which a thing 
 is wrought, as a shoemaker's last, — " Si scalpra 
 
126 EXCURSIONS JN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 et formas non sutor emat," as Horace says ; and 
 sometimes as indicating a hollow mould in which 
 bronze is cast, as when Pliny says, " Ex iis [sili- 
 cibus] formse hunt, in quibus sera funduntur," — 
 from these pebbles moulds are made, in which 
 brass is cast. But when he uses it in this last 
 sense, it will be observed, Pliny employs the term 
 " fundere," to cast, and not " exprimere," nor 
 " emendare." In the passage about Lysistratus, 
 then, " forma " would seem to mean a model, or 
 core, like the shoemaker's last, on which the wax 
 was spread for the purpose of emending or im- 
 proving something. What is that something which 
 Pliny tells us he improved by this means ? What 
 can it be except the " imaginem," the likeness ? 
 There is no other word to which " emendare " can 
 refer. If, then, we understand the passage as mean- 
 ing that Lysistratus modeled a likeness in gypsum, 
 and then imj)roved it or finished it in wax which 
 he spread over the gypsum, the statement is quite 
 intelligible, and not a word is warped from its cor- 
 rect significance. If we adopt the other interpre- 
 tation, however, we must understand "imaginem 
 gypso expressit " to mean that he made a mould 
 in gypsum, contrary to the direct force of the 
 words ; and with wax poured into that mould 
 (making " forma m " equivalent to ''imaginem," 
 and referring to it) he emended or improved — 
 something. What ? Why, the mould, — which 
 is absurd. Again, we cannot begin by making 
 " imaginem " mean the cast, before the " formam " 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 127 
 
 or mould is made ; not only because the practical 
 process is tlms reversed, but because then we 
 should have a cast in plaster made by pouring 
 wax into the mould, which is even more absurd. 
 Taking " forma " to have in this sentence any of 
 its meanings except " mould," we have no difficulty 
 in understanding it ; taking it as " mould," we 
 are forced to change the primary significance of 
 " imaginem " and " expressit," and are involved in 
 very serious questions. 
 
 In addition to these considerations, it must not 
 be forgotten that this cast of gypsmn, according to 
 Mr. Perkins's interpretation of the sentence, was 
 made not of the face alone (" vultus "), which is 
 by no means an easy process, but of the whole fig- 
 ure (" facie "), which is a very hazardous one, and 
 to which, with all the knowledge and experience 
 of the present day in casting, few people would 
 be willing to submit. 
 
 A passage of Alcimus Avitus, in his poem " De 
 Origine Mundi " (lib. 1, 6, 75), throws a clear 
 light on the process which seems here to be de- 
 scribed as the invention of Lysistratus : — 
 
 " Haec ait, et f ragilem dignatus tang-ere terram 
 Temperat humentem eonspersa pulvere limum 
 Molliturque novum dives sapientia corpus 
 Non aliter quam opif ex diuturno exercitus usu. 
 Flectere laxatas per cuncta sequacia ceras 
 Et vultus complere rudes aut corpora gypsa 
 Fingers vel segni speeiem componere massa 
 Sic Pater Omnipoteus. " 
 
 Here we have the body modeled (" fingere " is 
 
128 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 to model) in gypsum, and the ductile " cera " 
 spread over all the undulations, and the rude face 
 finished, just as Pliny describes it. 
 
 Let us now consider the next sentence, in which 
 he says, " Hie et similitudinem reddere instituit, 
 ante eum quam pulcherrimum facere studebant." 
 This certainly has nothing to do with casting. It 
 is very important as throwing a reflex light on the 
 previous sentence. The whole stress of the pas- 
 sage is to bring out the fact that Lysistratus made 
 portraits. He used a peculiar process, perhaps, 
 but his specialty was that he made portraits from 
 life (" imaginem hominis e facie ipsa "), which he 
 worked up in wax (" emendare cera ") ; and not 
 only this, but his portraits were exact likenesses 
 (" similitudinem reddere instituit "), and not merely 
 ideal figures like those of the artists who preceded 
 him C ante eum quam pidcherrimum facere stude- 
 bant "). 
 
 A slight glimpse at the history of the art will 
 clear up this matter. In the early period of sculp- 
 ture, only statues of divinities were made, and up 
 to a comparatively late time these archaic figures 
 were copied for religious and superstitious reasons, 
 and the old formal hieratic type was strictly ob- 
 served. It was not until the 58th Olympiad that 
 iconic statues beo^an to be made in honor of the 
 victors in the national games, and these for the 
 greater part were rather portraits of the peculiari- 
 ties of general physical developments than of the 
 face. Portrait statues of distinguished men now 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 129 
 
 began to be made, but they were very few in 
 number, and only exceptionally allowed by the 
 state. The first iconic statues, representing Har- 
 modius and Aristogeiton, were made in 509 B. c. 
 by Antenor. Phidias followed (480 to 432 b. c), 
 and during his period the grand style was in its 
 culmination, and for the most part divinities or 
 demi-gods only were thought worthy subjects for 
 a great sculptor. Iconic statues were, however, 
 executed during this period, and among the legen- 
 dary heroes and divinities who formed the sub- 
 jects of the thirteen statues erected at Delphi 
 and executed by Phidias out of the Persian spoils, 
 the portrait of Miltiades was allowed,^ but the 
 erection of public portrait statues was very rarely 
 permitted, and the introduction by Phidias of his 
 own portrait and that of Pericles among the com- 
 batants wrought upon the shield of his ivory and 
 gold statue of Athena occasioned a prosecution 
 against him for impiety. It is said that Phidias, 
 in his statue of a youth binding his hair with a 
 fillet, made the portrait of Pantarces, an Elean 
 who was enamored of the great sculptor, and who 
 obtained the victory at the Olympian games in the 
 88th Olympiad (b. c. 435). But this story, which 
 is given by Pausanias, rests, even by his own 
 account, purely on tradition, and was apparently 
 
 ^ According to Machines, in his oration against Ctesiphon, Mil- 
 tiades desired that his name should be inscribed on this portrait 
 statue, which was placed in the Poecile ; but the Athenians refused 
 their pei-raission. 
 
130 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 founded upon a supposed resemblance between 
 Pantarces and the statue. Portraiture in its true 
 sense, however, now began, and soon after the 
 death of Phidias, about the 90th Olympiad, De- 
 metrius obtained celebrity as a portrait sculptor. 
 He seems to have been the first to introduce the 
 realistic school of portraiture, copying so carefully 
 from life, particularly in his likenesses of old 
 persons, that he was reproved for being too faith- 
 ful to Nature. Quinctilian accuses him of being 
 " nimius in veritate " (xii. 10) ; Lucian in his 
 " Philopseudes " calls him an di/^pwTroTrotos, and, 
 describing a statue by him of Pelichus the Co- 
 rinthian, says it was avr<Z avOpwirw ofxolov, —r- like the 
 very man himself. Callimachus, also, at the same 
 period obtained the nickname of KararT^^trfx^o?, on 
 account of the extreme detail and finish of' his 
 works. These artists flourished nearly a century 
 before Lysistratus ; and Pliny therefore is incor- 
 rect in his sweeping statement that before the 
 time of Lysistratus sculptors had only endeavored 
 to make their statues as beautiful as possible, and 
 not to give accurate portraits. Still, these men 
 must be considered as exceptions to the general 
 practice, and it was not until the time of Alexan- 
 der that portrait-sculpture in the sense of accurate 
 likeness was developed. Up to that period it still 
 was heroic, generalized, and ideal in its character, 
 with comparatively little individuality or detail. 
 The portrait statues, for instance, of the Royal 
 Family by Leochares (872 B. c), and that of 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 131 
 
 Mausolns (about 350 B. c.) on the famous Mauso- 
 leum erected by Artemisia, were treated in this 
 stj'le. Lysippus, however, during the reign of 
 Alexander of Macedon, by his great talent gave a 
 new impulse and development to the school of por- 
 traiture, and while retaining the heroic character 
 he gave a more realistic truth to his works. Pliny 
 speaks of him as distinguished for the finish of his 
 work in the remotest details, — " arguti^ opermn 
 custoditae in minimis rebus." In his portraits of 
 Alexander he represented even the defects of his 
 royal patron, such as the stoop of his head side- 
 ways. Such was his skDl that Alexander declared 
 "that none but Apelles shoidd represent him in 
 color, and none but Lysippus in marble." Lysis- 
 tratus was the brother of Lysippus, and Pliny says 
 that he introduced the practice of making portraits 
 which were not merely heroic and ideal likenesses, 
 but faithfid representations of the real men. In 
 attributing to Lysistratus the introduction of this 
 practice of indi^ddual portraiture, Pliny undoubt- 
 edly g:)es beyond the real facts. He did not 
 introduce the practice, he merely developed it by 
 a peculiar process, giving additional verisimilitude 
 thereby. This process was roughly modeling the 
 likeness in plaster, and then finishing the surface 
 and the details in the " cera " with which he cov- 
 ered it. 
 
 In painting, the sphere of portraiture was larger 
 than in sculpture, and subject apparently to no 
 such restrictions. The earliest portrait on record 
 
132 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 by any great painter was not of hero, philoso- 
 pher, or atlilete, but of Elpinice, the daughter of 
 Miltiacles and the mistress of Polygnotus, who 
 painted her portrait as Laodice, one of the daugh- 
 ters of Priam, in his famous picture representing 
 the " Rape of Cassandra," in the Poecile at Athens. 
 This picture was executed about 463 B. c, when 
 Elpinice must have been at least thirty-five years 
 of age. Dionysius of Colophon was also a distin- 
 guished portrait-painter and celebrated for his ex- 
 cessive finish. Nicephorus Churanus, the gram- 
 marian, describes Apelles and Lysippus as making 
 
 and painting ZaJo-as elKwra? /cat TTVoyjq ixovrj^ Kal Kwrj- 
 
 o-€oi<i d7roAet7ro/xei/a9, — being Hkenesscs only wanting 
 breath and motion. For one of his portraits of 
 Alexander Apelles received twenty talents of gold 
 (<£5,000), which was measured, not counted, out 
 to him. He also painted the portraits of Cam- 
 paspe and Phryne in the character of Yenus, tak- 
 ing the face from Campaspe and the nude figure 
 from Phryne. Speaking of Apelles, Pliny himself 
 relates in his thirty-sixth book that "he painted 
 portraits so exact to the life that one of those 
 persons called Metoscopi, who divine events from 
 the features of men, was enabled, on examining 
 his portraits, to foretell the hour of the death of 
 the person represented." And this monstrous story 
 Pliny apparently accepts. At all events, he does 
 not question it. Parrhasius, " the most insolent 
 and arrogant of artists," says Pliny, "painted a 
 portrait of himself and dedicated it in a public 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 133 
 
 temple to Mercury ; and though the Athenians 
 had publicly proceeded against Phidias for so 
 doing, they allowed it to Parrhasius, thus plainly 
 showing that the dignity of sculptui'e was higher 
 than that of painting." 
 
 But to return from this digression to the consid- 
 eration of the passage by Pliny relating to por- 
 traiture in modeling and sculpture. In the sen- 
 tence immediately following, Pliny goes on to say, 
 "Idem et de signis effigiem exprimere invenit, cre- 
 vitque res in tantum, ut nulla signa statuJBve sine 
 argilla fierent," — Lysistratus also made copies 
 from statues, and this practice came so into vogue 
 that no statues in brass or marble were made with- 
 out white clay. What the meaning of this sen- 
 tence is we can only guess ; as it stands, it is quite 
 unintelligible. Perhaps he intended to say that 
 Lysistratus set the fashion of making small copies 
 in clay or terra cotta of all the statues that were 
 executed. But it is quite possible that he meant 
 nothing of the kind. It is plain that if Lysistra- 
 tus had already invented casting in plaster, it would 
 have been unnecessary to copy statues in clay, ex- 
 cept for the purpose of reduction to statuettes. 
 Mr. Perkins thinks he may have intended to speak 
 of " esquisses d'argile [maquettes] dont se servent 
 les sculpteurs comme point de depart, esquisse re- 
 produite plus tard en marbre et avec la mise aux 
 points." But there was nothing new in this ; and 
 surely Lysistratus could not be said to have in- 
 vented, or set the fashion of, a process which cer- 
 
134 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS, 
 
 tainly had been employed very long before his 
 time. And again, why make a small statue in clay 
 and enlarge it 23roportionally in marble, if you can 
 make it at once in full size and cast it ? Nor does 
 Mr. Perkins seem to be aware that in adopting 
 this view, and translating as he does " de signis 
 effigiem exprimere," — to make a small model or 
 maquette in clay, — he abandons his explanation 
 of the sentence referring to gypsum. For if 
 *' effigiem argilla exprimere " means, as he says, to 
 make a model in clay, why does not " imaginem 
 gyj)so exprimere " mean to make a model in plas- 
 ter? Besides, the fact that Pliny applies the same 
 terms to a process in clay as to one in plaster at 
 once puts an end to the matter so far as the ques- 
 tion of casting goes. Clay is not a material to 
 cast with, in any proper sense of that term. 
 
 Another objection to this interpretation that 
 Pliny meant a maquette, " esquisse," or sketch is 
 that *' effigies " did not mean sketch. It carried 
 with it nearly the significance of our own word 
 effigy, — of great reality of imitation. " Imago " 
 was a vaguer word, and might indicate a delu- 
 sive resemblance as by painting ; but " effigiem " 
 was ordinarily employed to designate a more ab- 
 solute imitation. Thus Cicero says, " Nos vere 
 juris germanae justitiae que solidam et expressam 
 effigiem nullam tenemus. Umbra et imaginibus 
 utimur." ^ And again, " Consectatur nullam emi- 
 nentem effigiem virtutis sed adumbratam imaginem 
 
 ^ See Cicero ad Atticum, xii. 41. 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 135 
 
 glorise." " Effigies " would, therefore, carry no 
 such idea as that of sketch. 
 
 Besides, not only is " effigies " not the correct 
 word for sketch, but Pliny would scarcely have 
 used it in this sense, when immediately after- 
 wards, speaking of the sketches of Arcesilaus, 
 which sold for more than the finished works of 
 other artists, he employs the apj^ropriate term for 
 sketches, — "proplasma." In the translation of 
 Pliny, published by Mr. Bohn, and made by Mr. 
 Bostick and Mr. Riley, this term is translated 
 " models in plaster ; " but it simply means sketches 
 or antijicta, in whatever material they were made. 
 The words " plastsS " and " plasma " have nothing 
 to do with plaster. " Plastas " were simply model- 
 ers, and TT/Vao-rt/oJ was the art of modeling, — the 
 plastic art. 
 
 Again, Pliny could scarcely have intended to 
 say that Lysistratus invented modeling sketches 
 of statues in clay before executing them in plas- 
 ter, since he tells us explicitly that Pasiteles used 
 to say that jjlastice was the mother of statuarla, 
 scalptura, et ccelatura ; and, though he was dis- 
 tinguished as first in all these arts, he never exe- 
 cuted anything in them until he had first mod- 
 eled it in clay, — " nihil unquam fecit, antequam 
 finxit." 
 
 Before leaving this sentence, let us take a differ- 
 ent view of its possible meaning. May not Pliny 
 use the words " signa " and '' signis " to mean pic- 
 tures and not statues ? Undoubtedly " signum " 
 
136 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 was thus used, as where Plautus speaks of a " sig- 
 niun pictum in parieti," — a picture painted on the 
 wall ; or where Virgil speaks of a " pallam signis 
 auroque rigentem," — a mantle stiff with embroid- 
 ered fig^ires and gold. In this sense the passage 
 would mean that Lysistratus made effigies from 
 pictures as well as from statues, and that thence- 
 forward not only no statues but no j^ictures w^ere 
 made without being cojiied in bas-relief, or in the 
 round, argilla, or white clay. This would account 
 for the use of the word " effigiem," which has a 
 stronger significance of reality than " imaginem." 
 The succeeding sentence is even more obscure ; 
 and, unless it be interpolated or out of its proper 
 place, is quite unintelligible. In the connection in 
 which it now stands it is absurd. It is as follows : 
 " Quo apparet antiquiorem hane fuisse scientiam 
 quam f undendi seris," — by which it seems that this 
 knowledge or practice was older than that of cast- 
 ing in bronze." What is the " scientiam " to which 
 he refers ? He has previously spoken only of two : 
 first, that of making portraits in plaster and wax ; 
 second, that of making copies of statues in clay, — 
 both, as he says, invented or introduced into prac- 
 tice by Lysistratus. But to say that that artist 
 could have invented any process older than that of 
 casting in bronze is not only ridiculous in itself, 
 but inconsistent with what he has previously told 
 us ; since at least two centuries previous to the 
 time of Lysistratus, Rhoecus and Theodorus of 
 Samos — as we learn from Pausanias, Herodotus, 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 137 
 
 and even Pliny himself — exercised the art of 
 casting in bronze. Pausanias,^ indeed, tells us 
 that these sculptors invented this art ; but Pliny, 
 with his usual inaccuracy and carelessness, says 
 that they invented " plastice," or the art of mod- 
 eling ("In Samo primos omnium plasticen inve- 
 nisse Rhoecum et Theodorum," ch. xxxv.), — an 
 art which from the very nature of things must 
 have been practiced from the earliest and rudest 
 ages, almost from tiie time when the first child 
 made the first mud-pi 3. 
 
 Dr. Brunn,2 in commenting on this passage in 
 Pliny, accepts the first sentence as describing the 
 art of casting in plaster, but, finding it impossi- 
 ble to reconcile it with the subsequent sentences, 
 ingeniously suggests that it was an addition in- 
 serted in the margin, and afterwards interpolated 
 into the text by the copyists in the wi'ong place. 
 Throwing out this first sentence about Lysistratus 
 from this place, he still accepts it, and interprets 
 it to mean that Lysistratus invented the art of 
 casting. The subsequent sentences he connects 
 with a previous passage in Pliny, in which he 
 gives an accomit of Dibutades of Sicyon, a potter 
 by trade, and relates the legend that this artist 
 drew the outline of the face of a girl whom he 
 loved from her shadow on the wall, and his father 
 pressed clay upon it within those outlines, and 
 made a typum which he baked. The passage, ac- 
 
 1 iii. 12, § 13 ; viii. 14, § 5. 
 
 2 Geschichte der griechischen Kllnstler, vol. i. p. 403. 
 
138 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 cording to Dr. Brunn, tlien would coDtinue : " He 
 [Dibutades] also invented the making of effigies 
 from signa, and this practice so increased that 
 thenceforward no statnes or signa were made 
 without argilla ; so that it appears that this art 
 was more ancient than that of casting in bronze." 
 Bj accepting this suggestion of Dr. Brunn we cer- 
 tainly relieve Pliny of the absurdity of stating 
 that any "scientiam" or practice invented by 
 Lysistratus was older than casting in bronze, since 
 centuries before his time bronze figures of colossal 
 proportions had been cast. But even supposing 
 these sentences to refer to Dibutades and not to 
 Lysistratus, they are far from being clear or ac- 
 curate. Is it possible to believe that, while the 
 making of brick and earthenware utensils and 
 fictile vases is so ancient that the memory of man 
 runneth not to the contrary, no one before Dibuta^ 
 des had ever attempted to model a figure or a face 
 in clay, or to put a model into a furnace and bake 
 it ? All history is against such a supposition. 
 Images in terra cotta were made by the ancient 
 Egyptians, Babylonians, and Ephesians centuries 
 before Dibutades. The ancient Etruscan terra 
 cottas previous to his epoch were scattered, as 
 Pliny himself says, all over the world : " Signa 
 Tuscanica per terras dispersa." The capitol was 
 decorated with earthen statues at the time of the 
 first Tarquin, and Pausanias mentions many clay 
 statues of gods and demigods executed in the ear- 
 liest ages of Greece itself. 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 139 
 
 Again, from this very passage it is clear that 
 Pliny himself admits that there were signa and 
 statuce already existing at the time of Dibiitades, 
 of which he first made effigies. What did Dibii- 
 tades invent ? Certainly not the art of modeling 
 in clay, or of baking the clay. His statement, 
 also, that thenceforward no statues were made 
 without clay is scarcely intelligible, unless we 
 suppose him to mean that clay models were made 
 thenceforward before executing statues in stone or 
 other materials. But he does not say this. Again, 
 he cannot mean that Dibutades first invented 
 taking impressions from indented outlines, or in- 
 tagliU for this was as old as the first primitive 
 seal, and was no more invented by Dibutades than 
 by Lysistratus. 
 
 Dr. Brunn interprets the statement in respect 
 to Dibutades as showing that he was probably the 
 first inventor of casting, at the same time that he 
 also interprets the sentences referring to Lysistrar 
 tus as declaring that he first invented easting, — 
 the only difference being that the process of the 
 one was in clay, and that of the other in plaster. 
 
 But is it clear that Dibutades, according to 
 Pliny, ever made even a stamp in clay from in- 
 dented outlines on the wall? The passage is or- 
 dinarily so interpreted, but is this interpretation 
 correct ? Pliny says that Dibutades having traced 
 the shadow on the wall in outline, his father im- 
 pressed clay within that outline, and thus made a 
 typum which he baked with other articles of earth, 
 
140 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 and which was long afterwards preserved in the 
 Nymphseum at Corinth. His words are, " quibus 
 lineis pater ejus imj)ressa argilla typum fecit." 
 What, then, is the meaning of " typum " ? Evi- 
 dently not a mould, or impression, but a relief. 
 Had it been a mould, he could have stamped from 
 it a hundred impressions, since it would have been 
 merely a seal with an irregularly relieved outline ; 
 and in order to have the repetition of what was on 
 the wall he must perforce have stamped from it 
 an impression. This he evidently did not do, or 
 at least nothing is said to indicate anything of 
 the kind. He preserved and baked what he first 
 obtained, which, if it was merely a mould, would 
 have produced, to say the least, no effect. The 
 true as well as the literal translation of this .pas- 
 sage would seem to be, "within the outlines by 
 putting on clay he made a relief." This clay he 
 probably modeled as well as he could, keeping 
 within the lines, and then removed it from the 
 wall and baked it. The same interpretation of 
 this passage is given by Giovanni Battista Adriani, 
 in a remarkable essay or rather letter addressed 
 by him to Giorgio Vasari in 1567, in which he 
 gives a summary of the most celebrated Greek ar- 
 tists and their works. " Typus " in Latin had the 
 double significance of " intaglio " and " relievo," 
 as our word " type " has of the type itself and the 
 printed impression ; and sometimes it was used 
 in one sense and sometimes in the other, but it 
 was usually employed to mean a relief. Thus 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 141 
 
 Cicero, in one of his letters to Atticus (lib. i. ep. 
 10), writes, "Prseterea typos tibi manclo quos in 
 tectorio atrioli possim includere," — I commis- 
 sion you also to procure me some reliefs to be 
 inserted in the plaster of the anteroom. And 
 Pliny in this passage would plainly seem to use 
 the word in the same sense ; otherwise he would 
 probably have written " forma," as he did in other 
 cases when he meant a mould. Not that even 
 that word would be free from all ambiguity, but 
 it would more appropriately signify a mould. 
 
 But however ingenious is the suggestion of Dr. 
 Brunn that the passages relating to Lysistratus 
 ought to belong to Dibutades, the fact is that in 
 all editions of Pliny they are connected with Lysis- 
 tratus ; and as this suggestion does not dispose of 
 all difficulties and clear up the matter, we will 
 proceed to consider them in that relation, and see 
 if anything can be made clearly out of them. 
 
 Plainly, if the " scientiam " here spoken of re- 
 fers to the invention of L3'sistratus, and is inter- 
 preted to be the art of casting in plaster, it is 
 ridiculously incorrect to say that it was older than 
 casting in brass. If that invention be of modeling 
 in plaster, it is also entirely incorrect. We know 
 that this was practiced at least a century previ- 
 ous, — as, for instance, in the construction of the 
 great statue of Zeus at Megara, the body of which 
 was of plaster and clay, the head alone being cased 
 in gold and ivory ; and also of the Bacchus in 
 painted plaster, of which Pausanias speaks. 
 
142 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 The only way in which we can explain the state- 
 ment that any " scientiam " or process described 
 by Pliny as used by Lysistratus was older than 
 the art of casting in bronze, is by supposing he 
 meant to say that the process he emj^loyed was in 
 itself an old one, and that it was only in the prac- 
 tical a^Dplication to the making of portraits that 
 there was any novelty, — the process of covering a 
 core of plaster with wax being older than casting 
 in bronze, while covering a sketch of plaster with 
 wax and then working that surface up from life 
 was new. The statement so understood would be 
 intelligible at least, and, as far as we know, per- 
 fectly correct. The method of the ancients in 
 casting bronze statues is not described by any an- 
 cient writer, but it is supposed to have been this : 
 A fire-proof core was first built uj) of plaster, clay, 
 earth, or other materials, and over this a thin and 
 even coating of wax or pitch was spread ; or per- 
 haps, which is not so probable, the surface was 
 rasped down to the thickness intended for the 
 bronze, and afterwards covered with a thin coating 
 of wax. In either case the result wotdd be the 
 same. The outside of this wax being then com- 
 pletely covered with sand or packed clay-dust, 
 there would be a thin coating of wax inclosed be- 
 tween the two surfaces, which, melting away before 
 the fused metal, would allow that metal to take 
 its place. This would account for the remarkable 
 thinness and evenness of the ancient bronzes ; for 
 by such a method the core would be perfect, and 
 
THS ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 143 
 
 the artist would naturally put on as little wax as 
 possible. If we suppose tlie statue, after it was 
 nearly completed in plaster or clay, not to have 
 been rasped down but simply to have been covered 
 with wax, we shall see that the result would be 
 that the bronze cast would be a little fuller in 
 size and thicker in proportions than the original 
 model. And this is a peculiar characteristic of 
 the ancient bronzes, especially to be observed in 
 the limbs and joints, which are generally larger 
 and puffier in bronze than in marble statues. 
 
 Now if Pliny meant to say of Lysistratus that 
 his method of modeling portraits by making a 
 plaster figure or core, and covering the surface 
 with wax, was older than that of casting in bronze, 
 he was quite right ; for undoubtedly the process of 
 covering a core with wax must have preceded that 
 of casting in bronze, or at least must have been 
 coincident with it. But at the same time this 
 method had previously been used only, or at least 
 chiefly, in casting ; whereas Lysistratus was the 
 first to use it for modeling from life and carefully 
 finishing every part. The process was old ; the 
 application was tiqw. 
 
 Thus far in considering this passage we have 
 proceeded on the hypothesis that the " cera " 
 spoken of was wax. But another and quite differ- 
 ent view is also possible, and seems in all proba- 
 bility to be the correct one. Pliny may mean to 
 refer to quite a different thing, and by the term 
 "cera" may have meant not wax but color. 
 
144 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 " Cerae " was the common term for a painter's 
 colors, and Pliny himself thus uses it in defining 
 encaustic painting : " Ceris pingere et picturam 
 inurere." Varro also says, '* Pictores locutulas 
 magnas habent arculas ubi discolores sunt cerse." 
 Statins also uses the same term when he says, 
 "Apellese cuperent te scribere cerae." Anacreon, 
 in his odes, constantly uses Krjpos for picture ; as, 
 for instance, — 
 
 "Epcora K^piySu ris 
 
 Here it is not a waxen figure, but a wax, or oil, — 
 that is, a painting of Eros, not an dyaX^a. And 
 in the same ode the youth rej^lies in Doric, "OU 
 dfu KrjpoTixv-q^r — "I am not a painter ; " or even 
 more manifestly in the ode beginning, — 
 
 *'A76, (wypdcpcav dpiare, 
 ypdcpe, ^Mypdcpoiv apiare, 
 *Po5t7js Koipave rex^r^s, 
 aTreovtrav, ws au e^Trco, 
 ypdcpe TTiv ifXTji/ iTalpr]u. 
 ypdcpe fxoL rpixa^ Th irpuirov 
 airaXds re Kal fxeXalvas • 
 Se KTjphs av Svvrjrai, 
 ypd(pe Kal fivpov irueova'as. 
 
 And again. 
 
 dTre'xet * BAeVo) yap avriiv. 
 rdxdi Kriphy Kal AaA^creis. 
 
 Wax was the common medium used by paint- 
 ers. After it had been purified and blanched, their 
 colors were mixed with it just as ours are with oil ; 
 and in like manner, as we speak of painting in 
 oils, they spoke of painting in wax. A head done 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER, 145 
 
 in chalk would no more necessarily mean a head 
 modeled in chalk or plaster, than " imaginem [or 
 effigiem] cera expressam " would mean a likeness 
 modeled in wax. 
 
 The substances on which the ancients painted 
 were wood, clay, plaster, stone, parchment, and 
 perhaps canvas. The best painters, however, 
 rarely painted on anything but tablets or panels. 
 " Nulla gloria artilicum est nisi eorum qui tabulas 
 pinxere," says Pliny (xxxv. 37). These panels 
 were of wood; they were prepared for painting by 
 spreading over them chalk or white plaster (gyp- 
 sum), and on that account were called " AeuVw/xa." 
 All the paintings on walls were also on plaster 
 covered with a composition of chalk and marble 
 dust, as is fully described by Vitruvius.^ 
 
 Let us now apply these facts to Pliny's state- 
 ment. May he not intend to say, and is not this 
 a legitimate meaning of his words, that Lysistratus 
 first of all modeled portraits in gypsum from life, 
 and then increased the likeness by color laid on to 
 the plaster bust. He also made colored copies or 
 effigies from brass statues (which were called, as 
 we know, " cerae "), and these came so into vogue 
 that thenceforward there were no statues without 
 white clay or chalk, which, as we have seen, was a 
 preparation for the wax color as shown by Vitru- 
 vius. In this view of his meaning, the statement 
 that this peculiar process is older than that of cast- 
 ing in bronze becomes intelligible, if we suppose 
 
 1 vii. 3, ii. 8. See, also, Pliny, xxv. 49. 
 
146 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 him to intend to say that coloring statues was a 
 very old process, while coloring portraits in exact 
 imitation of life was the invention of Lysistratus. 
 The succeeding sentence then becomes clear, in 
 which he says that the most famous plastae were 
 Damophilus and Gorgasus, who were also paint- 
 ers, and who decorated the Temple of Ceres at 
 Rome in both these arts, since it is plain that 
 these works were both modeled and painted. 
 
 The making of portraits in effigy, colored in 
 imitation of life, had been a conmion practice 
 in Rome, as we learn from Pliny himself, and 
 these, because they were colored, were technically 
 called " cerse " as well as " imagines." It was the 
 custom of the great families to set up these col- 
 ored figures in their atria, and on particular fes- 
 tivals to carry them in procession through the 
 streets of Rome, draped with actual robes such as 
 were worn by the persons whom they represented. 
 Pliny expresses his regret that in his time this 
 custom had fallen into disuse, tending as it did to 
 keep fresh and alive the j)ersonal memory of great 
 men who had passed away from this life.^ 
 
 It will be useful here to consider the character 
 of the whole chapter in which this passage ap- 
 pears. It is entitled, '' Plastices primi inventores, 
 de simulacris, et vasis fictilibus et pretio eorum." 
 The object of the chapter is to give an account of 
 modeling and modelers, not of casting. In a 
 previous chapter, where Pliny is S23eaking of some 
 ^ See, also, an account of these " imagines " in Polybius, vi. 53. 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 147 
 
 early products of the plastic art, and particularly 
 of the signa Tuscanica^ or earthenware statues, he 
 says : " It appears to me a singular fact, that, 
 though the origin of statues was of such great an- 
 tiquity in Italy, the images of the gods, which 
 were consecrated to them in their temples, shoidd 
 have been fashioned of wood or earthenware, un- 
 til the conquest of Asia introduced luxury among 
 us. It Avill be most convenient to speak of the 
 art of making likenesses [siin'ditudines expri- 
 niendi] when we come to speak of wdiat the Greeks 
 call 'plastice,' for the art of modeling was prior 
 to that of statuary of bronze and marble, — prior 
 quam statu ariafuit]. But this last art has flour- 
 ished in such an infinite degree that to pm^sue the 
 subject thoroughly would require many volimies." 
 Thus he announces clearly beforehand what he in- 
 tends to speak of in this chapter which we are now 
 considering, on plasticse. It is the art of " maldng 
 likenesses, of the first invention of modeling, of 
 fictile vases, and of their price," but not of cast- 
 ing or of any such invention. The previous chap- 
 ter, in which this announcement is made of his 
 subsequent intention, is devoted to casting in 
 bronze and brass-work, or statuaria. After mak- 
 ing this statement, he goes on to enumerate the 
 principal works in bronze, and then says that por- 
 trait statues WTre long afterwards placed in the 
 Forum and in the atria of private houses ; that 
 clients thus did honor to their patrons, and that 
 in former times the statues thus dedicated were 
 
148 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 dressed in togas : " Togatse effigies antiqiiitiis ita 
 dicabaiitur ; " or ought not " dieabantur " to be 
 dicehcmtm\ — meaning that these statues were 
 called " togatse effigies " ? 
 
 In the chapter we are now considering, he begins 
 by saying that, having already said enough about 
 pictures, he now proposes to append some account 
 of the plastic art. Then he speaks of Dibutades, 
 and relates the story of his making the portrait of 
 the girl he loved ; and adds that he first invented 
 a method of coloring his works in pottery by add- 
 ing red earth or red chalk. Then follows the pas- 
 sage about Lysistratus, who used plaster instead 
 of clay to make portraits, covering it with wax or 
 color to improve the resemblance. After the pas- 
 sages cited, he goes on to mention other celebrated 
 modelers (^plastcB laudatissiini)^ among whom 
 were Damophilus and Gorgasus, who were also 
 painters, and who adorned the Temple of Ceres at 
 Rome by the exercise of both their arts. Accord- 
 ing to Varro, he says, everything in the temples 
 was Tusccniica^ — that is, ancient pottery of the 
 Etruscan school ; and when they were repaired the 
 painted coatings of the walls were removed and 
 framed. He also mentions Chalcosthenes, who 
 executed several works in baked earth. He cites 
 Varro again as saying that Possis at Rome exe- 
 cuted grapes, fruit, and fishes with such truth to 
 Nature that they could not be distinguished from 
 the real things. Dibutades, he also says, invented 
 a method of coloring plastic composition by add- 
 ing red earth. 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 149 
 
 Throughout the chapiter Pliny is not speaking 
 solely of modelers, but most of those he mentions 
 colored their works. The grapes, fruit, and fishes 
 of Possis, the works of Damophilus and Gorgasus, 
 the Tuscanica in the temples, all were colored in 
 imitation of the objects represented. And besides 
 these he mentions particularly the Jupiter of Pa- 
 siteles, made in clay, " et ideo miniari solitmn," — 
 and therefore proper for painting in vermilion. 
 He also speaks of " figlina opera," — earthenware 
 painted in encaustic, — which were on the baths 
 of Agrippa in Rome. All this seems to lend 
 probability to the interpretation of " cera " to 
 mean color and not wax ; at all events, there is 
 not a word about casting, unless the words relat- 
 ing to Lysistratus can be tortured into such a 
 meaning. What adds still more to the probabil- 
 ity that this was the real thought of Pliny in the 
 passage citad is the use of the words " efligies '* 
 and " aro'illa." " Effioies " in Latin is distin- 
 guished from " simulacrum " (which may be a pic- 
 ture as well as a statue), both being representa- 
 tions indicating something which shows they are 
 not life itself, the one being flat and the other color- 
 less ; while " effigies " carries the idea of deception 
 with it, so far as . resemblance goes. Thus Cicero 
 says, " Vidistis non fratrem tuum nee vestigium 
 quidem aut simulacrum, sed effigiem quamdam 
 spirantis mortui." So, also, " argilla " means white 
 clay, and not ordinary clay out of which terra- 
 cotta images were made ; and Pliny may have 
 
150 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 intended by these words to exj)ress the idea that 
 after Lysistratus had made effigies or colored 
 copies of brass or marble statues, white clay was 
 constantly used, for the reason that it was mani- 
 festly better for coloring. This would relieve 
 him from the absurdity of saying that Lysistra- 
 tus invented or led the way in modeling in clay, 
 rather than in the use of white clay which he col- 
 ored. Argilla and gypsum would then be nearly the 
 same thing, both used as a basis for colored walls, 
 upon which " cera " or color was laid or infused. 
 This would clear up the subsequent statement that 
 this art was older than casting in bronze, since it 
 is plain that coloring statues was very ancient. 
 Pausanias mentions two, — one of the Ephesian 
 Diana and one of Bacchus in wood, gilt except the 
 faces, — which were painted with vermilion. So, 
 in the Wisdom of Solomon (ch. xiii. and xv.), 
 images of wood and clay are spoken of, painted 
 in red and vermilion and stained with divers col- 
 ors ; and in 630 B. C. there were images in gold, 
 silver, stone, and wood in Babylon (Baruch, ch. 
 vi. and xiii.), painted and gilded and dressed, and 
 colored purple. 
 
 In his chapter entitled " Honos Imaginum," — 
 the honor attached to portraits, — Pliny says it 
 was the custom of the Romans to adorn their pa- 
 laestra and anointing-rooms with the portraits of 
 athletes (" imaginibus athletarum "), and to carry 
 about on their persons the face of Epicurus (" vul- 
 tus Epicuri ") ; and that they also prized the por- 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 151 
 
 traits of strangers (" alienasque effigies colunt "). 
 Afterwards, contrasting the habits of the Romans 
 of his own day with those of the ancient Romans, 
 he says ; " And since the former have no longer in 
 them any likeness to the minds of their ancestors, 
 they also neglect the likeness of their bodies. How 
 different it was," he continues, " with our ances- 
 tors, who placed in their atria to be gazed at these 
 'imagines,' and not statues by foreign artists in 
 brass or marble, and kept colored portraits of their 
 faces each in its separate case, to serve as ' ima- 
 gines ' to accompany their funerals." ^ It would 
 seem from this that, besides the draped images or 
 effigies in the halls, modeled and colored busts of 
 others of the family, probably of less distinction, 
 were also kept to be dressed up on occasion, made 
 into effigies, and carried in procession. Other 
 " imagines " of the most distinguished personages 
 in the family were placed outside at the threshold 
 of the house, hung with the spoils of the enemy. 
 
 It is of these " expressi cera vultus " and these 
 "imagines" kept by the Romans as proofs of their 
 nobility, and on which their pedigrees were in- 
 scribed, that Ovid speaks when he says, — 
 
 " Per leg'e dispositas generosa per atria ceras." 
 
 On the sale of the house they were not allowed to 
 
 1 Et quoniam animorum imagines non sunt, negliguntur etiam 
 corporum. Aliter apud majores, in atriis hsec erant qua3 specta- 
 rentur, non signa externornm artlficnm, nsc esra ant marmora. 
 Expressi eera vultus singulis disponebantur arniari.s ut essent 
 imagines quae comitarentur gentilici i f unera. — Book 35, ch 2. 
 
152 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 be destroyed or removed, but passed with it, and 
 were bought by " no^^ homines " (men of no fam- 
 ily), and passed off by them as the portraits of 
 their own ancestors, — just as the portraits of War- 
 dour Street are at the present day. Cicero in his 
 invective against Piso cries out, " Obrepsisti ad 
 honores errore hominmn, commendatione fumosa- 
 rum imaginum, quarum simile habes nihil prseter 
 color em ; " and Sallust in liis Jugurtha says, 
 " Quia imagines non habeo, et quia mihi nova no- 
 bilitas est." 
 
 Nor were the Romans singular in this custom of 
 draping figures with real stuffs. The images of 
 the gods in early Greece also were draped and 
 dressed in clothes, and crowns were placed on their 
 heads. They had false hair, too, which was 
 dressed regidarly by attendants, and at stated 
 times they were washed and adorned with jewels 
 and had their dresses arranged, just as if they were 
 alive. In later times this custom died out ; but 
 the colossal Athena's solid drapery of gold was 
 washed at a certain festival appointed for the pur- 
 pose, called Plyntheria. In Kome, however, the 
 custom was maintained to a late day. The images 
 of the temples were adorned with real drapery, 
 and purple mantles were hung on the statues of 
 the emperors. The Greeks did not thus treat 
 their portrait statues, and in this the Eomans were 
 peculiar. 
 
 The Roman " imagines '' and "cerse " were proba- 
 bly executed in plaster or some such material, cer- 
 
THE ART OF CASTIXG IX PLASTER. 153 
 
 tainly not in marble, or otherwise they would have 
 been too hea\y to be carried about in procession. 
 Apparently they resembled the figures which Ly- 
 sistratus first began to make, and the process of 
 coloring them, if we understand " cera " to mean 
 color, was little else than the old practice, called 
 " circumlitio," of covering marble statues with an 
 encaustic varnish of color so as to give them a del- 
 icate and tinted surface. The most salient example 
 of this is to be found in the anecdote told of 
 Praxiteles, who, when he was asked which of his 
 statues he most admired, answered, " Those that 
 Nicias has colored," — " quibus Nicias manum ad- 
 mo\4sset," — Nicias, who in his youth was cele- 
 brated as a painter of statues, aya\}xdriov lyKava-Trj^, 
 
 having assisted him, ''in statuis circumliendis." 
 A similar process, called KaiVi?, was also employed 
 in finishing walls, and is thus described by Yitru- 
 vius : After the wall had received its color, it was 
 covered with Punic wax and oil, which was laid on 
 evenly with a hard brush, and then half melted or 
 infused into a smooth surface by mo^'ing a " caute- 
 rium," or pan of hot coals, close over it : and after 
 that it was rubbed with a candle and a clean linen 
 cloth. 
 
 This process, then, was old as applied to marble 
 statues and to plaster walls. AVhat was new in 
 the work of Lvsistratus was that he united the 
 two methods, by modeling in plaster the general 
 likeness and then finishing the surface in encaus- 
 tic. It was an old process with a new application. 
 
154 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 To explain such a process, what could be clearer 
 than the words Pliny uses ? We do not need to 
 warp a word from its ordinary significance. Ly- 
 sistratus made portraits in plaster from life, and 
 improved them by color laid on to the model. He 
 thus made realistic, exact resemblances, whereas 
 before him artists had sought only to make heads 
 as beautiful as possible. 
 
 What, then, were the " effigies de signis " that 
 he made ? We have already seen that the term 
 "effigies" had a significance of reality and absolute 
 imitation, and corresponded in great measure to 
 the English word effigy, meaning colored effigies 
 with real dresses, — like those of Madame Tussaud, 
 for instance. The "imagines" and "cerse" of the 
 ancient Romans were very much like them; and 
 does not Pliny mean to say that Lysistratus copied 
 marble or brass statues, or pictures, and made these 
 effigies from them, coloring them so as to add to 
 the likeness, and clothing them with real draj)eries ? 
 and that this so grew into vogue that thencefor- 
 ward there were no statues which were not thus 
 copied in plaster or "argilla"? — using the term 
 "argilla," or white clay, as equivalent to gypsum, 
 with which possibly the plaster was mixed. As 
 " argilla " was the foundation with which the an- 
 cient panels were prepared for painting, this would 
 seem most appropriate in such case. 
 
 Such would be the figures alluded to by Lucian, 
 or by Lexiphanes when he says, " If you cull the 
 flower of all these various beauties, you will in 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 155 
 
 your eloquence be like tliose makers of figures in 
 wax and clay [or argilla] in the Forum, colored 
 outside with minium and blue, and inside only 
 fragile clay." 
 
 According to this interpretation of the passage 
 in Pliny, it not only becomes intelligible as a 
 whole, but is consistent and without contradiction ; 
 whereas, if we suppose that he meant to indicate 
 the process of casting in plaster, his statements 
 are not only entirely obscure and inconsecutive, 
 but ignorant and contradictory. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ix the previous chapter we have critically con- 
 sidered the text of Pliny bearing upon the ques- 
 tion whether the ancient Greeks and Romans were 
 acquainted with the art of casting. Let us now 
 proceed to some general considerations as to the 
 probability that this art was known and practiced 
 by them. 
 
 In the first place, the distinction between mod- 
 eling and casting must be constantly kept in mind, 
 and care must be taken not to confound the two 
 totally different terms "mould" and 'Vmodel." 
 That gypsum was used in modeling there can be 
 no doubt, and it is quite possible that it may have 
 been used to fill prepared moulds of stone, terra 
 cotta, or other materials for the making of ectypa. 
 There is indeed no iDroof of this ; but as we know 
 
156 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 that moulds were made and cut in stone, into 
 which clay was pressed, to be then withdrawn and 
 baked for ectypa with which to adorn houses, so 
 also it is possible that gypsum may have been 
 used for this purpose. This, however, is merely a 
 supposition, and the fact that none of them have 
 ever been found in plaster renders it highly im- 
 probable. In these ectypa of clay, as v/ell as in 
 the impressions taken from them, there are no in- 
 dications of anything like what we call a piece- 
 mould, composed of many sections ; and whenever 
 there are under-cuttings in the ectypa, which could 
 not be withdrawn from the mould and which 
 would fasten them into it, these parts of the 
 ectypa are invariably worked by hand. For in- 
 stance, in the collection of Mr. Fol in Rome there 
 are several terra-cotta figures of low relief evi- 
 dently stamped from a moidd, which are aj)plique, 
 or fastened subsequently to the cista of which 
 they form a part. The sutures under each figure 
 are still visible, but they are all corrected and 
 worked by hand after being withdrawn, and have 
 e\ddently suffered in being removed from the 
 moidd. In the same collection there are several 
 specimens of plaster reliefs, with such deej) under- 
 cuttings that they could not have been withdrawn 
 from a single piece-mould ; but all these under-cut- 
 tings are freely worked by hand, showing plainly 
 that they were not in the stamp or mould ; and it 
 is also clear that they were afterwards worked 
 over with fluid plaster, the edges and flats of 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 157 
 
 which have not been rounded, but left as it was 
 freely laid on by hand. It is probable that in 
 these cases plaster was pressed into a mould in 
 the same manner as clay, and afterwards worked 
 up and finished. But the slightest examination 
 will show clearly that if a mould was employed 
 to give a general form to them, it certainly was 
 not a piece-mould ; and that they are not castings 
 in the modern sense of the word, but only rude 
 stamps. 
 
 These, are the only specimens, however, so far as 
 we are aware, of any such use of plaster for low- 
 relief ornaments, — the ectypa which have been 
 preserved to us being invariably of baked clay. 
 If plaster had been used for this purpose, we 
 should expect to find casts in the interior of houses 
 or tombs, where they would be protected from the 
 weather, and where they could be easily intro- 
 duced into the walls and ceilings. But though 
 elaborately ornamented designs in relief, worked 
 in gypsum, are to be found still fresh and unin- 
 jured on the ancient tombs and baths, all of them 
 were freely and rapidly modeled by hand while 
 the gypsum was still fresh and plastic, and not a 
 single specimen of cast plaster has been found. It 
 is but a few years since the tombs in the Via 
 Latina were opened, and in two of them the ceil- 
 ings, divided into compartments, were covered 
 with rich and fantastic designs of flowers, fruit, 
 arabes:|ue3, groups of imaginary animals, sea- 
 nymphs, and human figures ; the designs varying 
 
158 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 in each compartment, and all modeled in tlie 
 plaster with remarkable vivacity and spirit : not 
 one of them was cast. So in the houses at Pom- 
 peii, not a vestige of a figure or ornament cast in 
 plaster has ever been found, — nor a mould in 
 plaster ; and when one considers that, being com- 
 pletely protected, they would naturally have sur- 
 vived as well as other far more fragile and de- 
 structible objects which have been preserved, the 
 evidence is almost absolute that they never could 
 have existed there. If so, it is in the highest 
 degree probable that they existed nowhere. It 
 would seem plain, then, that even the first, sim- 
 plest, and most natural processes of casting in gyp- 
 sum were unknown to the ancients, fov no other 
 process is so easy and simple as to fill a flat mould 
 with plaster and then remove it, provided there 
 are no under-cuttings. In doing this, however, 
 there is a slight practical difficulty if the mould 
 is in one piece, as the least under-cutting would 
 render it impossible to remove the cast without 
 injury or breakage. Indeed, though there were 
 no under-cutting, it would at least be very cliM- 
 cult to remove the plaster from a mould in one 
 piece. Clay would be removed with far greater 
 ease because of its pliancy, and any cracks or im- 
 perfections could be at once remedied ; add to 
 this that baked clay is one of the most enduring 
 of materials, and we have the probable reasons 
 why the ancients used it instead of gypsum. But 
 whatever may have been their reasons, it is per- 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 159 
 
 fectly clear that tliey did use clay ; and we have 
 no e\ddence that they ever used plaster. 
 
 This use of gypsum to take impressions from 
 flat moulds is suggested by Theophrastus, it woidd 
 seem, in his treatise on mineralog}^,^ in which he 
 says that plaster "seems better than other ma- 
 terials to receive impressions." The term a-o/xay/xa 
 means nothing more than an impression, such as 
 one makes in wax from a seal ring, and such as is 
 common still in plaster ; it is to this use that he 
 seems to refer. He does not say, however, that 
 gypsum was really put to this use ; and if it were, 
 it woidd advance us little in our inquiry, since any 
 material which is soft will receive an impression, 
 whether it be bread, pitch, clay, wax, or any sim- 
 ilar substance. 
 
 But the step from this simple process of stamp- 
 ing in a shallow mould to casting from life or 
 from the round is enormous. The difficidties are 
 multiplied a hundred - fold. It is no longer a 
 simple operation, but a nice and complicated one* 
 The part to be cast must first be oiled or soaped, 
 then covered with plaster of about the consistency 
 of rich cream, then divided into sections while the 
 material is still tender, so as to enable the mould 
 to be withdrawn part by part w^ithout breakage, 
 then allowed to set, then removed, oiled or soaped 
 on the interior surface, the parts all properly 
 replaced, fluid plaster poured into the mould, — 
 and finally, after the cast is set, the mould must 
 
 ^ Aiacpeprjv Se SoksT koI Trphs ra dTro/zay/iara irokh tuv aWwu» 
 
160 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 be carefully removed by a hammer and cliiseL 
 This is an elaborate process as applied to an arm 
 or a hand, but when applied to a living face it is 
 not only difficult but disagreeable, and unless due 
 care be used it may be dangerous ; and after all 
 a cast from the face is hard, forced, anl unnatural 
 in its character and impression, however skillfully 
 it may be done, and can only serve the sculptor 
 as the basis of his work. Yet if the common in- 
 terpretation of the passage in Pliny be accurate, 
 this is the process which was invented and prac- 
 ticed by Lysistratus, and by means of which he 
 made portraits. Credat Judceus ! With all our 
 knowledge and practice, we do not find this to 
 answer in our own time. 
 
 But to cast from a statue in clay is still more 
 difficult and complicated ; there the extremest 
 care and nicety are required in making the proper 
 divisions, in extracting the clay and irons, recom- 
 mitting the sections, and breaking off the outer 
 shell of the mould. In fact, the modern process 
 is so complicated that no one can see it without 
 wondering how it ever came to be so thought out 
 and perfected, or without being convinced that it 
 must have been slowly arrived at by many steps 
 and many failures. 
 
 That statues were modeled in plaster by the 
 ancients there is no doubt. Pausanias mentions 
 several ; ^ and Spartianus ^ also speaks of " Three 
 
 1 Lib. ix. ch. 23 ; Lib. i. ch. 40 ; Lib. viii. ch. 22. 
 
 2 Spartian , Sev. Hadrian., 22. 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 161 
 
 Victories " in plaster, witli palms in their hands, 
 erected at one of the games, — and says that on 
 one of the days of the Circensian games when ac- 
 cording to common custom they were erected, the 
 central one on which the name of Severus was in- 
 scribed, and which bore a globe, was thrown down 
 by a gust of wind from the podium, and that 
 another bearing the name of Geta on it also fell 
 and was shattered to pieces. 
 
 Firmicus ^ also relates that after Zagreus, son of 
 Jupiter, was slain by the Titans, his body was cut 
 to pieces and thrown into a cauldron, from which 
 Minerva rescued the heart and carried it to Jupi- 
 ter. He then gave it to Semele, who resuscitated 
 Zagreus, and Jupiter afterwards preserved his 
 likeness in plaster, — " Ex gypso plastico opere 
 perfecit." 
 
 Mr. Perkins cites all these instances, and says : 
 " They authorize us to believe that the Greeks and 
 Romans practiced casting in plaster." But in 
 saying this he altogether overlooks the very plain 
 distinction between the two entirely different op- 
 erations of casting and modeling. We know that 
 they modeled in plaster ; the only question is 
 whether they cast in that material. The term 
 for casting, as we have stated, was " fundere," and 
 is always used when real casting in brass or other 
 metal is spoken of ; but nowhere is the term " fun- 
 dere " applied to any work in gypsum. " Ars 
 
 ^ De Errore Profanarum Beligionum. Vid. LobecJc aqlaopham, 
 p. 571. 
 
162 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 fundencli sero " is constantly spoken of, — " ars 
 funclendi gypso " never. Besides, the very phrase 
 " ex gypso plastico opere perfecit "is at variance 
 with casting. The words "' plastico " and "opere " 
 mean modeling, and nothing else. 
 
 But throughout this paper by Mr. Perkins these 
 two completely distinct processes are constantly 
 confounded with each other. It suffices for him 
 to find a statement in an ancient writer that any- 
 thing is made in plaster, or even an allusion to a 
 plaster statue, and at once he jumps to the conclu- 
 sion that the statue was necessarily cast, and not 
 shapen or modeled. 
 
 " It remains for us now," he says, " to establish 
 by undeniable proof how little foundation there 
 is for the opinion of those who pretend that the 
 ancients did not make use of plaster for casting, 
 supporting their opinion on the complete absence 
 of statues and statuettes in plaster, or fragments 
 of any kind found in excavations, when neverthe- 
 less thousands of objects of the frailest kind are 
 found, such as stuccoes, vases, terra cotta, glass, 
 wax heads, etc. If it be true that the inclemencies 
 of weather and atmospheric agents coidd cause the 
 disappearance of plaster saturated with humidity, 
 or placed in conditions favorable to its destruction, 
 it does not necessarily follow that these conditions 
 always reproduce themselves. It suffices, to con- 
 vince one's self of this, to glance at the plates 67, 
 76, 85, in the magnificent work published at St. 
 Petersburg on the antiquities of the Cimmerian 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 163 
 
 Bosphorus. These plates represent plasters pre- 
 served in the Museum of the Hermitage, coming 
 from a tomb on Mount Mithridates opened in 
 1832, and from another tomb at Kertch excavated 
 in 1843. These plasters date back to the fourth 
 century before our era.^ Adorned with various 
 colors and executed in relief, they were destined 
 to be attached as ornaments to other objects, such 
 as sarcophagi, pilasters, walls, etc.'' 
 
 Well ! what if they were ? Is this any proof 
 that they were cast ? Mr. Perkins is easily satis- 
 fied, if he is assured of this fact by looking at 
 engraved plates. Are they all of the same size ? 
 Are they identical, as they would be if they were 
 cast from the sauie moidd, or are they like all 
 other plaster and stucco work of the ancients of 
 which we are cognizant, — ornaments modeled by 
 hand ? or are they pressures from a flat, shallow 
 mould, like the ectypa? If the latter, they are 
 almost unique ; and so far they prove that the 
 artists who made them understood this first and 
 simplest process of casting, or rather of stamping. 
 But from plates it would be impossible to deter- 
 mine this fact, and Mr. Perkins gives us no reason 
 to think they are unlike all the other ancient 
 stucco work. He does not profess to have seen 
 and examined them for himself ; at all events, one 
 
 1 As Lysistratiis and his brother lived about the 114th Olym- 
 piad (324 B. c), if these works found at Kertch were plaster 
 casts, it is plain that Lysistratus did not invent casting-, since 
 these were before his time ; and if Pliny means to say that he 
 did, he is evidently quite wrong. 
 
164 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 fact is clear, that these, if they are in plaster, are 
 painted plaster. 
 
 In the British Museum there exist some of theso 
 so-called casts in plaster from Cyrenaica and from 
 Kertch. Undoubtedly they are nearer to being 
 true casts than anything else which has as yet been 
 discovered ; but, after all, a careful examination 
 of them will show that they are not casts in the 
 legitimate sense of the word, but merely stamps 
 for a mould, and fashioned in precisely the same 
 way that was employed in making the hollow 
 terra cottas. To make these, a very rude stamp 
 was executed, with no under-cuttings of any kind, 
 everything being filled up which could impede the 
 removal of the clay, which was pressed into the 
 stamp, then carefully extracted again and finished 
 by hand. All the terra-cotta reliefs called ectypa 
 were made in this way, and some of the moulds 
 still exist, — not one of tliem, however, in plaster. 
 The same process was employed to make some of 
 the figures of terra cotta in the round, by making 
 a mould of two pieces divided in the middle, of 
 a very generalized form, with no under-cuttings. 
 Into each of these moulds a quantity of clay was 
 squeezed ; the two parts were then removed care- 
 fully, and joined together. A general form was 
 thus obtained, and the artist proceeded to model 
 and to finish it with more or less care. In this way 
 not only ectypa were made in clay and afterwards 
 baked, but also small flat ornaments which were 
 afterwards applique, or fastened on to flat or round 
 
THE ART OF CASTIXG IX PLASTER. 165 
 
 surfaces, — as on to oista. This is the process by 
 which frag-ments of the figures from Cyrenaica 
 and Kertcli in the British Museum were made. The 
 junction of the two halves is clear. The work is 
 very rude; there are no under- cuttings : every- 
 thing* is filled up which would in the least impede 
 the withdrawal of the material from the stamp. 
 There is, for instance, an arm and hand, with the 
 interstices of the fingers quite filled up. But 
 what clearly proves that these figures were not 
 cast, as distinguished from stamped, is the head. 
 Here the hair being adorned with a wreath with 
 under-cuttings, it could not be withdrawn from the 
 stamp without destroying it, and it is entirely ap- 
 plique, or worked on to the head after it was re- 
 moved. Had it been cast, there would have been 
 no such difficulty. Nor. again, is it quite clear 
 that the material of these figures is pure gypsimi. 
 It would rather seem to be a mixture of gypsum 
 with white clay, or argilla, to give it flexibility, 
 and enable it to be withdra^^'n from the mould. 
 Indeed, it may here be observed that it is in every 
 way probable that the gypsum used by the an- 
 cients in modeling and ornamental work was dif- 
 ferently prepared from that wdiich we now use, and 
 was mixed with some material which prevented 
 it from setting rapidly, and g^ave it strength, duc- 
 tility, and plasticity. Otherwise it is difficult to 
 see how such works as those in the tombs of the 
 Via Latina, which no one can doubt are modeled 
 by hand, could have been executed with at once 
 
w 
 
 166 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 SO much finish and freedom. Gypsum, as we use 
 it, would set too soon to enable us to work it in 
 such a manner. In the tombs of the Via Latina 
 which were lately discovered, it is worked as freely 
 as if it were clay, and was plainly so prej)ared as 
 to enable the artist to take his own time in mod- 
 eling, without fear of its hardening — or, as we 
 call it, setting — immediately. 
 
 This, then, is nothing new. It is not casting, 
 and these figures are not casts. They are stamps, 
 just like the ectypa of terra cotta. We know that 
 KopoKoa/xLa ov doUs were anciently made in this way 
 of wax and gypsum, or of terra cotta ; and these 
 
 are KopoKocr/xta« 
 
 To infer from the fact that the Greeks knew 
 and practiced the art of pressing into shallow 
 moulds of stone, without under-cuttings, either 
 clay, pitch, wax, or plaster, that they also under- 
 stood and practiced the art of making moulds and 
 casts from life or from the round is utterly unwar- 
 rantable. Nothing is more simple than the one 
 art, while the other is extremely complex. The 
 one is merely like making an impression from a 
 seal, which would naturally suggest itself to the 
 first person who left the pressure of his foot in 
 clay or mud ; the other requires various processes 
 of calculation and invention. In inventions it Ts 
 not always or ordinarily the first step which costs, 
 but the subsequent and calculated steps. Cen- 
 turies often elapse between the first step and the 
 second, A remarkable instance of this is to be 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 167 
 
 found in the history of the invention of printing. 
 The first steps to this wonderful art were taken by 
 the ancient Romans ; the very process by which 
 we now print was known and practiced by them ; 
 but the application of it to the printing of books 
 does not seem to have occurred to their minds. It 
 cannot, however, but appear most extraordinary 
 that the idea of printing should not have occurred 
 to them when we consider the facts of the case. 
 Pliny relates that Cato published a book contain- 
 ing portraits of distinguished persons of his time, 
 of which there were many copies ; and so far as 
 we can conjecture, these copies were probably 
 stamped on parchment or some such material, and 
 afterwards colored. Putting this together with 
 the fact that ancient bricks have been lately found 
 in Rome with names and numbers stamped upon 
 them by means of movable types, so that the num- 
 bers or letters could be arranged at will, we might 
 absolutely state that the ancient Romans under- 
 stood and practiced the art of printing. They 
 certainly did print on their brick ; they probably 
 stamped the portraits of cuts in their books, — 
 but so far as we know they never united the pro- 
 cesses, and never stamped a book with movable 
 types. Adopting Mr. Perkins's method of argu- 
 ment, we might declare, however, that the mere 
 fact that none of these printed books have ever 
 come down to us was entirely inconclusive, since 
 these books might have utterly perished ; while 
 we have the clearest proof that they did print with 
 
168 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS, 
 
 movable types on brick, and therefore it is plain 
 that they invented printing. The step from one 
 of these processes to the other does indeed seem so 
 evident, so natural, almost so inevitable, that we 
 are puzzled to imagine how they could ever have 
 overlooked it. Yet there is little doubt that they 
 did. But from the simple fact of stamping in 
 clay or plaster to the complex process of making 
 moulds and casts in the round requires not one 
 step but many, and each one of them requires 
 calculation and invention. Indeed, if the art were 
 now to be lost, it would be easy to conceive that 
 centuries might pass before it would be rein- 
 vented. 
 
 In the collection of Mr. Fol of Rome, of which 
 we have heretofore spoken, there are some inter- 
 esting fragments of ancient statuettes in the round, 
 very carefully finished in plaster, being the leg and 
 thigh of one, and the half-breast and a portion of 
 the torso of another. These are as carefully fin- 
 ished as if they were in marble, but they are elabo- 
 rately worked by hand in the plaster, and not cast. 
 These are exceedingly interesting as showing the 
 method of the ancients in working in plaster, and 
 they clearly illustrate the process of Lysistratus as 
 described by Pliny, — the only difference being 
 that the surface is of gypsum and not of wax, or 
 color. The interior or core of these fragments, 
 which is solid, is of lime, or a coarse kind of g}q3- 
 sum, and over the surface of this core is sjoread a 
 thin coating of fine gypsum, which has been elab- 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 169 
 
 orately worked and smoothed on while it was fluid. 
 The touches and creases on the surface are those of 
 a modeler's hand and stick, and it differs in every 
 way from a cast. It is therefore plain that the 
 artist first made a core, or rough " imaginem " or 
 "formam," of coarse gypsum, and that he improved, 
 emended, and finished the surface, not by means 
 of "cera infusa in earn formam gypsi," but of 
 gypsum spread over it, — just as Lysistratus did. 
 The language of Pliny is an exact description of 
 this process. 
 
 Again, a strong negative indication that gypsum 
 was not used for casting, or indeed to any extent in 
 modeling, is to be found in the chapter by Pliny on 
 gypsum. " Its use is," he says, " to whitewash 
 [or parget], and to make small figures to ornament 
 houses, and for wreaths." He also adds that it is 
 a good medicine for pains in the stomach ; but he 
 entirely omits to mention that it was ever used for 
 casting. Is it possible to believe that if it were so 
 used he would not have alluded even to such a 
 fact ? Would it be conceivable that at the pres- 
 ent day a chapter could be written on plaster of 
 Paris, omitting its employment for the purpose of 
 casting ? After giving us this enumeration of the 
 uses to which gypsum is applied, Pliny goes on to 
 describe its nature, tell where it is found, and 
 name the different kinds ; and he concludes with 
 no allusion to any other use than what he has pre- 
 viously stated. 
 
 Again, Pliny in the chapter on Lysistratus — 
 
170 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 which it must be remembered, is devoted to model- 
 ing — mentions one fact which seems to be incon- 
 sistent with any knowledge at that time of casting. 
 Arcesilaus, he says, modeled a drinking-cup or 
 mixing-bowl in plaster, which he sold to Octavius, 
 a Eoman knight, ^ for a talent (£250). It is im- 
 possible to believe that such an enormous price 
 would have been given for a mere plaster bowl. If 
 the process of casting from it was then understood, 
 Arcesilaus might have repeated it in cast a thou- 
 sand times, and the original and the cast being in 
 the same material, one would have been quite as 
 good as the other, if retouched. Yet lie seems 
 only to have made one, and to have asked a talent 
 for that. Again, Lucullus made a contract with 
 this same artist to model for him in plaster a 
 statue of Fabatus, for which he agreed to pay him 
 no less than 60,000 sesterces, or ,£530. 
 
 It is worth noting, too, as a curious fact, that 
 just at the very time when Lysistratus is supposed 
 to have invented plaster-casting, the art of brass- 
 casting began to decline in character and style, 
 and soon after seems to have died out and been 
 lost ; at all events, Pliny tells us that soon after 
 the 120th Olympiad the art perished, — '* cessavit 
 deinde ars." And as Lysistratus lived only about 
 twenty-five years previously, it would be singular 
 to find one of these arts dying out just as the other 
 was being developed, 
 
 Mr, Perkins also thinks it valuable to teU us 
 1 Plioy says " exemplar." 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 171 
 
 that Canova was of opinion that the sculptors of 
 antiquity made finished sketches, and then by- 
 means of proportional compasses enlarged them and 
 took points on the marble ; and he adds, " We 
 should weigh these words of a great sculptor who 
 devoted himself to the most minute researches on 
 this subject, as well as to everything that had 
 relation to the fine arts." 
 
 We agree that we should weigh the words of 
 this distinguished sculptor, though we were not 
 aware before that he was a profound archaeologist, 
 or had made minute researches on this subject. 
 But how in any way does this tend to prove that 
 the ancient Greeks and Romans knew how to cast 
 in plaster ? We are equally unable to see the pre- 
 cise bearing on this question of the fact also stated 
 by him, that the drill is supposed by some to have 
 been invented by Callimachus, and by others to 
 have been used long before ; or that the pointing 
 of a statue was probably known to the Greeks, and 
 certainly to the Romans. 
 
 Yet in a certain way the opinion of Canova that 
 the ancients made small sketches, and by propor- 
 tional compasses transferred their proportions, 
 measures, and general forms to their large works, 
 has an argumentative relation to the subject differ- 
 ent from what Mr. Perkins probably supposed. 
 This opinion is undoubtedly well founded, and 
 accepting it as such, what does it indicate ? That 
 the process of easting in plaster was known to 
 the ancients? By no means. So far as it goes, 
 
172 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 it proves diametrically the opposite, — as Mr. 
 Perkins might have seen, had he weighed the 
 words of this great sculptor. 
 
 In fact, this leads us to one of the strongest ar- 
 guments against the opinion apparently advocated 
 by Mr. Perkins. Had the ancients knowoi how to 
 cast in plaster from the model, as they knew how 
 to cast in bronze, this process of making small 
 statuettes and enlarging therefrom would have 
 been quite unnecessary. They would thus have 
 escaped the incorrectness which is unavoidable in 
 such a process, by at once making their models of 
 full size, and completely finishing them in clay or 
 other plastic material before transferring them to 
 the marble. Their .process probably was to make 
 a small statuette in clay, and then bake it or dry 
 it. Put in transferring proportionally this small 
 figure into a large one, an objection occurs. De- 
 fects scarcely perceptible in a small figure become 
 gross defects when multiplied into a large one. 
 Not only variations of one eighth of an inch more 
 or less in small particulars in a figure a foot high 
 would alter entirely the relative proportions of a 
 figure eight feet high, but other inaccuracies inev- 
 itably occurring in enlarging by proportional com- 
 passes would increase these disproportions, so that 
 the increased figure would be invariably untrue in 
 its effect and in its measures. Now this is pre- 
 cisely what is apparent to any one who carefully 
 studies the antique statues. Even in works show- 
 ing the highest artistic knowledge and skill, the 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 173 
 
 want of correspondence of measures and propor- 
 tions between the two sides of the figure is very 
 manifest ; and the larger they are the more this is 
 exhibited. Thus, to take one of the highest ex- 
 amples, in the Theseus we find astonishing know- 
 ledge and artistic skill in treatment, beside dis- 
 agreements of measurement in corresponding parts, 
 which are evidently the result of the defective 
 mechanical process of enlargement. The legs are 
 beautifully modeled, but of unequal length, — one 
 being much longer in the thigh than the other. 
 The same observation is true of the clavicle, and 
 indeed throughout the statue. Now even an in- 
 ferior artist would have seen and avoided these 
 mistakes in modeling the statue full size, but the 
 defect would be easily passed over by the eye in 
 the small sketch, particularly if the statuette were 
 merely a sketch, as was in all probability the usual 
 case. It would be difficult to believe that an artist 
 with the mastery shown in this statue would not 
 have seen and corrected these mistakes, had the 
 model of this figure been of the same size. This 
 of course he perceived after the points were taken 
 in the marble and the work was roughed out, but 
 then it was too late to remedy them. This diffi- 
 culty hj3 and all other artists must constantly have 
 felt. The question was how to avoid it. Nothing 
 could have been more simple, if the modern pro- 
 cess of casting in plaster from the clay model had 
 been known to them. They would simply have 
 modeled the statue in clay of its full size, cast it in 
 
174 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 plaster, and been sure of its exact proportions and 
 measures. 
 
 Let us take one step further. Had they under- 
 stood the modern process of casting in plaster 
 from the clay or from a statue, they could from the 
 cast have multiplied in marble the same statue any 
 number of times, identically or with such minute 
 differences as few eyes could perceive. The re- 
 piiche in a modern sculptor's studio are scarcely to 
 be distinguished from each other, and there would 
 have been no difficulty in doing the same thing in 
 an ancient sculptor's studio. What is the fact 
 known ? So far from this being the case, not only 
 are there comparatively very few repliche even of 
 the most famous statues, for which there would 
 necessarily be a great demand, but even in the 
 various repliche which we have there are not only 
 no two which approach to identity either in atti- 
 tude or in size, but one can scarcely say of any of 
 them that the artist had more at best than a vivid 
 recollection of the original or of some other replica, 
 much less that he had it before him to copy even 
 by eye. Often the attitude is changed, as well as 
 the size and proportions ; sometimes the action is 
 reversed ; and in all cases such differences exist 
 as it is impossible that the clumsiest worlanan 
 could have made with a cast of the original before 
 him. Nor do we read or hear of any copies in our 
 sense of copy ; that is, exact reproduction of any 
 of the great works of the great sculptors. Look, 
 for instance, at the Venus of the Capitol and the 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 175 
 
 Venus de Medici and the St. Petersburg Venus ; 
 tliey are all repliche of the renowned statue by- 
 Praxiteles, but beyond the general attitude there 
 is no resemblance, not so much as any clever artist 
 of to-day could make from mere recollection. Look 
 again at the poi-ti-ait busts ; how many are there 
 of Marcus Aurelius, Octavius Caesar, and Lucius 
 Verus ! — and no two of them approaching iden- 
 tity. Of the thousands of statues which have been 
 excavated, no two are exact copies from the same 
 model. There is at best nothing more than a 
 family resemblance among those which are most 
 alike. Would this be possible, if the ancients 
 knew and practiced the art of casting in plaster as 
 we do ? It would seem to be utterly impossible, 
 or at least improbable to the highest degree. 
 
 Again, why should not the great artists them- 
 selves, or their scholars, have made repliche of 
 their famous statues ? Nothing would have been 
 easier had there been any casts from them. They 
 were greatly coveted, and the prices paid for the 
 original works were enormous, — so enormous that 
 the largest prices of our day shrink into insignifi- 
 cance beside them. For the famous nude Venus 
 by Praxiteles, Athens, in her extreme desire to 
 possess it, offered in exchange to pay the whole 
 public debt of the state to which it belonged. 
 This offer, however, was peremptorily refused. Yet 
 what could have been more easy, had a cast of it 
 been in existence, or had they known how^ to make 
 one, than for Praxiteles or his scholars to have 
 
176 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 made an exact replica, fully equal to the original 
 or even superior to it, with additional touches of 
 the master's hand ? That this was never done, or 
 hinted at, proves that, the statue once having 
 passed out of the artist's hands, he could repeat it 
 from memory only by aid of his sketch ; and this 
 would not only have cost him as much labor as 
 making a new statue, but would in no sense have 
 been identical. Again, is it to be supposed that if 
 Polyclitus had an absolute cast of his life-size 
 statue of the Doryphoros which would have en- 
 abled him to repeat it with exactness, the original 
 would have commanded such a price as one hun- 
 dred talents, or £25,000 ? Or is it possible to 
 suppose that Arcesilaus would have received a 
 gold talent (X250) for a plaster bowl which could 
 have been repeated by casting, for almost nothing ? 
 It was because it was modeled, and the modern 
 process of casting in a piece-mould was unknown, 
 that it commanded such a price. Here making 
 a rude stamp without under-cuttings would not 
 suffice. The finesse of the work could not be 
 given, and the work would have been destroyed or 
 greatly injured in the attempt. 
 
 If it be a fact that the Greeks and Romans 
 knew this process, one would naturally expect to 
 find at least some fragments of casts or moulds in 
 plaster of their great works, — as for instance of 
 their small and exquisite Corinthian bronzes, if not 
 of their large figures. But, so far as we are aware, 
 nothing of the kind has ever been found. The 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN FLATTER. Ill 
 
 whole city of Pompeii in the height of its luxury 
 was buried under a fall of ashes, which for many 
 long centuries preserved the most refined, fragile, 
 and delicate utensils and works of art ; and it is 
 but a few years since that we removed these ashes 
 and explored its houses and rooms which had been 
 untouched since that fatal calamity befell them 
 of which Pliny gives us so vivid an account. It 
 is on the statements of the younger Pliny himself 
 that those rely who claim that the ancients laiew 
 and practiced casting in plaster. Long before his 
 day, then, this art had been invented ; and we 
 should naturally expect to find some specimens of 
 it in this city of luxury, among its pictures, its 
 vases, its statues, and its glass. But in all Pompeii 
 there has not been found a vestige of a casting in 
 plaster. Its stuccoes still remain, the bas-reliefs 
 worked in plaster on its walls are still uninjured, 
 its paintings are still fresh, its vases unbroken, its 
 household utensils perfect. Hermetically sealed 
 up under that mound of ashes, there was nothing 
 to injure a cast in any house, if it existed. But 
 there is absolutely nothing of the kind. Yet this 
 was a people devoted to art, and whose houses 
 were filled with knick-laiacks of every kind. We 
 find the sculptor's studio, but there is not a 
 cast in it, -nor is there the shop of a caster. It 
 is plain, therefore, that there was not a cast in 
 Pompeii. 
 
 But if anywhere there were casts from the round 
 there were also piece-moulds from the round. 
 
178 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 Where are they ? Has any person ever heard of 
 one ? Now a hollow cast is comparatively a fra- 
 gile object ; but a plaster mould, saturated as it 
 must be with oil, is anything but a fragile object. 
 Sheltered from the inclemencies of storm and rain, 
 it would last for thousands of years, and would 
 even resist a century of exposure to the weather 
 of Italy. But not underground nor aboveground 
 anywhere has such a thing been found. What- 
 ever moulds have been found are fit only for 
 mere stamping. They are extremely rude, with- 
 out under-cuttings, and seem merely to give a gen- 
 eral shape. They are not cast upon anything, 
 but worked out by hand, and are not in plaster. 
 They are all small ; nothing ever has been found 
 which is either a mould, or a cast from life, or 
 from a statue, or from a vase or bowl, or any care- 
 ful work of art. 
 
 An ancient manufactory of terra cotta has been 
 lately discovered and unearthed at Arezzo in Tus- 
 cany, and a large number of moulds was found, 
 taken apparently from vases executed originally on 
 some hard metal, probably in silver. The figures 
 on these moulds are of the most exquisite design 
 and execution, and for beauty and delicacy of finish 
 exceed anything which remains to us of Greek or 
 Etruscan art. There are no under-cu^tings, and 
 the relief is so low and flat as to yield an impres- 
 sion scarcely, if at all, higher than a seal or intag- 
 lio. All these moulds, however, are in terra cotta. 
 Not one is in plaster, though in this material they 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 179 
 
 could have been executed more easily and exactly, 
 and could have been reproduced in the original 
 size. Of course, first taken, as they were, in soft 
 clay, then baked, they of necessity shrank in size 
 and were subject to warping and cracking, all 
 which defects would have been avoided had they 
 been made in plaster. All this would indicate that 
 the use of plaster in making moulds was not prac- 
 ticed at that period, even in such a simple opera/- 
 tion as this. 
 
 In face of this we must say we do not agree 
 with Mr. Perkins when he thinks he " establishes 
 by undeniable proof how little founded is the 
 opinion of those who pretend that the ancients did 
 not practice casting in plaster, — sustaining it by 
 the complete absence of statues and statuettes of 
 plaster or fragments of any kind in the excava- 
 tions, when nevertheless thousands of objects are 
 found of the most fragile nature ; " and especially 
 when the undeniable proof which he offers is the 
 existence of some works and arabesque ornaments 
 in plaster found at Kertch, and supposed to belong 
 to the fourth century before the Christian era, and 
 which apparently he has never seen. On the con- 
 trary, we should like to know how he explains the 
 fact that no indubitable ancient moulds or castings 
 have ever been found. 
 
 But Mr. Perkins does not seem to reason beyond 
 his texts. lie does not discuss the probabilities of 
 the case ; he does not undertake to account for, or 
 to harmonize with his view, the great fact that 
 
180 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 nothing lias been found of ancient art cast in 
 plaster. Outside of what is written in books he 
 does not venture. He does not even seem to have 
 a clear opinion of his own. He says, " Sur ce point 
 [casting in plaster] les textes nous laissent dans 
 les tenebres. Faut-il s'en etonner ? Non ! Les 
 auteurs classiques trompent notre curiosite sur des 
 choses d'un bien autre intent. Que nous disent-ils 
 des vases peints, dont les musees de I'Europe re- 
 gorgent ? Rien," etc. Well, if the texts leave us 
 in darkness, are we then to know nothing and to 
 think nothing? Are we not to exercise our minds, 
 and if a doubtful text seems to indicate a fact 
 utterly at variance with our reason and with the 
 facts we know, are we to treat that text as a 
 fetich, and bow down and worship it, because it is 
 written in a book ? Are we to endeavor to wrench 
 everything into harmony with it ? Or, if it will 
 not agree with facts of which there is no doubt, 
 are we liot rather to sacrifice the text than our own 
 reason ? And especially, are we to pay such rever- 
 ence to a doubtful text of Pliny, the most careless 
 of writers, the least accurate of archseologists ? As 
 to the painted vases, no argument or ancient texts 
 are needed ; there is no question in respect to them ; 
 they existed in great numbers ; but in respect to 
 casting in plaster there is nothing but texts to de- 
 pend upon. Nay more, there is only one passage 
 in any ancient author, so far as I am aware, that 
 seems to assert the existence of this process ; and 
 the question is as to the meaning of this vfery am- 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 181 
 
 biguous passage. If it means what Mr. Perkins 
 supposes, where are the moukls ; where are the 
 casts ; where are the finished likenesses ; where is 
 there anything, in a word, to support the state- 
 ments of Pliny, as thus interpreted ? Does it not 
 seem amazing that they shoidd all have totally 
 disappeared ? 
 
 That the text of Pliny, on which all rests, does 
 not mean what it is supposed to mean by Mr. Per- 
 kins, we have endeavored to show; but at all 
 events, since it is admitted to be most obscure and 
 scarcely intelligible, it would be better to throw the 
 text overboard, if it is in conflict with all we know 
 and is improbable in itself, particularly when we 
 take into consideration the corrupt condition of 
 the entire text of Pliny. Dr. Brunn, who is cer- 
 tainly an able and learned archaeologist, does not 
 hesitate to reject a portion of this very text, from 
 the words " idem et de signis effigiem exprimere," 
 as an interpolation ; and there can be no doubt in 
 the mind of any one who carefully examines it 
 that this entire passage is full of confusion of ideas 
 and statements. 
 
 Mr. Perkins endeavors to strengthen his posi- 
 tion, and also the text of Pliny as he understands 
 it, by a citation from the " Tragic Jupiter " of Lu- 
 cian, in which tlie statue of Hermes complains 
 that he is spotted by the pitch with which the 
 sculptors cover his limbs every day, " afin de les 
 reproduire," he gratuitously adds, with no au- 
 thority in the text for such a statement ; and apro- 
 
182 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS, 
 
 pos of this he tells us that one may " model with 
 pitch mixed with marble dust or brick." He adds : 
 " It is what the Italians call ' ciment,' and they 
 employ it for the most delicate parts of the mould. 
 It is sufficient in order to keep it in a malleable 
 state to set the piece on which one is working near 
 the fire, or to soften it from time to time in a bath 
 of hot water." " Now this information," he con- 
 tinues, " which we owe to one of the most eminent 
 and learned artists of our age, is very precious, 
 since it gives us the real meaning of the passage 
 in Lucian." This taken in connection with a 
 passage in Apollodorus representing Daedalus mak- 
 ing a statue to Hercules eV iria-tyr] or eV 7710-77 — the 
 word is doubtful — induces Mr. Perkins " to con- 
 clude, first, that two centuries before the Christian 
 era, pitch was used, mixed without doubt with 
 other substances, to cast statues [mouler les 
 statues] ;• second, that the passage in Lucian not 
 only contains one of those railleries of which the 
 Voltaire of antiquity was so prodigal, but leads us 
 to suspect that it veils the indication of one of 
 the processes of casting." That is, first he inclines 
 to the opinion that -rrLaa-r) (pitch) is a misprint for 
 TTLTVi (pine wood), and that the statue made by 
 Daedalus was in wood ; and then he immediately 
 turns around, and thinks that it proves the exist- 
 ence of casting in plaster. It cannot mean both ; 
 and the probability would seem to be that he is 
 wrong in both suppositions, and that Daedalus was 
 only employed in painting his statue in resin or wax. 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 183 
 
 The seriousness of this passage is more remark- 
 able than its accuracy. Who can the eminent and 
 learned artist be who has given us this so precious 
 information? — " ce renseignement tres-precieux," 
 — which is known to every hmnble caster in 
 Europe, — though he is not quite correct in the 
 composition of what he says the Italians call 
 " ciment." He must be a French artist who scorns 
 the Italian lano^uao^e as beinof, in the words of an- 
 other of his countrymen, " rien que de mauvais 
 Fran^ais." " Ciment " is not an Italian word, and 
 " cimento " has a quite different significance, — 
 that of attempt or essay. The Italian casters call 
 this material " cera," though it is not wax. But 
 aside from this, let us consider this passage from 
 Lucian to which Mr. Perkins, following other writ- 
 ers, refers us as showing that the process of cast- 
 ing in plaster was Imown to the ancient Greeks. 
 
 The Zeus TpaycuSo? of Lucian is a satire on the 
 di\dnities of Greece, and a council of them is called 
 to deliberate on what shoidd be done in conse- 
 quence of an assault upon their nature and power 
 by Damis. The gods are called upon, and a ques- 
 tion arises as to the precedence they should have, 
 whether it should be according to the material of 
 which they are made, — of ivory, gol:l, bronze, 
 stone, or clay, — or according to the excellence of 
 their workmanship and the skill of the artist ; but 
 such confusion of claims is made that no prece- 
 dence is finally allow^ed to any one, and the ques- 
 tion as to the reasons and arguments of Damis 
 
184 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 and his opponent Timocles is discussed. While 
 this is going on, a figure is seen approaching which 
 is thus described : — 
 
 " But who is this who comes in such haste 
 
 [6 vo-Xkov?, 6 €vypafjLfxo<;, 6 cu7repty/3a<^05, 6 dp)^aLO<; rrjv 
 
 dvdSecTLv T^5 KOjxT]';'], this bronze, this beautifully 
 chased or engraved, beautifully outlined, the ar- 
 chaic in the arrangement of his hair [Trirrrys yovv 
 dv a- iirXyja- ai^ ba-qjxepat iK/JiaTTOfxcvos vtto tujv di^Sptav- 
 
 TOTTotwv] ; he is clogged with pitch from seals 
 or impressions being daily taken from it by the 
 scidptors." 
 
 Hermes, the bronze, then answers : — 
 " It happened lately that my breast and back 
 were covered with pitch by the scul2')tors in bronze, 
 and a ridiculous cuirass was thus formed on my 
 body, and by imitative art received a complete seal 
 from the brass." ^ 
 
 This passage is supposed to indicate the process 
 of casting in plaster. It is possible that it may 
 indicate a preparation in pitch to cast in bronze, 
 but certainly not in plaster, which is the sole ques- 
 tion. It is not workers in plaster who are en- 
 gaged on it, but workers in bronze ; and what they 
 were doing was plainly to take impressions of the 
 intaglio chasing or engraving on the body of the 
 figure. The description of the bronze is that it 
 
 IliTTOvfxevos aripvov T€ koI fx^jdcppsvov' 
 Qcvpa^ Se /j.oi ycXoTos aju(p\ crwfxari 
 WXaffQsIs Trap-pwp-qro /jLifxi \t) rexvr) 
 ^(ppay'iSa xakKOv iraaav eKTVirov/jLeuos. 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER. 185 
 
 was archaic, and beautifully traced and engraved. 
 It may have been a term engraved with verses, 
 or figures, or inscriptions ; and this is by no means 
 improbable, as it represented Hermes, and as 
 nothing but the breast and back was covered with 
 pitch. At all events, the process was one which 
 seems to have been carried on, not for once, but 
 daily. It may have been the famous Hermes 
 ayopato9, wliicli was cast in the 34th Olympiad, 
 and was a study for brass casters. Again, it 
 may not have been a figure in the round, but 
 merely a bas-relief, or intaglio ; and this supposi- 
 tion would be entirely in accordance with the 
 hieratic and archaic sculpture in brass, marble, 
 and terra cotta. Many were executed thus in in- 
 taglio and engraved, — some of which still remain, 
 
 — and others in relief. A list of such may bis^* 
 found in Miiller's " Ancient Art " (pp. 61-G5). If 
 the passage refers to making a mould for casting, 
 it was for casting in bronze and not in plaster, 
 though nothing is said about casting, but merely of 
 taking impressions or seals. The words eKTvirovfjicvog 
 and iKfjLaTT6fX€vo<s mean ex-pressions from a seal or 
 stamp. Exactly what the sculptors were doing, 
 however, to this statue covers the process of brass 
 casters. Thus Lucian, speaking of a certain brass 
 statue in the Agora, says : olcrOa tov x'^^ko^^' tov 
 
 ecrcora ev ry dyopa, kol to. /xlv ttittoji' to, he iviov Stere'Aecra, 
 
 — "You know the brass statue standing in the 
 forum, on which I was occupied pitching and dry- 
 ing," or burning. 
 
186 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 But there is nothing new in all this, and nothing 
 which throws any light ujDon the subject in ques- 
 tion. It was, as we well know, a common practice 
 of the Greeks, in making their large statues, to 
 build up a core of wood, brickwork, plaster, and 
 other materials as a foundation or rough sketch. 
 On the surface of this in their chryselephantine 
 statues they veneered sheets of gold and ivory, 
 sometimes covering the entire surface with these 
 precious materials, and sometimes finishing por- 
 tions of them with an exterior of plaster or clay, 
 which was painted in imitation of life. This for 
 instance was the case with the Dionysos in Kreusis, 
 described by Pausanias, of which the whole figure 
 was modeled in plaster and afterwards colored. 
 It would also seem to have been a practice with 
 mie Greek artists to cover these roughly executed 
 cores with a composition of resin and pitch which 
 they indurated by fu-e ; and afterwards to finish 
 the surface in the same material. Such at least 
 appears to be the process indicated by Lucian 
 in the passage just quoted, in which he speaks of 
 the statue he was engaged in pitching and dry- 
 ing; as well as by ApoUodorus in a passage in 
 which Daedalus is described as makino" a statue 
 of Hercules in pitch (-to-aa). The term "pissa" 
 in this last passage has by some translators been 
 supposed to be a misprint for cV Trio-r/, meaning 
 that this statue was a loavov executed in pine 
 wood like other Daedalian figures. As it stands 
 in the original, certainly, it is TTLaa-a, and means 
 
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER, 187 
 
 pitch ; and it is quite as probable that it is correct 
 and means a sort of encaustic finish with resin and 
 gum. However this may be, there is little doubt 
 that in making their bronze statues the Greeks 
 used a surface of wax and pitch, or some such ma- 
 terial, which was plastic and would melt ; and it is 
 well known that they spread wax over their stat- 
 ues to give them a polished surface, and also fin- 
 ished their plaster walls with a covering of wax. 
 
 In making large statues, a skeleton framework 
 of wood was often employed, called Kivia^o^, or 
 KaiafSos, which was covered with solid material, — 
 clay, plaster, brick, pitch, etc., all welded together 
 to form a solid core over which the surface was 
 finished in clay, plaster, pitch, ivory, or gold. In 
 the " Somnium, seu Gallus " of Lucian, G alius 
 says, speaking of himself, " If he were king, he 
 should be like one of the colossi of Phidias, 
 Praxiteles, or Myron, which though externally 
 like Neptune or Jupiter, — sj^lendid with ivory 
 and gold, bearing the trident or the thunderbolt, 
 — yet if you look inside you will find them com- 
 posed of beams and bolts and nails traversing 
 them everywhere, and braces and ridges, and pitch 
 and clay, and other ugly and misshapen things." 
 
 It is a curious fact bearing generally on this 
 subject that no allusion is ever made to such a 
 person as a caster in plaster. Plutarch, enumerat- 
 ing the various trades and occupations to which 
 the great public works of his time gave employ- 
 ment, speaks of operatives, modelers, brass-work- 
 
188 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 ers, stone-workers, gold and ivory workers, weavers, 
 and engravers, but never mentions a caster. Phi- 
 lostratus also, enumerating the different classes of 
 workmen in the jDlastic art, makes no mention of 
 casters. Pliny never speaks of them. Indeed, 
 their existence is never mentioned by any ancient 
 writer. 
 
 All things considered, then, in conclusion, it 
 seems impossible to believe that Pliny intended, 
 in the passage relating to Lysistratus, to declare 
 that he invented any method of casting in plaster, 
 but rather that he intended to say that Lysistratus 
 either modeled likenesses in wax over a core of 
 gypsum, or, what is much more probable, that he 
 colored his likenesses in imitation of life ; and 
 that his specialty was making accurate and literal 
 likenesses in the round with color, thus uniting 
 the two arts of the painter and the sculptor. 
 
 The process of casting in plaster, in our accep- 
 tation of the phrase, is of modern origin, and so 
 far as we know was invented in the fifteenth century, 
 a little before the time of Verrocchio (1432-1488), 
 the master of Leonardo da Vinci. He was among 
 the first who employed it, and may fairly be said 
 to have introduced it. At all events, the first 
 clear mention of this process of which we are 
 aware is by Vasari in his life of Verrocchio ; and 
 he states that this sculptor and painter " cast 
 hands, knees, feet, legs, even torsi, in order to 
 copy them at his leisure ; and that soon after 
 casts began to be made from the faces of persons 
 
TEE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER 189 
 
 after death, so that one sees in every house in 
 Florence, on mantel-pieces, doors, windows, and 
 cornices, a great number of these portraits, which 
 seem alive." For some time after it seems to 
 have been used chiefly for taking casts from dead 
 faces, — or hands and feet, — and not to have 
 been applied to casting from models of clay. The 
 general practice of that period was to make a 
 small model in clay, then to bake it, and from this 
 model by proportional compasses to enlarge it 
 and point it upon the marble. The process of 
 casting from clay models seems not to have been 
 practiced then, and so far as we know models of 
 full size in clay were rarely if ever made, until 
 rather a comparatively recent period. 
 
A CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS 
 AURELIUS. 
 
 It was a dark and stormy night in December. 
 Everybody in the house had long been in bed and 
 asleep ; but, deeply interested in the " Meditations 
 of Marcus Aurelius," I had prolonged my reading 
 until the small hours had begun to increase, and 
 I heard the bells of the Capucin convent strike 
 for two o'clock. I then laid down my book, and 
 began to reflect upon it. The fire had nearly 
 burned out, and, unwilling yet to go, I threw on 
 to it a bundle of canne and a couple of sticks ; 
 again the fresh flame darted out, and gave a glow 
 to the room. Outside, the storm was fierce and 
 passionate. Gusts beat against the panes, shak- 
 ing the old windows of the palace, and lashing 
 them with wild rain. At intervals a sudden blue 
 light flashed through the room, followed by a 
 trampling roar of thunder overhead. The fierce 
 libeccio howled like a wild beast around the 
 house, as if in search of its prey, and then died 
 away, disappointed and growling, and after a 
 short interval again leaped with fresh fury against 
 the windows and walls, as if maddened by their 
 resistance. As I sat quietly gazing into the fire 
 and musing on many shadows of thought that 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 191 
 
 came and passed, my imagination went back into 
 the far past, when Marcus Aurelius led his legions 
 against the Qaadi, the Marcomanni, and the Sar- 
 mati, and brought before me the weather-beaten 
 tent in which he sat so many a bleak and bitter 
 night, after the duty of the day was done, and all 
 his men had retired to rest, writing in his pri- 
 vate diary those noble meditations, which, though 
 meant solely for his private eye, are one of the 
 most precious heritages we have of ancient life 
 and thought. I seemed to see him there in those 
 bleak wilds of Pannonia, seated by night in his 
 tent. At his side burns a flickering torch. Sen- 
 tinels silently pace to and fro. The cold wind 
 flirts and flaps the folds of the prsetorium, and 
 shakes the golden eagle above it. Far off is heard 
 the howl of the wolf prowling through the shad- 
 owy forests that encompass the camp ; or the si- 
 lence is broken by the sharp shrill cry of some 
 night bird flying overhead through the dark. Now 
 and then conies the clink of armor from the tents 
 of the cavalry, or the call of the watchword along 
 the line, or the neighing of horses as the cir- 
 cuitores make their rounds. He is ill and worn 
 with toil and care. He is alone ; and there, under 
 the shadow of night, beside his camp-table, he sits 
 and meditates, and writes upon his waxen tablets 
 those lofty sentences of admonition to duty and 
 encouragement to virtue, those counselings of 
 himself to heroic action, patient endurance of evil, 
 and tranquillity of life, that breathe the highest 
 
192 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 spirit of morality and philosophy. Little did he 
 think, in his lonely watches, that the words he 
 was writing only for himself would still be cher- 
 ished after long centuries had passed away, and 
 would be pondered over by the descendants of na- 
 tions which were then uncultured barbarians, as 
 low in civilization as the Pannonians against whom 
 he was encamped. Yet of all the books that an- 
 cient literature has left us, none is to be found 
 containing the record of higher and purer thought, 
 or more earnest and unselfish character. As I 
 glanced up at the cast of the Capitoline bust of 
 him which stood in the corner of my room, and 
 saw the sweet melancholy of that gentle face, ere 
 care and disappointment had come over it and 
 ruled it with lines of age and anxiety, a strange 
 longing came over m.e to see him and hear his 
 voice, and a sad sense of that great void of time 
 and space which separated us. Where is he now ? 
 TV hat is he now ? I asked myself. In what other 
 distant world of thought and being is his spirit 
 moving ? Has it any remembrance of the past ? 
 Has it any knowledge of the present? Yet the 
 hand that wrote is now but dust, which may be 
 floating about the mausoleum where he was buried, 
 near the Vatican, or perhaps lying in that library 
 of the popes upon some stained manuscript of 
 this very work it wrote, to be blown carelessly 
 away by some studious abbe as he ranges the vol- 
 ume on its shelf among the other precious records 
 of the past. 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 193 
 
 The hand is but dust, yet the thoughts that it 
 recorded are fresh and living as ever. Since lie 
 passed from this workl, how little progress have 
 we made in philosophy and morality ! Here in 
 this little book are rules for the conduct of life 
 which might shame almost any Christian. Here 
 are meditations which go to the root of things, 
 and explore the dim secret world which surrounds 
 us, and return again, as all our explorations do, 
 unsatisfied. All these centuries have passed, and 
 we still ask the same questions and find no an- 
 swer. Where he is now he knows the secret, or 
 he is beyond the desire to know it. The mystery 
 is solved for him which we are guessing, and his 
 is either a larger, sweeter life, growing on and on 
 — or everlasting rest. A stoic, he found comfort 
 in his philosophy, as great perhaps as we Chris- 
 tians find in our faith. He believed in his gods 
 as we believe in ours. How could they satisfy a 
 mind like his ? How could these impure and pas- 
 sionate existences, given to human follies and 
 weaknesses, to low intrigues, to vulgar jealousies, 
 to degraded loves, satisfy a nature so high, so self- 
 denying, so earnest, so pure ? Yet they were his 
 gods ; to them he sacrificed, in them he trusted, 
 looking forward to a calm future with a serenity 
 at least equal to ours, undisturbed by misgivings ; 
 believing in justice, and in unjust gods ; believing 
 in purity, and in impure gods. 
 
 " No ! " said a mild voice, " I did not believe in 
 impure and unjust gods." 
 
194 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 And looking up, I saw before me the calm face 
 of the emperor and philosopher of whom I was 
 thinkinof. There he stood before me as I knew 
 him from his busts and statues, with his full brow 
 and eyes, his sweet mouth, his curling hair, now a 
 little grizzled with age, and a deep meditative look 
 of tender earnestness upon his face. 
 
 I know not why I was not startled to see him 
 there, but I was not. It seemed to me natural, as 
 events seem in a dream. The realities, as we call 
 those facts which are merely visionary and tran- 
 sitory, vanished ; and the unrealities, as we call 
 those of thought and being, usurped their place. 
 Nothing seemed more fitting than that he should 
 be there. To the mind all things are possible and 
 simple, and there is no time or space in thought 
 which annihilates them. 
 
 I arose to greet my guest with the reverence due 
 to such a presence. 
 
 " Do not disturb yourself," he said, smiling ; 
 " I will sit here, if you please ; " and so speaking, 
 he took the seat opposite me at the fire. " Sit 
 you," he continued, "and I will endeavor to an- 
 swer some of the questions you were asking of 
 yourself." 
 
 " Had I known your presence I should hardly, 
 perhaps, have dared to ask such questions, or at 
 least in such a form," I said. 
 
 " Why not ask them of me if you ask them of 
 yourself?" he responded. "They were just and 
 natural in themselves, and the forms of things are 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 195 
 
 of little use to one who cares for the essence — 
 just as the forms of the divinities I believed in 
 are of no consequence compared to their essences. 
 What we call thoughts are but too often mere 
 formulas, which by dint of repetition we finally 
 get to believe are in themselves truths, while they 
 are in fact mere dead husks, having no life in 
 them, and which by their very rigidity prevent 
 life. No single statement, however plausible, can 
 contain truth, which is infinite in form and in 
 spirit. If we are to talk together, let us free our- 
 selves, if we can, from formulas, since they only 
 check growth in the spirit, and, so to speak, are 
 mere inns at which we rest for a moment on ac- 
 count of our weariness and weakness. If we stay 
 permanently in them we narrow our minds, dwarf 
 our experience, and make no more progress. For 
 what is truth but a continual progression towards 
 the divine ? " 
 
 " Yet would you say that formulas are of no 
 use ? that we should not sum up in them the best 
 of our thought ? '' 
 
 " Undoubtedly they are useful. They are trunks 
 in which we pack our goods ; but as we acquire 
 more goods, we must have larger and ever larger 
 trunks. It is only dead formulas which kill, and 
 the tendency of formulas is to die and thus to re- 
 press thought. Look at the nutshell that holds 
 the precious germ of the future tree. It is a ne- 
 cessary prison of a moment ; but as that germ 
 quickens and spreads, the shell must give way, or 
 
196 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 death is the consequence. The infinite truth can 
 be comprehended in no formula and no system. 
 All attempts to do this have resulted in the same 
 end — death. Every religious creed should be 
 living, but every Church formalizes it into barren 
 words and shapes, and erelong. Faith — that is, 
 the living, aspiring principle — dies, wrapped up 
 in its formal observances or rigid statements, and 
 becomes like the dead mummies of the Egyptians 
 — the form of life, not the reality." 
 
 " Too true," I answered, '' all history proves it. 
 Every real and thinking man feels it. As habits 
 get the better of our bodies, so conventions and 
 formulas get the better of our minds. But pray 
 continue ; I only listen ; and pardon me for inter- 
 rupting you." 
 
 " What I say has direct relation to the questions 
 you were asking when I entered. There is a grain, 
 often many grains, of truth in every system of 
 religion, but complete Truth in none. If we wait 
 until we attain the perfect before adhering to one, 
 we shall never arrive at any. Each age has its 
 religious ideas, which are the aggregate of its 
 moral perceptions influenced by its imaginative 
 bias, and these are shapen into formulas or sys- 
 tems, which serve as inns, or churches, or temples 
 of worship. These begin by representing the 
 highest reach of the best thought of the age, but 
 they soon degenerate into commonplaces, thought 
 moving on beyond them, and of its very vitality of 
 nature seeking beyond them. At these inns the 
 
CONVERSATJON WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 197 
 
 common mass put up, and the host or priest con- 
 trols them while they are there, and society organ- 
 izes them, and so a certain good is attained. In 
 what you call the ancient days, when I lived on 
 the earth, I found a system already built and sur- 
 rounded by strong bulwarks of power. To strike 
 at that was to strike at the existence of society. 
 A religious revolution is a social revolution ; one 
 cannot alter a faith without altering everything 
 out of which it is moulded. To do that, more evil 
 might result than good, Man's nature is such that 
 if 3^ou throw down the temj)le of his worship at 
 once, assaulting its very foundations, you do not 
 improve his faith ; you but too often annihilate it, 
 so implanted is it in old prejudices, in the forms 
 stamped on the heart in youth, and in the habits 
 of thought. It is only by gradual changes that 
 any real good can be done — by enlarging and de- 
 veloping the principles of truth which already 
 exist, and not by overthrowing the whole system 
 at once." 
 
 " But in the religious system to which you gave 
 your adherence," I exclaimed, " v/hat was there 
 grand and inspiring ? What truth was there out 
 of which you could hope to develop a true system ? 
 for certainly you could not believe in the divinities 
 of your day." 
 
 " Reverence to the gods that were," he answered, 
 " to a power above and beyond us ; recognition 
 of divine powers and attributes. This lay as the 
 corner-stone of our worship, as it does of yours." 
 
198 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 " Almost," I cried, " it seems to me worse to wor- 
 ship such gods as yours than to worship none at all. 
 Their attributes were at best only human, their 
 conduct was low and unworthy, their passions were 
 sensual and debased. Any good man would be 
 ashamed to do the acts calmly attributed to the di- 
 vinities you worshiped. This, in itself, must have 
 had a degrading influence on the nation. How- 
 could man be ashamed of any act allowed and at- 
 tributed to the gods ? " 
 
 " Your notions on this point are natural," he 
 calmly answered, " but they are completely mista- 
 ken. There is no doubt that in every system of 
 religion the tendency is to humanize and, to a cer- 
 tain extent, degrade God. To attribute to Him 
 our own passions is imiversal, with the mass. To 
 deify man or to humanize God is the rule. You deify 
 that beautiful character named Christ, and you 
 humanize God by representing Him as inspired 
 with anger and cruelty beyond anything in our 
 sj^stem. You attribute to Him a scheme of the 
 universe which is to me abhorrent. Will you ex- 
 cuse me if I state thus plainly how it strikes one 
 who belonged to a different age and creed, and 
 who therefore cannot enter into the deep-grained 
 prejudices and ideas of your century and faith ? " 
 
 " Speak boldly," I said. "Do not fear to shock 
 me. I am so deeply planted that I do not fear to 
 be uprooted in my faith. And, besides, that is 
 not triitli which does not court assault, sure to be 
 strengtliened by it. If you can overthrow my 
 faith, overthrow it." 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 199 
 
 " That I should be most unwilling to do," he 
 answered. " No word would I say to produce 
 such a result. In your faith there is a noble and 
 beautiful truth, which sheds a soft lustre over life ; 
 and in my own day the pure and philosophic 
 spirit of Jesus of Nazareth was recognized by me 
 and reverenced. 'T is not of Him I would speak, 
 but rather of the general scheme of the regulation 
 of this world by God that I alluded to ; and I yet 
 pause, fearing to shock you by a simple statement 
 of this creed." 
 
 " I pray you do not hesitate ; speak ! I am 
 ready and anxious to hear you." 
 
 " It is only in answer to what you say of the 
 acts and passions attributed by us to our divinities, 
 as constituting a clear reason why we should not 
 reverence them, that I speak. You attribute to 
 your God omnipotence, omniscience, and infinite 
 love. Yet in his omnipotence He made first a 
 world, and then placed in it man and woman, whom 
 He also made and pronounced good. In this, 
 according to your belief. He was mistaken. The 
 man and woman proved immediately not to be 
 good ; and He, omnipotent as He was, was foiled 
 by another power named Satan, who upset at once 
 his whole scheme. After infinite consideration 
 and in pity for man, He could or did invent no bet- 
 ter scheme of redeeming him than for Himself, or 
 an emanation from Himself, to take the form of 
 man, and to suffer death through his wickedness 
 and at his hands. Thus man, by adding to the 
 
200 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 previous fault the crime of killing God on the 
 earth, acquired a claim to be saved from the con- 
 sequences of his first fault. A new crime affords 
 a cause of pardon for a previous fault of disobe- 
 dience. What was tliis first fault, which induced 
 God to drive the first man and woman out of the 
 Paradise He had made for them? Simply that 
 they ate an apple when they were prohibited. Is 
 any pagan legend more absurd than this ? Then 
 for the justice of God, on what princi^^le of right 
 can the subsequent crime and horror — without ex- 
 ample — of killing God, or a person, as you say, of 
 the Trinity, afford a reason for removing from man 
 a penalty previously incurred ? When one remem- 
 bers that you assume God to be omniscient as well 
 as omnipotent, and that He might have made any 
 other scheme, by simply forgiving man, or obliging 
 him to redeem himself by doing good and acting 
 virtuously, instead of committing a crime and a 
 horror, this belief becomes still more strange. Nor 
 can you explain it yourself ; you only say it is a 
 mystery which is beyond your reason, but none the 
 less true. Yet though it offends all sense of justice 
 and right in my mind, you believe it and adhere 
 to it as a corner-stone of your faith. Are you sure 
 I do not offend you ? " 
 
 " Pray go on," I said. " When you have said 
 it is a mystery, you have said all. Shall man, 
 with his deficient reason, pretend to understand 
 God ? This is a truth revealed to us by his only 
 begotten Son, Jesus Christ, who was himself in a 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 201 
 
 human form ; and when God reveals to lis a mys- 
 tery, shall we not believe it? Shall we measure 
 Him by our feeble wits ? " 
 
 " I do not mean to argue with you. This is 
 furthest from my intention ; though I might 
 say this holds good of us in the ancient days, as 
 well as with you now. I only wish, however, to 
 show you that you believe what you acknowledge 
 to be beyond reason — a mystery, as you call it. 
 You believe this, and yet you despise the pagan 
 for believing what his gods told him, simply be- 
 cause it was imreasonable or ridiculous." 
 
 " The question," I said, " is very different ; but 
 let it pass. Pray go on." 
 
 " Your God is a God of infinite love, you say. 
 Yet in the opinion of many of you, at least, this 
 infinitely loving God, omnipotent, and having the 
 power to make man as He chose, — onniiscient, and 
 knowing how to make him good and happy if He 
 wished to, — has chosen in his love to make him 
 weak and impotent, to endow him with passions 
 which are temptations to evil, to afflict him with 
 disease and pain, to render him susceptible to tor- 
 ments of every kind and sufferings beyond his 
 power to avoid, however he strive to be good 
 and virtuous and obedient ; and then at the last, 
 after a life of suffering and struggle here, either to 
 save him and make him eternally happy, or, if He 
 so elect, without any reason intelligible to you or 
 any one, to plunge him into everlasting torment, 
 from which he can never free himself. Now, I ask 
 
202 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 you in what respect is such a God better than 
 Jupiter, who, even according to the lowest popular 
 notions, whatever were his passions, was at least 
 placable ; who, whatever were his follies, was not 
 a demon like this ? And when one takes into con- 
 sideration the fact that there is not a humane man 
 living who would not be ashamed to do to his own 
 child, however vicious, what he calmly attributes 
 to this all-loving God, the belief in such a God 
 seems all the more extraordinary." 
 
 " It is a mystery," I said, " that one like you, 
 born in another age and tinctured with another 
 creed, could not be expected to understand. It 
 would be useless for me to attempt it, and cer- 
 tainly not now, when I so greatly prefer hearing 
 you to speaking myself. My purpose is not now 
 to defend my religion, but to listen to your de- 
 fense of yours." 
 
 " Well, then, allow us to have our mystery too. 
 If you cannot explain aU, neither could we ; but 
 neither with us nor with you was that a reason for 
 not believing at all. It was the mystery itself, per- 
 haps, that attracted us and attracts you. The love 
 of the unintelligible is at the root of all systems 
 of religion. If man is unintelligible to us, shall 
 not God be ? Man has always invested his gods 
 with his own passions, and his gods are for the 
 most part his own shadov/s cast out into infinite 
 space, enlarged, gigantic, and mysterious. Man 
 cannot, with the utmost exercise of his faculties, 
 get out of himseK any more than he can leap over 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 203 
 
 his own shadow. He cannot comprehend (or in- 
 close within himself) God, who comprehends and 
 incloses him ; and therefore he vaguely magnifies 
 his own powers, and calls the result God. God 
 the infinite Spirit made man; but man in e very- 
 system of religion makes God. In our own reason 
 He is the best that we can imagine — that is, our 
 own selves purged of evil and extended. \Ye can- 
 not stretch beyond ourselves." 
 
 " Ay, but your gods were not the best you could 
 conceive. They were lower of nature than man 
 himself in some particulars, and were guilty of acts 
 that you yourself would reprove." 
 
 " This is because you consider them purely in 
 their mythical history, according to the notions of 
 the common ignorant mass ; not looking behind 
 those acts which were purely typical, often simply 
 allegorical, to the ideas which they represented 
 and of which they were incarnations. You cannot 
 believe that so low a system as this satisfied the 
 spiritual needs of those august and refined souls 
 who still shine like planets in the sky of thought. 
 Do you suppose that Plato and Epictetus, that 
 Zcno and Socrates, that Seneca and Cicero, with 
 their expanded minds, accepted these low formulas 
 of Divinity ? As well might I suppose that the 
 low superstitions of the Christian Church, in 
 which the vulgar believe, represent the highest 
 philosophy of the best thinkers. Yet for long 
 centuries of superstition the Church has been ac- 
 cepted by you just as it stands, with its saints and 
 
204 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 their miracles, and its singular rites and ceremo- 
 nies. Nor lias any effort been made to cleanse the 
 bark of St. Peter of the barnacles and rubbish 
 which encumber and defile it. Religious faith 
 easily degenerates into superstition in the common 
 mind. And why has the superstition been ac- 
 cepted ? Simply because it is so deeply ingrained 
 into the belief of the unthinking mass, that there 
 might be danger of destroying all faith by destroy- 
 ing the follies and accidents which had become 
 imbedded in it. Not only for this ; by means of 
 these very superstitions men may be led and 
 governed, and leaders will not surrender or over- 
 throw means of ]30wer. Yet the best minds," he 
 continued, " did what they could in ancient days 
 to purify and refine the popidar faith, and sought 
 even to elevate men's notions of the gods by edu- 
 cating their sense of the beautiful, and by present- 
 ing to them images of the gods unstained by low 
 passions and glorious in their forms." 
 
 " But surely your idea of Jupiter or Zeus," I 
 answered, " was most unworthy when compared 
 with that which we entertain of the infinite God, 
 the source of all created things, the sole and su- 
 preme Creator. The Hebrews certainly attained 
 a far loftier conception in their Jehovah than you 
 in your Jupiter." 
 
 " What matter names ? " he replied ; " Zeus, 
 Jehovah, God, are all mere names, and the ideas 
 they represented were only differenced by the tem- 
 peraments and character of the various peoples 
 who worshiped them." 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 205 
 
 " But the Jeliovah of the Jews was not merely 
 the head ruler of many gods, but a single universal 
 God, one and infinite ! " 
 
 " No ! I think not. The Jehovah of the Jews 
 imderwent many changes and developments with 
 the growth of the Hebrew people ; and in many 
 of their writings He is represented as a passionate, 
 vindictive, and even unreasonable and unjust God, 
 whose passions were modified by human argu- 
 ments. And, so far from being a universal God 
 of all. He was specially the God of the Hebrews, 
 and is so constantly represented in their Scrip- 
 tures. He comes do\\Ti upon earth and interferes 
 personally in the doings of men, and talks with 
 them, and discusses questions with them, and 
 sometimes even takes their advice. In process of 
 time this notion is modified, and assumes a no- 
 bler type ; but He is never the Universal Father, 
 nor the God whose essence is Love, — never, that 
 is, until the coming of Christ, who first enunciated 
 the idea that God is love, — rejoicing over the 
 saving of man, far and above all hmiian passions. 
 ' Vengeance is mine ' was the original idea of 
 Jehovah ; and He was feared and worshiped by 
 the Jews as their peculiar God, whose chosen peo- 
 ple they were. As for his unity, whatever may 
 have been the popular superstitions of the Greeks 
 and Romans, God is recognized by the greatest and 
 purest minds as one and indivisible, the Father 
 of all, who commands all, who creates all, who is 
 invisible and omnipotent. Do you not remember 
 
206 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 the fragment of the Sibylline verses preserved by 
 Lactantius/ S. Theophilus Antioohenus, and S. 
 Justinus, where it is said that Zeus was one being 
 alone, self-creating, from whom all things are 
 made, who beholds all mortals, but whom no mor- 
 tal can behold ? — 
 
 Efs S' eor' avToyevfjs • evhs %K-yova irdvra rervKTai, 
 'Ev 5' avTuTs avrhs TrepiyiyusTai' ou5e tis avrhv 
 ElaopaT. dvrjTUVf aurhs 5e ye irdvras cparai. 
 
 So, also, Pindar cries out : — 
 
 * Ti Qe6s ; ' tI rh irav. 
 
 So again, in the same spirit, the Appian hymn 
 
 says of Zeus : — 
 
 Ev Kparos, els Salfxcav yevero fiiyas ovpavhv aiOwv 
 ^Ev Sfc 7a irduTa rervKrai' iv S raSe iravra KVKkeiTai. 
 
 And Euripides exclaims, ' Where is the house, 
 the fabric reared by man, that could contain the 
 immensity of God ? ' 
 
 TloMS 5' av oIkos, t€Kt6vwv ir\aa9e\s virh 
 
 and adds that the true God needs no sacrifices 
 on his altar. And ^schylus, in like manner, 
 saj s : — 
 
 Zevs i(TTiu ald}}p, Zeus St yTj. Zei/s 5' ovpavhs, 
 Zeus TOi TO irdi/Tu, x^^"' '''**' 5' u-neprepoy. 
 
 And Soj)hocles, also in similar lines, proclaims the 
 unity and universality of God. And Theocritus, 
 in his ' Idylls,' echoes the same sentiment. The 
 same cast of thought, the same lofty idea of God, 
 
 ^ See Divin. Inst., lib. i. c. 6. 
 
CONVERSATION WITH 3IARCUS AURELIUS, 207 
 
 is found among the ancient Romans. Lucan ex- 
 claims in his ' Pharsalia : ' — 
 
 ' Jupiter est quod cumque vides, quo cumque moveris.' 
 
 Valerius Soranus makes him the one universal, 
 omnipotent God, the Father and Mother of us 
 all: — 
 
 * Jupiter omnipotens, regoim rerumque deumqne 
 Progenitor genetrixqne deum deus unus et omnes.' ^ 
 
 Can any statement be larger and more inclusive 
 than this ? ^ Such indeed was the true philosophic 
 idea of Jupiter, as entertained by the best and 
 most exalted in ancient days. You must go to 
 the highest sources to learn what the highest no- 
 tions of Deity are among any p)eoplo, and not 
 grope among the popular superstitions and myths. 
 Then, again, what nobler expressions of our rela- 
 tion to an infinite and universal spirit of God are 
 to be found than in Epictetus and Seneca ? ' God 
 is near you, is with you, is within you,' Seneca 
 writes. ' A sacred spirit dwells within us, the ob- 
 server and guardian of all our evil and all our 
 good. There is no good man without God.' And 
 again : * Even from a corner it is possible to 
 spring up into heaven. Rise, therefore, and form 
 
 1 Val. Soranus, cited by St. Augnstine, De Civit. Dei, lib. 
 vii. e. 9. 
 
 - See these passag^es and others cited in S^ Justinns, Cohortat. 
 ad Grcec. et de Monarchia ; Clement of Alexandria, Stromat., lib. 
 v., et Admonitio ad Gentes ; S. Cyril! us Alexandrinus, Contra 
 Julianum, lib. i. ; Athenagoras, Legat.pro Christian- ; Theodore- 
 tus, Grace. Affectionum : Curat, lib. 7. 
 
208 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 thyself into a fashion worthy of God.' And 
 again : ' It is no advantage that conscience is 
 shut up within us. We lie open to God.' And 
 still again : ' Do you wish to render the gods 
 propitious ? Be virtuous.' One might cite such 
 passages for hours from the writings of these 
 men. Can you, then, think that our notions of 
 God and duty were so low and so debased ? 
 
 " Look, too, at our arts. Art and religion with 
 us and the Greeks went hand in hand. If you 
 seek the true spirit of religion among any people, 
 you will always find it in the productions of their 
 art. In sculpture, the most ideal of the plastic 
 arts, you will see the real features of the gods. 
 They are grand, calm, serene, dignified, and above 
 the taint of human passion ; claiming reverence 
 and love in their beauty and perfection beyond 
 the human. Here there is nothing mean or low. 
 So godlike are they even in the poorer specimens 
 of their noble figures that have come down to 
 you, that you yourselves recognize in them ideal 
 grace and power. Read the reflection of our faith 
 in their forms and features, and you will find in 
 it nothing vulgar, nothing degrading. The best 
 personifications of your own divinities in art look 
 poor beside them. God himself in your pictures 
 is feeble compared with the divine Jupiter of 
 Phidias ; the Madonna weak and tame beside the 
 august grandeur of his Athene. Christ in your 
 art is pitiable beside the splendor of Apollo ; so 
 far from being the highest type of even man, he 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 209 
 
 is almost the weakest, composed of pale negatives, 
 and vvitli nothing very positive and grand ; while 
 your saints are affected, cowardly, and cringing, 
 compared with the heroic demigods of Greece. 
 In art, at least, the ancient deities still live and 
 command reverence from a serene world beyond 
 change. Would you know what our faith was, 
 look at the great works of art and at the best 
 thoughts of the greatest minds we owned, and not 
 at the corrupted text of popular superstition. 
 These, indeed, were worthy of reverence. They 
 lifted the thoughts and cleared the spirit, and 
 filled it with a sense of beauty and of power. 
 Who could look at that magnificent impersonation 
 of Zeus at Olympia, by Pliidias, so grand, so 
 simple, so serene, with its golden robes and hair, 
 its divine expression of power and sweetness, its 
 immense proportions, its perfection of workman- 
 ship, and not feel that they were in the pres- 
 ence of an august, tremendous, and impassionate 
 power ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " I exclaimed, " that truly I wish I could 
 have seen — what majesty, what beauty, it must 
 have had ! " 
 
 " Ay ! " he answered. " No one could see it and 
 not be enlarged in spirit by it." 
 
 " Was, then, tlie Athena of the Parthenon," I 
 asked, " equal in merit?" 
 
 " It was very different. It wanted the power 
 and massive grandeur of the Zeus ; but in its 
 dignity and serenity it had a wondrous charm. It 
 
210 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 was the true type of wisdom, calm above doubt, 
 and with a gentle severity of aspect, as if, undis- 
 turbed by the tormenting questions that vex hu- 
 manity, it saw the eternal truth of things. When 
 I comj)are with these wondrous statues your bsst 
 representations of your divinities, I cannot but feel 
 how vast a difference there is ; and when in your 
 temples one sees the prostrate figures of men and 
 women clinging to vulgar and degraded images of 
 saints, imploring aid and protection from them, 
 and soliciting their interposition against the aveng- 
 ing hand of Deity, I cannot see that you are bet- 
 ter than v/e." 
 
 " But, after all, through this there is a belief 
 in a pure and infinite Being beyond ^- a Being 
 beyond all human passion ; not imperfect and 
 subject to wild caprices, and capable of abomi- 
 nable acts." 
 
 " You see, we go back to the same question," 
 he replied. " You profess to worship a God above 
 nature, and yet your prayers are to Christ, the 
 man ; to the saints, who were lower men and 
 women ; and you cling to these as mediators. 
 Well ; and we also believed in a spirit and power 
 undefined and above all, whose nature we could 
 not gTasp, and who expressed himself in every 
 living thing. Our gods were but anthropomorphic 
 symbols of special powers and developments of an 
 infinite and overruling power. They partly rep- 
 resent, in outward shape and form, philosophic 
 ideas and human notions about the infinite God, 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 211 
 
 and partly body forth the phenomena of nature, 
 that hint at the great ultimate cause behind them, 
 of which they are, so to speak, the outward gar- 
 ment, by which the Universal Deity is made vis- 
 ible to man. In our religion nature was but the 
 veil which half hid the divine powers. Every- 
 where they peered out upon us, from grove and 
 river, from night and morning, from lightning 
 and storm, from all the elements and all the 
 changes and mysteries of the living universe. It 
 delighted us to feel their absolute, active presence 
 among us — not far away from us, involved in 
 utter obscurity, and beyond our comprehension. 
 We saw the Great Cause in its second plane, close 
 to us, in the growing of the flower, in the flowing 
 of the stream, in the drifting of the cloud, in the 
 rising and setting of the sun. Our gods (repre- 
 senting the great idea beyond, and doing its work) 
 were anthropomorphic by necessity, just as yours 
 are in art. The popular fables are but the myth- 
 ical garb behind which lie great facts and truths. 
 They are symbolical representations of the great 
 processes of nature, of the laws of life and growth, 
 of the changes of the seasons, of the strife of the 
 elements. Apollo was the life-giving sun ; Ar- 
 temis, the mysterious moon ; Ceres and Proser- 
 pine, the burial of the grain in the earth, and its 
 reappearance and fructification. So, on another 
 plane, Minerva was the philosophic mind of man ; 
 Venus, the impassioned embodiment of human 
 love, as Eros was of spiritual affections ; Bacchus, 
 
212 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 the serene and full enjoyment of nature. AYe but 
 divided philosopliically what you sum up in one 
 final cause ; but all our divisions looked back to 
 that cause. In an imaginative people like the 
 Greeks, there is also a natural tendency to myth- 
 ical embodiment of facts in history as well as in 
 nature ; and in the early periods, when little was 
 written down, traditions easily assumed the myth 
 form. Ideas were reduced to visible shapes, and 
 facts were etherealized into ideas and imagina- 
 tively transformed. The story of Diana and Endy- 
 mion, of Cupid and Psyche, will always be true 
 — not to the reason, but to the imagination. It 
 expresses poetically a sentiment which cannot die. 
 So, also, what matters it if Daedalus built a ship 
 for Icarus, and Icarus was simply drowned ? Sub- 
 limed into poetry, it became a myth, and Icarus 
 flew on waxen wings across the sea. All poetry 
 is thus allegorical. The wind will always have 
 wings until it ceases to blow. These myths are 
 simply poetic moulds of thought, in which vague 
 sentiments, ideas, and facts are wrought together 
 into an express shape. Think what your own 
 literature or thought would be without the old 
 Grecian poems. Let the reason reject them as it 
 will, and drive them out into the cold, the imagina- 
 tion will run forth and bring them back again to 
 warm and cherish them on its breast. Facts, as 
 facts, are but dead husks. The spirit cannot live 
 upon them. Besides, are not our myths enchant- 
 ing? Could anything take their place? Can science, 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 213 
 
 peering into all things, ever find tlie secrets of 
 nature? After all its explorations, the final ele- 
 ment of life, the motive and inspiring element 
 that is the essence of all the organism it uses and 
 without which all is mere material, mere ma- 
 chinery, flees utterly beyond its reach, and leaves 
 it at last v/ith only dust in its hands. Does not 
 th(* little child that makes j^laymates of the flowers, 
 and the brooks, and the sands, find God there bet- 
 ter than any of us? The subtle divinity hides 
 anywhere, entices everywhere, is just out of 
 reach everywhere. We catch glimpses of it, 
 breathe its odor, hear its dim voice, see the last 
 flutter of its robe, pursue it endlessly, and never 
 can seize it. The poet is poet because he loves 
 this spirit in nature, and comes nearer it ; but he 
 cannot grasp it ; and for all his pursuit he comes 
 back laden at last with a secret he cannot quite 
 tell, and shapes us a myth to express it as well as 
 he may." 
 
 " But surely," I answered, " we should distin- 
 guish between mere poetry and fact — between 
 science and fancy. So long as we admit the un- 
 reality of merely fanciful creations and explana- 
 tions of facts, we may be pleased with them ; but 
 let us not be misled by them into a belief of their 
 scientific truth." 
 
 " Ah, 't is the old story ! The little child has a 
 bit of wood, which to her, in the free play of her 
 imagination, is a person with good and bad qual- 
 ities, who acts well or ill, whom she loves or 
 
214 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 despises. Slie whips it ; she caresses it ; she scolds 
 it ; she sends it to school or to bed ; she forgives 
 it and fondles it. All is real to the child ; more 
 real, perhaps, than to the nurse who stands beside 
 her and laughs at her, and says, ' How silly ! come 
 away ! it is only a stick ! ' Which is right ? The 
 Greeks were the child, and you are the nurse. 
 What is truth, which is always on our lips — 
 truth of history, truth of science, truth of any 
 kind ? Who knows — history ? Two persons stand- 
 ing together see the same occurrence ; is it the 
 same to both ? Far from it. The literal friend is 
 amazed to hear what tlie imaginative friend saw. 
 Yet both may be right in their report, only one 
 saw what the other had no senses to perceive. We 
 only see and feel according to our natures. What 
 we are modifies what we see. Out of the camo- 
 mile flower the physician makes a decoction, and 
 the poet a song. History is but a dried herbarium 
 of withered facts, unless the imagination interpret 
 them. I cannot but smile at what is called his- 
 tory ; and of all history, that of our own Roman 
 world seems the strangest, because, perhaps, I 
 know it best." 
 
 "Ah!" I broke in, " how one wishes you had 
 written us familiar memoirs of your time, and 
 given us some intimate insight into your life, your 
 thoughts, your daily doings. We have so to grope 
 about in the dark for any knowledge of you. And 
 then, in the history of art, what dreadful blanlvs ! 
 I do not feel assured, except from j^our ' Medita- 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 215 
 
 tions,' as we call them, and your letters, that we 
 really know anything accurately about you. About 
 the Thundering Legion, for instance, — what is the 
 truth?" 
 
 " There," he answered, " is an instance of the 
 ease with which a fable is made, and how a simple 
 fact may be tortured into an untruth merely to 
 suit a purpose. When I was on. my campaign 
 against the Quadi, in the year 174, the incident 
 to which you refer happened. The spring had 
 been cold and late, and suddenly the heats of sum- 
 mer overtook us in the enemy's country. After a 
 long and difficult march on a very hot day, we sud- 
 denly came upon the enemy, who, descending from 
 the mountains, attacked us, overcome with fatigue, 
 in the plains. Tiie battle went against us for some 
 time, for my army suffered so from thirst and heat 
 and exhaustion that they were unable to repel the 
 attack, and were forced back. While they were 
 in full retreat and confusion, suddenly the sky be- 
 came clouded over, and a drenching shower poured 
 upon us. My men, who were d^ang of thirst, 
 stopped fighting, took off their helmets and re- 
 versed their shields to catch the rain, and while 
 they were thus engaged the enemy renewed their 
 assault with double fury. AJl seemed lost, when 
 suddenly, as sometimes occurs among the moun- 
 tains, a fierce wind swept down with terrible peals 
 of thunder and vivid flashes of lightning ; the 
 rain changed into hail, which was blown and driven 
 with such a fury into the faces of the enemy that 
 
216 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 they were confounded and confused, and began in 
 their turn to fall back. My own men, having the 
 storm only on their backs, refreshed by the rain 
 they had drunken from their shields and helmets, 
 and cooled by their bath, now anew attacked, and, 
 pouring upon their foe with fury, cut them to 
 pieces. Among my soldiers at this time there was 
 an old legion, organized in the time of Augustus, 
 named the Fulminata, from the fact that they bore 
 on their shields a thunderbolt ; upon this simple 
 fact was founded the story, repeated by many early 
 writers in the Christian Church, that this legion 
 was composed of Christians only, that the storm 
 was a miraculous interposition of their God in 
 answer to their prayer, and that they then received 
 the name of Fulminata, in commemoration of this 
 miracle. This is the simple truth of the case. 
 My men said that Jupiter Pluvius came to their 
 aid, and they sacrificed to him in gratitude ; and 
 on the column afterwards dedicated to me by 
 the Senate in commemoration of my services, you 
 will see the sculptured figure of Jupiter Pluvius, 
 from whose beard, arms, and head the water is 
 streaming to refresh my soldiers, while his thun- 
 derbolts are flashing against the barbarians." 
 
 As he spoke these words, a flash of lightning, 
 so intense as to blind the lamps, gleamed through 
 the room, followed by a startling peal of thunder, 
 which seemed to shake not only the house but the 
 sky above us. 
 
 He smiled and said, " We should have said in 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 217 
 
 older time that Jupiter affirmed the truth of my 
 statement ; but you are above such puerilities, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " Certainly I should not say it was a sign from 
 Jupiter. The thunder was on the left, and that 
 was considered by you a good omen, was it not ? 
 
 ' Et cceli g-enitor de parte serena 
 Intonuit laevum.' " 
 
 " This thunder on the left was considered a good 
 omen. But what was it you said after you asked 
 the question ? You seemed to be making a quota- 
 tion in a strange tongue — at least a tongue I 
 never heard." 
 
 "That was Latin," I answered, blushing a lit- 
 tle, " and from Virgil — Virgilius, perhaps I ought 
 to say, or perhaps Maro." 
 
 " Ah ! Latin, was it ? " he said. *' I beg your 
 pardon ; I thought it might have been a charm to 
 avert the Evil Eye that you were uttering." 
 
 " As difficult to understand as the Eleusinian 
 mysteries," I said. " And, by the way, what were 
 the Eleusinian mysteries ? " 
 
 " They were mysteries ! I can merely say to 
 you that they concealed under formal rites the 
 worship of the spirit of nature, as symbolized in 
 Demeter and Persephone and Dionysos. In their 
 purest and hidden meaning, they represented the 
 transforrAation, purification, and resurrection of 
 humanity in a new form and in another existence. 
 But I am not at liberty to say more than this. 
 The outward rites were for the multitude, the 
 
218 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 inner meaning for the highest and most developed 
 minds. Were it permitted to me to explain them 
 to you, I think you would not take so low a view 
 of our religious philosophy as you now seem to 
 have. What you hear and read of was merely 
 the outward and mystical drama, with its lustra- 
 tions and fasting, and cakes of sesame and honey, 
 and processions — as symbolical in its w' ay as your 
 mass and baptism, and having as pure a signifi- 
 cance. 
 
 " But," he continued, " to revert to the questions 
 which we were previously discussing. It seems to 
 me that in certain respects your faith is not even 
 so satisfactory as ours ; for its tendency is to de- 
 grade the present in view of the future, and to 
 debase humanity in its own \^ew. With us life 
 was not considered disgraceful, nor man a mean 
 and contemptible creature. We did not systemat- 
 ically humiliate ourselves and cringe before the 
 divine powers, but strove to stand erect, and not 
 to forget that we were made by God after his own 
 image. We did not affect that false humility 
 which in the view of the ancient philosophers was 
 contemptible — nay, even we thought that the 
 pride of humility was of all the most despicable. 
 We sought to keep ourselves just, obedient to our 
 best instincts, temperate and simple, looking upon 
 life as a noble gift of the gods, to be used for 
 noble purposes. We believed, beside this, that 
 virtue should be practiced for itself, and not 
 through any hope of rew^ard or any fear of pun- 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 219 
 
 isliment here or hereafter. To act up to our 
 highest idea of what was right was our principle, 
 not out of terror or in the hope of conciliating 
 God, but because it was right : and to look calmly 
 on death, not as an evil, but as a step onward to 
 another existence. To desire nothing too much ; 
 to hold one's self equal to any fate ; to keep one's 
 self in harmony with nature and with one's own 
 nature ; calmly to endure what is inevitable, stead- 
 ily to abstain from all that is wrong ; to remember 
 that there is no such thing as misfortune to the 
 brave and wise, but only phantasms that falsely 
 assume these shapes to shake the mind ; that 
 when what we wish does not happen, we shoidd 
 wish what does happen ; that God hath given us 
 courage, magnanimity, and fortitude, so that we 
 may stand up against invasions of evil and bear 
 misfortune, — such were our principles, and they 
 enabled us to live heroic lives, vindicating the no- 
 bility of human nature, and not despising it as base 
 and lost ; believing in the justice of God and not 
 in liis caprice and enmity to any of us, and having 
 no ignoble fear of the future." 
 
 " But are not these principles for the most part 
 ours?" I answered. "Do we not believe tliat 
 virtue is the grand duty of man? Do none of us 
 seek to live heroic lives, and sacrifice ourselves to 
 do good to the world and to our brothers ? " 
 
 " Certainly, you lead heroic lives ; but your 
 great principle is humility — your great motive, 
 reward or fear. You profess to look on this life 
 
220 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 as mean and miserable, and on yourselves as crear 
 tures of tlie dust ; and you declare that you have 
 no claim to be saved from eternal danmation by 
 leading a just life, but only by a capricious elec- 
 tion hereafter. You profess that your God is a 
 God of love, and you attribute to Him enmity and 
 injustice of which you yourself would be ashamed. 
 You think you are to be saved because Christ died 
 on the cross for you, and you are not sure of it 
 even then. But with us every one deserved to be 
 tried on his own merits, and to exj)iate his own 
 errors and crimes." 
 
 " It is supposed by some that you were half a 
 Christian yourself. Is this so ? " 
 
 " If you mean that I reverenced the life and 
 doctrines of Christ, and saw in Him a pure man, 
 I certainly did. But in my principles I was a 
 Stoic purely, and it is only as a philosopher that I 
 admired the character of Christ. You think the 
 principles He preached were new ; they were really 
 as old as the world, almost. His life was blameless, 
 and He sacrificed his life for his principles ; and 
 for this I reverence Him, but no further. His fol- 
 lowers, however, were far less pure and self-deny- 
 ing, and they sought power and endeavored to 
 overthrow the state." 
 
 " Was it for this you persecuted them ? " I 
 said. 
 
 " I did not persecute them," he answered. " As 
 Christians they were perfectly free in Rome. All 
 religions were free, and all admitted. No one was 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 221 
 
 interfered with merely for his religious belief and 
 worship, whether it were that of Isis, of Mithras, 
 of Jehovah, or of any other deity. It was only 
 when the Christians endeavored to attain to power 
 and provoke disturbance in the state, to abuse 
 authority and set at defiance the laws, that it be- 
 came necessary — or at all events was considered 
 necessary — to stop them. When they were not 
 content with worshiping according to their own 
 creed, but aggressively denounced the popidar 
 worship as damnable, and sought to cast public 
 contempt on all gods but their own, they outraged 
 the public sense as much as if any one now should 
 denounce Christ as a vagabond, and seek by abuse 
 to overthrow your church by all sorts of blas- 
 phemous language. Nor would it matter in the 
 least in your own time that any person so outra- 
 ging decency should be absolutely honest in his in- 
 tentions, and assured in his own mind of the truth 
 of his own doctrines. Suppose one step further, — 
 that any set of men should not only undertake to 
 turn Christ into ridicule publicly, but should also 
 abuse the government and conspire to overthrow 
 the monarchy. You would then have a case sim- 
 ilar to that of the Christians in my day. At all 
 events, it was believed that it was a settled plan 
 with them to overthrow the empire, and it was for 
 this that they were, as you call it, persecuted. 
 For my own part, I was sorry for it, deeming in 
 such matters it was better to take no measures so 
 severe ; but I personally had nothing to do with 
 
222 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 it. It was the fanatical zeal of the government, 
 who, acting without my commands, took advantage 
 of ancient laws to punish the Christians ; and this 
 your own TertuUian will prove to you. They un- 
 doubtedly supposed that the Christians were en- 
 deavoring to create a political and social revolu- 
 tion, — that they were in fact Communists, as you 
 would now call them, intent upon overthrowing 
 the state. I confess that there was a good deal of 
 color given to such a judgment by the conduct of 
 the Christians. But as for myself, as I said, I 
 was opposed to any movement against them, be- 
 lieving them all to be honest of purpose, though 
 perhaps somewhat excited and fanatical." 
 
 " Why did you think that they were Commun- 
 ists ? " I asked. " Had you any sufficient grounds 
 for such a belief ? " 
 
 " Surely ; the most ample grounds in the very 
 teachings of Christ himself. His system was es- 
 sentially communistic, and nothing else. His fol- 
 lowers and disciples were all Communists ; they 
 all lived in common, had a common purse, and no 
 one was allowed to own anything. Tliey were 
 ordered by Christ not to labor, but to live from 
 day to day, and take no heed of the future, and 
 lay up notliing, but to sell all they had, and live 
 like the ravens. Christ himself denounced riches 
 constantly — not the wrong use of riches, but the 
 mere possession of them ; and said it was easier 
 for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, 
 than for a rich man to inherit the kinoxlom of 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 223 
 
 heaven, — not a bad rich man, observe, but any- 
 rich man. So, too, his story of Lazarus and Dives 
 turns on the same point. It does not appear that 
 Lazarus was good, but only that he was poor ; 
 nor does it appear that Dives was bad, but only 
 that he was rich ; and when Dives in Hades prays 
 for a drop of water, he is told that he had the 
 a'ood thino:s in his lifetime, and Lazarus the evil 
 things, and that therefore he is now tormented, 
 and Lazarus is comforted." 
 
 '"• But, surely," I answered, " it was intended to 
 mean that Dives had not used his riches prop- 
 erly?" 
 
 " Nothing is said of the kind, or even intimated ; 
 for all that appears. Dives may have been a good 
 man, and Lazarus not. The only apparent virtue 
 of Lazarus is, that he was a beggar ; the only 
 fault of Dives, that he was rich. Do you not re- 
 member, also, the rich young man who desired to 
 become one of Christ's followers, and asked what 
 he should do to be saved ? Christ told him that 
 doing: the commandments, and beins; virtuous and 
 honest, was not enough ; but that he must sell all 
 that he had, and give it to the poor, and then he 
 could follow Him, and not otherwise ; and the 
 rich good man was very sorrowful, and went away. 
 What does all this mean but Communism ? Yes ; 
 the system He would carry out was community of 
 goods, and He would permit no one to have pos- 
 sessions of his own. This struck at the roots of 
 all established law and rights of property, and 
 
224 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 naturally made liis sect feared and hated among 
 certain classes in Rome." 
 
 " I am astonished," I said, " to find that you 
 have so carefully studied the records of the teach- 
 ings and doctrines of Christ. " 
 
 " Is it not the duty of any man," he answered, 
 " especially of one in a responsible position, care- 
 fully to consider the arguments and doctrines of 
 all who are sincere and earnest in their convic- 
 tions, and, however averse they may be from our 
 preconceived opinions, to weigh them, as far as pos- 
 sible, calmly, and without prejudice, and see what 
 they really are and what truth there may be in 
 them ? and was not this peculiarly incumbent on 
 me in the case of so noble and spiritual a teacher 
 as Christ ? Was it not my duty to endeavor, as far 
 as in me lay, first to recognize the great principles 
 of his teaching, and then in their light to examine 
 and weigh his very words as far as they are au- 
 thentically reported to us by his followers ? It is 
 this fixed notion, from which we cannot easily 
 free ourselves, that we in our own views alone can 
 be right, that shuts up the mind and encrusts our 
 faith with superstitions. We at our best are 
 merely men, subject to errors, short-sighted, fixed 
 in prejudices, and seeing but a part of anything. 
 No system of religion ever embraced all truth ; 
 no system is without gleams of it ; all recognize 
 a higher power above us and beyond our compre- 
 hension ; and nothing is more unbecoming than 
 to scorn what we have not even striven to under- 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 225 
 
 stand, or to shut our ears and our minds to any 
 doctrine or faith which is earnestly, seriously pro- 
 pounded and accepted by others. Unfortunately, 
 it is this narrow-mindedness and arrogance of 
 opinion which has always impeded the growth 
 and development of truth. There is nothing so 
 bitter as religious controversy, — nothing which 
 has so petrified our intelligence or has begotten 
 such crimes and such persecutions. Therefore 
 it was that I deemed it my duty to study and 
 endeavor to understand the doctrine and belief 
 of all sincere minds, whether of those who wor- 
 shiped Jehovah or Zeus, Mithras or Christ, and 
 not to reject them as wicked or erroneous simj^ly 
 because they were averse from the faith in which 
 I had been educated. Will you excuse me if I 
 say that what amazes me in regard to the Chris- 
 tian faith is, that while it is claimed that Christ 
 is God, and therefore to be implicitly obeyed in 
 all his commands, so little intelligence is shown 
 in studying those commands, and such willful per- 
 version in avoiding them even when they are 
 plainly enunciated ; and again, that while claim- 
 ing that love and forgiveness are the very corner- 
 stone of your faith, you Christians none the less 
 not only accept war and battle as arbitraments 
 of right, but in the name of your great founder, 
 — nay, of your very God, — have endeavored at 
 times to enforce those doctrines by the most hid- 
 eous of crimes, and by wholesale slaughter of 
 those who differed from you in minor particulars 
 
226 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 of faith ; and still more, do constantly even now 
 exhibit such narrow-minded adherence to mere 
 words and texts, without consideration of the great 
 principles which underlie them and in the light 
 of whicli surely they are to be interpreted. You 
 are all Christians now, in Rome. You profess ab- 
 solute faith in the teaching of Christ. You pro- 
 fess to consider his life as the great exemplar 
 for all men. Do you follow it ? Do you, for in- 
 stance, think it in accordance with his teaching or 
 his example to devote your lives selfishly to the 
 laying up of riches for your own individual luxu- 
 ries, to clothe yourselves in purple and fine linen, 
 to make broad your phylacteries, or to use vain rep- 
 etitions in your prayers as the heathen do, stand- 
 ing in the synagogues and at the corners of the 
 streets, and to play the part of Dives while Laza- 
 rus is starving at your gates ? Are you any bet- 
 ter than we heathens, as you call us, in all this ? 
 Do you think Christ would have done thus, or 
 smiled approval on all you do in his name ? Ah ! 
 you say, it would be impossible for us strictly to 
 carry out this system of Christ. It is beautiful, 
 but ideal, and for us, in the present state of the 
 world, absolutely impracticable. But have you 
 ever tried it ? Have you ever even sought to try 
 it, and to hold a common purse for the interest 
 of all ? " 
 
 I had to bow my head, and admit that in that 
 high sense we are not Christians. " But," I said, 
 " to follow exactly all these commands, to carry 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 227 
 
 out all these doctrines, even to imitate his ex- 
 am})le as set before us in his life, would be to rev- 
 olutionize the world." 
 
 " But does not the world need revolutionizing," 
 he said, " according to your own principles ? " 
 
 " We do what we can, at least we endeavor to 
 do so, as far as we are able." 
 
 " Are you sure even of that ? " he replied. " Are 
 you sure it is not mammon that you really wor- 
 ship, and not Christ? But I will say no more. 
 You are but mortal men as we were ; and man is 
 fallible and weak, and our knowledge is but half- 
 knowledge at best, and our love and faith have 
 but feeble wings to lift us above the earth on 
 which we dwell. Look upon us, therefore, as you 
 would be looked upon yourselves, and be not too 
 stern on our shortcomings. Vfe had our vices 
 and faults and deficiencies as you have yours, 
 but we had also our virtues, and were on the 
 whole as high of purpose, as self-sacrificing, as 
 pure even as you ; but man neither then nor now 
 has led an ideal life. 
 
 " But to return to what we were saying about 
 our treatment of Christians. Let me add in my 
 own justification that I for myself never had any 
 hand in persecutions, either of Christians or of 
 others, nor was I ever aware that they were per- 
 secuted. I knew that persons who happened to 
 be Christians were punished for political oifenses ; 
 and that was all, I think, that happened. Believe 
 me, my soul was averse from all such things, nor 
 
228 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 would I ever allow even my enemies to be per- 
 secuted, much less those who merely differed from 
 me on moral and philosophical theses. Nay, I 
 may say they differed little from me even on these 
 points, as you may well see if you read my letters 
 on the subject of the proper treatment of one's 
 enemies, written to Lucius Verus, or if you will 
 refer to that little diary of mine in Pannonia, 
 wherein I was not so base as to lie to myself." 
 
 " Indeed," I cried ; " that book is a precious 
 record of the purest and highest morality." 
 
 " 'T is a poor thing," he answered, " but sincere. 
 I strove to act up to my best principles ; but life is 
 difficult, and man is not wise, and our opinions are 
 often incorrect. Still, I strove to act according to 
 my nature ; to do the things which were fit for 
 me, and not to be diverted from them by fear of 
 any blame ; to keep the divine part in me tranquil 
 and content ; and to look upon death and life, 
 honor and dishonor, pain and pleasure, as neither 
 good nor evil in themselves, but only in the way in 
 which we receive them. For fame I sought not ; 
 for what is fame but a smoke that vanishes, a river 
 that runs dry, a lamp that soon is extinguished — 
 a tale of a day, and scarcely even so much ? There- 
 fore, it benefits us not deeply to consider it, but to 
 pass on through the little space assigned to us 
 conformably to nature, and in content, and to leave 
 it at last grateful for what we have received, just 
 as an olive falls off when it is ripe, blessing nature 
 which produced it, and thanking the tree on which 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 229 
 
 it grew. So, also, it is our duty not to defile the 
 divinity in our breast, but to follow it tranquilly 
 and obediently as a god, saying nothing contrary 
 to truth, and doing nothing contrary to justice. 
 For our opinions are but running streams, flowing 
 in various ways ; but truth and justice are ever the 
 same, and j)ermanent, and our opinions break 
 about them as the waves round a rock, while they 
 stand firm forever. For every accident of life 
 there is a corresponding virtue to exercise ; and if 
 we consult the divine within us, we know what it 
 is. As we cannot avoid the inevitable, we should 
 accept it without murmuring ; for we cannot 
 struggle against the gods without injuring our- 
 selves. For the good we do to others, we have our 
 immediate reward ; for the evil that others do to 
 us, if we cease to think of it, there is no evil to us. 
 It is by accepting an offense, and entertaining it in 
 our thoughts, that we increase it, and render our- 
 selves unhappy, and veil our reason, and disturb 
 our senses. As for our life, it should be given to 
 proper objects, or it will not be decent in itself ; 
 for a man is the same in quality as the object that 
 engages his thoughts. Our whole nature takes the 
 color of our thoughts and actions. We should 
 also be careful to keep ourselves from rash and 
 premature judgments about men and things ; for 
 often a seeming wrong done to us is a wrong only 
 through our misapprehension, and arising from our 
 fault. And so, making life as honest as possible 
 and calmly doing our duty in the present, as the 
 
230 EXCURtilONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 hour and the act require, and not too curiously 
 considering the future beyond us, standing ever 
 erect, and believing that the gods are just, we may 
 make our passage through this life no dishonor to 
 the Power that placed us here. Throughout the 
 early portion of my life, my father, Antoninus 
 Pius, — I call him my father, for he was ever dear 
 to me, and was like a father, — taught me to be 
 laborious and assiduous, to be serene and just, to 
 be sober and kind, to be brave and without envy 
 or vanity ; and on his death-bed, when he felt the 
 shadow coming over him, he ordered the captain of 
 the guard to transfer to me the golden statuette 
 of Fortune, and gave him his last watchword of 
 ' Equanimity.' From that day to the day when, in 
 my turn, I left the cares of empire and of life, I 
 ever kept that watchword in my heart — equa- 
 nimity ; nor do I know a better one for any man." 
 
 '' Oh, tell me, for you know," I cried, " what is 
 there behind this dark veil which we call death ? 
 You have told me of your opinions and thoughts 
 and principles of life, here ; but of that life here- 
 after you have not said a word. What is it ? " 
 
 There was a blank silence. I looked up — the 
 chair was empty ! That noble figure was no longer 
 there. 
 
 " Fool that I was ! " I cried ; " why did I discuss 
 with him these narrow questions belonging to life 
 and history, and leave that stupendous question 
 unasked which torments us all, and of which he 
 could have given the solution ? " 
 
CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS. 231 
 
 I rose from my chair, and after walking up and 
 down the room several minutes, with the influence 
 of him who had left me still filling my being 
 as a refined and delicate odor, I went to the win- 
 dow, pushed wide the curtains, and looked out 
 upon the night. The clouds were broken, and 
 through a rift of deep, intense blue, the moon was 
 looking out on the eartli. Far away, the heavy 
 and ragged storm was hovering over the moun- 
 tains, sullen and black, and I recalled the words 
 of St. Paul to the Romans : — 
 
 " When the Gentiles, which have not the law, 
 do by nature the things contained in the law, 
 these, having not the law, are a law unto them- 
 selves ; " and "the doers of the law shall be justi- 
 fied." 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE 
 AS INSTANCED IN " MACBETH." 
 
 Aet is art because it is not nature, is the motto 
 of the Idealisti ; Art is but the imitation of na- 
 ture, say the Naturalisti. The truth lies between 
 the two. Art is neither nature alone, nor can it 
 do without nature. No imitation, however accu- 
 rate, for imitation's sake makes a good work of 
 art in any other than a mechanical sense. And 
 every work of art in which the objects represented 
 are inaccurately or imperfectly imitated is in so 
 far deficient. But art works by suggestion as 
 well as by imitation. Whatever is untrue to the 
 imagination fails to produce its proper effect, how- 
 ever true it be to the fact. The most absolute 
 realism will not answer the higher demand of the 
 imagination for ideal truth. Art is not simply 
 the reproduction of nature, but nature as modified 
 and colored by the spirit of the artist. It is a 
 crystallization out of nature of all elements and 
 facts related by a;ffinity to the idea intended to be 
 embodied. These solely it should eliminate and 
 draw to itself, leaving the rest as unessential. A 
 literal adherence to all the accidents of nature is 
 not only not necessary in art, but may even be fatal. 
 The enumeration of all the leaves in a tree does 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 233 
 
 not reproduce a tree to the imagination, while a 
 whole landscape may be compressed into a single 
 verse. 
 
 Between the ideal and the natural school there 
 is a perpetual struggle. Under the purely ideal 
 treatment art becomes vague and insipid; under 
 the purely natural treatment it becomes literal and 
 prosaic. The Pre-Raphaelites, in protesting against 
 weak sentimentalism and vague generalization, and 
 demanding an honest study of nature, have fallen 
 into the error of exaggerating the importance of 
 minute detail, and, by insisting too strongly on 
 literal truth, have sometimes lost sight of that ideal 
 trffth which is of higher worth. But their work 
 was needed, and it has been bravely done. They 
 have roused the age out of that dull conventional- 
 ism in which it had fallen asleep. They have 
 stimulated thought, revivified sentiment, and reas- 
 serted with word and deed the necessity of nature 
 as a true basis of art. 
 
 As in the arts of painting and sculpture, so in 
 the drama and on the stage a strong reaction is 
 taking place against the stilted conventionalism 
 and elaborate artifice of the last generation. Such 
 plays as the " Nina Sforza " of Mr. Troughton, the 
 '' Legend of Florence " of Mr. Leigh Hunt, and the 
 " Blot in the 'Scutcheon " and '' Colombe's Birth- 
 day" of Mr. Browning, are vigorous protests 
 against the feeble pretensions and artificial trage- 
 dies of the previous century. The poems and plays 
 of Mr. Browning breathe a new life ; and if as yet 
 
234 :excursions in art and letters. 
 
 they have only found *' fit audience tlicugli few," 
 they ai*e stimulating the best thought of this age, 
 and slowly infusing a new life and spirit into it. 
 
 But the traditions of the stage are very strong 
 in England, and are not easily to be rooted out. 
 The English public has become accustomed to 
 certain traditional and conventional modes of 
 acting, which interfere with the freedom of the 
 actor, and cramp his genius within artificial forms. 
 There is almost no attempt on the English stage 
 to represent life as it really is. Tradition and con- 
 vention stand in the stead of nature. From the 
 moment an actor puts his foot on the stage he is 
 tauo^ht to mouth and declaim. Pie studies rather 
 to make telling points than to give a consistent 
 whole to the character he represents. His utter- 
 ance and action are false and " stagey." In quiet 
 scenes he is pompous and stilted ; in tragic scenes, 
 ranting and violent. He never forgets his audi- 
 ence, but, standing before the footlights, constantly 
 addresses himself to them as if they were person- 
 ages in the play. Habit at last becomes a second 
 nature ; his taste becomes corrupted, and he ceases 
 to strive to be simple and natural. There is, in 
 a word, no defect against which Hamlet warns 
 the actor which is not a characteristic feature of 
 English acting. It never " holds the mirror up to 
 nature," but is always " overdone," without " tem- 
 perance," full of mouthing, strutting, bellowing, 
 and noise. It " tears a passion to tatters, to very 
 rags, to split the ears of the groundlings." And 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 235 
 
 " there be players that I have seen play, and heard 
 others praise, and that higlily, not to speak it pro- 
 fanely, that, having neither the accent of Chris- 
 tians nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor Turk, 
 have so strutted and bellowed, that I have thought 
 some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and 
 not made them well, they imitated humanity so 
 abominably ; " and this needs to be reformed alto- 
 gether. 
 
 These words of Shakespeare show that even in 
 his time the inflated, pompous, and artificial style 
 still in vogue on the English stage v/as a national 
 characteristic. We have scarcely improved, since 
 old traditions clino: and hold the staofe in mort- 
 main. Reform moves slowly everywhere in Eng- 
 land ; but the two institutions which oppose to it 
 the most obstinate resistance are the church and 
 the theatre. In both of these tradition stands for 
 nearly as much as revelation. Each adheres to its 
 old forms, as if they contained its true essence ; 
 each believes that those forms once broken, the 
 whole spirit would be lost; just as if they were 
 phials which contained a precious liquid, and must 
 be therefore preserved at all costs. The idea that 
 the liquid can be quite as well, and perhaps better, 
 kept in different phials has never occurred to them. 
 They will die for the phial. 
 
 Still it is plain that a strong reaction against 
 this bigoted admiration of traditional and conven- 
 tional forms is now perceptible. The facilities 
 of travel and intercourse with other nations have 
 
236 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS, 
 
 engendered new notions and modified old ones. It 
 is impossible to compare the French and Italian 
 stage with the English, and not perceive the vast 
 inferiority of the latter. In the one we see nature, 
 simj^licity, and life ; in the other, the galvanism 
 jof artificial convention. It cannot be denied that 
 the recent acting of Hamlet by Fechter was to the 
 lEnglish mind a daring and doubtful innovation. 
 It was something so utterly different in spirit and 
 style from that to which we have been accustomed 
 that it created a sensation ; and while it found 
 many ardent admirers, it found quite as many 
 vehement opposers. The public ranged themselves 
 in two parties ; the one insisting that the tra- 
 ditional and artificial school, as represented by 
 Garrick, the elder Kean, and Cooke, was the only 
 safe guide for the tragic actor ; and the other 
 arguing that as the true function of the stage was 
 to hold up the mirror to nature, acting should be 
 as much like life and as little like acting as pos- 
 sible. The former, at the head of which were the 
 friends of Mr. Charles Kean, made a public dem- 
 onstration in his behalf, and scouted these new- 
 fangled French notions of acting. Was it to be 
 supposed that any school of acting could be supe- 
 rior to that created and established in England by 
 the genius of such actors as Garrick, the elder 
 Kean, and Cooke ? Should foreigners presume to 
 teach us how to interpret and represent plays 
 which had been the study of the English people 
 for centuries ? To this it was opposed that, how- 
 
DISTORTIONS OF TEE ENGLISH STAGE. 237 
 
 ever mortifying to us, it was a fact tliat the Ger- 
 mans had led the way to a profounder and more 
 metaphysical study of Shakespeare, and had taught 
 us in many ways how to understand his plays, and 
 that therefore there was no reason why foreigners 
 might not teach us how to act them. The very 
 fact that their eyes were not blinded, nor their 
 tongues tied by traditional conventions, enabled 
 them to study Shakespeare with more freedom and 
 directness. There was no deep rut of ancient 
 usage out of which they were forced to wrench 
 themselves. And, besides, it was affirmed, and 
 with truth, that the English stage is the jeer of 
 the world, and needs thorough reform. 
 
 We have indeed made little progress in reform- 
 ing the stage. Mr. Charles Kean has devoted his 
 talents to improving the wardrobe and scenery, 
 and has so far done good service ; but in the es- 
 sential matter of acting we are nearly where we 
 were in the past century. While the background 
 and dresses are reformed, and the bag-wig in 
 which Garrick played Hamlet is thrown aside, we 
 have carefully preserved all the old points, all the 
 stage-tricks, and all the stilted intonations of the 
 artificial school ; and the consequence is, that the 
 sole reality is in that which is the least essential. 
 The attention is thus withdrawn from the actor to 
 the scenery, and we have a spectacle instead of a 
 tragedy. The background is real, but the actor is 
 conventional ; the blanket has usurped the prom- 
 inent place, and Shakespeare has retired behind it. 
 
238 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 The bursts of genius with which Garrick startled 
 the house, and made the audience forget his bag- 
 wig, are wanting, but all his tricks are preserved ; 
 the corpse is still there, but the spirit he put into 
 it is gone. 
 
 In comedy there is as little resemblance to real 
 life as in tragedy ; humor and wit are travestied 
 by buffoonery and grimace. Instead of pictures of 
 life as it is, we have grotesque daubs and carica- 
 tures, so exaggerated and farcical in their charac- 
 ter as to " make the judicious grieve." The actor 
 and the audience react upon each other. The 
 audience are ^generally uneducated, and for the 
 most part agree with Partridge in his comment on 
 " Hamlet : " " Give me the king for my money," 
 says he. The actors must bow to this low taste, — 
 
 *' For they who live to please must please to live." 
 
 But tradition has worse sins to answer for. It 
 has not only ruined our national acting, but in 
 some cases has overshadowed the drama itself, and 
 perverted the meaning of some of the greatest 
 plays of Shakespeare. Hamlet is not Hamlet on 
 the English stage ; he is the tall, imposing figure 
 of John Kemble ; dark, melodramatic, and dressed 
 in black velvet. Strive as we will, we cannot im- 
 agine him as the light -haired Dane, easy and 
 dreamy of temperament, '' fat and scant of breath," 
 essentially metaphysical, hating physical action, 
 and wanting energy to put his thoughts into deeds. 
 The whole spirit of the acted Hamlet is southern • 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 239 
 
 that of the real Hamlet is purely northern. We 
 have indeed broken through an old tradition, ac- 
 cording to which, incredible as it may seem, Shy- 
 lock used to be acted as a comic character, though 
 we are still far from a real understanding of his 
 character. But of all the plays of Shakespeare 
 none is so grossly misunderstood as "Macbeth." 
 Nor is this misapprehension confined to the stage ; 
 it prevails even among those who have zealously 
 studied and admired Shakespeare. As John Kem- 
 ble stands for Hamlet in our imaginations, so does 
 Mis. Siddons for Lady Macbeth. She has com- 
 pletely transformed this wonderful creation of 
 Shakespeare's, distorted its true features, and so 
 stamped upon it her own individuality, that when 
 we think of one we have the figure of the other 
 in our minds. The Lady Macbeth of Mrs. Sid- 
 dons is the only Lady Macbeth we know and 
 believe in. She is the imperious, wicked, cruel 
 wife of Macbeth, urging on her weak and kind- 
 hearted husband to abominable crimes solely to 
 gratify her own ambitious and evil nature. She is 
 without heart, tenderness, or remorse. Devilish 
 in character, violent in purpose, she is the soul of 
 the whole play ; the plotter and instigator of all 
 its horrors ; a fiend-like creature, who, having a 
 complete mastery over Macbeth, works him to 
 madness by her taunts, and relentlessly drives him 
 on against his will to the commission of his terri- 
 ble crimes. We hate her, as we pity Macbeth. He 
 is weak of purpose, amiable of disposition, " full 
 
240 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 of the milk of human kindness," an unwilling 
 instrument of all her evil designs, who, wanting 
 force of will and strength of character, yields 
 reluctantly to her infernal temptations. 
 
 Nothing could more clearly prove the great 
 genius of Mrs. Siddons, than that she has been 
 able so to stamp upon the public mind this amaz- 
 ing misconception, that, despite all the careful 
 study which of late years has been given to Shake- 
 speare, this notion of the character of Lady Mac- 
 beth and Macbeth should still prevail. Yet so 
 deeply is it rooted, and so universal, that whoever 
 attempts to eradicate it will find his task most 
 difficult. But, believing it to be an utter distortion 
 of the characters as Shakespeare drew them, and 
 so at variance with the interior thought, conduct, 
 and development of the play as not only entirely 
 to obscure its real meaning, but to obliterate all 
 its finest and most delicate features, we venture to 
 enter upon this difficult task. 
 
 Macbeth and his wife, so far from being the 
 characters above described, are their direct oppo- 
 sites. He is the villain, who can never satiate 
 himself with crimes. She, having committed one 
 crime, dies of remorse. She is essentially a woman 
 — acts suddenly and violently, and then breaks 
 down, and wastes her life and thoughts in bitter 
 repentance. He is, on the contrary, essentially a 
 man — who resolves slowly and with calculation, 
 but once determined and entered upon a course of 
 action, obstinately pursues it to the end, haunted 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 241 
 
 by no remorse for his crimes, and agitated by no 
 regrets and doubts, so long as his wicked plans do 
 not miscarry. The spring of his nature is ambi- 
 tion ; 1 and in working out his ends he is cruel, 
 pitiless, and bloody. He is without a single good 
 trait of character ; and from the beginning to the 
 end of the play, at every step, he develops deeper 
 abysses of cruelty and inhumanity in his nature. 
 When he is first presented to us, we, in common 
 with Lady Macbeth, are completely unaware of his 
 baseness. He is a thorough hypocrite, and deceives 
 us, as he deceived her. We see that he has a grasp- 
 ing ambition, but we believe that he is amiable 
 and weak of purpose, for so Lady Macbeth tells 
 us ; but as the play goes on, his character develops 
 itself, and at last we find that he has neither heart 
 nor tenderness for anybody or anything ; that his 
 will is unconquerable ; that he is utterly without 
 moral sense, is hopelessly selfish, and wickedly 
 cruel. All he loves is power. His ambition is 
 insatiable. It grows by what it feeds on. The 
 more he has, the more he desires, and he is ready 
 to commit every kind of horror for the sake of 
 attaining his object. He is restrained by no scru- 
 ples of honor, by no claims of friendship, by no 
 sensitiveness of conscience. He murders his sov- 
 ereign, from whom he has just received large gifts 
 and honors in his own house ; and then instantly 
 
 ^ " I have no spur 
 To prick the sides of my intent, but only 
 Vaulting ambition." 
 
242 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 compasses the death of his nearest friend and 
 guest, Banquo. Not content with this, he then 
 seeks the life of Macduff ; and, enraged because 
 he has fled, savagely and in cold blood puts the 
 whole of his family to the sword. There is a 
 steady growth of evil in his character from the 
 beginning to the end, or rather a steady develop- 
 ment of his evil nature. 
 
 Malcolm and Macduff, who at first were his 
 friends and companions, afterwards, when they had 
 learned to " know " him, call him " treacherous " 
 and "devilish." So far from agreeing in the 
 character given of him by Lady Macbeth, they 
 say,— 
 
 " Macduff. Not in the legions 
 
 Of horrid hell can come a devil more damned 
 In evil to top Macbeth. 
 
 Malcolm. I grant him bloody, 
 
 Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, 
 Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin 
 That has a name." 
 
 Yet even they admit that 
 
 " This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, 
 Was once thought honest." 
 
 As he had deceived the world, so he deceived his 
 wife. His bloody and treacherous nature was at 
 first as unknown to her as to his friends. As they 
 thought him " honest," she thought him amiable 
 and infirm of purpose, greatly ambitious, and one 
 who would " wrongly win," but yet kindly of na- 
 ture. Fiery temptations had not as yet brought 
 out the secret writing of his character. It was with 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 243 
 
 Macbeth as it was with Nero: their real natures 
 did not exhibit themselves at first ; but when once 
 they began to develop, their growth was rapid and 
 terrible. And in each of them there was a vein of 
 madness. Essentially a hypocrite, and secretive 
 by nature, ]\Iacbeth had passed for o«ly a brave 
 and stern soldier when he first makes his appear- 
 ance. Yet even in his fierce Norwegian fight we 
 see a violent and bloody sj^irit. In the very begin- 
 ning of the play, one of his soldiers describes him, 
 in his encounter with Macdonald, as one who, — 
 
 *' Disdaining- fortune, with his brandished steel, 
 Which smoked with bloody execution, 
 Like Valour's minion, 
 
 Carved out his pa sage till he faced the slave ; 
 And ne'er shook hands nor bade farewell to hina 
 Till he unseamed him from the nape to the chaps, 
 And fixed his head upon our battlements." 
 
 This is rather a grim picture, and scarcely corre- 
 sponds to the character usually assigned to Mac- 
 beth. Here is not only no infirmity of purpose, 
 but a stern, unwavering resolution, carving its way 
 through all difiiculties and against all opposition. 
 Thus far, however, all his deeds had been loyal and 
 for a lawful purpose. Still within his heart burnt, 
 as he himself says, " black and deep desires," and 
 only circumstances and opportunities were needed 
 to show that he could be as fierce and bloody in 
 crime as he had shown himself in doing a soldier's 
 duty. They were already urging him in the very 
 first scene ; but, secretive of nature, he kept them 
 out of sight. 
 
244 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS, 
 
 " Stars, hide your fires ; 
 Let not lig-ht see my black and deep desires; 
 The eye wink at tha hail; yat let that be, 
 Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see." 
 
 Thus he cries to himself as he speeds to his wife. 
 The ''murd^," which was but an hour before 
 "fantastical," has now become a fixed resolve. 
 
 A nature like this, secretive, false, deceitful, and 
 wicked, which had thus far satisfied itself in a 
 legitimate way, and, having no tem])tation in his 
 own house, had never shown its real shaj^e there, 
 would naturally not have been understood by his 
 wife. Glimpses she might have of what he was, 
 but not a thorough understanding of him. Blinded 
 by her personal attachment to him, and herself 
 essentially his opposite in character, as we shall 
 see, she would naturally have misinterpreted him. 
 The secretive nature is always a puzzle to the 
 frank nature. Accustomed to go straight to her 
 object, whether good or bad, she was completely 
 deceived by his hypocritical and sentimental pre- 
 tenses, and supposed his nature to be " full of the 
 milk of human kindness." But time also opened 
 her eyes, though, perhaps, never, even to the last, 
 did she fully comprehend him. " What thou 
 wouldst highly, that wouldst thou holily," she 
 would never have said after the murder of the 
 king. But however this may be, that her view of 
 his character is false is proved by the whole play. 
 When did he ever show an iota of kindness ? 
 What crime did his conscience or the desire to 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLTSH STAGE. 245 
 
 act " holily " ever prevent his committing ? 
 When did he ever exhibit any want of bloody 
 determination ? Infirm of purpose ? He was like 
 a tiger in his purposes and in his deeds. The 
 murder of Duncan did not satisfy him. The next 
 morning, he kills the two chamberlains, in cold 
 blood, to gratify his wanton cruelty. It was im- 
 possible that they should testify against him — 
 they had been drugged, and he could have had no 
 fear of them. Then immediately he plots the 
 murder of Ban quo and Fleance, and all the while 
 hypocritically conceals his foul purposes even from 
 his wife ; and because Macduif " failed his pres- 
 ence at the tyrant's feast," he determines also to 
 murder him. Foiled of this, he then cruelly and 
 hideously puts to the sword his wife and little 
 children. In all these murders, after the king's. 
 Lady Macbeth not only takes no part, but she 
 is even kept in ignorance of them. She drive 
 him to the commission of his crimes? She does 
 not know of them till they are done. They are 
 plotted and determined upon in secret by Macbeth 
 alone, and carried into execution with a bloody 
 directness and suddenness. He is " bloody, false, 
 deceitful, sudden," — essentially a hypocrite, false 
 in his pretenses, secret in his plotting, loud in 
 his showy talk, but sudden and bloody in his 
 crimes and in his malice. 
 
 Thus far, however, we have seen but one side 
 of Macbeth. The other side was its opposite. 
 Bold, ambitious, and treacherous, he was also 
 
246 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 equally imaginative and superstitious. In action 
 he feared no man. Brave as he was cruel, and 
 ready to meet anything in the flesh, he was 
 equally visionary of head, a victim of supersti- 
 tious fears, and a mere coward before the unreal 
 fancies evoked by his imagination. He has the 
 Scottish second-sight, and visions and phantoms 
 shake his soul. Show him twenty armed men who 
 seek his life, he encounters them with a fierce joy. 
 Show him a white sheet on a pole, and tell him 
 it is a ghost, and he trembles abjectl3\ He con- 
 jures up for himself phantoms that " unfix his 
 hair and make his seated heart knock at his 
 ribs ; " he is distracted with " horrible imagin- 
 ings." His excited imagination always plays him 
 false and fills him with momentary and supersti- 
 tious fears ; but these fears never ultimately con- 
 trol his action. They are fumes of the head, and 
 being purely visionary, they are also temporary. 
 They come in moments of excitement, obscure for 
 a time his judgment, and influence his ideas ; but 
 having regard solely to things unreal, they vanish 
 with the necessity of action. 
 
 These superstitious fears have nothing to do 
 with conscience or morals. He has no morals ; 
 there is no indication of a moral sense in any 
 single word of the whole play. The only passage 
 which faintly indicates a sense of right and wrong 
 is when he urges to himself, as reasons why he 
 should not kill Duncan, not only that the king is 
 his kinsman, his king, and his guest, but that he 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 247 
 
 has borne his faculties so meekly, that his virtues 
 would plead like angels trumpet-tongued against 
 the deep damnation of his taking-off. This, how- 
 ever, is mere talk, and has reference only to the 
 indignation which his murder will excite, not 
 to any sorrow Macbeth has for the crime. His 
 sole doubt is lest he may not succeed ; for, as he 
 says,— 
 
 " If the assassination 
 Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, 
 With his surcease, success ; that but this blow 
 Might be the be-all and the end-all here, 
 But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, — 
 We 'd jump the life to come." 
 
 The idea of being restrained from committing this 
 murder by any religious or moral scruples is very 
 far from his thought. Eight or wrong, good or 
 bad, have nothing to do with the question ; and 
 as for the " life to come," that is mere folly. 
 
 But while his moral sense is dead, his imagina- 
 tion is nervously aliv^e. It engenders visions that 
 terrify him : after the murder is done, he thinks 
 he hears phantom-voices crying, " Sleep no more ! 
 Glamis hath murdered sleep; and therefore Caw- 
 dor shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no 
 more ; " and these voices so work upon his super- 
 stitious fears, that he is afraid for the moment to 
 return to the chamber, and carry the daggers back 
 and smear the grooms with blood. He is, as Lady 
 Macbeth says, " brainsickly," and " fears a painted 
 devil." This is superstition, not remorse — a 
 momentary imaginative fear, not a permanent feel- 
 
248 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 ing. In a few minutes he has changed his dress, 
 and cahnly makes speeches as if nothing had oc- 
 curred, — nay, this cokl-blooded hypocrite is ready 
 within the hour to commit two new and wanton 
 murders on the chamberlains, and boastfully to 
 refer them to his loyal spirit and loving heart, in- 
 flamed by horror at the hideous murder of the 
 king, which he has himself committed. 
 
 The same superstitious fear attacks him when 
 he hears that Birnam Wood is moving to Dun- 
 sinane Hill ; but it does not jDrevent this creature, 
 so " full of the milk of human kindness," from 
 striking the messenger, calling him " liar and 
 slave," and threatening, — 
 
 " If thou speak'st false, 
 Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive 
 Till famine cling' thee." 
 
 So, too, when Macduff tells him that he w^as " not 
 of woman born," awed for a moment by his super- 
 stitious fears, he cries, — 
 
 " Accursed be that tongue that tells nae so, 
 For it hath cow'd my better part of man ! 
 . . . I'll not fight with thee." 
 
 At times, under the influence of an over-excit- 
 able imagination acting upon a nature thoroughly 
 superstitious, his intellect wavers, and he is sub- 
 ject to sudden aberrations of mind resembling in- 
 sanity. They are, however, evanescent, and in a 
 moment he recovers his poise, descending through 
 a poetical phase into his real and settled character 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 249 
 
 of cruelty and wickedness. In the dagger-scene, 
 where he is alone, these three phases are perfectly- 
 marked. The visionary dagger " proceeding from 
 the heat-oppressed brain " soon vanishes, then fol- 
 lows the poetic mania, and then the stern resolu- 
 tion of murder. In the banquet-scene, when the 
 ghost of Banquo rises, the poetic interval is less 
 marked, for Macbeth is under the restraint of the 
 company and under the influence of his wife ; but 
 scarce has the company gone when his real char- 
 acter returns. He is again forming new resolu- 
 tions of blood. His mind reverts to Macduff, 
 whose life he threatens. He is bent '' to know, by 
 the worst means, the worst ; " *' strange things I 
 have in head, that will to hand." 
 
 This aberration of mind Macbeth has in com- 
 mon with Lear, Hamlet, and Othello. But in 
 Macbeth alone does it take a superstitious shape. 
 The trance of Othello is but a momentary condi- 
 tion, in which his goaded imagination, acting upon 
 an irritated sense of honor, love, and jealousy, 
 obliterates for an instant the real world. Ham- 
 let's aberration, when it is not feigned, as for the 
 most part it is, is but the " sore distraction " of 
 a mind upon which the burden of a great action 
 is fixed, which he is bound either to accept or to 
 reject, but in regard to which he hesitates, not 
 because he lacks decision of character, but solely 
 because he cannot satisfy himself that he has sure 
 grounds for action, and that he is not deceived 
 as to the facts which are the motive of his action ; 
 
\\ 
 
 250 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 once satisfied as to the grounds for action, he is 
 decisive and j)rompt, as is clearly shown in the 
 manner in which he disjDoses of Guildenstern and 
 Rosencrantz on board the vessel, and in the instant 
 slaying of the king himself, when the evidence of 
 his infamy is clear. But while he is yet undecided 
 and struggling with himself to solve this sad prob- 
 lem of the king's guilt, he rejects all ideas of love 
 as futile and impertinent, and, more than that, 
 doubts whether Ophelia herself is not, imcon- 
 sciously to herself, made a tool of by the king and 
 queen. Lear, again, is " heart-struck." His mad- 
 ness comes from wounded pride and affection. 
 The ingratitude and cruelty of his daughters shake 
 his mind, and to his excited spirit the very ele- 
 ments become his " pernicious daughters : " "I 
 never gave you kingdoms, called you children." 
 In all except Macbeth, the nature thus driven to 
 madness is noble in itself, moral in its character, 
 and warm in its affections. The aberrations of 
 Macbeth are superstitious, and have nothing to do 
 with the morals or the affections. 
 
 Macbeth's imagination is, however, a ruling 
 characteristic of his nature. His brain is always 
 active ; and when it does not evoke phantoms, it 
 indulges in fanciful and poetic images. He is a 
 poet, and turns everything into poetry. His ut- 
 terance is generally excited and high-flown, rarely 
 simple and real, and almost never expresses his 
 true feelings and thoughts. His. heart remains 
 cold while his head is on fire. On all occasions 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 251 
 
 his first impulse is to poetize a little ; and having 
 done this, he goes about his work without regard 
 to what he has said. His sayings are one thing ; 
 his doings are quite another. Shakespeare makes 
 him rant intentionally, as if to show that in such 
 a character the imagination can and does work 
 entirely independently of real feelings and pas- 
 sions. There is no serious character in all Shake- 
 speare's plays who constantly rants and swells in 
 his speech like Macbeth ; and this is plainly to 
 show the complete unreality of all his imaginative 
 bursts. In this he differs from every other person 
 in this play. Yet when he is really in earnest, 
 and has some plain business in hand, he can be 
 direct enough in his speech, as throughout the 
 second interview with the weird sisters, and in 
 the scene with the two murderers whom he sends 
 to kill Banquo and Fleance ; or when, enraged at 
 the escape of Fleance, he forgets to be a hypocrite, 
 and his real nature clearly expresses itself in direct 
 words, full of savage resolve. But on all other 
 occasions, when he is not in earnest and intends 
 to deceive, or when his brain is excited, he in- 
 dulges in sentimental speeches, violent figures of 
 speech, extravagant personifications, and artificial 
 tropes and conceits. Even in the phantom-voices 
 he imagines crying to him over Duncan's body, 
 he cannot help this peculiarity. He curiously 
 hunts out conceits to express sleep. He " murders 
 sleep, the innocent sleep ; sleep, that knits up the 
 ravell'd sleeve of care, the death of each day's life. 
 
252 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 sore labor's bath, balm of hurt minds, great na^ 
 ture's second course, chief nourisher in life's feast." 
 No wonder that Lady Macbeth, amazed, cries out, 
 " What do you mean ? " But he cannot help 
 going on like a mad poet. His language is full of 
 alliteration, fanciful juxtaposition of w£)rds, as- 
 sonance, and jingle. At times, so strong is this 
 habit, he makes poems to himself, and for the 
 moment half believes in them. Only compare, in 
 this connection, the natural, simple pathos of the 
 scene where Macduff hears of the barbarous mur- 
 der of his wife and children, with the language of 
 Macbeth, when the death of Lady Macbeth is an- 
 nounced to him. Macduff "pulls his hat upon 
 his brows," and gives vent to his agony in the 
 simplest and most direct words. Here the feeling 
 is deej) and sincere : — 
 
 " All my pretty ones ? 
 Did you say, all ? — O hell-kite ! — All ? 
 What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam, 
 At one fell swoop ? 
 
 Mai. Dispute it like a man. 
 
 Macd. I shall do so ; 
 
 But I must also feel it like a man : 
 I cannot but remember such things were. 
 And were most precious to me. — Did heaven look on, 
 And would not take their part ? Sinful Mneduff, 
 They were all struck for thee ! naught that I am, 
 Not for their own demerits, but for mine. 
 Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now ! 
 
 O, I could play the woman with my eyes." 
 
 But when Macbeth is told of the death of his 
 wife, he makes a little poem, full of alliterations 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 253 
 
 and conceits. It is an answer to the question, 
 What is life like ? What can we say about it now ? 
 
 " To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
 Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 
 To the last syllable of recorded time ; 
 And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
 The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle ! 
 Life 's but a walking- shadow ; a poor player, 
 That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
 And then is heard no more : it is a tale 
 Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
 Signifying nothing. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 Thou com'st to use thy tongue ; thy story quickly." 
 
 Has this any relation to true feeling ? Do men 
 of any feeling, whose hearts are touched, fall to 
 improvising poems like this, filled with fanciful 
 images, when great sorrows come upon them ? 
 This speech is full of " sound and fury, signifying 
 nothino'." There is no accent from the heart in it. 
 It is elaborate, poetic, cold-blooded. " Life is a 
 candle," " a poor player," " a walking shadow," 
 " a tale told by an idiot." We have his customary 
 alliterations : " petty pace," " dusty death," " day 
 to day ; " his love of repeating the same word, 
 " to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow," just 
 as we have " If it were done when 't is done, then 
 't were well it were done quicldy ; " and his " Sleep 
 no more, Macbeth does murder sleep, — sleep, that 
 knits up," etc. ; " Sleep no more ! Glamis hath mur- 
 dered sleep ; and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no 
 more, Macbeth shall sleep no more." He cannot 
 
254 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 forget himself enough to cease to be ingenious in 
 his phrases. As a poem this speech is striking ; 
 as an expression of feeling it is perfectly empty. 
 At the end of it he has quite forgotten the death 
 of his wife ; he is only employed in piling up figure 
 after figure to personify life. What renders the 
 unreality of this still more striking is the sudden 
 change which comes over him upon the entrance 
 of the messenger. In an instant he stops short in 
 his poem, and his tone becomes at once decided 
 and harsh ; his wife's death has jDassed utterly out 
 of his mind. When the messenger tells him that 
 Birnam Wood is beginning to move, with a sud- 
 den burst of rage he turns upon him, calls him 
 liar and slave, and threatens to hang him alive 
 till famine cling him, if his report prove to be 
 incorrect. This is the real Macbeth. From this 
 time forward he never alludes to Lady Macbeth ; 
 but, in a strange condition of sujoerstitious fear 
 and soldierly courage, he calls his men to arms, 
 and goes out crying, — 
 
 " Blow, wind ! come, wrack ! 
 At least we '11 die with harness on our back." 
 
 And this throughout is the character of Macbeth's 
 utterances. He is not like Tartuffe, a religious hyp- 
 ocrite ; he is a poetical and sentimental hypocrite. 
 His phrases and figures of speech have no root in 
 his real life ; they are only veneered uj^on them. 
 " His words fly up, his thoughts remain below." 
 When he is poetical he is never in earnest. Some- 
 times his speeches are merely oratorical, and made 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 255 
 
 from habit and for effect ; sometimes they are 
 hypocritical, and used to conceal his real inten- 
 tions ; and sometimes they are the expressions of 
 an inflamed and diseased imagination stimulated 
 by superstition. But they are generally bombastic 
 and swelling in tone, and are so intended to be. 
 His habit of making speeches and inventing curi- 
 ous conceits is so strong, that he even " unpacks 
 his heart with words " when alone, so as to leave 
 himself free and direct to act. Thus, in one of his 
 famous soliloquies, mark the unreal quality of all 
 the pretended feeling, the mixture of immorality, 
 bombast, and hypocrisy, the assonances and allit- 
 erations, the plays upon words, the extravagant 
 figures, all showing the excitability of the brain 
 and not of the heart : — 
 
 " If it were done when 't is done, then H were well 
 It were done quickly. If th' assassination 
 Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, 
 With his surcease, success ; that but this blow 
 Might be the be-all and the end-all here, 
 But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, — 
 We 'd jump the life to come." 
 
 Then, after some questions about killing his guest, 
 his kinsman, his king, which would seem honest, 
 but for what comes after and for the utter reckless 
 immorality which has gone before these words, 
 his imagination excites itself, and runs into a wild 
 and extravagant figure which means nothing. 
 Duncan's virtues, he says, — 
 
 "Will plead like ang-els frumpet-fong-ued against 
 The c?eep damnation of his iaking-off." 
 
256 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 No sooner does he begin to swell and alliterate 
 again than he goes wild : — 
 
 " And pity, like a naked new-6orn 6abe, 
 Striding- the blast, or heaven's chei-ubin, hors'd 
 Upon the sightless couriers of the air, 
 Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, 
 That tears shall drown the wind.^'' 
 
 This is pure rant, and intended to be so. It is 
 the product of an unrestrained imagination which 
 exhausts itself in the utterance. But it neither 
 comes from the heart nor acts upon the heart. 
 
 Again, in the soliloquy of the air-drawn dagger, 
 the superstitious, visionary Macbeth, who always 
 projects his fancies into figures and phantoms, 
 after addressing this 
 
 ' ' false creation 
 Proceeding' from the heat-oppressed brain," 
 
 falls at once into poetic declamation about the 
 night, and indulges himself in strange images and 
 personifications. A man about to commit a mur- 
 der who invents these conceits must be a poetical 
 villain : — 
 
 * ' Now witchcraft celebrates 
 Pale Hecate's offerings ; and wither' d murder, 
 Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, 
 Whose howl 's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, 
 With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design 
 Moves like a ghost." 
 
 Can anything be more extraordinary and elabo- 
 rate than this pressing of one conceit upon 
 another? Withered murder has a sentinel, the 
 wolf, who howls his watch, and who with stealthy 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 257 
 
 pace strides with Tarquin's ravishing strides like 
 a ghost ! Shakespeare makes no other character 
 systematically talk like this. 
 
 But the fumes of the brain pass, and leave the 
 stern, determined man of action : — 
 
 " Whiles I threat, he lives ; 
 Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. 
 I go, and it is done ; the bell invites me. 
 Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell 
 That summons thee to heaven, or to hell." 
 
 We have no such rant as this in Lady Macbeth. 
 In the scenes of the murder, she does not befool 
 herself with visions and poetry. She is practical, 
 and her attention is given solely to the real facts 
 about her. Contrast the simple language in which 
 she speaks, while waiting for Macbeth, with his 
 previous rhodomontade. Agitated, in great emo- 
 tion, listening for sounds, doubting whether some 
 mischance may not have befallen to prevent the 
 murder, she speaks in short, broken sentences ; 
 but she does not liken her husband to Tarquin, and 
 say now is the time when " witchcraft celebrates 
 pale Hecate's offerings," nor employ this interval 
 in making a poem full of conceits. 
 
 Macbeth goes in to the king, and commits the 
 murder ; no scruples of any kind prevent him. 
 But when that is secure, he has a superstitious fit, 
 and imagines phantom-voices, that talk as no phan- 
 toms ever did before. Still he is a coward in the 
 presence of phantoms, and will not go back. The 
 deed has been done, and ghosts alarm him. 
 
258 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 But, as has been before observed, all this rav- 
 ing as usual passes by at once. In a half-hour he 
 is as cold and calm as ever. The phantom-voices 
 did not reach his conscience, and awakened no 
 remorse. They were the children of superstition 
 and imagination, and they vanished with cockcrow 
 and daylight, leaving no trace behind in his mem- 
 ory. They have not altered his mood nor his 
 plans. 
 
 We now come to consider Lady Macbeth's char- 
 acter. At all points she was her husband's oppo- 
 site, or rather his complement. Where he was 
 strong, she was weak ; where he was weak, she was 
 strong. He was poetical and visionary of nature ; 
 she was plain and practical. He was indirect, 
 false, secretive ; she, on the contrary, was -vehe- 
 ment and impulsive. Between what she willed 
 and what she did was a straight line. She was 
 troubled by none of his superstitious fears or 
 visions. Her imagination was feeble and inactive, 
 her character was energetic ; she saw only the 
 object immediately before her, and she went to it 
 with rapidity and directness of j)urpose. She was 
 skillful in management and ready in contrivance, 
 as women are apt to be ; while Macbeth was want- 
 ing in both these qualities, as men generally are. 
 For herself she seems to have had no ambition, 
 and not personally to have coveted the position 
 of queen. Her ambition is but the reflection of 
 Macbeth's, and her great crime was wrought in 
 furtherance of his suggestions and promptings. 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE, 259 
 
 Mistaking entirely his character at first, proud of 
 his success for his sake, and rightly reading him so 
 far as to see that his ambition, which was insati- 
 able, grasped at the throne, she lent herself to the 
 murder of Duncan, in the belief that a throne 
 once obtained, Macbeth' s ambition would be satis- 
 fied. Her moral sense was inactive, and not suf- 
 ficient to lead her to oppose his project. It was 
 nat, as we shall see, utterly wanting in her, as 
 in Macbeth. She seems to have been warmly 
 attached to Macbeth, and always, after the murder 
 is committed, she endeavors to soothe and tran- 
 quillize him with gentle and affectionate words. 
 But she could not understand his superstitions 
 hesitations when once resolved on action. His 
 poetry and his imaginative flights, as well as his 
 visions, were to her incomprehensible, and she 
 made the natural mistake of supposing him to be 
 infirm of purpose. Her mind was one of manage- 
 ment and detail. The determination and sugges- 
 tion of the murder are his ; the management and 
 detail of it are hers. This is a master-stroke of 
 Shakespeare's, by which he at once distinguishes 
 the masculine from the feminine nature. Man is 
 quick to propose and suggest a plan in its general 
 scope : woman is always superior in adjusting the 
 details by which it may be carried into execution. 
 Lady Macbeth's nature was not wicked in itself ; 
 it was susceptible of deep feeling and remorse. But 
 her moral sense was sluggish, while her impulses 
 were sudden and vehement ; and as such women 
 
260 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 generally are, she was irritably impatient of the 
 postponement of any project already decided upon. 
 She had a strong will, and gave expression to it in 
 an exaggerated way : — 
 
 " I have given suck, and know 
 How tender 't is to love the babe that milks me : 
 I would, while it was smiling in my face, 
 Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums, 
 And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you 
 Have done to this." 
 
 This is but a vehement, passionate, and exag- 
 gerated way of saying that if she had sworn to 
 herself to do anything^ however shocking, as de- 
 liberately and determinedly as Macbeth had to 
 commit this murder, she would do it in spite of 
 consequences, and not like him be " afeard to be 
 the same in thine own act and valor as thou art in 
 desire." She does not mean, nor did Shakespeare 
 mean, that so hideous an act would be possible 
 for her either to plan or to commit : but to prove 
 her contempt of that condition of mind when 
 " I dare not " waits upon " I would," she seizes on 
 the most horrible and repulsive act that she can 
 imagine, and declares energetically that, shocking 
 as that is, she would not hesitate to do even that, 
 had she so sworn to do it as Macbeth had. Yet 
 this wild and violent figure of speech is generally 
 taken as the key of her whole character. It is 
 nothing of the sort ; for the very line preceding 
 it proves that she had a tenderness of nature 
 under all her energy, and a power of love as well 
 as of will : — 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE, 261 
 
 " I have given suck, and know 
 How tender 't is to love the babe that milks rae." 
 
 Well, despite that tenderness and love, wliicli yon, 
 Macbeth, know I have, I would have done what is 
 so contrary to all my nature, had I so sworn as 
 you. Throughout this scene her sole object is to 
 urge upon Macbeth, as vehemently as she can, the 
 folly of dallying- and hesitating to carry out a pro- 
 ject which he alone had conceived, suggested, and 
 determined, merely for fear of consequences and 
 lest it should do him injury in the eyes of the 
 world. He never feels nor suggests any moral 
 objection ; he does not pretend to feel it. His 
 sole fear is lest he may not succeed ; he only 
 doubts whether it would not be better to postpone 
 the execution of his project until a more fitting 
 time. His decisions are less rapid than hers. 
 She must at once act on the first strens^th of her 
 resolve. She is impetuous, and would spring upon 
 her prey at once. He, knowing that his fell pur- 
 pose will only strengthen with meditation, and 
 doubting whether the time has come to secure his 
 object, proposes to postpone its execution. But 
 there is no time for this. There are but a few 
 hours in which all must be accomplished, and he 
 is not ready with the detail. But to this proposal 
 of postponement she says " No." She knows that 
 he never will rest till it is accomplished. Neither 
 time nor place adhered when you " broke this 
 enterprise to me," she says ; and now, when both 
 " have made themselves," execute your design, 
 
262 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 and no longer let " I dare not wait upon I wonld." 
 To this he feebly opposes, " If we should fail," 
 failure being the only thing that troubles him. 
 She then suggests the plan in detail by which the 
 murder can be effected ; and he cries out, in a 
 burst of admiration and delight, — 
 
 " Bring forth men-children only, 
 For thy undaunted mettle should compose 
 Nothing but males." 
 
 Still, when the time approaches. Lady Macbeth 
 needs all her courage, and she stimulates it with 
 wine, lest it should break down : — 
 
 " That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold." 
 
 She preserves her courage, however, to the end, 
 never loses her self-possession, and takes care that 
 the plan is carried out fully in all its details. But 
 that accomplished, she utterly breaks down. She 
 has over-calculated her strength ; she was' not 
 utterly wicked, and her remorses are terrible. 
 From this time forward we have no such scenes 
 between her and her husband ; he performs all his 
 other murders alone, without lier connivance or 
 knowledge. 
 
 And here the main feature of this play must be 
 kept in mind. Lady Macbeth dies of remorse for 
 this her crime ; she cannot forget it ; it haunts her 
 in her sleep ; the damned spot cannot be washed 
 from her conscience or her hand. What a fearful 
 cry of remorse and agony is that of hers in her 
 dream ! — 
 
 "Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of 
 Arabia will not sweeten this little hand ! Oh ! oh ! oh ! " 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 263 
 
 There is no poetizing liere, no sentimental and fig- 
 urative personifications ; it is the cry of a wounded 
 heart and conscience. It is written too in prose, 
 not in verse. It is real, and not fantastic like 
 the rant and poetry of Macbeth. That terrible 
 night remains with her, and haunts her and tears 
 her like a demon, and at last she dies of it. 
 
 How is it with Macbeth ? Does the memory of 
 that night torture him? Never for a moment. 
 He plots new murders. He has tasted blood, and 
 cannot live without it. On, on he goes, deeper 
 and deeper into blood, till he is slain ; and never, 
 to the last, one cry of conscience. 
 
 Yet it is thought that Lady Macbeth urged on 
 this amiable man, so infirm of purpose, so filled 
 with the milk of human kindness, and was the 
 mainspring of his crimes. Suffice it to say, in 
 answer to this view, that after Duncan is killed 
 he keeps her in complete ignorance of all he does, 
 and his murders are thenceforward more terrible 
 and pitiless, and with no faint shadow of excuse 
 or apology. This cold-hearted villain stops at 
 nothing ; even her death does not awaken a throb 
 in his heart. Is it not preposterous to suppose 
 that the so-called fiend of the play, she who in- 
 stigates and drives an unwilling victim to crime, 
 should die of remorse for that crime ; while the 
 amiable accomplice, far from sharing any such 
 feeling, only plunges deeper into crime when she 
 does not instigate him, and develops at every step 
 an increasing brutality and savageness of nature ? 
 
264 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 No ; it is not the tall, dark, commanding, and 
 imperious figure of Mrs. Siddons, with threatening 
 brow and inflated nostrils, that represents Lady 
 Macbeth; she is not at all of such character or 
 features. She is of rather a delicate organization, 
 of medium height, her hair inclining to red, her 
 temperament nervous and sanguine, with a florid 
 complexion and little hands. So was Lucrezia 
 Borgia ; and so was Lady Macbeth. She was 
 personally fair and attractive. Can any one ima- 
 gine Macbeth calling a dark, tov/ering, imperious 
 woman like Mrs. Siddons his " dearest love," 
 " dear wife," or his " dearest chuck " ? 
 
 But it is commonly thought that the murder of 
 Duncan was suggested by Lady Macbeth, and that 
 her husband was urged into it against his will and 
 contrary to his nature. Such a view is utterly 
 in contradiction of the play itself. The suggestion 
 is entirely Macbeth's, and he has resolved upon it 
 before he sees her. The witches are a projection 
 of his own desires and superstitions. They meet 
 him at the commencement of the play, prophesy- 
 ing, in response to his own desires, that he is 
 thane of Cawdor, and shall be king hereafter; 
 but they respond also to his fears, by adding that 
 Banquo's children shall be kings. Those are the 
 very points upon which all his thoughts hinge — 
 his ambition to be king, his fears lest the throne 
 shall pass from his family. Hence his hate of Ban- 
 quo and Fleance. From this time forward he thinks 
 of nothing else. As he rides across the heath, he 
 
DISTORTJONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 265 
 
 is self -involved, abstracted, silent, sullen, revolving 
 in his mind how to compass his designs, which are 
 nothing less than the murder of the king. He 
 does not dream that the prophecies of the weird 
 women will accomplish themselves without his 
 assistance, for they are projections of his own 
 thoughts. He instantly receives news that he is 
 made thane of Cawdor, and scarcely gives a 
 thought to this honor, scarcely expresses his satis- 
 faction ; when the news is announced he says, — 
 
 " Glamis, and thane of Cawdor : 
 
 The greatest is behind. — Thanks for your pains." 
 
 And then immediately his mind reverts to the 
 promise that Banquo's children shall be kings : — 
 
 " Do you not hope your children shall be kings, 
 When those that gave the thane of Cawdor to me 
 Promis'd no less to them ? " 
 
 Then he falls again into gloomy silence, and talks 
 to himself inwardly. What does he say and think ? 
 He resolves to murder the king : — 
 
 " This supernatural soliciting 
 Cannot be ill ; cannot be good. If ill, 
 Why hath it given me earnest of success, 
 Commencing in a truth ? I 'm thane of Cawdor. 
 If good, why do I yield to that suggestion 
 Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, 
 And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, 
 Against the use of nature ? Present fears 
 Are less than horrible imaginings ; 
 My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, 
 Shakes so my single state of man, that function 
 Is smother'd in surmise ; and nothing is 
 But what is not." 
 
266 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 Yes, already he dreams of murder. He sees not 
 his way clear ; he will trust to chance ; but he 
 dreams of murder. And full of these thoughts, 
 he rushes to his wife to fill her mind with his 
 project, to consult her as to how it can be carried 
 into execution ; for he cannot plan in detail ; and 
 though the thought crosses him, that 
 
 *' If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me, 
 Without my stir," 
 
 yet this is but a hope ; for in the next scene he has 
 determined to take the matter into his own hands 
 and trust nothing to chance. As soon as he hears 
 that Malcolm is made Prince of Cumberland and 
 heir to the throne, he determines absolutely to kill 
 the king : — 
 
 " The Prince of Cumberland ! — That is a step 
 On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, 
 For in my way it lies- Stars, hide your fires ; 
 Let not light see my black and deep desires ; 
 The eye wink at the hand ; yet let that be, 
 Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see." 
 
 He has already written to Lady Macbeth ; and his 
 letter has but one thought and one theme, — the 
 promise that he shall be king. Much as she fears 
 his nature, she knows thoroughly his desires, and 
 has faint glimpses of his real character ; she knows 
 that he means to be king, and sees that he would 
 " wrongly win ; " that his ambition is great, and 
 that his mind is filled solely with one idea. But 
 she fears that he is " too full of the milk of human 
 kindness to catch the nearest way;" and when 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 267 
 
 she hears that Duncan is coming to the castle, and 
 that Macbeth is hurrying to see her before the 
 king's arrival, she doubts his plan no longer. For 
 a moment she is aghast. " Thou 'rt mad to say 
 it," she says to the messenger who announces the 
 king's approach ; for she sees that he comes to his 
 death : — 
 
 " The raven himself is hoarse 
 That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 
 Under my battlements." 
 
 He has been lured here by Macbeth to compass 
 his destruction ; and in a moment Macbeth will 
 be with her. Then, summoning np all her courage 
 at once, she resolves to aid him in his ambitious 
 and murderous design. She calls upon the " spir- 
 its that tend on mortal thoughts " to unsex her, 
 to alter her nature, to make her cruel and remorse- 
 less, to let nothing intervene to shake her pur- 
 pose ; for she is not quite sure of herself. She 
 knows what " compunctious visitings of nature " 
 are, and she strengthens herself against them. 
 She is not naturally cruel ; and she cries out to 
 the spirits to " stop up the access and passage to 
 remorse " now open in her nature, to change her 
 "milk for gall," and to cover her with "the dun- 
 uest smoke of hell," so that her 
 
 " keen knife see not the wound it makes, 
 Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, 
 To cry, Hold, hold." 
 
 In this tremendous apostrophe, in which she goads 
 herself on to crime, the woman's nature is plainly 
 
268 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 seen. Macbetli never prays to have his natm^ 
 altered, to have any passages to remorse closed 
 U23 ; never fears " compunctious visitings of na- 
 ture," nor desires darkness to hide his knife, so 
 that he may not i<ee the wound he makes. But she 
 knows she is a woman, and that she needs to be 
 unsexed, and feels that she is doing violence to 
 her own nature ; still her will is strong, and she 
 cries down her misgivings, and resolves to aid Mac- 
 beth in his design. 
 
 Macbeth meets her in this mood. There is no 
 salutation or greeting on his part ; he has but one 
 idea, — Duncan is coming, and is to be murdered. 
 His first words are, — 
 
 ' ' My dearest love, 
 Duncan comes here to-night." 
 
 Whereupon she asks, " And when goes hence ? " 
 " To-morrow," he answers, and pauses ; and adds, 
 " as he purposes." But in the look and in the 
 pause Lady Macbeth has read his whole soul and 
 intent. There is murder in that look ; and she 
 cries : — 
 
 *' 0, never 
 Shall sun that mori'ow see ! 
 Your face, my thane, is as a book, "where men 
 May read strange matters." 
 
 There is no explanation between them. He has 
 conveyed all his intention by a look and a gesture, 
 as she herself distinctly says. He has ridden 
 headlong, as fast as horse could carry him, away 
 from the king, f iill of this one idea ; and the king 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 269 
 
 has vainly " coursed him at the h'eels," having 
 the purpose, as he himself says, " to be his pur- 
 veyor." And his thoughts have spoken in his 
 looks so unmistakably, that they are perfectly un- 
 derstood. If there be any doubt by whom the 
 murder was suggested, it is made perfectly clear 
 by what Lady Macbeth subsequently says to him 
 in the next scene in which they are presented. 
 When he begins to doubt whether the murder had 
 not better be postponed, she says : — 
 
 " What beast was 't, then, 
 That made you break this entei-prise to me ? 
 
 It was not of my plotting, but of your own ; 
 " Nor time, nor place, did then adhere, and yet you 
 would make both ; " you desired it and still desire 
 it, but are afraid of consequences. These words 
 of hers would indeed seem to indicate that he had 
 urged the crime upon her against her wdll at a 
 previous interview not reported in the play, or 
 perhaps by a letter ; for she says distinctly, that 
 when he broke the enterprise to her, — 
 
 " Nor time., nov place, 
 Did then adhere, and yet you would make both : 
 They have made themselves." 
 
 It would plainly seem, therefore, that Macbeth 
 had broken this enterprise to her, and urged it on 
 her, even before the king had determined to come 
 to his castle, and that he intended to make time 
 and place. This would account completely for 
 her opening speech, and for the fact that he does 
 
270 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS, 
 
 not make any explanation to her of his intentions 
 other than by his look and intonation when they 
 first meet ; for certainly there is nothing in the play 
 about the time and place of the murder except 
 as herein indicated. It woidd also explain the 
 surprise of Lady Macbeth when she hears that 
 her husband is coming, and the king after him: 
 " Thou 'rt mad to say it," she says ; and " the 
 raven himself is hoarse that croaks the fatal en- 
 trance of Duncan under my battlements." The 
 time and place had made themselves, then ; and 
 it is on hearing this that she suddenly changes 
 from calm to vehement emotion, and makes that 
 wonderful apostrophe to the spirits to unsex her. 
 She sees that all has been resolved, and that she 
 has need of her utmost resolution. 
 
 There is no warrant of any kind that, in the 
 simple words, " And when goes hence," she meant 
 more than she said. It was the most natural 
 question that she could possibly ask. Granting 
 that she intended equally with him to commit the 
 murder, what is more natural than that she should 
 wish to know how long the king was to stay, so as 
 to know how soon it was necessary to carry out 
 the plan of murder, and what time there was in 
 which to make all the arrangements? Not only 
 Macbeth pauses after saying " To-morrow " (so, 
 at least, is the punctuation in all editions), before 
 adding " as he purposes," but Lady Macbeth, in 
 her answer, says that she sees in his face that he 
 intends that '^ never shall sun that morrow see." 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 271 
 
 Yet, in the recitation of these parts on the stage, 
 and as generally read, the meaning is given to 
 Lady Macbeth's simple words ; and Macbeth is 
 made perfectly innocently to answer without show- 
 ing in his look any " strange matter." But the 
 kins: is comino' close on his heels ; there is no time 
 to arrange details ; and Macbeth goes away to 
 receive him, saying, " We will speak further." 
 
 The characters, as exhibited in the next scenes, 
 have been already sufficiently discussed. He shows 
 his superstitions, his visions, his poetry, and his 
 hesitations ; she, with the stern determination of 
 a woman who has screwed her courage to the 
 stick ing-place, is agitated by no visions, but, feel- 
 ing the necessity of immediate action, sh3 occupies 
 herself in the arrangements of details, and thus 
 dulls her conscience. 
 
 After all the excitements which have agitated 
 Macbeth — after his soliloquy, in which he says 
 there is no spur to prick the sides of his intent, 
 but only vaulting ambition ; but if he were sure 
 of success, he would jump the life to come — 
 there comes a moment when he either has or pre- 
 tends to have a hesitation about proceeding fur- 
 ther in " this business." He does not hesitate for 
 conscience' sake, but because, being ambitious, he 
 now would like to wear the golden opinions he has 
 won, '* in their newest gloss," and not cast them 
 aside so soon, before he has had the satisfaction 
 of being wondered at and admired a little longer. 
 He had gained praise and high position, and his 
 
272 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 vanity was gratified. He naturally would pause be- 
 fore committins: a hideous murder. But he never 
 pretends that this feeling comes from any moral 
 sense. His mind has been too long strained with 
 one thought ; and, as in all men of excitable brain, 
 there comes a moment of reaction. He cannot see 
 his way clear. He fears the effect of his crime. 
 He does not see how it can be done so that he may 
 avoid suspicion, and attain the object beyond the 
 murder and for which he commits it, without run- 
 ning too great risks, and thus exposing himself to 
 the vengeance of the king's friends. He fears that 
 his " bloody instructions " may " return to plague 
 the inventor " — not hereafter, but " Aere." But 
 what most troubles him is, that he cannot see the 
 practical way, cannot arrange the details so as to 
 secure a chance of avoiding suspicion. Here his 
 wife comes to his aid. She has thought out a plan 
 and arranged the details. She sternly opposes his 
 pro23osal to abandon his design, for she knows 
 that his hesitation is only for a moment, and that 
 nothing less than to be king can ever satisfy him. 
 Better, then, do the deed at once. His only op- 
 position after this is, ''If we should fail ? " But 
 as soon as he sees the feasibility of her plan, all 
 his scruples are gone ; he is more than convinqed, 
 he is delighted, and enters upon it with a joy 
 which he does not pretend to conceal. 
 
 During all these scenes, up to the murder of 
 Duncan, Lady Macbeth is laboring under an ex- 
 citement of mind which sustains her in carrying 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 273 
 
 out the design of her husband. The time is pur- 
 posely made very short — only a few hours be- 
 tween the arrival of Duncan and his death — so 
 that she may not break down. All is hurry and 
 movement, and arrangement of detail. There is 
 no time for reaction. The very necessity for im- 
 mediate action serves as an irritant to the nerves, 
 and strains all her thouo'hts and feelino^s to an un- 
 natural pitch. Still, when the murder is on the 
 point of being done, she keeps up her courage by 
 drink ; for the strain is almost too great. In this 
 excited state her inflamed will has got completely 
 the command of her ; and to have it all over, and 
 not caring about the dreadfid design longer, she 
 says that had Duncan " not resembled my father 
 as he slept, I had done it." But though she can 
 talk of dashing out the brains of her babe while 
 it was smiling in her face, she was not, even in 
 this excitement, able to strike Duncan, because she 
 thought he looked like her father. Her woman's 
 hand would have failed her had she attempted it. 
 But all her powers are bound up in this one de- 
 sign. She has come to a violent determination, 
 and this she will carry out, come what may. She 
 thrusts aside all compunction of conscience, and 
 makes such a noise by action in her brain, that its 
 still small voice cannot be heard. 
 
 Macbeth, on the contrary, is of a colder and 
 more brutal nature. His determination is sullen, 
 and it lies like an immovable rock on which the 
 flames of his imagination burn like momentary 
 
274 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 fires of straw, and over which his superstitious 
 visions pass like clouds or fogs, and then clear 
 away, leaving the rock unchanged. Just before 
 he commits the murder, Banquo comes in and tells 
 him that the king 
 
 " hath been in unusual pleasure, and 
 Sent forth great largess to your offices. 
 This diamond he greets your w ife withal, 
 By the name of most kind hostess ; and shut up 
 In measureless content." 
 
 But this does not touch Macbeth, nor induce a 
 moment's hesitation. Banquo then speaks of the 
 three weird sisters, and says, " To you they 
 have show'd some truth ; " and Macbeth answers 
 falsely : — 
 
 " I think not of them ; 
 Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, 
 We 'd spend it in some words upon that business, 
 If you would grant the time." 
 
 Thus, cold and collected, he bids him " Good re- 
 pose," sends off the servant, and waits for the bell 
 to ring, which is the sign that all is ready for him 
 to murder Duncan. In this interval we have his 
 three characteristic features brought out one after 
 the other : the cloudy vision of the air-drawn dag- 
 ger ; then the straw-fire of his poetry about Hecate 
 and withered murder's sentinel, the wolf, and Tar- 
 quin's ravishing strides; and, as these clear off, 
 the stern, sullen resolution imderneath — " Wliiles 
 I threat he lives ; " " I go, and it is done." 
 
 When the murder is done, the two are equally 
 
BISTORTIONIS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 275 
 
 distinct in cliatacter, — she energetic and praxtical, 
 he visionary and superstitious ; and so they part. 
 
 Thus far, be it observed, Lady Macbeth has 
 supposed her husband to be merely " infirm of 
 purpose ; " but the next scene is to open her eyes 
 to a glimpse of his real character. 
 
 Macbeth has become perfectly calm and cold 
 again in a few minutes, and makes his appearance 
 immediately after the knocking. He is com- 
 pletely master of himself, offers to conduct Mac- 
 duff to the king, and when Macduff says he loiows 
 it will be a " joyful trouble " to him, answers like 
 a proverb, calmly, " The labor we delight in phys- 
 ics pain." The king is then found dead, and the 
 noise brings Lady Macbeth from her room. What 
 a difference is now visible in the way in which she 
 and he speak and act ! When Macduff says, " Our 
 royal master 's murdered ! " she cries out, '' Woe ! 
 alas ! what, in our house ? " and says not a word 
 more. Macbeth, however, who is only afraid of 
 shadows, but who, with the daylight, has no fear 
 of looking at dead bodies, or adding one or two 
 more with his sword, goes to the room of Duncan, 
 and then reappears, without the faintest shadow of 
 feeling, and makes a little hypocritical poem on 
 the event : — 
 
 " Had I but died an hour before this chance, 
 I had liv'd a blessed time ; for, from this instant, 
 There 's nothing- serious in mortality : 
 All is but toys : renown and grace is dead ; 
 The Avine of life is drawn, and the mere lees 
 Is left this vault to brag- of." 
 
276 EXCURSIONS IN ART ANl) LETTERS. 
 
 "What is amiss?" says Donalbain. And Mac- 
 beth cries, " You are, and do not know 't. The 
 spring, the head, the fountain of your blood is 
 stopp'd ; the very source of it is stopp'd." 
 
 This is Macbeth's rant and fustian. He has no 
 feehng, and, as usual, he makes the pretense of 
 poetry serve him. The head, the spring, the foun- 
 tain, the source is stopped, is stopped. 
 
 And this stuff he recites coolly, although he has 
 but a moment before wantonly killed the two 
 grooms; nay, he does not mention it until after- 
 w^ards, on their being spoken of by Lenox, when 
 this hypocritical villain cries : — 
 
 ** 0, yet I do repent me of my fury, 
 That I did kill tliera 
 
 Macd. Wherefore did you so ? 
 
 Mach. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temperate and furious, 
 Loyal and neutral, in a moment ? No man : 
 The expedition of my violent love 
 Outrun the pauser, reason. — Here lay Duncan, 
 His silver skin lac'd with his golden blood ; 
 And his gash'd stabs looked like a breach in nature, 
 For ruin's wasteful entrance : there, the murderers, 
 Steep'd in the colors of their trade, their dagg'ers 
 Unmannerly breech'd with gore : who could refrain, 
 That had a heart to love, and in that heart 
 Courage to make 's love known ? " 
 
 During this amazing speech, in which he poetizes 
 so elaborately, and with such curious artifice 
 coldly paints the picture of the man and friend he 
 had just murdered. Lady Macbeth has been look- 
 ing and listening in silence. Suddenly, for the 
 first time, she sees what her husband really is ; she 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 217 
 
 sees that lie lias neither heart nor conscience ; for 
 no man possessing either could have acted or 
 talked as he has since the murder of Duncan. So 
 far from having any feeling of shame or remorse, 
 he, without provocation, wantonly, and with no 
 sufficient object, has added two other murders to 
 it ; and, with a cold-blooded artificial hypocrisy, 
 he paints in his stilted way the scene of Duncan's 
 death, and has command enough of himself to seek 
 out elaborate and high-flown phrases. But Lady 
 Macbeth, whose courage, stimulated by excite- 
 ment, has carried her through the murder, now 
 suddenly breaks down. This new revelation of 
 her husband's character, and the ghastly picture 
 which he summons up before her of the scene of 
 the murder, are too much for her. She swoons, 
 loses all consciousness, and is carried out. In her 
 violent excitement, while there was something prac- 
 tical to busy her mind and her body with, she 
 coidd carry back the daggers and smear the grooms 
 with blood ; but she could not bear the vivid re- 
 membrance of it when there was nothing to do, 
 and when the excitement was over : as women will 
 go through extreme dangers, stand at the surgeon's 
 table during terrible operations, be great and 
 strong in a great crisis, and then suddenly faint 
 and fall when the work is over, unable to bear the 
 remembrance of what they have gone through. 
 
 This swooning of Lady Macbeth is the crisis of 
 her nature. From this time forward she is no 
 more what she has appeared; we hear no more 
 
278 EXCUESIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 urging of Macbeth to strengthen his throne by 
 other crimes ; no more taunts by her that he is 
 infirm of purpose ; no more alhisions to his amia- 
 ble weaknesses of character. She has begun to 
 know him and to fear him. She only endeavors 
 to tranquilize him and content him with what he 
 has got. But still she does not know him ; for his 
 nature, before hidden, like secret writing, comes 
 out little by little before the fire of his heated 
 ambition and superstitious fears. 
 
 At this swooning - point the two characters of 
 Lady Macbeth and her husband cross each other. 
 She has thus far only made the running for Mac- 
 beth, and he now takes up the race and passes her ; 
 she not only does not follow, but withdraws. 
 Henceforth he rushes to his goal alone ; alone he 
 arranges the death of Banquo and Fleance. 
 
 When next they meet she is no longer the same 
 person we have known ; she feels the gnawing 
 tooth of remorse ; she is calmed and cowed by 
 what she has done : — 
 
 " Nought 's had, all 's spent, 
 Where our desire is got without content : 
 'T is safer to be that which we destroy, 
 Than, by destruction, dv/ell in doubtful joy." 
 
 And as Macbeth enters she endeavors to tranquil- 
 ize his mind. She has hi? confidence no longer ; he 
 avoids her, and keeps alone after the murder of 
 the king. She, not yet aware of the abysses of 
 his nature, and little imagining that he has been 
 plotting the murder of Banquo, supposes that the 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 279 
 
 secret of Ms perturbations, of tlie solitude he now 
 seeks, and of his avoidance of her, is the remorse 
 that he begins to feel, and says as he enters : — 
 
 " How now, my lord ! why do you keep alone, 
 Of sorriest fancies your companions making-, 
 Using those thoug-hts which should indeed have died 
 With them they think on ? Things without all remedy 
 Should be without regard: what 's done is done." 
 
 His answer shows it is no remorse which is haunt- 
 ing him ; his sorry fancies are new plots of murder : 
 
 *' We have scotch' d the snake, not kill'd it ; " 
 
 and we are still " in danger of her former tooth." 
 
 " But let 
 The frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, 
 Ere we will eat our meal in fear^ and sleep 
 In the affliction of these terrible dreams 
 That shake us nightly : better be with the dead, 
 Whom we, to gain our place, have ssnt to peace, 
 Than on the torture of the mind to lie 
 In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave ; 
 After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well ; 
 Treason has done his worst : nor steel, nor poison, 
 Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing-. 
 Can touch him further ! " 
 
 Here is one of those cases where he uses his poetry 
 as a cloak to his real thoughts. Yet despite his 
 hypocrisy, which takes in his wife, his real meaning 
 is clear. He would rather die than to go on in 
 this fear : rather be like Duncan, whom they have 
 at all events " sent to peace," and whom nothing 
 can " touch further," than on '• the torture of the 
 mind to lie in restless ecstasy." What is this 
 "fear"? what is this "torture of the mind"? 
 
280 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 Is it, as Lady Macbeth supposes, from remorse ? 
 Oh, no ! he tells us himself what it is ; it is solely 
 because Banquo and Fleance are alive : — 
 
 " O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife ! 
 
 Thou know'st that Banquo, and his Fleance. lives." 
 
 This it is that tortures him, and this only. 
 
 " But in them nature's copy 's not eterne," 
 
 says she ; meaning, as she has throughout this 
 scene, solely to console him and draw his thoughts 
 away. They may die ; a thousand accidents may 
 happen to them ; you may outlive them ; don't 
 torture yourself with vain fears. " There 's com- 
 fort yet," he cries, " they are assailable ; " and 
 now, after his old fashion, he breaks into j)oetry : 
 
 " Then be thon jocund : ere the bat hath flown 
 
 His cloister'd flight ; ere, to black Hecate's summons, 
 The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums, 
 Hath rung- night's yawning peal, there shall be done 
 A deed of dreadful note." 
 
 " What 's to be done ? " she cries ; for having com- 
 pletely misunderstood him through all the previous 
 part of this interview, she completely fails to see 
 what he now means. But he has no longer con- 
 fidence in her ; and so, with caressing words, and 
 probably with some caressing act, he answers her : 
 
 " Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, 
 Till thou applaud the deed." 
 
 How could she suspect his real meaning? This 
 murdering hypocrite had just told her that Banquo 
 was coming to the feast that night, and bade her 
 be jovial, and said to her, — 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 281 
 
 " Let your remembrance apply to Banquo ; 
 Present liim eminence, both with eye and tong-iie." 
 
 And this he proposes to lier after having just left 
 the murderers whom he has liired to waylay and 
 kill Banquo, and entertaining no real doubt in his 
 mind that Banquo will never reach the supper — 
 certainly never reach it unless his jDlot miscarries. 
 Well might she " marvel at his words." What 
 follows is full of poetry and wickedness ; but it is 
 plain that he was a mystery to her now, a riddle 
 which she could not read. 
 
 The banquet-scene now comes, and Macbeth, 
 believing that he has secured the death of Banquo 
 and Fleance, is happy, mitil the murderers come 
 in and tell him that Fleance has escaped. This 
 upsets him : — 
 
 "Then comes my fit ag-ain: I had else been perfect, 
 Whole as the marble, founded as the rock, 
 As broad and general as the casing air : 
 Now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in 
 To saucy doubts and fears." 
 
 So he poetizes his condition, for superstitious fears 
 always inflame his imagination ; but he cannot 
 regain his composure ; his " fit " is on him, as it 
 " hath been from his youth." He conjures up the 
 phantom of Banquo to threaten him and his throne, 
 and this ghost shakes liim with superstitious terror. 
 Lady Macbeth, to whom it 13 invisible, rouses her- 
 self at this ; and not only not comprehending these 
 starts and flaws of fear, but having a contempt for 
 him, endeavois to recall him to himself by sharp 
 
282 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 words ; but it is useless, his fit will not leave him, 
 and the company is dismissed in confusion. When 
 the guests have gone, Lady Macbeth' s spirit and 
 courage, which were momentary, have fled. She 
 does not taunt him, but soothes him. He, as soon 
 as he recovers himself, begins with Macduff, whom 
 he also means to murder : — 
 
 " Strange things I have in head, that will to hand, 
 Which must be acted, ere they may be scanned." 
 
 To this she only says, not imagining his meaning, 
 
 "You lack the season of all natures, sleep." 
 
 Henceforward Lady Macbeth disappears ; we 
 hear nothing of her save in the terrible sleep-walli- 
 ing scene ; she is dying of remorse. But Mac- 
 beth goes to the weird sisters, to learn whether 
 " Banquo's issue shall ever reign in this kingdom." 
 They answer, " Seek to know no mere : " and he 
 cries out, " I icill be satisfied ; deny me this, and 
 an eternal curse fall on you." And when they 
 show him the issue of Banquo, kings, he is enraged 
 beyond control, and curses them. Henceforth for 
 him no hesitations, no delays. He speaks directly 
 enough now. 
 
 " From this moment 
 The firstling's of ray heart shall be 
 The firstlings of ray hand And even now, 
 To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done : 
 The castle of Macduff I will surprise ; 
 Seize upon Fife ; give to the edge o' th' sword 
 His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls 
 That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool ; 
 This deed I 11 do before this purpose cool : 
 But no more sights ! " 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 283 
 
 And no more sights lie has ; but he is still haunted 
 by fears. And when " the English power is near, 
 led on by Malcolm, his uncle Siward, and the good 
 Macduff," burning for revenge, Macbeth's spirit 
 falters. He rushes into violent rages and then 
 subsides into vague fears, and then endeavors to 
 streng-then his heart by recalling the mysterious 
 promises of the weird sisters that he shall not fall 
 by the hand of any man of woman born, or before 
 Birnam wood come to Dunsinane ; but, do all he 
 can, " he cannot buclde his distempered cause 
 within the belt of rule," though he declares, — 
 
 " The mind I sway by and the heart I bear 
 Shall never sag with doubt, nur shake with fear." 
 
 Still he does fear ; and in one of his dispirited 
 moods, after blazing out vA, the messenger who 
 tells him of the approach of Birnam wood, — 
 
 "The devil damn thee black, thoa crerm-fac'd loon! 
 Where got' st thoa that goose look ? " 
 
 he says, finding that there are ten thousand man 
 coming to attack liim, and his followers are not 
 stanch, — 
 
 "This push 
 Will cha^r me ever, or disseat me now. 
 I have liv'd long- enough : my way of life 
 Is fall'n into the sec r, the yellow leaf : 
 And that which should accompany old age, 
 As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends, 
 I must not look to !:ave ; but, in their stead. 
 Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honor, breath, 
 Which the poor heart would fain deny." 
 
 But in a moment he is himself again, and cries : — 
 
 " I "11 fight till from ray bones the flesh be hack'd. 
 Give m3 mv armor." 
 
284 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 In this mood the illness and death of the queen is 
 nothing to him ; he fights bravely to the end ; 
 though, superstitious to the last, his " better part 
 of man " is cowed by the knowledge that Mac- 
 duff "was from his mother's womb untimely 
 ripped," and so not of woman born. 
 
 And so, by the sword of Macduff, perishes the 
 worst villain, save lago, that Shakespeare ever 
 drew. 
 
 We have called the witches the projections of 
 Macbeth' s evil thoughts, and suggested that they 
 were only objective representations of his inward 
 being. To this it may be objected that they were 
 seen also by Banquo. But this may well be ; for 
 Banquo also seems to have had evil intentions, 
 which are vaguely hinted at in the play. He con- 
 stantly harps on the idea that his children are to 
 be kings. Approaching the castle of Inverness at 
 night, before the murder of the king, he says, — 
 
 "Hold, take my sword. ... 
 A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, 
 And yet I would not sleep : merciful powers ! 
 Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature 
 Gives way to in repose ! — Give me my sword." ■ 
 
 Meeting then Macbeth, he gives him the diamond 
 sent by the king to Lady Macbfci;h; and after 
 speaking of Duncan's " measureless content," he 
 
 says, — 
 
 " I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: 
 To you they have show'd some truth." 
 
 At which Macbeth proposes an interview, to 
 
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. 285 
 "Spend it in some words upon that business." 
 
 To wliieli lie readily consents. 
 
 The "cursed thoughts," then, are connected 
 with his dreams about the weird sisters. 
 
 At liis next appearance the same thoughts 
 agitate him in Macbeth's palace at Fores. His 
 first words are — in soliloquy — 
 
 " Thou hast it now, king-, Cawdor, Glamis, all, 
 As the weird women piomis'd ; and, I fear, 
 Thou play'dst most foully for 't : yet it was said 
 It should not stand in thy posterity, 
 But that myself should be the root and father 
 Of many kings. If there come truth from them 
 (As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine), 
 Why, by the vericies on thee made good, 
 May they not be my oracles as well, 
 And set me up in hope ? But, hush ! no more." 
 
 When it is recollected that, after the scene on 
 the heath with the soldiers, these are nearly all the 
 words we have from Banquo, it seems to be j^retty 
 clearly indicated that his thoughts at least were 
 not perfectly honest and what they slioidd have 
 been. 
 
 The weird sisters are but outward personifica- 
 tions of the evil thoughts conceived and ferment- 
 ing in the brains of Banquo and Macbeth ; both 
 high in station, both generals in the king's army, 
 both friends, and both nourishing evil wishes. 
 They are visible only to these two friends ; and 
 though they are represented as having an outer 
 existence independent of them, they are, metaphys- 
 ically speaking, but embodiments of the hidden 
 
286 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 tliouglits and desires of Banquo and Macbetli ; as 
 sucli tliey are a new and terrible creation, differing 
 from the vidgar flesli-and-blood witches of Middle- 
 ton. They look not like the inhabitants of the 
 earth ; they vanish into tliin air ; wild, vague, mys- 
 terious, they come and go, like devilish thoughts 
 that tempt us, and take shape before us, as if 
 they had come from the other world. The de\dls 
 that haunt us and tempt us come out of ourselves, 
 like the weird sisters of Macbeth. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Actors, in England, 234-239. 
 
 Adam, figure of, by Michel Angelo, 
 2G. 
 
 Adrian!, Giovanni Battista, letter of, 
 to Vasari, 140. 
 
 .^schiues, statement by, regarding 
 Miltiades, 129, note. 
 
 .ffiscliylus and Euripides, 30 ; quota- 
 tion from, 20G. 
 
 Agasias tlie Ephesian, 109. 
 
 Agathenor, 94. 
 
 Ageledas, teacher of Polyclitns, 88. 
 
 Agoracritos, GG, G7, TO ; and Alcame- 
 nes, 71 ; and Pliidias, 72 ; st itue of 
 Nemesis, at Rhamnus, by, 70, 91. 
 
 A] vx, tlie antique, G. 
 
 Alberti, Leon Battista, 3, 8. 
 
 Alcamenes, 55 ; the Venus of the Gar- 
 dens, by, G8, 90 ; and Agoracritos, 
 71 ; and Pliidias, 72, 9G ; high dis- 
 tinction of, as an artist, 90 ; works 
 in the Temple of Zsiis, 93. 
 
 Ak'imus Avitiis, quotation from his 
 De Origine Mundi, 127. 
 
 Alexander, taming Bucephalus, statue 
 of, at Rome, 77, 78 ; praises Apelles 
 and Lysippus, 131. 
 
 Alfieri, 8. 
 
 Ammonius, 108. 
 
 Anacreon, quotations from, 144. 
 
 " Ancora imparo," a motto used by 
 Michel Angelo in old age, 13. 
 
 Androsthenes, 88, 92. 
 
 Aiigelo, Micliel, 4-7 ; everything in 
 Florence recalls, 8 ; his house, 8, 9 ; 
 birth, 9 ; death, 10 ; early studies, 
 1(1 ; early efforts as a sculptor, 10 ; 
 his Cupid and Bacchus, 10 ; his Pi- 
 eta, 11, 20 ; colossal figure of Davi J, 
 11, 20; Sistine Chapel, 11; the 
 Moses, 11, 20; Medici Chapel, 11; 
 Pauline Chapel, 11 ; tlie Last Judg- 
 ment, 11 ; sculptor, painter, archi- 
 tect, engineer, and poet, 11, 43; 
 erect'ou of St. Peter's, 1 1 ; liis cir- 
 cuiiitt-vnces and cliaracteristics, 12 ; 
 always learning, 13; Lis later po- 
 
 etry, 13; his power as a sculptor, 
 13, 20, 39 ; his great worlis in the 
 Medicean Cliapel, 13-21 ; meaning 
 of liis statues ot Day, Niglit, Aurora, 
 and Crepuscule, IG - 18 ; quatrain 
 by, 17 ; intluence oi Savonarola and 
 Dante on, 17 ; his works bad models 
 for imitation, 20 ; figure of Christ 
 by, in the Cluireh of tlie Minerva, 
 20 ; his struggles against ill-health 
 and overwork, 20, 21 ; his frescoes 
 in the Sistine Ciiapel, 21-29; Bra- 
 mante's jealousy ot, 21, 22, 24 ; Pope 
 Julius II. strikes him with a cane, 
 25 ; his extraordinary rapidity in 
 working, 25, 2G ; greater as a painter 
 than as a sculptor, 26 ; of heroic 
 spirit, 29 ; fragments of letters by, 
 30, 3G ; R.xffaelle and, 30-33, 35 ; an- 
 ecdote of, 32 ; personal cliaracter- 
 istics of, 33, 34; and Vittoria Co- 
 lonni, 34 ; extract from a sonnet 
 by, 34 ; Dante tlie favorite poet of, 
 35 ; S ivonarola the friend of, 35 ; 
 originality of, 35 ; devotion to his 
 family, 3G ; generosity of, 3G, 37 ; 
 violent temper of, 33, 37 ; patience 
 of, 37 ; difficulties under which he 
 labored, 37, 38; described by Vige- 
 nero, 38 ; the impatience of his gen- 
 ius, 39; appointed architect of St. 
 Peter's when sixty years ol ', 39; 
 Palazzo Farnese, the Church of Sta. 
 Maria degli Angeli, and the Lauren- 
 tian Library, designed by, 41 ; not 
 responsible for St. Peter's as it now 
 stands, 42 ; poetry of, 42, 43 ; framed 
 in all the arts, 43 ; the greatest mon- 
 uments of his artistic power, 44 ; 
 enduring kingdom of, 48 ; popular 
 errors about, 49, 50,69; compared 
 with Phidias, 79, 80. 
 
 Antenor, the firot maker of iconic 
 statues, 129. 
 
 Antoninus Piu«, 230. 
 
 Apelles, and Alexander, 131 ; praised 
 by NicepliOrud Chumuus, 132 ; price 
 
288 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 paid for one of his portraits of Al- 
 exander, 1,"'2 ; portraits of Canipas- 
 pe iiiid Plir.vue by, 132 ; story about, 
 by Pliny, 132. 
 
 Aphrodite Urania, chryselephantine 
 fctatue of, by Phidias, 53, 5S. 
 
 Apollo, the Temple ol, at Phigaleia, 
 5?. 
 
 Apollodorus, 182. 
 
 Apollouius, lOy. 
 
 Appian hymn, the, 206. 
 
 Arcesilaus, sketches by, 135; price 
 received by, for a drinkinp-cup, 170 ; 
 for a statue of Fabatus, 170, 17G. 
 
 Aretiiio, 3, 8. 
 
 Arezzo, discoveries at, 178. 
 
 Arezzo, Guido di, 4. 
 
 Argo?, the Temple of Juno at, 53. 
 
 Ariosto, 3 ; Daute and, 30 ; lively 
 spirit of, 42. 
 
 Aristotle, distinction drawn by, be- 
 tween Phidias and Polyclitus, 99- 
 102. 
 
 Arrian, cited, GG, 70. 
 
 Art, death-blow of pagan, 1 ; Christi- 
 anity and, 1 ; and religion, 2, 4, 208 ; 
 the golden age of Italian, 4 ; spirit 
 of Greek and Roman, 19 ; ancient 
 works of, difiici Ity of deterniiniiig 
 authorship ot, 19 ; the toreutic, 100 ; 
 the productions of, always sliow the 
 true spirit of religion among any 
 people, 208 ; and nature. 232, 233. 
 
 Arlemisia and MauKolus, 132. 
 
 Alts, all, aid each other, 43. 
 
 Athena Areia, statue of, by Phidias, 
 53, 58 ; its height, G2 ; described, 
 C5. 
 
 Athena Lemnia, statue of, by Phidias, 
 C2 ; beauty of, ('5. 
 
 Athena of the Paithenon, chrysele- 
 phartine statue, by Phidias, 50-G8, 
 82, 83, 97, 98, 111, 2C9, 210. 
 
 Athena Promachos, the, cast from 
 spoils taken at Marathon, 59; its 
 height, G2, 64. 
 
 Athenagoras, cited, diQ^, 70. 
 
 Aulus Gellius, definition of "fades" 
 by, 121. 
 
 Aurelius, Marcus, the Meditations of, 
 190-193, 228; how the Meditations 
 were written, 191 ; no book of an- 
 cipiit literature higher and purer, 
 192 ; his dust, 192 ; a conversation 
 with, 193-230; Jesus of Nazareth 
 reverenced by, 199 ; supposed ideas 
 of God held by, 199-202 ; cannot un- 
 derstand modern pronunciation of 
 LHtin, 217 ; purely a Stoic, 220 ; did 
 not persecute Christians, 220: let- 
 ters of, on the proper treatment of 
 one's enemies, 228. 
 
 Aurora, figure of, by Michel Angelo, 
 
 14-21. 
 Ausonius, cited, 68. 
 
 Baldi Chapel, the, 7. 
 
 Bargello, the, G. 
 
 Bartolommeo, Fra, 31. 
 
 Baruch, cited, 150. 
 
 B-itrachus, 107. 
 
 Beethoven and Mozart, 30. 
 
 Bembo, 4. 
 
 Berlinghi, family of the, 10. 
 
 Bibbiena, 3. 
 
 Biblical history, in Michel Angelo*s 
 
 frescoes, 28, 29. 
 Boccaccio, 3. 
 Boiardo, 3. 
 
 Borgia, Lucrezia, 2G4, 
 Bostick and Riley, translation of 
 
 Pliny by, 135. 
 Bramante, instigates Pope Julius II. 
 
 to summon Michel Angelo to Rome, 
 
 21 ; jealous of Michel Angelo's fame, 
 
 22 ; tries to induce the Pope to dis- 
 charge Michel Angelo, 24. 
 
 Brass-casting, decline of the art of, 
 170. 
 
 Brick, printed on by the ancient Ro- 
 mans, 167. 
 
 British Museum, so-called plaster 
 casts in, 164, 165. 
 
 Bronze statues, the method of the an- 
 cients in casting, 142. 
 
 Browning, Robert, 233. 
 
 Browning and Tennyson, 30. 
 
 Brunelleschi, 5, G, 8, 40; designs 
 Church of San Loren;o, 13. 
 
 Bruiin, Dr., cited, 59,60; on Pliny'a 
 Natural History, 120, 137-139. 
 
 Bryaxis, 68. 
 
 Buggiardini, 21. 
 
 Buonomini, Michel Angelo's father 
 cue of the twelve, 10. 
 
 Byzantine tradition, 4. 
 
 Calliorates, and the Parthenon, 51,52. 
 Callimachus, nicknamed, 130 ; drill 
 
 supposed to have been invented by, 
 
 171. 
 Canibronne, 74. 
 Campaspe, portrait of, by Apelles, 
 
 132. 
 Canossa, the Counts of, 10. 
 Canova, opinion of, as to the use of 
 
 proportional compasses by ancient 
 
 sculptor;, 171. 
 Caprese, birthplace of Michel Angelo, 
 
 9. 
 Carmine, Church of the, 7. 
 Carpion and the Parthenon, 51. 
 Carrara, Michel Angelo at, 37. 
 Casting, from life or from the round. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 289 
 
 diflaculties of, 159, IGO ; distinction 
 between, and modeling, 155, IGl. 
 Casting in plaster, alleged practice of, 
 among the Greeks and Romans, 
 115-189 ; introduced by Verrocchio, 
 188. 
 Casts, plaster, not found in ancient 
 liouses or tombs, 157, 158, 176, 177. 
 Cato, book published by, 1G7. 
 Catulus, 67. 
 Cellini, the Renaissance Perseus of, 
 
 6 ; acconiplislied in many arts, 43. 
 Ceres, the Temple of, at Eleusis, 52, 
 
 53. 
 Chalcosthenes, executed works in 
 
 baked earth, 148. 
 Changes, only gradual, do real good, 
 
 197. 
 Christ, and Communism, 222, 223 ; ex- 
 ample of, not always followed by 
 Christians, 226. 
 Christianity and Art, 1. 
 Christians, not persecuted by Marcus 
 Aurelius, but punished as Commun- 
 ists, 220-222; attitude of, toward 
 the government, 221, 227 ; theory 
 and practice of, 225, 226. 
 Cicero, Demosthenes and, 30 ; on the 
 meaning of vnltus, 121 ; quoted, 125, 
 134, 141, 149, 152. 
 Cimabue, 4. 
 
 Clay, not a material for casting, 134 ; 
 why used by the ancients instead of 
 gj-psum, 158, 159. 
 Clemens Alexandrinus, cited, 68. 
 Colonna, Vittoria, and Michel Angelo, 
 
 34. 
 Columbus, 4. 
 Communists, the early followers of 
 
 Christ were, 222. 
 Compasses, proportional, used by an- 
 cient sculptors, 171, 172. 
 Condivi, doubtful assertion of, 25. 
 Cooke, a safe guide for the tragic ac- 
 tor, 236. 
 Copies, exact, not made by ancient 
 
 sculptors, 174-176. 
 Corcebus, begins the Temple of Initia- 
 tion at Eleusis, 52. 
 Creed, every religious, should be liv- 
 ing, 196. 
 Crepuscule, figure of, by Michel An- 
 gelo, 14-21. 
 Ctesilaus, 67, 97 ; compared with Phid- 
 ias, 96. 
 Cydon, competition of, with Phidias, 
 
 97, 98. 
 Cymon, 67. 
 
 Cyrenaica, the. fragments of figures 
 from, 164, 165. 
 
 Daedalus, statue to Hercules by, 182, 
 186. 
 
 Dallaway, cited, 109. 
 
 Damophilus, 117, 146. 
 
 Daniel, Michel Angelo's figure of, 27. 
 
 Dante, 3, 5, 6, 8 ; his influence on 
 Michel Angelo, 17 ; and Ariosto, 30 ; 
 the favorite poet of Michel Angelo, 
 35. 
 
 David, Michel Angelo's statue of, 8, 
 11. 
 
 Day, Michel Angelo's colossal figure 
 of, 14-21. 
 
 Deity, figure of the, by Michel An- 
 gelo, 27. 
 
 Delacroix and Ary Scheffer, 30. 
 
 Delphi, group of statues at, 59, 60, 62, 
 64, 121. 
 
 Demetrius, on the work of Phidias, 
 81 ; introduces the realistic school 
 of portraiture, 130. 
 
 Demosthenes and Cicero, 30. 
 
 Devils, the, that haunt and tempt us, 
 come out of ourselves, 286. 
 
 D'Hancarville, cited, 109. 
 
 Dibutades of Sicyon, 137-139. 
 
 Diocletian, ruins of the Baths of, 41. 
 
 Diodotos, 70. 
 
 Dion Chrysostomos, on the style of 
 Phidias, 81. 
 
 Dionysius of Colophon, 132. 
 
 Dionysius of Halicaruassus, on the 
 art of Phidias, 81, 102 ; on the works 
 of Polyclitus, 89. 
 
 Dives and Lazarus, 223. 
 
 Dolls, ancient, 166. 
 
 Drama, reaction in the, against con- 
 ventionalism, 233. 
 
 Drill, the, supposed to have been in- 
 vented by Callimachus, 171. 
 
 Dryads, 1. 
 
 Dust of the dead, 192. 
 
 Duty, the, of considering adverse doc- 
 trines, 224, 225. 
 
 Ectypa of baked clay, 156. 
 Eleusinian mysteries, meaning of the, 
 
 217, 218. 
 Eleusis, the Temple of Initiation at, 
 
 52 ; the Temple of Ceres at, 52. 
 Elgin marbles, the, 49-114. 
 Elis, work of Phidias at, 53, 54. 
 Elpinice, portrait of, by Polygnotus, 
 
 132. 
 Epicurus, the face of, carried about by 
 
 the Romans, 150. 
 Equanimity, the last watchword given 
 
 by Antoninus Pius, 230. 
 Erechtheum, the, 94. 
 Esaias, Michel Angelo's figure of, 27. 
 Euphrauor, 73. 
 Euripides, ^schylus and, 30; on the 
 
 immensity of God, 206. 
 Ezekiel, Michel Angelo's figure of, 
 
 27. 
 
290 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Fables of the ancients, the mythical 
 garb of great truths, 211, 2V1 ; true 
 to the iiiiagiuatioi), not to the rea- 
 son, 212, 
 
 Facts, but dead huFks, 212. 
 
 Faith, death of, IOC ; easily degener- 
 ates hito super tition, 204; of the 
 ancients ccmpared with ours, 218- 
 220. 
 
 Fame, what is, 228, 
 
 Fecl.ter, as Han^let, 236. 
 
 Fedi, 6. 
 
 Ficino, Marsilio, 3. 
 
 Firniicus, story by, about Zagretis, 
 ICl. 
 
 Florence, the city of the Renaissance, 
 5 ; ungrateful, 7 ; Dante and, 8. 
 
 Fol, Mr., the collection of, in Rome, 
 15C, 1C8. 
 
 Forcellinus, cited, 120, 122, 123. 
 
 Form?, of little ccufequence, com- 
 pared to essences, 195. 
 
 Forn.ulas check giowth in the spirit, 
 195; but are useful, as trunks in 
 which we pack our goods, 195, 
 
 Fornarina, the, 31, 34. 
 
 Francis L and Leonardo da Vinci, 74, 
 
 Fresco-painting, source of the term, 
 25. 
 
 Fronto, De differentiis Vocabiilorvm 
 of, 122, note. 
 
 Galatea, the, of Raffaelle, 32. 
 
 Galileo, 4, 8. 
 
 Garrick, 236-238. 
 
 Germans, as students of Shakespeare, 
 237. 
 
 Ghiberti, 6, 8, 43. 
 
 Ghirlandajo, Michel Angelo'a early 
 master, 10, 22. 
 
 Giorgione, 4. 
 
 Giotto, 4 ; the campanile of, 6 ; fres- 
 coes of, 7 ; accomplished in many 
 arts, 43. 
 
 Glycon, 109. 
 
 God, tendency to humanize and de- 
 grade, 198 ; the justice of, 200 ; sup- 
 posed ideas of, held by Marcus Au- 
 relius, 199-202 ; man cannot com- 
 prehend, 203 ; yet man makes, 203 : 
 Christian and paean conceptions of, 
 compared, 199-208 ; representations 
 of, in art, inferior to pagan works, 
 208. 
 
 Gods, images of, in early Greece, with 
 clothes and false hair, 152 ; the an- 
 ceiit, but anthropomorphic symbols, 
 
 Gonsalvi, Cardinal, and Michel An- 
 
 gelo, 13. 
 Gooc", renl. done only by gradual 
 
 changes, 107. 
 Gorgasus, 117, 146. 
 
 GoTgias, 88. 
 
 Greek and Roman art, the spirit of, 
 
 19. 
 Greek sculptors not accustomed to put 
 
 their nnnies on statues, 107. 
 Guarini, 3. 
 
 Guelphs and Ghibellines, 3. 
 Guicciardini, 8. 
 Gypsum, not used bv the ancients in 
 
 casting, 157-159, 1C9 ; Pliny on, 1G9. 
 
 Hamlet, the warnings of, needed by 
 English actors, 234, 235 ; not Hamlet 
 on the English stage, 238 ; mental 
 aberration of, compared with that 
 of Macbeth, 249, 250. 
 
 Hegias, 88. 
 
 Hermitage, Museum of the, 1C3. 
 
 Hercules, statue of, by Daedalus, 782, 
 18G. 
 
 Hetychius, cited, 70, 103. 
 
 Histt ry, who knows, 214 ; must be in- 
 terpreted by imagination, 214. 
 
 Hcmer, and Virgil, 30; relief in the 
 Biitish Museum, representing the 
 deification of, 109. 
 
 Honesty of intention, not enough, 221. 
 
 Horace, quotation from, 12G, 
 
 Horse-Tamer, the, statue of, ascribed 
 to Phidias, G7, 7G-79. 
 
 Hugo, Victor, and Lamartine, 30. 
 
 Hunt, Leigh, 233. 
 
 lasos, 94. 
 
 Iconic statues, first made by Antenor, 
 129. 
 
 Ictinus, works of, 113. 
 
 Ideslisti, motto of the, 232. 
 
 In ages, draped with real stuffs by the 
 Greeks and Romans, 152 ; false hair 
 on, 152. 
 
 Imagination in art, 232 ; may work in- 
 dependently of real feelings, 251. 
 
 Inevitable, tlie, should be accepted 
 without murmuring, 229. 
 
 Isis, 221. 
 
 I.' cerates, quoted, C6. 
 
 Italy, the land of the Renaissance, 5. 
 
 Jehovah, the, of the Jews, develop- 
 ment of, 205. 
 Jeremiah, figure of, by Michel Angelo, 
 
 27. 
 Jestis, reverenced by Marcus Aurelius, 
 
 190, 220. 
 John of Bologna, the Rape of the Sa- 
 
 bines by, G. 
 Julian, statement by, about Phidias, 
 
 84. 
 Julius II., Pope, and Michel Angelo, 
 
 21-25 ; strikes Michel Angelo with 
 
 a cane, 25. 
 Juno, the Temple of, at Argos, 53. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 291 
 
 Jupiter, the true philosophic idea of, 
 
 204-207. 
 Jupiter Pluvius, 21G. 
 
 Kalamis, 88; works of, 93; compartd 
 
 with PhidiaP, 96. 
 Kallimachus, 88. 
 Kallon. 88. 
 
 Keaii, Charles, 23fi, 237, 
 Kean, the elder, 236. 
 Kemble, John, as Hamlet, 238, 239. 
 Kertch, excavations at, 1G3 ; so-called 
 
 casts from, in tlie British Museum, 
 
 164, 165. 
 Kleoitas, 88. 
 Knight, Richard Payne, opinion of, on 
 
 the Elgin marbles, 99. 
 Kolotes, an assistant of Phidias, 55 ; 
 
 statue of Athena attributed to, by 
 
 Pliny, 66, 70, 91. 
 
 Lacon, 88. 
 
 Lactantius, 206. 
 
 Laniartine, Victor Hugo and, 30. 
 
 Lanzi, 8. 
 
 Laocoon, the, 19. 
 
 Latin, modern pronunciation of, unin- 
 telligible to Marcus Aurelius, 217. 
 
 Laurentian Library, the, 42. 
 
 Lazarus, and Dives, 223. 
 
 Lear, the aberration of mind of, dif- 
 ferent from that of Macbeth, '249, 
 250. 
 
 Leo X., Pope, 13, 14. 
 
 Leochares, statues by, 130. 
 
 Leonardo, 43 ; competition of, with 
 Michel Angelo, 22 ; story about his 
 death, 74. 
 
 Libeccio, the howling, 190. 
 
 Libon, 113. 
 
 Lippi, 7. 
 
 Loclos, 94. 
 
 Lomazzo, statement by, about Leo- 
 nardo's death, 74. 
 
 Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, 14. 
 
 Loreuzo the Magninceut, 3 ; favors 
 Michel Angelo, 10. 
 
 Lucan, lofty idea of God expressed by, 
 207. 
 
 Lucian, cited, 65, 67 ; his ideal image 
 of the most beautiful woman, 96 ; 
 comment by, on Demetrius, 130 ; 
 the "Tragic Jupiter" of, citations 
 from, 181-185; the "Somnium, seu 
 Gallus," of, quoted, 187. ' 
 
 Lysias, cited, 101, note. 
 
 Lysippus, statue of Opportimity by, 
 68 ; varies the canon of proportion, 
 73 ; gives a new impulse to the 
 school of portraiture, 131 ; praised 
 by Nicephorus Chumnus, 132. 
 
 Lysistratus, and the art of casting in 
 plaster, 116, 117, 139, 141, 143, 145 ; 
 
 and the practice of portraiture, 131 ; 
 probable use of color by, 154. 
 
 Macbeth, the true character of, 239- 
 285 ; not understood by l^ady Mac- 
 beth till after the murder of Dun- 
 can, 241, 242, 244, 277; Shake- 
 speare's worst villain, save lago, 284. 
 
 Macbeth, Lady, the real, 239-241, 251- 
 282. 
 
 Micchiavelli, 3, 8. 
 
 Maderno, Carlo, St. Peter's injured 
 by, 42. 
 
 Madonna di San Sisto, the, 32. 
 
 Mai, Cardinal, 122, note. 
 
 Mammon, worshiped, 227. 
 
 Man, inferior to woman iu adjusting 
 details, 259. 
 
 Marathon, tlie use made of spoils taken 
 from the Medes at, 59. 
 
 Marbles, the Elgin and Phigaleian, 
 work on, in the Library of Enter- 
 taining Knowledge, 99, 110. 
 
 Masaccio, 7. 
 
 Mausolus, statue of, 131. 
 
 Medicean Cliapel, tlie, 9, 11 ; great 
 works of Michel Angelo in, 13-21, 
 39. 
 
 Medici, real mausoleum of the, 9; 
 burial cliapel of the, 44-48 ; coffins 
 of the, neglected and robbed, 45- 
 47 ; sad lesson of their fate, 48. 
 
 Medici, Giuliano dei, mausoleum to, 
 14. 
 
 Melzi, cited, 74. 
 
 Mstagenes, and the Temple of Initia- 
 tion at Eleusis, 52. 
 
 Metoscopi, a stor}' about, 132. 
 
 Middle Ages, the, 2. 
 
 Middletou, the witches of, different 
 from Shakespeare's weird sisters, 
 285, 286. 
 
 Miltiades, portrait statue of, at Delphi, 
 129. 
 
 Minerva, Church of the, 20. 
 
 Mini, Antonio, 21. 
 
 Mini, Giovanni B ittista, letter by, 21. 
 
 Mirandola, Pico della, 3. 
 
 Mithras, 221, 225. 
 
 Muesicles, 52. 
 
 Moliere and Racine, 30. 
 
 Moses, statue of, by Michel Angelo, 39. 
 
 Mount Mithridates, excavations at, 
 163. 
 
 Mozart, Beethoven and, 30. 
 
 Miiller, cited, 59, 101, note, 185. 
 
 Music, development of, 4. 
 
 Myron, 88 ; great skill of, 89, 90 ; in- 
 scription on his Discobolos, 108. 
 
 Mys, carving by, 64. 
 
 Myths, enchanting, 212. 
 
 Naiads, 1. 
 
292 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Narrow-mindedness, development of 
 
 truth impeded by, 225. 
 Katnralisti, motto of the, 232. 
 Nature and art, 232. 
 Nemesis, jstatue of, at Rharanus, 67, 
 
 TO, 71 ; inscription on, 109. 
 Nero, 77, 79 : like Macbetli, 243. 
 Nestocles, 88. 
 Nicephorus Chumnns, Apellesand Ly- 
 
 sippus praised by, 132. 
 Nicias, statues colored by, 153. 
 Night, Michel Angelo's colossal figure 
 
 of, 14-21. 
 
 Odeum, the, 52, 53. 
 
 Olynipia, the Temple of Zeus at, 53, 
 54. 
 
 Opinion, arrogance of, development 
 of truth impeded by, 225. 
 
 Opinions but running streams, 229. 
 
 Orcagna, the Loggia of, 6. 
 
 Oreads, 1. 
 
 Orpheus, as the Good Shepherd, 1. 
 
 Othello, the trance of, unlike Mac- 
 beth 's aberration of mind, 249, 250. 
 
 Ovid, quoted, 122, 151. 
 
 Paeonios, 55, 88 ; works of, 92, 93. 
 
 Pagan religion and pagan art, 1. 
 
 Painting, and sculpture, 1 ; substances 
 used by the ancients in, 145. 
 
 Palazzo Faruese, the, 41. 
 
 Pan, 1. 
 
 Pautarcep, a victor in the Olympian 
 games, 129. 
 
 Parrliasiup, 64 ; paints portrait of him- 
 self, 132. 
 
 Parthenon, the, sculptures in, 49, 50, 
 52-55 ; I uilders of, 51, 52 ; built be- 
 tween 444 and 438 B. c, 54 ; the ex- 
 tant fragments of, not in the style of 
 Phidias, 84-86; probably executed 
 by various hands, 94. 
 
 Pasiteles, 135. 
 
 Pauline Chapel, the, 11. 
 
 Pausanias, statements by, 59, 64-71, 
 75, 91 ; the marble statues ascribed 
 to Phidias by, 105-107 ; on the in- 
 vention of casting in bronze, 137. 
 
 Pelichus, statue of, by Demetrius, 130. 
 
 Pensiero, II, IS. 
 
 Pericles, appoints Phidias director of 
 public works in Athens, 49, 51 ; di- 
 rects the building of the Odeum, 
 52 ; said by Strabo to have been 
 director of public works, 52 ; sole 
 administrator of public affairs, 53 ; 
 likeness of, by Phidias, CO, 129. 
 
 Perkins, Charles C, his " Du Mou- 
 lage en PlStre chez les Anciens," 
 115 ff. ; confounds modeling and 
 casting, 162. 
 
 Perugino, 31. 
 
 Peruzzi Chapel, the, 7. 
 
 Petrarca, 3, 42 ; admired by Michel 
 Angel o, 35. 
 
 Petronius, cited, 90. 
 
 Phaedrus, quoted, 108. 
 
 Phidias, 19 ; painter and architect, as 
 well as sculptor, 43 ; and the Elgin 
 marbles, 49-114 ; appointed director 
 of public works by Pericles, 49 ; his 
 chryselephantine statue of Athena, 
 50-68, 82. 83, 97, 98, 111 ; doubtful 
 if he ever made statues in marble, 
 51,98-113; testimony of Plutarch, 
 51, 52; of Strabo, 52; impossible 
 for him to have done all the work 
 that is attributed to him, 53-58, C3, 
 68 ; a slow and elaborate worker, 55 ; 
 disadvantages of, 56, 57 ; date of hia 
 birth, 58-62 ; likeness of, by him- 
 self, CO, 129 ; works ascribed to, 62- 
 68 ; incredible stories about, 71-73 ; 
 peculiarly celebrated for his statues 
 of Athena, 75 ; the Horse-Tamer, 
 not the work of, 76-79 ; compared 
 with Michel Angelo, 80 ; his style, 80, 
 81 ; elaboration of his great works, 
 81-84, 86 ; the Cellini of Athens, 84 ; 
 mtroduces the art of making statues 
 in ivory and gold, 87 ; estimation of, 
 amonghis contemporaries, 96 ; Pro- 
 pertius and Quinctilian on, 98 ; ap- 
 pellation applied to, by Aristotle, 
 99-102; skill of, in the toreutic-art, 
 101 ; marble statues ascribed to, by 
 Pausanias, 1(5-107 ; prosecuted for 
 impiety, l'_9. 
 
 Phigaleia, the Temple of Apollo at, 53. 
 
 Pliotias, 72. 
 
 Phradmon, 67 ; competes with Phidias, 
 97. 
 
 Phryne, portrait of, by Apelles, 132. 
 
 Phyromachos, 94. 
 
 Piece-moulds apparently not used by 
 tlie ancient Greeks and Romans, 
 156, 157, 176, 178. 
 
 Pindar, quotation from, 206. 
 
 Pius VIII., monument of, by Tene- 
 rani, 61. 
 
 Plaster, the art of casting in, among 
 the Greeks and Romans, 115-1S9. 
 
 Plataea, 53, 59. 
 
 Plautus, quoted, 121, 135. 
 
 Pliny, cited, 65-t8, 70, 71, 76, 89, 90 ; 
 story by, about Phidias, Polyclitus, 
 Ctesilaus, Cydon, and Phradmon, 97, 
 98 ; statements by, about Phidias, 
 103, 104 ; quotation from his Natural 
 History, 116 ; meaning of the quo- 
 tation considered, 117 If. ; the Nat- 
 ural History characterized, 118, 119 ; 
 stories by, about Apelles and Par- 
 rhasius, 132, 133; Bostick and Ri- 
 ley's translation of, 135 ; his use of 
 
INDEX. 
 
 293 
 
 the term "cera," 144; chapter on 
 
 " Plistices," in the Natural History, 
 141J-150; chapter en the honor at- 
 tached to portraits, 150, 151. 
 
 Plutarch, statements by,about Pericles 
 and Phidias, 51, 52, 5G, 57; quoted, CG. 
 
 Plyntheria, the colossal Athena's gold 
 drapery washed at, 152. 
 
 Poliziano, Angelo, teacher of Michel 
 Angelo, 3, 10. 
 
 Polybius, referred to, 146, note. 
 
 Polj'clitus, 67 ; his canon of propor- 
 tion, 73 ; his works, 88, 89 ; com- 
 pared with Pliidias, 90, 97, 101 ; 
 price received by, for his Dorypho- 
 ros, 176. 
 
 Polygnotus, the " Rape of Cassandra " 
 by, 132. 
 
 Polyxines, 6. 
 
 Pompeii, works of art found in, 177. 
 
 Pomponius Mela, cited, 70. 
 
 Popes, the, and Michel Angelo, 12. 
 
 Portrait statues, erection of, in public, 
 seldom allowed by the Greeks, 129. 
 
 Portraiture, in its true sense, the be- 
 ginning of, 130; development of , by 
 Lysippus and Lysistratus, 131 ; ear- 
 liest specimen of, by a great painter, 
 132 ; use of, by the R mians, 150. 
 
 Possis, excellent work of, 148. 
 
 Praxias, 88, 92, 94, 95. 
 
 Praxiteles, statue of Alexander tam- 
 ing Bucephalus, ascribed to, 77, 78 ; 
 praised by Lucian, 96 ; and Nicias, 
 153 ; price offered by Athens for the 
 Venus of, 175. 
 
 Pre-Raphaelites, error of the, 233. 
 
 Printing, among the ancient Romans, 
 167. 
 
 Propertius, quoted, 98. 
 
 Propylaea, 53. 
 
 Pulci, the three, 3. 
 
 Pythagoras,. 88. 
 
 Quinctilian, quoted, 98, 125 ; criticises 
 Demetrius, 130. 
 
 Quincy, M. Quatremere de, on chrys- 
 elephantine statues, 100. 
 
 Quirinal Hill, statue of the Horse- 
 Tamer on the, 67, 76. 
 
 Racine, Moliere and, 30. 
 
 Raffaelle, 4, S ; and the Sistine Chapel, 
 24; and Miehel Angelo, 30-33,35; 
 character and style of, 31 ; his finest 
 work, 32 ; his early death, 32 ; char- 
 acterized by contemporaries, 33 ; 
 and the Fornarina, 31 . 34 ; accom- 
 plished in many arts, 43. 
 
 Ravenna, Dante's grave at, 8. 
 
 Reform, slow movement of, in Eng- 
 land, 235. 
 
 Rehoboam, group by Michel Angelo, 
 
 29. 
 Religion, and art, hand in hand, 208 ; 
 
 no system of, ever embraced all 
 
 truth, 224. 
 Religious controversy, nothing so bit- 
 ter as, 225. 
 Religious ideas, each age has its, 196. 
 Renaissance, the, 3-5. 
 Revolutionizing the world, 227. 
 Rhamnus, statue of Nemesis at, 67, 
 
 70, 71. 
 Rlioecus, cast in bronze, 136. 
 Riches, denounced by Christ, 222. 
 Riley and Bostick, translation of Pliny 
 
 by, 135. 
 Roman and Greek art, the spirit of, 
 
 19. 
 Rousseau and Voltaire, 30. 
 
 S. Justinus, 206. 
 
 S. Theophilus Antiochenus, 206. 
 
 SiUust, quoted, 152. 
 
 San Gallo, Antonio, architect of St. 
 Peter'e, 39. 
 
 San Lorenzo, Church of, 9, 13. 
 
 Santa Croce, Church of, 7, 8. 
 
 Siurus, 107. 
 
 Savonarola, 5 ; his influence on Michel 
 Angelo, 17, 35. 
 
 Schetfer, Ary, Delacroix and, 30. 
 
 Scopas, 67 ; celebrated for heroic fig- 
 ures and demigods, 75 ; a worker in 
 marble, 76. 
 
 Sculpture, and idolatry, 1 ; considered 
 more dignified than painting, by the 
 Athenians, 133. 
 
 Second-sight, Macbeth's, 246. 
 
 Secretive nature, the, always a puzzle 
 to the frank nature, 244. 
 
 Semele and Z igreus, 161. 
 
 Seneca, quoted, 110; sentiments of, 
 regarding God, 207, 208. 
 
 Shakespeare, and Sir PJiilip Sidney, 
 30 ; testimony of, as to English ac- 
 tors, 235 ; interpreted by the Ger- 
 mans, 237 ; his meaning perverted 
 on the English stage, 238, 240 ; no 
 serious oharacter of, rants like Mac- 
 beth, 251 ; a master-stroke of, 259; 
 lago and Macbeth his worst villains, 
 284 ; his weird sisters a new crea- 
 tion, 285. 
 
 Sibylline verses, fragment of the, 206. 
 
 Sibyls, representations of, by Michel 
 Angelo, 27, 28. 
 
 Siddonp, Mrs., as Lady Macbeth, 239, 
 240, 264. 
 
 Sii^ney, Sir Philip, Shakespeare and, 
 30. 
 
 Sistine Chapel, the, 11 ; Michel An- 
 gelo's frescoes in, 21-29, 44 ; opened 
 
294 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 to exhibit the frescoes in 1508 on 
 All-Saints' Day, 23. 
 
 SixtusV.,77. 
 
 Smith, Pliilip, cited, 59, 61, 76. 
 
 Socrates, S8. 
 
 Solon, cited, 70. 
 
 Sophocles, unity and imivecsality of 
 God proclaimed by, 206. 
 
 Spartianus, statues modeled in plaster 
 spoken of by, ICO. 
 
 St. Paul, quoted, 1:31. 
 
 St. Peter's, the Dome of, 5, 8, 11 ; Mi- 
 chel Angelo's work upon, 39-42 ; the 
 type ot the universal church, 41 ; 
 Michel Angelo not responsible for it 
 as it now stands, 42 ; changes made 
 in, by Carlo Maderno, 42. 
 
 Sta. Maria degli Ang:eli, Church of, 41. 
 
 Stage, tradition and convention on the 
 English, 234-240. 
 
 Statins, quoted, 144. 
 
 St-tues, ancient, singular defects in, 
 173. 
 
 Strabo. statements by, about Pericles 
 and Phidias, 52 ; opinion of, on tlie 
 statue of Nemesis, at Rhamnus, 70 ; 
 on tlie work of Polyclitus, 89, 96. 
 
 Strozzi, Giovan' Battista, quatrain 
 by, 17. 
 
 Suidas, 72. 
 
 Sunium, 64. 
 
 Tartuffp, Macbeth not like, 254. 
 
 Tasso, 3, 42. 
 
 Tenerani, 61. 
 
 Tennyson, Browning and, 30. 
 
 Terra cotta, an ancient manufactory 
 
 of, 178. 
 TertuUian, on the persecution of the 
 
 Christians, 222. 
 Themistius, a saying of, 56 ; cited, 80. 
 Theocosmos, 67, 92 ; said to have been 
 
 assisted bv Pliidias, 75. 
 Theocritus, 206. 
 Tlipodorus of Samos, cast in bronze, 
 
 136. 
 Theophrastus, treatise on mineralogy 
 
 by, 159. 
 Thiersch, cited, 50, 61, 68. 
 Thoughts, our whole nature colored 
 
 by our, 229. 
 Thras>-medes of Faros, C6, 70. 
 Thiindpving Legion, the, true story of, 
 
 215, 216. 
 Tintoretto, 4. 
 
 Tiridates, King of Armenia, 77, 79, 
 Titian, 4. 
 
 Toroutic art, the, 100. 
 Tradition, in Enrlish churrh and the- 
 atre, 235 ; Slirikespeare's meaning 
 
 perverted liy, 238, 240. 
 Traditions about artists, unreliable, 
 
 74. 
 
 Troughton, Mr.,233. 
 
 Truth, infinite in form and spirit, 195 ; 
 
 a continual progression towards the 
 divine, 195 ; not all embraced in one 
 system of religion, 224 ; the growth 
 of, impeded by narrow-mindedness, 
 225. 
 
 Tussaud, Madame, 154. 
 
 Tzetzes the Grammarian, story told 
 by, 72 ; an untrustworthy gossip, 73 ; 
 on Phidias, 103. 
 
 Urban VIII., 78. 
 
 Urbino, Michel Angelo's servant, 37. 
 
 Valerius Maximus, quoted, 110, 111. 
 
 Valerius Soranus, God represented by, 
 as the Father and Mother of us all, 
 207. 
 
 Valori, Bartolommeo, letter to, 21. 
 
 Varro, quoted, as to the meaning of 
 "cera," 144. 
 
 Vasari, Giorgio, doubtful assertion of, 
 25 ; on Raffaelle, 33 ; account by, of 
 Verrocchio's making casts, 188. 
 
 Veronese, 4. 
 
 Verrocchio, 43 ; casting in plaster in- 
 troduced by, 188. 
 
 Via Latina, tombs in the, 1.57. 
 
 Vigenero, description of Michel An- 
 gelo bv, 38. 
 
 Villari, 3. 
 
 Virgil, Homer and, 30; quoted, 122, 
 136. 
 
 Visconti, quoted, 99, 100; his views 
 examined, 100-104. 
 
 Vitruvius, 145 ; description of process 
 used in finishing walls by, 153. 
 
 Voltaire, Rousseau and, 30. 
 
 Walls, ancient process used in finish- 
 ing, 153. 
 
 Wardour Street, the portraits of, 152. 
 
 "Wax, the common vehicle of ancient 
 painters, 144. 
 
 " Weird Sisters," the, but outward 
 personifications of evil thoughts, 285. 
 
 Welcker and Preller, cited, 59, CO. 
 
 Wilkins, William, opinion of, on the 
 Elgin marbles, 99. 
 
 Wilson, Mr. Cliprles Heath, close ex- 
 amination of Michel Angelo's fres- 
 coes by, 25. 
 
 "Wisdom of Solomon," the, cited, 
 IcO. 
 
 Woman, snpprior to man in adjusting 
 details, 259 ; unable to bear the re- 
 membrance of what she has gene 
 tlirorgh, 277. 
 
 World, the, needs revolutionising, 227. 
 
 Xenocles of Cholargos, finishes the 
 Temple of Initiation at Eleusis, 52. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 295 
 
 Xenophon, classes Polyclitus with IIo- 
 inir, Sophocles, aud Zeuxis, as au 
 artiot, 89. 
 
 Zacljarii", figure of, by Michel An- 
 gelo, 27- 
 
 Zipreus and Ssmele, ICL 
 
 Z 'uobius. cited, 70, 
 
 Zeiiy, clirys<'lei)haijtiiie statue of, by 
 
 PJiidias, 53, 5i)-G3, G5, SI, 8G, 08, 
 
 2C9; iutcription on, Kl). 
 Zeus, the Temple of, at Olympia, 53- 
 
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 Study of a New England Factory Town; Preaching; Sincere 
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 Thomas Davidson. 
 
 Prolegomena to In Memoriam. With an 
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 Thomas De Quincey. 
 
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 The Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, 
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 The Vision of Sudden Death, and Dream Fugue. 
 
 Autobiographic Sketches. 
 
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 these Infant Experiences; Dream Echoes Fifty Years Later; 
 Introduction to the World of Strife; Infant Literature; The Fe- 
 male Infidel ; I am Introduced to the Warfare of a Public School ; 
 I Enter the World ; The Nation of London ; DubHn ; First Re- 
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 Orphan Heiress ; Oxford. 
 
(B^mv$ ant) Wtl\ts^lLmxt& 
 
 De Quincey {coiitinueci). 
 Literary Reminiscences. 
 
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8 (ll;s^0a^0 auD 115ellfs?^ilettwsf 
 
 De Quincey {contimied), 
 
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C^savfif anD ^eUf0.^!leccre0 
 
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 Ralph Waldo Emerson, 
 
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lo (tsfsn^s anu llBrllfsf.Hettrfsf 
 
 Emerson {continued). 
 
 Plato: New Readings; Swedenborg : or, The Mystic; Mon- 
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 or, The Man of the World; Goethe: or, The Writer. 
 
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esBat?0 antj 115eUe0^ILtttrf0 1 1 
 
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C00aT?0 anl) 115fllf0.1lettrr0 15 
 
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i6 (Bsitsw^^ auD 115eUe0;^lLmre0 
 
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20 Cs^^apsf auD 515eUe0^1lettrr0 
 
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€00ar0 anD 115cUf0.!Lettrf0 21 
 
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essays? auD USellfs^.ilettrefl? 25 
 
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26 (^&&m ant) Wt\\t$^lLmtt& 
 
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(B^m& auD 115eUf0^1lfttrr0 27 
 
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