# A Tribute to W. W. Corcoran, of Washington City/Chapter 3

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Chapter III.
ND now we come to that great and important subject, the Fine Arts, which day by day are becoming more appreciated and find a rapid increase of patrons. It is true that there are some who do not regard Art as an essentiality, and who are even indifferent to it as an ornament. Viewed favorably by the masses, in the latter sense, does it not appeal to the mind and heart, and aid in the general education? A love of it was handed down to us from remote ages, when painting, hieroglyphics and signs were the beginning or the alpha of the interesting work. Then it was the weak infant struggling into being—now it is the giant, clothed with power and strength!
We can even go back to the deluge and the years close following, when sculpture was one of the arts, although perverted in the form of idols and graven images. Hundreds of years after, Phidias, the originator of the ideal style, chiselled statues out of ivory and gold, and still later the names of Praxitiles and Scopas tell of perfection in the art. Note the growing affection that has brought these crudities to the perfect image and the faultless painting, and let us give thanks that the brow of the sculptor has been decked with brightest laurel, and that some of the proudest niches ​in the world's Temple have been filled by soul-inspired artists!
There are many arguments to be made in favor of Art—that glorious handmaid to nature! Let us enter some fine picture gallery and study the various subjects. With what do we find ourselves busied? Geography, History, Mythology, &c., &c. We see the imitative power of the artist in the truthful scenes of nature, and we descry a likeness to our fellow-creatures in the shapely marble and plaster. Face to face we are brought with men whose features, faithful in resemblance make us for the moment forget that they themselves are crumbling into dust, or that their real substance has vanished from earth. If it be a statesman or warrior, a poet or astrologist, some special renown or exploit, romance or spiritualized intelligence will speak eloquently from the canvas. We are suddenly brought to an association with the great spirits of the past; the human mind is made to travel over an immensity of space, glorified by genius and worth, and the bare contemplation through sympathy, awakens us to a moral and intellectual state. Do we wonder at the hush of silence that frequently pervades galleries ᚮf art, not less in New York than in Europe, for are there not impulses at work "playing an old tune upon the heart," or otherwise pleasurably exercising the thoughts? We have seen a sad, lone woman engrossed or held spell-bound by a picture representing "The Dying Child." The scene is painful for the casual observer, but what is it to her weeping eyes and aching heart? The pale, little form is not the figure of her own beloved child, but the sorrowful reminder of a bitter moment when the Angel of Death hovered over her home.
Another scene may be recalled, that made the stout ​heart of the veteran grow tender. It was "The Last Message," where a wounded soldier, anticipating death, confides to a Sister of Charity his farewell to his family. This representation brought tears, which the situation itself, amid the every-day occurrences of war, may have failed to excite. Such is the sympathetic influence of Art. We have seen sad emotion called forth by the portrayal of a "Bridal Scene"—the fair daughter of a loving circle taking upon herself that holiest of vows! Happiness was the chief element there, but strange as the paradox may seem, it took the part of grief, for the lookers on viewed it through their own parting with an only daughter, whom seas were to divide from their loving caresses. If these then, are some of the sad instances often met with, the cheerful aspect must not be overlooked. We have seen the risibilities of a little child excited, when upon leaving some dark, gloomy canvas, he unexpectedly meets the grinning countenance of a cat, or a monkey perched on high, intent on his work of mischief. The silence adverted to is thus broken, solemnity and poetry are disturbed, but the little one is paying the highest tribute to art by his merry ring of laughter, for so true is the picture that it finds actual existence in his eyes.
When we turn our steps from these delightful places, we have learned a lesson more entertaining than that of books, having been brought into a closer contact, or formed a stronger tie through the pleasures of sight and memory. In the same ratio will the child become more interested in the tempting fruit that he sees in painted form, than the fabled grapes Æsop describes. The would-be traveler, too, gazing upon pictures of the grand mountains, the tumultuous waves of ocean, and the fiery, hissing crater, is far better repaid than by indulging in the most vivid, high-wrought imagination, or the most ​careful geographical study. Art has also a higher mission than the mere elevation of the mind and the refinement of taste. It tends to worship of the great Author of our being; and, as the worthy Cardinal Wiseman said: "It is the most graceful and natural tribute of homage we can pay to Him for the beauties which He has so lavishly scatterd over creation. Art, then, is a reverend thing; one which must he treated with all nobleness of feeling, and with all the dignity of aim." See what the Divine Hand has lavished upon our broad earth, and what it has cast into the way of the artist to portray! The beautiful mountains, towering to the clouds; the peaceful valleys, lying as if in gentle slumber at their base; the magnificent forests, teeming with verdure; the noble rivers and the grander ocean—and above all these things, man, after His own glorious image! With what a wrapt interest do we stand in the art museums of the old world, before the faces of St. Peter, St. Paul, and others that walked in holiness, in the company of Him who was above all men the most saintly! And besides these sacred personages, the philosopher and sage, and noble women worthy in good deeds to immortalize canvas. In the bright army of His creatures there are names that belong to the golden age of art! Who shall speak the glories of Raphael and Angelo, Murillo and Titian, Thorwaldsen and Canova? If the genius of Europe treats all these spheres of celebrity, our country, still young, does bravely her part, and some few have been prepared to cope with the proudest and best of any age.
Such names as West, Powers, Greenough, Bierstadt, Cole, Crawford, Durand, Healy, Rogers, Leutze, Church, Trumbull and Allston, form a brilliant constellation, and a grateful memory survives those who have departed from the scene of their labors. Church's wonderfully ​true delineation of Niagara Falls, with its fine coloring, and all the force and beauty of the subject, won some of the highest encomiums at the Paris Exposition of 1867; and this is but one of the many works that have been received with favor, not only upon our own shores, where we are prone to lean kindly to our people, but across the sea in classic lands, where "high art" can only be reached by climbing up to the altitude of the stars. There is at the same time with all the excellence referred to, a great deal of the "wild growth" of talent among us; some artists having a fondness for accumulation, rather than a reputation gained by slow and sure means. Prolific art making rapid strides cannot he the offspring of ability, or even energy—it is but a dedication to waste subjects, and not the moral, social and religious truths that form the basis of all true talent. Apropos we are reminded at this juncture of a remark made by a foreign professor to an over-anxious student, intent on making himself an artist at railroad speed. "Ven you can walk den you shall run, my dear high-art student. if you will lofe high art, you must learn to live wyout de rozbif and de portare. Dere is only bread and vater for de student of high art. But hear vat I say. It is all high art if dere is truth and nature in it. I have seen high art no bigger dan my hand. I have seen no art at all in canvas bigger dan dis room." Turn we to the famous Flemish painter, Antoine Wiertz, who studied art from the soul, and whose pecuniary gain was but a grain of sand compared with the golden fruits of his indomitable desire to excel. His works are of surpassing grandeur, and the word insignificance never entered his lofty mind. He was always the earnest student, honest and pure, and so far superior to thousands in his profession, that at his death Belgium lost her brightest star. Wiertz's ​last moments and thoughts were occupied entirely with one thing—his art—showing that when on the confines of eternity, the grand occupation of his life merged into beautiful visions, typical of heaven and the angels. "Oh! what beautiful horizons! Oh! what lovely faces! Quick, quick, my pallette! my brushes! what a picture I shall make! I will surpass Raphael!" Let then the motto for artists be, "Festina Lente," and like Wiertz approach gently, but surely the empyrean heights of fame. Precipitancy is like the empty bubble that dances awhile in the sunbeam, but is lost by the weight of a single drop of dew. A specialty in talent or an adherence to a particular style, is too frequently disregarded, hence the mediocrity of so many that take up the brush.
Our American artist, George Catlin, who died in Jersey City, at the age of seventy-six, devoted his lifetime we may say, to the study of Indian life and character, in order to give to his country a faithful portraiture of the red men of the forest. He literally pitched his tent among them, and fearless and true to his fond taste, his spirit never drooping through trials and danger, accomplished the ambition of his life. Steadily he worked to leave a monument to that race less favored than ourselves, who, although rude and uncivilized, love nature's haunts and abide in the faith of the "Great Spirit." It is to be hoped that our National Congress will purchase this series of paintings, and not permit any other country to outdo us in appreciation of American fame. There is a word to be said in favor of the encouragement of artists, and especially the young student exhibiting talent. It is the duty of society to foster and reward all such, and not to chill by indifference their noble efforts. Let us draw for ourselves a picture of the birth of talent ​amid gloom, and follow it up to the sunshine of success. Years agone some poor, lone child is drifted upon the ocean of life without help or means, but possessed of an innate genius that shall one day resolve itself into an almost consuming passion. He buffets the wintry sea. The clouds grow dark above him no; voice of friendship is heard in the storm, nor does the world offer any haven wherein to rest his weary spirit. His bodily pain finding no release nor cure, hungry, rejected, and almost scorned, he would fain die; but child of genius as he is, the fates decree that he must ply his pathless course, lone as the sea-bird, and restless as the waves upon which he is tossed. He is but a speck, an atom on the great deep, and a shadow as it were compared with the brightness of other lives. After awhile the frowning sky changes, the clouds are, and the Star of Hope shines out. Through faith he is promised a bright mission, and his feeble hand grasps the artist's brush. Years of patient toil and endurance bring new vigor to his life, and compensate him with success. His mind is stocked with the beautiful creations with which he will surprise the world, and gain its noblest panegyrics. The hour at last comes when the brow that was pierced by the thorns of poverty wears the wreath of laurel, and the spirit that was crushed through indifference, is buoyant with worldly applause. And to whom shall go his thanks or gratitude? First to the Divine Protector, who saves the tempest-tossed child of faith, and to the few noble ones who helped the impulse, and brought out from the studio the works of his meritorious labor. The opening of the purse occasionally to the progressive student, will stimulate his ambition and give a holiday to his constant work. It is to be regretted that there is not more of this encouragement. That ​woman especially, to whom riches and opportunity are given, does not think more of the toiling struggling artist. Her mansion is enriched by gorgeous furniture and silverware, her person decked with satins and jewels, and yet sometimes there is not a single picture nor print to adorn the walls. Even her nursery is devoid of some pleasant souvenir of the "cunning hand" that mixes the colors and weaves them into beautiful designs, and surely to the little children of that house these things would prove an attraction, and a most educational pastime. If the toy gives happiness, so may the picture, and there is one thing in which the latter gains the advantage. It suffers not the degradation of a kick, neither falls victim to destructive little fingers, but keeps its place on the wall, and frequently a fretted, wearied child will fall asleep with his eyes lingering on a pretty bunch of flowers, a landscape view, or that more suggestive figure of "little Samuel at prayer." These small beginnings are invaluble auxiliaries, and the expenditure of fifty cents only on a little print or chromo will after awhile invite to the appreciation and purchase of some fine work of art that otherwise would vainly elicit a thought. This is proved by an instance in Paris, where an American lady of fortune was passing by a little girl—a street vender of small wares. The child thrust before her eyes a picture, saying, "Achetez une jolie gravure, s'il vous plaît," but the lady unwilling to be interrupted, continued on her way a few steps, showing a decided air of annoyance. French persuasion and persistency were not to be rebuffed, however, and a pair of sparkling eyes followed up the richly attired dame, and a plead voice reiterated, "Madame, s'il vous plaît, seulement un moment! Regardez cette gravure—un pauvre Savoyard d'ltalie!" Her quick little fingers held up ​again the picture—the figure of a sad-looking youth, holding the violin, and in whose eyes was a depth of feeling that might have sold the article twice over. A single glance bestowed by the lady effected the purchase. It was not the importunate girl, but rather that little something that so frequently in this world of ours touches a cord in the human heart. A few days later we met this same lady, accompanied by a female friend, in one of the magnificent stores on the Rue de Rivoli. The surroundings were of a character both elegant and attractive, there being a triple range of statuettes, busts, mosaics, and beautiful paintings on canvas and porcelain to charm the eye. Whilst picture after picture was showed by the polite salesman, the following conversation ensued between the ladies:
"Are you in search of any particular thing?"
"No. I was rather beguiled into this place because I happened to think of a little picture I bought a day or two ago on the street—the simplest thing of all my purchases in the space of ten months."
The eager Frenchman, interpreting the meaning, and trusting to the favorable opportunity, presented to their notice an exquisite porcelain type, the subject being a Swiss Lake with snow-capped mountains in the distance, and afterwards an oil painting of Ophelia—so true to the poor distracted girl, that these words involuntarily came to our minds:
"Yes!" continued the interested lady, addressing her friend; "It is strange that I never had before an ​secial taste for pictures, but since I have made a beginning in an inferior line, the crevices in my trunks will doubtless be filled up with other small gravures, bought on the sidewalks, and I shall find myself sending to America, such a collection as will reduce my purse several thousand francs."
It need only be stated that "Ophelia" was bought, and two other paintings equally as valuable, and we left seeing the salesman’s face aglow, and our countrywoman converted into an admirer of art, from one simple little act of charity, called forth by a street beggar, and mostly by the pitiful sympathy-invoking features of the Savoyard boy. It must then be allowed that art, however simple, performs its part in the work of educating or improving the mind, and that its smallest features are not the cheapest or most unimportant. Magnetism from the tiniest atom, will bring about those magnificent corruscations that blind the eye and thrill the senses; the humblest beginnings have grown or developed into regal acts, and from the blackness of ignorance has sprung the splendor of knowledge. The acknowledged charm in these little objects of art is the pathos that they convey. A strain of fine delicate music will surprise and interest the rude listener, his dormant ear is opened for the first time, and a gentle appeal made to his heart. It is not the blast of power or grandeur that most moves and enthrals us, but rather the mild tone, the faint strain, and to adopt a poetical thought, "the fair imagery of the real essence." We are to reach after the grander and a patient, slow acquaintance, remembering the principles by which the heights of fame were gained. Then we shall have viewed the origin of art, living in the studio, amidst the hopes, fears, and labor of the artist, and understanding the ​force, eloquence and immensity of this thought—"An atom made the world, a drop the ocean!"
Hillard, whose travels in Italy brought out some very interesting sketches of art galleries, says, very truthfully, "Many persons feel art; some understand it; but few both feel and understand it." Which, then, is the most compensative? To feel is a pleasure made up of exuberance and passion; to understand is the intellectual delight, bringing perhaps less fervor, but more complete satisfaction and the two combined is that happy blending of force and beauty, heart and mind, whereby the natural spontaneity and the cultivated grace are equalized. It is imputed to Raphael that he felt too deeply the power of his last labor of genius, "The Transfiguration." This wonderful picture engrossing all his thoughts, increased his activity, and over-excited his mind. Suddenly, he obeyed the Divine summons, and left unfinished his work. But it was a cherished souvenir of the immortal master, and his last occupation, and therefore at his funeral was placed near his remains, standing out in glowing beauty over the marble-like face and folded hands. Like some bright star that scintillates and. shoots out splendor in the darkness of night, so did the "Transfiguration" steal from the sadness of Raphael's death by its sublimity, and the thought that as long as the world exists would his glorious fame keep brightening.
It is recorded that Sophocles died of joy when his last tragedy was crowned with success. And Raphael too, may have so far imbued his spirit in sympathy with the celestial, that it seemed a fitting time to float away in the very atmosphere that breathed of the Saviour, and was made glorious by His presence. Art, then, hath made votaries the most devoted, and brought its worship up to the dizziest heights of ​transcendentalism. Oft the subject or the theme inspires to such a great degree that the outside world is forgotten, the very being or existence becomes entranced, and the hand that traces deftly and wondrously, seems almost an unconscious instrument sent from heaven itself to accomplish something grand and noble. It is not all fiction when we hear or read of some worshiping spirit gazing at a beautiful model, and as each moment of inspiration, if not adoration, goes on, a dangerous delight takes possession of the mind. There may bre some hidden influence, some association or link that has either made life beautiful or sad; but the heart is moved, and its tension so exquisitely strained, that to die is but a little thing weighed against the happiness or delirium of the moment.
And thus was finished in a moment of ecstasy, a life crowned resplendently by the twin powers of genius and sentiment. The artist's labor of love had reached its goal on earth, and the heaven lay beyond! The cold and unappreciative world may call these instances exaggerated, and violently inimical to art, since by the spirit succumbing wholly to that indefinable power of blissful emotion, the purpose and work of life are suddenly wrecked. But as the noblest ships are stranded in a single moment, going down in the waters with only a stifled cry, so have the children and worshipers of genius sunk under the weight of emotion with more of a welcome to death than a sigh of regret.