The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1859-04-07
Art AND ARTISTS.

Guido. M,r7lo, Washington AHston, Claude
Lorraine. Michael ARgsto, Darid, Rembrandt,
RuJess. Raphael, Turner, R"skin, Gandyck.
As We deliberately propose to write chap
ter on the " fine arts, we desire you, " dear
reader" To bee notified at the outset that we do
know something Of the matter in hand and we
therefore +" lead OFF" with the sum total of our
knowledge, that you may be able to take birds
eve view of the " head aud front OF our IN
formation on the subject.
I'VE wish to say, by the way, that we are
not the editor Of the National Era, though
"we" wish "we were, God bless him But
our native modesty forces us to take shelter
behind that royal, editorial, and impersonal
pronoun-)
Two kinds Of cant are extant concerning
pictures. One is that which has seized few of
the floating iechnicalities, and discourses flip
PANTY of light, and shade, and breadth, and
tone, mouths the " old masters rants of Italy,
sneers at American art, and goes into raptures,
IN a public way, over bit of old canvas, but
is not so absorbed but that it has leisure to OBJ
serve and brand the indifference of those out
side barbarians who do not share its ecstasies.
The other prides itself on being q no artist"
" 1t knows nothing of the rules of art, not it,
But II knows what it likes, and is going to like
1t, right or wrong. Artists may sneer, but it is
not going to be driven from picture, because
the picture was not made with plumb and line"
able than the first, since that only pretends to
follow in the wake Of excellence, while this sets
mp a claim to originality, strikes out boldly for
itself. and is sure TO find hosts of admirers
among our rampant Democracy Ignorance on
any subject is thing TO be repented of, and
forsaken if voluntary, to be silently borne if in
voluntary, but on no account to be exulted
over We, who boast our ignorance, forget, that
though the artist, like The poet, is born, not
made" he is not born an artist, The germ is
there, but many springs sunshine, and many
a summers shower, ay and many winters
frost, must ripen it into the mellow fruit. The
possibility is there, but only by careful study,
constant trial, severe culture, can it be wrought
into fact. Is it, then, reasonable to suppose
that the untutored eve can fully appreciate the
work of the tutored hand
1t is, indeed, merciful dispensation of Prov
idence, that the humbest day-laborer, going
home from his work at six o'clock. with his
coat swinging over his arm, and his tin pail in
his hand may feel the soothing, elevating in
fiuence of the calm sunset sky, the still fields,
and the shining flood yet he but enters the
vestibue of the temple. Only to her importu-
nate child-only
To hm who, ia me lore Of nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms,
does she disclose the arcana-the mystic glory
that shines in her holy of holes
Thus picture is not only the measure of the
soul that conceived and the hand that wrought
but Of the eve that views it. If you see therein
neither form nor comeliness, it may be either
because form and comeliness are not there o.
because your gross vision cannot discern thei
spiritual presence and this incapacity may b,
the result either of native deficiency or lack o
training.
Every true picture, everything worthy ih'
name, has a body and soul. Canvas, color
contour, are the one. The idea that shine
through them all, and invests them with life
and glow, and reality, is the other. Where tn
soul is wanting. all else may be perfect, tn
body complete but the picture says nothing t
You. 1t is mere dead matter. There may
pretensions to life, convulsive and contorte
struggling, as it were, TO compass life, but 20
have no love wherewithal to endow the fair u
dine with an immortal soul.
But this soul Of the picture does not sit Ell
ihrcped on the surface, to be proianed by va
gar gaze Eye may meet eye, but heart alon
can speak TO heart. OF ten who defe b,
fore II, nine may pass on unheeding. 1t is t
them blank and meaningless, like the marks {
certain chalk on window-gla but when yo
draw near, you, the tenth, and breathe upon
the breath of your life, by an unerring instin,
1t recognises your soul. Quickly life leaps int
the picture-Aashes into the statue the Prom
thean fire. quivering in every limb, glowing
every lineament, till, as you gaze, 1t passes I'M
your being, to become part of yourself foreve
more.
This life, this pAthoS and power, depend le'
on the subject than on the manner of handlin
1t. We have all looked cooiiy on represent
tions of dying saints, surrounded by an oil
oodrida of infant cherubs, and fullgrow
angels, and wings, and crowns, and aoatin
garments and we have perhaps felt the chez
flush and the heart throb at the sunlight stream
ing in through kitchen-window; for the on
was vague, crude, and perchanee ridiculous
while the other, simple and direct, carried 1
swiftly back to home, and childhood, an
mothers love.
Yet mere fidelity is of little worth. Yc
recognise the mechanical skill, but you sa
WIZ be at infinite labor to reproduce what