Milford chronicle., 1904-09-02

chael Angelo, with his brush, may have
touched the wall in tbe Vatican where
today is seen his Last Judgment"
But not one Of all of those thousands
of times when he laid on the paint did
he do so without having one great idea
In his mind Perfection is composed
of many trihes," wrote he, but per-
feetion in art is not a trihe." A great
picture is always 'multitudes of diff
ferent colors in blending unity" That
unity is the cause of beauty When
seen upon the canvas Of the masters
of old and the masters of the present
daT.
>&l;.' s-.@ "+
"a Multitude In UaTty."
An artists beauty is n multitude in
unity" We know that Samuel Cole
ridges dehniEOn in reference TO the
painters easel is true. We see a "mul-
titude Of colors in unity" when Tur-
ner, the. most brilliant artistic c0lOrist
England ever produced. makes the sea
a creature Of life. Now it is a beauti-
full boulevard of gold, paving its way
to the throne of a setting sun; now
perfect pandemOnium Of furies; now it
is a burial scene when Sir David VIII
kle finds a sepulcher in the mighty
deep. whose waves beat themselves in
to pieces on the Gibraltar crags. We
see an artists multitude in unity" in
the portraits of a Sir Anthony Van
dyke and in the mighty mountain
peaks of a Bierdstadt and in the pas
toral dreams of Millet. But though
there may be many different tints
blending in the cOlOrs of II rainbow or
in the hectic flush of a rose, did you
ever stop TO realize that all cOlOrs come
from but three primal cOlOrs, just the
same as all nature? All the animal and
vegetable and mineral kingdoms have
but sixty-six different basic elements,
of which they are all composed. So
in the artistic world we find that all
colors originally come from but three
primary colors-the red, the yellow and
the blue. Now, If God can form the
artistic beauty of the sky, the sea, the
land. out of the simple red, the simple
yellow and the simple violet is it abb
surd to suppose that God can spiritual
ly make US artistically beautiful, no
matter how crude and sinful we may
be, if we only allow our thoughts and
lives to be combined in symmetry with
his thoughts and with Christ's life?
Oh, the beauty of blending eolOrs!
From the BRILLIANT pictorials of an au-
tumnal leaf let us learn the spiritual
lesson for man that God hath made
and can make everything beautiful in
its time.
But the musicians oratory and SYM
metry of sounds have also their analO-
gies by which we can find man, in his
spiritual beauty, 'in tune with the in
finite In the Epistle to the Romans
Paul writes, How beautiful are the
feet of them that preach the gospel Of
peace and glad tidings Of good things"
Aye beautiful are the feet of the gOs-
pei messengers, but beautiful are the
voices also. for today we find the sym
Dol Of mans thoughts in beautiful sym
metry with Gods thoughts, in the
sweet throat Of a singing thrush, in
the signing of the winds among the
leaves and in the harvest fields, In the
meanings of the seas as well as In the
colOrs of its waters and in all the
strange yet harmonious voices of the
woods, whether they be the calls of
the cuckoo which musicians declare
sound the third note in music, or the
shrill whistle of the bobwhite, which,
like the voice of the fife, is heard above
every other instrument of the band, or
the croonings Of the wood dove, which
the California Indians used to call
'majella," whose song by'day and by
twilight both to mate and young was
one continuous whispering of Here,
love! Love, here! Here, love! Love,
herew Oh, the beautiful voices of
blending harmonies heard in the
choruses of the woodsl Who can ever
listen to them and not find a symbol
of mans spiritual beauty? "In tune
with the infnitew
'In Tune with the Infinite"
But what, according to the law Of
sound, do we mean by being 'in tune
with the infnite?" l went hunting
some time ago. AS l lay in a dugout
by a water hole, hidden by the leaves,
waiting for the birds to come down to
drink, asked myself these questions:
What is music? Why is it that all
these voices of the woods have such
a wonderful influence over me? Why
does not the harsh call of the fish
monger hawking his food at my city
door, or the deep voice Of the fog
horn on shipboard of the banks Of
Newfoundland, or the rasp Of a saw,
or the whining cry Of a spoiled child,
enchant me as now do the voice signal
ings Of the pheasants, which l can
now see way OF under yonder trees, or
the chirp Of the swallows flying over
my head, or the beautiful sounds that
come to my ear as the harpists Of the
winds finger the long, slender vines
as though they were harp strings? l
know that some of the repellent cries
have heard from the fishmOnger
Richard Wagner has reproduced in his
matchless operas. know the deep
voice of the fog horn rolls and thunders