University of Virginia Library

ART AND ARTISTS.

I was struck, recently, with an unfinished sketch by a
young artist, who has since lost his reason from the intense
activity of a rarely-gifted, but ill-balanced mind. It
struck me as an eloquent symbol of his inward experience—a
touching comment upon his unhappy fate. He
called the design `an artist's dream. It represented the
studio of a painter. An easel, a pallet, a port-folio, and
other insignia of the art, are scattered with professional
negligence, about the room. At a table sits the youthful
painter, his head resting heavily on his arm, buried in
sleep. From the opposite side of the canvass the shadowy
outlines of a long procession seemed winding along, the
figures growing more distinct as they recede. In the
front rank and with more defined countenances, walk
the most renowned of the old masters, and pressing hard
upon their steps, the humbler members of that noble brotherhood.
It was a mere sketch—unfinished, but dimly
mapped out, like the career of its author, yet full of promise,
and indicative of invention. It revealed, too, the
dreams of fame that were agitating that young heart; and

proved that his spirit was with the honored leaders of the
art. This sketch is a symbol of the life of a true artist.
Upon his fancy throng the images of those whose names
are immortal. It is his day-dream to emulate the great
departed—to bless his race—to do justice to himself.
The early difficulties of their career, and the excitement
of their experience, give to the lives of artists a singular
interest. West's first expedient to obtain a brush—Barry's
proud poverty, Fuseli's vigils over Dante and Milton;
Reynolds, the centre of a gifted society; the `devout quiet'
of Flaxman's home, and similar memories, crowd upon
the mind, intent upon their works. Existence, with them
is a long dream. I have ever honored the fraternity, and
loved their society, and musing upon the province they
occupy in the business of the world, I seem to recognize
a new thread of beauty interlacing the mystic tissue
of life. In speaking of the true artist, I allude rather to
his principles of action, than to his absolute power of execution.
Mediocrity, indeed, is sufficiently undesirable
in every pursuit, and is least endurable, perhaps, in those
with which we naturally associate the highest ideas of excellence.
But when we look upon artists as a class—
when we attempt to estimate their influence as a profession,
our attention is rather drawn to the tendency of their
pursuit, and to the general characteristics of its votaries.

“Man!” says Carlyle, “it is not thy works which are
all mortal, infinitely little, and the greatest no greater than
the least, but only the spirit thou workest in, that can
have worth or continuance.” In this point of view, the
artist, who has adopted his vocation from a native impulse,

who is a sincere worshipper of the beautiful and the picturesque,
exerts an insensible, but not less real influence
upon society, although he may not rank among the highest,
or float on the stream of popularity. Let this console
the neglected artist. Let this thought comfort him, possessed
of one talent—if the spirit he worketh in is true, he
shall not work in vain. Upon some mind his converse
will ingraft the elements of taste. In some heart will his
lonely devotion to an innocent but unprofitable object, awaken
sympathy. In his very isolation—in the solitude of his
undistinguished and unpampered lot, shall he preach a silent
homily to the mere devotee of gain, and hallow to the
eye of many a philanthropist, the scenes of bustling and
heartless traffic.

I often muse upon the life of the true artist, until it redeems
to my mind the more prosaic aspects of human existence.
It is deeply interesting to note this class of men
in Italy. There they breathe a congenial atmosphere.
Often subsisting upon the merest pittance, indulging in
every vagary of costume, they wander over the land, and
yield themselves freely to the spirit of adventure, and the
luxury of art. They are encountered with their portfolios,
in the midst of the lone campagna, beside the desolate
ruin, before the masterpieces of the gallery, and in the
Cathedral-chapel. They roam the streets of those old and
picturesque cities at night, congregate at the caffé, and
sing cheerfully in their studios. They seem a privileged
class, and manage, despite their frequent poverty, to appropriate
all the delights of Italy. They take long tours
on foot, in search of the picturesque; engage in warm

discussions together, on questions of art, and lay ever
town they visit, under contribution for some little romance
It is a rare pastime to listen to the love-tales and will
speculations of these gay wanderers. The ardent your
from the Rhine, the pensioner from Madrid, and the mercurial
Parisian, smoke their pipes in concert, and wrangle
good-humoredly over national peculiarities, as they copy
in the palaces. Thorwaldsen is wont to call his birth-day
the day on which he entered Rome. And when we consider
to what a new existence that epoch introduces the
artist, the expression is scarcely metaphorical. It is the
dawning of a fresher and a richer life, the day that make
him acquainted with the wonders of the Vatican, the palace
halls lined with the trophies of his profession, the daily
walk on the Pincian, the solemn loneliness of the surrounding
fields, the beautiful ruins, the long, dreamy day
and all the poetry of life at Rome. Whoever has frequently
encountered Thorwaldsen in the crowded saloon
or visited him on a Sabbath morning, must have read it
his bland countenance and benignant smile, the record of
his long and plesant sojourn in the Eternal city. To
him it has been a theatre of triumph and benevolence.
Everywhere in Italy are seen the enthusiastic pilgrims
of art, who have roamed thither from every part of the
globe. Each has his tale of self denial, and his vision of
fame. At the shrine of Art they kneel together. Year
by year they collect, in the shape of sketches and copies,
the cherished memorials of their visit. A few linger on,
until habit makes the country almost necessary to their
existence, and they establish themselves in Florence or
Rome. Those whom necessity obliges to depart, tear
themselves, full of tearful regret, from the genial clime.
Many who come to labor, content themselves with admiring,
and glide into dreamy habits from which want,
alone, can rouse them. Others become the most devoted
students, and toil with unremitting energy. A French
lady, attached to the Bourbon interest, has long dwelt in
Italy, intent upon a monument to Charles X. Her talents
for sculpture are of a high order, and her enthusiasm for
royalty, extreme. Her hair is cut short like that of a man,
and she wears a dark robe, similar to that with which Portia
appears on the stage. Instances of a like self-devotion
to a favorite project in art, are very common among
those who are voluntary exiles in that fair land. One
reason why the most famous portraits of the old masters,
such as the Fornarina of Raphael and La Bella of Titian,
are so life-like and inspire so deep a sense of their authenticity,
is doubtless that the originals were objects of affection
and familiar by constant association and sympathy,
to the minds of the artists. This idea is unfolded in one
of Webster's plays, where the advantage of a portrait taken
without a formal sitting, is displayed with much quaintness
and beauty:—

Though the mere tyros in the field of letters and of art,
those who pursue these liberal aims without either the
genius that hallows, or the disinterestedness that redeems
them, are not worthy of encouragement—let respect await
the artist whose life and conversation multiply the best
fruits of his profession—whose precept and example are
effective, although nature may have endowed him with but
a limited practical skill. There is a vast difference between
a mere pretender and one whose ability is actual
but confined. A man with the soul of an artist, is a valueable
member of society, although his eye for color may be
imperfect, or his drawing occasionally careless. There
is, in truth, no more touching spectacle, than is presented
by a human being whose emotions are vivid, but whose
expression is fettered; in whose mind is the conception
which his hand struggles in vain to embody, or his lips
to utter. It is a contest between matter and spirit, which
angels might pity. It is this very struggle, on a broad
scale, which it is the great purpose of all art and all literature
to relieve. “It is in me, and it shall come out,”
said Sheridan, after his first failure as an orator. And the

trial of Warren Hastings brought it out. If we could analize
the pleasure derived from the poet and painter, I suppose
it would partake much of the character of relief. A
great tragedy unburdens the heart. In fancy we pour forth
the love, and partake of the sacrifice. And so art gratifies
the imagination by reflecting its pictures. The lovely
landscape, the faithful portrait, the good historical composition,
repeat, with more or less authenticity, the story
that fancy and memory have long held in a less defined
shape. The rude figures on old tapestry, the
miniature illustrations of ancient missals, the arabesques
that decorate the walls of the Alhambra, are so many early
efforts to the same end. The inventive designer, the gifted
sculptor, the exquisite vocalist, are ministers of humanity,
ordained by Heaven. The very attempt to fulfil such
high service, so it be made in all truthfulness, is worthy
of honor. And where it is partially fulfilled, there is occasion
for gratitude. Hence I cannot but regard the worthy
members of such professions with peculiar interest.
They have stepped aside from the common thoroughfare,
to cultivate the flowers by the wayside. They have left
the great loom of common industry, to weave “such stuff
as dreams are made of.” Their office is to keep alive in
human hearts, a sense of the grand in combination, the
symmetrical in form, the beautiful in color, the touching
in sound, the interesting in aspect of all outward things.
They illustrate even to the senses, that truth which is so
often forgotten—that man does not live by bread alone.
As the sunlight is gorgeously reflected by the clouds,
they tint even the tearful gloom of mortal destiny with the
warm hues of beauty. Artists instruct and refine the
senses. With images of grace—with smiles of tenderness—with
figures of noble proportions—with tones of
celestial melody, they teach the careless heart to distinguish
and rejoice in the richest attractions of the world.
He who has pondered over the landscapes of Salvator,
will thenceforth pierce the tangled woodlands with a
keener glance, and mark a ship's hulk upon the stocks,
with unwonted interest. John of Bologna's Mercury,
will reveal to him the poetry of motion, and the Niobe or
the statue of Lorenzo, in the Medici Chapel, make him aware
how greatly mere attitude can express the eloquence of
grief. The vocalism of a prima donna, will unveil the
poetical labyrinths of sound. Claude will make him sensible
of masses of golden haze before unobserved, and long
scintillations of sunlight, gleaming across the western
sky. The neck and hair of woman will be better appreciated
after studying Guido; and the characteristic in
physiognomy become more striking from familiarity with
the portraits of Vandyke. Hogarth, in the humble walk
he adopted, not only successfully satirized the vices and
follies of London, but gave the common people no small
insight into the humorous scenes of their sphere, and Gainsborough
attracted attention to many a feature of rustic
beauty. Pasta, Catalani and Malibran, have opened a
new world in music to countless souls, and Mrs. Wood
has produced an era in the musical taste of our land. The
artist thus instructs our vision and hearing. But his
teachings end not here. From his portraitures of martyrdoms,
of the heroic in human history, of the beautiful in
human destiny, whether pencilled or sung, he breathes
into the soul new self-respect, and moral refinement.
We look at the Magdalene prostrate upon the earth, pressing
back the luxuriant hair from her lovely temples, her
melancholy eyes bent downward, and the lesson of repentance,
the blessedness of `loving much,' sinks at once
into the heart. We muse upon Raphael's Holy Family,
and realize anew the sanctity of maternal love. We commune
with the long, silent line of portraits—the gifted and
the powerful of the earth, and read, at a glance, the most stirring
chronicles of war and genius, of effort and suffering,
of glory and death. We drink in the tender harmony of
Bellini, and the fountains of sentiment are renewed.

The golden age of Art and Artists, the splendid era that
dawned early in the fifteenth century is one of the most
romantic episodes in human history. The magnificent
scale of princely patronage, the brilliant succession
of unsurpassed productions, and the trials and triumphs of
artists that signalize that epoch, place it in the very sunlight
of poetry. There is something in the long lives of
those eminent men toiling to illustrate the annals of faith,
pursuing the beautiful, under the banner of religion, that
gives an air of primeval happiness to human toil, and
robs the original curse of its bitterness. The lives of the
old masters partake of the ideal character of their creations.
Scarcely one of their biographies is devoid of adventurous
interest or pathetic incident. Can we not discover
in the tone of their works, somewhat of their experience
and character? As the poet's effusions are often
unintentionally tinged with his moral peculiarities, is there

not a certain identity of spirit between the old artists an
their works? Leonardo supped with peasants and related
humorous stories to make them laugh, that he might
study the expression of rustic delight; by writing, conversation,
and personal instruction, promoted that most important
revolution, the reconciliation of nicety of finish
with nobleness of design and unity of color, and having
thus prepared the way for a higher and more perfect school
of art, expired in the embrace of a king. The though
of his efforts as a reformer, and the precursor of the great
prophets of art, imparts a grateful sentiment to the mind of
the spectator who dwells upon his Nun in the Pitti-palace
the Herodias of the Tribune, and the Last Supper at Milan.
In the variety of expression displayed in the various head
and attitudes of this last work, we recognize the effect of
Leonardo's studies from nature. It is singular that the chief
monument to his fame, should of all his works, have me
with the greatest vicissitudes. The feet were cut off to
enlarge the refectory, upon the walls of which it is painted
and a door has been made through the finest part. It is with a
melancholy feeling, that the traveller gazes upon its dim and
corroded hues, and vainly strives to trace the clear outline
of a work made familiar by so many engravings. From
Leonardo's precision of ideas, the strictness of taste
that marked his personal habits, and his attachment to
principles of art, something even of the mathematician is
recognized in his works. It might be argued from his
pictures, that he was no sloven and was fond of rules.
Titian's long career of triumph and prosperity, was cheerful
and rich as the hues of his canvass, dream-like as his
own Venice; his fair and bright-haired mistress, his honors
and wealth, contrasting strangely with a death amid
pestilence and desertion, come over the memory like a
vivid picture. In infancy, Titian colored a print of the
Virgin with the juice of flowers, in a masterly manner.
In early youth he deserted his teachers for the higher
school nature opened to him. The passers uncovered to
his portrait of Paul III., as it rested on a terrace at Rome,
deeming it alive; and when Charles V. of Spain sat to
him for the last portrait, he exclaimed, “This is the third
time I have been made immortal!” These exuberant tokens
of contemporary appreciation—these, and countless
other indications of a life of success and enjoyment, seem
woven into the fleshy tints of his Venus, and laugh out in
the bright faces of Flora and La Bella. And Correggio's
sad story! His lowly toil as a potter, the electric joy
with which the conviction came home to him, that he,
too, was a painter;—his lonely struggle with obscure
poverty;—his almost utter want of appreciation and sympathy;—the
limits of a narrow lot pressing upon so fine
a soul, and then his rare achievements and bitter death,—
worn down by the weight of very lucre his genius had
gained,—can fancy, in her widest range, depict a more affecting
picture of the “highest in man's heart struggling
vainly against the lowest in man's destiny?” His Magdalene,
bowed down, yet serene, sad, yet beautiful, sinful
yet forgiven, is an emblem as lovely as it is true, of the
genius and fate of Correggio. Salvator Rosa has written
the history of his own life in those wild landscapes he
loved so well. One might have inferred his Neapolitan
origin. There is that in his pictures that breathes of
southern fancy. We there feel not the chastened tone
a Tuscan mind, not the religious solemnity of a Roman,
but rather the half-savage genius of that singular region
where the lazzaroni sleep on the strand and the fisherman
grow swarthy beneath the warmest sky of Italy. The
wanderer, the lover of masquerade, he who mingled in the
revolt of Massaniello, and roamed amid the gloomy grandeur
of the mountains, speaks to us from the canvass of
Salvator. Delicacy and affection, taste and sentiment
characterize Raphael's paintings. There is in them that
refinement of tone, born only of delicate natures, such as
this rude world often jars into the insanity of an Ophelia
or bows to the early tomb of a Kirk White. Murillo's
style has been characterized as between the Flemish and
high Italian, and we are told that, as a man, he combines
rare simplicity of manners with the greatest elevation
and modesty of soul. Michael Angelo has traced the inflexibility
of his soul in the bust of Brutus, his self-possessed
virtue in the calm grandeur of his muscular figures.
One dreams over them of stern integrity and noble self-dependence.

It is common to talk of the genius of artists as partaking
of the “fine frenzy” attributed to that of the poet.
The intense excitement which accompanies the process
of conception, is, however, comparatively rare, with the
votaries of art. They have this advantage over the great
thinker and the earnest bard—that, much of their labor is
mechanical, and calls rather for the exercise of taste than
mental effort. There is, indeed, a period in every work

when imagination is greatly excited and the whole mind
fervidly active, but the painter and sculptor have many
intervals of repose, when physical dexterity and imitative
skill are alone requisite. And when the hand of the artist
has acquired that habitual power which makes it ever
obedient to the will, when he is perfectly master of the
whole machinery of his art, and is confident of realizing,
to a great degree, his every conception, a delightful serenity
takes possession of his soul. Calm trust in his own
resources, and the daily happiness of watching the growth
of his work, induce a placid and hopeful mood. And when
his aim is exalted and his success progressive, there are
few happier men. They have an object, the interest of
which familiarity cannot lesson nor time dissipate. They
follow an occupation delightful and serene. The atmosphere
of their vocation is above the “smoke and stir of
this dim spot that men call earth.” The graceful, the
vivid, and the delicate elements of their art, refine their
sensibilities and elevate their views. Nature and life
minister to them more richly than to those who only
“poke about for pence.” Hence, methinks, the masters
of the art have generally been remarkable for longevity.
Their tranquil occupation, the happy exercise of their faculties
was favorable to life.

It has been said of Michael Angelo's pupils, that they
were “nursed in the lap of grandeur.” And it may be
said of all true artists, that they are buoyed up by that spirit
of beauty that is so essential to true happiness. I have
ever found in genuine artists, a remarkable simplicity
and truthfulness of character. There is a repose about

them as of men who commune with something superior,
and for whom the frivolous idols of the multitude have no
attraction. I have found them usually fond of music and
if not addicted to general literature, ardently attached to
a particular poet. They read so constantly the book of
nature, that written lore is not so requisite for them. The
human face, the waving bough, the flower and the cloud,
the fantastic play of the smouldering embers, moonlight
on a cornice, and the vast imagery of dreams, are full of
teachings for them.

There is a definiteness in the art of sculpture, that renders
its language more direct and immediate than that of
painting. Masses of stone were revered as idols, in remote
antiquity; and men soon learned to hew them into
rude figures. When architecture, the elder sister of
sculpture, had given birth to temples of religion, the
statues of deities were their chief ornaments. Images of
domestic gods existed as early as the twenty-third century
before the Christian era. The early Indian and Hindoo
idols, as well as the gloomy sculpture of the Egyptians,
evidence how naturally the art sprung from the human
mind, even before a refined taste had developed its real
dignity. Sculpture was a great element of Grecian
culture. In the age of Pericles, it attained perfection.
In the square and the temple, on the hill-top and within
the private dwelling, the beautiful productions of the
chisel met the eye. They addressed every sentiment of
devotion and patriotism. They filled the soul with ideals
of symmetry and grace, and the traces of their silent
eloquence were written in the noble air, the harmonious

costume and the very forms of the ancient Greeks. The
era of ideal models and a classic style passed away. In
the thirteenth century, the art revived in Italy, and there
are preserved some of the noblest specimens of Grecian
genius, as well as those to which M. Angelo and his
countrymen gave birth. The Apollo looks out upon the
sky of Rome, while the Venus “loves in stone” and
Niobe bends over her clinging babe in the Florence gallery.
Shelley used to say, that he would value a peasant's
criticism upon sculpture, as much as that of the most
educated man. Form is, indeed, more easily judged
than color. There is a certain vagueness in painting,
while sculpture is palpable, bold and clear. There is a
severe nobility in the art; its influence is to calm and
elevate rather than excite. The Laocoon, Niobe and
Allesandro doloroso are indeed expressions of passion;
but they are striking exceptions. Sculpture soothes the
impetuous soul. The heads of the honored dead wear a
solemn dignity. The stainless and cold marble breathes
a pure repose, stamped with the calm of immortality. In
walking through the Vatican by torch-light, we might
deem ourselves, without much exercise of fancy, in a
world of spirits. The tall white figures stretching forward
in the gloom, the snowy faces, upon which the flambeaux
glare, the winding drapery and the outstretched
arm, strike the eye in that artificial light, with a startling
look of life. One feels like an intruder into some hall
of death, or conclave of the great departed. A good bust
is an invaluable memorial; it preserves the features and
expressions without their temporary hue. There is associated
with it the idea of durability and exactitude.
Though the most common offspring of sculpture, it is one
of the rarest in perfection. Few sculptors can copy nature
so faithfully as to give us the very lineaments wholly
free from caricature or embellishment. Those who have
an eye for the detail of expression, often fail in general
effect. To copy the form of the eye, the texture of the
hair, every delicate line of the mouth, and yet preserve
throughout an air of veri similitude and that unity of
effect which always exists in nature, is no ordinary
achievement. The requisite talent must be a native endowment;
no mechanical dexterity can ever reach it.
“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.” This sentiment
spontaneously fills the heart in view of the great products
of the chisel. We contemplate the Niobe and Apollo, as
millions have before us, with growing delight and the
most intense admiration. They have come down to us
from departed ages, like messengers of love; they assure
us, with touching eloquence, that human genius and
affection, the aspirations and wants, the sorrow and the
enthusiasm of the soul, were ever the same; they invoke
us to endure bravely and to cherish the beautiful and true,
as our best heritage. So speak they and so will they
speak to unborn generations. In the silent poetry of
their expressive forms lives a perennial sentiment. They
keep perpetual state, and give the world audience, that it
may feel the eternity of genius, and the true dignity of
man. It is delightful to believe that sculpture is destined
to flourish among us. It is truly the art of a young republic.
Let it perpetuate the features of our patriots, and
people our cities with images of grandeur and beauty.
Worthy votaries of the art are not wanting among us: on
the banks of the Arno, they speak of Greenough and
Powers; from the studios of Rome come praises of Crawford,
and beside the Ohio is warmly predicted the fame of
Clevenger. Let us cherish such followers of the art with
true sympathy and generous patronage. The national
heart will not then be wholly corroded by gain, and a few
places will be kept green for repose and refreshment, upon
the great highway of American life.