University of Virginia Library

IX.
Art.

“My learned friend,” said the Doctor, glaring
at us through his critical specs, “I have
seen both exhibitions, the British and the French. I was
delighted sir, delighted with the French exhibition. The
people of France, sir, are essentially an æsthetic people;
they strive to please you sir, and they succeed in pleasing
you; they rarely widen their callipers beyond the limits
of decorum; they kill their tragedy heroes in abattoirs
behind the scenes, and never venture to intrude upon us
those coarser emotions which are independent of taste
and politeness; so, sir, I visited the French exhibition
with pleasure, and came away gratified. I do not remember
any single pictures except those of Rosa Bonheur,
and they struck me, perhaps, because they reminded me
of something I had seen in nature that was familiar; but
otherwise, I have only a general impression, sir, of pleasure,
of great pleasure. It was far different, sir, with the
British exhibition. I was not pleased with it, sir, not
pleased with it. I came away, sir, with my emotions excited,
and in a state of disagreement. You know my love
of Shakspeare, sir! well, sir, I never felt such divine pity

for King Lear—such exquisite sympathy for Juliet (out
of the book,) as I felt when I saw those pictures of F.
Madox Brown, and Frederick Leighton. As for the bulk
of the rest, the modern school of British Art, it is expressed
forcibly in a line, so contemptuous, sir, that from
my love of the æsthetic and the agreeable, I am almost
afraid to quote it. But, sir, as an arbiter of matters of
taste, I cannot refrain from saying of the modern school
of British Art: that—
and, sir, you may try the measure by the spots on the
sailor boy's breeches, or the twigs on any one of the pre-Raphaelite
trees, and if you are not convinced of the
truth of the above maxim, then try it on Ruskin's own
picture, `Study of a block of Gneiss, Valley of Cha
mouni, Switzerland, No. 155.' Ruskin, sir, is a great
writer, a great rhetorician; his persuasive powers are
wonderful, dazzling, but not reliable, sir. Put a pen in
his hand and Ruskin can make his mark. Put a pallet
on his thumb, and Ruskin sinks into the lowest depths
of Ruskinism.”

“My dear Doctor!”

“Yes, sir, into the lowest depths of Ruskinism. His
tre-foil, cinque-foil windows are very nice things in print,
and we admire them; as well as his lichens, mosses,
striæ, and the oxide stains of his wonderful gneiss boulders;
but, sir, what is the use of having Ruskin's meagre
representation of a lichen covered, metallic stained boulder

from an obscure corner of the globe, in our parlor, when
we can have the real article from the richest mineral
kingdom on earth, just by rolling it in?”

“But there is the sentiment, Doctor.”

“The sentiment? My learned friend, if there is no
sentiment in the original, what can you look for in the
mere copy?”

“But, Doctor, what do you think of Holman Hunt's
Light of the World?”

“An exquisite bit of art, a happy adaptation of the
school to a single figure; lucky was it for him that he
had no other figures in the background.”

“Why, Doctor?”

“Because the school has no idea of atmosphere, sir—
atmosphere, distance, perspective! Look at the background
figures in his picture of St. Agnes' Eve; the
features, the expression of every face, painted as elaborately
as if they were in the foreground. Is that the way
nature exhibits her panorama? Sir, so far from features,
or the expression of features, being recognizable at that
distance, I can tell you that it would be difficult to say
whether there were men or women, yes, bipeds or quadrupeds
in that perspective.”

“Nevertheless, Doctor, you must admit that they are
very beautiful works of art. Just think of the man who
can paint such pictures. Is he not very much elevated
by genius above his fellows?”

“Unquestionably he is, and when all that is now

claimed for him has passed through the ordeal of detraction,
the pre-Raphaelite, or post-Raphaelite painter, will
find a proper niche, when all the symbols of his art are,
to quote Shakspeare:
And, by the way, why not have a pre-Shakspearean
school! Why not!”

“Doctor, that is a capital idea.”

“My learned and dear friend, I was only in jest. A
school! My dear friend, you have never yet, and never
will see a school of great men. Intellect of the first class
is great—independent—single—alone! It has no scholastic
limits, no pedantry, no peers. The moment art
ecases to appeal to sympathies and emotions, and contents
itself with the bare representation of forms, it comes in
competition with the photograph, and at once is beaten
by the more elaborate delineation of the camera.”

“But, Doctor, you forget the symbols of the pre-Raphaelite
school!”

“Symbols, symbols! and of a school? What! has
this age of intelligence to be instructed by symbols of a
school of painters? If they are able to convey ideas by
symbols, why do they write the names of their pictures
in Saxon characters on the frames? Why not let the
symbols explain the symbols? They teach us what art
is, by symbols! Faugh! If that is high art, let me
begin with the rudiments, and study it out—from the
alphabet of a Chinese teacup.”