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Shorter Prose Pieces
By
Oscar Wilde
Contents
PHRASES
AND PHILOSOPHIES FOR THE USE OF THE YOUNG..
MRS.
LANGTRY AS HESTER GRAZEBROOK
MORE
RADICAL IDEAS UPON DRESS REFORM
SERMONS
IN STONES AT BLOOMSBURY THE NEW SCULPTURE ROOM AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM
L'ENVOI =
The first duty in life is to be as artificial =
as
possible. What the second dut=
y is
no one has as yet discovered.
Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to
account for the curious attractiveness of others.
If the poor only had profiles there would be no
difficulty in solving the problem of poverty.
Those who see any difference between soul and =
body
have neither.
A really well-made buttonhole is the only link
between Art and Nature.
Religions die when they are proved to be
true. Science is the record o=
f dead
religions.
The well-bred contradict other people. The wise contradict themselves.
Nothing that actually occurs is of the smallest
importance.
Dulness is the coming of age of seriousness.
In all unimportant matters, style, not sinceri=
ty,
is the essential. In all important matters, style, not sincerity, is the
essential.
If one tells the truth one is sure, sooner or
later, to be found out.
Pleasure is the only thing one should live for=
. Nothing ages like happiness.
It is only by not paying one's bills that one =
can
hope to live in the memory of the commercial classes.
No crime is vulgar, but all vulgarity is
crime. Vulgarity is the condu=
ct of
others.
Only the shallow know themselves.
Time is waste of money.
One should always be a little improbable.
There is a fatality about all good
resolutions. They are invaria=
bly
made too soon.
The only way to atone for being occasionally a
little overdressed is by being always absolutely overeducated.
To be premature is to be perfect.
Any preoccupation with ideas of what is right =
or
wrong in conduct shows an arrested intellectual development.
Ambition is the last refuge of the failure.
A truth ceases to be true when more than one
person believes in it.
In examinations the foolish ask questions that=
the
wise cannot answer.
Greek dress was in its essence inartistic. Nothing should reveal the body but=
the
body.
One should either be a work of art, or wear a =
work
of art.
It is only the superficial qualities that
last. Man's deeper nature is =
soon
found out.
Industry is the root of all ugliness.
The ages live in history through their
anachronisms.
It is only the gods who taste of death. Apollo has passed away, but Hyacin=
th,
whom men say he slew, lives on.
Nero and Narcissus are always with us.
The old believe everything: the middle-aged suspect everything=
; the
young know everything.
The condition of perfection is idleness: the aim of perfection is youth.
Only the great masters of style ever succeeded=
in
being obscure.
There is something tragic about the enormous
number of young men there are in England at the present moment who start li=
fe
with perfect profiles, and end by adopting some useful profession.
To love oneself is the beginning of a life-long
romance.
It is only in the best Greek gems, on the silv=
er
coins of Syracuse, or among the marble figures of the Parthenon frieze, that
one can find the ideal representation of the marvellous beauty of that face=
which
laughed through the leaves last night as Hester Grazebrook.
Pure Greek it is, with the grave low forehead,=
the
exquisitely arched brow; the noble chiselling of the mouth, shaped as if it=
were
the mouthpiece of an instrument of music; the supreme and splendid curve of=
the
cheek; the augustly pillared throat which bears it all: it is Greek, because the lines whi=
ch
compose it are so definite and so strong, and yet so exquisitely harmonized
that the effect is one of simple loveliness purely: Greek, because its essence and its
quality, as is the quality of music and of architecture, is that of beauty
based on absolutely mathematical laws.
But while art remains dumb and immobile in its
passionless serenity, with the beauty of this face it is different: the grey eyes lighten into blue or
deepen into violet as fancy succeeds fancy; the lips become flower-like in
laughter or, tremulous as a bird's wing, mould themselves at last into the
strong and bitter moulds of pain or scorn.=
And then motion comes, and the statue wakes into life. But the life is not the ordinary l=
ife of
common days; it is life with a new value given to it, the value of art: and=
the
charm to me of Hester Grazebrook's acting in the first scene of the play la=
st
night was that mingling of classic grace with absolute reality which is the
secret of all beautiful art, of the plastic work of the Greeks and of the
pictures of Jean Francois Millet equally.
I do not think that the sovereignty and empire=
of
women's beauty has at all passed away, though we may no longer go to war for
them as the Greeks did for the daughter of Leda. The greatest empire still remains =
for
them--the empire of art. And,
indeed, this wonderful face, seen last night for the first time in America,=
has
filled and permeated with the pervading image of its type the whole of our
modern art in England. Last c=
entury
it was the romantic type which dominated in art, the type loved by Reynolds=
and
Gainsborough, of wonderful contrasts of colour, of exquisite and varying ch=
arm
of expression, but without that definite plastic feeling which divides clas=
sic
from romantic work. This type=
degenerated
into mere facile prettiness in the hands of lesser masters, and, in protest
against it, was created by the hands of the Pre-Raphaelites a new type, with
its rare combination of Greek form with Florentine mysticism. But this mysticism becomes over- s=
trained
and a burden, rather than an aid to expression, and a desire for the pure
Hellenic joy and serenity came in its place; and in all our modern work, in=
the
paintings of such men as Albert Moore and Leighton and Whistler, we can tra=
ce
the influence of this single face giving fresh life and inspiration in the =
form
of a new artistic ideal.
Miss Leffler-Arnim's statement, in a lecture
delivered recently at St. Saviour's Hospital, that "she had heard of
instances where ladies were so determined not to exceed the fashionable
measurement that they had actually held on to a cross-bar while their maids=
fastened
the fifteen-inch corset," has excited a good deal of incredulity, but
there is nothing really improbable in it.&=
nbsp;
From the sixteenth century to our own day there is hardly any form o=
f torture
that has not been inflicted on girls, and endured by women, in obedience to=
the
dictates of an unreasonable and monstrous Fashion. "In order to obtain a real Sp=
anish
figure," says Montaigne, "what a Gehenna of suffering will not wo=
men
endure, drawn in and compressed by great coches entering the flesh; nay, so=
metimes
they even die thereof!"
"A few days after my arrival at school," Mrs. Somerville t=
ells
us in her memoirs, "although perfectly straight and well made, I was
enclosed in stiff stays, with a steel busk in front; while above my frock,
bands drew my shoulders back till the shoulder-blades met. Then a steel rod with a semi-circl=
e,
which went under my chin, was clasped to the steel busk in my stays. In this constrained state I and mo=
st of
the younger girls had to prepare our lessons"; and in the life of Miss=
Edgeworth
we read that, being sent to a certain fashionable establishment, "she
underwent all the usual tortures of back- boards, iron collars and dumbs, a=
nd
also (because she was a very tiny person) the unusual one of being hung by =
the
neck to draw out the muscles and increase the growth," a signal failur=
e in
her case. Indeed, instances of absolute mutilation and misery are so common=
in
the past that it is unnecessary to multiply them; but it is really sad to t=
hink
that in our own day a civilized woman can hang on to a cross-bar while her =
maid
laces her waist into a fifteen- inch circle. To begin with, the waist is not a =
circle
at all, but an oval; nor can there be any greater error than to imagine tha=
t an
unnaturally small waist gives an air of grace, or even of slightness, to the
whole figure. Its effect, as a
rule, is simply to exaggerate the width of the shoulders and the hips; and
those whose figures possess that stateliness which is called stoutness by t=
he
vulgar, convert what is a quality into a defect by yielding to the silly ed=
icts
of Fashion on the subject of tight-lacing.=
The fashionable English waist, also, is not merely far too small, an=
d consequently
quite out of proportion to the rest of the figure, but it is worn far too l=
ow
down. I use the expression
"worn" advisedly, for a waist nowadays seems to be regarded as an
article of apparel to be put on when and where one likes. A long waist always implies shortn=
ess of
the lower limbs, and, from the artistic point of view, has the effect of
diminishing the height; and I am glad to see that many of the most charming
women in Paris are returning to the idea of the Directoire style of dress.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> This style is not by any means per=
fect,
but at least it has the merit of indicating the proper position of the wais=
t. I feel quite sure that all English=
women
of culture and position will set their faces against such stupid and danger=
ous
practices as are related by Miss Leffler-Arnim. Fashion's motto is: Il faut souffrir pour etre belle; =
but
the motto of art and of common-sense is:&n=
bsp;
Il faut etre bete pour souffrir.
Talking of Fashion, a critic in the Pall Mall
Gazelle expresses his surprise that I should have allowed an illustration o=
f a
hat, covered with "the bodies of dead birds," to appear in the fi=
rst number
of the Woman's World; and as I have received many letters on the subject, i=
t is
only right that I should state my exact position in the matter. Fashion is such an essential part =
of the
mundus muliebris of our day, that it seems to me absolutely necessary that =
its
growth, development, and phases should be duly chronicled; and the historic=
al
and practical value of such a record depends entirely upon its perfect fide=
lity
to fact. Besides, it is quite=
easy
for the children of light to adapt almost any fashionable form of dress to =
the
requirements of utility and the demands of good taste. The Sarah Bernhardt tea-gown, for
instance, figured in the present issue, has many good points about it, and =
the
gigantic dress-improver does not appear to me to be really essential to the=
mode;
and though the Postillion costume of the fancy dress ball is absolutely
detestable in its silliness and vulgarity, the so-called Late Georgian cost=
ume
in the same plate is rather pleasing.
I must, however, protest against the idea that to chronicle the deve=
lopment
of Fashion implies any approval of the particular forms that Fashion may ad=
opt.
The "Girl Graduate" must of course h=
ave
precedence, not merely for her sex but for her sanity: her letter is extremely sensible.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> She makes two points: that high heels are a necessity fo=
r any
lady who wishes to keep her dress clean from the Stygian mud of our streets=
, and
that without a tight corset the ordinary number of petticoats and etceteras'
cannot be properly or conveniently held up. Now, it is quite true that as long=
as
the lower garments are suspended from the hips a corset is an absolute
necessity; the mistake lies in not suspending all apparel from the
shoulders. In the latter case=
a corset
becomes useless, the body is left free and unconfined for respiration and
motion, there is more health, and consequently more beauty. Indeed all the most ungainly and
uncomfortable articles of dress that fashion has ever in her folly prescrib=
ed,
not the tight corset merely, but the farthingale, the vertugadin, the hoop,=
the
crinoline, and that modern monstrosity the so-called "dress improver&q=
uot;
also, all of them have owed their origin to the same error, the error of not
seeing that it is from the shoulders, and from the shoulders only, that all
garments should be hung.
And as regards high heels, I quite admit that =
some
additional height to the shoe or boot is necessary if long gowns are to be =
worn
in the street; but what I object to is that the height should be given to t=
he
heel only, and not to the sole of the foot also. The modern high-heeled boot
is, in fact, merely the clog of the time of Henry VI., with the front prop =
left
out, and its inevitable effect is to throw the body forward, to shorten the
steps, and consequently to produce that want of grace which always follows =
want
of freedom.
Why should clogs be despised? Much art has been expended on clog=
s. They
have been made of lovely woods, and delicately inlaid with ivory, and with
mother-of-pearl. A clog might=
be a
dream of beauty, and, if not too high or too heavy, most comfortable also. =
But
if there be any who do not like clogs, let them try some adaptation of the
trouser of the Turkish lady, which is loose round the limb and tight at the
ankle.
The "Girl Graduate," with a pathos to
which I am not insensible, entreats me not to apotheosize "that awful,
befringed, beflounced, and bekilted divided skirt." Well, I will acknowledge that the =
fringes,
the flounces, and the kilting do certainly defeat the whole object of the
dress, which is that of ease and liberty; but I regard these things as mere
wicked superfluities, tragic proofs that the divided skirt is ashamed of its
own division. The principle o=
f the
dress is good, and, though it is not by any means perfection, it is a step =
towards
it.
Here I leave the "Girl Graduate," wi=
th
much regret, for Mr. Wentworth Huyshe.&nbs=
p;
Mr. Huyshe makes the old criticism that Greek dress is unsuited to o=
ur
climate, and, to me the somewhat new assertion, that the men's dress of a
hundred years ago was preferable to that of the second part of the seventee=
nth
century, which I consider to have been the exquisite period of English cost=
ume.
Now, as regards the first of these two stateme=
nts,
I will say, to begin with, that the warmth of apparel does not depend reall=
y on
the number of garments worn, but on the material of which they are made.
And now to the question of men's dress, or rat=
her
to Mr. Huyshe's claim of the superiority, in point of costume, of the last
quarter of the eighteenth century over the second quarter of the seventeent=
h. The broad-brimmed hat of 1640 kept=
the
rain of winter and the glare of summer from the face; the same cannot be sa=
id
of the hat of one hundred years ago, which, with its comparatively narrow b=
rim
and high crown, was the precursor of the modern "chimney-pot":
Short loose trousers are in every way to be
preferred to the tight knee-breeches which often impede the proper circulat=
ion
of the blood; and finally, the soft leather boots which could be worn above=
or
below the knee, are more supple, and give consequently more freedom, than t=
he
stiff Hessian which Mr. Huyshe so praises. I say nothing about the question=
of
grace and picturesqueness, for I suppose that no one, not even Mr. Huyshe,
would prefer a maccaroni to a cavalier, a Lawrence to a Vandyke, or the thi=
rd George
to the first Charles; but for ease, warmth and comfort this seventeenth-cen=
tury
dress is infinitely superior to anything that came after it, and I do not t=
hink
it is excelled by any preceding form of costume. I sincerely trust that we may soon=
see
in England some national revival of it.
I have been much interested at reading the lar=
ge
amount of correspondence that has been called forth by my recent lecture on=
Dress. It shows me that the subject of dr=
ess
reform is one that is occupying many wise and charming people, who have at
heart the principles of health, freedom, and beauty in costume, and I hope =
that
"H. B. T." and "Materfamilias" will have all the real i=
nfluence
which their letters--excellent letters both of them-- certainly deserve.
I turn first to Mr. Huyshe's second letter, and
the drawing that accompanies it; but before entering into any examination of
the theory contained in each, I think I should state at once that I have
absolutely no idea whether this gentleman wears his hair long or short, or =
his
cuffs back or forward, or indeed what he is like at all. I hope he consults his own comfort=
and
wishes in everything which has to do with his dress, and is allowed to enjo=
y that
individualism in apparel which he so eloquently claims for himself, and so
foolishly tries to deny to others; but I really could not take Mr. Wentworth
Huyshe's personal appearance as any intellectual basis for an investigation=
of
the principles which should guide the costume of a nation. I am not denying the force, or eve=
n the
popularity, of the "'Eave arf a brick" school of criticism, but I
acknowledge it does not interest me.
The gamin in the gutter may be a necessity, but the gamin in discuss=
ion
is a nuisance. So I will proc=
eed at
once to the real point at issue, the value of the late eighteenth-century
costume over that worn in the second quarter of the seventeenth: the relative merits, that is, of t=
he
principles contained in each. Now,
as regards the eighteenth-century costume, Mr. Wentworth Huyshe acknowledges
that he has had no practical experience of it at all; in fact he makes a pa=
thetic
appeal to his friends to corroborate him in his assertion, which I do not
question for a moment, that he has never been "guilty of the
eccentricity" of wearing himself the dress which he proposes for gener=
al
adoption by others. There is
something so naive and so amusing about this last passage in Mr. Huyshe's
letter that I am really in doubt whether I am not doing him a wrong in rega=
rding
him as having any serious, or sincere, views on the question of a possible
reform in dress; still, as irrespective of any attitude of Mr. Huyshe's in =
the
matter, the subject is in itself an interesting one, I think it is worth
continuing, particularly as I have myself worn this late eighteenth-century=
dress
many times, both in public and in private, and so may claim to have a very
positive right to speak on its comfort and suitability. The particular form of the dress I=
wore
was very similar to that given in Mr. Godwin's handbook, from a print of No=
rthcote's,
and had a certain elegance and grace about it which was very charming; stil=
l, I
gave it up for these reasons:- After a further consideration of the laws of
dress I saw that a doublet is a far simpler and easier garment than a coat =
and
waistcoat, and, if buttoned from the shoulder, far warmer also, and that ta=
ils
have no place in costume, except on some Darwinian theory of heredity; from=
absolute
experience in the matter I found that the excessive tightness of knee-breec=
hes
is not really comfortable if one wears them constantly; and, in fact, I
satisfied myself that the dress is not one founded on any real principles.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The broad-brimmed hat and loose cl=
oak,
which, as my object was not, of course, historical accuracy but modern ease=
, I
had always worn with the costume in question, I have still retained, and fi=
nd
them most comfortable.
Well, although Mr. Huyshe has no real experien=
ce
of the dress he proposes, he gives us a drawing of it, which he labels,
somewhat prematurely, "An ideal dress." An ideal dress of course it is not=
; "passably
picturesque," he says I may possibly think it; well, passably pictures=
que
it may be, but not beautiful, certainly, simply because it is not founded on
right principles, or, indeed, on any principles at all. Picturesqueness one may get in a v=
ariety
of ways; ugly things that are strange, or unfamiliar to us, for instance, m=
ay
be picturesque, such as a late sixteenth-century costume, or a Georgian
house. Ruins, again, may be
picturesque, but beautiful they never can be, because their lines are meani=
ngless. Beauty, in fact, is to be got only=
from
the perfection of principles; and in "the ideal dress" of Mr. Huy=
she there
are no ideas or principles at all, much less the perfection of either. Let us examine it, and see its fau=
lts;
they are obvious to any one who desires more than a "Fancy-dress
ball" basis for costume. To
begin with, the hat and boots are all wrong. Whatever one wears on the extremit=
ies,
such as the feet and head, should, for the sake of comfort, be made of a so=
ft
material, and for the sake of freedom should take its shape from the way on=
e chooses
to wear it, and not from any stiff, stereotyped design of hat or boot maker=
. In a hat made on right principles =
one
should be able to turn the brim up or down according as the day is dark or
fair, dry or wet; but the hat brim of Mr. Huyshe's drawing is perfectly sti=
ff,
and does not give much protection to the face, or the possibility of any at=
all
to the back of the head or the ears, in case of a cold east wind; whereas t=
he
bycocket, a hat made in accordance with the right laws, can be turned down =
behind
and at the sides, and so give the same warmth as a hood. The crown, again, of Mr. Huyshe's =
hat is
far too high; a high crown diminishes the stature of a small person, and in=
the
case of any one who is tall is a great inconvenience when one is getting in=
and
out of hansoms and railway carriages, or passing under a street awning: in =
no
case is it of any value whatsoever, and being useless it is of course again=
st
the principles of dress.
As regards the boots, they are not quite so ug=
ly
or so uncomfortable as the hat; still they are evidently made of stiff leat=
her,
as otherwise they would fall down to the ankle, whereas the boot should be =
made
of soft leather always, and if worn high at all must be either laced up the
front or carried well over the knee:
in the latter case one combines perfect freedom for walking together
with perfect protection against rain, neither of which advantages a short s=
tiff
boot will ever give one, and when one is resting in the house the long soft
boot can be turned down as the boot of 1640 was. Then there is the overcoat: now, what are the right principles=
of an
overcoat? To begin with, it s=
hould
be capable of being easily put on or off, and worn over any kind of dress;
consequently it should never have narrow sleeves, such as are shown in Mr.
Huyshe's drawing. If an openi=
ng or
slit for the arm is required it should be made quite wide, and may be prote=
cted
by a flap, as in that excellent overall the modern Inverness cape; secondly=
, it
should not be too tight, as otherwise all freedom of walking is impeded.
The knee-breeches are of course far too tight;=
any
one who has worn them for any length of time--any one, in fact, whose views=
on the
subject are not purely theoretical--will agree with me there; like everythi=
ng
else in the dress, they are a great mistake. The substitution of the jacket for=
the
coat and waistcoat of the period is a step in the right direction, which I =
am
glad to see; it is, however, far too tight over the hips for any possible
comfort. Whenever a jacket or doublet comes below the waist it should be sl=
it
at each side. In the seventee=
nth
century the skirt of the jacket was sometimes laced on by points and tags, =
so
that it could be removed at will, sometimes it was merely left open at the
sides: in each case it exemplified what are always the true principles of d=
ress,
I mean freedom and adaptability to circumstances.
Finally, as regards drawings of this kind, I w=
ould
point out that there is absolutely no limit at all to the amount of
"passably picturesque" costumes which can be either revived or
invented for us; but that unless a costume is founded on principles and exe=
mplified
laws, it never can be of any real value to us in the reform of dress. This particular drawing of Mr. Huy=
she's,
for instance, proves absolutely nothing, except that our grandfathers did n=
ot
understand the proper laws of dress.
There is not a single rule of right costume which is not violated in=
it,
for it gives us stiffness, tightness and discomfort instead of comfort, fre=
edom
and ease.
Now here, on the other hand, is a dress which,
being founded on principles, can serve us as an excellent guide and model; =
it
has been drawn for me, most kindly, by Mr. Godwin from the Duke of Newcastl=
e's
delightful book on horsemanship, a book which is one of our best authoritie=
s on
our best era of costume. I do=
not
of course propose it necessarily for absolute imitation; that is not the wa=
y in
which one should regard it; it is not, I mean, a revival of a dead costume,=
but
a realization of living laws. I
give it as an example of a particular application of principles which are u=
niversally
right. This rationally dressed
young man can turn his hat brim down if it rains, and his loose trousers and
boots down if he is tired--that is, he can adapt his costume to circumstanc=
es; then
he enjoys perfect freedom, the arms and legs are not made awkward or
uncomfortable by the excessive tightness of narrow sleeves and knee-breeche=
s,
and the hips are left quite untrammelled, always an important point; and as
regards comfort, his jacket is not too loose for warmth, nor too close for =
respiration;
his neck is well protected without being strangled, and even his ostrich
feathers, if any Philistine should object to them, are not merely dandyism,=
but
fan him very pleasantly, I am sure, in summer, and when the weather is bad =
they
are no doubt left at home, and his cloak taken out. THE VALUE OF THE DRESS IS SIMPLY T=
HAT
EVERY SEPARATE ARTICLE OF IT EXPRESSES A LAW. My young man is consequently appar=
elled
with ideas, while Mr. Huyshe's young man is stiffened with facts; the latter
teaches one nothing; from the former one learns everything. I need hardly say that this dress =
is good,
not because it is seventeenth century, but because it is constructed on the
true principles of costume, just as a square lintel or pointed arch is good,
not because one may be Greek and the other Gothic, but because each of them=
is
the best method of spanning a certain-sized opening, or resisting a certain
weight. The fact, however, that this dress was generally worn in England two
centuries and a half ago shows at least this, that the right laws of dress =
have
been understood and realized in our country, and so in our country may be
realized and understood again. As
regards the absolute beauty of this dress and its meaning, I should like to=
say
a few words more. Mr. Wentwor=
th
Huyshe solemnly announces that "he and those who think with him"
cannot permit this question of beauty to be imported into the question of
dress; that he and those who think with him take "practical views on t=
he
subject," and so on. Wel=
l, I
will not enter here into a discussion as to how far any one who does not ta=
ke
beauty and the value of beauty into account can claim to be practical at
all. The word practical is ne=
arly
always the last refuge of the uncivilized.=
Of all misused words it is the most evilly treated. But what I want to point out is th=
at
beauty is essentially organic; that is, it comes, not from without, but from
within, not from any added prettiness, but from the perfection of its own
being; and that consequently, as the body is beautiful, so all apparel that
rightly clothes it must be beautiful also in its construction and in its li=
nes.
I have no more desire to define ugliness than I
have daring to define beauty; but still I would like to remind those who mo=
ck
at beauty as being an unpractical thing of this fact, that an ugly thing is
merely a thing that is badly made, or a thing that does not serve it purpos=
e;
that ugliness is want of fitness; that ugliness is failure; that ugliness is
uselessness, such as ornament in the wrong place, while beauty, as some one
finely said, is the purgation of all superfluities. There is a divine economy about be=
auty;
it gives us just what is needful and no more, whereas ugliness is always
extravagant; ugliness is a spendthrift and wastes its material; in fine,
ugliness--and I would commend this remark to Mr. Wentworth Huyshe--ugliness=
, as
much in costume as in anything else, is always the sign that somebody has b=
een unpractical. So the costume of the future in En=
gland,
if it is founded on the true laws of freedom, comfort, and adaptability to =
circumstances,
cannot fail to be most beautiful also, because beauty is the sign always of=
the
rightness of principles, the mystical seal that is set upon what is perfect,
and upon what is perfect only.
As for your other correspondent, the first
principle of dress that all garments should be hung from the shoulders and =
not
from the waist seems to me to be generally approved of, although an "O=
ld Sailor"
declares that no sailors or athletes ever suspend their clothes from the
shoulders, but always from the hips.
My own recollection of the river and running ground at Oxford--those=
two
homes of Hellenism in our little Gothic town--is that the best runners and
rowers (and my own college turned out many) wore always a tight jersey, with
short drawers attached to it, the whole costume being woven in one piece. As for sailors, it is true, I admi=
t, and
the bad custom seems to involve that constant "hitching up" of the
lower garments which, however popular in transpontine dramas, cannot, I thi=
nk,
but be considered an extremely awkward habit; and as all awkwardness comes =
from
discomfort of some kind, I trust that this point in our sailor's dress will=
be
looked to in the coming reform of our navy, for, in spite of all protests, =
I hope
we are about to reform everything, from torpedoes to top-hats, and from
crinolettes to cruises.
Then as regards clogs, my suggestion of them s=
eems
to have aroused a great deal of terror.&nb=
sp;
Fashion in her high-heeled boots has screamed, and the dreadful word
"anachronism" has been used.&nbs=
p;
Now, whatever is useful cannot be an anachronism. Such a word is applicable only to =
the
revival of some folly; and, besides, in the England of our own day clogs are
still worn in many of our manufacturing towns, such as Oldham. I fear that in Oldham they may not=
be
dreams of beauty; in Oldham the art of inlaying them with ivory and with pe=
arl
may possibly be unknown; yet in Oldham they serve their purpose. Nor is it so long since they were =
worn by
the upper classes of this country generally. Only a few days ago I had the plea=
sure
of talking to a lady who remembered with affectionate regret the clogs of h=
er
girlhood; they were, according to her, not too high nor too heavy, and were
provided, besides, with some kind of spring in the sole so as to make them =
the
more supple for the foot in walking.
Personally, I object to all additional height being given to a boot =
or
shoe; it is really against the proper principles of dress, although, if any
such height is to be given it should be by means of two props; not one; but
what I should prefer to see is some adaptation of the divided skirt or long=
and
moderately loose knickerbockers.
If, however, the divided skirt is to be of any positive value, it mu=
st
give up all idea of "being identical in appearance with an ordinary
skirt"; it must diminish the moderate width of each of its divisions, =
and sacrifice
its foolish frills and flounces; the moment it imitates a dress it is lost;=
but
let it visibly announce itself as what it actually is, and it will go far
towards solving a real difficulty. I feel sure that there will be found many
graceful and charming girls ready to adopt a costume founded on these
principles, in spite of Mr. Wentworth Huyshe's terrible threat that he will=
not
propose to them as long as they wear it, for all charges of a want of woman=
ly
character in these forms of dress are really meaningless; every right artic=
le
of apparel belongs equally to both sexes, and there is absolutely no such t=
hing
as a definitely feminine garment.
One word of warning I should like to be allowed to give: The over-tunic should be made full=
and
moderately loose; it may, if desired, be shaped more or less to the figure,=
but
in no case should it be confined at the waist by any straight band or belt;=
on
the contrary, it should fall from the shoulder to the knee, or below it, in
fine curves and vertical lines, giving more freedom and consequently more
grace. Few garments are so ab=
solutely
unbecoming as a belted tunic that reaches to the knees, a fact which I wish
some of our Rosalinds would consider when they don doublet and hose; indeed=
, to
the disregard of this artistic principle is due the ugliness, the want of
proportion, in the Bloomer costume, a costume which in other respects is
sensible.
Are we not all weary of him, that venerable
impostor fresh from the steps of the Piazza di Spagna, who, in the leisure
moments that he can spare from his customary organ, makes the round of the
studios and is waited for in Holland Park?=
Do we not all recognize him, when, with the gay insouciance of his
nation, he reappears on the walls of our summer exhibitions as everything t=
hat
he is not, and as nothing that he is, glaring at us here as a patriarch of
Canaan, here beaming as a brigand from the Abruzzi? Popular is he, this poor peripatet=
ic
professor of posing, with those whose joy it is to paint the posthumous
portrait of the last philanthropist who in his lifetime had neglected to be
photographed,--yet he is the sign of the decadence, the symbol of decay.
For all costumes are caricatures. The basis of Art is not the Fancy
Ball. Where there is loveline=
ss of
dress, there is no dressing up. And
so, were our national attire delightful in colour, and in construction simp=
le
and sincere; were dress the expression of the loveliness that it shields an=
d of
the swiftness and motion that it does not impede; did its lines break from =
the shoulder
instead of bulging from the waist; did the inverted wineglass cease to be t=
he
ideal of form; were these things brought about, as brought about they will =
be,
then would painting be no longer an artificial reaction against the uglines=
s of
life, but become, as it should be, the natural expression of life's beauty.=
Nor
would painting merely, but all the other arts also, be the gainers by a cha=
nge
such as that which I propose; the gainers, I mean, through the increased
atmosphere of Beauty by which the artists would be surrounded and in which =
they
would grow up. For Art is not=
to be
taught in Academies. It is wh=
at one
looks at, not what one listens to, that makes the artist. The real schools should be the
streets. There is not, for
instance, a single delicate line, or delightful proportion, in the dress of=
the
Greeks, which is not echoed exquisitely in their architecture. A nation arrayed in stove-pipe hat=
s and
dress-improvers might have built the Pantechnichon possibly, but the Parthe=
non
never. And finally, there is =
this
to be said: Art, it is true, =
can
never have any other claim but her own perfection, and it may be that the a=
rtist,
desiring merely to contemplate and to create, is wise in not busying himself
about change in others: yet w=
isdom
is not always the best; there are times when she sinks to the level of comm=
on-sense;
and from the passionate folly of those--and there are many--who desire that
Beauty shall be confined no longer to the bric-a-brac of the collector and =
the
dust of the museum, but shall be, as it should be, the natural and national
inheritance of all,-- from this noble unwisdom, I say, who knows what new
loveliness shall be given to life, and, under these more exquisite conditio=
ns, what
perfect artist born? Le milie=
u se
renouvelant, l'art se renouvelle.
A terrible danger is hanging over the American=
s in
London. Their future and their
reputation this season depend entirely on the success of Buffalo Bill and M=
rs.
Brown-Potter. The former is c=
ertain
to draw; for English people are far more interested in American barbarism t=
han
they are in American civilization.
When they sight Sandy Hook they look to their rifles and ammunition;=
and,
after dining once at Delmonico's, start off for Colorado or California, for
Montana or the Yellow Stone Park.
Rocky Mountains charm them more than riotous millionaires; they have
been known to prefer buffaloes to Boston.&=
nbsp;
Why should they not? T=
he
cities of America are inexpressibly tedious. The Bostonians take their learning=
too
sadly; culture with them is an accomplishment rather than an atmosphere; th=
eir
"Hub," as they call it, is the paradise of prigs. Chicago is a sort of monster-shop,=
full
of bustle and bores. Politica=
l life
at Washington is like political life in a suburban vestry. Baltimore is amusing for a week, b=
ut
Philadelphia is dreadfully provincial; and though one can dine in New York =
one could
not dwell there. Better the F=
ar
West with its grizzly bears and its untamed cowboys, its free open-air life=
and
its free open- air manners, its boundless prairie and its boundless mendaci=
ty! This
is what Buffalo Bill is going to bring to London; and we have no doubt that
London will fully appreciate his show.
With regard to Mrs. Brown-Potter, as acting is=
no
longer considered absolutely essential for success on the English stage, th=
ere
is really no reason why the pretty bright-eyed lady who charmed us all last
June by her merry laugh and her nonchalant ways, should not-- to borrow an
expression from her native language--make a big boom and paint the town
red. We sincerely hope she wi=
ll;
for, on the whole, the American invasion has done English society a great d=
eal of
good. American women are brig=
ht,
clever, and wonderfully cosmopolitan.
Their patriotic feelings are limited to an admiration for Niagara an=
d a
regret for the Elevated Railway; and, unlike the men, they never bore us wi=
th
Bunkers Hill. They take their
dresses from Paris and their manners from Piccadilly, and wear both
charmingly. They have a quaint
pertness, a delightful conceit, a native self-assertion. They insist on being paid complime=
nts
and have almost succeeded in making Englishmen eloquent. For our aristocracy they have an a=
rdent
admiration; they adore titles and are a permanent blow to Republican
principles. In the art of amu=
sing
men they are adepts, both by nature and education, and can actually tell a
story without forgetting the point--an accomplishment that is extremely rare
among the women of other countries.
It is true that they lack repose and that their voices are somewhat
harsh and strident when they land first at Liverpool; but after a time one =
gets
to love those pretty whirlwinds in petticoats that sweep so recklessly thro=
ugh society
and are so agitating to all duchesses who have daughters. There is something fascinating in =
their
funny, exaggerated gestures and their petulant way of tossing the head. Their eyes have no magic nor myste=
ry in
them, but they challenge us for combat; and when we engage we are always
worsted. Their lips seem made=
for
laughter and yet they never grimace.
As for their voices they soon get them into tune. Some of them have been known to ac=
quire
a fashionable drawl in two seasons; and after they have been presented to
Royalty they all roll their R's as vigorously as a young equerry or an old =
lady-in-waiting. Still, they never really lose their
accent; it keeps peeping out here and there, and when they chatter together=
they
are like a bevy of peacocks.
Nothing is more amusing than to watch two American girls greeting ea=
ch
other in a drawing-room or in the Row.&nbs=
p;
They are like children with their shrill staccato cries of wonder, t=
heir
odd little exclamations. Their
conversation sounds like a series of exploding crackers; they are exquisite=
ly incoherent
and use a sort of primitive, emotional language. After five minutes they are left
beautifully breathless and look at each other half in amusement and half in
affection. If a stolid young =
Englishman
is fortunate enough to be introduced to them he is amazed at their
extraordinary vivacity, their electric quickness of repartee, their
inexhaustible store of curious catchwords.=
He never really understands them, for their thoughts flutter about w=
ith
the sweet irresponsibility of butterflies; but he is pleased and amused and
feels as if he were in an aviary.
On the whole, American girls have a wonderful charm and, perhaps, the
chief secret of their charm is that they never talk seriously except about
amusements. They have, howeve=
r, one
grave fault--their mothers. D=
reary
as were those old Pilgrim Fathers who left our shores more than two centuri=
es
ago to found a New England beyond the seas, the Pilgrim Mothers who have
returned to us in the nineteenth century are drearier still.
Here and there, of course, there are exception=
s,
but as a class they are either dull, dowdy or dyspeptic. It is only fair to the rising gene=
ration
of America to state that they are not to blame for this. Indeed, they spare no pains at all=
to
bring up their parents properly and to give them a suitable, if somewhat la=
te, education. From its earliest years every Amer=
ican
child spends most of its time in correcting the faults of its father and
mother; and no one who has had the opportunity of watching an American fami=
ly
on the deck of an Atlantic steamer, or in the refined seclusion of a New Yo=
rk
boarding-house, can fail to have been struck by this characteristic of their
civilization. In America the =
young
are always ready to give to those who are older than themselves the full
benefits of their inexperience. A
boy of only eleven or twelve years of age will firmly but kindly point out =
to his
father his defects of manner or temper; will never weary of warning him aga=
inst
extravagance, idleness, late hours, unpunctuality, and the other temptation=
s to
which the aged are so particularly exposed; and sometimes, should he fancy =
that
he is monopolizing too much of the conversation at dinner, will remind him,
across the table, of the new child's adage, "Parents should be seen, n=
ot
heard." Nor does any mis=
taken
idea of kindness prevent the little American girl from censuring her mother
whenever it is necessary. Oft=
en,
indeed, feeling that a rebuke conveyed in the presence of others is more tr=
uly efficacious
than one merely whispered in the quiet of the nursery, she will call the
attention of perfect strangers to her mother's general untidiness, her want=
of
intellectual Boston conversation, immoderate love of iced water and green c=
orn,
stinginess in the matter of candy, ignorance of the usages of the best
Baltimore Society, bodily ailments, and the like. In fact, it may be truly said that=
no
American child is ever blind to the deficiencies of its parents, no matter =
how
much it may love them.
Yet, somehow, this educational system has not =
been
so successful as it deserved. In
many cases, no doubt, the material with which the children had to deal was
crude and incapable of real development; but the fact remains that the Amer=
ican
mother is a tedious person. The American father is better, for he is never =
seen
in London. He passes his life
entirely in Wall Street and communicates with his family once a month by me=
ans
of a telegram in cipher. The
mother, however, is always with us, and, lacking the quick imitative facult=
y of
the younger generation, remains uninteresting and provincial to the last. In spite of her, however, the Amer=
ican girl
is always welcome. She bright=
ens
our dull dinner parties for us and makes life go pleasantly by for a
season. In the race for coron=
ets
she often carries off the prize; but, once she has gained the victory, she =
is
generous and forgives her English rivals everything, even their beauty.
Warned by the example of her mother that Ameri=
can
women do not grow old gracefully, she tries not to grow old at all and ofte=
n succeeds. She has exquisite feet and hands, =
is
always bien chaussee et bien gantee and can talk brilliantly upon any subje=
ct, provided
that she knows nothing about it.
Her sense of humour keeps her from the tragedy=
of
a grande passion, and, as there is neither romance nor humility in her love,
she makes an excellent wife. =
What
her ultimate influence on English life will be it is difficult to estimate =
at
present; but there can be no doubt that, of all the factors that have
contributed to the social revolution of London, there are few more importan=
t,
and none more delightful, than the American Invasion.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>SERMONS IN STONES AT BLOOMSBURY THE NEW SCULPTURE ROOM AT THE BRIT=
ISH
MUSEUM<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Bookman Old Style",=
"serif"'>
Through the exertions of Sir Charles Newton, to
whom every student of classic art should be grateful, some of the wonderful
treasures so long immured in the grimy vaults of the British Museum have at=
last
been brought to light, and the new Sculpture Room now opened to the public =
will
amply repay the trouble of a visit, even from those to whom art is a
stumbling-block and a rock of offence.&nbs=
p;
For setting aside the mere beauty of form, outline and mass, the gra=
ce and
loveliness of design and the delicacy of technical treatment, here we have
shown to us what the Greeks and Romans thought about death; and the
philosopher, the preacher, the practical man of the world, and even the
Philistine himself, cannot fail to be touched by these "sermons in
stones," with their deep significance, their fertile suggestion, their
plain humanity. Common tombst=
ones
they are, most of them, the work not of famous artists but of simple handic=
raftsmen,
only they were wrought in days when every handicraft was an art. The finest specimens, from the pur=
ely artistic
point of view, are undoubtedly the two stelai found at Athens. They are both the tombstones of yo=
ung
Greek athletes. In one the at=
hlete
is represented handing his strigil to his slave, in the other the athlete
stands alone, strigil in hand. They
do not belong to the greatest period of Greek art, they have not the grand =
style
of the Phidian age, but they are beautiful for all that, and it is impossib=
le
not to be fascinated by their exquisite grace and by the treatment which is=
so
simple in its means, so subtle in its effect. All the tombstones, however, are f=
ull of
interest. Here is one of two =
ladies
of Smyrna who were so remarkable in their day that the city voted them hono=
rary
crowns; here is a Greek doctor examining a little boy who is suffering from
indigestion; here is the memorial of Xanthippus who, probably, was a martyr=
to
gout, as he is holding in his hand the model of a foot, intended, no doubt,=
as
a votive offering to some god. A
lovely stele from Rhodes gives us a family group. The husband is on horseback and is
bidding farewell to his wife, who seems as if she would follow him but is b=
eing
held back by a little child. =
The
pathos of parting from those we love is the central motive of Greek funeral
art. It is repeated in every
possible form, and each mute marble stone seems to murmur [Greek text]. Roman art is different. It introduces vigorous and realist=
ic
portraiture and deals with pure family life far more frequently than Greek =
art
does. They are very ugly, tho=
se stern-looking
Roman men and women whose portraits are exhibited on their tombs, but they =
seem
to have been loved and respected by their children and their servants. Here is the monument of Aphrodisiu=
s and
Atilia, a Roman gentleman and his wife, who died in Britain many centuries =
ago,
and whose tombstone was found in the Thames; and close by it stands a stele
from Rome with the busts of an old married couple who are certainly
marvellously ill-favoured. The contrast between the abstract Greek treatmen=
t of
the idea of death and the Roman concrete realization of the individuals who=
have
died is extremely curious.
Besides the tombstones, the new Sculpture Room
contains some most fascinating examples of Roman decorative art under the
Emperors. The most wonderful of all, and this alone is worth a trip to Bloo=
msbury,
is a bas-relief representing a marriage scene, Juno Pronuba is joining the
hands of a handsome young noble and a very stately lady. There is all the grace of Perugino=
in
this marble, all the grace of Raphael even. The date of it is uncertain, but t=
he
particular cut of the bridegroom's beard seems to point to the time of the
Emperor Hadrian. It is clearl=
y the
work of Greek artists and is one of the most beautiful bas-reliefs in the w=
hole
Museum. There is something in=
it which
reminds one of the music and the sweetness of Propertian verse. Then we have delightful friezes of
children. One representing ch=
ildren
playing on musical instruments might have suggested much of the plastic art=
of Florence. Indeed, as we view these marbles i=
t is
not difficult to see whence the Renaissance sprang and to what we owe the
various forms of Renaissance art.
The frieze of the Muses, each of whom wears in her hair a feather
plucked from the wings of the vanquished sirens, is extremely fine; there i=
s a
lovely little bas- relief of two cupids racing in chariots; and the frieze =
of recumbent
Amazons has some splendid qualities of design. A frieze of children playing with =
the
armour of the god Mars should also be mentioned. It is full of fancy and delicate h=
umour.
=
We
hope that some more of the hidden treasures will shortly be catalogued and
shown. In the vaults at prese=
nt
there is a very remarkable bas-relief of the marriage of Cupid and Psyche, =
and another
representing the professional mourners weeping over the body of the dead. The fine cast of the Lion of Chaer=
onea
should also be brought up, and so should the stele with the marvellous port=
rait
of the Roman slave. Economy i=
s an
excellent public virtue, but the parsimony that allows valuable works of ar=
t to
remain in the grim and gloom of a damp cellar is little short of a detestab=
le
public vice.
Amongst the many young men in England who are
seeking along with me to continue and to perfect the English
Renaissance--jeunes guerriers du drapeau romantique, as Gautier would have
called us-- there is none whose love of art is more flawless and fervent, w=
hose
artistic sense of beauty is more subtle and more delicate--none, indeed, wh=
o is
dearer to myself--than the young poet whose verses I have brought with me to
America; verses full of sweet sadness, and yet full of joy; for the most jo=
yous
poet is not he who sows the desolate highways of this world with the barren
seed of laughter, but he who makes his sorrow most musical, this indeed bei=
ng
the meaning of joy in art--that incommunicable element of artistic delight
which, in poetry, for instance, comes from what Keats called "sensuous
life of verse," the element of song in the singing, made so pleasurabl=
e to
us by that wonder of motion which often has its origin in mere musical impu=
lse,
and in painting is to be sought for, from the subject never, but from the
pictorial charm only--the scheme and symphony of the colour, the satisfying
beauty of the design: so that=
the
ultimate expression of our artistic movement in painting has been, not in t=
he
spiritual vision of the Pre-Raphaelites, for all their marvel of Greek lege=
nd
and their mystery of Italian song, but in the work of such men as Whistler =
and
Albert Moore, who have raised design and colour to the ideal level of poetry
and music. For the quality of=
their
exquisite painting comes from the mere inventive and creative handling of l=
ine
and colour, from a certain form and choice of beautiful workmanship, which,
rejecting all literary reminiscence and all metaphysical idea, is in itself
entirely satisfying to the aesthetic sense--is, as the Greeks would say, an=
end
in itself; the effect of their work being like the effect given to us by mu=
sic;
for music is the art in which form and matter are always one--the art whose
subject cannot be separated from the method of its expression; the art which
most completely realizes for us the artistic ideal, and is the condition to
which all the other arts are constantly aspiring.
Now, this increased sense of the absolutely
satisfying value of beautiful workmanship, this recognition of the primary
importance of the sensuous element in art, this love of art for art's sake,=
is the
point in which we of the younger school have made a departure from the teac=
hing
of Mr. Ruskin,--a departure definite and different and decisive.
Master indeed of the knowledge of all noble li=
ving
and of the wisdom of all spiritual things will he be to us ever, seeing tha=
t it
was he who by the magic of his presence and the music of his lips taught us=
at
Oxford that enthusiasm for beauty which is the secret of Hellenism, and that
desire for creation which is the secret of life, and filled some of us, at
least, with the lofty and passionate ambition to go forth into far and fair=
lands
with some message for the nations and some mission for the world, and yet i=
n his
art criticism, his estimate of the joyous element of art, his whole method =
of
approaching art, we are no longer with him; for the keystone to his aesthet=
ic
system is ethical always. He =
would
judge of a picture by the amount of noble moral ideas it expresses; but to =
us
the channels by which all noble work in painting can touch, and does touch,=
the
soul are not those of truths of life or metaphysical truths. To him perfection of workmanship s=
eems
but the symbol of pride, and incompleteness of technical resource the image=
of
an imagination too limitless to find within the limits of form its complete
expression, or of love too simple not to stammer in its tale. But to us the rule of art is not t=
he
rule of morals. In an ethical system, indeed, of any gentle mercy good
intentions will, one is fain to fancy, have their recognition; but of those=
that
would enter the serene House of Beauty the question that we ask is not what
they had ever meant to do, but what they have done. Their pathetic intentio=
ns
are of no value to us, but their realized creations only. Pour moi je prefere les poetes qui=
font
des vers, les medecins qui sachent guerir, les peintres qui sanchent peindr=
e.
Nor, in looking at a work of art, should we be
dreaming of what it symbolises, but rather loving it for what it is. Indeed, the transcendental spirit =
is
alien to the spirit of art. T=
he metaphysical
mind of Asia may create for itself the monstrous and many-breasted idol, bu=
t to
the Greek, pure artist, that work is most instinct with spiritual life which
conforms most closely to the perfect facts of physical life also. Nor, in its primary aspect, has a
painting, for instance, any more spiritual message or meaning for us than a
blue tile from the wall of Damascus, or a Hitzen vase. It is a beautifully coloured surfa=
ce,
nothing more, and affects us by no suggestion stolen from philosophy, no pa=
thos
pilfered from literature, no feeling filched from a poet, but by its own
incommunicable artistic essence--by that selection of truth which we call
style, and that relation of values which is the draughtsmanship of painting=
, by
the whole quality of the workmanship, the arabesque of the design, the
splendour of the colour, for these things are enough to stir the most divine
and remote of the chords which make music in our soul, and colour, indeed, =
is
of itself a mystical presence on things, and tone a kind of sentiment . . .=
all
these poems aim, as I said, at producing a purely artistic effect, and have=
the
rare and exquisite quality that belongs to work of that kind; and I feel th=
at
the entire subordination in our aesthetic movement of all merely emotional =
and intellectual
motives to the vital informing poetic principle is the surest sign of our
strength.
But it is not enough that a work of art should
conform to the aesthetic demands of the age: there should be also about it, if =
it is
to give us any permanent delight, the impress of a distinct individuality.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Whatever work we have in the ninet=
eenth
century must rest on the two poles of personality and perfection. And so in this little volume, by
separating the earlier and more simple work from the work that is later and
stronger and possesses increased technical power and more artistic vision, =
one
might weave these disconnected poems, these stray and scattered threads, in=
to one
fiery-coloured strand of life, noting first a boy's mere gladness of being
young, with all its simple joy in field and flower, in sunlight and in song,
and then the bitterness of sudden sorrow at the ending by Death of one of t=
he
brief and beautiful friendships of one's youth, with all those unanswered
lodgings and questionings unsatisfied by which we vex, so uselessly, the ma=
rble
face of death; the artistic contrast between the discontented incompletenes=
s of
the spirit and the complete perfection of the style that expresses it formi=
ng
the chief element of the aesthetic charm of these particular poems;--and th=
en
the birth of Love, and all the wonder and the fear and the perilous delight=
of
one on whose boyish brows the little wings of love have beaten for the first
time; and the love-songs, so dainty and delicate, little swallow-flights of
music, and full of such fragrance and freedom that they might all be sung in
the open air and across moving water; and then autumn, coming with its
choirless woods and odorous decay and ruined loveliness, Love lying dead; a=
nd
the sense of the mere pity of it.
One might stop there, for from a young poet one
should ask for no deeper chords of life than those that love and friendship
make eternal for us; and the best poems in the volume belong clearly to a l=
ater
time, a time when these real experiences become absorbed and gathered up in=
to a
form which seems from such real experiences to be the most alien and the mo=
st
remote; when the simple expression of joy or sorrow suffices no longer, and
lives rather in the stateliness of the cadenced metre, in the music and col=
our
of the linked words, than in any direct utterance; lives, one might say, in=
the
perfection of the form more than in the pathos of the feeling. And yet, after the broken music of=
love
and the burial of love in the autumn woods, we can trace that wandering amo=
ng
strange people, and in lands unknown to us, by which we try so pathetically=
to
heal the hurts of the life we know, and that pure and passionate devotion to
Art which one gets when the harsh reality of life has too suddenly wounded =
one,
and is with discontent or sorrow marring one's youth, just as often, I thin=
k,
as one gets it from any natural joy of living; and that curious intensity of
vision by which, in moments of overmastering sadness and despair ungovernab=
le,
artistic things will live in one's memory with a vivid realism caught from =
the
life which they help one to forget-- an old grey tomb in Flanders with a
strange legend on it, making one think how, perhaps, passion does live on a=
fter
death; a necklace of blue and amber beads and a broken mirror found in a gi=
rl's
grave at Rome, a marble image of a boy habited like Eros, and with the path=
etic
tradition of a great king's sorrow lingering about it like a purple
shadow,--over all these the tired spirit broods with that calm and certain =
joy
that one gets when one has found something that the ages never dull and the
world cannot harm; and with it comes that desire of Greek things which is o=
ften
an artistic method of expressing one's desire for perfection; and that long=
ing
for the old dead days which is so modern, so incomplete, so touching, being=
, in
a way, the inverted torch of Hope, which burns the hand it should guide; and
for many things a little sadness, and for all things a great love; and last=
ly,
in the pinewood by the sea, once more the quick and vital pulse of joyous y=
outh
leaping and laughing in every line, the frank and fearless freedom of wave =
and
wind waking into fire life's burnt-out ashes and into song the silent lips =
of
pain,--how clearly one seems to see it all, the long colonnade of pines with
sea and sky peeping in here and there like a flitting of silver; the open p=
lace
in the green, deep heart of the wood with the little moss-grown altar to the
old Italian god in it; and the flowers all about, cyclamen in the shadowy
places, and the stars of the white narcissus lying like snow-flakes over th=
e grass,
where the quick, bright-eyed lizard starts by the stone, and the snake lies
coiled lazily in the sun on the hot sand, and overhead the gossamer floats =
from
the branches like thin, tremulous threads of gold,--the scene is so perfect=
for
its motive, for surely here, if anywhere, the real gladness of life might b=
e revealed
to one's youth--the gladness that comes, not from the rejection, but from t=
he
absorption, of all passion, and is like that serene calm that dwells in the
faces of the Greek statues, and which despair and sorrow cannot touch, but
intensify only.
In some such way as this we could gather up th=
ese
strewn and scattered petals of song into one perfect rose of life, and yet,=
perhaps,
in so doing, we might be missing the true quality of the poems; one's real =
life
is so often the life that one does not lead; and beautiful poems, like thre=
ads
of beautiful silks, may be woven into many patterns and to suit many design=
s,
all wonderful and all different:
and romantic poetry, too, is essentially the poetry of impressions,
being like that latest school of painting, the school of Whistler and Albert
Moore, in its choice of situation as opposed to subject; in its dealing with
the exceptions rather than with the types of life; in its brief intensity; =
in
what one might call its fiery-coloured momentariness, it being indeed the
momentary situations of life, the momentary aspects of nature, which poetry=
and
painting new seek to render for us.
Sincerity and constancy will the artist, indeed, have always; but
sincerity in art is merely that plastic perfection of execution without whi=
ch a
poem or a painting, however noble its sentiment or human its origin, is but=
wasted
and unreal work, and the constancy of the artist cannot be to any definite =
rule
or system of living, but to that principle of beauty only through which the
inconstant shadows of his life are in their most fleeting moment arrested a=
nd
made permanent. He will not, =
for
instance, in intellectual matters acquiesce in that facile orthodoxy of our=
day
which is so reasonable and so artistically uninteresting, nor yet will he
desire that fiery faith of the antique time which, while it intensified, yet
limited the vision; still less will he allow the calm of his culture to be
marred by the discordant despair of doubt or the sadness of a sterile scept=
icism;
for the Valley Perilous, where ignorant armies clash by night, is no
resting-place meet for her to whom the gods have assigned the clear upland,=
the
serene height, and the sunlit air,-- rather will he be always curiously tes=
ting
new forms of belief, tinging his nature with the sentiment that still linge=
rs
about some beautiful creeds, and searching for experience itself, and not f=
or the
fruits of experience; when he has got its secret, he will leave without reg=
ret
much that was once very precious to him.&n=
bsp;
"I am always insincere," says Emerson somewhere, "as
knowing that there are other moods":&=
nbsp;
"Les emotions," wrote Theophile Gautier once in a review of
Arsene Houssaye, "Les emotions, ne se ressemblent pas, mais etre
emu--voila l'important."
Now, this is the secret of the art of the mode=
rn
romantic school, and gives one the right keynote for its apprehension; but =
the
real quality of all work which, like Mr. Rodd's, aims, as I said, at a pure=
ly
artistic effect, cannot be described in terms of intellectual criticism; it=
is
too intangible for that. One =
can perhaps
convey it best in terms of the other arts, and by reference to them; and,
indeed, some of these poems are as iridescent and as exquisite as a lovely
fragment of Venetian glass; others as delicate in perfect workmanship and as
single in natural motive as an etching by Whistler is, or one of those
beautiful little Greek figures which in the olive woods round Tanagra men c=
an
still find, with the faint gilding and the fading crimson not yet fled from=
hair
and lips and raiment; and many of them seem like one of Corot's twilights j=
ust
passing into music; for not merely in visible colour, but in sentiment
also--which is the colour of poetry--may there be a kind of tone.
But I think that the best likeness to the qual=
ity
of this young poet's work I ever saw was in the landscape by the Loire. We were staying once, he and I, at
Amboise, that little village with its grey slate roofs and steep streets an=
d gaunt,
grim gateway, where the quiet cottages nestle like white pigeons into the
sombre clefts of the great bastioned rock, and the stately Renaissance hous=
es stand
silent and apart--very desolate now, but with some memory of the old days s=
till
lingering about the delicately-twisted pillars, and the carved doorways, wi=
th
their grotesque animals, and laughing masks, and quaint heraldic devices, a=
ll
reminding one of a people who could not think life real till they had made =
it
fantastic. And above the vill=
age, and
beyond the bend of the river, we used to go in the afternoon, and sketch fr=
om
one of the big barges that bring the wine in autumn and the wood in winter =
down
to the sea, or lie in the long grass and make plans pour la gloire, et pour
ennuyer les Philistins, or wander along the low, sedgy banks, "matching
our reeds in sportive rivalry," as comrades used in the old Sicilian d=
ays;
and the land was an ordinary land enough, and bare, too, when one thought of
Italy, and how the oleanders were robing the hillsides by Genoa in scarlet,=
and
the cyclamen filling with its purple every valley from Florence to Rome; for
there was not much real beauty, perhaps, in it, only long, white dusty roads
and straight rows of formal poplars; but, now and then, some little breaking
gleam of broken light would lend to the grey field and the silent barn a se=
cret
and a mystery that were hardly their own, would transfigure for one exquisi=
te
moment the peasants passing down through the vineyard, or the shepherd watc=
hing
on the hill, would tip the willows with silver and touch the river into gol=
d; and
the wonder of the effect, with the strange simplicity of the material, alwa=
ys
seemed to me to be a little like the quality of these the verses of my frie=
nd.