Part 22

On more than one occasion, he urged, with conclusive force, the importance of reducing the unwritten law to the certainty of a code, compiling and bringing into one body fragments now scattered in all directions, through the pages of many thousand volumes.[170] His views on this subject, while differing from those of John Locke and Jeremy Bentham,--both of whom supposed themselves able to clothe a people in a new code, as in fresh garments,--are in substantial harmony with the conclusions now adopted by the jurists of Continental Europe, and not unlike those of an earlier age having the authority of Bacon and Leibnitz, the two greatest intellects ever applied to topics of jurisprudence in modern times.[171]

[170] Encyclopædia Americana, article _Law, Legislation, Codes_, Appendix to Vol. VII. pp. 576-592. Report of the Commissioners of Massachusetts on the Codification of the Common Law. American Jurist, Vol. XVII. p. 17.

[171] Bacon, Offer to King James of a Digest to be made of the Laws of England: Works, Vol. II. p. 548, 4to ed. Leibnitz, Ratio Corporis Juris reconcinnandi; Epist. XV., ad Kestnerum: Opera, Tom. IV. Pars iii. pp. 235, 269.

In this catholic spirit he showed true eminence. He loved the law with a lover's fondness, but not with a lover's blindness. He could not join with those devotees of the Common Law by whom it is entitled "the perfection of reason,"--an anachronism great as the assumed infallibility of the Pope: as if perfection or infallibility existed in this world! He was led, in becoming temper, to contemplate its amendment; and here is revealed the Jurist,--not content with the present, but thoughtful of the future. In a letter published since his death, he refers with sorrow to "what is but too common in our profession,--a disposition to resist innovation, even when it is improvement." It is an elevated mind that, having mastered the subtilties of the law, is willing to reform them.

And now farewell to thee, Jurist, Master, Benefactor, Friend! May thy spirit continue to inspire a love for the science of the law! May thy example be ever fresh in the minds of the young, beaming, as in life, with encouragement, kindness, and joy!

* * * * *

From the grave of the Jurist, at Mount Auburn, let us walk to that of THE ARTIST, who sleeps beneath the protecting arms of those trees which cast their shadow into this church. WASHINGTON ALLSTON died in the month of July, 1843, aged sixty-three, having reached the grand climacteric, that famous mile-stone on the road of life. It was Saturday night; the cares of the week were over; the pencil and brush were laid in repose; the great canvas, on which for many years he had sought to perpetuate the image of Daniel confronting the soothsayers of Belshazzar, was left, with fresh chalk lines designating the labor to be resumed after the repose of the Sabbath; the evening was passed in the converse of family and friends; words of benediction had fallen from his lips upon a beloved relative; all had retired for the night, leaving him alone, in health, to receive the visitation of Death, sudden, but not unprepared for. Happy lot, thus to be borne away with blessings on the lips,--not through the long valley of disease, amidst the sharpness of pain, and the darkness that clouds the slowly departing spirit, but straight upward, through realms of light, swiftly, yet gently, as on the wings of a dove!

The early shades of evening began to prevail before the body of the Artist reached its last resting-place; and the solemn service of the church was read in the open air, by the flickering flame of a torch,--fit image of life. In the group of mourners who bore a last tribute to what was mortal in him of whom so much was immortal stood our Jurist. Overflowing with tenderness and appreciation of merit in all its forms, his soul was touched by the scene. In vivid words, as he slowly left the church-yard, he poured forth his admiration and his grief. Never was such an Artist mourned by such a Jurist.

Of Allston may we repeat the words in which Burke commemorated his friend Sir Joshua Reynolds, when he says, "He was the first who added the praise of the elegant arts to the other glories of his country."[172] An ingenious English writer, who sees Art with the eye of taste and humanity, and whom I quote with sympathy, if not with entire assent, has said, in a recent publication on our Artist, "It seemed to me that in him America had lost her third great man. What Washington was as a statesman, Channing as a moralist, _that_ was Allston as an artist."[173]

[172] Prior, Life of Burke, Vol. II. p. 190.

[173] Mrs. Jameson, Memoirs and Essays: _Washington Allston_, p. 126. (New York, 1846.)

Here again is discerned the inseparable union between character and works. Allston was a good man, with a soul refined by purity, exalted by religion, softened by love. In manner he was simple, yet courtly,--quiet, though anxious to please,--kindly to all alike, the poor and lowly not less than the rich and great. As he spoke, in that voice of gentlest utterance, all were charmed to listen; and the airy-footed hours often tripped on far towards the gates of morning, before his friends could break from his spell. His character is transfigured in his works. The Artist is always inspired by the man.

His life was consecrated to Art. He lived to diffuse Beauty, as writer, poet, painter. As an expounder of principles in his art, he will take a place with Leonardo da Vinci, Albert Dürer, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Fuseli. His theory of painting, as developed in his still unpublished discourses, and in that tale of beauty, "Monaldi," is an instructive memorial of conscientious study. In the small group of painter-poets--poets by the double title of pencil and pen--he holds an honored place. His ode "America to Great Britain," which is among the choice lyrics of the language, is superior to the satirical verse of Salvator Rosa, and may claim companionship with the remarkable sonnets of Michel Angelo. It was this which made no less a judge than Southey place him among the first poets of the age.

In youth, while yet a pupil at the University, his busy fingers found pleasure in drawing; and a pen-and-ink sketch from his hand at that time is still preserved in the records of a college society. Shortly after leaving Cambridge he repaired to Europe, in the pursuit of Art. At Paris were then collected the masterpieces of painting and sculpture, the spoils of unholy war, robbed from their native galleries and churches to swell the pomp of the Imperial capital. There our Artist devoted his days to diligent study of his profession, particularly to drawing, so important to accurate art. At a later day, alluding to these thorough labors, he said he "worked like a mechanic." To these, perhaps, may be referred his singular excellence in that necessary, but neglected branch, which is to Art what grammar is to language. Grammar and Design are treated by Aristotle on a level.

Turning his back upon Paris and the greatness of the Empire, he directed his steps towards Italy, the enchanted ground of literature, history, and art,--strown with richest memorials of the Past,--filled with scenes memorable in the Progress of Man,--teaching by the pages of philosophers and historians,--vocal with the melody of poets,--ringing with the music which St. Cecilia protects,--glowing with the living marble and canvas,--beneath a sky of heavenly purity and brightness,--with the sunsets which Claude has painted,--parted by the Apennines, early witnesses of the unrecorded Etruscan civilization,--surrounded by the snow-capped Alps, and the blue, classic waters of the Mediterranean Sea. The deluge of war submerging Europe had subsided here, and our Artist took up his peaceful abode in Rome, the modern home of Art. Strange vicissitude of condition! Rome, sole surviving city of Antiquity, once disdaining all that could be wrought by the cunning hand of sculpture,--

"Excudent alii spirantia mollius æra, Credo equidem: vivos ducent de marmore vultus,"--

who has commanded the world by her arms, her jurisprudence, her church,--now sways it further by her arts. Pilgrims from afar, where her eagles, her prætors, her interdicts never reached, become willing subjects of this new empire; and the Vatican, stored with the priceless remains of Antiquity, and the touching creations of modern art, has succeeded to the Vatican whose thunders intermingled with the strifes of modern Europe.

At Rome he was happy in the friendship of Coleridge, and in long walks cheered by his companionship. We can well imagine that the author of "Genevieve" and "The Ancient Mariner" would find sympathy with Allston. It is easy to recall these two natures, tremblingly alive to beauty of all kinds, looking together upon those majestic ruins, upon the manifold accumulations of Time, upon the marble which almost speaks, and upon the warmer canvas,--listening together to the flow of perpetual fountains, fed by ancient aqueducts,--musing together in the Forum on the mighty footprints of History,--and entering together, with sympathetic awe, that grand Christian church whose dome rises a majestic symbol of the comprehensive Christianity which is the promise of the Future. "Never judge a work of art by its defects," was a lesson of Coleridge to his companion, which, when extended, by natural expansion, to the other things of life, is a sentiment of justice and charity, more precious than a statue of Praxiteles or a picture of Raphael.

In England, where our Artist afterwards passed several years, his intercourse with Coleridge was renewed, and he became the friend and companion of Lamb and Wordsworth also. Returning to his own country, he spoke of them with fondness, and often dwelt upon their genius and virtue.

In considering his character as an Artist, we may regard him in three different respects,--drawing, color, and expression or sentiment. It has already been seen that he devoted himself with uncommon zeal to drawing. His works bear witness to this excellence. There are chalk outlines by him, sketched on canvas, which are clear and definite as anything from the classic touch of Flaxman.

His excellence in color was remarkable. This seeming mystery, which is a distinguishing characteristic of artists in different schools, periods, and countries, is not unlike that of language in literature. Color is to the painter what words are to the author; and as the writers of one age or place arrive at a peculiar mastery in language, so do artists excel in color. It would be difficult to account satisfactorily for the rich idiom suddenly assumed by our English tongue in the contemporaneous prose of Sidney, Hooker, and Bacon, and in the unapproached affluence of Shakespeare. It might be as difficult to account for the unequalled tints which shone on the canvas of Tintoretto, Paul Veronese, and Titian, masters of what is called the Venetian School. Ignorance has sometimes referred these glories to concealed or lost artistic rules in combinations of color, not thinking that they can be traced only to a native talent for color, prompted into activity by circumstances difficult at this late period to determine. As some possess a peculiar, untaught felicity and copiousness of words without accurate knowledge of grammar, so there are artists excelling in rich and splendid color, but ignorant of drawing, and, on the other hand, accurate drawing is sometimes coldly clad in unsatisfactory color.

Allston was largely endowed by Nature with the talent for color, which was strongly developed under the influence of Italian art. While in Rome, he was remarked for his excellence in this respect, and received from German painters there the flattering title of "American Titian." Critics of authority have said that the clearness and vigor of his color approached that of the elder masters.[174] Rich and harmonious as the verses of the "Faëry Queen," it was uniformly soft, mellow, and appropriate, without the garish brilliancy of the modern French School, calling to mind the saying of the blind man, that red resembles the notes of a trumpet.

[174] Bunsen, Beschreibung der Stadt Rom, Band I. p. 588. Article on _Modern Art_, by K. Platner.

He affected no secret or mystery in the preparation of colors. What he knew he was ready to impart: his genius he could not impart. With simple pigments, accessible to all alike, he reproduced, with glowing brush, the tints of Nature. All that his eyes looked upon furnished a lesson. The flowers of the field, the foliage of the forest, the sunset glories of our western horizon, the transparent azure above, the blackness of the storm, the soft gray of twilight, the haze of an Indian summer, the human countenance animate with thought, and that finest color in Nature, according to the ancient Greek, the blush of ingenuous youth,--these were the sources from which he drew. With a discerning spirit he mixed them on his palette, and with the eye of sympathy saw them again on his canvas.

But richness of color superadded to accuracy of drawing cannot secure the highest place in Art; and here I approach a more harmonious topic. Expression, or, in other words, the sentiment, the thought, the soul, which inspires the work, is not less important than that which animates the printed page or beams from the human countenance. The mere imitation of inanimate Nature belongs to the humbler schools of Art. The skill of Zeuxis, which drew birds to peck at the grapes on his canvas, and the triumph of Parrhasius, who deceived his rival by a painted curtain, cannot compare with those pictures which seem articulate with the voices of humanity. The highest form of Art is that which represents man in the highest scenes and under the influence of the highest sentiments. And that quality or characteristic called _expression_ is the highest element of Art. It is this which gives to Raphael, who yields to Titian in color, such acknowledged eminence. His soul was brimming with sympathies, which his cunning hand kept alive in immortal pictures. Eye, mouth, countenance, the whole composition, has life,--not the life of mere imitation, copied from common Nature, but elevated, softened, refined, idealized. Beholding his works, we forget the colors in which they are robed; we gaze at living forms, and look behind the painted screen of flesh into living souls. A genius so largely endowed with the Promethean fire has been not unaptly called Divine.

It was said by Plato that nothing is beautiful which is not morally good. But this is not a faultless proposition. Beauty is of all kinds and degrees; and it exists everywhere beneath the celestial canopy, in us and about us. It is that completeness or finish which gives pleasure to the mind. It is found in the color of a flower, and the accuracy of geometry,--in an act of self-sacrifice, and the rhythm of a poem,--in the virtues of humanity, and the marvels of the visible world,--in the meditations of a solitary soul, and the stupendous mechanism of civil society. There is beauty where there is neither life nor morality; but the highest form of beauty is in the perfection of the moral nature.

The highest beauty of expression is a grace of Christian art. It flows from sensibilities, affections, and struggles peculiar to the Christian character. It breathes purity, gentleness, meekness, patience, tenderness, peace. It abhors pride, vain-glory, selfishness, intemperance, lust, war. How celestial, compared with that which dwells in perfection of form or color only! The beauty of ancient art found congenial expression in the faultless form of Aphrodite rising from the sea,[175] and in the majestic mien of Juno, with snow-white arms, and royal robes, seated on a throne of gold,[176]--not in the soul-lit countenance of her who watched the infant in his manger-cradle, and throbbed with a mother's heart beneath the agonies of the cross.

[175] Ovid, Tristia, Lib. II. 527.

[176] Martial, Epig., Lib. X. 89.

Allston was a Christian artist; and the beauty of expression lends uncommon charm to his colors. All that he did shows purity, sensibility, refinement, delicacy, feeling, rather than force. His genius was almost feminine. As he advanced in years, this was more remarked. His pictures became more and more instinct with those sentiments which form the true glory of Art. Early in life he had a partiality for pieces representing _banditti_; but this taste does not appear in his later works. And when asked if he would undertake to fill the vacant panels in the rotunda of the Capitol at Washington, should Congress determine to order such a work, he is reported to have said, in memorable words, "I will paint only one subject, and choose my own: _No battle-piece!_"[177] This incident, so honorable to the Artist, is questioned; but it is certain that on more than one occasion he avowed a disinclination to paint _battle-pieces_. I am not aware if he assigned any reason. Is it too much to suppose that his refined artistic sense, recognizing expression as the highest beauty of Art, unconsciously judged the picture? The ancient Greek epigram, describing the Philoctetes of Parrhasius, an image of hopeless wretchedness and consuming grief, rises to a like sentiment, when it says, with mild rebuke,--

"We blame thee, painter, though thy skill commend; 'Twas time his sufferings with himself should end."[178]

[177] Dunlap's History of the Arts of Design, Vol. II. p. 188. Mrs. Jameson's Memoirs and Essays: _Washington Allston_, p. 114.

[178] Anthol. Lib. IV. Tit. viii. Ep. 26.

In another tone, and with cold indifference to human suffering, Lucretius sings, in often-quoted verse, that it is pleasant, when beyond the reach of danger, to behold the shock of contending armies:--

"Suave etiam belli certamina magna tueri."[179]

[179] Lucretius, De Rerum Natura, Lib. II. 6.

In like heathen spirit, it may be pleasant to behold a _battle-piece_ in Art. But this is wrong. Admitting the calamitous necessity of war, it can never be with pleasure--it cannot be without sadness unspeakable--that we survey its fiendish encounter. The artist of purest aim, sensitive to these emotions, withdraws naturally from the field of blood, confessing that no scene of battle finds a place in the highest Art,--that man, created in the image of God, can never be pictured degrading, profaning, violating that sacred image.

Were this sentiment adopted in literature as in Art, war would be shorn of its false glory. Poet, historian, orator, all should join with the Artist in saying, _No battle-piece!_ Let them cease to dwell, except with pain and reprobation, upon those dismal exhibitions of human passion where the life of friends is devoted to procure the death of enemies. No pen, no tongue, no pencil, by praise or picture, can dignify scenes from which God averts His eye. It is true, man has slain his fellow-man, armies have rushed in deadly shock against armies, the blood of brothers has been spilled. These are tragedies which History enters sorrowfully, tearfully, in her faithful record; but this generous Muse with too attractive colors must not perpetuate the passions from which they sprang or the griefs they caused. Be it her duty to dwell with eulogy and pride on all that is magnanimous, lovely, beneficent; let this be preserved by votive canvas and marble also. But _No battle-piece!_

In the progress of truth, the animal passions degrading our nature are by degrees checked and subdued. The license of lust and the brutality of intemperance, marking a civilization inferior to our own, are at last driven from public display. Faithful Art reflects the character of the age. To its honor, libertinism and intemperance no longer intrude their obscene faces into its pictures. The time is at hand when religion, humanity, and taste will concur in rejecting any image of human strife. Laïs and Phryne have fled; Bacchus and Silenus are driven reeling from the scene. Mars will soon follow, howling, as with that wound from the Grecian spear before Troy. The Hall of Battles, at Versailles, where Louis Philippe, the inconsistent conservator of peace, has arrayed, on acres of canvas, the bloody contests in the long history of France, will be shut by a generation appreciating true greatness.

In the mission of teaching to nations and to individuals wherein is true greatness, Art has a noble office. If not herald, she is at least handmaid of Truth. Her lessons may not train the intellect, but they cannot fail to touch the heart. Who can measure the influence from an image of beauty, affection, and truth? The Christus Consolator of Scheffer, without a word, wins the soul. Such a work awakens lasting homage to the artist, and to the spirit from which it proceeds, while it takes its place with things that never die. Other works, springing from the lower passions, are no better than gaudy, perishing flowers of earth; but here is perennial, amaranthine bloom.

Allston loved excellence for its own sake. He looked down upon the common strife for worldly consideration. With impressive beauty of truth and expression, he said, "Fame is the eternal shadow of excellence, from which it can never be separated."[180] Here is a volume, prompting to noble thought and action, not for the sake of glory, but for advance in knowledge, virtue, excellence. Our Artist gives renewed utterance to that sentiment which is the highest grace in the life of the great magistrate, Lord Mansfield, when, confessing the attractions of "popularity," he said it was that which followed, not which was followed after.

[180] Mrs. Jameson, Memoirs and Essays: _Washington Allston_, p. 118.

As we contemplate the life and works of Allston, we are inexpressibly grateful that he lived. His example is one of our best possessions. And yet, while rejoicing that he has done much, we seem to hear a whisper that he might have done more. His productions suggest a higher genius than they display; and we are disposed sometimes to praise the master rather than the work. Like a beloved character in English literature, Sir James Mackintosh, he finally closed a career of beautiful, but fragmentary labors, leaving much undone which all had hoped he would do. The great painting which haunted so many years of his life, and which his friends and country awaited with anxious interest, remained unfinished at last. His Virgilian sensibility and modesty would doubtless have ordered its destruction, had death arrested him less suddenly. Titian died, leaving incomplete, like Allston, an important picture, on which his hand was busy down to the time of his death. A pious and distinguished pupil, the younger Palma, took up the labor of his master, and, on its completion, placed it in the church for which it was destined, with this inscription: "That which Titian left unfinished Palma reverently completed, and dedicated to God." Where is the Palma who can complete what our Titian has left unfinished?

* * * * *

Let us now devoutly approach the grave of the brother whom, in order of time, we were first called to mourn. WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING, THE PHILANTHROPIST, died in the month of October, 1842, aged sixty-two. By an easy transition we pass from Allston to Channing. They were friends and connections. The monumental stone which marks the last resting-place of the Philanthropist was designed by the Artist. In physical organization they were not unlike, each possessing a fineness of fibre hardly belonging to the Anglo-Saxon stock. In both we observe similar sensibility, delicacy, refinement, and truth, with highest aims; and the color of Allston finds a parallel in the Venetian richness which marks the style of Channing.