Chapter XXX (1)

“I wouldna ha’e come hame as I gaed away, if I had been you, Jenny.” The speaker stands at the door of Jenny’s little byre, looking on, while Jenny milks her favourite cow. “Ye see what Nelly Panton’s done for hersel; there’s naething like making up folk’s mind to gang through wi’ a’ thing; and you see Nelly’s gotten a man away in yon weary London.”

“I wouldna gang to seek a misfortune—no me,” said Jenny; “ill enough when it comes; and I wonder how a woman like you, with twelve bairns for a handsel, could gie such an advice to ony decent lass; and weel I wat Nelly Panton’s gotten a man. Puir laddie! it’s the greatest mercy ever was laid to his hands to make him a packman—he’ll no be so muckle at hame; but you’ll make nae divert of Jenny. If naebody ever speered my price, I’m no to hang my head for that. I’ve aye keepit my fancy free, and nae man can say that Jenny ever lookit owre her shouther after him. A’ the house is fu’ ’enow, Marget; we’ve scarcely done with our flitting; I canna ask you to come in.”

So saying, Jenny rose with her pail, and closed the byre-door upon Brockie and her black companion. The wind came down keen from the hills; the frosty wintry heavens had not quite lost the glow of sunset, though the pale East began to glitter with stars. Sullen Criffel has a purple glory upon his cap of cloud, and securely, shoulder to shoulder, this band of mountain marshals keep the border; but the shadows are dark about their feet, and night falls, clear and cold, upon the darkened grass, and trees that stir their branches faintly in the wind.

The scene is strangely changed. Heaths of other nature than the peaceful heath of Hampstead lie dark under the paling skies, not very far away; and the heather is brown on the low-lying pasture hills, standing out in patches from the close-cropped grass. Yonder glow upon the road is the glow of fire-light from an open cottage door, and on the window ledge within stand basins of comfortable Dumfriesshire “parritch,” cooling for the use of those eager urchins, with their fair exuberant locks and merry faces, and waiting the milk which their loitering girl sister brings slowly in from the byre. It is cold, and she breathes upon her fingers as she shifts her pail from one hand to the other; yet bareheaded Jeanie lingers, wondering vaguely at the “bonnie” sky and deep evening calm.

Another cottage here is close at hand, faintly throwing out from this back-window a little light into the gathering gloom. Brockie and Blackie are comfortable for the night; good homely sages, they make no account of the key turned upon them in the byre-door; and Jenny, in her original dress, her beloved shortgown and warm striped skirts, stands a moment, drawing in, with keen relish, the sweep of cold air which comes full upon us over the free countryside.

“I’m waiting for Nelly’s mother,” says Jenny’s companion, who is Marget Panton from Kirklands, Nelly’s aunt; “she’s gane in to speak to your mistress. You’ll no be for ca’ing her mistress now, Jenny, and her sae muckle come down in the world. I’m sure you’re real kind to them; they’ll no be able now to pay you your fee.”

“Me kind to them! My patience! But it’s because ye dinna ken ony better,” said Jenny, with a little snort. “I just wish, for my part, folk would haud by what concerns themsels, and let me abee. I would like to ken what’s a’ the world’s business if Jenny has a good mistress, and nae need to seek anither service frae ae year’s end to the ither—and it canna advantage the like o’ you grudging at Jenny’s fee. It’s gey dark, and the road’s lanesome; if I was you, I would think o’ gaun hame.”

“I wouldna be sae crabbit if I got a pension for’t,” returned Marget, sharply; “and ye needna think to gar folk believe lees; it’s weel kent your house is awfu’ come down. ‘Pride gangs before a fa’,’ the Scripture says. Ye’ll no ca’ that a lee; and I hear that Miss Menie’s joe just heard it, and broke off in time.”

“I’m like to be driven daft wi’ ane and anither,” exclaimed Jenny furiously. “If Miss Menie hadna been a thrawart creature hersel, I wouldna have had to listen to the like o’ this. Na, that micht ha’e been a reason—but it was nane of the siller; she kens best hersel what it was. I’m sure I wouldna have cast away a bonnie lad like yon if it had been me; but the like of her, a young lady, behooves to ha’e her ain way.”

“Weel, it’s aye best to put a guid face on’t,” said Jenny’s tormentor. “I’m no saying onything at my ain hand; it’s a’ Nelly’s story, and Johnnie being to marry July Home—it’s a grand marriage for auld Crofthill’s daughter, such a bit wee useless thing—we’re the likest to ken. Ye needna take it ill, Jenny. I’m meaning nae reproach to you.”

“I’m no canny when I’m angered,” said Jenny, setting down her pail in the road; “ye’ll gang your ways hame, if you take my counsel; there’s naething for you here. Pity me for Kirklands parish, grit and sma’! with Nelly at the Brokenrig, and you at the Brigend; but I canna thole a lee—it makes my heart sick; and I tell ye I’m no canny when I’m angered. Guid nicht to you, Marget Panton; when I want to see you I’ll send you word. You can wait here, if you maun get yon puir decent woman hame wi’ you. I reckon I would get mony thanks if I set her free; but I dinna meddle wi’ ither folks’ business; you can wait for her here.”

And, taking up her pail again rapidly, Jenny pattered away, leaving Marget somewhat astonished, standing in the middle of the road, where this energetic speech had been addressed to her. With many mutterings Jenny pursued her wrathful way.

“Ye’ve your ainsel to thank, no anither creature, Menie Laurie; and now this painting business is begun, they’ll be waur and waur. Whatfor could she no have keepit in wi’ him? A bonnie ane, to ha’e a’ her ain way, and slaving and working a’ day on her feet, as if Jenny wasna worth the bread she eats; and the next thing I’ll hear is sure to be that she’s painting for siller. Pity me!”

Full of her afflictions, very petulant and resentful, Jenny entered the cottage door. It was a but and a ben—that is to say, it had two apartments, one on each side of the entrance. The larger of the two was boarded—Mrs Laurie had ventured to do this at her own expense—and had been furnished in an extremely moderate and simple fashion. It was a very humble room; but still it was a kind of parlour, and, with the ruddy fire-light reddening its farther corners, and blinking on the uncovered window, it looked comfortable, and even cheerful, both from without and within. Mrs Laurie, with her never-failing work, sat by a little table; Menie, whose day’s labour was done, bent over the fire, with her flushed cheeks supported in her hands; the conflict and the sullen glow had gone out of Menie’s face, but a heavy cloud oppressed it still.

Conscious that she is an intruder, divided between her old habitual deference and her new sense of equality, as Johnnie Lithgow’s mother, with any Mrs Laurie under the sun, Mrs Lithgow sits upon the edge of a chair, talking of Nelly, and Nelly’s marriage.

“Nelly says you were real kind. I’m sure naething could be kinder than the like of you taking notice of her, when she was in a strange place her lane, though, nae doubt, being Johnnie’s sister made a great difference. I can scarcely believe my ainsel whiles, the awfu’ odds it’s made on me. I have naething ado but look out the best house in Kirklands, and I can get it bought for me, and an income regular, and nae need to do a thing, but be thankful to Providence and Johnnie. It’s a great blessing a good son.”

As there was only a murmur of assent in answer to this, Mrs Lithgow proceeded:—

“I’m sure it’s naething but neighbourlike—you’ll no take it amiss, being in a kindly spirit—to say if there’s onything ane can do—There’s Nelly gotten her ain house noo, and wonderful weel off in the world; and for me, I’m just a miracle. If there was ought you wanted, no being used to a sma’ house, or ony help in ae way or anither, from a day’s darg wi’ Jenny, to——”

But Mrs Lithgow did not dare to go any further. The slight elevation of Mrs Laurie’s head, the sudden erectness of that stooping figure by the fireside, warned the good woman in time; so, after a hurried breathless pause, she resumed:—

“I would be real glad—it would be naething but a pleasure; and I’ll ne’er forget how guid you were to me when I was in trouble about Johnnie, and aye gied me hope. Poor laddie! next month he’s coming down to be married—and I’m sure I hope he’ll be weel off in a guid wife, for he canna but be a guid man, considering what a son he’s been to me.”

“He will be very well off,” said Mrs Laurie; “and poor little July goes away next month, does she? Has Jenny come in yet, Menie? We have scarcely had time to settle in our new house, Mrs Lithgow; but I will remember your kind offer, and thank you. How dark the night grows—and it looks like snow.”

“I’ll have to be gaun my ways,” said the visitor, rising; “it’s a lanesome road, and I’m no heeding about leaving my house, and a’ the grand new things Johnnie’s sent me, their lane in the dark. I’ll bid you good night, ladies, kindly, and I’m real blithe to see you in the countryside again.”

She was gone, and the room fell into a sudden hush of silence, broken by nothing but the faint rustling of a moved hand, or the fall, now and then, of ashes on the hearth. The bustle and excitement of the “flitting” were over—the first pleasure of being home in their own country was past. Grey and calm their changed fate came down upon them, with no ideal softening of its everyday realities. This sliding pannel here opens upon their bed; this little table serves all purposes of living; these four dim walls, and heavy raftered roof, shut in their existence. Now, through the clear frosty air without, a merry din breaks into the stillness. It is little Davie from the cothouse over the way, who has just escaped from the hands which were preparing him for rest, and dares brothers and sisters in a most willing race after him, their heavy shoes ringing upon the beaten way. Now you hear them coming back again, leading the truant home, and by-and-by all the urchins are asleep, and the mother closes the ever open door. So good night to life and human fellowship. Now—none within sight or hearing of us, save Jenny humming a broken song, on the other side of the wooden partition, which, sooth to say, is Jenny’s bed—we are left alone.

Menie, bending, in her despondent attitude, over the fire, which throws down, now and then, these ashy flakes upon the hearth—our mother, pausing from her work, to bend her weary brow upon her hand. So very still, so chill and forsaken. Not one heart in all the world, except the three which beat under this thatched roof, to give anything but a passing thought to us or our fate; and nothing to look to but this even path, winding away over the desolate lands of poverty into the skies.

Into the skies!—woe for us, and our dreary human ways, if it were not for that blessed continual horizon line; so we do what we have not been used to do before—we read a sad devout chapter together, and have a faltering prayer; and then for silence and darkness and rest.

Say nothing to your child, good mother, of the bitter thoughts that crowd upon you, as you close your eyes upon the wavering fire-light, and listen, in this stillness, to all the stealthy steps and touches of the wakeful night. Say nothing to your mother, Menie, of the tears which steal down between your cheek and your pillow, as you turn your face to the wall. What might have been—what might have been; is it not possible to keep from thinking of that? for even Jenny mutters to herself, as she lies wakefully contemplating the glow of her gathered fire—mutters to herself, with an indignant fuff, and hard-drawn breath, “I wish her muckle pleasure of her will: she’s gotten her will: and I wadna say but she minds him now—a bonnie lad like yon!”

CHRONOLOGICAL CURIOSITIES: WHAT SHALL WE COLLECT?

Is knowledge, like Saturn, destined to devour her own masculine offspring, and leave only the weak to live to propagate follies? If Common Sense, the strong born, has escaped, it is because Knowledge has been deceived, like Saturn, with a stone, not very easy of digestion, nor promising to add much to her substance. But this survivor, Common Sense, has the effeminate yet numerous progeny to contend with, who, with a busy impertinence, multiply absurdities, and put them forth under the glorifying name of their parent, Knowledge. We rejoice, therefore, to see a laudable attempt being made to rescue knowledge from the cramming in of uncommon and worthless things, and to substitute for the people’s use a knowledge of “common things.” And we hope an aggregate addition of the bone and muscle of a little more common honesty, and true genuine natural feeling, will be the result of the wholesomer food. The people have been long enough imposed on by false titles; or the “Useful Knowledge,” the pretence of the age, has been exhausted, and resort had to a very useless substitute.

It is not long since that we read the question and answer scheme of an examination of a retired village school, consisting of labourers’ children; one of the questions being, “What is chronology?” “What is its derivation?” Answer, “Derived from two Greek words,” &c. Will any one think that children so taught become wiser or better? This may not be an isolated instance. It seems possible that chronology may become rather too fashionable a study, and engage a host of collectors of valueless nothings. The neglected science has certainly some arrears to make up. Some few years ago we were authoritatively told that “History” is nothing but an “old Almanac.” Since which time, History and her sister, Chronology, have been discarded servants—out of place, and glad to pick up a few pence here and there as charwomen, in all sorts of odds and ends of corners, to sweep away time-collected dust and rubbish. Their industry seems likely to be rewarded at last. A few of the old worshippers, taking advantage of this exhaustion of “useful knowledge,” benevolently lend them a helping hand, and are trying to persuade the public that the dust was gold dust, or better than gold dust, and the rubbish a treasure, and advising that it should all be swept in again—and where?—into our National Gallery! and doubtless their next step will be to appoint a Parliamentary Commission, not so much for the purpose of sifting it, as of issuing treatises and lectures upon the value and national importance of this new-old treasure trove. So that the public may look to this, that, instead of having their eyes gratified by the beauties of art, they will be disgusted with its deformities; while their heads will be so stuffed with its history, as to leave no room for a thought of its excellence, or a sentiment to be derived from it.

Let not the reader be alarmed at the very mention of the National Gallery. We are not about to inflict upon him the evidence in the Blue Book respecting the picture-cleaning, the doings and misdoings of trustees, the “discrepancies” of opinions and statement of facts, the faults of a system which is inconsistently at once condemned and recommended for continuance, the labyrinth of question and answer leading to no conclusion, the blame here and the flattery there, the unwilling admissions and unreserved condemnations: most people we see are perhaps inclined to believe, in this instance at least, that a “big book is a big evil.” We do not, therefore, intend in this place to reopen the discussion which made the subject of our former papers.

The difficulty under which the Commission laboured was visible from the beginning. The trustees had approved of the cleaning. The task of very decidedly condemning this approval was naturally distasteful; therefore, what is too evidently wrong is charged upon a “system,” while the honourable personages are praised and flattered as if they had never had anything to do with it.

The case must for a while rest where it is, and we should have waited with patience the leisure of our now busy Parliament for its resumption, were it not that a very grievous mischief is left in the Blue Book, where it meets with much favour, to be taken up and made the key-note, the first and last principle of every future discussion respecting a national gallery. It might be thought that, after thirty years of its establishment, we should not have now to come to the question, what a national gallery should be. But so it is. There has been as yet no “fixed principle,” we are told, upon which a national collection is to be formed. We have no charge to bring against the trustees on that account; indeed, we rejoice that they had no fixed principle, if by fixed principle is meant such scheme and system as we see pertinaciously and insinuatingly urged upon the public notice in parts of the evidence, and more particularly in the appendix of this voluminous Report.

We give our reader credit for good taste and common sense, and doubt not he will think it sufficient that a national gallery should consist of good pictures—the best that are to be had. But no: common sense is too unrefined for this knowledge-age, and good taste is of private purveyorship, and of very little importance in forming a public collection. However absurd this may seem to be, we assure the reader that it is an idea put forth with a good deal of authority, and perhaps no little presumption, on the part of some of its advocates; we see its dressing up into a substantial image of magnitude, and mean to take up the sling and the stone, and do battle with it. There are always a multitude of dilettanti who, loading their memories with names, love to talk with apparent learning about art, and yet have little feeling for its real excellences. To such, a history of art is better than art itself. They would make a national gallery a lumber-house of chronological curiosities. They have a perverse love for system and arrangement: very good things in their proper places, and with moderation, keeping a very subordinate position, not without value in a national gallery; but the value is little indeed, if put in any degree in competition with what should be the great primary aim—to gather together the finest works of the best painters. The chronological arrangement should be the after-thought, arising out of what we possess, not directing the first choice. This whim of the dilettanti school is not new with us. It may be seen in the Report of the Commission of 1836—and is repeated in the present Report.

“The intelligent public of this country are daily becoming more alive to the truth, which has long been recognised by other enlightened nations, that the arts of design cannot be properly studied or rightly appreciated by means of insulated specimens alone; that, in order to understand or profit by the great works, either of ancient or modern schools of art, it is necessary to contemplate the genius which produced them, not merely in its final results, but in the mode of its operation—in its rise and progress, as well as in its perfection. A just appreciation of Italian painting can as little be obtained from an exclusive study of the works of Raphael, Titian, or Correggio, as a critical knowledge of English poetry from the perusal of a few of its masterpieces. What Chaucer and Spenser are to Shakespeare and Milton, Giotto and Massaccio are to the great masters of the Florentine school: and a national gallery would be as defective without adequate specimens of both styles of painting, as a national library without specimens of both styles of poetry. In order, therefore, to render the British National Gallery worthy the name it bears, your committee think that the funds appropriated to the enlargement of the collection should be expended with a view not merely of exhibiting to the public beautiful works of art, but of instructing the people in the history of that art, and of the age in which, and the men by whom, those works were produced.”

There is but little said here in many words, and that little based upon an erroneous presumption. We do not believe that the “intelligent public” are becoming alive to “the truth,” which is a fallacy, that they cannot profit by great works without having before them the previous failures, experiments, and imbecilities of the earlier practitioners in art. If the public have any intelligence at all, they will appreciate the “Madonna de Sisto,” for instance, without disgusting their eyes with such Byzantine “specimens” as that shown to Mr Curzon in the monastery, where the monk in his strange ignorance inquired if “all women were like that?” Nor is the parallelism between poetry and painting here fortunate. For, besides that books may sleep on shelves and not offend, and pictures (for the purpose intended) must obtrude themselves on the eye, we do not see that Chaucer and Spenser at all bear the relation to Shakespeare and Milton that Giotto and Massaccio do to the great masters of the Florentine school. All these were men of great, mostly independent genius, worthy of galleries and libraries for their own sakes. But they are here placed as screens to hide the chronological deformities behind them. The “not merely exhibiting to the public beautiful works of art” would seem to infer, to give any force to the passage, that not only the painters Giotto and Massaccio had no “beautiful works,” but that Chaucer and Spenser were poor poets, having no beauties, and no other or little merit but that of being the warning precursors to Shakespeare and Milton, to enable them to eschew their faults.

The committee very cautiously abstained from defining any chronological limits, for we are not to infer that they are to begin with Giotto. However they may consider him the founder of the Italian school, the appendix shows that the Byzantine and very early Italian art (if to be obtained) are desired specimens. “The specimens more especially fitted for a gallery of paintings commence with movable paintings on wood, by the Byzantines, representing the Madonna and child, single figures of saints, and sometimes extensive compositions on a minute scale,” going back even to the ninth century, and so to the earlier Italian “influenced by Byzantine art.” And more decidedly to show the mere chronological object, it is added, “In the case of works without names, or inscribed with names before unknown, the test of artistic merit must chiefly determine the question of eligibility.” Artistic merit _only in_ these cases, and then “chiefly” so that in other cases names are everything.

And all this is for the purpose of instructing the people, not in art, but in the history of art, which may be quite well enough learnt from books by the curious, or in some museum of curiosities, better than in a national gallery, where the real and proper instruction would only be hindered by the sight of things antagonistic to any beauty. We do not doubt that this idea, carried out, would lead to a pictorial chronological mania, if it does not commence with it, not unlike the Bibliomania, ever in search of works, only rare because worthless. Such a national gallery as this scheme contemplates would be the exhibition of a pictorial Dunciad, in which we hope the _veræ effigies_ of the first schemers and promoters would not be omitted, that some future satirist may give them also their merited immortality. Why cannot a committee upon a national gallery confine themselves to the objects for the consideration of which they are appointed, and not run needlessly into the duties of an educational committee, and talk of _instruction_, when the preservation and advantageous exhibition of the monuments of antiquity and fine art “possessed by the nation” are what they are required to give their attention to? There is enough to be done in the line pointed out to them, and no need of bewildering themselves or the public, led astray by this _ignis fatuus_ of a chronological whim. We are weary of the daily cant; everything is to be _instruction_, works of art are to be “specimens.” Michael Angelo, Raphael, Correggio, are to be known only by and as “specimens.” The “people” must be ever in a worry of knowledge, flying about from specimen to specimen: it is for knowledge alone they are to come to a national gallery—we hear nothing of enjoyment, of an indulgence in the repose of taste; and we do sometimes smile, in turning over the leaves of the Blue Book, when meeting with much talk about _instructing_ the people, and turn our thoughts for a moment to the happy “specimens” of instruction the walls of our or any National Gallery exhibit. Is moral instruction or art instruction to be gathered in by the people’s eyes, with their astonishment at “Susanna and the Elders,” and that other Guido purposely purchased as a companion to it, the “Lot and his Daughters?” very costly specimens of instruction, the one amounting to £1680, the other £1260, and neither thought very good specimens for instruction in art—not that the severe criticism upon Guido in the evidence is quite to be depended upon. The great flustering “Rape of the Sabines” is not of very nice instruction, perhaps, either in morals or art. There are the “Three naked Goddesses” by Rubens, to whom the caterers of public instruction took the part of Paris, and threw the golden apple, and a very large one too;—what are their Flemish nudities to teach? A stern moralist showed his insulted purity by dashing one offending specimen to atoms.

We do not, however, profess to be such purists as to desire an irruption into the Gallery of a mob of mad Savonarolas, not easily gathered together in these Latter-day-Saints’ times, knowing as we do the real why and wherefore of collecting; yet we cannot but smile at the pretence of instruction, which is sometimes put upon moral, and sometimes shifted to pictorial, grounds. But there is a class of pictures we could wish to see more sought after—pictures of a pure sentiment. It is true they are rare, in comparison to those of a far other character; but they are the most precious, and the really improving. Nevertheless, at once to get rid of this pretence and sham of instruction, we would ask, to whom are such works of sentiment precious, and whom are they likely to improve?—Certainly not the multitude, who would look at them with indifference, and pass them by. They are precious to cultivated minds and pure tastes: minds which, either from natural dulness or evil habits, cannot receive, or even admit, the perception of common virtues, will be altogether untouched by their pictorial representations. Fortunately, there are enough works of a simply pleasing character, that excite little emotion, and none of a high caste, so that, to a certain degree, those may be gratified, and receive a pleasure, who will neither receive instruction nor improvement from a national gallery. And it is this modicum of pleasure to all which justifies expenditure for a national gallery. The real, solid benefit, delight, and improvement are very great, but they are the luxury of the few.

It must be that the multitudes go to such an exhibition more from curiosity than from any love of art. Nor is love of art likely, in the first place, to be there implanted; for, in most cases, a certain love of art, commencing, perhaps, with a mere love of imitation, precedes taste—that perception of what is good. If we were to collect only for the masses, we should have a very worthless gallery. Nor would “the people” ever even learn, from a chronological collection, that history of art, which it seems, in the opinion of the Commissioners, so desirable to teach them. Art, which is not valued for itself, will not, in general, be valued for its history; and without the love for itself, a knowledge of its history is nothing but pedantry. High art is a common prate; it is in every one’s mouth, but in very few hearts. It is not difficult to find the “reason why.” High art treats of high and noble sentiments, of generous actions, fortitude, patience, sublime endurance—all that is great, and good, and pure—all tending to a real “elevated taste.” If it be true that “Similis simili gaudet,” the recipients of delight from this High art should, in some degree at least, be recipients of these high virtues themselves. It must be a large nature for High art. Such a nature may not always be good; but if it be large, even if it be viciously great, it may be possible that it will have a perception of what is great in art, though it may lose its finer qualities. But narrow and utterly selfish minds are altogether out of art’s pale. There are degrees of narrow-mindedness and of selfishness, and there is a condition which may be free from these vices, yet of no very elevated virtue. We do not wish to put all our fellow-men in the worst category, but we do maintain that there is a general lack of moral training—of moral habit—and not confined to one branch of society, which operates as a bar to the acquirement of a real taste for art. We live in too mercenary an age. There is too great a worship of mere money—there is cold calculation where there should be feeling. The romance of life is a term of contempt. What is useful supersedes what is good. Take classes with their characteristics, and see if they be fit for the enjoyment of the Fine Arts. The Parliamentary class have established new maxims. Expediency has taken the place of honour, and perhaps of integrity. To say one thing and mean another not only meets with no reprobation, but is justified and applauded. Statesmen make sham speeches and false promises; politicians bribe and are bribed. Is it likely that _High_ art, whose essential being is good, great, and noble, and, beyond all, truth, should find a real love among such? We deny not exceptions, we speak of that which prevails. View the large and important class, the manufacturing, the great fabricators of wealth—they are encouragers of art, but of what quality? Shall they who thicken their cotton goods with flour, to give them a deceitful substance; shall the common traders, who adulterate everything, whether it be what we put in our mouths or on our backs—nay, to a fearful extent, even the drugs, for lack of whose genuineness miserable sufferers die—shall these, we say, stand with delight before the grand dignity wherewith Michael Angelo has embodied our common nature; or before the pure “Spozalitio” of Raffaelle; or, to come to a “_specimen_” in our National Gallery, before the lovely countenance of the pure-minded St Catharine, beaming with every grace of truth, of love, of faith, and of fortitude, that appears too much natural instinct to have the effort of strength? Will they, whose pursuits are the material things of a material world, stand for a moment to receive one impression that shall produce an unusual awful thought, before the solemn miracle, the “Raising of Lazarus” of Sebastian del Piombo? No one will deny that there is but little feeling for works of this kind; and that there is so little, characterises our utilitarian times.

It may be as well here to notice what is said in the body of the evidence with regard to this chronological principle. The questioning is not very extensive, and was, perhaps, purposely limited. J. Dennistoun, Esq., is examined, and says: “The only further observation I would venture to make is the extreme desirableness of something like an arrangement of the pictures. I believe that is a matter felt to be so important that it is hardly necessary for me to speak upon it. I think a chronological arrangement in schools is desirable; but, in the meanwhile, as that would be totally impossible in the present building, I think, as far as possible, an arrangement of the pictures might be made chronologically, without reference to schools,—even that would be a step.” We observe that Mr Dennistoun subsequently, as if alarmed at the chronological prospect, very much qualifies this his opinion. To _Question_ 5901, he says: “I have already stated that I think they should omit no favourable opportunity of obtaining any monument illustrative of the progress of art in any school, such as pictures authenticated by signature or date, and of sufficient interest to be specimens of art of that period. But I think it is desirable that they should, in the first place, bestow their attention and dedicate their funds to that more particularly interesting and valuable period of Italian art, which I have already considered in the course of my evidence.” This puts the chronological arrangement happily a little more in the background. As might have been expected from the accomplished and learned author of the _Dukes of Urbino_, we find in Mr Dennistoun a nice appreciation of the immediate predecessors of Raffaelle, but he has no very long list; he only mentions twenty whose works should be collected, not merely on account of their historical relation to Raffaelle, but for their merit.

No one is more thoroughly acquainted with the Italian schools than Sir Charles Eastlake, both as an artistic critic and historical scholar. He is (_Q._ 6512) consulted with regard to chronological arrangement. He evidently fears the subdivisions of the whimsical process. _Q._ 6515: “Would you then propose to arrange the Italian school in a chronological series as a whole, or would you subdivide it into separate schools?”—“I would certainly not separate the schools needlessly; but I would not take out the finest works and put them apart.” _Q._ 6015: “Then you do not approve of having separate apartments for paintings of the Venetian, Florentine, and other schools?”—“I see no objections to a separation, but I do not see that there would be anything gained by having a mere historical series independent of merit.”

We rejoice to find that the influence of Sir Charles, deservedly great, will not tend to turning our National Gallery into an hospital of invalids and imbeciles. We now come to Mr Dyce’s evidence. _Q._ 7471: “You have also, in your published work, made suggestions as to the mode of carrying into effect the historical and chronological principle in the arrangement of the collection?”—“I have touched on the subject very slightly, though I have laid it down as a primary rule in the formation of the National Gallery, that the historical arrangement of the works should be had regard to.” _Q._ 7472: “You insisted that an endeavour should be made, as far as possible, to show the origin and progress of a school of art, independently of showing the excellence of its highest and most perfect works?”—“Yes.” As Mr Dyce’s pamphlet, a _Letter, addressed, by permission, to H.R.H. the Prince Albert, K.G._, may be considered the first, and perhaps authorised, movement towards the fully setting up the chronological system, we shall make it the subject of our comments more at large; preliminary to which it may be useful to show the reader the number of painters in the several lists furnished in the Appendix, which, we are yet told, is imperfect—in fact, deficient, by many omissions; so that the actual lists—as the mania of making fresh acquisitions would become very restless and busy—would be possibly doubled and trebled. Sir Charles Eastlake, in his suggestions in the Appendix, not very strenuously, we think, notices the object, keeping it somewhat subordinate; and we discover here why Mr Dyce has dedicated his letter, by permission, to H.R.H. the Prince Albert. “The idea of a catalogue of the masters, who might sooner or later be represented in a national gallery, has occurred to many; but the actual formation of such a list has only been recently undertaken, according to a plan suggested by His Royal Highness Prince Albert, and for His Royal Highness’ use. With reference to that list, I may add, that the catalogue of the Italian masters was prepared by myself, and that relating to the other schools by Mr Wornum. The series cannot be considered complete; there are probably both omissions and redundancies; but it may, at least, be taken as the ground-work for such a guide.” We find the lists for this chronological collection to contain (the Byzantine curiosities not included) one thousand five hundred and fifty-five names, and it is probable that as many more might be collected. So that these specimens, if even confined to one for each name, would very soon exhaust the public purse, and possibly so disgust the nation, by their exhibition, as to cause a stoppage of supply for a national gallery. Seeing this array of names, Mr Dyce may well add, when he asks, “What ought a national collection of pictures to be?”—“extensiveness will, I think, suggest itself as one of those characteristics.”

We are not denying that catalogues of this kind are of value—far from it; they are parts of the history of Art; but surely a dictionary of painters is one thing and a collection of pictures another. An army and navy list are valuable documents, but would be rather unwieldy national incumbrances if accompanied by each individual’s portrait at full length—especially viewing the collection, as is the case with this gallery scheme, “independently of merit.” It may be well said, that it is absurd to think of such a scheme with our present building; and it would be difficult to find a site of sufficient area for these specimens by thousands, and at the same time provide for the increase at the present ratio of art propagation.

We proceed to consider Mr Dyce’s pamphlet, or letter—happily not very long—for we have seldom met with so much serious nonsense in so few pages. He blunders on the very threshold of his work; for, as shown, he makes extensiveness a characteristic, whereas it must be but the accident of finding good things to collect. He considers it as a museum, having evidently in view a collection of curiosities, the thing above all others a National Gallery should not be. “Then, again, as every collection has in view some definite purpose, the systematic fulfilment of that purpose on the most enlarged basis—in other words, systematic arrangement, and a _wholeness_ or completeness in relation to its particular purpose, seem necessary to the idea of a national collection.” Words, words, words! all to envelop a commonplace truth that no one need be told. Of course, every man, woman, and child, having a “purpose,” should suit the matter in hand to it. If the man had been destined to manufacture small-clothes instead of writing about art, he wouldn’t begin at the wrong end, and stitch on the buttons before he had cut out his shapes. Of course, he would have had his arrangement and his “chronological” measure too, and not put the boy’s fit on the aged father. There is no end to writing in this style; there may be, if a writer pleases, miles of verbiage before reaching a place of rest or tolerable entertainment, without any prospect of the journey’s end. Then he goes on thinking, and “thinks” what nobody ever doubted: “I think we may assume that a public museum ought to fulfil its purpose” (so ought a pipkin)—but more—“and, secondly, that the objects contained in it ought not merely to be coextensive with that purpose, but illustrate it with the greatest possible fulness and variety; that is to say, the collection ought to be at once extensive and complete.” Extensive and complete—or we would put it plainly, as with regard to the pipkin, that care should be taken that as much be put into it as it will hold without boiling over, preserving in the simmering every variety in the broth—the meat, the bone, the fat, and the vegetables. Notwithstanding this his very clear explanation, he immediately again gravely asks, “But what are we to understand by the completeness of a collection of pictures?” The reply to this question (a reply which may well astonish any inquirer) “depends upon the view we take of its purpose;” that is, to pursue our illustrations, whether the small-clothes be to be made for grandson or grandfather; whether the pipkin is to hold porridge for breakfast, or broth for supper. “Now all, I imagine, will agree, that the object of our National Gallery is, to afford instruction and enjoyment” (a discovery which he very shortly annihilates, by taking out the enjoyment, and making the instruction doubtful); “that it is, or ought to be, an institution where the learned study art, and the unlearned enjoy it, where _docti artis rationem intelligunt, indocti sentiunt voluptatem_; so that we have to consider how that instruction and enjoyment which the gallery is calculated to afford ought to be provided for.” Not a doubt of it. But why, Mr Dyce, ride your poor hobby-horse round this circle? Don’t you see you haven’t advanced ten paces beyond the stable door. In fact, you have said but the same thing over and over again; but you have taken out of the pack-saddle a scrap of Latin, which, however well it may sound, and your own hobby may prick up his ears at it, is really a piece of arrant nonsense; indeed the reverse of it is the truth; for it is _the unlearned_, of course, who come to your lecture, that they may understand, “_intelligunt_;” and the learned, the “_docti_,” they who know something about the matter, only who can perceive, “_sentiunt_,” the “_voluptatem_,” the pleasure of art. But we said Mr Dyce would annihilate enjoyment, and see if he does not do the thing, and most astonishingly. After the passage last quoted, follows: “Now, if there be any, and at this time of day it is to be hoped there are very few, who think that the purpose of the National Gallery will be served by what in popular phrase is termed ‘a selection of the best works of the best masters’” (we rejoice to find so sensible a _phrase_ is popular), “I will simply beg them to apply their opinion to the case of any section of a national library to convince themselves how utterly untenable it is.”

Now the Curiosity Museum is a Library, and a Museum of Curiosities and a library are, _ergo_, moulded into one—a National Gallery; whereas the materials will not amalgamate,—not one is a bit like the other. To go on is really to get deeper and deeper into the quagmire of nonsense, the only kind of _depth_ to be met with in the whole pamphlet. It must sadly have tired the patience of his Royal Highness, if he did read it; and if Mr Dyce wrote it with any view of giving his Royal Highness a lesson in the English language, which was not needed, he has furnished as bad a “specimen” as could be well met with. But to the matter and the argument:—“the best works of the best masters” is as silly an idea, he thinks, as to supply a library with the best dramatists, Shakespeare, of course, included. He is an advocate for the worst, such as no one would read—and why?—the very sound of it is truly asinine. “Would such a proceeding be tolerated for a single moment? Would it be endured that they, that any body of men, however eminent, should possess the right to withhold from the public any attainable materials for literary knowledge and criticism?”—for which purpose Mr Dyce does not withhold this pamphlet. His materials it is not difficult to decide. It certainly could never have been intended for knowledge but under the greatest mistake; supposing it then to be for criticism, we take him at his word, and indulge him accordingly, or, as he says, “in relation to its particular purpose.” But he is not satisfied yet; having nothing more to say, he must say that nothing in more words. He continues—“that, in fact, they should have it in their power” (that is, the any men, however eminent) “actually or virtually to pronounce a judgment on the comparative merits of authors, the accuracy of which could only be tested by the very comparison which the judgment has the effect of preventing. Yet there is no difference between such a proceeding and the restriction of the national collection of pictures to such works as might happen to be considered the best.” What a circular jumble of words is here!—“a judgment on comparative merits” not to be pronounced, not to be endured to be pronounced, because such judgment has the effect of preventing the said judgment, which is here made at once both desirable and undesirable.

The reader sees how much nonsense may be comprised in less than two pages, for we have not advanced further in the pamphlet. A library, to be a good library, ought to contain the veriest rubbish, even Mr Dyce’s letter, because without comparison therewith we shall never be able to appreciate the styles of Swift, and Addison, and Milton, nor Shakespeare’s dramas, without ransacking the “condemned cells” of Drury Lane. And when at length, by these forbidden comparisons, we have discovered the best works of the best masters, it is not to be endured that “any men, however eminent,” should prefer them to the worst, or at least not give the worst equal honour. Our letter-writer thinks he strengthens his argument by quotations from the evidence, which, if there be anything in them, are quite against him, for they tend to show that selection should be of the best: thus Mr Solly is asked, _Q._ 1855—“Is it your opinion the study of these earlier masters is likely to lead to a purer style on the part of our own painters, than of the later and more effeminate school?”—“Certainly. I perfectly agree with the questions that have just been put to me, and I am not aware that I could add anything to them, as I think they comprehend all that I should have thought of suggesting myself upon the subject.”

It would have been surprising if Mr Solly had not agreed with questions so manufactured by epithets—for “purer” and “effeminate” make an undeniable difference. The questioner might as well have said, Don’t you think good better than bad? Don’t you think virtue better than vice? This is a specimen of the art of dressing up a false fact, to knock down with it a true one; but even here, according to the Dycian theory, the only earthly reason for preferring the purer is that it is the earlier; if the effeminate had by chance changed places with it, it would have had his chronological post of honour.