WHEN the volumes before us were announced as about to be issued from the press, we designed to make them the occasion and text of some extended remarks on the condition and prospects of Ideal Art in this country. It is a subject on which much might be said, we think, full of interest and instruction, and which ought to be brought home unremittingly, earnestly, eloquently, to the general mind of the nation. There is more dependent upon this, for us as a people, than has at all reached the appreciation of many. If we are ever to lead-not a few, but large classes among us-any higher life than may serve to furnish the plate to feast our bodies at the banquet, and the silver to embellish our coffins, it is quite time for us to begin. This we can do only by learning to forget sometimes this material, physical existence we have been living so long-the feverish and weary pursuit of mere wealth and position. We must recognize and feel more constantly the presence of the spiritual, the idealresting and re-making our minds in an atmosphere of the beautiful. We may become what is called a prosperous na The Artist, the Merchant and the Statesman-of the age of the Medici and of our own times. In two volumes. By C. Edwards Lester, U. S. Consul at Genoa. New York: Paine & Burgess, 1845. tion without this, but certainly not in any high sense either refined or happy. To think that riches are beautiful! that national affluence and power, in whatsoever form and degree, are the highest good! We might as well prefer the pomp of shroud and pall, chased coffinplates. torches, and glittering tomb, to that delightful sense of life that knows it has a whole creation to itself. We have never seen this subject fully set forth, in regard to this country-set forth in a manner to impress the mass of intelligent minds with the great use and necessity of appreciation, encouragement and labor in the Fine Arts. It should be shown, how great a field actually exists among us for original effort in all their departments. It should be shown, that no nation in the world ever possessed a greater amount of inventive talent; and that as the creative faculty, that high faculty which makes the great poet and painter, is nearly allied to a subtle and ready invention (in the general acceptation of the word)-it may be found in time, as we believe, that no nation has possessed more creative power in the world of pure ideality. It should be made clear to every one who will read at all upon the subject, that in no way can he more increase the value of life to himself, or add more to the refinement and glory of the nation, than by cultivating a noble taste for the Arts, and nobly encouraging the Artist. It could be made evident, finally, from what has been done and what is doing, that a very great change is already taking place in this respect, and that the Americans in a few years will be found achieving works in painting, sculpture, music and architecture, that would do no dishonor to the most brilliant age of any other country. Something of all this we had designed to attempt at length. Want of space and time alone prevents us-and that, we nope, only for the present;-for the volumes before us are rich in materials for various and interesting remark. But we shall confine ourselves in this brief article entirely to the book, waiting for another opportunity to present what we wish to say ourselves. In regard to the artistic merit of the work, we need speak but briefly. The author is most evidently in earnest throughout the whole, and cares more for what he is saying, than under what form it is said. Yet any observable defects in the general execution are few, 66 compared with the favorable and strong impressions left by the work as a whole upon the reader's mind. The writer so manifestly feels what he is saying, that we do not dwell upon them. The most striking defect is-if we are to look at it as one book--that the topics are so jumbled together. The first volume consists of the autobiography of Powers in the shape of conversations" with the sculptor-and a long essay on the Consular System--subjects entirely disconnected The author has, however, something of an excuse for this in the very natural request of the Sculptor, that what related to him should not appear in a volume by itself. The second volume is made up of Letters rambling back and forth among a hundred different topics, without any attempt at succession, or plan of any kind. But they all relate in some way to "the Artist," "the Merchant," or 66 the Statesman," so as to come under the title of the book. The writer's style is unequal. Where he is in earnest argument or simple narrative, it is usually direct and forcible, sometimes eloquent, nearly always effective. His familiar passages are less happy-sometimes a failure. But the volumes are full of interest: whoever begins them will read them to the end-which is more than can be said of nineteen-twentieths of the publications of the present day. 66 Of the Conversations with Powers, the greatest of American Sculptors, we shall say less, having spoken at length about him in a preceding number. The Consular System," also-well and truthfully written throughout, containing much entirely new information, and proposing a most needful reform in the whole system, must be dismissed for the present. We shall take occasion to recur to that important subject hereafter. We shall make our extracts, therefore, chiefly from the second volume-and such as to illustrate our views on the subject of Art in this country. Speaking for themselves, they will require little comment. In the first number of this Review, a distinguished writer-in an article enti tled Influence of the Trading Spirit on the Social and Moral Life of America,"set forth with great point and force the laboriousness of Americans in generaltheir entire absorption in business, to the exclusion of nearly all amusement and recreation, whether physical, social, or intellectual-the excessive anxiety written on their countenances, and the rapid Art and Artists in America. wasting away of life in the heated whirl "Too generally is it true, that the American never abandons his business till his business abandons him; and so far has this spirit overcome the better sense of our citizens, it is even considered dangerous for a man to retire from active life-everybody says he will die! And I believe there is some truth in it too: but how sad a commentary does it offer upon our system of life-a system which turns man so entirely into a machine, that reflection kills him! And the poor victim of toil is obliged to toil on, and work himself into the grave, to keep out of it, through that very period of life nature has consecrated to the hallowed pleasures of retirement and reflection." He adds, soon after, a fine passage about a young American, who ran away from his country to save himself from being consumed in its feverish life. 'come "He had begun life as all Americans begin to live-like a candle in the night-wind, which does not burn brightly and steadily away, but consumes itself in its own wild flames. He was all euthusiasm, all feeling. Drawn into the rapid current, he knew not where it was bearing him, till it was almost too late to save himself. he abandoned his pursuits, and tried to break At last he woke; up his old associations by traveling through the length and breadth of the country. everywhere he found himself surrounded by But the wild workings of that heated, crazed life, that burns from the St. Lawrence to the forests of Arkansas. He had now come to Italy, to find repose. I did not,' said he, abroad for a change of climate-one climate is as good as another for a man whose disease is in his soul-his mind-his passions. But I came abroad to get away from that dreadful steam-life we all lead there. was what had killed me, and I believed its This opposite would bring me to life. I had not been two days in Genoa before I found all I had believed was true, and began to realize what I had hoped for. I am recovering from that death-like exhaustion that followed the excitement of years, when my fever had not had a quiet day to cool off. And now that iron girdle that has so long bound my brain is giving way, and my blood once more begins to glide smoothly along its channels, as It did before I knew what care was. Nor can any one in this world tell either how sad or how happy I am. I am ready to smile or to weep every time I look out of my window, or think of my past life. I feel like a sailor who has escaped from a shipwreck, when he begins to recover from his fatigues and his dangers, and looks off on the wild ocean, whose ragings cannot reach him. I dare not read even an American newspaper-I hardly dare talk to one of my countrymen, for fear I may once more begin to think, and dream, and live in that fire-world. When I think of [Dec., America, it seems to me like some vast battle-field in the dim distance, where I can faintly distinguish the shock of ten thousand ing up heavily into the lurid sky; and I never squadrons, and see the dust and smoke rollwish to mingle in it again. When I entered the ship to sail for Europe, I was twenty-five could name, and yet I was broken down, years old. I had no disease the physicians worn out. Í felt as though I had lived a century. I could hardly walk up the ship's ladder, and my friends said I was going to Eusad when they looked at me and yet I was rope to die, and every one I passed seemed born with an iron constitution, and I had never been ill enough a single day to keep my room. I was not five-and-twenty, and yet I was worn out, and supposed I must die. words we know not the meaning of in "The economy of life [in Europe] is far "If the enigma were to be solved by a sin- The merchant goes to his counting-house at two; reposes himself in his private cabinet or library; dines at four; rides out into the country with his family, and devotes the evening to society or amusement. The scholar, the professor, the artist, the clergyman, all abandon their occupations after a certain hour of the day; and till the next morning, all thought, all talk, all solicitude about their affairs is banished. For the rest of the day they are men of leisure and of society. A walk, a soiree, an opera, a cardparty, a concert, anything that makes life bright and the heart glad. "Such is the life the experience of two thousand years has taught the Old World; and although, in making its way into our social system in America, it must battle against the giant spirit of gain on one side, and the narrow spirit of religious bigotry on the other, yet it is appearing among us. It is already. strongly developed in the change of hours of business, and the arrangements of commerce -in the increased numbers who pass their summers at watering-places and in tours of pleasure-in a relaxation of that narrow self ishness which branded a love for intellectual and social amusement as impiety and sinin a wide and general diffusion of a love and patronage of the fine arts-in a taste for horticulture, landscape-gardening, and the life of the villa, with its repose, and elegant and noble amusements-in the vast increase of the numbers of our countrymen who are coming to Europe and going back Americans -in the cultivation of a home feeling and a national spirit-in our literature, our celebrations, and our jubilees-in a single word, in the development of that love for society, for those liberal aud elegant pursuits and pleasures which constitutes the great and only charm of the social life of Europe." And what have we gained as a people, we ask again, when, having become what the world calls prosperous, wealthy, we find at the premature close of life, that we have missed the better half of all that life was made for? There is another passage speaking to this point. "Nothing is more natural than that we should not know everything in these United States-such were the words of the gifted Allston. Science cannot teach man all he should know. He may be learned and great, and yet not be happy. He may be rich, and never be able to reckon among his possessions what those who have, feel is worth more than gold. It is not enough for man to embark on the rapid whirl of excited life that bears the American on-to be free, to be educated, to be surrounded by luxury, and have all our pleasure done at our bidding. There is something worth more than fine equipages, and routs, and wealth, andeven liberty. There is an inner life, the life of the soul, for which all else was made; and all else is only to the soul what the winds, and the waves, and the ship are to the voyager when his voyage is done. His wants are few and simple, and he only hopes to reach his port in safety. There is a moral life worth more than the life of the body, and for which the body was given. It lives in thought and in feeling, in all those high and generous emotions which sometimes thrill the bosom of every man. They soften the heart when we contemplate the generous and the beautiful--they elevate the soul when we gaze on the great and the lofty-they start the tear when the soul is full." Whatever, then, will serve to take us have been living, into one more ethereal out of this low atmosphere in which we and spiritual, is to be assiduously cultivated. And what will best accomplish this? Surely, next to virtue, a refined taste for the Fine Arts-for all ideal creations, whether in Poetry or Music, Sculpture, Painting, or Architecture. Knowledge, Science, alone will not do it. We almost agree with the strong language of the writer, "Where there are not the fruits of these, Science is only a curse-for without its morale it only withers up the soul. I would rather be the Swiss peasant, with no wish or hope to wander beyond my native valley, and have my free heart, and warm bosom, and gay and sweet communings with the playing brook, and the wild flower, and the valley-bird, and the mountain sunset, and never know till I die that the earth heart with science!" goes round the sun, than to crowd my But if the Arts are of so vast importance to a people, how shall they be reared and cherished among them, and obtain over them a daily and living influence? Undoubtedly a love for ideal creations must be mainly a growth from the people themselves. If, when they have had teachers among them with "the vision and the faculty divine," they will not yield themselves, at some time, to the influence of the true and beautiful, it is useless to expect it for them. The gov ernment of a nation, however, can do much towards such an end, where the capacity and power of perception are existent among them. We know that it is undemocratic in this country to intimate that government has anything to do with such matters--having for its chief business, to see that men are equal. We do not agree with Democracy in this respect. And we are somewhat encouraged in our heresy, by observing that all the nations that have ever known what honor was--whether Monarchies or Republics have pursued a very different course. There are many ways in which a government can assist the growth of the Arts among its citizens-by adorning its public grounds and buildings with statues and paintings-by multiply ing noble structures--by raising monuments and tombs to its illustrious dead-especially by commissioning native talent instead of a foreign artist. And what has been our enlightened policy? One extract, out of many, will judge between us and other nations: · "The two most distinguished painters we have ever had, have been offered commissions only when they were too old to execute them: I need not say that I allude to Allston and Vanderlyn. As early as 1811, Allston's 'Dead Man raised by Elisha's Bones,' gained from the British Institution, where he entered into competition with the best painters in Europe, a prize of two hundred guineas. Jacob's Dream' went into the gallery of the Earl of Egremont; Elijah in the Desert, adorned the library of Mr. Labouchere of the British Parliament; Uriel in the Sun' was purchased by the Marquis of Stafford; and I know not how many other beautiful creations of his pencil became the gems of foreign amateurs. While he was in the full vigor of youth and the glow of creative genius, Congress seemed to be as unconscious of his merit as of a man yet unborn. But they discovered their mistake, as is so often the case with public bodies, when too late to correct it. He was offered a valuable commission by the government when too late to accept it; and he declined it, I am told, in an eloquent and affecting letter to the Secretary of State-a document which will one day be pointed to by the historian as a sarcasm too bitter for any country but our own-a country which produces many great artists, but starves them all out of it; a practice more cruel than that of the vulture, for she only devours her young. "Vanderlyn was offered a commission at last, and he is now engaged upon it at Paris. I have heard it spoken of in the highest terms, and I have been also told of the bitter regrets of that great man that it had not been offered to him before his sight grew dim, and his hand began to tremble.' The picture will, I doubt not, still show the pencil that painted the Ariadne,' and 'Marius amid the ruins of Carthage. Such a spectacle is more melancholy than was the sight of Walter Scott's mind in ruins. We are told that during the visit he made to Italy in the decline of life, with the hope of recovering from the shock that broke down his constitution, he was invited to preside over a meeting of savans. late justice of our government to Vanderlyn, or to regret it. If the work be even superbly done, it certainly cannot be the work he would have made twenty years ago; and it will cost too much pain and effort to the brave and beautiful spirit that creates it. If it be ill-done, it will do injustice to the genius of Vanderlyn, and be too bitter and lasting a dishonor to his country. "When the great Thorwalsden went home to Copenhagen to die, after his myriad creations of grandeur and beauty, he was received with the thunder of cannon along the coast, and processions and gala festas bespoke the general enthusiasm. He was greeted back to his country with the honors decreed to a Roman victor, and became the companion of his sovereign. When he died, the king conducted his funeral. He followed him to the grave uncovered, as chief mourner, attended by all his court; and with his own hands he helped lay the great sculptor in his tomb. There were public demonstrations of grief, and the court and the city went into mourning. "As great a genius was Washington Allston; and his works, though not as numerous, display as high an order of talent. He was gifted with a poetical genius, Coleridge once remarked to Campbell, so the latter told me, unsurpassed by any man of his age! "Allston was appreciated by the few; but any one who should have suggested that his death was a national calamity that called for demonstrations of sorrow, like those exhibited by the Danes, of that ice-bound coast, to their Thorwalsden, would have most likely been met with a reply not unlike the following: Why, a body would suppose the President of the United States was dead!! Ages will roll by, and the wild flower, and it may be the wild briar, grow over the grave of the great Poet-Painter, and a long succession of Presidents will come, and men enough will be found without hunting for them to fill that post; but ages may yet go by before the successor of Allston appears! "But our children will one day build the sepulchres of our prophets, though their fathers killed them." How many liberal commissions might be given to native artists of genius, if only each State would commission some painting to adorn the buildings of her capitol, or an appropriate bust or monument for some one of her distinguished How many the government might employ, and for how long a time, if she were willing to remember the great men who have served in her councils, commanded on her battle-fields, or fallen for her flag on the ocean, and would permit their fellow-countrymen-artists, of genius as great as theirs to commemorate their resting-places. But the expense! Government cannot go to such expense! Beloved patriot, and scrupulous devotee of economy! your frugal government could expend $30,000,000 in a profitless and needless war with Florida Indians; but sons. The spectacle of the Great Wizard of the North staggering under the dark eclipse that fell on him from the grave was too sad; the savans wept, and his friends led him from the room. But a sadder spectacle by far is presented in the fate of a great genius who has been neglected by his country till his keen eye grows dim; but who, although he had thrown his cunning pencil aside to paint no more, takes it up at the tardy call of a repentant country, and tries to rally his strength for a last effort, which will perpetuate his name with the marble pillars of the capitol; like the old battlehorse of the Black Prince, who heard the trumpet call, and broke out of his cell-to die. We hardly know whether to rejoice over this |