I.

THE ANTIQUE.

HERE is perhaps no sentiment more real amongst

THE

lovers of Art than that of reverence for the great masters of the Classic and Mediæval schools. Nor is this reverence to be deprecated. Without a reverential spirit nothing great can be accomplished; but let us see that we revere intelligently. If Polycletus was greater than Michael Angelo in ideality, Michael Angelo was greater than Polycletus in fervour; but this implies that an excellence is conceivable that should surpass both.

There is again no feeling more strong amongst thoughtful men, than that if pure religion demands some sacrifice in Art, the sacrifice must be made. And this is no doubt true; but it does not follow that the sacrifice is demanded; let us see that we do not charge our Faith with folly. How common, for example, is the idea that Church music suffered at the Reformation. Such a proposition, however,

will not bear examination; the Mass was relegated to the concert-room, where it expanded to the Oratorio, while in its stead our churches were filled with music in its grandest form-that of the chorale.

Now, so far as this reverence for the antique or the medieval is the expression of individual modesty, its effects cannot but be in the highest degree elevating and strengthening; but it commonly takes the form of an assumption that there were giants in those days, and that it is the destiny of modern Art to reflect, to the extent of its limited capacity, the doings of those mighty ones. So far also as this readiness to sacrifice æsthetic taste is the result of a sincere conviction that its cultivation would endanger religious truth, it is worthy of all respect; but its too common form is the unquestioning assumption that our Faith has this depressing influence on Art.

The tyranny of these assumptions has become so oppressive, and their influence is so detrimental to Art, that an appeal should be made against them. To all other workers the great things accomplished in the past are encouragements for the future; the painter alone is trained in the idea that for him the past only is glorious. To all other thinkers liberty of religious thought is the very breath of life; the painter only is taught to look with a lingering regret on the time when the gods or the saints reigned

supreme in the studio. It is a great thing to look back and revere and learn; but not thus did the great masters gain their inspiration. It is a greater thing to look forward; and this should be the attitude of the modern school. Great as was Greek Art in its eclecticism, and Mediæval Art in devotional fervour, the difference between their excellence and that of the modern schools is a difference of kind rather than degree; and in the broad, human sympathies of the religion with which it is allied, Modern Art has everything to hope for, and nothing to fear.

As the theme of Religion is virtue, and of Science truth, so the theme of Art is beauty. But the artist has no more inherent perception of his subject than has the theologian or the philosopher. It is true that we have but to lift our eyes to see that there is beauty in the world; the skies, the rivers, the forests, the great sea, the pale moonlight, the sunsets of gold and purple -these things, which sin not nor suffer, have indeed a divine splendour that evil passions waste not nor destroy. But there is abroad in the world that also which is common, and debased, and ugly; and not by any fine instinct of our nature can we discern the beautiful. Our ancestors dyed their teeth black, and their skins yellow: was that a fine instinct of their nature? To-day an African lady is judged like an

English ox, by weight: is that a fine instinct of nature? We know not what is beautiful any more than we know what is good or true. It is the province of Art to discover this to us. The realisation

of the beautiful is the true aim of Art.

As the Evan

gelist sets before him the pattern of the divine goodness, and translates it in his generous efforts for mankind; as the Philosopher searches for the truth, and translates it in his formularies; so the Artist seeks the beautiful, and translates it in his works.

But a translation implies the existence of an original, and the Artist's great original is Nature. Nature is God's language, and Art is ours; Nature is a poem written by God, and Art is man's translation of it. It is thus that Art becomes a Witness; and its witness is twofold. In every rendering of the splendour of creation it is a witness to us of the glory of the Creator; in every gross conception that we place upon canvas or cut into marble it is a witness against us of the blindness of our eyes or the evil of our hearts.

The gods in stone that we can count by scores in our museums are more than grinning monsters or placid imbeciles; they are Art-witnesses of the passions that make the dark places of the earth full of the habitations of cruelty. The golden bells and pomegranates, the curiously wrought veil, the holy

and beautiful temple, were Art-witnesses of a people hallowed, ennobled, purified, transfigured by law and obedience which were to the Hebrew knowledge and virtue. The great works of the classic sculptors are more than realisations of the splendour of ideal beauty; they are witnesses of a ritual intellectual in the highest degree; they reflect the heroism of the warrior, the imagination of the poet, the learning of the philosopher. The paintings of Correggio and Da Vinci and Raphael are more than inimitable examples of colour or expression; they are witnesses of a new revelation; they evidence a loftier conception of the Divine character; they tell of the life, and passion, and glory of Christ.

These considerations would lead us to expect with the advance of science and the spread of pure religion. a corresponding development in Art. And yet the two greatest schools of Art the world has seen, the Classic and Mediæval, perished-the first at the beginning of the Christian era-the second at a time coincident with the great revival of religion, when the Church of Christ arose to shake herself from the dust and to sit once more in beautiful garments.

Can it be true then, after all, that the sweet light of Christianity, which fills our churches, our laboratories, our homes, brings only darkness to the studio