Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 262, July 7, 1827», страница 7

FINE ARTS

THE CHIEF CAUSES OF THE SUCCESS OF PAINTING AND SCULPTURE IN GREECE AND ROME

(For the Mirror.)

A cursory glance at the principal occasion of the amazing success obtained by the Greeks and Romans, in painting and sculpture, during the early ages, may perhaps prove interesting to the lovers of the arts in this country.

The elevation to which the arts in Greece arrived was owing to the concurrence of various circumstances. The imitative arts, we are told, in that classic country formed a part of the administration, and were inseparably connected with the heathen worship. The temples were magnificently erected, and adorned with numerous statues of pagan deities, before which, in reverential awe, the people prostrated themselves. Every man of any substance had an idol in his own habitation, executed by a reputed sculptor. In all public situations the patriotic actions of certain citizens were represented, that beholders might be induced to emulate their virtues. On contemplating these masterpieces of art, which were so truly exquisite that the very coldest spectator was unable to resist their almost magical influence, the vicious were reclaimed, and the ignorant stood abashed. Indeed, it has often been asserted, that the statues by Phidias and Praxiteles were so inimitably executed, that the people of Paros adored them as living gods. Those artists who performed such extraordinary wonders as these were held in an esteemed light, of which we cannot form the least idea. We are certain they were paid most enormous prices for their productions, and consequently could afford to adorn them with every beauty of art, and to bestow more time on them than can ever be expected from any modern artist.

As soon as the arts had arrived at their highest pitch of excellency in Greece, the country was laid waste by the invading power of the Romans. All the Greek cities which contained the greatest treasures were demolished, and all the pictures⁵ and statues fell into the hands of the victorious general, who had them carefully preserved and conveyed from the land where they had been adored. Of the estimation in which these great works were held by the Romans, we may form some idea by the general assuring a soldier, to whose charge he gave a statue by Praxiteles, that if he broke it, he should get another as well made in its place. War is a very destructive enemy to painting and sculpture; the intestine quarrels which ensued after the Romans had conquered the country, rendered the exercise of the art impracticable.

The arts were neglected in Rome until the introduction of the popish religion. At that eventful era, statues and pictures were eagerly sought for; the admirable Grecian works were appropriated to purposes quite contrary to their pagan origin, for in many cases heathen deities were converted into apostles. The labours of Phidias, Myron, Praxiteles, Lysippus, and Scopas,⁶ were highly valued by the Romans, who became the correct imitators, and in time the rivals, of those celebrated sculptors.

G.W.N.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

LOVE'S VICTIM. ⁷

 
She left her own warm home
  To tempt the frozen waste,
What time the traveller fear'd to roam,
  And hunter shunn'd the blast,
Love pour'd his strength into her soul—
Could peril e'er his power controul!
 
 
She left her own warm home.
  When stone, and herb, and tree,
And all beneath heaven's lurid dome
  By wintry majesty,
In his stern age, were clad with snow,
And human hearts beat chill and slow.
 
 
It was a fearful hour
  For one so young and fair:
The woods had not one sheltering bower,
  The earth was trackless there,
The very boughs in silver slept,
As the sea-foam had o'er them swept.
 
 
Snow after snow came down,
  The sky look'd fix'd in ice;
She deem'd amid the season's power,
  Her love would all suffice
To keep the source of being warm,
And mock the terrors of the storm.
 
 
Love was her world of life.
  She thought but of her heart,
And knowing that the winter's strife
  Could not its hope dispart,
She dream'd not that its home of clay
Might yield before the tempest's sway—
 
 
Or judged that passion's power—
  Passion so strong and pure.
Might mock the snow-flake's wildering shower,
  Proud that it could endure,
As woman oft in times before
Had peril borne as much or more.
 
 
She went—dawn past o'er dawn,
  None saw her face again,
The eyes she should have gazed upon,
  Look'd for her face in vain—
The ear to which her voice was song,
Her voice had sought—how vainly long!
 
 
There is in Saco's vale
  A gently swelling hill,
Shadows have wrapt it like a veil
  From trees that mark it still,
Around, the mountains towering blue
Look on that spot of saddest hue.
 
 
'Twas by that little hill,
  At the dark noon of night,
Close by a frozen snow-hid rill,
  Where branches close unite
Even in winter's leafless time,
The skeletons of summer's prime.
 
 
That flash'd the traveller's flame
  On tree and precipice,
And show'd a fair unearthly frame
  In robes of glittering ice,
With head against a trunk inclined,
Like a dream-spirit of the mind.
 
 
'Twas that love-wander'd maid, death-pale,
  Her very heart's blood froze,
Love's Niobe, in her own vale,
  Now reckless of all woes—
Love's victim fair, and true, find meet,
As she of the famed Paraclete.
 
 
The mountains round shall tell
  Her tale to travellers long.
The little vale of Saco swell
  The western poet's song,
And "Nancy's Hill" in loftier rhymes
Be sung through unborn realms and times.
 

New Monthly Magazine.

THE GATHERER

 
"I am but a Gatherer and disposer of other men's stuff."—Wotton.
 

The late Dr. Barclay was a wit and a scholar, as well as a very great physiologist. When a happy illustration, or even a point of pretty broad humour, occurred to his mind, he hesitated not to apply it to the subject in hand; and in this way, he frequently roused and rivetted attention, when more abstract reasoning might have failed of its aim. On one occasion he happened to dine with a large party, composed chiefly of medical men. As the wine cup circulated, the conversation accidentally took a professional turn, and from the excitation of the moment, or some other cause, two of the youngest individuals present were the most forward in delivering their opinions. Sir James McIntosh once told a political opponent, that so far from following his example of using hard words and soft arguments, he would pass, if possible, into the opposite extreme, and use soft words and hard arguments. But our unfledged M.D.'s disregarded the above salutary maxim, and made up in loudness what they wanted in learning. At length, one of them said something so emphatic—we mean as to manner—that a pointer dog started from his lair beneath the table and bow-wow-wowed so fiercely, that he fairly took the lead in the discussion. Dr. Barclay eyed the hairy dialectician, and thinking it high time to close the debate, gave the animal a hearty push with his foot, and exclaimed in broad Scotch—"Lie still, ye brute; for I am sure ye ken just as little about it as ony o'them." We need hardly add, that this sally was followed by a hearty burst of laughter, in which even the disputants good-humouredly joined.

 
  Fair woman was made to bewitch—
A pleasure, a pain, a disturber, a nurse,
A slave, or a tyrant, a blessing, or curse;
  Fair woman was made to be—which?