I.

THE literature usually known as Classical is the creation of a remote past; the Romantic is the comparatively recent and familiar. Popular opinion does, indeed, often couple the Romantic with the ancient and unfamiliar, but it must be observed that this ancient is rather mediæval than antique, and where antique materials are employed they are remoulded in conformity with the sentiments of a later age, so that the Theseus of the "Knight's Tale" and of the "Midsummer Night's Dream" is no longer the Theseus of Sophocles and of Plutarch. To borrow the technical language of geology, the early classical art of Europe belongs to the paleozoic period, while Romantic art represents the mesozoic and cænozoic epochs. Fully to comprehend either, it is necessary to take into account its opposite, or rather its complement. The art of antiquity illustrates that of the present; in Romantic art we witness the consummation of a development which is for a moment arrested in the marble of Praxiteles and the hexameters of HoAntiquity forms the background upon which the modern world is projected; into the foreground are crowded our engrossing interests, the permanent charm of existence -- nay, our very life itself. A flood of linpid waters rolls past our doors, charged, it may be, with a pungency and vivific quality which it has gathered from the air, the herbage, and the chalybeate or calcareous soil of its banks, but we seldom allow our imagination to wander to the sweet springs far above. The plow turns over the rich, black mould, full of the genial elements which shall nourish the coming harvest, but we are unmindful that it rests on the detritus of the crumbling crag, and on fragments torn from the shoulders of the distant hill. But comparison is always interesting, and, in the discussion of our subject,

mer.

almost indispensable. As the majestic presence of such an Alpine peak as the Jungfrau, the unsullied whiteness of its snows, and its regal indifference to the concerns of ordinary humanity, are more keenly realized by him who, after arduous journeyings, gazes upward from the valley of Lauterbrunnen, or the lovely surroundings of Interlaken; and as the fitness of the smiling vale for the abode of man, the deep greenness of its vegetation, the windings of its streams, and the glancing silver of its lakes, are best appreciated by the traveler who looks down from the scanty pastures which encroach upon the eternal snows; so, if it were possible to comprehend the two in a single panoraına, the splendors of classical antiquity might be flashed upon the beholder from its own serene heights, while the chequered, romantic scenery of the lowlands should at the same time refresh his aching vision, and inspire in him a blissful contentment with the lowlier lot. To furnish such a panoramic view would be beyond the limits of the task assigned, but a preliminary glimpse at a few examples of the art of each period may assist us in conceiving the true nature of Romantic literature.

II.

NOT far from a sluggish river, which pours its reluctant waters through a tract of marshy ground in Southern Italy, rise the ruined columns of the temple of Neptune at Pæstur. Venerable with the touch of time, which has worn the travertine into hollows, while apparently gilding the surface of the stone, it is still more imposing because of the massive and solid character of these low, fluted pillars. Each is a short, thick-shouldered giant, placed to support a heavy entablature. This architecture is simple, rugged, and bold; a severe taste has dictated its proportions; it was consecrated to the worship of the earth

shaking god, the deity of the ocean-depths, who occasionally emerges into the sunlight, and glides smoothly in his chariot over the I watery plain, but oftener contents himself with lunging terrifically at the solid land, smiting it amain with his huge billows, and sinking back, amid the deep reverberations of the blows, to the cavernous recesses of the sea. The temple is worthy of the divinity; sturdy and thickset, defiant and frowning; such is the aspect of the edifice, and such we imagine the god. This building alone might, without great injustice, be taken as a type of the architecture of both Greece and Rome; but, lest the selection should seem partial, let us turn to distant Athens, the eye of Greece," and seat ourselves before the Parthenon. Here the columns are more slender, as befits the gracefulness of the virgin goddess; the entablature is lighter; sculptures fill the pediment, and, in the form of high reliefs, extend along the frieze, belting the entire temple with a procession of lifelike and highly-animated figures; everything is wrought of white marble, virgin as Athena herself, and polished to suit the taste of a fastidious people; the whole harmonious in design, faultless in execution, and triumphal in situation. But certain features still remain common to the two structures. As Neptune, upon the western pediment of the Parthenon, contests with Athena the soil of Attica, the ruder natural forces which minister to man's welfare being thus brought into rivalry with the arts which refine and humanize, so the whole temple bears testimony on the one hand to mighty, but beneficent agencies, tending to material comfort and luxury, and, on the other, to a calmness akin to self-complacency, a satisfaction with the life that now is.

The architecture of the North and of the Middle Ages is of a quite different order. The Rhine at Cologne flows past the foundations of another temple, dedicated to the service of another deity. That of Neptune was solid and self-subsistent; this needs but tressing from without to enable it to sustain itself at the altitude it has reached, for, whereas the columns at Pæstum are scarcely

thirty feet in height, these are five times as long; from the roof to the ground is over two hundred feet; while the spires are lifted into air to a distance of more than three hundred additional feet. And not only have the columns grown to these astounding dimensions, but the architrave which they support seems also to have felt the impulse upward. No longer resting in a horizontal position, it has parted in two between each pair of columns, and springs in buoyant curves to the crown of a pointed arch. Simplicity has given place to complexity. The forms of leaves and flowers are everywhere imitated in a manner which indicates a love for natural beauty, and a perception of its relation to worship. The sculpture of the exterior is not confined to a single level, but climbs from base to summit, ensconcing itself in niches up the buttresses, following the lines of the arches, occupying the tympanum of the façade, and crowning the pinnacles above the roof. Nor are these sculptures confined to the representation of tutelary divinities, or the demigods and heroes of the land.

Uncouth animal forms mingle with those of bishop and king; monsters with demoniac visages grin at the eaves. Life, life everywhere, but not always joyous or beautiful life. No law of self-restraint appears to be observed. Profusion reigns and has made its masterpiece. The solid rock has blossomed into flamboyant tracery; stone has become etherealized and wayward; the ribs of the ancient earth have grown mobile, and mount as a wavering flame toward the heavens.

But Sculpture has also its lesson to teach. Among the Parthenon statues of the eastern pediment, there is one of a reclining male figure. It is immaterial whether we call it Theseus or Olympus. What it imports us to know is that the frame is strongly knit, the arms and chest those of an athlete, the head finely poised, the countenance expressive of vigor and determination. Though the attitude is one of repose, the muscles are not relaxed, but every limb seems aglow with the ruddy tide of health, and ready, at a moment's warning, to start into activity.

Contrast this with the Pietà of St. Peter's at Rome, executed in the same material by Michael Angelo. What woman is this who looks down so mournfully at the body lying across her knees? And whose is the body, thus prone and rigid? Surely this can be no Spartan mother, mourning for the son who has returned upon his shield. The muscles of the dead man are not those of a warrior; the features of the mother are not those of a Spartan. His face is emaciated and careworn; her features are dissolved in grief and tenderness. The Niobe group may furnish a parallel; in both cases the heart of a mother is pierced through the bosom of the child. But Niobe seeks to ward off the blow; terror has vanquished pride, and solicitude for her loved ones is the reigning emotion. The mother of the Crucified, on the contrary, has put forth no effort to save her son; resignation has forestalled defiance, and even protest; there is no murmuring, only an inexpressible agony of love and sorrow. Humanity is no longer self-poised. Yielding to the will of a superior Being before whom it bows, it consumes resolve in emotion, and for the luxury of conquest substitutes the luxury of sentiment.

The Painting of antiquity exists for us but in two forms: the decoration of Greek vases, and the mural pictures of Pompeii. Of these the Pompeian frescoes, though belonging to a comparatively late period, represent nearly everything that has survived of the art of Zeuxis and Apelles. Serving admirably the purpose of mere decoration, they are strikingly deficient in most of the great qualities of modern painting. Of boldness or subtlety in conception there is almost nothing. Only two principal styles are attempted, the one including a rather limited range of mythological compositions, and the other treating genre subjects in a pleasing but almost infantile manner. Portraiture was not unknown among the Greeks, and the best of their artists are said to have attained great proficiency in this branch, but we have no means of gauging their pretensions. The Pompeian wall paintings furnish

no examples of portraiture, nor is it easy to understand how a deceptive resemblance to any particular human countenance could be secured by artists whose drawing is often conspicuously bad. Landscape, as in early Christian painting, serves but as a background or framework for scenes of more immediate human interest. There is no attempt to depict familiar localities; such landscape as there is appears conventionalized and unreal, and may be compared, though remotely, to the scenery which adorns a Chinese fan. Of perspective in the modern sense there is scarcely an indication. There is no grada tion of tone, no aerial perspective, and none of the magic of chiaroscuro. On the other hand, the figures are frequently light and graceful, the transparency of thin and fluttering drapery is successfully imitated, and the coloring, though simple, is pure and agreeable. Judged by present standards, these frescoes fall into a very subordinate category. The gulf which separates them from the gorgeous creations of Veronese and Tintoretto, in the halls of the Ducal Palace at Venice, is far too wide to be spanned by a sentence or a paragraph. Between the extremes indicated lie the naïve spirituality of Fra Angelico, the "rushing sea of angels" which Correggio has suspended in the cathedral cupola at Parma, the patrician features of Titian's prelates and statesmen, and the girlish, motherly, or saintly Madonnas of Raphael. If the period which has elapsed since the 16th century be included in the survey, the disparity becomes still more remarkable. Who that has stood before the Building of Carthage, or the Embarkation of the Queen of Sheba, in the National Gallery, would hesitate if asked to choose between one of these and the best landscape of the Pompeian collection? Who would exchange a fine Reynolds or Landseer, a Gerome or Meissonier, for any painting that could be offered him from the House of Lucretius or of the Tragic Poet? The rugged lineaments of Rembrandt's burgomasters and the tatters of Murillo's street urchins could have found no place or acceptance in the abodes of Campanian lux

ury, and as little in the palaces of Roman pride. A Greek of the age of Pericles would have turned with scorn or ridicule from Titian's Assumption, would have condemned as barbarous the Ecce Homo, and would have censured the Santa Notte of Correggio for its unaccountable light and shade. But Painting, being essentially a Romantic Art, - though originating in antiquity, must obtain its justification and its praise from those among whom it has flourished, and whose life it has faithfully reflected.

The chief distinction between Greek and modern Music is, that the former was purely melodic, while the latter, without excluding melody, is also harmonic. At all events it is safe to affirm that the harmonies admitted by the Greeks were of the most simple character, such as occur, for example, when the same part is sung by men and women at the interval of an octave from each other. The hymn, the chorus, and the ode were chanted in a solemn and stately recitative, with or without the accompaniment of instrumental music. The lyre and the flute, or the typical forms of string and wind instruments, were employed, but their use was chiefly restricted to the accompaniment of the voice. A general conception of the nature of ancient music is no doubt afforded by the Gregorian chant, and the ecclesiastical music into which the latter enters as a constituent. Confined to religious ceremonial and occasions of festal pomp, it never laid aside its dignity, simplicity, and seriousness, except when religion became revelry, and festivity degenerated into Bacchanalian license. Glees and catches would have been scouted as trivial and profane, and as an undue concession to private conviviality. The piercing, agitated cry of the violin, its. wail, mournful and sweet as of an imprisoned dryad, its maniac ravings and shuddering laughter, even the rapturous joy which murmurs through its strings like the resonant wind of evening through the branches of a pine-wood-these would have disturbed the Grecian placidity and equipoise, and hence would have been deemed intolerable. The Greek pantheon enshrined no St. Cecilia,

for the Greek spirit had never been penetrated with the need for organ music, for those buoyant impulses of canorous sound, which, like elastic pinions, are capable of wafting the listener toward celestial spheres. Except for such instances as the trumpetcall to battle, instrumental music was not dissociated in antiquity from the human voice. The sonata and the symphony had not been dreamed of. Since polyphonic music had not been invented, choruses in the modern sense were impossible, and for the same reason there was nothing correspondent to our orchestral playing among the Greeks and Romans. These considerations at once exclude the opera and the oratorio from the circle of ancient musical compositions. Thus it will be perceived that the unity in variety which is exemplified in Gothic architecture, and which is the unquestioned norm of all the esemplastic arts, must not be looked for in classical music. And it must further be evident that harmony, the reconciliation of disparates, can never be possible until there is an evolution of individuality. The violin, the trombone, the clarinet, and the bassoon must each have its distinct and well-defined timbre, or there can be no orchestral unison. In like manner, choral harmony results from the fourfold division of bass, tenor, alto, and treble, each with its own proper function and several office. Concord, in other words, exists only in virtue of differentiation. This was clearly seen by Milton, who was no less musician than poet, and who has embodied his harmonical theory in the poem, "At a Solemn Music ":

"And to our high-raised phantasy present

That undisturbed song of pure concent,
Aye sung before the sapphire-colored throne
To Him that sits thereon,

With saintly shout and solemn jubilee ;
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow,
And the Cherubic host in thousand quires
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms

Singing everlastingly :

That we on Earth with undiscording voice May rightly answer that melodious noise."

The basis of all concord must indeed be assumed; the harmonics or overtones which are the very condition of unison can not be dispensed with; but the touchstone of Romanticism, in music as in literature, is the development of personality, the consummation of the individual.

III.

DURING the early Christian centuries, when the world was filled with crime and violence, men sought the desert in order to live a life of solitude. The measure of human wickedness seemed full, and in escape lay the only safety. At first in such wildernesses as the Thebaid, and afterwards in the monasteries, devout souls vowed themselves to eternal communion with the Father of spirits. In this communion human nature found a real satisfaction. The struggle for emancipation from the bondage of the flesh became an end in itself. In proportion to the fierceness of the conflict with besetting sin, was the worth of the victory enhanced. Hours and days were passed in silent meditation and prayer. At times the devotee fell into a trance, in which the very heavens seemed opened, and legions of celestial visitants descended into his cell. The revelation of glory would have been insupportable, were it not that the soul, intoxiicated with rapture, nerved itself to receive more and more of the divine energy. To some were vouchsafed glimpses of angels and demons, battling for the future possession of a tried and fainting soul. But the sight of these combats only intensified the desire of the convert to make his own peace with God. Here the Scriptures came to his aid. He pondered upon the New Testament, and especially upon the Gospel narrative of the life of Christ, until the ascended Lord became a living reality. Mystics like Tauler and Thomas à Kempis burned for union with this transfigured ideal, who was at once friend and Master, the embodiment of all life, all purity, and all love. Not only was He the Supreme Judge of all the earth, rewarding every man according to his

deeds, but was Himself, here and hereafter, the reward, the consolation, and the joy. Images borrowed from the Song of Solomon were profusely employed to symbolize the transport of this ineffable union. The flesh was castigated, the body emaciated, in order to remove the last obstacle which hindered the free effluence and upward progress of man's immortal part. Tennyson's description of Percivale's sister, the holy nun, will apply to thousands of both sexes:

"And so she prayed and fasted, till the sun

Shone, and the wind blew, thro' her, and I thought She might have risen and floated when I saw her." Such aspiration is begotten of faith, and in turn begets faith. The effects were marvellous. The maiden of "The Holy Grail," speaking with her knight,

"Sent the deathless passion in her eyes

Thro' him, and made him hers, and laid her mind On him, and he believed in her belief."

The rapt contemplation of supernal mysteries is the favorite occupation of the mediæval saints, such as Francis of Assisi and Catharine of Siena. Men as unlike in other respects as Pascal and Jeremy Taylor here meet upon common ground. The spirit asserts its lofty destiny and privileges, spurns its limitations, refines away the grossness of its material integument, and escapes into the pure empyrean. The invisible chords of the soul tremble into music. It is an Eolian harp for the winds of heaven to play upon, and the response from other spheres is blent with its melody.

Nor are we to imagine that this note is peculiar to the romantic literature of the mediaval period. Henry VIII. despoiled the abbeys and evicted their tenants; but neither he nor the philosophizing eighteenth century has quenched the fine ecstacy of this music. It thrills again in the consecration song of Wagner's "Parsifal"; it is the "slender sound as from a distance beyond distance" of Tennyson's Idyls. Who, if he were not familiar with "The Excursion,” would believe, on reading the following lines, that they were written by the poetical anchorite of Rydal Mount, and not by a contemporary of Abelard?