They organised an association, the title of which, “The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,” significantly asserted the nature of their artistic aims, and as the founders of this association they pledged themselves to seek the inspiration of their art in those Italian painters who had lived before Raphael was born, and whose sterling principles were abandoned by Raphael and his successors. To the three founders of the Brotherhood were joined two other painters, James Collinson, and F. G. Stephens, a sculptor, Thomas Woolner and Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s brother, William Michael, who, being a writer, was given the office of secretary. The Brotherhood, so constituted, was formally inaugurated in the autumn of 1848, and the members at once set to work to prove by their acts the reality of their belief in the creed they had adopted.
The first fruits of the movement were seen in the following spring at the Academy where Millais, who was then, it must be remembered, not quite twenty, exhibited his “Lorenzo and Isabella,” a picture striking in its originality and in its unusual power. What it implied was not, however, immediately realised by the public; that the manner of the painting made it very unlike those by which it was surrounded was generally recognised, but most people, if they thought about the matter at all, seem to have assumed that the painter had failed to bring himself into line with the art of his time through youthful inexperience rather than by deliberate intention. Time and practice, they considered, would correct such deficiencies in taste as were apparent in the “Lorenzo and Isabella,” and when the lad had arrived at years of discretion he would be the first to see the necessity for amendment.
But the members of the Brotherhood, probably feeling that their initial effort had not produced quite the effect intended, took other steps to define their attitude. They started, in January 1850, a magazine called The Germ, which was proffered as the organ of the new movement. It was sufficiently uncompromising in its confession of faith, and neither its text nor its illustrations were wanting in clearness of statement. The magazine, indeed, was what it was intended to be, an open challenge to all the advocates of the old order of things; and as such it was taken by the people who saw it. It was only in existence for four months, but even in that short time it did its work thoroughly, and put an end to any doubts there were in the minds of art lovers and art workers concerning the meaning of Pre-Raphaelitism; thenceforward Millais and his friends had certainly no reason to complain of being ignored.
The attention which was given to the pictures they sent to the 1850 Academy exhibition was, however, by no means what they desired, though, doubtless, it must have been much what they expected. Millais exhibited a “Portrait of a Gentleman and his Grandchild,” “Ferdinand Lured by Ariel,” and “Christ in the House of His Parents”—better known as “The Carpenter’s Shop”—and these visible embodiments of the principles laid down in The Germ were received with an absolute storm of abuse. The audacity of the young painters who sought by works of this character to discredit the smug and artificial respectability of the art which was then in vogue excited the critics beyond control and brought forth a veritable orgie of virulent expostulation.
Millais, with his mind made up and his fighting instinct fully roused, was not the man to yield to clamour. He made no concessions, but, loyally supporting the policy of the Brotherhood, showed at the Academy in 1851 “The Woodman’s Daughter,” “Mariana in the Moated Grange,” and “The Return of the Dove to the Ark,” all of which were as frank in their Pre-Raphaelitism as any of the previous year’s canvases, and all of which were greeted with even more vehement disapproval by the literary custodians of the popular taste. Every possible kind of misrepresentation of the aims of the young painter and his friends was employed to discredit their efforts, all sorts of base motives were imputed to them; ridicule, specious argument, and insult were used in turn to drive them from the course they had deliberately chosen. Appeals were even made to the Academy to have the pictures, round which this controversy was raging, removed summarily from the exhibition as things unfit to be set before the eyes of the public. But fortunately the courage of the Brotherhood was proof against everything which the opposition could do, and neither abuse nor threats had any effect. Yet Millais at the time suffered for his principles; paintings which had been commissioned were thrown upon his hands, and his pictures almost ceased to be saleable. He had every proof that his Pre-Raphaelitism was commercially a mistake and that, if he persisted, the absolute marring of his career as a popular painter, was more than likely, yet, so stubborn was his conviction that he made no change in either his principles or his practice.
Happily, as time went on, the position of affairs began to improve; the opposition exhausted itself by excess of violence, and able champions of the movement took up the cudgels in defence of the young artists. One of the most authoritative of these champions was Ruskin, who found in this apparently forlorn hope infinite possibilities of artistic progress, and whose declaration that the Pre-Raphaelites were laying “the foundations of a school of art nobler than the world has seen for three hundred years” generously expressed his sentiments towards the Brotherhood. He took the trouble to study their art, and to analyse their motives, so that he based his advocacy not upon vague sympathy but upon real understanding of artistic principles which were sane and sound enough to satisfy even his exacting demand for purity of æsthetic purpose. That the ultimate success of Pre-Raphaelitism was due to his energetic interposition cannot, of course, be claimed—the boldness and tenacity of the artists who had adopted the new creed had more to do with the improvement which was brought about in the popular attitude—but Ruskin’s counter attack upon the critics had a valuable effect, and undoubtedly helped greatly to open the eyes of the public.
(Manchester Art Gallery)
As an example of the quiet and unforced sentiment which characterises so many of the pictures which Millais painted, this delightful composition deserves particular consideration. It has a certain severity of design and solemnity of manner, but in its suggestion of the sadness of autumn there is no trace of morbid sentimentality and no kind of theatrical effect. The picture is a sort of allegory expressed with exquisite tenderness, and with a simple frankness of manner which is especially persuasive.
