But richness of color superadded to accuracy of drawing cannot secure the highest place in Art; and here I approach a more harmonious topic. Expression, or, in other words, the sentiment, the thought, the soul, which inspires the work, is not less important than that which animates the printed page or beams from the human countenance. The mere imitation of inanimate Nature belongs to the humbler schools of Art. The skill of Zeuxis, which drew birds to peck at the grapes on his canvas, and the triumph of Parrhasius, who deceived his rival by a painted curtain, cannot compare with those pictures which seem articulate with the voices of humanity. The highest form of Art is that which represents man in the highest scenes and under the influence of the highest sentiments. And that quality or characteristic called expression is the highest element of Art. It is this which gives to Raphael, who yields to Titian in color, such acknowledged eminence. His soul was brimming with sympathies, which his cunning hand kept alive in immortal pictures. Eye, mouth, countenance, the whole composition, has life,—not the life of mere imitation, copied from common Nature, but elevated, softened, refined, idealized. Beholding his works, we forget the colors in which they are robed; we gaze at living forms, and look behind the painted screen of flesh into living souls. A genius so largely endowed with the Promethean fire has been not unaptly called Divine.
It was said by Plato that nothing is beautiful which is not morally good. But this is not a faultless proposition. Beauty is of all kinds and degrees; and it exists everywhere beneath the celestial canopy, in us and about us. It is that completeness or finish which gives pleasure to the mind. It is found in the color of a flower, and the accuracy of geometry,—in an act of self-sacrifice, and the rhythm of a poem,—in the virtues of humanity, and the marvels of the visible world,—in the meditations of a solitary soul, and the stupendous mechanism of civil society. There is beauty where there is neither life nor morality; but the highest form of beauty is in the perfection of the moral nature.
The highest beauty of expression is a grace of Christian art. It flows from sensibilities, affections, and struggles peculiar to the Christian character. It breathes purity, gentleness, meekness, patience, tenderness, peace. It abhors pride, vain-glory, selfishness, intemperance, lust, war. How celestial, compared with that which dwells in perfection of form or color only! The beauty of ancient art found congenial expression in the faultless form of Aphrodite rising from the sea,[175] and in the majestic mien of Juno, with snow-white arms, and royal robes, seated on a throne of gold,[176]—not in the soul-lit countenance of her who watched the infant in his manger-cradle, and throbbed with a mother's heart beneath the agonies of the cross.
Allston was a Christian artist; and the beauty of expression lends uncommon charm to his colors. All that he did shows purity, sensibility, refinement, delicacy, feeling, rather than force. His genius was almost feminine. As he advanced in years, this was more remarked. His pictures became more and more instinct with those sentiments which form the true glory of Art. Early in life he had a partiality for pieces representing banditti; but this taste does not appear in his later works. And when asked if he would undertake to fill the vacant panels in the rotunda of the Capitol at Washington, should Congress determine to order such a work, he is reported to have said, in memorable words, "I will paint only one subject, and choose my own: No battle-piece!"[177] This incident, so honorable to the Artist, is questioned; but it is certain that on more than one occasion he avowed a disinclination to paint battle-pieces. I am not aware if he assigned any reason. Is it too much to suppose that his refined artistic sense, recognizing expression as the highest beauty of Art, unconsciously judged the picture? The ancient Greek epigram, describing the Philoctetes of Parrhasius, an image of hopeless wretchedness and consuming grief, rises to a like sentiment, when it says, with mild rebuke,—
"We blame thee, painter, though thy skill commend;
'Twas time his sufferings with himself should end."[178]
In another tone, and with cold indifference to human suffering, Lucretius sings, in often-quoted verse, that it is pleasant, when beyond the reach of danger, to behold the shock of contending armies:—
"Suave etiam belli certamina magna tueri."[179]
In like heathen spirit, it may be pleasant to behold a battle-piece in Art. But this is wrong. Admitting the calamitous necessity of war, it can never be with pleasure—it cannot be without sadness unspeakable—that we survey its fiendish encounter. The artist of purest aim, sensitive to these emotions, withdraws naturally from the field of blood, confessing that no scene of battle finds a place in the highest Art,—that man, created in the image of God, can never be pictured degrading, profaning, violating that sacred image.
Were this sentiment adopted in literature as in Art, war would be shorn of its false glory. Poet, historian, orator, all should join with the Artist in saying, No battle-piece! Let them cease to dwell, except with pain and reprobation, upon those dismal exhibitions of human passion where the life of friends is devoted to procure the death of enemies. No pen, no tongue, no pencil, by praise or picture, can dignify scenes from which God averts His eye. It is true, man has slain his fellow-man, armies have rushed in deadly shock against armies, the blood of brothers has been spilled. These are tragedies which History enters sorrowfully, tearfully, in her faithful record; but this generous Muse with too attractive colors must not perpetuate the passions from which they sprang or the griefs they caused. Be it her duty to dwell with eulogy and pride on all that is magnanimous, lovely, beneficent; let this be preserved by votive canvas and marble also. But No battle-piece!