HE most useful as well as the most ornamental devices which have sprung from the exercise of human ingenuity have all been founded upon the varied and beautiful creations which Nature has presented to us. It is not within the limits of human power to create, but from the impressions made upon the mind an unlimited variety of combinations may be formed. By the mental kaleidoscope an infinite change of form is produced by the re-arrangement of a few simple elements of beauty. The ideal head of the Grecian sculptures is but a refined reproduction of the lines of grace and beauty which the observant artists had seen in, and selected from, the intellectual features of the educated Athenians. Architecture, too, has liberally borrowed from the perfections of the human form. In the symmetry of the Ionic columns, and in the graceful strength and grouped elegance of the Caryatides, we trace the best proportions of the perfect woman; and in the flowing beauty of their ornamentations we may discover a reproduction of some of those caprices which are the spontaneous growth of the female mind. Architecture has no less liberally borrowed its styles and ornaments from other natural sources: from the arched cavern and the bowery forest tradition draws the form of the Egyptian temple and the Gothic fane. The chalice-like flower of the lotus of the Nile ornaments the columns of Luxor; the acanthus foliage decorates those of Corinth; and in numerous other instances the artist has sought to weave the simplicity of vegetable forms into the texture of his work, for the purpose of insuring a general character of lightness and elegance.
Whether the ancient potter selected the shapes of his fictile manufactures from the foliage of the forests of his land has been frequently discussed. It is sufficient, at present, to know that the elegant curves of the Athenian and Etrurian vases, which have through all periods been regarded as beautiful, owe this high appreciation to the simple fact that they are true to the lines which Nature has herself adopted. The true is always beautiful, and in whatever form it may address itself to the mind, it exerts over it an uncontrollable power for good. The impulses of Nature are ever in the direction of perfection, and we find, even in the exercise of the mysterious physical forces which bind the atoms of matter into a mass, that a constant tendency is exhibited towards an arrangement which shall observe the utmost symmetry. In the inorganic world we have crystalline forms exhibiting an obedience to the most perfect geometrical laws; and in organic creation—from the lowly lichen to the stateliest tree, from the infusorial inhabitants of a drop of water up to man—we have molecule combining with molecule in a myriad ways, but in all of them producing results which charm by their adaptation to circumstances, and in the perfection of every organ.
The efforts of man to convey to the canvas the resemblance of humanity—to impress, by the agency of a few colours upon his tablet, a reflection of the mental operation as it is seen “breathing through the face” in love and sympathy, or disturbing the features with agony or sorrow—is but an exalted effort of that desire which moves the entire race to copy the phenomena of Nature as they present themselves to our senses. It is the prevailing character, and, indeed, the distinguishing feature, of the human race, that it delights in imitation: the child in its play, and the man of talent in his studio, are equally exemplifications of this fact. Man has ever gone to Nature for his inspirations. If we examine the rude productions of the savage who is awaking from his merely animal existence, and over whom mind is beginning to assert its power, we discover that his first impulses are to gleam from the organized forms around him such objects as he conceives will add something to the adornment of his body. When he commences to produce any of those aids to existence which are the earliest efforts of technical art, we still see he rudely attempts to copy some familiar natural form. Whether we select from Greece “those faultless productions whose very fragments are the despair of modern art,” the almost breathing marbles of Phydias—whether we take the sun-baked pottery of ancient Egypt or of Central America, the “art-manufactures” of a primitive people, or those manifestations of an educated taste which Greece, Rome, and modern Europe afford, we shall find that in all alike the effort to imitate the works of Nature is the prevailing tendency. And, beyond this, we shall learn, too, that where the simple beauties of Nature have been approached—seldom have they been realised—the art-production has become the glory of the age and the boast of the country to which it belongs. We sometimes find that human intellect, proud of its comparatively high achievements, quits that almost stern simplicity which distinguishes Nature, and aspires to produce effects by violent contrasts and glaring characteristics; but the result is invariably the fate of Dædalus, whose flight on waxen wings was punished by a fearful fall. The departure from Nature in the works of art marks, like a widespreading mildew, the decay of nations; and this is readily accounted for. As good taste invariably indicates a feeling of the presence of that intellectual beauty,
“The awful shadow of some unseen power,”
which consecrates all that it shines upon, and gains an ascendancy over the gross sensualities of life, so a departure from it exhibits the operations of those feelings which have their origin in the depravity of the race.
Our artists and our artisans have sought busily over the surface of the earth for subjects on which to labour. Herb, shrub, and tree, leaf and flower, have been copied to ornament the works of their hands. The sea has yielded its organic forms, and the workman has sought, amidst the finny tribes and the shelly wonders of the great deep, for subjects to aid his decorative designs. The insect, the bird, and the beast have equally ministered to the exercise of fancy; and the inventive powers of the imaginative have not unfrequently attempted to blend the three kingdoms of Nature in one device, in the eager search for that novelty which generally gains a host of admirers. Leigh Hunt with truth exclaims, “We know not a millionth part of the wonders of this beautiful world;” and it is but slowly that science is discovering to us new subjects of admiration; but though slowly, science is steadily doing so. The truths of science are constantly serving the progress of art, and the more we free the labours of the philosopher and the experimentalist from the technicalities which are too frequently only retained to give a false appearance of learning, the more certain will be the advantages to be derived by the student of beauty from the labours of stern induction. The union of Vulcan and Venus tends to the diffusion of peace and happiness.
Although Natural History is found giving its aid to almost every division of ornamental art, there is one branch of it, Geology, which has rendered but little service to the artist. Yet here is a vast field, spread over an earth-wide space and comprehending almost infinite time, teeming with forms the result of the most varied organizations, which has scarcely yet been touched. This arises from the circumstance that the study of organic remains is itself a science of very recent date. Palæontology is but of yesterday; yet it has achieved important results. The study of the forms of animal life which existed in the earth previous to the creation of the present races which inhabit it is replete with the highest interest. As Astronomy penetrates the mysteries of space, so Geology pierces the arcana of time. The rock formations tell of the earth’s mutations, and the remains which they hold, as histories of former ages, show that the beings which possessed the earth as a dwelling were as perfectly adapted to their conditions of existence as any living examples of creative intelligence can be. Nor were they wanting in beauty. A study of the cabinets of the curious—or of the metropolitan and many local museums—would at once carry conviction to the mind, that amidst the host of fossil remains with which we are now acquainted is to be found a new variety of forms admirably adapted, by their symmetry and general character, for the purposes of ornament.
It will be found that stored in the rocks are creations which lived and breathed ere yet the great mutations had occurred which give to the earth its present physical features. From the coral-like structures of the Laurentian rocks—probably the earliest evidences existing of any organized structure—we may pursue our studies over the infinite variety of form which the Cambrian and the Silurian rocks preserve, until we arrive at that period when the Old Red Sandstone sea, teeming with life, washed the rock of that archipelago which has grown into the British Isles. Advancing to the study of yet more recent rocks, we may select the inhabitants of inland seas and the immense savannahs of an early world, which for delicacy of structure and elegance of design are not to be surpassed by any of the productions of organic life now existing. Here, then, is a yet unploughed field from which the art-manufacturer may cull fresh forms. We can only direct attention to the source, and give a few illustrations in proof of our assertions: having done this, we must leave the industrious artist to search for himself in geological cabinets and palæontological plates for those forms which may suit his purposes and please his taste. With the exception of two highly imaginative pictures by John Martin, of “The Country of the Iguanodon,” illustrating Dr. Mantell’s “Wonders of Geology,” and “The Book of the Great Sea-Dragons,” by Mr. Thomas Hawkins, in which a realisation of the condition of the earth during the period when it was the abode of those monstrous reptiles whose fossilised bones tell the tale of their ferocity and power, is attempted and ably conceived, art has not ventured into this abyss of time.
Whether the hydras of superstition or the griffins and dragons which are preserved in heraldic bearings are dim outshadowings of those ancient days, preserved like a myth amongst men, it were vain to speculate, although the speculation is fraught with interest. It is, however, curious that we find those strange remains of the old world linked to superstitions which have their origin since the introduction of Christianity.