Thursday, Nov. 27, 1873.
Dear Sir—I should have answered your letter sooner had I been more master of my time. I am divided between my readiness to serve you and my embarrassment as to how to satisfy your request concerning my past life of which you already possess the outline. I find on looking at Men of the Time that the facts there given under my name are copied from the Illustrated London News, to which I furnished some such skeleton to accompany the customary portrait on my election to membership in the Royal Academy. They are accurate, barring misprints, such as calling my old friend Robert Fleury, Robert Henry. I hardly know what I can add without egotistic display to this account of a life in which, whilst there has been, and, as I hope, still is, steady growth and development, there had been no peripateia.
I scarcely have any earlier recollection than a passionate wish and a firm purpose to be an artist, and having become one, I have never failed or swerved from my deep desire to leave behind me something in Art which should be not ignoble in its aim, and in which Form and Style, the highest attributes of Form, should be chiefly sought, and I may own to a hope, which has not been much fed by experience, that I might in some degree disseminate my artistic faith in this country where the seed is little and the soil rocky, and where what is to me vital and essential in Art is generally either repudiated or held a matter of obsolete dilettantism.
The only apparent change in my work, the change from mediævalism to classicism, is in reality no change but only a development.
The love of mediævalism, the youth of Art, which is almost invariably found in youths, was strengthened and nourished in me partly by an early love for Florence and Tuscan art in which all grace is embodied, and partly by the example of my master Steinle, for whom I had, and have retained, a great reverence, and who was fervently mediæval. For a long time I treated none but subjects from the Italian Middle Ages—going to history, Dante, Boccaccio, and preferring in Shakespeare the Italian plays. (I have sometimes wondered, by the bye, that the atmosphere of Faust and the Niebelungen Lied and the worship of Cornelius, in which, as a German student, I lived for many years, should really have left so little mark on my work.)
By degrees, however, my growing love for Form made me intolerant of the restraint and exigencies of costume, and led me more and more, and finally, to a class of subjects, or, more accurately, to a set of conditions, in which supreme scope is left to pure artistic qualities, in which no form is imposed upon the artist by the tailor, but in which every form is made obedient to the conception of the design he has in hand. These conditions classic subjects afford, and as vehicles, therefore, of abstract form, which is a thing not of one time but of all time, these subjects can never be obsolete, and though to many they are a dead letter, they can never be an anachronism.
But you did not ask me for a profession of faith. You see, meanwhile, that though shifted to another channel the stream of my artistic life has remained the same.
The dominant personal influence of my early development is that of my dear master Steinle, under whom I worked at Frankfort for several years. His stamp is still upon me, and I owe him a debt of gratitude for guidance, restraint, and upholding in the search of whatever is elevated, and for example of steadfastness and singleness of heart which I cannot ever repay.
One word more in candour. I have written these few lines because, unless my memory deceives me, you have written about Art with a sense at least of its place and dignity—a grace too rare amongst English critics; but I do not therefore accept entire solidarity with your standpoint, with which in some respects I am much at variance.
If there is any special point concerning which you care to inquire I shall be happy to answer.—I am, dear sir, faithfully yours,