How often will you find in the room of the scholar, the studio of the artist, the picture or bust of some old master in art or letters, as if the occupant were conscious of the incentive such presence offered to his own efforts—the guardian genius of the spot.
In the study of one of the old divines might have been seen a painted eye, gazing forever down upon him, to render him sensible of the presence of the All-Seeing—to stamp the 'Thou God seest me' upon the very tablets of his heart.
A child is not so readily tempted into sin when surrounded by pure and beautiful imagery, or when gentle loving eyes are looking down upon him. On the other hand, the walls of the degraded are lined with amorous and obscene images, that vicious habits and debased tastes may find their suitable incentives.
A window shade bearing the design of a little girl issuing, basket in hand, from the door of a humble cottage, to relieve the wants of a poor blind beggar, will certainly take its place among the early developments of the children growing up under its influence, and in their simple charity they may be found, basket in hand, looking out for real or fancied beggars. Such lessons are never lost. In a parlor which I often frequent is a picture of a Sabbath scene: an aged grand-sire is seated by a table on which lies an open Bible, a bright-eyed boy is opposite, his father and mother on either side, a little shy girl is on the knee of the old man, all are listening reverently to the holy Word of God, books and a vase of gay flowers are on the table, green boughs fill the great old-fashioned fireplace. The whole picture wears an air of serenity and calm happiness, and is an impressive plea that we 'remember and keep holy the Sabbath day'—and we verily believe that such a picture will do more to influence our children to love the Sabbath, than any amount of parental restraint or lectures on moral obligation.
There is another picture in the same quiet room: 'The Mother's Dream.' She is worn with watching, and lies dreaming beside the couch of the child. Rays of light open a bright pathway into the skies, while an angel is bearing the spirit child along it up to heaven. We think such a picture is worth more to familiarize childhood with death and resurrection, and will leave a sweeter and more lasting impression upon the young soul, than the most learned dissertation or simplest explanation.
Landscape painting exerts a mellowing influence, and leads to the observation and love of nature, while historical pictures stimulate research, and nerve the mind to deeds of heroism and virtue.
The influence of pictures in forming character and shaping the course of life is illustrated with peculiar power in the history of the sons of a quiet family in the interior, who all insisted upon going to sea. The parents were grieved that none of their boys would remain at home to care for the homestead, and be the comfort of their declining years. They expressed their disappointment to a friend then on a visit to them, and wondered what could have induced the boys, one after the other, to embrace a life so full of storm and danger. Directly over the open fireplace hung a picture of a vessel with fluttering, snowy sails, tossing and rocking amid the bright, green, yeasty waves. The friend saw it, read the mystery, and quietly inquired how long it had been there. 'Since we commenced housekeeping,' was the unconscious reply. Not wishing to wound them, he was silent, and concealed his thoughts in his own breast, but the solution of the choice of life in the absent ones was clear enough to him: that picture had sent them off, one after another, to sea.
How careful we should then be in surrounding youth and childhood with pure, elevating objects of art, as means of constant home-culture! We know we shall be told, 'This is all very good, but we cannot afford it.' Let us reason together. Can you not deduct something from your elaborate furniture, your expensive dress, and devote it to models, lithographs, or paintings? Subtract but the half from these luxuries and devote the sum to designs of art, and you will contribute doubly to the attractiveness and pleasantness of your home. Where we cannot hope to possess the original masterpiece, we may have photographic or lithographic copies, which are within the compass of very humble means. You will freely toss away five dollars in useless embroidery or surplus furniture, and it would buy you a lithograph of Raphael's immortal picture, giving the results of a whole age of artistic culture, or a photograph of Cheney's Madonna and Child, bearing the very spirit of the original, or a plaster cast of noble statuary, the original of which could not be obtained for any namable sum—and yet you say you cannot afford works of art!
There is surely nothing you can afford better than to make your home attractive, and to introduce therein every available means of mental and moral culture. If you cannot afford to make home lovely, others will succeed in making dangerous places attractive to your children. There are spots enough kept light and picturesque, perilously fascinating to those whose homes boast no attractions. It will likely cost you far more in money, more surely in heart-anguish and sorrow, to have your children entertained in these places full of snares, where corrupt art lavishes her designs with unsparing hand, to vitiate the young imagination and debase the mind, than to exalt her in her chaste and ennobling power in the sanctuary of your homes, as one of the means of home-culture, stimulating to virtue and stamping the character with genuine worth.