298 The Evolution of Art. 



Tickler in that remarkable symposium on nature and art 

 which is one of the most pleasing of all the Noctes Am- 

 brosianas : " Who planted those trees by that river-side ? 

 Art ! "Who pruned them ? Art ! Who gave room to their 

 great arms to span that roaring chasm ? Art ! Who 

 reared yon edifice on the cliff? Art! Is that a hermit's 

 cell? Art scooped it out of the living stone. Is that an 

 oratory? Art smoothed the floor for the knee of the peni- 

 tent. Are the bones of the holy slumbering in that ceme- 

 tery ? Art changed the hollow rock into a tomb, and when 

 the dead saint was laid into the sepulchre, Art joined its 

 music with the torrent's roar, and the mingled anthem 

 rose to the stars which Art had numbered." 



When we contemplate the numberless seons during which 

 our progenitors lived and walked among the most majestic 

 scenes of Nature, and remember that none of the great di- 

 visions of the fine arts have flourished much beyond a score 

 of centuries, we must admit that it is in the growth and 

 development of human art that the great elements of 

 progress have found their most efficient exposition. 



The relation of art to Nature is, in great part, that of an 

 interpreter. " Art performs the same office for the mind," 

 says Jarvis, " that speech does for the ear. It is a variety 

 of language, sometimes requiring sound, as in music, for its 

 alphabet ; form, as in sculpture ; and form and color com- 

 bined, as in painting." From the picture-writing of the 

 earlier Egyptians to the slave-ship of Turner, the one object 

 of the artist is to communicate his new thought to the ob- 

 server. Century after century, mankind lacking this inter- 

 pretation have groped blindly along, entangling themselves 

 more and more in the complex web of human passion and 

 desire, until at great epochs the great interpreter has arisen 

 who has sung the song, builded the temple, painted the 

 picture, carved the statue, or written the poem which has 

 riven the cloud of ignorance and engraved his name among 

 the great artists of his century. In the broadest sense, all 

 such are artists. Whoever creates, whether in the field of 

 fancy, art, science, religion, statecraft, or war; whoever 

 shows a new method, discloses a new beauty, contributes a 

 new impulse to his fellow, is an artist. 



The poorly-equipped peasant walks, perhaps, for thirty 

 years beneath a midnight sky and never looks higher than 

 the low thatched roof of his cabin. Whoever points him to 

 the glittering pageantry above and reveals to him the 



