all arts are one, howe’er distributed they stand;
verse, tone, shape, color, form, are fingers on one hand.
w. w. story.
hile i make no pretense of vying with the shops of bric-à-brac and curios—it has been said the modern house has come to resemble a magazine of bric-à-brac—yet, somehow, i find a great many objects which would be classed under this definition have gradually drifted or floated in, and have become as much of an artistic and companionable feature of the house as the paintings on the walls. especially since the arrival of my ship, when several large bales with cabalistic marks and lettering proved on opening to be a veritable repository of ancient oriental workmanship and design.
i can conceive of no more hideous nightmare than that which must haunt one who is obliged to live in intimate companionship with many of the so-called “ornaments” 106that dealers and the fashion of the hour force upon one, and that, in one guise or another, must ever be snarling and snapping at the unfortunate possessor. littered up with all sorts of outré and unmeaning knick-knacks, the home at once becomes a place to flee from; and instead of the spirit of quiet elegance and congruity which should prevail, there reigns a pandemonium of disconformity. yet a certain amount of bric-à-brac is not only admissible but requisite to the decorative atmosphere of the interior. its effect depends upon the choosing. given a correct eye for color and form and a natural feeling for harmony, sir william temple’s sentence is pertinent, “the measure of choosing well is whether a man likes what he has chosen.” like my paintings, rugs, and etchings, so also my porcelains, bronzes, arms, and armor are pleasing objects for the eye to rest upon; and, ranged upon the shelves and about the apartments, minister equally in the expression and variety they lend to the surroundings.
i rejoice in my collection of arms and armor. many rare antiques from the stamboul bazaars my ship contained—lovely inlaid persian guns, exquisitely mounted albanian pistols, antique rapiers, daggers, and swords, ancient kandjars and yataghans, with scabbards of repoussé silver, of velvet, of copper, of shagreen and ymen leather; 107with handles of jade, agate, and ivory, constellated with garnets, turquoises, corals, and girasols; long, narrow, large, curved; of all forms, of all times, of all countries; from the damascene blade of the pasha, incrusted with verses of the koran in letters of gold, to the coarse knife of the camel-driver. how many zeibecs and arnauts, how many beys and effendis, how many omrahs and rajahs have not stripped their girdles to form this precious arsenal which would have rendered décamps mad with joy![7]
7. gautier. constantinople—les bazars.
there are, moreover, glistening helmets and coats-of-mail, corselets, maces, spears and hauberks, battle-axes and halberds, bucklers of tortoise-shell and damascene steel—all the implements of the ferocious ingenuity of islam. on the blue blade of this magnificent yataghan, still keen and glittering, its ivory handle inlaid with topaz and turquoise, is graven the number of heads it has severed. these cruel swords, now crossed so peacefully, were once crossed in savage strife and brandished in hate upon the battle-field amid the blare of mussulman trumpets and the shouts of murderous janizaries. often, as the sunlight strikes the lustrous steel, do they seem to leap into life and flash anew in remembrance 108of the battle-cry of mohammed. though mostly of great age, my arms and armor are all in a state of perfect preservation. for mere antiquity in art objects or curios is not desirable in itself. age has its charms unquestionably, but it becomes a valuable factor only when accompanied by beauty. where an object loses its pristine beauty through time, age is a detriment rather than a desideratum. with many classes of art objects time heightens their attraction, or at least does not detract from it. in all such, age is a desirable quantity. to be old is generally to be rare; but an object may be rare and still be undesirable. objects that are extremely sensitive to wear are usually worthless when old. others, like tapestries and oriental textiles, are improved by use, and gain in richness and value through age. an ancient textile or article of bric-à-brac is only desirable when, added to intrinsic beauty of texture, color, form, or design, it preserves its youth in its antiquity, or acquires additional attractiveness through time.
naturally, my ship contained many fine stuffs and hangings—old flemish, french, and italian tapestries, embroideries from broussa and salonica, spanish brocades, and brocades from borhampor and ahmedabad, with some priceless ancient altar cloths, chasubles, and dalmaticas i had long 109desired to possess. yet with all these and other acquisitions, now that the bloom of first possession is brushed off, may i declare without prevarication that i am fully satisfied? increase of appetite but grows on what it feeds. collecting begets collecting, the desire for possession constantly increasing, ever goading one on to unrest in the quest of the unprocurable. how much one misses with a little knowledge, and how much one gains! the love for beauty too often proves a bane. even a love for books is as dangerous as a love for bric-à-brac or art objects—the book in the end becoming an art object. gradually, from the ordinary editions one passes to the good editions, while from the good it is but a step to the rare, and the seething maelstrom of book-madness. my ship brought me many of my decorations; my books, with few exceptions, i must procure myself.
but though sometimes productive of regrets, no one should be without a hobby, or hobbies. “have not the wisest of men in all ages, not excepting solomon himself—have they not had their hobby-horses?” asks sterne. “the man without a hobby may be a good citizen and an honest fellow,” observes george dawson, in his altogether lovely volume, the pleasures of angling, “but he can have but few golden 110threads running through the web or woof of his monotonous existence.” a hobby is the best of preceptors, and rides straight to the mark. from a good collection of porcelains one may study the chinese dynasties, and prepare himself for an asiatic tour by a study of his rugs. unconsciously the collector of arms and armor becomes a student of the history of numerous peoples and an eye-witness of many of the noted battles of the world. were i desirous to thoroughly familiarize myself with the history of the american red man i should first proceed to collect indian implements of the chase and war, supplementing these by close study in the fertile field of literature pertaining to the indians. but my bows and arrows i should shoot first; they would be the guide to the target.
one of the essays of elia has demonstrated the fallacy of the adage “enough is as good as a feast.” in decorations it were a scant feast without the endless form and color supplied by the potter’s art. of all art objects, a truly fine piece of old porcelain is amongst the most beautiful. in color it may outshine a precious stone; in form, rival that of a beautiful object of nature herself. its very frailty and frangibility intensify its charm, and when possessing both grace of contour and enchantment of color it becomes an object of beauty by the 111canons of the most perfect art, exciting the profoundest and purest pleasure—profound pleasure to all who behold it, supreme pleasure to him who possesses it.
i speak of the finer examples of oriental ceramics, though i grant there is much to admire in some of the italian soft-paste porcelains, notably the lovely capo di monte productions of the first period and the fascinating doccia terraglias. royal worcester, despite its finish, always looks new, and sèvres wares i invariably associate with a gilded french salon and crimson brocatelle. these may be of excellent design and highly wrought decoration, representing infinite labor, skill, and minutiæ of detail; but they seldom seem effective compared with the handiwork of the oriental. for the most part european ceramics may not be included under prof. grant allen’s term, “decorative decoration.” among oriental porcelains, it is well known that articles produced to-day may not be compared with the same class produced in the past. the secret of the marvelous old glazes has been lost, like the secret of the famed old toledo blades, and the craft of the ancient metal workers. it is the remote celestial we admire and revere.
apparently, my ship must have touched some of the out-of-the-way ports of holland, 112that paradise of blue and white, for her collection of ceramics was rich in this form of oriental porcelains. it has been asserted that the love for blue and white is a fashion, a craze that can not endure. but fine blue and white from its very nature is beyond the caprice of fashion, and must be enduring for all time. what other blending approximates so closely to nature? it is but a celestial reflex of the firmament—the most beautiful of all sky formations, the summer cumulus cloud. a coolness of color it has possessed by no other form of porcelain unless by the incomparable old solid blue and blue-green enamels.
not that my ship’s stores were limited to the blue and white so lavishly distributed among the appreciative dutch burghers by the fleets of a former day. there were also many chrysanthema that could only have been gathered from the classic gardens of the celestial himself—specimens from the periods of wan-li, kia-tsing, ching-te, ching-hoa, siouen-te, and yet still earlier rulers of the great dynasty of the mings; diaphanous egg-shells of the reign of yong-tching; kien-long glazes fabricated in imitation of the color and texture of old bronzes; delicate sea-green céladons; solid deep iridescent reds; and frail translucent white pastes—marvels of the furnaces of the past. it would require a jacquemart or a 113dana to describe them. however alien races may regard the mongolian and his flowing pigtail, there can be but one opinion of the forms and colors crystallized in these his airy inspirations. matchless stands the ancient chinese potter’s art. the world might find a substitute for his tea; his finer vases, jars, and bottles, and his fantasies in storks and dragons are unique this side of paradise. from the ordinary blue of nankin to the “blue of the head of buddha,” the “blue of heaven,” the “blue of the sky after rain,” the “lapis lazuli,” and the priceless “turquoise,” my blue porcelains are a study of the clouds and the sky.
blue! “the life of heaven,” the hue of ocean, the violet’s joy; type of faith and fidelity, it has remained for the almond-eyed molder of clay to render thy beauty tangible. when i admire the hues of a chinese vase or bottle, i remember that each color is regarded as a symbol; the fundamental colors being five, and corresponding to the elements (water, fire, wood, metals, earth), and to the cardinal points of the compass. red belongs to fire, and corresponds to the south; black to water and the north; green to wood and the east; white to metal and the west. dark blue corresponds to the sky, and yellow to the earth; blue belongs to the east. blue is combined with white, red with 114black, and dark blue with yellow. the dragon, which in the chinese zodiac corresponds to our aries, also personifies water, while a circle personifies fire.[8]
8. jacquemart. histoire de la céramique.
of the bloom of the peach my ship contained no example, so factitious a value has been set upon this color by pretended connoisseurs. in place of the peach-blow, i found gleaming among my ceramics a much more beautiful form of opalescent porcelain—two vases of the extremely rare “topaz,” brilliant as the gem itself, and of which these are unique examples. did i say my rugs supplied the rarest colors? i had forgotten my old bottle of bleu de ciel and my ancient vase of sang de bœuf!
the bronzes my ship contained differed essentially from the generality of those i had previously known. apart from a few fine specimens enriched with gold and silver, and a superb figure of buddha, they consisted for the most part of a singularly beautiful collection of ancient tripods, temple-censers and incense-burners, with dark patine and antique-green surfaces, and engraved ornamentation and ornamentation in relief. the largest incense urn occupies a prominent place in the hall, and often curls its fragrant clouds through the mouth of its 115dragon. i light it when i read a kempis and the religio medici.
yet the stores of my ship would have been incomplete without an old hall-clock that marks the time for me. an old dutch inlaid hall-clock of all clocks for symmetry, beauty, and sonority! it measures rather than accelerates the flight of the hours; and with its quarter chimes, its deep hour-bells, its moons, and its calendars, it punctuates not only the moments and the hours, but chronicles the passage of the months and the years. i need not consult a watch for the time, or a calendar for the day of the month and the phases of the moon—the musical voice and the index-fingers of my clock proclaim them for me.
among my most valued curios is a superb violoncello. a glance shows that it has been long and tenderly caressed by the virtuoso who once possessed it and developed its melodious voice. even its ancient case and the green baize of the lining attest the care it has received. scarcely a scratch is visible on the lustrous wood, and its curves are as harmoniously proportioned as those of a hebe. there is a rich, mellow tone to the wood, and the bow draws tones no less rich and mellow from its deep caverns of sound. though there are no traces of the maker’s name or the date of manufacture, the lovely glaze of the 116spruce top and maple back at once proclaim its antiquity. beneath the strings the rosin has left a fine mahogany stain; and there are worn spots on the hoops where it has been pressed by a loving knee. the grain of the top is as straight as if it had been molded. at the base of the gracefully turned scroll, in old english script, is carved an “h,” its only mark.
i find the same difference between a violin and a violoncello as there exists between a piano and an organ. the difference of tone between individual violoncellos is, if anything, more marked than in most other musical instruments. there could be nothing more sonorous and more delicately shaded than the magnificent baritone of my old violoncello as it interprets the cavatine by raff, or chants the andante by mozart. sometimes, methinks, it gives forth a still richer consonance when it renders stradella’s grave kirchen-arïe; or, indeed, whenever noble church music of any kind is drawn from its resonant depths. then its voice seems almost human, and the strings quiver apparently of their own accord. is it fancy, after all? are not its strings sometimes swept by unseen fingers—the tender touch of the warden of barchester, good old septimus harding—who possessed it in years gone by; who so 117often found solace in its companionship from the tyranny of the archdeacon and the bickerings of barchester close! i almost find myself, like the warden, passing an imaginary bow over an imaginary viol when annoyed or harassed away from home, so strong is its personality and so soothing its companionship.[9] trollope has never been sufficiently appreciated, it appears to me; and among his best works is his simplest one. the character of the warden, so exemplary and yet so vacillating, the old men of the hospital who love him so tenderly, the crafty and worldly archdeacon, and, withal, the mellow ecclesiastical light that pervades the churchly precincts of the close, form a picture beautiful in its quiet coloring and simplicity. it is far less a novel than an idyl, and as such it should be read and must be regarded.
9. the warden; barchester towers.—anthony trollope.
music and flowers! the one suggests and complements the other. the home should never be without either—they are its brightest sunshine, next to lovely woman’s smile and the laughter of a child. averaged throughout the year, a dollar a week is a modest, reasonable outlay for a man of limited means to expend for the luxury 118of flowers in the house. every petal holds a beautiful thought, so long as the flower is beautiful and the petals are fresh. even a few green leaves with a single fresh blossom or two are a solace to the eye and a balm to the mind.
