resemblances. Here rests the symbolism of art. It is true, that in its earliest stage we may often trace one which is merely mental or conventional, for men love thus to represent what it is difficult for the mind clearly to grasp, but in its fulness it always educes this mysterious power. As the Greek Sculptor employed first a rude symbolism which he had borrowed from the Egyptian, so the Christian Painter began with one simply conventional, traces of which may still be seen in those rough etchings upon the walls of the Catacombs, and gradually developed that style which presents to us its fairest models, in the works of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. It was then that paintings were produced, which have given to Roman Christian Art all its eminence, and proved that under Christianity may spring works far nobler and higher than ever "pagan chisel" wrought. The workmen of that period were mighty intellects,--men whose genius seemed lit with a spark of Promethean fire. In all the ranges of literature we can find no conceptions grander than those which they wrought upon the canvas, and often, even poetry seems to falter where art might boldly tread. We think, with admiring wonder, upon the representation of Michael, the archangel, in Milton, with "brow intent and visage all inflamed;" but it is dimmed and pale when compared with the Michael of Perugino, who seems girt with the divine strength and beautiful in the majesty of truth. And where may we find a parallel for the Madonna of Raphael, with that face of tender beauty, such as comes to us sometimes in the dreams of childhood; or for the Prophet of Michael Angelo, who stands as the oracle of omnipotence, burdened with that mighty vision which breaks from the unveiled future.

Time has indeed dimmed their brightness, and softened their tone, and ages imbued with different ideas, have passed in procession before them. But their influence is still potent. Still there comes from them the same persuasive eloquence,-still the same calm, earnest voice. Everywhere does history attest the power of art, so that its condition has often furnished the cause and index to the progress of a people. The Greek believed that the forms of his art,-the temple and the statue, stamped on the popular mind the impress of their own harmonious development. And no great intellect, giving utterance by such forms as these to his deepest emotions, especially appealing to the imaginations of men, and reaching beyond, to the "deep foundations in which our nature is laid," has ever left the world as he found it. Surely it becomes us to pause and consider whether the age, in its splendid material development, is not overlooking a mighty moral agency, and to

study well the value of these works in the past and the condition which governs their influence.

The work in the Roman School of Christian Art, was a work of faith and devotion. It was inspired by a holy purpose, and was a record of the piety of the workman. In it were shrined his highest and best affections. To him, something more than a simple sense of beauty, something better than a clear conception of truth, was thought necessary. He could not turn back to old classic reproductions, when religion had placed such splendid ideals in his own mind and in his own heart. The same spirit which animates the highest walks of religious literature, became the inspiring principle of these works, and, indeed, we might better expect a noble Christian literature, from irreligious men, than a noble Christian Art, just as the intellect can be guided more easily at will into any channel than the feelings. Therefore, throughout all the art of this period, we may trace a continual aspiration. Everywhere, we may see the workings of high religious purpose. There is evidence of it, when the great master of all art wrote under the works of his pencil, Soli Deo gloria; and even Perugino placed in his hand, in his own portrait, a scroll, as if proclaiming his mission, inscribed Timete Deum. And when, to-day, we would trace the piety of the middle age, we look not to the policies of its states, or the condition of its church; not to its literature or its schools; but to its works of art. It is seen in the cathedral, rising like some great hymn of adoration, struck by a master hand. It is witnessed in every form and figure in those solemn paintings, which seem to fill even the cathedral itself with their majestic utterance.

And there is a law which governs the influence of all art, that one of its products shall have power to produce in the minds of others, in a greater or less degree, the same emotions which inspired or directed the workman. It is upon this that the religious influence of these works chiefly depends.

But beside their direct moral appeal, they were valuable in creating an affectionate imagination. They made this faculty the servitor of religious thought, and the power with which it may be employed in a development of man's religious character, all history attests. They placed before it ideals, which were glorified in the purpose by which they were formed. They filled it with images which would come back in the still hours of thought, and brought up conceptions which were hallowed by the choicest associations. For these were not by the men of the middle ages, to be approached with the cold eye of criticism, but

around them dim legends of beauty clustered, of those who had gathered from them new hope, and found inspirations leading them to a higher life.

They also contributed to extend a knowledge of Christianity. When its great facts and ideas were not as now everywhere diffused, they became the chief channel for their communication. The invention of printing, (which has undoubtedly operated in no slight degree to produce the decline in art,) is of a later period, and these became, in fact, the literature of the unlearned. But little knowledge could be derived by the people from the long disputes of the school-men, to which it would have been sad, indeed, if they had been left. And from the proud scholasticism of the age which gave no answer to their aspirations and longings, they would gladly turn to these works. They spoke to all, for no previous education is necessary to give force to their appeal. They were everywhere multiplied. They were printed upon banners—they were traced amid the illuminations of the window-they were carved upon cathedral walls. They gave conceptions such as are beyond the reach of ordinary minds, and embodied such visions of truth as are only revealed to genius, lifted on the wings of faith and love.

Their influence was especially potent in their adaptation to the age from which they emanated. If, since the Reformation, the European mind has been characterized by the predominance of the rational or scientific faculty, it was previously by the depth of its feeling and the boldness of its imagination. It is to these that art, in a great degree, makes its appeal. In a period which was gloomy and drear, their influence, moreover, was inspiring and cheerful. They did not contribute to produce a dread and sombre superstition, for they emanated from the bosom of the people, and all which in that age is sunny and gladdening centres about its art. Even around the dark stones of the Cathedral, were woven traceries of joyous beauty.

They were also of value in their reflex influence upon the workman. The mind is always greatly moulded by the design to which it is directed. The conceptions which he traced upon the canvas, had been wrought out in his own mind, with worshipful affection. He toiled,

"gaining, as he gave,

The life he imaged."

The greatest Painter of all time was of his age, the greatest moralist. Before the threatening lesson which was written in that grand conception of the Judgment upon the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, both Pope

and Prelate were awed. The pulpit and the forum were silent, but there came from thence a rebuke which they could not repress.

But the great masters of Christian Art belong to the past. Strange and varied influences, which are woven into the whole framework of modern history, have caused its decline. Yet, may we not trust that there is something better in store? We must remember that under Christianity, inspiration has gone out to Milton and Dante, to Mozart and Beethoven, to Raphael and Michael Angelo.

The future is not all dark. The stern and grand imagination, the deep and potent religious feeling, which characterize every act in Puritan history, rising from the cold iconoclasm of the past, shall yet produce forms of art, made splendid by a noble purpose, and radiant with the indwelling of truth.

TOWNSEND PRIZE POEM.

The Use made by Roman Christian Art, of Scripture
Characters.

VOL. XX.

BY CALVIN G. CHILD, NEW YORK CITY.

As, when adown the rocky, barren crags,
A tiny streamlet drags its little length,
And toiling onward, as it grows in strength,
Nestles and rests amid the reeds and flags;

Yet when the raindrops bring their tribute mite,
To store the garners of the idle stream,
Leaving its shady nook, its quiet dream,
It steals amid the grass glist'ning in light,

And rippling on, along its careless course,
It soon moves stilly from its rocky bed,
And 'mid the ledges, like a silver thread,
It winds the fountain of a river's source;

Then on, still ever onward, to the sea,
Unconscious whither, as it hurries by,
It ever dashes oceanward to die,
Calmly fulfilling its on destiny;

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So, when with trembling hope and heavy heart,
The mind toils feebly in the race of life,
With those who jostle by, in eager strife,
To gain the highest place or noblest part;

And when new conflicts rouse the hidden night,
Which to itself was all unknown before,

It boldly presses onward, more and more,
Until it plunges 'mid the fiercest fight.

And, as the river struggles toward the sea,
To lose itself amid its fellow streams,
So all our earnest toil and idle dreams
Join in the Ocean of Eternity.

Yet when the tide flows inward every day,
The river, as it seeks its former bed,
Runs upward toward its fountain head,
And toward its craggy home, a little way.

So when our thoughts run up the stream of time,
The mouldered towers and crumbling walls of yore,
Which stand far up the stream, along the shore,
Are present to us noble and sublime.

The grand old castles stand within our gaze,

Their builders gain the one reward they sought,
The mighty meed for which they bravely wrought,
Immortal honors in the future days.

e

As at the shrine of some blest saint, rid of his weight of care,
The pilgrim, ere he seeks his home, lingers for one more prayer—
So, rising from the eastern hills, steals the first ray of light
And lingers ere its fellow-beams burst on the quiet night.
It lingers-and the clustering fogs, which rest o'er brook and rill,
In misty volumes, struggle up along the slanting hill.
That murmuring voice which woos the stars hushes itself to rest,
While its bright loves grow pale and wan and sink into the west.
A distant hum of stirring sounds like drum beats far away,
Swells outward from the city-walls, the first faint sound of day,—
And through the lattice gleam the lights, dim in the coming dawn,
While from the heights, with ruddy glare, the watch-fires hail the morn,
The gray dawn glides athwart the sky, while, in a golden glow,
The sun breaks out above the hills, smiles on the vales below,
Chases away the morning dews, then up the vaulted arch,
Flick'ing the quiet blue with gold, speeds on his daily march.