There was considerable excitement manifested a few years ago at the discovery of the mural paintings in the ancient Chapel of St. John and St. Paul, in Ghent (Fig. 244). These works are of the fifteenth century, and although satisfactory enough as regards the design, they derive more importance from the subjects which they represent than from any merit of execution.

In speaking of Germany, we should not omit to mention the ancient “Dance of Death” (Fig. 245), at Basle, in the cemetery of the Dominicans, painted in the middle of the fifteenth century; also another “Dance of Death” much more famous, and the façades of several houses, painted at Basle by Holbein. We must also indicate the paintings with which (in 1466) Israel de Meckenheim covered the walls of a chapel of St. Mary of the Capitol, at Cologne; and the frescoes of St. Etienne and St. Augustine, at Vienna. But it does not follow, from this limited enumeration of works, that Germany either created or followed any special school.

PAINTING ON WOOD, CANVAS, ETC.

AFTER its first weak manifestations in the dark shadows of the Catacombs—the place of refuge to which the earliest believers had to resort to celebrate their holy mysteries—Christian painting made its first attempt to display itself in open day at the time when the new faith found in Constantine the high protection of a crowned disciple. But this art felt an instinctive repugnance to draw its inspirations from works which had been created under the empire of decayed and contemned creeds. In the completely spiritual worship of the true God, it seemed but natural to seek for other types than those which had been consecrated by the fancies of materialistic mythologies.

The school of idea, which was substituted for the school of form, desired to owe nothing to its frivolous predecessor. It would have considered it a reproach to give even the semblance of permanence to reprobated traditions, and it set itself to work to create an art completely new in all its features. The rule it laid down, therefore, was to regard as non-existent the chefs-d’œuvre which recalled to mind the days of moral error; rejecting the inspiration to be derived from the magnificent relics of the past, it resolved to commence an era of its own, and to exist on its own ideas. Hence that principle of energetic simplicity which, although it may have hindered art from elevating itself to the perfection we call classical, had at least this advantage, that it sought by gradual development to imprint on Christian art a stamp of individuality from which it was to derive both its power and its glory.

Thus, by the enthusiasm of faith, was called into existence that really primitive School of Painting which has received the name of Byzantine; because at the very time when it obtained the liberty of displaying itself, Constantine, transferring the seat of empire to Byzantium, necessarily took with him the body of artists of whom he was the protector; because, too, as we have before observed, Byzantium henceforth became for many centuries the sole focus whence light radiated towards the West, which was now plunged in barbarism. We must, therefore, go back to the Byzantine school, if we wish to trace to their origin all the forms of European painting.

“Allegory,” says M. Michiels, “was the first language of Christian painting; not only did it express typically the Evangelical teachings, but the Divine personages themselves were metamorphosed into symbols. Sometimes, for instance, Christ appeared in the form of a young shepherd, bearing on his shoulders and carrying back to the fold a wandering sheep; sometimes He was represented as the Orpheus of the new faith, charming and taming ferocious animals by the sound of His lute.... He also was made to assume the form of the lamb without spot, or of a phœnix spreading its wings, the conqueror of death and the spirits of darkness. Thus was the transition softened down; thus did they escape the raillery of Pagans who would have turned into ridicule the heroic sufferings and the glorious humiliations of the Son of man. But this timidity could not long continue.... The council held at Constantinople in 692 commanded that allegory should be repudiated, and that the objects of their veneration should be displayed to the faithful without the veil hitherto employed. Now was exhibited to view a spectacle new indeed to men; a Deity crowned with thorns, enduring the outrages of a vile populace, or stretched upon a cross and pierced with a lance, turning His sad glance to heaven and wrestling with His agony. The Greeks and Latins were but slow in adopting this mode of representation, and did so with regret.... But the perception of moral dignity was destined to eclipse the vain pomp of Pagan grandeur. The generous sufferings of sacrifice were to become the greatest of all glories.”

“Christian painting, when once established as an art on the banks of the Bosphorus, assumed a certain immobility of character. Forms, attitudes, groups, and vestments—all were regulated by ecclesiastical prescription. There was, as it were, an inflexible text-book, to which artists were bound to submit. Delicacy of colouring and nobility of attitude were the only things to recall the beauty of ancient art. Even in our days the Greek and Russian painters follow a similar plan, drawing and arranging their figures in the same manner as their ancestors of the time of Honorius and the Palæologi.”

Even in the West the case was nearly the same, so long as the practice of painting remained almost exclusively confined to artists coming from Constantinople. Thus, in some celebrated manuscripts of the eighth and ninth centuries we find compositions that give a very exact representation of the state of the art in these remote times, though the paintings themselves have been destroyed by the Iconoclasts. In fact, during ten centuries it seemed that the Western races resisted any expression of artistic individuality or invention. Throughout this long period we find Greek painters the supreme arbiters of taste and knowledge in the countries of Western Europe, forcing upon them their own barren style, and teaching them their contracted perceptions. Art among them seemed always to be but a mere instinct. Constant immigrations took place which were continually leading them to every point in Western Europe, but none of them ever brought anything novel in art beyond what their predecessors had already introduced. If they took root in a new country, the son repeated the works of his father. The pupil took no means to enlarge his thoughts; he adopted as his model and his ideal nothing but the work of his master, and the poor form of tradition was continued without enthusiasm and without progress (Fig. 247). Genius is altogether wanting, or if its sacred spark sprung forth from heaven, it was soon extinguished when it reached the earth for want of a soul which could receive it, and be kindled by its fire. The Greek masters doubtless affected some pride in the grandeur of their native name, but they were none the less living proofs that the sources from which flowed the inspiration of a Zeuxis, a Protogenes, or an Apelles, had since those far-distant days been long dried up. The East had for ever terminated its ancient character of artistic creation, and the most it seemed destined to achieve during the Middle Ages was to preserve the germ which the West was to bring again into active life.

Italy, and more particularly Tuscany, may lay claim to the honour of

having witnessed, about the end of the thirteenth and the beginning of the fourteenth century, the dawn of the great revival of artistic light. The names of Giunta of Pisa, Guido of Siena, and Duccio, had, however, already commenced the glorious list of Italian artists, who were the first to endeavour to modify the immutable Greek manner. Their attempts, no doubt, seem but insignificant, looking at the immense progress subsequently accomplished; but, however slight it may appear to be, the first step made beyond the beaten path which has been trodden for centuries is often evidence of the most courageous daring.

The year 1240 witnessed the birth of Cimabue: as a young man, he became enamoured of art by watching the labours of the Greek painters who had been summoned to Florence to decorate the chapel of the Gondi. It was purposed to make him a savant and a lawyer; but he succeeded in abandoning the pen in favour of the pencil, and, from the lessons of the timid Byzantines, he soon became a master whose every thought was henceforth devoted to the emancipation of an art that he found condemned to a kind of immobility. Thanks to him, the expression of faces, which up to that time had been entirely conventional in character, was animated by a truer sentiment; the lines of drawing, which had been hard and stiff, were broken up into well-ordered grace; the colouring, hitherto dull and gloomy, assumed soft brilliancy and harmonious relief. It is said that Cimabue’s chef-d’œuvre, the “Madonna” which is still to be seen in the Church of Santa-Maria-Novella, was carried in procession by the crowd to the place which it now occupies; the painter was received with shouts, and, it is added, the joy of the people at the sight of the picture was so great that the part of the city wherein Cimabue’s studio was situated received, after this event, the name of Borgo Allegro (the Joyous Town). One day when Cimabue was in the country, he noticed a young shepherd-boy who was amusing himself by sketching on a rock the sheep he tended. The painter took charge of the boy; he became his favourite pupil, and was the celebrated Giotto, who happily persevered in the reform commenced by Cimabue. Giotto, the first among the artists of his time, ventured to paint portraits, and succeeded well in them. To him we owe our acquaintance with the real features of his friend Dante; and we still admire, at least as manifestations of an adventurous genius, the paintings he left in the Church of Santa Clara at Naples, in the Cathedral of Assisi, and especially in the Campo Santo at Pisa, where he painted in fresco the history of Job.

Giotto died in 1336, but he left behind him to continue his work, Taddeo Gaddi, Giottino, Stefano, Andrea Orcagna, and Simon Memmi, who were each destined to open out some new path in art. In the Campo Santo at Pisa we may see how great was the power of the genius of these masters, especially of Andrea Orcagna (1329-1389), who has there represented, with an equal measure of beauty and of sombre and terrible energy, the “Dream of Life,” facing the “Triumph of Death.” Taddeo Gaddi remained a fervent disciple of his master, and continued his delicate accuracy of design, and the living freshness of his colouring. Stefano succeeded him in the boldness of his compositions, in his studious knowledge of the nude, and of perspective effect which had been hitherto neglected. Giottino inherited his serious inspirations. Memmi endeavoured to recall his mystical and graceful sentiment. Orcagna, who was at once painter, sculptor, architect, and poet, seemed to possess in turn all the qualities which his fellow-disciples had shared among them, and could represent with equal success the terrors of the infernal regions and the visions of heaven.

The progress of which these painters had constituted themselves the apostles was not carried out without exciting some opposition. In addition to the Greek masters, who naturally felt compelled to contend with the innovators, certain individuals were found among the Italian artists who energetically embraced the party of the past. We will only mention one, Margaritone of Arezzo, who wore out his long life in a useless devotion to a cause which was already lost; even his name we should not have particularised, if it had not been that the art owed him some gratitude for the service he rendered it, by substituting the use of canvas prepared for painting instead of panels of wood, which had hitherto been exclusively employed.

The Florentine school (for thus we call the group of artists who trod in the footsteps of Cimabue and Giotto) had for its representative, at the beginning of the fifteenth century, Giovanni of Fiesole, surnamed Fra Angelico, the personification of enthusiasm in artistic sublimity; whose works, too, resemble so many hymns of adoration. Born in the year 1387, and inheriting great wealth, he was endowed with a contemplative mind, and, ignorant of the talent which inspired him, he sought oblivion from the world in the garb of a Dominican, little suspecting that glory awaited him in the very depth of his humility. At first, as a kind of pious recreation, he covered with miniatures several pages of manuscripts; next, his companions in the cloister requested him to paint a picture. He obeyed, feeling convinced that the inspiration which stirred within him was a manifestation of the Divine spirit, and it was with the most artless simplicity that he referred to this celestial origin the chef-d’œuvre which proceeded from his hands. His reputation spread far and wide. At the invitation of the head of the Christian Church, he repaired to Rome in order to paint one of the chapels of the Vatican. And when the pontiff, full of enthusiasm at his talent, wished to confer upon him as a reward the dignity of archbishop, Angelico retired modestly to his cell in order to devote himself without interruption to that art which was to him a continual prayer, and a perpetual soaring up to that heavenly country on which he unceasingly meditated with all the unutterable feelings of the elect.

About the same era as the “seraphic monk,” who died full of years in 1455, appeared Tomaso Guidi, for whom a kind of unconsciousness of everyday life had obtained the ironical sobriquet of Masaccio (the Stupid); who, however, astonished the world by his works to such extent that it was said concerning them, “those of his predecessors were painted, but his were living.” Masaccio was one of the first (and this fact shows how slowly art may progress even in bold hands) to place in his pictures firmly on the soles of their feet figures presenting a full front, instead of making them stand upon their great-toes, as his predecessors had done from a want of knowledge of the requisite foreshortening. Masaccio died in 1443.

Philippo Lippi, who devoted himself more specially to the study of nature, both in the human physiognomy and also in the accessory details of his works, marks as it were the last stage of the art, when it approached the state of full vigour in which it was to manifest the whole extent of its power. We are now at the end of the fifteenth century, and the masters of the great masters are in existence. It was Andrea Verrochio who, at the sight of an angel which Leonardo da Vinci, his pupil, had painted in one of his works, for ever abandoned his pencil. It was Domenico Ghirlandajo who, jealous of the superior qualities which he recognised in his pupil, the youthful Buonarotti, not only endeavoured, but succeeded in diverting his talents, at least for a time, to sculpture. It was Fra Bartolommeo (1469-1517) who was affected with such profound grief at the death of his friend Savonarola, that he embraced a monastic life. Baccio della Porta (such was the name of the Brother) was a very great painter (Fig. 248); the vigour and

harmony of colouring which he showed, especially in his last productions, has sometimes caused them to be attributed to Raphael, with whom he was for some time united in the bonds of friendship. But we must not confine ourselves to characterising the works of one single group of artists; for, although the revival took its rise on the banks of the Arno, it spread far and wide beyond those limits. Added to this, Giotto, when visiting Verona, Padua, and Rome, left in each place the still resplendent traces of his presence. When Fra Angelico went to adorn the Vatican, his genius spread around it a fruitful irradiation which everywhere dimmed the ancient renown of the Byzantine painters who had hitherto prevailed in the Italian cities.

At Rome we find flourishing in succession Pietro Cavallini, whom Giotto had instructed during the sojourn of the latter in the Eternal City; Gentile da Fabriano, who drew his inspiration from Fra Angelico; and Pietro della Francesca, who has been regarded as the originator of perspective. We next meet with Pietro Vannucci, called Perugino, who was born in 1446; it was owing to nothing but the force of his genius and his character that he became one of the most celebrated masters of his time. At the close of his career, Perugino had the honour of initiating into the practice of his art Raphael Sanzio of Urbino, who was in his own day, as he still is, the prince of painting.

At Venice a body of pioneers, still more numerous and compact, prepared the way for the new era, destined to be made illustrious by Titian, Tintoretto, and Paul Veronese. We will mention also Gentile and Jacopo Bellini; the former was incessantly absorbed in investigating the theories of an art which he nevertheless exercised with all the abandon of an inspired genius; the latter constantly devoted himself to the combination of power and grace; and, at the age of seventy-five years, seemed to regain a second youth in following with happy boldness the example of his pupil Giorgione.[35] This painter, who was born in 1477, and died in 1511, introduced all kinds of innovations in respect to design and colouring, and was the master of Giovanni da Udine, Sebastian del Piombo, Jacques Palma, and Pordenone, fellow-pupils and sometimes rivals of the three great artists by whose works the Venetian school was to mark its individuality.

At Parma a local school was represented by Antonio Allegri, called Correggio, born in 1494; and by Francesco Mazzuoli, called Parmigianino, born in 1503.

In other places, too, talents of a vigorous or of a graceful character were developed, but we can only cast a comprehensive glance on this memorable artistic epoch, and are unable to offer a detailed review of the artists and their works. And what further luminaries of art could we wish to embrace in our summary after having displayed in it, shining, so to speak, at one and the same epoch, Leonardo da Vinci (Fig. 249), Michael Angelo, Raphael, Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese, Correggio, and Parmigianino?

Four principal schools compete with one another—the Florentine school, the characteristics of which are truth of design, energy of colouring, and grandeur of conception; the Roman school, which seeks its ideal in the skilful and sober judgment of its lines, the dignity of its compositions, propriety of expression and beauty of form; the Venetian school, which occasionally neglected correctness of drawing, and devoted itself more to the brilliancy and magical effect of colour; lastly, the school of Parma, which is distinguished especially by its softness of touch and by its knowledge of light and shade. All such estimations of the different qualities of these various groups must not, however, be looked upon as in any way absolute.

As chiefs of the first school we have two men, each of whom presents to us one of the richest organisations and the most widely extending genius which human nature has, perhaps, ever produced; these were Leonardo da Vinci and Michael Angelo, both of whom were sculptors as well as painters; and also architects, musicians, and poets. We will first speak of Leonardo da Vinci, whose style presents two very distinct epochs; the first tending to vigour in the shadows, to a mistiness in reflected lights, to a general effect produced by a certain oddness, or rather by a strange representation of truth; a combination of qualities which, as M. Michiels says, makes Leonardo the “most northerly of the Italian painters” (Fig. 250). His second style, “clear, serene, and precise,” transports us into a “completely southern sphere.” But some secret influence drew the artist so forcibly towards his earlier manner, that he returned to it at an advanced age in painting the famous portrait of Mona Lisa, which adorns the gallery of the Louvre. We must not forget the fact that we have to attribute to Pope Leo X. the great revival of the arts, and especially of painting, in Italy at the commencement of the sixteenth century.

“In Michael Angelo,” still to quote the words of M. Michiels, “science, power, grandeur, and all the more severe qualities are combined. No vulgar artifice and no affectation. The painter was imbued with a sublime ideal of majestic types from which nothing was able to divert him. He felt as if there were existing in himself a whole population of heroes, whom, by the aid of painting and sculpture, he endeavoured to withdraw from their mental concealment, and to embody in incarnate forms. His personages scarcely seem to belong to our race; they appear to be creatures worthy of some more spacious world, to the proportions of which their physical vigour and their moral energy would well respond. The very women do not possess the grace of their sex; we might fancy them valiant Amazons well capable of mastering a horse or of crushing an enemy. This great man’s object was neither to charm nor to please; his delight rather was to astonish and to strike with admiration or terror; but it is this very excess of power which enabled him to win the approbation of all.”

Next we have Raphael, il divino Sanzio, as he was called by his numerous admirers, whose genius was constantly attaining to grandeur by means of simplicity, and to power by means of reserve. Michael Angelo always seems as if he were only able to represent a limited portion of his gigantic conceptions on the wall he covered with his designs; but it was sufficient for Raphael to place some tranquil figure on a narrow square of canvas, and we have before us the bright image of the most perfect and delicious inspiration. He created for himself a heaven which he peopled with the purest and most venerated types of the human race; and a light, as from on high, beams with regal splendour on these graceful visions. In Raphael, even more than in Leonardo da Vinci, it seemed as if two artists of equal sublimity succeeded one another. At first we have the charming dreamer who, in the fresh enthusiasm of his early youth, creates Madonnas, artless daughters of the earth in whose look and countenance a sacred light shines in all its ineffable purity; next he is the master full of the deepest science, for whom the real beauties of creation have no concealment; who, in representing nature, succeeded in transforming to her the magnificent ideal of which his own soul appears to have received the impression from association with the divine regions.

“The principal characteristic of Raphael,” still following the very just remarks of M. Michiels, “is the universality of his fame. It becomes almost painful to hear the vulgar crowd constantly repeating a magic name, the true signification of which they do not understand.” As the spoiled child of fortune, the creator of Virgins and “The Transfiguration,” he is almost without detractors from his fame; and it is impossible to reckon the number of his admirers. “One circumstance in his life affords us an emblem of his destiny. Having sent to Palermo the famous canvas of the ‘Spasimo,’[36] a tempest overwhelmed the ship which carried it; but the waves seemed to respect the chef-d’œuvre. After having drifted more than fifty leagues through the sea, the box which enclosed the precious production floated gently on shore at the port of Genoa. The picture was in no way injured. The Sicilian monks, for whom it was intended, did not fail to claim it; and since that time, thanks to the mercy of the waves, it attracts to the foot of Etna numerous pilgrims to the shrine of genius.”

At Venice, we first have Titian, the painter of Charles V. and Francis I. “The genius of Titian,” says Alexander Lenoir, “is always great and noble. No painter has ever produced flesh-colours so beautiful and life-like. In Titian there is no apparent tone; the colouring of his flesh is so well blended, that it seems as difficult to imitate as the model itself. Add to his pictures their truth and expression of action, and the elegance and richness of the drapery, and we shall have some idea of the great works which he left behind him.”

Next Jacques Robusti presents himself, who, from the profession of his father was surnamed Tintoretto (the Dyer). He was at first a pupil of Titian, who, it is said, from motives of jealousy, dismissed him from his studio; but the fervour of uninterrupted labour was all that Tintoretto required in order to mature the most productive talent. “The drawing of Michael Angelo, and the colouring of Titian”—such was the ambitious motto he wrote over the door of his humble atelier, and we are almost justified in stating that he was enabled, by force of study and labour, to fulfil his aspirations, if we look only at some of his pieces executed before a certain fever of exuberant production had seized upon and necessarily weakened his vigorous talents. To form some estimate of the extent to which Tintoretto was impelled by this impulse of creation, we may recollect that even Paul Veronese reproached him with being unable to restrain himself—Veronese, the most indefatigable of producers!

With regard to the latter, his works are characterised not only by the number of figures in them, but also by the striking brilliancy of the mise en scène. Although he multiplies his actors, they are grouped in perfect order; although he paints a multitude, he knows how to avoid a crowd. Notice how a feeling of life profusely pervades the whole of his vast pictures of important events; an idea of space is everywhere given; everywhere light plays a powerful part, and imagination has full scope. He is the painter par excellence of feasts and ceremonies: at once pompous and natural, his copiousness is only equalled by his dazzling facility; and we are compelled to forgive the errors with which he mingles on the same canvas the religious ideas of sacred subjects and the profane splendour of modern times.

What shall we say about Correggio? There is no methodical scale by which to measure grace; and there is no formula laid down of delicious softness. But if, at the Louvre, we examine his “Antiope asleep,” we shall not soon forget the fascinating power of the old Allegri (Correggio).

From Correggio to Parmigianino the distance is of the kind that admiration can easily fill up. It was said of the latter that he had more the appearance of an angel than of a man; and the Romans of his own day used to add that the spirit of Raphael had passed into his body. In more than one instance his genius was kindled by the sun of Correggio, and ripened in the studios of Michael Angelo and Raphael; but in addition to this, his flexible and varied talent enabled him to find a place by himself between these two masters. “St. Francis receiving the Stigmata,” and “The Marriage of St. Catherine,” which he painted before he had attained his eighteenth year, are still regarded as equal to the chefs-d’œuvre signed by Allegri. It is well known that a “St. Margaret,” executed by Parmigianino fifteen years later for a church at Bologna, was placed by Guido in the same rank as the “St. Cecilia” of Raphael.

By the side of, or after, these famous men, in whom the glory of Italian painting seems to have brilliantly culminated, how many noble names still remain to be cited; how many remarkable names are there still to mention, even among those who, in following the glorious path opened out for them by the great masters, began to show glimpses of the earliest symptoms of decay, exhaustion, and lassitude! It does not form a part of our plan to dwell upon the various phases of this decadence; but before we glance at the last sparks of light which were shed forth, we must not forget the fact that the Italian pleiades were not exclusively privileged to illumine the artistic horizon.

It is certainly the case that all over Europe the Byzantine tradition had been the sole possessor of the throne of art since the earliest centuries of the Middle Ages. In Germany as in Italy, in France as in the countries bounding it on the north, we find nothing but the same school displaying the dead level of its inflexibility. At various epochs, however, certain feeble attempts at independence were here and there manifested; but these aspirations were at first generally isolated, and therefore transient in their character. Finally, however, as if the hour of revival had been simultaneously agreed upon at all points of the intellectual world, these desires for emancipation manifested themselves in a corresponding effort to reject the former too absolute form, and to substitute the element of life for the principle of conventionality.

In Spain a strange combat was waging on the soil itself, for the possession of which two hostile races, two irreconcilable faiths, were in fierce contention. The Mahometan built the Alhambra, the halls of which were destined to be subsequently adorned by a Christian pencil. In the paintings that enliven the arches of this marvellous edifice an art is manifested which is both simple and grand in its character; but in this one undertaking it appears to have exhausted the share of vitality time had awarded to it; for immediately afterwards it seems to have died away. If, however, any fresh masters of the art of painting appeared on the Iberian soil, they had sought in Italy the flame of inspiration, or some mighty art-pilgrim visited their country. We must come down to a later epoch, from the consideration of which we are now precluded, in order to meet with an Herrera, a Ribera, a Velasquez, or a Murillo, the glory of whom, although comparatively late, may perhaps hold its own by the side of the great Italian schools, but cannot pretend to eclipse them. Among the predecessors of these real and distinct individualities, we will, however, mention the following:—Alonzo Berruguete, born in 1480, at once painter, architect, and sculptor; he was a pupil of Michael Angelo, in whose works he often took a share; Pedro Campagna, born in 1503, who studied under the same master—his chef-d’œuvre is still admired in the Cathedral of Seville; Luis de Vargas, born in 1502, who was able in many points to appropriate the secrets of Sanzio, from whom he appeared to have received lessons; Morales, whose paintings are still admired for the harmony of their lines and the delicacy of their touch; Vicente Juanes, whose purity of design and sober vigour of colouring obtained for him the title (certainly by some exaggeration of praise) of the “Raphael of Valencia;” lastly, Fernandez Navarette, born in 1526, who, perhaps less hyperbolically, was surnamed the “Spanish Titian;” and Sanchez Coello, born about 1500, who, excelling in portraits, has handed down the likenesses of some celebrated personages of his time.

In Germany and the Low Countries we find similar traces of the feeling of regeneration actuating the minds of artists at a much earlier period. The first name which presents itself to us beyond the Rhine is that mentioned in the Chronicle of Limburg, of the date of 1380. “There was then at Cologne,” says the chronicler, “a painter named Wilhelm. According to the masters, he was the best in all the countries of Germany; he has painted men of every description as if they were alive.” We have nothing left of the works of this artist except some panels without signature, which, in consideration of the date they bear, are attributed to him; an examination shows that, considering the epoch at which he lived, Wilhelm might justly be looked upon as a creative genius. He was succeeded by his most talented pupil, Maître Stephan. A triptych of his work may be seen at the Cathedral of Cologne, representing “The Adoration of the Magi,” “St. Gereon,” “St. Ursula,” and “The Annunciation.” This work, which exhibits charming finish as well as harmonious simplicity, is sufficient evidence that its author was possessed of much natural ability as well as a certain extent of knowledge; and if we make it our study to seek out the relics of the artistic movement of the period, we can in no way feel surprise at seeing that the influence of this early master made itself felt in a very extended radius.

But at this epoch, that is, at the commencement of the fifteenth century, in a city of Flanders, a new luminary made its appearance, which was destined to eclipse the brilliancy of the somewhat weak German innovation. Two brothers, Hubert and John van Eyck, together with their sister Margaret, established themselves in the “triumphant city of Bruges,” as it is called by an historian; and very soon all the Flemish and Rhenish regions resounded with the name of Van Eyck, their works being the only representations which were admired and followed; and even in those early days it was a title of glory to form a part of their brilliant school.

John, the younger of the two brothers, was the one to whom renown more particularly attached (Fig. 251). He is reputed to have been the inventor of oil-painting; but all he did was to improve the methods employed. Nevertheless, tradition tells us that an Italian master, Antonello of Messina, made a journey to Flanders, with the object of finding out the secret of John Bruges (by which name Van Eyck is often called); and that he subsequently circulated it throughout the Italian schools. Be this as it may, John of Bruges, apart from any similarity in manner (for it was by the force of his colouring, as much as by his new theories of composition, that he succeeded in revolutionising the old school of painting), may be considered as the Giotto of the North; but we must add that the effects of his attempts were much more rapidly decisive. At one leap, so to speak, the somewhat cold painting of the Gothic school decked itself with a splendour which left but little for the future Venetian school to achieve beyond it; with one flight of genius, stiff and methodical conceptions became imbued with suppleness and vital action. Finally, we have the first notable sign of the true feeling of an art combining science and grace—a knowledge of anatomy is shown in the life-like flesh and under the brilliant draperies. There is, however, a considerable distance, which cannot fail to be remarked, separating the two reformers of art whose names we have just brought together. One, Giotto, desired to grasp the real in order to make it conduce to the triumph of the ideal; while Van Eyck only accepted the ideal because he had as yet been unable to apprehend the deepest secrets of the real. All the other masters are but as the fruit yielded by the school of the great Florentine, and by those which the descendants of the Flemish masters were destined to produce. At Ghent, we still have as an object of admiration, an altar-piece, a chef-d’œuvre of Van Eyck; it is an immense composition, some portions of which have been removed; but at first it did not contain less than three hundred figures, representing the “Adoration of the Paschal Lamb by the Virgins of the Apocalypse.”

the features of his fiancée, the Princess Elizabeth (1428). The influence exercised by his labours is thought to have brought about that tendency to brilliancy and realism which, after its first manifestation in the earliest Spanish manner, gave way before the encroachments of Italian genius, only to reappear in all its power in the great national school.

Among the best pupils that Van Eyck left behind him at Bruges, we must not omit the name of Hugo van der Goes, whose works are rare.

Roger van der Weyden, of whose paintings but few are now extant, was the favourite pupil of John of Bruges, and the master of Hemling, whose reputation was destined to equal, if not to surpass, that of the chief of his school. “Hemling,” says M. Michiels, so eminent a judge on this subject, “whose most ancient picture bears the date 1450, possesses more sweetness and grace than the Van Eycks. His figures charm by an ideal elegance; his expression never exceeds the limits of tranquil feeling and agreeable emotion. Quite contrary to John van Eyck, he prefers the slender and rich character of the Gothic (Fig. 252) to the heaviness and scanty detail of Roman architecture. His colouring, although less vigorous, is softer; the water, the woods, the sites, the grass, and the distances of his pictures cause a dream-like feeling.”

A kind of instinctive reaction was manifested in the pupil, but the master was not altogether forgotten. We shall, however, find elsewhere the effects of his direct influence; but in order not to have to return to the school of Bruges, we will first mention Jerome Bosch, who, contrary to his countryman Hemling, sought after opposition of effects and singularities of invention; and next Erasmus, the great thinker and writer, who was also a painter in his day;[37] lastly, Cornelius Engelbrechtsen, the master of Lucas van Leyden, born in 1494. The latter was as famous with the pencil as with the graving tool, and introduced into all his works a powerful and sometimes strange originality which caused him to be looked upon as the first painter of “genre.” Lucas van Leyden must close our list of the artists who opened out the paths which were destined to be followed, though with many a diversity of method and of style, by Breughel, Teniers, Van Ostade, Porbus, and Schellincks. At the head of these masters was subsequently to rise the magnificent Rubens, and the energetic Rembrandt, the king of the palette, the great chief of the school, who

towers loftily over all his pupils, Gerard Dow, Ferdinand Bol, Van Eckhout, Govaert Flinck, &c., as well as over his imitators and contemporaries—Abraham Bloemaert, Gerard Honthorst, Adrian Brauwer, Seghers, &c.

When the Van Eycks made their appearance, German art—which, under the impulse of Stephan of Cologne, had appeared as if destined to direct the movement—allowed itself to be led away and influenced by the Flemish school, without, however, entirely divesting itself of the individual characteristics which are, to some extent, inherent in the region wherein it flourished. In Alsatia, we see the style peculiar to the school of Bruges showing itself in Martin Schön (1460); in Suabia, it had as its interpreter Frederick Herlen (1467); at Augsburg, it was old Holbein; at Nuremberg, it was first Michael Wohlgemuth, and after him Albert Dürer (1471), whose vigorous individuality did not fail to reflect the temperament of the Van Eycks.

“The works of Albert Dürer present a singular combination of the fantastic and the real (Fig. 253). The principal tendencies peculiar to the character of the northern mind are always to be found in them. The thoughts of the artist are always transporting him into a world of abstraction and chimeras; but the ever-present consciousness of the difficulties of life under the cold northern sky always draws him back to the details of existence. On the one hand, therefore, he seems to love philosophical, and even supernatural subjects; but, on the other, the minute details of his execution bind him down to earth. His models, his action, his positions, the muscular development of his nude subjects, the innumerable folds of his draperies, the expression which he gives to joy, grief, and hatred, all seem to bear a manifest character of exaggeration. Added to this, he is deficient in grace; a rudeness entirely northern in its character closes the path to any of the softer qualities of art. The panels of Albert Dürer all seem to have a touch of the antique barbarism of the Germanic hordes. He himself was in the habit of wearing his hair long, like the ancient German kings. Upon the whole, however, his beautiful colouring, the skilful firmness of his drawing, his grand characteristics, his depth of thought, the poetry, often terrible, of his composition, place him in the first rank of masters” (Michiels).

While Albert Dürer was endeavouring to combine in his works every type of the strangest character, Lucas van Cranach made it his study