Complete Prose Works
unhealthy and impure, yet it is now shared by many pure-minded and
honest, if somewhat uneducated, people. But I am prepared to maintain
that it is necessary for the future of English art and of English
morality that the right of the nude to a place in our galleries should
be boldly asserted; it must, however, be the nude as represented by
thoroughly trained artists, and with a pure and noble ethic purpose. The
human form, male and female, is the type and standard of all beauty of
form and proportion, and it is necessary to be thoroughly familiar with
it in order safely to judge of all beauty which consists of form and
proportion. To women it is most necessary that they should become
thoroughly imbued with the knowledge of the ideal female form, in order
that they should recognize the perfection of it at once, and without
effort, and so far as possible avoid deviations from the ideal. Had
this been the case in times past, we should not have had to deplore the
distortions effected by tight-lacing, which destroy'd the figure and
ruin'd the health of so many of the last generation. Nor should we have
had the scandalous dresses alike of society and the stage. The extreme
development of the low dresses which obtain'd some years ago, when the
stays crush'd up the breasts into suggestive prominence, would surely
have been check'd, had the eye of the public been properly educated by
familiarity with the exquisite beauty of line of a well-shaped bust.
I might show how thorough acquaintance with the ideal nude foot would
probably have much modified the foot-torturing boots and high heels,
which wring the foot out of all beauty of line, and throw the body
forward into an awkward and ungainly attitude.
It is argued that the effect of nude representation of women upon young
men is unwholesome, but it would not be so if such works were admitted
without question into our galleries, and became thoroughly familiar
to them. On the contrary, it would do much to clear away from
healthy-hearted lads one of their sorest trials--that prurient curiosity
which is bred of prudish concealment. Where there is mystery there is
the suggestion of evil, and to go to a theatre, where you have only to
look at the stalls to see one-half of the female form, and to the
stage to see the other half undraped, is far more pregnant with evil
imaginings than the most objectionable of totally undraped figures. In
French art there have been questionable nude figures exhibited; but the
fault was not that they were nude, but that they were the portraits
of ugly immodest women. Some discussion follow'd. There was a general
concurrence in the principle contended for by the reader of the paper.
Sir Walter Stirling maintain'd that the perfect male figure, rather than
the female, was the model of beauty. After a few remarks from Rev. Mr.
Roberts and Colonel Oldfield, the Chairman regretted that no opponent of
nude figures had taken part in the discussion. He agreed with Sir
Walter Stirling as to the male figure being the most perfect model of
proportion. He join'd in defending the exhibition of nude figures,
but thought considerable supervision should be exercis'd over such
exhibitions.
No, it is not the picture or nude statue or text, with clear aim, that
is indecent; it is the beholder's own thought, inference, distorted
construction. True modesty is one of the most precious of attributes,
even virtues, but in nothing is there more pretense, more falsity, than
the needless assumption of it. Through precept and consciousness, man
has long enough realized how bad he is. I would not so much disturb or
demolish that conviction, only to resume and keep unerringly with it the
spinal meaning of the Scriptural text, _God overlook'd all that He had
made_, (including the apex of the whole--humanity--with its elements,
passions, appetites,) _and behold, it was very good_."
Does not anything short of that third point of view, when you come to
think of it profoundly and with amplitude, impugn Creation from the
outset? In fact, however overlaid, or unaware of itself, does not
the conviction involv'd in it perennially exist at the centre of
all society, and of the sexes, and of marriage? Is it not really an
intuition of the human race? For, old as the world is, and beyond
statement as are the countless and splendid results of its culture and
evolution, perhaps the best and earliest and purest intuitions of the
human race have yet to be develop'd.
DEATH OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN LECTURE
_deliver'd in New York, April 14, 1879--in Philadelphia, '80--in Boston,
'81_
How often since that dark and dripping Saturday--that chilly April day,
now fifteen years bygone--my heart has entertain'd the dream, the
wish, to give of Abraham Lincoln's death, its own special thought and
memorial. Yet now the sought-for opportunity offers, I find my notes
incompetent, (why, for truly profound themes, is statement so idle? why
does the right phrase never offer?) and the fit tribute I dream'd of,
waits unprepared as ever. My talk here indeed is less because of itself
or anything in it, and nearly altogether because I feel a desire, apart
from any talk, to specify the day, the martyrdom. It is for this, my
friends, I have call'd you together. Oft as the rolling years bring
back this hour, let it again, however briefly, be dwelt upon. For my
own part, I hope and desire, till my own dying day, whenever the 14th
or 15th of April comes, to annually gather a few friends, and hold its
tragic reminiscence. No narrow or sectional reminiscence. It belongs
to these States in their entirety--not the North only, but the
South--perhaps belongs most tenderly and devoutly to the South, of
all; for there, really, this man's birth-stock. There and thence
his antecedent stamp. Why should I not say that thence his manliest
traits--his universality--his canny, easy ways and words upon the
surface--his inflexible determination and courage at heart? Have you
never realized it, my friends, that Lincoln, though grafted on the West,
is essentially, in personnel and character, a Southern contribution?
And though by no means proposing to resume the secession war to-night,
I would briefly remind you of the public conditions preceding that
contest. For twenty years, and especially during the four or five before
the war actually began, the aspect of affairs in the United States,
though without the flash of military excitement, presents more than
the survey of a battle, or any extended campaign, or series, even of
Nature's convulsions. The hot passions of the South--the strange
mixture at the North of inertia, incredulity, and conscious power--the
incendiarism of the abolitionists--the rascality and grip of the
politicians, unparallel'd in any land, any age. To these I must not omit
adding the honesty of the essential bulk of the people everywhere--yet
with all the seething fury and contradiction of their natures more
arous'd than the Atlantic's waves in wildest equinox. In politics, what
can be more ominous, (though generally unappreciated then)--what more
significant than the Presidentiads of Fillmore and Buchanan? proving
conclusively that the weakness and wickedness of elected rulers are
just as likely to afflict us here, as in the countries of the Old World,
under their monarchies, emperors, and aristocracies. In that Old World
were everywhere heard underground rumblings, that died out, only to
again surely return. While in America the volcano, though civic yet,
continued to grow more and more convulsive--more and more stormy and
threatening.
In the height of all this excitement and chaos, hovering on the edge at
first, and then merged in its very midst, and destined to play a leading
part, appears a strange and awkward figure. I shall not easily forget
the first time I ever saw Abraham Lincoln. It must have been about the
18th or 19th of February, 1861. It was rather a pleasant afternoon, in
New York city, as he arrived there from the West, to remain a few hours,
and then pass on to Washington, to prepare for his inauguration. I saw
him in Broadway, near the site of the present Post-office. He came down,
I think from Canal street, to stop at the Astor House. The broad spaces,
sidewalks, and street in the neighborhood, and for some distance, were
crowded with solid masses of people, many thousands. The omnibuses and
other vehicles had all been turn'd off, leaving an unusual hush in that
busy part of the city. Presently two or three shabby hack barouches made
their way with some difficulty through the crowd, and drew up at the
Astor House entrance. A tall figure stepp'd out of the centre of these
barouches, paus'd leisurely on the sidewalk, look'd up at the granite
walls and looming architecture of the grand old hotel--then, after a
relieving stretch of arms and legs, turn'd round for over a minute to
slowly and good-humoredly scan the appearance of the vast and silent
crowds. There were no speeches--no compliments--no welcome--as far as
I could hear, not a word said. Still much anxiety was conceal'd in that
quiet. Cautious persons had fear'd some mark'd insult or indignity to
the President-elect--for he possess'd no personal popularity at all in
New York city, and very little political. But it was evidently tacitly
agreed that if the few political supporters of Mr. Lincoln present
would entirely abstain from any demonstration on their side, the immense
majority, who were anything but supporters, would abstain on their side
also. The result was a sulky, unbroken silence, such as certainly never
before characterized so great a New York crowd.
Almost in the same neighborhood I distinctly remember'd seeing Lafayette
on his visit to America in 1825. I had also personally seen and heard,
various years afterward, how Andrew Jackson, Clay, Webster, Hungarian
Kossuth, Filibuster Walker, the Prince of Wales on his visit, and
other celebres, native and foreign, had been welcom'd there--all that
indescribable human roar and magnetism, unlike any other sound in the
universe--the glad exulting thunder-shouts of countless unloos'd throats
of men! But on this occasion, not a voice--not a sound. From the top of
an omnibus, (driven up one side, close by, and block'd by the curbstone
and the crowds,) I had, I say, a capital view of it all, and
especially of Mr. Lincoln, his look and gait--his perfect composure and
coolness--his unusual and uncouth height, his dress of complete black,
stovepipe hat push'd back on the head, dark-brown complexion, seam'd
and wrinkled yet canny-looking face, black, bushy head of hair,
disproportionately long neck, and his hands held behind as he stood
observing the people. He look'd with curiosity upon that immense sea of
faces, and the sea of faces return'd the look with similar curiosity. In
both there was a dash of comedy, almost farce, such as Shakspere puts in
his blackest tragedies. The crowd that hemm'd around consisted I should
think of thirty to forty thousand men, not a single one his personal
friend--while I have no doubt, (so frenzied were the ferments of
the time,) many an assassin's knife and pistol lurk'd in hip or
breast-pocket there, ready, soon as break and riot came.
But no break or riot came. The tall figure gave another relieving
stretch or two of arms and legs; then with moderate pace, and
accompanied by a few unknown-looking persons, ascended the portico-steps
of the Astor House, disappear'd through its broad entrance--and the
dumb-show ended.
I saw Abraham Lincoln often the four years following that date. He
changed rapidly and much during his Presidency--but this scene, and him
in it, are indelibly stamp'd upon my recollection. As I sat on the top
of my omnibus, and had a good view of him, the thought, dim and inchoate