Miscellaneous Essays | Page 6

bud to "bright consummate flower;" or, amongst human flowers,
the most magnificent young female, apparelled in the pomp of
womanhood. And thus not only the ideal of an inkstand may be
imagined, (as Mr. Coleridge demonstrated in his celebrated
correspondence with Mr. Blackwood,) in which, by the way, there is
not so much, because an inkstand is a laudable sort of thing, and a
valuable member of society; but even imperfection itself may have its
ideal or perfect state.
Really, gentlemen, I beg pardon for so much philosophy at one time,
and now let me apply it. When a murder is in the paulo-post-futurum
tense, and a rumor of it comes to our ears, by all means let us treat it
morally. But suppose it over and done, and that you can say of
it,[Greek: Tetelesai], or (in that adamantine molossus of Medea) [Greek:
eirzasai]; suppose the poor murdered man to be out of his pain, and the
rascal that did it off like a shot, nobody knows whither; suppose, lastly,
that we have done our best, by putting out our legs to trip up the fellow
in his flight, but all to no purpose--"abiit, evasit," &c.--why, then, I say,
what's the use of any more virtue? Enough has been given to morality;
now comes the turn of Taste and the Fine Arts. A sad thing it was, no
doubt, very sad; but we can't mend it. Therefore let us make the best of
a bad matter; and, as it is impossible to hammer anything out of it for
moral purposes, let us treat it æsthetically, and see if it will turn to
account in that way. Such is the logic of a sensible man, and what
follows? We dry up our tears, and have the satisfaction, perhaps, to
discover that a transaction, which, morally considered, was shocking,
and without a leg to stand upon, when tried by principles of Taste, turns
out to be a very meritorious performance. Thus all the world is pleased;
the old proverb is justified, that it is an ill wind which blows nobody
good; the amateur, from looking bilious and sulky, by too close an
attention to virtue, begins to pick up his crumbs, and general hilarity
prevails. Virtue has had her day; and henceforward, Vertu and
Connoisseurship have leave to provide for themselves. Upon this
principle, gentlemen, I propose to guide your studies, from Cain to Mr.
Thurtell. Through this great gallery of murder, therefore, together let us
wander hand in hand, in delighted admiration, while I endeavor to point

your attention to the objects of profitable criticism.
* * * * *
The first murder is familiar to you all. As the inventor of murder, and
the father of the art, Cain must have been a man of first-rate genius. All
the Cains were men of genius. Tubal Cain invented tubes, I think, or
some such thing. But, whatever were the originality and genius of the
artist, every art was then in its infancy, and the works must be criticised
with a recollection of that fact. Even Tubal's work would probably be
little approved at this day in Sheffield; and therefore of Cain (Cain
senior, I mean,) it is no disparagement to say, that his performance was
but so so. Milton, however, is supposed to have thought differently. By
his way of relating the case, it should seem to have been rather a pet
murder with him, for he retouches it with an apparent anxiety for its
picturesque effect:
Whereat he inly raged; and, as they talk'd, Smote him into the midriff
with a stone That beat out life: he fell; and, deadly pale, Groan'd out his
soul _with gushing blood effus'd_. _Par. Lost, B. XI_.
Upon this, Richardson, the painter, who had an eye for effect, remarks
as follows, in his Notes on Paradise Lost, p. 497: "It has been thought,"
says he, "that Cain beat (as the common saying is) the breath out of his
brother's body with a great stone; Milton gives in to this, with the
addition, however, of a large wound." In this place it was a judicious
addition; for the rudeness of the weapon, unless raised and enriched by
a warm, sanguinary coloring, has too much of the naked air of the
savage school; as if the deed were perpetrated by a Polypheme without
science, premeditation, or anything but a mutton bone. However, I am
chiefly pleased with the improvement, as it implies that Milton was an
amateur. As to Shakspeare, there never was a better; as his description
of the murdered Duke of Gloucester, in Henry VI., of Duncan's,
Banquo's, &c., sufficiently proves.
The foundation of the art having been once laid, it is pitiable to see how
it slumbered without improvement for ages. In fact,