DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.61252#0124
80
THE BRIDGEWATER GALLERY.
who made us speaks to us through, the magnificent gifts of
those whom he has selected and endowed to keep the fire
burning on the altar, whether they be prophets, or poets,
or painters.
Sir Joshua Reynolds once said of a picture gallery, that it
was “ hung round with thoughts —true ! and not thoughts
only, but memories, hopes, aspirations:—not merely story or
scenery represented in form, or shape, or colour, but
“ The sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused.”
—the revelation of mind, not merely as a voice—a sound-
but as a palpable presence. Books and pictures are each
a world, round which “ our pastime and our happiness
may grow;” though as to happiness, perhaps ’tis going too
far—I do not know. At all events, art is one of the best
and safest, and most lasting pleasures which in this weary
changeable world we are glad to make the substitutes for
happiness. I remember that on entering the Bridgewater
Gallery after a long absence, all things so changed within
and without, I could almost have burst forth in the elo-
quent apostrophe of a fellow enthusiast—“Thou, 0
divine Bath of Diana, with deep azure dyes, with roseate
hues spread by the hand of Titian—art still there, another,
yet the same, that thou wert five and twenty years ago !”
Yes, there stands amid a bevy of graceful forms, fair and
stately above the rest, the majestic Diana, goddess-like in
anger;—there shrinks the poor Calisto, swooning away,
bowed “ with penetrative shame.” There in the delicious
Allegory of human life, the Arcadian shepherd still listens
to the minstrelsy of love, and she leans on him in all the
tender innocence of the golden age; and there they sit,
amid the rich unfading landscape—-
“ Fair youth, beneath those trees thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare!”
There still bends in immortal loveliness and purity, the
THE BRIDGEWATER GALLERY.
who made us speaks to us through, the magnificent gifts of
those whom he has selected and endowed to keep the fire
burning on the altar, whether they be prophets, or poets,
or painters.
Sir Joshua Reynolds once said of a picture gallery, that it
was “ hung round with thoughts —true ! and not thoughts
only, but memories, hopes, aspirations:—not merely story or
scenery represented in form, or shape, or colour, but
“ The sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused.”
—the revelation of mind, not merely as a voice—a sound-
but as a palpable presence. Books and pictures are each
a world, round which “ our pastime and our happiness
may grow;” though as to happiness, perhaps ’tis going too
far—I do not know. At all events, art is one of the best
and safest, and most lasting pleasures which in this weary
changeable world we are glad to make the substitutes for
happiness. I remember that on entering the Bridgewater
Gallery after a long absence, all things so changed within
and without, I could almost have burst forth in the elo-
quent apostrophe of a fellow enthusiast—“Thou, 0
divine Bath of Diana, with deep azure dyes, with roseate
hues spread by the hand of Titian—art still there, another,
yet the same, that thou wert five and twenty years ago !”
Yes, there stands amid a bevy of graceful forms, fair and
stately above the rest, the majestic Diana, goddess-like in
anger;—there shrinks the poor Calisto, swooning away,
bowed “ with penetrative shame.” There in the delicious
Allegory of human life, the Arcadian shepherd still listens
to the minstrelsy of love, and she leans on him in all the
tender innocence of the golden age; and there they sit,
amid the rich unfading landscape—-
“ Fair youth, beneath those trees thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare!”
There still bends in immortal loveliness and purity, the