ism and negative criticism of the Tübingen school. But independent of this, we find much solid learning and valuable information in the three "Hefte" before us. An interesting feature of the work is that the name of the writer is affixed to each article. It is proposed to finish the work in two years.
"Grundsteine einer Allgemeinen Cultur-Geschicte der Neusten Zeit." (Contributions to a General History of Esthetics [Culture] of the most recent times.) Von J. J. Honegger. Erster Band: Die Zeit des ersten Kaisen-eichs. (Vol. I. The times of the first Empire.) Leipzig: J. J. Weber. 1868. 8vo. pp. 416.
This is the first instalment of a "History of Culture of the present Century," to consist of five volumes. The author wields a ready and incisive pen. With keen penetration and rare ability he discusses the merits and tendencies of the works on philosophy, poetry, history, travels, politics, art, etc., of the different French, German and English authors of the nineteenth century. In bold but true outlines he delineates the principal factors of modern history, art, science and literature. His standpoint is independent, but true and genuine criticism.
COPIES OF GREAT PAINTINGS.
A short time ago I chanced to be in the parlor of a wealthy gentleman who prided himself on being a connoisseur in art [sinecure he said; but perhaps this was a slip of the tongue). His parlor walls were covered with large pictures, in gorgeous gilt frames, betokening a soul above expense. He liked to have his pictures show off well, he said, and you wouldn't catch him putting a thousand dollar painting into a twenty-five dollar frame. On examining the collection I was amused to find that, with the exception of the family portraits and two indifferent landscapes by an American artist, all the pictures were copies after "old masters." There was Rubens's "Descent from the Cross," one of Tenier's old Dutch women, Raphael's "Madonna in the Chair," a marine view after Claude, a landscape after Ruysdael, etc., etc. The owner knew them to be copies. He preferred copies of celebrated paintings to modern originals, because it is always safe to admire and praise what all the world praises as admirable. It had never occurred to him, and I did not disturb his felicity by suggesting it, that his poor copies (done in the picture manufactories of Antwerp at ten to twenty francs apiece) were not in every respect as good as their originals. He had seen both, and the only difference he knew was to the advantage of the bright, fresh-looking canvases he brought home. His delight in them was something wonderful to contemplate. I had not the heart to break the fascinating charm and show him what worthless bits of glass he was admiring as real diamonds. Yet I could not repress a feeling of regret that he should thus throw away money that might have done its share toward encouraging the development of American art.
As it is, his money is idly squandered. There is not a picture in his house worth a quarter of the price paid for its frame. And, in general, money paid for copies is thrown away. Really good copies of great pictures are among the rarest things in art. I have examined hundreds of copies, and have never yet found one worth a fig when placed beside the original. The collection I have just referred to bears no more resemblance to the originals than a squad of washer-women does to a group of Naiads. A fair copy may please one who has never seen anything better; but show him the original and if he has taste and culture he will never again admire the copy.
But it may be said that the majority of Americans can never see the originals, and it may be thought that even a faint impression of their beauty, obtained through copies, maybe better than none. But the difficulty is that from copies one receives not merely faint impressions, but entirely false ones. For there never has been and never can be a worthy copy of a masterpiece. What makes a painting a "masterpiece" but the inspired soul of the master visible in the work of his hands? All great works have arisen in "thought's interior sphere." What Emerson says of Michael Angelo is true of all great artists:
He wrought in sad sincerity:
Himself from God he could not free.
And further on, in the same true and beautiful poem:
