John Gibson, R.A., Sculptor.
In looking round the wide and luminous circle of our
great living Englishmen, to select one to whom I might
fitly dedicate this work,—one who, in his
life as in his genius, might illustrate the principle
I have sought to convey; elevated by the ideal which
he exalts, and serenely dwelling in a glorious existence
with the images born of his imagination,—in
looking round for some such man, my thoughts rested
upon you. Afar from our turbulent cabals; from
the ignoble jealousy and the sordid strife which degrade
and acerbate the ambition of Genius,—in
your Roman Home, you have lived amidst all that is
loveliest and least perishable in the past, and contributed
with the noblest aims, and in the purest spirit, to
the mighty heirlooms of the future. Your youth
has been devoted to toil, that your manhood may be
consecrated to fame: a fame unsullied by one
desire of gold. You have escaped the two worst
perils that beset the artist in our time and land,—the
debasing tendencies of commerce, and the angry rivalries
of competition. You have not wrought your marble
for the market,—you have not been tempted,
by the praises which our vicious criticism has showered
upon exaggeration and distortion, to lower your taste
to the level of the hour; you have lived, and you
have laboured, as if you had no rivals but in the
dead,—no purchasers, save in judges of what
is best. In the divine priesthood of the beautiful,
you have sought only to increase her worshippers and
enrich her temples. The pupil of Canova, you have
inherited his excellences, while you have shunned his
errors,—yours his delicacy, not his affectation.
Your heart resembles him even more than your genius:
you have the same noble enthusiasm for your sublime
profession; the same lofty freedom from envy, and the
spirit that depreciates; the same generous desire
not to war with but to serve artists in your art;
aiding, strengthening, advising, elevating the timidity
of inexperience, and the vague aspirations of youth.
By the intuition of a kindred mind, you have equalled
the learning of Winckelman, and the plastic poetry
of Goethe, in the intimate comprehension of the antique.
Each work of yours, rightly studied, is in itself
a criticism, illustrating the sublime secrets
of the Grecian Art, which, without the servility of
plagiarism, you have contributed to revive amongst
us; in you we behold its three great and long-undetected
principles,—simplicity, calm, and concentration.
But your admiration of the Greeks has not led you
to the bigotry of the mere antiquarian, nor made you
less sensible of the unappreciated excellence of the
mighty modern, worthy to be your countryman,—though
till his statue is in the streets of our capital, we
show ourselves not worthy of the glory he has shed
upon our land. You have not suffered even your
gratitude to Canova to blind you to the superiority
of Flaxman. When we become sensible of our title-deeds
to renown in that single name, we may look for an
English public capable of real patronage to English
Art,—and not till then.
