23
Vision held . . . with such delicate, grave concentration
Geoffrey Grigson, Samuel Palmer: The Visionary Years
Linnell outlived his son-in-law by six months. Too fragile to stand at his easel, he passed his time studying his own translation of the Bible and sometimes, on fine days, being pushed around his grounds in an unstable Bath chair. The unappealing picture that his grandson Herbert painted of him is mitigated by the more affectionate account of another descendant who described him roaring with laughter when, tipped out of his wobbly conveyance, he landed feet upwards in a garden bush. Linnell could only write with great difficulty. Even his cashbook entries finally came to a stop, though he still managed to pen a corrective line to his doctor when he found that he had been overcharged on a bill. His last letter was to Hannah, the daughter he had tried for so long to reclaim. ‘Why don’t you come to see me?’ he asked.1 He knew his time had come. On 20 January 1882, fully conscious to the last, he passed away. He was five months short of his ninetieth birthday.
Linnell was buried in the same Reigate churchyard in which, the previous year, Palmer’s coffin had been laid; but this time it was not a small private ceremony. The death of a famous painter was a public event. Shops were shut and a stream of carriages formed part of the cortège. Reigate neighbours were joined by mourners from London until the churchyard was crowded and the little funerary chapel so tightly packed that its doors had to be locked. Linnell, who had disliked the studied dolefulness of conventional mourning and had only rarely attended funerals himself, would not have approved, but the local papers gave voluminous accounts.
Linnell’s grave is marked, as befits his character, by a severe upright headstone. He was buried beside his first wife, and his second was to follow in four years’ time. His daughter Lizzie, who had never married but remained at Redstone to look after her father, was eventually, when she died in 1903 at the age of eighty-three, to share his burial place. Immediately to the left and right are the graves of other relations. Linnell, in death as in life, gathered his family about him; but Hannah, who died on 27 October 1893, by then no longer in her right mind, was not laid beside her father. She found her last resting place not far off, alongside her husband in his humbler grave.
God, family and art had always been the three most important elements of Linnell’s life. The devotion with which he served the first two had had their effect on the last. His paintings varied from the vigorously eye-catching to the merely competent. It is not surprising, given the huge quantity of canvases that he turned out. To the Victorians he had seemed an artist of great talent. ‘The most powerful landscape painter since Turner,’ The Times obituary declared: with his passing ‘a glory seems to have faded from the domain of British Art’. And yet, his reputation soon faded. Critical tastes were turning away from descriptive narratives towards the atmospheric innovations of the Impressionists and though in his late works a certain ‘impressionism’ has sometimes been remarked upon, this stylistic freedom was probably more a result of fading eyesight and faltering hand than a conscious attempt to imitate the innovative French painters who had first burst on to the Parisian art scene in 1874. Superseded by fashion, his oeuvre was soon forgotten. He disappeared into the sort of obscurity that Palmer had long known.
Two fellow Ancients still survived. Calvert wrote mournfully to Richmond after Palmer’s death: ‘You are the only one of our little early band of cherished friends, animated by God-gifted desire to ascend the heavenly slopes of Love – the beautiful ideal of “a kingdom within”,’ he said.2 That was in August 1882. Within a year, he too was dead. Only Richmond remained. By then a grand old man of the arts, he had captured many of the most famous faces of his era from Darwin through Charles John Canning (the Governor-General of India during the Mutiny) to Dickens and Charlotte Brontë; but his lively sketches of the Ancients remained as mementos of a high spirited youth: the picture album of a band of fellows he was never to forget. Richmond died in 1896 a few days before his eighty-seventh birthday.
Palmer’s reputation enjoyed a modest revival after his death. The Fine Art Society, one of the world’s earliest private art galleries, had been founded in 1876 and three years later, introduced to the work of Palmer by Valpy, had proposed that it should become the sole agent of his etchings. Palmer, who had gone through the agreement clause by clause with his son and decided that the twig of a tree should become his remarque (the marginal drawing on an engraving or etching which indicates an early state of the plate), had accepted the terms. By the autumn of 1879 he had been sympathising with his poor out-of-place bellman gazing forlornly from the window of a shop in Bond Street.
Shortly before Palmer’s death, the Fine Art Society had purchased his c.1830 Yellow Twilight, among the richest and most luminous of his Shoreham works. ‘In few things painted by an English artist is vision held so securely and with such simplicity and such delicate, grave concentration,’3 Geoffrey Grigson, a later biographer, recorded. Palmer had submitted two of his Milton watercolours – The Eastern Gate, in which dawn flares like a vast conflagration across the morning sky, and The Prospect, a mellow Italianate panorama in which far-stretching vistas are warmed by a rising sun – to the annual exhibition of the Old Watercolour Society in the last year of his life. He was to be on his deathbed by the time the show opened but the hanging committee accorded his contributions places of high honour. They were praised in reviews. ‘Epoch-making pictures,’4 said his friend Frederick George Stephens and comparisons with Turner were made by two other critics. The sublimity of sunrise had ‘never found nobler expression’,5 declared The Times. ‘Work of almost unequalled intensity’,6 was the Spectator’s opinion. Hannah would probably have read the reviews out aloud to her husband, watching the smile spreading across his peaceable old face. The struggle of the painter was ‘solitary and patient, silent and sublime’,7 he had once said. Only at the very end did he find some reward. It was modest. But by then he had learnt not to expect too much.
In the autumn of 1881, a few months after his death, the Fine Art Society staged a memorial show in which more than a hundred of his works were gathered. In the next year, in a further effort to secure his reputation, his son Herbert published a memoir which was followed a little over a decade later by a ‘life’. Herbert was a fierce custodian of his father’s legacy, most particularly of his etchings, and when Goulding produced what he considered to be an inferior impression of the delicate The Morning of Life he angrily denounced it as a savage wiping. It assaulted the viewer, he said, like a slap in the face.
In 1883, Herbert published Palmer’s An English Version of the Eclogues of Virgil in a limited edition. Only one of the ten plates – Opening the Fold – had actually been finished. Four others, in various states of incompletion, had to be brought up to scratch by Herbert who worked, as far as he was able, in accordance with his father’s spoken intentions. The other five were included as facsimiles after preliminary designs. But the publication of this volume on which Palmer had lavished so much thought, time and love went almost unnoticed.
In 1893 his sepias, which had remained closeted away for most of his lifetime in his Curiosity Portfolio, attracted some attention when they were exhibited at Burlington House, but still Palmer remained a marginal figure as far as a wider public was concerned. When people thought of the great British Romantics they imagined the magnificent light-flooded dramas of Turner, the passionately naturalistic oils of Constable, not the tiny luminous squares of some peculiar old visionary who had seldom made anything larger than an open book. Besides, few of Palmer’s pictures ever came up for sale. Although in 1881 the works which Giles had owned – four little oils and a number of watercolours and drawings – were put on the market, there had been no big studio sale after the artist’s death; and so, apart from the Milton series which Valpy, having waited more than fifteen years for their completion, disposed of within a decade, there were very few Palmer paintings to be bought.
Then, in 1909, Herbert decided to leave England to settle in Canada. Retaining only a few favourite pictures, he sent the remainder of his father’s works to auction. The rest of Palmer’s legacy – including some twenty clasped pocketbooks – was disposed of in a back garden bonfire that smouldered for several days. ‘Knowing that no one would be able to make head or tail of what I burnt, I wished to save it from a more humiliating fate,’ Herbert said. Perhaps he was trying to act in accordance with his father’s wishes: ‘No scraps’ had been his ‘serious rule’. It was ‘seclusion or fire’ for ‘everything that was not done as well as I could do it at the time’.8 But it is also likely that Herbert felt awkward about his father’s open expressions of emotion. His mental condition was ‘in many respects . . . uninviting’, he thought; ‘neither sufficiently masculine nor sufficiently reticent’.9 He was discomfited by Palmer’s effeminate tendencies and even more so by the unbridled affection that he had shown to his fellow Ancients. When once Richmond had spoken about how Calvert had left the Navy because his ‘dearest friend’ had been killed, Herbert had remarked: ‘There was too much “dearest” about Mr Richmond and sometimes about my father too.’10 The ardent dreams of a youthful Romantic were probably too remote or too risqué for an ageing Victorian to understand or decode.
It was not until well into the twentieth century that the rehabilitation of Palmer began to take place. His etchings found wider admiration first. They inspired an illustrator, Frederick Griggs, who had originally come across them in a public library as a boy. At about the same time that Herbert was leaving for Canada, Griggs, by then in his mid-thirties, was taking up etching in earnest and, having spent years working on illustrations for a guidebook to the English counties, he particularly appreciated Palmer’s feeling for atmospheric landscape. He got in touch with Herbert who, discovering his correspondent to be a brilliant technician, agreed to part with five of his father’s copperplates so that impressions could be made. Griggs’s prints, which he worked on along with Frank Short, the head of the Royal College of Art’s Etching School, and Martin Hardie, an assistant keeper in the print department of the V&A (who had himself been in touch with Herbert since 1910), were of exceptional quality. In 1913 the first catalogue raisonné of Palmer’s etchings was produced.
Palmer’s paintings, however, remained little known, though in 1917 the Tate acquired The Bright Cloud for its collection and in 1922 a further group of Shoreham paintings, among them his Coming from Evening Church. Then, in 1925, Laurence Binyon (the writer now best known for his poem For the Fallen, read out every year at Remembrance Sunday services) published a scholarly volume: The Followers of William Blake. Binyon was not interested in mere imitators of this master. He wanted to follow a more spiritual line of inspiration and he looked at how Calvert and Palmer, in particular, had found in Blake’s woodcuts a fresh path that would lead towards the renewal of British art. His book included examples of their work alongside that of other Ancients.
In 1926, Griggs’s prints were published by the Cotswold Gallery. In the same year Martin Hardie, in collaboration with Herbert (who wrote an introduction and loaned most of his father’s works), mounted an exhibition: Drawings, Etchings and Woodcuts by Samuel Palmer and other Disciples of William Blake. Opening at the V&A it had a huge and unpredicted impact. ‘The early watercolours in particular are an absolute revelation,’11 Sir Eric Maclagan, the Director of the V&A wrote. A year later Hardie gave a lecture to the Print Collectors’ Club. Looking at Palmer’s work throughout his long career, he said, ‘with its mixture of research and imagination, of actuality and romance, one feels that it has the quality of classic poetry . . . It is Gray’s Elegy in terms of brush and paint. For it was always of twilight and sunset of which he thought. For years he turned the pages of the book of sunsets and never tired.’12
Interest in Palmer gained momentum. Among his most ardent new admirers was a band of student printmakers from London’s Goldsmiths’ College. Graham Sutherland and Paul Drury were the most prominent, but Edward Bouverie-Hoyton, Alexander Walker and William Larkins also played a keen part. This group of students had first encountered the work of Palmer a few years earlier when Larkins had stumbled across his etching, The Herdsman’s Cottage, in a shop on the Charing Cross Road. They had been astounded by the detail and density of the image. Palmer covered the whole of the copperplate in a way that to them seemed revelatory. They had never before seen, explained Sutherland, such a complex multiplicity of marks coming together to create such a luminous tone. It was the complete antithesis of the manner in which Whistler, for many years the most highly acclaimed master of the medium, had etched. Sutherland visited the Tate to look at Palmer’s other works. He was entranced by their oddity, by their bold disregard of convention and their quirkily archaic style, and picked out in particular a little ink sketch of a peasant girl standing in a ploughed field. ‘It seemed to me wonderful,’ he later remembered, ‘that a strong emotion such as Palmer’s could change and transform the appearance of things.’13
Dressed up in cloaks and wide-brimmed hats, Sutherland and his friends set off with their sketch pads to Shoreham (and Sutherland, later renting a house in Farningham, began what was to be a long association with the Darent Valley landscapes). They started, in the late 1920s, to emulate Palmer’s style. Drury turned away from the portraiture that had been his primary interest to look at churches and cottages and dilapidated farmsteads while Sutherland wandered nostalgically through undulating pastoral views.
For a short while this group flourished. They became known as the New Pastoralists and their etchings in particular were much in demand. A tranquil English landscape could hardly have been further in mood from the up-thrusting Modernism that characterised the then dominant New York markets and there were plenty of buyers who still kept their conservative tastes. Speculators pushed up the prices of limited editions. It was boom time for these prints. It is to this brief era that the phrase ‘Come up and see my etchings’ dates: to own a collection would have been a mark of some wealth. But with the 1929 Wall Street Crash the bottom fell out of a bumped-up etching market and by the early 1930s the New Pastoralists found themselves increasingly sidelined. Sutherland, needing to make money, pushed himself into closer alignment with the international Modernist movement: he began moving away from printmaking towards drawing and painting; away from Kentish subjects towards a wider world.
Palmer, however, was not forgotten. Sutherland, along with his contemporaries John Piper and Paul Nash, went on to become part of a grouping which a reviewer, Raymond Mortimer, was subsequently to label ‘Neo-Romantic’. They made art that appealed to mystics, he wrote, ‘and particularly to pantheists who feel fraternity . . . with all living things’ and to those ‘with a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused’.14 They produced work that showed a deep familiarity with Palmer’s Shoreham visions, sharing its shadowy atmospheres, its intensity of feeling and its elaborate techniques.
Appreciation of Palmer gathered pace. Kenneth Clark, as Keeper of the Ashmolean between 1931 and 1933, brought two of his works (his haunting self-portrait was one of them) for the museum and another three paintings (including Cornfield by Moonlight) for his own private collection. In 1934 an exhibition of British Art at the Royal Academy showed a dozen Palmer pictures, among them items from the famous Curiosity Portfolio. To eyes by then attuned to the expressive distortions of Modernism, these seemed peculiarly contemporary, even as they spoke of some mystical past. In 1936 the agenda-setting magazine Apollo reproduced images of Palmer’s sepias for the first time and Grigson, who was to become the artist’s biographer, started publishing a number of articles on his work. In 1941, the Ashmolean Museum added the sepias to its Palmer collection.
It was around this time, also, that Palmer cast his spell over a second wave of Neo-Romantic artists. A circle which included among its principal members Keith Vaughan, Michael Ayrton, John Minton, Ivon Hitchens and John Craxton (though the young Lucian Freud and Henry Moore were also loosely associated) looked to his closely wrought vision. To them it seemed to arise from a quintessentially English tradition which they tried in their modernistic work to develop. Nash also renewed his erstwhile interest in Palmer. He wanted to capture what he thought of as the imprisoned spirit of landscape.
In 1947, Grigson’s Samuel Palmer: The Visionary Years was published, putting the spotlight on Palmer’s Shoreham works. These became widely admired as examples of English pastoral, of a peaceful ideal which a world war had put under threat. Soon their influence could be spotted all over the place, from the rural designs of Eric Ravilious through the Utopian drawings of Clifford Harper to the poetic engravings of Laurence Whistler.
Palmer came to have ‘almost too pervasive an influence’15 on English art, Kenneth Clark declared in 1949. Indeed, with the hindsight of history, there seems scarcely a figurative painter in Britain between the 1920s and 1950s who did not look at his work. Anything from the eerie miracles of Stanley Spencer’s Cookham canvases to the domestic harmonies of Winifred Nicholson’s still lifes were indebted. Palmer’s inspiration can be found in the luminous dreams of Cecil Collins, the lyrical patterns of Victor Pasmore’s landscapes, the primitive clarity of Cedric Morris’s compositions, the shadowy intensities of the engravings of Muirhead Bone. The canvas which still hangs in Palmer’s old Shoreham church – it shows the triumphant return from Africa of Lieutenant Verney Lovett Cameron (son of the vicar) having completed the first East–West crossing – was by the artist’s old friend Cope. In 1876, when it was painted, the work of this Academician was far preferred to that of the eccentric visionary who had once lived in the village. But, by the middle of the twentieth century, Cope’s pictures were being passed off as Palmer’s by then extremely popular and hence valuable works.
In the 1950s, however, the baton of Modernism passed from Europe across the Atlantic and, by the end of the decade, artistic trends had undergone a dramatic shift. Painters were looking towards the full-scale abstractions of a New York School that had abandoned descriptions of nature in favour of expressionistic renderings of inner emotional states. Palmer’s reputation languished again for a while. He did still continue to find a few cultish followers. His Shoreham visions, with their peculiar magnifications, their mushrooming patterns and their luminous glow, appealed to the tastes of the psychedelic sixties. His Magic Apple Tree looked mad as an orchard seen on acid. His proliferating blossoms belonged to some LSD trip. During one druggy binge, Jim Leon, the most important artistic contributor to the magazine Oz, had a mystical experience in which he was visited by a divinity called the Goddess of Nature, he said. From then on he devoted his talents to creating paradisiacal visions which can easily be tracked back to the influences of Palmer, as can many of the paintings of Syd Barrett, a founder member of Pink Floyd. But, for the most part, Palmer was forgotten by fashion until, in the 1970s, a faking scandal aroused interest once more.
A cockney, Tom Keating, having returned from a wartime career as a sailor, turned his hand first to picture restoring and then to creating forgeries of, among other paintings, Palmer’s Shoreham works. Buying old canvases from junk shops, he would steam the picture from its mount and then paint or draw his own in its place, sprinkling the finished product with vacuum cleaner dust to make it look older, flicking a spoonful of coffee powder to make convincing ‘fox marks’. He polished his techniques. Boiled walnuts, he discovered, made a perfect brown bistre for pseudo-Rembrandts and, for Palmer, a layer of gelatine which cracked when warmed was just right for the faking of thickly painted ‘frescos’. Keating pulled the unused watermarked pages from an old leather bound diary and then he just waited for the ‘the feeling to come over him’,16 he said. Once he made sixteen Palmers in a weekend.
‘I’d just sit there whistling softly to myself to help me think, then I’d start to doodle and look at the moon. Dink, donk, dink, tick, tick, tick – it would start to happen. God’s honour, I have never drawn a sheep from life, but Palmer’s sheep would begin to appear on the paper tick, tick, tick, and there they would be in the guv’nor’s “valley of vision” watched over by the good shepherd in the shadow of Shoreham’s church. With Sam’s permission I sometimes signed them with his own name, but they were his work and not mine. It was his hand that guided the pen.’17
With the benefit of hindsight, Keating’s pictures present crude amalgams of Palmeresque traits, but in 1976 a prestigious gallery paid £9,400 for what it believed to be an authentic image. Scholars were not convinced. Investigations ensued and The Times eventually published an exposé – though ironically, after this widely publicised scandal, Keating forgeries became sought after in their own right and at least one dealer was subsequently to be duped into buying a fake of the faker’s work.
From then on, Palmer’s work once again exerted a pervasive power. A painter who could capture the landscape in a manner that was not merely naturalistic, who could infuse it with feeling in a way that escaped the sentimentalism so associated with the Victorians, who could transcend the literal and speak of spiritual forces, directly inspired such artists as those who in 1975 formed the Brotherhood of Ruralists, (a group which, incorporating David Inshaw and Peter Blake, aimed at following a traditional strand of figurative British painting) and found reflections in anything from the hallucinatory landscapes of the Turner Prize-nominated Peter Doig to the computer-scanned drawings of Paul Morrison who, turning the tiniest weed into a wall-sized triffid, plays Palmeresque tricks with scale. In 2009, the Tate staged a show, The Dark Monarch, in its St Ives gallery, linking the Romantic legacy of Palmer via the work of a variety of Modernist practitioners to a number of established and upcoming contemporaries, Damien Hirst, Eva Rothschild, Simon Periton and Cerith Wyn Evans among them. Exploring the tensions between progress and tradition, it looked at the meanings – geological, mythical, mystical and magical – that over the course of the twentieth century have been inscribed by British artists into the contours of their landscape.
For a long time it was only the Shoreham paintings that were widely appreciated. The rest of Palmer’s career, thanks to the strong critical slant of Grigson’s landmark biography, was regarded as little more than a process of sad decline. Only at the very end was he considered to have become interesting again as, withdrawing into the obsessive world of etching, he condensed a lifetime of vision into a few square inches of work. Then in 2005 the British Museum, to mark the bicentenary of Palmer’s birth, put on the first major show by this artist in Britain since the V&A’s exhibition of almost eighty years earlier. This exhibition, staged in collaboration with the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York (to which it subsequently travelled), posited that a thread of unique sensibility could be followed from the Shoreham pictures, weaving its way through Palmer’s work right to the end of his life. It gave the whole a sparkling coherence. The more commercial works that had until then been dismissed were scanned for sublimations of earlier obsessions, for adumbrations of future concerns. More than 51,000 visitors flocked into the cramped basement gallery – at least double the number that had been predicted. Curators at the British Museum were as astounded as thrilled by the huge popular response.
Kenneth Clark thought of Palmer as the English Van Gogh. There are several similarities between these two eccentric recluses who both believed passionately in the perfect community and set out to establish one: Palmer in Shoreham with the Ancients, Van Gogh with Paul Gauguin in his Studio of the South. They both were profoundly religious and sought to uncover a spiritual presence in nature. And they were both, during their lifetimes, all but completely neglected, considered by all but close friends to have failed.
Van Gogh died before he was forty, having shot himself with a revolver during one of his periodic bouts of insanity. Palmer, however, survived into old age, coming to understand only too well that for those who stand fast to the truth of their convictions – a truth which for him stood ‘at a fixed centre, midway between its two antagonists Fact and Phantasm’18 – the fight will always be tough. ‘No one can clear away the brambles without getting thorns into his fingers’ he told his son a few months before his death. ‘I do not think anyone can get his living without a struggle. The painter’s and the poet’s struggles are solitary and patient, silent and sublime.’19
In comparison with his fellow British Romantics, Turner and Constable, Palmer still has to struggle. His name remains relatively unfamiliar. In part this is because his finest pictures – a scattering of images done in secret by a young idealist in Shoreham and a handful of etchings produced by an ageing recluse who, having lost faith with so many of life’s promises, returns to the land of dreams that he had wandered in his youth – are so few. Further to this they are small. They do not ambush the gallery browser like Turner’s grand dramas or, like Constable’s canvases, unfurl to lengths of six foot. And yet their very fewness makes them even more precious and, by their very smallness, they become all the more intense.
There is a memorable passage in Emily Brontë’s 1847 Wuthering Heights, written when Palmer was in middle age, in which the narrator tells of his stay in the house from which the novel takes its title. Coming in from the moor, he unlatches the gate, crosses the garden and is let into the kitchen. From there he gradually progresses inwards, moving through a series of ever more narrowly confined spaces until finally, encased in a box-bed, he lies down to sleep. It is at this moment of physical restriction that his mind flies wide open and imaginative visions are free to flood in. A ghostly Cathy comes clawing at the latticed windowpane. Is it dream or reality? The reader is never quite clear.
Palmer’s pictures work in something of the same way. His are not images to be admired from a distance. The visitor has to step closer, to peer inwards as if through the frame of some tiny window to gain an exhilarated glimpse of a painter’s private world. Imparted with all the emotion of a passionately held secret, it is capable of holding the imagination transfixed.
The spectator gazes into landscapes as intensely felt in their own way as the passionate canvases of Van Gogh. These little framed boxes, like theatrical sets, their cardboard-cut-out horizons thrown high by the footlights, their moons hanging like lanterns amid foliage unruffled by winds, present a hermetic realm that feels at once far removed from reality and yet, at the same time, full of fresh relevance.
‘A preference for the present as a matter of taste is a pretty sure sign of mediocrity,’ Palmer told his friend Stephens in 1875. He was not concerned with the merely current. That particular view of genius, he declared, was fit only for ‘dogs and cats, which are eminently remarkable for their sympathy with the present’. Rather, he believed along with Samuel Johnson that it is only that which ‘makes the past, the distant or the future predominate over the present’ which ‘advances us in the rank of thinking beings’. ‘The best poets and painters appeal to this faculty and instinct within us,’20 he declared.
Time has proved Palmer to be among that superlative number. This is not simply because his pictures of lost pastoral idylls showed British Modernists a possible way forwards or because, as several reviewers of the British Museum’s bicentenary exhibition suggested, his works can still find significance in a contemporary era which, sensing the threat of ecological catastrophe, finds a freshly relevant environmental message in his belief that humanity could live in harmony with nature. It is because Palmer discovered an entirely original way to show us our world anew. This is what lends his most-loved pictures their timeless appeal. We look at our landscapes through the lens of his eye. To see a line of trees silhouetted against the twilight, to watch a harvest moon rising over the fields, to gaze at the evening star shining above a steeple is to remember his images. His mystical visions are entwined with our living experience. His spiritual messages suffuse our surroundings. They deepen and enrich our perceptions, thus advancing us, as Johnson put it, in the rank of thinking beings. An artist cannot hope for any greater accomplishment.
If British tradition had ever encompassed the making of icons, they would not have been so different from Palmer’s tiny glowing pastorals. Condensed in the golden patches of his peaceful sepias, in the luminous landscapes of his Shoreham works, in the intricate densities of his tenebrous etchings, is a vision which expands the reaches of the human spirit. ‘The soul,’ as he always knew he would one day discover, is ‘larger than the whole material universe.’21
Portrait of Samuel Palmer by Charles West Cope, 1884.