{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_31623/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_31623","id":"gutenberg_31623","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31623","summary":null,"tags":["Aesthetics","Category: Art","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Painting"],"text":"Produced by Marius Masi, Juliet Sutherland and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's note: A few typographical errors have been corrected: they\n are listed at the end of the text.\n\n Some section headings were originally constructed as side-notes. They\n were placed here at the head of their respective paragraphs, and moved\n to paragraph's start where given at paragraph's middle. See HTML\n version for the original headers placement.\n\n Bold passages are enclosed by the '+' sign.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE KAPELLBRUeCKE, LUCERNE\n FROM A DRAWING BY\n RUSKIN]\n\n\n Library Edition\n\n THE COMPLETE WORKS\n OF\n\n JOHN RUSKIN\n\n MODERN PAINTERS\n\n\n VOLUME IV--OF MOUNTAIN BEAUTY\n\n /OF LEAF BEAUTY\n VOLUME V < OF CLOUD BEAUTY\n \\OF IDEAS OF RELATION\n\n\n NATIONAL LIBRARY ASSOCIATION\n NEW YORK CHICAGO\n\n\n MODERN PAINTERS.\n\n VOLUME IV.,\n CONTAINING\n PART V.,\n\n OF MOUNTAIN BEAUTY.\n\n\n[Illustration: The Gates of the Hills.]\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nI was in hopes that this volume might have gone its way without preface;\nbut as I look over the sheets, I find in them various fallings short of\nold purposes which require a word of explanation.\n\nOf which shortcomings, the chief is the want of reference to the\nlandscape of the Poussins and Salvator; my original intention having\nbeen to give various examples of their mountain-drawing, that it might\nbe compared with Turner's. But the ten years intervening between the\ncommencement of this work and its continuation have taught me, among\nother things, that Life is shorter and less availably divisible than I\nhad supposed: and I think now that its hours may be better employed than\nin making facsimiles of bad work. It would have required the greatest\ncare, and prolonged labor, to give uncaricatured representations of\nSalvator's painting, or of any other work depending on the free dashes\nof the brush, so as neither to mend nor mar it. Perhaps in the next\nvolume I may give one or two examples associated with vegetation; but in\ngeneral, I shall be content with directing the reader's attention to the\nfacts in nature, and in Turner; leaving him to carry out for himself\nwhatever comparisons he may judge expedient.\n\nI am afraid, also, that disappointment may be felt at not finding plates\nof more complete subject illustrating these chapters on mountain beauty.\nBut the analysis into which I had to enter required the dissection of\ndrawings, rather than their complete presentation; while, also, on the\nscale of any readable page, no effective presentation of large drawings\ncould be given. Even my vignette, the frontispiece to the third volume,\nis partly spoiled by having too little white paper about it; and the\nfiftieth plate, from Turner's Goldau, necessarily omits, owing to its\nreduction, half the refinements of the foreground. It is quite waste of\ntime and cost to reduce Turner's drawings at all; and I therefore\nconsider these volumes only as _Guides_ to them, hoping hereafter to\nillustrate some of the best on their own scale.\n\nSeveral of the plates appear, in their present position, nearly\nunnecessary; +14+ and +15+, for instance, in Vol. III. These are\nillustrations of the chapters on the Firmament in the fifth volume; but\nI should have had the plates disproportionately crowded at last, if I\nhad put all that it needed in that volume; and as these two bear\nsomewhat on various matters spoken of in the third, I placed them where\nthey are first alluded to. The frontispiece has chief reference to the\nsame chapters; but seemed, in its three divisions, properly introductory\nto our whole subject. It is a simple sketch from nature, taken at sunset\nfrom the hills near Como, some two miles up the eastern side of the lake\nand about a thousand feet above it, looking towards Lugano. The sky is a\nlittle too heavy for the advantage of the landscape below; but I am not\nanswerable for the sky. It was _there_.[A]\n\nIn the multitudinous letterings and references of this volume there may\npossibly be one or two awkward errata; but not so many as to make it\nnecessary to delay the volume while I look it over again in search of\nthem. The reader will perhaps be kind enough to note at once that in\npage 182, at the first line of the text, the words \"general truth\" refer\nto the angle-measurements, not to the diagrams; which latter are given\nmerely for reference, and might cause some embarrassment if the\nstatement of measured accuracy were supposed to refer to them.\n\nOne or two graver misapprehensions I had it in my mind to warn the\nreader against; but on the whole, as I have honestly tried to make the\nbook intelligible, I believe it will be found intelligible by any one\nwho thinks it worth a careful reading; and every day convinces me more\nand more that no warnings can preserve from misunderstanding those who\nhave no desire to understand.\n\nDenmark Hill, March, 1856.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [A] Persons unacquainted with hill scenery are apt to forget that\n the sky of the mountains is often close to the spectator. A black\n thundercloud may literally be dashing itself in his face, while the\n blue hills seen through its rents maybe thirty miles away. Generally\n speaking, we do not enough understand the nearness of many clouds,\n even in level countries, as compared with the land horizon. See also\n the close of Sec. 12 in Chap. III of this volume.\n\n\n\n\nTABLE OF CONTENTS.\n\n\nPART V.\n\nOF MOUNTAIN BEAUTY.\n\n\n PAGE\n\n CHAPTER I.--Of the Turnerian Picturesque. 1\n \" II.--Of Turnerian Topography. 16\n \" III.--Of Turnerian Light. 34\n \" IV.--Of Turnerian Mystery: First, as Essential. 56\n \" V.--Of Turnerian Mystery: Secondly, Wilful. 68\n \" VI.--The Firmament. 82\n \" VII.--The Dry Land. 89\n \" VIII.--Of the Materials of Mountains: First, Compact\n Crystallines. 99\n \" IX.--Of the Materials of Mountains: Secondly, Slaty\n Crystallines. 113\n \" X.--Of the Materials of Mountains: Thirdly, Slaty\n Coherents. 122\n \" XI.--Of the Materials of Mountains: Fourthly, Compact\n Coherents. 127\n \" XII.--Of the Sculpture of Mountains: First, the Lateral\n Ranges. 137\n \" XIII.--Of the Sculpture of Mountains: Secondly, the Central\n Peaks. 157\n \" XIV.--Resulting Forms: First, Aiguilles. 173\n \" XV.--Resulting Forms: Second, Crests. 195\n \" XVI.--Resulting Forms: Third, Precipices. 228\n \" XVII.--Resulting Forms: Fourthly, Banks. 262\n \" XVIII.--Resulting Forms: Fifthly, Stones. 301\n \" XIX.--The Mountain Gloom. 317\n \" XX.--The Mountain Glory. 344\n\n\n APPENDIX.\n\n\n I. Modern Grotesque. 385\n II. Rock Cleavage. 391\n III. Logical Education. 399\n\n\n\n\n LIST OF PLATES TO VOL. IV.\n\n\n Drawn by Engraved by\n\n Frontispiece.\n The Gates of the Hills _J. M. W. Turner_ J. COUSEN\n\n Plate Facing page\n\n 18. The Transition from _Ghirlandajo and\n Ghirlandajo to Claude Claude_ J. H. LE KEUX 1\n 19. The Picturesque of _Stanfield and\n Windmills Turner_ J. H. LE KEUX 7\n 20. The Pass of Faido.\n 1. Simple Topography _The Author_ THE AUTHOR 22\n 21. The Pass of Faido\n 2. Turnerian Topography _J. M. W. Turner_ THE AUTHOR 24\n 22. Turner's Earliest Nottingham _J. M. W. Turner_ T. BOYS 29\n 23. Turner's Latest Nottingham _J. M. W. Turner_ T. BOYS 30\n 24. The Towers of Fribourg _The Author_ J. C. ARMYTAGE 32\n 25. Things in General _The Author_ J. H. LE KEUX 32\n 26. The Law of Evanescence _The Author_ R. P. CUFF 71\n 27. The Aspen under Idealization _Turner, etc._ J. COUSEN 76\n 28. The Aspen Unidealized _The Author_ J. C. ARMYTAGE 77\n 29. Aiguille Structure _The Author_ J. C. ARMYTAGE 160\n 30. The Ideal of Aiguilles _The Author, etc._ R. P. CUFF 177\n 31. The Aiguille Blaitiere _The Author_ J. C. ARMYTAGE 185\n 32. Aiguille-drawing _Turner, etc._ J. H. LE KEUX 191\n 33. Contours of Aiguille Bouchard _The Author_ R. P. CUFF 204\n 34. Cleavage of Aiguille Bouchard _The Author_ THE AUTHOR 211\n 35. Crests of La Cote and Taconay _The Author_ THE AUTHOR 212\n 36. Crest of La Cote _The Author_ T. LUPTON 213\n 37. Crests of the Slaty\n Crystallines _J. M. W. Turner_ THE AUTHOR 222\n 38. The Cervin, from the East\n and North-east _The Author_ J. C. ARMYTAGE 233\n 39. The Cervin from the\n North-west _The Author_ J. C. ARMYTAGE 238\n 40. The Mountains of Villeneuve _The Author_ J. H. LE KEUX 246\n 12. A. The Shores of Wharfe _J. M. W. Turner_ THOS. LUPTON 251\n 41. The Rocks of Arona _The Author_ J. H. LE KEUX 255\n 42. Leaf Curvature Magnolia and\n Laburnum _The Author_ R. P. CUFF 269\n 43. Leaf Curvature Dead Laurel _The Author_ R. P. CUFF 269\n 44. Leaf Curvature Young Ivy _The Author_ R. P. CUFF 269\n 45. Debris Curvature _The Author_ R. P. CUFF 285\n 46. The Buttresses of an Alp _The Author_ J. H. LE KEUX 286\n 47. The Quarry of Carrara _The Author_ J. H. LE KEUX 299\n 48. Bank of Slaty Crystallines _Daguerreotype_ J. C. ARMYTAGE 304\n 49. Truth and Untruth of Stones _Turner and Claude_ THOS. LUPTON 308\n 50. Goldau _J. M. W. Turner_ J. COUSEN 312\n\n[Illustration: 18. The Transition from Ghirlandajo to Claude.]\n\n\n\n\nPART V.\n\nOF MOUNTAIN BEAUTY.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nOF THE TURNERIAN PICTURESQUE.\n\n\nSec. 1. THE work which we proposed to ourselves, towards the close of the\nlast volume, as first to be undertaken in this, was the examination of\nthose peculiarities of system in which Turner either stood alone, even\nin the modern school, or was a distinguished representative of modern,\nas opposed to ancient practice.\n\nAnd the most interesting of these subjects of inquiry, with which,\ntherefore, it may be best to begin, is the precise form under which he\nhas admitted into his work the modern feeling of the picturesque, which,\nso far as it consists in a delight in ruin, is perhaps the most\nsuspicious and questionable of all the characters distinctively\nbelonging to our temper, and art.\n\nIt is especially so, because it never appears, even in the slightest\nmeasure, until the days of the decline of art in the seventeenth\ncentury. The love of neatness and precision, as opposed to all disorder,\nmaintains itself down to Raphael's childhood without the slightest\ninterference of any other feeling; and it is not until Claude's time,\nand owing in great part to his influence, that the new feeling\ndistinctly establishes itself.\n\nPlate +18+ shows the kind of modification which Claude used to make on\nthe towers and backgrounds of Ghirlandajo; the old Florentine giving his\nidea of Pisa, with its leaning tower, with the utmost neatness and\nprecision, and handsome youth riding over neat bridges on beautiful\nhorses; Claude reducing the delicate towers and walls to unintelligible\nruin, the well built bridge to a rugged stone one, the handsome rider to\na weary traveller, and the perfectly drawn leafage to confusion of\ncopse-wood or forest.[1]\n\nHow far he was right in doing this; or how far the moderns are right in\ncarrying the principle to greater excess, and seeking always for\npoverty-stricken rusticity or pensive ruin, we must now endeavor to\nascertain.\n\nThe essence of picturesque character has been already defined[2] to be a\nsublimity not inherent in the nature of the thing, but caused by\nsomething external to it; as the ruggedness of a cottage roof possesses\nsomething of a mountain aspect, not belonging to the cottage as such.\nAnd this sublimity may be either in mere external ruggedness, and other\nvisible character, or it may lie deeper, in an expression of sorrow and\nold age, attributes which are both sublime; not a dominant expression,\nbut one mingled with such familiar and common characters as prevent the\nobject from becoming perfectly pathetic in its sorrow, or perfectly\nvenerable in its age.\n\nSec. 2. For instance, I cannot find words to express the intense pleasure I\nhave always in first finding myself, after some prolonged stay in\nEngland, at the foot of the old tower of Calais church. The large\nneglect, the noble unsightliness of it; the record of its years written\nso visibly, yet without sign of weakness or decay; its stern wasteness\nand gloom, eaten away by the Channel winds, and overgrown with the\nbitter sea grasses; its slates and tiles all shaken and rent, and yet\nnot falling; its desert of brickwork full of bolts, and holes, and ugly\nfissures, and yet strong, like a bare brown rock; its carelessness of\nwhat any one thinks or feels about it, putting forth no claim, having no\nbeauty nor desirableness, pride nor grace; yet neither asking for pity;\nnot, as ruins are, useless and piteous, feebly or fondly garrulous of\nbetter days; but useful still, going through its own daily work,--as\nsome old fisherman beaten grey by storm, yet drawing his daily nets: so\nit stands, with no complaint about its past youth, in blanched and\nmeagre massiveness and serviceableness, gathering human souls together\nunderneath it; the sound of its bells for prayer still rolling through\nits rents; and the grey peak of it seen far across the sea, principal of\nthe three that rise above the waste of surfy sand and hillocked\nshore,--the lighthouse for life, and the belfry for labor, and this for\npatience and praise.\n\nSec. 3. I cannot tell the half of the strange pleasures and thoughts that\ncome about me at the sight of that old tower; for, in some sort, it is\nthe epitome of all that makes the Continent of Europe interesting, as\nopposed to new countries; and, above all, it completely expresses that\nagedness in the midst of active life which binds the old and the new\ninto harmony. We, in England, have our new street, our new inn, our\ngreen shaven lawn, and our piece of ruin emergent from it,--a mere\n_specimen_ of the middle ages put on a bit of velvet carpet to be shown,\nwhich, but for its size, might as well be on the museum shelf at once,\nunder cover. But, on the Continent, the links are unbroken between the\npast and present, and in such use as they can serve for, the grey-headed\nwrecks are suffered to stay with men; while, in unbroken line, the\ngenerations of spared buildings are seen succeeding each in its place.\nAnd thus in its largeness, in its permitted evidence of slow decline, in\nits poverty, in its absence of all pretence, of all show and care for\noutside aspect, that Calais tower has an infinite of symbolism in it,\nall the more striking because usually seen in contrast with English\nscenes expressive of feelings the exact reverse of these.\n\nSec. 4. And I am sorry to say that the opposition is most distinct in that\nnoble carelessness as to what people think of it. Once, on coming from\nthe Continent, almost the first inscription I saw in my native English\nwas this:\n\n +\"TO LET, A GENTEEL HOUSE, UP THIS ROAD.\"+\n\nAnd it struck me forcibly, for I had not come across the idea of\ngentility, among the upper limestones of the Alps, for seven months; nor\ndo I think that the Continental nations in general _have_ the idea.\nThey would have advertised a \"pretty\" house or a \"large\" one, or a\n\"convenient\" one; but they could not, by any use of the terms afforded\nby their several languages, have got at the English \"genteel.\" Consider,\na little, all the meanness that there is in that epithet, and then see,\nwhen next you cross the Channel, how scornful of it that Calais spire\nwill look.\n\nSec. 5. Of which spire the largeness and age are also opposed exactly to\nthe chief appearances of modern England, as one feels them on first\nreturning to it; that marvellous smallness both of houses and scenery,\nso that a ploughman in the valley has his head on a level with the tops\nof all the hills in the neighborhood; and a house is organized into\ncomplete establishment,--parlor, kitchen, and all, with a knocker to its\ndoor, and a garret window to its roof, and a bow to its second story,[3]\non a scale of twelve feet wide by fifteen high, so that three such at\nleast would go into the granary of an ordinary Swiss cottage: and also\nour serenity of perfection, our peace of conceit, everything being done\nthat vulgar minds can conceive as wanting to be done; the spirit of\nwell-principled housemaids everywhere, exerting itself for perpetual\npropriety and renovation, so that nothing is old, but only\n\"old-fashioned,\" and contemporary, as it were, in date and\nimpressiveness only with last year's bonnets. Abroad, a building of the\neighth or tenth century stands ruinous in the open street; the children\nplay round it, the peasants heap their corn in it, the buildings of\nyesterday nestle about it, and fit their new stones into its rents, and\ntremble in sympathy as it trembles. No one wonders at it, or thinks of\nit as separate, and of another time; we feel the ancient world to be a\nreal thing, and one with the new: antiquity is no dream; it is rather\nthe children playing about the old stones that are the dream. But all is\ncontinuous; and the words, \"from generation to generation,\"\nunderstandable there. Whereas here we have a living present, consisting\nmerely of what is \"fashionable\" and \"old-fashioned;\" and a past, of\nwhich there are no vestiges; a past which peasant or citizen can no more\nconceive; all equally far away; Queen Elizabeth as old as Queen\nBoadicea, and both incredible. At Verona we look out of Can Grande's\nwindow to his tomb; and if he does not stand beside us, we feel only\nthat he is in the grave instead of the chamber,--not that he is _old_,\nbut that he might have been beside us last night. But in England the\ndead are dead to purpose. One cannot believe they ever were alive, or\nanything else than what they are now--names in school-books.\n\nSec. 6. Then that spirit of trimness. The smooth paving-stones; the\nscraped, hard, even, rutless roads; the neat gates and plates, and\nessence of border and order, and spikiness and spruceness. Abroad, a\ncountry-house has some confession of human weakness and human fates\nabout it. There are the old grand gates still, which the mob pressed\nsore against at the Revolution, and the strained hinges have never gone\nso well since; and the broken greyhound on the pillar--still\nbroken--better so; but the long avenue is gracefully pale with fresh\ngreen, and the courtyard bright with orange-trees; the garden is a\nlittle run to waste--since Mademoiselle was married nobody cares much\nabout it; and one range of apartments is shut up--nobody goes into them\nsince Madame died. But with us, let who will be married or die, we\nneglect nothing. All is polished and precise again next morning; and\nwhether people are happy or miserable, poor or prosperous, still we\nsweep the stairs of a Saturday.[4]\n\nSec. 7. Now, I have insisted long on this English character, because I want\nthe reader to understand thoroughly the opposite element of the noble\npicturesque; its expression, namely, of _suffering_, of _poverty_, or\n_decay_, nobly endured by unpretending strength of heart. Nor only\nunpretending, but unconscious. If there be visible pensiveness in the\nbuilding, as in a ruined abbey, it becomes, or claims to become,\nbeautiful; but the picturesqueness is in the unconscious suffering,--the\nlook that an old laborer has, not knowing that there is anything\npathetic in his grey hair, and withered arms, and sunburnt breast; and\nthus there are the two extremes, the consciousness of pathos in the\nconfessed ruin, which may or may not be beautiful, according to the kind\nof it; and the entire denial of all human calamity and care, in the\nswept proprieties and neatness of English modernism: and, between these,\nthere is the unconscious confession of the facts of distress and decay,\nin by-words; the world's hard work being gone through all the while, and\nno pity asked for, nor contempt feared. And this is the expression of\nthat Calais spire, and of all picturesque things, in so far as they have\nmental or human expression at all.\n\nSec. 8. I say, in so far as they have mental expression, because their\nmerely outward delightfulness--that which makes them pleasant in\npainting, or, in the literal sense, picturesque--is their actual variety\nof color and form. A broken stone has necessarily more various forms in\nit than a whole one; a bent roof has more various curves in it than a\nstraight one; every excrescence or cleft involves some additional\ncomplexity of light and shade, and every stain of moss on eaves or wall\nadds to the delightfulness of color. Hence, in a completely picturesque\nobject, as an old cottage or mill, there are introduced, by various\ncircumstances not essential to it, but, on the whole, generally somewhat\ndetrimental to it as cottage or mill, such elements of sublimity--complex\nlight and shade, varied color, undulatory form, and so on--as can\ngenerally be found only in noble natural objects, woods, rocks, or\nmountains. This sublimity, belonging in a parasitical manner to the\nbuilding, renders it, in the usual sense of the word, \"picturesque.\"\n\n[Illustration: 19. The Picturesque of Windmills.\n 1. Pure Modern. 2. Turnerian.]\n\nSec. 9. Now, if this outward sublimity be sought for by the painter,\nwithout any regard for the real nature of the thing, and without any\ncomprehension of the pathos of character hidden beneath, it forms the\nlow school of the surface-picturesque; that which fills ordinary\ndrawing-books and scrap-books, and employs, perhaps, the most popular\nliving landscape painters of France, England, and Germany. But if these\nsame outward characters be sought for in subordination to the inner\ncharacter of the object, every source of pleasurableness being refused\nwhich is incompatible with that, while perfect sympathy is felt at the\nsame time with the object as to all that it tells of itself in those\nsorrowful by-words, we have the school of true or noble picturesque;\nstill distinguished from the school of pure beauty and sublimity,\nbecause, in its subjects, the pathos and sublimity are all _by the way_,\nas in Calais old spire,--not inherent, as in a lovely tree or mountain;\nwhile it is distinguished still more from the schools of the lower\npicturesque by its tender sympathy, and its refusal of all sources of\npleasure inconsistent with the perfect nature of the thing to be\nstudied.\n\nSec. 10. The reader will only be convinced of the broad scope of this law\nby careful thought, and comparison of picture with picture; but a single\nexample will make the principle of it clear to him.\n\nOn the whole, the first master of the lower picturesque, among our\nliving artists, is Clarkson Stanfield; his range of art being, indeed,\nlimited by his pursuit of this character. I take, therefore, a windmill,\nforming the principal subject in his drawing of Brittany, near Dol\n(engraved in the Coast Scenery), Fig. 1, Plate +19+, and beside it I\nplace a windmill, which forms also the principal subject in Turner's\nstudy of the Lock, in the Liber Studiorum. At first sight I dare say the\nreader may like Stanfield's best; and there is, indeed, a great deal\nmore in it to attract liking. Its roof is nearly as interesting in its\nruggedness as a piece of the stony peak of a mountain, with a chalet\nbuilt on its side; and it is exquisitely varied in swell and curve.\nTurner's roof, on the contrary, is a plain, ugly gable,--a windmill\nroof, and nothing more. Stanfield's sails are twisted into most\neffective wrecks, as beautiful as pine bridges over Alpine streams; only\nthey do not look as if they had ever been serviceable windmill sails;\nthey are bent about in cross and awkward ways, as if they were warped or\ncramped; and their timbers look heavier than necessary. Turner's sails\nhave no beauty about them like that of Alpine bridges; but they have the\nexact switchy sway of the sail that is always straining against the\nwind; and the timbers form clearly the lightest possible framework for\nthe canvas,--thus showing the essence of windmill sail. Then the clay\nwall of Stanfield's mill is as beautiful as a piece of chalk cliff, all\nworn into furrows by the rain, coated with mosses, and rooted to the\nground by a heap of crumbled stone, embroidered with grass and creeping\nplants. But this is not a serviceable state for a windmill to be in. The\nessence of a windmill, as distinguished from all other mills, is, that\nit should turn round, and be a spinning thing, ready always to face the\nwind; as light, therefore, as possible, and as vibratory; so that it is\nin no wise good for it to approximate itself to the nature of chalk\ncliffs.\n\nNow observe how completely Turner has chosen his mill so as to mark this\ngreat fact of windmill nature; how high he has set it; how slenderly he\nhas supported it; how he has built it all of wood; how he has bent the\nlower planks so as to give the idea of the building lapping over the\npivot on which it rests inside; and how, finally, he has insisted on the\ngreat leverage of the beam behind it, while Stanfield's lever looks more\nlike a prop than a thing to turn the roof with. And he has done all this\nfearlessly, though none of these elements of form are pleasant ones in\nthemselves, but tend, on the whole, to give a somewhat mean and\nspider-like look to the principal feature in his picture; and then,\nfinally, because he could not get the windmill dissected, and show us\nthe real heart and centre of the whole, behold, he has put a pair of old\nmillstones, _lying outside_, at the bottom of it. These--the first cause\nand motive of all the fabric--laid at its foundation; and beside them\nthe cart which is to fulfil the end of the fabric's being, and take home\nthe sacks of flour.\n\nSec. 11. So far of what each painter chooses to draw. But do not fail also\nto consider the spirit in which it is drawn. Observe, that though all\nthis ruin has befallen Stanfield's mill, Stanfield is not in the least\nsorry for it. On the contrary, he is delighted, and evidently thinks it\nthe most fortunate thing possible. The owner is ruined, doubtless, or\ndead; but his mill forms an admirable object in our view of Brittany. So\nfar from being grieved about it, we will make it our principal\nlight;--if it were a fruit-tree in spring-blossom, instead of a desolate\nmill, we could not make it whiter or brighter; we illume our whole\npicture with it, and exult over its every rent as a special treasure and\npossession.\n\nNot so Turner. _His_ mill is still serviceable; but, for all that, he\nfeels somewhat pensive about it. It is a poor property, and evidently\nthe owner of it has enough to do to get his own bread out from between\nits stones. Moreover, there is a dim type of all melancholy human labor\nin it,--catching the free winds, and setting them to turn grindstones.\nIt is poor work for the winds; better, indeed, than drowning sailors or\ntearing down forests, but not their proper work of marshalling the\nclouds, and bearing the wholesome rains to the place where they are\nordered to fall, and fanning the flowers and leaves when they are faint\nwith heat. Turning round a couple of stones, for the mere pulverization\nof human food, is not noble work for the winds. So, also, of all low\nlabor to which one sets human souls. It is better than no labor; and, in\na still higher degree, better than destructive wandering of imagination;\nbut yet, that grinding in the darkness, for mere food's sake, must be\nmelancholy work enough for many a living creature. All men have felt it\nso; and this grinding at the mill, whether it be breeze or soul that is\nset to it, we cannot much rejoice in. Turner has no joy of his mill. It\nshall be dark against the sky, yet proud, and on the hill-top; not\nashamed of its labor, and brightened from beyond, the golden clouds\nstooping over it, and the calm summer sun going down behind, far away,\nto his rest.\n\nSec. 12. Now in all this observe how the higher condition of art (for I\nsuppose the reader will feel, with me, that Turner's _is_ the highest)\ndepends upon largeness of sympathy. It is mainly because the one painter\nhas communion of heart with his subject, and the other only casts his\neyes upon it feelinglessly, that the work of the one is greater than\nthat of the other. And, as we think farther over the matter, we shall\nsee that this is indeed the eminent cause of the difference between the\nlower picturesque and the higher. For, in a certain sense, the lower\npicturesque ideal is eminently a _heartless_ one: the lover of it seems\nto go forth into the world in a temper as merciless as its rocks. All\nother men feel some regret at the sight of disorder and ruin. He alone\ndelights in both; it matters not of what. Fallen cottage--desolate\nvilla--deserted village--blasted heath--mouldering castle--to him, so\nthat they do but show jagged angles of stone and timber, all are sights\nequally joyful. Poverty, and darkness, and guilt, bring in their several\ncontributions to his treasury of pleasant thoughts. The shattered\nwindow, opening into black and ghastly rents of wall, the foul rag or\nstraw wisp stopping them, the dangerous roof, decrepit floor and stair,\nragged misery or wasting age of the inhabitants,--all these conduce,\neach in due measure, to the fulness of his satisfaction. What is it to\nhim that the old man has passed his seventy years in helpless darkness\nand untaught waste of soul? The old man has at last accomplished his\ndestiny, and filled the corner of a sketch, where something of an\nunshapely nature was wanting. What is it to him that the people fester\nin that feverish misery in the low quarter of the town, by the river?\nNay, it is much to him. What else were they made for? what could they\nhave done better? The black timbers, and the green water, and the\nsoaking wrecks of boats, and the torn remnants of clothes hung out to\ndry in the sun;--truly the fever-struck creatures, whose lives have been\ngiven for the production of these materials of effect, have not died in\nvain.[5]\n\nSec. 13. Yet, for all this, I do not say the lover of the lower\npicturesque is a monster in human form. He is by no means this, though\ntruly we might at first think so, if we came across him unawares, and\nhad not met with any such sort of person before. Generally speaking, he\nis kind-hearted, innocent of evil, but not broad in thought; somewhat\nselfish, and incapable of acute sympathy with others; gifted at the same\ntime with strong artistic instincts and capacities for the enjoyment of\nvaried form, and light, and shade, in pursuit of which enjoyment his\nlife is passed, as the lives of other men are, for the most part, in the\npursuit of what _they_ also like,--be it honor, or money, or indolent\npleasure,--very irrespective of the poor people living by the stagnant\ncanal. And, in some sort, the hunter of the picturesque is better than\nmany of these; inasmuch as he is simple-minded and capable of\nunostentatious and economical delights, which, if not very helpful to\nother people, are at all events utterly uninjurious, even to the victims\nor subjects of his picturesque fancies; while to many others his work is\nentertaining and useful. And, more than all this, even that delight\nwhich he _seems_ to take in misery is not altogether unvirtuous. Through\nall his enjoyment there runs a certain under current of tragical\npassion,--a real vein of human sympathy;--it lies at the root of all\nthose strange morbid hauntings of his; a sad excitement, such as other\npeople feel at a tragedy, only less in degree, just enough, indeed, to\ngive a deeper tone to his pleasure, and to make him choose for his\nsubject the broken stones of a cottage wall, rather than of a roadside\nbank, the picturesque beauty of form in each being supposed precisely\nthe same: and, together with this slight tragical feeling, there is also\na humble and romantic sympathy; a vague desire, in his own mind, to live\nin cottages rather than in palaces; a joy in humble things, a\ncontentment and delight in makeshifts, a secret persuasion (in many\nrespects a true one) that there is in these ruined cottages a happiness\noften quite as great as in kings' palaces, and a virtue and nearness to\nGod infinitely greater and holier than can commonly be found in any\nother kind of place; so that the misery in which he exults is not, as he\nsees it, misery, but nobleness,--\"poor, and sick in body, and beloved by\nthe Gods.\"[6] And thus, being nowise sure that these things can be\nmended at all, and very sure that he knows not how to mend them, and\nalso that the strange pleasure he feels in them _must_ have some good\nreason in the nature of things, he yields to his destiny, enjoys his\ndark canal without scruple, and mourns over every improvement in the\ntown, and every movement made by its sanitary commissioners, as a miser\nwould over a planned robbery of his chest; in all this being not only\ninnocent, but even respectable and admirable, compared with the kind of\nperson who has _no_ pleasure in sights of this kind, but only in fair\nfacades, trim gardens, and park palings, and who would thrust all\npoverty and misery out of his way, collecting it into back alleys, or\nsweeping it finally out of the world, so that the street might give\nwider play for his chariot wheels, and the breeze less offence to his\nnobility.\n\nSec. 14. Therefore, even the love for the lower picturesque ought to be\ncultivated with care, wherever it exists; not with any special view to\nartistic, but to merely humane, education. It will never really or\nseriously interfere with practical benevolence; on the contrary, it will\nconstantly lead, if associated with other benevolent principles, to a\ntruer sympathy with the poor, and better understanding of the right ways\nof helping them; and, in the present stage of civilization, it is the\nmost important element of character, not directly moral, which can be\ncultivated in youth; since it is mainly for the want of this feeling\nthat we destroy so many ancient monuments, in order to erect \"handsome\"\nstreets and shops instead, which might just as well have been erected\nelsewhere, and whose effect on our minds, so far as they have any, is to\nincrease every disposition to frivolity, expense, and display.\n\nThese, and such other considerations not directly connected with our\nsubject, I shall, perhaps, be able to press farther at the close of my\nwork; meantime, we turn to the immediate question, of the distinction\nbetween the lower and higher picturesque, and the artists who pursue\nthem.\n\nSec. 15. It is evident, from what has been advanced, that there is no\ndefinite bar of separation between the two; but that the dignity of the\npicturesque increases from lower to higher, in exact proportion to the\nsympathy of the artist with his subject. And in like manner his own\ngreatness depends (other things being equal) on the extent of this\nsympathy. If he rests content with narrow enjoyment of outward forms,\nand light sensations of luxurious tragedy, and so goes on multiplying\nhis sketches of mere picturesque material, he necessarily settles down\ninto the ordinary \"clever\" artist, very good and respectable,\nmaintaining himself by his sketching and painting in an honorable way,\nas by any other daily business, and in due time passing away from the\nworld without having, on the whole, done much for it. Such has been the\nnecessary, not very lamentable, destiny of a large number of men in\nthese days, whose gifts urged them to the practice of art, but who\npossessing no breadth of mind, nor having met with masters capable of\nconcentrating what gifts they had towards nobler use, almost perforce\nremained in their small picturesque circle; getting more and more\nnarrowed in range of sympathy as they fell more and more into the habit\nof contemplating the one particular class of subjects that pleased them,\nand recomposing them by rules of art.\n\nI need not give instances of this class, we have very few painters who\nbelong to any other; I only pause for a moment to _except_ from it a man\ntoo often confounded with the draughtsmen of the lower picturesque;--a\nvery great man, who, though partly by chance, and partly by choice,\nlimited in range of subject, possessed for that subject the profoundest\nand noblest sympathy--Samuel Prout. His renderings of the character of\nold buildings, such as that spire of Calais, are as perfect and as\nheartfelt as I can conceive possible; nor do I suppose that any one else\nwill ever hereafter equal them.[7] His early works show that he\npossessed a grasp of mind which could have entered into almost any kind\nof landscape subject; that it was only chance--I do not know if\naltogether evil chance--which fettered him to stones; and that in\nreality he is to be numbered among the true masters of the nobler\npicturesque.\n\nSec. 16. Of these, also, the ranks rise in worthiness, according to their\nsympathy. In the noblest of them, that sympathy seems quite unlimited;\nthey enter with their whole heart into all nature; their love of grace\nand beauty keeps them from delighting too much in shattered stones and\nstunted trees, their kindness and compassion from dwelling by choice on\nany kind of misery, their perfect humility from avoiding simplicity of\nsubject when it comes in their way, and their grasp of the highest\nthoughts from seeking a lower sublimity in cottage walls and penthouse\nroofs. And, whether it be home of English village thatched with straw\nand walled with clay, or of Italian city vaulted with gold and roofed\nwith marble; whether it be stagnant stream under ragged willow, or\nglancing fountain between arcades of laurel, all to them will bring\nequal power of happiness, and equal field for thought.\n\nSec. 17. Turner is the only artist who hitherto has furnished the entire\n_type_ of this perfection. The attainment of it in all respects is, of\ncourse, impossible to man; but the complete type of such a mind has once\nbeen seen in him, and, I think, existed also in Tintoret; though, as far\nas I know, Tintoret has not left any work which indicates sympathy with\nthe _humor_ of the world. Paul Veronese, on the other hand, had sympathy\nwith its humor, but not with its deepest tragedy or horror. Rubens wants\nthe feeling for grace and mystery. And so, as we pass through the list\nof great painters, we shall find in each of them some local narrowness.\nNow, I do not, of course, mean to say that Turner has accomplished all\nto which his sympathy prompted him; necessarily, the very breadth of\neffort involved, in some directions, manifest failure; but he has shown,\nin casual incidents, and by-ways, a range of _feeling_ which no other\npainter, as far as I know, can equal. He cannot, for instance, draw\nchildren at play as well as Mulready; but just glean out of his works\nthe evidence of his sympathy with children;--look at the girl putting\nher bonnet on the dog, in the foreground of the Richmond, Yorkshire; the\njuvenile tricks and \"marine dabblers\" of the Liber Studiorum; the boys\nscrambling after their kites in the woods of the Greta and\nBuckfastleigh; and the notable and most pathetic drawing of the Kirkby\nLonsdale churchyard, with the schoolboys making a fortress of their\nlarger books on the tombstone, to bombard with the more projectile\nvolumes; and passing from these to the intense horror and pathos of the\nRizpah, consider for yourself whether there was ever any other painter\nwho could strike such an octave. Whether there has been or not, in other\nwalks of art, this power of sympathy is unquestionably in landscape\nunrivalled; and it will be one of our pleasantest future tasks to\nanalyze in his various drawing the character it always gives; a\ncharacter, indeed, more or less marked in all good work whatever, but to\nwhich, being preeminent in him, I shall always hereafter give the name\nof the \"_Turnerian Picturesque_.\"\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [1] Ghirlandajo is seen to the greatest possible disadvantage in\n this place, as I have been forced again to copy from Lasinio, who\n leaves out all the light and shade, and vulgarizes every form; but\n the points requiring notice here are sufficiently shown, and I will\n do Ghirlandajo more justice hereafter.\n\n [2] Seven Lamps of Architecture, chap. vi. Sec. 12.\n\n [3] The principal street of Canterbury has some curious examples of\n this _tininess_.\n\n [4] This, however, is of course true only of insignificant duties,\n necessary for appearance' sake. Serious duties, necessary for\n kindness' sake, must be permitted in any domestic affliction, under\n pain of shocking the English public.\n\n [5] I extract from my private diary a passage bearing somewhat on\n the matter in hand:--\n\n \"Amiens, 11th May, 18--. I had a happy walk here this afternoon,\n down among the branching currents of the Somme; it divides into five\n or six,--shallow, green, and not over-wholesome; some quite narrow\n and foul, running beneath clusters of fearful houses, reeling masses\n of rotten timber; and a few mere stumps of pollard willow sticking\n out of the banks of soft mud, only retained in shape of bank by\n being shored up with timbers; and boats like paper boats, nearly as\n thin at least, for the costermongers to paddle about in among the\n weeds, the water soaking through the lath bottoms, and floating the\n dead leaves from the vegetable-baskets with which they were loaded.\n Miserable little back yards, opening to the water, with steep stone\n steps down to it, and little platforms for the ducks; and separate\n duck staircases, composed of a sloping board with cross bits of wood\n leading to the ducks' doors, and sometimes a flower-pot or two on\n them, or even a flower,--one group, of wallflowers and geraniums,\n curiously vivid, being seen against the darkness of a dyer's back\n yard, who had been dyeing black all day, and all was black in his\n yard but the flowers, and they fiery and pure; the water by no means\n so, but still working its way steadily over the weeds, until it\n narrowed into a current strong enough to turn two or three\n mill-wheels, one working against the side of an old flamboyant\n Gothic church, whose richly traceried buttresses sloped into the\n filthy stream;--all exquisitely picturesque, and no less miserable.\n We delight in seeing the figures in these boats pushing them about\n the bits of blue water, in Prout's drawings; but as I looked to-day\n at the unhealthy face and melancholy mien of the man in the boat\n pushing his load of peats along the ditch, and of the people, men as\n well as women, who sat spinning gloomily at the cottage doors, I\n could not help feeling how many suffering persons must pay for my\n picturesque subject and happy walk.\"\n\n [6] Epitaph on Epictetus.\n\n [7] I believe when a thing is once _well done_ in this world, it\n never can be done _over again_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nOF TURNERIAN TOPOGRAPHY.\n\nSec. 1. We saw, in the course of the last chapter, with what kind of\nfeeling an artist ought to regard the character of every object he\nundertakes to paint. The next question is, what objects he _ought_ to\nundertake to paint; how far he should be influenced by his feelings in\nthe choice of subjects; and how far he should permit himself to alter,\nor, in the usual art language, improve, nature. For it has already been\nstated (Vol. III. Chap. III. Sec. 21.), that all great art must be\ninventive; that is to say, its subject must be produced by the\nimagination. If so, then great landscape art cannot be a mere copy of\nany given scene; and we have now to inquire what else than this it may\nbe.\n\nSec. 2. If the reader will glance over that twenty-first, and the following\nthree paragraphs of the same chapter, he will see that we there divided\nart generally into \"historical\" and \"poetical,\" or the art of relating\nfacts simply, and facts imaginatively. Now, with respect to landscape,\nthe historical art is simple topography, and the imaginative art is what\nI have in the heading of the present chapter called Turnerian\ntopography, and must in the course of it endeavor to explain.\n\nObserve, however, at the outset, that, touching the duty or fitness of\naltering nature at all, the quarrels which have so wofully divided the\nworld of art are caused only by want of understanding this simplest of\nall canons,--\"It is always wrong to draw what you don't see.\" This law\nis inviolable. But then, some people see only things that exist, and\nothers see things that do not exist, or do not exist apparently. And if\nthey really _see_ these non-apparent things, they are quite right to\ndraw them; the only harm is when people try to draw non-apparent things,\nwho _don't_ see them, but think they can calculate or compose into\nexistence what is to them for evermore invisible. If some people really\nsee angels where others see only empty space, let them paint the angels;\nonly let not anybody else think _they_ can paint an angel, too, on any\ncalculated principles of the angelic.\n\nSec. 3. If, therefore, when we go to a place, we see nothing else than is\nthere, we are to paint nothing else, and to remain pure topographical or\nhistorical landscape painters. If, going to the place, we see something\nquite different from what is there, then we are to paint that--nay, we\n_must_ paint that, whether we will or not; it being, for us, the only\nreality we can get at. But let us beware of pretending to see this\nunreality if we do not.\n\nThe simple observance of this rule would put an end to nearly all\ndisputes, and keep a large number of men in healthy work, who now\ntotally waste their lives; so that the most important question that an\nartist can possibly have to determine for himself, is whether he has\ninvention or not. And this he can ascertain with ease. If visions of\nunreal things present themselves to him with or without his own will,\npraying to be painted, quite ungovernable in their coming or\ngoing,--neither to be summoned if they do not choose to come, nor\nbanished if they do,--he has invention. If, on the contrary, he only\nsees the commonly visible facts; and, should he not like them, and want\nto alter them, finds that he must think of a _rule_ whereby to do so, he\nhas no invention. All the rules in the world will do him no good; and if\nhe tries to draw anything else than those materially visible facts, he\nwill pass his whole life in uselessness, and produce nothing but\nscientific absurdities.\n\nSec. 4. Let him take his part at once, boldly, and be content. Pure history\nand pure topography are most precious things; in many cases more useful\nto the human race than high imaginative work; and assuredly it is\nintended that a large majority of all who are employed in art should\nnever aim at anything higher. It is _only_ vanity, never love, nor any\nother noble feeling, which prompts men to desert their allegiance to the\nsimple truth, in vain pursuit of the imaginative truth which has been\nappointed to be for evermore sealed to them.\n\nNor let it be supposed that artists who possess minor degrees of\nimaginative gift need be embarrassed by the doubtful sense of their own\npowers. In general, when the imagination is at all noble, it is\nirresistible, and therefore those who can at all resist it _ought_ to\nresist it. Be a plain topographer if you possibly can; if Nature meant\nyou to be anything else, she will force you to it; but never try to be a\nprophet; go on quietly with your hard camp-work, and the spirit will\ncome to you in the camp, as it did to Eldad and Medad, if you are\nappointed to have it; but try above all things to be quickly perceptive\nof the noble spirit in others, and to discern in an instant between its\ntrue utterance and the diseased mimicries of it. In a general way,\nremember it is a far better thing to find out other great men, than to\nbecome one yourself: for you can but become _one_ at best, but you may\nbring others to light in numbers.\n\nSec. 5. We have, therefore, to inquire what kind of changes these are,\nwhich must be wrought by the imaginative painter on landscape, and by\nwhom they have been thus nobly wrought. First, for the better comfort of\nthe non-imaginative painter, be it observed, that it is not possible to\nfind a landscape, which, if painted precisely as it is, will not make an\nimpressive picture. No one knows, till he has tried, what strange beauty\nand subtle composition is prepared to his hand by Nature, wherever she\nis left to herself; and what deep feeling may be found in many of the\nmost homely scenes, even where man has interfered with those wild ways\nof hers. But, beyond this, let him note that though historical\ntopography forbids _alteration_, it neither forbids sentiment nor\nchoice. So far from doing this, the proper choice of subject[8] is an\nabsolute duty to the topographical painter: he should first take care\nthat it is a subject intensely pleasing to himself, else he will never\npaint it well; and then also, that it shall be one in some sort\npleasurable to the general public, else it is not worth painting at all;\nand lastly, take care that it be instructive, as well as pleasurable to\nthe public, else it is not worth painting with care. I should\nparticularly insist at present on this careful choice of subject,\nbecause the Pre-Raphaelites, taken as a body, have been culpably\nnegligent in this respect, not in humble honor of Nature, but in morbid\nindulgence of their own impressions. They happen to find their fancies\ncaught by a bit of an oak hedge, or the weeds at the sides of a\nduck-pond, because, perhaps, they remind them of a stanza of Tennyson;\nand forthwith they sit down to sacrifice the most consummate skill, two\nor three months of the best summer time available for out-door work\n(equivalent to some seventieth or sixtieth of all their lives), and\nnearly all their credit with the public, to this duck-pond delineation.\nNow it is indeed quite right that they should see much to be loved in\nthe hedge, nor less in the ditch; but it is utterly and inexcusably\nwrong that they should neglect the nobler scenery which is full of\nmajestic interest, or enchanted by historical association; so that, as\nthings go at present, we have all the commonalty that may be seen\nwhenever we choose, painted properly; but all of lovely and wonderful,\nwhich we cannot see but at rare intervals, painted vilely: the castles\nof the Rhine and Rhone made vignettes of for the annuals; and the\nnettles and mushrooms, which were prepared by Nature eminently for\nnettle porridge and fish sauce, immortalized by art as reverently as if\nwe were Egyptians, and they deities.\n\nSec. 6. Generally speaking, therefore, the duty of every painter at\npresent, who has not much invention, is to take subjects of which the\nportraiture will be precious in after times; views of our abbeys and\ncathedrals; distant views of cities, if possible chosen from some spot\nin itself notable by association; perfect studies of the battle-fields\nof Europe, of all houses of celebrated men, and places they loved, and,\nof course, of the most lovely natural scenery. And, in doing all this,\nit should be understood, primarily, whether the picture is topographical\nor not: if topographical, then not a line is to be altered, not a stick\nnor stone removed, not a color deepened, not a form improved; the\npicture is to be, as far as possible, the reflection of the place in a\nmirror; and the artist to consider himself only as a sensitive and\nskilful reflector, taking care that no false impression is conveyed by\nany error on his part which he might have avoided; so that it may be\nfor ever afterwards in the power of all men to lean on his work with\nabsolute trust, and to say: \"So it was:--on such a day of June or July\nof such a year, such a place looked like this; these weeds were growing\nthere, so tall and no taller; those stones were lying there, so many and\nno more; that tower so rose against the sky, and that shadow so slept\nupon the street.\"\n\nSec. 7. Nor let it be supposed that the doing of this would ever become\nmechanical, or be found too easy, or exclude sentiment. As for its being\neasy, those only think so who never tried it; composition being, in\nfact, infinitely easier to a man who can compose, than imitation of this\nhigh kind to even the most able imitator; nor would it exclude\nsentiment, for, however sincerely we may try to paint all we see, this\n_cannot_, as often aforesaid, be ever done: all that is possible is a\ncertain selection, and more or less wilful assertion, of one fact in\npreference to another; which selection ought always to be made under the\ninfluence of sentiment. Nor will such topography involve an entire\nsubmission to ugly accidents interfering with the impressiveness of the\nscene. I hope, as art is better understood, that our painters will get\ninto the habit of accompanying all their works with a written statement\nof their own reasons for painting them, and the circumstances under\nwhich they were done; and, if in this written document they state the\nomissions they have made, they may make as many as they think proper.\nFor instance, it is not possible now to obtain a view of the head of the\nLake of Geneva without including the \"Hotel Biron\"--an establishment\nlooking like a large cotton factory--just above the Castle of Chillon.\nThis building ought always to be omitted, and the reason for the\nomission stated. So the beauty of the whole town of Lucerne, as seen\nfrom the lake, is destroyed by the large new hotel for the English,\nwhich ought, in like manner, to be ignored, and the houses behind it\ndrawn as if it were transparent.\n\nSec. 8. But if a painter has inventive power he is to treat his subject in\na totally different way; giving not the actual facts of it, but the\nimpression it made on his mind.\n\nAnd now, once for all, let it be clearly understood that an \"impression\non the mind\" does not mean a piece of manufacture. The way in which most\nartists proceed to \"invent,\" as they call it, a picture, is this: they\nchoose their subject, for the most part, well, with a sufficient\nquantity of towers, mountains, ruined cottages, and other materials, to\nbe generally interesting; then they fix on some object for a principal\nlight; behind this they put a dark cloud, or, in front of it, a dark\npiece of foreground; then they repeat this light somewhere else in a\nless degree, and connect the two lights together by some intermediate\nones. If they find any part of the foreground uninteresting they put a\ngroup of figures into it; if any part of the distance, they put\nsomething there from some other sketch; and proceed to inferior detail\nin the same manner, taking care always to put white stones near black\nones, and purple colors near yellow ones, and angular forms near round\nones;--all being as simply a matter of recipe and practice as cookery;\nlike that, not by any means a thing easily done well, but still having\nno reference whatever to \"impressions on the mind.\"\n\nSec. 9. But the artist who has real invention sets to work in a totally\ndifferent way. First, he receives a true impression from the place\nitself, and takes care to keep hold of that as his chief good; indeed,\nhe needs no care in the matter, for the distinction of his mind from\nthat of others consists in his instantly receiving such sensations\nstrongly, and being unable to lose them; and then he sets himself as far\nas possible to reproduce that impression on the mind of the spectator of\nhis picture.\n\nNow, observe, this impression on the mind never results from the mere\npiece of scenery which can be included within the limits of the picture.\nIt depends on the temper into which the mind has been brought, both by\nall the landscape round, and by what has been seen previously in the\ncourse of the day; so that no particular spot upon which the painter's\nglance may at any moment fall, is then to him what, if seen by itself,\nit will be to the spectator far away; nor is it what it would be, even\nto that spectator, if he had come to the reality through the steps which\nNature has appointed to be the preparation for it, instead of seeing it\nisolated on an exhibition wall. For instance, on the descent of the St.\nGothard, towards Italy, just after passing through the narrow gorge\nabove Faido, the road emerges into a little breadth of valley, which is\nentirely filled by fallen stones and debris, partly disgorged by the\nTicino as it leaps out of the narrower chasm, and partly brought down\nby winter avalanches from a loose and decomposing mass of mountain on\nthe left. Beyond this first promontory is seen a considerably higher\nrange, but not an imposing one, which rises above the village of Faido.\nThe etching, Plate 20, is a topographical outline of the scene, with the\nactual blocks of rock which happened to be lying in the bed of the\nTicino at the spot from which I chose to draw it. The masses of loose\ndebris (which, for any permanent purpose, I had no need to draw, as\ntheir arrangement changes at every flood) I have not drawn, but only\nthose features of the landscape which happen to be of some continual\nimportance. Of which note, first, that the little three-windowed\nbuilding on the left is the remnant of a gallery built to protect the\nroad, which once went on that side, from the avalanches and stones that\ncome down the \"couloir\"[9] in the rock above. It is only a ruin, the\ngreater part having been by said avalanches swept away, and the old\nroad, of which a remnant is also seen on the extreme left, abandoned,\nand carried now along the hillside on the right, partly sustained on\nrough stone arches, and winding down, as seen in the sketch, to a weak\nwooden bridge, which enables it to recover its old track past the\ngallery. It seems formerly (but since the destruction of the gallery) to\nhave gone about a mile farther down the river on the right bank, and\nthen to have been carried across by a longer wooden bridge, of which\nonly the two abutments are seen in the sketch, the rest having been\nswept away by the Ticino, and the new bridge erected near the spectator.\n\nSec. 10. There is nothing in this scene, taken by itself, particularly\ninteresting or impressive. The mountains are not elevated, nor\nparticularly fine in form, and the heaps of stones which encumber the\nTicino present nothing notable to the ordinary eye. But, in reality, the\nplace is approached through one of the narrowest and most sublime\nravines in the Alps, and after the traveller during the early part of\nthe day has been familiarized with the aspect of the highest peaks of\nthe Mont St. Gothard. Hence it speaks quite another language to him\nfrom that in which it would address itself to an unprepared\nspectator: the confused stones, which by themselves would be almost\nwithout any claim upon his thoughts, become exponents of the fury of the\nriver by which he has journeyed all day long; the defile beyond, not in\nitself narrow or terrible, is regarded nevertheless with awe, because it\nis imagined to resemble the gorge that has just been traversed above;\nand, although no very elevated mountains immediately overhang it, the\nscene is felt to belong to, and arise in its essential characters out\nof, the strength of those mightier mountains in the unseen north.\n\n[Illustration: 20. Pass of Faido. (1st. Simple Topography.)]\n\nSec. 11. Any topographical delineation of the facts, therefore, must be\nwholly incapable of arousing in the mind of the beholder those\nsensations which would be caused by the facts themselves, seen in their\nnatural relations to others. And the aim of the great inventive\nlandscape painter must be to give the far higher and deeper truth of\nmental vision, rather than that of the physical facts, and to reach a\nrepresentation which, though it may be totally useless to engineers or\ngeographers, and, when tried by rule and measure, totally unlike the\nplace, shall yet be capable of producing on the far-away beholder's mind\nprecisely the impression which the reality would have produced, and\nputting his heart into the same state in which it would have been, had\nhe verily descended into the valley from the gorges of Airolo.\n\nSec. 12. Now observe; if in his attempt to do this the artist does not\nunderstand the sacredness of the truth of _Impression_, and supposes\nthat, once quitting hold of his first thought, he may by Philosophy\ncompose something prettier than he saw, and mightier than he felt, it is\nall over with him. Every such attempt at composition will be utterly\nabortive, and end in something that is neither true nor fanciful;\nsomething geographically useless, and intellectually absurd.\n\nBut if, holding fast his first thought, he finds other ideas insensibly\ngathering to it, and, whether he will or not, modifying it into\nsomething which is not so much the image of the place itself, as the\nspirit of the place, let him yield to such fancies, and follow them\nwherever they lead. For, though error on this side is very rare among us\nin these days, it _is_ possible to check these finer thoughts by\nmathematical accuracies, so as materially to impair the imaginative\nfaculty. I shall be able to explain this better after we have traced the\nactual operation of Turner's mind on the scene under discussion.\n\nSec. 13. Turner was always from his youth fond of stones (we shall see\npresently why). Whether large or small, loose or embedded, hewn into\ncubes or worn into boulders, he loved them as much as William Hunt loves\npineapples and plums. So that this great litter of fallen stones, which\nto any one else would have been simply disagreeable, was to Turner much\nthe same as if the whole valley had been filled with plums and\npineapples, and delighted him exceedingly, much more than even the gorge\nof Dazio Grande just above. But that gorge had its effect upon him also,\nand was still not well out of his head when the diligence stopped at the\nbottom of the hill, just at that turn of the road on the right of the\nbridge; which favorable opportunity Turner seized to make what he called\na \"memorandum\" of the place, composed of a few pencil scratches on a bit\nof thin paper, that would roll up with others of the sort and go into\nhis pocket afterwards. These pencil scratches he put a few blots of\ncolor upon (I suppose at Bellinzona the same evening, certainly _not_\nupon the spot), and showed me this blotted sketch when he came home. I\nasked him to make me a drawing of it, which he did, and casually told me\nafterwards (a rare thing for him to do) that he liked the drawing he had\nmade. Of this drawing I have etched a reduced outline in Plate +21+.\n\nSec. 14. In which, primarily, observe that the whole place is altered in\nscale, and brought up to the general majesty of the higher forms of the\nAlps. It will be seen that, in my topographical sketch, there are a few\ntrees rooted in the rock on this side of the gallery, showing by\ncomparison, that it is not above four or five hundred feet high. These\ntrees Turner cuts away, and gives the rock a height of about a thousand\nfeet, so as to imply more power and danger in the avalanche coming down\nthe couloir.\n\nNext, he raises, in a still greater degree, all the mountains beyond,\nputting three or four ranges instead of one, but uniting them into a\nsingle massy bank at their base, which he makes overhang the valley, and\nthus reduces it nearly to such a chasm as that which he had just passed\nthrough above, so as to unite the expression of this ravine with that\nof the stony valley. A few trees, in the hollow of the glen, he feels to\nbe contrary in spirit to the stones, and fells them, as he did the\nothers; so also he feels the bridge in the foreground, by its\nslenderness, to contradict the aspect of violence in the torrent; he\nthinks the torrent and avalanches should have it all their own way\nhereabouts; so he strikes down the nearer bridge, and restores the one\nfarther off, where the force of the stream may be supposed less. Next,\nthe bit of road on the right, above the bank, is not built on a wall,\nnor on arches high enough to give the idea of an Alpine road in general;\nso he makes the arches taller, and the bank steeper, introducing, as we\nshall see presently, a reminiscence from the upper part of the pass.\n\n[Illustration: 21. Pass of Faido. (2d. Turnerian Topography.)]\n\nSec. 15. I say he \"_thinks_\" this, and \"introduces\" that. But, strictly\nspeaking, he does not think at all. If he thought, he would instantly go\nwrong; it is only the clumsy and uninventive artist who thinks. All\nthese changes come into his head involuntarily; an entirely imperative\ndream, crying, \"thus it must be,\" has taken possession of him; he can\nsee, and do, no otherwise than as the dream directs.\n\nThis is especially to be remembered with respect to the next\nincident--the introduction of figures. Most persons to whom I have shown\nthe drawing, and who feel its general character, regret that there is\nany living thing in it; they say it destroys the majesty of its\ndesolation. But the dream said not so to Turner. The dream insisted\nparticularly upon the great fact of its having come by the road. The\ntorrent was wild, the stones were wonderful; but the most wonderful\nthing of all was how we ourselves, the dream and I, ever got here. By\nour feet we could not--by the clouds we could not--by any ivory gates we\ncould not--in no other wise could we have come than by the coach road.\nOne of the great elements of sensation, all the day long, has been that\nextraordinary road, and its goings on, and gettings about; here, under\navalanches of stones, and among insanities of torrents, and overhangings\nof precipices, much tormented and driven to all manner of makeshifts and\ncoils to this side and the other, still the marvellous road persists in\ngoing on, and that so smoothly and safely, that it is not merely great\ndiligences, going in a caravanish manner, with whole teams of horses,\nthat can traverse it, but little postchaises with small postboys, and a\npair of ponies. And the dream declared that the full essence and soul of\nthe scene, and consummation of all the wonderfulness of the torrents and\nAlps, lay in a postchaise, with small ponies and postboy, which\naccordingly it insisted upon Turner's inserting, whether he liked it or\nnot, at the turn of the road.\n\nSec. 16. Now, it will be observed by any one familiar with ordinary\nprinciples of arrangement of form (on which principles I shall insist at\nlength in another place), that while the dream introduces these changes\nbearing on the expression of the scene, it is also introducing other\nchanges, which appear to be made more or less in compliance with\nreceived rules of composition,[10] rendering the masses broader, the\nlines more continuous, and the curves more graceful. But the curious\npart of the business is, that these changes seem not so much to be\nwrought by imagining an entirely new condition of any feature, as by\n_remembering_ something which will fit better in that place. For\ninstance, Turner felt the bank on the right ought to be made more solid\nand rocky, in order to suggest firmer resistance to the stream, and he\nturns it, as will be seen by comparing the etchings, into a kind of rock\nbuttress, to the wall, instead of a mere bank. Now, the buttress into\nwhich he turns it is very nearly a facsimile of one which he had drawn\non that very St. Gothard road, far above, at the Devil's Bridge, at\nleast thirty years before, and which he had himself etched and engraved,\nfor the Liber Studiorum, although the plate was never published. Fig. 1\nis a copy of the bit of the etching in question. Note how the wall winds\nover it, and observe especially the peculiar depression in the middle of\nits surface, and compare it in those parts generally with the features\nintroduced in the later composition. Of course, this might be set down\nas a mere chance coincidence, but for the frequency of the cases in\nwhich Turner can be shown to have done the same thing, and to have\nintroduced, after a lapse of many years, memories of something which,\nhowever apparently small or unimportant, had struck him in his earlier\nstudies. These instances, when I can detect them, I shall point out as I\ngo on engraving his works; and I think they are numerous enough to\ninduce a doubt whether Turner's composition was not universally an\narrangement of remembrances, summoned just as they were wanted, and set\neach in its fittest place. It is this very character which appears to\nme to mark it as so distinctly an act of dream-vision; for in a dream\nthere is just this kind of confused remembrance of the forms of things\nwhich we have seen long ago, associated by new and strange laws. That\ncommon dreams are grotesque and disorderly, and Turner's dream natural\nand orderly, does not, to my thinking, involve any necessary difference\nin the real species of act of mind. I think I shall be able to show, in\nthe course of the following pages, or elsewhere, that whenever Turner\nreally tried to _compose_, and made modifications of his subjects on\nprinciple, he did wrong, and spoiled them; and that he only did right in\na kind of passive obedience to his first vision, that vision being\ncomposed primarily of the strong memory of the place itself which he had\nto draw; and secondarily, of memories of other places (whether\nrecognized as such by himself or not I cannot tell), associated, in a\nharmonious and helpful way, with the new central thought.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 1.]\n\nSec. 17. The kind of mental chemistry by which the dream summons and\nassociates its materials, I have already endeavored, not to explain, for\nit is utterly inexplicable, but to illustrate, by a well-ascertained\nthough equally inexplicable fact in common chemistry. That illustration\n(Sec. 8. of chapter on Imaginative Association, Vol. II.) I see more and\nmore ground to think correct. How far I could show that it held with all\ngreat inventors, I know not, but with all those whom I have carefully\nstudied (Dante, Scott, Turner, and Tintoret) it seems to me to hold\nabsolutely; their imagination consisting, not in a voluntary production\nof new images, but an involuntary remembrance, exactly at the right\nmoment, of something they had actually seen.\n\nImagine all that any of these men had seen or heard in the whole course\nof their lives, laid up accurately in their memories as in vast\nstorehouses, extending, with the poets, even to the slightest\nintonations of syllables heard in the beginning of their lives, and,\nwith the painters, down to the minute folds of drapery, and shapes of\nloaves or stones; and over all this unindexed and immeasurable mass of\ntreasure, the imagination brooding and wandering, but dream-gifted, so\nas to summon at any moment exactly such groups of ideas as shall justly\nfit each other: this I conceive to be the real nature of the imaginative\nmind, and this, I believe, it would be oftener explained to us as\nbeing, by the men themselves who possess it, but that they have no idea\nwhat the state of other persons' minds is in comparison; they suppose\nevery one remembers all that he has seen in the same way, and do not\nunderstand how it happens that they alone can produce good drawings or\ngreat thoughts.\n\n[Illustration: Turner. T. Boys.\n 22. Turner's Earliest \"Nottingham.\"]\n\nSec. 18. Whether this be the case with all inventors or not, it was\nassuredly the case with Turner to such an extent that he seems never to\nhave lost, or cared to disturb, the impression made upon him by any\nscene,--even in his earliest youth. He never seems to have gone back to\na place to look at it again, but, as he gained power, to have painted\nand repainted it as first seen, associating with it certain new thoughts\nor new knowledge, but never shaking the central pillar of the old image.\nSeveral instances of this have been already given in my pamphlet on\nPre-Raphaelitism; others will be noted in the course of our\ninvestigation of his works; one, merely for the sake of illustration, I\nwill give here.\n\nSec. 19. Plate +22+ is an outline of a drawing of the town and castle of\nNottingham, made by Turner for Walker's Itinerant, and engraved in that\nwork. The engraving (from which this outline was made, as I could not\ndiscover the drawing itself) was published on the 28th of February,\n1795, a period at which Turner was still working in a very childish way;\nand the whole design of this plate is curiously stiff and commonplace.\nNote, especially, the two formal little figures under the sail.\n\nIn the year 1833, an engraving of Nottingham, from a drawing by Turner,\nwas published by Moon, Boys, and Graves, in the England and Wales\nseries. Turner certainly made none of the drawings for that series long\nbefore they were wanted; and if, therefore, we suppose the drawing to\nhave been made so much as three years before the publication of the\nplate, it will be setting the date of it as far back as is in the\nslightest degree probable. We may assume therefore (and the conclusion\nis sufficiently established, also, by the style of the execution), that\nthere was an interval of at least thirty-five years between the making\nof those two drawings,--thirty-five years, in the course of which Turner\nhad become, from an unpractised and feeble draughtsman, the most\naccomplished artist of his age, and had entirely changed his methods of\nwork and his habits of feeling.\n\nSec. 20. On the page opposite to the etching of the first, I have given an\netching of the last Nottingham. The one will be found to be merely the\namplification and adornment of the other. _Every incident_ is preserved;\neven the men employed about the log of wood are there, only now removed\nfar away (beyond the lock on the right, between it and the town), and so\nlost in mist that, though made out by color in the drawing, they cannot\nbe made clear in the outline etching. The canal bridge and even the\nstiff mast are both retained; only another boat is added, and the sail\ndropped upon the higher mast is hoisted on the lower one; and the\ncastle, to get rid of its formality, is moved a little to the left, so\nas to hide one side. But, evidently, no new sketch has been made. The\npainter has returned affectionately to his boyish impression, and worked\nit out with his manly power.\n\nSec. 21. How far this manly power itself acted merely in the accumulation\nof memories, remains, as I said, a question undetermined; but at all\nevents, Turner's mind is not more, in my estimation, distinguished above\nothers by its demonstrably arranging and ruling faculties, than by its\ndemonstrably retentive and submissive faculties; and the longer I\ninvestigate it, the more this tenderness of perception and grasp of\nmemory seem to me the root of its greatness. So that I am more and more\nconvinced of what I had to state respecting the imagination, now many\nyears ago, viz., that its true force lies in its marvellous insight and\nforesight--that it is, instead of a false and deceptive faculty, exactly\nthe most accurate and truth-telling faculty which the human mind\npossesses; and all the more truth-telling, because, in _its_ work, the\nvanity and individualism of the man himself are crushed, and he becomes\na mere instrument or mirror, used by a higher power for the reflection\nto others of a truth which no effort of his could ever have ascertained;\nso that all mathematical, and arithmetical, and generally scientific\ntruth, is, in comparison, truth of the husk and surface, hard and\nshallow; and only the imaginative truth is precious. Hence, whenever we\nwant to know what are the chief facts of any case, it is better not to\ngo to political economists, nor to mathematicians, but to the great\npoets; for I find they always see more of the matter than any one else:\nand in like manner those who want to know the real facts of the world's\noutside aspect, will find that they cannot trust maps, nor charts, nor\nany manner of mensuration; the most important facts being always quite\nimmeasurable, and that (with only some occasional and trifling\ninconvenience, if they form too definite anticipations as to the\nposition of a bridge here, or a road there) the Turnerian topography is\nthe only one to be trusted.\n\n[Illustration: Turner. T. Boys.\n 23. Turner's Latest \"Nottingham.\"]\n\nSec. 22. One or two important corollaries may be drawn from these\nprinciples, respecting the kind of fidelity which is to be exacted from\nmen who have no imaginative power. It has been stated, over and over\nagain, that it is not _possible_ to draw the whole of nature, as in a\nmirror. Certain omissions must be made, and certain conventionalities\nadmitted, in all art. Now it ought to be the instinctive affection of\neach painter which guides him to the omissions he is to make, or signs\nhe is to use; and his choice of this or the other fact for\nrepresentation, his insistence upon this or the other character in his\nsubject, as that which to him is impressive, constitutes, when it is\nearnest and simple, part of the value of his work. This is the only\ninspiration he is capable of, but it is a kind of inspiration still; and\nalthough he may not have the memory or the associative power which would\nenable him to compose a subject in the Turnerian manner, he may have\ncertain _affections_, perfectly expressible in his work, and of which he\nought to allow the influence to be seen.[11]\n\nSec. 23. And this may especially be permitted in rapid sketching of effects\nor scenes which, either in their speedy passing away, or for want of\ntime, it is impossible to draw faithfully. Generally, if leisure permit,\nthe detailed drawing of the object will be grander than any \"impression\non the mind\" of an unimaginative person; but if leisure do not permit, a\nrapid sketch, marking forcibly the points that strike him, may often\nhave considerable interest in its way. The other day I sketched the\ntowers of the Swiss Fribourg hastily from the Hotel de Zahringen. It was\na misty morning with broken sunshine, and the towers were seen by\nflickering light through broken clouds,--dark blue mist filling the\nhollow of the valley behind them. I have engraved the sketch on the\nopposite page, adding a few details, and exaggerating the exaggerations;\nfor in drawing from nature, even at speed, I am not in the habit of\nexaggerating enough to illustrate what I mean. The next day, on a clear\nand calm forenoon, I daguerreotyped the towers, with the result given on\nthe next plate (+25+ Fig. 2); and this unexaggerated statement, with its\ndetails properly painted, would not only be the more right, but\ninfinitely the grander of the two. But the first sketch nevertheless\nconveys, in some respects, a truer idea of Fribourg than any other, and\nhas, therefore, a certain use. For instance, the wall going up behind\nthe main tower is seen in my drawing to bend very distinctly, following\nthe different slopes of the hill. In the daguerreotype this bend is\nhardly perceptible. And yet the notablest thing in the town of Fribourg\nis, that all its walls have got flexible spines, and creep up and down\nthe precipices more in the manner of cats than walls; and there is a\ngeneral sense of height, strength and grace, about its belts of tower\nand rampart, which clings even to every separate and less graceful piece\nof them when seen on the spot; so that the hasty sketch, expressing\nthis, has a certain veracity wanting altogether in the daguerreotype.\n\nNay, sometimes, even in the most accurate and finished topography, a\nslight exaggeration may be permitted; for many of the most important\nfacts in nature are so subtle, that they _must_ be slightly exaggerated,\nin order to be made noticeable when they are translated into the\ncomparatively clumsy lines of even the best drawing,[12] and removed\nfrom the associating circumstances which enhanced their influence, or\ndirected attention to them, in nature.\n\n[Illustration: 24. The Towers of Fribourg.]\n\n[Illustration: J. Ruskin J. H. Le Keux.\n 25. Things in general.]\n\nSec. 24. Still, in all these cases, the more unconscious the\ndraughtsman is of the changes he is making, the better. Love will\nthen do its own proper work; and the only true test of good or bad is,\nultimately, strength of affection. For it does not matter with what wise\npurposes, or on what wise principles, the thing is drawn; if it be not\ndrawn for love of it, it will never be right; and if it _be_ drawn for\nlove of it, it will never be wrong--love's misrepresentation being truer\nthan the most mathematical presentation. And although all the reasonings\nabout right and wrong, through which we have been led in this chapter,\ncould never be brought to bear on the work at the moment of doing it,\nyet this test of right holds always;--if the artist is in any wise\nmodifying or methodizing to exhibit himself and his dexterity, his work\nwill, in that precise degree, be abortive; and if he is working with\nhearty love of the place, earnest desire to be faithful to it, and yet\nan open heart for every fancy that Heaven sends him, in that precise\ndegree his work will be great and good.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [8] Observe, what was said in the second volume respecting the\n spirit of choice as evil, refers only to young students, and to that\n choice which assumes that any common subject is not good enough, nor\n interesting enough, to be studied. But, though all is good for\n study, and all is beautiful, some is better than the rest for the\n help and pleasure of others; and this it is our duty always to\n choose, if we have opportunity, being quite happy with what is\n within our reach, if we have not.\n\n [9] \"Couloir\" is a good untranslateable Savoyard word, for a place\n down which stones and water fall in storms; it is perhaps deserving\n of naturalization.\n\n [10] I have just said, Sec. 12, that if, _quitting hold_ of this\n original impression, the artist tries to compose something prettier\n than he saw, it is all over with him; but, retaining the first\n impression, he will, nevertheless, if he has invention,\n instinctively modify many lines and parts of it--possibly all parts\n of it--for the better; sometimes making them individually more\n pictorial, sometimes preventing them from interfering with each\n other's beauty. For almost all natural landscapes are redundant\n treasures of more or less confused beauty, out of which the human\n instinct of invention can by just choice arrange, not a better\n treasure, but one more fitted to human sight and emotion, infinitely\n narrower, infinitely less lovely in detail, but having this great\n virtue, that there shall be absolutely nothing which does not\n contribute to the effect of the whole; whereas in the natural\n landscape there is a redundancy which impresses only as redundance,\n and often an occurrence of marring features; not of ugliness only,\n but of ugliness _in the wrong place_. Ugliness has its proper virtue\n and use; but ugliness occurring at the wrong time (as if the negro\n servant, instead of standing behind the king, in Tintoret's picture,\n were to thrust his head in front of the noble features of his\n master) is justly to be disliked and withdrawn.\n\n \"Why, this,\" exclaims the idealist, \"is what _I_ have always been\n saying, and _you_ have always been denying.\" No; I never denied\n this. But I denied that painters in general, when they spoke of\n improving Nature, knew what Nature was. Observe: before they dare as\n much as to _dream_ of arranging her, they must be able to paint her\n as she is; nor will the most skilful arrangement ever atone for the\n slightest wilful failure in truth of representation; and I am\n continually declaiming against arrangement, not because arrangement\n is wrong, but because our present painters have for the most part\n nothing to arrange. They cannot so much as paint a weed or a post\n accurately; and yet they pretend to improve the forests and\n mountains.\n\n [11] For instance, even in my topographical etching, Plate 20, I\n have given only a few lines of the thousands which existed in the\n scene. Those lines are what I considered the leading ones. Another\n person might have thought other lines the leading ones, and his\n representation might be equally true as far as it went; but which of\n our representations went furthest would depend on our relative\n degrees of knowledge and feeling about hills.\n\n [12] Or the best photograph. The question of the exact relation of\n value between photography and good topographical drawing, I hope to\n examine in another place.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nOF TURNERIAN LIGHT.\n\n\nSec. 1. Having in the preceding chapter seen the grounds on which to\nexplain and justify Turner's _choice_ of facts, we proceed to examine\nfinally those modes of _representing_ them introduced by him;--modes so\nutterly at variance with the received doctrines on the subject of art,\nas to cause his works to be regarded with contempt, or severe blame, by\nall reputed judges, at the period of their first appearance. And,\nchiefly, I must confirm and farther illustrate the general statements\nmade respecting light and shade in the chapters on Truth of Tone,[13]\nand on Infinity,[14] deduced from the great fact (Sec. 5. chapter on Truth\nof Tone) that \"nature surpasses us in power of obtaining light as much\nas the sun surpasses white paper.\" I found that this part of the book\nwas not well understood, because people in general have no idea how much\nthe sun _does_ surpass white paper. In order to know this practically,\nlet the reader take a piece of pure white drawing-paper, and place it in\nthe position in which a drawing is usually seen. This is, properly,\nupright (all drawings being supposed to be made on vertical planes), as\na picture is seen on a room wall. Also, the usual place in which\npaintings or drawings are seen is at some distance from a window, with a\ngentle side light falling upon them, front lights being unfavorable to\nnearly all drawing. Therefore the highest light an artist can ordinarily\ncommand for his work is that of white paint, or paper, under a gentle\nside light.[15] But if we wished to get as much light as possible, and\nto place the artist under the most favorable circumstances, we should\ntake the drawing near the window. Put therefore your white paper\nupright, and take it to the window. Let _ac_, _cd_, be two sides of\nyour room, with a window at _bb_. Under ordinary circumstances your\npicture would be hung at _e_, or in some such position on the wall _cd_.\nFirst, therefore, put your paper upright at _e_, and then bring it\ngradually to the window, in the successive positions _f_, _g_, and\n(opening the window) finally at _p_. You will notice that as you come\nnearer the window the light gradually _increases_ on the paper; so that\nin the position at _p_ it is far better lighted than it was at _e_. If,\nhowever, the sun actually falls upon it at _p_, the experiment is\nunfair, for the picture is not meant to be seen in sunshine, and your\nobject is to compare pure white paper, as ordinarily used, _with_\nsunshine. So either take a time when the sun does not shine at all, or\ndoes not shine in the window where the experiment is to be tried; or\nelse keep the paper so far within the window that the sun may not touch\nit. Then the experiment is perfectly fair, and you will find that you\nhave the paper at _p_ in full, serene, pictorial light, of the best\nkind, and highest attainable power.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 2.]\n\nSec. 2. Now, leaning a little over the window sill, bring the edge of the\npaper at _p_ against the sky, rather low down on the horizon (I suppose\nyou choose a fine day for the experiment, that the sun is high, and the\nsky clear blue, down to the horizon). The moment you bring your white\npaper against the sky you will be startled to find this bright white\npaper suddenly appear in shade. You will draw it back, thinking you have\nchanged its position. But no; the paper is not in shade. It is as bright\nas ever it was; brighter than under ordinary circumstances it ever can\nbe. But, behold, the blue sky of the horizon is far brighter. The one is\nindeed blue, and the other white, but the _white_ is _darkest_,[16] and\nby a great deal. And you will, though perhaps not for the first time in\nyour life, perceive that though black is not easily proved to be white,\nwhite, may, under certain circumstances, be very nearly proved black, or\nat all events brown.\n\nSec. 3. When this fact is first show to them, the general feeling with most\npeople is, that, by being brought against the sky, the white paper is\nsomehow or other brought \"into shade.\" But this is not so; the paper\nremains exactly as it was; it is only compared with an actually brighter\nhue, and looks darker by comparison. The circumstances are precisely\nlike those which affect our sensations of heat and cold. If, when by\nchance we have one hand warm, and another cold, we feel, with each hand,\nwater warmed to an intermediate degree, we shall first declare the water\nto be cold, and then to be warm; but the water has a definite heat\nwholly independent of our sensations, and accurately ascertainable by a\nthermometer. So it is with light and shade. Looking from the bright sky\nto the white paper, we affirm the white paper to be \"in shade,\"--that\nis, it produces on us a sensation of darkness, by comparison. But the\nhue of the paper, and that of the sky, are just as fixed as temperatures\nare; and the sky is actually a brighter thing than white paper, by a\ncertain number of degrees of light, scientifically determinable. In the\nsame way, every other color, or force of color, is a fixed thing, not\ndependent on sensation, but numerically representable with as much\nexactitude as a degree of heat by a thermometer. And of these hues, that\nof open sky is one not producible by human art. The sky is not blue\n_color_ merely,--it is blue _fire_, and cannot be painted.\n\nSec. 4. Next, observe, this blue fire has in it _white_ fire; that is, it\nhas white clouds, as much brighter than itself as _it_ is brighter than\nthe white paper. So, then, above this azure light, we have another\nequally exalted step of white light. Supposing the value of the light of\nthe pure white paper represented by the number 10, then that of the blue\nsky will be (approximately) about 20, and of the white clouds 30.\n\nBut look at the white clouds carefully, and it will be seen they are not\nall of the same white; parts of them are quite grey compared with other\nparts, and they are as full of passages of light and shade as if they\nwere of solid earth. Nevertheless, their most deeply shaded part is\nthat already so much lighter than the blue sky, which has brought us up\nto our number 30, and all these high lights of white are some 10 degrees\nabove that, or, to white paper, as 40 to 10. And now if you look from\nthe blue sky and white clouds towards the sun, you will find that this\ncloud white, which is four times as white as white paper, is quite dark\nand lightless compared with those silver clouds that burn nearer the sun\nitself, which you cannot gaze upon,--an infinite of brightness. How will\nyou estimate that?\n\nAnd yet to express all this, we have but our poor white paper after all.\nWe must not talk too proudly of our \"truths\" of art; I am afraid we\nshall have to let a good deal of black fallacy into it, at the best.\n\nSec. 5. Well, of the sun, and of the silver clouds, we will not talk for\nthe present. But this principal fact we have learned by our experiment\nwith the white paper, that, taken all in all, the calm sky, with such\nlight and shade as are in it, is brighter than the earth; brighter than\nthe whitest thing on earth which has not, at the moment of comparison,\nheaven's own direct light on it. Which fact it is generally one of the\nfirst objects of noble painters to render. I have already marked one\npart of their aim in doing so, namely, the expression of infinity; but\nthe opposing of heavenly light to earth-darkness is another most\nimportant one; and of all ways of rendering a picture generally\nimpressive (see especially Sec. 12. of the chapter just referred to), this\nis the simplest and surest. Make the sky calm and luminous, and raise\nagainst it dark trees, mountains, or towers, or any other substantial\nand terrestrial thing, in bold outline, and the mind accepts the\nassertion of this great and solemn truth with thankfulness.\n\nSec. 6. But this may be done either nobly or basely, as any other solemn\ntruth may be asserted. It may be spoken with true feeling of all that it\nmeans; or it may be declared, as a Turk declares that \"God is great,\"\nwhen he means only that he himself is lazy. The \"heaven is bright,\" of\nmany vulgar painters, has precisely the same amount of signification; it\nmeans that they know nothing--will do nothing--are without\nthought--without care--without passion. They will not walk the earth,\nnor watch the ways of it, nor gather the flowers of it. They will sit\nin the shade, and only assert that very perceptible, long-ascertained\nfact, \"heaven is bright.\" And as it may be _asserted_ basely, so it may\nbe _accepted_ basely. Many of our capacities for receiving noblest\nemotion are abused, in mere idleness, for pleasure's sake, and people\ntake the excitement of a solemn sensation as they do that of a strong\ndrink. Thus the abandoned court of Louis XIV. had on fast days its\nsacred concerts, doubtless entering in some degree into the religious\nexpression of the music, and thus idle and frivolous women at the\npresent day will weep at an oratorio. So the sublimest effects of\nlandscape may be sought through mere indolence; and even those who are\nnot ignorant, or dull, judge often erroneously of such effects of art,\nbecause their very openness to all pleasant and sacred association\ninstantly colors whatever they see, so that, give them but the feeblest\nshadow of a thing they love, they are instantly touched by it to the\nheart, and mistake their own pleasurable feeling for the result of the\npainter's power. Thus when, by spotting and splashing, such a painter as\nConstable reminds them somewhat of wet grass and green leaves, forthwith\nthey fancy themselves in all the happiness of a meadow walk; and when\nGaspar Poussin throws out his yellow horizon with black hills, forthwith\nthey are touched as by the solemnity of a real Italian twilight,\naltogether forgetting that wet grass and twilight do not constitute the\nuniverse; and prevented by their joy at being pleasantly cool, or\ngravely warm, from seeking any of those more precious truths which\ncannot be caught by momentary sensation, but must be thoughtfully\npursued.\n\nSec. 7. I say \"more precious,\" for the simple fact that the sky is brighter\nthan the earth is _not_ a precious truth unless the earth itself be\nfirst understood. Despise the earth, or slander it; fix your eyes on its\ngloom, and forget its loveliness; and we do not thank you for your\nlanguid or despairing perception of brightness in heaven. But rise up\nactively on the earth,--learn what there is in it, know its color and\nform, and the full measure and make of it, and if _after that_ you can\nsay \"heaven is bright,\" it will be a precious truth, but not till then.\nGiovanni Bellini knows the earth well, paints it to the full, and to the\nsmallest fig-leaf and falling flower,--blue hill and white-walled\ncity,--glittering robe and golden hair; to each he will give its lustre\nand loveliness; and then, so far as with his poor human lips he may\ndeclare it, far beyond all these, he proclaims that \"heaven is bright.\"\nBut Gaspar, and such other landscapists, painting all Nature's flowery\nground as one barrenness, and all her fair foliage as one blackness, and\nall her exquisite forms as one bluntness; when, in this sluggard gloom\nand sullen treachery of heart, they mutter their miserable attestation\nto what others had long ago discerned for them,--the sky's\nbrightness,--we do not thank them; or thank them only in so far as, even\nin uttering this last remnant of truth, they are more commendable than\nthose who have sunk from apathy to atheism, and declare, in their dark\nand hopeless backgrounds, that heaven is NOT bright.\n\nSec. 8. Let us next ascertain what are the colors of the earth itself.\n\nA mountain five or six miles off, in a sunny summer morning in\nSwitzerland, will commonly present itself in some such pitch of dark\nforce, as related to the sky, as that shown in Fig. 4. Plate +25+, while\nthe sky itself will still, if there are white clouds in it, tell as a\nclear dark, throwing out those white clouds in vigorous relief of light;\nyet, conduct the experiment of the white paper as already described, and\nyou will, in all probability, find that the darkest part of the\nmountain--its most vigorous nook of almost black-looking shadow--_is\nwhiter than the paper_.\n\nThe figure given represents the _apparent_ color[17] of the top of the\nAiguille Bouchard (the mountain which is seen from the village of\nChamouni, on the other side of the Glacier des Bois), distant, by\nForbes's map, a furlong or two less than four miles in a direct line\nfrom the point of observation. The observation was made on a warm sunny\nmorning, about eleven o'clock, the sky clear blue; the mountain seen\nagainst it, its shadows grey purple, and its sunlit parts greenish. Then\nthe darkest part of the mountain was _lighter than pure white paper_,\nheld upright in full light at the window, parallel to the direction in\nwhich the light entered. And it will thus generally be found impossible\nto represent, in any of its _true_ colors, scenery distant more than two\nor three miles, in full daylight. The deepest shadows are whiter than\nwhite paper.\n\nSec. 9. As, however, we pass to nearer objects, true representation\ngradually becomes possible;--to what degree is always of course\nascertainable accurately by the same mode of experiment. Bring the edge\nof the paper against the thing to be drawn, and on that edge--as\nprecisely as a lady would match the colors of two pieces of a\ndress--match the color of the landscape (with a little opaque white\nmixed in the tints you use, so as to render it easy to lighten or darken\nthem). Take care not to imitate the tint as you believe it to be, but\naccurately as it is; so that the colored edge of the paper shall not be\ndiscernible from the color of the landscape. You will then find (if\nbefore inexperienced) that shadows of trees, which you thought were dark\ngreen or black, are pale violets and purples; that lights, which you\nthought were green, are intensely yellow, brown, or golden, and most of\nthem far too bright to be matched at all. When you have got all the\nimitable hues truly matched, sketch the masses of the landscape out\ncompletely in those true and ascertained colors; and you will find, to\nyour amazement, that you have painted it in the colors of Turner,--in\nthose very colors which perhaps you have been laughing at all your\nlife,--the fact being that he, and he alone, of all men, _ever painted\nNature in her own colors_.\n\nSec. 10. \"Well, but,\" you will answer, impatiently, \"how is it, if they are\nthe true colors, that they look so unnatural?\"\n\nBecause they are not shown in true contrast to the sky, and to other\nhigh lights. Nature paints her shadows in pale purple, and then raises\nher lights of heaven and sunshine to such height that the pale purple\nbecomes, by comparison, a vigorous dark. But poor Turner has no sun at\nhis command to oppose his pale colors. He follows Nature submissively as\nfar as he can; puts pale purple where she does, bright gold where she\ndoes; and then when, on the summit of the slope of light, she opens her\nwings and quits the earth altogether, burning into ineffable sunshine,\nwhat can he do but sit helpless, stretching his hands towards her in\ncalm consent, as she leaves him and mocks at him!\n\nSec. 11. \"Well,\" but you will farther ask, \"is this right or wise? ought\nnot the contrast between the masses be given, rather than the actual\nhues of a few parts of them, when the others are inimitable?\"\n\nYes, if this _were_ possible, it ought to be done; but the true\ncontrasts can NEVER be given. The whole question is simply whether you\nwill be false at one side of the scale or at the other,--that is,\nwhether you will lose yourself in light or in darkness. This necessity\nis easily expressible in numbers. Suppose the utmost light you wish to\nimitate is that of serene, feebly lighted, clouds in ordinary sky (not\nsun or stars, which it is, of course, impossible deceptively to imitate\nin painting by any artifice). Then, suppose the degrees of shadow\nbetween those clouds and Nature's utmost darkness accurately measured,\nand divided into a hundred degrees (darkness being zero). Next we\nmeasure our own scale, calling our utmost possible black, zero;[18] and\nwe shall be able to keep parallel with Nature, perhaps up to as far as\nher 40 degrees; all above that being whiter than our white paper. Well,\nwith our power of contrast between zero and 40, we have to imitate her\ncontrasts between zero and 100. Now, if we want true contrasts, we can\nfirst set our 40 to represent her 100, our 20 for her 80, and our zero\nfor her 60; everything below her 60 being lost in blackness. This is,\nwith certain modifications, Rembrandt's system. Or, secondly, we can put\nzero for her zero, 20 for her 20, and 40 for her 40; everything above 40\nbeing lost in _white_ness. This is, with certain modifications, Paul\nVeronese's system. Or, finally, we can put our zero for her zero, and\nour 40 for her 100; our 20 for her 50, our 30 for her 75, and our ten\nfor her 25, proportioning the intermediate contrasts accordingly. This\nis, with certain modifications, Turner's system;[19] the modifications,\nin each case, being the adoption, to a certain extent, of either of the\nother systems. Thus, Turner inclines to Paul Veronese; liking, as far as\npossible, to get his hues perfectly true up to a certain point,--that is\nto say, to let his zero stand for Nature's zero, and his 10 for her 10,\nand his 20 for her 20, and then to expand towards the light by quick but\ncunning steps, putting 27 for 50, 30 for 70, and reserving some force\nstill for the last 90 to 100. So Rembrandt modifies his system on the\nother side, putting his 40 for 100, his 30 for 90, his 20 for 80; then\ngoing subtly downwards, 10 for 50, 5 for 30; nearly everything between\n30 and zero being lost in gloom, yet so as still to reserve his zero for\nzero. The systems expressed in tabular form will stand thus:--\n\n NATURE. REMBRANDT. TURNER. VERONESE.\n\n 0 0 0 0\n 10 1 10 10\n 20 3 20 20\n 30 5 24 30\n 40 7 26 32\n 50 10 27 34\n 60 13 28 36\n 70 17 30 37\n 80 20 32 38\n 90 30 36 39\n 100 40 40 40\n\nSec. 12. Now it is evident that in Rembrandt's system, while the\n_contrasts_ are not more right than with Veronese, the _colors_ are all\nwrong, from beginning to end. With Turner and Veronese, Nature's 10 is\ntheir 10, and Nature's 20 their 20; enabling them to give pure truth up\nto a certain point. But with Rembrandt _not one color_ is absolutely\ntrue, from one side of the scale to the other; only the contrasts are\ntrue at the top of the scale. Of course, this supposes Rembrandt's\nsystem applied to a subject which shall try it to the utmost, such as\nlandscape. Rembrandt generally chose subjects in which the real colors\nwere very nearly imitable,--as single heads with dark backgrounds, in\nwhich Nature's highest light was little above his own; her 40 being then\ntruly representable by his 40, his picture became nearly an absolute\ntruth. But his system is only right when applied to such subjects:\nclearly, when we have the full scale of natural light to deal with,\nTurner's and Veronese's convey the greatest sum of truth. But not the\nmost complete deception, for people are so much more easily and\ninstinctively impressed by force of light than truth of color, that they\ninstantly miss the relative power of the sky, and the upper tones; and\nall the true local coloring looks strange to them, separated from its\nadjuncts of high light; whereas, give them the true contrast of light,\nand they will not observe the false local color. Thus all Gaspar\nPoussin's and Salvator's pictures, and all effects obtained by leaving\nhigh lights in the midst of exaggerated darkness, catch the eye, and are\nreceived for true, while the pure truth of Veronese and Turner is\nrejected as unnatural; only not so much in Veronese's case as in\nTurner's, because Veronese confines himself to more imitable things, as\ndraperies, figures, and architecture, in which his exquisite truth at\nthe bottom of the scale tells on the eye at once; but Turner works a\ngood deal also (see the table) at the _top_ of the natural scale,\ndealing with effects of sunlight and other phases of the upper colors,\nmore or less inimitable, and betraying therefore, more or less, the\nartifices used to express them. It will be observed, also, that in order\nto reserve some force for the top of his scale, Turner is obliged to\nmiss his gradations chiefly in middle tints (see the table), where the\nfeebleness is sure to be felt. His principal point for missing the\nmidmost gradations is almost always between the earth and sky; he draws\nthe earth truly as far as he can, to the horizon; then the sky as far as\nhe can, with his 30 to 40 part of the scale. They run together at the\nhorizon; and the spectator complains that there is no distinction\nbetween earth and sky, or that the earth does not _look solid enough_.\n\nSec. 13. In the upper portions of the three pillars 5, 6, 7, Plate +25+,\nare typically represented these three conditions of light and shade,\ncharacteristic, 5, of Rembrandt, 6, of Turner, and 7, of Veronese. The\npillar to be drawn is supposed, in all the three cases, white; Rembrandt\nrepresents it as white on its highest light; and, getting the true\ngradations between this highest light and extreme dark, is reduced to\nhis zero, or black, for the dark side of the white object. This first\npillar also represents the system of Leonardo da Vinci. In the room of\nthe Louvre appropriated to Italian drawings is a study of a piece of\ndrapery by Leonardo. Its lights are touched with the finest white\nchalk, and its shadows wrought, through exquisite gradations, to utter\nblackness. The pillar 6 is drawn on the system of Turner; the high point\nof light is still distinct: but even the darkest part of the shaft is\nkept pale, and the gradations which give the roundness are wrought out\nwith the utmost possible delicacy. The third shaft is drawn on\nVeronese's system. The light, though still focused, is more diffused\nthan with Turner; and a slight flatness results from the determination\nthat the fact of the shaft's being _white_ shall be discerned more\nclearly even than that it is round; and that its darkest part shall\nstill be capable of brilliant relief, as a white mass, from other\nobjects round it.\n\nSec. 14. This resolution, on Veronese's part, is owing to the profound\nrespect for the _colors_ of objects which necessarily influenced him, as\nthe colorist at once the most brilliant and the most tender of all\npainters of the elder schools; and it is necessary for us briefly to\nnote the way in which this greater or less respect for local color\ninfluences the system of the three painters in light and shade.\n\nTake the whitest piece of note-paper you can find, put a blot of ink\nupon it, carry it into the sunshine, and hold it fully fronting the\nsunshine, so as to make the paper look as dazzling as possible, but not\nto let the wet blot of ink _shine_. You will then find the ink look\n_intensely_ black,--blacker, in fact, than any where else, owing to its\nvigorous contrast with the dazzling paper.\n\nRemove the paper from the sunshine. The ink will not look so black.\nCarry the paper gradually into the darkest part of the room, and the\ncontrast will as gradually appear to diminish; and, of course, in\ndarkness, the distinction between the black and the white vanishes. Wet\nink is as perfect a representative as is by any means attainable of a\nperfectly dark color; that is, of one which absorbs all the light that\nfalls on it; and the nature of such a color is best understood by\nconsidering it as a piece of portable night. Now, of course, the higher\nyou raise the daylight about this bit of night, the more vigorous is the\ncontrast between the two. And, therefore, as a general rule, the higher\nyou raise the light on any object with a pattern or stain upon it, the\nmore distinctly that pattern or stain is seen. But observe: the\ndistinction between the full black of ink, and full white of paper, is\nthe utmost reach of light and dark possible to art. Therefore, if this\ncontrast is to be represented truly, no deeper black can ever be given\nin any shadow than that offered at once; as local color, in a full black\npattern, on the highest light. And, where color is the principal object\nof the picture, that color must, at all events, be as right as possible\n_where it is best seen_, i.e. in the lights. Hence the principle of Paul\nVeronese, and of all the great Venetian colorists, is to use full black\nfor full black in high light, letting the shadow shift for itself as\nbest it may; and sometimes even putting the local black a little darker\nin light than shadow, in order to give the more vigorous contrast noted\nabove. Let the pillars in Plate +25+ be supposed to have a black mosaic\npattern on the lower part of their shafts. Paul Veronese's general\npractice will be, as at 7, having marked the rounding of the shaft as\nwell as he can in the white parts, to paint the pattern with one even\nblack over all, reinforcing it, if at all, a little in the _light_.\n\nSec. 15. Repeat the experiment on the note-paper with a red spot of carmine\ninstead of ink. You will now find that the contrast in the sunshine\nappears about the same as in the shade--the red and white rising and\nfalling together, and dying away together into the darkness. The fact,\nhowever, is, that the contrast does actually for some time increase\ntowards the light; for in utter darkness the distinction is not\nvisible--the red cannot be distinguished from the white; admit a little\nlight, and the contrast is feebly discernible; admit more, it is\ndistinctly discernible. But you cannot increase the contrast beyond a\ncertain point. From that point the red and white for some time rise very\nnearly equally in light, or fall together very nearly equally in shade;\nbut the contrast will begin to _diminish_ in very high lights, for\nstrong sunlight has a tendency to exhibit particles of dust, or any\nsparkling texture in the local color, and then to diminish its power; so\nthat in order to see local color well, a certain degree of shadow is\nnecessary: for instance, a very delicate complexion is not well seen in\nthe sun; and the veins of a marble pillar, or the colors of a picture,\ncan only be properly seen in comparative shade.\n\nSec. 16. I will not entangle the reader in the very subtle and curious\nvariations of the laws in this matter. The simple fact which is\n_necessary_ for him to observe is, that the paler and purer the color,\nthe more the great Venetian colorists will reinforce it in the shadow,\nand allow it to fall or rise in sympathy with the light; and those\nespecially whose object it is to represent sunshine, nearly always\nreinforce their local colors somewhat in the shadows, and keep them both\nfainter and feebler in the light, so that they thus approach a condition\nof universal glow, the full color being used for the shadow, and a\ndelicate and somewhat subdued hue of it for the light. And this to the\neye is the loveliest possible condition of color. Perhaps few people\nhave ever asked themselves why they admire a rose so much more than all\nother flowers. If they consider, they will find, first, that red is, in\na delicately gradated state, the loveliest of all pure colors; and\nsecondly, that in the rose there is _no shadow_, except what is composed\nof color. All its shadows are fuller in color than its lights, owing to\nthe translucency and reflective power of its leaves.\n\nThe second shaft, 6, in which the local color is paler towards the\nlight, and reinforced in the shadow, will therefore represent the\nVenetian system with respect to paler colors, and the system, for the\nmost part, even with respect to darker colors, of painters who attempt\nto render effects of strong sunlight. Generally, therefore, it\nrepresents the practice of Turner. The first shaft, 5, exhibits the\ndisadvantage of the practice of Rembrandt and Leonardo, in that they\ncannot show the local color on the dark side, since, however energetic,\nit must at last sink into their exaggerated darkness.\n\nSec. 17. Now, from all the preceding inquiry, the reader must perceive more\nand more distinctly the great truth, that all forms of right art consist\nin a certain _choice_ made between various classes of truths, a few only\nbeing represented, and others necessarily excluded; and that the\nexcellence of each style depends first on its consistency with\nitself,--the perfect fidelity, as far as possible, to the truths it has\nchosen; and secondly, on the breadth of its harmony, or number of truths\nit has been able to reconcile, and the consciousness with which the\ntruths refused are acknowledged, even though they may not be\nrepresented. A great artist is just like a wise and hospitable man with\na small house: the large companies of truths, like guests, are waiting\nhis invitation; he wisely chooses from among this crowd the guests who\nwill be happiest with each other, making those whom he receives\nthoroughly comfortable, and kindly remembering even those whom he\nexcludes; while the foolish host, trying to receive all, leaves a large\npart of his company on the staircase, without even knowing who is there,\nand destroys, by inconsistent fellowship, the pleasure of those who gain\nentrance.\n\nSec. 18. But even those hosts who choose well will be farther distinguished\nfrom each other by their choice of nobler or inferior companies; and we\nfind the greatest artists mainly divided into two groups,--those who\npaint principally with respect to local color, headed by Paul Veronese,\nTitian, and Turner; and those who paint principally with reference to\nlight and shade irrespective of color, headed by Leonardo da Vinci,\nRembrandt, and Raphael. The noblest members of each of these classes\nintroduce the element proper to the other class, in a subordinate way.\nPaul Veronese introduces a subordinate light and shade, and Leonardo\nintroduces a subordinate local color. The main difference is, that with\nLeonardo, Rembrandt, and Raphael, vast masses of the picture are lost in\ncomparatively colorless (dark, grey, or brown) shadow; these painters\n_beginning_ with the _lights_, and going _down_ to blackness; but with\nVeronese, Titian, and Turner, the whole picture is like the\nrose,--glowing with color in the shadows, and rising into paler and more\ndelicate hues, or masses of whiteness, in the lights; they having\n_begun_ with the _shadows_, and gone up _to_ whiteness.\n\nSec. 19. The colorists have in this respect one disadvantage, and three\nadvantages. The disadvantage is, that between their less violent hues,\nit is not possible to draw all the forms which can be represented by the\nexaggerated shadow of the chiaroscurists, and therefore a slight\ntendency to flatness is always characteristic of the greater colorists,\nas opposed to Leonardo or Rembrandt. When the form of some single object\nis to be given, and its subtleties are to be rendered to the utmost, the\nLeonardesque manner of drawing is often very noble. It is generally\nadopted by Albert Durer in his engravings, and is very useful, when\nemployed by a thorough master, in many kinds of engraving;[20] but it is\nan utterly false method of _study_, as we shall see presently.\n\nSec. 20. Of the three advantages possessed by the colorists over the\nchiaroscurists, the first is, that they have in the greater portions of\ntheir pictures _absolute_ truth, as shown above, Sec. 12, while the\nchiaroscurists have no absolute truth anywhere. With the colorists the\nshadows are right; the lights untrue: but with the chiaroscurists lights\nand shadows are both untrue. The second advantage is, that also the\n_relations_ of color are broader and vaster with the colorists than the\nchiaroscurists. Take, for example, that piece of drapery studied by\nLeonardo, in the Louvre, with white lights and black shadows. Ask\nyourself, first, whether the real drapery was black or white. If white,\nthen its high lights are rightly white; but its folds being black, it\ncould not _as a mass_ be distinguished from the black or dark objects in\nits neighborhood. But the fact is, that a white cloth or handkerchief\nalways is distinguished in daylight, as a _whole white thing_, from all\nthat is colored about it: we see at once that there is a white piece of\nstuff, and a red, or green, or grey one near it, as the case may be: and\nthis relation of the white object to other objects _not_ white, Leonardo\nhas wholly deprived himself of the power of expressing; while, if the\ncloth were black or dark, much more has he erred by making its lights\nwhite. In either case, he has missed the large relation of mass to mass,\nfor the sake of the small one of fold to fold. And this is more or less\nthe case with all chiaroscurists; with all painters, that is to say, who\nendeavor in their studies of objects to get rid of the idea of color,\nand give the abstract shade. They invariably exaggerate the shadows, not\nwith respect to the thing itself, but with respect to all around it; and\nthey exaggerate the lights also, by leaving pure white for the high\nlight of what in reality is grey, rose-colored, or, in some way, not\nwhite.\n\nSec. 21. This method of study, being peculiarly characteristic of the Roman\nand Florentine schools, and associated with very accurate knowledge of\nform and expression, has gradually got to be thought by a large body of\nartists the _grand_ way of study; an idea which has been fostered all\nthe more because it was an unnatural way, and therefore thought to be a\nphilosophical one. Almost the first idea of a child, or of a simple\nperson looking at anything, is, that it is a red, or a black, or a\ngreen, or a white thing. Nay, say the artists; that is an\nunphilosophical and barbarous view of the matter. Red and white are mere\nvulgar appearances; look farther into the matter, and you will see such\nand such wonderful other appearances. Abstract those, _they_ are the\nheroic, epic, historic, and generally eligible appearances. And acting\non this grand principle, they draw flesh white, leaves white, ground\nwhite, everything white in the light, and everything black in the\nshade--and think themselves wise. But, the longer I live, the more\nground I see to hold in high honor a certain sort of childishness or\ninnocent susceptibility. Generally speaking, I find that when we first\nlook at a subject, we get a glimpse of some of the greatest truths about\nit: as we look longer, our vanity, and false reasoning, and\nhalf-knowledge, lead us into various wrong opinions; but as we look\nlonger still, we gradually return to our first impressions, only with a\nfull understanding of their mystical and innermost reasons; and of much\nbeyond and beside them, not then known to us, now added (partly as a\nfoundation, partly as a corollary) to what at first we felt or saw. It\nis thus eminently in this matter of color. Lay your hand over the page\nof this book,--any child or simple person looking at the hand and book,\nwould perceive, as the main fact of the matter, that a brownish pink\nthing was laid over a white one. The grand artist comes and tells you\nthat your hand is not pink, and your paper is not white. He shades your\nfingers and shades your book, and makes you see all manner of starting\nveins, and projecting muscles, and black hollows, where before you saw\nnothing but paper and fingers. But go a little farther, and you will get\nmore innocent again; you will find that, when \"science has done its\nworst, two and two still make four;\" and that the main and most\nimportant facts about your hand, so seen, are, after all, that it has\nfour fingers and a thumb--showing as brownish pink things on white\npaper.\n\nSec. 22. I have also been more and more convinced, the more I think of it,\nthat in general _pride is at the bottom of all great mistakes_. All the\nother passions do occasional good, but whenever pride puts in _its_\nword, everything goes wrong, and what it might really be desirable to\ndo, quietly and innocently, it is mortally dangerous to do, proudly.\nThus, while it is very often good for the artist to make _studies_ of\nthings, for the sake of knowing their forms, with their high lights all\nwhite, the moment he does this in a haughty way, and thinks himself\ndrawing in the great style, because he leaves high lights white, it is\nall over with him; and half the degradation of art in modern times has\nbeen owing to endeavors, much fostered by the metaphysical Germans, to\nsee things without color, as if color were a vulgar thing, the result\nbeing, in most students, that they end by not being able to see anything\nat all; whereas the true and perfect way of studying any object is\nsimply to look what its color is in high light, and put that safely\ndown, if possible; or, if you are making a chiaroscuro study, to take\nthe grey answering to that color, and cover the _whole_ object at once\nwith that grey, firmly resolving that no part of it shall be brighter\nthan that; then look for the darkest part of it, and if, as is probable,\nits darkest part be still a great deal lighter than black, or than other\nthings about it, assume a given shade, as dark as, with due reference to\nother things, you can have it, but no darker. Mark that for your extreme\ndark on the object, and between those limits get as much drawing as you\ncan, by subtlety of gradation. That will tax your powers of drawing\nindeed; and you will find this, which seems a childish and simple way of\ngoing to work, requires verily a thousandfold more power to carry out\nthan all the pseudo-scientific abstractions that ever were invented.\n\nSec. 23. Nor can it long be doubted that it is also the most impressive way\nto others; for the third great advantage possessed by the colorists is,\nthat the delightfulness of their picture, its sacredness, and general\nnobleness, are increased exactly in proportion to the quantity of light\nand of lovely color they can introduce in _the shadows_, as opposed to\nthe black and grey of the chiaroscurists. I have already, in the Stones\nof Venice, vol. ii. chap. v., insisted upon the fact of the sacredness of\ncolor, and its necessary connection with all pure and noble feeling. What\nwe have seen of the use of color by the poets will help to confirm this\ntruth; but perhaps I have not yet enough insisted on the simplest and\nreadiest to hand of all proofs,--the way, namely, in which God has\nemployed color in His creation as the unvarying accompaniment of all that\nis purest, most innocent, and most precious; while for things precious\nonly in material uses, or dangerous, common colors are reserved. Consider\nfor a little while what sort of a world it would be if all flowers were\ngrey, all leaves black, and the sky _brown_. Imagine that, as completely\nas may be, and consider whether you would think the world any whit more\nsacred for being thus transfigured into the hues of the shadows in\nRaphael's Transfiguration. Then observe how constantly innocent things\nare bright in color; look at a dove's neck, and compare it with the grey\nback of a viper; I have often heard talk of brilliantly colored serpents;\nand I suppose there are such,--as there are gay poisons, like the\nfoxglove and kalmia--types of deceit; but all the venomous serpents I\nhave really _seen_ are grey, brick-red, or brown, variously mottled; and\nthe most awful serpent I have seen, the Egyptian asp, is precisely of the\ncolor of gravel, or only a little greyer. So, again, the crocodile and\nalligator are grey, but the innocent lizard green and beautiful. I do not\nmean that the rule is invariable, otherwise it would be more convincing\nthan the lessons of the natural universe are intended ever to be; there\nare beautiful colors on the leopard and tiger, and in the berries of the\nnight-shade; and there is nothing very notable in brilliancy of color\neither in sheep or cattle (though, by the way, the velvet of a brown\nbull's hide in the sun, or the tawny white of the Italian oxen, is, to my\nmind, lovelier than any leopard's or tiger's skin); but take a wider view\nof nature, and compare generally rainbows, sunrises, roses, violets,\nbutterflies, birds, gold-fish, rubies, opals, and corals, with\nalligators, hippopotami, lions, wolves, bears, swine, sharks, slugs,\nbones, fungi,[21] frogs, and corrupting, stinging, destroying things in\ngeneral, and you will feel then how the question stands between the\ncolorists and chiaroscurists,--which of them have nature and life on\ntheir side, and which have sin and death.\n\nSec. 24. Finally: the ascertainment of the sanctity of color is not left to\nhuman sagacity. It is distinctly stated in Scripture. I have before\nalluded to the sacred chord of color (blue, purple, and scarlet, with\nwhite and gold) as appointed in the Tabernacle; this chord is the fixed\nbase of all coloring with the workmen of every great age; the purple and\nscarlet will be found constantly employed by noble painters, in various\nunison, to the exclusion in general of pure crimson;--it is the harmony\ndescribed by Herodotus as used in the battlements of Ecbatana, and the\ninvariable base of all beautiful missal-painting; the mistake\ncontinually made by modern restorers, in supposing the purple to be a\nfaded crimson, and substituting full crimson for it, being instantly\nfatal to the whole work, as, indeed, the slightest modification of any\nhue in a perfect color-harmony must always be.[22] In this chord the\nscarlet is the powerful color, and is on the whole the most perfect\nrepresentation of abstract color which exists; blue being in a certain\ndegree associated with shade, yellow with light, and scarlet, as\nabsolute _color_, standing alone. Accordingly, we find it used, together\nwith cedar wood, hyssop, and running water, as an emblem of\npurification, in Leviticus xiv. 4, and other places, and so used not\nmerely as the representative of the color of blood, since it was also to\nbe dipped in the actual blood of a living bird. So that the cedar wood\nfor its perfume, the hyssop for its searchingness, the water for its\ncleansing, and the scarlet for its kindling or enlightening, are all\nused as tokens of sanctification;[23] and it cannot be with any force\nalleged, in opposition to this definite appointment, that scarlet is\nused incidentally to illustrate the stain of sin,--\"though thy sins be\nas scarlet,\"--any more than it could be received as a diminution of the\nauthority for using snow-whiteness as a type of purity, that Gehazi's\nleprosy is described as being as \"white as snow.\" An incidental image\nhas no authoritative meaning, but a stated ceremonial appointment has;\nbesides, we have the reversed image given distinctly in Prov. xxxi.:\n\"She is not afraid of the snow for her household, for all her household\nare clothed with _scarlet_.\" And, again: \"Ye daughters of Israel, weep\nover Saul, who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights.\" So, also,\nthe arraying of the mystic Babylon in purple and scarlet may be\ninterpreted exactly as we choose; either, by those who think color\nsensual, as an image of earthly pomp and guilt, or, by those who think\nit sacred, as an image of assumed or pretended sanctity. It is possible\nthe two meanings may be blended, and the idea may be that the purple and\nfine linen of Dives are worn in hypocritical semblance of the purple and\nfine linen of the high priest, being, nevertheless, themselves, in all\ncases typical of all beauty and purity. I hope, however, to be able some\nday to enter farther into these questions with respect to the art of\nillumination; meantime, the facts bearing on our immediate subject may\nbe briefly recapitulated. All men, completely organized and justly\ntempered, enjoy color; it is meant for the perpetual comfort and delight\nof the human heart; it is richly bestowed on the highest works of\ncreation, and the eminent sign and seal of perfection in them; being\nassociated with _life_ in the human body, with _light_ in the sky, with\n_purity_ and hardness in the earth,--death, night, and pollution of all\nkinds being colorless. And although if form and color be brought into\ncomplete opposition,[24] so that it should be put to us as a matter of\nstern choice whether we should have a work of art all of form, without\ncolor (as an Albert Durer's engraving), or all of color, without form\n(as an imitation of mother-of-pearl), form is beyond all comparison the\nmore precious of the two; and in explaining the essence of objects, form\nis essential, and color more or less accidental (compare Chap. v. of the\nfirst section of Vol. I.); yet if color be introduced at all, it is\nnecessary that, whatever else may be wrong, _that_ should be right; just\nas, though the music of a song may not be so essential to its influence\nas the meaning of the words, yet if the music be given at all, _it_ must\nbe right, or its discord will spoil the words; and it would be better,\nof the two, that the words should be indistinct, than the notes false.\nHence, as I have said elsewhere, the business of a painter is to paint.\nIf he can color, he is a painter, though he can do nothing else; if he\ncannot color, he is no painter, though he may do everything else. But it\nis, in fact, impossible, if he can color, but that he should be able to\ndo more; for a faithful study of color will always give power over form,\nthough the most intense study of form will give no power over color. The\nman who can see all the greys, and reds, and purples in a peach, will\npaint the peach rightly round, and rightly altogether; but the man who\nhas only studied its roundness, may not see its purples and greys, and\nif he does not, will never get it to look like a peach; so that great\npower over color is always a sign of large general art-intellect.\nExpression of the most subtle kind can be often reached by the slight\nstudies of caricaturists;[25] sometimes elaborated by the toil of the\ndull, and sometimes by the sentiment of the feeble, but to color well\nrequires real talent and earnest study, and to color perfectly is the\nrarest and most precious power an artist can possess. Every other gift\nmay be erroneously cultivated, but this will guide to all healthy,\nnatural, and forcible truth; the student may be led into folly by\nphilosophers, and into falsehood by purists; but he is always safe if he\nholds the hand of a colorist.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [13] Part II. Sec. II. Chap I.\n\n [14] Part III. Sec. I. Chap. V.\n\n [15] Light from above is the same thing with reference to our\n present inquiry.\n\n [16] For which reason, I said in the Appendix to the third volume,\n that the expression \"finite realization of infinity\" was a\n considerably less rational one than \"black realization of white.\"\n\n [17] The _color_, but not the form. I wanted the contour of the top\n of the Breven for reference in another place, and have therefore\n given it instead of that of the Bouchard, but in the proper depth of\n tint.\n\n [18] Even here we shall be defeated by Nature, her utmost darkness\n being deeper than ours. See Part II. Sec. II. Chap. I. Sec. 4-7. etc.\n\n [19] When the clouds are brilliantly lighted, it may rather be, as\n stated in Sec. 4. above, in the proportion of 160 to 40. I take the\n number 100 as more calculable.\n\n [20] It is often extremely difficult to distinguish properly between\n the Leonardesque manner, in which local color is denied altogether,\n and the Turneresque, in which local color at its highest point in\n the picture is merged in whiteness. Thus, Albert Durer's noble\n \"Melancholia\" is entirely Leonardesque; the leaves on her head, her\n flesh, her wings, her dress, the wolf, the wooden ball, and the\n rainbow, being all equally white on the high lights. But my drawing\n of leaves, facing page 120, Vol. III., is Turneresque; because,\n though I leave pure white to represent the pale green of leaves and\n grass in high light, I give definite increase of darkness to four of\n the bramble leaves, which, in reality, were purple, and leave a dark\n withered stalk nearly black, though it is in light, where it crosses\n the leaf in the centre. These distinctions could only be properly\n explained by a lengthy series of examples; which I hope to give some\n day or other, but have not space for here.\n\n [21] It is notable, however, that nearly all the poisonous agarics\n are scarlet or speckled, and wholesome ones brown or gray, as if to\n show us that things rising out of darkness and decay are always most\n deadly when they are well drest.\n\n [22] Hence the intense absurdity of endeavoring to \"restore\" the\n color of ancient buildings by the hands of ignorant colorists, as at\n the Crystal Palace.\n\n [23] The redeemed Rahab bound for a sign a _scarlet_ thread in the\n window. Compare Canticles iv. 3.\n\n [24] The inconsistency between perfections of color and form, which\n I have had to insist upon in other places, is exactly like that\n between articulation and harmony. We cannot have the richest harmony\n with the sharpest and most audible articulation of words: yet good\n singers will articulate clearly: and the perfect study of the\n science of music will conduct to a fine articulation; but the study\n of pronunciation will not conduct to, nor involve, that of harmony.\n So, also, though, as said farther on, _subtle_ expression can be got\n without color, perfect expression never can; for the color of the\n face is a part of its expression. How often has that scene between\n Francesca di Rimini and her lover been vainly attempted by\n sculptors, simply because they did not observe that the main note of\n expression in it was in the fair sheet-lightning--fading and flaming\n through the cloud of passion!\n\n Per piu flate gli occhi ci sospinse\n Quella lettura, _e scolorocci il viso_.\n\n And, of course, in landscape, color is the principal source of\n expression. Take one melancholy chord from the close of Crabbe's\n Patron:\n\n \"Cold grew the foggy morn; the day was brief,\n Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf.\n The dew dwelt ever on the herb; the woods\n Roared with strong blasts; with mighty showers, the floods\n All green was vanished, save of pine and yew\n That still displayed their melancholy hue;\n Save the green holly, with its berries red\n And the green moss that o'er the gravel spread.\"\n\n [25] See Appendix 1. Modern Grotesque.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nOF TURNERIAN MYSTERY:--FIRST, AS ESSENTIAL.\n\n\nSec. 1. In the preceding chapters we have shown the nature of Turner's art;\nfirst, as respected sympathy with his subject; next, as respected\nfidelity in local detail; and thirdly, as respected principles of color.\nWe have now finally to confirm what in various places has been said\nrespecting his principles of _delineation_, or that mysterious and\napparently uncertain execution by which he is distinguished from most\nother painters.\n\nIn Chap. III. Sec. 17 of the preceding volume we concluded generally that\nall great drawing was _distinct_ drawing; but with reference,\nnevertheless, to a certain sort of indistinctness, necessary to the\nhighest art, and afterwards to be explained. And the inquiry into this\nseeming contradiction has, I trust, been made somewhat more interesting\nby what we saw respecting modern art in the fourth paragraph of Chap.\nXVI., namely, that it was distinguished from old art eminently by\n_in_distinctness, and by its idle omission of details for the sake of\ngeneral effect. Perhaps also, of all modern artists, Turner is the one\nto whom most people would first look as the great representative of this\nnineteenth century cloudiness, and \"ingenious speaking concerning\nsmoke;\" every one of his compositions being evidently dictated by a\ndelight in seeing only a part of things rather than the whole, and in\ncasting clouds and mist around them rather than unveiling them.\n\nSec. 2. And as the head of modern mystery, all the ranks of the best\nancient, and of even a very important and notable division of modern\nauthority, seem to be arrayed against him. As we saw in preceding\nchapters, every great man was definite until the seventeenth century.\nJohn Bellini, Leonardo, Angelico, Durer, Perugino, Raphael,--all of them\nhated fog, and repudiated indignantly all manner of concealment. Clear,\ncalm, placid, perpetual vision, far and near; endless perspicuity of\nspace; unfatigued veracity of eternal light; perfectly accurate\ndelineation of every leaf on the trees, every flower in the fields,\nevery golden thread in the dresses of the figures, up to the highest\npoint of calm brilliancy which was penetrable to the eye, or possible to\nthe pencil,--these were their glory. On the other--the entirely\nmysterious--side, we have only sullen and sombre Rembrandt; desperate\nSalvator; filmy, futile Claude; occasionally some countenance from\nCorreggio and Titian, and a careless condescension or two from\nTintoret,[26]--not by any means a balanced weight of authority. Then,\neven in modern times, putting Turner (who is at present the prisoner at\nthe bar) out of the question, we have, in landscape, Stanfield and\nHarding as definers, against Copley Fielding and Robson on the side of\nthe clouds;[27] Mulready and Wilkie against Etty,--even Etty being not\nso much misty in conception as vague in execution, and not, therefore,\nquite legitimately to be claimed on the foggy side; while, finally, the\nwhole body of the Pre-Raphaelites--certainly the greatest men, taken as\na class, whom modern Europe has produced in concernment with the\narts--entirely agree with the elder religious painters, and do, to their\nutmost, dwell in an element of light and declaration, in antagonism to\nall mist and deception. Truly, the clouds seem to be getting much the\nworst of it; and I feel, for the moment, as if nothing could be said for\nthem. However, having been myself long a cloud-worshipper, and passed\nmany hours of life in the pursuit of them from crag to crag, I must\nconsider what can possibly be submitted in their defence, and in\nTurner's.\n\nSec. 3. The first and principal thing to be submitted is, that the clouds\n_are there_. Whether we like them or not, it is a fact that by far the\nlargest spaces of the habitable world are full of them. That is Nature's\nwill in the matter; and whatever we may theoretically determine to be\nexpedient or beautiful, she has long ago determined what shall _be_. We\nmay declare that clear horizons and blue skies form the most exalted\nscenery; but for all that, the bed of the river in the morning will\nstill be traced by its line of white mist, and the mountain peaks will\nbe seen at evening only in the rents between their blue fragments of\ntowering cloud. Thus it is, and that so constantly, that it is\nimpossible to become a faithful landscape painter without continually\ngetting involved in effects of this kind. We may, indeed, avoid them\nsystematically, but shall become narrow mannerists if we do.\n\nSec. 4. But not only is there a _partial_ and variable mystery thus caused\nby clouds and vapors throughout great spaces of landscape; there is a\ncontinual mystery caused throughout _all_ spaces, caused by the absolute\ninfinity of things. WE NEVER SEE ANYTHING CLEARLY. I stated this fact\npartly in the chapter on Truth of Space, in the first volume, but not\nwith sufficient illustration, so that the reader might by that chapter\nhave been led to infer that the mystery spoken of belonged to some\nspecial distance of the landscape, whereas the fact is, that everything\nwe look at, be it large or small, near or distant, has an equal quantity\nof mystery in it; and the only question is, not how much mystery there\nis, but at what part of the object mystification begins. We suppose we\nsee the ground under our feet clearly, but if we try to number its\ngrains of dust, we shall find that it is as full of confusion and\ndoubtful form as anything else; so that there is literally _no_ point of\nclear sight, and there never can be. What we call seeing a thing\nclearly, is only seeing enough of it to _make out what it is_; this\npoint of intelligibility varying in distance for different magnitudes\nand kinds of things, while the appointed quantity of mystery remains\nnearly the same for all. Thus: throwing an open book and an embroidered\nhandkerchief on a lawn, at a distance of half a mile we cannot tell\nwhich is which; that is the point of mystery for the whole of those\nthings. They are then merely white spots of indistinct shape. We\napproach them, and perceive that one is a book, the other a\nhandkerchief, but cannot read the one, nor trace the embroidery of the\nother. The mystery has ceased to be in the whole things, and has gone\ninto their details. We go nearer, and can now read the text and trace\nthe embroidery, but cannot see the fibres of the paper, nor the threads\nof the stuff. The mystery has gone into a third place. We take both up\nand look closely at them; we see the watermark and the threads, but not\nthe hills and dales in the paper's surface, nor the fine fibres which\nshoot off from every thread. The mystery has gone into a fourth place,\nwhere it must stay, till we take a microscope, which will send it into a\nfifth, sixth, hundredth, or thousandth place, according to the power we\nuse. When, therefore, we say, we see the book _clearly_, we mean only\nthat we know it is a book. When we say that we see the letters clearly,\nwe mean that we know what letters they are; and artists feel that they\nare drawing objects at a convenient distance when they are so near them\nas to know, and to be able in painting to show that they know, what the\nobjects are, in a tolerably complete manner; but this power does not\ndepend on any definite distance of the object, but on its size, kind,\nand distance, together; so that a small thing in the foreground may be\nprecisely in the same _phase_ or place of mystery as a large thing far\naway.\n\nSec. 5. The other day, as I was lying down to rest on the side of the hill\nround which the Rhone sweeps in its main angle, opposite Martigny, and\nlooking carefully across the valley to the ridge of the hill which rises\nabove Martigny itself, then distant about four miles, a plantain\nseed-vessel about an inch long, and a withered head of a scabious half\nan inch broad, happened to be seen rising up, out of the grass near me,\nacross the outline of the distant hill, so as seemingly to set\nthemselves closely beside the large pines and chestnuts which fringed\nthat distant ridge. The plantain was eight yards from me, and the\nscabious seven; and to my sight, at these distances, the plantain and\nthe far away pines were equally clear (it being a clear day, and the sun\nstooping to the west). The pines, four miles off, showed their branches,\nbut I could not count them; and two or three young and old Spanish\nchestnuts beside them showed their broken masses distinctly; but I could\nnot count those masses, only I knew the trees to be chestnuts by their\ngeneral look. The plantain and scabious in like manner I knew to be a\nplantain and scabious by their general look. I saw the plantain\nseed-vessel to be, somehow, rough, and that there were two little\nprojections at the bottom of the scabious head which I knew to mean the\nleaves of the calyx; but I could no more count distinctly the seeds of\nthe plantain, or the group of leaves forming the calyx of the scabious,\nthan I could count the branches of the far-away pines.\n\nSec. 6. Under these circumstances, it is quite evident that neither the\npine nor plantain could have been rightly represented by a single dot or\nstroke of color. Still less could they be represented by a definite\ndrawing, on a small scale, of a pine with all its branches clear, or of\na plantain with all its seeds clear. The round dot or long stroke would\nrepresent nothing, and the clear delineation too much. They were not\nmere dots of color which I saw on the hill, but something full of\nessence of pine; out of which I could gather which were young and which\nwere old, and discern the distorted and crabbed pines from the\nsymmetrical and healthy pines; and feel how the evening sun was sending\nits searching threads among their dark leaves;--assuredly they were more\nthan dots of color. And yet not one of their boughs or outlines could be\ndistinctly made out, or distinctly drawn. Therefore, if I had drawn\neither a definite pine, or a dot, I should have been equally wrong, the\nright lying in an inexplicable, almost inimitable, confusion between the\ntwo.\n\nSec. 7. \"But is this only the case with pines four miles away, and with\nplantains eight yards?\"\n\nNot so. Everything in the field of sight is equally puzzling, and can\nonly be drawn rightly on the same difficult conditions. Try it fairly.\nTake the commonest, closest, most familiar thing, and strive to draw it\nverily as you see it. Be sure of this last fact, for otherwise you will\nfind yourself continually drawing, not what you _see_, but what you\n_know_. The best practice to begin with is, sitting about three yards,\nfrom a bookcase (not your own, so that you may _know_ none of the titles\nof the books), to try to draw the books accurately, with the titles on\nthe backs, and patterns on the bindings, as you see them. You are not to\nstir from your place to look what they are, but to draw them simply as\nthey appear, giving the perfect look of neat lettering; which,\nnevertheless, must be (as you find it on most of the books) absolutely\nillegible. Next try to draw a piece of patterned muslin or lace (of\nwhich you do not know the pattern), a little way off, and rather in the\nshade; and be sure you get all the grace and _look_ of the pattern\nwithout going a step nearer to see what it is. Then try to draw a bank\nof grass, with all its blades; or a bush, with all its leaves; and you\nwill soon begin to understand under what a universal law of obscurity we\nlive, and perceive that all _distinct_ drawing must be _bad_ drawing,\nand that nothing can be right, till it is unintelligible.\n\nSec. 8. \"How! and Pre-Raphaelitism and Durerism, and all that you have been\ntalking to us about for these five hundred pages!\"\n\nWell, it is all right; Pre-Raphaelitism is quite as unintelligible as\nneed be (I will answer for Durerism farther on). Examine your\nPre-Raphaelite painting well, and you will find it is the precise\nfulfilment of these laws. You can make out your plantain head and your\npine, and see entirely what they are; but yet they are full of mystery,\nand suggest more than you can see. So also with Turner, the true head of\nPre-Raphaelitism. You shall see the spots of the trout lying dead on the\nrock in his foreground, but not count them. It is only the Germans and\nthe so-called masters of drawing and defining that are wrong, not the\nPre-Raphaelites.[28]\n\nNot, that is to say, so far as it is _possible_ to be right. No human\nskill can get the absolute truth in this matter; but a drawing by Turner\nof a large scene, and by Holman Hunt of a small one, are as close to\ntruth as human eyes and hands can reach.\n\nSec. 9. \"Well, but how of Veronese and all the firm, fearless draughtsmen\nof days gone by?\"\n\nThey are indeed firm and fearless, but they are all mysterious. Not one\ngreat man of them, but he will puzzle you, if you look close, to know\nwhat he means. Distinct enough, as to his general intent, indeed, just\nas Nature is distinct in her general intent; but examine his touches,\nand you will find in Veronese, in Titian, in Tintoret, in Correggio, and\nin all the great _painters_, properly so called, a peculiar melting and\nmystery about the pencilling, sometimes called softness, sometimes\nfreedom, sometimes breadth; but in reality a most subtle confusion of\ncolors and forms, obtained either by the apparently careless stroke of\nthe brush, or by careful retouching with tenderest labor; but always\nobtained in one way or another: so that though, when compared with work\nthat has no meaning, all great work is _distinct_,--compared with work\nthat has narrow and stubborn meaning, all great work is _in_distinct;\nand if we find, on examining any picture closely, that it is all clearly\nto be made out, it cannot be, as painting, first-rate. There is no\nexception to this rule. EXCELLENCE OF THE HIGHEST KIND, WITHOUT\nOBSCURITY, CANNOT EXIST.\n\nSec. 10. \"But you said that all authority was against Turner,--Titian's and\nVeronese's, as well as that of the older painters.\"\n\nYes, as regards his choice of misty or foggy subject, it is so; but in\nthis matter of mere _execution_, all the great painters are with him,\nthough at first he seems to differ from them, on account of that choice\nof foggy subject; and because, instead of painting things under\ncircumstances when their general character is to be discerned at once\n(as Veronese paints human figures close to us and the size of life), he\nis always painting things twenty and thirty miles away, reduced to\nunintelligible and eccentric shades.\n\nSec. 11. \"But how, then, of this foggy choice; can _that_ be right in\nitself?\"\n\nThat we will discuss in the next chapter: let us keep at present to the\nquestion of execution.\n\n\"Keeping to that question, why is it that a photograph always looks\nclear and sharp,--not at all like a Turner?\"\n\nPhotographs never look entirely clear and sharp; but because clearness\nis supposed a merit in them, they are usually taken from very clearly\nmarked and un-Turnerian subjects; and such results as are misty and\nfaint, though often precisely those which contain the most subtle\nrenderings of nature, are thrown away, and the clear ones only are\npreserved. Those clear ones depend for much of their force on the faults\nof the process. Photography either exaggerates shadows, or loses detail\nin the lights, and, in many ways which I do not here pause to explain,\nmisses certain of the utmost subtleties of natural _effect_ (which are\noften the things that Turner has chiefly aimed at,) while it renders\nsubtleties of _form_ which no human hand could achieve. But a delicately\ntaken photograph of a truly Turnerian subject, is far more like Turner\nin the drawing than it is to the work of any other artist; though, in\nthe system of chiaroscuro, being entirely and necessarily\nRembrandtesque, the subtle mystery of the touch (Turnerism carried to an\ninfinitely wrought refinement) is not usually perceived.\n\nSec. 12. \"But how of Van Eyck, and Albert Durer, and all the clear early\nmen?\"\n\nSo far as they are _quite_ clear, they are imperfect, and knowingly\nimperfect, if considered as painters of real appearances; but by means\nof this very imperfection or conventionalism, they often give certain\nfacts which are more necessary to their purpose than these outward\nappearances. For instance, in Fig. 2 of Plate 25, facing page 32, I\nrequested Mr. Le Keux to facsimile, as far as might be, the look of the\ndaguerreotype; and he has admirably done so. But if Albert Durer had\ndrawn the wall between those towers, he would have represented it with\nall its facts distinctly revealed, as in Fig. 1; and in many respects\nthis clear statement is precious, though, so far as regards ocular\ntruth, it is not natural. A modern sketcher of the \"bold\" school would\nrepresent the tower as in Fig. 3; that is to say, in a manner just as\ntrenchant and firm, and therefore ocularly false, as Durer's; but, in\nall probability, which involved entireness of fallacy or ignorance as\nto the wall facts; rendering the work nearly valueless; or valuable only\nin color or composition; not as draughtsmanship.\n\nOf this we shall have more to say presently, here we may rest satisfied\nwith the conclusion that to a perfectly great manner of painting, or to\nentirely finished work, a certain degree of indistinctness is\nindispensable. As all subjects have a mystery in _them_, so all drawing\nmust have a mystery in _it_; and from the nearest object to the most\ndistant, if we can quite make out what the artist would be at, there is\nsomething wrong. The strokes of paint, examined closely, must be\nconfused, odd, incomprehensible; having neither beginning nor\nend,--melting into each other, or straggling over each other, or going\nwrong and coming right again, or fading away altogether; and if we can\nmake anything of them quite out, that part of the drawing is wrong, or\nincomplete.\n\nSec. 13. Only, observe, the method by which the confusion is obtained may\nvary considerably according to the distance and scale of the picture\nitself; for very curious effects are produced upon all paintings by the\ndistance of the eye from them. One of these is the giving a certain\nsoftness to all colors, so that hues which would look coarse or bald if\nseen near, may sometimes safely be left, and are left, by the great\nworkmen in their large works, to be corrected by the kind of _bloom_\nwhich the distance of thirty or forty feet sheds over them. I say,\n\"sometimes,\" because this optical effect is a very subtle one, and seems\nto take place chiefly on certain colors, dead fresco colors especially;\nalso the practice of the great workmen is very different, and seems much\nto be regulated by the time at their disposal. Tintoret's picture of\nParadise, with 500 figures in it, adapted to a supposed distance of from\nfifty to a hundred feet, is yet colored so tenderly that the nearer it\nis approached the better it looks; nor is it at all certain that the\ncolor which is wrong near, will look right a little way off, or even a\ngreat way off: I have never seen any of our Academy portraits made to\nlook like Titians by being hung above the line: still, distance _does_\nproduce a definite effect on pictorial color, and in general an\nimproving one. It also deepens the relative power of all strokes and\nshadows. A touch of shade which, seen near, is all but invisible, and,\nas far as effect on the picture is concerned, quite powerless, will be\nfound, a little way off, to tell as a definite shadow, and to have a\nnotable result on all that is near it; and so markedly is this the case,\nthat in all fine and first-rate drawing there are many passages in which\nif we _see_ the touches we are putting on, we are doing too much; they\nmust be put on by the feeling of the hand only, and have their effect on\nthe eye when seen in unison, a little way off. This seems strange; but I\nbelieve the reason of it is, that, seen at some distance, the parts of\nthe touch or touches are gathered together, and their relations truly\nshown; while, seen near, they are scattered and confused. On a large\nscale, and in common things, the phenomenon is of constant occurrence;\nthe \"dirt bands\" on a glacier, for instance, are not to be counted on\nthe glacier itself, and yet their appearance is truly stated by\nProfessor Forbes to be \"_one of great importance_, though from the two\ncircumstances of being _best seen at a distance_, or considerable\nheight, and in a feeble or slanting light, it had very naturally been\noverlooked both by myself and others, like what are called blind paths\nover moors, visible at a distance, but lost when we stand upon\nthem.\"[29]\n\nSec. 14. Not only, however, does this take place in a picture very notably,\nso that a group of touches will tell as a compact and intelligible mass,\na little way off, though confused when seen near; but also a dark touch\ngains at a little distance in apparent _darkness_, a light touch in\napparent _light_, and a colored touch in apparent color, to a degree\ninconceivable by an unpractised person; so that literally, a good\npainter is obliged, working near his picture, to do in everything only\nabout half of what he wants, the rest being done by the distance. And if\nthe effect, at such distance, is to be of confusion, then sometimes seen\nnear, the work must be a confusion worse confounded, almost utterly\nunintelligible; hence the amazement and blank wonder of the public at\nsome of the finest passages of Turner, which look like a mere\nmeaningless and disorderly work of chance; but, rightly understood, are\npreparations for a given result, like the most subtle moves of a game of\nchess, of which no bystander can for a long time see the intention, but\nwhich are, in dim, underhand, wonderful way, bringing out their\nforeseen and inevitable result.\n\nSec. 15. And, be it observed, no other means would have brought out that\nresult. Every distance and size of picture has its own proper method of\nwork; the artist will necessarily vary that method somewhat according to\ncircumstances and expectations: he may sometimes finish in a way fitted\nfor close observation, to please his patron, or catch the public eye;\nand sometimes be tempted into such finish by his zeal, or betrayed into\nit by forgetfulness, as I think Tintoret has been, slightly, in his\nParadise, above mentioned. But there never yet was a picture thoroughly\neffective at a distance, which did not look more or less unintelligible\nnear. Things which in distant effect are folds of dress, seen near are\nonly two or three grains of golden color set there apparently by chance;\nwhat far off is a solid limb; near is a grey shade with a misty outline,\nso broken that it is not easy to find its boundary; and what far off may\nperhaps be a man's face, near, is only a piece of thin brown color,\nenclosed by a single flowing wave of a brush loaded with white, while\nthree brown touches across one edge of it, ten feet away, become a mouth\nand eyes. The more subtle the power of the artist, the more curious the\ndifference will be between the apparent means and the effect produced;\nand one of the most sublime feelings connected with art consists in the\nperception of this very strangeness, and in a sympathy with the\nforeseeing and foreordaining power of the artist. In Turner, Tintoret,\nand Paul Veronese, the intenseness of perception, first, as to what is\nto be done, and then, of the means of doing it, is so colossal, that I\nalways feel in the presence of their pictures just as other people would\nin that of a supernatural being. Common talkers use the word \"magic\" of\na great painter's power without knowing what they mean by it. They mean\na great truth. That power _is_ magical; so magical, that, well\nunderstood, no enchanter's work could be more miraculous or more\n_appalling_; and though I am not often kept from saying things by\ntimidity, I should be afraid of offending the reader, if I were to\ndefine to him accurately the kind and the degree of awe, with which I\nhave stood before Tintoret's Adoration of the Magi, at Venice, and\nVeronese's Marriage in Cana, in the Louvre.\n\nSec. 16. It will now, I hope, be understood how easy it is for dull artists\nto mistake the mystery of great masters for carelessness, and their\nsubtle concealment of intention for want of intention. For one person\nwho can perceive the delicacy, invention, and veracity of Tintoret or\nReynolds[30] there are thousands who can perceive the dash of the brush\nand the confusion of the color. They suppose that the merit consists in\ndash and confusion, and that they may easily rival Reynolds by being\nunintelligible, and Tintoret by being impetuous. But I assure them, very\nseriously, that obscurity is _not_ always admirable, nor impetuosity\nalways right; that disorder does not necessarily imply discretion, nor\nhaste, security. It is sometimes difficult to understand the words of a\ndeep thinker; but it is equally difficult to understand an idiot; and\nyoung students will find it, on the whole, the best thing they can do to\nstrive to be _clear_;[31] not affectedly clear, but manfully and firmly.\nMean something, and say something, whenever you touch canvas; yield\nneither to the affectation of precision nor of speed, and trust to time,\nand your honest labor, to invest your work gradually, in such measure\nand kind as your genius can reach, with the tenderness that comes of\nlove, and the mystery that comes of power.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [26] In the clouds around Mount Sinai, in the picture of the Golden\n Calf; the smoke turning into angels, in the Cenacolo in San Giorgio\n Maggiore; and several other such instances.\n\n [27] Stanfield I call a definer, as opposed to Copley Fielding,\n because, though, like all other moderns, he paints cloud and storm,\n he will generally paint all the masts and yards of a ship, rather\n than merely her black bows glooming through the foam; and all the\n rocks on a hill side, rather than the blue outline of the hill\n through the mist.\n\n [28] Compare, if at hand, my letter in the Times of the 5th of May,\n 1854, on Hunt's Light of the World. I extract the passage bearing\n chiefly on the point in question.\n\n \"As far as regards the technical qualities of Mr. Hunt's painting, I\n would only ask the spectator to observe this difference between true\n Pre-Raphaelite work and its imitations. The true work represents all\n objects exactly as they would appear in nature, in the position and\n at the distances which the arrangement of the picture supposes. The\n false work represents them with all their details, as if seen\n through a microscope. Examine closely the ivy on the door in Mr.\n Hunt's picture, and there will not be found in it a single clear\n outline. All is the most exquisite mystery of color; becoming\n reality at its due distance. In like manner, examine the small gems\n on the robe of the figure. Not one will be made out in form, and yet\n there is not one of all those minute points of green color, but it\n has two or three distinctly varied shades of green in it, giving its\n mysterious value and lustre. The spurious imitations of\n Pre-Raphaelite work represent the most minute leaves and other\n objects with sharp outlines, but with no variety of color, and with\n none of the concealment, none of the infinity of nature.\"\n\n [29] Travels through the Alps, chap. viii.\n\n [30] Reynolds is usually admired for his dash and speed. His true\n merit is in an ineffable subtlety combined with his speed. The\n tenderness of some of Reynolds' touches is quite beyond telling.\n\n [31] Especially in distinction of species of things. It may be\n doubtful whether in a great picture we are to represent the bloom\n upon a grape, but never doubtful that we are to paint a grape so as\n to be known from a cherry.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nOF TURNERIAN MYSTERY:--SECONDLY, WILFUL.\n\n\nSec. 1. In the preceding chapter we were concerned only with the mystery\nnecessary in all great art. We have yet to inquire into the nature of\nthat more special love of concealment in which Turner is the leading\nrepresentative of modern cloud-worship; causing Dr. Waagen sapiently to\nremark that \"he\" had here succeeded in combining \"a crude painted medley\nwith a general foggy appearance.\"[32]\n\nAs, for defence of his universal indistinctness, my appeal was in the\nlast chapter to universal fact, so, for defence of this special\nindistinctness, my first appeal is in this chapter to special fact. An\nEnglish painter justifiably loves fog, because he is born in a foggy\ncountry; as an Italian painter justifiably loves clearness, because he\nis born in a comparatively clear country. I have heard a traveller\nfamiliar with the East complain of the effect in a picture of Copley\nFielding's, that \"it was such very bad weather.\" But it ought not to be\nbad weather to the English. Our green country depends for its life on\nthose kindly rains and floating swirls of cloud; we ought, therefore, to\nlove them and to paint them.\n\nSec. 2. But there is no need to rest my defence on this narrow English\nground. The fact is, that though the climates of the South and East may\nbe _comparatively_ clear, they are no more absolutely clear than our own\nnorthern air; and that wherever a landscape-painter is placed, if he\npaints faithfully, he will have continually to paint effects of mist.\nIntense clearness, whether in the North after or before rain, or in some\nmoments of twilight in the South, is always, as far as I am acquainted\nwith natural phenomena, a _notable_ thing. Mist of some sort, or\nmirage, or confusion of light, or of cloud, are the general facts; the\ndistance may vary in different climates at which the effects of mist\nbegin, but they are always present; and therefore, in all probability it\nis meant that we should enjoy them.\n\nSec. 3. Nor does it seem to me in any wise difficult to understand why they\nshould be thus appointed for enjoyment. In former parts of this work we\nwere able to trace a certain delightfulness in every visible feature of\nnatural things which was typical of any great spiritual truth; surely,\ntherefore, we need not wonder now, that mist and all its phenomena have\nbeen made delightful to us, since our happiness as thinking beings must\ndepend on our being content to accept only partial knowledge, even in\nthose matters which chiefly concern us. If we insist upon perfect\nintelligibility and complete declaration in every moral subject, we\nshall instantly fall into misery of unbelief. Our whole happiness and\npower of energetic action depend upon our being able to breathe and live\nin the cloud; content to see it opening here and closing there;\nrejoicing to catch, through the thinnest films of it, glimpses of stable\nand substantial things; but yet perceiving a nobleness even in the\nconcealment, and rejoicing that the kindly veil is spread where the\nuntempered light might have scorched us, or the infinite clearness\nwearied.\n\nSec. 4. And I believe that the resentment of this interference of the mist\nis one of the forms of proud error which are too easily mistaken for\nvirtues. To be content in utter darkness and ignorance is indeed\nunmanly, and therefore we think that to love light and seek knowledge\nmust always be right. Yet (as in all matters before observed,) wherever\n_pride_ has any share in the work, even knowledge and light may be ill\npursued. Knowledge is good, and light is good, yet man perished in\nseeking knowledge, and moths perished in seeking light; and if we, who\nare crushed before the moth, will not accept such mystery as is needful\nfor us, we shall perish in like manner. But, accepted in humbleness, it\ninstantly becomes an element of pleasure; and I think that every rightly\nconstituted mind ought to rejoice, not so much in knowing anything\nclearly, as in feeling that there is infinitely more which it cannot\nknow. None but proud or weak men would mourn over this, for we may\nalways know more if we choose, by working on; but the pleasure is, I\nthink, to humble people, in knowing that the journey is endless, the\ntreasure inexhaustible,--watching the cloud still march before them with\nits summitless pillar, and being sure that, to the end of time and to\nthe length of eternity, the mysteries of its infinity will still open\nfarther and farther, their dimness being the sign and necessary adjunct\nof their inexhaustibleness. I know there are an evil mystery and a\ndeathful dimness,--the mystery of the great Babylon--the dimness of the\nsealed eye and soul; but do not let us confuse these with the glorious\nmystery of the things which the angels \"desire to look into,\" or with\nthe dimness which, even before the clear eye and open soul, still rests\non sealed pages of the eternal volume.\n\nSec. 5. And going down from this great truth to the lower truths which are\ntypes of it in smaller matters, we shall find, that as soon as people\ntry honestly to see all they can of anything, they come to a point where\na noble dimness begins. They see more than others; but the consequence\nof their seeing more is, that they feel they cannot see all; and the\nmore intense their perception, the more the crowd of things which they\n_partly_ see will multiply upon them; and their delight may at last\nprincipally consist in dwelling on this cloudy part of their prospect,\nsomewhat casting away or aside what to them has become comparatively\ncommon, but is perhaps the sum and substance of all that other people\nsee in the thing, for the utmost subtleties and shadows and glancings of\nit cannot be caught but by the most practised vision. And as a delicate\near rejoices in the slighter and more modulated passages of sound which\nto a blunt ear are utterly monotonous in their quietness, or\nunintelligible in their complication, so, when the eye is exquisitely\nkeen and clear, it is fain to rest on grey films of shade, and wandering\nrays of light, and intricacies of tender form, passing over hastily, as\nunworthy or commonplace, what to a less educated sense appears the whole\nof the subject.[33] In painting, this progress of the eye is marked\nalways by one consistent sign--its sensibility, namely, to effects of\n_gradation_ in light and color, and habit of looking for them, rather\neven than for the signs of the essence of the subject. It will, indeed,\nsee more of that essence than is seen by other eyes; and its choice of\nthe points to be seized upon will be always regulated by that special\nsympathy which we have above examined as the motive of the Turnerian\npicturesque; but yet, the more it is cultivated, the more of light and\ncolor it will perceive, the less of substance.\n\n[Illustration: J. Ruskin. 1 2 3 4\n 26. The Law of Evanescence.]\n\nSec. 6. Thus, when the eye is quite uncultivated, it sees that a man is a\nman, and a face is a face, but has no idea what shadows or lights fall\nupon the form or features. Cultivate it to some degree of artistic\npower, and it will then see shadows distinctly, but only the more\nvigorous of them. Cultivate it still farther, and it will see light\nwithin light, and shadow within shadow, and will continually refuse to\nrest in what it had already discovered, that it may pursue what is more\nremoved and more subtle, until at last it comes to give its chief\nattention and display its chief power on gradations which to an\nuntrained faculty are partly matters of indifference, and partly\nimperceptible. That these subtle gradations have indeed become matters\nof primal importance to it, may be ascertained by observing that they\nare the things it will last part with, as the object retires into\ndistance; and that, though this distance may become so great as to\nrender the real nature of the object quite undiscernible, the gradations\nof light upon it will not be lost.\n\nSec. 7. For instance, Fig. 1, on the opposite page, Plate 26, is a\ntolerably faithful rendering of the look of a wall tower of a Swiss town\nas it would be seen within some hundred yards of it. Fig. 2 is (as\nnearly as I can render it) a facsimile of Turner's actual drawing of\nthis tower, at a presumed distance of about half a mile. It has far less\nof intelligible delineation, either of windows, cornices, or tiles; but\nintense care has still been given to get the pearly roundness of the\nside, and the exact relations of all the tones of shade. And now, if\nTurner wants to remove the tower still farther back, he will gradually\nlet the windows and stones all disappear together, before he will quit\nhis shadows and delicately centralized rays. At Fig. 3 the tower is\nnearly gone, but the pearly roundness of it and principal lights of it\nare there still. At Fig. 4 (Turner's ultimate condition in distance)\nthe essence of the thing is quite unintelligible; we cannot answer for\nits being a tower at all. But the gradations of light are still there,\nand as much pains have been taken to get them as in any of the other\ninstances. A vulgar artist would have kept something of the form of the\ntower, expressing it by a few touches; and people would call it a clever\ndrawing. Turner lets the tower melt into air, but still he works half an\nhour or so over those delicate last gradations, which perhaps not many\npeople in England besides himself can fully see, as not many people can\nunderstand the final work of a great mathematician. I assume, of course,\nin this example, that the tower, as it grows less and less distinct,\nbecomes part of the subject of a _larger_ picture. Fig. 1 represents\nnearly what Turner's treatment of it would be if it were the principal\nsubject of a vignette; and Fig. 4 his treatment of it as an object in\nthe extreme distance of a large oil picture. If at the same supposed\ndistance it entered into a smaller drawing, so as to be much smaller in\nsize, he might get the gradations with less trouble, sometimes even by a\nsingle sweep of the brush; but _some_ gradation would assuredly be\nretained, though the tower were diminished to the height of one of the\nlong letters of this type.\n\nSec. 8. \"But is Turner right in doing this?\"\n\nYes. The truth is indeed so. If you watch any object as it fades in\ndistance, it will lose gradually its force, its intelligibility, its\nanatomy, its whole comprehensible being; but it will _never_ lose its\ngradation of light. Up to the last moment, what light is seen on it,\nfeebly glimmering and narrowed almost to a point or a line, is still\nfull of change. One part is brighter than another, and brighter with as\nlovely and tender increase as it was when nearest to us; and at last,\nthough a white house ten miles away will be seen only as a small square\nspot of light, its windows, doors, or roof, being as utterly invisible\nas if they were not in existence, the gradation of its light will not be\nlost; one part of the spot will be seen to be brighter than another.\n\nSec. 9. Is there not a deep meaning in this? We, in our daily looking at\nthe thing, think that its own make is the most important part of it.\nWindows and porticos, eaves and cornices, how interesting and how useful\nare they! Surely, the chief importance of the thing is in these. No; not\nin these; but in the play of the light of heaven upon it. There is a\nplace and time when all those windows and porticos will be lost sight\nof; when the only question becomes, \"what light had it?\" How much of\nheaven was looking upon it? What were the broad relations of it, in\nlight and darkness, to the sky and earth, and all things around it? It\nmight have strange humors and ways of its own--many a rent in its wall,\nand many a roughness on its roof; or it might have many attractivenesses\nand noblenesses of its own--fair mouldings and gay ornaments; but the\ntime comes when all these are vain, and when the slight, wandering\nwarmth of heaven's sunshine which the building itself felt not, and not\none eye in a thousand saw, becomes all in all. I leave the reader to\nfollow out the analogies of this.\n\nSec. 10. \"Well, but,\" it is still objected, \"if this be so, why is it\nnecessary to insist, as you do always, upon the most minute and careful\nrenderings of form?\"\n\nBecause, though these gradations of light are indeed, as an object dies\nin distance, the only things it can retain, yet as it lives its active\nlife near us, those very gradations can only be seen properly by the\neffect they have on its character. You can only show how the light\naffects the object, by knowing thoroughly what the object is; and noble\nmystery differs from ignoble, in being a veil thrown between us and\nsomething definite, known, and substantial; but the ignoble mystery is a\nveil cast before chaos, the studious concealment of Nothing.\n\nSec. 11. There is even a way in which the very definiteness of Turner's\nknowledge adds to the mystery of his pictures. In the course of the\nfirst volume I had several times occasion to insist on the singular\nimportance of cast shadows, and the chances of their sometimes gaining\nsupremacy in visibility over even the things that cast them. Now a cast\nshadow is a much more curious thing than we usually suppose. The strange\nshapes it gets into--the manner in which it stumbles over everything\nthat comes in its way, and frets itself into all manner of fantastic\nschism, taking neither the shape of the thing that casts it, nor of that\nit is cast upon, but an extraordinary, stretched, flattened, fractured,\nill-jointed anatomy of its own--cannot be imagined until one is actually\nengaged in shadow-hunting. If any of these wayward umbrae are faithfully\nremembered and set down by the painter, they nearly always have an\nunaccountable look, quite different from anything one would have\ninvented or philosophically conjectured for a shadow; and it constantly\nhappens, in Turner's distances, that such strange pieces of broken\nshade, accurately remembered, or accurately invented, as the case may\nbe, cause a condition of unintelligibility, quaint and embarrassing\nalmost in exact proportion to the amount of truth it contains.\n\nSec. 12. I believe the reader must now sufficiently perceive that the right\nof being obscure is not one to be lightly claimed; it can only be\nfounded on long effort to be intelligible, and on the present power of\n_being_ intelligible to the exact degree which the nature of the thing\nadmits. Nor shall we, I hope, any more have difficulty in understanding\nhow the noble mystery and the ignoble, though direct opposites, are yet\ncontinually mistaken for each other--the last aping the first; and the\nmost wretched artists taking pride in work which is simply slurred,\nslovenly, ignorant, empty, and insolent, as if it were nobly mysterious\n(just as a drunkard who cannot articulate supposes himself oracular);\nwhereas the noble art-mystery, as all noble language-mystery, is reached\nonly by intense labor. Striving to speak with uttermost truth of\nexpression, weighing word against word, and wasting none, the great\nspeaker, or writer, toils first into perfect intelligibleness, then, as\nhe reaches to higher subject, and still more concentrated and wonderful\nutterance, he becomes ambiguous--as Dante is ambiguous,--half a dozen\ndifferent meanings lightening out in separate rays from every word, and,\nhere and there, giving rise to much contention of critics as to what the\nintended meaning actually was. But it is no drunkard's babble for all\nthat, and the men who think it so, at the third hour of the day, do not\nhighly honor _themselves_ in the thought.\n\nSec. 13. And now observe how perfectly the conclusions arrived at here\nconsist with those of the third chapter, and how easily we may\nunderstand the meaning of that vast weight of authority which we found\nat first ranged against the clouds, and strong in arms on the side of\nintelligibility. Nearly all great men must, for the reasons above given,\nbe intelligible. Even, if they are to be the greatest, still they must\nstruggle through intelligibility to obscurity; if of the second class,\nthen the best thing they can do, all their lives through, is to be\nintelligible. Therefore the enormous majority of all good and true men\nwill be _clear_ men; and the drunkards, sophists, and sensualists will,\nfor the most part, sink back into the fog-bank, and remain wrapt in\ndarkness, unintelligibility, and futility. Yet, here and there, once in\na couple of centuries, one man will rise past clearness, and become dark\nwith excess of light.\n\nSec. 14. \"Well, then, you mean to say that the tendency of this age to\ngeneral cloudiness, as opposed to the old religious clearness of\npainting, is one of degradation; but that Turner is this one man who has\nrisen _past_ clearness?\"\n\nYes. With some modifications of the saying, I mean that; but those\nmodifications will take us a little time to express accurately.\n\nFor, first, it will not do to condemn every minor painter utterly, the\nmoment we see he is foggy. Copley Fielding, for instance, was a minor\npainter; but his love of obscurity in rain clouds, and dew-mist on\ndowns, was genuine love, full of sweetness and happy aspiration; and, in\nthis way, a little of the light of the higher mystery is often caught by\nthe simplest men when they keep their hearts open.\n\nSec. 15. Neither will it be right to set down every painter for a great\nman, the moment we find he is clear; for there is a hard and vulgar\nintelligibility of nothingness, just as there is an ambiguity of\nnothingness. And as often, in conversation, a man who speaks but badly\nand indistinctly has, nevertheless, got much to say; and a man who\nspeaks boldly and plainly may yet say what is little worth hearing; so,\nin painting, there are men who can express themselves but blunderingly,\nand yet have much in them to express; and there are others who talk with\ngreat precision, whose works are yet very impertinent and untrustworthy\nassertions. Sir Joshua Reynolds is full of fogginess and shortcomings as\ncompared with either of the Caraccis; but yet one Sir Joshua is worth\nall the Caraccis in Europe; and so, in our modern water-color societies,\nthere are many men who define clearly enough, all whose works, put\ntogether, are not worth a careless blot by Cox or Barrett.\n\nSec. 16. Let me give one illustration more, which will be also of some\nhistorical usefulness in marking the relations of the clear and obscure\nschools.\n\nWe have seen, in our investigation of Greek landscape, Homer's intense\nlove of the aspen poplar. For once, in honor of Homer and the Greeks, I\nwill take an aspen for the subject of comparison, and glance at the\ndifferent modes in which it would have been, or was, represented from\nthe earliest to the present stage of landscape art.\n\nThe earliest manner which comes within our field of examination is that\nof the thirteenth century. Fig. 1. Plate 27 is an aspen out of the wood\nin which Absalom is slain, from a Psalter in my own possession,\nexecuted, certainly, after the year 1250, and before 1272; the other\ntrees in the wood being, first, of course, the oak in which Absalom is\ncaught, and a sycamore. All these trees are somewhat more conventional\nthan is even usual at the period; though, for this reason, the more\ncharacteristic as examples of earliest work. There is no great botanical\naccuracy until some forty years later (at least in painting); so that I\ncannot be quite sure, the leaf not being flat enough at the base, that\nthis tree is meant for an aspen: but it is so in all probability; and,\nwhether it be or not, serves well enough to mark the definiteness and\nsymmetry of the old art,--a symmetry which, be it always observed, is\nNEVER formal or unbroken. This tree, though it looks formal enough,\nbranches unequally at the top of the stem. But the lowest figure in\nPlate 7, Vol. III. is a better example from the MS. Sloane, 1975, Brit.\nMus. Every plant in that herbarium is drawn with some approach to\naccuracy, in leaf, root, and flower; while yet all are subjected to the\nsternest conventional arrangement; colored in almost any way that\npleases the draughtsman, and set on quaint grounds of barred color, like\nbearings on shields;[34] one side of the plant always balancing the\nother, but never without some transgression or escape from the law of\nlikeness, as in the heads of the cyclamen flower, and several other\nparts of this design. It might seem at first, that the root was more\ncarelessly drawn than the rest, and uglier in color; but this is in pure\nconscientiousness. The workman knew that a root was ugly and\nearthy; he would not make it ornamental and delicate. He would sacrifice\nhis pleasant colors and graceful lines at once for the radical fact; and\nrather spoil his page than flatter a fibre.\n\n[Illustration:\n 1. Ancient, or Giottesque. 4. Modern or Blottesque.\n 2. Purist. 5. Constablesque.\n 3. Turneresque. 6. Hardingesque.\n 27. The Aspen, under Idealization.]\n\n[Illustration: 28. Aspen, Unidealized.]\n\nSec. 17. Here, then, we have the first mediaeval condition of art,\nconsisting in a fenced, but varied, symmetry; a perfect definiteness;\nand a love of nature, more or less interfered with by conventionalism\nand imperfect knowledge. Fig. 2 in Plate 27 represents the next\ncondition of mediaeval art, in which the effort at imitation is\ncontending with the conventional type. This aspen is from the MS.\nCotton, Augustus, A. 5, from which I have already taken an example of\nrocks to compare with Leonardo's. There can be no doubt here about the\nspecies of the tree intended, as throughout the MS. its illuminator has\ncarefully distinguished the oak, the willow, and the aspen; and this\nexample, though so small (it is engraved of the actual size), is very\ncharacteristic of the aspen ramification; and in one point, of\nramification in general, namely, the division of the tree into two\nmasses, each branching outwards, not across each other. Whenever a tree\ndivides at first into two or three nearly equal main branches, the\nsecondary branches always spring from the outside of the divided ones,\njust as, when a tree grows under a rock or wall, it shoots away from it,\nnever towards it. The beautiful results of this arrangement we shall\ntrace in the next volume; meantime, in the next Plate (28) I have drawn\nthe main[35] ramifications of a real aspen, growing freely, but in a\nsheltered place, as far as may be necessary to illustrate the point in\nquestion.\n\nSec. 18. This example, Fig. 2 in Plate 27 is sufficiently characteristic of\nthe purist mediaeval landscape, though there is somewhat more leaning to\nnaturalism than is usual at the period. The next example, Fig. 3, is\nfrom Turner's vignette of St. Anne's Hill (Rogers's Poems, p. 214).\nTurner almost always groups his trees, so that I have had difficulty in\nfinding one on a small scale and isolated, which would be characteristic\nof him; nor is this one completely so, for I had no access to the\noriginal vignette, it being, I believe, among the drawings that have\nbeen kept from the public, now these four years, because the Chancery\nlawyers do not choose to determine the meaning of Turner's perfectly\nintelligible, though informal, will; and Mr. Goodall's engraving, which\nI have copied, though right in many respects, is not representative of\nthe dotted touch by which Turner expressed the aspen foliage. I have\nnot, however, ventured to alter it, except only by adding the\nextremities where they were hidden in the vignette by the trelliswork\nabove.\n\nThe principal difference between the Turnerian aspen and the purist\naspen is, it will be seen, in the expression of lightness and confusion\nof foliage, and roundness of the tree as a mass; while the purist tree,\nlike the thirteenth century one, is still flat. All attempt at the\nexpression of individual leaves is now gone, the tree being too far off\nto justify their delineation; but the direction of the light, and its\ngradations, are carefully studied.\n\nSec. 19. Fig. 6 is a tolerable facsimile[36] of a little chalk sketch of\nHarding's; quite inimitable in the quantity of life and truth obtained\nby about a quarter of a minute's work; but beginning to show the faulty\nvagueness and carelessness of modernism. The stems, though beautifully\nfree, are not thoroughly drawn or rounded; and in the mass of the tree,\nthough well formed, the tremulousness and transparency of leafage are\nlost. Nor is it possible, by Harding's manner of drawing, to express\nsuch ultimate truths; his execution, which, _in its way_, no one can at\nall equal (the best chalk drawing of Calame and other foreign masters\nbeing quite childish and feeble in comparison), is yet sternly limited\nin its reach, being originally based on the assumption that nothing is\nto be delicately drawn, and that the method is only good which insures\nspecious incompletion.\n\nIt will be observed, also, that there is a leaning first to one side,\nthen to the other, in Harding's aspen, which marks the wild\npicturesqueness of modernism as opposed to the quiet but stiff dignity\nof the purist (Fig. 2); Turner occupying exactly the intermediate place.\n\nThe next example (Fig. 5) is an aspen of Constable's, on the left in\nthe frontispiece to Mr. Leslie's life of him. Here we have arrived at\nthe point of total worthlessness, the tree being as flat as the old\npurist one, but, besides, wholly false in ramification, idle, and\nundefined in every respect; it being, however, just possible still to\ndiscern what the tree is meant for, and therefore, the type of the worst\nmodernism not being completely established.\n\nSec. 20. Fig. 4 establishes this type, being the ordinary condition of tree\ntreatment in our blotted water-color drawings; the nature of the tree\nbeing entirely lost sight of, and no accurate knowledge, of any kind,\npossessed or communicated.\n\nThus, from the extreme of definiteness and light, in the thirteenth\ncentury (the middle of the Dark Ages!), we pass to the extreme of\nuncertainty and darkness, in the middle of the nineteenth century.\n\nAs, however, the definite mediaeval work has some faults, so the\nindefinite modern work has some virtues, its very uncertainty enabling\nit to appeal pleasantly to the imagination (though in an inky manner, as\ndescribed above, Vol. III. Chap. x. Sec. 10), and sometimes securing\nqualities of color which could no otherwise be obtained. It ought,\nhowever, if we would determine its true standing, to be compared, not\nwith the somewhat forced and narrow decision of the thirteenth century,\nbut with the perfect and well-informed decision of Albert Durer and his\nfellow-workmen. For the proper representation of these there was no room\nin this plate; so, in Plate 25, above, on each side of the\ndaguerreotyped towers of Fribourg, I have given, Fig. 1, a Dureresque,\nand Fig. 3, a Blottesque, version of the intermediate wall. The latter\nversion may, perhaps, be felt to have some pleasantness in its apparent\nease; and it has a practical advantage, in its capability of being\nexecuted in a quarter of a minute, while the Dureresque statement\n_cannot_ be made in less than a quarter of an hour. But the latter\nembraces not only as much as is worth the extra time, but even an\ninfinite of contents, beyond and above the other, for the other is in no\nsingle place clear in its assertion of _any_thing; whereas the\nDureresque work, asserting clearly many most interesting facts about the\ngrass on the ledges, the bricks of the windows, and the growth of the\nfoliage, is forever a useful and trustworthy record; the other forever\nan empty dream. If it is a beautiful dream, full of lovely color and\ngood composition, we will not quarrel with it; but it can never be so,\nunless it is founded first on the Dureresque knowledge, and suggestive\nof it, through all its own mystery or incompletion. So that by all\nstudents the Dureresque is the manner to be first adopted, and calmly\ncontinued as long as possible; and if their inventive instincts do not,\nin after life, _force_ them to swifter or more cloudy execution,--if at\nany time it becomes a matter of doubt with them how far to surrender\ntheir gift of accuracy,--let them be assured that it is best always to\nerr on the side of clearness; to live in the illumination of the\nthirteenth century rather than the mysticism of the nineteenth, and vow\nthemselves to the cloister rather than to lose themselves in the desert.\n\nSec. 21. I am afraid the reader must be tired of this matter; and yet there\nis one question more which I must for a moment touch upon, in\nconclusion, namely, the mystery of _clearness itself_. In an Italian\ntwilight, when, sixty or eighty miles away, the ridge of the Western\nAlps rises in its dark and serrated blue against the crystalline\nvermilion, there is still unsearchableness, but an unsearchableness\nwithout cloud or concealment,--an infinite unknown, but no sense of any\nveil or interference between us and it: we are separated from it not by\nany anger or storm, not by any vain and fading vapor, but only by the\ndeep infinity of the thing itself. I find that the great religious\npainters rejoiced in that kind of unknowableness, and in that only; and\nI feel that even if they had had all the power to do so, still they\nwould not have put rosy mists and blue shadows behind their sacred\nfigures, but only the far-away sky and cloudless mountains. Probably the\nright conclusion is that the clear and cloudy mysteries are alike noble;\nbut that the beauty of the wreaths of frost mist, folded over banks of\ngreensward deep in dew, and of the purple clouds of evening, and the\nwreaths of fitful vapor gliding through groves of pine, and irised\naround the pillars of waterfalls, is more or less typical of the kind of\njoy which we should take in the imperfect knowledge granted to the\nearthly life, while the serene and cloudless mysteries set forth that\nbelonging to the redeemed life. But of one thing I am well assured, that\nso far as the clouds are regarded, not as concealing the truth of other\nthings, but as themselves true and separate creations, they are not\nusually beheld by us with enough honor; we have too great veneration for\ncloudlessness. My reasons for thinking this I will give in the next\nchapter; here we have, I believe, examined as far as necessary, the\ngeneral principles on which Turner worked, and justified his adoption of\nthem so far as they contradicted preceding practice.\n\nIt remains for us to trace, with more observant patience, the ground\nwhich was marked out in the first volume; and, whereas in that volume we\nhastily compared the truth of Turner with that of preceding\nlandscapists, we shall now, as closely as possible, examine the range of\nwhat he himself has done and felt, and the way in which it is likely to\ninfluence the future acts and thoughts of men.\n\nSec. 22. And I shall attempt to do this, first, by examining what the real\neffect of the things painted--clouds, or mountains, or whatever else\nthey may be--is, or ought to be, in general, on men's minds, showing the\ngrounds of their beauty or impressiveness as best I can; and then\nexamining how far Turner seems to have understood these reasons of\nbeauty, and how far his work interprets, or can take the place of\nnature. But in doing this, I shall, for the sake of convenience, alter\nthe arrangement which I followed in the first volume; and instead of\nexamining the sky first, treat of it last; because, in many\nillustrations which I must give of other things, I shall have to\nintroduce pieces of sky background which will all be useful for\nreference when I can turn back to them from the end of the book, but\nwhich I could not refer to in advance without anticipating all my other\nillustrations. Nevertheless, some points which I have to note respecting\nthe meaning of the sky are so intimately connected with the subjects we\nhave just been examining, that I cannot properly defer their\nconsideration to another place; and I shall state them, therefore, in\nthe next chapter, afterwards proceeding, in the order I adopted in the\nfirst volume, to examine the beauty of mountains, water, and vegetation.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [32] Art and Artists in England, vol. ii., p. 151. The other\n characteristics which Dr. Waagen discovers in Turner are, \"such a\n looseness of treatment, such a total want of truth, as I never\n before met with.\"\n\n [33] And yet, all these intricacies will produce for it another\n whole; as simple and natural as the child's first conception of the\n thing; only more comprehensive. See above, Chap. III., Sec. 21.\n\n [34] Compare Vol. III. Chap. XIV. Sec. 13. Touching the exact degree in\n which ignorance or incapacity is mingled with wilful conventionalism\n in this drawing, we shall inquire in the chapters on Vegetation.\n\n [35] Only the _main_ lines: the outer sprays have had no pains taken\n with them, as I am going to put some leaves on them in next volume.\n\n [36] It is quite impossible to facsimile good free work. Both Turner\n and Harding suffer grievously in this plate.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nTHE FIRMAMENT.\n\n\nSec. 1. The task which we now enter upon, as explained in the close of the\npreceding chapter, is the ascertaining as far as possible what the\nproper effect of the natural beauty of different objects _ought_ to be\non the human mind, and the degree in which this nature of theirs, and\ntrue influence, have been understood and transmitted by Turner.\n\nI mean to begin with the mountains, for the sake of convenience in\nillustration; but, in the proper order of thought, the clouds ought to\nbe considered first; and I think it will be well, in this intermediate\nchapter, to bring to a close that line of reasoning by which we have\ngradually, as I hope, strengthened the defences around the love of\nmystery which distinguishes our modern art; and to show, on final and\nconclusive authority, what noble things these clouds are, and with what\nfeeling it seems to be intended by their Creator that we should\ncontemplate them.\n\nSec. 2. The account given of the stages of Creation in the first chapter of\nGenesis, is in every respect clear and intelligible to the simplest\nreader, except in the statement of the work of the second day. I suppose\nthat this statement is passed over by careless readers without an\nendeavor to understand it; and contemplated by simple and faithful\nreaders as a sublime mystery, which was not intended to be understood.\nBut there is no mystery in any other part of the chapter, and it seems\nto me unjust to conclude that any was intended here.\n\nAnd the passage ought to be peculiarly interesting to us, as being the\nfirst in the Bible in which the _heavens_ are named, and the only one in\nwhich the word \"Heaven,\" all important as that word is to our\nunderstanding of the most precious promises of Scripture, receives a\ndefinite explanation.\n\nLet us, therefore, see whether, by a little careful comparison of the\nverse with other passages in which the word occurs, we may not be able\nto arrive at as clear an understanding of this portion of the chapter as\nof the rest.\n\nSec. 3. In the first place, the English word \"Firmament\" itself is obscure\nand useless; because we never employ it but as a synonym of heaven; it\nconveys no other distinct idea to us; and the verse, though from our\nfamiliarity with it we imagine that it possesses meaning, has in reality\nno more point or value than if it were written, \"God said let there be a\nsomething in the midst of the waters, and God called the something\nHeaven.\"\n\nBut the marginal reading, \"Expansion,\" has definite value; and the\nstatement that \"God said, let there be an expansion in the midst of the\nwaters, and God called the expansion Heaven,\" has an apprehensible\nmeaning.\n\nSec. 4. Accepting this expression as the one intended, we have next to ask\nwhat expansion there is, between two waters, describable by the term\nHeaven. Milton adopts the term \"expanse;\"[37] but he understands it of\nthe whole volume of the air which surrounds the earth. Whereas, so far\nas we can tell, there is no water beyond the air, in the fields of\nspace; and the whole expression of division of waters from waters is\nthus rendered valueless.\n\nSec. 5. Now, with respect to this whole chapter, we must remember always\nthat it is intended for the instruction of all mankind, not for the\nlearned reader only; and that, therefore, the most simple and natural\ninterpretation is the likeliest in general to be the true one. An\nunscientific reader knows little about the manner in which the volume of\nthe atmosphere surrounds the earth; but I imagine that he could hardly\nglance at the sky when rain was falling in the distance, and see the\nlevel line of the bases of the clouds from which the shower descended,\nwithout being able to attach an instant and easy meaning to the words\n\"Expansion in the midst of the waters.\" And if, having once seized this\nidea, he proceeded to examine it more accurately, he would perceive at\nonce, if he had ever noticed _anything_ of the nature of clouds, that\nthe level line of their bases did indeed most severely and stringently\ndivide \"waters from waters,\" that is to say, divide water in its\ncollective and tangible state, from water in its divided and aerial\nstate; or the waters which _fall_ and _flow_, from those which _rise_\nand _float_. Next, if we try this interpretation in the theological\nsense of the word _Heaven_, and examine whether the clouds are spoken of\nas God's dwelling place, we find God going before the Israelites in a\npillar of cloud; revealing Himself in a cloud on Sinai; appearing in a\ncloud on the mercy seat, filling the Temple of Solomon with the cloud\nwhen its dedication is accepted; appearing in a great cloud to Ezekiel;\nascending into a cloud before the eyes of the disciples on Mount Olivet;\nand in like manner returning to Judgment. \"Behold, he cometh with\nclouds, and every eye shall see him.\" \"Then shall they see the son of\nman coming in the clouds of heaven, with power and great glory.\"[38]\nWhile farther, the \"clouds\" and \"heavens\" are used as interchangeable\nwords in those Psalms which most distinctly set forth the power of God:\n\"He bowed the heavens also, and came down; he made darkness pavilions\nround about him, dark waters, and thick clouds of the skies.\" And,\nagain: \"Thy mercy, oh Lord, is in the heavens, and thy faithfulness\nreacheth unto the clouds.\" And, again: \"His excellency is over Israel,\nand his strength is in the clouds.\" Again: \"The clouds poured out water,\nthe skies sent out a sound, the voice of thy thunder was in the heaven.\"\nAgain: \"Clouds and darkness are round about him, righteousness and\njudgment are the habitation of his throne; the heavens declare his\nrighteousness, and all the people see his glory.\"\n\nSec. 6. In all these passages the meaning is unmistakable, if they possess\ndefinite meaning at all. We are too apt to take them merely for sublime\nand vague imagery, and therefore gradually to lose the apprehension of\ntheir life and power. The expression, \"He bowed the Heavens,\" for\ninstance, is, I suppose, received by most readers as a magnificent\nhyperbole, having reference to some peculiar and fearful manifestation\nof God's power to the writer of the Psalm in which the words occur. But\nthe expression either has plain meaning, or it has _no_ meaning.\nUnderstand by the term \"Heavens\" the compass of infinite space around\nthe earth, and the expression, \"bowed the Heavens,\" however sublime, is\nwholly without meaning; infinite space cannot be bent or bowed. But\nunderstand by the \"Heavens\" the veil of clouds above the earth, and the\nexpression is neither hyperbolical nor obscure; it is pure, plain, and\naccurate truth, and it describes God, not as revealing Himself in any\npeculiar way to David, but doing what he is still doing before our own\neyes day by day. By accepting the words in their simple sense, we are\nthus led to apprehend the immediate presence of the Deity, and His\npurpose of manifesting Himself as near us whenever the storm-cloud\nstoops upon its course; while by our vague and inaccurate acceptance of\nthe words we remove the idea of His presence far from us, into a region\nwhich we can neither see nor know; and gradually, from the close\nrealization of a living God who \"maketh the clouds his chariot,\" we\nrefine and explain ourselves into dim and distant suspicion of an\ninactive God, inhabiting inconceivable places, and fading into the\nmultitudinous formalisms of the laws of Nature.\n\nSec. 7. All errors of this kind--and in the present day we are in constant\nand grievous danger of falling into them--arise from the originally\nmistaken idea that man can, \"by searching, find out God--find out the\nAlmighty to perfection;\" that is to say by help of courses of reasoning\nand accumulations of science, apprehend the nature of the Deity in a\nmore exalted and more accurate manner than in a state of comparative\nignorance; whereas it is clearly necessary, from the beginning to the\nend of time, that God's way of revealing Himself to His creatures should\nbe a _simple_ way, which _all_ those creatures may understand. Whether\ntaught or untaught, whether of mean capacity or enlarged, it is\nnecessary that communion with their Creator should be possible to all;\nand the admission to such communion must be rested, not on their having\na knowledge of astronomy, but on their having a human soul. In order to\nrender this communion possible, the Deity has stooped from His throne,\nand has not only, in the person of the Son, taken upon Him the veil of\nour human _flesh_, but, in the person of the Father, taken upon Him the\nveil of our human _thoughts_, and permitted us, by His own spoken\nauthority, to conceive Him simply and clearly as a loving Father and\nFriend;--a being to be walked with and reasoned with; to be moved by our\nentreaties, angered by our rebellion, alienated by our coldness, pleased\nby our love, and glorified by our labor; and, finally, to be beheld in\nimmediate and active presence in all the powers and changes of creation.\nThis conception of God, which is the child's, is evidently the only one\nwhich can be universal, and therefore the only one which _for us_ can be\ntrue. The moment that, in our pride of heart, we refuse to accept the\ncondescension of the Almighty, and desire Him, instead of stooping to\nhold our hands, to rise up before us into His glory,--we hoping that by\nstanding on a grain of dust or two of human knowledge higher than our\nfellows, we may behold the Creator as He rises,--God takes us at our\nword; He rises, into His own invisible and inconceivable majesty; He\ngoes forth upon the ways which are not our ways, and retires into the\nthoughts which are not our thoughts; and we are left alone. And\npresently we say in our vain hearts, \"There is no God.\"\n\nSec. 8. I would desire, therefore, to receive God's account of His own\ncreation as under the ordinary limits of human knowledge and imagination\nit would be received by a simply minded man; and finding that the\n\"heavens and the earth\" are spoken of always as having something like\nequal relation to each other (\"thus the heavens and the earth were\nfinished, and all the host of them\"), I reject at once all idea of the\nterm \"Heavens\" being intended to signify the infinity of space inhabited\nby countless worlds; for between those infinite heavens and the particle\nof sand, which not the earth only, but the sun itself, with all the\nsolar system, is in relation to them, no relation of equality or\ncomparison could be inferred. But I suppose the heavens to mean that\npart of creation which holds equal companionship with our globe; I\nunderstand the \"rolling of those heavens together as a scroll\" to be an\nequal and relative destruction with the \"melting of the elements in\nfervent heat;\"[39] and I understand the making the firmament to signify\nthat, so far as man is concerned, most magnificent ordinance of the\nclouds;--the ordinance, that as the great plain of waters was formed on\nthe face of the earth, so also a plain of waters should be stretched\nalong the height of air, and the face of the cloud answer the face of\nthe ocean; and that this upper and heavenly plain should be of waters,\nas it were, glorified in their nature, no longer quenching the fire, but\nnow bearing fire in their own bosoms; no longer murmuring only when the\nwinds raise them or rocks divide, but answering each other with their\nown voices from pole to pole; no longer restrained by established\nshores, and guided through unchanging channels, but going forth at their\npleasure like the armies of the angels, and choosing their encampments\nupon the heights of the hills; no longer hurried downwards forever,\nmoving but to fall, nor lost in the lightless accumulation of the abyss,\nbut covering the east and west with the waving of their wings, and\nrobing the gloom of the farther infinite with a vesture of divers\ncolors, of which the threads are purple and scarlet, and the\nembroideries flame.\n\nSec. 9. This, I believe, is the ordinance of the firmament; and it seems to\nme that in the midst of the material nearness of these heavens God means\nus to acknowledge His own immediate presence as visiting, judging, and\nblessing us. \"The earth shook, the heavens also dropped, at the presence\nof God.\" \"He doth set His bow in the cloud,\" and thus renews, in the\nsound of every drooping swathe of rain, his promises of everlasting\nlove. \"In them hath he set a _tabernacle_ for the sun;\" whose burning\nball, which without the firmament would be seen as an intolerable and\nscorching circle in the blackness of vacuity, is by that firmament\nsurrounded with gorgeous service, and tempered by mediatorial\nministries; by the firmament of clouds the golden pavement is spread for\nhis chariot wheels at morning; by the firmament of clouds the temple is\nbuilt for his presence to fill with light at noon; by the firmament of\nclouds the purple veil is closed at evening round the sanctuary of his\nrest; by the mists of the firmament his implacable light is divided, and\nits separated fierceness appeased into the soft blue that fills the\ndepth of distance with its bloom, and the flush with which the mountains\nburn as they drink the overflowing of the dayspring. And in this\ntabernacling of the unendurable sun with men, through the shadows of the\nfirmament, God would seem to set forth the stooping of His own majesty\nto men, upon the _throne_ of the firmament. As the Creator of all the\nworlds, and the Inhabiter of eternity, we cannot behold Him; but, as the\nJudge of the earth and the Preserver of men, those heavens are indeed\nHis dwelling-place. \"Swear not, neither by heaven, for it is God's\nthrone; nor by the earth, for it is his footstool.\" And all those\npassings to and fro of fruitful shower and grateful shade, and all those\nvisions of silver palaces built about the horizon, and voices of moaning\nwinds and threatening thunders, and glories of colored robe and cloven\nray, are but to deepen in our hearts the acceptance, and distinctness,\nand dearness of the simple words, \"Our Father which art in heaven.\"\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [37] \"God made\n The firmament, expanse of liquid, pure,\n Transparent, elemental air, diffused\n In circuit to the uttermost convex\n Of this great round.\"\n\n _Paradise Lost_, book vii.\n\n [38] The reader may refer to the following texts, which it is\n needless to quote: Exod. xiii. 21, xvi. 10, xix. 9, xxiv. 16, xxxiv.\n 5, Levit. xvi. 2, Num. x. 34, Judges v. 4, 1 Kings viii. 10, Ezek.\n i. 4, Dan. vii. 13, Matt. xxiv. 30, 1 Thess. iv. 17, Rev. i. 7.\n\n [39] Compare also Job, xxxvi. 29, \"The spreading of the clouds, and\n the noise of his _tabernacle_;\" and xxxviii. 33, \"Knowest thou the\n ordinances of heaven? canst thou set the dominion thereof in the\n earth? canst thou lift up thy voice to the clouds?\"\n\n Observe that in the passage of Addison's well known hymn--\n\n \"The spacious firmament on high,\n With all the blue ethereal sky,\n And spangled heavens, a shining frame,\n Their great Original proclaim\"--\n\n the writer has clearly the true distinctions in his mind; he does\n not use his words, as we too often accept them, in vain tautology.\n By the _spacious_ firmament he means the clouds, using the word\n spacious to mark the true meaning of the Hebrew term: the blue\n _ethereal_ sky is the real air or ether, blue above the clouds; the\n heavens are the starry space, for which he uses this word, less\n accurately, indeed, than the others, but as the only one available\n for this meaning.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nTHE DRY LAND.\n\n\nSec. 1. Having thus arrived at some apprehension of the true meaning and\nnoble offices of the clouds, we leave farther inquiry into their aspects\nto another time, and follow the fixed arrangement of our subject; first,\nto the crests of the mountains. Of these also, having seen in our review\nof ancient and modern landscape various strange differences in the way\nmen looked upon them, it will be well in the outset to ascertain, as far\nas may be, the true meaning and office.\n\nThe words which marked for us the purpose of the clouds are followed\nimmediately by those notable ones:--\n\n\"And God said, Let the waters which are under the heaven be gathered\ntogether unto one place, and let the dry land appear.\"\n\nWe do not, perhaps, often enough consider the deep significance of this\nsentence. We are too apt to receive it as the description of an event\nvaster only in its extent, not in its nature, than the compelling the\nRed Sea to draw back, that Israel might pass by. We imagine the Deity in\nlike manner rolling the waves of the greater ocean together on a heap,\nand setting bars and doors to them eternally.\n\nBut there is a far deeper meaning than this in the solemn words of\nGenesis, and in the correspondent verse of the Psalm, \"His hands\nprepared the dry land.\" Up to that moment the earth had been _void_, for\nit had been _without form_. The command that the waters should be\ngathered was the command that the earth should be _sculptured_. The sea\nwas not driven to his place in suddenly restrained rebellion, but\nwithdrawn to his place in perfect and patient obedience. The dry land\nappeared, not in level sands, forsaken by the surges, which those surges\nmight again claim for their own; but in range beyond range of swelling\nhill and iron rock, for ever to claim kindred with the firmament, and be\ncompanioned by the clouds of heaven.\n\nSec. 2. What space of time was in reality occupied by the \"day\" of Genesis,\nis not, at present, of any importance for us to consider. By what\nfurnaces of fire the adamant was melted, and by what wheels of\nearthquake it was torn, and by what teeth of glacier and weight of\nsea-waves it was engraven and finished into its perfect form, we may\nperhaps hereafter endeavor to conjecture; but here, as in few words the\nwork is summed by the historian, so in few broad thoughts it should be\ncomprehended by us; and as we read the mighty sentence, \"Let the dry\nland appear,\" we should try to follow the finger of God, as it engraved\nupon the stone tables of the earth the letters and the law of its\neverlasting form; as, gulf by gulf, the channels of the deep were\nploughed; and cape by cape, the lines were traced, with Divine\nforeknowledge, of the shores that were to limit the nations; and chain\nby chain, the mountain walls were lengthened forth, and their\nfoundations fastened for ever; and the compass was set upon the face of\nthe depth, and the fields, and the highest part of the dust of the world\nwere made; and the right hand of Christ first strewed the snow on\nLebanon, and smoothed the slopes of Calvary.\n\nSec. 3. It is not, I repeat, always needful, in many respects it is not\npossible, to conjecture the manner, or the time, in which this work was\ndone; but it is deeply necessary for all men to consider the\nmagnificence of the accomplished purpose, and the depth of the wisdom\nand love which are manifested in the ordinances of the hills. For\nobserve, in order to bring the world into the form which it now bears,\nit was not mere _sculpture_ that was needed; the mountains could not\nstand for a day unless they were formed of materials altogether\ndifferent from those which constitute the lower hills, and the surfaces\nof the valleys. A harder substance had to be prepared for every mountain\nchain; yet not so hard but that it might be capable of crumbling down\ninto earth fit to nourish the alpine forest and the alpine flower; not\nso hard but that, in the midst of the utmost majesty of its enthroned\nstrength, there should be seen on it the seal of death, and the writing\nof the same sentence that had gone forth against the human frame, \"Dust\nthou art, and unto dust thou shalt return.\"[40] And with this\nperishable substance the most majestic forms were to be framed that were\nconsistent with the safety of man; and the peak was to be lifted, and\nthe cliff rent, as high and as steeply as was possible, in order yet to\npermit the shepherd to feed his flocks upon the slope, and the cottage\nto nestle beneath their shadow.\n\nSec. 4. And observe, two distinct ends were to be accomplished in the doing\nthis. It was, indeed, absolutely necessary that such eminences should be\ncreated, in order to fit the earth in any wise for human habitation; for\nwithout mountains the air could not be purified, nor the flowing of the\nrivers sustained, and the earth must have become for the most part\ndesert plain, or stagnant marsh. But the feeding of the rivers and the\npurifying of the winds are the least of the services appointed to the\nhills. To fill the thirst of the human heart for the beauty of God's\nworking,--to startle its lethargy with the deep and pure agitation of\nastonishment,--are their higher missions. They are as a great and noble\narchitecture; first giving shelter, comfort, and rest; and covered also\nwith mighty sculpture and painted legend. It is impossible to examine in\ntheir connected system the features of even the most ordinary mountain\nscenery, without concluding that it has been prepared in order to unite\nas far as possible, and in the closest compass, every means of\ndelighting and sanctifying the heart of man. \"As far as _possible_;\"\nthat is, as far as is consistent with the fulfilment of the sentence of\ncondemnation on the whole earth. Death must be upon the hills; and the\ncruelty of the tempests smite them, and the briar and thorn spring up\nupon them: but they so smite, as to bring their rocks into the fairest\nforms; and so spring, as to make the very desert blossom as the rose.\nEven among our own hills of Scotland and Cumberland, though often too\nbarren to be perfectly beautiful, and always too low to be perfectly\nsublime, it is strange how many deep sources of delight are gathered\ninto the compass of their glens and vales; and how, down to the most\nsecret cluster of their far-away flowers, and the idlest leap of their\nstraying streamlets, the whole heart of Nature seems thirsting to give,\nand still to give, shedding forth her everlasting beneficence with a\nprofusion so patient, so passionate, that our utmost observance and\nthankfulness are but, at last, neglect of her nobleness, and apathy to\nher love. But among the true mountains of the greater orders the Divine\npurpose of appeal at once to all the faculties of the human spirit\nbecomes still more manifest. Inferior hills ordinarily interrupt, in\nsome degree, the richness of the valleys at their feet; the grey downs\nof Southern England, and treeless coteaux of Central France, and grey\nswells of Scottish moor, whatever peculiar charm they may possess in\nthemselves, are at least destitute of those which belong to the woods\nand fields of the lowlands. But the great mountains _lift_ the lowlands\n_on their sides_. Let the reader imagine, first, the appearance of the\nmost varied plain of some richly cultivated country; let him imagine it\ndark with graceful woods, and soft with deepest pastures; let him fill\nthe space of it, to the utmost horizon, with innumerable and changeful\nincidents of scenery and life; leading pleasant streamlets through its\nmeadows, strewing clusters of cottages beside their banks, tracing sweet\nfootpaths through its avenues, and animating its fields with happy\nflocks, and slow wandering spots of cattle; and when he has wearied\nhimself with endless imagining, and left no space without some\nloveliness of its own, let him conceive all this great plain, with its\ninfinite treasures of natural beauty and happy human life, gathered up\nin God's hands from one edge of the horizon to the other like a woven\ngarment; and shaken into deep, falling folds, as the robes droop from a\nking's shoulders; all its bright rivers leaping into cataracts along the\nhollows of its fall, and all its forests rearing themselves aslant\nagainst its slopes, as a rider rears himself back when his horse\nplunges; and all its villages nestling themselves into the new windings\nof its glens; and all its pastures thrown into steep waves of\ngreensward, dashed with dew along the edges of their folds, and sweeping\ndown into endless slopes, with a cloud here and there lying quietly,\nhalf on the grass, half in the air; and he will have as yet, in all this\nlifted world, only the foundation of one of the great Alps. And whatever\nis lovely in the lowland scenery becomes lovelier in this change: the\ntrees which grew heavily and stiffly from the level line of plain\nassume strange curves of strength and grace as they bend themselves\nagainst the mountain side; they breathe more freely, and toss their\nbranches more carelessly as each climbs higher, looking to the clear\nlight above the topmost leaves of its brother tree: the flowers which on\nthe arable plain fell before the plough, now find out for themselves\nunapproachable places, where year by year they gather into happier\nfellowship, and fear no evil; and the streams which in the level land\ncrept in dark eddies by unwholesome banks, now move in showers of\nsilver, and are clothed with rainbows, and bring health and life\nwherever the glance of their waves can reach.\n\nSec. 5. And although this beauty seems at first, in its wildness,\ninconsistent with the service of man, it is, in fact, more necessary to\nhis happy existence than all the level and easily subdued land which he\nrejoices to possess. It seems almost an insult to the reader's\nintelligence to ask him to dwell (as if they could be doubted) on the\n_uses_ of the hills; and yet so little, until lately, have those uses\nbeen understood, that, in the seventeenth century, one of the most\nenlightened of the religious men of his day (Fleming), himself a native\nof a mountain country, casting about for some reason to explain to\nhimself the existence of mountains, and prove their harmony with the\ngeneral perfectness of the providential government of creation, can\nlight upon this reason only, \"They are inhabited by the beasts.\"\n\n\n First use of mountains. To give motion to water.\n\nSec. 6. It may not, therefore, even at this day, be altogether profitless\nor unnecessary to review briefly the nature of the three great offices\nwhich mountain ranges are appointed to fulfil, in order to preserve the\nhealth and increase the happiness of mankind. Their first use is of\ncourse to give motion to water. Every fountain and river, from the\ninch-deep streamlet that crosses the village lane in trembling\nclearness, to the massy and silent march of the everlasting multitude of\nwaters in Amazon or Ganges, owe their play, and purity, and power, to\nthe ordained elevations of the earth. Gentle or steep, extended or\nabrupt, some determined slope of the earth's surface is of course\nnecessary, before any wave can so much as overtake one sedge in its\npilgrimage; and how seldom do we enough consider, as we walk beside the\nmargins of our pleasant brooks, how beautiful and wonderful is that\nordinance, of which every blade of grass that waves in their clear water\nis a perpetual sign; that the dew and rain fallen on the face of the\nearth shall find no resting-place; shall find, on the contrary, fixed\nchannels traced for them, from the ravines of the central crests down\nwhich they roar in sudden ranks of foam, to the dark hollows beneath the\nbanks of lowland pasture, round which they must circle slowly among the\nstems and beneath the leaves of the lilies; paths prepared for them, by\nwhich, at some appointed rate of journey, they must evermore descend,\nsometimes slow and sometimes swift, but never pausing; the daily portion\nof the earth they have to glide over marked for them at each successive\nsunrise, the place which has known them knowing them no more, and the\ngateways of guarding mountains opened for them in cleft and chasm, none\nletting them in their pilgrimage; and, from far off, the great heart of\nthe sea calling them to itself! Deep calleth unto deep. I know not which\nof the two is the more wonderful,--that calm, gradated, invisible slope\nof the champaign land, which gives motion to the stream; or that passage\ncloven for it through the ranks of hill, which, necessary for the health\nof the land immediately around them, would yet, unless so supernaturally\ndivided, have fatally intercepted the flow of the waters from far-off\ncountries. When did the great spirit of the river first knock at those\nadamantine gates? When did the porter open to it, and cast his keys away\nfor ever, lapped in whirling sand? I am not satisfied--no one should be\nsatisfied--with that vague answer,--the river cut its way. Not so. The\nriver _found_ its way. I do not see that rivers, in their own strength,\ncan do much in cutting their way; they are nearly as apt to choke their\nchannels up, as to carve them out. Only give a river some little sudden\npower in a valley, and see how it will use it. Cut itself a bed? Not so,\nby any means, but fill up its bed, and look for another, in a wild,\ndissatisfied, inconsistent manner. Any way, rather than the old one,\nwill better please it; and even if it is banked up and forced to keep to\nthe old one, it will not deepen, but do all it can to raise it, and leap\nout of it. And although, wherever water has a steep fail, it will\nswiftly cut itself a bed deep into the rock or ground, it will not, when\nthe rock is hard, cut a wider channel than it actually needs; so that\nif the existing river beds, through ranges of mountain, had in reality\nbeen cut by the streams, they would be found, wherever the rocks are\nhard, only in the form of narrow and profound ravines,--like the\nwell-known channel of the Niagara, below the fall; not in that of\nextended valleys. And the actual work of true mountain rivers, though\noften much greater in proportion to their body of water than that of the\nNiagara, is quite insignificant when compared with the area and depth of\nthe valleys through which they flow; so that, although in many cases it\nappears that those larger valleys have been excavated at earlier periods\nby more powerful streams, or by the existing stream in a more powerful\ncondition, still the great fact remains always equally plain, and\nequally admirable, that, whatever the nature and duration of the\nagencies employed, the earth was so shaped at first as to direct the\ncurrents of its rivers in the manner most healthy and convenient for\nman. The valley of the Rhone may, though it is not likely, have been in\ngreat part excavated in early time by torrents a thousand times larger\nthan the Rhone; but it could not have been excavated at all, unless the\nmountains had been thrown at first into two chains, between which the\ntorrents were set to work in a given direction. And it is easy to\nconceive how, under any less beneficent dispositions of their masses of\nhill, the continents of the earth might either have been covered with\nenormous lakes, as parts of North America actually are covered; or have\nbecome wildernesses of pestiferous marsh; or lifeless plains, upon which\nthe water would have dried as it fell, leaving them for great part of\nthe year desert. Such districts do exist, and exist in vastness: the\n_whole_ earth is not prepared for the habitation of man; only certain\nsmall portions are prepared for him,--the houses, as it were, of the\nhuman race, from which they are to look abroad upon the rest of the\nworld, not to wonder or complain that it is not all house, but to be\ngrateful for the kindness of the admirable building, in the house\nitself, as compared with the rest. It would be as absurd to think it an\nevil that all the world is not fit for us to inhabit, as to think it an\nevil that the globe is no larger than it is. As much as we shall ever\nneed is evidently assigned to us for our dwelling-place; the rest,\ncovered with rolling waves or drifting sands, fretted with ice or\ncrested with fire, is set before us for contemplation in an\nuninhabitable magnificence; and that part which we are enabled to\ninhabit owes its fitness for human life chiefly to its mountain ranges,\nwhich, throwing the superfluous rain off as it falls, collect it in\nstreams or lakes, and guide it into given places, and in given\ndirections; so that men can build their cities in the midst of fields\nwhich they know will be always fertile, and establish the lines of their\ncommerce upon streams which will not fail.\n\nSec. 7. Nor is this giving of motion to water to be considered as confined\nonly to the surface of the earth. A no less important function of the\nhills is in directing the flow of the fountains and springs, from\nsubterranean reservoirs. There is no miraculous springing up of water\nout of the ground at our feet; but every fountain and well is supplied\nfrom a reservoir among the hills, so placed as to involve some slight\nfall or pressure, enough to secure the constant flowing of the stream.\nAnd the incalculable blessing of the power given to us in most valleys,\nof reaching by excavation some point whence the water will rise to the\nsurface of the ground in perennial flow, is entirely owing to the\nconcave disposition of the beds of clay or rock raised from beneath the\nbosom of the valley into ranks of enclosing hills.\n\n\n Second use. To give motion to air.\n\nSec. 8. The second great use of mountains is to maintain a constant change\nin the currents and nature of the _air_. Such change would, of course,\nhave been partly caused by differences in soils and vegetation, even if\nthe earth had been level; but to a far less extent than it is now by the\nchains of hills, which exposing on one side their masses of rock to the\nfull heat of the sun (increased by the angle at which the rays strike on\nthe slope), and on the other casting a soft shadow for leagues over the\nplains at their feet, divide the earth not only into districts, but into\nclimates, and cause perpetual currents of air to traverse their passes,\nand ascend or descend their ravines, altering both the temperature and\nnature of the air as it passes, in a thousand different ways; moistening\nit with the spray of their waterfalls, sucking it down and beating it\nhither and thither in the pools of their torrents, closing it within\nclefts and caves, where the sunbeams never reach, till it is as cold as\nNovember mists, then sending it forth again to breathe softly across the\nslopes of velvet fields, or to be scorched among sunburnt shales and\ngrassless crags; then drawing it back in moaning swirls through clefts\nof ice, and up into dewy wreaths above the snow-fields; then piercing it\nwith strange electric darts and flashes of mountain fire, and tossing it\nhigh in fantastic storm-cloud, as the dried grass is tossed by the\nmower, only suffering it to depart at last, when chastened and pure, to\nrefresh the faded air of the far-off plains.\n\n\n Third use. To give change to the ground.\n\nSec. 9. The third great use of mountains is to cause perpetual change in\nthe _soils_ of the earth. Without such provisions the ground under\ncultivation would in a series of years become exhausted and require to\nbe upturned laboriously by the hand of man. But the elevations of the\nearth's surface provide for it a perpetual renovation. The higher\nmountains suffer their summits to be broken into fragments and to be\ncast down in sheets of massy rock, full, as we shall see presently, of\nevery substance necessary for the nourishment of plants: these fallen\nfragments are again broken by frost, and ground by torrents, into\nvarious conditions of sand and clay--materials which are distributed\nperpetually by the streams farther and farther from the mountain's base.\nEvery shower which swells the rivulets enables their waters to carry\ncertain portions of earth into new positions, and exposes new banks of\nground to be mined in their turn. That turbid foaming of the angry\nwater,--that tearing down of bank and rock along the flanks of its\nfury,--are no disturbances of the kind course of nature; they are\nbeneficent operations of laws necessary to the existence of man and to\nthe beauty of the earth. The process is continued more gently, but not\nless effectively, over all the surface of the lower undulating country;\nand each filtering thread of summer rain which trickles through the\nshort turf of the uplands is bearing its own appointed burden of earth\nto be thrown down on some new natural garden in the dingles below.\n\nAnd it is not, in reality, a degrading, but a true, large, and ennobling\nview of the mountain ranges of the world, if we compare them to heaps of\nfertile and fresh earth, laid up by a prudent gardener beside his garden\nbeds, whence, at intervals, he casts on them some scattering of new and\nvirgin ground. That which we so often lament as convulsion or\ndestruction is nothing else than the momentary shaking of the dust from\nthe spade. The winter floods, which inflict a temporary devastation,\nbear with them the elements of succeeding fertility; the fruitful field\nis covered with sand and shingle in momentary judgment, but in enduring\nmercy; and the great river, which chokes its mouth with marsh, and\ntosses terror along its shore, is but scattering the seeds of the\nharvests of futurity, and preparing the seats of unborn generations.\n\nSec. 10. I have not spoken of the local and peculiar utilities of\nmountains: I do not count the benefit of the supply of summer streams\nfrom the moors of the higher ranges,--of the various medicinal plants\nwhich are nested among their rocks,--of the delicate pasturage which\nthey furnish for cattle,[41]--of the forests in which they bear timber\nfor shipping,--the stones they supply for building, or the ores of metal\nwhich they collect into spots open to discovery, and easy for working.\nAll these benefits are of a secondary or a limited nature. But the three\ngreat functions which I have just described,--those of giving motion and\nchange to water, air, and earth,--are indispensable to human existence;\nthey are operations to be regarded with as full a depth of gratitude as\nthe laws which bid the tree bear fruit, or the seed multiply itself in\nthe earth. And thus those desolate and threatening ranges of dark\nmountain, which, in nearly all ages of the world, men have looked upon\nwith aversion or with terror, and shrunk back from as if they were\nhaunted by perpetual images of death, are, in reality, sources of life\nand happiness far fuller and more beneficent than all the bright\nfruitfulness of the plain. The valleys only feed; the mountains feed,\nand guard, and strengthen us. We take our idea of fearfulness and\nsublimity alternately from the mountains and the sea; but we associate\nthem unjustly. The sea wave, with all its beneficence, is yet devouring\nand terrible; but the silent wave of the blue mountain is lifted towards\nheaven in a stillness of perpetual mercy; and the one surge,\nunfathomable in its darkness, the other, unshaken in its faithfulness,\nfor ever bear the seal of their appointed symbol:\n\n \"Thy _righteousness_ is like the great mountains:\n Thy _judgments_ are a great deep.\"\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [40] \"Surely the mountain falling cometh to nought, and the rock is\n removed out of his place. The waters wear the stones: thou washest\n away the things which grow out of the dust of the earth; and thou\n destroyest the hope of man.\"--_Job_, xiv. 18, 19.\n\n [41] The _highest_ pasturages (at least so say the Savoyards) being\n always the best and richest.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nOF THE MATERIALS OF MOUNTAINS:--FIRST, COMPACT CRYSTALLINES.\n\n\nSec. 1. In the early days of geological science, the substances which\ncomposed the crust of the earth, as far as it could be examined, were\nsupposed to be referable to three distinct classes: the first consisting\nof rocks which not only supported all the rest, but from which all the\nrest were derived, therefore called \"Primary;\" the second class\nconsisting of rocks formed of the broken fragments or altered substance\nof the primary ones, therefore called \"Secondary;\" and, thirdly, rocks\nor earthy deposits formed by the ruins and detritus of both primary and\nsecondary rocks, called, therefore, \"Tertiary.\" This classification was\nalways, in some degree, uncertain; and has been lately superseded by\nmore complicated systems, founded on the character of the fossils\ncontained in the various deposits, and on the circumstances of position,\nby which their relative ages are more accurately ascertainable. But the\noriginal rude classification, though of little, if any, use for\nscientific purposes, was based on certain broad and conspicuous\nphenomena, which it brought clearly before the popular mind. In this way\nit may still be serviceable, and ought, I think, to be permitted to\nretain its place, as an introduction to systems more defined and\nauthoritative.\n\nSec. 2. For the fact is, that in approaching any large mountain range, the\nground over which the spectator passes, if he examine it with any\nintelligence, will almost always arrange itself in his mind under three\ngreat heads. There will be, first, the ground of the plains or valleys\nhe is about to quit, composed of sand, clay, gravel, rolled stones, and\nvariously mingled soils; which, if he has any opportunity,--at the banks\nof a stream, or the sides of a railway cutting,--to examine to any\ndepth, he will find arranged in beds exactly resembling those of modern\nsand-banks or sea-beaches, and appearing to have been formed under such\nnatural laws as are in operation daily around us. At the outskirts of\nthe hill district, he may, perhaps, find considerable eminences, formed\nof these beds of loose gravel and sand; but, as he enters into it\nfarther, he will soon discover the hills to be composed of some harder\nsubstance, properly deserving the name of rock, sustaining itself in\npicturesque forms, and appearing, at first, to owe both its hardness and\nits outlines to the action of laws such as do not hold at the present\nday. He can easily explain the nature, and account for the distribution,\nof the banks which overhang the lowland road, or of the dark earthy\ndeposits which enrich the lowland pasture; but he cannot so distinctly\nimagine how the limestone hills of Derbyshire and Yorkshire were\nhardened into their stubborn whiteness, or raised into their cavernous\ncliffs. Still, if he carefully examines the substance of these more\nnoble rocks, he will, in nine cases out of ten, discover them to be\ncomposed of fine calcareous dust, or closely united particles of sand;\nand will be ready to accept as possible, or even probable, the\nsuggestion of their having been formed, by slow deposit, at the bottom\nof deep lakes and ancient seas, under such laws of Nature as are still\nin operation.\n\nSec. 3. But, as he advances yet farther into the hill district, he finds\nthe rocks around him assuming a gloomier and more majestic condition.\nTheir tint darkens; their outlines become wild and irregular; and\nwhereas before they had only appeared at the roadside in narrow ledges\namong the turf, or glanced out from among the thickets above the brooks\nin white walls and fantastic towers, they now rear themselves up in\nsolemn and shattered masses far and near; softened, indeed, with strange\nharmony of clouded colors, but possessing the whole scene with their\niron spirit; and rising, in all probability, into eminences as much\nprouder in actual elevation than those of the intermediate rocks, as\nmore powerful in their influence over every minor feature of the\nlandscape.\n\nSec. 4. And when the traveller proceeds to observe closely the materials of\nwhich these noble ranges are composed, he finds also a complete change\nin their internal structure. They are no longer formed of delicate sand\nor dust--each particle of that dust the same as every other, and the\nwhole mass depending for its hardness merely on their closely cemented\nunity; but they are now formed of several distinct substances, visibly\nunlike each other; and not _pressed_ but _crystallized_ into one\nmass,--crystallized into a unity far more perfect than that of the dusty\nlimestone, but yet without the least mingling of their several natures\nwith each other. Such a rock, freshly broken, has a spotty, granulated,\nand, in almost all instances, sparkling, appearance; it requires a much\nharder blow to break it than the limestone or sandstone; but, when once\nthoroughly shattered, it is easy to separate from each other the various\nsubstances of which it is composed, and to examine them in their\nindividual grains or crystals; of which each variety will be found to\nhave a different degree of hardness, a different shade of color, and a\ndifferent character of form.\n\nBut this examination will not enable the observer to comprehend the\nmethod either of their formation or aggregation, at least by any process\nsuch as he now sees taking place around him; he will at once be driven\nto admit that some strange and powerful operation has taken place upon\nthese rocks, different from any of which he is at present cognizant; and\nfarther inquiry will probably induce him to admit, as more than\nprobable, the supposition that their structure is in great part owing to\nthe action of enormous heat prolonged for indefinite periods.\n\nSec. 5. Now, although these three great groups of rocks do indeed often\npass into each other by imperceptible gradations, and although their\npeculiar aspect is never a severe indication of their relative ages, yet\ntheir characters are for the most part so defined as to make a strong\nimpression on the mind of an ordinary observer, and their age is also\nfor the most part approximately indicated by their degrees of hardness,\nand crystalline aspect. It does, indeed, sometimes happen that a soft\nand slimy clay will pass into a rock like Aberdeen granite by\ntransitions so subtle that no point of separation can be determined; and\nit very often happens that rocks like Aberdeen granite are of more\nrecent formation than certain beds of sandstone and limestone. But, in\nspite of all these uncertainties and exceptions, I believe that unless\nactual pains be taken to efface from the mind its natural impressions,\nthe idea of three great classes of rocks and earth will maintain its\nground in the thoughts of the general observer; that whether he desire\nit or not, he will find himself throwing the soft and loose clays and\nsands together under one head; placing the hard rocks, of a dull,\ncompact, homogeneous substance, under another head; and the hardest\nrocks, of a crystalline, glittering, and various substance, under a\nthird head; and having done this, he will also find that, with certain\neasily admissible exceptions, these three classes of rocks are, in every\ndistrict which he examines, of three different ages; that the softest\nare the youngest, the hard and homogeneous ones are older, and the\ncrystalline are the oldest; and he will, perhaps, in the end, find it a\nsomewhat inconvenient piece of respect to the complexity and accuracy of\nmodern geological science, if he refuse to the three classes, thus\ndefined in his imagination, their ancient title of Tertiary, Secondary,\nand Primary.\n\nSec. 6. But however this may be, there is one lesson evidently intended to\nbe taught by the different characters of these rocks, which we must not\nallow to escape us. We have to observe, first, the state of perfect\npowerlessness, and loss of all beauty, exhibited in those beds of earth\nin which the separated pieces or particles are entirely independent of\neach other, more especially in the gravel whose pebbles have all been\n_rolled into one shape_: secondly, the greater degree of permanence,\npower, and beauty possessed by the rocks whose component atoms have some\naffection and attraction for each other, though all of one kind; and\nlastly, the utmost form and highest beauty of the rocks in which the\nseveral atoms have all _different shapes_, _characters_, and _offices_;\nbut are inseparably united by some fiery process which has purified them\nall.\n\nIt can hardly be necessary to point out how these natural ordinances\nseem intended to teach us the great truths which are the basis of all\npolitical science; how the polishing friction which separates, the\naffection which binds, and the affliction that fuses and confirms, are\naccurately symbolized by the processes to which the several ranks of\nhills appear to owe their present aspect; and how, even if the knowledge\nof those processes be denied to us, that present aspect may in itself\nseem no imperfect image of the various states of mankind: first, that\nwhich is powerless through total disorganization; secondly, that which,\nthough united, and in some degree powerful, is yet incapable of great\neffort or result, owing to the too great similarity and confusion of\noffices, both in ranks and individuals; and finally, the perfect state\nof brotherhood and strength in which each character is clearly\ndistinguished, separately perfected, and employed in its proper place\nand office.\n\nSec. 7. I shall not, however, so oppose myself to the views of our leading\ngeologists as to retain here the names of Primary, Secondary, and\nTertiary rocks. But as I wish the reader to keep the ideas of the three\nclasses clearly in his mind, I will ask his leave to give them names\nwhich involve no theory, and can be liable, therefore, to no great\nobjections. We will call the hard, and (generally) central, masses\nCrystalline Rocks, because they almost always present an appearance of\ncrystallization. The less hard substances, which appear compact and\nhomogeneous, we will call Coherent Rocks, and for the scattered debris\nwe will use the general term Diluvium.\n\nSec. 8. All these substances agree in one character, that of being more or\nless soft and destructible. One material, indeed, which enters largely\ninto the composition of most of them, flint, is harder than iron; but\neven this, their chief source of strength, is easily broken by a sudden\nblow; and it is so combined in the large rocks with softer substances,\nthat time and the violence of the weather invariably produce certain\ndestructive effects on their masses. Some of them become soft, and\nmoulder away; others break, little by little, into angular fragments or\nslaty sheets; but all yield in some way or other; and the problem to be\nsolved in every mountain range appears to be, that under these\nconditions of decay, the cliffs and peaks may be raised as high, and\nthrown into as noble forms, as is possible, consistently with an\neffective, though not perfect permanence, and a general, though not\nabsolute security.\n\nSec. 9. Perfect permanence and absolute security were evidently in nowise\nintended.[42] It would have been as easy for the Creator to have made\nmountains of steel as of granite, of adamant as of lime; but this was\nclearly no part of the Divine counsels: mountains were to be\ndestructible and frail; to melt under the soft lambency of the\nstreamlet; to shiver before the subtle wedge of the frost; to wither\nwith untraceable decay in their own substance; and yet, under all these\nconditions of destruction, to be maintained in magnificent eminence\nbefore the eyes of men.\n\nNor is it in any wise difficult for us to perceive the beneficent\nreasons for this appointed frailness of the mountains. They appear to be\nthreefold: the first, and the most important, that successive soils\nmight be supplied to the plains, in the manner explained in the last\nchapter, and that men might be furnished with a material for their works\nof architecture and sculpture, at once soft enough to be subdued, and\nhard enough to be preserved; the second, that some sense of danger might\nalways be connected with the most precipitous forms, and thus increase\ntheir sublimity; and the third, that a subject of perpetual interest\nmight be opened to the human mind in observing the changes of form\nbrought about by time on these monuments of creation.\n\nIn order, therefore, to understand the method in which these various\nsubstances break, so as to produce the forms which are of chief\nimportance in landscape, as well as the exquisite adaptation of all\ntheir qualities to the service of men, it will be well that I should\ntake some note of them in their order; not with any mineralogical\naccuracy, but with care enough to enable me hereafter to explain,\nwithout obscurity, any phenomena dependent upon such peculiarities of\nsubstance.\n\n\n 1. CRYSTALLINE ROCKS.\n\nSec. 10. 1st. CRYSTALLINE ROCKS.--In saying, above, that the hardest rocks\ngenerally presented an appearance of \"crystallization,\" I meant a\nglittering or granulated look, somewhat like that of a coarse piece of\nfreshly broken loaf sugar.\n\n\n Are always Compound.\n\nBut this appearance may also exist in rocks of uniform and softer\nsubstance, such as statuary marble, of which freshly broken pieces, put\ninto a sugar-basin, cannot be distinguished by the eye from the real\nsugar. Such rocks are truly crystalline in structure; but the group to\nwhich I wish to limit the term \"crystalline,\" is not only thus\ngranulated and glittering, but is always composed of at least two,\nusually three or four, substances, intimately mingled with each other in\nthe form of small grains or crystals, and giving the rock a more or less\nspeckled or mottled look, according to the size of the crystals and\ntheir variety of color. It is a law of nature, that whenever rocks are\nto be employed on hard service, and for great purposes, they shall be\nthus composed. And there appear to be two distinct providential reasons\nfor this.\n\nSec. 11. The first, that these crystalline rocks being, as we saw above,\ngenerally the oldest and highest, it is from them that other soils of\nvarious kinds must be derived; and they were therefore made a kind of\nstorehouse, from which, wherever they were found, all kinds of treasures\ncould be developed necessary for the service of man and other living\ncreatures. Thus the granite of Mont Blanc is a crystalline rock composed\nof four substances; and in these four substances are contained the\nelements of nearly all kinds of sandstone and clay, together with\npotash, magnesia, and the metals of iron and manganese. Wherever the\nsmallest portion of this rock occurs, a certain quantity of each of\nthese substances may be derived from it, and the plants and animals\nwhich require them sustained in health.\n\nThe second reason appears to be that rocks composed in this manner are\ncapable of more interesting variety in form than any others; and as they\nwere continually to be exposed to sight in the high ranges, they were so\nprepared as to be always as interesting and beautiful as possible.\n\n\n And divisible into two classes, Compact Crystallines and Slaty\n Crystallines.\n\nSec. 12. These crystalline or spotted rocks we must again separate into two\ngreat classes, according to the arrangement, in them, of the particles\nof a substance called mica. It is not present in all of them; but when\nit occurs, it is usually in large quantities, and a notable source of\ncharacter. It varies in color, occurring white, brown, green, red, and\nblack; and in aspect, from shining plates to small dark grains, even\nthese grains being seen, under a magnifier, to be composed of little\nplates, like pieces of exceedingly thin glass; but with this great\ndifference from glass, that, whether large or small, the plates will not\neasily break _across_, but are elastic, and capable of being bent into a\nconsiderable curve; only if pressed with a knife upon the edge, they\nwill separate into any number of thinner plates, more and more elastic\nand flexible according to their thinness, and these again into others\nstill finer; there seeming to be no limit to the possible subdivision\nbut the coarseness of the instrument employed.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 3.]\n\nSec. 13. Now, when these crystals or grains, represented by the black spots\nand lines in Fig. 3, lie as they do at _a_ in that figure, in all\ndirections, cast hither and thither among the other materials of the\nstone,--sometimes on their faces, sometimes on their sides, sometimes on\ntheir edges,--they give the rock an irregularly granulated appearance\nand structure, so that it will break with equal ease in any direction;\nbut if these crystals lie all one way, with their sides parallel, as at\n_b_, they give the rock a striped or slaty look, and it will most\nreadily break in the direction in which they lie, separating itself into\nfolia or plates, more or less distinctly according to the quantity of\nmica in its mass. In the example Fig. 4, a piece of rock from the top of\nMont Breven, there are very few of them, and the material with which\nthey are surrounded is so hard and compact that the whole mass breaks\nirregularly, like a solid flint, beneath the hammer; but the plates of\nmica nevertheless influence the fracture on a large scale, and occasion,\nas we shall see hereafter, the peculiar form of the precipice at the\nsummit of the mountain.[43]\n\nThe rocks which are destitute of mica, or in which the mica lies\nirregularly, or in which it is altogether absent, I shall call Compact\nCrystallines. The rocks in which the mica lies regularly I shall call\nSlaty Crystallines.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 4.]\n\n\n COMPACT CRYSTALLINES.\n\nSec. 14. 1st. Compact Crystallines.--Under this head are embraced the large\ngroup of the granites, syenites, and porphyries,--rocks which all agree\nin the following particulars:--\n\n\n Their first characteristic. _Speckledness._\n\nA. Variety of color.--The method of their composition out of different\nsubstances necessitates their being all more or less spotted or dashed\nwith various colors; there being generally a prevalent ground color,\nwith other subordinate hues broken over it, forming, for the most part,\ntones of silver grey, of warm but subdued red, or purple. Now, there is\nin this a very marvellous provision for the beauty of the central\nranges. Other rocks, placed lower among the hills, receive color upon\ntheir surfaces from all kinds of minute vegetation; but these higher and\nmore exposed rocks are liable to be in many parts barren; and the wild\nforms into which they are thrown necessitate their being often freshly\nbroken, so as to bring their pure color, untempered in anywise, frankly\ninto sight. Hence it is appointed that this color shall not be raw or\nmonotonous, but composed--as all beautiful color must be composed--by\nmingling of many hues in one. Not that there is any aim at _attractive_\nbeauty in these rocks; they are intended to constitute solemn and\ndesolate scenes; and there is nothing delicately or variously disposed\nin their colors. Such beauty would have been inconsistent with their\nexpression of power and terror, and it is reserved for the marbles and\nother rocks of inferior office. But their color is grave and perfect;\nclosely resembling, in many cases, the sort of hue reached by\ncross-chequering in the ground of fourteenth-century manuscripts, and\npeculiarly calculated for distant effects of light; being, for the most\npart, slightly warm in tone, so as to receive with full advantage the\nred and orange rays of sunlight. This warmth is almost always farther\naided by a glowing orange color, derived from the decomposition of the\niron which, though in small quantity, usually is an essential element in\nthem: the orange hue forms itself in unequal veins and spots upon the\nsurfaces which have been long exposed, more or less darkening them; and\na very minute black lichen,--so minute as to look almost like spots of\ndark paint,--a little opposed and warmed by the golden Lichen\ngeographicus, still farther subdues the paler hues of the highest\ngranite rocks. Now, when a surface of this kind is removed to a distance\nof four or five miles, and seen under warm light through soft air, the\norange becomes russet, more or less inclining to pure red, according to\nthe power of the rays: but the black of the lichen becomes pure dark\nblue; and the result of their combination is that peculiar reddish\npurple which is so strikingly the characteristic of the rocks of the\nhigher Alps. Most of the travellers who have seen the Valley of Chamouni\ncarry away a strong impression that its upper precipices are of red\nrock. But they are, without exception, of a whitish grey, toned and\nraised by this united operation of the iron, the lichen, and the light.\n\nSec. 15. I have never had an opportunity of studying the effects of these\ntones upon rocks of porphyry; but the beautiful color of that rock in\nits interior substance has rendered it one of the favorite materials of\nthe architects of all ages, in their most costly work. Not that all\nporphyry is purple; there are green and white porphyries, as there are\nyellow and white roses; but the first idea of a porphyry rock is that it\nshall be purple,--just as the first idea of a rose is that it shall be\nred. The purple inclines always towards russet[44] rather than blue, and\nis subdued by small spots of grey or white. This speckled character,\ncommon to all the crystalline rocks, fits them, in art, for large and\nmajestic work; it unfits them for delicate sculpture; and their second\nuniversal characteristic is altogether in harmony with this consequence\nof their first.\n\n\n Their second characteristic. _Toughness._\n\nSec. 16. This second characteristic is a tough hardness, not a brittle\nhardness, like that of glass or flint, which will splinter violently at\na blow in the most unexpected directions; but a grave hardness, which\nwill bear many blows before it yields, and when it is forced to yield at\nlast, will do so, as it were, in a serious and thoughtful way; not\nspitefully, nor uselessly, nor irregularly, but in the direction in\nwhich it is wanted, and where the force of the blow is directed--there,\nand there only. A flint which receives a shock stronger than it can\nbear, gives up everything at once, and flies into a quantity of pieces,\neach piece full of flaws. But a piece of granite seems to say to itself,\nvery solemnly: \"If these people are resolved to split me into two\npieces, that is no reason why I should split myself into three. I will\nkeep together as well as I can, and as long as I can; and if I must fall\nto dust at last, it shall be slowly and honorably; not in a fit of\nfury.\" The importance of this character, in fitting the rock for human\nuses, cannot be exaggerated: it is essential to such uses that it should\nbe hard, for otherwise it could not bear enormous weights without being\ncrushed; and if, in addition to this hardness, it had been brittle, like\nglass, it could not have been employed except in the rudest way, as\nflints are in Kentish walls. But now it is possible to cut a block of\ngranite out of its quarry to exactly the size we want; and that with\nperfect ease, without gunpowder, or any help but that of a few small\niron wedges, a chisel, and a heavy hammer. A single workman can detach a\nmass fifteen or twenty feet long, by merely drilling a row of holes, a\ncouple of inches deep, and three or four inches apart, along the\nsurface, in the direction in which he wishes to split the rock, and then\ninserting wedges into each of these holes, and striking them,\nconsecutively, with small, light, repeated blows along the whole row.\nThe granite rends, at last, along the line, quite evenly, requiring very\nlittle chiselling afterwards to give the block a smooth face.\n\nSec. 17. This after-chiselling, however, is necessarily tedious work, and\ntherefore that condition of speckled color, which is beautiful if\nexhibited in broad masses, but offensive in delicate forms, exactly\nfalls in with the conditions of _possible_ sculpture. Not only is it\nmore laborious to carve granite delicately, than a softer rock; but it\nis physically impossible to bring it into certain refinements of form.\nIt cannot be scraped and touched into contours, as marble can; it must\nbe struck hard, or it will not yield at all; and to strike a delicate\nand detached form hard, is to break it. The detached fingers of a\ndelicate hand, for instance, cannot, as far as I know, be cut in\ngranite. The smallest portion could not be removed from them without a\nstrength of blow which would break off the finger. Hence the sculptor of\ngranite is forced to confine himself to, and to seek for, certain types\nof form capable of expression in his material; he is naturally driven to\nmake his figures simple in surface, and colossal in size, that they may\nbear his blows; and this simplicity and magnitude are exactly the\ncharacters necessary to show the granitic or porphyritic color to the\nbest advantage. And thus we are guided, almost forced, by the laws of\nnature, to do right in art. Had granite been white, and marble speckled\n(and why should this not have been, but by the definite Divine\nappointment for the good of man?), the huge figures of the Egyptian\nwould have been as oppressive to the sight as cliffs of snow, and the\nVenus de Medicis would have looked like some exquisitely graceful\nspecies of frog.\n\n\n Their third characteristic. _Purity in decomposition._\n\nSec. 18. The third universal characteristic of these rocks is their\ndecomposition into the purest sand and clay. Some of them decompose\nspontaneously, though slowly, on exposure to weather; the greater number\nonly after being mechanically pulverized; but the sand and clay to which\nby one or the other process they are reducible, are both remarkable for\ntheir purity. The clay is the finest and best that can be found for\nporcelain; the sand often of the purest white, always lustrous and\nbright in its particles. The result of this law is a peculiar aspect of\npurity in the landscape composed of such rocks. It cannot become muddy,\nor foul, or unwholesome. The streams which descend through it may indeed\nbe opaque, and as white as cream with the churned substance of the\ngranite; but their water, after this substance has been thrown down, is\ngood and pure, and their shores are not slimy or treacherous, but of\npebbles, or of firm and sparkling sand. The quiet streams, springs, and\nlakes are always of exquisite clearness, and the sea which washes a\ngranite coast is as unsullied as a flawless emerald. It is remarkable to\nwhat extent this intense purity in the country seems to influence the\ncharacter of its inhabitants. It is almost impossible to make a cottage\nbuilt in a granite country look absolutely miserable. Rough it may\nbe,--neglected, cold, full of aspect of hardship,--but it never can look\n_foul_; no matter how carelessly, how indolently, its inhabitants may\nlive, the water at their doors will not stagnate, the soil beneath their\nfeet will not allow itself to be trodden into slime, the timbers of\ntheir fences will not rot, they cannot so much as dirty their faces or\nhands if they try; do the worst they can, there will still be a feeling\nof firm ground under them, and pure air about them, and an inherent\nwholesomeness in their abodes which it will need the misery of years to\nconquer. And, as far as I remember, the inhabitants of granite countries\nhave always a force and healthiness of character, more or less abated\nor modified, of course, according to the other circumstances of their\nlife, but still definitely belonging to them, as distinguished from the\ninhabitants of the less pure districts of the hills.\n\nThese, then, are the principal characters of the compact crystallines,\nregarded in their minor or detached masses. Of the peculiar forms which\nthey assume we shall have to speak presently; meantime, retaining these\ngeneral ideas touching their nature and substance, let us proceed to\nexamine, in the same point of view, the neighboring group of slaty\ncrystallines.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [42] I am well aware that to the minds of many persons nothing bears\n a greater appearance of presumption than any attempt at reasoning\n respecting the purposes of the Divine Being; and that in many cases\n it would be thought more consistent with the modesty of humanity to\n limit its endeavor to the ascertaining of physical causes than to\n form conjectures respecting Divine intentions. But I believe this\n feeling to be false and dangerous. Wisdom can only be demonstrated\n in its ends, and goodness only perceived in its motives. He who in a\n morbid modesty supposes that he is incapable of apprehending any of\n the purposes of God, renders himself also incapable of witnessing\n his wisdom; and he who supposes that favors may be bestowed without\n intention, will soon learn to receive them without gratitude.\n\n [43] See Appendix 2. Slaty Cleavage.\n\n [44] As we had to complain of Dante for not enough noticing the\n colors of rocks in wild nature, let us do him the justice to refer\n to his noble symbolic use of their colors when seen in the hewn\n block.\n\n \"The lowest stair was marble white, so smooth\n And polished that therein my mirrored form\n Distinct I saw. The next of hue more dark\n Than sablest grain, a rough and singed block,\n Cracked lengthwise and across. The third, that lay\n Massy above, seemed porphyry, that flamed\n Red as the life-blood spouting from a vein.\"\n\n This stair is at the gate of Purgatory. The white step means\n sincerity of conscience; the black, contrition; the purple (I\n believe), pardon by the Atonement.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nOF THE MATERIALS OF MOUNTAINS:--SECONDLY, SLATY CRYSTALLINES.\n\n\nSec. 1. It will be remembered that we said in the last chapter (Sec. 4) that\none of the notable characters of the whole group of the crystallines was\nthe incomprehensibility of the processes which have brought them to\ntheir actual state. This however is more peculiarly true of the slaty\ncrystallines. It is perfectly possible, by many processes of chemistry,\nto produce masses of irregular crystals which, though not of the\nsubstance of granite, are very like it in their mode of arrangement.\nBut, as far as I am aware, it is impossible to produce artificially\nanything resembling the structure of the slaty crystallines. And the\nmore I have examined the rocks themselves, the more I have felt at once\nthe difficulty of explaining the method of their formation, and the\ngrowing interest of inquiries respecting that method. The facts (and I\ncan venture to give nothing more than facts) are briefly these:--\n\nSec. 2. The mineral called mica, described in the course of the last\nchapter, is closely connected with another, differing from it in\ncontaining a considerable quantity of magnesia. This associated mineral,\ncalled chlorite, is of a dull greenish color, and opaque, while the mica\nis, in thin plates, more or less translucent; and the chlorite is apt to\noccur more in the form of a green earth, or green dust, than of finely\ndivided plates. The original quantity of magnesia in the rock determines\nhow far the mica shall give place to chlorite; and in the intermediate\nconditions of rock we find a black and nearly opaque mica, containing a\ngood deal of magnesia, together with a chlorite, which at first seems\nmixed with small plates of true mica, or is itself formed of minute\nplates or spangles, and then, as the quantity of magnesia increases,\nassumes its proper form of a dark green earth.\n\nSec. 3. By this appointment there is obtained a series of materials by\nwhich the appearance of the rock may be varied to almost any extent.\nFrom plates of brilliant white mica half a foot broad, flashing in the\nsun like panes of glass, to a minute film of dark green dust hardly\ntraceable by the eye, an infinite range of conditions is found in the\ndifferent groups of rocks; but always under this general law, that, for\nthe most part, the compact crystallines present the purest and boldest\nplates of mica; and the tendency to pass into slaty crystallines is\ncommonly accompanied by the change of the whiteness of the mica to a\ndark or black color, indicating (I believe) the presence of magnesia,\nand by the gradual intermingling with it of chloritic earth; or else of\na cognate mineral (differing from chlorite in containing a quantity of\nlime) called hornblende.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 5.]\n\nSuch, at least, is eminently the case in the Alps; and in the account I\nhave to give of their slaty crystallines, it must be understood that in\nusing the word \"mica\" generally, I mean the more obscure conditions of\nthe mineral, associated with chlorite and hornblende.\n\nSec. 4. Now it is quite easy to understand how, in the compact\ncrystallines, the various elements of the rock, separating from each\nother as they congealed from their fluid state, whether of watery\nsolution or fiery fusion, might arrange themselves in irregular grains\nas at _a_ in Fig. 3, p. 106. Such an arrangement constantly takes place\nbefore our eyes in volcanic rocks as they cool. But it is not at all\neasy to understand how the white, hard, and comparatively heavy\nsubstances should throw themselves into knots and bands in one definite\ndirection, and the delicate films of mica should undulate about and\nbetween them, as in Fig. 5 on page 114, like rivers among islands,\npursuing, however, on the whole, a straight course across the mass of\nrock. If it could be shown that such pieces of stone had been formed in\nthe horizontal position in which I have drawn the one in the figure, the\nstructure would be somewhat intelligible as the result of settlement.\nBut, on the contrary, the lines of such foliated rocks hardly ever are\nhorizontal; neither can distinct evidence be found of their at any time\nhaving been so. The evidence, on the contrary, is often strongly in\nfavor of their having been formed in the highly inclined directions in\nwhich they now occur, such as that of the piece in Fig. 7, p. 117.[45]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 6.]\n\nSec. 5. Such, however, is the simple fact, that when the compact pact\ncrystallines are about to pass into slaty crystallines, their mica\nthrows itself into these bands and zones, undulating around knots of the\nother substances which compose the rock. Gradually the knots diminish in\nsize, the mica becomes more abundant and more definite in direction, and\nat last the mass, when broken across the beds, assumes the appearance of\nFig. 6 on the last page.[46] Now it will be noticed that, in the lines\nof that figure, no less than in Fig. 5, though more delicately, there is\na subdued, but continual expression of _undulation_. This character\nbelongs, more or less, to nearly the whole mass of slaty crystalline\nrocks; it is one of exquisite beauty, and of the highest importance to\ntheir picturesque forms. It is also one of as great mysteriousness as\nbeauty. For these two figures are selected from crystallines whose beds\nare remarkably straight; in the greater number the undulation becomes\nfar more violent, and, in many, passes into absolute contortion. Fig. 7\nis a piece of a slaty crystalline, rich in mica, from the Valley of St.\nNicolas, below Zermatt. The rock from which it was broken was thrown\ninto coils three or four feet across: the fragment, which is drawn of\nthe real size, was at one of the turns, and came away like a thick\nportion of a crumpled quire of paper from the other sheets.[47]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 7.]\n\n\n Typical character of Slaty Crystallines.\n\nSec. 6. I might devote half a volume to a description of the fantastic and\nincomprehensible arrangement of these rocks and their veins; but all\nthat is necessary for the general reader to know or remember, is this\nbroad fact of the _undulation_ of their whole substance. For there is\nsomething, it seems to me, inexpressibly marvellous in this phenomenon,\nlargely looked at. It is to be remembered that these are the rocks\nwhich, on the average, will be oftenest observed, and with the greatest\ninterest, by the human race. The central granites are too far removed,\nthe lower rocks too common, to be carefully studied; these slaty\ncrystallines form the noblest hills that are easily accessible, and seem\nto be thus calculated especially to attract observation, and reward it.\nWell, we begin to examine them; and first, we find a notable hardness in\nthem, and a thorough boldness of general character, which make us regard\nthem as very types of perfect rocks. They have nothing of the look of\ndried earth about them, nothing petty or limited in the display of their\nbulk. Where they are, they seem to form the world; no mere bank of a\nriver here, or of a lane there, peeping out among the hedges or forests:\nbut from the lowest valley to the highest clouds, all is theirs--one\nadamantine dominion and rigid authority of rock. We yield ourselves to\nthe impression of their eternal, unconquerable stubbornness of strength;\ntheir mass seems the least yielding, least to be softened, or in anywise\ndealt with by external force, of all earthly substance. And, behold, as\nwe look farther into it, it is all touched and troubled, like waves by a\nsummer breeze; rippled, far more delicately than seas or lakes are\nrippled; _they_ only undulate along their surfaces--this rock trembles\nthrough its every fibre, like the chords of an Eolian harp--like the\nstillest air of spring with the echoes of a child's voice. Into the\nheart of all those great mountains, through every tossing of their\nboundless crests, and deep beneath all their unfathomable defiles, flows\nthat strange quivering of their substance. Other and weaker things seem\nto express their subjection to an Infinite power only by momentary\nterrors: as the weeds bow down before the feverish wind, and the sound\nof the going in the tops of the taller trees passes on before the\nclouds, and the fitful opening of pale spaces on the dark water as if\nsome invisible hand were casting dust abroad upon it, gives warning of\nthe anger that is to come, we may well imagine that there is indeed a\nfear passing upon the grass, and leaves, and waters, at the presence of\nsome great spirit commissioned to let the tempest loose; but the terror\npasses, and their sweet rest is perpetually restored to the pastures and\nthe waves. Not so to the mountains. They, which at first seem\nstrengthened beyond the dread of any violence or change, are yet also\nordained to bear upon them the symbol of a perpetual Fear: the tremor\nwhich fades from the soft lake and gliding river is sealed, to all\neternity, upon the rock; and while things that pass visibly from birth\nto death may sometimes forget their feebleness, the mountains are made\nto possess a perpetual memorial of their infancy,--that infancy which\nthe prophet saw in his vision: \"I beheld the earth, and lo, it was\nwithout form and void, and the heavens, and they had no light. I beheld\nthe mountains, and lo, they _trembled_; and all the hills _moved\nlightly_.\"\n\n\n Serviceable characters of the Slaty Crystallines.\n\n 1. Fitness for building with.\n\nSec. 7. Thus far may we trace the apparent typical signification of the\nstructure of those noble rocks. The material uses of this structure are\nnot less important. These substances of the higher mountains, it is\nalways to be remembered, were to be so hard as to enable them to be\nraised into, and remain in, the most magnificent forms; and this\nhardness renders it a matter of great difficulty for the peasant to\nbreak them into such masses as are required for his daily purposes. He\nis compelled in general to gather the fragments which are to form the\nwalls of his house or his garden from the ruins into which the mountain\nsuffers its ridges to be naturally broken; and if these pieces were\nabsolutely irregular in shape, it would be a matter of much labor and\nskill to build securely with them. But the flattened arrangement of the\nlayers of mica always causes the rock to break into flattish fragments,\nrequiring hardly any pains in the placing them so as to lie securely in\na wall, and furnishing light, broad, and unflawed pieces to serve for\nslates upon the roof; for fences, when set edgeways into the ground; or\nfor pavements, when laid flat.\n\n\n 2. Stability in debris.\n\nSec. 8. Farther: whenever rocks break into utterly irregular fragments, the\nmasses of debris which they form are not only excessively difficult to\nwalk over, but the pieces touch each other in so few points, and suffer\nthe water to run so easily and so far through their cavities, that it\ntakes a long series of years to enable them either to settle themselves\nfirmly, or receive the smallest covering of vegetation. Where the\nsubstance of the stone is soft, it may soon be worn down, so that the\nirregular form is of less consequence. But in the hard crystallines,\nunless they had a tendency to break into flattish fragments, their ruin\nwould remain for centuries in impassable desolation. The flat shape of\nthe separate pieces prevents this; it permits--almost necessitates--their\nfitting into and over each other in a tolerably close mass, and thus they\nbecome comparatively easy to the foot, less permeable to water, and\ntherefore retentive both of surface moisture and of the seeds of\nvegetation.\n\n\n 3. Security on declivities.\n\nSec. 9. There is another result of nearly equal importance as far as\nregards the habitableness of the hills. When stones are thrown together\nin rounded or massy blocks, like a heap of hazel nuts, small force will\nsometimes disturb their balance; and when once set in motion, a\nsquare-built and heavy fragment will thunder down even a slightly\nsloping declivity, with an impetus as unlikely to be arrested as fatal\nin its increase. But when stones lie flatly, as dead leaves lie, it is\nnot easy to tilt any one of them upon its edge, so as to set it in\nmotion; and when once moved, it will nearly always slide, not roll, and\nbe stopped by the first obstacle it encounters, catching against it by\nthe edge, or striking into the turf where first it falls, like a\nhatchet. Were it not for the merciful ordinance that the slaty\ncrystallines should break into thin and flattish fragments, the frequent\nfalls of stones from the hill sides would render many spots among the\ngreater mountain chains utterly uninhabitable, which are now\ncomparatively secure.\n\n\n 4. Tendency to form the loveliest scenery.\n\nSec. 10. Of the picturesque aspects which this mode of cleavage produces in\nthe mountains, and in the stones of the foreground, we shall have to\nspeak presently; with regard to the uses of the materials it is only\nnecessary to note farther that these slaty rocks are of course, by their\nwilful way of breaking, rendered unfit for sculpture, and for nearly all\npurposes of art; the properties which render them convenient for the\npeasant in building his cottage, making them unavailable for the\narchitecture of more elaborate edifices. One very great advantage is\nthus secured for the scenery they compose, namely, that it is rarely\nbroken by quarries. A single quarry will often spoil a whole Alpine\nlandscape; the effect of the lovely bay of the Lago Maggiore, for\ninstance, in which lie the Borromean Islands, is, in great part,\ndestroyed by the scar caused by a quarry of pink granite on its western\nshore; and the valley of Chamouni itself has lost some of its loveliest\nrock scenery in consequence of the unfortunate discovery that the\nboulders which had fallen from its higher pinnacles, and were lying in\nmassy heaps among its pines, were available for stone lintels and\ndoor-posts in the building of its new inns. But the slaty crystallines,\nthough sometimes containing valuable mines, are hardly ever quarried for\nstone; and the scenes they compose retain, in general, little disturbed\nby man, their aspect of melancholy power, or simple and noble peace. The\ncolor of their own mass, when freshly broken, is nearly the same as that\nof the compact crystallines; but it is far more varied by veins and\nzones of included minerals, and contains usually more iron, which gives\na rich brown or golden color to their exposed sides, so that the\ncoloring of these rocks is the most glowing to be found in the mountain\nworld. They form also soil for vegetation more quickly, and of a more\nfruitful kind than the granites, and appear, on the whole, intended to\nunite every character of grandeur and of beauty, and to constitute the\nloveliest as well as the noblest scenes which the earth ever unfolds to\nthe eyes of men.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [45] See again Appendix 2. Slaty Cleavage.\n\n [46] This is a piece of the gneiss of the Montanvert, near the\n Chalets of Blaitiere dessous.\n\n [47] \"Some idea may be formed of the nature of these incurvations by\n supposing the gneiss beds to have been in a plastic state, either\n from the action of heat or of some other unknown cause, and, while\n in this state, to have been subjected to pressure at the two\n extremities, or in some other parts, according to the nature of the\n curvatures. But even this hypothesis (though the best that has been\n thought of) will scarcely enable us to explain all the contortions\n which not merely the beds of gneiss, but likewise of mica slate and\n clay slate, and even greywacke slate, exhibit. There is a bed of\n clay slate near the ferry to Kerrera, a few miles south of Oban, in\n Argyleshire. This bed has been partly wasted away by the sea, and\n its structure exposed to view. It contains a central cylindrical\n nucleus of unknown length (but certainly considerable), round which\n six beds of clay slate are wrapt, the one within the other, so as to\n form six concentric cylinders. Now, however plastic the clay slate\n may have been, there is no kind of pressure which will account for\n this structure; the central cylinder would have required to have\n been rolled six times in succession (allowing an interval for\n solidification between each) in the plastic clay slate.\"--_Outlines\n of Mineralogy, Geology, &c._, by Thomas Thomson, M.D.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nOF THE MATERIALS OF MOUNTAINS:--THIRDLY, SLATY COHERENTS.\n\n\nSec. 1. It will be remembered that we resolved to give generally the term\n\"coherent\" to those rocks which appeared to be composed of one compact\nsubstance, not of several materials. But, as in all the arrangements of\nNature we find that her several classes pass into each other by\nimperceptible gradations, and that there is no ruling of red lines\nbetween one and the other, we need not suppose that we shall find any\nplainly distinguishable limit between the crystalline and coherent\nrocks. Sometimes, indeed, a very distinctly marked crystalline will be\njoined by a coherent rock so sharply and neatly that it is possible to\nbreak off specimens, no larger than a walnut, containing portions of\neach; but far more frequently the transition from one to the other is\neffected gradually; or, if not, there exist, at any rate, in other\nplaces intervening, a series of rocks which possess an imperfectly\ncrystalline character, passing down into that of simple coherence. This\ntransition is usually effected through the different kinds of slate; the\nslaty crystallines becoming more and more fine in texture, until at last\nthey appear composed of nothing but very fine mica or chlorite; and this\nmass of micaceous substance becomes more and more compact and silky in\ntexture, losing its magnesia, and containing more of the earth which\nforms the substance of clay, until at last it assumes the familiar\nappearance of roofing-slate, the noblest example of the coherent rocks.\nI call it the noblest, as being the nearest to the crystallines, and\npossessing much in common with them. Connected with this well-known\nsubstance are enormous masses of other rocks, more or less resembling it\nin character, of which the following are universal characteristics.\n\n\n Characteristics of Slaty Coherents.\n\n 1. Softness of texture.\n\n 2. Lamination of structure.\n\nSec. 2. First. They nearly always, as just said, contain more of the earth,\nwhich is the basis of clay, than the crystalline rocks; and they can be\nscratched or crushed with much greater facility. The point of a knife\nwill trace a continuous powdery streak upon most of the coherent rocks;\nwhile it will be quite powerless against a large portion of the granular\nknots in the crystallines. Besides this actual softness of substance,\nthe slaty coherents are capable of very fine division into flakes, not\nirregularly and contortedly, like the crystallines, but straightly, so\nas to leave a silky lustre on the sides of the fragments, as in roofing\nslate; and separating with great ease, yielding to a slight pressure\nagainst the edge. Consequently, although the slaty coherents are capable\nof forming large and bold mountains, they are liable to all kinds of\ndestruction and decay in a far greater degree than the crystallines;\ngiving way in large masses under frost, and crumbling into heaps of\nflaky rubbish, which in its turn dissolves or is ground down into\nimpalpable dust or mud, and carried to great distances by the mountain\nstreams. These characters render the slaty coherents peculiarly adapted\nfor the support of vegetation; and as, though apparently homogeneous,\nthey usually contain as many chemical elements as the crystallines, they\nconstitute (as far as regards the immediate nourishment of soils) the\nmost important part of mountain ranges.\n\n\n 3. Darkness and blueness in color.\n\nSec. 3. I have already often had occasion to allude to the apparent\nconnexion of brilliancy of color with vigor of life, or purity of\nsubstance. This is preeminently the case in the mineral kingdom. The\nperfection with which the particles of any substance unite in\ncrystallization corresponds, in that kingdom, to the vital power in\norganic nature; and it is a universal law, that according to the purity\nof any substance, and according to the energy of its crystallization, is\nits beauty or brightness. Pure earths are without exception white when\nin powder; and the same earths which are the constituents of clay and\nsand, form, when crystallized, the emerald, ruby, sapphire, amethyst,\nand opal. Darkness and dulness of color are the universal signs of\ndissolution, or disorderly mingling of elements.[48]\n\nSec. 4. Accordingly, these slaty coherents, being usually composed of many\nelements imperfectly united, are also for the most part grey, black, or\ndull purple; those which are purest and hardest verging most upon\npurple, and some of them in certain lights displaying, on their smooth\nsides, very beautiful zones and changeful spaces of grey, russet, and\nobscure blue. But even this beauty is strictly connected with their\npreservation of such firmness of form as properly belongs to them; it is\nseen chiefly on their even and silky surfaces; less, in comparison, upon\ntheir broken edges, and is lost altogether when they are reduced to\npowder. They then form a dull grey dust, or, with moisture, a black\nslime, of great value as a vegetative earth, but of intense ugliness\nwhen it occurs in extended spaces in mountain scenery. And thus the\nslaty coherents are often employed to form those landscapes of which the\npurpose appears to be to impress us with a sense of horror and pain, as\na foil to neighboring scenes of extreme beauty. There are many spots\namong the inferior ridges of the Alps, such as the Col de Ferret, the\nCol d'Anterne, and the associated ranges of the Buet, which, though\ncommanding prospects of great nobleness, are themselves very nearly\ntypes of all that is most painful to the human mind. Vast wastes of\nmountain ground, covered here and there with dull grey grass, or moss,\nbut breaking continually into black banks of shattered slate, all\nglistening and sodden with slow tricklings of clogged, incapable\nstreams; the snow water oozing through them in a cold sweat, and\nspreading itself in creeping stains among their dust; ever and anon a\nshaking here and there, and a handful or two of their particles or\nflakes trembling down, one sees not why, into more total dissolution,\nleaving a few jagged teeth, like the edges of knives eaten away by\nvinegar, projecting through the half-dislodged mass from the inner rock,\nkeen enough to cut the hand or foot that rests on them, yet crumbling as\nthey wound, and soon sinking again into the smooth, slippery, glutinous\nheap, looking like a beach of black scales of dead fish, cast ashore\nfrom a poisonous sea, and sloping away into foul ravines, branched down\nimmeasurable slopes of barrenness, where the winds howl and wander\ncontinually, and the snow lies in wasted and sorrowful fields, covered\nwith sooty dust, that collects in streaks and stains at the bottom of\nall its thawing ripples. I know no other scenes so appalling as these in\nstorm, or so woful in sunshine.\n\n\n 4. Great power of supporting vegetation.\n\nSec. 5. Where, however, these same rocks exist in more favorable positions,\nthat is to say, in gentler banks and at lower elevations, they form a\nground for the most luxuriant vegetation; and the valleys of Savoy owe\nto them some of their loveliest solitudes,--exquisitely rich pastures,\ninterspersed with arable and orchard land, and shaded by groves of\nwalnut and cherry. Scenes of this kind, and of that just described, so\nsingularly opposed, and apparently brought together as foils to each\nother, are, however, peculiar to certain beds of the slaty coherents,\nwhich are both vast in elevation, and easy of destruction. In Wales and\nScotland, the same groups of rocks possess far greater hardness, while\nthey attain less elevation; and the result is a totally different aspect\nof scenery. The severity of the climate, and the comparative durableness\nof the rock, forbid the rich vegetation; but the exposed summits, though\nbarren, are not subject to laws of destruction so rapid and fearful as\nin Switzerland; and the natural color of the rock is oftener developed\nin the purples and greys which, mingled with the heather, form the\nprincipal elements of the deep and beautiful distant blue of the British\nhills. Their gentler mountain streams also permit the beds of rock to\nremain in firm, though fantastic, forms along their banks, and the\ngradual action of the cascades and eddies upon the slaty cleavage\nproduces many pieces of foreground scenery to which higher hills can\npresent no parallel. Of these peculiar conditions we shall have to speak\nat length in another place.\n\n\n 5. Adaptation to architecture and the fine arts.\n\nSec. 6. As far as regards ministry to the purposes of man, the slaty\ncoherents are of somewhat more value than the slaty crystallines. Most\nof them can be used in the same way for rough buildings, while they\nfurnish finer plates or sheets for roofing. It would be difficult,\nperhaps, to estimate the exact importance of their educational influence\nin the form of drawing-slate. For sculpture they are, of course,\naltogether unfit, but I believe certain finer conditions of them are\nemployed for a dark ground in Florentine mosaic.\n\nSec. 7. It remains only to be noticed, that the direction of the lamination\n(or separation into small folio) is, in these rocks, not always, nor\neven often indicative of the true direction of their larger beds. It is\nnot, however, necessary for the reader to enter into questions of such\ncomplicated nature as those which belong to the study of slaty cleavage;\nand only a few points, which I could not pass over, are noted in the\nAppendix; but it is necessary to observe here, that all rocks, however\nconstituted, or however disposed, have certain ways of breaking in one\ndirection rather than another, and separating themselves into blocks by\nmeans of smooth cracks or fissures, technically called joints, which\noften influence their forms more than either the position of their beds,\nor their slaty lamination; and always are conspicuous in their weathered\nmasses. Of these, however, as it would be wearisome to enter into more\ndetail at present, I rather choose to speak incidentally, as we meet\nwith examples of their results in the scenery we have to study more\nparticularly.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [48] Compare the close of Sec. 11, Chap. III. Vol. III., and, here,\n Chap. III. Sec. 23.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nOF THE MATERIALS OF MOUNTAINS:--FOURTHLY, COMPACT COHERENTS.\n\n\nSec. 1. This group of rocks, the last we have to examine, is, as far as\nrespects geographical extent and usefulness to the human race, more\nimportant than any of the preceding ones. It forms the greater part of\nall low hills and uplands throughout the world, and supplies the most\nvaluable materials for building and sculpture, being distinguished from\nthe group of the slaty coherents by its incapability of being separated\ninto thin sheets. All the rocks belonging to the group break\nirregularly, like loaf sugar or dried clay. Some of them are composed of\nhardened calcareous matter, and are known as limestone; others are\nmerely hardened sand, and are called freestone or sandstone; and others,\nappearing to consist of dry mud or clay, are of less general importance,\nand receive different names in different localities.\n\nSec. 2. Among these rocks, the foremost position is, of course, occupied by\nthe great group of the marbles, of which the substance appears to have\nbeen prepared expressly in order to afford to human art a perfect means\nof carrying out its purposes. They are of exactly the necessary\nhardness,--neither so soft as to be incapable of maintaining themselves\nin delicate forms, nor so hard as always to require a blow to give\neffect to the sculptor's touch; the mere pressure of his chisel produces\na certain, effect upon them. The color of the white varieties is of\nexquisite delicacy, owing to the partial translucency of the pure rock;\nand it has always appeared to me a most wonderful ordinance,--one of the\nmost _marked_ pieces of purpose in the creation,--that all the\nvariegated kinds should be comparatively opaque, so as to set off the\ncolor on the surface, while the white, which if it had been opaque would\nhave looked somewhat coarse (as, for instance, common chalk does), is\nrendered just translucent enough to give an impression of extreme\npurity, but not so translucent as to interfere in the least with the\ndistinctness of any forms into which it is wrought. The colors of\nvariegated marbles are also for the most part very beautiful, especially\nthose composed of purple, amber, and green, with white; and there seems\nto be something notably attractive to the human mind in the vague and\nveined labyrinths of their arrangements. They are farther marked as the\nprepared material for human work by the dependence of their beauty on\nsmoothness of surface; for their veins are usually seen but dimly in the\nnative rock; and the colors they assume under the action of weather are\ninferior to those of the crystallines: it is not until wrought and\npolished by man that they show their character. Finally, they do not\ndecompose. The exterior surface is sometimes destroyed by a sort of\nmechanical disruption of its outer flakes, but rarely to the extent in\nwhich such action takes place in other rocks; and the most delicate\nsculptures, if executed in good marble, will remain for ages\nundeteriorated.\n\nSec. 3. Quarries of marble are, however, rare, and we owe the greatest part\nof the good architecture of this world to the more ordinary limestones\nand sandstones, easily obtainable in blocks of considerable size, and\ncapable of being broken, sawn, or sculptured with ease; the color,\ngenerally grey, or warm red (the yellow and white varieties becoming\ngrey with age), being exactly that which will distinguish buildings by\nan agreeable contrast from the vegetation by which they may be\nsurrounded.\n\nTo these inferior conditions of the compact coherence we owe also the\ngreater part of the _pretty_ scenery of the inhabited globe. The sweet\nwinding valleys, with peeping cliffs on either side; the light,\nirregular wanderings of broken streamlets; the knolls and slopes covered\nwith rounded woods; the narrow ravines, carpeted with greensward, and\nhaunted by traditions of fairy or gnome; the jutting crags, crowned by\nthe castle or watch-tower; the white sea-cliff and sheep-fed down; the\nlong succession of coteau, sunburnt, and bristling with vines,--all\nthese owe whatever they have of simple beauty to the peculiar nature of\nthe group of rocks of which we are speaking; a group which, though\noccasionally found in mountain masses of magnificent form and size, is\non the whole characterized by a comparative smallness of scale, and a\ntendency to display itself less in true mountains than in elevated downs\nor plains, through which winding valleys, more or less deep, are cut by\nthe action of the streams.\n\nSec. 4. It has been said that this group of rocks is distinguished by its\nincapability of being separated into sheets. This is only true of it in\nsmall portions, for it is usually deposited in beds or layers of\nirregular thickness, which are easily separable from each other; and\nwhen, as not unfrequently happens, some of these beds are only half an\ninch or a quarter of an inch thick, the rock appears to break into flat\nplates like a slaty coherent. But this appearance is deceptive. However\nthin the bed may be, it will be found that it is in its own substance\ncompact, and not separable into two other beds; but the true slaty\ncoherents possess a delicate slatiness of structure, carried into their\nmost minute portions, so that however thin a piece of them may be, it is\nusually possible, if we have instruments fine enough, to separate it\ninto two still thinner flakes. As, however, the slaty and compact\ncrystallines, so also the slaty and compact coherents pass into each\nother by subtle gradations, and present many intermediate conditions,\nvery obscure and indefinable.\n\nSec. 5. I said just now that the colors of the compact coherents were\nusually such as would pleasantly distinguish buildings from vegetation.\nThey are so; but considered as abstract hues, are yet far less agreeable\nthan those of the nobler and older rocks. And it is to be noticed, that\nas these inferior rocks are the materials with which we usually build,\nthey form the ground of the idea suggested to most men's minds by the\nword \"stone,\" and therefore the general term \"stone-color\" is used in\ncommon parlance as expressive of the hue to which the compact coherents\nfor the most part approximate. By stone-color I suppose we all\nunderstand a sort of tawny grey, with too much yellow in it to be called\ncold, and too little to be called warm. And it is quite true that over\nenormous districts of Europe, composed of what are technically known as\n\"Jura\" and \"mountain\" limestones, and various pale sandstones, such is\ngenerally the color of any freshly broken rock which peeps out along the\nsides of their gentler hills. It becomes a little greyer as it is\ncolored by time, but never reaches anything like the noble hues of the\ngneiss and slate; the very lichens which grow upon it are poorer and\npaler; and although the deep wood mosses will sometimes bury it\naltogether in golden cushions, the minor mosses, whose office is to\ndecorate and chequer the rocks without concealing them, are always more\nmeagrely set on these limestones than on the crystallines.\n\nSec. 6. I never have had time to examine and throw into classes the\nvarieties of the mosses which grow on the two kinds of rock, nor have I\nbeen able to ascertain whether there are really numerous differences\nbetween the species, or whether they only grow more luxuriantly on the\ncrystallines than on the coherents. But this is certain, that on the\nbroken rocks of the foreground in the crystalline groups the mosses seem\nto set themselves consentfully and deliberately to the task of producing\nthe most exquisite harmonies of color in their power. They will not\nconceal the form of the rock, but will gather over it in little brown\nbosses, like small cushions of velvet made of mixed threads of dark ruby\nsilk and gold, rounded over more subdued films of white and grey, with\nlightly crisped and curled edges like hoar frost on fallen leaves, and\nminute clusters of upright orange stalks with pointed caps, and fibres\nof deep green, and gold, and faint purple passing into black, all woven\ntogether, and following with unimaginable fineness of gentle growth the\nundulation of the stone they cherish, until it is charged with color so\nthat it can receive no more; and instead of looking rugged, or cold, or\nstern, as anything that a rock is held to be at heart, it seems to be\nclothed with a soft, dark leopard skin, embroidered with arabesque of\npurple and silver. But in the lower ranges this is not so. The mosses\ngrow in more independent spots, not in such a clinging and tender way\nover the whole surface; the lichens are far poorer and fewer; and the\ncolor of the stone itself is seen more frequently; altered, if at all,\nonly into a little chiller grey than when it is freshly broken. So that\na limestone landscape is apt to be dull, and cold in general tone, with\nsome aspect even of barrenness. The sandstones are much richer in\nvegetation: there are, perhaps, no scenes in our own island more\ninteresting than the wooded dingles which traverse them, the red rocks\ngrowing out on either side, and shelving down into the pools of their\ndeep brown rivers, as at Jedburgh and Langholme; the steep oak copses\nclimbing the banks, the paler plumes of birch shaking themselves free\ninto the light of the sky above, and the few arches of the monastery\nwhere the fields in the glen are greenest, or the stones of the border\ntower where its cliffs are steepest, rendering both field and cliff a\nthousandfold more dear to the heart and sight. But deprived of\nassociations, and compared in their mere natural beauty with the ravines\nof the central ranges, there can be no question but that even the\nloveliest passages of such scenery are imperfect and poor in foreground\ncolor. And at first there would seem to be an unfairness in this, unlike\nthe usual system of compensation which so often manifests itself\nthroughout nature. The higher mountains have their scenes of power and\nvastness, their blue precipices and cloud-like snows: why should they\nalso have the best and fairest colors given to their foreground rocks,\nand overburden the human mind with wonder; while the less majestic\nscenery, tempting us to the observance of details for which amidst the\nhigher mountains we had no admiration left, is yet, in the beauty of\nthose very details, as inferior as it is in scale of magnitude?\n\nSec. 7. I believe the answer must be, simply, that it is not good for man\nto live among what is most beautiful;--that he is a creature incapable\nof satisfaction by anything upon earth; and that to allow him habitually\nto possess, in any kind whatsoever, the utmost that earth can give, is\nthe surest way to cast him into lassitude or discontent.\n\nIf the most exquisite orchestral music could be continued without a\npause for a series of years, and children were brought up and educated\nin the room in which it was perpetually resounding, I believe their\nenjoyment of music, or understanding of it, would be very small. And an\naccurately parallel effect seems to be produced upon the powers of\ncontemplation, by the redundant and ceaseless loveliness of the high\nmountain districts. The faculties are paralyzed by the abundance, and\ncease, as we before noticed of the imagination, to be capable of\nexcitement, except by other subjects of interest than those which\npresent themselves to the eye. So that it is, in reality, better for\nmankind that the forms of their common landscape should offer no\nviolent stimulus to the emotions,--that the gentle upland, browned by\nthe bending furrows of the plough, and the fresh sweep of the chalk\ndown, and the narrow winding of the copse-clad dingle, should be more\nfrequent scenes of human life than the Arcadias of cloud-capped mountain\nor luxuriant vale; and that, while humbler (though always infinite)\nsources of interest are given to each of us around the homes to which we\nare restrained for the greater part of our lives, these mightier and\nstranger glories should become the objects of adventure,--at once the\ncynosures of the fancies of childhood, and themes of the happy memory,\nand the winter's tale of age.\n\nSec. 8. Nor is it always that the inferiority is felt. For, so natural is\nit to the human heart to fix itself in hope rather than in present\npossession, and so subtle is the charm which the imagination casts over\nwhat is distant or denied, that there is often a more touching power in\nthe scenes which contain far-away promise of something greater than\nthemselves, than in those which exhaust the treasures and powers of\nNature in an unconquerable and excellent glory, leaving nothing more to\nbe by the fancy pictured, or pursued.\n\nI do not know that there is a district in the world more calculated to\nillustrate this power of the expectant imagination, than that which\nsurrounds the city of Fribourg in Switzerland, extending from it towards\nBerne. It is of grey sandstone, considerably elevated, but presenting no\nobject of striking interest to the passing traveller; so that, as it is\ngenerally seen in the course of a hasty journey from the Bernese Alps to\nthose of Savoy, it is rarely regarded with any other sensation than that\nof weariness, all the more painful because accompanied with reaction\nfrom the high excitement caused by the splendor of the Bernese Oberland.\nThe traveller, footsore, feverish, and satiated with glacier and\nprecipice, lies back in the corner of the diligence, perceiving little\nmore than that the road is winding and hilly, and the country through\nwhich it passes cultivated and tame. Let him, however, only do this tame\ncountry the justice of staying in it a few days, until his mind has\nrecovered its tone, and take one or two long walks through its fields,\nand he will have other thoughts of it. It is, as I said, an undulating\ndistrict of grey sandstone, never attaining any considerable height,\nbut having enough of the mountain spirit to throw itself into continual\nsuccession of bold slope and dale; elevated, also, just far enough above\nthe sea to render the pine a frequent forest tree along its irregular\nridges. Through this elevated tract the river cuts its way in a ravine\nsome five or six hundred feet in depth, which winds for leagues between\nthe gentle hills, unthought of, until its edge is approached; and then\nsuddenly, through the boughs of the firs, the eye perceives, beneath,\nthe green and gliding stream, and the broad walls of sandstone cliff\nthat form its banks; hollowed out where the river leans against them, at\nits turns, into perilous overhanging, and, on the other shore, at the\nsame spots, leaving little breadths of meadow between them and the\nwater, half-overgrown with thicket, deserted in their sweetness,\ninaccessible from above, and rarely visited by any curious wanderers\nalong the hardly traceable footpath which struggles for existence\nbeneath the rocks. And there the river ripples, and eddies, and murmurs\nin an utter solitude. It is passing through the midst of a thickly\npeopled country; but never was a stream so lonely. The feeblest and most\nfar-away torrent among the high hills has its companions: the goats\nbrowse beside it; and the traveller drinks from it, and passes over it\nwith his staff; and the peasant traces a new channel for it down to his\nmill-wheel. But this stream has no companions: it flows on in an\ninfinite seclusion, not secret nor threatening, but a quietness of sweet\ndaylight and open air,--a broad space of tender and deep desolateness,\ndrooped into repose out of the midst of human labor and life; the waves\nplashing lowly, with none to hear them; and the wild birds building in\nthe boughs, with none to fray them away; and the soft, fragrant herbs\nrising, and breathing, and fading, with no hand to gather them;--and yet\nall bright and bare to the clouds above, and to the fresh fall of the\npassing sunshine and pure rain.\n\nSec. 9. But above the brows of those scarped cliffs, all is in an instant\nchanged. A few steps only beyond the firs that stretch their branches,\nangular, and wild, and white, like forks of lightning, into the air of\nthe ravine, and we are in an arable country of the most perfect\nrichness; the swathes of its corn glowing and burning from field to\nfield; its pretty hamlets all vivid with fruitful orchards and flowery\ngardens, and goodly with steep-roofed storehouse and barn; its\nwell-kept, hard, park-like roads rising and falling from hillside to\nhillside, or disappearing among brown banks of moss, and thickets of the\nwild raspberry and rose; or gleaming through lines of tall trees, half\nglade, half avenue, where the gate opens, or the gateless path turns\ntrustedly aside, unhindered, into the garden of some statelier house,\nsurrounded in rural pride with its golden hives, and carved granaries,\nand irregular domain of latticed and espaliered cottages, gladdening to\nlook upon in their delicate homeliness--delicate, yet, in some sort,\nrude; not like our English homes--trim, laborious, formal,\nirreproachable in comfort; but with a peculiar carelessness and\nlargeness in all their detail, harmonizing with the outlawed loveliness\nof their country. For there is an untamed strength even in all that soft\nand habitable land. It is, indeed, gilded with corn and fragrant with\ndeep grass, but it is not subdued to the plough or to the scythe. It\ngives at its own free will,--it seems to have nothing wrested from it\nnor conquered in it. It is not redeemed from desertness, but\nunrestrained in fruitfulness,--a generous land, bright with capricious\nplenty, and laughing from vale to vale in fitful fulness, kind and wild;\nnor this without some sterner element mingled in the heart of it. For\nalong all its ridges stand the dark masses of innumerable pines, taking\nno part in its gladness, asserting themselves for ever as fixed shadows,\nnot to be pierced or banished, even in the intensest sunlight; fallen\nflakes and fragments of the night, stayed in their solemn squares in the\nmidst of all the rosy bendings of the orchard boughs, and yellow\neffulgence of the harvest, and tracing themselves in black network and\nmotionless fringes against the blanched blue of the horizon in its\nsaintly clearness. And yet they do not sadden the landscape, but seem to\nhave been set there chiefly to show how bright everything else is round\nthem; and all the clouds look of purer silver, and all the air seems\nfilled with a whiter and more living sunshine, where they are pierced by\nthe sable points of the pines; and all the pastures look of more glowing\ngreen, where they run up between the purple trunks: and the sweet field\nfootpaths skirt the edges of the forest for the sake of its shade,\nsloping up and down about the slippery roots, and losing themselves\nevery now and then hopelessly among the violets, and ground ivy, and\nbrown sheddings of the fibrous leaves; and, at last, plunging into some\nopen aisle where the light through the distant stems shows that there is\na chance of coming out again on the other side; and coming out, indeed,\nin a little while, from the scented darkness, into the dazzling air and\nmarvellous landscape, that stretches still farther and farther in new\nwilfulness of grove and garden, until, at last, the craggy mountains of\nthe Simmenthal rise out of it, sharp into the rolling of the southern\nclouds.\n\nSec. 10. I believe, for general development of human intelligence and\nsensibility, country of this kind is about the most perfect that exists.\nA richer landscape, as that of Italy, enervates, or causes wantonness; a\npoorer contracts the conceptions, and hardens the temperament of both\nmind and body; and one more curiously or prominently beautiful deadens\nthe sense of beauty. Even what is here of attractiveness,--far\nexceeding, as it does that of most of the thickly peopled districts of\nthe temperate zone,--seems to act harmfully on the poetical character of\nthe Swiss; but take its inhabitants all in all, as with deep love and\nstern penetration they are painted in the works of their principal\nwriter, Gotthelf, and I believe we shall not easily find a peasantry\nwhich would completely sustain comparison with them.\n\nSec. 11. But be this as it may, it is certain that the compact coherent\nrocks are appointed to form the greatest part of the earth's surface,\nand by their utility, and easily changed and governed qualities, to\ntempt man to dwell among them; being, however, in countries not\ndefinitely mountainous, usually covered to a certain depth by those beds\nof loose gravel and sand to which we agreed to give the name of\ndiluvium. There is nothing which will require to be noted respecting\nthese last, except the forms into which they are brought by the action\nof water; and the account of these belongs properly to the branch of\ninquiry which follows next in the order we proposed to ourselves,\nnamely, that touching the sculpture of mountains, to which it will be\nbest to devote some separate chapters; this only being noted in\nconclusion respecting the various rocks whose nature we have been\ndescribing, that out of the entire series of them we may obtain almost\nevery color pleasant to human sight, not the less so for being generally\na little softened or saddened. Thus we have beautiful subdued reds,\nreaching tones of deep purple, in the porphyries, and of pale rose\ncolor, in the granites; every kind of silvery and leaden grey, passing\ninto purple, in the slates; deep green, and every hue of greenish grey,\nin the volcanic rocks and serpentines; rich orange, and golden brown, in\nthe gneiss; black, in the lias limestones; and all these, together with\npure white, in the marbles. One color only we hardly ever get in an\nexposed rock--that dull _brown_ which we noticed above, in speaking of\ncolor generally, as the most repulsive of all hues; every approximation\nto it is softened by nature, when exposed to the atmosphere, into a\npurple grey. All this can hardly be otherwise interpreted, than as\nprepared for the delight and recreation of man; and I trust that the\ntime may soon come when these beneficent and beautiful gifts of color\nmay be rightly felt and wisely employed, and when the variegated fronts\nof our houses may render the term \"stone-color\" as little definite in\nthe mind of the architect as that of \"flower-color\" would be to the\nhorticulturist.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nON THE SCULPTURE OF MOUNTAINS:--FIRST, THE LATERAL RANGES.\n\n\nSec. 1. Close beside the path by which travellers ascend the Montanvert\nfrom the valley of Chamouni, on the right hand, where it first begins to\nrise among the pines, there descends a small stream from the foot of the\ngranite peak known to the guides as the Aiguille Charmoz. It is\nconcealed from the traveller by a thicket of alder, and its murmur is\nhardly heard, for it is one of the weakest streams of the valley. But it\nis a constant stream; fed by a permanent though small glacier, and\ncontinuing to flow even to the close of the summer, when more copious\ntorrents, depending only on the melting of the lower snows, have left\ntheir beds \"stony channels in the sun.\"\n\nI suppose that my readers must be generally aware that glaciers are\nmasses of ice in slow motion, at the rate of from ten to twenty inches a\nday, and that the stones which are caught between them and the rocks\nover which they pass, or which are embedded in the ice and dragged along\nby it over those rocks, are of course subjected to a crushing and\ngrinding power altogether unparalleled by any other force in constant\naction. The dust to which these stones are reduced by the friction is\ncarried down by the streams which flow from the melting glacier, so that\nthe water which in the morning may be pure, owing what little strength\nit has chiefly to the rock springs, is in the afternoon not only\nincreased in volume, but whitened with dissolved dust of granite, in\nproportion to the heat of the preceding hours of the day, and to the\npower and size of the glacier which feeds it.\n\nSec. 2. The long drought which took place in the autumn of the year 1854,\nsealing every source of waters except these perpetual ones, left the\ntorrent of which I am speaking, and such others, in a state peculiarly\nfavorable to observance of their _least_ action on the mountains from\nwhich they descend. They were entirely limited to their own ice\nfountains, and the quantity of powdered rock which they brought down\nwas, of course, at its minimum, being nearly unmingled with any earth\nderived from the dissolution of softer soil, or vegetable mould, by\nrains.\n\nAt three in the afternoon, on a warm day in September, when the torrent\nhad reached its average maximum strength for the day, I filled an\nordinary Bordeaux wine-flask with the water where it was least turbid.\nFrom this quart of water I obtained twenty-four grains of sand and\nsediment, more or less fine. I cannot estimate the quantity of water in\nthe stream; but the runlet of it at which I filled the flask was giving\nabout two hundred bottles a minute, or rather more, carrying down\ntherefore about three quarters of a pound of powdered granite every\nminute. This would be forty-five pounds an hour; but allowing for the\ninferior power of the stream in the cooler periods of the day, and\ntaking into consideration, on the other side, its increased power in\nrain, we may, I think, estimate its average hour's work at twenty-eight\nor thirty pounds, or a hundred weight every four hours. By this\ninsignificant runlet, therefore, some four inches wide and four inches\ndeep, rather more than two tons of the substance of the Mont Blanc are\ndisplaced, and carried down a certain distance every week; and as it is\nonly for three or four months that the flow of the stream is checked by\nfrost, we may certainly allow eighty tons for the mass which it annually\nmoves.\n\nSec. 3. It is not worth while to enter into any calculation of the relation\nborne by this runlet to the great torrents which descend from the chain\nof Mont Blanc into the valley of Chamouni. To call it the thousandth\npart of the glacier waters, would give a ludicrous under-estimate of\ntheir total power; but even so calling it, we should find for result\nthat eighty thousand tons of mountain must be yearly transformed into\ndrifted sand, and carried down a certain distance.[49] How much greater\nthan this is the actual quantity so transformed I cannot tell; but take\nthis quantity as certain, and consider that this represents merely the\nresults of the labor of the constant summer streams, utterly\nirrespective of all sudden falls of stones and of masses of mountain (a\nsingle thunderbolt will sometimes leave a scar on the flank of a soft\nrock, looking like a trench for a railroad); and we shall then begin to\napprehend something of the operation of the great laws of change, which\nare the conditions of all material existence, however apparently\nenduring. The hills, which, as compared with living beings, seem\n\"everlasting,\" are, in truth, as perishing as they: its veins of flowing\nfountain weary the mountain heart, as the crimson pulse does ours; the\nnatural force of the iron crag is abated in its appointed time, like the\nstrength of the sinews in a human old age; and it is but the lapse of\nthe longer years of decay which, in the sight of its Creator,\ndistinguishes the mountain range from the moth and the worm.\n\nSec. 4. And hence two questions arise of the deepest interest. From what\nfirst created forms were the mountains brought into their present\ncondition? into what forms will they change in the course of ages? Was\nthe world anciently in a more or less perfect state than it is now? was\nit less or more fitted for the habitation of the human race? and are the\nchanges which it is now undergoing favorable to that race or not? The\npresent conformation of the earth appears dictated, as has been shown in\nthe preceding chapters, by supreme wisdom and kindness. And yet its\nformer state must have been different from what it is now; as its\npresent one from that which it must assume hereafter. Is this,\ntherefore, the earth's prime into which we are born; or is it, with all\nits beauty, only the wreck of Paradise?\n\nI cannot entangle the reader in the intricacy of the inquiries necessary\nfor anything like a satisfactory solution of these questions. But, were\nhe to engage in such inquiries, their result would be his strong\nconviction of the earth's having been brought from a state in which it\nwas utterly uninhabitable into one fitted for man;--of its having been,\nwhen first inhabitable, more beautiful than it is now; and of its\ngradually tending to still greater inferiority of aspect, and unfitness\nfor abode.\n\nIt has, indeed, been the endeavor of some geologists to prove that\ndestruction and renovation are continually proceeding simultaneously in\nmountains as well as in organic creatures; that while existing eminences\nare being slowly lowered, others, in order to supply their place, are\nbeing slowly elevated; and that what is lost in beauty or healthiness in\none spot is gained in another. But I cannot assent to such a conclusion.\nEvidence altogether incontrovertible points to a state of the earth in\nwhich it could be tenanted only by lower animals, fitted for the\ncircumstances under which they lived by peculiar organizations. From\nthis state it is admitted gradually to have been brought into that in\nwhich we now see it; and the circumstances of the existing dispensation,\nwhatever may be the date of its endurance, seem to me to point not less\nclearly to an end than to an origin; to a creation, when \"the earth was\nwithout form and void,\" and to a close, when it must either be renovated\nor destroyed.\n\nSec. 5. In one sense, and in one only, the idea of a continuous order of\nthings is admissible, in so far as the phenomena which introduced, and\nthose which are to terminate, the existing dispensation, may have been,\nand may in future be, nothing more than a gigantic development of\nagencies which are in continual operation around us. The experience we\npossess of volcanic agency is not yet large enough to enable us to set\nlimits to its force; and as we see the rarity of subterraneous action\ngenerally proportioned to its violence, there may be appointed, in the\nnatural order of things, convulsions to take place after certain epochs,\non a scale which the human race has not yet lived long enough to\nwitness. The soft silver cloud which writhes innocently on the crest of\nVesuvius, rests there without intermission; but the fury which lays\ncities in sepulchres of lava bursts forth only after intervals of\ncenturies; and the still fiercer indignation of the greater volcanoes,\nwhich make half the globe vibrate with earthquake, and shrivels up whole\nkingdoms with flame, is recorded only in dim distances of history: so\nthat it is not irrational to admit that there may yet be powers dormant,\nnot destroyed, beneath the apparently calm surface of the earth, whose\ndate of rest is the endurance of the human race, and whose date of\naction must be that of its doom. But whether such colossal agencies are\nindeed in the existing order of things or not, still the effective\ntruth, for us, is one and the same. The earth, as a tormented and\ntrembling ball, may have rolled in space for myriads of ages before\nhumanity was formed from its dust; and as a devastated ruin it may\ncontinue to roll, when all that dust shall again have been mingled with\nashes that never were warmed by life, or polluted by sin. But for us the\nintelligible and substantial fact is that the earth has been brought, by\nforces we know not of, into a form fitted for our habitation: on that\nform a gradual, but destructive, change is continually taking place, and\nthe course of that change points clearly to a period when it will no\nmore be fitted for the dwelling-place of men.\n\nSec. 6. It is, therefore, not so much what these forms of the earth\nactually are, as what they are continually becoming, that we have to\nobserve; nor is it possible thus to observe them without an instinctive\nreference to the first state out of which they have been brought. The\nexisting torrent has dug its bed a thousand feet deep. But in what form\nwas the mountain originally raised which gave that torrent its track and\npower? The existing precipice is wrought into towers and bastions by the\nperpetual fall of its fragments. In what form did it stand before a\nsingle fragment fell?\n\nYet to such questions, continually suggesting themselves, it is never\npossible to give a complete answer. For a certain distance, the past\nwork of existing forces can be traced; but there gradually the mist\ngathers, and the footsteps of more gigantic agencies are traceable in\nthe darkness; and still, as we endeavor to penetrate farther and farther\ninto departed time, the thunder of the Almighty power sounds louder and\nlouder; and the clouds gather broader and more fearfully, until at last\nthe Sinai of the world is seen altogether upon a smoke, and the fence of\nits foot is reached, which none can break through.\n\nSec. 7. If, therefore, we venture to advance towards the spot where the\ncloud first comes down, it is rather with the purpose of fully pointing\nout that there is a cloud, than of entering into it. It is well to have\nbeen fully convinced of the existence of the mystery, in an age far too\napt to suppose that everything which is visible is explicable, and\neverything that is present, eternal. But besides ascertaining the\nexistence of this mystery, we shall perhaps be able to form some new\nconjectures respecting the facts of mountain aspects in the past ages.\nNot respecting the processes or powers to which the hills owe their\norigin, but respecting the aspect they first assumed.\n\nSec. 8. For it is evident that, through all their ruin, some traces must\nstill exist of the original contours. The directions in which the mass\ngives way must have been dictated by the disposition of its ancient\nsides; and the currents of the streams that wear its flanks must still,\nin great part, follow the course of the primal valleys. So that, in the\nactual form of any mountain peak, there must usually be traceable the\nshadow or skeleton of its former self; like the obscure indications of\nthe first frame of a war-worn tower, preserved, in some places, under\nthe heap of its ruins, in others to be restored in imagination from the\nthin remnants of its tottering shell; while here and there, in some\nsheltered spot, a few unfallen stones retain their Gothic sculpture, and\na few touches of the chisel, or stains of color, inform us of the whole\nmind and perfect skill of the old designer. With this great difference,\nnevertheless, that in the human architecture the builder did not\ncalculate upon ruin, nor appoint the course of impendent desolation; but\nthat in the hand of the great Architect of the mountains, time and decay\nare as much the instruments of His purpose as the forces by which He\nfirst led forth the troops of hills in leaping flocks:--the lightning\nand the torrent, and the wasting and weariness of innumerable ages, all\nbear their part in the working out of one consistent plan; and the\nBuilder of the temple for ever stands beside His work, appointing the\nstone that is to fall, and the pillar that is to be abased, and guiding\nall the seeming wildness of chance and change, into ordained splendors\nand foreseen harmonies.\n\nSec. 9. Mountain masses, then, considered with respect to their first\nraising and first sculpture, may be conveniently divided into two great\ngroups; namely, those made up of beds or layers, commonly called\nstratified; and those made of more or less united substance, called\nunstratified. The former are nearly always composed of coherent rocks,\nthe latter of crystallines; and the former almost always occupy the\noutside, the latter the centre of mountain chains. It signifies,\ntherefore, very little whether we distinguish the groups by calling one\nstratified and the other unstratified, or one \"coherent\" and the other\n\"crystalline,\" or one \"lateral\" and the other \"central.\" But as this\nlast distinction in position seems to have more influence on their forms\nthan either of the others, it is, perhaps, best, when we are examining\nthem in connection with art, that this should be thoroughly kept in\nmind; and therefore we will consider the first group under the title of\n\"lateral ranges,\" and the second under that of \"central peaks.\"\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 8.]\n\nSec. 10. The LATERAL RANGES, which we are first to examine, are, for the\nmost part, broad tabular masses of sandstone, limestone, or whatever\ntheir material may be,--tilted slightly up over large spaces (several or\nmany miles square), and forming precipices with their exposed edges, as\na book resting obliquely on another book forms miniature precipices with\nits back and sides. The book is a tolerably accurate representation of\nthe mountain in substance, as well as in external aspect; nearly all\nthese tabular masses of rock being composed of a multitude of thinner\nbeds or layers, as the thickness of the book is made up of its leaves;\nwhile every one of the mountain leaves is usually written over, though\nin dim characters, like those of a faded manuscript, with history of\ndeparted ages.\n\n\"How were these mountain volumes raised, and how are they supported?\"\nare the natural questions following such a statement.\n\nAnd the only answer is: \"Behold the cloud.\"\n\nNo eye has ever seen one of these raised on a large scale; no\ninvestigation has brought completely to light the conditions under which\nthe materials which support them were prepared. This only is the simple\nfact, that they _are_ raised into such sloping positions; generally\nseveral resting one upon another, like a row of books fallen down (Fig.\n8); the last book being usually propped by a piece of formless compact\ncrystalline rock, represented by the piece of crumpled paper at _a_.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 9.]\n\nSec. 11. It is another simple fact that this arrangement is not effected in\nan orderly and serene manner; but that the books, if they were ever\nneatly bound, have been fearfully torn to pieces and dog's-eared in the\ncourse of their elevation; sometimes torn leaf from leaf, but more\ncommonly rent across, as if the paper had been wet and soft: or, to\nleave the book similitude, which is becoming inconvenient, the beds seem\nto have been in the consistence of a paste, more or less dry; in some\nplaces brittle, and breaking, like a cake, fairly across; in others\nmoist and tough, and tearing like dough, or bending like hot iron; and,\nin others, crushed and shivering into dust, like unannealed glass. And\nin these various states they are either bent or broken, or shivered, as\nthe case may be, into fragments of various shapes, which are usually\ntossed one on top of another, as above described; but, of course, under\nsuch circumstances, presenting, not the uniform edges of the books, but\njagged edges, as in Fig. 9.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 10.]\n\nSec. 12. Do not let it be said that I am passing my prescribed limits, and\nthat I have tried to enter the clouds, and am describing operations\nwhich have never been witnessed. I describe facts or semblances, not\noperations. I say \"_seem_ to have been,\" not \"have been.\" I say \"_are_\nbent;\" I do not say \"_have been_ bent.\" Most travellers must remember\nthe entrance to the valley of Cluse, from the plain of Bonneville, on\nthe road from Geneva to Chamouni. They remember that immediately after\nentering it they find a great precipice on their left, not less than two\nthousand feet in perpendicular height. That precipice is formed by beds\nof limestone bent like a rainbow, as in Fig. 10. Their edges constitute\nthe cliff; the flat arch which they form with their backs is covered\nwith pine forests and meadows, extending for three or four leagues in\nthe direction of Sixt. Whether the whole mountain was called out of\nnothing into the form it possesses, or created first in the form of a\nlevel mass, and then actually bent and broken by external force, is\nquite irrelevant to our present purpose; but it is impossible to\ndescribe its form without appearing to imply the latter alternative; and\nall the distinct evidence which can be obtained upon the subject points\nto such a conclusion, although there are certain features in such\nmountains which, up to the present time, have rendered all positive\nconclusion impossible, not because they contradict the theories in\nquestion, but because they are utterly inexplicable on any theory\nwhatever.\n\nSec. 13. We return then to our Fig. 9, representing beds which _appear_ to\nhave been broken short off at the edges. \"If they ever were actually\nbroken,\" the reader asks, \"what could have become of the bits?\"\nSometimes they seem to have been lost, carried away no one knows where.\nSometimes they are really found in scattered fragments or dust in the\nneighborhood. Sometimes the mountain is simply broken in two, and the\npieces correspond to each other, only leaving a valley between; but more\nfrequently one half slips down, or the other is pushed up. In such\ncases, the coincidence of part with part is sometimes so exact, that\nhalf of a broken pebble has been found on one side, and the other half\nfive or six hundred feet below, on the other.\n\nSec. 14. The beds, however, which are to form mountains of any eminence are\nseldom divided in this gentle way. If brittle, one would think they had\nbeen broken as a captain's biscuit breaks, leaving sharp and ragged\nedges; and if tough, they appear to have been torn asunder very much\nlike a piece of new cheese.\n\nThe beds which present the most definite appearances of abrupt fracture,\nare those of that grey or black limestone above described (Chap. x. Sec.\n4), formed into a number of thin layers or leaves, commonly separated by\nfilmy spreadings of calcareous sand, hard when dry, but easily softened\nby moisture; the whole, considered as a mass, easily friable, though\nparticular beds may be very thick and hard. Imagine a layer of such\nsubstance, three or four thousand feet thick, broken with a sharp crash\nthrough the middle, and one piece of it thrown up as in Fig. 11. It is\nevident that the first result of such a shock would be a complete\nshattering of the consistence of the broken edges, and that these would\nfall, some on the instant, and others tottering and crumbling away from\ntime to time, until the cliff had got in some degree settled into a\ntenable form. The fallen fragments would lie in a confused heap at the\nbottom, hiding perhaps one half of its height, as in Fig. 12; the top of\nit, wrought into somewhat less ragged shape, would thenceforth submit\nitself only to the gradual influences of time and storm.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 11.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 12.]\n\nI do not say that this operation has actually taken place. I merely say\nthat such cliffs do in multitudes _exist_ in the form shown at Fig. 12,\nor, more properly speaking, in that form modified by agencies in\nvisible operation, whose work can be traced upon them, touch by touch.\nBut the condition at Fig. 12 is the first rough blocking out of their\nform, the primal state in which they demonstrably were, some thousands\nof years ago, but beyond which no human reason can trace them without\ndanger of error. The cloud fastens upon them there.\n\nSec. 15. It is rare, however, that such a cliff as that represented in Fig.\n12 can maintain itself long in such a contour. Usually it moulders\ngradually away into a steep mound or bank; and the larger number of bold\ncliffs are composed of far more solid rock, which in its general make is\nquite unshattered and flawless; apparently unaffected, as far as its\ncoherence is concerned, by any shock it may have suffered in being\nraised to its position, or hewn into its form. Beds occur in the Alps\ncomposed of solid coherent limestone (such as that familiar to the\nEnglish traveller in the cliffs of Matlock and Bristol), 3000 or 4000\nfeet thick, and broken short off throughout a great part of this\nthickness, forming nearly[50] sheer precipices not less than 1500 or\n2000 feet in height, after all deduction has been made for slopes of\ndebris at the bottom, and for rounded diminution at the top.\n\nSec. 16. The geologist plunges into vague suppositions and fantastic\ntheories in order to account for these cliffs; but, after all that can\nbe dreamed or discovered, they remain in great part inexplicable. If\nthey were interiorly shattered, it would be easy to understand that, in\ntheir hardened condition, they had been broken violently asunder; but it\nis not easy to conceive a firm cliff of limestone broken through a\nthickness of 2000 feet without showing a crack in any other part of it.\nIf they were divided in a soft state, like that of paste, it is still\nless easy to understand how any such soft material could maintain\nitself, till it dried, in the form of a cliff so enormous and so\nponderous: it must have flowed down from the top, or squeezed itself out\nin bulging protuberance at the base. But it has done neither; and we are\nleft to choose between the suppositions that the mountain was created in\na form approximating to that which it now wears, or that the shock which\nproduced it was so violent and irresistible, as to do its work neatly\nin an instant, and cause no flaws to the rock except in the actual line\nof fracture. The force must have been analogous either to the light and\nsharp blow of the hammer with which one breaks a stone into two pieces\nas it lies in the hand, or the parting caused by settlement under great\nweight, like the cracks through the brickwork of a modern ill-built\nhouse. And yet the very beds which seem at the time they were broken to\nhave possessed this firmness of consistency, are also bent throughout\ntheir whole body into waves, apparently following the action of the\nforce that fractured them, like waves of sea under the wind. Truly the\ncloud lies darkly upon us here!\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 13.]\n\nSec. 17. And it renders these precipices more remarkable that there is in\nthem no principle of compensation against destructive influences. They\nare not cloven back continually into new cliffs, as our chalk shores are\nby the sea; otherwise, one might attribute their first existence to the\nforce of streams. But, on the contrary, the action of years upon them is\nnow always one of deterioration. The increasing heap of fallen fragments\nconceals more and more of their base, and the wearing of the rain lowers\nthe height and softens the sternness of their brows, so that a great\npart of their terror has evidently been subdued by time; and the farther\nwe endeavor to penetrate their history, the more mysterious are the\nforms we are required to explain.\n\n\n The three great representative forms of stratified mountains.\n\nSec. 18. Hitherto, however, for the sake of clearness, we have spoken of\nhills as if they were composed of a single mass or volume of rock. It is\nvery seldom that they are so. Two or three layers are usually raised at\nonce, with certain general results on mountain form, which it is next\nnecessary to examine.\n\n\n 1. Wall above slope.\n\n1st. Suppose a series of beds raised in the condition _a_, Fig. 13, the\nlowest soft, the uppermost compact; it is evident that the lower beds\nwould rapidly crumble away, and the compact mass above break for want of\nsupport, until the rocks beneath had reached a slope at which they could\nsecurely sustain themselves, as well as the weight of wall above, thus\nbringing the hill into the outline _b_.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 14.]\n\n\n 2. Slope above wall.\n\n2d. If, on the other hand, the hill were originally raised as at _c_,\nthe softest beds being at the top, these would crumble into their smooth\nslope without affecting the outline of the mass below, and the hill\nwould assume the form _d_, large masses of debris being in either of\nthese two cases accumulated at the foot of the slope, or of the cliff.\nThese first ruins might, by subsequent changes, be variously engulfed,\ncarried away, or covered over, so as to leave nothing visible, or at\nleast nothing notable, but the great cliff with its slope above or below\nit. Without insisting on the evidences or probabilities of such\nconstruction, it is sufficient to state that mountains of the two types,\n_b_ and _d_, are exceedingly common in all parts of the world; and\nthough of course confused with others, and themselves always more or\nless imperfectly developed, yet they are, on the whole, singularly\ndefinite as classes of hills, examples of which can hardly but remain\nclearly impressed on the mind of every traveller. Of the first, _b_,\nSalisbury Crags, near Edinburgh, is a nearly perfect instance, though on\na diminutive scale. The cliffs of Lauterbrunnen, in the Oberland, are\nalmost without exception formed on the type _d_.\n\n\n 3. Slope and wall alternately.\n\n3d. When the elevated mass, instead of consisting merely of two great\ndivisions, includes alternately hard and soft beds, as at _a_, Fig. 14,\nthe vertical cliffs and inclined banks alternate with each other, and\nthe mountain rises on a series of steps, with receding slopes of turf or\ndebris on the ledge of each, as at _b_. At the head of the valley of\nSixt, in Savoy, huge masses of mountain connected with the Buet are thus\nconstructed: their slopes are quite smooth, and composed of good pasture\nland, and the cliffs in many places literally vertical. In the summer\nthe peasants make hay on the inclined pastures; and the hay is \"carried\"\nby merely binding the haycocks tight and rolling them down the slope and\nover the cliff, when I have heard them fall to the bank below, a height\nof from five to eight hundred feet, with a sound like the distant report\nof a heavy piece of artillery.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 15.]\n\nSec. 19. The next point of importance in these beds is the curvature, to\nwhich, as well as to fracture, they seem to have been subjected. This\ncurvature is not to be confounded with that rippling or undulating\ncharacter of every portion of the slaty crystalline rocks above\ndescribed. I am now speaking of all kinds of rocks indifferently;--not\nof their appearance in small pieces, but of their great contours in\nmasses, thousands of feet thick. And it is almost universally true of\nthese masses that they do not merely lie in flat superposition one over\nanother, as the books in Fig. 8; but they lie in _waves_, more or less\nvast and sweeping according to the scale of the country, as in Fig. 15,\nwhere the distance from one side of the figure to the other is supposed\nto be four or five leagues.\n\nSec. 20. Now, observe, if the precipices which we have just been describing\nhad been broken when their substance was in a hard state, there appears\nno reason why any connexion should be apparent between the energy of\n_undulation_ and these _broken_ rocks. If the continuous waves were\ncaused by convulsive movements of the earth's surface while its\nsubstance was pliable, and were left in repose for so long a period as\nto become perfectly hard before they were broken into cliffs, there\nseems no reason why the second series of shocks should so closely have\nconfined itself to the locality which had suffered the first, that the\nmost abrupt precipices should always be associated with the wildest\nwaves. We might have expected that sometimes we should have had noble\ncliffs raised where the waves had been slight; and sometimes low and\nslight fractures where the waves had been violent. But this is not so.\nThe contortions and fractures bear always such relation to each other as\nappears positively to imply contemporaneous formation. Through all the\nlowland districts of the world the average contour of the waves of rock\nis somewhat as represented in Fig. 16 _a_, and the little cliffs or\nhills formed at the edges of the beds (whether by fracture, or, as\noftener happens in such countries, by gradual washing away under the\nsurge of ancient seas) are no higher, in proportion to the extent of\nsurface, than the little steps seen in the centre of the figure. Such is\nthe nature, and such the scale, of the ranges of hills which form our\nown downs and wolds, and the French coteaux beside their winding rivers.\nBut as we approach the hill countries, the undulation becomes more\nmarked, and the crags more bold; so that almost any portion of such\nmountain ranges as the Jura or the Vosges will present itself under\nconditions such as those at _b_, the precipices at the edges being\nbolder in exact proportion to the violence of wave. And, finally, in the\ncentral and noblest chains the undulation becomes literally contortion;\nthe beds occur in such positions as those at _c_, and the precipices are\nbold and terrific in exact proportion to this exaggerated and tremendous\ncontortion.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 16.]\n\nSec. 21. These facts appear to be just as contrary to the supposition of\nthe mountains having been formed while the rocks were hard, as the\nconsiderations adduced in Sec. 15 are to that of their being formed while\nthey were soft. And I believe the more the reader revolves the subject\nin his thoughts, and the more opportunities he has of examining the\nexisting facts, the less explicable those facts will become to him, and\nthe more reverent will be his acknowledgment of the presence of the\ncloud.\n\nFor, as he examines more clearly the structure of the great mountain\nranges, he will find that though invariably the boldest forms are\nassociated with the most violent contortions, they sometimes _follow_\nthe contortions, and sometimes appear entirely independent of them. For\ninstance, in crossing the pass of the Tete Noire, if the traveller\ndefers his journey till near the afternoon, so that from the top of the\npass he may see the great limestone mountain in the Valais, called the\nDent de Morcles, under the full evening light, he will observe that its\npeaks are hewn out of a group of contorted beds, as shown in Fig. 4,\nPlate 29. The wild and irregular zigzag of the beds, which traverse the\nface of the cliff with the irregularity of a flash of lightning, has\napparently not the slightest influence on the outline of the peak. It\nhas been carved out of the mass, with no reference whatever to the\ninterior structure. In like manner, as we shall see hereafter, the most\nwonderful peak in the whole range of the Alps seems to have been cut out\nof a series of nearly horizontal beds, as a square pillar of hay is cut\nout of a half-consumed haystack. And yet, on the other hand, we meet\nperpetually with instances in which the curves of the beds have in great\npart directed the shape of the whole mass of mountain. The gorge which\nleads from the village of Ardon, in the Valais, up to the root of the\nDiablerets, runs between two ranges of limestone hills, of which the\nrude contour is given in Fig. 17, page 154. The great slope seen on the\nleft, rising about seven thousand feet above the ravine, is nothing but\nthe back of one sheet of limestone, whose broken edge forms the first\ncliff at the top, a height of about six hundred feet, the second cliff\nbeing the edge of another bed emergent beneath it, and the slope beyond,\nthe surface of a third. These beds of limestone all descend at a uniform\ninclination into the gorge, where they are snapped short off, the\ntorrent cutting its way along the cleft, while the beds rise on the\nother side in a huge contorted wave, forming the ridge of mountains on\nthe right,--a chain about seven miles in length, and from five thousand\nto six thousand feet in height. The actual order of the beds is seen in\nFig. 18, and it is one of the boldest and clearest examples of the form\nof mountains being correspondent to the curves of beds which I have ever\nseen; it also exhibits a condition of the summits which is of constant\noccurrence in stratified hills, and peculiarly important as giving rise\nto the serrated structure, rendered classical by the Spaniards in their\nuniversal term for mountain ridges, Sierra, and obtaining for one of the\nmost important members of the Comasque chain of Alps its well known\nItalian name--Il Resegone. Such mountains are not merely successions of\nirregular peaks, more or less resembling the edge of a much-hacked\nsword; they are orderly successions of teeth set in one direction,\nclosely resembling those of a somewhat overworn saw, and nearly always\nproduced by successive beds emerging one from beneath the other.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 18.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 17.]\n\nSec. 22. In all such cases there is an infinitely greater difficulty in\naccounting for the forms than in explaining the fracture of a single\nbed. How, and when, and where, were the other portions carried away? Was\neach bed once continuous over a much larger space from the point where\nits edge is now broken off, or have such beds slipped back into some\ngulf behind them? It is very easy for geologists to speak generally of\nelevation and convulsion, but very difficult to explain what sort of\nconvulsion it could be which passed forward from the edge of one bed to\nthe edge of another, and broke the required portion off each without\ndisturbing the rest. Try the experiment in the simplest way: put half a\ndozen of hard captain's biscuits in a sloping position on a table, and\nthen try, as they lie, to break the edge of each, one by one, without\ndisturbing the rest. At least, you will have to raise the edge before\nyou can break it; to put your hand underneath, between it and the next\nbiscuit, before you can get any purchase on it. What force was it that\nput its fingers between one bed of limestone 600 feet thick and the next\nbeneath? If you try to break the biscuits by a blow from above, observe\nthe necessary force of your blow, and then conceive, if you can, the\nsort of hammer that was required to break the 600 feet of rock through\nin the same way. But, also, you will, ten to one, break two biscuits at\nthe same time. Now, in these serrated formations, two biscuits are\n_never_ broken at the same time. There is no appearance of the slightest\njar having taken place affecting the bed beneath. If there be, a huge\ncliff or gorge is formed at that spot, not a sierra. Thus, in Fig. 18,\nthe beds are affected throughout their united body by the shock which\nformed the ravine at _a_; but they are broken, one by one, into the\ncliffs at _b_ and _c_. Sometimes one is tempted to think that they must\nhave been slipped back, one from off the other; but there is never any\nappearance of friction having taken place on their exposed surfaces; in\nthe plurality of instances their continuance or rise from their roots in\nwaves (see Fig. 16 above) renders the thing utterly impossible; and in\nthe few instances which have been known of such action actually taking\nplace (which have always been on a small scale), the sliding bed has\nbeen torn into a thousand fragments almost as soon as it began to\nmove.[51]\n\nSec. 23. And, finally, supposing a force found capable of breaking these\nbeds in the manner required, what force was it that carried the\nfragments away? How were the gigantic fields of shattered marble\nconveyed from the ledges which were to remain exposed? No signs of\nviolence are found on these ledges; what marks there are, the rain and\nnatural decay have softly traced through a long series of years. Those\nvery time-marks may have indeed effaced mere superficial appearances of\nconvulsion; but could they have effaced all evidence of the action of\nsuch floods as would have been necessary to carry bodily away the whole\nruin of a block of marble leagues in length and breadth, and a quarter\nof a mile thick? Ponder over the intense marvellousness of this. The bed\nat _c_ (Fig. 18) must first be broken through the midst of it into a\nsharp precipice, without at all disturbing it elsewhere; and then all of\nit beyond _c_ is to be broken up, and carried perfectly away, without\ndisturbing or wearing down the face of the cliff at _c_.\n\nAnd yet no trace of the means by which all this was effected is left.\nThe rock stands forth in its white and rugged mystery, as if its peak\nhad been born out of the blue sky. The strength that raised it, and the\nsea that wrought upon it, have passed away, and left no sign; and we\nhave no words wherein to describe their departure, no thoughts to form\nabout their action, than those of the perpetual and unsatisfied\ninterrogation,--\n\n \"What ailed thee, O thou sea, that thou fleddest?\n And ye mountains, that ye skipped like lambs?\"\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [49] How far, is another question. The sand which the stream brings\n from the bottom of one eddy in its course, it throws down in the\n next; all that is _proved_ by the above trial is, that so many tons\n of material are annually carried down by it a certain number of\n feet.\n\n [50] _Nearly_; that is to say, not quite vertical. Of the degree of\n steepness, we shall have more to say hereafter.\n\n [51] The Rossberg fall, compared to the convulsions which seem to\n have taken place in the higher Alps, is like the slip of a paving\n stone compared to the fall of a tower.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nOF THE SCULPTURE OF MOUNTAINS:--SECONDLY, THE CENTRAL PEAKS.\n\n\nSec. 1. In the 20th paragraph of the last chapter, it was noticed that\nordinarily the most irregular contortions or fractures of beds of rock\nwere found in the districts of most elevated hills, the contortion or\nfracture thus appearing to be produced at the moment of elevation. It\nhas also previously been stated that the hardness and crystalline\nstructure of the material increased with the mountainous character of\nthe ground; so that we find as almost invariably correlative, the\n_hardness_ of the rock, its _distortion_, and its _height_; and, in like\nmanner its _softness_, _regularity_ of _position_, and _lowness_. Thus,\nthe line of beds in an English range of down, composed of soft chalk\nwhich crumbles beneath the fingers, will be as low and continuous as in\n_a_ of Fig. 16 (p. 151); the beds in the Jura mountains, composed of\nfirm limestone, which needs a heavy hammer stroke to break it, will be\nas high and wavy as at _b_; and the ranges of Alps, composed of slaty\ncrystallines, yielding only to steel wedges or to gunpowder, will be as\nlofty and as wild in structure as at _c_. Without this beneficent\nconnection of hardness of material with height, mountain ranges either\ncould not have existed, or would not have been habitable. In their\npresent magnificent form, they could not have existed; and whatever\ntheir forms, the frequent falls and crumblings away, which are of little\nconsequence in the low crags of Hastings, Dover, or Lyme, would have\nbeen fatal to the population of the valleys beneath, when they took\nplace from heights of eight or ten thousand feet.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 19.]\n\nSec. 2. But this hardening of the material would not have been sufficient,\nby itself, to secure the safety of the inhabitants. Unless the reader\nhas been already familiarized with geological facts, he must surely have\nbeen struck by the prominence of the _bedded_ structure in all the\ninstances of mountain form given in the preceding chapter; and must have\nasked himself, Why are mountains always built in this masonry-like way,\nrather than in compact masses? Now, it is true that according to present\ngeological theories, the bedded structure was a necessary consequence of\nthe mode in which the materials were accumulated; but it is not less\ntrue that this bedded structure is now the principal means of securing\nthe stability of the mass, and is to be regarded as a beneficent\nappointment, with such special view. That structure compels each\nmountain to assume the safest contour of which under the given\ncircumstances of upheaval it is capable. If it were all composed of an\namorphous mass of stone as at A, Fig. 19, a crack beginning from the\ntop, as at _x_ in A, might gradually extend downwards in the direction\n_x y_ in B, until the whole mass, indicated by the shade, separated\nitself and fell. But when the whole mountain is arranged in beds, as at\nC, the crack beginning at the top stops in the uppermost bed, or, if it\nextends to the next, it will be in a different place, and the detached\nblocks, marked by the shaded portions, are of course still as secure in\ntheir positions as before the crack took place. If, indeed, the beds\nsloped towards the precipice, as at D, the danger would be greater; but\nif the reader looks to any of the examples of mountain form hitherto\ngiven, he will find that the universal tendency of the modes of\nelevation is to cause the beds to slope _away_ from the precipice, and\nto build the whole mountain in the form C, which affords the utmost\npossible degree of security. Nearly all the mountains which rise\nimmediately above thickly peopled districts, though they may appear to\nbe thrown into isolated peaks, are in reality nothing more than flattish\nranks of rock, terminated by walls of cliff, of this perfectly safe\nkind; and it will be part of our task in the succeeding chapter to\nexamine at some length the modes in which sublime and threatening forms\nare almost deceptively assumed by arrangements of mountain which are in\nthemselves thus simple and secure.\n\nSec. 3. It, however, fell within the purpose of the Great Builder to give,\nin the highest peaks of mountains, examples of form more strange and\nmajestic than any which could be attained by structures so beneficently\nadapted to the welfare of the human race. And the admission of other\nmodes of elevation, more terrific and less secure, takes place exactly\nin proportion to the increasing presence of such conditions in the\nlocality as shall render it on other grounds unlikely to be inhabited,\nor incapable of being so. Where the soil is rich and the climate soft,\nthe hills are low and safe;[52] as the ground becomes poorer and the air\nkeener, they rise into forms of more peril and pride; and their utmost\nterror is shown only where their fragments fall on trackless ice, and\nthe thunder of their ruin can be heard but by the ibex and the eagle.\n\nSec. 4. The safety of the lower mountains depends, as has just been\nobserved, on their tendency to divide themselves into beds. But it will\neasily be understood that, together with security, such a structure\ninvolves some monotony of aspect; and that the possibility of a rent\nlike that indicated in the last figure, extending itself without a\ncheck, so as to detach some vast portion of the mountain at once, would\nbe a means of obtaining accidental forms of far greater awfulness. We\nfind, accordingly, that the bedded structure is departed from in the\ncentral peaks; that they are in reality gifted with this power, or, if\nwe choose so to regard it, affected with this weakness, of rending\ndownwards throughout into vertical sheets; and that to this end they are\nusually composed of that structureless and massive rock which we have\ncharacterized by the term \"compact crystalline.\"\n\nSec. 5. This, indeed, is not universal. It happens sometimes that toward\nthe centre of great hill ranges ordinary stratified rocks of the\ncoherent groups are hardened into more compact strength than is usual\nwith them; and out of the hardened mass a peak, or range of peaks, is\ncut as if out of a single block. Thus the well known Dent du Midi of\nBex, a mountain of peculiar interest to the English travellers who crowd\nthe various inns and pensions which now glitter along the shores of the\nLake of Geneva at Vevay, Clarens, and Montreux, is cut out of horizontal\nbeds of rock which are traceable in the evening light by their dark and\nlight lines along its sides, like courses of masonry; the real form of\nthe mountain being that of the ridge of a steep house-roof, jagged and\nbroken at the top, so that, seen from near St. Maurice, the extremity of\nthe ridge appears a sharp pyramid. The Dent de Morcles, opposite the\nDent du Midi, has been already noticed, and is figured in Plate 29, Fig.\n4. In like manner, the Matterhorn is cut out of a block of nearly\nhorizontal beds of gneiss. But in all these cases the materials are so\nhardened and knit together that to all intents and purposes they form\none solid mass, and when the forms are to be of the boldest character\npossible, this solid mass is unstratified, and of compact crystalline\nrock.\n\nSec. 6. In looking from Geneva in the morning light, when Mont Blanc and\nits companion hills are seen dark against the dawn, almost every\ntraveller must have been struck by the notable range of jagged peaks\nwhich bound the horizon immediately to the north-east of Mont Blanc. In\nordinary weather they appear a single chain, but if any clouds or mists\nhappen to float into the heart of the group, it divides itself into two\nranges, lower and higher, as in Fig. 1, Plate 29, of which the uppermost\nand more distant chain is the real crest of the Alps, and the lower and\ndarker line is composed of subordinate peaks which form the south side\nof the valley of Chamouni, and are therefore ordinarily known as the\n\"Aiguilles of Chamouni.\"\n\n[Illustration: J. Ruskin. J.C. Armytage\n 29. Aiguille Structure.]\n\nThough separated by some eight or nine miles of actual distance, the two\nranges are part of one and the same system of rock. They are both of\nthem most notable examples of the structure of the compact crystalline\npeaks, and their jagged and spiry outlines are rendered still more\nremarkable in any view obtained of them in the immediate neighborhood of\nGeneva, by their rising, as in the figure, over two long slopes of\ncomparatively flattish mountain. The highest of these is the back of a\nstratified limestone range, distant about twenty-five miles, whose\nprecipitous extremity, nodding over the little village of St. Martin's,\nis well known under the name of the Aiguille de Varens. The nearer line\nis the edge of another limestone mountain, called the Petit Saleve,\nwithin five miles of Geneva. And thus we have two ranges of the\ncrystalline rocks opposed to two ranges of the coherents, both having\ntheir distinctive characters, the one of vertical fracture, the other of\nlevel continuousness, developed on an enormous scale. I am aware of no\nother view in Europe where the essential characteristics of the two\nformations are so closely and graphically displayed.\n\nSec. 7. Nor can I imagine any person thoughtfully regarding the more\ndistant range, without feeling his curiosity strongly excited as to the\nmethod of its first sculpture. That long banks and fields of rock should\nbe raised aslope, and break at their edges into cliffs, however\nmysterious the details of the operation may be, is yet conceivable in\nthe main circumstances without any great effort of imagination. But the\ncarving of those great obelisks and spires out of an infinitely harder\nrock; the sculpture of all the fretted pinnacles on the inaccessible and\ncalm elevation of that great cathedral,--how and when was this wrought?\nIt is necessary, before the extent and difficulty of such a question can\nbe felt, to explain more fully the scale and character of the peaks\nunder consideration.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 20.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 21.]\n\nSec. 8. The valley of Chamouni, largely viewed, and irrespectively of minor\nravines and irregularities, is nothing more than a deep trench, dug\nbetween two ranges of nearly continuous mountains,--dug with a\nstraightness and evenness which render its scenery, in some respects,\nmore monotonous than that of any other Alpine valley. On each side it is\nbordered by banks of turf, darkened with pine forest, rising at an even\nslope to a height of about 3000 feet, so that it may best be imagined\nas a kind of dry moat, which, if cut across, would be of the form\ntypically shown in Fig. 20; the sloping bank on each side being about\n3000 feet high, or the moat about three fifths of a mile in vertical\ndepth. Then, on the top of the bank, on each side, and a little way back\nfrom the edge of the moat, rise the ranges of the great mountains, in\nthe form of shattered crests and pyramids of barren rock sprinkled with\nsnow. Those on the south side of the valley rise another 3000 feet above\nthe bank on which they stand, so that each of the masses superadded in\nFig. 21 may best be described as a sort of Egyptian pyramid,[53] of the\nheight of Snowden or Ben Lomond, hewn out of solid rock, and set on the\nshoulder of the great bank which borders the valley. Then the Mont\nBlanc, a higher and heavier cluster of such summits, loaded with deep\nsnow, terminates the range. Glaciers of greater or less extent descend\nbetween the pyramids of rock; and one, supplied from their largest\nrecesses, even runs down the bank into the valley. Fig. 22[54] rudely\nrepresents the real contours of the mountains, including Mont Blanc\nitself, on its south side. The range of peaks, _b_, _p_, m, is that\nalready spoken of, known as the \"Aiguilles of Chamouni.\" They form but a\nvery small portion of a great crowd of similar, and, for the most part,\nlarger peaks which constitute the chain of Mont Blanc, and which receive\nfrom the Savoyards the name of Aiguilles, or needles, in consequence of\ntheir peculiarly sharp summits. The forms of these Aiguilles, wonderful\nenough in themselves, are, nevertheless, perpetually exaggerated both by\nthe imagination of the traveller, and by the artists whose delineations\nof them find most frank acceptance. Fig. 1 in Plate 30 is faithfully\ncopied from the representation given of one of these mountains in a\nplate lately published at Geneva. Fig. 2 in the same plate is a true\noutline of the mountain itself. Of the exaggerations in the other I\nshall have more to say presently; meantime, I refer to it merely as a\nproof that I am not myself exaggerating, in giving Fig. 22 as showing\nthe general characters of these peaks.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 22.]\n\nSec. 9. This, then, is the problem to be considered,--How mountains of such\nrugged and precipitous outline, and at the least 3000 feet in height,\nwere originally carved out of the hardest rocks, and set in their\npresent position on the top of the green and sloping bank which sustains\nthem.\n\n\"By mere accident,\" the reader replies. \"The uniform bank might as\neasily have been the highest, and the broken granite peaks have risen\nfrom its sides, or at the bottom of it. It is merely the chance\nformation of the valley of Chamouni.\"\n\nNay; not so. Although, as if to bring the problem more clearly before\nthe thoughts of men, by marking the structure most where the scenery is\nmost attractive, the formation is more distinct at Chamouni than\nanywhere else in the Alpine chain; yet the general condition of a\nrounded bank sustaining jagged or pyramidal peaks is more or less\ntraceable throughout the whole district of the great mountains. The most\ncelebrated spot, next to the valley of Chamouni, is the centre of the\nBernese Oberland; and it will be remembered by all travellers that in\nits principal valley, that of Grindelwald, not only does the summit of\nthe Wetterhorn consist of a sharp pyramid raised on the advanced\nshoulder of a great promontory, but the two most notable summits of the\nBernese Alps, the Schreckhorn and Finsteraarhorn, cannot be seen from\nthe valley at all, being thrown far back upon an elevated plateau, of\nwhich only the advanced head or shoulder, under the name of the\nMettenberg, can be seen from the village. The real summits, consisting\nin each case of a ridge starting steeply from this elevated plateau, as\nif by a new impulse of angry or ambitious mountain temper, can only be\nseen by ascending a considerable height upon the flank of the opposite\nmass of the Faulhorn.\n\nSec. 10. And this is, if possible, still more notably and provokingly the\ncase with the great peaks of the chain of Alps between Monte Rosa and\nMont Blanc. It will be seen, by a glance at any map of Switzerland, that\nthe district which forms the canton Valais is, in reality, nothing but a\nravine sixty miles long, between that central chain and the Alps of the\ncantons Fribourg and Berne. This ravine is also, in its general\nstructure, merely a deeper and wider _moat_ than that already described\nas forming the valley of Chamouni. It lies, in the same manner, between\ntwo _banks_ of mountain; and the principal peaks are precisely in the\nsame manner set back upon the tops of these banks; and so provokingly\nfar back, that throughout the whole length of the valley not one of the\nsummits of the chief chain can be seen from it. That usually pointed out\nto travellers as Monte Rosa is a subordinate, though still very colossal\nmass, called the Montagne de Saas; and this is the only peak of great\nsize discoverable from the valley throughout its extent; one or two\nglimpses of the snows, not at any eminent point, being caught through\nthe entrances of the lateral valleys of Evolena, &c.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 23.]\n\nSec. 11. Nor is this merely the consequence of the great _distance_ of the\ncentral ridge. It would be intelligible enough that the mountains should\nrise gradually higher and higher towards the middle of the chain, so\nthat the summit at _a_ in the upper diagram of Fig. 23 should be\nconcealed by the intermediate eminences _b_, _c_, from the valley at\n_d_. But this is not, by any means, the manner in which the concealment\nis effected. The great peaks stand, as at _a_ in the lower diagram,\njagged, sharp, and suddenly starting out of a comparatively tame mass\nof elevated land, through which the trench of the valley of the Rhone is\ncut, as at _c_. The subdivision of the bank at _b_ by thousands of\nravines, and its rise, here and there, into more or less notable\nsummits, conceal the real fact of the structure from a casual observer.\nBut the longer I stayed among the Alps, and the more closely I examined\nthem, the more I was struck by the one broad fact of their being a vast\nAlpine plateau, or mass of elevated land, upon which nearly all the\nhighest peaks stood like children set upon a table, removed, in most\ncases, far back from the edge of the plateau, as if for fear of their\nfalling. And the most majestic scenes in the Alps are produced, not so\nmuch by any violation of this law, as by one of the great peaks having\napparently walked to the edge of the table to look over, and thus\nshowing itself suddenly above the valley in its full height. This is the\ncase with the Wetterhorn and Eiger at Grindelwald, and with the Grande\nJorasse, above the Col de Ferret. But the raised bank or table is always\nintelligibly in existence, even in these apparently exceptional cases;\nand, for the most part, the great peaks are not allowed to come to the\nedge of it, but remain like the keeps of castles far withdrawn,\nsurrounded, league beyond league, by comparatively level fields of\nmountain, over which the lapping sheets of glacier writhe and flow,\nfoaming about the feet of the dark central crests like the surf of an\nenormous sea-breaker hurled over a rounded rock, and islanding some\nfragment of it in the midst. And the result of this arrangement is a\nkind of division of the whole of Switzerland into an upper and lower\nmountain-world; the lower world consisting of rich valleys bordered by\nsteep, but easily accessible, wooded banks of mountain, more or less\ndivided by ravines, through which glimpses are caught of the higher\nAlps; the upper world, reached after the first steep banks, of 3000 or\n4000 feet in height, have been surmounted, consisting of comparatively\nlevel but most desolate tracts of moor and rock, half covered by\nglacier, and stretching to the feet of the true pinnacles of the chain.\n\nSec. 12. It can hardly be necessary to point out the perfect wisdom and\nkindness of this arrangement, as a provision for the safety of the\ninhabitants of the high mountain regions. If the great peaks rose at\nonce from the deepest valleys, every stone which was struck from their\npinnacles, and every snow-wreath which slipped from their ledges, would\ndescend at once upon the inhabitable ground, over which no year could\npass without recording some calamity of earth-slip or avalanche; while,\nin the course of their fall, both the stones and the snow would strip\nthe woods from the hill sides, leaving only naked channels of\ndestruction where there are now the sloping meadow and the chestnut\nglade. Besides this, the masses of snow, cast down at once into the\nwarmer air, would all melt rapidly in the spring, causing furious\ninundation of every great river for a month or six weeks. The snow being\nthen all thawed, except what lay upon the highest peaks in regions of\nnearly perpetual frost, the rivers would be supplied, during the summer,\nonly by fountains, and the feeble tricklings on sunny days from the high\nsnows. The Rhone under such circumstances would hardly be larger at\nLyons than the Severn at Shrewsbury, and many Swiss valleys would be\nleft almost without moisture. All these calamities are prevented by the\npeculiar Alpine structure which has been described. The broken rocks and\nthe sliding snow of the high peaks, instead of being dashed at once to\nthe vales, are caught upon the desolate shelves or shoulders which\neverywhere surround the central crests. The soft banks which terminate\nthese shelves, traversed by no falling fragments, clothe themselves with\nrichest wood; while the masses of snow heaped upon the ledge above them,\nin a climate neither so warm as to thaw them quickly in the spring, nor\nso cold as to protect them from all the power of the summer sun, either\nform themselves into glaciers, or remain in slowly wasting fields even\nto the close of the year,--in either case supplying constant, abundant,\nand regular streams to the villages and pastures beneath, and, to the\nrest of Europe, noble and navigable rivers.\n\nSec. 13. Now, that such a structure is the best and wisest possible, is,\nindeed, sufficient reason for its existence; and to many people it may\nseem useless to question farther respecting its origin. But I can hardly\nconceive any one standing face to face with one of these towers of\ncentral rock, and yet not also asking himself, Is this indeed the actual\nfirst work of the Divine Master on which I gaze? Was the great precipice\nshaped by His finger, as Adam was shaped out of the dust? Were its\nclefts and ledges carved upon it by its Creator, as the letters were on\nthe Tables of the Law, and was it thus left to bear its eternal\ntestimony to His beneficence among these clouds of heaven? Or is it the\ndescendant of a long race of mountains, existing under appointed laws of\nbirth and endurance, death and decrepitude?\n\nSec. 14. There can be no doubt as to the answer. The rock itself answers\naudibly by the murmur of some falling stone or rending pinnacle. It is\n_not_ as it was once. Those waste leagues around its feet are loaded\nwith the wrecks of what it was. On these, perhaps, of all mountains, the\ncharacters of decay are written most clearly; around these are spread\nmost gloomily the memorials of their pride, and the signs of their\nhumiliation.\n\n\"What then were they once?\"\n\nThe only answer is yet again,--\"Behold the cloud.\"\n\nTheir form, as far as human vision can trace it, is one of eternal\ndecay. No retrospection can raise them out of their ruins, or withdraw\nthem beyond the law of their perpetual fate. Existing science may be\nchallenged to form, with the faintest color of probability, any\nconception of the original aspect of a crystalline mountain; it cannot\nbe followed in its elevation, nor traced in its connection with its\nfellows. No eyes ever \"saw its substance, yet being imperfect;\" its\nhistory is a monotone of endurance and destruction: all that we can\ncertainly know of it, is that it was once greater than it is now, and it\nonly gathers vastness, and still gathers, as it fades into the abyss of\nthe unknown.\n\nSec. 15. Yet this one piece of certain evidence ought not to be altogether\nunpursued; and while, with all humility, we shrink from endeavoring to\ntheorize respecting processes which are concealed, we ought not to\nrefuse to follow, as far as it will lead us, the course of thought which\nseems marked out by conspicuous and consistent phenomena. Exactly as the\nform of the lower mountains seems to have been produced by certain\nraisings and bendings of their formerly level beds, so the form of these\nhigher mountains seems to have been produced by certain breakings away\nfrom their former elevated mass. If the process appears in either case\ndoubtful, it is less so with respect to the higher hills. We may not\neasily believe that the steep limestone cliffs on one side of a valley,\nnow apparently secure and steadfast, ever were united with the cliffs on\nthe other side; but we cannot hesitate to admit that the peak which we\nsee shedding its flakes of granite, on all sides of it, as a fading rose\nlets fall its leaves, was once larger than it is, and owes the present\ncharacters of its forms chiefly to the modes of its diminution.\n\nSec. 16. Holding fast this clue, we have next to take into consideration\nanother fact of not less importance,--that over the whole of the rounded\nbanks of lower mountain, wherever they have been in anywise protected\nfrom the injuries of time, there are yet visible the tracks of ancient\nglaciers. I will not here enter into detail respecting the mode in which\ntraces of glaciers are distinguishable. It is enough to state that the\nfootmark, so to speak, of a glacier is just as easily recognizable as\nthe trail of any well-known animal; and that with as much confidence as\nwe should feel in asserting that a horse had passed along a soft road\nwhich yet retained the prints of its shoes, it may be concluded that the\nglaciers of the Alps had once triple or quadruple the extent that they\nhave now; so that not only the banks of inferior mountains were once\ncovered with sheets of ice, but even the great valley of the Rhone\nitself was the bed of an enormous \"Mer de Glace,\" which extended beyond\nthe Lake of Geneva to the slopes of Jura.[55]\n\nSec. 17. From what has already been noted of glacier action, the reader\ncannot but be aware that its universal effect is to round and soften the\ncontours of the mountains subjected to it; so that a glacier may be\nconsidered as a vast instrument of friction, a white sand-paper, applied\nslowly but irresistibly to all the roughnesses of the hill which it\ncovers. And this effect is of course greatest when the ice flows\nfastest, and contains more embedded stones; that is to say, greater\ntowards the lower part of a mountain than near its summit.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 24.]\n\nSuppose now a chain of mountains raised in any accidental form, only of\ncourse highest where the force was greatest,--that is to say, at the\ncentre of the chain,--and presenting any profile such as _a_, Fig. 24;\nterminated, perhaps, by a broken secondary cliff, and the whole covered\nwith a thick bed of glacier, indicated by the spotted space, and moving\nin the direction of the arrows. As it wears away the mountain, not at\nall at the top, but always more and more as it descends, it would in\nprocess of time reduce the contour of the flank of the hill to the form\nat _b_. But at this point the snow would begin to slide from the central\npeak, and to leave its rocks exposed to the action of the atmosphere.\nSupposing those rocks disposed to break into vertical sheets, the summit\nwould soon cleave itself into such a form as that at _x_; and the\nflakes again subdividing and falling, we should have conditions such as\nat _y_. Meanwhile the glacier is still doing its work uninterruptedly on\nthe lower bank, bringing the mountain successively into the outlines _c_\nand _d_, in which the forms _x_ and _y_ are substituted consecutively\nfor the original summit. But the level of the whole flank of the\nmountain being now so much reduced, the glacier has brought itself by\nits own work into warmer climate, and has wrought out its own\ndestruction. It would gradually be thinned away, and in many places at\nlast vanish, leaving only the barren rounded mountains, and the tongues\nof ice still supplied from the peaks above.\n\nSec. 18. Such is the actual condition of the Alps at this moment. I do not\nsay that they have in reality undergone any such process. But I think it\nright to put the supposition before the reader, more with a view of\nexplaining what the appearance of things actually is, than with any wish\nthat he should adopt either this or any other theory on the subject. It\nfacilitates a description of the Breche de Roland to say, that it looks\nas if the peer had indeed cut it open with a swordstroke; but it would\nbe unfair to conclude that the describer gravely wished the supposition\nto be adopted as explanatory of the origin of the ravine. In like\nmanner, the reader who has followed the steps of the theory I have just\noffered, will have a clearer conception of the real look and anatomy of\nthe Alps than I could give him by any other means. But he is welcome to\naccept in seriousness just as much or as little of the theory as he\nlikes.[56] Only I am well persuaded that the more familiar any one\nbecomes with the chain of the Alps, the more, whether voluntarily or\nnot, the idea will force itself upon him of their being mere remnants of\nlarge masses,--splinters and fragments, as of a stranded wreck, the\ngreater part of which has been removed by the waves; and the more he\nwill be convinced of the existence of two distinct regions, one, as it\nwere, below the ice, another above it,--one of subjected, the other of\nemergent rock; the lower worn away by the action of the glaciers and\nrains, the higher splintering and falling to pieces by natural\ndisintegration.\n\nSec. 19. I press, however, neither conjecture nor inquiry farther; having\nalready stated all that is necessary to give the reader a complete idea\nof the different divisions of mountain form. I proceed now to examine\nthe points of pictorial interest in greater detail; and in order to do\nso more conveniently, I shall adopt the order, in description, which\nNature seems to have adopted in formation; beginning with the mysterious\nhardness of the central crystallines, and descending to the softer and\nlower rocks which we see in some degree modified by the slight forces\nstill in operation. We will therefore examine: 1. the pictorial\nphenomena of the central peaks; 2. those of the summits of the lower\nmountains round them, to which we shall find it convenient to give the\ndistinguishing name of crests; 3. the formation of Precipices, properly\nso called; then, the general aspect of the Banks and Slopes, produced by\nthe action of water or of falling debris, on the sides or at the bases\nof mountains; and finally, remove, if it may be, a few of the undeserved\nscorns thrown upon our most familiar servants, Stones. To each of these\nsubjects we shall find it necessary to devote a distinct chapter.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [52] It may be thought I should have reversed these sentences, and\n written where the hills are low and safe, the climate is soft, &c.\n But it is not so. No antecedent reason can be shown why the Mont\n Cervin or Finsteraarhorn should not have risen sharp out of the\n plains of Lombardy, instead of out of glaciers.\n\n [53] I use the terms \"pyramid\" and \"peak\" at present, in order to\n give a rough general idea of the aspect of these hills. Both terms,\n as we shall see in the next chapter, are to be accepted under\n limitation.\n\n [54] This coarse sketch is merely given for reference, as I shall\n often have to speak of the particular masses of mountain, indicated\n by the letters in the outline below it; namely--\n\n _b._ Aiguille Blaitiere. _p._ Aiguille du Plan.\n _m._ Aiguille du Midi. M. Mont Blanc (summit).\n _d._ Dome du Goute. _g._ Aiguille du Goute.\n _q_ and _r_ indicate stations only. T. Tapia.\n C. Montagne de la Cote. _t._ Montagne de Taconay.\n\n [55] The glacier tracks on the gneiss of the great angle opposite\n Martigny are the most magnificent I ever saw in the Alps; those\n above the channel of the Trient, between Valorsine and the valley of\n the Rhone, the most interesting.\n\n [56] For farther information respecting the glaciers and their\n probable action, the reader should consult the works of Professor\n Forbes. I believe this theory of the formation of the upper peaks\n has been proposed by him, and recently opposed by Mr. Sharpe, who\n believes that the great bank spoken of in the text was originally a\n sea-bottom. But I have simply stated in this chapter the results of\n my own watchings of the Alps; for being without hope of getting time\n for available examination of the voluminous works on these subjects,\n I thought it best to read nothing (except Forbes's most important\n essay on the glaciers, several times quoted in the text), and\n therefore to give, at all events, the force of independent witness\n to such impressions as I received from the actual facts; De\n Saussure, always a faithful recorder of those facts, and my first\n master in geology, being referred to, occasionally, for information\n respecting localities I had not been able to examine.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nRESULTING FORMS:--FIRST, AIGUILLES.\n\n\nSec. 1. I have endeavored in the preceding chapters always to keep the\nglance of the reader on the broad aspect of things, and to separate for\nhim the mountain masses into the most distinctly comprehensible forms.\nWe must now consent to take more pains, and observe more closely.\n\nSec. 2. I begin with the Aiguilles. In Fig. 24, p. 170, at _a_, it was\nassumed that the mass was raised highest merely where the elevating\nforce was greatest, being of one substance with the bank or cliff below.\nBut it hardly ever _is_ of the same substance. Almost always it is of\ncompact crystallines, and the bank of slaty crystallines; or if it be of\nslaty crystallines the bank is of slaty coherents. The bank is almost\nalways the softer of the two.[57]\n\nIs not this very marvellous? Is it not exactly as if the substance had\nbeen prepared soft or hard with a sculpturesque view to what had to be\ndone with it; soft, for the glacier to mould, and the torrent to divide;\nhard, to stand for ever, central in mountain majesty.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 25.]\n\nSec. 3. Next, then, comes the question, How do these compact crystallines\nand slaty crystallines join each other? It has long been a well\nrecognized fact in the science of geology, that the most important\nmountain ranges lift up and sustain upon their sides the beds of rock\nwhich form the inferior groups of hills around them in the manner\nroughly shown in the section Fig. 25, where the dark mass stands for the\nhard rock of the great mountains (crystallines), and the lighter lines\nat the side of it indicate the prevalent direction of the beds in the\nneighboring hills (coherents), while the spotted portions represent the\ngravel and sand of which the great plains are usually composed. But it\nhas not been so universally recognized, though long ago pointed out by\nDe Saussure, that the great central groups are often themselves composed\nof beds lying in a precisely opposite direction; so that if we analyze\ncarefully the structure of the dark mass in the centre of Fig. 25, we\nshall find it arranged in lines which slope downwards to the centre; the\nflanks of it being of slaty crystalline rock, and the summit of compact\ncrystallines, as at _a_, Fig. 26.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 26.]\n\nIn speaking of the sculpture of the central peaks in the last chapter, I\nmade no reference to the _nature_ of the rocks in the banks on which\nthey stood. The diagram at _a_, Fig. 27, as representative of the\noriginal condition, and _b_, of the resultant condition will, compared\nwith Fig. 24, p. 170, more completely illustrate the change.[58]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 27.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 28.]\n\nSec. 4. By what secondary laws this structure may ultimately be discovered\nto have been produced is of no consequence to us at present; all that it\nis needful for us to note is the beneficence which appointed it for the\nmountains destined to assume the boldest forms. For into whatever\noutline they may be sculptured by violence or time, it is evident at a\nglance that their stability and security must always be the greatest\npossible under the given circumstances. Suppose, for instance, that the\npeak is in such a form as _a_ in Fig. 26, then, however steep the slope\nmay be on either side, there is still no chance of one piece of rock\nsliding off another; but if the same outline were given to beds disposed\nas at _b_, the unsupported masses might slide off those beneath them at\nany moment, unless prevented by the inequalities of the surfaces.\nFarther, in the minor divisions of the outline, the tendency of the peak\nat _a_ will be always to assume contours like those at _a_ in Fig. 28,\nwhich are, of course, perfectly safe; but the tendency of the beds at\n_b_ in Fig. 27 will be to break into contours such as at _b_ here, which\nare all perilous, not only in the chance of each several portion giving\nway, but in the manner in which they would _deliver_, from one to the\nother, the fragments which fell. A stone detached from any portion of\nthe peak at _a_ would be caught and stopped on the ledge beneath it; but\na fragment loosened from _b_ would not stay till it reached the valley\nby a series of accelerating bounds.\n\nSec. 5. While, however, the secure and noble form represented at _a_ in\nFigs. 26 and 28 is for the most part ordained to be that of the highest\nmountains, the contours at _b_, in each figure, are of perpetual\noccurrence among the secondary ranges, in which, on a smaller scale,\nthey produce some of the most terrific and fantastic forms of precipice;\nnot altogether without danger, as has been fearfully demonstrated by\nmany a \"bergfall\" among the limestone groups of the Alps; but with far\nless danger than would have resulted from the permission of such forms\namong the higher hills; and with collateral advantages which we shall\nhave presently to consider. In the meantime, we return to the\nexamination of the superior groups.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 29.]\n\nSec. 6. The reader is, no doubt, already aware that the chain of the Mont\nBlanc is bordered by two great valleys, running parallel to each other,\nand seemingly excavated on purpose that travellers might be able to\npass, foot by foot, along each side of the Mont Blanc and its aiguilles,\nand thus examine every peak in succession. One of these valleys is that\nof Chamouni, the other that of which one half is called the Allee\nBlanche, and the other the Val Ferret, the town of Cormayeur being near\nits centre, where it opens to the Val d'Aosta. Now, cutting the chain of\nMont Blanc right across, from valley to valley, through the double range\nof aiguilles, the section would be[59] as Fig. 29 here, in which _a_ is\nthe valley of Chamouni, _b_ the range of aiguilles of Chamouni, _c_ the\nrange of the Geant, _d_ the valley of Cormayeur.\n\n[Illustration: 30. The Aiguille Charmoz.]\n Ideal. Actual.\n\nThe little projection under M is intended to mark approximately the\nposition of the so well-known \"Montanvert.\" It is a great weakness, not\nto say worse than weakness, on the part of travellers, to extol\nalways chiefly what they think fewest people have seen or can see. I\nhave climbed much, and wandered much, in the heart of the high Alps, but\nI have never yet seen anything which equalled the view from the cabin of\nthe Montanvert; and as the spot is visited every year by increasing\nnumbers of tourists, I have thought it best to take the mountains which\nsurround it for the principal subjects of our inquiry.\n\nSec. 7. The little eminence left under M truly marks the height of the\nMontanvert on the flanks of the Aiguilles, but not accurately its\nposition, which is somewhat behind the mass of mountain supposed to be\ncut through by the section. But the top of the Montanvert is actually\nformed, as shown at M, by the crests of the oblique beds of slaty\ncrystallines. Every traveller must remember the steep and smooth beds of\nrock like sloping walls, down which, and over the ledges of which, the\npath descends from the cabin to the edge of the glacier. These sloping\nwalls are formed by the inner sides of the crystalline beds,[60] as\nexposed in the notch behind the letter M.\n\nSec. 8. To these beds we shall return presently, our object just now being\nto examine the aiguille, which, on the Montanvert, forms the most\nconspicuous mass of mountain on the right of the spectator. It is known\nin Chamouni as the Aiguille des Charmoz, and is distinguished by a very\nsharp horn or projection on its side, which usually attracts the\ntraveller's attention as one of the most singular minor features in the\nview from the Montanvert. The larger masses of the whole aiguille, and\ntrue contour of this horn, are carefully given in plate +30+, Fig. 2, as\nthey are seen in morning sunshine. The _impression_ which travellers\nusually carry away with them is, I presume, to be gathered from Fig. 1,\na fac simile of one of the lithographs purchased with avidity by English\ntravellers, in the shops of Chamouni and Geneva, as giving a faithful\nrepresentation of this aiguille seen from the Montanvert. It is worth\nwhile to perpetuate this example of the ideal landscape of the\nnineteenth century, popular at the time when the works of Turner were\ndeclared by the public to be extravagant and unnatural.\n\nSec. 9. This example of the common ideal of aiguilles is, however, useful\nin another respect. It shows the strong impression which these Chamouni\nmountains leave, of their being above all others sharp-peaked and\nsplintery, dividing more or less into arrowy spires; and it marks the\nsense of another and very curious character in them, that these spires\nare apt to be somewhat bent or curved.\n\nBoth these impressions are partially true, and need to be insisted upon,\nand cleared of their indistinctness, or exaggeration.\n\nFirst, then, this strong impression of their peakedness and spiry\nseparateness is always produced with the least possible _danger_ to the\ntravelling and admiring public; for if in reality these granite\nmountains were ever separated into true spires or points, in the least\nresembling this popular ideal in Plate +30+, the Montanvert and Mer de\nGlace would be as inaccessible, except at the risk of life, as the\ntrenches of a besieged city; and the continual fall of the splintering\nfragments would turn even the valley of Chamouni itself into a stony\ndesolation.\n\nSec. 10. Perhaps in describing mountains with any effort to give some idea\nof their sublime forms, no expression comes oftener to the lips than the\nword \"peak.\" And yet it is curious how rarely, even among the grandest\nranges, an instance can be found of a mountain ascertainably peaked in\nthe true sense of the word,--pointed at the top, and sloping steeply on\nall sides; perhaps not more than five summits in the chain of the Alps,\nthe Finster-Aarhorn, Wetterhorn, Bietschhorn, Weisshorn, and Monte Viso\npresenting approximations to such a structure. Even in the case of not\nvery steep pyramids, presenting themselves in the distance under some\nsuch outline as that at the top of Fig. 30, it almost invariably\nhappens, when we approach and examine them, that they do not slope\nequally on all their sides, but are nothing more than steep ends of\nridges, supported by far-extended masses of comparatively level rock,\nwhich, seen in perspective, give the impression of a steep slope, though\nin reality disposed in a horizonal, or nearly horizontal, line.\n\nSec. 11. Supposing the central diagram in Fig. 30 to be the apparent\ncontour of a distant mountain, then its slopes may indeed, by singular\nchance, be as steep as they appear; but, in all probability, several of\nthem are perspective descents of its retiring lines; and supposing it\nwere formed as the gable roof of the old French house below, and seen\nunder the same angle, it is evident that the part of the outline _a b_\n(in lettered reference line below) would be perfectly horizontal; _b c_\nan angle slope, in retiring perspective, much less steep than it\nappears; _c d_, perfectly, horizontal; _d e_, an advancing or\nforeshortened angle slope, less steep than it appears; and _e f_,\nperfectly horizontal.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 30.]\n\nBut if the pyramid presents itself under a more formidable aspect, and\nwith steeper sides than those of the central diagram, then it may be\nassumed (as far as I know mountains) for next to a certainty, that it is\nnot a pointed obelisk, but the end of a ridge more or less prolonged, of\nwhich we see the narrow edge or section turned towards us.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 31.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 32.\n\n Angles with the horizon _x y_.\n\n Of the line _a b_ 17 deg.\n \" _b c_ 201/2\n \" _d y_ (general slope, exclusive of inequalities) 353/4\n \" _a x_ (ditto, ditto, to point of cliff above _x_) 231/2 ]\n\nFor instance, no mountain in the Alps produces a more vigorous\nimpression of peakedness than the Matterhorn. In Professor Forbes's\nwork on the Alps, it is spoken of as an \"obelisk\" of rock, and\nrepresented with little exaggeration in his seventh plate under the\noutline Fig. 31. Naturally, in glancing, whether at the plate or the\nmountain, we assume the mass to be a peak, and suppose the line _a b_ to\nbe the steep slope of its side. But that line is a perspective line. It\nis in reality _perfectly horizontal_, corresponding to _e f_ in the\npenthouse roof, Fig. 30.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 33.\n\n Angles with the horizon _x y_.\n\n _a f_ 56 deg.\n _a e_ 123/4\n _e b_ (from point to point) 441/2\n _b c_ ( ditto, ditto ) 671/4\n _c d_ (overhanging) 79 deg.\n _a x_ (irrespective of irregularities) 56\n _a y_ 383/4 ]\n\nSec. 12. I say \"perfectly horizontal,\" meaning, of course, in general\ntendency. It is more or less irregular and broken, but so nearly\nhorizontal that, after some prolonged examination of the data I have\ncollected about the Matterhorn, I am at this moment in doubt _which is\nits top_. For as, in order to examine the beds on its flanks, I walked\nup the Zmutt glacier, I saw that the line _a b_ in Fig. 31 gradually\nlost its steepness; and about half-way up the glacier, the conjectural\nsummit _a_ then bearing nearly S. E. (forty degrees east of south), I\nfound the contour was as in Fig. 32. In Fig. 33, I have given the\ncontour as seen from Zermatt; and in all three, the same letters\nindicate the same points. In the Figures 32 and 33 I measured the angles\nwith the greatest care,[61] from the base lines _x y_, which are\naccurately horizontal; and their general truth, irrespective of mere\nruggedness, may be depended upon. Now in this flank view, Fig. 32, what\n_was_ the summit at Zermatt, _a_, becomes quite subordinate, and the\npoint _b_, far down the flank in Forbes's view taken from the\nRiffelhorn, is here the apparent summit. I was for some time in\nconsiderable doubt which of the appearances was most trustworthy; and\nbelieve now that they are _both_ deceptive; for I found, on ascending\nthe flank of the hills on the other side of the Valais, to a height of\nabout five thousand feet above Brieg, between the Aletsch glacier and\nBietschhorn; being thus high enough to get a view of the Matterhorn on\nsomething like distant terms of equality, up the St. Nicholas valley, it\npresented itself under the outline Fig. 34, which seems to be conclusive\nfor the supremacy of the point _e_, between _a_ and _b_ in Fig. 33. But\nthe impossibility of determining, at the foot of it, without a\ntrigonometrical observation, _which is the top_ of such an apparent peak\nas the Matterhorn, may serve to show the reader how little the eye is to\nbe trusted for the verification of peaked outline.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 34.]\n\nSec. 13. In like manner, the aiguilles of Chamouni, which present\nthemselves to the traveller, as he looks up to them from the village,\nunder an outline approximating to that rudely indicated at C in the next\nfigure, are in reality buttresses projecting from an intermediate ridge.\nLet A be supposed to be a castle wall, with slightly elevated masses of\nsquare-built buttresses at intervals. Then, by a process of\ndilapidation, these buttresses might easily be brought to assume in\ntheir perspective of ruin the forms indicated at B, which, with certain\nmodifications, is the actual shape of the Chamouni aiguilles. The top of\nthe Aiguille Charmoz is not the point under _d_, but that under _e_.\nThe deception is much increased by the elevation of the whole castle\nwall on the green bank before spoken of, which raises its foundation\nseveral thousand feet above the eye, and thus, giving amazing steepness\nto all the perspective lines, produces an impression of the utmost\npossible isolation of peaks, where, in reality, there is a\nwell-supported, and more or less continuous, though sharply jagged, pile\nof solid walls.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 35.]\n\nSec. 14. There is, however, this great difference between the castle wall\nand aiguilles, that the dilapidation in the one would take place by the\nfall of _horizontal_ bricks or stones; in the aiguilles it takes place\nin quite an opposite manner by the flaking away of nearly _vertical_\nones.\n\nThis is the next point of great interest respecting them. Observe, the\nobject of their construction appears to be the attainment of the utmost\npossible peakedness in aspect, with the least possible danger to the\ninhabitants of the valleys. As, therefore, they are first thrown into\ntransverse ridges, which take, in perspective, a more or less peaked\noutline, so, in their dilapidation, they split into narrow flakes,\nwhich, if seen edgeways, look as sharp as a lance-point, but are\nnevertheless still strong; being each of them, in reality, not a\nlance-point or needle, but a hatchet edge.\n\nSec. 15. And since if these sharp flakes broke _straight_ across the masses\nof mountain, when once the fissure took place, all hold would be lost\nbetween flake and flake, it is ordered (and herein is the most notable\nthing in the whole matter) that they shall not break straight, but _in\ncurves, round the body_ of the aiguilles, somewhat in the manner of the\ncoats of an onion; so that, even after fissure has taken place, the\ndetached film or flake clings to and leans upon the central mass, and\nwill not fall from it till centuries of piercing frost have wedged it\nutterly from its hold; and, even then, will not fall all at once, but\ndrop to pieces slowly, and flake by flake. Consider a little the\nbeneficence of this ordinance;[62] supposing the cliffs had been built\nlike the castle wall, the mouldering away of a few bricks, more or less,\nat the bottom would have brought down huge masses above, as it\nconstantly does in ruins, and in the mouldering cliffs of the slaty\ncoherents; while yet the top of the mountain would have been always\nblunt and rounded, as at _a_, Fig. 36, when seen against the sky. But\nthe aiguille being built in these nearly vertical curved flakes, the\nworst that the frost can do to it is to push its undermost rocks asunder\ninto forms such as at _b_, of which, when many of the edges have fallen,\nthe lower ones are more or less supported by the very debris accumulated\nat their feet; and yet all the while the tops sustain themselves in the\nmost fantastic and incredible fineness of peak against the sky.\n\n[Illustration: J. Ruskin. J. C. Armytage.\n 31. The Aiguille Blaitiere.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 36.]\n\nSec. 16. I have drawn the flakes in Fig. 36, for illustration's sake, under\na caricatured form. Their real aspect will be understood in a moment by\na glance at the opposite plate, +31+, which represents the central\naiguille in the woodcut outline Fig. 35 (Aiguille Blaitiere, called by\nForbes Greppond), as seen from within about half a mile of its actual\nbase. The white shell-like mass beneath it is a small glacier, which in\nits beautifully curved outline[63] appears to sympathize with the sweep\nof the rocks beneath, rising and breaking like a wave at the feet of the\nremarkable horn or spur which supports it on the right. The base of the\naiguille itself is, as it were, washed by this glacier, or by the snow\nwhich covers it, till late in the season, as a cliff is by the sea;\nexcept that a narrow chasm, of some twenty or thirty feet in depth and\ntwo or three feet wide, usually separates the rock from the ice, which\nis melted away by the heat reflected from the southern face of the\naiguille. The rock all along this base line is of the most magnificent\ncompactness and hardness, and rings under the hammer like a bell; yet,\nwhen regarded from a little distance, it is seen to be distinctly\ninclined to separate into grand curved flakes or sheets, of which the\ndark edges are well marked in the plate. The pyramidal form of the\naiguille, as seen from this point, is, however, entirely deceptive; the\nsquare rock which forms its apparent summit is not the real top, but\nmuch in advance of it, and the slope on the right against the sky is a\nperspective line; while, on the other hand, the precipice in light,\nabove the three small horns at the narrowest part of the glacier, is\nconsiderably steeper than it appears to be, the cleavage of the flakes\ncrossing it somewhat obliquely. But I show the aiguille from this spot\nthat the reader may more distinctly note the fellowship between its\ncurved precipice and the little dark horn or spur which bounds the\nglacier; a spur the more remarkable because there is just such another,\njutting in like manner from the corresponding angle of the next aiguille\n(Charmoz), both of them looking like remnants or foundations of the\nvaster ancient pyramids, of which the greater part has been by ages\ncarried away.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 37.]\n\nSec. 17. The more I examined the range of the aiguilles the more I was\nstruck by this curved cleavage as their principal character. It is quite\ntrue that they have other straighter cleavages (noticed in the Appendix,\nas the investigation of them would be tiresome to the general reader);\nbut it is this to which they owe the whole picturesqueness of their\ncontours; curved as it is, not simply, but often into the most strange\nshell-like undulations, as will be understood by a glance at Fig. 37,\nwhich shows the mere _governing_ lines at the base of this Aiguille\nBlaitiere, seen, with its spur, from a station some quarter of a mile\nnearer it, and more to the east than that chosen in Plate +31+. These\nleading lines are rarely well shown in fine weather, the important\ncontour from _a_ downwards being hardly relieved clearly from the\nprecipice beyond (_b_), unless a cloud intervenes, as it did when I made\nthis memorandum; while, again, the leading lines of the Aiguille du\nPlan, as seen from the foot of it, close to the rocks, are as at Fig.\n38, the generally pyramidal outline being nearly similar to that of\nBlaitiere, and a spur being thrown out to the right, under _a_, composed\nin exactly the same manner of curved folia of rock laid one against the\nother. The hollow in the heart of the aiguille is as smooth and sweeping\nin curve as the cavity of a vast bivalve shell.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 38.]\n\nSec. 18. I call these the governing or leading lines, not because they are\nthe first which strike the eye, but because, like those of the grain of\nthe wood in a tree-trunk, they rule the swell and fall and change of all\nthe mass. In Nature, or in a photograph, a careless observer will by no\nmeans be struck by them, any more than he would by the curves of the\ntree; and an ordinary artist would draw rather the cragginess and\ngranulation of the surfaces, just as he would rather draw the bark and\nmoss of the trunk. Nor can any one be more steadfastly adverse than I to\nevery substitution of anatomical knowledge for outward and apparent\nfact; but so it is, that as an artist increases in acuteness of\nperception, the facts which _become_ outward and apparent to him are\nthose which bear upon the growth or make of the thing. And, just as in\nlooking at any woodcut of trees after Titian or Albert Durer, as\ncompared with a modern water-color sketch, we shall always be struck by\nthe writhing and rounding of the tree trunks in the one, and the\nstiffness, and merely blotted or granulated surfaces of the other; so,\nin looking at these rocks, the keenness of the artist's eye may almost\nprecisely be tested by the degree in which he perceives the curves that\ngive them their strength and grace, and in harmony with which the flakes\nof granite are bound together, like the bones of the jaw of a saurian.\nThus the ten years of study which I have given to these mountains since\nI described them in the first volume as \"traversed sometimes by graceful\ncurvilinear fissures, sometimes by straight fissures,\" have enabled me\nto ascertain, and now generally at a glance to see, that the curvilinear\nones are _dominant_, and that even the fissures or edges which appear\nperfectly straight have _almost_ always some delicate sympathy with the\ncurves. Occasionally, however, as in the separate beds which form the\nspur or horn of the Aiguille Blaitiere, seen in true profile in Plate\n+29+, Fig. 3, the straightness is so accurate that, not having brought a\nrule with me up the glacier, I was obliged to write under my sketch,\n\"Not possible to draw it straight enough.\" Compare also the lines\nsloping to the left in Fig. 38.\n\nSec. 19. \"But why not give everything just as it is; without caring what is\ndominant and what subordinate?\"\n\nYou cannot. Of all the various impossibilities which torment and\nhumiliate the painter, none are more vexatious than that of drawing a\nmountain form. It is indeed impossible enough to draw, by resolute care,\nthe foam on a wave, or the outline of the foliage of a large tree; but\nin these cases, when care is at fault, carelessness will help, and the\ndash of the brush will in some measure give wildness to the churning of\nthe foam, and infinitude to the shaking of the leaves. But chance will\nnot help us with the mountain. Its fine and faintly organized edge seems\nto be definitely traced against the sky; yet let us set ourselves\nhonestly to follow it, and we find, on the instant, it has disappeared:\nand that for two reasons. The first, that if the mountain be lofty, and\nin light, it is so faint in color that the eye literally cannot trace\nits separation from the hues next to it. The other day I wanted the\ncontour of a limestone mountain in the Valais, distant about seven\nmiles, and as many thousand feet above me; it was barren limestone; the\nmorning sun fell upon it, so as to make it almost vermilion color, and\nthe sky behind it a bluish green. Two tints could hardly have been more\nopposed, but both were so subtle, that I found it impossible to see\naccurately the line that separated the vermilion from the green. The\nsecond, that if the contour be observed from a nearer point, or looked\nat when it is dark against the sky, it will be found composed of\nmillions of minor angles, crags, points, and fissures, which no human\nsight or hand can draw finely enough, and yet all of which have effect\nupon the mind.\n\nSec. 20. The outline shown as dark against the sky in Plate +29+, Fig. 2 is\nabout a hundred, or a hundred and twenty, yards of the top of the ridge\nof Charmoz, running from the base of the aiguille down to the\nMontanvert, and seen from the moraine of the Charmoz glacier, a quarter\nof a mile distant to the south-west.[64] It is formed of decomposing\ngranite, thrown down in blocks entirely detached, but wedged together,\nso as to stand continually in these seemingly perilous contours (being a\nportion of such a base of aiguille as that in _b_, Fig. 36, p. 185).[65]\nThe block forming the summit on the left is fifteen or eighteen feet\nlong; and the upper edge of it, which is the dominant point of the\nCharmoz ridge, is the best spot in the Chamouni district for giving a\nthorough command of the relations of the aiguilles on each side of the\nMer de Glace. Now put the book, with that page open, upright, at three\nyards distance from you, and try to draw this contour, which I have made\nas dark and distinct as it ever could be in reality, and you will\nimmediately understand why it is impossible to draw mountain outlines\nrightly.\n\nSec. 21. And if not outlines, _a fortiori_ not details of mass, which have\nall the complexity of the outline multiplied a thousand fold, and drawn\nin fainter colors. Nothing is more curious than the state of\nembarrassment into which the unfortunate artist must soon be cast when\nhe endeavors honestly to draw the face of the simplest mountain\ncliff--say a thousand feet high, and two or three miles distant. It is\nfull of exquisite details, all seemingly decisive and clear; but when he\ntries to arrest one of them, he cannot see it,--cannot find where it\nbegins or ends,--and presently it runs into another; and then he tries\nto draw that, but that will not be drawn, neither, until it has\nconducted him to a third, which, somehow or another, made part of the\nfirst; presently he finds that, instead of three, there are in reality\nfour, and then he loses his place altogether. He tries to draw clear\nlines, to make his work look craggy, but finds that then it is too hard;\nhe tries to draw soft lines, and it is immediately too soft; he draws a\ncurved line, and instantly sees it should have been straight; a straight\none, and finds when he looks up again, that it has got curved while he\nwas drawing it. There is nothing for him but despair, or some sort of\nabstraction and shorthand for cliff. Then the only question is, what is\nthe wisest abstraction; and out of the multitude of lines that cannot\naltogether be interpreted, which are the really dominant ones; so that\nif we cannot give the whole, we may at least give what will convey the\nmost important facts about the cliff.\n\n[Illustration: 32. Aiguille Drawing.\n 1. Old Ideal. 2. Turnerian.]\n\nSec. 22. Recurring then to our \"public opinion\" of the Aiguille Charmoz, we\nfind the greatest exaggeration of, and therefore I suppose the greatest\ninterest in, the narrow and spiry point on its left side. That is in\nreality a point at all but a hatchet edge; a flake of rock, which is\nenabled to maintain itself in this sharp-edged state by its writhing\nfolds of sinewy granite. Its structure, on a larger scale, and seen\n\"edge on,\" is shown in Fig. 41. The whole aiguille is composed of a\nseries of such flakes, liable, indeed, to all kinds of fissure in other\ndirections, but holding, by their modes of vertical association, the\nstrongest authority over the form of the whole mountain. It is not in\nall lights that they are seen plainly: for instance, in the morning\neffect in Plate +30+ they are hardly traceable: but the longer we watch,\nthe more they are perceived; and their power of sustaining themselves\nvertically is so great, that at the foot of the aiguille on the right a\nfew of them form a detached mass, known as the _Petit_ Charmoz, between\nE and _c_ in Fig. 60, p. 210, of which the height of the uttermost\nflake, between _c_ and _d_, is about five hundred feet.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 41.]\n\nImportant, however, as this curved cleavage is, it is so confused among\nothers, that it has taken me, as I said, ten years of almost successive\nlabor to develope, in any degree of completeness, its relations among\nthe aiguilles of Chamouni; and even of professed geologists, the only\nperson who has described it properly is De Saussure, whose _continual_\nsojourn among the Alps enabled him justly to discern the constant from\nthe inconstant phenomena. And yet, in his very first journey to Savoy,\nTurner saw it at a glance, and fastened on it as the main thing to be\nexpressed in those mountains.\n\nIn the opposite Plate (+32+), the darkest division, on the right, is a\ntolerably accurate copy of Turner's rendering of the Aiguille Charmoz\n(etched and engraved by himself), in the plate called the \"Mer de\nGlace,\" in the Liber Studiorum. Its outline is in local respects\ninaccurate enough, being modified by Turnerian topography; but the flaky\ncharacter is so definite, that it looks as if it had been prepared for\nan illustrative diagram of the points at present under discussion.\n\nSec. 23. And do not let it be supposed that this was by chance, or that the\nmodes of mountain drawing at the period would in any wise have helped\nTurner to discover these lines. The aiguilles had been drawn before this\ntime, and the figure on the left in Plate +32+ will show how. It is a\nfacsimile of a piece of an engraving of the Mer de Glace, by Woollett,\nafter William Pars, published in 1783, and founded on the general\nWilsonian and Claudesque principles of landscape common at the time.\nThere are, in the rest of the plate, some good arrangements of shadow\nand true aerial perspective; and the piece I have copied, which is an\nattempt to represent the Aiguille Dru, opposite the Charmoz, will serve,\nnot unfairly, to show how totally inadequate the draughtsmen of the time\nwere to perceive the character of mountains, and, also, how unable the\nhuman mind is by itself to conceive anything like the variety of natural\nform. The workman had not looked at the thing,--trusted to his \"Ideal,\"\nsupposed that broken and rugged rocks might be shaped better out of his\nown head than by Nature's laws,--and we see what comes of it.\n\nSec. 24. And now, lastly, observe, in the laws by which this strange\ncurvilinear structure is given to the aiguilles, how the provision for\nbeauty of form is made in the first landscape materials we have to\nstudy. We have permitted ourselves, according to that unsystematic mode\nof proceeding pleaded for in the opening of our present task, to wander\nhither and thither as this or that question rose before us, and\ndemanded, or tempted, our pursuit. But the reader must yet remember that\nour special business in this section of the work is the observance of\nthe nature of _beauty_, and of the degrees in which the aspect of any\nobject fulfils the laws of beauty stated in the second volume. Now in\nthe fifteenth paragraph of the chapter on infinity, it was stated that\ncurvature was essential to all beauty, and that what we should \"need\nmore especially to prove, was the constancy of curvature in all natural\nforms whatsoever.\" And these aiguilles, which are the first objects we\nhave had definitely to consider, appeared as little likely to fulfil the\ncondition as anything we could have come upon. I am well assured that\nthe majority of spectators see no curves in them at all, but an\nintensely upright, stern, spiry ruggedness and angularity. And we might\neven beforehand have been led to expect, and to be contented in\nexpecting, nothing else from them than this; for since, as we have said\noften, they are part of the earth's skeleton, being created to sustain\nand strengthen everything else, and yet differ from a skeleton in this,\nthat the earth is not only supported by their strength, but fed by their\nruin; so that they are first composed of the hardest and least tractable\nsubstance, and then exposed to such storm and violence as shall beat\nlarge parts of them to powder;--under these desperate conditions of\nbeing, I say, we might have anticipated some correspondent ruggedness\nand terribleness of aspect, some such refusal to comply with ordinary\nlaws of beauty, as we often see in other things and creatures put to\nhard work, and sustaining distress or violence.\n\nSec. 25. And truly, at first sight, there is such refusal in their look,\nand their shattered walls and crests seem to rise in a gloomy contrast\nwith the soft waves of bank and wood beneath; nor do I mean to press the\nmere fact, that, as we look longer at them, other lines become\nperceptible, because it might be thought no proof of their beauty that\nthey needed long attention in order to be discerned. But I think this\nmuch at least is deserving of our notice, as confirmatory of foregone\nconclusions, that the forms which in other things are produced by slow\nincrease, or gradual abrasion of surface, _are here produced by rough\nfracture_, when rough fracture is to be the law of existence. A rose is\nrounded by its own soft ways of growth, a reed is bowed into tender\ncurvature by the pressure of the breeze; but we could not, from these,\nhave proved any resolved preference, by Nature, of curved lines to\nothers, inasmuch as it might always have been answered that the curves\nwere produced, not for beauty's sake, but infallibly, by the laws of\nvegetable existence; and, looking at broken flints or rugged banks\nafterwards, we might have thought that we only liked the curved lines\nbecause associated with life and organism, and disliked the angular\nones, because associated with inaction and disorder. But Nature gives us\nin these mountains a more clear demonstration of her will. She is here\ndriven to make fracture the law of being. She cannot tuft the rock-edges\nwith moss, or round them by water, or hide them with leaves and roots.\nShe is bound to produce a form, admirable to human beings, by continual\nbreaking away of substance. And behold--so soon as she is compelled to\ndo this--she changes the law of fracture itself. \"Growth,\" she seems to\nsay, \"is not essential to my work, nor concealment, nor softness; but\ncurvature is: and if I must produce my forms by breaking them, the\nfracture itself shall be in curves. If, instead of dew and sunshine, the\nonly instruments I am to use are the lightning and the frost, then their\nforked tongues and crystal wedges shall still work out my laws of tender\nline. Devastation instead of nurture may be the task of all my elements,\nand age after age may only prolong the unrenovated ruin; but the\nappointments of typical beauty which have been made over all creatures\nshall not therefore be abandoned; and the rocks shall be ruled, in their\nperpetual perishing, by the same ordinances that direct the bending of\nthe reed and the blush of the rose.\"\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [57] See, for explanatory statements, Appendix 2.\n\n [58] I have been able to examine these conditions with much care in\n the chain of Mont Blanc only, which I chose for the subject of\n investigation both as being the most interesting to the general\n traveller, and as being the only range of the central mountains\n which had been much painted by Turner. But I believe the singular\n arrangements of beds which take place in this chain have been found\n by the German geologists to prevail also in the highest peaks of the\n Western Alps; and there are a peculiar beauty and providence in them\n which induce me to expect that farther inquiries may justify our\n attributing them to some very extensive law of the earth's\n structure. See the notes from De Saussure in Appendix 2.\n\n [59] That is to say, as it appears to me. There are some points of\n the following statements which are disputed among geologists; the\n reader will find them hereafter discussed at greater length.\n\n [60] Running, at that point very nearly, N. E. and S. W., and\n dipping under the ice at an angle of about seventy degrees.\n\n [61] It was often of great importance to me to ascertain these\n _apparent_ slopes with some degree of correctness. In order to do so\n without the trouble of carrying any instrument (except my compass\n and spirit-level), I had my Alpine pole made as even as a round rule\n for about a foot in the middle of its length. Taking the bearing of\n the mountain, placing the pole at right angles to the bearing, and\n adjusting it by the spirit-level, I brought the edge of a piece of\n finely cut pasteboard parallel, in a vertical plane (plumbed), with\n the apparent slope of the hillside. A pencil line drawn by the pole\n then gave me a horizon, with which the angle could be easily\n measured at home. The measurements thus obtained are given under the\n figures.\n\n [62] That is to say, in a cliff intended to _owe its outline to\n dilapidation_. Where no dilapidation is to be permitted, the bedded\n structure, well knit, is always used. Of this we shall see various\n examples in the 16th chapter.\n\n [63] Given already as an example of curvature in the Stones of\n Venice, vol. 1, plate 7.\n\n [64] The top of the aiguille of the Little Charmoz bearing, from the\n point whence this sketch was made, about six degrees east of north.\n\n [65] The _summits_ of the aiguilles are often more fantastically\n rent still. Fig. 39 is the profile of a portion of the upper edge of\n the Aiguille du Moine, seen from the crest of Charmoz; Fig. 40 shows\n the three lateral fragments, drawn to a larger scale. The height of\n each of the upright masses must be from twenty to twenty-five feet.\n I do not know if their rude resemblance to two figures, on opposite\n sides of a table or altar, has had anything to do with the name of\n the aiguille.\n\n [Illustration: FIG. 39.]\n\n [Illustration: FIG. 40.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nRESULTING FORMS:--SECONDLY, CRESTS.\n\n\nSec. 1. Between the aiguilles, or other conditions of central peak, and the\nhills which are clearly formed, as explained in Chap. XII. Sec. 11, by the\nmere breaking of the edges of solid beds of coherent rock, there occurs\nalmost always a condition of mountain summit, intermediate in aspect, as\nin position. The aiguille may generally be represented by the type _a_,\nFig. 42; the solid and simple beds of rock by the type _c_. The\ncondition _b_, clearly intermediate between the two, is, on the whole,\nthe most graceful and perfect in which mountain masses occur. It seems\nto have attracted more of the attention of the poets than either of the\nothers; and the ordinary word, crest, which we carelessly use in\nspeaking of mountain summits, as if it meant little more than \"edge\" or\n\"ridge,\" has a peculiar force and propriety when applied to ranges of\ncliff whose contours correspond thus closely to the principal lines of\nthe crest of a Greek helmet.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 42.]\n\nSec. 2. There is another resemblance which they can hardly fail to suggest\nwhen at all irregular in form,--that of a wave about to break. Byron\nuses the image definitely of Soracte; and, in a less clear way, it seems\nto present itself occasionally to all minds, there being a general\ntendency to give or accept accounts of mountain form under the image of\nwaves; and to speak of a hilly country, seen from above, as looking\nlike a \"sea of mountains.\"\n\nSuch expressions, vaguely used, do not, I think, generally imply much\nmore than that the ground is waved or undulated into bold masses. But if\nwe give prolonged attention to the mountains of the group _b_ we shall\ngradually begin to feel that more profound truth is couched under this\nmode of speaking, and that there is indeed an appearance of action and\nunited movement in these crested masses, nearly resembling that of sea\nwaves; that they seem not to be heaped up, but to leap or toss\nthemselves up; and in doing so, to wreathe and twist their summits into\nthe most fantastic, yet harmonious, curves, governed by some grand\nunder-sweep like that of a tide, running through the whole body of the\nmountain chain.\n\n[Illustration: FIG 43.]\n\nFor instance, in Fig. 43, which gives, rudely, the leading lines of the\njunction of the \"Aiguille pourri\"[66] (Chamouni) with the Aiguilles\nRouges, the reader cannot, I think, but feel that there is something\nwhich binds the mountains together--some common influence at their heart\nwhich they cannot resist: and that, however they may be broken or\ndisordered, there is as true unity among them as in the sweep of a wild\nwave, governed, through all its foaming ridges, by constant laws of\nweight and motion.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 44.]\n\nSec. 3. How far this apparent unity is the result of elevatory force _in_\nmountain, and how far of the sculptural force of water _upon_ the\nmountain, is the question we have mainly to deal with in the present\nchapter.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 45.]\n\nBut first look back to Fig. 7, of Plate +8+, Vol. III., there given as\nthe typical representation of the ruling forces of growth in a leaf.\nTake away the extreme portion of the curve on the left, and any segment\nof the leaf remaining, terminated by one of its ribs, as _a_ or _b_,\nFig. 44, will be equally a typical contour of a common crested mountain.\nIf the reader will merely turn Plate +8+ so as to look at the figure\nupright, with its stalk downwards, he will see that it is also the base\nof the honeysuckle ornament of the Greeks. I may anticipate what we\nshall have to note with respect to vegetation so far as to tell him that\nit is also the base of form in all timber trees.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 46.]\n\nSec. 4. There seems something, therefore, in this contour which makes its\nproduction one of the principal aims of Nature in all her compositions.\nThe cause of this appears to be, that as the cinqfoil is the simplest\nexpression of proportion, this is the simplest expression of opposition,\nin unequal curved lines. If we take any lines, _a x_ and _e g_, Fig. 45,\nboth of varied curvature (not segments of circles), and one shorter than\nthe other, and join them together so as to form one line, as _b x_, _x\ng_, we shall have one of the common lines of beauty; if we join them at\nan angle, as _c x_, _x y_, we shall have the common crest, which is in\nfact merely a jointed line of beauty. If we join them as at _a_, Fig.\n46, they form a line at once monotonous and cramped, and the jointed\ncondition of this same line, _b_, is hardly less so. It is easily\nproved, therefore, that the junction of lines _c x_, _x y_, is the\nsimplest and most graceful mode of opposition; and easily observed that\nin branches of trees, wings of birds, and other more or less regular\norganizations, such groups of line are continually made to govern the\ncontours. But it is not so easily seen why or how this form should be\nimpressed upon irregular heaps of mountain.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 47.]\n\nSec. 5. If a bed of coherent rock be raised, in the manner described in\nChap. XIII., so as to form a broken precipice with its edge, and a long\nslope with its surface, as at _a_, Fig. 47 (and in this way nearly all\nhills are raised), the top of the precipice has usually a tendency to\ncrumble down, and, in process of time, to form a heap of advanced ruins\nat its foot. On the other side, the back or slope of the hill does not\ncrumble down, but is gradually worn away by the streams; and as these\nare always more considerable, both in velocity and weight, at the bottom\nof the slope than the top, the ground is faster worn away at the bottom,\nand the straight slope is cut to a curve of continually increasing\nsteepness. Fig. 47 _b_ represents the contour to which the hill _a_\nwould thus be brought in process of time; the dotted line indicating its\noriginal form. The result, it will be seen, is a crest.[67]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 48.]\n\nSec. 6. But crests of this uniform substance and continuous outline occur\nonly among hills composed of the softest coherent rocks, and seldom\nattain any elevation such as to make them important or impressive. The\nnotable crests are composed of the hard coherents or slaty crystallines,\nand then the contour of the crests depends mainly on the question\nwhether in the original mass of it, the beds lie as at _a_ or as at _b_,\nFig. 48. If they lie as at _a_, then the resultant crest will have the\ngeneral appearance seen at _c_; the edges of the beds getting separated\nand serrated by the weather. If the beds lie as at _b_, the resultant\ncrest will be of such a contour as that at _d_.\n\nThe crests of the contour _d_ are formed usually by the harder coherent\nrocks, and are notable chiefly for their bold precipices in front, and\nregular slopes, or sweeping curves, at the back. We shall examine them\nunder the special head of _precipices_. But the crests of the form at c\nbelong usually to the slaty crystallines, and are those properly called\ncrests, their edges looking, especially when covered with pines, like\nseparated plumes. These it is our chief business to examine in the\npresent chapter.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 49.]\n\nSec. 7. In order to obtain this kind of crest, we first require to have our\nmountain beds thrown up in the form _a_, Fig. 48. This is not easily\ndone on a large scale, except among the slaty crystallines forming the\nflanks of the great chains, as in Fig. 29, p. 176. In that figure it\nwill be seen that the beds forming each side of the chain of Mont Blanc\nare thrown into the required steepness, and therefore, whenever they\nare broken towards the central mountain, they naturally form the front\nof a crest, while the torrents and glaciers falling over their longer\nslopes, carve them into rounded banks towards the valley.\n\nSec. 8. But the beauty of a crest or bird's wing consists, in nature, not\nmerely in its curved terminal outline, but in the radiation of the\nplumes, so that while each assumes a different curve, every curve shall\nshow a certain harmony of direction with all the others.\n\nWe shall have to enter into the examination of this subject at greater\nlength in the 17th chapter; meanwhile, it is sufficient to observe the\nlaw in a single example, such as Fig. 49, which is a wing of one of the\nangels in Durer's woodcut of the Fall of Lucifer.[68] At first sight,\nthe plumes seem disposed with much irregularity, but there is a sense of\npower and motion in the whole which the reader would find was at once\nlost by a careless copyist; for it depends on the fact that if we take\nthe principal curves at any points of the wing, and continue them in the\nlines which they are pursuing at the moment they terminate, these\ncontinued lines will all meet in a single point, C. It is this law which\ngives unity to the wing.\n\nAll groups of curves set beside each other depend for their beauty upon\nthe observance of this law;[69] and if, therefore, the mountain crests\nare to be perfectly beautiful, Nature must contrive to get this element\nof radiant curvature into them in one way or another. Nor does it, at\nfirst sight, appear easy for her to get, I do not say radiant curves,\nbut curves _at all_: for in the aiguilles, she actually bent their beds;\nbut in these slaty crystallines it seems not always convenient to her to\nbend the beds; and when they are to remain straight, she must obtain the\ncurvature in some other way.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 50.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 51.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 52.]\n\nSec. 9. One way in which she gets it is curiously simple in itself, but\nsomewhat difficult to explain, unless the reader will be at the pains of\nmaking a little model for himself out of paste or clay. Hitherto,\nobserve, we have spoken of these crests as seen at their sides, as a\nGreek helmet is seen from the side of the wearer. By means presently to\nbe examined, these mountain crests are so shaped that, seen _in front_,\nor from behind (as a helmet crest is seen in front of or behind the\nwearer), they present the contour of a sharp ridge, or house gable. Now\nif the breadth of this ridge at its base remains the same, while its\nheight gradually diminishes from the front of it to the back (as from\nthe top of the crest to the back of the helmet), it necessarily assumes\nthe form of such a quaint gable roof as that shown in profile in Fig.\n50, and in perspective[70] in Fig. 51, in which the gable is steep at\nthe end farthest off, but depressed at the end nearest us; and the rows\nof tiles, in consequence, though in reality quite straight, appear to\nradiate as they retire, owing to their different slopes. When a mountain\ncrest is thus formed, and the concave curve of its front is carried into\nits flanks, each edge of bed assuming this concave curve, and radiating,\nlike the rows of tiles, in perspective at the same time, the whole\ncrest is thrown into the form Fig. 52, which is that of the radiating\nplume required.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 53.]\n\nSec. 10. It often happens, however, that Nature does not choose to keep the\nridge broad at the lower extremity, so as to diminish its steepness. But\nwhen this is not so, and the base is narrowed so that the slope of side\nshall be nearly equal everywhere, she almost always obtains her varied\ncurvature of the plume in another way, by merely turning the crest a\nlittle round as it descends. I will not confuse the reader by examining\nthe complicated results of such turning on the inclined lines of the\nstrata; but he can understand, in a moment, its effect on another series\nof lines, those caused by rivulets of water down the sides of the crest.\nThese lines are, of course, always, in general tendency, perpendicular.\nLet _a_, Fig. 53, be a circular funnel, painted inside with a pattern of\nvertical lines meeting at the bottom. Suppose these lines to represent\nthe ravines traced by the water. Cut off a portion of the lip of the\nfunnel, as at _b_, to represent the crest side. Cut the edge so as to\nslope down towards you, and add a slope on the other side. Then give\neach inner line the concave sweep, and you have your ridge _c_, of the\nrequired form, with radiant curvature.\n\nSec. 11. A greater space of such a crest is always seen on its concave than\non its convex side (the outside of the funnel); of this other\nperspective I shall have to speak hereafter; meantime, we had better\ncontinue the examination of the proper crest, the _c_ of Fig. 48, in\nsome special instance.\n\nThe form is obtained usually in the greatest perfection among the high\nridges near the central chain, where the beds of the slaty crystallines\nare steep and hard. Perhaps the most interesting example I can choose\nfor close examination will be that of a mountain in Chamouni, called\nthe Aiguille Bouchard, now familiar to the eye of every traveller, being\nthe ridge which rises, exactly opposite the Montanvert, beyond the Mer\nde Glace. The structure of this crest is best seen from near the foot of\nthe Montanvert, on the road to the source of the Arveiron, whence the\ntop of it, _a_, presents itself under the outline given rudely in the\nopposite plate (+33+), in which it will be seen that, while the main\nenergy of the mountain mass tosses itself against the central chain of\nMont Blanc (which is on the right hand), it is met by a group of\ncounter-crests, like the recoil of a broken wave cast against it from\nthe other side; and yet, as the recoiling water has a sympathy with the\nunder swell of the very wave against which it clashes, the whole mass\nwrithes together in strange unity of mountain passion; so that it is\nalmost impossible to persuade oneself, after long looking at it, that\nthe crests have not indeed been once fused and tossed into the air by a\ntempest which had mastery over them, as the winds have over ocean.\n\nSec. 12. And yet, if we examine the crest structure closely, we shall find\nthat nearly all these curvatures are obtained by Nature's skilful\nhandling of perfectly straight beds,--only the meeting of those two\nwaves of crest is indeed indicative of the meeting of two masses of\ndifferent rocks; it marks that junction of the slaty with the compact\ncrystallines, which has before been noticed as the principal mystery of\nrock structure. To this junction my attention was chiefly directed\nduring my stay at Chamouni, as I found it was always at that point that\nNature produced the loveliest mountain forms. Perhaps the time I gave to\nthe study of it may have exaggerated its interest in my eyes; and the\nreader who does not care for these geological questions, except in their\ndirect bearing upon art, may, without much harm, miss the next seven\nparagraphs, and go on at the twenty-first. Yet there is one point, in a\nTurner drawing presently to be examined, which I cannot explain without\ninflicting the tediousness even of these seven upon him.\n\n[Illustration: J. Ruskin. R. P. Cuff.\n 33. Leading Contours of Aiguille Bouchard.]\n\nSec. 13. First, then, the right of the Aiguille Bouchard to be called a\ncrest at all depends, not on the slope from _a_ to _b_, Plate +33+, but\non that from _a_ to _h_. The slope from _a_ to _b_ is a perspective\ndeception; _b_ is much the highest point of the two. Seen from the\nvillage of Chamouni, the range presents itself under the outline Fig.\n54, the same points in each figure being indicated by the same letters.\nFrom the end of the valley the supremacy of the mass _b c_ is still more\nnotable. It is altogether with mountains as with human spirits, you\nnever know which is greatest till they are far away.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 54.]\n\nSec. 14. It will be observed also, that the beauty of the crest, in both\nPlate +33+ and Fig. 54, depends on the gradually increasing steepness of\nthe lines of slope between _a_ and _b_. This is in great part deceptive,\nbeing obtained by the receding of the crest into a great mountain\ncrater, or basin, as explained in Sec. 11. But this very recession is a\nmatter of interest, for it takes place exactly on the line above spoken\nof, where the slaty crystallines of the crest join the compact\ncrystallines of the aiguilles; at which junction a correspondent chasm\nor recession, of some kind or another, takes place along the whole front\nof Mont Blanc.\n\nSec. 15. In the third paragraph of the last chapter we had occasion to\nrefer to the junction of the slaty and compact crystallines at the roots\nof the aiguilles. It will be seen in the figure there given, that this\nchange is not sudden, but gradated. The rocks to be joined are of the\ntwo types represented in Fig. 3, p. 106 (for convenience' sake I shall\nin the rest of this chapter call the slaty rock gneiss, and the compact\nrock protogine, its usual French name). Fig. 55 shows the general\nmanner of junction, beds of gneiss occurring in the middle of the\nprotogine, and of protogine in the gneiss; sometimes one touching the\nother so closely, that a hammer-stroke breaks off a piece of both;\nsometimes one passing into the other by a gradual change, like the zones\nof a rainbow; the only general phenomenon being this, that the higher up\nthe hill the gneiss is, the harder it is (so that while it often yields\nto the pressure of the finger down in the valley, on the Montanvert it\nis nearly as hard as protogine); and, on the other hand, the lower down\nthe hill, or the nearer the gneiss, the protogine is, the finer it is in\ngrain. But still the actual transition from one to the other is usually\nwithin a few fathoms; and it is that transition, and the preparation for\nit, which causes the great step, or jag, on the flank of the chain, and\nforms the tops of the Aiguille Bouchard, Charmoz ridges, Tapia, Montagne\nde la Cote, Montagne de Taconay, and Aiguille du Goute.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 55.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 56.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 57.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 58.]\n\nSec. 16. But what most puzzled me was the intense _straightness_ of the\nlines of the gneiss beds, dipping, as it seemed, under the Mont Blanc.\nFor it has been a chief theory with geologists that these central\nprotogine rocks have once been in fusion, and have risen up in molten\nfury, overturning and altering all the rocks around. But every day, as\nI looked at the crested flanks of the Mont Blanc, I saw more plainly the\nexquisite _regularity_ of the slopes of the beds, ruled, it seemed, with\nan architect's rule, along the edge of their every flake from the\nsummits to the valley. And this surprised me the more because I had\nalways heard it stated that the beds of the lateral crests, _a_ and _b_,\nFig. 56, varied in slope, getting less and less inclined as they\ndescended, so as to arrange themselves somewhat in the form of a fan. It\nmay be so; but I can only say that all my observations and drawings give\nan opposite report, and that the beds seemed invariably to present\nthemselves to the eye and the pencil in parallelism, modified only by\nthe phenomena just explained (Sec.Sec. 9, 10). Thus the entire mass of the\nAiguille Bouchard, of which only the top is represented in Plate +33+,\nappeared to me in profile, as in Fig. 57, dependent for all its effect\nand character on the descent of the beds in the directions of the dotted\nlines, _a_, _b_, _d_. The interrupting space, _g g_, is the Glacier des\nBois; M is the Montanvert; _c_, _c_, the rocks under the glacier, much\nworn by the fall of avalanches, but, for all that, showing the steep\nlines still with the greatest distinctness. Again, looking down the\nvalley instead of up, so as to put the Mont Blanc on the left hand, the\nprincipal crests which support it, Taconay and La Cote, always appeared\nto me constructed as in Plate +35+ (p. 212), they also depending for all\ntheir effect on the descent of the beds in diagonal lines towards the\nleft. Nay, half-way up the Breven, whence the structure of the Mont\nBlanc is commanded, as far as these lower buttresses are concerned,\nbetter than from the top of the Breven, I drew carefully the cleavages\nof the beds, as high as the edge of the Aiguille de Goute, and found\nthem exquisitely parallel throughout; and again on the Cormayeur side,\nthough less steep, the beds _a_, _b_, Fig. 58, traversing the vertical\nirregular fissures of the great aiguille of the Allee Blanche, as seen\nover the Lac de Combal, still appeared to me perfectly regular and\nparallel.[71] I have not had time to trace them round, through the\nAiguille de Bionassay, and above the Col de Bonhomme, though I know the\nrelations of the beds of limestone to the gneiss on the latter col are\nmost notable and interesting. But, as far as was required for any\nartistical purposes, I perfectly ascertained the fact that, whatever\ntheir real structure might be, these beds did appear, through the softer\ncontours of the hill, as straight and parallel; that they continued to\nappear so until near the tops of the crests; and that those tops seemed,\nin some mysterious way, dependent on the junction of the gneissitic beds\nwith, or their transition into, the harder protogine of the aiguilles.\n\nLook back to Plate +33+. The peak of the Bouchard, _a_, is of gneiss,\nand its beds run down in lines originally straight, but more or less\nhollowed by weathering, to the point _h_, where they plunge under\ndebris. But the point _b_ is, I believe, of protogine; and all the\nopposed writhing of the waves of rock to the right appears to be in\nconsequence of the junction.\n\n[Illustration: 34. Cleavages of Aiguille Bouchard.]\n\nSec. 17. The way in which these curves are produced cannot, however, be\nguessed at until we examine the junction more closely. Ascending about\nfive hundred feet above the cabin of the Montanvert, the opposite crest\nof the Bouchard, from _a_ to _c_, Plate +33+, is seen more in front,\nexpanded into the jagged line, _a_ to _c_, Plate +34+, and the beds,\nwith their fractures, are now seen clearly throughout the mass, namely:\n\n1st. (See references on plate). The true gneiss beds dipping down in the\ndirection G H, the point H being the same as _h_ in Plate +33+. These\nare the beds so notable for their accurate straightness and parallelism.\n\n2nd. The smooth fractures which in the middle of the etching seem to\ndivide the column of rock into a kind of brickwork. They are very neat\nand sharp, running nearly at right angles with the true beds.[72]\n\n3rd. The curved fractures of the aiguilles (seen first under the letter\n_b_, and seeming to push outwards against the gneiss beds[73])\ncontinuing through _c_ and the spur below.\n\n4th. An irregular cleavage, something like that of starch, showing\nitself in broken vertical lines.\n\n5th. Writhing lines, cut by water. These have the greatest possible\ninfluence on the aspect of the precipice: they are not merely caused by\ntorrents, but by falls of winter snow, and stones from the glacier\nmoraines, so that the cliff being continually worn away at the foot of\nit, is wrought into a great amphitheatre, of which the receding sweep\ncontinually varies the apparent steepness of the crest, as already\nexplained. I believe in ancient times the great Glacier des Bois itself\nused to fill this amphitheatre, and break right up against the base of\nthe Bouchard.\n\n6th. Curvatures worn by water over the back of the crest towards the\nvalley, in the direction _g i_.\n\n7th. A tendency (which I do not understand) to form horizontal masses\nat the levels _k_ and _l_.[74]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 61.]\n\nSec. 18. The reader may imagine what strange harmonies and changes of line\nmust result throughout the mass of the mountain from the varied\nprevalence of one or other of these secret inclinations of its rocks\n(modified, also, as they are by perpetual deceptions of perspective),\nand how completely the rigidity or parallelism of any one of them is\nconquered by the fitful urgencies of the rest,--a sevenfold action\nseeming to run through every atom of crag. For the sake of clearness, I\nhave shown in this plate merely leading lines; the next (Plate +35+,\nopposite) will give some idea of the complete aspect of two of the\nprincipal crests on the Mont Blanc flanks, known as the Montagne de la\nCote, and Montagne de Taconay, _c_ and _t_ in Fig. 22, at page 163. In\nwhich note, first, that the eminences marked _a a_, _b b_, _c c_, here,\nin the reference figure (61), are in each of the mountains\ncorrespondent, and indicate certain changes in the conditions of their\nbeds at those points. I have no doubt the two mountains were once one\nmass, and that they have been sawn asunder by the great glacier of\nTaconay, which descends between them; and similarly the Montagne de\nla Cote sawn from the Tapia by the glacier des Bossons, B B in reference\nfigure.\n\n[Illustration: 35. Crests of La Cote and Taconay.]\n\n[Illustration: 36. Crest of La Cote.]\n\nSec. 19. Note, secondly, the general tendency in each mountain to throw\nitself into concave curves towards the Mont Blanc, and descend in\nrounded slopes to the valley; more or less interrupted by the direct\nmanifestation of the straight beds, which are indeed, in this view of\nTaconay, the principal features of it. They necessarily become, however,\nmore prominent in the outline etching than in the scene itself, because\nin reality the delicate cleavages are lost in distance or in mist, and\nthe effects of light bring out the rounded forms of the larger masses;\nand wherever the clouds fill the hollows between, as they are apt to do,\n(the glaciers causing a chillness in the ravines, while the wind,\nblowing _up_ the larger valleys, clears the edges of the crests,) the\nsummits show themselves as in Plate 36, dividing, with their dark\nfrontlets, the perpetual sweep of the glaciers and the clouds.[75]\n\nSec. 20. Of the aqueous curvatures of this crest, we shall have more to say\npresently; meantime let us especially observe how the providential laws\nof beauty, acting with reversed data, arrive at similar results in the\naiguilles and crests. In the aiguilles, which are of such hard rock that\nthe fall of snow and trickling of streams do not affect them, the inner\nstructure is so disposed as to bring out the curvatures by the mere\nfracture. In the crests and lower hills, which are of softer rock, and\nlargely influenced by external violence, the inner structure is\nstraight, and the necessary curvatures are produced by perspective, by\nexternal modulation, and by the balancing of adverse influences of\ncleavage. But, as the accuracy of an artist's eye is usually shown by\nhis perceiving the inner anatomy which regulates growth and form, and as\nin the aiguilles, while we watch them, we are continually discovering\nnew curves, so in the crests, while we watch them, we are continually\ndiscovering new straightnesses; and nothing more distinguishes good\nmountain-drawing, or mountain-seeing, from careless and inefficient\nmountain-drawing, than the observance of the marvellous parallelisms\nwhich exist among the beds of the crests.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 62.]\n\nSec. 21. It indeed happens, not unfrequently, that in hills composed of\nsomewhat soft rock, the aqueous contours will so prevail over the\nstraight cleavage as to leave nothing manifest at the first glance but\nsweeping lines like those of waves. Fig. 43, p. 196, is the crest of a\nmountain on the north of the valley of Chamouni, known, from the rapid\ndecay and fall of its crags, as the Aiguille _Pourri_; and at first\nthere indeed seems little distinction between its contours and those of\nthe summit of a sea wave. Yet I think also, if it _were_ a wave, we\nshould immediately suppose the tide was running towards the right hand;\nand if we examined the reason for this supposition, we should perceive\nthat along the ridge the steepest falls of crag were always on the\nright-hand side; indicating a tendency in them to break rather in the\ndirection of the line _a b_ than any other. If we go half-way down the\nMontanvert, and examine the left side of the crest somewhat more\nclosely, we shall find this tendency still more definitely visible, as\nin Fig. 62.\n\nSec. 22. But what, then, has given rise to all those coiled plungings of\nthe crest hither and thither, yet with such strange unity of motion?\n\nYes. There is the cloud. How the top of the hill was first shaped so as\nto let the currents of water act upon it in so varied a way we know not,\nbut I think that the appearance of _interior_ force of elevation is for\nthe most part deceptive. The series of beds would be found, if examined\nin section, very uniform in their arrangement, only a little harder in\none place, and more delicate in another. A stream receives a slight\nimpulse this way or that, at the top of the hill, but increases in\nenergy and sweep as it descends, gathering into itself others from its\nsides, and uniting their power with its own. A single knot of quartz\noccurring in a flake of slate at the crest of the ridge may alter the\nentire destinies of the mountain form. It may turn the little rivulet of\nwater to the right or left, and that little turn will be to the future\ndirection of the gathering stream what the touch of a finger on the\nbarrel of a rifle would be to the direction of the bullet. Each\nsucceeding year increases the importance of every determined form, and\narranges in masses yet more and more harmonious, the promontories shaped\nby the sweeping of the eternal waterfalls.\n\nSec. 23. The importance of the results thus obtained by the slightest\nchange of direction in the infant streamlets, furnishes an interesting\ntype of the formation of human characters by habit. Every one of those\nnotable ravines and crags is the expression, not of any sudden violence\ndone to the mountain, but of its little _habits_, persisted in\ncontinually. It was created with one ruling instinct; but its destiny\ndepended nevertheless, for effective result, on the direction of the\nsmall and all but invisible tricklings of water, in which the first\nshower of rain found its way down its sides. The feeblest, most\ninsensible oozings of the drops of dew among its dust were in reality\narbiters of its eternal form; commissioned, with a touch more tender\nthan that of a child's finger,--as silent and slight as the fall of a\nhalf-checked tear on a maiden's cheek,--to fix for ever the forms of\npeak and precipice, and hew those leagues of lifted granite into the\nshapes that were to divide the earth and its kingdoms. Once the little\nstone evaded,--once the dim furrow traced,--and the peak was for ever\ninvested with its majesty, the ravine for ever doomed to its\ndegradation. Thenceforward, day by day, the subtle habit gained in\npower; the evaded stone was left with wider basement; the chosen furrow\ndeepened with swifter-sliding wave; repentance and arrest were alike\nimpossible, and hour after hour saw written in larger and rockier\ncharacters upon the sky, the history of the choice that had been\ndirected by a drop of rain, and of the balance that had been turned by a\ngrain of sand.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 63.]\n\nSec. 24. Such are the principal laws, relating to the crested mountains,\nfor the expression of which we are to look to art; and we shall\naccordingly find good and intelligent mountain-drawing distinguished\nfrom bad mountain-drawing, by an indication, first, of the artist's\nrecognition of some great harmony among the summits, and of their\ntendency to throw themselves into tidal waves, closely resembling those\nof the sea itself; sometimes in free tossing towards the sky, but more\nfrequently still in the form of _breakers_, concave and steep on one\nside, convex and less steep on the other; secondly, by his indication of\nstraight beds or fractures, continually stiffening themselves through\nthe curves in some given direction.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 64.]\n\nSec. 25. Fig. 63 is a facsimile of a piece of the background in Albert\nDurer's woodcut of the binding of the great Dragon in the Apocalypse. It\nis one of his most careless and rudest pieces of drawing; yet, observe\nin it how notably the impulse of the breaking wave is indicated; and\nnote farther, how different a thing good drawing may be from delicate\n_drawing_ on the one hand, and how different it must be from ignorant\ndrawing on the other. Woodcutting, in Durer's days, had reached no\ndelicacy capable of expressing subtle detail or aerial perspective. But\nall the subtlety and aerial perspective of modern days are useless, and\neven barbarous, if they fail in the expression of the essential mountain\nfacts.\n\nSec. 26. It will be noticed, however, that in this example of Durer's, the\nrecognition of straightness of line does not exist, and that for this\nreason the hills look soft and earthy, not rocky.\n\nSo, also, in the next example, Fig. 64, the crest in the middle distance\nis exceedingly fine in its expression of mountain force; the two ridges\nof it being thrown up like the two edges of a return wave that has just\nbeen beaten back from a rock. It is still, however, somewhat wanting in\nthe expression of straightness, and therefore slightly unnatural. It was\nnot people's way in the Middle Ages to look at mountains carefully\nenough to discover the most subtle elements of their structure. Yet in\nthe next example, Fig. 65, the parallelism and rigidity are definitely\nindicated, the crest outline being, however, less definite.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 65.]\n\nNote, also (in passing), the entire equality of the lines in all these\nexamples, whether turned to dark or light. All good outline drawing, as\nnoticed in the chapter on finish, agrees in this character.\n\nSec. 27. The next figure (66) is interesting because it furnishes one of\nthe few instances in which Titian definitely took a suggestion from the\nAlps, as he saw them from his house at Venice. It is from an old print\nof a shepherd with a flock of sheep by the sea-side, in which he has\nintroduced a sea distance, with the Venetian church of St. Helena, some\nsubordinate buildings resembling those of Murano, and this piece of\ncloud and mountain. The peak represented is one of the greater Tyrolese\nAlps, which shows itself from Venice behind an opening in the chain,\nand is their culminating point. In reality the mass is of the shape\ngiven in Fig. 67. Titian has modified it into an energetic crest,\nshowing his feeling for the form, but I have no doubt that the woodcut\nreverses Titian's original work (whatever it was), and that he gave the\ncrest the true inclination to the right, or east, which it has in\nnature.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 66.]\n\nSec. 28. Now, it not unfrequently happens that in Claude's distances he\nintroduces actual outlines of Capri, Ischia, Monte St. Angelo, the Alban\nMount, and other chains about Rome and Naples, more or less faithfully\ncopied from nature. When he does so, confining himself to mere outline,\nthe grey contours seen against the distance are often satisfactory\nenough; but as soon as he brings one of them nearer, so as to require\nany drawing within its mass, it is quite curious to see the state of\nparalysis into which he is thrown for want of any perception of the\nmountain anatomy. Fig. 68 is one of the largest hills I can find in the\nLiber Veritatis (No. 86), and it will be seen that there are only a few\nlines inserted towards the edges, drawn in the direction of the sides of\nthe heap, or cone, wholly without consciousness of any interior\nstructure.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 67.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 68.]\n\nSec. 29. I put below it, outlined also in the rudest way (for as I take the\nshade away from the Liber Veritatis, I am bound also to take it away\nfrom Turner), Fig. 69, a bit of the crags in the drawing of Loch\nCoriskin, partly described already in Sec. 5 of the chapter on the Inferior\nMountains in Vol. I. The crest form is, indeed, here accidentally\nprominent, and developed to a degree rare even with Turner; but note,\nbesides this, the way in which Turner leans on the _centre_ and body of\nthe hill, not on its edge; marking its strata stone by stone, just as a\ngood figure painter, drawing a limb, marks the fall and rise of the\njoint, letting the outline sink back softened; and compare the exactly\nopposite method of Claude, holding for life to his outline, as a Greek\nnavigator holds to the shore.[76]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 69.]\n\nSec. 30. Lest, however, it should be thought that I have unfairly chosen\nmy examples, let me take an instance at once less singular and more\nelaborate.\n\nWe saw in our account of Turnerian topography, Chap. II., Sec. 14, that it\nhad been necessary for the painter, in his modification of the view in\nthe ravine of Faido, to introduce a passage from among the higher peaks;\nwhich, being thus intended expressly to convey the general impression of\ntheir character, must sufficiently illustrate what Turner felt that\ncharacter to be. Observe: it could not be taken from the great central\naiguilles, for none such exist at all near Faido; it could only be an\nexpression of what Turner considered the noblest attributes of the hills\nnext to these in elevation,--that is to say, those which we are now\nexamining.\n\nI have etched the portion of the picture which includes this passage, on\npage 221, on its own scale, including the whole couloir above the\ngallery, and the gallery itself, with the rocks beside it.[77] And now,\nif the reader will look back to Plate +20+, which is the outline of the\n_real_ scene, he will have a perfect example, in comparing the two, of\nthe operation of invention of the highest order on a given subject. I\nshould recommend him to put a piece of tracing paper over the etching,\nPlate +37+, and with his pen to follow some of the lines of it as\ncarefully as he can, until he feels their complexity, and the redundance\nof the imaginative power which amplified the simple theme, furnished by\nthe natural scene, with such detail; and then let him observe what great\nmountain laws Turner has been striving to express in all these\nadditions.\n\nSec. 31. The cleavages which govern the whole are precisely the same as\nthose of the Aiguille Bouchard, only wrought into grander combinations.\nThat the reader may the better distinguish them, I give the leading\nlines coarsely for reference in Fig. 70, opposite. The cleavages and\nlines of force are the following.\n\n[Illustration: J. M. W. Turner. J. Ruskin.\n 37. Crests of the Slaty Crystallines.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 70.]\n\n1. A B and associated lines _a b_, _a b_, &c., over the whole plate.\n True beds or cleavage beds (_g h_ in Aiguille Bouchard, Plate\n +34+); here, observe, closing in retiring perspective with\n exquisite subtlety, and giving the great unity of radiation to\n the whole mass.\n\n2. D E and associated lines _d e_, _d e_, over all the plate. Cross\n cleavage, the second in Aiguille Bouchard; straight and sharp.\n Forming here the series of crests at B and D.\n\n3. _r s_, _r s_. Counter-crests, closely corresponding to\n counter-fracture, the third in Aiguille Bouchard.\n\n4. _m n_, _m n_, &c., over the whole. Writhing aqueous lines falling\n gradually into the cleavages. Fifth group in Aiguille Bouchard.\n The starchy cleavage is not seen here, it being not generally\n characteristic of the crests, and present in the Bouchard only\n accidentally.\n\n5. _x x x_. Sinuous lines worn by the water, indicative of some softness\n or flaws in the rock; these probably the occasion or consequence\n of the formation of the great precipice or brow on the right. We\n shall have more to say of them in Chap. XVII.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 71.]\n\n6. _g f_, _g f_, &c. Broad aqueous or glacial curvatures. The sixth\n group in Aiguille Bouchard.\n\n7. _k l_, _k l_. Concave curves wrought by the descending avalanche;\n peculiar, of course, to this spot.\n\n8. _i h_, _i h_. Secondary convex curves, glacial or aqueous,\n corresponding to _g f_, but wrought into the minor secondary\n ravine. This secondary ravine is associated with the opponent\n aiguillesque masses _r s_; and the cause of the break or gap\n between these and the crests B D is indicated by the elbow or\n joint of nearer rock, M, where the distortion of the beds or\n change in their nature first takes place. Turner's idea of the\n structure of the whole mass has evidently been that in section it\n was as in Fig. 71, snapped asunder by elevation, with a nucleus\n at M, which, allowing for perspective, is precisely on the line\n of the chasm running in the direction of the arrow; but he gives\n more of the curved aiguillesque fracture to these upper crests,\n which are greater in elevation (and we saw, sometime ago, that\n the higher the rock the harder). And that nucleus of change at M,\n the hinge, as it were, on which all these promontories of upper\n crest revolve, is the first or nearest of the evaded stones,\n which have determined the course of streams and nod of cliffs\n throughout the chain.\n\nSec. 32. I can well believe that the reader will doubt the possibility of\nall this being intended by Turner: and _intended_, in the ordinary\nsense, it was not. It was simply seen and instinctively painted,\naccording to the command of the imaginative dream, as the true Griffin\nwas, and as all noble things are. But if the reader fancies that the\napparent truth came by mere chance, or that I am imagining purpose and\narrangement where they do not exist, let him be once for all assured\nthat no man goes through the kind of work which, by this time, he must\nbe beginning to perceive I _have_ gone through, either for the sake of\ndeceiving others, or with any great likelihood of deceiving himself. He\nwho desires to deceive the picture-purchasing public may do so cheaply;\nand it is easy to bring almost any kind of art into notice without\nclimbing Alps or measuring cleavages. But any one, on the other hand,\nwho desires to ascertain facts, and will refer all art directly to\nnature for many laborious years, will not at last find himself an easy\nprey to groundless enthusiasms, or erroneous fancies. Foolish people are\nfond of repeating a story which has gone the full round of the\nartistical world,--that Turner, some day, somewhere, said to somebody\n(time, place, or person never being ascertainable), that I discovered in\nhis pictures things which he did himself not know were there. Turner was\nnot a person apt to say things of this kind; being generally, respecting\nall the movements of his own mind, as silent as a granite crest; and if\nhe ever did say it, was probably laughing at the person to whom he was\nspeaking. But he _might_ have said it in the most perfect sincerity;\nnay, I am quite sure that, to a certain extent, the case really was as\nhe is reported to have declared, and that he neither was aware of the\nvalue of the truths he had seized nor understood the nature of the\ninstinct that combined them. And yet the truth was assuredly\napprehended, and the instinct assuredly present and imperative; and any\nartists who try to imitate the smallest portion of his work will find\nthat no happy chances will, for them, gather together the resemblances\nof fact, nor, for them, mimic the majesty of invention.[78]\n\nSec. 33. No happy chance--nay, no happy thought--no perfect knowledge--will\never take the place of that mighty unconsciousness. I have often had to\nrepeat that Turner, in the ordinary sense of the words, neither knew nor\nthought so much as other men. Whenever his _perception_ failed--that is\nto say, with respect to scientific truths which produce no results\npalpable to the eye--he fell into the frankest errors. For instance, in\nsuch a thing as the relation of position between a rainbow and the sun,\nthere is not any definitely visible connection between them; it needs\nattention and calculation to discover that the centre of the rainbow is\nthe shadow of the spectator's head.[79] And attention or calculation of\nthis abstract kind Turner appears to have been utterly incapable of; but\nif he drew a piece of drapery, in which every line of the folds has a\n_visible_ relation to the points of suspension, not a merely calculable\none, this relation he will see to the last thread; and thus he traces\nthe order of the mountain crests to their last stone, not because he\nknows anything of geology, but because he instinctively seizes the last\nand finest traces of any visible law.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 72.]\n\nSec. 34. He was, however, especially obedient to these laws of the crests,\nbecause he heartily loved them. We saw in the early part of this chapter\nhow the crest outlines harmonized with nearly every other beautiful form\nof natural objects, especially in the continuity of their external\ncurves. This continuity was so grateful to Turner's heart that he would\noften go great lengths to serve it. For instance, in one of his drawings\nof the town of Lucerne he has first outlined the Mont Pilate in pencil,\nwith a central peak, as indicated by the dotted line in Fig. 72. This is\nnearly true to the local fact; but being inconsistent with the general\nlook of crests, and contrary to Turner's instincts, he strikes off the\nrefractory summit, and, leaving his pencil outline still in the sky,\ntouches with color only the contour shown by the continuous line in the\nfigure, thus treating it just as we saw Titian did the great Alp of the\nTyrol. He probably, however, would not have done this with so important\na feature of the scene as the Mont Pilate, had not the continuous line\nbeen absolutely necessary to his composition, in order to oppose the\npeaked towers of the town, which were his principal subject; the form of\nthe Pilate being seen only as a rosy shadow in the far off sky. We\ncannot, however, yet estimate the importance, in his mind, of this\ncontinuity of descending curve, until we come to the examination of the\nlower hill _flanks_, hitherto having been concerned only with their\nrocky summits; and before we leave those summits, or rather the harder\nrocks which compose them, there is yet another condition of those rocks\nto be examined; and that the condition which is commonly the most\ninteresting, namely, the Precipice. To this inquiry, however, we had\nbetter devote a separate chapter.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [66] So called from the mouldering nature of its rocks. They are\n slaty crystallines, but unusually fragile.\n\n [67] The materials removed from the slope are spread over the plain\n or valley below. A nearly equal quantity is supposed to be removed\n from the other side; but besides this _removed_ mass, the materials\n crumble heavily from above, and form the concave curve.\n\n [68] The lines are a little too straight in their continuations, the\n engraver having cut some of the curvature out of their thickness,\n thinking I had drawn them too coarsely. But I have chosen this\n coarsely lined example, and others like it, following, because I\n wish to accustom the reader to distinguish between the mere fineness\n of instrument in the artist's hand, and the precision of the line he\n draws. Give Titian a blunt pen, and still Titian's line will be a\n noble one: a tyro, with a pen well mended, may draw more neatly; but\n his lines ought to be discerned from Titian's, if we understand\n drawing. Every line in this woodcut of Durer's is _refined_; and\n that in the noblest sense. Whether broad or fine does not matter,\n the lines are _right_; and the most delicate false line is evermore\n to be despised, in presence of the coarsest faithful one.\n\n [69] Not absolutely on the meeting of the curves in one point, but\n on their radiating with some harmonious succession of difference in\n direction. The difference between lines which are in true harmony of\n radiation, and lines which are not, can, in complicated masses, only\n be detected by a trained eye; yet it is often the chief difference\n between good and bad drawing. A cluster of six or seven black plumes\n forming the wing of one of the cherubs in Titian's Assumption, at\n Venice, has a freedom and force about it in the painting which no\n copyist or engraver has ever yet rendered, though it depends merely\n on the subtlety of the curves, not on the color.\n\n [70] \"_Out of_ perspective,\" I should have said: but it will show\n what I mean.\n\n [71] Nor did any nearer observations ever induce me to form any\n contrary opinion. It is not easy to get any consistent series of\n _measurements_ of the slope of these gneiss beds; for, although\n parallel on the great scale, they admit many varieties of dip in\n minor projections. But all my notes unite, whether at the bottom or\n top of the great slope of the Montanvert and La Cote, in giving an\n angle of from 60 deg. to 80 deg. with the horizon; the consistent angle\n being about 75 deg.. I cannot be mistaken in the measurements\n themselves, however inconclusive observations on minor portions of\n rock may be; for I never mark an angle unless enough of the upper or\n lower surface of the beds be smoothly exposed to admit of my pole\n being adjusted to it by the spirit-level. The pole then indicates\n the strike of the beds, and a quadrant with a plumb-line their dip;\n to all intents and purposes accurately. There is a curious\n distortion of the beds in the ravine between the Glacier des Bois\n and foot of the Montanvert, near the ice, about a thousand feet\n above the valley; the beds there seem to bend suddenly back under\n the glacier, and in some places to be quite vertical. On the\n opposite side of the glacier, below the Chapeau, the dip of the\n limestone under the gneiss, with the intermediate bed, seven or\n eight feet thick, of the grey porous rock which the French call\n _cargneule_, is highly interesting; but it is so concealed by debris\n and the soil of the pine forests, as to be difficult to examine to\n any extent. On the whole, the best position for getting the angle of\n the beds accurately, is the top of the Tapia, a little below the\n junction there of the granite and gneiss (see notice of this\n junction in Appendix 2); a point from which the summit of the\n Aiguille du Goute bears 11 deg. south of west, and that of the Aiguille\n Bouchard 17 deg. north of east, the Aiguille Dru 51/2 deg. or 6 deg. north of\n east, the peak of it appearing behind the Petit Charmoz. The beds of\n gneiss emerging from the turf under the spectator's feet may be\n brought parallel by the eye with the slopes of the Aiguille du Goute\n on one side, and the Bouchard (and base of Aiguille d'Argentiere) on\n the other; striking as nearly as possible from summit to summit\n through that on which the spectator stands, or from about 10 deg. north\n of east to 10 deg. south of west, and dipping with exquisite uniformity\n at an angle of 74 degrees with the horizon. But what struck me as\n still more strange was, that from this point I could distinctly see\n traces of the same straight structure running through the Petit\n Charmoz, and the roots of the aiguilles themselves, as in Fig. 59;\n nor could I ever, in the course of countless observations, fairly\n determine any point where this slaty structure altogether had\n ceased. It seemed only to get less and less traceable towards the\n centre of the mass of Mont Blanc; and, from the ridge of the\n Aiguille Bouchard itself, at the point _a_ in Plate 33, whence,\n looking south-west, the aiguilles can be seen in the most accurate\n profile obtainable throughout the valley of Chamouni, I noticed a\n very singular parallelism even on the south-east side of the\n Charmoz, _x y_ (Fig. 60), as if the continued influence of this\n cleavage were carried on from the Little Charmoz, _c_, _d_ (in\n which, seen on the opposite side, I had traced it as in Fig. 59),\n through the central mass of rock _r_. In this profile, M is the Mont\n Blanc itself; _m_, the Aiguille du Midi; P, Aiguille du Plan; _b_,\n Aiguille Blaitiere; C, Great Charmoz; _c_, Petit Charmoz; E, passage\n called de l'Etala.\n\n [Illustration: FIG. 59.]\n\n [Illustration: FIG. 60.]\n\n [72] Many geologists think they _are_ the true beds. They run across\n the gneissitic folia, and I hold with De Saussure, and consider them\n a cleavage.\n\n [73] I tried in vain to get along the ridge of the Bouchard to this\n junction, the edge of the precipice between _a_ and _b_ (Plate 33)\n being too broken; but the point corresponds so closely to that of\n the junction of the gneiss and protogine on the Charmoz ridge, that,\n adding the evidence of the distant contour, I have no doubt as to\n the general relations of the rocks.\n\n [74] De Saussure often refers to these as \"assaissements.\" They\n occur, here and there, in the aiguilles themselves.\n\n [75] The aqueous curves and roundings on the nearer crest (La Cote)\n are peculiarly tender, because the gneiss of which it is composed is\n softer in grain than that of the Bouchard, and remains so even to\n the very top of the peak, _a_, in Fig. 61, where I found it mixed\n with a yellowish and somewhat sandy quartz rock, and generally much\n less protogenic than is usual at such elevations on other parts of\n the chain.\n\n [76] It is worth while noting here, in comparing Fig. 66 and Fig.\n 68, how entirely our judgment of some kinds of art depends upon\n knowledge, not on feeling. Any person unacquainted with hills would\n think Claude's right and Titian's ridiculous: but, after inquiring a\n little farther into the matter, we find Titian's a careless and\n intense expression of true knowledge, and Claude's a slow and\n plausible expression of total ignorance.\n\n It will be observed that Fig. 69 is one of the second order of\n crests, _d_, Fig. 48. The next instance given is of the first order\n of crests, _c_, in the same figure\n\n [77] This etching, like that of the Bolton rocks, is prepared for\n future mezzo-tint, and looks harsh in its present state; but will\n mark all the more clearly several points of structure in question.\n The diamond-shaped rock, however, (M, in the reference figure,) is\n not so conspicuous here as it will be when the plate is finished,\n being relieved in light from the mass behind, as also the faint\n distant crests in dark from the sky.\n\n [78] An anecdote is related, more to our present purpose, and better\n authenticated, inasmuch as the name of the artist to whom Turner was\n speaking at the time is commonly stated, though I do not give it\n here, not having asked his permission. The story runs that this\n artist (one of our leading landscape painters) was complaining to\n Turner that, after going to Domo d'Ossola, to find the site of a\n particular view which had struck him several years before, he had\n entirely failed in doing so; \"it looked different when he went back\n again.\" \"What,\" replied Turner, \"do you not know yet, at your age,\n that you ought to _paint_ your _impressions_?\"\n\n [79] So, in the exact length or shape of shadows in general, he will\n often be found quite inaccurate; because the irregularity caused in\n shadows by the shape of what they fall _on_, as well as what they\n fall from, renders the law of connection untraceable by the eye or\n the instinct. The chief _visible_ thing about a shadow is, that it\n is always of some form which nobody would have thought of; and this\n visible principle Turner always seizes, sometimes wrongly in\n calculated fact, but always so rightly as to give more the look of a\n real shadow than any one else.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nRESULTING FORMS:--THIRDLY, PRECIPICES.\n\n\nSec. 1. The reader was, perhaps, surprised by the smallness of the number\nto which our foregoing analysis reduced Alpine summits bearing an\nascertainedly peaked or pyramidal form. He might not be less so if I\nwere to number the very few occasions on which I have seen a true\nprecipice of any considerable height. I mean by a true precipice, one by\nwhich a plumb-line will swing clear, or without touching the face of it,\nif suspended from a point a foot or two beyond the brow. Not only are\nperfect precipices of this kind very rare, but even imperfect\nprecipices, which often produce upon the eye as majestic an impression\nas if they were vertical, are nearly always curiously low in proportion\nto the general mass of the hills to which they belong. They are for the\nmost part small steps or rents in large surfaces of mountain, and\nmingled by Nature among her softer forms, as cautiously and sparingly as\nthe utmost exertion of his voice is, by a great speaker, with his tones\nof gentleness.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 73.]\n\nSec. 2. Precipices, in the large plurality of cases, consist of the edge of\na bed of rock, sharply fractured, in the manner already explained in\nChap. XII., and are represented, in their connection with aiguilles and\ncrests, by _c_, in Fig. 42, p. 195. When the bed of rock slopes\nbackwards from the edge, as _a_, Fig. 73, a condition of precipice is\nobtained more or less peaked, very safe, and very grand.[80] When the\nbeds are horizontal, _b_, the precipice is steeper, more dangerous, but\nmuch less impressive. When the beds slope towards the precipice, the\nfront of it overhangs, and the noblest effect is obtained which is\npossible in mountain forms of this kind.\n\nSec. 3. Singularly enough, the type _b_ is in actual nature nearly always\nthe most dangerous of the three, and _c_ the safest, for horizontal beds\nare usually of the softest rocks, and their cliffs are caused by some\nviolent agency in constant operation, as chalk cliffs by the wearing\npower of the sea, so that such rocks are continually falling, in one\nplace or another. The form _a_ may also be assumed by very soft rocks.\nBut _c_ cannot exist at all on the large scale, unless it is built of\ngood materials, and it will then frequently stay in its fixed frown for\nages.\n\nSec. 4. It occasionally happens that a precipice is formed among the higher\ncrests by the _sides_ of vertical beds of slaty crystallines. Such rocks\nare rare, and never very high, but always beautiful in their smoothness\nof surface and general trenchant and firm expression. One of the most\ninteresting I know is that of the summit of the Breven, on the north of\nthe valley of Chamouni. The mountain is formed by vertical sheets of\nslaty crystallines, rather soft at the bottom, and getting harder and\nharder towards the top, until at the very summit it is hard and compact\nas the granite of Waterloo Bridge, though much finer in the grain, and\nbreaking into perpendicular faces of rock so perfectly cut as to feel\nsmooth to the hand. Fig. 4, p. 107, represents, of the real size, a bit\nwhich I broke from the edge of the cliff, the shaded part underneath\nbeing the surface which forms the precipice. The plumb-line from the\nbrow of this cliff hangs clear 124 English feet; it is then caught by a\nledge about three feet wide, from which another precipice falls to about\ntwice the height of the first; but I had not line enough to measure it\nwith from the top, and could not get down to the ledge. When I say the\nline hangs _clear_, I mean when once it is off the actual brow of the\ncliff, which is a little rounded for about fourteen or fifteen feet,\nfrom _a_ to _b_, in the section, Fig. 75. Then the rock recedes in an\nalmost unbroken concave sweep, detaching itself from the plumb-line\nabout two feet at the point _c_ (the lateral dimensions are exaggerated\nto show the curve), and approaching it again at the ledge _d_, which is\n124 feet below _a_. The plumb-line, fortunately, can be seen throughout\nits whole extent from a sharp bastion of the precipice farther on, for\nthe face of the cliff runs, in horizontal plan, very nearly to the\nmagnetic north and south, as shown in Fig. 74, the plumb-line swinging\nat _a_, and seen from the advanced point P. It would give a similar\nresult at any other part of the cliff face, but may be most conveniently\ncast from the point _a_, a little below, and to the north of the summit.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 74.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 75.]\n\nSec. 5. But although the other divisions of this precipice, below the ledge\nwhich stops the plummet, give it altogether a height of about five\nhundred feet,[81] the whole looks a mere step on the huge slope of the\nBreven; and it only deserves mention among Alpine cliffs as one of\nsingular beauty and decision, yet perfectly approachable and examinable\neven by the worst climbers; which is very rarely the case with cliffs of\nthe same boldness. I suppose that this is the reason for its having been\noften stated in scientific works that no cliff could be found in the\nAlps from which a plumb-line would swing two hundred feet. This can\n_possibly_ be true (and even with this limitation I doubt it) of cliffs\nconveniently approachable by experimental philosophers. For, indeed, one\nway or another, it is curious how Nature fences out, as it were, the\nbrows of her boldest precipices. Wherever a plumb-line will swing, the\nprecipice is, almost without exception, of the type _c_, in Fig. 73, the\nbrow of it rounding towards the edge for, perhaps, fifty or a hundred\nyards above, rendering it unsafe in the highest degree for any\ninexperienced person to attempt approach. But it is often possible to\nascertain from a distance, if the cliff can be got relieved against the\nsky, the approximate degree of its precipitousness.\n\nSec. 6. It may, I think, be assumed, almost with certainty, that whenever a\nprecipice is very bold and very high, it is formed by beds more or less\napproaching horizontally, out of which it has been cut, like the side of\na haystack from which part has been removed. The wonderfulness of this\noperation I have before insisted upon; here we have to examine the best\nexamples of it.\n\nAs, in forms of central rock, the Aiguilles of Chamouni, so in\nnotableness of lateral precipice, the Matterhorn, or Mont Cervin,\nstands, on the whole, unrivalled among the Alps, being terminated, on\ntwo of its sides, by precipices which produce on the imagination nearly\nthe effect of verticality. There is, however, only one point at which\nthey reach anything approaching such a condition; and that point is\nwholly inaccessible either from below or above, but sufficiently\nmeasurable by a series of observations.\n\n[Illustration: Fig. 77.]\n\nSec. 7. From the slope of the hill above, and to the west of, the village\nof Zermatt, the Matterhorn presents itself under the figure shown on the\nright hand in the opposite plate (+38+). The whole height of the mass,\nfrom the glacier out of which it rises, is about 4000 feet; and\nalthough, as before noticed, the first slope from the top towards the\nright is merely a perspective line, the part of the contour _c d_, Fig.\n33, p. 181, which literally overhangs,[82] cannot be. An apparent slope,\nhowever steep, so that it does not overpass the vertical, _may_ be a\nhorizontal line; but the moment it can be shown literally to overhang,\nit _must_ be one of two things,--either an actually pendant _face_ of\nrock, as at _a_, Fig. 77, or the under edge of an overhanging _cornice_\nof rock, _b_. Of course the latter condition, on such a scale as this of\nthe Matterhorn, would be the more wonderful of the two; but I was\nanxious to determine which of these it really was.\n\n[Illustration: 38. The Cervin, from the East and North-east.]\n\nSec. 8. My first object was to reach some spot commanding, as nearly as\nmight be, the lateral profile of the Mont Cervin. The most available\npoint for this purpose was the top of the Riffelhorn; which, however,\nfirst attempting to climb by its deceitful western side, and being\nstopped, for the moment, by the singular moat and wall which defend its\nMalakhoff-like summit, fearing that I might not be able ultimately to\nreach the top, I made the drawing of the Cervin, on the left hand in\nPlate +38+, from the edge of the moat; and found afterwards the\ndifference in aspect, as it was seen from the true summit, so slight as\nnot to necessitate the trouble of making another drawing.[83]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 78.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 79.]\n\nSec. 9. It may be noted in passing, that this wall which with its regular\nfosse defends the Riffelhorn on its western side, and a similar one on\nits eastern side, though neither of them of any considerable height, are\ncurious instances of trenchant precipice, formed, I suppose, by slight\nslips or faults of the serpentine rock. The summit of the horn, _a_,\nFig. 78, seems to have been pushed up in a mass beyond the rest of the\nridge, or else the rest of the ridge to have dropped from it on each\nside, at _b c_, leaving the two troublesome faces of cliff right across\nthe crag, hard, green as a sea wave, and polished like the inside of a\nseashell, where the weather has not effaced the surface produced by the\nslip. It is only by getting past the eastern cliff that the summit can\nbe reached at all, for on its two lateral escarpments the mountain seems\nquite inaccessible, being in its whole mass nothing else than the top of\na narrow wall with a raised battlement, as rudely shown in perspective\nat _e d_; the flanks of the wall falling towards the glacier on one\nside, and to the lower Riffel on the other, four or five hundred feet,\nnot, indeed, in unbroken precipice, but in a form quite incapable of\nbeing scaled.[84]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 79.]\n\nSec. 10. To return to the Cervin. The view of it given on the left hand in\nPlate +38+ shows the ridge in about its narrowest profile; and shows\nalso that this ridge is composed of beds of rock shelving across it,\napparently horizontal, or nearly so, at the top, and sloping\nconsiderably southwards (to the spectator's left), at the bottom. How\nfar this slope is a consequence of the advance of the nearest angle\ngiving a steep perspective to the beds, I cannot say; my own belief\nwould have been that a great deal of it is thus deceptive, the beds\nlying as the tiles do in the somewhat anomalous, but perfectly\nconceivable house-roof, Fig. 79. Saussure, however, attributes to the\nbeds themselves a very considerable slope. But be this as it may, the\nmain facts of the thinness of the beds, their comparative horizontality,\nand the daring swordsweep by which the whole mountain has been hewn out\nof them, are from this spot comprehensible at a glance. Visible, I\n_should_ have said; but eternally, and to the uttermost,\n_in_comprehensible. Every geologist who speaks of this mountain seems\nto be struck by the wonderfulness of its calm sculpture--the absence of\nall aspect of convulsion, and yet the stern chiselling of so vast a mass\ninto its precipitous isolation leaving no ruin nor debris near it.\n\"Quelle force n'a-t-il pas fallu,\" exclaims M. Saussure, \"pour rompre,\net pour _balayer_ tout ce qui manque a cette pyramide!\" \"What an\noverturn of all ancient ideas in Geology,\" says Professor Forbes, \"to\nfind a pinnacle of 15,000 feet high [above the sea] sharp as a pyramid,\nand with perpendicular precipices of thousands of feet on every hand, to\nbe a representative of the older chalk formation; and what a difficulty\nto conceive the nature of a convulsion (even with unlimited power),\nwhich could produce a configuration like the Mont Cervin rising from the\nglacier of Zmutt!\"\n\n[Illustration: FIG 80.]\n\nSec. 11. The term \"perpendicular\" is of course applied by the Professor in\nthe \"poetical\" temper of Reynolds,--that is to say, in one \"inattentive\nto minute exactness in details;\" but the effect of this strange\nMatterhorn upon the imagination is indeed so great, that even the\ngravest philosophers cannot resist it; and Professor Forbes's drawing of\nthe peak, outlined at page 180, has evidently been made under the\ninfluence of considerable excitement. For fear of being deceived by\nenthusiasm also, I daguerreotyped the Cervin from the edge of the little\nlake under the crag of the Riffelhorn, with the somewhat amazing result\nshown in Fig. 80. So cautious is Nature, even in her boldest work, so\nbroadly does she extend the foundations, and strengthen the buttresses,\nof masses which produce so striking an _impression_ as to be described,\neven by the most careful writers, as perpendicular.\n\nSec. 12. The only portion of the Matterhorn which approaches such a\ncondition is the shoulder, before alluded to, forming a step of about\none twelfth the height of the whole peak, shown by light on its snowy\nside, or upper surface, in the right-hand figure of Plate +38+. Allowing\n4000 feet for the height of the peak, this step or shoulder will be\nbetween 300 and 400 feet in absolute height; and as it is not only\nperpendicular, but assuredly overhangs, both at this snow-lighted angle\nand at the other corner of the mountain (seen against the sky in the\nsame figure), I have not the slightest doubt that a plumb-line would\nswing from the brow of either of these bastions, between 600 and 800\nfeet, without touching rock. The intermediate portion of the cliff which\njoins them is, however, not more than vertical. I was therefore anxious\nchiefly to observe the structure of the two angles, and, to that end, to\nsee the mountain close on that side, from the Zmutt glacier.\n\nSec. 13. I am afraid my dislike to the nomenclatures invented by the German\nphilosophers has been unreasonably, though involuntarily, complicated\nwith that which, crossing out of Italy, one necessarily feels for those\ninvented by the German peasantry. As travellers now every day more\nfrequently visit the neighborhood of the Monte Rosa, it would surely be\na permissible, because convenient, poetical license, to invent some\nother name for this noble glacier, whose present title, certainly not\neuphonious, has the additional disadvantage of being easily confounded\nwith that of the _Zermatt_ glacier, properly so called. I mean myself,\nhenceforward, to call it the Red glacier, because, for two or three\nmiles above its lower extremity, the whole surface of it is covered with\nblocks of reddish gneiss, or other slaty crystalline rocks,--some fallen\nfrom the Cervin, some from the Weisshorn, some brought from the Stockhi\nand Dent d'Erin, but little rolled or ground down in the transit, and\ncovering the ice, often four or five feet deep, with a species of\nmacadamization on a large scale (each stone being usually some foot or\nfoot and a half in diameter), anything but convenient to a traveller in\nhaste. Higher up, the ice opens into broad white fields and furrows,\nhard and dry, scarcely fissured at all, except just under the Cervin,\nand forming a silent and solemn causeway, paved, as it seems, with white\nmarble from side to side; broad enough for the march of an army in line\nof battle, but quiet as a street of tombs in a buried city, and bordered\non each hand by ghostly cliffs of that faint granite purple which seems,\nin its far-away height, as unsubstantial as the dark blue that bounds\nit;--the whole scene so changeless and soundless; so removed, not merely\nfrom the presence of men, but even from their thoughts; so destitute of\nall life of tree or herb, and so immeasurable in its lonely brightness\nof majestic death, that it looks like a world from which not only the\nhuman, but the spiritual, presences had perished, and the last of its\narchangels, building the great mountains for their monuments, had laid\nthemselves down in the sunlight to an eternal rest, each in his white\nshroud.\n\nSec. 14. The first point from which the Matterhorn precipices, which I came\nto examine, show their structure distinctly, is about half-way up the\nvalley, before reaching the glacier. The most convenient path, and\naccess to the ice, are on the south; but it is best, in order to watch\nthe changes of the Matterhorn, to keep on the north side of the valley;\nand, at the point just named, the shoulder marked _e_ in Fig. 33, p.\n181, is seen, in the morning sunlight, to be composed of zigzag beds,\napparently of eddied sand. (Fig. 81.)\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 81.]\n\nI have no doubt they once _were_ eddied sand; that is to say, sea or\ntorrent drift, hardened by fire into crystalline rock; but whether they\never were or not, the certain fact is, that here we have a precipice,\ntrenchant, overhanging, and 500 feet in height, cut across the thin beds\nwhich compose it as smoothly as a piece of fine-grained wood is cut with\na chisel.\n\nSec. 15. From this point, also, the nature of the corresponding bastion, _c\nd_, Fig 33, is also discernible. It is the edge of a great concave\nprecipice, cut out of the mountain, as the smooth hollows are out of the\nrocks at the foot of a waterfall, and across which the variously colored\nbeds, thrown by perspective into corresponding curvatures, run exactly\nlike the seams of canvas in a Venetian felucca's sail.\n\nSeen from this spot, it seems impossible that the mountain should long\nsupport itself in such a form, but the impression is only caused by the\nconcealment of the vast proportions of the mass behind, whose poise is\nquite unaffected by this hollowing at one point. Thenceforward, as we\nascend the glacier, the Matterhorn every moment expands in apparent\nwidth; and having reached the foot of the Stockhi (about a four hours'\nwalk from Zermatt), and getting the Cervin summit to bear S. 111/2 deg. E., I\nmade the drawing of it engraved opposite, which gives a true idea of the\nrelations between it and the masses of its foundation. The bearing\nstated is that of the apparent summit only, as from this point the true\nsummit is not visible; the rocks which seem to form the greatest part of\nthe mountain being in reality nothing but its foundations, while the\nlittle white jagged peak, relieved against the dark hollow just below\nthe seeming summit, is the rock marked _g_ in Fig. 33. But the structure\nof the mass, and the long ranges of horizontal, or nearly horizontal,\nbeds which form its crest, showing in black points like arrow-heads\nthrough the snow, where their ridges are left projecting by the\navalanche channels, are better seen than at any other point I reached,\ntogether with the sweeping and thin zones of sandy gneiss below, bending\napparently like a coach-spring; and the notable point about the whole\nis, that this under-bed, of seemingly the most delicate substance, is\nthat prepared by Nature to build her boldest precipice with, it being\nthis bed which emerges at the two bastions or shoulders before noticed,\nand which by that projection causes the strange oblique distortion of\nthe whole mountain mass, as it is seen from Zermatt.\n\n[Illustration: J. Ruskin. J. C. Armytage.\n 39. The Cervin, from the North-West.]\n\nSec. 16. And our surprise will still be increased as we farther examine the\nmaterials of which the whole mountain is composed. In many places its\ncrystalline slates, where their horizontal surfaces are exposed along\nthe projecting beds of their foundations, break into ruin so total that\nthe foot dashes through their loose red flakes as through heaps of\nautumn leaves; and yet, just where their structure seems most delicate,\njust where they seem to have been swept before the eddies of the streams\nthat first accumulated them, in the most passive whirls, there the after\nages have knit them into the most massive strength, and there have hewn\nout of them those firm grey bastions of the Cervin,--overhanging,\nsmooth, flawless, unconquerable! For, unlike the Chamouni aiguilles,\nthere is no aspect of destruction about the Matterhorn cliffs. They are\nnot torn remnants of separating spires, yielding flake by flake, and\nband by band, to the continual process of decay. They are, on the\ncontrary, an unaltered monument, seemingly sculptured long ago, the huge\nwalls retaining yet the forms into which they were first engraven,\nand standing like an Egyptian temple,--delicate-fronted, softly colored,\nthe suns of uncounted ages rising and falling upon it continually, but\nstill casting the same line of shadows from east to west, still, century\nafter century, touching the same purple stains on the lotus pillars;\nwhile the desert sand ebbs and flows about their feet, as those autumn\nleaves of rock lie heaped and weak about the base of the Cervin.\n\nSec. 17. Is not this a strange type, in the very heart and height of these\nmysterious Alps--these wrinkled hills in their snowy, cold, grey-haired\nold age, at first so silent, then, as we keep quiet at their feet,\nmuttering and whispering to us garrulously, in broken and dreaming fits,\nas it were, about their childhood--is it not a strange type of the\nthings which \"out of weakness are made strong?\" If one of those little\nflakes of mica-sand, hurried in tremulous spangling along the bottom of\nthe ancient river, too light to sink, too faint to float, almost too\nsmall for sight, could have had a mind given to it as it was at last\nborne down with its kindred dust into the abysses of the stream, and\nlaid, (would it not have thought?) for a hopeless eternity, in the dark\nooze, the most despised, forgotten, and feeble of all earth's atoms;\nincapable of any use or change; not fit, down there in the diluvial\ndarkness, so much as to help an earth-wasp to build its nest, or feed\nthe first fibre of a lichen;--what would it have thought, had it been\ntold that one day, knitted into a strength as of imperishable iron,\nrustless by the air, infusible by the flame, out of the substance of it,\nwith its fellows, the axe of God should hew that Alpine tower; that\nagainst _it_--poor, helpless, mica flake!--the wild north winds should\nrage in vain; beneath _it_--low-fallen mica flake!--the snowy hills\nshould lie bowed like flocks of sheep, and the kingdoms of the earth\nfade away in unregarded blue; and around it--weak, wave-drifted mica\nflake!--the great war of the firmament should burst in thunder, and yet\nstir it not; and the fiery arrows and angry meteors of the night fall\nblunted back from it into the air; and all the stars in the clear heaven\nshould light, one by one as they rose, new cressets upon the points of\nsnow that fringed its abiding-place on the imperishable spire?\n\nSec. 18. I have thought it worth while, for the sake of these lessons, and\nthe other interests connected with them, to lead the reader thus far\ninto the examination of the principal precipices among the Alps,\nalthough, so far as our immediate purposes are concerned, the inquiry\ncannot be very fruitful or helpful to us. For rocks of this kind, being\nfound only in the midst of the higher snow fields, are not only out of\nthe general track of the landscape painter, but are for the most part\nquite beyond his power--even beyond Turner's. The waves of snow, when it\nbecomes a principal element in mountain form, are at once so subtle in\ntone, and so complicated in curve and fold, that no skill will express\nthem, so as to keep the whole luminous mass in anything like a true\nrelation to the rock darkness. For the distant rocks of the upper peaks\nare themselves, when in light, paler than white paper, and their true\nsize and relation to near objects cannot be exhibited unless they are\npainted in the palest tones. Yet, as compared with their snow, they are\nso dark that a daguerreotype taken for the proper number of seconds to\ndraw the snow shadows rightly, will always represent the rocks as\n_coal-black_. In order, therefore, to paint a snowy mountain properly,\nwe should need a light as much brighter than white paper as white paper\nis brighter than charcoal. So that although it is possible, with deep\nblue sky, and purple rocks, and blue shadows, to obtain a very\ninteresting resemblance of snow effect, and a true one up to a certain\npoint (as in the best examples of the body-color drawings sold so\nextensively in Switzerland) it is not possible to obtain any of those\nrefinements of form and gradation which a great artist's eye requires.\nTurner felt that, among these highest hills, no serious or perfect work\ncould be done; and although in one or two of his vignettes (already\nreferred to in the first volume) he showed his knowledge of them, his\npractice, in larger works, was always to treat the snowy mountains\nmerely as a far-away white cloud, concentrating the interest of his\npicture on nearer and more tractable objects.\n\nSec. 19. One circumstance, however, bearing upon art, we may note before\nleaving these upper precipices, namely, the way in which they illustrate\nthe favorite expression of Homer and Dante--_cut_ rocks. However little\nsatisfied we had reason to be with the degree of affection shown towards\nmountain scenery by either poet, we may now perceive, with some respect\nand surprise, that they had got at one character which was in the\nessence of the noblest rocks, just as the early illuminators got at the\nprinciples which lie at the heart of vegetation. As distinguished from\nall other natural forms,--from fibres which are torn, crystals which are\nbroken, stones which are rounded or worn, animal and vegetable forms\nwhich are grown or moulded,--the true hard rock or precipice is notably\na thing _cut_, its inner _grain_ or structure seeming to have less to do\nwith its form than is seen in any other object or substance whatsoever;\nand the aspect of subjection to some external sculpturing instrument\nbeing distinct in almost exact proportion to the size and stability of\nthe mass.\n\nSec. 20. It is not so, however, with the next groups of mountain which we\nhave to examine--those formed by the softer slaty coherents, when their\nperishable and frail substance has been raised into cliffs in the manner\nillustrated by Fig. 12 at p. 146,--cliffs whose front every frost\ndisorganizes into filmy shale, and of which every thunder-shower\ndissolves tons in the swoln blackness of torrents. If this takes place\nfrom the top downwards, the cliff is gradually effaced, and a more or\nless rounded eminence is soon all that remains of it; but if the lower\nbeds only decompose, or if the whole structure is strengthened here and\nthere by courses of harder rock, the precipice is undermined, and\nremains hanging in perilous ledges and projections until, the process\nhaving reached the limit of its strength, vast portions of it fall at\nonce, leaving new fronts of equal ruggedness, to be ruined and cast down\nin their turn.\n\nThe whole district of the northern inferior Alps, from the mountains of\nthe Reposoir to the Gemmi, is full of precipices of this kind; the well\nknown crests of the Mont Doron, and of the Aiguille de Varens, above\nSallenches, being connected by the great cliffs of the valley of Sixt,\nthe dark mass of the Buet, the Dent du Midi de Bex, and the Diablerets,\nwith the great amphitheatre of rock in whose securest recess the path of\nthe Gemmi hides its winding. But the most frightful and most\ncharacteristic cliff in the whole group is the range of the Rochers des\nFys, above the Col d'Anterne. It happens to have a bed of harder\nlimestone at the top than in any other part of its mass; and this bed,\nprotecting its summit, enables it to form itself into the most ghastly\nranges of pinnacle which I know among mountains. In one spot the upper\nedge of limestone has formed a complete cornice, or rather bracket--for\nit is not extended enough to constitute a cornice, which projects far\ninto the air over the wall of ashy rock, and is seen against the clouds,\nwhen they pass into the chasm beyond, like the nodding coping-stone of a\ncastle--only the wall below is not less than 2500 feet in height,--not\nvertical, but steep enough to seem so to the imagination.\n\nSec. 21. Such precipices are among the most impressive as well as the most\nreally dangerous of mountain ranges; in many spots inaccessible with\nsafety either from below or from above; dark in color, robed with\neverlasting mourning, for ever tottering like a great fortress shaken by\nwar, fearful as much in their weakness as in their strength, and yet\ngathered after every fall into darker frowns and unhumiliated\nthreatening; for ever incapable of comfort or of healing from herb or\nflower, nourishing no root in their crevices, touched by no hue of life\non buttress or ledge, but, to the utmost, desolate; knowing no shaking\nof leaves in the wind, nor of grass beside the stream,--no motion but\ntheir own mortal shivering, the deathful crumbling of atom from atom in\ntheir corrupting stones; knowing no sound of living voice or living\ntread, cheered neither by the kid's bleat nor the marmot's cry; haunted\nonly by uninterrupted echoes from far off, wandering hither and thither\namong their walls, unable to escape, and by the hiss of angry torrents,\nand sometimes the shriek of a bird that flits near the face of them, and\nsweeps frightened back from under their shadow into the gulf of air:\nand, sometimes, when the echo has fainted, and the wind has carried the\nsound of the torrent away, and the bird has vanished; and the mouldering\nstones are still for a little time,--a brown moth, opening and shutting\nits wings upon a grain of dust, may be the only thing that moves, or\nfeels, in all the waste of weary precipice, darkening five thousand feet\nof the blue depth of heaven.\n\nSec. 22. It will not be thought that there is nothing in a scene such as\nthis deserving our contemplation, or capable of conveying useful\nlessons, if it were fitly rendered by art. I cannot myself conceive any\npicture more impressive than a faithful rendering of such a cliff would\nbe, supposing the aim of the artist to be the utmost tone of sad\nsublime. I am, nevertheless, aware of no instance in which the slightest\nattempt has been made to express their character; the reason being,\npartly, the extreme difficulty of the task, partly the want of\ntemptation in specious color or form. For the majesty of this kind of\ncliff depends entirely on its size: a low range of such rock is as\nuninteresting as it is ugly; and it is only by making the spectator\nunderstand the enormous scale of their desolation, and the space which\nthe shadow of their danger oppresses, that any impression can be made\nupon his mind. And this scale cannot be expressed by any artifice; the\nmountain cannot be made to look large by painting it blue or faint,\notherwise it loses all its ghastliness. It must be painted in its own\nnear and solemn colors, black and ashen grey; and its size must be\nexpressed by thorough drawing of its innumerable details--pure\n_quantity_,--with certain points of comparison explanatory of the whole.\nThis is no light task; and, attempted by any man of ordinary genius,\nwould need steady and careful painting for three or four months; while,\nto such a man, there would appear to be nothing worth his toil in the\ngloom of the subject, unrelieved as it is even by variety of form; for\nthe soft rock of which these cliffs are composed rarely breaks into bold\nmasses; and the gloom of their effect partly depends on its not doing\nso.\n\nSec. 23. Yet, while painters thus reject the natural, and large sublime,\nwhich is ready to their hand, how strangely do they seek after a false\nand small sublime. It is not that they reprobate gloom, but they will\nonly have a gloom of their own making; just as half the world will not\nsee the terrible and sad truths which the universe is full of, but\nsurrounds itself with little clouds of sulky and unnecessary fog for its\nown special breathing. A portrait is not thought grand unless it has a\nthundercloud behind it (as if a hero could not be brave in sunshine); a\nruin is not melancholy enough till it is seen by moonlight or twilight;\nand every condition of theatrical pensiveness or of the theatrical\nterrific is exhausted in setting forth scenes or persons which in\nthemselves are, perhaps, very quiet scenes and homely persons; while\nthat which, without any accessories at all, is everlastingly melancholy\nand terrific, we refuse to paint,--nay, we refuse even to observe it in\nits reality, while we seek for the excitement of the very feelings it\nwas meant to address, in every conceivable form of our false ideal.\n\nFor instance: there have been few pictures more praised for their\nsublimity than the \"Deluge\" of Nicolas Poussin; of which, nevertheless,\nthe sublimity, such as it is, consists wholly in the painting of\neverything grey or brown,--not the grey and brown of great painters,\nfull of mysterious and unconfessed colors, dim blue, and shadowy purple,\nand veiled gold,--but the stony grey and dismal brown of the\nconventionalist. Madame de Genlis, whose general criticisms on painting\nare full of good sense--singularly so, considering the age in which she\nlived[85]--has the following passage on this picture:--\n\n\"'I remember to have seen the painting you mention; but I own I found\nnothing in it very beautiful.'\n\n\"'You have seen it rain often enough?'\n\n\"'Certainly.'\n\n\"'Have you ever at such times observed the color of the clouds\nattentively?--how the dusky atmosphere obscures all objects, makes them,\nif distant, disappear, or be seen with difficulty? Had you paid a proper\nattention to these effects of rain, you would have been amazed by the\nexactitude with which they are painted by Poussin.'\"[86]\n\nSec. 24. Madame de Genlis is just in her appeal to nature, but had not\nherself looked carefully enough to make her appeal accurate. She had\nnoticed one of the principal effects of rain, but not the other. It is\ntrue that the dusky atmosphere \"obscures all objects,\" but it is also\ntrue that Nature, never intending the eye of man to be without delight,\nhas provided a rich compensation for this shading of the tints with\n_darkness_, in their brightening by _moisture_. Every color, wet, is\ntwice as brilliant as it is when dry; and when distances are obscured by\nmist, and bright colors vanish from the sky, and gleams of sunshine from\nthe earth, the foreground assumes all its loveliest hues, the grass and\nfoliage revive into their perfect green, and every sunburnt rock glows\ninto an agate. The colors of mountain foregrounds can never be seen in\nperfection unless they _are_ wet; nor _can moisture be entirely\nexpressed except by fulness of color_. So that Poussin, in search of a\nfalse sublimity, painting every object in his picture, vegetation and\nall, of one dull grey and brown, has actually rendered it impossible for\nan educated eye to conceive it as representing rain at all; it is a dry,\nvolcanic darkness. It may be said that had he painted the effect of rain\ntruly, the picture, composed of the objects he has introduced, would\nhave become too pretty for his purpose. But his error, and the error of\nlandscapists in general, is in seeking to express terror by false\ntreatment, instead of going to Nature herself to ask her what she has\nappointed to be everlastingly terrible. The greatest genius would be\nshown by taking the scene in its plainest and most probable facts; not\nseeking to change pity into fear, by denying the beauty of the world\nthat was passing away. But if it were determined to excite fear, and\nfear only, it ought to have been done by imagining the true ghastliness\nof the tottering cliffs of Ararat or Caucasus, as the heavy waves first\nsmote against the promontories that until then had only known the thin\nfanning of the upper air of heaven;--not by painting leaves and grass\nslate-grey. And a new world of sublimity might be opened to us, if any\npainter of power and feeling would devote himself, for a few months, to\nthese solemn cliffs of the dark limestone Alps, and would only paint one\nof them, as it truly stands, not in rain nor storm, but in its own\neternal sadness: perhaps best on some fair summer evening, when its\nfearful veil of immeasurable rock is breathed upon by warm air, and\ntouched with fading rays of purple; and all that it has of the\nmelancholy of ruin, mingled with the might of endurance, and the\nforeboding of danger, rises in its grey gloom against the gentle sky;\nthe soft wreaths of the evening clouds expiring along its ridges one by\none, and leaving it, at last, with no light but that of its own\ncascades, standing like white pillars here and there along its sides,\nmotionless and soundless in their distance.\n\nSec. 25. Here, however, we must leave these more formidable examples of the\nAlpine precipice, to examine those which, by Turner or by artists in\ngeneral, have been regarded as properly within the sphere of their art.\n\nTurner had in this respect some peculiar views induced by early\nassociation. It has already been noticed, in my pamphlet on\nPre-Raphaelitism, that his first conceptions of mountain scenery seem to\nhave been taken from Yorkshire; and its rounded hills, far winding\nrivers, and broken limestone scars, to have formed a type in his mind to\nwhich he sought, as far as might be, to obtain some correspondent\nimagery in all other landscape. Hence, he almost always preferred to\nhave a precipice _low down_ on the hillside, rather than near the top;\nliked an extent of rounded slope above, and the vertical cliff to the\nwater or valley, better than the slope at the bottom and wall at the top\n(compare Fig. 13, p. 148); and had his attention early directed to those\nhorizontal, or comparatively horizontal, beds of rock which usually form\nthe faces of precipices in the Yorkshire dales; not, as in the\nMatterhorn, merely indicated by veined coloring on the surface of the\nsmooth cliff, but projecting, or mouldering away, in definite\nsuccessions of ledges, cornices, or steps.\n\n[Illustration: J. Ruskin. J. H. Le Keux.\n 40. The Mountains of Villeneuve.]\n\nSec. 26. This decided love of the slope, or bank above the wall, rather\nthan below it, is one of Turner's most marked idiosyncrasies, and gives\na character to his composition, as distinguished from that of other men,\nperhaps more marked than any which are traceable in other features of it\n(except, perhaps, in his pear-shaped ideal of trees, of which more\nhereafter). For when mountains are striking to the general eye, they\nalmost always have the high crest or wall of cliff on the _top_ of their\nslopes, rising from the plain first in mounds of meadow-land, and bosses\nof rock, and studded softness of forest; the brown cottages peeping\nthrough grove above grove, until just where the deep shade of the pines\nbecomes blue or purple in the haze of height, a red wall of upper\nprecipice rises from the pasture land, and frets the sky with glowing\nserration. Plate +40+, opposite, represents a mass of mountain just\nabove Villeneuve, at the head of the Lake of Geneva, in which the type\nof the structure is shown with singular clearness. Much of the scenery\nof western Switzerland, and characteristically the whole of that of\nSavoy, is composed of mountains of this kind; the isolated group between\nChambery and Grenoble, which holds the Grande Chartreuse in the heart\nof it, is constructed entirely of such masses; and the Montagne de\nVergi, which in like manner encloses the narrow meadows and traceried\ncloisters of the Convent of the Reposoir, forms the most striking\nfeature among all the mountains that border the valley of the Arve\nbetween Cluse and Geneva; while ranges of cliffs presenting precisely\nthe same typical characters frown above the bridge and fortress of\nMont-Meillan, and enclose, in light blue calm, the waters of the Lake of\nAnnecy.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 82.]\n\nSec. 27. Now, although in many of his drawings Turner acknowledges this\nstructure, it seems always to be with some degree of reluctance; whereas\nhe seizes with instant eagerness, and every appearance of contentment,\non forms of mountain which are rounded into banks above, and cut into\nprecipices below, as is the case in most elevated table-lands; in the\nchalk coteaux of the Seine, the basalt borders of the Rhine, and the\nlower gorges of the Alps; so that while the most striking pieces of\nnatural mountain scenery usually rise from the plain under some such\noutline as that at _a_, Fig. 82, Turner always formed his composition,\nif possible, on such an arrangement as that at _b_.\n\nOne reason for this is clearly the greater simplicity of the line. The\nsimpler a line is, so that it be cunningly varied _within_ its\nsimplicities, the grander it is; and Turner likes to enclose all his\nbroken crags by such a line as that at _b_, just as we saw the classical\ncomposer, in our first plate, enclose the griffin's beak with breadth of\nwing. Nevertheless, I cannot but attribute his somewhat wilful and\nmarked rejection of what sublimity there is in the other form, to the\ninfluence of early affections; and sincerely regret that the fascination\nexercised over him by memory should have led him to pass so much of his\nlife in putting a sublimity not properly belonging to them into the\ncoteaux of Clairmont and Meauves, and the vine terraces of Bingen and\nOberwesel; leaving almost unrecorded the natural sublimity, which he\ncould never have exaggerated, of the pine-fringed mountains of the\nIscre, and the cloudy diadem of the Mont Vergi.\n\nSec. 28. In all cases of this kind, it is difficult to say how far harm and\nhow far good have resulted from what unquestionably has in it something\nof both. It is to be regretted that Turner's studies should have been\nwarped, by early affection, from the Alps to the Rhine; but the fact of\nhis _feeling_ this early affection, and being thus strongly influenced\nby it through his life, is indicative of that sensibility which was at\nthe root of all his greatness. Other artists are led away by foreign\nsublimities and distant interests; delighting always in that which is\nmost markedly strange, and quaintly contrary to the scenery of their\nhomes. But Turner evidently felt that the claims upon his regard\npossessed by those places which first had opened to him the joy, and the\nlabor, of his life, could never be superseded; no Alpine cloud could\nefface, no Italian sunbeam outshine, the memory of the pleasant dales\nand days of Rokeby and Bolton; and many a simple promontory, dim with\nsouthern olive,--many a low cliff that stooped unnoticed over some alien\nwave, was recorded by him with a love, and delicate care, that were the\nshadows of old thoughts and long-lost delights, whose charm yet hung\nlike morning mist above the chanting waves of Wharfe and Greta.\n\nSec. 29. The first instance, therefore, of Turner's mountain drawing which\nI endeavored to give accurately, in this book, was from those shores of\nWharfe which, I believe, he never could revisit without tears; nay,\nwhich for all the latter part of his life, he never could even speak of,\nbut his voice faltered. We will now examine this instance with greater\ncare.\n\nIt is first to be remembered that in every one of his English or French\ndrawings, Turner's mind was, in two great instincts, at variance with\nitself. The _affections_ of it clung, as we have just seen, to humble\nscenery, and gentle wildness of pastoral life. But the _admiration_ of\nit was, more than any other artist's whatsoever, fastened on largeness\nof scale. With all his heart, he was attached to the narrow meadows and\nrounded knolls of England; by all his imagination he was urged to the\nreverence of endless vales and measureless hills; nor could any scene be\ntoo contracted for his love, or too vast for his ambition. Hence, when\nhe returned to English scenery after his first studies in Savoy and\nDauphine, he was continually endeavoring to reconcile old fondnesses\nwith new sublimities; and, as in Switzerland he chose rounded Alps for\nthe love of Yorkshire, so in Yorkshire he exaggerated scale, in memory\nof Switzerland, and gave to Ingleborough, seen from Hornby Castle, in\ngreat part the expression of cloudy majesty and height which he had seen\nin the Alps from Grenoble. We must continually remember these two\nopposite instincts as we examine the Turnerian topography of his subject\nof Bolton Abbey.\n\nSec. 30. The Abbey is placed, as most lovers of our English scenery know\nwell, on a little promontory of level park land, enclosed by one of the\nsweeps of the Wharfe. On the other side of the river, the flank of the\ndale rises in a pretty wooded brow, which the river, leaning against,\nhas cut into two or three somewhat bold masses of rock, steep to the\nwater's edge, but feathered above with copse of ash and oak. Above these\nrocks, the hills are rounded softly upwards to the moorland; the entire\nheight of the brow towards the river being perhaps two hundred feet, and\nthe rocky parts of it not above forty or fifty, so that the general\nimpression upon the eye is that the hill is little more than twice the\nheight of the ruins, or of the groups of noble ash trees which encircle\nthem. One of these groups is conspicuous above the rest, growing on the\nvery shore of the tongue of land which projects into the river, whose\nclear brown water, stealing first in mere threads between the separate\npebbles of shingle, and eddying in soft golden lines towards its central\ncurrents, flows out of amber into ebony, and glides calm and deep below\nthe rock on the opposite shore.\n\nSec. 31. Except in this stony bed of the stream, the scene possesses very\nlittle more aspect of mountain character than belongs to some of the\npark and meadow land under the chalk hills near Henley and Maidenhead;\nand if it were faithfully drawn in all points, and on its true scale,\nwould hardly more affect the imagination of the spectator, unless he\ntraced, with such care as is never from any spectator to be hoped, the\nevidence of nobler character in the pebbled shore and unconspicuous\nrock. But the scene in reality does affect the imagination strongly, and\nin a way wholly different from lowland hill scenery. A little farther up\nthe valley the limestone summits rise, and that steeply, to a height of\ntwelve hundred feet above the river, which foams between them in the\nnarrow and dangerous channel of the Strid. Noble moorlands extend above,\npurple with heath, and broken into scars and glens, and around every\nsoft tuft of wood, and gentle extent of meadow, throughout the dale,\nthere floats a feeling of this mountain power, and an instinctive\napprehension of the strength and greatness of the wild northern land.\n\nSec. 32. It is to the association of this power and border sternness with\nthe sweet peace and tender decay of Bolton Priory, that the scene owes\nits distinctive charm. The feelings excited by both characters are\ndefinitely connected by the melancholy tradition of the circumstances to\nwhich the Abbey owes its origin; and yet farther darkened by the nearer\nmemory of the death, in the same spot which betrayed the boy of\nEgremont, of another, as young, as thoughtless, and as beloved.\n\n \"The stately priory was reared,\n And Wharfe, as he moved along,\n To matins joined a mournful voice,\n Nor failed at evensong.\"\n\nAll this association of various awe, and noble mingling of mountain\nstrength with religious fear, Turner had to suggest, or he would not\nhave drawn Bolton Abbey. He goes down to the shingly shore; for the\nAbbey is but the child of the Wharfe;--it is the river, the great cause\nof the Abbey, which shall be his main subject; only the extremity of the\nruin itself is seen between the stems of the ash tree; but the waves of\nthe Wharfe are studied with a care which renders this drawing unique\namong Turner's works, for its expression of the eddies of a slow\nmountain stream, and of their pausing in treacherous depth beneath the\nhollowed rocks.\n\n[Illustration: 12. The Shores of Wharfe.]\n\nOn the opposite shore is a singular jutting angle of the shales, forming\nthe principal feature of the low cliffs at the water's edge. Turner\nfastens on it as the only available mass; draws it with notable care,\nand then magnifies it, by diminishing the trees on its top to one fifth\nof their real size, so that what would else have been little more than a\nstony bank becomes a true precipice, on a scale completely suggestive of\nthe heights behind. The hill beyond is in like manner lifted into a more\nrounded, but still precipitous, eminence, reaching the utmost admissible\nelevation of ten or twelve hundred feet (measurable by the trees upon\nit). I have engraved this entire portion of the drawing of the real\nsize, on the opposite page; the engraving of the whole drawing,\npublished in the England Series, is also easily accessible.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 83.]\n\nSec. 33. Not knowing accurately to what group of the Yorkshire limestones\nthe rocks opposite the Abbey belonged, or their relation to the\nsandstones at the Strid, I wrote to ask my kind friend Professor\nPhillips, who instantly sent me a little geological sketch of the\nposition of these \"Yoredale Shales,\" adding this interesting note: \"The\nblack shales opposite the Abbey are curiously tinted at the surface, and\nare contorted. Most artists give them the appearance of solid massive\nrocks; nor is this altogether wrong, especially when the natural joints\nof the shale appear prominent after particular accidents; they should,\nhowever, never be made to resemble [i.e. in solidity] limestone or\ngritstone.\"\n\nNow the Yoredale shales are members of the group of rocks which I have\ncalled slaty coherents, and correspond very closely to those portions of\nthe Alpine slates described in Chap. X. Sec. 4; their main character is\ncontinual separation into fine flakes, more or less of Dante's\n\"iron-colored grain;\" which, however, on a large scale, form those\nsomewhat solid-looking masses to which Mr. Phillips alludes in his\nletter, and which he describes, in his recently published Geology, in\nthe following general terms: \"The shales of this tract are usually dark,\nclose, and fissile, and traversed by extremely long straight joints,\ndividing the rock into rhomboidal prisms\" (i.e. prisms of the shape\n_c_, Fig. 83, in the section).\n\nSec. 34. Turner had, therefore, these four things to show:--1. Flaky\ndivision horizontally; 2. Division by rhomboidal joints; 3. Massy\nappearance occasionally, somewhat concealing the structure; 4. Local\ncontortion of the beds. (See passage quoted of Mr. Phillips's letter).\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 84.]\n\nExamine, then, the plate just given (12 A). The cleavage of the shales\nruns diagonally up from left to right; note especially how delicately it\nruns up through the foreground rock, and is insisted upon, just at the\nbrow of it, in the angular step-like fragments; compare also the etching\nin the first volume. Then note the upright pillars in the distance,\nmarked especially as rhomboidal by being drawn with the cleavage still\nsloping up on the returning side, as at _a_, Fig. 83, not as at _b_,\nwhich would be their aspect if they were square; and then the indication\nof interruption in the structure at the brow of the main cliff, where,\nas well as on the nearer mass, exposure to the weather has rounded away\nthe cleavages.\n\nThis projection, as before mentioned, does exist at the spot; and I\nbelieve is partly an indication of the contortion in the beds alluded to\nby Mr. Phillips; but no one but Turner would have fastened on it, as in\nanywise deserving special attention.\n\nFor the rest, no words are of any use to explain the subtle fidelity\nwith which the minor roundings and cleavages have been expressed by him.\nFidelity of this kind can only be estimated by workers: if the reader\ncan himself draw a bit of natural precipice in Yoredale shale, and then\ncopy a bit of the etching, he will find some measure of the difference\nbetween Turner's work and other people's, and not otherwise; although,\nwithout any such labor, he may at once perceive that there is a\ndifference, and a wide one,--so wide, that I have literally nothing to\ncompare the Turnerian work with in previous art. Here, however, Fig. 84,\nis a rock of Claude's (Liber Veritatis, No. 91, on the left hand), which\nis something of the shape of Turner's, and professes to be crested in\nlike manner with copse-wood. The reader may \"compare\" as much as he\nlikes, or can, of it.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 85.]\n\nSec. 35. In fact, as I said some time ago, the whole landscape of Claude\nwas nothing but a more or less softened continuance of the old\ntraditions of missal-painting, of which I gave examples in the previous\nvolume. The general notion of rock which may be traced in the earliest\nwork, as Figs. 1 and 2 in Plate +10+ Vol. III. is of an upright mass cut\nout with an adze; as art advances, the painters begin to perceive\nhorizontal stratification, and, as in all the four other examples of\nthat plate, show something like true rendering of the fracture of rocks\nin vertical joints with superimposed projecting masses. They insist on\nthis type, thinking it frowning or picturesque, and usually exhibit it\nto more advantage by putting a convent, hermitage, or castle on the\nprojection of the crag. In the blue backgrounds of the missals the\nprojection is often wildly extravagant; for instance, the MS.\nAdditional, 11,696 Brit. Mus., has all its backgrounds composed of blue\nrocks with towers upon them, of which Fig. 85 is a characteristic\nexample (magnified in scale about one-third; but, I think, rather\ndiminished in extravagance of projection). It is infinitely better drawn\nthan Claude's rocks ever are, in the expression of cleavage; but\ncertainly somewhat too bold in standing. Then, in more elaborate work,\nwe get conditions of precipice like Fig. 3 in Plate +10+, which, indeed,\nis not ill-drawn in many respects; and the book from which it is taken\nshows other evidences of a love of nature sufficiently rare at the\nperiod, though joined quaintly with love of the grotesque: for instance,\nthe writer, giving an account of the natural productions of Saxony,\nillustrates his chapter with a view of the salt mines; he represents\nthe brine-spring, conducted by a wooden trough from the rock into an\nevaporating-house where it is received in a pan, under which he has\npainted scarlet flames of fire with singular skill; and the rock out of\nwhich the brine flows is in its general cleavages the best I ever saw\ndrawn by mediaeval art. But it is carefully wrought to the resemblance of\na grotesque human head.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 86.]\n\nSec. 36. This bolder quaintness of the missals is very slightly modified in\nreligious paintings of the period. Fig. 86, by Cima da Conegliano, a\nVenetian, No. 173 in the Louvre, compared with Fig. 3 of Plate +10+\n(Flemish), will show the kind of received tradition about rocks current\nthroughout Europe. Claude takes up this tradition, and, merely making\nthe rocks a little clumsier, and more weedy, produces such conditions as\nFig. 87 (Liber Veritatis, No. 91, with Fig. 84 above); while the\northodox door or archway at the bottom is developed into the Homeric\ncave, shaded with laurels, and some ships are put underneath it, or seen\nthrough it, at impossible anchorages.\n\n[Illustration: J. Ruskin. J. H. Le Keux\n 41. The Rocks of Arona.]\n\nSec. 37. Fig. 87 is generally characteristic, not only of Claude, but of\nthe other painters of the Renaissance period, because they were all\nequally fond of representing this overhanging of rocks with buildings on\nthe top, and weeds drooping into the air over the edge, always thinking\nto get sublimity by exaggerating the projection, and never able to feel\nor understand the simplicity of real rock lines; not that they were in\nwant of examples around them: on the contrary, though the main idea was\ntraditional, the modifications of it are always traceable to the lower\nmasses of limestone and tufa which skirt the Alps and Apennines, and\nwhich have, in reality, long contracted habits of nodding over their\nbases; being, both by Virgil and Homer, spoken of always as \"hanging\" or\n\"over-roofed\" rocks. But then they have a way of doing it rather\ndifferent from the Renaissance ideas of them. Here, for instance (Plate\n+41+), is a real hanging rock, with a castle on the top of it, and\n([Greek: katerephes]) laurel, all plain fact, from Arona, on the Lago\nMaggiore; and, I believe, the reader, though we have not as yet said\nanything about lines, will at once, on comparing it with Fig. 87,\nrecognize the difference between the true parabolic flow of the\nrock-lines and the humpbacked deformity of Claude; and, still more, the\ndifference between the delicate overhanging of the natural cliff,\ncautiously diminished as it gets higher[87], and the ideal danger of the\nLiber Veritatis.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 87.]\n\nSec. 38. And the fact is, generally, that natural cliffs are very cautious\nhow they overhang, and that the artist who represents them as doing so\nin any extravagant degree entirely destroys the sublimity which he hoped\nto increase, for the simple reason that he takes away the whole\nrock-nature, or at least that part of it which depends upon weight. The\ninstinct of the observer refuses to believe that the rock is ponderous\nwhen it overhangs so far, and it has no more real effect upon him than\nthe imagined rocks of a fairy tale.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 88.]\n\nThough, therefore, the subject sketched on this page is sufficiently\ntrifling in itself, it is important as a perfect general type of the\noverhanging of that kind of precipices, and of the mode in which they\nare connected with the banks above. Fig. 88 shows its abstract leading\nlines, consisting of one great parabolic line _x y_ falling to the brow,\ncurved aqueous lines down the precipice face, and the springing lines of\nits vegetation, opposed by contrary curves on the farther cliff. Such an\narrangement, with or without vegetation, may take place on a small or\nlarge scale; but a bolder projection than this, except by rare accident,\nand on a small scale, cannot. If the reader will glance back to Plate\n+37+, and observe the arrangement of the precipices on the right hand,\nhe will now better understand what Turner means by them. But the whole\nquestion of the beauty of this form, or mode of its development, rests\non the nature of the bank above the cliffs, and of the aqueous forces\nthat carved it; and this discussion of the nature of banks, as it will\ntake some time, had better be referred to next chapter. One or two more\npoints are, however, to be stated here.\n\nSec. 39. For the reader has probably been already considering how it is\nthat these overhanging cliffs are formed at all, and why they appear\nthus to be consumed away at the bottom. Sometimes if of soft material\nthey actually _are_ so consumed by the quicker trickling of streamlets\nat the base than at the summit, or by the general action of damp in\ndecomposing the rock. But in the noblest instances, such cliffs are\nconstructed as at c in Fig. 73, above, and the inward retirement of the\nprecipice is the result of their tendency to break at right angles to\nthe beds, modified according to the power of the rock to support itself,\nand the aqueous action from above or below.\n\nI have before alluded (in p. 157) to this somewhat perilous arrangement\npermitted in the secondary strata. The danger, be it observed, is not of\nthe fall of the _brow_ of the precipice, which never takes place on a\nlarge scale in rocks of this kind (compare Sec. 3 of this chapter), but of\nthe sliding of one bed completely away from another, and the whole mass\ncoming down together. But even this, though it has several times\noccurred in Switzerland, is not a whit more likely to happen when the\nprecipice is terrific than when it is insignificant. The danger results\nfrom the imperfect adhesion of the mountain beds; not at all from the\nexternal form of them. A cliff, which is in aspect absolutely awful, may\nhardly, in the part of it that overhangs, add one thousandth part to the\ngravitating power of the entire mass of the rocks above; and, for the\ncomfort of nervous travellers, they may be assured that they are often\nin more danger under the gentle slopes of a pleasantly wooded hill, than\nunder the most terrific cliffs of the Eiger or Jungfrau.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 89.]\n\nSec. 40. The most interesting examples of these cliffs are usually to be\nseen impendent above strong torrents, which, if forced originally to run\nin a valley, such as _a_ in Fig. 89, bearing the relation there shown to\nthe inclination of beds on each side, will not, if the cleavage is\nacross the beds, cut their channel straight down, but in an inclined\ndirection, correspondent to the cleavage, as at _b_. If the operation be\ncarried far, so as to undermine one side of the ravine too seriously,\nthe undermined masses fall, partially choke the torrent, and give it a\nnew direction of force, or diminish its sawing power by breaking it\namong the fallen masses, so that the cliff never becomes very high in\nsuch an impendent form; but the trench is hewn downwards in a direction\nirregularly vertical. Among the limestones on the north side of the\nValles, they being just soft enough to yield easily to the water, and\nyet so hard as to maintain themselves in massy precipices, when once\nhewn to the shape, there are defiles of whose depth and proportions I am\nalmost afraid to state what I believe to be the measurements, so much do\nthey differ from any which I have seen assigned by scientific men as the\nlimits of precipitous formation. I can only say that my deliberate\nimpression of the great ravine cut by the torrent which descends from\nthe Aletsch glacier, about half way between the glacier and Brieg, was,\nthat its depth is between a _thousand and fifteen hundred_ feet, by a\nbreadth of between _forty and a hundred_.\n\nBut I could not get to the edge of its cliffs, for the tops rounded away\ninto the chasm, and, of course, all actual measurement was impossible.\nThere are other similar clefts between the Bietschhorn and the Gemmi;\nand the one before spoken of at Ardon, about five miles below Sion,\nthough quite unimportant in comparison, presents some boldly overhanging\nprecipices easily observed by the passing traveller, as they are close\nto the road. The glen through which the torrent of the Trient descends\ninto the valley of the Rhone, near Martigny, though not above three or\nfour hundred feet deep, is also notable for its narrowness, and for the\nmagnificent hardness of the rock through which it is cut,--a gneiss\ntwisted with quartz into undulations like those of a Damascus sabre, and\nas compact as its steel.\n\nSec. 41. It is not possible to get the complete expression of these\nravines, any more than of the apse of a Gothic cathedral, into a\npicture, as their elevation cannot be drawn on a vertical plane in front\nof the eye, the head needing to be thrown back, in order to measure\ntheir height, or stooped to penetrate their depth. But the structure and\nexpression of the entrance to one of them have been made by Turner the\ntheme of his sublime mountain-study (Mill near the Grande Chartreuse) in\nthe Liber Studiorum; nor does he seem ever to have been weary of\nrecurring for various precipice-subject, to the ravines of the Via Mala\nand St. Gothard. I will not injure any of these--his noblest works--by\ngiving imperfect copies of them; the reader has now data enough whereby\nto judge, when he meets with them, whether they are well done or ill;\nand, indeed, all that I am endeavoring to do here, as often aforesaid,\nis only to get some laws of the simplest kind understood and accepted,\nso as to enable people who care at all for justice to make a stand at\nonce beside the modern mountain-drawing, as distinguished from\nSalvator's, or Claude's, or any other spurious work. Take, for instance,\nsuch a law as this of the general oblique inclination of a torrent's\nsides, Fig. 89, and compare the Turnerian gorge in the distance of Plate\n+21+ here, or of the Grande Chartreuse subject in the Liber Studiorum,\nand consider whether anywhere else in art you can find similar\nexpressions of the law.\n\n\"Well; but you have come to no conclusions in this chapter respecting\nthe Beauty of Precipices; and that was your professed business with\nthem.\"\n\nI am not sure that the idea of beauty was meant in general to be very\nstrictly connected with such mountain forms: one does not,\ninstinctively, speak or think of a \"Beautiful Precipice.\" They have,\nhowever, their beauty, and it is infinite; yet so dependent on help or\nchange from other things, on the way the pines crest them, or the\nwaterfalls color them, or the clouds isolate them, that I do not choose\nto dwell here on any of their perfect aspects, as they cannot be\nreasoned of by anticipating inquiries into other materials of landscape.\n\nThus, I have much to say of the cliffs of Grindelwald and the\nChartreuse, but all so dependent upon certain facts belonging to pine\nvegetation, that I am compelled to defer it to the next volume; nor do I\nmuch regret this; because it seems to me that, without any setting\nforth, or rather beyond all setting forth, the Alpine precipices have a\nfascination about them which is sufficiently felt by the spectator in\ngeneral, and even by the artist; only they have not been properly drawn,\nbecause people do not usually attribute the magnificence of their effect\nto the trifling details which really are its elements; and, therefore,\nin common drawings of Swiss scenery we see all kinds of efforts at\nsublimity by exaggeration of the projection of the mass, or by\nobscurity, or blueness or aerial tint,--by everything, in fact, except\nthe one needful thing,--plain drawing of the rock. Therefore in this\nchapter I have endeavored to direct the reader to a severe mathematical\nestimate of precipice outline, and to make him dwell, not on the\nimmediately pathetic or impressive aspect of cliffs, which all men feel\nreadily enough, but on their internal structure. For he may rest assured\nthat, as the Matterhorn is built of mica flakes, so every great\npictorial impression in scenery of this kind is to be reached by little\nand little; the cliff must be built in the picture as it was probably in\nreality--inch by inch; and the work will, in the end, have most power\nwhich was begun with most patience. No man is fit to paint Swiss scenery\nuntil he can place himself front to front with one of those mighty\ncrags, in broad daylight, with no \"effect\" to aid him, and work it out,\nboss by boss, only with such conventionality as its infinitude renders\nunavoidable. We have seen that a literal facsimile is impossible, just\nas a literal facsimile of the carving of an entire cathedral front is\nimpossible. But it is as vain to endeavor to give any conception of an\nAlpine cliff without minuteness of detail, and by mere breadth of\neffect, as it would be to give a conception of the facades of Rouen or\nRheims, without indicating any statues or foliation. When the statues\nand foliation are once got, as much blue mist and thundercloud as you\nchoose, but not before.\n\nSec. 43. I commend, therefore, in conclusion, the precipice to the artist's\n_patience_; to which there is this farther and final encouragement,\nthat, though one of the most difficult of subjects, it is one of the\nkindest of sitters. A group of trees changes the color of its leafage\nfrom week to week, and its position from day to day; it is sometimes\nlanguid with heat, and sometimes heavy with rain; the torrent swells or\nfalls in shower or sun; the best leaves of the foreground may be dined\nupon by cattle, or trampled by unwelcome investigators of the chosen\nscene. But the cliff can neither be eaten nor trampled down; neither\nbowed by the shower nor withered by the heat: it is always ready for us\nwhen we are inclined to labor; will always wait for us when we would\nrest; and, what is best of all, will always talk to us when we are\ninclined to converse. With its own patient and victorious presence,\ncleaving daily through cloud after cloud, and reappearing still through\nthe tempest drift, lofty and serene amidst the passing rents of blue, it\nseems partly to rebuke, and partly to guard, and partly to calm and\nchasten, the agitations of the feeble human soul that watches it; and\nthat must be indeed a dark perplexity, or a grievous pain, which will\nnot be in some degree enlightened or relieved by the vision of it, when\nthe evening shadows are blue on its foundation, and the last rays of the\nsunset resting in the fair height of its golden Fortitude.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [80] Distinguished from a _crest_ by being the _face_ of a large\n contiguous bed of rock, not the end of a ridge.\n\n [81] The contour of the whole cliff, seen from near its foot as it\n rises above the shoulder of the Breven, is as at Fig. 76 opposite.\n The part measured is _a d_; but the precipice recedes to the summit\n _b_, on which a human figure is discernible to the naked eye merely\n as a point. The bank from which the cliff rises, _c_, _recedes_ as\n it falls to the left; so that five hundred feet may perhaps be an\n under-estimate of the height below the summit. The straight sloping\n lines are cleavages, across the beds. Finally, Fig. 4, Plate 25,\n gives the look of the whole summit as seen from the village of\n Chamouni beneath it, at a distance of about two miles, and some four\n or five thousand feet above the spectator. It appears, then, like a\n not very formidable projection of crag overhanging the great slopes\n of the mountain's foundation.\n\n [Illustration: FIG. 76.]\n\n [82] At an angle of 79 deg. with the horizon. See the Table of angles,\n p. 181. The line _a e_ in Fig. 33, is too steep, as well as in the\n plate here; but the other slopes are approximately accurate. I would\n have made them quite so, but did not like to alter the sketch made\n on the spot.\n\n [83] Professor Forbes gives the bearing of the Cervin from the top\n of the Riffelhorn as 351 deg., or N. 9 deg. W., supposing local attraction\n to have caused an error of 65 deg. to the northward, which would make\n the true bearing N. 74 deg. W. From the point just under the Riffelhorn\n summit, _e_, in Fig. 78, at which my drawing was made, I found the\n Cervin bear N. 79 deg. W. without any allowance for attraction; the\n disturbing influence would seem therefore confined, or nearly so, to\n the summit _a_. I did not know at the time that there was any such\n influence traceable, and took no bearing from the summit. For the\n rest, I cannot vouch for bearings as I can for angles, as their\n accuracy was of no importance to my work, and I merely noted them\n with a common pocket compass and in the sailor's way (S. by W. and 1/2\n W. & C.), which involves the probability of error of from two to\n three degrees on either side of the true bearing. The other drawing\n in Plate +38+ was made from a point only a degree or two to the\n westward of the village of Zermatt. I have no note of the bearing;\n but it must be about S. 60 deg. or 65 deg. W.\n\n [84] Independent travellers may perhaps be glad to know the way to\n the top of the Riffelhorn. I believe there is only one path; which\n ascends (from the ridge of the Riffel) on its eastern slope, until,\n near the summit, the low but perfectly smooth cliff, extending from\n side to side of the ridge, seems, as on the western slope, to bar\n all farther advance. This cliff may, however, by a good climber, be\n mastered even at the southern extremity; but it is dangerous there:\n at the opposite or northern side of it, just at its base, is a\n little cornice, about a foot broad, which does not look promising at\n first, but widens presently; and when once it is past, there is no\n more difficulty in reaching the summit.\n\n [85] I ought before to have mentioned Madame de Genlis as one of the\n few writers whose influence was always exerted to restore to\n truthful feelings, and persuade to simple enjoyments and pursuits,\n the persons accessible to reason in the frivolous world of her\n times.\n\n [86] Veillees du Chateau, vol. ii.\n\n [87] The actual extent of the projection remaining the same\n throughout, the angle of suspended slope, for that reason,\n diminishes as the cliff increases in height.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nRESULTING FORMS:--FOURTHLY, BANKS.\n\n\nSec. 1. During all our past investigations of hill form, we have been\nobliged to refer continually to certain results produced by the action\nof descending streams or falling stones. The actual contours assumed by\nany mountain range towards its foot depend usually more upon this\ntorrent sculpture than on the original conformation of the masses; the\nexisting hill side is commonly an accumulation of debris; the existing\nglen commonly an excavated watercourse; and it is only here and there\nthat portions of rock, retaining impress of their original form, jut\nfrom the bank, or shelve across the stream.\n\nSec. 2. Now this sculpture by streams, or by gradual weathering, is the\nfinishing work by which Nature brings her mountain forms into the state\nin which she intends us generally to observe and love them. The violent\nconvulsion or disruption by which she first raises and separates the\nmasses may frequently be intended to produce impressions of terror\nrather than of beauty; but the laws which are in constant operation on\nall noble and enduring scenery must assuredly be intended to produce\nresults grateful to men. Therefore, as in this final pencilling of\nNature's we shall probably find her ideas of mountain beauty most\ndefinitely expressed, it may be well that, before entering on this part\nof our subject, we should recapitulate the laws respecting beauty of\nform which we arrived at in the abstract.\n\nSec. 3. Glancing back to the fourteenth and fifteenth paragraphs of the\nchapter on Infinity, in the second volume, and to the third and tenth of\nthe chapters on Unity, the reader will find that abstract beauty of form\nis supposed to depend on continually varied curvatures of line and\nsurface, associated so as to produce an effect of some unity among\nthemselves, and opposed, in order to give them value, by more or less\nstraight or rugged lines.\n\nThe reader will, perhaps, here ask why, if both the straight and curved\nlines are necessary, one should be considered more beautiful than the\nother. Exactly as we consider light beautiful and darkness ugly, in the\nabstract, though both are essential to all beauty. Darkness mingled with\ncolor gives the delight of its depth or power; even pure blackness, in\nspots or chequered patterns, is often exquisitely delightful; and yet we\ndo not therefore consider, in the abstract, blackness to be beautiful.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 90.]\n\nJust in the same way straightness mingled with curvature, that is to\nsay, the close approximation of part of any curve to a straight line,\ngives to such curve all its spring, power, and nobleness: and even\nperfect straightness, limiting curves, or opposing them, is often\npleasurable: yet, in the abstract, straightness is always ugly, and\ncurvature always beautiful.\n\nThus, in the figure at the side, the eye will instantly prefer the\nsemicircle to the straight line; the trefoil (composed of three\nsemicircles) to the triangle; and the cinqfoil to the pentagon. The\nmathematician may perhaps feel an opposite preference; but he must be\nconscious that he does so under the influence of feelings quite\ndifferent from those with which he would admire (if he ever does admire)\na picture or statue; and that if he could free himself from those\nassociations, his judgment of the relative agreeableness of the forms\nwould be altered. He may rest assured that, by the natural instinct of\nthe eye and thought, the preference is given instantly, and always, to\nthe curved form; and that no human being of unprejudiced perceptions\nwould desire to substitute triangles for the ordinary shapes of clover\nleaves, or pentagons for those of potentillas.\n\nSec. 4. All curvature, however, is not equally agreeable; but the\nexamination of the laws which render one curve more beautiful than\nanother, would, if carried out to any completeness, alone require a\nvolume. The following few examples will be enough to put the reader in\nthe way of pursuing the subject for himself.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 91.]\n\nTake any number of lines, _a b_, _b c_, _c d_, &c., Fig. 91, bearing any\nfixed proportion to each other. In this figure, _b c_ is one third\nlonger than _a b_, and _c d_ than _b c_; and so on. Arrange them in\nsuccession, keeping the inclination, or angle, which each makes with the\npreceding one always the same. Then a curve drawn through the\nextremities of the lines will be a beautiful curve; for it is governed\nby consistent laws; every part of it is connected by those laws with\nevery other, yet every part is different from every other; and the mode\nof its construction implies the possibility of its continuance to\ninfinity; it would never return upon itself though prolonged for ever.\nThese characters must be possessed by every perfectly beautiful curve.\n\nIf we make the difference between the component or measuring lines less,\nas in Fig. 92, in which each line is longer than the preceding one only\nby a fifth, the curve will be more contracted and less beautiful. If we\nenlarge the difference, as in Fig. 93, in which each line is double the\npreceding one, the curve will suggest a more rapid proceeding into\ninfinite space, and will be more beautiful. Of two curves, the same in\nother respects, that which suggests the quickest attainment of infinity\nis always the most beautiful.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 92.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 93.]\n\nSec. 5. These three curves being all governed by the same general law, with\na difference only in dimensions of lines, together with all the other\ncurves so constructible, varied as they may be infinitely, either by\nchanging the lengths of line, or the inclination of the lines to each\nother, are considered by mathematicians only as one curve, having this\npeculiar character about it, different from that of most other infinite\nlines, that any portion of it is a magnified repetition of the preceding\nportion; that is to say, the portion between _e_ and _g_ is precisely\nwhat that between _c_ and _e_ would look, if seen through a lens which\nmagnified somewhat more than twice. There is therefore a peculiar\nequanimity and harmony about the look of lines of this kind, differing,\nI think, from the expression of any others except the circle. Beyond the\npoint _a_ the curve may be imagined to continue to an infinite degree of\nsmallness, always circling nearer and nearer to a point, which, however,\nit can never reach.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 94.]\n\nSec. 6. Again: if, along the horizontal line, A B, Fig. 94, we measure any\nnumber of equal distances, A _b_, _b c_, &c., and raise perpendiculars\nfrom the points _b_, _c_, _d_, &c., of which each perpendicular shall be\nlonger, by some given proportion (in this figure it is one third), than\nthe preceding one, the curve _x y_, traced through their extremities,\nwill continually change its direction, but will advance into space in\nthe direction of _y_ as long as we continue to measure distances along\nthe line A B, always inclining more and more to the nature of a straight\nline, yet never becoming one, even if continued to infinity. It would,\nin like manner, continue to infinity in the direction of _x_, always\napproaching the line A B, yet never touching it.\n\nSec. 7. An infinite number of different lines, more or less violent in\ncurvature according to the measurements we adopt in designing them, are\nincluded, or defined, by each of the laws just explained. But the number\nof these laws themselves is also infinite. There is no limit to the\nmultitude of conditions which may be invented, each producing a group of\ncurves of a certain common nature. Some of these laws, indeed, produce\nsingle curves, which, like the circle, can vary only in size; but, for\nthe most part, they vary also, like the lines we have just traced, in\nthe rapidity of their curvature. Among these innumerable lines, however,\nthere is one source of difference in character which divides them,\ninfinite as they are in number, into two great classes. The first class\nconsists of those which are limited in their course, either ending\nabruptly, or returning to some point from which they set out; the second\nclass, of those lines whose nature is to proceed for ever into space.\nAny portion of a circle, for instance, is, by the law of its being,\ncompelled, if it continue its course, to return to the point from which\nit set out; so also any portion of the oval curve (called an ellipse),\nproduced by cutting a cylinder obliquely across. And if a single point\nbe marked on the rim of a carriage wheel, this point, as the wheel rolls\nalong the road, will trace a curve in the air from one part of the road\nto another, which is called a cycloid, and to which the law of its\nexistence appoints that it shall always follow a similar course, and be\nterminated by the level line on which the wheel rolls. All such curves\nare of inferior beauty: and the curves which are incapable of being\ncompletely drawn, because, as in the two cases above given, the law of\ntheir being supposes them to proceed for ever into space, are of a\nhigher beauty.\n\nSec. 8. Thus, in the very first elements of form, a lesson is given us as\nto the true source of the nobleness and chooseableness of all things.\nThe two classes of curves thus sternly separated from each other, may\nmost properly be distinguished as the \"Mortal and Immortal Curves;\" the\none having an appointed term of existence, the other absolutely\nincomprehensible and endless, only to be seen or grasped during a\ncertain moment of their course. And it is found universally that the\nclass to which the human mind is attached for its chief enjoyment are\nthe Endless or Immortal lines.\n\nSec. 9. \"Nay,\" but the reader answers, \"what right have you to say that one\nclass is more beautiful than the other? Suppose I like the finite curves\nbest, who shall say which of us is right?\"\n\nNo one. It is simply a question of experience. You will not, I think,\ncontinue to like the finite curves best as you contemplate them\ncarefully, and compare them with the others. And if you should do so, it\nthen yet becomes a question to be decided by longer trial, or more\nwidely canvassed opinion. And when we find on examination that every\nform which, by the consent of human kind, has been received as lovely,\nin vases, flowing ornaments, embroideries, and all other things\ndependent on abstract line, is composed of these infinite curves, and\nthat Nature uses them for every important contour, small or large, which\nshe desires to recommend to human observance, we shall not, I think,\ndoubt that the preference of such lines is a sign of healthy taste, and\ntrue instinct.\n\nSec. 10. I am not sure, however, how far the delightfulness of such line,\nis owing, not merely to their expression of infinity, but also to that\nof restraint or moderation. Compare Stones of Venice, vol. iii. chap. i.\nSec. 9, where the subject is entered into at some length. Certainly the\nbeauty of such curvature is owing, in a considerable degree, to both\nexpressions; but when the line is sharply terminated, perhaps more to\nthat of moderation than of infinity. For the most part, gentle or\nsubdued sounds, and gentle or subdued colors, are more pleasing than\neither in their utmost force; nevertheless, in all the noblest\ncompositions, this utmost power is permitted, but only for a short time,\nor over a small space. Music must rise to its utmost loudness, and fall\nfrom it; color must be gradated to its extreme brightness, and descend\nfrom it; and I believe that absolutely perfect treatment would, in\neither case, permit the intensest sound and purest color only for a\npoint or for a moment.\n\n[Illustration: 42. Leaf Curvature. Magnolia and Laburnum.]\n\n[Illustration: 43. Leaf Curvature. Dead Laurel.]\n\n[Illustration: 44. Leaf Curvature. Young Ivy.]\n\nCurvature is regulated by precisely the same laws. For the most part,\ndelicate or slight curvature is more agreeable than violent or rapid\ncurvature; nevertheless, in the best compositions, violent\ncurvature is permitted, but permitted only over small spaces in the\ncurve.\n\nSec. 11. The right line is to the curve what monotony is to melody, and\nwhat unvaried color is to gradated color. And as often the sweetest\nmusic is so low and continuous as to approach a monotone; and as often\nthe sweetest gradations so delicate and subdued as to approach to\nflatness, so the finest curves are apt to hover about the right line,\nnearly coinciding with it for a long space of their curve; never\nabsolutely losing their own curvilinear character, but apparently every\nmoment on the point of merging into the right line. When this is the\ncase, the line generally returns into vigorous curvature at some part of\nits course, otherwise it is apt to be weak, or slightly rigid;\nmultitudes of other curves, not approaching the right line so nearly,\nremain less vigorously bent in the rest of their course; so that the\nquantity[88] of curvature is the same in both, though differently\ndistributed.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 95.]\n\nSec. 12. The modes in which Nature produces variable curves on a large\nscale are very numerous, but may generally be resolved into the gradual\nincrease or diminution of some given force. Thus, if a chain hangs\nbetween two points A and B, Fig. 95, the weight of chain sustained by\nany given link increases gradually from the central link at C, which has\nonly its own weight to sustain, to the link at B, which sustains,\nbesides its own, the weight of all the links between it and C. This\nincreased weight is continually pulling the curve of the swinging chain\nmore nearly straight as it ascends towards B; and hence one of the most\nbeautifully gradated natural curves--called the catenary--of course\nassumed not by chains only, but by all flexible and elongated\nsubstances, suspended between two points. If the points of suspension be\nnear each other, we have such curves as at D; and if, as in nine cases\nout of ten will be the case, one point of suspension is lower than the\nother, a still more varied and beautiful curve is formed, as at E. Such\ncurves constitute nearly the whole beauty of general contour in falling\ndrapery, tendrils and festoons of weeds over rocks, and such other\npendent objects.[89]\n\nSec. 13. Again. If any object be cast into the air, the force with which it\nis cast dies gradually away, and its own weight brings it downwards; at\nfirst slowly, then faster and faster every moment, in a curve which, as\nthe line of fall necessarily nears the perpendicular, is continually\napproximating to a straight line. This curve--called the parabola--is\nthat of all projected or bounding objects.\n\nSec. 14. Again. If a rod or stick of any kind gradually becomes more\nslender or more flexible, and is bent by any external force, the force\nwill not only increase in effect as the rod becomes weaker, but the rod\nitself, once bent, will continually yield more willingly, and be more\neasily bent farther in the same direction, and will thus show a\ncontinual increase of curvature from its thickest or most rigid part to\nits extremity. This kind of line is that assumed by boughs of trees\nunder wind.\n\nSec. 15. Again. Whenever any vital force is impressed on any organic\nsubstance, so as to die gradually away as the substance extends, an\ninfinite curve is commonly produced by its outline. Thus, in the budding\nof the leaf, already examined, the gradual dying away of the\nexhilaration of the younger ribs produces an infinite curve in the\noutline of the leaf, which sometimes fades imperceptibly into a right\nline,--sometimes is terminated sharply, by meeting the opposite curve at\nthe point of the leaf.\n\nSec. 16. Nature, however, rarely condescends to use one curve only in any\nof her finer forms. She almost always unites two infinite ones, so as to\nform a reversed curve for each main line, and then modulates each of\nthem into myriads of minor ones. In a single elm leaf, such as Fig. 4,\nPlate +8+, she uses three such--one for the stalk, and one for each of\nthe sides,--to regulate their _general_ flow; dividing afterwards each\nof their broad lateral lines into some twenty less curves by the jags of\nthe leaf, and then again into minor waves. Thus, in any complicated\ngroup of leaves whatever, the infinite curves are themselves almost\ncountless. In a single extremity of a magnolia spray, the uppermost\nfigure in Plate +42+, including only sixteen leaves, each leaf having\nsome three to five distinct curves along its edge, the lines for\nseparate study, including those of the stems, would be between sixty and\neighty. In a single spring-shoot of laburnum, the lower figure in the\nsame plate, I leave the reader to count them for himself; all these,\nobserve, being seen at one view only, and every change of position\nbringing into sight another equally numerous set of curves. For\ninstance, in Plate +43+ is a group of four withered leaves, in four\npositions, giving, each, a beautiful and well composed group of curves,\nvariable gradually into the next group as the branch is turned.\n\nSec. 17. The following Plate (+44+), representing a young shoot of\nindependent ivy, just beginning to think it would like to get something\nto cling to, shows the way in which Nature brings subtle curvature into\nforms that at first seem rigid. The stems of the young leaves look\nnearly straight, and the sides of the projecting points, or bastions, of\nthe leaves themselves nearly so; but on examination it will be found\nthat there is not a stem nor a leaf-edge but is a portion of one\ninfinite curve, if not of two or three. The main line of the supporting\nstem is a very lovely one; and the little half-opened leaves, in their\nthirteenth-century segmental simplicity (compare Fig. 9, Plate 8 in Vol.\nIII.), singularly spirited and beautiful. It may, perhaps, interest the\ngeneral reader to know that one of the infinite curves derives its name\nfrom its supposed resemblance to the climbing of ivy up a tree.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 97.]\n\nSec. 18. I spoke just now of \"well-composed\" curves,--I mean curves so\narranged as to oppose and set each other off, and yet united by a common\nlaw; for as the beauty of every curve depends on the unity of its\nseveral component lines, so the beauty of each group of curves depends\non their submission to some general law. In forms which quickly attract\nthe eye, the law which unites the curves is distinctly manifest; but, in\nthe richer compositions of Nature, cunningly concealed by delicate\ninfractions of it;--wilfulnesses they seem, and forgetfulnesses, which,\nif once the law be perceived, only increase our delight in it by showing\nthat it is one of equity, not of rigor, and allows, within certain\nlimits, a kind of individual liberty. Thus the system of unison which\nregulates the magnolia shoot, in Plate +42+, is formally expressed in\nFig. 97. Every line has its origin in the point p, and the curves\ngenerally diminish in intensity towards the extremities of the leaves,\none or two, however, again increasing their sweep near the points. In\nvulgar ornamentation, entirely rigid laws of line are always observed;\nand the common Greek honeysuckle and other such formalisms are\nattractive to uneducated eyes, owing to their manifest compliance with\nthe first conditions of unity and symmetry, being to really noble\nornamentation what the sing-song of a bad reader of poetry, laying\nregular emphasis on every required syllable of every foot, is to the\nvaried, irregular, unexpected, inimitable cadence of the voice of a\nperson of sense and feeling reciting the same lines,--not incognisant of\nthe rhythm, but delicately bending it to the expression of passion, and\nthe natural sequence of the thought.\n\nSec. 19. In mechanically drawn patterns of dress, Alhambra and common\nMoorish ornament, Greek mouldings, common flamboyant traceries, common\nCorinthian and Ionic capitals, and such other work, lines of this\ndeclared kind (generally to be classed under the head of \"doggerel\nornamentation\") may be seen in rich profusion; and they are necessarily\nthe only kind of lines which can be felt or enjoyed by persons who have\nbeen educated without reference to natural forms; their instincts being\nblunt, and their eyes actually incapable of perceiving the inflexion of\nnoble curves. But the moment the perceptions have been refined by\nreference to natural form, the eye requires perpetual variation and\ntransgression of the formal law. Take the simplest possible condition of\nthirteenth-century scroll-work, Fig. 98. The law or cadence established\nis of a circling tendril, terminating in an ivy-leaf. In vulgar design,\nthe curves of the circling tendril would have been similar to each\nother, and might have been drawn by a machine, or by some mathematical\nformula. But in good design all imitation by machinery is impossible. No\ncurve is like another for an instant; no branch springs at an expected\npoint. A cadence is observed, as in the returning clauses of a beautiful\nair in music; but every clause has its own change, its own surprises.\nThe enclosing form is here stiff and (nearly) straight-sided, in order\nto oppose the circular scroll-work; but on looking close it will be\nfound that each of its sides is a portion of an infinite curve, almost\ntoo delicate to be traced; except the short lowest one, which is made\nquite straight, to oppose the rest.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 98.]\n\nI give one more example from another leaf of the same manuscript, Fig.\n99, merely to show the variety introduced by the old designers between\npage and page. And, in general, the reader may take it for a settled law\nthat, whatever can be done by machinery, or imitated by formula, is not\nworth doing or imitating at all.\n\nSec. 20. The quantity of admissible transgression of law varies with the\ndegree in which the ornamentation involves or admits imitation of\nnature. Thus, if these ivy leaves in Fig. 99 were completely drawn in\nlight and shade, they would not be properly connected with the more or\nless regular sequences of the scroll; and in every subordinate ornament,\nsomething like complete symmetry may be admitted, as in bead mouldings,\nchequerings, &c. Also, the ways in which the transgression may be\ngranted vary infinitely; in the finest compositions it is perpetual, and\nyet so balanced and atoned for as always to bring about more beauty than\nif there had been no transgression. In a truly fine mountain or organic\nline, if it is looked at in detail, no one would believe in its being a\ncontinuous curve, or being subjected to any fixed law. It seems broken,\nand bending a thousand ways; perfectly free and wild, and yielding to\nevery impulse. But, after following with the eye three or four of its\nimpulses, we shall begin to trace some strange order among them; every\nadded movement will make the ruling intent clearer; and when the whole\nlife of the line is revealed at last, it will be found to have been,\nthroughout, as obedient to the true law of its course as the stars in\ntheir orbits.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 99.]\n\n\n The four systems of mountain line.\n\nSec. 21. Thus much may suffice for our immediate purpose respecting\nbeautiful lines in general. We have now to consider the particular\ngroups of them belonging to mountains.\n\nThe lines which are produced by course of time upon hill contours are\nmainly divisible into four systems.\n\n1. Lines of Fall. Those which are wrought out on the solid mass by the\nfall of water or of stones.\n\n2. Lines of Projection. Those which are produced in debris by the\nbounding of the masses, under the influence of their falling force.\n\n3. Lines of Escape. Those which are produced by the spreading of debris\nfrom a given point over surfaces of varied shape.\n\n4. Lines of Rest. Those which are assumed by debris when in a state of\ncomparative permanence and stability.\n\n\n 1. Lines of Fall.\n\n 1. Lines of Fall. Produced by falling bodies upon hill-surfaces.\n\nHowever little the reader may be acquainted with hills, I believe that,\nalmost instinctively, he will perceive that the form supposed to belong\nto a wooded promontory at _a_, Fig. 100, is an impossible one; and that\nthe form at _b_ is not only a possible but probable one. The lines are\nequally formal in both. But in _a_, the curve is a portion of a circle,\nmeeting a level line: in _b_ it is an infinite line, getting less and\nless steep as it ascends.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 100.]\n\nWhenever a mass of mountain is worn gradually away by forces descending\nfrom its top, it _necessarily_ assumes, more or less perfectly,\naccording to the time for which it has been exposed, and the tenderness\nof its substance, such contours as those at _b_, for the simple reason\nthat every stream and every falling grain of sand gains in velocity and\nerosive power as it descends. Hence, cutting away the ground gradually\nfaster and faster, they produce the most rapid curvature (provided the\nrock be hard enough) towards the bottom of the hill.[90]\n\nSec. 22. But farther: in _b_ it will be noticed that the lines always get\nsteeper as they fall more and more to the right; and I should think the\nreader must feel that they look more natural, so drawn, than, as at _a_,\nin unvarying curves.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 101.]\n\nThis is no less easily accounted for. The simplest typical form under\nwhich a hill can occur is that of a cone. Let A C B, Fig. 101, have been\nits original contour. Then the aqueous forces will cut away the shaded\nportions, reducing it to the outline _d_ C _e_. Farther, in doing so,\nthe water will certainly have formed for itself gullies or channels from\ntop to bottom. These, supposing them at equal distances round the cone,\nwill appear, in perspective, in the lines _g h i_. It does not, of\ncourse, matter whether we consider the lines in this figure to represent\nthe bottom of the ravines, or the ridges between, both being formed on\nsimilar curves; but the rounded lines in Fig. 100 would be those of\nforests seen on the edges of each detached ridge.\n\nSec. 23. Now although a mountain is rarely perfectly conical, and never\ndivided by ravines at exactly equal distances, the law which is seen in\nentire simplicity in Fig. 101, applies with a sway more or less\ninterrupted, but always manifest, to every convex and retiring mountain\nform. All banks that thus turn away from the spectator necessarily are\nthrown into perspectives like that of one side of this figure; and\nalthough not divided with equality, their irregular divisions crowd\ngradually together towards the distant edge, being then less steep, and\nseparate themselves towards the body of the hill, being then more steep.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 102.]\n\nSec. 24. It follows, also, that not only the whole of the nearer curves,\nwill be steeper, but, if seen from below, the steepest parts of them\nwill be the more important. Supposing each, instead of a curve, divided\ninto a sloping line and a precipitous one, the perspective of the\nprecipice, raising its top continually, will give the whole cone the\nshape of _a_ or _b_ in Fig. 102, in which, observe, the precipice is of\nmore importance, and the slope of less, precisely in proportion to the\nnearness of the mass.\n\nSec. 25. Fig. 102, therefore, will be the general type of the form of a\nconvex retiring hill symmetrically constructed. The precipitous part of\nit may vary in height or in slope according to original conformation;\nbut the heights being supposed equal along the whole flank, the contours\nwill be as in that figure; the various rise and fall of real height\naltering the perspective appearance accordingly, as we shall see\npresently, after examining the other three kinds of line.\n\n\n 2. Lines of Projection.\n\n 2. Lines of Projection. Produced by fragments bounding or carried\n forward from the bases of hills.\n\nSec. 26. The fragments carried down by the torrents from the flanks of the\nhill are of course deposited at the base of it. But they are deposited\nin various ways, of which it is most difficult to analyze the laws; for\nthey are thrown down under the influence partly of flowing water, partly\nof their own gravity, partly of projectile force caused by their fall\nfrom the higher summits of the hill; while the debris itself, after it\nhas fallen, undergoes farther modification by surface streamlets. But in\na general way debris descending from the hill side, _a b_, Fig. 103,\nwill arrange itself in a form approximating to the concave line _d c_,\nthe larger masses remaining undisturbed at the bottom, while the smaller\nare gradually carried farther and farther by surface streams.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 103.]\n\n\n 3. Lines of Escape.\n\n 3. Lines of Escape. Produced by the lateral dissemination of the\n fragments.\n\nSec. 27. But this form is much modified by the special direction of the\ndescending force as it escapes from confinement. For a stream coming\ndown a ravine is kept by the steep sides of its channel in concentrated\nforce: but it no sooner reaches the bottom, and escapes from its ravine,\nthan it spreads in all directions, or at least tries to choose a new\nchannel at every flood. Let _a b c_, Fig. 104, be three ridges of\nmountain. The two torrents coming down the ravine between them meet, at\n_d_ and _e_, with the heaps of ground formerly thrown down by their own\nagency. These heaps being more or less in the form of cones, the torrent\nhas a tendency to divide upon their apex, like water poured on the top\nof a sugar-loaf, and branch into the radiating channels _e x_, _e y_,\n&c. The stronger it is, the more it is disposed to rush straightforward,\nor with little curvature, as in the line _e x_, with the impetus it has\nreceived in coming down the ravine; the weaker it is, the more readily\nit will lean to one side or the other, and fall away in the lines of\nescape, _e y_, or _e h_; but of course at times of highest flood it\nfills all its possible channels, and invents a few new ones, of which\nafterwards the straightest will be kept by the main stream, and the\nlateral curves occupied by smaller branches; the whole system\ncorresponding precisely to the action of the ribs of the young leaf, as\nshown in Plate +8+ of Vol. III., especially in Fig. 6,--the main\ntorrent, like the main rib, making the largest fortune, i. e. raising\nthe highest heap of gravel and dust.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 104.]\n\nSec. 28. It may easily be imagined that when the operation takes place on a\nlarge scale, the mass of earth thus deposited in a gentle slope at the\nmountain's foot becomes available for agricultural purposes, and that\nthen it is of the greatest importance to prevent the stream from\nbranching into various channels at its will, and pouring fresh sand over\nthe cultivated fields. Accordingly, at the mouth of every large ravine\nin the Alps, where the peasants know how to live and how to work, the\nstream is artificially embanked, and compelled as far as possible to\nfollow the central line down the cone. Hence, when the traveller passes\nalong any great valley,--as that of the Rhone or Arve,--into which\nminor torrents are poured by lateral ravines, he will find himself every\nnow and then ascending a hill of moderate slope, at the _top_ of which\nhe will cross a torrent, or its bed, and descend by another gradual\nslope to the usual level of the valley. In every such case, his road has\nascended a tongue of debris, and has crossed the embanked torrent\ncarried by force along its centre.\n\nUnder such circumstances, the entire tongue or heap of land ceases of\ncourse to increase, until the bed of the confined torrent is partially\nchoked by its perpetual deposit. Then in some day of violent rain the\nwaves burst their fetters, branch at their own will, cover the fields of\nsome unfortunate farmer with stones and slime, according to the\ntorrent's own idea of the new form which it has become time to give to\nthe great tongue of land, carry away the road and the bridge together,\nand arrange everything to their own liking. But the road is again\npainfully traced among the newly fallen debris; the embankment and\nbridge again built for the stream, now satisfied with its outbreak; and\nthe tongue of land submitted to new processes of cultivation for a\ncertain series of years. When, however, the torrent is exceedingly\nsavage, and generally of a republican temper, the outbreaks are too\nfrequent and too violent to admit of any cultivation of the tongue of\nland. A few straggling alder or thorn bushes, their roots buried in\nshingle, and their lower branches fouled with slime, alone relieve with\nragged spots of green the broad waste of stones and dust. The utmost\nthat can be done is to keep the furious stream from choosing a new\nchannel in every one of its fits of passion, and remaining in it\nafterwards, thus extending its devastation in entirely unforeseen\ndirections. The land which it has brought down must be left a perpetual\nsacrifice to its rage; but in the moment of its lassitude it is brought\nback to its central course, and compelled to forego for a few weeks or\nmonths the luxury of deviation.\n\nSec. 29. On the other hand, when, owing to the nature of the valley above,\nthe stream is gentle, and the sediment which it brings down small in\nquantity, it may be retained for long years in its constant path, while\nthe sides of the bank of earth it has borne down are clothed with\npasture and forest, seen in the distance of the great valley as a\npromontory of sweet verdure, along which the central stream passes with\nan influence of blessing, submitting itself to the will of the\nhusbandman for irrigation, and of the mechanist for toil; now nourishing\nthe pasture, and now grinding the corn, of the land which it has first\nformed, and now waters.\n\nSec. 30. I have etched above, Plate +35+, a portion of the flank of the\nvalley of Chamouni, which presents nearly every class of line under\ndiscussion, and will enable the reader to understand their relations at\nonce. It represents, as was before stated, the crests of the Montagnes\nde la Cote and Taconay, shown from base to summit, with the Glacier des\nBossons and its moraine. The reference figure given at p. 212 will\nenable the reader to distinguish its several orders of curves, as\nfollows:\n\n_h r_. Aqueous curves of fall, at the base of the Tapia; very\n characteristic. Similar curves are seen in multitude on the two\n crests beyond as _b c_, _c_ B.\n\n_d e_. First lines of projection. The debris falling from the glacier\n and the heights above.\n\n_k_, _l_, _n_.Three lines of escape. A considerable torrent (one of whose\n falls is the well-known Cascade des Pelerins[91]) descends from\n behind the promontory _h_: its natural or proper course would be\n to dash straight forward down the line _f g_, and part of it does\n so; but erratic branches of it slide away round the promontory,\n in the lines of escape, _k_, _l_, &c. Each row of trees marks,\n therefore, an old torrent bed, for the torrent always throws\n heaps of stones up along its banks, on which the pines, growing\n higher than on the neighboring ground, indicate its course by\n their supremacy. When the escaped stream is feeble, it steals\n quietly away down the steepest part of the slope; that is to say,\n close under the promontory, at _i_. If it is stronger, the\n impetus from the hill above shoots it farther out, in the line\n _k_; if stronger still, at _l_; in each case it curves gradually\n round as it loses its onward force, and falls more and more\n languidly to leeward, down the slope of the debris.\n\n_r s_. A line which, perhaps, would be more properly termed of\n limitation than of escape, being that of the base or termination\n of the heap of torrent debris, which in shape corresponds exactly\n to the curved lip of a wave, after it has broken, as it slowly\n stops upon a shallow shore. Within this line the ground is\n entirely composed of heaps of stones, cemented by granite dust\n and cushioned with moss, while outside of it, all is smooth\n pasture. The pines enjoy the stony ground particularly, and hold\n large meetings upon it, but the alders are shy of it; and, when\n it has come to an end, form a triumphal procession all round its\n edge, following the concave line. The correspondent curves above\n are caused by similar lines in which the debris has formerly\n stopped.\n\n[Illustration: 45. Debris Curvature.]\n\nSec. 31. I found it a matter of the greatest difficulty to investigate the\npicturesque characters of these lines of projection and escape, because,\nas presented to the eye, they are always modified by perspective; and\nit is almost a physical impossibility to get a true profile of any of\nthe slopes, they round and melt so constantly into one another. Many of\nthem, roughly measured, are nearly circular in tendency;[92] but I\nbelieve they are all portions of infinite curves either modified by the\nconcealment or destruction of the lower lips of debris, or by their\njunction with straight lines of slope above, throwing the longest limb\nof the curve upwards. Fig. 1, in Plate +45+ opposite, is a simple but\ncomplete example from Chamouni; the various overlapping and concave\nlines at the bottom being the limits of the mass at various periods,\nmore or less broken afterwards by the peasants, either by removing\nstones for building, or throwing them back at the edges here and there,\nout of the way of the plough; but even with all these breaks, their\nnatural unity is so sweet and perfect, that, if the reader will turn the\nplate upside down, he will see I have no difficulty (merely adding a\nquill or two) in turning them into a bird's wing (Fig. 2), a little\nruffled indeed, but still graceful, and not of such a form as one would\nhave supposed likely to be designed and drawn, as indeed it was, by the\nrage of a torrent.\n\nBut we saw in Chap. VII. Sec. 10 that this very rage was, in fact, a\nbeneficent power,--creative, not destructive; and as all its apparent\ncruelty is overruled by the law of love, so all its apparent disorder is\noverruled by the law of loveliness: the hand of God, leading the wrath\nof the torrent to minister to the life of mankind, guides also its grim\nsurges by the laws of their delight; and bridles the bounding rocks, and\nappeases the flying foam, till they lie down in the same lines that lead\nforth the fibres of the down on a cygnet's breast.\n\nSec. 32. The straight slopes with which these curves unite themselves\nbelow, in Plate +33+ (_f g_ in reference figure), are those spoken of\nin the outset as lines of rest. But I defer to the next chapter the\nexamination of these, which are a separate family of lines (not curves\nat all), in order to reassemble the conclusions we have now obtained\nrespecting _curvature_ in mountains, and apply them to questions of art.\n\nAnd, first, it is of course not to be supposed that these symmetrical\nlaws are so manifest in their operation as to force themselves on the\nobservance of men in general. They are interrupted, necessarily, by\nevery fantastic accident in the original conformation of the hills,\nwhich, according to the hardness of their rocks, more or less accept or\nrefuse the authority of general law. Still, the farther we extend our\nobservance of hills, the more we shall be struck by the continual\nroundness and softness which it seems the object of nature to give to\nevery form; so that, when crags look sharp and distorted, it is not so\nmuch that they are unrounded, as that the various curves are more subtly\naccommodated to the angles, and that, instead of being worn into one\nsweeping and smooth descent, like the surface of a knoll or down, the\nrock is wrought into innumerable minor undulations, its own fine anatomy\nshowing through all.\n\n[Illustration: J. Ruskin. J. H. Le Keux.\n 46. The Buttresses of an Alp.]\n\nSec. 33. Perhaps the mountain which I have drawn on the opposite page\n(Plate +46+[93]) is, in its original sternness of mass, and in the\ncomplexity of lines into which it has been chiselled, as characteristic\nan instance as could be given by way of general type. It is one of no\nname or popular interest, but of singular importance in the geography of\nSwitzerland, being the angle buttress of the great northern chain of the\nAlps (the chain of the Jungfrau and Gemmi), and forming the promontory\nround which the Rhone turns to the north-west, at Martigny. It is\ncomposed of an intensely hard gneiss (slaty crystalline), in which the\nplates of mica are set for the most part against the angle, running\nnearly north and south, as in Fig. 105, and giving the point, therefore,\nthe utmost possible strength, which, however, cannot prevent it from\nbeing rent gradually by enormous curved fissures, and separated into\nhuge vertical flakes and chasms, just at the lower promontory, as seen\nin Plate +46+, and (in plan) in Fig. 105. The whole of the upper\nsurface of the promontory is wrought by the old glaciers into furrows\nand striae more notable than any I ever saw in the Alps.\n\nSec. 34. Now observe, we have here a piece of Nature's work which she has\nassuredly been long in executing, and which is in peculiarly firm and\nstable material. It is in her best rock (slaty crystalline), at a point\nimportant for all her geographical purposes, and at the degree of\nmountain elevation especially adapted to the observation of mankind. We\nshall therefore probably ascertain as much of Nature's mind about these\nthings in this piece of work as she usually allows us to see all at\nonce.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 105.]\n\nSec. 35. If the reader will take a pencil, and, laying tracing paper over\nthe plate, follow a few of its lines, he will (unless before accustomed\nto accurate mountain-drawing) be soon amazed by the complexity,\nendlessness, and harmony of the curvatures. He will find that there is\nnot one line in all that rock which is not an infinite curve, and united\nin some intricate way with others, and suggesting others unseen; and if\nit were the reality, instead of my drawing, which he had to deal with,\nhe would find the infinity, in a little while, altogether overwhelm him.\nBut even in this imperfect sketch, as he traces the multitudinous\ninvolution of flowing line, passing from swift to slight curvature, or\nslight to swift, at every instant, he will, I think, find enough to\nconvince him of the truth of what has been advanced respecting the\nnatural appointment of curvature as the first element of all loveliness\nin form.\n\nSec. 36. \"Nay, but there are hard and straight lines mingled with those\ncurves continually.\" True, as we have said so often, just as shade is\nmixed with light. Angles and undulations may rise and flow continually,\none through or over the other; but the opposition is in quantity nearly\nalways the same, if the mass is to be pleasant to the eye. In the\nexample previously given (Plate +40+), the limestone bank above\nVilleneuve, it is managed in a different way, but is equal in degree;\nthe lower portion of the hill is of soft rock in thin laminae; the upper\nmass is a solid and firm bed, yet not so hard as to stand all weathers.\nThe lower portion, therefore, is rounded into almost unbroken softness\nof bank; the upper surmounts it as a rugged wall, and the opposition of\nthe curve and angle is just as complete as in the first example, in\nwhich one was continually mingled with the other.\n\nSec. 37. Next, note the _quantity_ in these hills. It is an element on\nwhich I shall have to insist more in speaking of vegetation; but I must\nnot pass it by, here, since, in fact, it constitutes one of the\nessential differences between hills of first-rate magnificence, and\ninferior ones. Not that there is want of quantity even in the lower\nranges, but it is a quantity of inferior things, and therefore more\neasily represented or suggested. On a Highland hill side are\nmultitudinous clusters of fern and heather; on an Alpine one,\nmultitudinous groves of chestnut and pine. The number of the things may\nbe the same, but the sense of infinity is in the latter case far\ngreater, because the number is of nobler things. Indeed, so far as mere\nmagnitude of space occupied on the field of the horizon is the measure\nof objects, a bank of earth ten feet high may, if we stoop to the foot\nof it, be made to occupy just as much of the sky as that bank of\nmountain at Villeneuve; nay, in many respects its little ravines and\nescarpments, watched with some help of imagination, may become very\nsufficiently representative to us of those of the great mountain; and in\nclassing all water-worn mountain-ground under the general and humble\nterm of Banks, I mean to imply this relationship of structure between\nthe smallest eminences and the highest. But in this matter of\nsuperimposed _quantity_ the distinctions of rank are at once fixed. The\nheap of earth bears its few tufts of moss or knots of grass; the\nHighland or Cumberland mountain its honeyed heathers or scented ferns;\nbut the mass of the bank at Martigny or Villeneuve has a vineyard in\nevery cranny of its rocks, and a chestnut grove on every crest of them.\n\nSec. 38. This is no poetical exaggeration. Look close into that plate\n(+46+). Every little circular stroke in it among the rocks means, not a\nclump of copse nor wreath of fern, but a walnut tree, or a Spanish\nchestnut, fifty or sixty feet high. Nor are the little curves, thus\nsignificative of trees, laid on at random. They are not indeed counted,\ntree by tree, but they are most carefully distributed in the true\nproportion and quantity; or if I have erred at all, it was, from mere\nfatigue, on the side of sparingness. The minute mounds and furrows\nscattered up the side of that great promontory, when they are actually\napproached, after three or four hours' climbing, turn into independent\nhills with true _parks_ of lovely pasture land enclosed among them, and\navenue after avenue of chestnuts, walnuts, and pines bending round their\nbases; while in the deeper dingles, unseen in the drawing, nestle\npopulous villages, literally bound down to the rock by enormous trunks\nof vine, which, first trained lightly over the loose stone roofs, have\nin process of years cast their fruitful net over the whole village, and\nfastened it to the ground under their purple weight and wayward coils,\nas securely as ever human heart was fastened to earth by the net of the\nFlatterer.\n\nSec. 39. And it is this very richness of incident and detail which renders\nSwitzerland so little attractive in its subjects to the ordinary artist.\nObserve, this study of mine in Plate +46+ does not profess to be a\n_picture_ at all. It is a mere sketch or catalogue of all that there is\non the mountain side, faithfully written out, but no more than should be\nput down by any conscientious painter for mere guidance, before he\nbegins his work, properly so called; and in finishing such a subject no\ntrickery nor shorthand is of any avail whatsoever; there are a certain\nnumber of trees to be drawn; and drawn they must be, or the place will\nnot bear its proper character. They are not misty wreaths of soft wood\nsuggestible by a sweep or two of the brush; but arranged and lovely\nclusters of trees, clear in the mountain sunlight, each specially\ngrouped and as little admitting any carelessness of treatment, though\nfive miles distant, as if they were within a few yards of us; the whole\nmeaning and power of the scene being involved in that one fact of\nquantity. It is not large merely by multitudes of tons of rock,--the\nnumber of tons is not measurable; it is not large by elevation of angle\non the horizon,--a house-roof near us rises higher; it is not large by\nfaintness of aerial perspective,--in a clear day it often looks as if we\ncould touch the summit with the hand. But it is large by this one\nunescapable fact that, from the summit to the base of it, there are of\ntimber trees so many countable thousands. The scene differs from\nsubjects not Swiss by including hundreds of other scenes within itself,\nand is mighty, not by scale, but by aggregation.\n\nSec. 40. And this is more especially and humiliatingly true of pine forest.\nNearly all other kinds of wood may be reduced, over large spaces, to\nundetailed masses; but there is nothing but patience for pines; and this\nhas been one of the principal reasons why artists call Switzerland\n\"unpicturesque.\" There may perhaps be, in the space of a Swiss valley\nwhich comes into a picture, from five to ten millions of well grown\npines.[94] Every one of these pines must be drawn before the scene can\nbe. And a pine cannot be represented by a round stroke, nor by an\nupright one, nor even by an angular one; no conventionalism will express\na pine; it must be legitimately drawn, with a light side and a dark\nside, and a soft gradation from the top downwards, or it does not look\nlike a pine at all. Most artists think it not desirable to choose a\nsubject which involves the drawing of ten millions of trees; because,\nsupposing they could even do four or five in a minute, and worked for\nten hours a day, their picture would still take them ten years before\nthey had finished its pine forests. For this, and other similar reasons,\nit is declared usually that Switzerland is ugly and unpicturesque; but\nthat is not so; it is only that _we_ cannot paint it. If we could, it\nwould be as interesting on the canvas as it is in reality; and a painter\nof fruit and flowers might just as well call a human figure\nunpicturesque, because it was to him unmanageable, as the ordinary\nlandscape-effect painter speak in depreciation of the Alps.\n\nSec. 41. It is not probable that any subjects such as we have just been\ndescribing, involving a necessity of ten years' labor, will be executed\nby the modern landscape school,--at least, until its Pre-Raphaelitic\ntendencies become much more developed than they are yet; nor was it\ndesirable that they should have been by Turner, whose fruitful invention\nwould have been unwisely arrested for a length of time on any single\nsubject, however beautiful. But with his usual certainty of perception,\nhe fastened at once on this character of \"quantity,\" as the thing to be\nexpressed, in one way or another, in all grand mountain-drawing; and the\nsubjects of his on which I have chiefly dwelt in the First Volume\n(chapter on the Inferior Mountains, Sec. 16, &c.) are distinguished from\nthe work of other painters in nothing so much as in this redundance.\nBeautiful as they are in color, graceful in fancy, powerful in\nexecution,--in none of these things do they stand so much alone as in\nplain, calculable quantity; he having always on the average twenty trees\nor rocks where other people have only one, and winning his victories not\nmore by skill of generalship than by overwhelming numerical superiority.\n\nSec. 42. I say his works are distinguished in this more than in anything\nelse, not because this is their highest quality, but because it is\npeculiar to them. Invention, color, grace of arrangement, we may find in\nTintoret and Veronese in various manifestation; but the expression of\nthe infinite redundance of natural landscape had never been attempted\nuntil Turner's time; and the treatment of the masses of mountain in the\nDaphne and Leucippus, Golden Bough, and Modern Italy, is wholly without\nprecursorship in art.\n\nNor, observe, do I insist upon this quantity _merely_ as arithmetical,\nor as if it were producible by repetition of similar things. It would be\neasy to be redundant, if multiplication of the same idea constituted\nfulness; and since Turner first introduced these types of landscape,\nmyriads of vulgar imitations of them have been produced, whose\nperpetrators have supposed themselves disciples or rivals of Turner, in\ncovering their hills with white dots for forest, and their foregrounds\nwith yellow sparklings for herbage. But the Turnerian redundance is\nnever monotonous. Of the thousands of groups of touches which, with him,\nare necessary to constitute a single bank of hill, not one but has some\nspecial character, and is as much a separate invention as the whole plan\nof the picture. Perhaps this may be sufficiently understood by an\nattentive examination of the detail introduced by him in his St. Gothard\nsubject, as shown in Plate +37+.\n\nSec. 43. I do not, indeed, know if the examples I have given from natural\nscenes, though they are as characteristic as I could well choose, are\nenough to accustom the reader to the character of true mountain lines,\nand to enable him to recognize such lines in other instances; but if\nnot, at all events they may serve to elucidate the main points, and\nguide to more complete examination of the subject, if it interests him,\namong the hills themselves. And if, after he has pursued the inquiry\nlong enough to feel the certitude of the laws which I have been\nendeavoring to illustrate, he turns back again to art, I am well assured\nit will be with a strange recognition of unconceived excellence, and a\nnewly quickened pleasure in the unforeseen fidelity, that he will trace\nthe pencilling of Turner upon his hill drawings. I do not choose to\nspend, in this work, the labor and time which would be necessary to\nanalyze, as I have done the drawing of the St. Gothard, any other of\nTurner's important mountain designs; for the reader must feel the\ndisadvantage they are under in being either reduced in scale, or divided\ninto fragments: and therefore these chapters are always to be considered\nmerely as memoranda for reference before the pictures which the reader\nmay have it in his power to examine. But this one drawing of the St.\nGothard, as it has already elucidated for us Turner's knowledge of crest\nstructure, will be found no less wonderful in the fulness with which it\nillustrates his perception of the lower aqueous and other curvatures. If\nthe reader will look back to the etching of the entire subject, Plate\n+21+, he will now discern, I believe, without the necessity of my\nlettering them for him, the lines of fall, rounded down from the crests\nuntil they plunge into the overhanging precipices; the lines of\nprojection, where the fallen stones extend the long concave sweep from\nthe couloir, pushing the torrent against the bank on the other side; in\nthe opening of the ravine he will perceive the oblique and parallel\ninclination of its sides, following the cleavage of the beds in the\ndiagonal line A B of the reference figure; and, finally, in the great\nslope and precipice on the right of it, he will recognize one of the\ngrandest types of the peculiar mountain mass which Turner always chose\nby preference to illustrate, the \"slope above wall\" of _d_ in Fig. 13,\np. 148; compare also the last chapter, Sec.Sec. 26, 27. It will be seen, by\nreference to my sketch of the spot, Plate +20+, that this conformation\ndoes actually exist there with great definiteness: Turner has only\nenlarged and thrown it into more numerous alternations of light and\nshade. As these could not be shown in the etching, I have given, in the\nfrontispiece, this passage nearly of its real size: the exquisite greys\nand blues by which Turner has rounded and thrown it back are necessarily\nlost in the plate; but the grandeur of his simple cliff and soft curves\nof sloping bank above is in some degree rendered.\n\nWe must yet dwell for a moment on the detail of the rocks on the left in\nPlate +37+, as they approach nearer the eye, turning at the same time\nfrom the light. It cost me trouble to etch this passage, and yet half\nits refinements are still missed; for Turner has put his whole strength\ninto it, and wrought out the curving of the gneiss beds with a subtlety\nwhich could not be at all approached in the time I had to spare for this\nplate. Enough, however, is expressed to illustrate the points in\nquestion.\n\nSec. 44. We have first, observe, a rounded bank, broken, at its edges, into\ncleavages by inclined beds. I thought it would be well, lest the reader\nshould think I dwelt too much on this particular scene, to give an\ninstance of similar structure from another spot; and therefore I\ndaguerreotyped the cleavages of a slope of gneiss just above the Cascade\ndes Pelerins, Chamouni, corresponding in position to this bank of\nTurner's. Plate +48+ (facing p. 303), copied by Mr. Armytage from the\ndaguerreotype, represents, necessarily in a quite unprejudiced and\nimpartial way, the structure at present in question; and the reader may\nform a sufficient idea, from this plate, of the complexity of descending\ncurve and foliated rent, in even a small piece of mountain\nforeground,[95] where the gneiss beds are tolerably continuous. But\nTurner had to add to such general complexity the expression of a more\nthan ordinary undulation in the beds of the St. Gothard gneiss.\n\nSec. 45. If the reader will look back to Chapter II. Sec. 13, he will find it\nstated that this scene is approached out of the defile of Dazio Grande,\nof which the impression was still strong on Turner's mind, and where\nonly he could see, close at hand, the nature of the rocks in a good\nsection. It most luckily happens that De Saussure was interested by the\nrocks at the same spot, and has given the following account of them,\nVoyages, Sec.Sec. 1801, 1802:--\n\n\"A une lieue de Faido, l'on passe le Tesin pour le repasser bientot\napres [see the old bridge in Turner's view, carried away in mine], et\nl'on trouve sur sa rive droite des couches d'une roche feuilletee, qui\nmontent du Cote du Nord.\n\n\"On voit clairement que depuis que les granits veines ont ete remplaces\npar des pierres moins solides, tantot les rochers se sont eboules et ont\nete recouverts par la terre vegetale, tantot leur situation primitive a\nsubi des changements irreguliers.\n\n\"Sec. 1802. Mais bientot apres, _on monte par un chemin en corniche au\ndessus du Tesin, qui se precipite entre des rochers avec la plus grande\nviolence_. Ces rochers sont la si serres, qu'il n'y a de place que pour\nla riviere et pour le chemin, et meme en quelques endroits, celui-ci est\nentierement pris sur le roc. Je fis a pied cette montee, pour examiner\navec soin ces beaux rochers, _dignes de toute l'attention d'un amateur_.\n\n\"Les veines de ce granit forment en plusieurs endroits des _zigzags\nredoubles_, precisement comme ces anciennes tapisseries, connues sous le\nnom de points d'Hongrie; et la, on ne peut pas prononcer, si les veines\nde la pierre, sont ou ne sont pas paralleles a ses couches. Cependant\nces veines reprennent aussi dans quelques places, une direction\nconstante, et cette direction est bien la meme que celle des couches. Il\nparoit meme qu'en divers endroits, ou ces veines ont la forme d'un\n_sigma_ ou d'une M couchee M, ce sont les grandes jambes du _sigma_, qui\nont la direction des couches. Enfin, j'observai plusieurs couches, qui\ndans le milieu de leur epaisseur paroissoient remplies de ces veines en\nzigzag, tandis qu'aupres de leurs bords, on les voyoit toutes en lignes\ndroites.\"\n\nSec. 46. If the reader will now examine Turner's work at the point _x_ in\nthe reference figure, and again on the stones in the foreground,\ncomparing it finally with the fragment of the rocks which happened\nfortunately to come into my foreground in Plate +20+, rising towards the\nleft, and of which I have etched the structure with some care, though at\nthe time I had quite forgotten Saussure's notice of the peculiar\nM-shaped zigzags of the gneiss at the spot, I believe he will have\nenough evidence before him, taken all in all, to convince him of\nTurner's inevitable perception, and of the entire supremacy of his\nmountain drawing over all that had previously existed. And if he is able\nto refer, even to the engravings (though I desire always that what I\nstate should be _tested_ by the drawings only) of any others of his\nelaborate hill-subjects, and will examine their details with careful\nreference to the laws explained in this chapter, he will find that the\nTurnerian promontories and banks are always simply _right_, and that in\nall respects; that their gradated curvatures, and nodding cliffs, and\nredundant sequence of folded glen and feathery glade, are, in all their\nseemingly fanciful beauty, literally the most downright plain speaking\nthat has as yet been uttered about hills; and differ from all antecedent\nwork, not in being ideal, but in being, so to speak, pictorial _casts_\nof the ground. Such a drawing as that of the Yorkshire Richmond, looking\ndown the river, in the England Series, is even better than a model of\nthe ground, because it gives the aerial perspective, and is better than\na photograph of the ground, because it exaggerates no shadows, while it\nunites the veracities both of model and photograph.\n\nSec. 47. Nor let it be thought that it was an easy or creditable thing to\ntreat mountain ground with this faithfulness in the days when Turner\nexecuted those drawings. In the Encyclopaedia Britannica (Edinburgh,\n1797), under article \"Drawing,\" the following are the directions given\nfor the production of a landscape:--\n\n\"If he is to draw a landscape from nature, let him take his station on a\nrising ground, where he will have a large horizon, and mark his tablet\ninto three divisions, downwards from top to the bottom; and divide in\nhis own mind the landscape he is to take into three divisions also. Then\nlet him turn his face directly opposite to the midst of the horizon,\nkeeping his body fixed, and draw what is directly before his eyes upon\nthe middle division of the tablet: then _turn his head, but not his\nbody_,[96] to the left hand and delineate what he views there, joining\nit properly to what he had done before; and, lastly, do the same by\nwhat is to be seen upon his right hand, laying down everything exactly,\nboth with respect to distance and proportion. One example is given in\nplate clxviii.\n\n\"The best artists of late, in drawing their landscapes, make them shoot\naway, one part lower than another. Those who make their landscapes mount\nup higher and higher, as if they stood at the bottom of a hill to take\nthe prospect, commit a great error; the best way is to get upon a rising\nground, make the nearest objects in the piece the highest, and those\nthat are farther off to shoot away lower and lower till they come almost\nlevel with the line of the horizon, lessening everything proportionably\nto its distance, and observing also to make the objects fainter and less\ndistinct the farther they are removed from the eye. He must make all his\nlights and shades fall one way, and let every thing have its proper\nmotion: as trees shaken by the wind, the small boughs bending more and\nthe large ones less; water agitated by the wind, and dashing against\nships or boats, or falling from a precipice upon rocks and stones, and\nspirting up again into the air, and sprinkling all about; clouds also in\nthe air now gathered with the winds; now violently condensed into hail,\nrain, and the like,--always remembering, that whatever motions are\ncaused by the wind must be made all to move the same way, because the\nwind can blow but one way at once.\"\n\nSuch was the state of the public mind, and of public instruction, at the\ntime when Claude, Poussin, and Salvator were in the zenith of their\nreputation; such were the precepts which, even to the close of the\ncentury, it was necessary for a young painter to comply with during the\nbest part of the years he gave to study. Take up one of Turner's views\nof our Yorkshire dells, seen from about a hawk's height of pause above\nthe sweep of its river, and with it in your hand, side by side with the\nold Encyclopaedia paragraph, consider what must have been the man's\nstrength, who, on a sudden, passed from such precept to such practice.\n\nSec. 48. On a sudden it was; for, even yet a youth, and retaining profound\nrespect for all older artist's ways of _work_, he followed his own will\nfearlessly in choice of _scene_; and already in the earliest of his\ncoast drawings there are as daring and strange decisions touching the\nsite of the spectator as in his latest works; lookings down and up into\ncoves and clouds, as defiant of all former theories touching possible\nperspective, or graceful componence of subject, as, a few years later,\nhis system of color was of the theory of the brown tree. Nor was the\nstep remarkable merely for its magnitude,--for the amount of progress\nmade in a few years. It was much more notable by its direction. The\ndiscovery of the true structure of hill banks had to be made by Turner,\nnot merely in _advance_ of the men of his day, but in _contradiction_ to\nthem. Examine the works of contemporary and preceding landscapists, and\nit will be found that the universal practice is to make the tops of all\ncliffs broken and rugged, their bases smooth and soft, or concealed with\nwood. No one had ever observed the contrary structure, the bank rounded\nat the top, and broken on the flank. And yet all the hills of any\nimportance which are met with throughout Lowland Europe are, properly\nspeaking, high banks, for the most part following the courses of rivers,\nand forming a step from the high ground, of which the country generally\nconsists, to the river level. Thus almost the whole of France, though,\non the face of it, flat, is raised from 300 to 500 feet above the level\nof the sea, and is traversed by valleys either formed by, or directing,\nthe course of its great rivers. In these valleys lie all its principal\ntowns, surrounded, almost without exception, by ranges of hills covered\nwith wood or vineyard. Ascending these hills, we find ourselves at once\nin an elevated plain, covered with corn and lines of apple trees,\nextending to the next river side, where we come to the brow of another\nhill, and descend to the city and valley beneath it. Our own valleys in\nNorthumberland, Yorkshire, Derbyshire, and Devonshire, are cut in the\nsame manner through vast extents of elevated land; the scenery which\ninterests the traveller chiefly, as he passes through even the most\nbroken parts of those counties, being simply that of the high _banks_\nwhich rise from the shores of the Dart or the Derwent, the Wharfe or the\nTees. In all cases, when these banks are surmounted, the sensation is\none of disappointment, as the adventurer finds himself, the moment he\nhas left the edge of the ravine, in a waste of softly undulating moor or\narable land, hardly deserving the title of hill country. As we advance\ninto the upper districts the fact remains still the same, although the\nbanks to be climbed are higher, the ravines grander, and the\nintermediate land more broken. The majesty of an isolated peak is still\ncomparatively rare, and nearly all the most interesting pieces of\nscenery are glens or passes, which, if seen from a height great enough\nto command them in all their relations, would be found in reality little\nmore than trenches excavated through broad masses of elevated land, and\nexpanding at intervals into the wide basins which are occupied by the\nglittering lake or smiling plain.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 106.]\n\n[Illustration: J. Ruskin. J. H. Le Keux.\n 47. The Quarries of Carrara.]\n\nSec. 49. All these facts had been entirely ignored by artists; nay, almost\nby geologists, before Turner's time. He saw them at once; fathomed them\nto the uttermost, and, partly owing to early association, partly,\nperhaps, to the natural pleasure of working a new mine discovered by\nhimself, devoted his best powers to their illustration, passing by with\nsomewhat less attention the conditions of broken-summited rock, which\nhad previously been the only ones known. And if we now look back to his\ntreatment of the crest of Mont Pilate, in the figure given at the close\nof the last chapter, we shall understand better the nature and strength\nof the instinct which compelled him to sacrifice the peaked summit, and\nto bring the whole mountain within a lower enclosing line. In that\nfigure, however, the dotted peak interferes with the perception of the\nform finally determined upon, which therefore I repeat here (Fig. 106),\nas Turner gave it in color. The eye may not at first detect the law of\nascent in the peaks, but if the height of any one of them were altered,\nthe general form would instantly be perceived to be less agreeable. Fig.\n107 shows that they are disposed within an infinite curve, A _c_, from\nwhich the last crag falls a little to conceal the law, while the\nterminal line at the other extremity, A _b_, is a minor echo of the\nwhole contour.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 107.]\n\nSec. 50. I must pause to make one exception to my general statement that\nthis structure had been entirely ignored. The reader was, perhaps,\nsurprised by the importance I attached to the fragment of mountain\nbackground by Masaccio, given in Plate +13+ of the third volume. If he\nlooks back to it now, his surprise will be less. It was a complete\nrecognition of the laws of the lines of aqueous sculpture, asserted as\nTurner's was, in the boldest opposition to the principles of rock\ndrawing of the time. It presents even smoother and broader masses than\nany which I have shown as types of hill form; but it must be remembered\nthat Masaccio had seen only the softer contours of the Apennine\nlimestone. I have no memorandum by me of the hill lines near Florence;\nbut Plate +47+ shows the development of limestone structure, at a spot\nwhich has, I think, the best right to be given as an example of the\nItalian hills, the head of the valley of Carrara. The white scar on the\nhill side is the principal quarry; and the peaks above deserve\nobservation, not so much for anything in their forms, as for the\nsingular barrenness which was noted in the fifteenth chapter of the last\nvolume (Sec. 8) as too often occurring in the Apennines. Compare this plate\nwith the previous one. The peak drawn in Plate +46+ rises at least 7500\nfeet above the sea,--yet is wooded to its top; this Carrara crag not\nabove 5000,[97]--yet it is wholly barren.\n\nSec. 51. Masaccio, however, as we saw, was taken away by death before he\ncould give any one of his thoughts complete expression. Turner was\nspared to do _his_ work, in this respect at least, completely. It might\nbe thought that, having had such adverse influence to struggle with, he\nwould prevail against it but in part; and, though showing the way to\nmuch that was new, retain of necessity some old prejudices, and leave\nhis successors to pursue in purer liberty, and with happier power, the\npath he had pointed out. But it was not so: he did the work so\ncompletely on the ground which he chose to illustrate, that nothing is\nleft for future artists to accomplish in that kind. Some classes of\nscenery, as often pointed out in the preceding pages, he was unfamiliar\nwith, or held in little affection, and out of that scenery, untouched by\nhim, new motives may be obtained; but of such landscape as his favorite\nYorkshire Wolds, and banks of Rhenish and French hill, and rocky\nmountains of Switzerland, like the St. Gothard, already so long dwelt\nupon, he has expressed the power in what I believe to be for ever a\ncentral and unmatchable way. I do not say this with positiveness,\nbecause it is not demonstrable. Turner may be beaten on his own\nground--so may Tintoret, so may Shakespeare, Dante, or Homer: but my\n_belief_ is that all these first-rate men are lonely men; that the\nparticular work they did was by them done for ever in the best way; and\nthat this work done by Turner among the hills, joining the most intense\nappreciation of all tenderness with delight in all magnitude, and memory\nfor all detail, is never to be rivalled, or looked upon in similitude\nagain.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [88] _Quantity_ of curvature is as measurable as quantity of\n anything else; only observe that it depends on the nature of the\n line, not on its magnitude; thus, in simple circular curvature, _a\n b_, Fig. 96, being the fourth of a large circle, and _b c_ the half\n of a smaller one, the quantity of the element of circular curvature\n in the entire line _a c_ is three fourths of that in _any_\n circle,--the the same as the quantity in the line _e f_.\n\n [Illustration: FIG 96.]\n\n [89] The catenary is not properly a curve capable of infinity, if\n its direction does not alter with its length; but it is capable of\n infinity, implying such alteration by the infinite removal of the\n points of suspension. It entirely corresponds in its effect on the\n eye and mind to the infinite curves. I do not know the exact nature\n of the apparent curves of suspension formed by a high and weighty\n waterfall; they are dependent on the gain in rapidity of descent by\n the central current, where its greater body is less arrested by the\n air; and I apprehend, are catenary in character, though not in\n cause.\n\n [90] I am afraid of becoming tiresome by going too far into the\n intricacies of this most difficult subject; but I say \"_towards_ the\n bottom of the hill,\" because, when a certain degree of verticality\n is reached, a counter protective influence begins to establish\n itself, the stones and waterfalls bounding away from the brow of the\n precipice into the air, and wearing it at the top only. Also it is\n evident that when the curvature falls into a vertical cliff, as\n often happens, the maximum of curvature must be somewhere _above_\n the brow of the cliff, as in the cliff itself it has again died into\n a straight line.\n\n [91] The following extract from my private diary, giving an account\n of the destruction of the beauty of this waterfall in the year 1849,\n which I happened to witness, may be interesting to those travellers\n who remember it before that period. The house spoken of as\n \"Joseph's,\" is that of the guide Joseph Coutet, in a village about a\n mile below the cascade, between it and the Arve: that noticed as of\n the \"old avalanche\" is a hollow in the forest, cleft by a great\n avalanche which fell from the Aiguille du Midi in the spring of\n 1844. It struck down about a thousand full-grown pines, and left an\n open track in the midst of the wood, from the cascade nearly down to\n the village.\n\n \"Evening, Thursday, June 28th. I set out for the Cascade des\n Pelerins as usual; when we reached Joseph's house, we heard a sound\n from the torrent like low thunder, or like that of a more distant\n and heavier fall. A peasant said something to Joseph, who stopped to\n listen, then nodded, and said to me, 'La cascade vient de se\n deborder.' Thinking there would be time enough afterwards to ask for\n explanations, I pushed up the hill almost without asking a question.\n When we reached the place of the old avalanche, Joseph called to me\n to stop and see the torrent increase. There was at this time a dark\n cloud on the Aiguille du Midi, down to its base; the upper part of\n the torrent was brown, the lower white, not larger than usual. The\n brown part came down, I thought, with exceeding slowness, reaching\n the cascade gradually; as it did so, the fall rose to about once and\n a half its usual height, and in the five minutes' time that I paused\n (it could not be more) turned to the color of slate. I then pushed\n on as hard as I could. When I reached the last ascent I was obliged\n to stop for breath, but got up before the fall could sensibly have\n diminished in body of water. It was then nearly twice as far cast\n out from the rock as last night, and the water nearly black in\n color; and it had the appearance, as it broke and separated at the\n outer part of the fall, of a shower of fragments of flat slate. The\n reason of this appearance I could not comprehend, unless the water\n was so mixed with mud that it drew out flat and unctuously when it\n broke; but so it was: instead of spray it looked like a shower of\n dirty flat bits of slate--only with a lustre, as if they had been\n wet first. This, however, was the least of it, for the torrent\n carried with it nearly as much weight of stone as water; the stones\n varying in size, the average being, I suppose, about that of a hen's\n egg; but I do not suppose that at any instant the arch of water was\n without four or five as large as a man's fist, and often came larger\n ones,--all vomited forth with the explosive power of a small\n volcano, and falling in a continual shower as thick, constant, and,\n had it not been mixed with the crash of the fall, as loud as a heavy\n fire of infantry; they bounded and leaped in the basin of the fall\n like hailstones in a thunder-shower. As we watched the fall it\n seemed convulsively to diminish, and suddenly showed, as it\n shortened, the rock underneath it, which I could hardly see\n yesterday: as I cried out to Joseph it rose again, higher than ever,\n and continued to rise, till it all but reached the snow on the rock\n opposite. It then became very fantastic and variable, increasing and\n diminishing in the space of two or three seconds, and partially\n changing its direction. After watching it for half an hour or so, I\n determined to try and make some memoranda. Coutet brought me up a\n jug of water: I stooped to dip my brush, when Coutet caught my arm,\n saying, 'Tenez;' at the same instant I heard a blow, like the going\n off of a heavy gun, two or three miles away; I looked up, and as I\n did, the cascade sank before my eyes, and fell back to the rock.\n Neither of us spoke for an instant or two; then Coutet said, 'C'est\n une pierre, qui est logee dans le creux,' or words to that effect:\n in fact, he had seen the stone come down as he called to me. I\n thought also that nothing more had happened, and watched the\n destroyed fall only with interest, until, as suddenly as it had\n fallen, it rose again, though not to its former height; and Coutet,\n stooping down, exclaimed, 'Ce n'est pas ca, le roc est perce;' in\n effect, a hole was now distinctly visible in the cup which turned\n the stream, through which the water whizzed as from a burst pipe.\n The cascade, however, continued to increase, until this new channel\n was concealed, and I was maintaining to Coutet that he must have\n been mistaken (and that the water only _struck_ on the outer rock,\n having changed its mode of fall above), when again it fell; and the\n two girls, who had come up from the chalet, expressed their opinion\n at once, that the 'cascade est finie.' This time all was plain; the\n water gushed in a violent jet d'eau through the new aperture, hardly\n any of it escaping above. It rose again gradually, as the hole was\n choked with stones, and again fell; but presently sprang out almost\n to its first elevation (the water being by this time in much less\n body), and retained very nearly the form it had yesterday, until I\n got tired of looking at it, and went down to the little chalet, and\n sat down before its door. I had not been there five minutes before\n the cascade fell, and rose no more.\"\n\n [92] It might be thought at first that the line to which such curves\n would approximate would be the cycloid, as the line of quickest\n descent. But in reality the contour is modified by perpetual sliding\n of the debris under the influence of rain; and by the bounding of\n detached fragments with continually increased momentum. I was quite\n unable to get at anything like the expression of a constant law\n among the examples I studied in the Alps, except only the great laws\n of delicacy and changefulness in all curves whatsoever.\n\n [93] I owe Mr. Le Keux sincere thanks, and not a little admiration,\n for the care and skill with which he has followed, on a much reduced\n scale, the detail of this drawing.\n\n [94] Allow ten feet square for average space to each pine; suppose\n the valley seen only for five miles of its length, and the pine\n district two miles broad on each side--a low estimate of breadth\n also: this would give five millions.\n\n [95] The white spots on the brow of the little cliff are lichens,\n only four or five inches broad.\n\n [96] What a _comfortable_, as well as intelligent, operation,\n sketching from nature must have been in those days!\n\n [97] It is not one of the highest points of the Carrara chain. The\n chief summits are much more jagged, and very noble. See Chap. XX. Sec.\n 20.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nRESULTING FORMS:--FIFTHLY, STONES.\n\n\nSec. 1. It is somewhat singular that the indistinctness of treatment which\nhas been so often noticed as characteristic of our present art shows\nitself always most when there is least apparent reason for it. Modern\nartists, having some true sympathy with what is vague in nature, draw\nall that is uncertain and evasive without evasion, and render faithfully\nwhatever can be discerned in faithless mist or mocking vapors; but\nhaving no sympathy with what is solid and serene, they seem to become\nuncertain themselves in proportion to the certainty of what they see;\nand while they render flakes of far-away cloud, or fringes of\ninextricable forest, with something like patience and fidelity, give\nnothing but the hastiest indication of the ground they can tread upon or\ntouch. It is only in modern art that we find any complete representation\nof clouds, and only in ancient art that, generally speaking, we find any\ncareful realization of Stones.\n\nSec. 2. This is all the more strange, because, as we saw some time back,\nthe _ruggedness_ of the stone is more pleasing to the modern than the\nmediaeval, and he rarely completes any picture satisfactorily to himself\nunless large spaces of it are filled with irregular masonry, rocky\nbanks, or shingly shores: whereas the mediaeval could conceive no\ndesirableness in the loose and unhewn masses; associated them generally\nin his mind with wicked men, and the Martyrdom of St. Stephen; and\nalways threw them out of his road, or garden, to the best of his power.\n\nYet with all this difference in predilection, such was the honesty of\nthe mediaeval, and so firm his acknowledgment of the necessity to paint\ncompletely whatever was to be painted at all, that there is hardly a\nstrip of earth under the feet of a saint, in any finished work of the\nearly painters, but more, and better painted, stones are to be found\nupon it than in an entire exhibition full of modern mountain scenery.\n\nSec. 3. Not better painted in every respect. In those interesting and\npopular treatises on the art of drawing, which tell the public that\ntheir colors should neither be too warm nor too cold, and that their\ntouches should always be characteristic of the object they are intended\nto represent, the directions given for the manufacture of stones usually\nenforce \"crispness of outline\" and \"roughness of texture.\" And,\naccordingly, in certain expressions of frangibility, irregular\naccumulation, and easy resting of one block upon another, together with\nsome conditions of lichenous or mossy texture, modern stone-painting is\nfar beyond the ancient; for these are just the characters which first\nstrike the eye, and enable the foreground to maintain its picturesque\ninfluence, without inviting careful examination. The mediaeval painter,\non the other hand, not caring for this picturesque general effect, nor\nbeing in anywise familiar with mountain scenery, perceived in stones,\nwhen he was forced to paint them, eminently the characters which they\nhad in common with figures; that is to say, their curved outlines,\nrounded surfaces, and varieties of delicate color, and, accordingly, was\nsomewhat too apt to lose their angular and fragmentary character in a\nseries of muscular lines resembling those of an anatomical preparation;\nfor, although in large rocks the cleavable or frangible nature was the\nthing that necessarily struck him most, the pebbles under his feet were\napt to be oval or rounded in the localities of almost all the important\nschools of Italy. In Lombardy, the mass of the ground is composed of\nnothing but Alpine gravel, consisting of rolled oval pebbles, on the\naverage about six inches long by four wide--awkward building materials,\nyet used in ingenious alternation with the bricks in all the lowland\nItalian fortresses. Besides this universal rotundity, the qualities of\nstones which rendered them valuable to the lapidary were forced on the\npainter's attention by the familiar arts of inlaying and mosaic. Hence,\nin looking at a pebble, his mind was divided between its roundness and\nits veins; and Leonardo covers the shelves of rock under the feet of St.\nAnne with variegated agates; while Mantegna often strews the small\nstones about his mountain caves in a polished profusion, as if some\nrepentant martyr princess had been just scattering her caskets of\npearls into the dust.\n\nSec. 4. Some years ago, as I was talking of the curvilinear forms in a\npiece of rock to one of our academicians, he said to me, in a somewhat\ndespondent accent, \"If you look for curves, you will see curves; if you\nlook for angles, you will see angles.\"\n\nThe saying appeared to me an infinitely sad one. It was the utterance of\nan experienced man; and in many ways true, for one of the most singular\ngifts, or, if abused, most singular weaknesses, of the human mind is its\npower of persuading itself to see whatever it chooses;--a great gift, if\ndirected to the discernment of the things needful and pertinent to its\nown work and being; a great weakness, if directed to the discovery of\nthings profitless or discouraging. In all things throughout the world,\nthe men who look for the crooked will see the crooked, and the men who\nlook for the straight will see the straight. But yet the saying was a\nnotably sad one; for it came of the conviction in the speaker's mind\nthat there was in reality _no_ crooked and _no_ straight; that all so\ncalled discernment was fancy, and that men might, with equal rectitude\nof judgment, and good-deserving of their fellow-men, perceive and paint\nwhatever was convenient to them.\n\nSec. 5. Whereas things may always be seen truly by candid people, though\nnever _completely_. No human capacity ever yet saw the whole of a thing;\nbut we may see more and more of it the longer we look. Every individual\ntemper will see something different in it: but supposing the tempers\nhonest, all the differences are there. Every advance in our acuteness of\nperception will show us something new; but the old and first discerned\nthing will still be there, not falsified, only modified and enriched by\nthe new perceptions, becoming continually more beautiful in its harmony\nwith them and more approved as a part of the Infinite truth.\n\nSec. 6. There are no natural objects out of which more can be thus learned\nthan out of stones. They seem to have been created especially to reward\na patient observer. Nearly all other objects in nature can be seen, to\nsome extent, without patience, and are pleasant even in being half seen.\nTrees, clouds, and rivers are enjoyable even by the careless; but the\nstone under his foot has for carelessness nothing in it but stumbling;\nno pleasure is languidly to be had out of it, nor food, nor good of any\nkind; nothing but symbolism of the hard heart and the unfatherly gift.\nAnd yet, do but give it some reverence and watchfulness, and there is\nbread of thought in it, more than in any other lowly feature of all the\nlandscape.\n\nSec. 7. For a stone, when it is examined, will be found a mountain in\nminiature. The fineness of Nature's work is so great, that, into a\nsingle block, a foot or two in diameter, she can compress as many\nchanges of form and structure, on a small scale, as she needs for her\nmountains on a large one; and, taking moss for forests, and grains of\ncrystal for crags, the surface of a stone, in by far the plurality of\ninstances, is more interesting than the surface of an ordinary hill;\nmore fantastic in form and incomparably richer in color,--the last\nquality being, in fact, so noble in most stones of good birth (that is\nto say, fallen from the crystalline mountain-ranges), that I shall be\nless able to illustrate this part of my subject satisfactorily by means\nof engraving than perhaps any other, except the color of skies. I say,\n_shall_ be less able, because the beauty of stone surface is in so great\na degree dependent on the mosses and lichens which root themselves upon\nit, that I must place my richest examples in the section on vegetation.\nFor instance, in the plate opposite, though the mass of rock is large\nand somewhat distant, the effect of it is as much owing to the white\nspots of silvery lichen in the centre and left, and to the flowing lines\nin which the darker mosses, growing in the cranny, have arranged\nthemselves beyond, as to the character of the rock itself; nor could the\nbeauty of the whole mass be explained, if we were to approach the least\nnearer, without more detailed drawing of this vegetation. For the\npresent I shall only give a few examples of the drawing of stones\nroughly broken, or worn so as not to be materially affected by\nvegetation.\n\n[Illustration: 48. Bank of Slaty Crystallines.]\n\nSec. 8. We have already seen an example of Titian's treatment of mountain\ncrests as compared with Turner's; here is a parallel instance, from\nTitian, of stones in the bed of a torrent (Fig. 108), in many ways good\nand right, and expressing in its writhed and variously broken lines far\nmore of real stone structure than the common water-color dash of the\nmoderns. Observe, especially, how Titian has understood that the\nfracture of the stone more or less depends on the undulating grain of\nits crystalline structure, following the cavity of the largest stone in\nthe middle of the figure, with concentric lines; and compare in Plate\n+21+ the top of Turner's largest stones on the left.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 108.]\n\nSec. 9. If the reader sees nothing in this drawing (Fig. 108) that he can\nlike,--although, indeed, I would have him prefer the work of\nTurner,--let him be assured that he does not yet understand on what\nTitian's reputation is founded. No painter's name is oftener in the\nmouth of the ordinary connoisseur, and no painter was ever less\nunderstood. His power of color is indeed perfect, but so is\nBonifazio's. Titian's _supremacy_ above all the other Venetians, except\nTintoret and Veronese, consists in the firm truth of his portraiture,\nand more or less masterly understanding of the nature of stones, trees,\nmen, or whatever else he took in hand to paint; so that, without some\ncorrelative understanding in the spectator, Titian's work, in its\nhighest qualities, must be utterly dead and unappealing to him.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 109.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 110.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 111.]\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 112.]\n\nSec. 10. I give one more example from the lower part of the same print\n(Fig. 109), in which a stone, with an eddy round it, is nearly as well\ndrawn as it can be in the simple method of the early wood-engraving.\nPerhaps the reader will feel its truth better by contrast with a\nfragment or two of modern Idealism. Here, for instance (Fig. 110), is a\ngroup of stones, highly entertaining in their variety of form, out of\nthe subject of \"Christian vanquishing Apollyon,\" in the outlines to the\nPilgrim's Progress, published by the Art-Union, the idealism being here\nwrought to a pitch of extraordinary brilliancy by the exciting nature\nof the subject. Next (Fig. 111) is another poetical conception, one of\nFlaxman's, representing the eddies and stones of the Pool of Envy\n(Flaxman's Dante), which may be conveniently compared with the\nTitianesque stones and streams. And, finally, Fig. 112 represents, also\non Flaxman's authority, those stones of an \"Alpine\" character, of which\nDante says that he\n\n \"Climbed with heart of proof the adverse steep.\"\n\nIt seems at first curious that every one of the forms that Flaxman has\nchanced upon should be an impossible one--a form which a stone never\ncould assume: but this is the Nemesis of false idealism, and the\ninevitable one.\n\nSec. 11. The chief incapacity in the modern work is not, however, so much\nin its outline, though that is wrong enough, as in the total absence of\nany effort to mark the surface roundings. It is not the _outline_ of a\nstone, however true, that will make it solid or heavy; it is the\ninterior markings, and thoroughly understood perspectives of its sides.\nIn the opposite plate the upper two subjects are by Turner, foregrounds\nout of the Liber Studiorum (Source of Arveron, and Ben Arthur); the\nlower by Claude, Liber Veritatis, No. 5. I think the reader cannot but\nfeel that the blocks in the upper two subjects are massy and ponderous;\nin the lower, wholly without weight. If he examine their several\ntreatment, he will find that Turner has perfect imaginative conception\nof every recess and projection over the whole surface, and _feels_ the\nstone as he works over it; every touch, moreover, being full of tender\ngradation. But Claude, as he is obliged to hold to his outline in hills,\nso also clings to it in the stones,--cannot round them in the least,\nleaves their light surfaces wholly blank, and puts a few patches of dark\nhere and there about their edges, as chance will have it.\n\n[Illustration: 49. Truth and Untruth of Stones.]\n\nSec. 12. Turner's way of wedging the stones of the glacier moraine together\nin strength of disorder, in the upper subject, and his indication of the\nspringing of the wild stems and leafage out of the rents in the boulders\nof the lower one, will hardly be appreciated unless the reader is\n_fondly_ acquainted with the kind of scenery in question; and I cannot\ncalculate on this being often the case, for few persons ever look at any\nnear detail closely, and perhaps least of all at the heaps of debris\nwhich so often seem to encumber and disfigure mountain ground. But for\nthe various reasons just stated (Sec. 7), Turner found more material for\nhis power, and more excitement to his invention, among the fallen stones\nthan in the highest summits of mountains; and his early designs, among\ntheir thousand excellences and singularities, as opposed to all that had\npreceded them, count for not one of the least the elaborate care given\nto the drawing of torrent beds, shaly slopes, and other conditions of\nstony ground which all canons of art at the period pronounced\ninconsistent with dignity of composition; a convenient principle, since,\nof all foregrounds, one of loose stones is beyond comparison the most\ndifficult to draw with any approach to realization. The Turnerian\nsubjects, \"Junction of the Greta and Tees\" (Yorkshire Series, and\nillustrations to Scott); \"Wycliffe, near Rokeby\" (Yorkshire); \"Hardraw\nFall\" (Yorkshire); \"Ben Arthur\" (Liber Studiorum); \"Ulleswater\" and the\nmagnificent drawing of the \"Upper Fall of the Tees\" (England Series),\nare sufficiently illustrative of what I mean.\n\nSec. 13. It is not, however, only, in their separate condition, as\nmaterials of foreground, that we have to examine the effect of stones;\nthey form a curiously important element of distant landscape in their\naggregation on a large scale.\n\nIt will be remembered that in the course of the last chapter we wholly\nleft out of our account of mountain lines that group which was called\n\"Lines of Rest.\" One reason for doing so was that, as these lines are\nproduced by debris in a state of temporary repose, their beauty, or\ndeformity, or whatever character they may possess, is properly to be\nconsidered as belonging to stones rather than to rocks.\n\nSec. 14. Whenever heaps of loose stones or sand are increased by the\ncontinual fall of fresh fragments from above, or diminished by their\nremoval from below, yet not in such mass or with such momentum as\nentirely to disturb those already accumulated, the materials on the\nsurface arrange themselves in an equable slope, producing a straight\nline of profile in the bank or cone.\n\nThe heap formed by the sand falling in an hour-glass presents, in its\nstraight sides, the simplest result of such a condition; and any heap\nof sand thrown up by the spade will show the slopes here and there,\ninterrupted only by knotty portions, held together by moisture, or\nagglutinated by pressure,--interruptions which cannot occur to the same\nextent on a large scale, unless the soil is really hardened nearly to\nthe nature of rock. As long as it remains incoherent, every removal of\nsubstance at the bottom of the heap, or addition of it at the top,\noccasions a sliding disturbance of the whole slope, which smooths it\ninto rectitude of line; and there is hardly any great mountain mass\namong the Alps which does not show towards its foundation perfectly\nregular descents of this nature, often two or three miles long without a\nbreak. Several of considerable extent are seen on the left of Plate\n+46+.\n\nSec. 15. I call these lines of rest, because, though the bulk of the mass\nmay be continually increasing or diminishing, the line of the profile\ndoes not change, being fixed at a certain angle by the nature of the\nearth. It is usually stated carelessly as an angle of about 45 degrees,\nbut it never really reaches such a slope. I measured carefully the\nangles of a very large number of slopes of mountain in various parts of\nthe Mont Blanc district. The few examples given in the note below are\nenough to exhibit the general fact that loose debris lies at various\nangles up to about 30 deg. or 32 deg.; debris protected by grass or pines may\nreach 35 deg., and rocky slopes 40 deg. or 41 deg., but in continuous lines of rest\nI never found a steeper angle.[98]\n\nSec. 16. I speak of some rocky slopes as lines of rest, because, whenever\na mountain side is composed of soft stone which splits and decomposes\nfast, it has a tendency to choke itself up with the ruins, and gradually\nto get abraded or ground down towards the debris slope; so that vast\nmasses of the sides of Alpine valleys are formed by ascents of nearly\nuniform inclination, partly loose, partly of jagged rocks, which break,\nbut do not materially alter the general line of ground. In such cases\nthe fragments usually have accumulated without disturbance at the foot\nof the slope, and the pine forests fasten the soil and prevent it from\nbeing carried down in large masses. But numerous instances occur in\nwhich the mountain is consumed away gradually by its own torrents, not\nhaving strength enough to form clefts or precipices, but falling on each\nside of the ravines into even banks, which slide down from above as they\nare wasted below.\n\nSec. 17. By all these various expedients, Nature secures, in the midst of\nher mountain curvatures, vast series of perfectly straight lines\nopposing and relieving them; lines, however, which artists have almost\nuniversally agreed to alter or ignore, partly disliking them\nintrinsically, on account of their formality, and partly because the\nmind instantly associates them with the idea of mountain decay. Turner,\nhowever, saw that this very decay having its use and nobleness, the\ncontours which were significative of it ought no more to be omitted\nthan, in the portrait of an aged man, the furrows on his hand or brow;\nbesides, he liked the lines themselves, for their contrast with the\nmountain wildness, just as he liked the straightness of sunbeams\npenetrating the soft waywardness of clouds. He introduced them\nconstantly into his noblest compositions; but in order to the full\nunderstanding of their employment in the instance I am about to give,\none or two more points yet need to be noticed.\n\nSec. 18. Generally speaking, the curved lines of convex, _fall_ belong to\nmountains of hard rock, over whose surfaces the fragments _bound_ to the\nvalley, and which are worn by wrath of avalanches and wildness of\ntorrents, like that of the Cascade des Pelerins, described in the note\nabove. Generally speaking, the straight lines of _rest_ belong to softer\nmountains, or softer surfaces and places of mountains, which, exposed to\nno violent wearing from external force, nevertheless keep slipping and\nmouldering down spontaneously or receiving gradual accession of material\nfrom incoherent masses above them.\n\nSec. 19. It follows, rather, that where the gigantic wearing forces are in\noperation, the stones or fragments of rock brought down by the torrents\nand avalanches are likely, however hard, to be rounded on all their\nedges; but where the straight shaly slopes are found, the stones which\nglide or totter down their surfaces frequently retain all their angles,\nand form jagged and flaky heaps at the bottom.\n\nAnd farther, it is to be supposed that the rocks which are habitually\nsubjected to these colossal forces of destruction are in their own mass\nfirm and secure, otherwise they would long ago have given way; but that\nwhere the gliding and crumbling surfaces are found without much external\nviolence, it is very possible that the whole framework of the mountain\nmay be full of flaws; and a danger exist of vast portions of its mass\ngiving way, or slipping down in heaps, as the sand suddenly yields in an\nhour-glass after some moments of accumulation.\n\nSec. 20. Hence, generally, in the mind of any one familiar with mountains,\nthe conditions will be associated, on the one hand, of the curved,\nconvex, and overhanging bank or cliff, the roaring torrent, and the\nrounded boulder of massive stone; and, on the other, of the straight and\neven slope of bank, the comparatively quiet and peaceful lapse of\nstreams, and the sharp-edged and unworn look of the fallen stones,\ntogether with a sense of danger greater, though more occult, than in the\nwilder scenery.\n\n[Illustration: J. M. W. Turner J. Cousen.\n 50. Goldau.]\n\nThe drawing of the St. Gothard, which we have so laboriously analyzed,\nwas designed, as before mentioned, from a sketch taken in the year 1843.\nBut with it was made another drawing. Turner brought home in that year a\nseries of sketches taken in the neighborhood of the pass; among others,\none of the Valley of Goldau, covered as it is by the ruins of the\nRossberg. Knowing his fondness for fallen stones, I chose this Goldau\nsubject as a companion to the St. Gothard. The plate opposite will give\nsome idea of the resultant drawing.\n\nSec. 21. _Some_ idea only. It is a subject which, like the St. Gothard, is\nfar too full of detail to admit of reduction; and I hope, therefore,\nsoon to engrave it properly of its real size. It is, besides, more than\nusually difficult to translate this drawing into black and white,\nbecause much of the light on the clouds is distinguished merely by\norange or purple color from the green greys, which, though not darker\nthan the warm hues, have the effect of shade from their coldness, but\ncannot be marked as shade in the engraving without too great increase of\ndepth. Enough, however, has been done to give some idea of the elements\nof Turner's design.\n\nSec. 22. Detailed accounts of the Rossberg Fall may be found in any\nordinary Swiss Guide; the only points we have to notice respecting it\nare, that the mountain was composed of an indurated gravel, disposed in\noblique beds sloping _towards_ the valley. A portion of one of these\nbeds gave way, and half filled the valley beneath, burying five\nvillages, together with the principal one of Goldau, and partially\nchoking up a little lake, the streamlets which supplied it now forming\nirregular pools among the fallen fragments. I call the rock, and\naccurately, indurated gravel; but the induration is so complete that the\nmass breaks _through_ the rolled pebbles chiefly composing it, and may\nbe considered as a true rock, only always in its blocks rugged and\nformless when compared with the crystalline formations. Turner has\nchosen his position on some of the higher heaps of ruin, looking down\ntowards the Lake of Zug, which is seen under the sunset, the spire of\nthe tower of Aart on its shore just relieved against the light of the\nwaves.\n\nThe Rossberg itself, never steep, and still more reduced in terror by\nthe fall of a portion of it, was not available to him as a form\n_explanatory_ of the catastrophe; and even the slopes of the Righi on\nthe left are not, in reality, as uninterrupted in their slope as he has\ndrawn them; but he felt the connection of this structure with the ruin\namidst which he stood, and brought the long lines of danger clear\nagainst the sunset, and as straight as its own retiring rays.\n\nSec. 23. If the reader will now glance back to the St. Gothard subject, as\nillustrated in the two Plates +21+ and +37+, and compare it with this of\nGoldau, keeping in mind the general conclusions about the two great\nclasses of mountain scenery which I have just stated, he will, I hope,\nat last cease to charge me with enthusiasm in anything that I have said\nof Turner's imagination, as always instinctively possessive of those\ntruths which lie deepest, and are most essentially linked together, in\nthe expression of a scene. I have only taken two drawings (though these\nof his best period) for the illustration of all the structures of the\nAlps which, in the course of half a volume, it has been possible for me\nto explain; and all my half-volume is abstracted in these two drawings,\nand that in the most consistent and complete way, as if they had been\nmade on purpose to contain a perfect summary of Alpine truth.\n\nSec. 24. There are one or two points connected with them of yet more\ntouching interest. They are the last drawings which Turner ever made\nwith unabated power. The one of the St. Gothard, speaking with strict\naccuracy, is _the_ last drawing; for that of Goldau, though majestic to\nthe utmost in conception, is less carefully finished, and shows, in the\nexecution of parts of the sky, signs of impatience, caused by the first\nfeeling of decline of strength. Therefore I called the St. Gothard (Vol.\nIII. Ch. XV. Sec. 5) the last mountain drawing he ever executed with\nperfect power. But the Goldau is still a noble companion to it--more\nsolemn in thought, more sublime in color, and, in certain points of\npoetical treatment, especially characteristic of the master's mind in\nearlier days. He was very definitely in the habit of indicating the\nassociation of any subject with circumstances of death, especially the\ndeath of multitudes, by placing it under one of his most deeply\n_crimsoned_ sunset skies. The color of blood is this plainly taken for\nthe leading tone in the storm-clouds above the \"Slave-ship.\" It occurs\nwith similar distinctness in the much earlier picture of Ulysses and\nPolypheme, in that of Napoleon at St. Helena, and, subdued by softer\nhues, in the Old Temeraire. The sky of this Goldau is, in its scarlet\nand crimson, the deepest in tone of all that I know in Turner's\ndrawings. Another feeling traceable in several of its former works, is\nan acute sense of the contrast between the careless interests and idle\npleasures of daily life, and the state of those whose time for labor, or\nknowledge, or delight is passed for ever. There is evidence of this\nfeeling in the introduction of the boys at play in the churchyard of\nKirkby Lonsdale, and the boy climbing for his kite among the thickets\nabove the little mountain churchyard of Brignal-banks; it is in the same\ntone of thought that he has placed here the two figures fishing, leaning\nagainst these shattered flanks of rock,--the sepulchral stones of the\ngreat mountain Field of Death.\n\nSec. 25. Another character of these two drawings, which gives them especial\ninterest as connected with our inquiries into mediaeval landscape, is,\nthat they are precisely and accurately illustrative of the two principal\nideas of Dante about the Alps. I have already explained the rise of the\nfirst drawing out of Turner's early study of the \"Male Bolge\" of the\nSplugen and St. Gothard. The Goldau, on the other hand, might have been\ndrawn in purposeful illustration of the lines before referred to (Vol.\nIII. Ch. XV. Sec. 13) as descriptive of a \"loco _Alpestro_.\" I give now\nDante's own words:\n\n \"Qual' e quella ruina, che nel fianco\n Di qua da Trento l'Adice percosse,\n O per tremuoto, o per sostegni manco,\n Che da cima del monte, onde si mosse,\n Al piano e si la roccia discoscesa\n Che alcuna via darebbe a chi su fosse;\n Cotal di quel burrato era la scesa.\"\n\n \"As is that landslip, ere you come to Trent,\n That smote the flank of Adige, through some stay\n Sinking beneath it, or by earthquake rent;\n For from the summit, where of old it lay,\n Plainwards the broken rock unto the feet\n Of one above it might afford some way;\n Such path adown this precipice we meet.\"\n\n CAYLEY.\n\nSec. 26. Finally, there are two lessons to be gathered from the opposite\nconditions of mountain decay, represented in these designs, of perhaps a\nwider range of meaning than any which were suggested even by the states\nof mountain strength. In the first, we find the unyielding rock,\nundergoing no sudden danger, and capable of no total fall, yet, in its\nhardness of heart, worn away by perpetual trampling of torrent waves,\nand stress of wandering storm. Its fragments, fruitless and restless,\nare tossed into ever-changing heaps: no labor of man can subdue them to\nhis service, nor can his utmost patience secure any dwelling-place among\nthem. In this they are the type of all that humanity which, suffering\nunder no sudden punishment or sorrow, remains \"stony ground,\" afflicted,\nindeed, continually by minor and vexing cares, but only broken by them\ninto fruitless ruin of fatigued life. Of this ground not\n\"corn-giving,\"--this \"rough valley, neither eared nor sown,\"[99] of the\ncommon world, it is said, to those who have set up their idols in the\nwreck of it--\n\n \"Among the smooth stones of the stream is thy portion. They, they\n are thy lot.\"[100]\n\nBut, as we pass beneath the hills which have been shaken by earthquake\nand torn by convulsion, we find that periods of perfect repose succeeded\nthose of destruction. The pools of calm water lie clear beneath their\nfallen rocks, the water-lilies gleam, and the reeds whisper among their\nshadows; the village rises again over the forgotten graves, and its\nchurch-tower, white through the storm-twilight, proclaims a renewed\nappeal to His protection in whose hand \"are all the corners of the\nearth, and the strength of the hills is His also.\" There is no\nloveliness of Alpine valley that does not teach the same lesson. It is\njust where \"the mountain falling cometh to naught, and the rock is\nremoved out of his place,\" that, in process of years, the fairest\nmeadows bloom between the fragments, the clearest rivulets murmur from\ntheir crevices among the flowers, and the clustered cottages, each\nsheltered beneath some strength of mossy stone, now to be removed no\nmore, and with their pastured flocks around them, safe from the eagle's\nstoop and the wolf's ravin, have written upon their fronts, in simple\nwords, the mountaineer's faith in the ancient promise--\n\n \"Neither shalt thou be afraid of destruction when it cometh;\n\n \"For thou shalt be in league with the Stones of the Field; and the\n beasts of the field shall be at peace with thee.\"\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [98]\n\n Small fragments of limestone, five or six inches across, and\n flattish, sharp, angular on edges, and quite loose; slope deg.\n near fountain of Maglans 311/2\n Somewhat larger stones, nearer Maglans; quite loose 313/4\n Similar debris, slightly touched with vegetation 35\n Debris on southern side of Maglans 331/2\n Slope of Montagne de la Cote, at the bottom, as seen from the\n village of Chamouni 403/4\n Average slope of Montagne de Taconay, seen from Chamouni 38\n Maximum slope of side of Breven 41\n Slope of debris from ravine of Breven down to the village\n of Chamouni 14\n Slopes of debris set with pines under Aiguille Verte, seen\n from Argentiere 36\n General slope of Tapia, from Argentiere 34\n Slopes of La Cote and Taconay, from Argentiere 273/4\n Profile of Breven, from near the Chapeau (a point commanding the\n valley of Chamouni in its truest longitude) 321/2\n Average slope of Montanvert, from same point 391/2\n Slope of La Cote, same point 361/2\n Eastern slope of Pain de Sucre, seen from Vevay 33\n Western \" \" \" 361/2\n Slope of foot of Dent de Morcles, seen from Vevay 381/2\n \" \" Midi, \" \" 40\n\n [99] Deut. xxi. 4. So Amos, vi. 12: \"Shall horses run upon the rock;\n will one plow here with oxen?\"\n\n [100] Is. lvii. 5, 6.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nTHE MOUNTAIN GLOOM.\n\n\nSec. 1. We have now cursorily glanced over those conditions of mountain\nstructure which appear constant in duration, and universal in extent;\nand we have found them, invariably, calculated for the delight, the\nadvantage, or the teaching of men; prepared, it seems, so as to contain,\nalike in fortitude or feebleness, in timeliness or in terror, some\nbeneficence of gift, or profoundness of counsel. We have found that\nwhere at first all seemed disturbed and accidental, the most tender laws\nwere appointed to produce forms of perpetual beauty; and that where to\nthe careless or cold observer it seemed severe or purposeless, the\nwell-being of man has been chiefly consulted, and his rightly directed\npowers, and sincerely awakened intelligence, may find wealth in every\nfalling rock, and wisdom in every talking wave.\n\nIt remains for us to consider what actual effect upon the human race has\nbeen produced by the generosity, or the instruction of the hills; how\nfar, in past ages, they have been thanked, or listened to; how far, in\ncoming ages, it may be well for us to accept them for tutors, or\nacknowledge them for friends.\n\nSec. 2. What they have already taught us may, one would think, be best\ndiscerned in the midst of them,--in some place where they have had their\nown way with the human soul; where no veil has been drawn between it and\nthem, no contradicting voice has confused their ministries of sound, or\nbroken their pathos of silence: where war has never streaked their\nstreams with bloody foam, nor ambition sought for other throne than\ntheir cloud-courtiered pinnacles, nor avarice for other treasure than,\nyear by year, is given to their unlaborious rocks, in budded jewels, and\nmossy gold.\n\nSec. 3. I do not know any district possessing more pure or uninterrupted\nfulness of mountain character (and that of the highest order), or which\nappears to have been less disturbed by foreign agencies, than that which\nborders the course of the Trient between Valorsine and Martigny. The\npaths which lead to it out of the valley of the Rhone, rising at first\nin steep circles among the walnut trees, like winding stairs among the\npillars of a Gothic tower, retire over the shoulders of the hills into a\nvalley almost unknown, but thickly inhabited by an industrious and\npatient population. Along the ridges of the rocks, smoothed by old\nglaciers into long, dark, billowy swellings, like the backs of plunging\ndolphins, the peasant watches the slow coloring of the tufts of moss and\nroots of herb which, little by little, gather a feeble soil over the\niron substance; then, supporting the narrow strip of clinging ground\nwith a few stones, he subdues it to the spade; and in a year or two a\nlittle crest of corn is seen waving upon the rocky casque. The irregular\nmeadows run in and out like inlets of lake among these harvested rocks,\nsweet with perpetual streamlets, that seem always to have chosen the\nsteepest places to come down, for the sake of the leaps, scattering\ntheir handfuls of crystal this way and that, as the wind takes them,\nwith all the grace, but with none of the formalism, of fountains;\ndividing into fanciful change of dash and spring, yet with the seal of\ntheir granite channels upon them, as the lightest play of human speech\nmay bear the seal of past toil, and closing back out of their spray to\nlave the rigid angles, and brighten with silver fringes and glassy films\neach lower and lower step of sable stone; until at last, gathered\naltogether again,--except, perhaps, some chance drops caught on the\napple-blossom, where it has budded a little nearer the cascade than it\ndid last spring,--they find their way down to the turf, and lose\nthemselves in that silently; with quiet depth of clear water furrowing\namong the grass blades, and looking only like their shadow, but\npresently emerging again in little startled gushes and laughing hurries,\nas if they had remembered suddenly that the day was too short for them\nto get down the hill.\n\nGreen field, and glowing rock, and glancing streamlet, all slope\ntogether in the sunshine towards the brows of the ravines, where the\npines take up their own dominion of saddened shade; and with everlasting\nroar in the twilight, the stronger torrents thunder down pale from the\nglaciers, filling all their chasms with enchanted cold, beating\nthemselves to pieces against the great rocks that they have themselves\ncast down, and forcing fierce way beneath their ghastly poise.\n\nThe mountain paths stoop to these glens in forky zigzags, leading to\nsome grey and narrow arch, all fringed under its shuddering curve with\nthe ferns that fear the light; a cross of rough-hewn pine, iron-bound to\nits parapet, standing dark against the lurid fury of the foam. Far up\nthe glen, as we pause beside the cross, the sky is seen through the\nopenings in the pines, thin with excess of light; and, in its clear,\nconsuming flame of white space, the summits of the rocky mountains are\ngathered into solemn crowns and circlets, all flushed in that strange,\nfaint silence of possession by the sunshine which has in it so deep a\nmelancholy; full of power, yet as frail as shadows; lifeless, like the\nwalls of a sepulchre, yet beautiful in tender fall of crimson folds,\nlike the veil of some sea spirit, that lives and dies as the foam\nflashes; fixed on a perpetual throne, stern against all strength, lifted\nabove all sorrow, and yet effaced and melted utterly into the air by\nthat last sunbeam that has crossed to them from between the two golden\nclouds.\n\nSec. 4. High above all sorrow: yes; but not unwitnessing to it. The\ntraveller on his happy journey, as his foot springs from the deep turf\nand strikes the pebbles gayly over the edge of the mountain road, sees\nwith a glance of delight the clusters of nut-brown cottages that nestle\namong those sloping orchards, and glow beneath the boughs of the pines.\nHere, it may well seem to him, if there be sometimes hardship, there\nmust be at least innocence and peace, and fellowship of the human soul\nwith nature. It is not so. The wild goats that leap along those rocks\nhave as much passion of joy in all that fair work of God as the men that\ntoil among them. Perhaps more. Enter the street of one of those\nvillages, and you will find it foul with that gloomy foulness that is\nsuffered only by torpor, or by anguish of soul. Here, it is torpor--not\nabsolute suffering,--not starvation or disease, but darkness of calm\nenduring; the spring known only as the time of the scythe, and the\nautumn as the time of the sickle, and the sun only as a warmth, the wind\nas a chill, and the mountains as a danger. They do not understand so\nmuch as the name of beauty, or of knowledge. They understand dimly that\nof virtue. Love, patience, hospitality, faith,--these things they know.\nTo glean their meadows side by side, so happier; to bear the burden up\nthe breathless mountain flank, unmurmuringly; to bid the stranger drink\nfrom their vessel of milk; to see at the foot of their low deathbeds a\npale figure upon a cross, dying also, patiently;--in this they are\ndifferent from the cattle and from the stones, but in all this\nunrewarded as far as concerns the present life. For them, there is\nneither hope nor passion of spirit; for them neither advance nor\nexultation. Black bread, rude roof, dark night, laborious day, weary arm\nat sunset; and life ebbs away. No books, no thoughts, no attainments, no\nrest; except only sometimes a little sitting in the sun under the church\nwall, as the bell tolls thin and far in the mountain air; a pattering of\na few prayers, not understood, by the altar rails of the dimly gilded\nchapel, and so back to the sombre home, with the cloud upon them still\nunbroken--that cloud of rocky gloom, born out of the wild torrents and\nruinous stones, and unlightened, even in their religion, except by the\nvague promise of some better thing unknown, mingled with threatening,\nand obscured by an unspeakable horror,--a smoke, as it were, of\nmartyrdom, coiling up with the incense, and, amidst the images of\ntortured bodies and lamenting spirits in hurtling flames, the very\ncross, for them, dashed more deeply than for others, with gouts of\nblood.\n\nSec. 5. Do not let this be thought a darkened picture of the life of these\nmountaineers. It is literal fact. No contrast can be more painful than\nthat between the dwelling of any well-conducted English cottager, and\nthat of the equally honest Savoyard. The one, set in the midst of its\ndull flat fields and uninteresting hedgerows, shows in itself the love\nof brightness and beauty; its daisy-studded garden beds, its smoothly\nswept brick path to the threshold, its freshly sanded floor and orderly\nshelves of household furniture, all testify to energy of heart, and\nhappiness in the simple course and simple possessions of daily life. The\nother cottage, in the midst of an inconceivable, inexpressible beauty,\nset on some sloping bank of golden sward, with clear fountains flowing\nbeside it, and wild flowers, and noble trees, and goodly rocks gathered\nround into a perfection as of Paradise, is itself a dark and plague-like\nstain in the midst of the gentle landscape. Within a certain distance\nof its threshold the ground is foul and cattle-trampled; its timbers are\nblack with smoke, its garden choked with weeds and nameless refuse, its\nchambers empty and joyless, the light and wind gleaming and filtering\nthrough the crannies of their stones. All testifies that to its\ninhabitant the world is labor and vanity; that for him neither flowers\nbloom, nor birds sing, nor fountains glisten; and that his soul hardly\ndiffers from the grey cloud that coils and dies upon his hills; except\nin having no fold of it touched by the sunbeams.\n\nSec. 6. Is it not strange to reflect, that hardly an evening passes in\nLondon or Paris but one of those cottages is painted for the better\namusement of the fair and idle, and shaded with pasteboard pines by the\nscene-shifter; and that good and kind people,--poetically\nminded,--delight themselves in imagining the happy life led by peasants\nwho dwell by Alpine fountains, and kneel to crosses upon peaks of rock?\nthat nightly we lay down our gold to fashion forth simulacra of\npeasants, in gay ribands and white bodices, singing sweet songs, and\nbowing gracefully to the picturesque crosses; and all the while the\nveritable peasants are kneeling, songlessly, to veritable crosses, in\nanother temper than the kind and fair audiences dream of, and assuredly\nwith another kind of answer than is got out of the opera catastrophe; an\nanswer having reference, it may be, in dim futurity, to those very\naudiences themselves? If all the gold that has gone to paint the\nsimulacra of the cottages, and to put new songs in the mouths of the\nsimulacra of the peasants, had gone to brighten the existent cottages,\nand to put new songs into the mouths of the existent peasants, it might\nin the end, perhaps, have turned out better so, not only for the\npeasants, but for even the audience. For that form of the False Ideal\nhas also its correspondent True Ideal,--consisting not in the naked\nbeauty of statues, nor in the gauze flowers and crackling tinsel of\ntheatres, but in the clothed and fed beauty of living men, and in the\nlights and laughs of happy homes. Night after night, the desire of such\nan ideal springs up in every idle human heart; and night after night, as\nfar as idleness can, we work out this desire in costly lies. We paint\nthe faded actress, build the lath landscape, feed our benevolence with\nfallacies of felicity, and satisfy our righteousness with poetry of\njustice. The time will come when, as the heavy-folded curtain falls upon\nour own stage of life, we shall begin to comprehend that the justice we\nloved was intended to have been done in fact, and not in poetry, and the\nfelicity we sympathized in, to have been bestowed and not feigned. We\ntalk much of money's worth, yet perhaps may one day be surprised to find\nthat what the wise and charitable European public gave to one night's\nrehearsal of hypocrisy,--to one hour's pleasant warbling of Linda or\nLucia,--would have filled a whole Alpine Valley with happiness, and\npoured the waves of harvest over the famine of many a Lammermoor.[101]\n\nSec. 7. \"Nay,\" perhaps the reader answers, \"it is vain to hope that this\ncould ever be. The perfect beauty of the ideal must always be\nfictitious. It is rational to amuse ourselves with the fair imagination;\nbut it would be madness to endeavor to put it into practice, in the face\nof the ordinances of Nature. Real shepherdesses must always be rude, and\nreal peasants miserable; suffer us to turn away our gentle eyes from\ntheir coarseness and their pain, and to seek comfort in cultivated\nvoices and purchased smiles. We cannot hew down the rocks, nor turn the\nsands of the torrent into gold.\"\n\nSec. 8. This is no answer. Be assured of the great truth--that what is\nimpossible in reality is ridiculous in fancy. If it is not in the nature\nof things that peasants should be gentle and happy, then the\nimagination of such peasantry is ridiculous, and to delight in such\nimagination wrong; as delight in any kind of falsehood is always. But if\nin the nature of things it be possible that among the wildness of hills\nthe human heart should be refined, and if the comfort of dress, and the\ngentleness of language, and the joy of progress in knowledge, and of\nvariety in thought, are possible to the mountaineer in his true\nexistence, let us strive to write this true poetry upon the rocks before\nwe indulge it in our visions, and try whether, among all the fine arts,\none of the finest be not that of painting cheeks with health rather than\nrouge.\n\nSec. 9. \"But is such refinement possible? Do not the conditions of the\nmountain peasant's life, in the plurality of instances, necessarily\nforbid it?\"\n\nAs bearing sternly on this question, it is necessary to examine one\npeculiarity of feeling which manifests itself among the European\nnations, so far as I have noticed, irregularly,--appearing sometimes to\nbe the characteristic of a particular time, sometimes of a particular\nrace, sometimes of a particular locality, and to involve at once much\nthat is to be blamed and much that is praiseworthy. I mean the\ncapability of enduring, or even delighting in, the contemplation of\nobjects of terror--a sentiment which especially influences the temper of\nsome groups of mountaineers, and of which it is necessary to examine the\ncauses, before we can form any conjecture whatever as to the real effect\nof mountains on human character.\n\nSec. 10. For instance, the unhappy alterations which have lately taken\nplace in the town of Lucerne have still spared two of its ancient\nbridges; both of which, being long covered walks, appear, in past times,\nto have been to the population of the town what the Mall was to London,\nor the Gardens of the Tuileries are to Paris. For the continual\ncontemplation of those who sauntered from pier to pier, pictures were\npainted on the woodwork of the roof. These pictures, in the one bridge,\nrepresent all the important Swiss battles and victories; in the other\nthey are the well-known series of which Longfellow has made so beautiful\na use in the Golden Legend, the _Dance of Death_.\n\nImagine the countenances with which a committee, appointed for the\nestablishment of a new \"promenade\" in some flourishing modern town,\nwould receive a proposal to adorn such promenade with pictures of the\nDance of Death.\n\nSec. 11. Now just so far as the old bridge at Lucerne, with the pure, deep,\nand blue water of the Reuss eddying down between its piers, and with the\nsweet darkness of green hills, and far-away gleaming of lake and Alps\nalternating upon the eye on either side; and the gloomy lesson frowning\nin the shadow, as if the deep tone of a passing-bell, overhead, were\nmingling for ever with the plashing of the river as it glides by\nbeneath; just so far, I say, as this differs from the straight and\nsmooth strip of level dust, between two rows of round-topped acacia\ntrees, wherein the inhabitants of an English watering-place or French\nfortified town take their delight,--so far I believe the life of the old\nLucernois, with all its happy waves of light, and mountain strength of\nwill, and solemn expectation of eternity, to have differed from the\ngenerality of the lives of those who saunter for their habitual hour up\nand down the modern promenade. But the gloom is not always of this noble\nkind. As we penetrate farther among the hills we shall find it becoming\nvery painful. We are walking, perhaps, in a summer afternoon, up the\nvalley of Zermatt (a German valley), the sun shining brightly on grassy\nknolls and through fringes of pines, the goats leaping happily, and the\ncattle bells ringing sweetly, and the snowy mountains shining like\nheavenly castles far above. We see, a little way off, a small white\nchapel, sheltered behind one of the flowery hillocks of mountain turf;\nand we approach its little window, thinking to look through it into some\nquiet home of prayer; but the window is grated with iron, and open to\nthe winds, and when we look through it, behold--a heap of white human\nbones mouldering into whiter dust!\n\nSo also in that same sweet valley, of which I have just been speaking,\nbetween Chamouni and the Valais, at every turn of the pleasant pathway,\nwhere the scent of the thyme lies richest upon its rocks, we shall see a\nlittle cross and shrine set under one of them; and go up to it, hoping\nto receive some happy thought of the Redeemer, by whom all these lovely\nthings were made, and still consist. But when we come near--behold,\nbeneath the cross, a rude picture of souls tormented in red tongues of\nhell fire, and pierced by demons.\n\nSec. 12. As we pass towards Italy the appearance of this gloom deepens; and\nwhen we descend the southern slope of the Alps we shall find this\nbringing forward of the image of Death associated with an endurance of\nthe most painful aspects of disease, so that conditions of human\nsuffering, which in any other country would be confined in hospitals,\nare permitted to be openly exhibited by the wayside; and with this\nexposure of the degraded human form is farther connected an\ninsensibility to ugliness and imperfection in other things; so that the\nruined wall, neglected garden, and uncleansed chamber, seem to unite in\nexpressing a gloom of spirit possessing the inhabitants of the whole\nland. It does not appear to arise from poverty, nor careless contentment\nwith little: there is here nothing of Irish recklessness or humor; but\nthere seems a settled obscurity in the soul,--a chill and plague, as if\nrisen out of a sepulchre, which partly deadens, partly darkens, the eyes\nand hearts of men, and breathes a leprosy of decay through every breeze\nand every stone. \"Instead of well-set hair, baldness, and burning\ninstead of beauty.\"\n\nNor are definite proofs wanting that the feeling is independent of mere\npoverty or indolence. In the most gorgeous and costly palace garden the\nstatues will be found green with moss, the terraces defaced or broken;\nthe palace itself partly coated with marble, is left in other places\nrough with cementless and jagged brick, its iron balconies bent and\nrusted, its pavements overgrown with grass. The more energetic the\neffort has been to recover from this state, and to shake off all\nappearance of poverty, the more assuredly the curse seems to fasten on\nthe scene, and the unslaked mortar, and unfinished wall, and ghastly\ndesolation of incompleteness entangled in decay, strike a deeper\ndespondency into the beholder.\n\nSec. 13. The feeling would be also more easily accounted for if it appeared\nconsistent in its regardlessness of beauty,--if what was _done_ were\naltogether as inefficient as what was deserted. But the balcony, though\nrusty and broken, is delicate in design, and supported on a nobly carved\nslab of marble; the window, though a mere black rent in ragged plaster,\nis encircled by a garland of vine and fronted by a thicket of the sharp\nleaves and aurora-colored flowers of the oleander; the courtyard,\novergrown by mournful grass, is terminated by a bright fresco of\ngardens and fountains; the corpse, borne with the bare face to heaven,\nis strewn with flowers; beauty is continually mingled with the shadow of\ndeath.\n\nSec. 14. So also is a kind of merriment,--not true cheerfulness, neither\ncareless nor idle jesting, but a determined effort at gaiety, a resolute\nlaughter, mixed with much satire, grossness, and practical buffoonery,\nand, it always seemed to me, void of all comfort or hope,--with this\neminent character in it also, that it is capable of touching with its\nbitterness even the most fearful subjects, so that as the love of beauty\nretains its tenderness in the presence of death, this love of jest also\nretains its boldness, and the skeleton becomes one of the standard\nmasques of the Italian comedy. When I was in Venice, in 1850, the most\npopular piece of the _comic_ opera was \"Death and the Cobbler,\" in which\nthe point of the plot was the success of a village cobbler as a\nphysician, in consequence of the appearance of Death to him beside the\nbed of every patient who was not to recover; and the most applauded\nscene in it was one in which the physician, insolent in success, and\nswollen with luxury, was himself taken down into the abode of Death, and\nthrown into an agony of terror by being shown lives of men, under the\nform of wasting lamps, and his own ready to expire.\n\nSec. 15. I have also not the smallest doubt that this endurance or\naffronting of fearful images is partly associated with indecency, partly\nwith general fatuity and weakness of mind. The men who applauded loudest\nwhen the actress put on, in an instant, her mask representing a skull,\nand when her sharp and clear \"Sono la Morte\" rang through the theatre,\nwere just those whose disgusting habits rendered it impossible for women\nto pass through some of the principal streets in Venice,--just those who\nformed the gaping audience, when a mountebank offered a new quack\nmedicine on the Riva dei Schiavoni. And, as fearful imagery is\nassociated with the weakness of fever, so it seems to me that imbecility\nand love of terror are connected by a mysterious link throughout the\nwhole life of man. There is a most touching instance of this in the last\ndays of Sir Walter Scott, the publication of whose latter works, deeply\nto be regretted on many accounts, was yet, perhaps, on the whole,\nright, as affording a means of studying the conditions of the decay of\noverwrought human intellect in one of the most noble of minds. Among the\nmany signs of this decay at its uttermost, in Castle Dangerous, not one\nof the least notable was the introduction of the knight who bears on his\nblack armor the likeness of a skeleton.\n\nSec. 16. The love of horror which is in this manner connected with\nfeebleness of intellect, is not, however, to be confounded with that\nshown by the vulgar in general. The feeling which is calculated upon in\nthe preparation of pieces full of terror and crime, at our lower\ntheatres, and which is fed with greater art and elegance in the darker\nscenery of the popular French novelists, however morally unhealthy, is\nnot _unnatural_; it is not the result of an apathy to such horror, but\nof a strong desire for excitement in minds coarse and dull, but not\nnecessarily feeble. The scene of the murder of the jeweller in the\n\"Count of Monte Cristo,\" or those with the Squelette in the \"Mysteres de\nParis,\" appeal to instincts which are as common to all mankind as those\nof thirst and hunger, and which are only debasing in the exaggerated\ncondition consequent upon the dulness of other instincts higher than\nthey. And the persons who, at one period of their life, might take chief\npleasure in such narrations, at another may be brought into a temper of\nhigh tone and acute sensibility. But the love of horror respecting which\nwe are now inquiring appears to be an unnatural and feeble feeling; it\nis not that the person needs excitement, or has any such strong\nperceptions as would cause excitement, but he is dead to the horror, and\na strange evil influence guides his feebleness of mind rather to fearful\nimages than to beautiful ones,--as our disturbed dreams are sometimes\nfilled with ghastliness which seem not to arise out of any conceivable\nassociation of our waking ideas, but to be a vapor out of the very\nchambers of the tomb, to which the mind, in its palsy, has approached.\n\nSec. 17. But even this imbecile revelling in terror is more comprehensible,\nmore apparently natural, than the instinct which is found frequently\nconnected with it, of absolute joy in _ugliness_. In some conditions of\nold German art we find the most singular insisting upon what is in all\nrespects ugly and abortive, or frightful; not with any sense of\nsublimity in it, neither in mere foolishness, but with a resolute\nchoice, such as I can completely account for on no acknowledged\nprinciple of human nature. For in the worst conditions of sensuality\nthere is yet some perception of the beautiful, so that men utterly\ndepraved in principle and habits of thought will yet admire beautiful\nthings and fair faces. But in the temper of which I am now speaking\nthere is no preference even of the lower forms of loveliness; no effort\nat painting fair limbs or passionate faces, no evidence of any human or\nnatural sensation,--a mere feeding on decay and rolling in slime, not\napparently or conceivably with any pleasure in it, but under some\nfearful possession of an evil spirit.\n\nSec. 18. The most wonderful instance of this feeling at its uttermost which\nI remember, is the missal in the British Museum, Harl. MSS. 1892. The\ndrawings of the principal subjects in it appear to have been made first\nin black, by Martin Schoengauer (at all events by some copyist of his\ndesigns), and then another workman has been employed to paint these\ndrawings over. No words can describe the intensity of the \"plague of the\nheart\" in this man; the reader should examine the manuscript carefully\nif he desires to see how low human nature can sink. I had written a\ndescription of one or two of the drawings in order to give some\nconception of them to persons not able to refer to the book; but the\nmere description so saddened and polluted my pages that I could not\nretain it. I will only, therefore, name the principal characteristics\nwhich belong to the workman's mind.\n\nSec. 19. First, perpetual tampering with death, whether there be occasion\nto allude to it or not,--especially insisting upon its associations with\ncorruption. I do not pain the reader by dwelling on the details\nillustrative of this feeling.\n\nSecondly, Delight in dismemberment, dislocation, and distortion of\nattitude. Distortion, to some extent, is a universal characteristic of\nthe German fifteenth and sixteenth century art; that is to say, there is\na general aptitude for painting legs across, or feet twisted round, or\nbodies awkwardly bent, rather than anything in a natural position; and\nMartin Schoengauer himself exhibits this defect in no small degree. But\nhere the finishing workman has dislocated nearly every joint which he\nhas exposed, besides knitting and twisting the muscles into mere knots\nof cordage.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 113.]\n\nWhat, however, only amounts to dislocation in the limbs of the human\nfigures, becomes actual dismemberment in the animals. Fig. 113 is a\nfaithful copy of a tree with two _birds_, one on its bough, and one\nabove it, seen in the background, behind a soldier's mace, in the\ndrawing of the Betrayal. In the engraving of this subject, by Schoengauer\nhimself, the mace does not occur; it has been put in by the finishing\nworkman, in order to give greater expression of savageness to the boughs\nof the tree, which, joined with the spikes of the mace, form one mass of\ndisorganized angles and thorns, while the birds look partly as if being\ntorn to pieces, and partly like black spiders.\n\nIn the painting itself the sky also is covered with little detached and\nbent white strokes, by way of clouds, and the hair of the figures torn\ninto ragged locks, like wood rent by a cannon shot.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 114.]\n\nThis tendency to dismember and separate everything is one of the eminent\nconditions of a mind leaning to vice and ugliness; just as to connect\nand harmonize everything is that of a mind leaning to virtue and beauty.\nIt is shown down to the smallest details; as, for instance, in the\nspotted backgrounds, which, instead of being chequered with connected\npatterns, as in the noble manuscripts (see Vol. III. Plate 7), are\ncovered with disorderly dashes and circles executed with a blunt pen or\nbrush, Fig. 114. And one of the borders is composed of various detached\nheads cut off at the neck or shoulders without the slightest endeavor to\nconceal or decorate the truncation. All this, of course, is associated\nwith choice of the most abominable features in the countenance.\n\nSec. 20. Thirdly, Pure ignorance. Necessarily such a mind as this must be\nincapable of perceiving the truth of any form; and therefore together\nwith the distortion of all studied form is associated the utter negation\nor imperfection of that which is less studied.\n\nFourthly, Delight in blood. I cannot use the words which would be\nnecessary to describe the second[102] painting of the Scourging, in this\nmissal. But I may generally notice that the degree in which the peculiar\nfeeling we are endeavoring to analyze is present in any district of\nRoman Catholic countries, may be almost accurately measured by the\nquantity of blood represented on the crucifixes.\n\nThe person employed to repaint, in the Campo Santo of Pisa, the portion\nof Orcagna's pictures representing the Inferno, has furnished a very\nnotable example of the same feeling; and it must be familiar to all\ntravellers in countries thoroughly subjected to _modern_ Romanism, a\nthing as different from thirteenth-century Romanism as a prison from a\nprince's chamber.\n\nLastly, Utter absence of inventive power. The only ghastliness which\nthis workman is capable of is that of distortion. In ghastly\n_combination_ he is impotent; he cannot even understand it or copy it\nwhen set before him, continually destroying any that exists in the\ndrawing of Schoengauer.\n\nSec. 21. Such appear to be the principal component elements in the mind of\nthe painter of this missal, and it possesses these in complete\nabstraction from nearly all others, showing, in deadly purity, the\nnature of the venom which in ordinary cases is tempered by counteracting\nelements. There are even certain feelings, evil enough themselves, but\nmore _natural_ than these, of which the slightest mingling would here be\na sort of redemption. Vanity, for instance, would lead to a more\nfinished execution, and more careful copying from nature, and of course\nsubdue the ugliness by fidelity; love of pleasure would introduce\noccasionally a graceful or sensual form; malice would give some point\nand meaning to the bordering grotesques, nay, even insanity might have\ngiven them some inventive horror. But the pure mortiferousness of this\nmind, capable neither of patience, fidelity, grace, or wit, in any\nplace, or from any motive,--this horrible apathy of brain, which cannot\nascend so high as insanity, but is capable only of putrefaction, save us\nthe task of all analysis, and leave us only that of examining how this\nblack aqua Tophana mingles with other conditions of mind.\n\nSec. 22. For I have led the reader over this dark ground, because it was\nessential to our determination of the influence of mountains that we\nshould get what data we could as to the extent in other districts, and\nderivation from other causes, of the horror which at first we might have\nbeen led to connect too arbitrarily with hill scenery. And I wish that\nmy knowledge permitted me to trace it over wider ground, for the\nobservations hitherto stated leave the question still one of great\ndifficulty. It might appear to a traveller crossing and recrossing the\nAlps between Switzerland and Italy, that the main strength of the evil\nlay on the south of the chain, and was attributable to the peculiar\ncircumstances and character of the Italian nation at this period. But as\nhe examined the matter farther he would note that in the districts of\nItaly generally supposed to be _healthy_, the evidence of it was less,\nand that it seemed to gain ground in places exposed to malaria,\ncentralizing itself in the Val d'Aosta. He would then, perhaps, think it\ninconsistent with justice to lay the blame on the mountains, and\ntransfer his accusation to the marshes, yet would be compelled to admit\nthat the evil manifested itself most where these marshes were surrounded\nby hills. He would next, probably, suppose it produced by the united\neffect of hardships, solitude, and unhealthy air; and be disposed to\nfind fault with the mountains, at least so far as they required painful\nclimbing and laborious agriculture;--but would again be thrown into\ndoubt by remembering that one main branch of the feeling,--the love of\nugliness, seemed to belong in a peculiar manner to Northern Germany. If\nat all familiar with the art of the North and South, he would perceive\nthat the _endurance_ of ugliness, which in Italy resulted from languor\nor depression (while the mind yet retained some apprehension of the\ndifference between fairness and deformity, as above noted in Sec. 12), was\nnot to be confounded with that absence of perception of the Beautiful,\nwhich introduced a general hard-featuredness of figure into all German\nand Flemish early art, even when Germany and Flanders were in their\nbrightest national health and power. And as he followed out in detail\nthe comparison of all the purest ideals north and south of the Alps, and\nperceived the perpetual contrast existing between the angular and bony\nsanctities of the one latitude, and the drooping graces and pensive\npieties of the other, he would no longer attribute to the ruggedness, or\nmiasma, of the mountains the origin of a feeling which showed itself so\nstrongly in the comfortable streets of Antwerp and Nuremberg, and in the\nunweakened and active intellects of Van Eyck and Albert Durer.\n\n\n Conditions which produce the Mountain gloom.\n\nSec. 23. As I think over these various difficulties, the following\nconclusions seem to me deducible from the data I at present possess. I\nam in no wise confident of their accuracy, but they may assist the\nreader in pursuing the inquiry farther.\n\n\n General power of intellect.\n\nI. It seems to me, first, that a fair degree of intellect and\nimagination is necessary before this kind of disease is possible. It\ndoes not seize on merely stupid peasantries, but on those which belong\nto intellectual races, and in whom the faculties of imagination and the\nsensibilities of heart were originally strong and tender. In flat land,\nwith fresh air, the peasantry may be almost mindless, but not infected\nwith this gloom.\n\n\n Romanism.\n\nII. In the second place, I think it is closely connected with the\nRomanist religion, and that for several causes.\n\nA. The habitual use of bad art (ill-made dolls and bad pictures), in the\nservices of religion, naturally blunts the delicacy of the senses, by\nrequiring reverence to be paid to ugliness, and familiarizing the eye to\nit in moments of strong and pure feeling; I do not think we can overrate\nthe probable evil results of this enforced discordance between the sight\nand imagination.\n\nB. The habitually dwelling on the penances, tortures, and martyrdoms of\nthe Saints, as subjects of admiration and sympathy, together with much\nmeditation on Purgatorial suffering; rendered almost impossible to\nProtestants by the greater fearfulness of such reflections, when the\npunishment is supposed eternal.\n\nC. Idleness, and neglect of the proper duties of daily life, during the\nlarge number of holidays in the year, together with want of proper\ncleanliness, induced by the idea that comfort and happy purity are less\npleasing to God than discomfort and self-degradation. This insolence\ninduces much despondency, a larger measure of real misery than is\nnecessary under the given circumstances of life, and many forms of crime\nand disease besides.\n\nD. Superstitious indignation. I do not know if it is as a result of the\ncombination of these several causes, or if under a separate head, that I\nshould class a certain strange awe which seems to attach itself to\nRomanism like its shadow, differing from the coarser gloom which we have\nbeen examining, in that it can attach itself to minds of the highest\npurity and keenness, and, indeed, does so to these more than to inferior\nones. It is an undefinable pensiveness, leading to great severity of\nprecept, mercilessness in punishment, and dark or discouraging thoughts\nof God and man.[103]\n\nIt is connected partly with a greater belief in the daily presence and\npower of evil spirits than is common in Protestants (except the more\nenthusiastic, and _also gloomy_, sects of Puritans), connected also with\na sternness of belief in the condemnatory power and duty of the Church,\nleading to persecution, and to less tempered indignation at oppositions\nof opinion than characterizes the Protestant mind ordinarily, which,\nthough waspish and bitter enough, is not liable to the peculiar\nheart-burning caused in a Papist by any insult to his Church, or by the\naspect of what he believes to be heresy.\n\nSec. 24. For all these reasons, I think Romanism is very definitely\nconnected with the gloom we are examining, so as without fail to produce\nsome measure of it in all persons who sincerely hold that faith; and if\nsuch effect is ever not to be traced, it is because the Romanism is\nchecked by infidelity. The atheism or dissipation of a large portion of\nthe population in crowded capitals prevents this gloom from being felt\nin full force; but it resumes its power, in mountain solitudes, over the\nminds of the comparatively ignorant and more suffering peasantry; so\nthat it is not an evil inherent in the hills themselves, but one result\nof the continuance in them of that old religious voice of warning,\nwhich, encouraging sacred feeling in general, encourages also whatever\nevil may essentially belong to the form of doctrine preached among them.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 115.]\n\n\n Disease of body.\n\nSec. 25. III. It is assuredly connected also with a diseased state of\nhealth. Cheerfulness is just as natural to the heart of a man in strong\nhealth as color to his cheek; and wherever there is habitual gloom,\nthere must be either bad air, unwholesome food, improperly severe labor,\nor erring habits of life. Among mountains, all these various causes are\nfrequently found in combination. The air is either too bleak, or it is\nimpure; generally the peasants are exposed to alternations of both.\nGreat hardship is sustained in various ways, severe labor undergone\nduring summer, and a sedentary and confined life led during winter.\nWhere the gloom exists in less elevated districts, as in Germany, I do\nnot doubt, though I have not historical knowledge enough to prove this,\nthat it is partly connected with habits of sedentary life, protracted\nstudy, and general derangement of the bodily system in consequence; when\nit exists in the gross form exhibited in the manuscript above examined,\nI have no doubt it has been fostered by habits of general vice, cruelty,\nand dissipation.\n\n[Illustration: FIG. 116.]\n\n\n Rudeness of life.\n\nSec. 26. IV. Considered as a natural insensibility to beauty, it is, I\nimagine, indicative of a certain want of cultivation in the race among\nwhom it is found, perhaps without corporal or mental weakness, but\nproduced by rudeness of life, absence of examples of beautiful art,\ndefects in the mould of the national features, and such other\nadversities, generally belonging to northern nations as opposed to\nsouthern. Here, however, again my historical knowledge is at fault, and\nI must leave the reader to follow out the question for himself, if it\ninterests him. A single example maybe useful to those who have not time\nfor investigation, in order to show the kind of difference I mean.\n\nFig. 115 is a St. Peter, from a German fifteenth-century MS., of good\naverage execution; and Fig. 116 a Madonna, either of the best English,\nor second-rate French, work, from a service-book executed in 1290. The\nreader will, I doubt not, perceive at once the general grace and\ntenderness of sentiment in the lines of the drapery of the last, and\nthe comparatively delicate type of features. The hardnesses of line,\ngesture, and feature in the German example, though two centuries at\nleast later, are, I think, equally notable. They are accompanied in the\nrest of the MS. by an excessive coarseness in choice of ornamental\nsubject: beneath a female figure typical of the Church, for instance,\nthere is painted a carcass, just butchered, and hung up with skewers\nthrough the legs.\n\nSec. 27. V. In many high mountain districts, not only are the inhabitants\nlikely to be hurt by hardship of life, and retarded by roughness of\nmanners, but their eyes are familiarized with certain conditions of\nugliness and disorder, produced by the violence of the elements around\nthem. Once accustomed to look upon these conditions as inevitable in\nnature, they may easily transfer the idea of inevitableness and fitness\nto the same appearances in their own houses. I said that mountains seem\nto have been created to show us the perfection of beauty; but we saw in\nthe tenth chapter that they also show sometimes the extreme of ugliness:\nand to the inhabitants of districts of this kind it is almost necessary\nto their daily comfort that they should view without dislike aspects of\ndesolation which would to others be frightful. And can we blame them,\nif, when the rivers are continually loading their fields with heaps of\nblack slime, and rolling, in time of flood, over the thickets on their\nislets, leaving, when the flood is past, every leaf and bough dim with\ngranite-dust,--never more to be green through all the parching of\nsummer; when the landslip leaves a ghastly scar among the grassy mounds\nof the hill side;--the rocks above are torn by their glaciers into rifts\nand wounds that are never healed; and the ice itself blackened league\nafter league with loose ruin cast upon it as if out of some long and\nfoul excavation;--can we blame, I say, the peasant, if, beholding these\nthings daily as necessary appointments in the strong nature around him,\nhe is careless that the same disorders should appear in his household or\nhis farm; nor feels discomforted, though his walls should be full of\nfissures like the rocks, his furniture covered with dust like the trees,\nand his garden like the glacier in unsightliness of trench and\ndesolation of mound?\n\nSec. 28. Under these five heads are embraced, as far as I am able to trace\nthem, the causes of the temper which we are examining; and it will be\nseen that only the last is quite peculiar to mountain and marsh\ndistricts, although there is a somewhat greater probability that the\nothers also may be developed among hills more than in plains. When, by\nuntoward accident, all are associated, and the conditions described\nunder the fifth head are very distinct, the result is even sublime in\nits painfulness. Of places subjected to such evil influence, none are\nquite so characteristic as the town of Sion in the Valais. In the first\nplace (see Sec. 23), the material on which it works is good; the race of\npeasantry being there both handsome and intelligent, as far as they\nescape the adverse influences around them; so that on a fete-day or a\nSunday, when the families come down from the hill chalets, where the air\nis healthier, many very pretty faces may be seen among the younger\nwomen, set off by somewhat more pains in adjustment of the singular\nValaisan costume than is now usual in other cantons of Switzerland.\n\nSec. 29. Secondly, it is a bishopric, and quite the centre of Romanism in\nSwitzerland, all the most definite Romanist doctrines being evidently\nbelieved sincerely, and by a majority of the population; Protestantism\nhaving no hold upon them at all; and republican infidelity, though\nactive in the councils of the commune, having as yet, so far as I could\nsee, little influence in the hearts of households. The prominence of the\nValais among Roman Catholic states has always been considerable. The\nCardinal of Sion was, of old, one of the personages most troublesome to\nthe Venetian ambassadors at the English Court.[104]\n\nSec. 30. Thirdly, it is in the midst of a marshy valley, pregnant with\nvarious disease; the water either stagnant, or disgorged in wild\ntorrents charged with earth; the air, in the morning, stagnant also,\nhot, close, and infected; in the afternoon, rushing up from the outlet\nat Martigny in fitful and fierce whirlwind; one side of the valley in\nalmost continual shade, the other (it running east and west) scorched by\nthe southern sun, and sending streams of heat into the air all night\nlong from its torrid limestones; while less traceable plagues than any\nof these bring on the inhabitants, at a certain time of life, violent\naffections of goitre, and often, in infancy, cretinism. Agriculture is\nattended with the greatest difficulties and despondencies; the land\nwhich the labor of a life has just rendered fruitful is often buried in\nan hour; and the carriage of materials, as well as the traversing of\nland on the steep hill sides, attended with extraordinary fatigue.\n\nSec. 31. Owing to these various influences, Sion, the capital of the\ndistrict, presents one of the most remarkable scenes for the study of\nthe particular condition of human feeling at present under consideration\nthat I know among mountains. It consists of little more than one main\nstreet, winding round the roots of two ridges of crag, and branching, on\nthe sides towards the rocks, into a few narrow lanes, on the other, into\nspaces of waste ground, of which part serve for military exercises, part\nare enclosed in an uncertain and vague way; a ditch half-filled up, or\nwall half-broken down, seeming to indicate their belonging, or having\nbeen intended to belong, to some of the unfinished houses which are\nspringing up amidst their weeds. But it is difficult to say, in any part\nof the town, what is garden-ground or what is waste; still more, what is\nnew building and what old. The houses have been for the most part built\nroughly of the coarse limestone of the neighboring hills, then coated\nwith plaster, and painted, in imitation of Palladian palaces, with grey\narchitraves and pilasters, having draperies from capital to capital.\nWith this false decoration is curiously contrasted a great deal of\ngraceful, honest, and original ironwork, in bulging balconies, and\nfloreted gratings of huge windows, and branching sprays, for any and\nevery purpose of support or guard. The plaster, with its fresco, has in\nmost instances dropped away, leaving the houses peeled and scarred;\ndaubed into uncertain restoration with new mortar, and in the best cases\nthus left; but commonly fallen also, more or less, into ruin, and either\nroofed over at the first story when the second has fallen, or hopelessly\nabandoned;--not pulled down, but left in white and ghastly shells to\ncrumble into heaps of limestone and dust, a pauper or two still\ninhabiting where inhabitation is possible. The lanes wind among these\nruins; the blue sky and mountain grass are seen through the windows of\ntheir rooms and over their partitions, on which old gaudy papers flaunt\nin rags: the weeds gather, and the dogs scratch about their\nfoundations; yet there are no luxuriant weeds, for their ragged leaves\nare blanched with lime, crushed under perpetually falling fragments, and\nworn away by listless standing of idle feet. There is always mason's\nwork doing, always some fresh patching and whitening; a dull smell of\nmortar, mixed with that of stale foulness of every kind, rises with the\ndust, and defiles every current of air; the corners are filled with\naccumulations of stones, partly broken, with crusts of cement sticking\nto them, and blotches of nitre oozing out of their pores. The lichenous\nrocks and sunburnt slopes of grass stretch themselves hither and thither\namong the wreck, curiously traversed by stairs and walls and half-cut\npaths, that disappear below starkly black arches, and cannot be\nfollowed, or rise in windings round the angles, and in unfenced slopes\nalong the fronts, of the two masses of rock which bear, one the dark\ncastle, the other the old church and convent of Sion; beneath, in a\nrudely inclosed square at the outskirts of the town, a still more\nancient Lombardic church raises its grey tower, a kind of esplanade\nextending between it and the Episcopal palace, and laid out as a plot of\ngrass, intersected by gravel walks; but the grass, in strange sympathy\nwith the inhabitants, will not grow _as_ grass, but chokes itself with a\nnetwork of grey weeds, quite wonderful in its various expression of\nthorny discontent and savageness; the blue flower of the borage, which\nmingles with it in quantities, hardly interrupting its character, for\nthe violent black spots in the centre of its blue takes away the\ntenderness of the flower, and it seems to have grown there in some\nsupernatural mockery of its old renown of being good against melancholy.\nThe rest of the herbage is chiefly composed of the dwarf mallow, the\nwild succory, the wall-rocket, goose-foot, and milfoil;[105] plants,\nnearly all of them, jagged in the leaf, broken and dimly clustered in\nflower, haunters of waste ground and places of outcast refuse.\n\nBeyond this plot of ground the Episcopal palace, a half-deserted,\nbarrack-like building, overlooks a _neglected vineyard_, of which the\nclusters, black on the under side, snow-white on the other with\nlime-dust, gather around them a melancholy hum of flies. Through the\narches of its trelliswork the avenue of the great valley is seen in\ndescending distance, enlarged with line beyond line of tufted foliage,\nlanguid and rich, degenerating at last into leagues of grey Maremma,\nwild with the thorn and the willow; on each side of it, sustaining\nthemselves in mighty slopes and unbroken reaches of colossal promontory,\nthe great mountains secede into supremacy through rosy depths of burning\nair, and the crescents of snow gleam over their dim summits as--if there\ncould be Mourning, as once there was War, in Heaven--a line of waning\nmoons might be set for lamps along the sides of some sepulchral chamber\nin the Infinite.\n\nSec. 32. I know not how far this universal grasp of the sorrowful spirit\nmight be relaxed if sincere energy were directed to amend the ways of\nlife of the Valaisan. But it has always appeared to me that there was,\neven in more healthy mountain districts, a certain degree of inevitable\nmelancholy; nor could I ever escape from the feeling that here, where\nchiefly the beauty of God's working was manifested to men, warning was\nalso given, and that to the full, of the enduring of His indignation\nagainst sin.\n\nIt seems one of the most cunning and frequent of self-deceptions to turn\nthe heart away from this warning and refuse to acknowledge anything in\nthe fair scenes of the natural creation but beneficence. Men in general\nlean towards the light, so far as they contemplate such things at all,\nmost of them passing \"by on the other side,\" either in mere plodding\npursuit of their own work, irrespective of what good or evil is around\nthem, or else in selfish gloom, or selfish delight, resulting from their\nown circumstances at the moment. Of those who give themselves to any\ntrue contemplation, the plurality, being humble, gentle, and kindly\nhearted, look only in nature for what is lovely and kind; partly, also,\nGod gives the disposition to every healthy human mind in some degree to\npass over or even harden itself against evil things, else the suffering\nwould be too great to be borne; and humble people, with a quiet trust\nthat everything is for the best, do not fairly represent the facts to\nthemselves, thinking them none of their business. So, what between\nhard-hearted people, thoughtless people, busy people, humble people, and\ncheerfully minded people,--giddiness of youth, and preoccupations of\nage,--philosophies of faith, and cruelties of folly,--priest and Levite,\nmasquer and merchantman, all agreeing to keep their own side of the\nway,--the evil that God sends to warn us gets to be forgotten, and the\nevil that He sends to be mended by us gets left unmended. And then,\nbecause people shut their eyes to the dark indisputableness of the facts\nin front of them, their Faith, such as it is, is shaken or uprooted by\nevery darkness in what is revealed to them. In the present day it is not\neasy to find a well-meaning man among our more earnest thinkers, who\nwill not take upon himself to dispute the whole system of redemption,\nbecause he cannot unravel the mystery of the punishment of sin. But can\nhe unravel the mystery of the punishment of NO sin? Can he entirely\naccount for all that happens to a cab-horse? Has he ever looked fairly\nat the fate of one of those beasts as it is dying,--measured the work it\nhas done, and the reward it has got,--put his hand upon the bloody\nwounds through which its bones are piercing, and so looked up to Heaven\nwith an entire understanding of Heaven's ways about the horse? Yet the\nhorse is a fact--no dream--no revelation among the myrtle trees by\nnight; and the dust it dies upon, and the dogs that eat it, are\nfacts;--and yonder happy person, whose the horse was till its knees were\nbroken over the hurdles, who had an immortal soul to begin with, and\nwealth and peace to help forward his immortality; who has also devoted\nthe powers of his soul, and body, and wealth, and peace, to the spoiling\nof houses, the corruption of the innocent, and the oppression of the\npoor; and has, at this actual moment of his prosperous life, as many\ncurses waiting round about him in calm shadow, with their death's eyes\nfixed upon him, biding their time, as ever the poor cab-horse had\nlaunched at him in meaningless blasphemies, when his failing feet\nstumbled at the stones,--this happy person shall have no stripes,--shall\nhave only the horse's fate of annihilation; or, if other things are\nindeed reserved for him, Heaven's kindness or omnipotence is to be\ndoubted therefore.\n\nSec. 33. We cannot reason of these things. But this I know--and this may by\nall men be known--that no good or lovely thing exists in this world\nwithout its correspondent darkness; and that the universe presents\nitself continually to mankind under the stern aspect of warning, or of\nchoice, the good and the evil set on the right hand and the left.\n\nAnd in this mountain gloom, which weighs so strongly upon the human\nheart that in all time hitherto, as we have seen, the hill defiles have\nbeen either avoided in terror or inhabited in penance, there is but the\nfulfilment of the universal law, that where the beauty and wisdom of the\nDivine working are most manifested, there also are manifested most\nclearly the terror of God's wrath, and inevitableness of His power.\n\nNor is this gloom less wonderful so far as it bears witness to the error\nof human choice, even when the nature of good and evil is most\ndefinitely set before it. The trees of Paradise were fair; but our first\nparents hid themselves from God \"in medio ligni Paradisi,\" in the midst\nof the trees of the garden. The hills were ordained for the help of man;\nbut, instead of raising his eyes to the hills, from whence cometh his\nhelp, he does his idol sacrifice \"upon every high hill and under every\ngreen tree.\" The mountain of the Lord's house is established above the\nhills; but Nadab and Abihu shall see under His feet the body of heaven\nin his clearness, yet go down to kindle the censer against their own\nsouls. And so to the end of time it will be; to the end, that cry will\nstill be heard along the Alpine winds, \"Hear, oh ye mountains, the\nLord's controversy!\" Still, their gulfs of thawless ice, and unretarded\nroar of tormented waves, and deathful falls of fruitless waste, and\nunredeemed decay, must be the image of the souls of those who have\nchosen the darkness, and whose cry shall be to the mountains to fall on\nthem, and to the hills to cover them; and still, to the end of time, the\nclear waters of the unfailing springs, and the white pasture-lilies in\ntheir clothed multitude, and the abiding of the burning peaks in their\nnearness to the opened heaven, shall be the types, and the blessings, of\nthose who have chosen light, and of whom it is written, \"The mountains\nshall bring peace to the people, and the little hills, righteousness.\"\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [101] As I was correcting this sheet for press, the morning paper\n containing the account of the burning of Covent Garden theatre\n furnished the following financial statements, bearing somewhat on\n the matter in hand; namely,\n\n L\n That the interior fittings of the theatre, in 1846, cost 40,000\n\n That it was opened on the 6th of April, 1847; and }\n that in 1848 the loss upon it was } 34,756\n in 1849 \" \" 25,455\n ------\n 100,211\n ------\n L\n And that in one year the vocal department cost 33,349\n the ballet \" \" 8,105\n the orchestra \" \" 10,048\n ------\n 51,502\n ------\n\n Mr. Albano afterwards corrected this statement, substituting 27,000\n for 40,000: and perhaps the other sums may also have been\n exaggerated, but I leave the reader to consider what an annual\n expenditure of from 30,000_l._ to 50,000_l._ might effect in\n practical idealism in general, whether in Swiss valleys or\n elsewhere. I am not one of those who regard all theatrical\n entertainment as wrong or harmful. I only regret to see our theatres\n so conducted as to involve an expense which is worse than useless,\n in leading our audiences to look for mere stage effect, instead of\n good acting, good singing, or good sense. If we really loved music,\n or the drama, we should be content to hear well-managed voices, and\n see finished acting, without paying five or six thousand pounds to\n dress the songsters or decorate the stage. Simple but well-chosen\n dresses, and quiet landscape exquisitely painted, would have far\n more effect on the feelings of any sensible audience than the tinsel\n and extravagance of our common scenery; and our actors and actresses\n must have little respect for their own powers, if they think that\n dignity of gesture is dependent on the flash of jewellery, or the\n pathos of accents connected with the costliness of silk. Perfect\n execution of music by a limited orchestra is far more delightful,\n and far less fatiguing, than the irregular roar and hum of\n multitudinous mediocrity; and finished instrumentation by an\n adequate number of performers, exquisite acting, and sweetest\n singing, might be secured for the public at a fourth part of the\n cost now spent on operatic absurdities. There is no occasion\n whatever for decoration of the house: it is, on the contrary, the\n extreme of vulgarity. No person of good taste ever goes to a theatre\n to look at the fronts of the boxes. Comfortable and roomy seats,\n perfect cleanliness, decent and fitting curtains and other\n furniture, of good stuff, but neither costly nor tawdry, and\n convenient, but not dazzling, light, are the proper requirements in\n the furnishing of an opera-house. As for the persons who go there to\n look at each other--to show their dresses--to yawn away waste\n hours--to obtain a maximum of momentary excitement--or to say they\n were there, at next day's three-o'clock breakfast (and it is only\n for such persons that glare, cost, and noise are necessary), I\n commend to their consideration, or at least to such consideration as\n is possible to their capacities, the suggestions in the text. But to\n the true lovers of the drama I would submit, as another subject of\n inquiry, whether they ought not to separate themselves from the mob,\n and provide, for their own modest, quiet, and guiltless\n entertainment, the truth of heartfelt impersonation, and the melody\n of the unforced and delicate voice, without extravagance of adjunct,\n unhealthy lateness of hours, or appeal to degraded passions. Such\n entertainment might be obtained at infinitely smaller cost, and yet\n at a price which would secure honorable and permanent remuneration\n to every performer; and I am mistaken in my notion of the best\n actors, if they would not rather play at a house where people went\n to hear and to feel, than weary themselves, even for four times the\n pay, before an audience insulting in its listlessness and ignorant\n in its applause.\n\n [102] There are, unusually, two paintings of this subject, the first\n representing the preparations for the scourging, the second its\n close.\n\n [103] This character has, I think, been traced in the various\n writings of Mrs. Sherwood better than in any others; she has a\n peculiar art of making it felt and of striking the deep tone of it\n as from a passing-bell, contrasting it with the most cheerful,\n lovely, and sincere conditions of Protestantism.\n\n [104] See \"Four Years at the Court of Henry VIII.\" (Dispatches of\n the Venetian ambassador Giustinian, translated by Mr. Rawdon Brown,)\n 1854.\n\n [105] Malva rotundifolia, Cichorium Intybus, Sisymbrium tenuifolium,\n Chenopodium urbicum, Achillea Millefolium.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nTHE MOUNTAIN GLORY.\n\n\nSec. 1. I have dwelt, in the foregoing chapter, on the sadness of the hills\nwith the greater insistance that I feared my own excessive love for them\nmight lead me into too favorable interpretation of their influences over\nthe human heart; or, at least, that the reader might accuse me of fond\nprejudice, in the conclusions to which, finally, I desire to lead him\nconcerning them. For, to myself, mountains are the beginning and the end\nof all natural scenery; in them, and in the forms of inferior landscape\nthat lead to them, my affections are wholly bound up; and though I can\nlook with happy admiration at the lowland flowers, and woods, and open\nskies, the happiness is tranquil and cold, like that of examining\ndetached flowers in a conservatory, or reading a pleasant book; and if\nthe scenery be resolutely level, insisting upon the declaration of its\nown flatness in all the detail of it, as in Holland, or Lincolnshire, or\nCentral Lombardy, it appears to me like a prison, and I cannot long\nendure it. But the slightest rise and fall in the road,--a mossy bank at\nthe side of a crag of chalk, with brambles at its brow, overhanging\nit,--a ripple over three or four stones in the stream by the\nbridge,--above all, a wild bit of ferny ground under a fir or two,\nlooking as if, possibly, one might see a hill if one got to the other\nside of the trees, will instantly give me intense delight, because the\nshadow, or the hope, of the hills is in them.\n\nSec. 2. And thus, although there are few districts of Northern Europe,\nhowever apparently dull or tame, in which I cannot find pleasure, though\nthe whole of Northern France (except Champagne), dull as it seems to\nmost travellers, is to me a perpetual Paradise; and, putting\nLincolnshire, Leicestershire, and one or two such other perfectly flat\ndistricts aside, there is not an English county which I should not find\nentertainment in exploring the cross-roads of, foot by foot; yet all my\nbest enjoyment would be owing to the imagination of the hills, coloring,\nwith their far-away memories, every lowland stone and herb. The pleasant\nFrench coteau, green in the sunshine, delights me, either by what real\nmountain character it has in itself (for in extent and succession of\npromontory the flanks of the French valleys have quite the sublimity of\ntrue mountain distances), or by its broken ground and rugged steps among\nthe vines, and rise of the leafage above, against the blue sky, as it\nmight rise at Vevay or Como. There is not a wave of the Seine but is\nassociated in my mind with the first rise of the sandstones and forest\npines of Fontainebleau; and with the hope of the Alps, as one leaves\nParis with the horses' heads to the south-west, the morning sun,\nflashing on the bright waves at Charenton. If there be _no_ hope or\nassociation of this kind, and if I cannot deceive myself into fancying\nthat perhaps at the next rise of the road there may be seen the film of\na blue hill in the gleam of sky at the horizon, the landscape, however\nbeautiful, produces in me even a kind of sickness and pain; and the\nwhole view from Richmond Hill or Windsor Terrace,--nay, the gardens of\nAlcinous, with their perpetual summer,--or of the Hesperides (if they\nwere flat, and not close to Atlas), golden apples and all--I would give\naway in an instant, for one mossy granite stone a foot broad, and two\nleaves of lady-fern.[106]\n\nSec. 3. I know that this is in great part idiosyncrasy; and that I must not\ntrust to my own feelings, in this respect, as representative of the\nmodern landscape instinct; yet I know it is not idiosyncrasy, in so far\nas there may be proved to be indeed an increase of the absolute beauty\nof all scenery in exact proportion to its mountainous character,\nproviding that character be _healthily_ mountainous. I do not mean to\ntake the Col de Bon Homme as representative of hills, any more than I\nwould take Romney Marsh as representative of plains; but putting\nLeicestershire or Staffordshire fairly beside Westmoreland, and Lombardy\nor Champagne fairly beside the Pays de Vaud or the Canton Berne, I find\nthe increase in the calculable sum of elements of beauty to be steadily\nin proportion to the increase of mountainous character; and that the\nbest image which the world can give of Paradise is in the slope of the\nmeadows, orchards, and corn-fields on the sides of a great Alp, with its\npurple rocks and eternal snows above; this excellence not being in any\nwise a matter referable to feeling, or individual preferences, but\ndemonstrable by calm enumeration of the number of lovely colors on the\nrocks, the varied grouping of the trees, and quantity of noble incidents\nin stream, crag, or cloud, presented to the eye at any given moment.\n\nSec. 4. For consider, first, the difference produced in the whole tone of\nlandscape color by the introductions of purple, violet, and deep\nultramarine blue, which we owe to mountains. In an ordinary lowland\nlandscape we have the blue of the sky; the green of grass, which I will\nsuppose (and this is an unnecessary concession to the lowlands) entirely\nfresh and bright; the green of trees; and certain elements of purple,\nfar more rich and beautiful than we generally should think, in their\nbark and shadows (bare hedges and thickets, or tops of trees, in subdued\nafternoon sunshine, are nearly perfect purple, and of an exquisite\ntone), as well as in ploughed fields, and dark ground in general. But\namong mountains, in _addition_ to all this, large unbroken spaces of\npure violet and purple are introduced in their distances; and even near,\nby films of cloud passing over the darkness of ravines or forests, blues\nare produced of the most subtle tenderness; these azures and\npurples[107] passing into rose-color of otherwise wholly unattainable\ndelicacy among the upper summits, the blue of the sky being at the same\ntime purer and deeper than in the plains. Nay, in some sense, a person\nwho has never seen the rose-color of the rays of dawn crossing a blue\nmountain twelve or fifteen miles away, can hardly be said to know what\n_tenderness_ in color means at all; _bright_ tenderness he may, indeed,\nsee in the sky or in a flower, but this grave tenderness of the far-away\nhill-purples he cannot conceive.\n\nSec. 5. Together with this great source of preeminence in _mass_ of color,\nwe have to estimate the influence of the finished inlaying and\nenamel-work of the color-jewellery on every stone; and that of the\ncontinual variety in species of flower; most of the mountain flowers\nbeing, besides, separately lovelier than the lowland ones. The wood\nhyacinth and wild rose are, indeed, the only _supreme_ flowers that the\nlowlands can generally show; and the wild rose is also a mountaineer,\nand more fragrant in the hills, while the wood hyacinth, or grape\nhyacinth, at its best cannot match even the dark bell-gentian, leaving\nthe light-blue star-gentian in its uncontested queenliness, and the\nAlpine rose and Highland heather wholly without similitude. The violet,\nlily of the valley, crocus, and wood anemone are, I suppose, claimable\npartly by the plains as well as the hills; but the large orange lily and\nnarcissus I have never seen but on hill pastures, and the exquisite\noxalis is preeminently a mountaineer.[108]\n\nSec. 6. To this supremacy in mosses and flowers we have next to add an\ninestimable gain in the continual presence and power of water. Neither\nin its clearness, its color, its fantasy of motion, its calmness of\nspace, depth, and reflection, or its wrath, can water be conceived by a\nlowlander, out of sight of sea. A sea wave is far grander than any\ntorrent--but of the sea and its influences we are not now speaking; and\nthe sea itself, though it _can_ be clear, is never calm, among our\nshores, in the sense that a mountain lake can be calm. The sea seems\nonly to pause; the mountain lake to sleep, and to dream. Out of sight of\nthe ocean, a lowlander cannot be considered ever to have seen water at\nall. The mantling of the pools in the rock shadows, with the golden\nflakes of light sinking down through them like falling leaves, the\nringing of the thin currents among the shallows, the flash and the cloud\nof the cascade, the earthquake and foam-fire of the cataract, the long\nlines of alternate mirror and mist that lull the imagery of the hills\nreversed in the blue of morning,--all these things belong to those hills\nas their undivided inheritance.\n\nSec. 7. To this supremacy in wave and stream is joined a no less manifest\npreeminence in the character of trees. It is possible among plains, in\nthe species of trees which properly belong to them, the poplars of\nAmiens, for instance, to obtain a serene simplicity of grace, which, as\nI said, is a better help to the study of gracefulness, as such, than any\nof the wilder groupings of the hills; so also, there are certain\nconditions of symmetrical luxuriance developed in the park and avenue,\nrarely rivalled in their way among mountains; and yet the mountain\nsuperiority in foliage is, on the whole, nearly as complete as it is in\nwater; for exactly as there are some expressions in the broad reaches of\na navigable lowland river, such as the Loire or Thames, not, in their\nway, to be matched among the rock rivers, and yet for all that a\nlowlander cannot be said to have truly seen the element of water at all;\nso even in his richest parks and avenues he cannot be said to have truly\nseen trees. For the resources of trees are not developed until they have\ndifficulty to contend with; neither their tenderness of brotherly love\nand harmony, till they are forced to choose their ways of various life\nwhere there is contracted room for them, talking to each other with\ntheir restrained branches. The various action of trees rooting\nthemselves in inhospitable rocks, stooping to look into ravines, hiding\nfrom the search of glacier winds, reaching forth to the rays of rare\nsunshine, crowding down together to drink at sweetest streams, climbing\nhand in hand among the difficult slopes, opening in sudden dances round\nthe mossy knolls, gathering into companies at rest among the fragrant\nfields, gliding in grave procession over the heavenward\nridges,--nothing of this can be conceived among the unvexed and unvaried\nfelicities of the lowland forest: while to all these direct sources of\ngreater beauty are added, first the power of redundance,--the mere\nquantity of foliage visible in the folds and on the promontories of a\nsingle Alp being greater than that of an entire lowland landscape\n(unless a view from some cathedral tower); and to this charm of\nredundance, that of clearer _visibility_,--tree after tree being\nconstantly shown in successive height, one behind another, instead of\nthe mere tops and flanks of masses, as in the plains; and the forms of\nmultitudes of them continually defined against the clear sky, near and\nabove, or against white clouds entangled among their branches, instead\nof being confused in dimness of distance.\n\nSec. 8. Finally, to this supremacy in foliage we have to add the still less\nquestionable supremacy in clouds. There is no effect of sky possible in\nthe lowlands which may not in equal perfection be seen among the hills;\nbut there are effects by tens of thousands, for ever invisible and\ninconceivable to the inhabitant of the plains, manifested among the\nhills in the course of one day. The mere power of familiarity with the\nclouds, of walking with them and above them, alters and renders clear\nour whole conception of the baseless architecture of the sky; and for\nthe beauty of it, there is more in a single wreath of early cloud,\npacing its way up an avenue of pines, or pausing among the points of\ntheir fringes, than in all the white heaps that fill the arched sky of\nthe plains from one horizon to the other. And of the nobler cloud\nmanifestations,--the breaking of their troublous seas against the crags,\ntheir black spray sparkling with lightning; or the going forth of the\nmorning along their pavements of moving marble, level-laid between dome\nand dome of snow;--of these things there can be as little imagination or\nunderstanding in an inhabitant of the plains as of the scenery of\nanother planet than his own.\n\nSec. 9. And, observe, all these superiorities are matters plainly\nmeasurable and calculable, not in any wise to be referred to estimate of\n_sensation_. Of the grandeur or expression of the hills I have not\nspoken; how far they are great, or strong, or terrible, I do not for the\nmoment consider, because vastness, and strength, and terror, are not to\nall minds subjects of desired contemplation. It may make no difference\nto some men whether a natural object be large or small, whether it be\nstrong or feeble. But loveliness of color, perfectness of form,\nendlessness of change, wonderfulness of structure, are precious to all\nundiseased human minds; and the superiority of the mountains in all\nthese things to the lowland is, I repeat, as measurable as the richness\nof a painted window matched with a white one, or the wealth of a museum\ncompared with that of a simply furnished chamber. They seem to have been\nbuilt for the human race, as at once their schools and cathedrals; full\nof treasures of illuminated manuscript for the scholar, kindly in simple\nlessons to the worker, quiet in pale cloisters for the thinker, glorious\nin holiness for the worshipper. And of these great cathedrals of the\nearth, with their gates of rock, pavements of cloud, choirs of stream\nand stone, altars of snow, and vaults of purple traversed by the\ncontinual stars,--of these, as we have seen, it was written, nor long\nago, by one of the best of the poor human race for whom they were built,\nwondering in himself for whom their Creator _could_ have made them, and\nthinking to have entirely discerned the Divine intent in them--\"They are\ninhabited by the Beasts.\"\n\nSec. 10. Was it then indeed thus with us, and so lately? Had mankind\noffered no worship in their mountain churches? Was all that granite\nsculpture and floral painting done by the angels in vain?\n\nNot so. It will need no prolonged thought to convince us that in the\nhills the purposes of their Maker have indeed been accomplished in such\nmeasure as, through the sin or folly of men, He ever permits them to be\naccomplished. It may not seem, from the general language held concerning\nthem, or from any directly traceable results, that mountains have had\nserious influence on human intellect; but it will not, I think, be\ndifficult to show that their occult influence has been both constant and\nessential to the progress of the race.\n\nSec. 11. Consider, first, whether we can justly refuse to attribute to\ntheir mountain scenery some share in giving the Greeks and Italians\ntheir intellectual lead among the nations of Europe.\n\nThere is not a single spot of land in either of these countries from\nwhich mountains are not discernible; almost always they form the\nprincipal feature of the scenery. The mountain outlines seen from\nSparta, Corinth, Athens, Rome, Florence, Pisa, Verona, are of consummate\nbeauty; and whatever dislike or contempt may be traceable in the mind of\nthe Greeks for mountain ruggedness, their placing the shrine of Apollo\nunder the cliffs of Delphi, and his throne upon Parnassus, was a\ntestimony to all succeeding time that they themselves attributed the\nbest part of their intellectual inspiration to the power of the hills.\nNor would it be difficult to show that every great writer of either of\nthose nations, however little definite regard he might manifest for the\nlandscape of his country, had been mentally formed and disciplined by\nit, so that even such enjoyment as Homer's of the ploughed ground and\npoplar groves owes its intensity and delicacy to the excitement of the\nimagination produced, without his own consciousness, by other and\ngrander features of the scenery to which he had been accustomed from a\nchild; and differs in every respect from the tranquil, vegetative, and\nprosaic affection with which the same ploughed land and poplars would be\nregarded by a native of the Netherlands.\n\nThe vague expression which I have just used--\"intellectual lead,\" may be\nexpanded into four great heads; lead in Religion, Art and Literature,\nWar, and Social Economy.\n\nSec. 12. It will be right to examine our subject eventually under these\nfour heads; but I shall limit myself, for the present, to some\nconsideration of the first two, for a reason presently to be stated.\n\n\n 1st. Influence of mountains on religious temperament.\n\nI. We have before had occasion to note the peculiar awe with which\nmountains were regarded in the middle ages, as bearing continual witness\nagainst the frivolity or luxury of the world. Though the sense of this\ninfluence of theirs is perhaps more clearly expressed by the mediaeval\nChristians than by any other sect of religionists, the influence itself\nhas been constant in all time. Mountains have always possessed the\npower, first, of exciting religious enthusiasm; secondly, of purifying\nreligious faith. These two operations are partly contrary to one\nanother: for the faith of enthusiasm is apt to be _im_pure, and the\nmountains, by exciting morbid conditions of the imagination, have\ncaused in great part the legendary and romantic forms of belief; on the\nother hand, by fostering simplicity of life and dignity of morals, they\nhave purified by action what they falsified by imagination. But, even in\ntheir first and most dangerous influence, it is not the mountains that\nare to blame, but the human heart. While we mourn over the fictitious\nshape given to the religious visions of the anchorite, we may envy the\nsincerity and the depth of the emotion from which they spring: in the\ndeep feeling, we have to acknowledge the solemn influences of the hills;\nbut for the erring modes or forms of thought, it is human wilfulness,\nsin, and false teaching, that are answerable. We are not to deny the\nnobleness of the imagination because its direction is illegitimate, nor\nthe pathos of the legend because its circumstances are groundless; the\nardor and abstraction of the spiritual life are to be honored in\nthemselves, though the one may be misguided and the other deceived; and\nthe deserts of Osma, Assisi, and Monte Viso are still to be thanked for\nthe zeal they gave, or guarded, whether we find it in St. Francis and\nSt. Dominic, or in those whom God's hand hid from them in the clefts of\nthe rocks.\n\nSec. 13. And, in fact, much of the apparently harmful influence of hills on\nthe religion of the world is nothing else than their general gift of\nexciting the poetical and inventive faculties, in peculiarly solemn\ntones of mind. Their terror leads into devotional casts of thought;\ntheir beauty and wildness prompt the invention at the same time; and\nwhere the mind is not gifted with stern reasoning powers, or protected\nby purity of teaching, it is sure to mingle the invention with its\ncreed, and the vision with its prayer. Strictly speaking, we ought to\nconsider the superstitions of the hills, universally, as a form of\npoetry; regretting only that men have not yet learned how to distinguish\npoetry from well-founded faith.\n\nAnd if we do this, and enable ourselves thus to review, without carping\nor sneering, the shapes of solemn imagination which have arisen among\nthe inhabitants of Europe, we shall find, on the one hand, the mountains\nof Greece and Italy forming all the loveliest dreams, first of the\nPagan, then of the Christian mythology; on the other, those of\nScandinavia to be the first sources of whatever mental (as well as\nmilitary) power was brought by the Normans into Southern Europe.\nNormandy itself is to all intents and purposes a hill country; composed,\nover large extents, of granite and basalt, often rugged and covered with\nheather on the summits, and traversed by beautiful and singular dells,\nat once soft and secluded, fruitful and wild. We have thus one branch of\nthe Northern religious imagination rising among the Scandinavian fiords,\ntempered in France by various encounters with elements of Arabian,\nItalian, Provencal, or other Southern poetry, and then reacting upon\nSouthern England; while other forms of the same rude religious\nimagination, resting like clouds upon the mountains of Scotland and\nWales, met and mingled with the Norman Christianity, retaining even to\nthe latest times some dark color of superstition, but giving all its\npoetical and military pathos to Scottish poetry, and a peculiar\nsternness and wildness of tone to the Reformed faith, in its\nmanifestations among the Scottish hills.\n\nSec. 14. It is on less disputable ground that I may claim the reader's\ngratitude to the mountains, as having been the centres not only of\nimaginative energy, but of purity both in doctrine and practice. The\nenthusiasm of the persecuted Covenanter, and his variously modified\nclaims to miraculous protection or prophetic inspiration, hold exactly\nthe same relation to the smooth proprieties of lowland Protestantism,\nthat the demon-combats, fastings, visions, and miracles of the mountain\nmonk or anchorite hold to the wealth and worldliness of the Vatican. It\nmight indeed happen, whether at Canterbury, Rheims, or Rome, that a good\nbishop should occasionally grasp the crozier; and a vast amount of\nprudent, educated, and admirable piety is to be found among the ranks of\nthe lowland clergy. But still the large aspect of the matter is always,\namong Protestants, that formalism, respectability, orthodoxy, caution,\nand propriety, live by the slow stream that encircles the lowland abbey\nor cathedral; and that enthusiasm, poverty, vital faith, and audacity of\nconduct, characterize the pastor dwelling by the torrent side. In like\nmanner, taking the large aspects of Romanism, we see that its worst\ncorruptions, its cunning, its worldliness, and its permission of crime,\nare traceable for the most part to lowland prelacy; but its\nself-denials, its obediences, humilities, sincere claims to miraculous\npower, and faithful discharges of pastoral duty, are traceable chiefly\nto its anchorites and mountain clergy.\n\nSec. 15. It is true that the \"Lady Poverty\" of St. Francis may share the\ninfluence of the hills in the formation of character; and that, since\nthe clergy who have little interest at court or conclave are those who\nin general will be driven to undertake the hill services, we must often\nattribute to enforced simplicity of life, or natural bitterness of\nfeeling, some of the tones of thought which we might otherwise have\nascribed to the influence of mountain scenery. Such causes, however,\naffect the lowland as much as the highland religious character in all\ndistricts far from cities; but they do not produce the same effects. The\ncurate or hermit of the field and fen, however simple his life, or\npainful his lodging, does not often attain the spirit of the hill pastor\nor recluse: we may find in him a decent virtue or a contented ignorance,\nrarely the prophetic vision or the martyr's passion. Among the fair\narable lands of England and Belgium extends an orthodox Protestantism or\nCatholicism; prosperous, creditable, and drowsy; but it is among the\npurple moors of the highland border, the ravines of Mont Genevre, and\nthe crags of the Tyrol, that we shall find the simplest Evangelical\nfaith, and the purest Romanist practice.\n\nSec. 16. Of course the inquiry into this branch of the hill influence is\npartly complicated with that into its operation on domestic habits and\npersonal character, of which hereafter: but there is one curious witness\nborne to the general truth of the foregone conclusions, by an apparently\nslight, yet very significant circumstance in art. We have seen, in the\npreceding volume, how difficult it was sometimes to distinguish between\nhonest painters, who truly chose to paint sacred subjects because they\nloved them, and the affected painters, who took sacred subjects for\ntheir own pride's sake, or for merely artistical delight. Amongst other\nmeans of arriving at a conclusion in this matter, there is one helpful\ntest which may be applied to their various works, almost as easily and\ncertainly as a foot-rule could be used to measure their size; and which\nremains an available test down to the date of the rise of the Claudesque\nlandscape schools. Nearly all the genuine religious painters use _steep\nmountain distances_. All the merely artistical ones, or those of\nintermediate temper, in proportion as they lose the religious element,\nuse flat or simply architectural distances. Of course the law is liable\nto many exceptions, chiefly dependent on the place of birth and early\nassociations of painters; but its force is, I think, strongly shown in\nthis;--that, though the Flemish painters never showed any disposition to\npaint, _for its own sake_, other scenery than of their own land (compare\nVol. III. Chap. XIII. Sec. 20), the sincerely religious ones continually\nused Alpine distances, bright with snow. In like manner Giotto,\nPerugino, Angelico, the young Raphael, and John Bellini, always, if,\nwith any fitness to their subject, they can introduce them, use craggy\nor blue mountain distances, and this with definite expression of love\ntowards them; Leonardo, conventionally, as feeling they were necessary\nfor his sacred subjects, while yet his science and idealism had\ndestroyed his mountain sincerity; Michael Angelo, wholly an artist, and\nRaphael in later years, show no love of mountains whatever, while the\nrelative depths of feeling in Tintoret, Titian, and Veronese, are\nprecisely measurable by their affection to mountains. Tintoret, though\nborn in Venice, yet, because capable of the greatest reaches of feeling,\nis the first of the old painters who ever drew mountain detail\nrightly:[109] Titian, though born in Cadore, and recurring to it\nconstantly, yet being more worldly-minded, uses his hills somewhat more\nconventionally, though, still in his most deeply felt pictures, such as\nthe St. Jerome, in the Brera, giving to the rocks and forests a\nconsummate nobleness; and Veronese, in his gay grasp of the outside\naspects of the world, contentedly includes his philosophy within\nporticos and pillars, or at the best overshadows it with a few sprays of\nlaurel.\n\nSec. 17. The test fails, however, utterly, when applied to the later or\ntransitional landscape schools, mountains being there introduced in mere\nwanton savageness by Salvator, or vague conventionalism by Claude,\nBerghem, and hundreds more. This need not, however, in the least\ninvalidate our general conclusions: we surely know already that it is\npossible to misuse the best gifts, and pervert the purest feelings; nor\nneed we doubt the real purpose, or, on honest hearts, the real effect,\nof mountains, because various institutions have been founded among them\nby the banditti of Calabria, as well as by St. Bruno.\n\nSec. 18. I cannot leave this part of my subject without recording a slight\nincident which happened to myself, singularly illustrative of the\nreligious character of the Alpine peasant when under favorable\ncircumstances of teaching. I was coming down one evening from the\nRochers de Naye, above Montreux, having been at work among the limestone\nrocks, where I could get no water, and both weary and thirsty. Coming to\na spring at a turn of the path, conducted, as usual, by the herdsmen\ninto a hollowed pine-trunk I stooped to it and drank deeply: as I raised\nmy head, drawing breath heavily, some one behind me said, \"Celui qui\nboira de cette eau-ci, aura encore soif.\" I turned, not understanding\nfor the moment what was meant; and saw one of the hill-peasants,\nprobably returning to his chalet from the market-place at Vevay or\nVilleneuve. As I looked at him with an uncomprehending expression, he\nwent on with the verse:--\"Mais celui qui boira de l'eau que je lui\ndonnerai, n'aura jamais soif.\"\n\nI doubt if this would have been thought of, or said, by even the most\nintelligent lowland peasant. The thought might have occurred to him, but\nthe frankness of address, and expectation of being at once understood\nwithout a word of preparative explanation, as if the language of the\nBible were familiar to all men, mark, I think, the mountaineer.\n\n\n 2nd. Influence of mountain on artistical power.\n\nSec. 19. We were next to examine the influence of hills on the artistical\npower of the human race. Which power, so far as it depends on the\nimagination, must evidently be fostered by the same influences which\ngive vitality to religious vision. But, so far as artistical\nproductiveness and skill are concerned, it is evident that the\nmountaineer is at a radical and insurmountable disadvantage. The\nstrength of his character depends upon the absence of luxury; but it is\neminently by luxury that art is supported. We are not, therefore, to\ndeny the mountain influence, because we do not find finished frescoes on\nthe timbers of chalets or delicate bas-reliefs on the bastion which\nprotects the mountain church from the avalanche; but to consider how far\nthe tone of mind shown by the artists laboring in the lowland is\ndependent for its intensity on the distant influences of the hills,\nwhether during the childhood of those born among them, or under the\ncasual contemplation of men advanced in life.\n\nSec. 20. Glancing broadly over the strength of the mediaeval--that is to\nsay, of the peculiar and energetic--art of Europe, so as to discern,\nthrough the clear flowing of its waves over France, Italy, and England,\nthe places in the pool where the fountain-heads are, and where the sand\ndances, I should first point to Normandy and Tuscany. From the cathedral\nof Pisa, and the sculpture of the Pisans, the course is straight to\nGiotto, Angelico, and Raphael,--to Orcagna and Michael Angelo;--the\nVenetian school, in many respects mightier, being, nevertheless,\nsubsequent and derivative. From the cathedrals of Caen and Coutances the\ncourse is straight to the Gothic of Chartres and Notre Dame of Paris,\nand thence forward to all French and English noble art, whether\necclesiastical or domestic. Now the mountain scenery about Pisa is\nprecisely the most beautiful that surrounds any great Italian city,\nowing to the wonderful outlines of the peaks of Carrara. Milan and\nVerona have indeed fine ranges in sight, but rising farther in the\ndistance, and therefore not so directly affecting the popular mind. The\nNorman imagination, as already noticed, is Scandinavian in origin, and\nfostered by the lovely granite scenery of Normandy itself. But there is,\nnevertheless, this great difference between French art and Italian, that\nthe French paused strangely at a certain point, as the Norman hills are\ntruncated at the summits, while the Italian rose steadily to a vertex,\nas the Carrara hills to their crests. Let us observe this a little more\nin detail.\n\nSec. 21. The sculpture of the Pisans was taken up and carried into various\nperfection by the Lucchese, Pistojans, Sienese, and Florentines. All\nthese are inhabitants of truly mountain cities, Florence being as\ncompletely among the hills as Inspruck is, only the hills have softer\noutlines. Those around Pistoja and Lucca are in a high degree majestic.\nGiotto was born and bred among these hills. Angelico lived upon their\nslope. The mountain towns of Perugia and Urbino furnish the only\nimportant branches of correlative art; for Leonardo, however\nindividually great, originated no new school; he only carried the\n_executive_ delicacy of landscape detail so far beyond other painters\nas to necessitate my naming the fifteenth-century manner of landscape\nafter him, though he did not invent it; and although the school of Milan\nis distinguished by several peculiarities, and definitely enough\nseparable from the other schools of Italy, all its peculiarities are\nmannerisms, not inventions.\n\nCorreggio, indeed, created a new school, though he himself is almost its\nonly master. I have given in the preceding volume the mountain outline\nseen from Parma. But the only entirely great group of painters after the\nTuscans are the Venetians, and they are headed by Titian and Tintoret,\non whom we have noticed the influence of hills already; and although we\ncannot trace it in Paul Veronese, I will not quit the mountain claim\nupon him; for I believe all that gay and gladdening strength of his was\nfed by the breezes of the hills of Garda, and brightened by the swift\nglancing of the waves of the Adige.[110]\n\nSec. 22. Observe, however, before going farther, of all the painters we\nhave named, the one who obtains most executive perfection is Leonardo,\nwho on the whole lived at the greatest distance from the hills. The two\nwho have most feeling are Giotto and Angelico, both hill-bred. And\ngenerally, I believe, we shall find that the hill country gives its\ninventive depths of feeling to art, as in the work of Orcagna, Perugino,\nand Angelico, and the plain country executive neatness. The executive\nprecision is joined with feeling in Leonardo, who saw the Alps in the\ndistance; it is totally unaccompanied by feeling in the pure Dutch\nschools, or schools of the dead flats.\n\nSec. 23. I do not know if any writer on art, or on the development of\nnational mind, has given his attention to what seems to me one of the\nmost singular phenomena in the history of Europe,--the pause of the\nEnglish and French in pictorial art after the fourteenth century. From\nthe days of Henry III. to those of Elizabeth, and of Louis IX. to those\nof Louis XIV., the general intellect of the two nations was steadily on\nthe increase. But their art intellect was as steadily retrograde. The\nonly art work that France and England have done nobly is that which is\ncentralized by the Cathedral of Lincoln, and the Sainte Chapelle. We\nhad at that time (_we_--French and English--but the French first) the\nincontestable lead among European nations; no thirteenth-century work in\nItaly is comparable for majesty of conception, or wealth of imaginative\ndetail, to the cathedrals of Chartres, Rheims, Rouen, Amiens, Lincoln,\nPeterborough, Wells, or Lichfield. But every hour of the fourteenth\ncentury saw French and English art in precipitate decline, Italian in\nsteady ascent; and by the time that painting and sculpture had developed\nthemselves in an approximated perfection, in the work of Ghirlandajo and\nMino of Fesole, we had in France and England no workman, in any art,\ndeserving a workman's name; nothing but skilful masons, with more or\nless love of the picturesque, and redundance of undisciplined\nimagination, flaming itself away in wild and rich traceries, and crowded\nbosses of grotesque figure sculpture, and expiring at last in barbarous\nimitation of the perfected skill and erring choice of Renaissance Italy.\nPainting could not decline, for it had not reached any eminence; the\nexquisite arts of illumination and glass design had led to no effective\nresults in other materials; they themselves, incapable of any higher\nperfection than they had reached in the thirteenth century, perished in\nthe vain endeavor to emulate pictorial excellence, bad _drawing_ being\nsubstituted, in books, for lovely _writing_, and opaque precision, in\nglass, for transparent power; nor in any single department of exertion\ndid artists arise of such calibre or class as any of the great Italians;\nand yet all the while, in literature, _we_ were gradually and steadily\nadvancing in power up to the time of Shakespere; the Italians, on the\ncontrary, not advancing after the time of Dante.\n\nSec. 24. Of course I have no space here to pursue a question such as this;\nbut I may state my belief that _one_ of the conditions involved in it\nwas the mountain influence of Italian scenery, inducing a disposition to\nsuch indolent or enthusiastic reverie, as could only express itself in\nthe visions of art; while the comparatively flat scenery and severer\nclimate of England and France, fostering less enthusiasm, and urging to\nmore exertion, brought about a practical and rational temperament,\nprogressive in policy, science, and literature, but wholly retrograde in\nart; that is to say (for great art may be properly so defined), in the\nArt of _Dreaming_.\n\n\n 3rd. Influence of mountains on literary power.\n\nSec. 25. III. In admitting this, we seem to involve the supposition that\nmountain influence is either unfavorable or inessential to literary\npower; but for this also the mountain influence is still necessary, only\nin a subordinate degree. It is true, indeed, that the Avon is no\nmountain torrent, and that the hills round the vale of Stratford are not\nsublime; true, moreover, that the cantons Berne or Uri have never yet,\nso far as I know, produced a great poet; but neither, on the other hand,\nhas Antwerp or Amsterdam. And, I believe, the natural scenery which will\nbe found, on the whole, productive of most literary intellect is that\nmingled of hill and plain, as all available light is of flame and\ndarkness; the flame being the active element, and the darkness the\ntempering one.\n\nSec. 26. In noting such evidence as bears upon this subject, the reader\nmust always remember that the mountains are at an unfair disadvantage,\nin being much _out of the way_ of the masses of men employed in\nintellectual pursuits. The position of a city is dictated by military\nnecessity or commercial convenience; it rises, flourishes, and absorbs\ninto its activity whatever leading intellect is in the surrounding\npopulation. The persons who are able and desirous to give their children\neducation naturally resort to it; the best schools, the best society,\nand the strongest motives assist and excite those born within its walls;\nand youth after youth rises to distinction out of its streets, while\namong the blue mountains, twenty miles away, the goatherds live and die\nin unregarded lowliness. And yet this is no proof that the mountains\nhave little effect upon the mind, or that the streets have a helpful\none. The men who are formed by the schools, and polished by the society\nof the capital, may yet in many ways have their powers shortened by the\nabsence of natural scenery; and the mountaineer, neglected, ignorant,\nand unambitious, may have been taught things by the clouds and streams\nwhich he could not have learned in a college, or a coterie.\n\nSec. 27. And in reasoning about the effect of mountains we are therefore\nunder a difficulty like that which would occur to us if we had to\ndetermine the good or bad effect of light on the human constitution, in\nsome place where all corporal exercise was necessarily in partial\ndarkness, and only idle people lived in the light. The exercise might\ngive an advantage to the occupants of the gloom, but we should neither\nbe justified in therefore denying the preciousness of light in general,\nnor the necessity to the workers of the few rays they possessed; and\nthus I suppose the hills around Stratford, and such glimpses as\nShakespere had of sandstone and pines in Warwickshire, or of chalk\ncliffs in Kent, to have been essential to the development of his genius.\nThis supposition can only be proved false by the rising of a Shakespere\nat Rotterdam or Bergen-op-Zoom, which I think not probable; whereas, on\nthe other hand, it is confirmed by myriads of collateral evidences. The\nmatter could only be _tested_ by placing for half a century the British\nuniversities at Keswick, and Beddgelert, and making Grenoble the capital\nof France; but if, throughout the history of Britain and France, we\ncontrast the general invention and pathetic power, in ballads or\nlegends, of the inhabitants of the Scottish Border with those manifested\nin Suffolk or Essex; and similarly the inventive power of Normandy,\nProvence, and the Bearnois with that of Champagne or Picardy, we shall\nobtain some convincing evidence respecting the operation of hills on the\nmasses of mankind, and be disposed to admit, with less hesitation, that\nthe apparent inconsistencies in the effect of scenery on greater minds\nproceed in each case from specialities of education, accident, and\noriginal temper, which it would be impossible to follow out in detail.\nSometimes only, when the original resemblance in character of intellect\nis very marked in two individuals, and they are submitted to definitely\ncontrary circumstances of education, an approximation to evidence may be\nobtained. Thus Bacon and Pascal appear to be men naturally very similar\nin their temper and powers of mind. One, born in York House, Strand, of\ncourtly parents, educated in court atmosphere, and replying, almost as\nsoon as he could speak, to the queen asking how old he was--\"Two years\nyounger than Your Majesty's happy reign!\"--has the world's meanness and\ncunning engrafted into his intellect, and remains smooth, serene,\nunenthusiastic, and in some degree base, even with all his sincere\ndevotion and universal wisdom; bearing, to the end of life, the likeness\nof a marble palace in the street of a great city, fairly furnished\nwithin, and bright in wall and battlement, yet noisome in places about\nthe foundations. The other, born at Clermont, in Auvergne, under the\nshadow of the Puy de Dome, though taken to Paris at eight years old,\nretains for ever the impress of his birthplace; pursuing natural\nphilosophy with the same zeal as Bacon, he returns to his own mountains\nto put himself under their tutelage, and by their help first discovers\nthe great relations of the earth and the air: struck at last with mortal\ndisease; gloomy, enthusiastic, and superstitious, with a conscience\nburning like lava, and inflexible like iron, the clouds gather about the\nmajesty of him, fold after fold; and, with his spirit buried in ashes,\nand rent by earthquake, yet fruitful of true thought and faithful\naffection, he stands like that mound of desolate scoria that crowns the\nhill ranges of his native land, with its sable summit far in heaven, and\nits foundations green with the ordered garden and the trellised vine.\n\nSec. 28. When, however, our inquiry thus branches into the successive\nanalysis of individual characters, it is time for us to leave it; noting\nonly one or two points respecting Shakespere, whom, I doubt not, the\nreader was surprised to find left out of all our comparisons in the\npreceding volume. He seems to have been sent essentially to take\nuniversal and equal grasp of the _human_ nature; and to have been\nremoved, therefore, from all influences which could in the least warp or\nbias his thoughts. It was necessary that he should lean _no_ way; that\nhe should contemplate, with absolute equality of judgment, the life of\nthe court, cloister, and tavern, and be able to sympathize so completely\nwith all creatures as to deprive himself, together with his personal\nidentity, even of his conscience, as he casts himself into their hearts.\nHe must be able to enter into the soul of Falstaff or Shylock with no\nmore sense of contempt or horror than Falstaff or Shylock themselves\nfeel for or in themselves; otherwise his own conscience and indignation\nwould make him unjust to them; he would turn aside from something, miss\nsome good, or overlook some essential palliation. He must be utterly\nwithout anger, utterly without purpose; for if a man has any serious\npurpose in life, that which runs counter to it, or is foreign to it,\nwill be looked at frowningly or carelessly by him. Shakespere was\nforbidden of Heaven to have any _plans_. To _do_ any good or _get_ any\ngood, in the common sense of good, was not to be within his permitted\nrange of work. Not, for him, the founding of institutions, the\npreaching of doctrines, or the repression of abuses. Neither he, nor the\nsun, did on any morning that they rose together, receive charge from\ntheir Maker concerning such things. They were both of them to shine on\nthe evil and good; both to behold unoffendedly all that was upon the\nearth, to burn unappalled upon the spears of kings, and undisdaining,\nupon the reeds of the river.\n\nSec. 29. Therefore, so far as nature had influence over the early training\nof this man, it was essential to his perfectness that the nature should\nbe quiet. No mountain passions were to be allowed in him. Inflict upon\nhim but one pang of the monastic conscience; cast upon him but one cloud\nof the mountain gloom; and his serenity had been gone for ever--his\nequity--his infinity. You would have made another Dante of him; and all\nthat he would have ever uttered about poor, soiled, and frail humanity\nwould have been the quarrel between Sinon and Adam of Brescia,--speedily\nretired from, as not worthy a man's hearing, nay, not to be heard\nwithout heavy fault. All your Falstaffs, Slenders, Quicklys, Sir Tobys,\nLances, Touchstones, and Quinces would have been lost in that.\nShakespere could be allowed no mountains; nay, not even any supreme\nnatural beauty. He had to be left with his kingcups and\nclover;--pansies--the passing clouds--the Avon's flow--and the\nundulating hills and woods of Warwick; nay, he was not to love even\nthese in any exceeding measure, lest it might make him in the least\noverrate their power upon the strong, full-fledged minds of men. He\nmakes the quarrelling fairies concerned about them; poor lost Ophelia\nfind some comfort in them; fearful, fair, wise-hearted Perdita trust the\nspeaking of her good will and good hostess-ship to them; and one of the\nbrothers of Imogen confide his sorrow to them,--rebuked instantly by his\nbrother for \"wench-like words;[111]\" but any thought of them in his\nmighty men I do not find: it is not usually in the nature of such men;\nand if he had loved the flowers the _least_ better himself, he would\nassuredly have been offended at this, and given a botanical turn of mind\nto Caesar, or Othello.\n\nSec. 30. And it is even among the most curious proofs of the necessity to\nall high imagination that it should paint straight from the life, that\nhe has _not_ given such a turn of mind to some of his great men;--Henry\nthe Fifth, for instance. Doubtless some of my readers, having been\naccustomed to hear it repeated thoughtlessly from mouth to mouth that\nShakespere conceived the spirit of all ages, were as much offended as\nsurprised at my saying that he only painted human nature as he saw it in\nhis own time. They will find, if they look into his work closely, as\nmuch antiquarianism as they do geography, and no more. The commonly\nreceived notions about the things that had been, Shakespere took as he\nfound them, animating them with pure human nature, of any time and all\ntime; but inquiries into the minor detail of temporary feeling, he\ndespised as utterly as he did maps; and wheresoever the temporary\nfeeling was in anywise contrary to that of his own day, he errs frankly,\nand paints from his own time. For instance in this matter of love of\nflowers; we have traced already, far enough for our general purposes,\nthe mediaeval interest in them, whether to be enjoyed in the fields, or\nto be used for types of ornamentation in dress. If Shakespere had cared\nto enter into the spirit even of the early fifteenth century, he would\nassuredly have marked this affection in some of his knights, and\nindicated, even then, in heroic tempers, the peculiar respect for\nloveliness of _dress_ which we find constantly in Dante. But he could\nnot do this; he had not seen it in real life. In his time dress had\nbecome an affectation and absurdity. Only fools, or wise men in their\nweak moments, showed much concern about it; and the facts of human\nnature which appeared to him general in the matter were the soldier's\ndisdain, and the coxcomb's care of it. Hence Shakespere's good soldier\nis almost always in plain or battered armor; even the speech of Vernon\nin Henry the Fourth, which, as far as I remember, is the only one that\nbears fully upon the beauty of armor, leans more upon the spirit and\nhearts of men--\"bated, like eagles having lately bathed;\" and has an\nunder-current of slight contempt running through the following line,\n\"Glittering in golden coats, _like images_;\" while the beauty of the\nyoung Harry is essentially the beauty of fiery and perfect youth,\nanswering as much to the Greek, or Roman, or Elizabethan knight as to\nthe mediaeval one; whereas the definite interest in armor and dress is\nopposed by Shakespere in the French (meaning to depreciate them), to the\nEnglish rude soldierliness:\n\n \"_Con._ Tut, I have the best armor in the world. Would it were day!\n _Orl._ You have an excellent armor, but let my horse have his due.\"\n\nAnd again:\n\n \"My lord constable, the armor that I saw in your tent to-night, are\n those stars, or suns, upon it?\"\n\nwhile Henry, half proud of his poorness of array, speaks of armorial\nsplendor scornfully; the main idea being still of its being a gilded\nshow and vanity--\n\n \"Our gayness and our _gilt_ are all besmirched.\"\n\nThis is essentially Elizabethan. The quarterings on a knight's shield,\nor the inlaying of his armor, would never have been thought of by him as\nmere \"gayness or gilt\" in earlier days.[112] In like manner, throughout\nevery scale of rank or feeling, from that of the French knights down to\nFalstaff's \"I looked he should have sent me two-and-twenty yards of\nsatin, as I am true knight, and he sends me security!\" care for dress is\nalways considered by Shakespere as contemptible; and Mrs. Quickly\ndistinguishes herself from a true fairy by her solicitude to scour the\n_chairs of order_--and \"each fair instalment, coat, and several crest;\"\nand the association in her mind of the flowers in the fairy rings with\nthe\n\n \"Sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery,\n Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee;\"\n\nwhile the true fairies, in field simplicity, are only anxious to \"sweep\nthe dust behind the door;\" and\n\n \"With this field dew consecrate,\n Every several chamber bless\n Through this palace with sweet peace.\"\n\nNote the expression \"Field dew consecrate.\" Shakespere loved courts and\ncamps; but he felt that sacredness and peace were in the dew of the\nFields only.\n\nSec. 31. There is another respect in which he was wholly incapable of\nentering into the spirit of the middle ages. He had no great art of any\nkind around him in his own country, and was, consequently, just as\npowerless to conceive the general influence of former art, as a man of\nthe most inferior calibre. Therefore it was, that I did not care to\nquote his authority respecting the power of imitation, in the second\nchapter of the preceding volume. If it had been needful to add his\ntestimony to that of Dante (given in Sec. 5), I might have quoted\nmultitudes of passages wholly concurring with that, of which the \"fair\nPortia's counterfeit,\" with the following lines, and the implied ideal\nof sculpture in the Winter's Tale, are wholly unanswerable instances.\nBut Shakespere's evidence in matters of art is as narrow as the range of\nElizabethan art in England, and resolves itself wholly into admiration\nof two things,--mockery of life (as in this instance of Hermione as a\nstatue), or absolute splendor, as in the close of Romeo and Juliet,\nwhere the notion of _gold_ as the chief source of dignity of aspect,\ncoming down to Shakespere from the times of the Field of the Cloth of\nGold, and, as I said before, strictly Elizabethan, would interfere\nseriously with the pathos of the whole passage, but for the sense of\nsacrifice implied in it:\n\n \"As _rich_ shall Romeo by his lady lie\n Poor sacrifices of our enmity.\"\n\nSec. 32. And observe, I am not giving these examples as proof of any\nsmallness in Shakespere, but of his greatness; that is to say, of his\ncontentment, like every other great man who ever breathed, to paint\nnothing but _what he saw_; and therefore giving perpetual evidence that\nhis sight was of the sixteenth, and not of the thirteenth century,\nbeneath all the broad and eternal humanity of his imagination. How far\nin these modern days, emptied of splendor, it may be necessary for great\nmen having certain sympathies for those earlier ages, to act in this\ndifferently from all their predecessors; and how far they may succeed in\nthe resuscitation of the past by habitually dwelling in all their\nthoughts among vanished generations, are questions, of all practical and\npresent ones concerning art, the most difficult to decide; for already\nin poetry several of our truest men have set themselves to this task,\nand have indeed put more vitality into the shadows of the dead than most\nothers can give the presences of the living. Thus Longfellow, in the\nGolden Legend, has entered more closely into the temper of the Monk, for\ngood and for evil, than ever yet theological writer or historian, though\nthey may have given their life's labor to the analysis: and, again,\nRobert Browning is unerring in every sentence he writes of the Middle\nAges; always vital, right, and profound; so that in the matter of art,\nwith which we have been specially concerned, there is hardly a principle\nconnected with the mediaeval temper, that he has not struck upon in those\nseemingly careless and too rugged rhymes of his. There is a curious\ninstance, by the way, in a short poem referring to this very subject of\ntomb and image sculpture; and illustrating just one of those phases of\nlocal human character which, though belonging to Shakespere's own age,\nhe never noticed, because it was specially Italian and un-English;\nconnected also closely with the influence of mountains on the heart, and\ntherefore with our immediate inquiries. I mean the kind of admiration\nwith which a southern artist regarded the _stone_ he worked in; and the\npride which populace or priest took in the possession of precious\nmountain substance, worked into the pavements of their cathedrals, and\nthe shafts of their tombs.\n\nSec. 33. Observe, Shakespere, in the midst of architecture and tombs of\nwood, or freestone, or brass, naturally thinks of _gold_ as the best\nenriching and ennobling substance for them;--in the midst also of the\nfever of the Renaissance he writes, as every one else did, in praise of\nprecisely the most vicious master of that school--Giulio Romano; but the\nmodern poet, living much in Italy, and quit of the Renaissance\ninfluence, is able fully to enter into the Italian feeling, and to see\nthe evil of the Renaissance tendency, not because he is greater than\nShakespere, but because he is in another element, and has _seen_ other\nthings. I miss fragments here and there not needed for my purpose in the\npassage quoted, without putting asterisks, for I weaken the poem enough\nby the omissions, without spoiling it also by breaks.\n\n \"_The Bishop orders his tomb in St. Praxed's Church._\n\n \"As here I lie\n In this state chamber, dying by degrees,\n Hours, and long hours, in the dead night, I ask,\n Do I live--am I dead? Peace, peace, seems all;\n St. Praxed's ever was the church for peace.\n And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought\n With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know;\n Old Gandolf[113] cozened me, despite my care.\n Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner south\n He graced his carrion with.\n Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence\n One sees the pulpit o' the epistle side,\n And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats;\n And up into the aery dome where live\n The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk.\n And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,\n And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest,\n With those nine columns round me, two and two,\n The odd one at my feet, where Anselm[114] stands;\n Peach-blossom marble all.\n Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years:\n Man goeth to the grave, and where is he?\n Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black--\n 'Twas ever antique-black[115] I meant! How else\n Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?\n The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,\n Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance\n Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so,\n The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,\n St. Praxed in a glory, and one Pan,\n And Moses with the tables ... but I know\n Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee,\n Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope\n To revel down my villas while I gasp,\n Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine,\n Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!\n Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then!\n There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world--\n And have I not St. Praxed's ear to pray\n Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts.\n That's if ye carve my epitaph aright,\n Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word,\n No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line--\n Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves _his_ need.\"\n\nSec. 34. I know no other piece of modern English, prose or poetry, in which\nthere is so much told, as in these lines, of the Renaissance\nspirit,--its worldliness, inconsistency, pride, hypocrisy, ignorance of\nitself, love of art, of luxury, and of good Latin. It is nearly all that\nI said of the central Renaissance in thirty pages of the \"Stones of\nVenice\" put into as many lines, Browning's being also the antecedent\nwork. The worst of it is that this kind of concentrated writing needs so\nmuch _solution_ before the reader can fairly get the good of it, that\npeople's patience fails them, and they give the thing up as insoluble;\nthough, truly, it ought to be to the current of common thought like\nSaladin's talisman, dipped in clear water, not soluble altogether, but\nmaking the element medicinal.\n\nSec. 35. It is interesting, by the way, with respect to this love of\nstones in the Italian mind, to consider the difference necessitated in\nthe English temper merely by the general domestic use of wood instead of\nmarble. In that old Shakesperian England, men must have rendered a\ngrateful homage to their oak forests, in the sense of all that they owed\nto their goodly timbers in the wainscot and furniture of the rooms they\nloved best, when the blue of the frosty midnight was contrasted, in the\ndark diamonds of the lattice, with the glowing brown of the warm,\nfire-lighted, crimson-tapestried walls. Not less would an Italian look\nwith a grateful regard on the hill summits, to which he owed, in the\nscorching of his summer noonday, escape into the marble corridor or\ncrypt palpitating only with cold and smooth variegation of the unfevered\nmountain veins. In some sort, as, both in our stubbornness and our\ncomfort, we not unfitly describe ourselves typically as Hearts of Oak,\nthe Italians might in their strange and variegated mingling of passion,\nlike purple color, with a cruel sternness, like white rock, truly\ndescribe themselves as Hearts of Stone.\n\nSec. 36. Into this feeling about marble in domestic use, Shakespere, having\nseen it even in northern luxury, could partly enter, and marks it in\nseveral passages of his Italian plays. But if the reader still doubts\nhis limitation to his own experience in all subjects of imagination, let\nhim consider how the removal from mountain influence in his youth, so\nnecessary for the perfection of his lower human sympathy, prevented him\nfrom ever rendering with any force the feelings of the mountain\nanchorite, or indicating in any of his monks the deep spirit of\nmonasticism. Worldly cardinals or nuncios he can fathom to the\nuttermost; but where, in all his thoughts, do we find St. Francis, or\nAbbot Samson? The \"Friar\" of Shakespere's plays is almost the only stage\nconventionalism which he admitted; generally nothing more than a weak\nold man who lives in a cell, and has a rope about his waist.\n\nSec. 37. While, finally, in such slight allusions as he makes to mountain\nscenery itself, it is very curious to observe the accurate limitation of\nhis sympathies to such things as he had known in his youth; and his\nentire preference of human interest, and of courtly and kingly dignities\nto the nobleness of the hills. This is most marked in Cymbeline, where\nthe term \"mountaineer\" is, as with Dante, always one of reproach; and\nthe noble birth of Arviragus and Guiderius is shown by their holding\ntheir mountain cave as\n\n \"A cell of ignorance; travelling abed.\n A prison for a debtor;\"\n\nand themselves, educated among hills, as in all things contemptible:\n\n \"We are beastly; subtle as the fox, for prey;\n Like warlike as the wolf, for what we eat:\n Our valor is to chase what flies; our cage\n We make our choir, as doth the prisoned bird.\"\n\nA few phrases occur here and there which might justify the supposition\nthat he had seen high mountains, but never implying awe or admiration.\nThus Demetrius:\n\n \"These things seem _small_ and _indistinguishable_,\n _Like far-off mountains, turned into clouds_.\"\n\n\"Taurus snow,\" and the \"frosty Caucasus,\" are used merely as types of\npurity or cold; and though the avalanche is once spoken of as an image\nof power, it is with instantly following depreciation:\n\n \"Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow\n Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat\n The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon.\"\n\nSec. 38. There was only one thing belonging to hills that Shakespere seemed\nto feel as noble--the pine tree, and that was because he had seen it in\nWarwickshire, clumps of pine occasionally rising on little sandstone\nmounds, as at the place of execution of Piers Gaveston, above the\nlowland woods. He touches on this tree fondly again and again.\n\n \"As rough,\n Their royal blood enchafed, as the rud'st wind,\n That by his top doth take the mountain pine,\n And make him stoop to the vale.\"\n\n \"The strong-based promontory\n Have I made shake, and by the spurs plucked up\n The pine and cedar.\"\n\nWhere note his observance of the peculiar horizontal roots of the pine,\nspurred as it is by them like the claw of a bird, and partly propped, as\nthe aiguilles by those rock promontories at their bases which I have\nalways called their spurs, this observance of the pine's strength and\nanimal-like grasp being the chief reason for his choosing it, above all\nother trees, for Ariel's prison. Again:\n\n \"You may as well forbid the mountain pines\n To wag their high tops, and to make no noise\n When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven.\"\n\nAnd yet again:\n\n \"But when, from under this terrestrial ball,\n He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines.\"\n\nWe may judge, by the impression which this single feature of hill\nscenery seems to have made on Shakespere's mind, because he had seen it\nin his youth, how his whole temper would have been changed if he had\nlived in a more sublime country, and how essential it was to his power\nof contemplation of mankind that he should be removed from the sterner\ninfluences of nature. For the rest, so far as Shakespere's work has\nimperfections of any kind,--the trivialness of many of his adopted\nplots, for instance, and the comparative rarity with which he admits the\nideal of an enthusiastic virtue arising out of principle; virtue being\nwith him for the most part founded simply on the affections joined with\ninherent purity in his women or on mere manly pride and honor in his\nmen;[116]--in a word, whatever difference, involving inferiority, there\nexists between him and Dante, in his conceptions of the relation between\nthis world and the next, we may partly trace as we did the difference\nbetween Bacon and Pascal, to the less noble character of the scenes\naround him in his youth; and admit that, though it was necessary for his\nspecial work that he should be put, as it were, on a level with his\nrace, on those plains of Stratford, we should see in this a proof,\ninstead of a negation, of the mountain power over human intellect. For\nbreadth and perfectness of condescending sight, the Shakesperian mind\nstands alone; but in _ascending_ sight it is limited. The breadth of\ngrasp is innate; the stoop and slightness of it was given by the\ncircumstances of scene; and the difference between those careless\nmasques of heathen gods, or unbelieved though mightily conceived visions\nof fairy, witch, or risen spirit, and the earnest faith of Dante's\nvision of Paradise, is the true measure of the difference in influence\nbetween the willowy banks of Avon, and the purple hills of Arno.\n\nSec. 39. Our third inquiry, into the influence of mountains on domestic and\nmilitary character, was, we said, to be deferred; for this reason, that\nit is too much involved with the consideration of the influence of\nsimple rural life in unmountainous districts, to be entered upon with\nadvantage until we have examined the general beauty of vegetation,\nwhether lowland or mountainous. I hope to pursue this inquiry,\ntherefore, at the close of the next volume; only desiring, in the\nmeantime, to bring one or two points connected with it under the\nconsideration of our English travellers.\n\nSec. 40. For, it will be remembered, we first entered on this subject in\norder to obtain some data as to the possibility of a Practical Ideal in\nSwiss life, correspondent, in some measure, to the poetical ideal of the\nsame, which so largely entertains the European public. Of which\npossibility, I do not think, after what we have even already seen of the\ntrue effect of mountains on the human mind, there is any reason to\ndoubt, even if that ideal had not been presented to us already in some\nmeasure, in the older life of the Swiss republics. But of its\npossibility, _under present circumstances_, there is, I grieve to say,\nthe deepest reason to doubt; and that the more, because the question is\nnot whether the mountaineer can be raised into a happier life by the\nhelp of the active nations of the plains; but whether he can yet be\nprotected from the infection of the folly and vanity of those nations. I\nurged, in the preceding chapter, some consideration of what might be\naccomplished, if we chose to devote to the help what we now devote to\nthe mockery of the Swiss. But I would that the enlightened population of\nParis and London were content with doing nothing;--that they were\nsatisfied with expenditure upon their idle pleasures, in their idle way;\nand would leave the Swiss to their own mountain gloom of unadvancing\nindependence. I believe that every franc now spent by travellers among\nthe Alps tends more or less to the undermining of whatever special\ngreatness there is in the Swiss character; and the persons I met in\nSwitzerland, whose position and modes of life rendered them best able to\ngive me true information respecting the present state of their country,\namong many causes of national deterioration, spoke with chief fear of\nthe influx of English wealth, gradually connecting all industry with the\nwants and ways of strangers, and inviting all idleness to depend upon\ntheir casual help; thus gradually resolving the ancient consistency and\npastoral simplicity of the mountain life into the two irregular trades\nof innkeeper[117] and mendicant.\n\nSec. 41. I could say much on this subject if I had any hope of doing good\nby saying anything. But I have none. The influx of foreigners into\nSwitzerland must necessarily be greater every year, and the greater it\nis, the larger, in the crowd, will be the majority of persons whose\nobjects in travelling will be, first, to get as fast as possible from\nplace to place, and, secondly, at every place where they arrive, to\nobtain the kind of accommodation and amusement to which they are\naccustomed in Paris, London, Brighton, or Baden. Railroads are already\nprojected round the head of the Lake of Geneva, and through the town of\nFribourg; the head of the Lake of Geneva being precisely and accurately\nthe one spot of Europe whose character, and influence on human mind, are\nspecial; and unreplaceable if destroyed, no other spot resembling, or\nbeing in any wise comparable to it, in its peculiar way: while the town\nof Fribourg is in like manner the only mediaeval mountain town of\nimportance left to us; Inspruck and such others being wholly modern,\nwhile Fribourg yet retains much of the aspect it had in the fourteenth\nand fifteenth centuries. The valley of Chamouni, another spot also\nunique in its way, is rapidly being turned into a kind of Cremorne\nGardens; and I can see, within the perspective of but few years, the\ntown of Lucerne consisting of a row of symmetrical hotels round the foot\nof the lake, its old bridges destroyed, an iron one built over the\nReuss, and an acacia promenade carried along the lake-shore, with a\nGerman band playing under a Chinese temple at the end of it, and the\nenlightened travellers, representatives of European civilization,\nperforming before the Alps, in each afternoon summer sunlight, in their\nmodern manner, the Dance of Death.\n\nSec. 42. All this is inevitable; and it has its good as well as its evil\nside. I can imagine the zealous modernist replying to me that when all\nthis is happily accomplished, my melancholy peasants of the valley of\nTrient will be turned into thriving shopkeepers, the desolate streets of\nSion into glittering thoroughfares, and the marshes of the Valais into\nprosperous market-gardens. I hope so; and indeed am striving every day\nto conceive more accurately, and regulate all my efforts by the\nexpectation of, the state of society, not now, I suppose, much more\nthan twenty years in advance of us, when Europe, having satisfactorily\neffaced all memorials of the past, and reduced itself to the likeness of\nAmerica, or of any other new country (only with less room for exertion),\nshall begin to consider what is next to be done, and to what newness of\narts and interests may best be devoted the wealth of its marts, and the\nstrength of its multitudes. Which anticipations and estimates, however,\nI have never been able, as yet, to carry out with any clearness, being\nalways arrested by the confused notion of a necessity for solitude,\ndisdain of buying and selling, and other elements of that old mediaeval\nand mountain gloom, as in some way connected with the efforts of nearly\nall men who have either seen far into the destiny, or been much helpful\nto the souls, of their race. And the grounds of this feeling, whether\nright or wrong, I hope to analyze more fully in the next volume; only\nnoting, finally, in this, one or two points for the consideration of\nthose among us with whom it may sometimes become a question, whether\nthey will help forward, or not, the turning of a sweet mountain valley\ninto an abyss of factory-stench and toil, or the carrying of a line of\ntraffic through some green place of shepherd solitude.\n\nSec. 43. For, if there be any truth in the impression which I have always\nfelt, and just now endeavored to enforce, that the mountains of the\nearth are its natural cathedrals, or natural altars, overlaid with gold,\nand bright with broidered work of flowers, and with their clouds resting\non them as the smoke of a continual sacrifice, it may surely be a\nquestion with some of us, whether the tables of the moneychanger,\nhowever fit and commendable they may be as furniture in other places,\nare precisely the thing which it is the whole duty of man to get well\nset up in the mountain temple.\n\nSec. 44. And perhaps it may help to the better determination of this\nquestion, if we endeavor, for a few patient moments, to bear with that\nweakness of our forefathers in feeling an awe for the hills; and,\ndivesting ourselves, as far as may be, of our modern experimental or\nexploring activity, and habit of regarding mountains chiefly as places\nfor gymnastic exercise, try to understand the temper, not indeed\naltogether exemplary, but yet having certain truths and dignities in\nit, to which we owe the founding of the Benedictine and Carthusian\ncloisters in the thin Alpine air. And this monkish temper we may, I\nsuppose, best understand by considering the aspect under which mountains\nare represented in the Monk's book. I found that in my late lectures, at\nEdinburgh, I gave great offence by supposing, or implying, that\nscriptural expressions could have any force as bearing upon modern\npractical questions; so that I do not now, nor shall I any more, allude\nto such expressions as in any wise necessarily bearing on the worldly\nbusiness of the practical Protestant, but only as necessary to be\nglanced at in order to understand the temper of those old monks, who had\nthe awkward habit of understanding the Bible literally; and to get any\nlittle good which momentary sympathy with the hearts of a large and\nearnest class of men may surely bring to us.\n\nSec. 45. The monkish view of mountains, then, already alluded to,[118] was\nderived wholly from that Latin Vulgate of theirs; and, speaking as a\nmonk, it may perhaps be permitted me to mark the significance of the\nearliest mention of mountains in the Mosaic books; at least, of those in\nwhich some Divine appointment or command is stated respecting them. They\nare first brought before us as refuges for God's people from the two\njudgments of water and fire. The ark _rests_ upon the \"mountains of\nArarat;\" and man, having passed through that great baptism unto death,\nkneels upon the earth first where it is nearest heaven, and mingles with\nthe mountain clouds the smoke of his sacrifice of thanksgiving. Again:\nfrom the midst of the first judgment by fire, the command of the Deity\nto His servant is, \"Escape to the mountain;\" and the morbid fear of the\nhills, which fills any human mind after long stay in places of luxury\nand sin, is strangely marked in Lot's complaining reply: \"I cannot\nescape to the mountain, lest some evil take me.\" The third mention, in\nway of ordinance, is a far more solemn one: \"Abraham lifted up his eyes,\nand saw the place afar off.\" \"The Place,\" the Mountain of Myrrh, or of\nbitterness, chosen to fulfil to all the seed of Abraham, far off and\nnear, the inner meaning of promise regarded in that vow: \"I will lift up\nmine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh mine help.\"\n\nAnd the fourth is the delivery of the law on Sinai.\n\nSec. 46. It seemed, then, to the monks, that the mountains were appointed\nby their Maker to be to man, refuges from Judgment, signs of Redemption,\nand altars of Sanctification and obedience; and they saw them afterwards\nconnected, in the manner the most touching and gracious, with the death,\nafter his task had been accomplished, of the first anointed Priest; the\ndeath, in like manner, of the first inspired Lawgiver; and, lastly, with\nthe assumption of his office by the Eternal Priest, Lawgiver, and\nSaviour.\n\nObserve the connection of these three events. Although the _time_ of the\ndeaths of Aaron and Moses was hastened by God's displeasure, we have\nnot, it seems to me, the slightest warrant for concluding that the\n_manner_ of their deaths was intended to be grievous or dishonorable to\nthem. Far from this: it cannot, I think, be doubted that in the denial\nof the permission to enter the Promised Land, the whole punishment of\ntheir sin was included; and that as far as regarded the manner of their\ndeaths, it must have been appointed for them by their Master in all\ntenderness and love; and with full purpose of ennobling the close of\ntheir service upon the earth. It might have seemed to us more honorable\nthat both should have been permitted to die beneath the shadow of the\nTabernacle, the congregation of Israel watching by their side; and all\nwhom they loved gathered together to receive the last message from the\nlips of the meek lawgiver, and the last blessing from the prayer of the\nanointed priest. But it was not thus they were permitted to die. Try to\nrealize that going forth of Aaron from the midst of the congregation. He\nwho had so often done sacrifice for their sin, going forth now to offer\nup his own spirit. He who had stood, among them, between the dead and\nthe living, and had seen the eyes of all that great multitude turned to\nhim, that by his intercession their breath might yet be drawn a moment\nmore, going forth now to meet the Angel of Death face to face, and\ndeliver himself into his hand. Try if you cannot walk, in thought, with\nthose two brothers, and the son, as they passed the outmost tents of\nIsrael, and turned, while yet the dew lay round about the camp, towards\nthe slopes of Mount Hor; talking together for the last time, as step by\nstep, they felt the steeper rising of the rocks, and hour after hour,\nbeneath the ascending sun, the horizon grew broader as they climbed, and\nall the folded hills of Idumea, one by one subdued, showed amidst their\nhollows in the haze of noon, the windings of that long desert journey,\nnow at last to close. But who shall enter into the thoughts of the High\nPriest, as his eye followed those paths of ancient pilgrimage; and,\nthrough the silence of the arid and endless hills, stretching even to\nthe dim peak of Sinai, the whole history of those forty years was\nunfolded before him, and the mystery of his own ministries revealed to\nhim; and that other Holy of Holies, of which the mountain peaks were the\naltars, and the mountain clouds the veil, the firmament of his Father's\ndwelling, opened to him still more brightly and infinitely as he drew\nnearer his death; until at last, on the shadeless summit,--from him on\nwhom sin was to be laid no more--from him, on whose heart the names of\nsinful nations were to press their graven fire no longer,--the brother\nand the son took breastplate and ephod, and left him to his rest.\n\nSec. 47. There is indeed a secretness in this calm faith and deep restraint\nof sorrow, into which it is difficult for us to enter; but the death of\nMoses himself is more easily to be conceived, and had in it\ncircumstances still more touching, as far as regards the influence of\nthe external scene. For forty years Moses had not been alone. The care\nand burden of all the people, the weight of their woe, and guilt, and\ndeath, had been upon him continually. The multitude had been laid upon\nhim as if he had conceived them; their tears had been his meat, night\nand day, until he had felt as if God had withdrawn His favor from him,\nand he had prayed that he might be slain, and not see his\nwretchedness.[119] And now, at last, the command came, \"Get thee up into\nthis mountain.\" The weary hands that had been so long stayed up against\nthe enemies of Israel, might lean again upon the shepherd's staff, and\nfold themselves for the shepherd's prayer--for the shepherd's slumber.\nNot strange to his feet, though forty years unknown, the roughness of\nthe bare mountain-path, as he climbed from ledge to ledge of Abarim; not\nstrange to his aged eyes the scattered clusters of the mountain\nherbage, and the broken shadows of the cliffs, indented far across the\nsilence of uninhabited ravines; scenes such as those among which, with\nnone, as now, beside him but God, he had led his flocks so often; and\nwhich he had left, how painfully! taking upon him the appointed power,\nto make of the fenced city a wilderness, and to fill the desert with\nsongs of deliverance. It was not to embitter the last hours of his life\nthat God restored to him, for a day, the beloved solitudes he had lost;\nand breathed the peace of the perpetual hills around him, and cast the\nworld in which he had labored and sinned far beneath his feet, in that\nmist of dying blue;--all sin, all wandering, soon to be forgotten for\never; the Dead Sea--a type of God's anger understood by him, of all men,\nmost clearly, who had seen the earth open her mouth, and the sea his\ndepth, to overwhelm the companies of those who contended with his\nMaster--laid waveless beneath him; and beyond it, the fair hills of\nJudah, and the soft plains and banks of Jordan, purple in the evening\nlight as with the blood of redemption, and fading in their distant\nfulness into mysteries of promise and of love. There, with his unabated\nstrength, his undimmed glance, lying down upon the utmost rocks, with\nangels waiting near to contend for the spoils of his spirit, he put off\nhis earthly armor. We do deep reverence to his companion prophet, for\nwhom the chariot of fire came down from heaven; but was his death less\nnoble, whom his Lord Himself buried in the vales of Moab, keeping, in\nthe secrets of the eternal counsels, the knowledge of a sepulchre, from\nwhich he was to be called, in the fulness of time, to talk with that\nLord, upon Hermon, of the death that He should accomplish at Jerusalem?\n\nAnd lastly, let us turn our thoughts for a few moments to the cause of\nthe resurrection of these two prophets. We are all of us too much in the\nhabit of passing it by, as a thing mystical and inconceivable, taking\nplace in the life of Christ for some purpose not by us to be understood,\nor, at the best, merely as a manifestation of His divinity by brightness\nof heavenly light, and the ministering of the spirits of the dead,\nintended to strengthen the faith of His three chosen apostles. And in\nthis, as in many other events recorded by the Evangelists, we lose half\nthe meaning and evade the practical power upon ourselves, by never\naccepting in its fulness the idea that our Lord was \"perfect man,\"\n\"tempted in all things like as we are.\" Our preachers are continually\ntrying, in all manner of subtle ways, to explain the union of the\nDivinity with the Manhood, an explanation which certainly involves first\ntheir being able to describe the nature of Deity itself, or, in plain\nwords, to comprehend God. They never can explain, in any one particular,\nthe union of the natures; they only succeed in weakening the faith of\ntheir hearers as to the entireness of either. The thing they have to do\nis precisely the contrary of this--to insist upon the _entireness_ of\nboth. We never think of Christ enough as God, never enough as Man; the\ninstinctive habit of our minds being always to miss of the Divinity, and\nthe reasoning and enforced habit to miss of the Humanity. We are afraid\nto harbor in our own hearts, or to utter in the hearing of others, any\nthought of our Lord, as hungering, tired, sorrowful, having a human\nsoul, a human will, and affected by events of human life as a finite\ncreature is; and yet one half of the efficiency of His atonement, and\nthe whole of the efficiency of His example, depend on His having been\nthis to the full.\n\nSec. 48. Consider, therefore, the Transfiguration as it relates to the\nhuman feelings of our Lord. It was the first definite preparation for\nHis death. He had foretold it to His disciples six days before; then\ntakes with Him the three chosen ones into \"an high mountain apart.\" From\nan exceeding high mountain, at the first taking on Him the ministry of\nlife, He had beheld, and rejected the kingdoms of the earth, and their\nglory: now, on a high mountain, He takes upon Him the ministry of death.\nPeter and they that were with him, as in Gethsemane, were heavy with\nsleep. Christ's work had to be done alone.\n\nThe tradition is, that the Mount of Transfiguration was the summit of\nTabor; but Tabor is neither a high mountain, nor was it in any sense a\nmountain \"_apart_;\" being in those years both inhabited and fortified.\nAll the immediately preceding ministries of Christ had been at Cesarea\nPhilippi. There is no mention of travel southward in the six days that\nintervened between the warning given to His disciples, and the going up\ninto the hill. What other hill could it be than the southward slope of\nthat goodly mountain, Hermon, which is indeed the centre of all the\nPromised Land, from the entering in of Hamath unto the river of Egypt;\nthe mount of fruitfulness, from which the springs of Jordan descended to\nthe valleys of Israel. Along its mighty forest avenues, until the grass\ngrew fair with the mountain lilies, His feet dashed in the dew of\nHermon, He must have gone to pray His first recorded prayer about death;\nand from the steep of it, before He knelt, could see to the south all\nthe dwelling-place of the people that had sat in darkness, and seen the\ngreat light, the land of Zabulon and of Naphtali, Galilee of the\nnations;--could see, even with His human sight, the gleam of that lake\nby Capernaum and Chorazin, and many a place loved by Him, and vainly\nministered to, whose house was now left unto them desolate; and, chief\nof all, far in the utmost blue, the hills above Nazareth, sloping down\nto His old home: hills on which yet the stones lay loose, that had been\ntaken up to cast at Him, when He left them for ever.\n\nSec. 49. \"And as he prayed, two men stood by him.\" Among the many ways in\nwhich we miss the help and hold of Scripture, none is more subtle than\nour habit of supposing that, even as man, Christ was free from the Fear\nof Death. How could He then have been tempted as we are? since among all\nthe trials of the earth, none spring from the dust more terrible than\nthat Fear. It had to be borne by Him, indeed, in a unity, which we can\nnever comprehend, with the foreknowledge of victory,--as His sorrow for\nLazarus, with the consciousness of the power to restore him; but it\n_had_ to be borne, and that in its full earthly terror; and the presence\nof it is surely marked for us enough by the rising of those two at His\nside. When, in the desert, He was girding Himself for the work of life,\nangels of life came and ministered unto Him; now, in the fair world,\nwhen He is girding Himself for the work of death, the ministrants come\nto Him from the grave.\n\nBut from the grave conquered. One, from that tomb under Abarim, which\nHis own hand had sealed so long ago; the other from the rest into which\nhe had entered, without seeing corruption. There stood by Him Moses and\nElias, and spake of His decease.\n\nThen, when the prayer is ended, the task accepted, first, since the\nstar paused over Him at Bethlehem, the full glory falls upon Him from\nheaven, and the testimony is borne to his everlasting Sonship and power.\n\"Hear ye him.\"\n\nIf, in their remembrance of these things, and in their endeavor to\nfollow in the footsteps of their Master, religious men of by-gone days,\nclosing themselves in the hill solitudes, forgot sometimes, and\nsometimes feared, the duties they owed to the active world, we may\nperhaps pardon them more easily than we ought to pardon ourselves, if we\nneither seek any influence for good nor submit to it unsought, in scenes\nto which thus all the men whose writings we receive as inspired,\ntogether with their Lord, retired whenever they had any task or trial\nlaid upon them needing more than their usual strength of spirit. Nor,\nperhaps, should we have unprofitably entered into the mind of the\nearlier ages, if among our other thoughts, as we watch the chains of the\nsnowy mountains rise on the horizon, we should sometimes admit the\nmemory of the hour in which their Creator, among their solitudes,\nentered on His travail for the salvation of our race; and indulge the\ndream, that as the flaming and trembling mountains of the earth seem to\nbe the monuments of the manifesting of His terror on Sinai,--these pure\nand white hills, near to the heaven, and sources of all good to the\nearth, are the appointed memorials of that Light of His Mercy, that\nfell, snow-like, on the Mount of Transfiguration.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [106] In tracing the _whole_ of the deep enjoyment to mountain\n association, I of course except whatever feelings are connected with\n the observance of rural life, or with that of architecture. None of\n these feelings arise out of the landscape, properly so-called: the\n pleasure with which we see a peasant's garden fairly kept, or a\n ploughman doing his work well, or a group of children playing at a\n cottage door, being wholly separate from that which we find in the\n fields or commons around them; and the beauty of architecture, or\n the associations connected with it, in like manner often ennobling\n the most tame scenery;--yet not so but that we may always\n distinguish between the abstract character of the unassisted\n landscape, and the charm which it derives from the architecture.\n Much of the majesty of French landscape consists in its grand and\n grey village churches and turreted farmhouses, not to speak of its\n cathedrals, castles, and beautifully placed cities.\n\n [107] One of the principal reasons for the false supposition that\n Switzerland is not picturesque, is the error of most sketchers and\n painters in representing pine forest in middle distance as dark\n _green_, or grey green, whereas its true color is always purple, at\n distances of even two or three miles. Let any traveller coming down\n the Montanvert look for an aperture, three or four inches wide,\n between the near pine branches, through which, standing eight or ten\n feet from it, he can see the opposite forests on the Breven or\n Flegere. Those forests are not above two or two and a half miles\n from him; but he will find the aperture is filled by a tint of\n nearly pure azure or purple, not by green.\n\n [108] The Savoyard's name for its flower, \"Pain du Bon Dieu,\" is\n very beautiful; from, I believe, the supposed resemblance of its\n white and scattered blossom to the fallen manna.\n\n [109] See reference to his painting of stones in the last note to Sec.\n 28 of the chapter on Imagination Penetrative, Vol. II.\n\n [110] In saying this I do not, of course, forget the influence of\n the sea on the Pisans and Venetians; but that is a separate subject,\n and must be examined in the next volume.\n\n [111] \"With fairest flowers\n While summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,\n I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack\n The flower that's like thy face--pale primrose, nor\n The azured harebell--like thy veins; no, nor\n The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,\n Outsweetened not thy breath. The ruddock would\n With charitable bill bring thee all this;\n Yea, and furred moss besides, when flowers are none,\n To winter-ground thy corse.\n _Gui._ Prithee, have done,\n And do not play in wench-like words with that\n Which is so serious.\"\n\n Imogen herself, afterwards in deeper passion, will give weeds--not\n flowers--and something more:\n\n \"And when\n With wildwood leaves, and weeds, I have strewed his grave,\n And on it said a century of prayers,\n Such as I can, twice o'er, I'll weep, and sigh,\n And, leaving so his service, follow you.\"\n\n [112] If the reader thinks that in Henry the Fifth's time the\n Elizabethan temper might already have been manifesting itself, let\n him compare the English herald's speech, act 2, scene 2, of King\n John; and by way of specimen of Shakespere's historical care, or\n regard of mediaeval character, the large use of _artillery_ in the\n previous scene.\n\n [113] The last bishop.\n\n [114] His favorite son; nominally his nephew.\n\n [115] \"Nero Antico\" is more familiar to our ears; but Browning does\n right in translating it; as afterwards \"cipollino\" into\n \"onion-stone.\" Our stupid habit of using foreign words without\n translation is continually losing us half the force of the foreign\n language. How many travellers hearing the term \"cipollino\" recognize\n the intended sense of a stone splitting into concentric coats, like\n an onion?\n\n [116] I mean that Shakespere almost always implies a total\n difference in _nature_ between one human being and another; one\n being from the birth, pure and affectionate, another base and cruel;\n and he displays each, in its sphere, as having the nature of dove,\n wolf, or lion, never much implying the government or change of\n nature by any external principle. There can be no question that in\n the main he is right in this view of human nature; still, the other\n form of virtue does exist occasionally, and was never, as far as I\n recollect, taken much note of by him. And with this stern view of\n humanity, Shakespere joined a sorrowful view of Fate, closely\n resembling that of the ancients. He is distinguished from Dante\n eminently by his always dwelling on last causes instead of first\n causes. Dante invariably points to the moment of the soul's choice\n which fixed its fate, to the instant of the day when it read no\n farther, or determined to give bad advice about Penestrino. But\n Shakespere always leans on the force of Fate, as it urges the final\n evil; and dwells with infinite bitterness on the power of the\n wicked, and the infinitude of result dependent seemingly on little\n things. A fool brings the last piece of news from Verona, and the\n dearest lives of its noble houses are lost; they might have been\n saved if the sacristan had not stumbled as he walked. Othello\n mislays his handkerchief, and there remains nothing for him but\n death. Hamlet gets hold of the wrong foil, and the rest is silence.\n Edmund's runner is a moment too late at the prison, and the feather\n will not move at Cordelia's lips. Salisbury a moment too late at the\n tower, and Arthur lies on the stones dead. Goneril and Iago have on\n the whole, in this world, Shakespere sees, much of their own way,\n though they come to a bad end. It is a pin that Death pierces the\n king's fortress wall with; and Carelessness and Folly sit sceptred\n and dreadful, side by side with the pin-armed skeleton.\n\n [117] Not the old hospitable innkeeper, who honored his guests and\n was honored by them, than whom I do not know a more useful or worthy\n character; but the modern innkeeper, proprietor of a building in the\n shape of a factory, making up three hundred beds; who necessarily\n regards his guests in the light of Numbers 1, 2, 3-300, and is too\n often felt or apprehended by them only as a presiding influence of\n extortion.\n\n [118] Vol III. Chap. XIV. Sec. 10.\n\n [119] Numbers, xi. 12, 15.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX.\n\n\nI. MODERN GROTESQUE.\n\nThe reader may perhaps be somewhat confused by the different tone with\nwhich, in various passages of these volumes, I have spoken of the\ndignity of Expression. He must remember that there are three distinct\nschools of expression, and that it is impossible, on every occasion when\nthe term is used, to repeat the definition of the three, and distinguish\nthe school spoken of.\n\nThere is, first, the Great Expressional School, consisting of the\nsincerely thoughtful and affectionate painters of early times, masters\nof their art, as far as it was known in their days. Orcagna, John\nBellini, Perugino, and Angelico, are its leading masters. All the men\nwho compose it are, without exception, _colorists_. The modern\nPre-Raphaelites belong to it.\n\nSecondly, the Pseudo-Expressional School, wholly of modern development,\nconsisting of men who have never mastered their art, and are probably\nincapable of mastering it, but who hope to substitute sentiment for good\npainting. It is eminently characterized by its contempt of color, and\nmay be most definitely distinguished as the School of Clay.\n\nThirdly, the Grotesque Expressional School, consisting of men who,\nhaving peculiar powers of observation for the stronger signs of\ncharacter in anything, and sincerely delighting in them, lose sight of\nthe associated refinements or beauties. This school is apt, more or\nless, to catch at faults or strangenesses; and, associating its powers\nof observation with wit or malice, produces the wild, gay, or satirical\ngrotesque in early sculpture, and in modern times, our rich and various\npopular caricature.\n\nI took no note of this branch of art in the chapter on the Grotesque\nIdeal; partly because I did not wish to disturb the reader's mind in our\nexamination of the great imaginative grotesque, and also because I did\nnot feel able to give a distinct account of this branch, having never\nthoroughly considered the powers of eye and hand involved in its finer\nexamples. But assuredly men of strong intellect and fine sense are found\namong the caricaturists, and it is to them that I allude in saying that\nthe most subtle expression is often attained by \"slight studies;\" while\nit is of the pseudo-expressionalist, or \"high art\" school that I am\nspeaking, when I say that expression may \"sometimes be elaborated by the\ntoil of the dull;\" in neither case meaning to depreciate the work,\nwholly different in every way, of the great expressional schools.\n\nI regret that I have not been able, as yet, to examine with care the\npowers of mind involved in modern caricature. They are, however, always\npartial and imperfect; for the very habit of looking for the leading\nlines by the smallest possible number of which the expression may be\nattained, warps the power of _general_ attention, and blunts the\nperception of the delicacies of the entire form and color. Not that\ncaricature, or exaggeration of points of character, may not be\noccasionally indulged in by the greatest men--as constantly by Leonardo;\nbut then it will be found that the caricature consists, not in imperfect\nor violent _drawing_, but in delicate and perfect drawing of strange and\nexaggerated forms quaintly combined: and even thus, I believe, the habit\nof looking for such conditions will be found injurious; I strongly\nsuspect its operation on Leonardo to have been the increase of his\nnon-natural tendencies in his higher works. A certain acknowledgment of\nthe ludicrous element is admitted in corners of the pictures of\nVeronese--in dwarfs or monkeys; but it is _never_ caricatured or\nexaggerated. Tintoret and Titian hardly admit the element at all. They\nadmit the noble grotesque to the full, in all its quaintness,\nbrilliancy, and awe; but never any form of it depending on exaggeration,\npartiality, or fallacy.[120]\n\nI believe, therefore, whatever wit, delicate appreciation of ordinary\ncharacter, or other intellectual power may belong to the modern masters\nof caricature, their method of study for ever incapacitates them from\npassing beyond a certain point, and either reaching any of the perfect\nforms of art themselves, or understanding them in others. Generally\nspeaking, their power is limited to the use of the pen or pencil--they\ncannot touch color without discomfiture; and even those whose work is of\nhigher aim, and wrought habitually in color, are prevented by their\npursuit of _piquant_ expression from understanding noble expression.\nLeslie furnishes several curious examples of this defect of perception\nin his late work on Art;--talking, for instance, of the \"insipid faces\nof Francia.\"\n\nOn the other hand, all the real masters of caricature deserve honor in\nthis respect, that their gift is peculiarly their own--innate and\nincommunicable. No teaching, no hard study, will ever enable other\npeople to equal, in their several ways, the works of Leech or\nCruikshank; whereas, the power of pure drawing is communicable, within\ncertain limits, to every one who has good sight and industry. I do not,\nindeed, know how far, by devoting the attention to points of character,\ncaricaturist skill may be laboriously attained; but certainly the power\nis, in the masters of the school, innate from their childhood.\n\nFarther. It is evident that many subjects of thought may be dealt with\nby this kind of art which are inapproachable by any other, and that its\ninfluence over the popular mind must always be great; hence it may often\nhappen that men of strong purpose may rather express themselves in this\nway (and continue to make such expression a matter of earnest study),\nthan turn to any less influential, though more dignified, or even more\nintrinsically meritorious, branch of art. And when the powers of quaint\nfancy are associated (as is frequently the case) with stern\nunderstanding of the nature of evil, and tender human sympathy, there\nresults a bitter, or pathetic spirit of grotesque, to which mankind at\nthe present day owe more thorough moral teaching than to any branch of\nart whatsoever.\n\nIn poetry, the temper is seen, in perfect manifestation, in the works of\nThomas Hood; in art, it is found both in various works of the\nGermans,--their finest, and their least thought of; and more or less in\nthe works of George Cruikshank,[121] and in many of the illustrations\nof our popular journals. On the whole, the most impressive examples of\nit, in poetry and in art, which I remember, are the Song of the Shirt,\nand the woodcuts of Alfred Rethel, before spoken of. A correspondent,\nthough coarser work appeared some little time back in Punch, namely, the\n\"General Fevrier turned Traitor.\"\n\nThe reception of the woodcut last named was in several respects a\ncurious test of modern feeling. For the sake of the general reader, it\nmay be well to state the occasion and character of it. It will be\nremembered by all that early in the winter of 1854-5, so fatal by its\ninclemency, and by our own improvidence, to our army in the Crimea, the\nlate Emperor of Russia said, or was reported to have said, that \"his\nbest commanders, General January and General February, were not yet\ncome.\" The word, if ever spoken, was at once base, cruel, and\nblasphemous; base, in precisely reversing the temper of all true\nsoldiers, so nobly instanced by the son of Saladin, when he sent, at the\nvery instant of the discomfiture of his own army, two horses to Coeur\nde Lion, whose horse had been killed under him in the melee; cruel,\ninasmuch as he ought not to have exulted in the thought of the death, by\nslow suffering, of brave men; blasphemous, inasmuch as it contained an\nappeal to Heaven of which he knew the hypocrisy. He himself died in\nFebruary; and the woodcut of which I speak represented a skeleton in\nsoldier's armor, entering his chamber, the driven sleet white on its\ncloak and crest; laying its hand on his heart as he lay dead.\n\nThere were some points to be regretted in the execution of the design,\nbut the thought was a grand one; the memory of the word spoken, and of\nits answer, could hardly in any more impressive way have been recorded\nfor the people; and I believe that to all persons accustomed to the\nearnest forms of art, it contained a profound and touching lesson. The\nnotable thing was, however, that it offended all persons _not_ in\nearnest, and was loudly cried out against by the polite formalism of\nsociety. This fate is, I believe, the almost inevitable one of\nthoroughly genuine work, in these days, whether poetry or painting; but\nwhat added to the singularity in this ease was that _coarse_\nheartlessness was even more offended than polite heartlessness. Thus,\nBlackwood's Magazine,--which from the time that, with grace, judgment,\nand tenderness peculiarly its own, it bid the dying Keats \"back to his\ngallipots,\"[122] to that in which it partly arrested the last efforts,\nand shortened the life of Turner, had with an infallible instinct for\nthe wrong, given what pain it could, and withered what strength it\ncould, in every great mind that was in anywise within its reach; and had\nmade itself, to the utmost of its power, frost and disease of the heart\nto the most noble spirits of England,--took upon itself to be generously\noffended at this triumphing over the death of England's enemy, because,\n\"by proving that he is obliged to undergo the common lot of all, his\nbrotherhood is at once reasserted.\"[123] He was not, then, a brother\nwhile he was alive? or is our brother's blood in general not to be\nacknowledged by us till it rushes up against us from the ground? I know\nthat this is a common creed, whether a peculiarly wise or Christian one\nmay be doubted. It may not, indeed, be well to triumph over the dead,\nbut perhaps it is less well that the world so often tries to triumph\nover the living. And as for exultation over a fallen foe (though there\nwas _none_ in the mind of the man who drew that monarch dead), it may be\nremembered that there have been worthy persons, before now, guilty of\nthis great wickedness,--nay, who have even fitted the words of their\nexultation to timbrels, and gone forth to sing them in dances. There\nhave even been those--women, too,--who could make a mock at the agony of\na mother weeping over her lost son, when that son had been the enemy of\ntheir country; and their mock has been preserved, as worthy to be read\nby human eyes. \"The mother of Sisera looked out at a window. 'Hath he\nnot sped?'\" I do not say this was right, still less that it was wrong;\nbut only that it would be well for us if we could quit our habit of\nthinking that what we say of the dead is of more weight than what we say\nof the living. The dead either know nothing, or know enough to despise\nboth us and our insults, or adulation.\n\n\"Well, but,\" it is answered, \"there will always be this weakness in our\nhuman nature; we shall for ever, in spite of reason, take pleasure in\ndoing funereal honor to the corpse, and writing sacredness to memory\nupon marble.\" Then, if you are to do this,--if you are to put off your\nkindness until death,--why not, in God's name, put off also your enmity?\nand if you choose to write your lingering affections upon stones, wreak\nalso your delayed anger upon clay. This would be just, and, in the last\ncase, little as you think it, generous. The true baseness is in the\nbitter reverse--the strange iniquity of our folly. Is a man to be\npraised, honored, pleaded for? It might do harm to praise or plead for\nhim while he lived. Wait till he is dead. Is he to be maligned,\ndishonored, and discomforted? See that you do it while he is alive. It\nwould be too ungenerous to slander him when he could feel malice no\nmore; too contemptible to try to hurt him when he was past anguish. Make\nyourselves busy, ye unjust, ye lying, ye hungry for pain! Death is near.\nThis is your hour, and the power of darkness. Wait, ye just, ye\nmerciful, ye faithful in love! Wait but for a little while, for this is\nnot your rest.\n\n\"Well, but,\" it is still answered, \"is it not, indeed, ungenerous to\nspeak ill of the dead, since they cannot defend themselves?\"\n\nWhy should they? If you speak ill of them falsely, it concerns you, not\nthem. Those lies of thine will \"hurt a man as thou art,\" assuredly they\nwill hurt thyself; but that clay, or the delivered soul of it, in no\nwise. Ajacean shield, seven-folded, never stayed lance-thrust as that\nturf will, with daisies pied. What you say of those quiet ones is wholly\nand utterly the world's affair and yours. The lie will, indeed, cost its\nproper price and work its appointed work; you may ruin living myriads by\nit,--you may stop the progress of centuries by it,--you may have to pay\nyour own soul for it,--but as for ruffling one corner of the folded\nshroud by it, think it not. The dead have none to defend them! Nay, they\nhave two defenders, strong enough for the need--God, and the worm.\n\n\nII. ROCK CLEAVAGE.\n\nI am well aware how insufficient, and, in some measure, how disputable,\nthe account given in the preceding chapters of the cleavages of the\nslaty crystallines must appear to geologists. But I had several reasons,\ngood or bad as they may be, for treating the subject in such a manner.\nThe first was, that considering the science of the artist as eminently\nthe science of _aspects_ (see Vol. III. Chap. XVII. Sec. 43), I kept myself\nin all my investigations of natural objects as much as possible in the\nstate of an uninformed spectator of the outside of things, receiving\nsimply what impressions the external phenomena first induce. For the\nnatural tendency of accurate science is to make the possessor of it look\nfor, and eminently see, the things connected with his special pieces of\nknowledge; and as all accurate science must be sternly limited, his\nsight of nature gets limited accordingly. I observed that all our young\nfigure-painters were rendered, to all intents and purposes, _blind_ by\ntheir knowledge of anatomy. They saw only certain muscles and bones, of\nwhich they had learned the positions by rote, but could not, on account\nof the very prominence in their minds of these bits of fragmentary\nknowledge, see the real movement, color, rounding, or any other subtle\nquality of the human form. And I was quite sure that if I examined the\nmountain anatomy scientifically, I should go wrong, in like manner,\ntouching the external aspects. Therefore in beginning the inquiries of\nwhich the results are given in the preceding pages, I closed all\ngeological books, and set myself, as far as I could, to see the Alps in\na simple, thoughtless, and untheorizing manner; but to _see_ them, if it\nmight be, thoroughly. If I am wrong in any of the statements made after\nthis kind of examination, the very fact of this error is an interesting\none, as showing the kind of deception which the external aspects of\nhills are calculated to induce in an unprejudiced observer; but, whether\nwrong or right, I believe the results I have given are those which\nnaturally would strike an artist, and _ought_ to strike him, just as the\napparently domical form of the sky, and radiation of the sun's light,\nought to be marked by him as pictorial phenomena, though the sky is not\ndomical, and though the radiation of sunbeams is a perspective\ndeception. There are, however, one or two points on which my opinions\nmight seem more adverse to the usual positions of geologists than they\nreally are, owing to my having left out many _qualifying_ statements for\nfear of confusing the reader. These I must here briefly touch upon. And,\nfirst, I know that I shall be questioned for not having sufficiently\ndwelt upon slaty cleavages running transversely across series of beds,\nand for generally speaking as if the slaty crystalline rocks were merely\ndried beds of micaceous sand, in which the flakes of mica naturally lay\nparallel with the beds, or only at such an angle to them as is\nconstantly assumed by particles of drift. Now the reason of this is\nsimply that my own mountain experience has led me _always_ among rocks\nwhich induced such an impression; that, in general, artists seeking for\nthe noblest hill scenery, will also get among such rocks, and that\ntherefore I judged it best to explain their structure completely, merely\nalluding (in Chap. X. Sec. 7) to the curious results of cross cleavage\namong the softer slates, and leaving the reader to pursue the inquiry,\nif he cared to do so; although, in reality, it matters very little to\nthe artist whether the slaty cleavage be across the beds or not, for to\nhim the cleavage itself is always the important matter, and the\nstratification, if contrary to it, is usually so obscure as to be\nnaturally, and therefore properly, lost sight of. And touching the\ndisputed question whether the micaceous arrangements of metamorphic\nrocks are the results of subsequent crystallization, or of aqueous\ndeposition, I had no special call to speak: the whole subject appeared\nto me only more mysterious the more I examined it; but my own\nimpressions were always strongly for the aqueous deposition; nor in such\ncases as that of the beds of the Matterhorn (drawn in Plate +39+),\nrespecting which, somewhat exceptionally, I have allowed myself to\ntheorize a little, does the matter appear to me disputable.\n\nAnd I was confirmed in this feeling by De Saussure; the only writer\nwhose help I did not refuse in the course of these inquiries. _His_ I\nreceived for this reason,--all other geological writers whose works I\nhad examined were engaged in the maintenance of some theory or other,\nand always gathering materials to support it. But I found Saussure had\ngone to the Alps as I desired to go myself, only to _look_ at them, and\ndescribe them as they were, loving them heartily--loving them, the\npositive Alps, more than himself, or than science, or than any theories\nof science; and I found his descriptions, therefore, clear, and\ntrustworthy; and that when I had not visited any place myself,\nSaussure's report upon it might always be received without question.\n\nNot but that Saussure himself has a pet theory, like other human beings;\nonly it is quite subordinate to his love of the Alps: He is a steady\nadvocate of the aqueous crystallization of rocks, and never loses a fair\nopportunity of a blow at the Huttonians; but his opportunities are\nalways _fair_, his description of what he sees is wholly impartial; it\nis only when he gets home and arranges his papers that he puts in the\nlittle aqueously inclined paragraphs, and never a paragraph without just\ncause. He may, perhaps, overlook the evidence on the opposite side; but\nin the Alps the igneous alteration of the rocks, and the modes of their\nupheaval, seem to me subjects of intense difficulty and mystery, and as\nsuch Saussure always treats them; the evidence for the original\n_deposition_ by water of the slaty crystallines appears to him, as it\ndoes to me, often perfectly distinct.\n\nNow, Saussure's universal principle was exactly the one on which I have\nfounded my account of the slaty crystallines:--\"Fidele a mon principle,\nde ne regarder comme des couches, dans les montagnes schisteuses, que\nles divisions paralleles aux feuillets des schistes dont elles sont\ncomposees.\"--_Voyages_, Sec. 1747. I know that this is an arbitrary, and in\nsome cases an assuredly false, principle; but the assumption of it by De\nSaussure proves all that I want to prove,--namely, that the beds of the\nslaty crystallines are in the Alps in so large a plurality of instances\ncorrespondent in direction to their folia, as to induce even a cautious\nreasoner to assume such correspondence to be universal.\n\nThe next point, however, on which I shall be opposed, is one on which I\nspeak with far less confidence, for in this Saussure himself is against\nme,--namely, the parallelism of the beds sloping under the Mont Blanc.\nSaussure states twice, Sec.Sec. 656, 677, that they are arranged in the form\nof a fan. I can only repeat that every measurement and every drawing I\nmade in Chamouni led me to the conclusions stated in the text, and so I\nleave the subject to better investigators; this one fact being\nindisputable, and the only one on which for my purpose it is necessary\nto insist, that, whether in Chamouni the beds be radiant or not, to an\nartist's eye they are usually parallel; and throughout the Alps no\nphenomenon is more constant than the rounding of surfaces across the\nextremities of beds sloping outwards, as seen in my plates +37+, +40+,\nand +48+, and this especially in the most majestic mountain masses.\nCompare De Saussure of the Grimsel, Sec. 1712: \"Toujours il est bien\nremarquable que ces feuillets, verticaux au sommet, s'inclinent ensuite,\ncomme a Chamouni, contre le dehors de la montagne:\" and again of the\ngranite at Guttannen, Sec. 1679: \"Ces couches ne sont pas tout-a-fait\nverticales; elles s'appuyent un peu contre le Nord-Est, ou, comme a\nChamouni, contre le dehors de la montagne.\" Again, of the \"quartz\nmicace\" of Zumloch, Sec. 1723: \"Ces rochers sont en couches a peu pres\nverticales, dont les plans courent du Nord-Est au Sud-Ouest, en\ns'appuyant, _suivant l'usage_, contre l'exterieur de la montagne, ou\ncontre la vallee.\" Again, on the Pass of the Gries, Sec. 1738: \"Le rocher\npresente des couches d'un schiste micace raye comme une etoffe; comme de\nl'autre cote ils surplombent vers le dehors de la montagne.\" Without\nreferring to other passages I think Saussure's simple words, \"suivant\nl'usage,\" are enough to justify my statement in Chap. XIV. Sec. 3; only\nthe reader must of course always remember that every conceivable\nposition of beds takes place in the Alps, and all I mean to assert\ngenerally is, that where the masses are most enormous and impressive,\nand formed of slaty crystalline rocks, there the run of the beds up, as\nit were, from within the mountain to its surface, will, in all\nprobability, become a notable feature in the scene as regarded by an\nartist. One somewhat unusual form assumed by horizontal beds of slaty\ncrystallines, or of granite, is described by Saussure with unusual\nadmiration; and the passage is worth extracting, as bearing on the\nterraced ideal of rocks in the middle ages. The scene is in the Val\nFormazza.\n\n\"Independamment de l'interet que ces couches presentent au geologiste\nsous un nombre de rapports qu'il seroit trop long et peut-etre inutile\nde detailler, elles presentent meme pour le peintre, un superbe tableau.\nJe n'ai jamais vu de plus beaux rochers et distribues en plus grandes\nmasses; ici, blancs; la, noircis par les lichens; la, peints de ces\nbelles couleurs variees, que nous admirions au Grimsel, et entremeles\nd'arbres, dont les uns couronnent le faite de la montagne, et d'autres\nsont inegalement jetes sur les corniches qui en separent les couches.\nVers le bas de la montagne l'oeil se repose sur de beaux vergers, dans\ndes prairies dont le terrein est inegal et varie, et sur de magnifiques\nchataigniers, dont les branches etendues ombragent les rochers contre\nlesquels ils croissent. En general, ces granits en couches horizontals\nredent ce pays charmant; car, quoiqu'il y ait, comme je l'ai dit, des\ncouches qui forment des saillies, cependant elles sont pour l'ordinaire\narrangees en gradins, ou en grandes assises posees en reculement les\nunes derriere les autres, et les bords de ces gradins sont couverts de\nla plus belle verdure, et d'arbres distribues de la maniere la plus\npittoresque. On voit e mme des montagnes tres-elevees, qui out la forme\nde pain de sucre, et qui sont entourees et couronnees jusqu'a leur\nsommet, de guirlandes d'arbres assis sur les intervalles des couches, et\nqui forment l'effet du monde le plus singulier.\"-_Voyages_, Sec. 1758.\n\nAnother statement, which I made generally, referring, for those\nqualifications which it is so difficult to give without confusing the\nreader, to this appendix, was that of the usually greater hardness of\nthe tops of mountains as compared with their flanks. My own experience\namong the Alps has furnished me with few exceptions to this law; but\nthere is a very interesting one, according to Saussure, in the range of\nthe Furca del Bosco. (Voyages, Sec. 1779.)\n\nLastly, at page 186 of this volume, I have alluded to the various\ncleavages of the aiguilles, out of which one only has been explained and\nillustrated. I had not intended to treat the subject so partially; and\nhad actually prepared a long chapter, explaining the relations of five\ndifferent and important systems of cleavage in the Chamouni aiguilles.\nWhen it was written, however, I found it looked so repulsive to readers\nin general, and proved so little that was of interest even to readers in\nparticular, that I cancelled it, leaving only the account of what I\nmight, perhaps, not unjustifiably (from the first representation of it\nin the Liber Studiorum) call Turner's cleavage. The following passage,\nwhich was the introduction to the chapter, may serve to show that I have\nnot ignored the others, though I found, after long examination, that\nTurner's was the principal one:--\n\n\"One of the principal distinctions between these crystalline masses and\nstratified rocks, with respect to their outwardly apparent structure, is\nthe subtle complexity and number of _ranks_ in their crystalline\ncleavages. The stratified masses have always a simple intelligible\norganization; their beds lie in one direction, and certain fissures and\nfractures of those beds lie in other clearly ascertainable directions;\nseldom more than two or three _distinct_ directions of these fractures\nbeing admitted. But if the traveller will set himself deliberately to\nwatch the shadows on the aiguilles of Chamouni as the sun moves round\nthem, he will find that nearly every quarter of an hour a new _set_ of\ncleavages becomes visible, not confused and orderless, but a series of\nlines inclining in some one definite direction, and that so positively,\nthat if he had only seen the aiguille at that moment, he would assuredly\nhave supposed its internal structure to be altogether regulated by the\nlines of bed or cleavage then in sight. Let him, however, wait for\nanother quarter of an hour, and he will see those lines fade entirely\naway as the sun rounds them; and another set, perhaps quite adverse to\nthem and assuredly lying in another direction, will as gradually become\nvisible, to die away in their turn, and be succeeded by a third scheme\nof structure.\n\n\"These 'dissolving views' of the geology of the aiguilles have often\nthrown me into despair of ever being able to give any account of their\nformation; but just in proportion as I became aware of the infinite\ncomplexity of their framework, the one great fact rose into more\nprominent and wonderful relief,--that through this inextricable\ncomplexity there was always manifested _some_ authoritative principle.\nIt mattered not at what hour of the day the aiguilles were examined, at\nthat hour they had a system of structure belonging to the moment. No\nconfusion nor anarchy ever appeared amidst their strength, but an\nineffable order, only the more perfect because incomprehensible. They\ndiffered from lower mountains, not merely in being more compact, but in\nbeing more disciplined.\n\n\"For, observe, the lines which cause these far-away effects of shadow,\nare not, as often in less noble rocks, caused by real cracks through the\nbody of the mountain; for, were this so, it would follow, from what has\njust been stated, that these aiguilles were cracked through and through\nin every direction, and therefore actually weaker, instead of stronger,\nthan other rocks. But the appearance of fracture is entirely external,\nand the sympathy or parallelism of the lines indicates, not an actual\nsplitting through the rock, but a mere disposition in the rock to split\nharmoniously when it is compelled to do so. Thus, in the shell-like\nfractures on the flank of the Aiguille Blaitiere, the rock is not\nactually divided, as it appears to be, into successive hollow plates. Go\nup close to the inner angle between one bed of rock and the next, and\nthe whole mass will be found as firmly united as a piece of glass. There\nis absolutely no crack between the beds,--no, not so much as would allow\nthe blade of a penknife to enter for a quarter of an inch;[124] but such\na subtle disposition to symmetry of fracture in the heart of the solid\nrock, that the next thunderbolt which strikes on that edge of it will\nrend away a shell-shaped fragment or series of fragments; and will\neither break it so as to continue the line of one of the existing sides,\nor in some other line parallel to that. And yet this resolvedness to\nbreak into shell-shaped fragments running north and south is only\ncharacteristic of the rock at this spot, and at certain other spots\nwhere similar circumstances have brought out this peculiar humor. Forty\nyards farther on it will be equally determined to break in another\ndirection, and nothing will persuade it to the contrary. Forty yards\nfarther it will change its mind again, and face its beds round to\nanother quarter of the compass; and yet all these alternating caprices\nare each parts of one mighty continuous caprice, which is only masked\nfor a time, as threads of one color are in a patterned stuff by threads\nof another; and thus from a distance, precisely the same cleavage is\nseen repeated again and again in different places, forming a systematic\nstructure; while other groups of cleavages will become visible in their\nturn, either as we change our place of observation, or as the sunlight\nchanges the direction of its fall.\"\n\nOne part of these rocks, I think, no geologist interested in this\nsubject should pass without examination; viz., the little spur of\nBlaitiere drawn in Plate +29+, Fig. 3. It is seen, as there shown, from\nthe moraine of the Charmoz glacier, its summit bearing S. 40 deg. W.; and\nits cleavage bed leaning to the left or S.E., against the aiguille\nBlaitiere. If, however, we go down to the extremity of the rocks\nthemselves, on the right, we shall find that all those thick beams of\nrock are actually _sawn into vertical timbers_ by other cleavage,\nsometimes so fine as to look almost slaty, directed straight S.E.,\nagainst the aiguille, as if, continued, it would saw it through and\nthrough; finally, cross the spur and go down to the glacier below,\nbetween it and the Aiguille du Plan, and the bottom of the spur will be\nfound presenting the most splendid mossy surfaces, through which the\ntrue gneissitic cleavage is faintly traceable, dipping _at right angles_\nto the beds in Fig. 3, or under the Aiguille Blaitiere, thus concurring\nwith the beds of La Cote.\n\nI forgot to note that the view of this Aiguille Blaitiere, given in\nPlate +39+, was taken from the station marked _q_ in the reference\nfigure, p. 163; and the sketch of the Aiguille du Plan at p. 187, from\nthe station marked _r_ in the same figure, a highly interesting point of\nobservation in many respects; while the course of transition from the\nprotogine into gneiss presents more remarkable phenomena on the descents\nfrom that point _r_ to the Tapia, T, than at any other easily accessible\nspot.\n\nVarious interesting descriptions of granite cleavage will be found in De\nSaussure, chiefly in his accounts of the Grimsel and St. Gothard. The\nfollowing summary of his observations on their positions of beds (1774),\nmay serve to show the reader how long I should have detained him if I\nhad endeavored to give a description of all the attendant phenomena:--\n\"Il est aussi bien curieux de voir ces gneiss, et ces granits veines, en\ncouches verticales a Guttannen; melangees d'horizontals et de verticales\nau Lauteraar; toutes verticales au Grimsel et au Gries; toutes\nhorizontales dans le Val Formazza, et enfin pour la troisieme fois\nverticales a la sortie des Alpes a l'entree du Lac Majeur.\"\n\n\nIII. LOGICAL EDUCATION.\n\nIn the Preface to the third volume I alluded to the conviction, daily\ngaining ground upon me, of the need of a more accurately logical\neducation of our youth. Truly among the most pitiable and practically\nhurtful weaknesses of the modern English mind, its usual inability to\ngrasp the connection between any two ideas which have elements of\nopposition in them, as well as of connection, is perhaps the chief. It\nis shown with singular fatality in the vague efforts made by our divines\nto meet the objections raised by free-thinkers, bearing on the nature\nand origin of evil; but there is hardly a sentence written on any matter\nrequiring careful analysis, by writers who have not yet begun to\nperceive the influence of their own vanity (and there are too many such\namong divines), which will not involve some half-lamentable,\nhalf-ludicrous, logical flaw,--such flaws being the invariable\nconsequence of a man's straining to say anything in a learned instead of\nan intelligible manner.\n\nTake a sentence, for example, from J. A. James's \"Anxious\nInquirer:\"--\"It is a great principle that _subjective religion_, _or in\nother words_, religion _in us_, is produced and sustained by fixing the\nmind on _objective religion_, _or_ the facts and doctrines of the Word\nof God.\"\n\nCut entirely out the words I have put in italics, and the sentence has a\nmeaning (though not by any means an important one). But by its\nverbosities it is extended into pure nonsense; for \"facts\" are neither\n\"objective\" nor \"subjective\"[125] religion; they are not religion at\nall. The belief of them, attended with certain feelings, is religion;\nand it must always be religion \"in us,\" for in whom else should it be\n(unless in angels; which would not make it less \"subjective\"). It is\njust as rational to call doctrines \"objective religion,\" as to call\nentreaties \"objective compassion;\" and the only real fact of any\nnotability deducible from the sentence is, that the writer desired\nearnestly to say something profound, and had nothing profound to say.\n\nTo this same defect of intellect must, in charity, be attributed many of\nthe wretched cases of special pleading which we continually hear from\nthe pulpit. In the year 1853, I heard, in Edinburgh, a sermon from a\nleading and excellent Presbyterian clergyman, on a subject generally\ngrateful to Protestant audiences, namely the impropriety and wickedness\nof fasting. The preacher entirely denied that there was any authority\nfor fasting in the New Testament; declared that there were many feasts\nappointed, but no fasts; insisted with great energy on the words\n\"forbidding to marry, and commanding to abstain from meats,\" &c., as\ndescriptive of Romanism, and _never once_, throughout a long sermon,\nventured so much as a single syllable that might recall to his\naudience's recollection the existence of such texts as Matthew iv. 2 and\nvi. 16, or Mark ix. 29. I have heard many sermons from Roman Catholic\npriests, but I never yet heard, in the strongest holds of Romanism, any\nso monstrous an instance of special pleading; in fact, it never could\nhave occurred in a sermon by any respectable Roman Catholic divine; for\nthe Romanists are trained to argument from their youth, and are always\nto some extent plausible.\n\nIt is of course impossible to determine, in such cases, how far the\npreacher, having conscientiously made up his mind on the subject by\nforegoing thought, and honestly desiring to impress his conclusion on\nhis congregation, may think his object will be best, and even\njustifiably attained, by insisting on all that is in favor of his\nposition, and trusting to the weak heads of his hearers not to find out\nthe arguments for the contrary; fearing that if he stated, in any\nproportionate measure, the considerations on the other side, he might\nnot be able, in the time allotted to him, to bring out his conclusion\nfairly. This, though I hold it an entirely false view, is nevertheless a\ncomprehensible and pardonable one, especially in a man familiar with the\nreasoning capacities of the public; though those capacities themselves\nowe half their shortcomings to being so unworthily treated. But, on the\nwhole, and looking broadly at the way the speakers and teachers of the\nnation set about their business, there is an almost fathomless failure\nin the results, owing to the general admission of special pleading as an\n_art to be taught_ to youth. The main thing which we ought to teach our\nyouth is to _see_ something,--all that the eyes which God has given them\nare capable of seeing. The sum of what we _do_ teach them is to _say_\nsomething. As far as I have experience of instruction, no man ever\ndreams of teaching a boy to get to the root of a matter; to think it\nout; to get quit of passion and desire in the process of thinking; or to\nfear no face of man in plainly asserting the ascertained result. But to\n_say_ anything in a glib and graceful manner,--to give an epigrammatic\nturn to nothing,--to quench the dim perceptions of a feeble adversary,\nand parry cunningly the home thrusts of a strong one,--to invent\nblanknesses in speech for breathing time, and slipperinesses in speech\nfor hiding time,--to polish malice to the deadliest edge, shape\nprofession to the seemliest shadow, and mask self-interest under the\nfairest pretext,--all these skills we teach definitely, as the main arts\nof business and life. There is a strange significance in the admission\nof Aristotle's Rhetoric at our universities as a class-book. Cheating at\ncards is a base profession enough, but truly it would be wiser to print\na code of gambler's legerdemain, and give _that_ for a class-book, than\nto make the legerdemain of human speech, and the clever shuffling of the\nblack spots in the human heart, the first study of our politic youth.\nAgain, the Ethics of Aristotle, though containing some shrewd talk,\ninteresting for an _old_ reader, are yet so absurdly illogical and\nsophistical, that if a young man has once read them with any faith, it\nmust take years before he recovers from the induced confusions of\nthought and false habits of argument. If there were the slightest\ndexterity or ingenuity in maintaining the false theory, there might be\nsome excuse for retaining the Ethics as a school-book, provided only the\ntutor were careful to point out, on first opening it, that the Christian\nvirtues,--namely, to love with all the heart, soul, and strength; to\nfight, not as one that beateth the air; and to do with _might_\nwhatsoever the hand findeth to do,--could not in anywise be defined as\n\"habits of choice in moderation.\" But the Aristotelian quibbles are so\nshallow, that I look upon the retention of the book as a confession by\nour universities that they consider practice in shallow quibbling one of\nthe essential disciplines of youth. Take, for instance, the distinction\nmade between \"Envy\" and \"Rejoicing at Evil\" ([Greek: phthonos] and\n[Greek: epichairekakia]), in the second book of the Ethics, viz., that\nenvy is grieved when any one meets with good-fortune; but \"the rejoicer\nat evil so far misses of grieving, as even to rejoice\" (the distinction\nbetween the _good_ and _evil_, as subjects of the emotion, being thus\nomitted, and merely the verbal opposition of grief and joy caught at);\nand conceive the result, in the minds of most youths, of being forced to\ntake tricks of words such as this (and there are too many of them in\neven the best Greek writers) for subjects of daily study and\nadmiration; the theory of the Ethics being, besides, so hopelessly\nuntenable, that even quibbling will not always face it out,--nay, will\nnot help it in exactly the first and most important example of virtue\nwhich Aristotle has to give, and the very one which we might have\nthought his theory would have fitted most neatly; for defining\n\"temperance\" as a mean, and intemperance as one relative extreme, not\nbeing able to find an opposite extreme, he escapes with the apology that\nthe kind of person who sins in the other extreme \"has no precise name;\nbecause, on the whole, he does not exist!\"\n\nI know well the common censure by which objections to such futilities of\nso-called education are met, by the men who have been ruined by\nthem,--the common plea that anything does to \"exercise the mind upon.\"\nIt is an utterly false one. The human soul, in youth, is _not_ a machine\nof which you can polish the cogs with any kelp or brickdust near at\nhand; and, having got it into working order, and good, empty, and oiled\nserviceableness, start your immortal locomotive at twenty-five years old\nor thirty, express from the Strait Gate, on the Narrow Road. The whole\nperiod of youth is one essentially of formation, edification,\ninstruction, I use the words with their weight in them; intaking of\nstores, establishment in vital habits, hopes and faiths. There is not an\nhour of it but is trembling with destinies,--not a moment of which, once\npast, the appointed work can ever be done again, or the neglected blow\nstruck on the cold iron. Take your vase of Venice glass out of the\nfurnace, and strew chaff over it in its transparent heat, and recover\n_that_ to its clearness and rubied glory when the north wind has blown\nupon it; but do not think to strew chaff over the child fresh from God's\npresence, and to bring the heavenly colors back to him--at least in this\nworld.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n [120] Compare Stones of Venice, vol. iii. chap. iii. Sec. 74.\n\n [121] Taken all in all, the works of Cruikshank have the most\n sterling value of any belonging to this class, produced in England.\n\n [122] \"The notice in Blackwood is still more scurrilous; the\n circumstance of Keats having been brought up a surgeon is the staple\n of the jokes of the piece. He is told 'it is a better and wiser\n thing to be a starved apothecary than a starved poet.'\"--_Milnes'\n Life of Keats_, vol. i. p. 200, and compare pp. 193, 194. It may\n perhaps be said that I attach too much importance to the evil of\n base criticism; but those who think so have never rightly understood\n its scope, nor the reach of that stern saying of Johnson's (Idler,\n No. 3, April 29, 1758): \"Little does he (who assumes the character\n of a critic) think how many harmless men he involves in his own\n guilt, by teaching them to be noxious without malignity, and to\n repeat objections which they do not understand.\" And truly, not in\n this kind only, but in all things whatsoever, there is not, to my\n mind, a more woful or wonderful matter of thought than the power of\n a fool. In the world's affairs there is no design so great or good\n but it will take twenty wise men to help it forward a few inches,\n and a single fool can stop it; there is no evil so great or so\n terrible but that, after a multitude of counsellors have taken means\n to avert it, a single fool will bring it down. Pestilence, famine,\n and the sword, are given into the fool's hand as the arrows into the\n hand of the giant: and if he were fairly set forth in the right\n motley, the web of it should be sackcloth and sable; the bells on\n his cap, passing balls; his badge, a bear robbed of her whelps; and\n his bauble, a sexton's spade.\n\n [123] By the way, this doubt of the possibility of an emperor's\n death till he _proves_ it, is a curious fact in the history of\n Scottish metaphysics in the nineteenth century.\n\n [124] The following extract from my diary refers to the only\n instance in which I remember any appearance of a spring, or welling\n of water through inner fissures, in the aiguilles.\n\n \"20th August. Ascended the moraine till I reached the base of\n Blaitiere; the upper part of the moraine excessively loose and edgy;\n covered with fresh snow: the rocks were wreathed in mist, and a\n light sleet, composed of small grains of kneaded snow, kept beating\n in my face; it was bitter cold too, though the thermometer was at\n 43 deg., but the wind was like that of an English December thaw. I got\n to the base of the aiguille, however, one of the most grand and\n sweeping bits of granite I have ever seen; a small gurgling\n streamlet, escaping from a fissure not wide enough to let in my\n hand, made a strange hollow ringing in the compact rock, and came\n welling out over its ledges with the sound, and successive wave, of\n water out of a narrow-necked bottle, covering the rock with ice\n (which must have been frozen there last night) two inches thick. I\n levelled the Breven top, and found it a little beneath me; the\n Charmoz glacier on the left, sank from the moraine in broken\n fragments of neve, and swept back under the dark walls of the\n Charmoz, lost in cloud.\"\n\n [125] If these two unlucky words get much more hold in the language,\n we shall soon have our philosophers refusing to call their dinner\n \"dinner,\" but speaking of it always as their \"objective appetite.\"\n\n\nEND OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.\n\n * * * * *\n\nCORRECTIONS MADE TO THE ORIGINAL TEXT.\n\nPage 31: 'his insistence upon this' corrected from 'insistance.'\n\nPage 45: 'for in utter darkness the distinction is not visible' changed\n from 'darknes.'\n\nPage 52: 'sharks, slugs, bones, fungi, frogs' originally 'fogs.'\n\nPage 60: 'sitting about three yards from a bookcase' changed from 'yard.'\n\nPage 89: 'We imagine the Deity in like manner' originally 'maner.'\n\nPage 143: 'whatever their material may be,--tilted slightly up' changed\n from 'tited.'\n\nPage 155: 'action actually taking place' corrected from 'palce.'\n\nPage 185: 'which in its beautifully curved outline)' extra ')' removed.\n\nPage 261: 'it seems partly to rebuke, and partly to guard'corrected from\n 'and party.'\n\nPage 279: 'partly of their own own gravity' removed duplicate 'own.'\n\nPage 284: (footnote [91]) 'Ce n'est pas c'a' changed to 'Ce n'est pas\n ca.'\n\nPage 291: 'are distinguished from the work of other painters' from\n 'distingushd.'\nPage 300: 'Shakespere' changed to 'Shakespeare.'\n\nPage 317: CHAPTER XIX start added '1' after the Sec..\n\nPage 352: 'its direction is illegitimate' from 'illegitmate.'\n\nPage 356: 'Celui qui boira' corrected from 'doira.'\n\nPage 358: 'all its peculiarities are mannerisms' changed from\n 'peculiarites.'","title":"Modern Painters, Volume 4 (of 5)","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":149720}