{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_7291/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_7291","id":"gutenberg_7291","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7291","summary":null,"tags":["Art","Category: Art","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Decoration and ornament","Decorative arts"],"text":"Michelle Shephard, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team\n\n\n\nTHE TWO PATHS\n\nBy John Ruskin, M.A.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nTHE TWO PATHS.\n\n\nLECTURE I.\nTHE DETERIORATIVE POWER OF CONVENTIONAL ART OVER NATIONS\n\nLECTURE II.\nTHE UNITY OF ART\n\nLECTURE III.\nMODERN MANUFACTURE AND DESIGN\n\nLECTURE IV.\nTHE INFLUENCE OF IMAGINATION IN ARCHITECTURE\n\nLECTURE V.\nTHE WORK OF IRON, IN NATURE, ART, AND POLICY\n\nAPPENDICES\n\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.\n\n\nTHE TWO PATHS.\n\nTHE IDEAL OF AN ANGEL\nTHE SERPENT BEGUILING EVE\nCONTRAST\nSYMMETRY\nORNAMENT\nCLASSICAL ARCHITECTURE\nCENTREPIECE OF BALCONY\nGENERAL EFFECT OF MASSES\nPROFILE\nTEETH OF THE BORDER\nBORDER AT THE SIDE OF BALCONY\nOUTLINE OF RETRACTED LEAVES\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nThe following addresses, though spoken at different times, are\nintentionally connected in subject; their aim being to set one or two\nmain principles of art in simple light before the general student, and\nto indicate their practical bearing on modern design. The law which it\nhas been my effort chiefly to illustrate is the dependence of all noble\ndesign, in any kind, on the sculpture or painting of Organic Form.\n\nThis is the vital law; lying at the root of all that I have ever tried\nto teach respecting architecture or any other art. It is also the law\nmost generally disallowed.\n\nI believe this must be so in every subject. We are all of us willing\nenough to accept dead truths or blunt ones; which can be fitted\nharmlessly into spare niches, or shrouded and coffined at once out of\nthe way, we holding complacently the cemetery keys, and supposing we\nhave learned something. But a sapling truth, with earth at its root and\nblossom on its branches; or a trenchant truth, that can cut its way\nthrough bars and sods; most men, it seems to me, dislike the sight or\nentertainment of, if by any means such guest or vision may be avoided.\nAnd, indeed, this is no wonder; for one such truth, thoroughly\naccepted, connects itself strangely with others, and there is no saying\nwhat it may lead us to.\n\nAnd thus the gist of what I have tried to teach about architecture has\nbeen throughout denied by my architect readers, even when they thought\nwhat I said suggestive in other particulars. \"Anything but that. Study\nItalian Gothic?--perhaps it would be as well: build with pointed\narches?--there is no objection: use solid stone and well-burnt brick?--\nby all means: but--learn to carve or paint organic form ourselves! How\ncan such a thing be asked? We are above all that. The carvers and painters\nare our servants--quite subordinate people. They ought to be glad if we\nleave room for them.\"\n\nWell: on that it all turns. For those who will not learn to carve or\npaint, and think themselves greater men because they cannot, it is\nwholly wasted time to read any words of mine; in the truest and\nsternest sense they can read no words of mine; for the most familiar I\ncan use--\"form,\" \"proportion,\" \"beauty,\" \"curvature,\" \"colour\"--are\nused in a sense which by no effort I can communicate to such readers;\nand in no building that I praise, is the thing that I praise it for,\nvisible to them.\n\nAnd it is the more necessary for me to state this fully; because so-\ncalled Gothic or Romanesque buildings are now rising every day around\nus, which might be supposed by the public more or less to embody the\nprinciples of those styles, but which embody not one of them, nor any\nshadow or fragment of them; but merely serve to caricature the noble\nbuildings of past ages, and to bring their form into dishonour by\nleaving out their soul.\n\nThe following addresses are therefore arranged, as I have just stated,\nto put this great law, and one or two collateral ones, in less\nmistakeable light, securing even in this irregular form at least\nclearness of assertion. For the rest, the question at issue is not one\nto be decided by argument, but by experiment, which if the reader is\ndisinclined to make, all demonstration must be useless to him.\n\nThe lectures are for the most part printed as they were read, mending\nonly obscure sentences here and there. The parts which were trusted to\nextempore speaking are supplied, as well as I can remember (only with\nan addition here and there of things I forgot to say), in the words, or\nat least the kind of words, used at the time; and they contain, at all\nevents, the substance of what I said more accurately than hurried\njournal reports. I must beg my readers not in general to trust to such,\nfor even in fast speaking I try to use words carefully; and any\nalteration of expression will sometimes involve a great alteration in\nmeaning. A little while ago I had to speak of an architectural design,\nand called it \"elegant,\" meaning, founded on good and well \"elected\"\nmodels; the printed report gave \"excellent\" design (that is to say,\ndesign _excellingly_ good), which I did not mean, and should, even\nin the most hurried speaking, never have said.\n\nThe illustrations of the lecture on iron were sketches made too roughly\nto be engraved, and yet of too elaborate subjects to allow of my\ndrawing them completely. Those now substituted will, however, answer\nthe purpose nearly as well, and are more directly connected with the\nsubjects of the preceding lectures; so that I hope throughout the\nvolume the student will perceive an insistance upon one main truth, nor\nlose in any minor direction of inquiry the sense of the responsibility\nwhich the acceptance of that truth fastens upon him; responsibility for\nchoice, decisive and conclusive, between two modes of study, which\ninvolve ultimately the development, or deadening, of every power he\npossesses. I have tried to hold that choice clearly out to him, and to\nunveil for him to its farthest the issue of his turning to the right\nhand or the left. Guides he may find many, and aids many; but all these\nwill be in vain unless he has first recognised the hour and the point\nof life when the way divides itself, one way leading to the Olive\nmountains--one to the vale of the Salt Sea. There are few cross roads,\nthat I know of, from one to the other. Let him pause at the parting of\nTHE TWO PATHS.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TWO PATHS\n\n\n_BEING_\n\nLECTURES ON ART, AND ITS APPLICATION TO DECORATION AND\nMANUFACTURE DELIVERED IN 1858-9.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE I.\n\nTHE DETERIORATIVE POWER OF CONVENTIONAL ART OVER\nNATIONS.\n\n\n_An Inaugural Lecture, Delivered at the Kensington Museum,\nJanuary, 1858._\n\n[Footnote: A few introductory words, in which, at the opening of this\nlecture, I thanked the Chairman (Mr. Cockerell), for his support on the\noccasion, and asked his pardon for any hasty expressions in my\nwritings, which might have seemed discourteous towards him, or other\narchitects whose general opinions were opposed to mine, may be found by\nthose who care for preambles, not much misreported, in the _Building\nChronicle;_ with such comments as the genius of that journal was\nlikely to suggest to it.]\n\n\nAs I passed, last summer, for the first time, through the north of\nScotland, it seemed to me that there was a peculiar painfulness in its\nscenery, caused by the non-manifestation of the powers of human art. I\nhad never travelled in, nor even heard or conceived of such a country\nbefore; nor, though I had passed much of my life amidst mountain\nscenery in the south, was I before aware how much of its charm depended\non the little gracefulnesses and tendernesses of human work, which are\nmingled with the beauty of the Alps, or spared by their desolation. It\nis true that the art which carves and colours the front of a Swiss\ncottage is not of any very exalted kind; yet it testifies to the\ncompleteness and the delicacy of the faculties of the mountaineer; it\nis true that the remnants of tower and battlement, which afford footing\nto the wild vine on the Alpine promontory, form but a small part of the\ngreat serration of its rocks; and yet it is just that fragment of their\nbroken outline which gives them their pathetic power, and historical\nmajesty. And this element among the wilds of our own country I found\nwholly wanting. The Highland cottage is literally a heap of gray\nstones, choked up, rather than roofed over, with black peat and\nwithered heather; the only approach to an effort at decoration consists\nin the placing of the clods of protective peat obliquely on its roof,\nso as to give a diagonal arrangement of lines, looking somewhat as if\nthe surface had been scored over by a gigantic claymore.\n\nAnd, at least among the northern hills of Scotland, elements of more\nancient architectural interest are equally absent. The solitary peel-\nhouse is hardly discernible by the windings of the stream; the roofless\naisle of the priory is lost among the enclosures of the village; and\nthe capital city of the Highlands, Inverness, placed where it might\nennoble one of the sweetest landscapes, and by the shore of one of the\nloveliest estuaries in the world;--placed between the crests of the\nGrampians and the flowing of the Moray Firth, as if it were a jewel\nclasping the folds of the mountains to the blue zone of the sea,--is\nonly distinguishable from a distance by one architectural feature, and\nexalts all the surrounding landscape by no other associations than\nthose which can be connected with its modern castellated gaol.\n\nWhile these conditions of Scottish scenery affected me very painfully,\nit being the first time in my life that I had been in any country\npossessing no valuable monuments or examples of art, they also forced\nme into the consideration of one or two difficult questions respecting\nthe effect of art on the human mind; and they forced these questions\nupon me eminently for this reason, that while I was wandering\ndisconsolately among the moors of the Grampians, where there was no art\nto be found, news of peculiar interest was every day arriving from a\ncountry where there was a great deal of art, and art of a delicate\nkind, to be found. Among the models set before you in this institution,\nand in the others established throughout the kingdom for the teaching\nof design, there are, I suppose, none in their kind more admirable than\nthe decorated works of India. They are, indeed, in all materials\ncapable of colour, wool, marble, or metal, almost inimitable in their\ndelicate application of divided hue, and fine arrangement of fantastic\nline. Nor is this power of theirs exerted by the people rarely, or\nwithout enjoyment; the love of subtle design seems universal in the\nrace, and is developed in every implement that they shape, and every\nbuilding that they raise; it attaches itself with the same intensity,\nand with the same success, to the service of superstition, of pleasure\nor of cruelty; and enriches alike, with one profusion on enchanted\niridescence, the dome of the pagoda, the fringe of the girdle and the\nedge of the sword.\n\nSo then you have, in these two great populations, Indian and Highland--\nin the races of the jungle and of the moor--two national capacities\ndistinctly and accurately opposed. On the one side you have a race\nrejoicing in art, and eminently and universally endowed with the gift\nof it; on the other you have a people careless of art, and apparently\nincapable of it, their utmost effort hitherto reaching no farther than\nto the variation of the positions of the bars of colour in square\nchequers. And we are thus urged naturally to enquire what is the effect\non the moral character, in each nation, of this vast difference in\ntheir pursuits and apparent capacities? and whether those rude chequers\nof the tartan, or the exquisitely fancied involutions of the Cashmere,\nfold habitually over the noblest hearts? We have had our answer. Since\nthe race of man began its course of sin on this earth, nothing has ever\nbeen done by it so significative of all bestial, and lower than bestial\ndegradation, as the acts the Indian race in the year that has just\npassed by. Cruelty as fierce may indeed have been wreaked, and\nbrutality as abominable been practised before, but never under like\ncircumstances; rage of prolonged war, and resentment of prolonged\noppression, have made men as cruel before now; and gradual decline into\nbarbarism, where no examples of decency or civilization existed around\nthem, has sunk, before now, isolated populations to the lowest level of\npossible humanity. But cruelty stretched to its fiercest against the\ngentle and unoffending, and corruption festered to its loathsomest in\nthe midst of the witnessing presence of a disciplined civilization,--\nthese we could not have known to be within the practicable compass of\nhuman guilt, but for the acts of the Indian mutineer. And, as thus, on\nthe one hand, you have an extreme energy of baseness displayed by these\nlovers of art; on the other,--as if to put the question into the\nnarrowest compass--you have had an extreme energy of virtue displayed\nby the despisers of art. Among all the soldiers to whom you owe your\nvictories in the Crimea, and your avenging in the Indies, to none are\nyou bound by closer bonds of gratitude than to the men who have been\nborn and bred among those desolate Highland moors. And thus you have\nthe differences in capacity and circumstance between the two nations,\nand the differences in result on the moral habits of two nations, put\ninto the most significant--the most palpable--the most brief\nopposition. Out of the peat cottage come faith, courage, self-\nsacrifice, purity, and piety, and whatever else is fruitful in the work\nof Heaven; out of the ivory palace come treachery, cruelty, cowardice,\nidolatry, bestiality,--whatever else is fruitful in the work of Hell.\n\nBut the difficulty does not close here. From one instance, of however\ngreat apparent force, it would be wholly unfair to gather any general\nconclusion--wholly illogical to assert that because we had once found\nlove of art connected with moral baseness, the love of art must be the\ngeneral root of moral baseness; and equally unfair to assert that,\nbecause we had once found neglect of art coincident with nobleness of\ndisposition, neglect of art must be always the source or sign of that\nnobleness. But if we pass from the Indian peninsula into other\ncountries of the globe; and from our own recent experience, to the\nrecords of history, we shall still find one great fact fronting us, in\nstern universality--namely, the apparent connection of great success in\nart with subsequent national degradation. You find, in the first place,\nthat the nations which possessed a refined art were always subdued by\nthose who possessed none: you find the Lydian subdued by the Mede; the\nAthenian by the Spartan; the Greek by the Roman; the Roman by the Goth;\nthe Burgundian by the Switzer: but you find, beyond this--that even\nwhere no attack by any external power has accelerated the catastrophe\nof the state, the period in which any given people reach their highest\npower in art is precisely that in which they appear to sign the warrant\nof their own ruin; and that, from the moment in which a perfect statue\nappears in Florence, a perfect picture in Venice, or a perfect fresco\nin Rome, from that hour forward, probity, industry, and courage seem to\nbe exiled from their walls, and they perish in a sculpturesque\nparalysis, or a many-coloured corruption.\n\nBut even this is not all. As art seems thus, in its delicate form, to\nbe one of the chief promoters of indolence and sensuality,--so, I need\nhardly remind you, it hitherto has appeared only in energetic\nmanifestation when it was in the service of superstition. The four\ngreatest manifestations of human intellect which founded the four\nprincipal kingdoms of art, Egyptian, Babylonian, Greek, and Italian,\nwere developed by the strong excitement of active superstition in the\nworship of Osiris, Belus, Minerva, and the Queen of Heaven. Therefore,\nto speak briefly, it may appear very difficult to show that art has\never yet existed in a consistent and thoroughly energetic school,\nunless it was engaged in the propagation of falsehood, or the\nencouragement of vice.\n\nAnd finally, while art has thus shown itself always active in the\nservice of luxury and idolatry, it has also been strongly directed to\nthe exaltation of cruelty. A nation which lives a pastoral and innocent\nlife never decorates the shepherd's staff or the plough-handle, but\nraces who live by depredation and slaughter nearly always bestow\nexquisite ornaments on the quiver, the helmet, and the spear.\n\nDoes it not seem to you, then, on all these three counts, more than\nquestionable whether we are assembled here in Kensington Museum to any\ngood purpose? Might we not justly be looked upon with suspicion and\nfear, rather than with sympathy, by the innocent and unartistical\npublic? Are we even sure of ourselves? Do we know what we are about?\nAre we met here as honest people? or are we not rather so many\nCatilines assembled to devise the hasty degradation of our country, or,\nlike a conclave of midnight witches, to summon and send forth, on new\nand unexpected missions, the demons of luxury, cruelty, and\nsuperstition?\n\nI trust, upon the whole, that it is not so: I am sure that Mr. Redgrave\nand Mr. Cole do not at all include results of this kind in their\nconception of the ultimate objects of the institution which owes so\nmuch to their strenuous and well-directed exertions. And I have put\nthis painful question before you, only that we may face it thoroughly,\nand, as I hope, out-face it. If you will give it a little sincere\nattention this evening, I trust we may find sufficiently good reasons\nfor our work, and proceed to it hereafter, as all good workmen should\ndo, with clear heads, and calm consciences.\n\nTo return, then, to the first point of difficulty, the relations\nbetween art and mental disposition in India and Scotland. It is quite\ntrue that the art of India is delicate and refined. But it has one\ncurious character distinguishing it from all other art of equal merit\nin design--_it never represents a natural fact_. It either forms\nits compositions out of meaningless fragments of colour and flowings of\nline; or if it represents any living creature, it represents that\ncreature under some distorted and monstrous form. To all the facts and\nforms of nature it wilfully and resolutely opposes itself; it will not\ndraw a man, but an eight-armed monster; it will not draw a flower, but\nonly a spiral or a zigzag.\n\nIt thus indicates that the people who practise it are cut off from all\npossible sources of healthy knowledge or natural delight; that they\nhave wilfully sealed up and put aside the entire volume of the world,\nand have got nothing to read, nothing to dwell upon, but that\nimagination of the thoughts of their hearts, of which we are told that\n\"it is only evil continually.\" Over the whole spectacle of creation\nthey have thrown a veil in which there is no rent. For them no star\npeeps through the blanket of the dark--for them neither their heaven\nshines nor their mountains rise--for them the flowers do not blossom--\nfor them the creatures of field and forest do not live. They lie bound\nin the dungeon of their own corruption, encompassed only by doleful\nphantoms, or by spectral vacancy.\n\nNeed I remind you what an exact reverse of this condition of mind, as\nrespects the observance of nature, is presented by the people whom we\nhave just been led to contemplate in contrast with the Indian race? You\nwill find upon reflection, that all the highest points of the Scottish\ncharacter are connected with impressions derived straight from the\nnatural scenery of their country. No nation has ever before shown, in\nthe general tone of its language--in the general current of its\nliterature--so constant a habit of hallowing its passions and\nconfirming its principles by direct association with the charm, or\npower, of nature. The writings of Scott and Burns--and yet more, of the\nfar greater poets than Burns who gave Scotland her traditional\nballads,--furnish you in every stanza--almost in every line--with\nexamples of this association of natural scenery with the passions;\n[Footnote: The great poets of Scotland, like the great poets of all\nother countries, never write dissolutely, either in matter or method;\nbut with stern and measured meaning in every syllable. Here's a bit of\nfirst-rate work for example:\n\n                      \"Tweed said to Till,\n                      'What gars ye rin sae still?'\n                       Till said to Tweed,\n                      'Though ye rin wi' speed,\n                       And I rin slaw,\n                       Whar ye droon ae man,\n                       I droon twa.'\"]\n\nbut an instance of its farther connection with moral principle struck\nme forcibly just at the time when I was most lamenting the absence of\nart among the people. In one of the loneliest districts of Scotland,\nwhere the peat cottages are darkest, just at the western foot of that\ngreat mass of the Grampians which encircles the sources of the Spey and\nthe Dee, the main road which traverses the chain winds round the foot\nof a broken rock called Crag, or Craig Ellachie. There is nothing\nremarkable in either its height or form; it is darkened with a few\nscattered pines, and touched along its summit with a flush of heather;\nbut it constitutes a kind of headland, or leading promontory, in the\ngroup of hills to which it belongs--a sort of initial letter of the\nmountains; and thus stands in the mind of the inhabitants of the\ndistrict, the Clan Grant, for a type of their country, and of the\ninfluence of that country upon themselves. Their sense of this is\nbeautifully indicated in the war-cry of the clan, \"Stand fast, Craig\nEllachie.\" You may think long over those few words without exhausting\nthe deep wells of feeling and thought contained in them--the love of\nthe native land, the assurance of their faithfulness to it; the subdued\nand gentle assertion of indomitable courage--I _may_ need to be\ntold to stand, but, if I do, Craig Ellachie does. You could not but\nhave felt, had you passed beneath it at the time when so many of\nEngland's dearest children were being defended by the strength of heart\nof men born at its foot, how often among the delicate Indian palaces,\nwhose marble was pallid with horror, and whose vermilion was darkened\nwith blood, the remembrance of its rough grey rocks and purple heaths\nmust have risen before the sight of the Highland soldier; how often the\nhailing of the shot and the shriek of battle would pass away from his\nhearing, and leave only the whisper of the old pine branches--\"Stand\nfast, Craig Ellachie!\"\n\nYou have, in these two nations, seen in direct opposition the effects\non moral sentiment of art without nature, and of nature without art.\nAnd you see enough to justify you in suspecting--while, if you choose\nto investigate the subject more deeply and with other examples, you\nwill find enough to justify you in _concluding_--that art,\nfollowed as such, and for its own sake, irrespective of the\ninterpretation of nature by it, is destructive of whatever is best and\nnoblest in humanity; but that nature, however simply observed, or\nimperfectly known, is, in the degree of the affection felt for it,\nprotective and helpful to all that is noblest in humanity.\n\nYou might then conclude farther, that art, so far as it was devoted to\nthe record or the interpretation of nature, would be helpful and\nennobling also.\n\nAnd you would conclude this with perfect truth. Let me repeat the\nassertion distinctly and solemnly, as the first that I am permitted to\nmake in this building, devoted in a way so new and so admirable to the\nservice of the art-students of England--Wherever art is practised for\nits own sake, and the delight of the workman is in what he _does_\nand _produces_, instead of what he _interprets_ or _exhibits_,\n--there art has an influence of the most fatal kind on brain and heart,\nand it issues, if long so pursued, in the _destruction both of intellectual\npower_ and _moral principal_; whereas art, devoted humbly and self-\nforgetfully to the clear statement and record of the facts of the universe,\nis always helpful and beneficent to mankind, full of comfort, strength,\nand salvation.\n\nNow, when you were once well assured of this, you might logically infer\nanother thing, namely, that when Art was occupied in the function in\nwhich she was serviceable, she would herself be strengthened by the\nservice, and when she was doing what Providence without doubt intended\nher to do, she would gain in vitality and dignity just as she advanced\nin usefulness. On the other hand, you might gather, that when her\nagency was distorted to the deception or degradation of mankind, she\nwould herself be equally misled and degraded--that she would be checked\nin advance, or precipitated in decline.\n\nAnd this is the truth also; and holding this clue you will easily and\njustly interpret the phenomena of history. So long as Art is steady in\nthe contemplation and exhibition of natural facts, so long she herself\nlives and grows; and in her own life and growth partly implies, partly\nsecures, that of the nation in the midst of which she is practised. But\na time has always hitherto come, in which, having thus reached a\nsingular perfection, she begins to contemplate that perfection, and to\nimitate it, and deduce rules and forms from it; and thus to forget her\nduty and ministry as the interpreter and discoverer of Truth. And in\nthe very instant when this diversion of her purpose and forgetfulness\nof her function take place--forgetfulness generally coincident with her\napparent perfection--in that instant, I say, begins her actual\ncatastrophe; and by her own fall--so far as she has influence--she\naccelerates the ruin of the nation by which she is practised.\n\nThe study, however, of the effect of art on the mind of nations is one\nrather for the historian than for us; at all events it is one for the\ndiscussion of which we have no more time this evening. But I will ask\nyour patience with me while I try to illustrate, in some further\nparticulars, the dependence of the healthy state and power of art\nitself upon the exercise of its appointed function in the\ninterpretation of fact.\n\nYou observe that I always say _interpretation_, never\n_imitation_. My reason for so doing is, first, that good art\nrarely imitates; it usually only describes or explains. But my second\nand chief reason is that good art always consists of two things: First,\nthe observation of fact; secondly, the manifesting of human design and\nauthority in the way that fact is told. Great and good art must unite\nthe two; it cannot exist for a moment but in their unity; it consists\nof the two as essentially as water consists of oxygen and hydrogen, or\nmarble of lime and carbonic acid.\n\nLet us inquire a little into the nature of each of the elements. The\nfirst element, we say, is the love of Nature, leading to the effort to\nobserve and report her truly. And this is the first and leading\nelement. Review for yourselves the history of art, and you will find\nthis to be a manifest certainty, that _no great school ever yet\nexisted which had not for primal aim the representation of some natural\nfact as truly as possible_. There have only yet appeared in the\nworld three schools of perfect art--schools, that is to say, that did\ntheir work as well as it seems possible to do it. These are the\nAthenian, [Footnote: See below, the farther notice of the real spirit\nof Greek work, in the address at Bradford.] Florentine, and Venetian.\nThe Athenian proposed to itself the perfect representation of the form\nof the human body. It strove to do that as well as it could; it did\nthat as well as it can be done; and all its greatness was founded upon\nand involved in that single and honest effort. The Florentine school\nproposed to itself the perfect expression of human emotion--the showing\nof the effects of passion in the human face and gesture. I call this\nthe Florentine school, because, whether you take Raphael for the\nculminating master of expressional art in Italy, or Leonardo, or\nMichael Angelo, you will find that the whole energy of the national\neffort which produced those masters had its root in Florence; not at\nUrbino or Milan. I say, then, this Florentine or leading Italian school\nproposed to itself human expression for its aim in natural truth; it\nstrove to do that as well as it could--did it as well as it can be\ndone--and all its greatness is rooted in that single and honest effort.\nThirdly, the Venetian school propose the representation of the effect\nof colour and shade on all things; chiefly on the human form. It tried\nto do that as well as it could--did it as well as it can be done--and\nall its greatness is founded on that single and honest effort.\n\nPray, do not leave this room without a perfectly clear holding of these\nthree ideas. You may try them, and toss them about afterwards, as much\nas you like, to see if they'll bear shaking; but do let me put them\nwell and plainly into your possession. Attach them to three works of\nart which you all have either seen or continually heard of. There's the\n(so-called) \"Theseus\" of the Elgin marbles. That represents the whole\nend and aim of the Athenian school--the natural form of the human body.\nAll their conventional architecture--their graceful shaping and\npainting of pottery--whatsoever other art they practised--was dependent\nfor its greatness on this sheet-anchor of central aim: true shape of\nliving man. Then take, for your type of the Italian school, Raphael's\n\"Disputa del Sacramento;\" that will be an accepted type by everybody,\nand will involve no possibly questionable points: the Germans will\nadmit it; the English academicians will admit it; and the English\npurists and pre-Raphaelites will admit it. Well, there you have the\ntruth of human expression proposed as an aim. That is the way people\nlook when they feel this or that--when they have this or that other\nmental character: are they devotional, thoughtful, affectionate,\nindignant, or inspired? are they prophets, saints, priests, or kings?\nthen--whatsoever is truly thoughtful, affectionate, prophetic,\npriestly, kingly--_that_ the Florentine school tried to discern,\nand show; _that_ they have discerned and shown; and all their\ngreatness is first fastened in their aim at this central truth--the\nopen expression of the living human soul. Lastly, take Veronese's\n\"Marriage in Cana\" in the Louvre. There you have the most perfect\nrepresentation possible of colour, and light, and shade, as they affect\nthe external aspect of the human form, and its immediate accessories,\narchitecture, furniture, and dress. This external aspect of noblest\nnature was the first aim of the Venetians, and all their greatness\ndepended on their resolution to achieve, and their patience in\nachieving it.\n\nHere, then, are the three greatest schools of the former world\nexemplified for you in three well-known works. The Phidian \"Theseus\"\nrepresents the Greek school pursuing truth of form; the \"Disputa\" of\nRaphael, the Florentine school pursuing truth of mental expression; the\n\"Marriage in Cana,\" the Venetian school pursuing truth of colour and\nlight. But do not suppose that the law which I am stating to you--the\ngreat law of art-life--can only be seen in these, the most powerful of\nall art schools. It is just as manifest in each and every school that\never has had life in it at all. Wheresoever the search after truth\nbegins, there life begins; wheresoever that search ceases, there life\nceases. As long as a school of art holds any chain of natural facts,\ntrying to discover more of them and express them better daily, it may\nplay hither and thither as it likes on this side of the chain or that;\nit may design grotesques and conventionalisms, build the simplest\nbuildings, serve the most practical utilities, yet all it does will be\ngloriously designed and gloriously done; but let it once quit hold of\nthe chain of natural fact, cease to pursue that as the clue to its\nwork; let it propose to itself any other end than preaching this living\nword, and think first of showing its own skill or its own fancy, and\nfrom that hour its fall is precipitate--its destruction sure; nothing\nthat it does or designs will ever have life or loveliness in it more;\nits hour has come, and there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor\nwisdom in the grave whither it goeth.\n\nLet us take for example that school of art over which many of you would\nperhaps think this law had but little power--the school of Gothic\narchitecture. Many of us may have been in the habit of thinking of that\nschool rather as of one of forms than of facts--a school of pinnacles,\nand buttresses, and conventional mouldings, and disguise of nature by\nmonstrous imaginings--not a school of truth at all. I think I shall be\nable, even in the little time we have to-night, to show that this is\nnot so; and that our great law holds just as good at Amiens and\nSalisbury, as it does at Athens and Florence.\n\nI will go back then first to the very beginnings of Gothic art, and\nbefore you, the students of Kensington, as an impanelled jury, I will\nbring two examples of the barbarism out of which Gothic art emerges,\napproximately contemporary in date and parallel in executive skill;\nbut, the one, a barbarism that did not get on, and could not get on;\nthe other, a barbarism that could get on, and did get on; and you, the\nimpanelled jury, shall judge what is the essential difference between\nthe two barbarisms, and decide for yourselves what is the seed of life\nin the one, and the sign of death in the other.\n\nThe first,--that which has in it the sign of death,--furnishes us at\nthe same time with an illustration far too interesting to be passed by,\nof certain principles much depended on by our common modern designers.\nTaking up one of our architectural publications the other day, and\nopening it at random, I chanced upon this piece of information, put in\nrather curious English; but you shall have it as it stands--\n\n\"Aristotle asserts, that the greatest species of the beautiful are\nOrder, Symmetry, and the Definite.\"\n\nI should tell you, however, that this statement is not given as\nauthoritative; it is one example of various Architectural teachings,\ngiven in a report in the _Building Chronicle_ for May, 1857, of a\nlecture on Proportion; in which the only thing the lecturer appears to\nhave proved was that,--\n\nThe system of dividing the diameter of the shaft of a column into\nparts for copying the ancient architectural remains of Greece and Rome,\nadopted by architects from Vitruvius (circa B.C. 25) to the present\nperiod, as a method for producing ancient architecture, _is entirely\nuseless_, for the several parts of Grecian architecture cannot be\nreduced or subdivided by this system; neither does it apply to the\narchitecture of Rome.\n\nStill, as far as I can make it out, the lecture appears to have been\none of those of which you will just at present hear so many, the\nprotests of architects who have no knowledge of sculpture--or of any\nother mode of expressing natural beauty--_against_ natural beauty;\nand their endeavour to substitute mathematical proportions for the\nknowledge of life they do not possess, and the representation of life\nof which they are incapable.[Illustration] Now, this substitution of\nobedience to mathematical law for sympathy with observed life, is the\nfirst characteristic of the hopeless work of all ages; as such, you\nwill find it eminently manifested in the specimen I have to give you of\nthe hopeless Gothic barbarism; the barbarism from which nothing could\nemerge--for which no future was possible but extinction. The\nAristotelian principles of the Beautiful are, you remember, Order,\nSymmetry, and the Definite. Here you have the three, in perfection,\napplied to the ideal of an angel, in a psalter of the eighth century,\nexisting in the library of St. John's College, Cambridge.[Footnote: I\ncopy this woodcut from Westwood's \"Palaeographia Sacra.\"]\n\nNow, you see the characteristics of this utterly dead school are, first\nthe wilful closing of its eyes to natural facts;--for, however ignorant\na person may be, he need only look at a human being to see that it has\na mouth as well as eyes; and secondly, the endeavour to adorn or\nidealize natural fact according to its own notions: it puts red spots\nin the middle of the hands, and sharpens the thumbs, thinking to\nimprove them. Here you have the most pure type possible of the\nprinciples of idealism in all ages: whenever people don't look at\nNature, they always think they can improve her. You will also admire,\ndoubtless, the exquisite result of the application of our great modern\narchitectural principle of beauty--symmetry, or equal balance of part\nby part; you see even the eyes are made symmetrical--entirely round,\ninstead of irregular, oval; and the iris is set properly in the middle,\ninstead of--as nature has absurdly put it--rather under the upper lid.\nYou will also observe the \"principle of the pyramid\" in the general\narrangement of the figure, and the value of \"series\" in the placing of\ndots.\n\nFrom this dead barbarism we pass to living barbarism--to work done by\nhands quite as rude, if not ruder, and by minds as uninformed; and yet\nwork which in every line of it is prophetic of power, and has in it the\nsure dawn of day. You have often heard it said that Giotto was the\nfounder of art in Italy. He was not: neither he, nor Giunta Pisano, nor\nNiccolo Pisano. They all laid strong hands to the work, and brought it\nfirst into aspect above ground; but the foundation had been laid for\nthem by the builders of the Lombardic churches in the valleys of the\nAdda and the Arno. It is in the sculpture of the round arched churches\nof North Italy, bearing disputable dates, ranging from the eighth to\nthe twelfth century, that you will find the lowest struck roots of the\nart of Titian and Raphael. [Footnote: I have said elsewhere, \"the root\nof _all_ art is struck in the thirteenth century.\" This is quite\ntrue: but of course some of the smallest fibres run lower, as in this\ninstance.] I go, therefore, to the church which is certainly the\nearliest of these, St. Ambrogio, of Milan, said still to retain some\nportions of the actual structure from which St. Ambrose excluded\nTheodosius, and at all events furnishing the most archaic examples of\nLombardic sculpture in North Italy. I do not venture to guess their\ndate; they are barbarous enough for any date.\n\nWe find the pulpit of this church covered with interlacing patterns,\nclosely resembling those of the manuscript at Cambridge, but among them\nis figure sculpture of a very different kind. It is wrought with mere\nincisions in the stone, of which the effect may be tolerably given by\nsingle lines in a drawing. Remember, therefore, for a moment--as\ncharacteristic of culminating Italian art--Michael Angelo's fresco of\nthe \"Temptation of Eve,\" in the Sistine chapel, and you will be more\ninterested in seeing the birth of Italian art, illustrated by the same\nsubject, from St. Ambrogio, of Milan, the \"Serpent beguiling Eve.\"\n[Footnote: This cut is ruder than it should be: the incisions in the\nmarble have a lighter effect than these rough black lines; but it is\nnot worth while to do it better.]\n\nYet, in that sketch, rude and ludicrous as it is, you have the elements\nof life in their first form. The people who could do that were sure to\nget on. For, observe, the workman's whole aim is straight at the facts,\nas well as he can get them; and not merely at the facts, but at the\nvery heart of the facts. A common workman might have looked at nature\nfor his serpent, but he would have thought only of its scales. But this\nfellow does not want scales, nor coils; he can do without them; he\nwants the serpent's heart--malice and insinuation;--and he has actually\ngot them to some extent. So also a common workman, even in this\nbarbarous stage of art, might have carved Eve's arms and body a good\ndeal better; but this man does not care about arms and body, if he can\nonly get at Eve's mind--show that she is pleased at being flattered,\nand yet in a state of uncomfortable hesitation. And some look of\nlistening, of complacency, and of embarrassment he has verily got:--\nnote the eyes slightly askance, the lips compressed, and the right hand\nnervously grasping the left arm: nothing can be declared impossible to\nthe people who could begin thus--the world is open to them, and all\nthat is in it; while, on the contrary, nothing is possible to the man\nwho did the symmetrical angel--the world is keyless to him; he has\nbuilt a cell for himself in which he must abide, barred up for ever--\nthere is no more hope for him than for a sponge or a madrepore.\n\nI shall not trace from this embryo the progress of Gothic art in Italy,\nbecause it is much complicated and involved with traditions of other\nschools, and because most of the students will be less familiar with\nits results than with their own northern buildings. So, these two\ndesigns indicating Death and Life in the beginnings of mediaeval art,\nwe will take an example of the _progress_ of that art from our\nnorthern work. Now, many of you, doubtless, have been interested by the\nmass, grandeur, and gloom of Norman architecture, as much as by Gothic\ntraceries; and when you hear me say that the root of all good work lies\nin natural facts, you doubtless think instantly of your round arches,\nwith their rude cushion capitals, and of the billet or zigzag work by\nwhich they are surrounded, and you cannot see what the knowledge of\nnature has to do with either the simple plan or the rude mouldings. But\nall those simple conditions of Norman art are merely the expiring of it\ntowards the extreme north. Do not study Norman architecture in\nNorthumberland, but in Normandy, and then you will find that it is just\na peculiarly manly, and practically useful, form of the whole great\nFrench school of rounded architecture. And where has that French school\nits origin? Wholly in the rich conditions of sculpture, which, rising\nfirst out of imitations of the Roman bas-reliefs, covered all the\nfa\u00e7ades of the French early churches with one continuous arabesque of\nfloral or animal life. If you want to study round-arched buildings, do\nnot go to Durham, but go to Poictiers, and there you will see how all\nthe simple decorations which give you so much pleasure even in their\nisolated application were invented by persons practised in carving men,\nmonsters, wild animals, birds, and flowers, in overwhelming redundance;\nand then trace this architecture forward in central France, and you\nwill find it loses nothing of its richness--it only gains in truth, and\ntherefore in grace, until just at the moment of transition into the\npointed style, you have the consummate type of the sculpture of the\nschool given you in the west front of the Cathedral of Chartres. From\nthat front I have chosen two fragments to illustrate it. [Footnote:\nThis part of the lecture was illustrated by two drawings, made\nadmirably by Mr. J. T. Laing, with the help of photographs from statues\nat Chartres. The drawings may be seen at present at the Kensington\nMuseum: but any large photograph of the west front of Chartres will\nenable the reader to follow what is stated in the lecture, as far as is\nneedful.]\n\nThese statues have been long, and justly, considered as representative\nof the highest skill of the twelfth or earliest part of the thirteenth\ncentury in France; and they indeed possess a dignity and delicate\ncharm, which are for the most part wanting in later works. It is owing\npartly to real nobleness of feature, but chiefly to the grace, mingled\nwith severity, of the falling lines of excessively _thin_ drapery;\nas well as to a most studied finish in composition, every part of the\nornamentation tenderly harmonizing with the rest. So far as their power\nover certain tones of religious mind is owing to a palpable degree of\nnon-naturalism in them, I do not praise it--the exaggerated thinness of\nbody and stiffness of attitude are faults; but they are noble faults,\nand give the statues a strange look of forming part of the very\nbuilding itself, and sustaining it--not like the Greek caryatid,\nwithout effort--nor like the Renaissance caryatid, by painful or\nimpossible effort--but as if all that was silent and stern, and\nwithdrawn apart, and stiffened in chill of heart against the terror of\nearth, had passed into a shape of eternal marble; and thus the Ghost\nhad given, to bear up the pillars of the church on earth, all the\npatient and expectant nature that it needed no more in heaven. This is\nthe transcendental view of the meaning of those sculptures. I do not\ndwell upon it. What I do lean upon is their purely naturalistic and\nvital power. They are all portraits--unknown, most of them, I believe,\n--but palpably and unmistakeably portraits, if not taken from the actual\nperson for whom the statue stands, at all events studied from some\nliving person whose features might fairly represent those of the king\nor saint intended. Several of them I suppose to be authentic: there is\none of a queen, who has evidently, while she lived, been notable for\nher bright black eyes. The sculptor has cut the iris deep into the\nstone, and her dark eyes are still suggested with her smile.\n\nThere is another thing I wish you to notice specially in these statues\n--the way in which the floral moulding is associated with the vertical\nlines of the figure. You have thus the utmost complexity and richness\nof curvature set side by side with the pure and delicate parallel\nlines, and both the characters gain in interest and beauty; but there\nis deeper significance in the thing than that of mere effect in\ncomposition; significance not intended on the part of the sculptor, but\nall the more valuable because unintentional. I mean the close\nassociation of the beauty of lower nature in animals and flowers, with\nthe beauty of higher nature in human form. You never get this in Greek\nwork. Greek statues are always isolated; blank fields of stone, or\ndepths of shadow, relieving the form of the statue, as the world of\nlower nature which they despised retired in darkness from their hearts.\nHere, the clothed figure seems the type of the Christian spirit--in\nmany respects feebler and more contracted--but purer; clothed in its\nwhite robes and crown, and with the riches of all creation at its side.\n\nThe next step in the change will be set before you in a moment, merely\nby comparing this statue from the west front of Chartres with that of\nthe Madonna, from the south transept door of Amiens. [Footnote: There\nare many photographs of this door and of its central statue. Its\nsculpture in the tympanum is farther described in the Fourth Lecture.]\n\nThis Madonna, with the sculpture round her, represents the culminating\npower of Gothic art in the thirteenth century. Sculpture has been\ngaining continually in the interval; gaining, simply because becoming\nevery day more truthful, more tender, and more suggestive. By the way,\nthe old Douglas motto, \"Tender and true,\" may wisely be taken up again\nby all of us, for our own, in art no less than in other things. Depend\nupon it, the first universal characteristic of all great art is\nTenderness, as the second is Truth. I find this more and more every\nday: an infinitude of tenderness is the chief gift and inheritance of\nall the truly great men. It is sure to involve a relative intensity of\ndisdain towards base things, and an appearance of sternness and\narrogance in the eyes of all hard, stupid, and vulgar people--quite\nterrific to such, if they are capable of terror, and hateful to them,\nif they are capable of nothing higher than hatred. Dante's is the great\ntype of this class of mind. I say the first inheritance is Tenderness--\nthe second Truth, because the Tenderness is in the make of the\ncreature, the Truth in his acquired habits and knowledge; besides, the\nlove comes first in dignity as well as in time, and that is always pure\nand complete: the truth, at best, imperfect.\n\nTo come back to our statue. You will observe that the arrangement of\nthis sculpture is exactly the same as at Chartres--severe falling\ndrapery, set off by rich floral ornament at the side; but the statue is\nnow completely animated: it is no longer fixed as an upright pillar,\nbut bends aside out of its niche, and the floral ornament, instead of\nbeing a conventional wreath, is of exquisitely arranged hawthorn. The\nwork, however, as a whole, though perfectly characteristic of the\nadvance of the age in style and purpose, is in some subtler qualities\ninferior to that of Chartres. The individual sculptor, though trained\nin a more advanced school, has been himself a man of inferior order of\nmind compared to the one who worked at Chartres. But I have not time to\npoint out to you the subtler characters by which I know this.\n\nThis statue, then, marks the culminating point of Gothic art, because,\nup to this time, the eyes of its designers had been steadily fixed on\nnatural truth--they had been advancing from flower to flower, from form\nto form, from face to face,--gaining perpetually in knowledge and\nveracity--therefore, perpetually in power and in grace. But at this\npoint a fatal change came over their aim. From the statue they now\nbegan to turn the attention chiefly to the niche of the statue, and\nfrom the floral ornament to the mouldings that enclosed the floral\nornament. The first result of this was, however, though not the\ngrandest, yet the most finished of northern genius. You have, in the\nearlier Gothic, less wonderful construction, less careful masonry, far\nless expression of harmony of parts in the balance of the building.\nEarlier work always has more or less of the character of a good solid\nwall with irregular holes in it, well carved wherever there is room.\nBut the last phase of good Gothic has no room to spare; it rises as\nhigh as it can on narrowest foundation, stands in perfect strength with\nthe least possible substance in its bars; connects niche with niche,\nand line with line, in an exquisite harmony, from which no stone can be\nremoved, and to which you can add not a pinnacle; and yet introduces in\nrich, though now more calculated profusion, the living element of its\nsculpture: sculpture in the quatrefoils--sculpture in the brackets--\nsculpture in the gargoyles--sculpture in the niches--sculpture in the\nridges and hollows of its mouldings,--not a shadow without meaning, and\nnot a light without life. [Footnote: The two _transepts_ of Rouen\nCathedral illustrate this style. There are plenty of photographs of\nthem. I take this opportunity of repeating what I have several times\nbefore stated, for the sake of travellers, that St. Ouen, impressive as\nit is, is entirely inferior to the transepts of Rouen Cathedral.] But\nwith this very perfection of his work came the unhappy pride of the\nbuilder in what he had done. As long as he had been merely raising\nclumsy walls and carving them like a child, in waywardness of fancy,\nhis delight was in the things he thought of as he carved; but when he\nhad once reached this pitch of constructive science, he began to think\nonly how cleverly he could put the stones together. The question was\nnot now with him, What can I represent? but, How high can I build--how\nwonderfully can I hang this arch in air, or weave this tracery across\nthe clouds? And the catastrophe was instant and irrevocable.\nArchitecture became in France a mere web of waving lines,--in England a\nmere grating of perpendicular ones. Redundance was substituted for\ninvention, and geometry for passion; tho Gothic art became a mere\nexpression of wanton expenditure, and vulgar mathematics; and was swept\naway, as it then deserved to be swept away, by the severer pride, and\npurer learning, of the schools founded on classical traditions.\n\nYou cannot now fail to see, how, throughout the history of this\nwonderful art--from its earliest dawn in Lombardy to its last\ncatastrophe in France and England--sculpture, founded on love of\nnature, was the talisman of its existence; wherever sculpture was\npractised, architecture arose--wherever that was neglected,\narchitecture expired; and, believe me, all you students who love this\nmediaeval art, there is no hope of your ever doing any good with it,\nbut on this everlasting principle. Your patriotic associations with it\nare of no use; your romantic associations with it--either of chivalry\nor religion--are of no use; they are worse than useless, they are\nfalse. Gothic is not an art for knights and nobles; it is an art for\nthe people: it is not an art for churches or sanctuaries; it is an art\nfor houses and homes: it is not an art for England only, but an art for\nthe world: above all, it is not an art of form or tradition only, but\nan art of vital practice and perpetual renewal. And whosoever pleads\nfor it as an ancient or a formal thing, and tries to teach it you as an\necclesiastical tradition or a geometrical science, knows nothing of its\nessence, less than nothing of its power.\n\nLeave, therefore, boldly, though not irreverently, mysticism and\nsymbolism on the one side; cast away with utter scorn geometry and\nlegalism on the other; seize hold of God's hand and look full in the\nface of His creation, and there is nothing He will not enable you to\nachieve.\n\nThus, then, you will find--and the more profound and accurate your\nknowledge of the history of art the more assuredly you will find--that\nthe living power in all the real schools, be they great or small, is\nlove of nature. But do not mistake me by supposing that I mean this law\nto be all that is necessary to form a school. There needs to be much\nsuperadded to it, though there never must be anything superseding it.\nThe main thing which needs to be superadded is the gift of design.\n\nIt is always dangerous, and liable to diminish the clearness of\nimpression, to go over much ground in the course of one lecture. But I\ndare not present you with a maimed view of this important subject: I\ndare not put off to another time, when the same persons would not be\nagain assembled, the statement of the great collateral necessity which,\nas well as the necessity of truth, governs all noble art.\n\nThat collateral necessity is _the visible operation of human\nintellect in the presentation of truth, _the evidence of what is\nproperly called design or plan in the work, no less than of veracity. A\nlooking-glass does not design--it receives and communicates\nindiscriminately all that passes before it; a painter designs when he\nchooses some things, refuses others, and arranges all.\n\nThis selection and arrangement must have influence over everything that\nthe art is concerned with, great or small--over lines, over colours,\nand over ideas. Given a certain group of colours, by adding another\ncolour at the side of them, you will either improve the group and\nrender it more delightful, or injure it, and render it discordant and\nunintelligible. \"Design\" is the choosing and placing the colour so as\nto help and enhance all the other colours it is set beside. So of\nthoughts: in a good composition, every idea is presented in just that\norder, and with just that force, which will perfectly connect it with\nall the other thoughts in the work, and will illustrate the others as\nwell as receive illustration from them; so that the entire chain of\nthoughts offered to the beholder's mind shall be received by him with\nas much delight and with as little effort as is possible. And thus you\nsee design, properly so called, is human invention, consulting human\ncapacity. Out of the infinite heap of things around us in the world, it\nchooses a certain number which it can thoroughly grasp, and presents\nthis group to the spectator in the form best calculated to enable him\nto grasp it also, and to grasp it with delight.\n\nAnd accordingly, the capacities of both gatherer and receiver being\nlimited, the object is to make _everything that you offer helpful_\nand precious. If you give one grain of weight too much, so as to\nincrease fatigue without profit, or bulk without value--that added\ngrain is hurtful; if you put one spot or one syllable out of its proper\nplace, that spot or syllable will be destructive--how far destructive\nit is almost impossible to tell: a misplaced touch may sometimes\nannihilate the labour of hours. Nor are any of us prepared to\nunderstand the work of any great master, till we feel this, and feel it\nas distinctly as we do the value of arrangement in the notes of music.\nTake any noble musical air, and you find, on examining it, that not one\neven of the faintest or shortest notes can be removed without\ndestruction to the whole passage in which it occurs; and that every\nnote in the passage is twenty times more beautiful so introduced, than\nit would have been if played singly on the instrument. Precisely this\ndegree of arrangement and relation must exist between every touch\n[Footnote: Literally. I know how exaggerated this statement sounds; but\nI mean it,--every syllable of it.--See Appendix IV.] and line in a\ngreat picture. You may consider the whole as a prolonged musical\ncomposition: its parts, as separate airs connected in the story; its\nlittle bits and fragments of colour and line, as separate passages or\nbars in melodies; and down to the minutest note of the whole--down to\nthe minutest _touch_,--if there is one that can be spared--that\none is doing mischief.\n\nRemember therefore always, you have two characters in which all\ngreatness of art consists:--First, the earnest and intense seizing of\nnatural facts; then the ordering those facts by strength of human\nintellect, so as to make them, for all who look upon them, to the\nutmost serviceable, memorable, and beautiful. And thus great art is\nnothing else than the type of strong and noble life; for, as the\nignoble person, in his dealings with all that occurs in the world about\nhim, first sees nothing clearly,--looks nothing fairly in the face, and\nthen allows himself to be swept away by the trampling torrent, and\nunescapable force, of the things that he would not foresee, and could\nnot understand: so the noble person, looking the facts of the world\nfull in the face, and fathoming them with deep faculty, then deals with\nthem in unalarmed intelligence and unhurried strength, and becomes,\nwith his human intellect and will, no unconscious nor insignificant\nagent, in consummating their good, and restraining their evil.\n\nThus in human life you have the two fields of rightful toil for ever\ndistinguished, yet for ever associated; Truth first--plan or design,\nfounded thereon; so in art, you have the same two fields for ever\ndistinguished, for ever associated; Truth first--plan, or design,\nfounded thereon.\n\nNow hitherto there is not the least difficulty in the subject; none of\nyou can look for a moment at any great sculptor or painter without\nseeing the full bearing of these principles. But a difficulty arises\nwhen you come to examine the art of a lower order, concerned with\nfurniture and manufacture, for in that art the element of design enters\nwithout, apparently, the element of truth. You have often to obtain\nbeauty and display invention without direct representation of nature.\nYet, respecting all these things also, the principle is perfectly\nsimple. If the designer of furniture, of cups and vases, of dress\npatterns, and the like, exercises himself continually in the imitation\nof natural form in some leading division of his work; then, holding by\nthis stem of life, he may pass down into all kinds of merely\ngeometrical or formal design with perfect safety, and with noble\nresults.[Footnote: This principle, here cursorily stated, is one of the\nchief subjects of inquiry in the following Lectures.] Thus Giotto,\nbeing primarily a figure painter and sculptor, is, secondarily, the\nrichest of all designers in mere mosaic of coloured bars and triangles;\nthus Benvenuto Cellini, being in all the higher branches of metal work\na perfect imitator of nature, is in all its lower branches the best\ndesigner of curve for lips of cups and handles of vases; thus Holbein,\nexercised primarily in the noble art of truthful portraiture, becomes,\nsecondarily, the most exquisite designer of embroideries of robe, and\nblazonries on wall; and thus Michael Angelo, exercised primarily in the\ndrawing of body and limb, distributes in the mightiest masses the order\nof his pillars, and in the loftiest shadow the hollows of his dome. But\nonce quit hold of this living stem, and set yourself to the designing\nof ornamentation, either in the ignorant play of your own heartless\nfancy, as the Indian does, or according to received application of\nheartless laws, as the modern European does, and there is but one word\nfor you--Death:--death of every healthy faculty, and of every noble\nintelligence, incapacity of understanding one great work that man has\never done, or of doing anything that it shall be helpful for him to\nbehold. You have cut yourselves off voluntarily, presumptuously,\ninsolently, from the whole teaching of your Maker in His Universe; you\nhave cut yourselves off from it, not because you were forced to\nmechanical labour for your bread--not because your fate had appointed\nyou to wear away your life in walled chambers, or dig your life out of\ndusty furrows; but, when your whole profession, your whole occupation--\nall the necessities and chances of your existence, led you straight to\nthe feet of the great Teacher, and thrust you into the treasury of His\nworks; where you have nothing to do but to live by gazing, and to grow\nby wondering;--wilfully you bind up your eyes from the splendour--\nwilfully bind up your life-blood from its beating--wilfully turn your\nbacks upon all the majesties of Omnipotence--wilfully snatch your hands\nfrom all the aids of love, and what can remain for you, but\nhelplessness and blindness,--except the worse fate than the being blind\nyourselves--that of becoming Leaders of the blind?\n\nDo not think that I am speaking under excited feeling, or in any\nexaggerated terms. I have written the words I use, that I may know what\nI say, and that you, if you choose, may see what I have said. For,\nindeed, I have set before you tonight, to the best of my power, the sum\nand substance of the system of art to the promulgation of which I have\ndevoted my life hitherto, and intend to devote what of life may still\nbe spared to me. I have had but one steady aim in all that I have ever\ntried to teach, namely--to declare that whatever was great in human art\nwas the expression of man's delight in God's work.\n\nAnd at this time I have endeavoured to prove to you--if you investigate\nthe subject you may more entirely prove to yourselves--that no school\never advanced far which had not the love of natural fact as a primal\nenergy. But it is still more important for you to be assured that the\nconditions of life and death in the art of nations are also the\nconditions of life and death in your own; and that you have it, each in\nhis power at this very instant, to determine in which direction his\nsteps are turning. It seems almost a terrible thing to tell you, that\nall here have all the power of knowing at once what hope there is for\nthem as artists; you would, perhaps, like better that there was some\nunremovable doubt about the chances of the future--some possibility\nthat you might be advancing, in unconscious ways, towards unexpected\nsuccesses--some excuse or reason for going about, as students do so\noften, to this master or the other, asking him if they have genius, and\nwhether they are doing right, and gathering, from his careless or\nformal replies, vague flashes of encouragement, or fitfulnesses of\ndespair. There is no need for this--no excuse for it. All of you have\nthe trial of yourselves in your own power; each may undergo at this\ninstant, before his own judgment seat, the ordeal by fire. Ask\nyourselves what is the leading motive which actuates you while you are\nat work. I do not ask you what your leading motive is for working--that\nis a different thing; you may have families to support--parents to\nhelp--brides to win; you may have all these, or other such sacred and\npre-eminent motives, to press the morning's labour and prompt the\ntwilight thought. But when you are fairly _at_ the work, what is\nthe motive then which tells upon every touch of it? If it is the love\nof that which your work represents--if, being a landscape painter, it\nis love of hills and trees that moves you--if, being a figure painter,\nit is love of human beauty and human soul that moves you--if, being a\nflower or animal painter, it is love, and wonder, and delight in petal\nand in limb that move you, then the Spirit is upon you, and the earth\nis yours, and the fulness thereof. But if, on the other hand, it is\npetty self-complacency in your own skill, trust in precepts and laws,\nhope for academical or popular approbation, or avarice of wealth,--it\nis quite possible that by steady industry, or even by fortunate chance,\nyou may win the applause, the position, the fortune, that you desire;--\nbut one touch of true art you will never lay on canvas or on stone as\nlong as you live.\n\nMake, then, your choice, boldly and consciously, for one way or other\nit _must_ be made. On the dark and dangerous side are set, the\npride which delights in self-contemplation--the indolence which rests\nin unquestioned forms--the ignorance that despises what is fairest\namong God's creatures, and the dulness that denies what is marvellous\nin His working: there is a life of monotony for your own souls, and of\nmisguiding for those of others. And, on the other side, is open to your\nchoice the life of the crowned spirit, moving as a light in creation--\ndiscovering always--illuminating always, gaining every hour in\nstrength, yet bowed down every hour into deeper humility; sure of being\nright in its aim, sure of being irresistible in its progress; happy in\nwhat it has securely done--happier in what, day by day, it may as\nsecurely hope; happiest at the close of life, when the right hand\nbegins to forget its cunning, to remember, that there never was a touch\nof the chisel or the pencil it wielded, but has added to the knowledge\nand quickened the happiness of mankind.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE II.\n\nTHE UNITY OF ART.\n\n_Part of an Address delivered at Manchester, 14th March, 1859._\n\n[Footnote: I was prevented, by press of other engagements, from\npreparing this address with the care I wished; and forced to trust to\nsuch expression as I could give at the moment to the points of\nprincipal importance; reading, however, the close of the preceding\nlecture, which I thought contained some truths that would bear\nrepetition. The whole was reported, better than it deserved, by Mr.\nPitman, of the _Manchester Courier_, and published nearly\nverbatim. I have here extracted, from the published report, the facts\nwhich I wish especially to enforce; and have a little cleared their\nexpression; its loose and colloquial character I cannot now help,\nunless by re-writing the whole, which it seems not worth while to do.]\n\n\nIt is sometimes my pleasant duty to visit other cities, in the hope of\nbeing able to encourage their art students; but here it is my\npleasanter privilege to come for encouragement myself. I do not know\nwhen I have received so much as from the report read this evening by\nMr. Hammersley, bearing upon a subject which has caused me great\nanxiety. For I have always felt in my own pursuit of art, and in my\nendeavors to urge the pursuit of art on others, that while there are\nmany advantages now that never existed before, there are certain\ngrievous difficulties existing, just in the very cause that is giving\nthe stimulus to art--in the immense spread of the manufactures of every\ncountry which is now attending vigorously to art. We find that\nmanufacture and art are now going on always together; that where there\nis no manufacture there is no art. I know how much there is of\npretended art where there is no manufacture: there is much in Italy,\nfor instance; no country makes so bold pretence to the production of\nnew art as Italy at this moment; yet no country produces so little. If\nyou glance over the map of Europe, you will find that where the\nmanufactures are strongest, there art also is strongest. And yet I\nalways felt that there was an immense difficulty to be encountered by\nthe students who were in these centres of modern movement. They had to\navoid the notion that art and manufacture were in any respect one. Art\nmay be healthily associated with manufacture, and probably in future\nwill always be so; but the student must be strenuously warned against\nsupposing that they can ever be one and the same thing, that art can\never be followed on the principles of manufacture. Each must be\nfollowed separately; the one must influence the other, but each must be\nkept distinctly separate from the other.\n\nIt would be well if all students would keep clearly in their mind the\nreal distinction between those words which we use so often,\n\"Manufacture,\" \"Art,\" and \"Fine Art.\" \"MANUFACTURE\" is, according to\nthe etymology and right use of the word, \"the making of anything by\nhands,\"--directly or indirectly, with or without the help of\ninstruments or machines. Anything proceeding from the hand of man is\nmanufacture; but it must have proceeded from his hand only, acting\nmechanically, and uninfluenced at the moment by direct intelligence.\n\nThen, secondly, ART is the operation of the hand and the intelligence\nof man together; there is an art of making machinery; there is an art\nof building ships; an art of making carriages; and so on. All these,\nproperly called Arts, but not Fine Arts, are pursuits in which the hand\nof man and his head go together, working at the same instant.\n\nThen FINE ART is that in which the hand, the head, and the _heart_\nof man go together.\n\nRecollect this triple group; it will help you to solve many difficult\nproblems. And remember that though the hand must be at the bottom of\neverything, it must also go to the top of everything; for Fine Art must\nbe produced by the hand of man in a much greater and clearer sense than\nmanufacture is. Fine Art must always be produced by the subtlest of all\nmachines, which is the human hand. No machine yet contrived, or\nhereafter contrivable, will ever equal the fine machinery of the human\nfingers. Thoroughly perfect art is that which proceeds from the heart,\nwhich involves all the noble emotions;--associates with these the head,\nyet as inferior to the heart; and the hand, yet as inferior to the\nheart and head; and thus brings out the whole man.\n\nHence it follows that since Manufacture is simply the operation of the\nhand of man in producing that which is useful to him, it essentially\nseparates itself from the emotions; when emotions interfere with\nmachinery they spoil it: machinery must go evenly, without emotion. But\nthe Fine Arts cannot go evenly; they always must have emotion ruling\ntheir mechanism, and until the pupil begins to feel, and until all he\ndoes associates itself with the current of his feeling, he is not an\nartist. But pupils in all the schools in this country are now exposed\nto all kinds of temptations which blunt their feelings. I constantly\nfeel discouraged in addressing them because I know not how to tell them\nboldly what they ought to do, when I feel how practically difficult it\nis for them to do it. There are all sorts of demands made upon them in\nevery direction, and money is to be made in every conceivable way but\nthe right way. If you paint as you ought, and study as you ought,\ndepend upon it the public will take no notice of you for a long while.\nIf you study wrongly, and try to draw the attention of the public upon\nyou,--supposing you to be clever students--you will get swift reward;\nbut the reward does not come fast when it is sought wisely; it is\nalways held aloof for a little while; the right roads of early life are\nvery quiet ones, hedged in from nearly all help or praise. But the\nwrong roads are noisy,--vociferous everywhere with all kinds of demand\nupon you for art which is not properly art at all; and in the various\nmeetings of modern interests, money is to be made in every way; but art\nis to be followed only in _one_ way. That is what I want mainly to\nsay to you, or if not to you yourselves (for, from what I have heard\nfrom your excellent master to-night, I know you are going on all\nrightly), you must let me say it through you to others. Our Schools of\nArt are confused by the various teaching and various interests that are\nnow abroad among us. Everybody is talking about art, and writing about\nit, and more or less interested in it; everybody wants art, and there\nis not art for everybody, and few who talk know what they are talking\nabout; thus students are led in all variable ways, while there is only\none way in which they can make steady progress, for true art is always\nand will be always one. Whatever changes may be made in the customs of\nsociety, whatever new machines we may invent, whatever new manufactures\nwe may supply, Fine Art must remain what it was two thousand years ago,\nin the days of Phidias; two thousand years hence, it will be, in all\nits principles, and in all its great effects upon the mind of man, just\nthe same. Observe this that I say, please, carefully, for I mean it to\nthe very utmost. _There is but one right way of doing any given thing\nrequired of an artist_; there may be a hundred wrong, deficient, or\nmannered ways, but there is only one complete and right way. Whenever\ntwo artists are trying to do the same thing with the same materials,\nand do it in different ways, one of them is wrong; he may be charmingly\nwrong, or impressively wrong--various circumstances in his temper may\nmake his wrong pleasanter than any person's right; it may for him,\nunder his given limitations of knowledge or temper, be better perhaps\nthat he should err in his own way than try for anybody else's--but for\nall that his way is wrong, and it is essential for all masters of\nschools to know what the right way is, and what right art is, and to\nsee how simple and how single all right art has been, since the\nbeginning of it.\n\nBut farther, not only is there but one way of _doing_ things\nrightly, but there is only one way of _seeing_ them, and that is,\nseeing the whole of them, without any choice, or more intense\nperception of one point than another, owing to our special\nidiosyncrasies. Thus, when Titian or Tintoret look at a human being,\nthey see at a glance the whole of its nature, outside and in; all that\nit has of form, of colour, of passion, or of thought; saintliness, and\nloveliness; fleshly body, and spiritual power; grace, or strength, or\nsoftness, or whatsoever other quality, those men will see to the full,\nand so paint, that, when narrower people come to look at what they have\ndone, every one may, if he chooses, find his own special pleasure in\nthe work. The sensualist will find sensuality in Titian; the thinker\nwill find thought; the saint, sanctity; the colourist, colour; the\nanatomist, form; and yet the picture will never be a popular one in the\nfull sense, for none of these narrower people will find their special\ntaste so alone consulted, as that the qualities which would ensure\ntheir gratification shall be sifted or separated from others; they are\nchecked by the presence of the other qualities which ensure the\ngratification of other men. Thus, Titian is not soft enough for the\nsensualist, Correggio suits him better; Titian is not defined enough\nfor the formalist,--Leonardo suits him better; Titian is not pure\nenough for the religionist,--Raphael suits him better; Titian is not\npolite enough for the man of the world,--Vandyke suits him better;\nTitian is not forcible enough for the lovers of the picturesque,--\nRembrandt suits him better. So Correggio is popular with a certain set,\nand Vandyke with a certain set, and Rembrandt with a certain set. All\nare great men, but of inferior stamp, and therefore Vandyke is popular,\nand Rembrandt is popular, [Footnote: And Murillo, of all true painters\nthe narrowest, feeblest, and most superficial, for those reasons the\nmost popular.] but nobody cares much at heart about Titian; only there\nis a strange under-current of everlasting murmur about his name, which\nmeans the deep consent of all great men that he is greater than they--\nthe consent of those who, having sat long enough at his feet, have\nfound in that restrained harmony of his strength there are indeed\ndepths of each balanced power more wonderful than all those separate\nmanifestations in inferior painters: that there is a softness more\nexquisite than Correggio's, a purity loftier than Leonardo's, a force\nmightier than Rembrandt's, a sanctity more solemn even than\nRaffaelle's.\n\nDo not suppose that in saying this of Titian, I am returning to the old\neclectic theories of Bologna; for all those eclectic theories, observe,\nwere based, not upon an endeavour to unite the various characters of\nnature (which it is possible to do), but the various narrownesses of\ntaste, which it is impossible to do. Rubens is not more vigorous than\nTitian, but less vigorous; but because he is so narrow-minded as to\nenjoy vigour only, he refuses to give the other qualities of nature,\nwhich would interfere with that vigour and with our perception of it.\nAgain, Rembrandt is not a greater master of chiaroscuro than Titian;--\nhe is a less master, but because he is so narrow-minded as to enjoy\nchiaroscuro only, he withdraws from you the splendour of hue which\nwould interfere with this, and gives you only the shadow in which you\ncan at once feel it.\n\nNow all these specialties have their own charm in their own way: and\nthere are times when the particular humour of each man is refreshing to\nus from its very distinctness; but the effort to add any other\nqualities to this refreshing one instantly takes away the\ndistinctiveness, and therefore the exact character to be enjoyed in its\nappeal to a particular humour in us. Our enjoyment arose from a\nweakness meeting a weakness, from a partiality in the painter fitting\nto a partiality in us, and giving us sugar when we wanted sugar, and\nmyrrh when we wanted myrrh; but sugar and myrrh are not meat: and when\nwe want meat and bread, we must go to better men.\n\nThe eclectic schools endeavoured to unite these opposite partialities\nand weaknesses. They trained themselves under masters of exaggeration,\nand tried to unite opposite exaggerations. That was impossible. They\ndid not see that the only possible eclecticism had been already\naccomplished;--the eclecticism of temperance, which, by the restraint\nof force, gains higher force; and by the self-denial of delight, gains\nhigher delight. This you will find is ultimately the case with every\ntrue and right master; at first, while we are tyros in art, or before\nwe have earnestly studied the man in question, we shall see little in\nhim; or perhaps see, as we think, deficiencies; we shall fancy he is\ninferior to this man in that, and to the other man in the other; but as\nwe go on studying him we shall find that he has got both that and the\nother; and both in a far higher sense than the man who seemed to\npossess those qualities in excess. Thus in Turner's lifetime, when\npeople first looked at him, those who liked rainy, weather, said he was\nnot equal to Copley Fielding; but those who looked at Turner long\nenough found that he could be much more wet than Copley Fielding, when\nhe chose. The people who liked force, said that \"Turner was not strong\nenough for them; he was effeminate; they liked De Wint,--nice strong\ntone;--or Cox--great, greeny, dark masses of colour--solemn feeling of\nthe freshness and depth of nature;--they liked Cox--Turner was too hot\nfor them.\" Had they looked long enough they would have found that he\nhad far more force than De Wint, far more freshness than Cox when he\nchose,--only united with other elements; and that he didn't choose to\nbe cool, if nature had appointed the weather to be hot. The people who\nliked Prout said \"Turner had not firmness of hand--he did not know\nenough about architecture--he was not picturesque enough.\" Had they\nlooked at his architecture long, they would have found that it\ncontained subtle picturesquenesses, infinitely more picturesque than\nanything of Prout's. People who liked Callcott said that \"Turner was\nnot correct or pure enough--had no classical taste.\" Had they looked at\nTurner long enough they would have found him as severe, when he chose,\nas the greater Poussin;--Callcott, a mere vulgar imitator of other\nmen's high breeding. And so throughout with all thoroughly great men,\ntheir strength is not seen at first, precisely because they unite, in\ndue place and measure, every great quality.\n\nNow the question is, whether, as students, we are to study only these\nmightiest men, who unite all greatness, or whether we are to study the\nworks of inferior men, who present us with the greatness which we\nparticularly like? That question often comes before me when I see a\nstrong idiosyncrasy in a student, and he asks me what he should study.\nShall I send him to a true master, who does not present the quality in\na prominent way in which that student delights, or send him to a man\nwith whom he has direct sympathy? It is a hard question. For very\ncurious results have sometimes been brought out, especially in late\nyears, not only by students following their own bent, but by their\nbeing withdrawn from teaching altogether. I have just named a very\ngreat man in his own field--Prout. We all know his drawings, and love\nthem: they have a peculiar character which no other architectural\ndrawings ever possessed, and which no others can possess, because all\nProut's subjects are being knocked down or restored. (Prout did not\nlike restored buildings any more than I do.) There will never be any\nmore Prout drawings. Nor could he have been what he was, or expressed\nwith that mysteriously effective touch that peculiar delight in broken\nand old buildings, unless he had been withdrawn from all high art\ninfluence. You know that Prout was born of poor parents--that he was\neducated down in Cornwall;--and that, for many years, all the art-\nteaching he had was his own, or the fishermen's. Under the keels of the\nfishing-boats, on the sands of our southern coasts, Prout learned all\nthat he needed to learn about art. Entirely by himself, he felt his way\nto this particular style, and became the painter of pictures which I\nthink we should all regret to lose. It becomes a very difficult\nquestion what that man would have been, had he been brought under some\nentirely wholesome artistic influence, He had immense gifts of\ncomposition. I do not know any man who had more power of invention than\nProut, or who had a sublimer instinct in his treatment of things; but\nbeing entirely withdrawn from all artistical help, he blunders his way\nto that short-coming representation, which, by the very reason of its\nshort-coming, has a certain charm we should all be sorry to lose. And\ntherefore I feel embarrassed when a student comes to me, in whom I see\na strong instinct of that kind: and cannot tell whether I ought to say\nto him, \"Give up all your studies of old boats, and keep away from the\nsea-shore, and come up to the Royal Academy in London, and look at\nnothing but Titian.\" It is a difficult thing to make up one's mind to\nsay that. However, I believe, on the whole, we may wisely leave such\nmatters in the hands of Providence; that if we have the power of\nteaching the right to anybody, we should teach them the right; if we\nhave the power of showing them the best thing, we should show them the\nbest thing; there will always, I fear, be enough want of teaching, and\nenough bad teaching, to bring out very curious erratical results if we\nwant them. So, if we are to teach at all, let us teach the right thing,\nand ever the right thing. There are many attractive qualities\ninconsistent with rightness;--do not let us teach them,--let us be\ncontent to waive them. There are attractive qualities in Burns, and\nattractive qualities in Dickens, which neither of those writers would\nhave possessed if the one had been educated, and the other had been\nstudying higher nature than that of cockney London; but those\nattractive qualities are not such as we should seek in a school of\nliterature. If we want to teach young men a good manner of writing, we\nshould teach it from Shakspeare,--not from Burns; from Walter Scott,--\nand not from Dickens. And I believe that our schools of painting are at\npresent inefficient in their action, because they have not fixed on\nthis high principle what are the painters to whom to point; nor boldly\nresolved to point to the best, if determinable. It is becoming a matter\nof stern necessity that they should give a simple direction to the\nattention of the student, and that they should say, \"This is the mark\nyou are to aim at; and you are not to go about to the print-shops, and\npeep in, to see how this engraver does that, and the other engraver\ndoes the other, and how a nice bit of character has been caught by a\nnew man, and why this odd picture has caught the popular attention. You\nare to have nothing to do with all that; you are not to mind about\npopular attention just now; but here is a thing which is eternally\nright and good: you are to look at that, and see if you cannot do\nsomething eternally right and good too.\"\n\nBut suppose you accept this principle: and resolve to look to some\ngreat man, Titian, or Turner, or whomsoever it may be, as the model of\nperfection in art;--then the question is, since this great man pursued\nhis art in Venice, or in the fields of England, under totally different\nconditions from those possible to us now--how are you to make your\nstudy of him effective here in Manchester? how bring it down into\npatterns, and all that you are called upon as operatives to produce?\nhow make it the means of your livelihood, and associate inferior\nbranches of art with this great art? That may become a serious doubt to\nyou. You may think there is some other way of producing clever, and\npretty, and saleable patterns than going to look at Titian, or any\nother great man. And that brings me to the question, perhaps the most\nvexed question of all amongst us just now, between conventional and\nperfect art. You know that among architects and artists there are, and\nhave been almost always, since art became a subject of much discussion,\ntwo parties, one maintaining that nature should be always altered and\nmodified, and that the artist is greater than nature; they do not\nmaintain, indeed, in words, but they maintain in idea, that the artist\nis greater than the Divine Maker of these things, and can improve them;\nwhile the other party say that he cannot improve nature, and that\nnature on the whole should improve him. That is the real meaning of the\ntwo parties, the essence of them; the practical result of their several\ntheories being that the Idealists are always producing more or less\nformal conditions of art, and the Realists striving to produce in all\ntheir art either some image of nature, or record of nature; these,\nobserve, being quite different things, the image being a resemblance,\nand the record, something which will give information about nature, but\nnot necessarily imitate it.\n\n[Footnote: The portion of the lecture here omitted was a recapitulation\nof that part of the previous one which opposed conventional art to\nnatural art.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYou may separate these two groups of artists more distinctly in your\nmind as those who seek for the pleasure of art, in the relations of its\ncolours and lines, without caring to convey any truth with it; and\nthose who seek for the truth first, and then go down from the truth to\nthe pleasure of colour and line. Marking those two bodies distinctly as\nseparate, and thinking over them, you may come to some rather notable\nconclusions respecting the mental dispositions which are involved in\neach mode of study. You will find that large masses of the art of the\nworld fall definitely under one or the other of these heads. Observe,\npleasure first and truth afterwards, (or not at all,) as with the\nArabians and Indians; or, truth first and pleasure afterwards, as with\nAngelico and all other great European painters. You will find that the\nart whose end is pleasure only is pre-eminently the gift of cruel and\nsavage nations, cruel in temper, savage in habits and conception; but\nthat the art which is especially dedicated to natural fact always\nindicates a peculiar gentleness and tenderness of mind, and that all\ngreat and successful work of that kind will assuredly be the production\nof thoughtful, sensitive, earnest, kind men, large in their views of\nlife, and full of various intellectual power. And farther, when you\nexamine the men in whom the gifts of art are variously mingled, or\nuniversally mingled, you will discern that the ornamental, or\npleasurable power, though it may be possessed by good men, is not in\nitself an indication of their goodness, but is rather, unless balanced\nby other faculties, indicative of violence of temper, inclining to\ncruelty and to irreligion. On the other hand, so sure as you find any\nman endowed with a keen and separate faculty of representing natural\nfact, so surely you will find that man gentle and upright, full of\nnobleness and breadth of thought. I will give you two instances, the\nfirst peculiarly English, and another peculiarly interesting because it\noccurs among a nation not generally very kind or gentle.\n\nI am inclined to think that, considering all the disadvantages of\ncircumstances and education under which his genius was developed, there\nwas perhaps hardly ever born a man with a more intense and innate gift\nof insight into nature than our own Sir Joshua Reynolds. Considered as\na painter of individuality in the human form and mind, I think him,\neven as it is, the prince of portrait painters. Titian paints nobler\npictures, and Vandyke had nobler subjects, but neither of them entered\nso subtly as Sir Joshua did into the minor varieties of human heart and\ntemper; arid when you consider that, with a frightful conventionality\nof social habitude all around him, he yet conceived the simplest types\nof all feminine and childish loveliness;--that in a northern climate,\nand with gray, and white, and black, as the principal colours around\nhim, he yet became a colourist who can be crushed by none, even of the\nVenetians;--and that with Dutch painting and Dresden china for the\nprevailing types of art in the saloons of his day, he threw himself at\nonce at the feet of the great masters of Italy, and arose from their\nfeet to share their throne--I know not that in the whole history of art\nyou can produce another instance of so strong, so unaided, so unerring\nan instinct for all that was true, pure, and noble.\n\nNow, do you recollect the evidence respecting the character of this\nman,--the two points of bright peculiar evidence given by the sayings\nof the two greatest literary men of his day, Johnson and Goldsmith?\nJohnson, who, as you know, was always Reynolds' attached friend, had\nbut one complaint to make against him, that he hated nobody:--\n\"Reynolds,\" he said, \"you hate no one living; I like a good hater!\"\nStill more significant is the little touch in Goldsmith's\n\"Retaliation.\" You recollect how in that poem he describes the various\npersons who met at one of their dinners at St. James's Coffee-house,\neach person being described under the name of some appropriate dish.\nYou will often hear the concluding lines about Reynolds Quoted--\n\n                  \"He shifted his trumpet,\" &c;--\n\nless often, or at least less attentively, the preceding ones, far more\nimportant--\n\n        \"Still born to improve us in every part--\n         His pencil our faces, his _manners our heart;_\"\n\nand never, the most characteristic touch of all, near the beginning:--\n\n        \"Our dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;\n         Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains.\n         To make out the dinner, full certain I am,\n         That Rich is anchovy, and Reynolds is _lamb_.\"\n\nThe other painter whom I would give you as an instance of this\ngentleness is a man of another nation, on the whole I suppose one of\nthe most cruel civilized nations in the world--the Spaniards. They\nproduced but one great painter, only one; but he among the very\ngreatest of painters, Velasquez. You would not suppose, from looking at\nVelasquez' portraits generally, that he was an especially kind or good\nman; you perceive a peculiar sternness about them; for they were as\ntrue as steel, and the persons whom he had to paint being not generally\nkind or good people, they were stern in expression, and Velasquez gave\nthe sternness; but he had precisely the same intense perception of\ntruth, the same marvellous instinct for the rendering of all natural\nsoul and all natural form that our Reynolds had. Let me, then, read you\nhis character as it is given by Mr. Stirling, of Kier:--\n\n\"Certain charges, of what nature we are not informed, brought against\nhim after his death, made it necessary for his executor, Fuensalida, to\nrefute them at a private audience granted to him by the king for that\npurpose. After listening to the defence of his friend, Philip\nimmediately made answer: 'I can believe all you say of the excellent\ndisposition of Diego Velasquez.' Having lived for half his life in\ncourts, he was yet capable both of gratitude and generosity, and in the\nmisfortunes, he could remember the early kindness of Olivares. The\nfriend of the exile of Loeches, it is just to believe that he was also\nthe friend of the all-powerful favourite at Buenretiro. No mean\njealousy ever influenced his conduct to his brother artists; he could\nafford not only to acknowledge the merits, but to forgive the malice,\nof his rivals. His character was of that _rare and happy kind, in\nwhich high intellectual power is combined with indomitable strength of\nwill, and a winning sweetness of temper_, and which seldom fails to\nraise the possessor above his fellow-men, making his life a\n\n               'laurelled victory, and smooth success\n                Be strewed before his feet.'\"\n\nI am sometimes accused of trying to make art too moral; yet, observe, I\ndo not say in the least that in order to be a good painter you must be\na good man; but I do say that in order to be a good natural painter\nthere must be strong elements of good in the mind, however warped by\nother parts of the character. There are hundreds of other gifts of\npainting which are not at all involved with moral conditions, but this\none, the perception of nature, is never given but under certain moral\nconditions. Therefore, now you have it in your choice; here are your\ntwo paths for you: it is required of you to produce conventional\nornament, and you may approach the task as the Hindoo does, and as the\nArab did,--without nature at all, with the chance of approximating your\ndisposition somewhat to that of the Hindoos and Arabs; or as Sir Joshua\nand Velasquez did, with, not the chance, but the certainty, of\napproximating your disposition, according to the sincerity of your\neffort--to the disposition of those great and good men.\n\nAnd do you suppose you will lose anything by approaching your\nconventional art from this higher side? Not so. I called, with\ndeliberate measurement of my expression, long ago, the decoration of\nthe Alhambra \"detestable,\" not merely because indicative of base\nconditions of moral being, but because merely as decorative work,\nhowever captivating in some respects, it is wholly wanting in the real,\ndeep, and intense qualities of ornamental art. Noble conventional\ndecoration belongs only to three periods. First, there is the\nconventional decoration of the Greeks, used in subordination to their\nsculpture. There are then the noble conventional decoration of the\nearly Gothic schools, and the noble conventional arabesque of the great\nItalian schools. All these were reached from above, all reached by\nstooping from a knowledge of the human form. Depend upon it you will\nfind, as you look more and more into the matter, that good subordinate\nornament has ever been rooted in a higher knowledge; and if you are\nagain to produce anything that is noble, you must have the higher\nknowledge first, and descend to all lower service; condescend as much\nas you like,--condescension never does any man any harm,--but get your\nnoble standing first. So, then, without any scruple, whatever branch of\nart you may be inclined as a student here to follow,--whatever you are\nto make your bread by, I say, so far as you have time and power, make\nyourself first a noble and accomplished artist; understand at least\nwhat noble and accomplished art is, and then you will be able to apply\nyour knowledge to all service whatsoever.\n\nI am now going to ask your permission to name the masters whom I think\nit would be well if we could agree, in our Schools of Art in England,\nto consider our leaders. The first and chief I will not myself presume\nto name; he shall be distinguished for you by the authority of those\ntwo great painters of whom we have just been speaking--Reynolds and\nVelasquez. You may remember that in your Manchester Art Treasures\nExhibition the most impressive things were the works of those two men--\nnothing told upon the eye so much; no other pictures retained it with\nsuch a persistent power. Now, I have the testimony, first of Reynolds\nto Velasquez, and then of Velasquez to the man whom I want you to take\nas the master of all your English schools. The testimony of Reynolds to\nVelasquez is very striking. I take it from some fragments which have\njust been published by Mr. William Cotton--precious fragments--of\nReynolds' diaries, which I chanced upon luckily as I was coming down\nhere: for I was going to take Velasquez' testimony alone, and then fell\nupon this testimony of Reynolds to Velasquez, written most fortunately\nin Reynolds' own hand-you may see the manuscript. \"What _we_ are\nall,\" said Reynolds, \"attempting to do with great labor, Velasquez does\nat once.\" Just think what is implied when a man of the enormous power\nand facility that Reynolds had, says he was \"trying to do with great\nlabor\" what Velasquez \"did at once.\"\n\nHaving thus Reynolds' testimony to Velasquez, I will take Velasquez'\ntestimony to somebody else. You know that Velasquez was sent by Philip\nof Spain to Italy, to buy pictures for him. He went all over Italy, saw\nthe living artists there, and all their best pictures when freshly\npainted, so that he had every opportunity of judging; and never was a\nman so capable of judging. He went to Rome and ordered various works of\nliving artists; and while there, he was one day asked by Salvator Rosa\nwhat he thought of Raphael. His reply, and the ensuing conversation,\nare thus reported by Boschini, in curious Italian verse, which, thus\ntranslated by Dr. Donaldson, is quoted in Mr. Stirling's Life of\nVelasquez:--\n\n          \"The master\" [Velasquez] \"stiffly bowed his figure tall\n             And said, 'For Rafael, to speak the truth--\n             I always was plain-spoken from my youth--\n           I cannot say I like his works at all.'\n\n          \"'Well,' said the other\" [Salvator], 'if you can run down\n             So great a man, I really cannot see\n             What you can find to like in Italy;\n           To him we all agree to give the crown.'\n\n          \"Diego answered thus: 'I saw in Venice\n             The true test of the good and beautiful;\n             First in my judgment, ever stands that school,\n           And Titian first of all Italian men is.'\"\n\n          \"_Tizian ze quel die porta la bandiera_\"\n\nLearn that line by heart and act, at all events for some time to come,\nupon Velasquez' opinion in that matter. Titian is much the safest\nmaster for you. Raphael's power, such as it characters in his mind; it\nis \"Raphaelesque,\" properly so called; but Titian's power is simply the\npower of doing right. Whatever came before Titian, he did wholly as it\n_ought_ to be done. Do not suppose that now in recommending Titian\nto you so strongly, and speaking of nobody else to-night, I am\nretreating in anywise from what some of you may perhaps recollect in my\nworks, the enthusiasm with which I have always spoken of another\nVenetian painter. There are three Venetians who are never separated in\nmy mind--Titian, Veronese, and Tintoret. They all have their own\nunequalled gifts, and Tintoret especially has imagination and depth of\nsoul which I think renders him indisputably the greatest man; but,\nequally indisputably, Titian is the greatest painter; and therefore the\ngreatest painter who ever lived. You may be led wrong by Tintoret\n[Footnote: See Appendix I.--\"Right and Wrong.\"] in many respects, wrong\nby Raphael in more; all that you learn from Titian will be right. Then,\nwith Titian, take Leonardo, Rembrandt, and Albert D\u00fcrer. I name those\nthree masters for this reason: Leonardo has powers of subtle drawing\nwhich are peculiarly applicable in many ways to the drawing of fine\nornament, and are very useful for all students. Rembrandt and D\u00fcrer are\nthe only men whose actual work of hand you can have to look at; you can\nhave Rembrandt's etchings, or D\u00fcrer's engravings actually hung in your\nschools; and it is a main point for the student to see the real thing,\nand avoid judging of masters at second-hand. As, however, in obeying\nthis principle, you cannot often have opportunities of studying\nVenetian painting, it is desirable that you should have a useful\nstandard of colour, and I think it is possible for you to obtain this.\nI cannot, indeed, without entering upon ground which might involve the\nhurting the feelings of living artists, state exactly what I believe to\nbe the relative position of various painters in England at present with\nrespect to power of colour. But I may say this, that in the peculiar\ngifts of colour which will be useful to you as students, there are only\none or two of the pre-Raphaelites, and William Hunt, of the old Water\nColour Society, who would be safe guides for you: and as quite a safe\nguide, there is nobody but William Hunt, because the pre-Raphaelites\nare all more or less affected by enthusiasm and by various morbid\nconditions of intellect and temper; but old William Hunt--I am sorry to\nsay \"old,\" but I say it in a loving way, for every year that has added\nto his life has added also to his skill--William Hunt is as right as\nthe Venetians, as far as he goes, and what is more, nearly as\ninimitable as they. And I think if we manage to put in the principal\nschools of England a little bit of Hunt's work, and make that somewhat\nof a standard of colour, that we can apply his principles of colouring\nto subjects of all kinds. Until you have had a work of his long near\nyou; nay, unless you have been labouring at it, and trying to copy it,\nyou do not know the thoroughly grand qualities that are concentrated in\nit. Simplicity, and intensity, both of the highest character;--\nsimplicity of aim, and intensity of power and success, are involved in\nthat man's unpretending labour.\n\nFinally, you cannot believe that I would omit my own favourite, Turner.\nI fear from the very number of his works left to the nation, that there\nis a disposition now rising to look upon his vast bequest with some\ncontempt. I beg of you, if in nothing else, to believe me in this, that\nyou cannot further the art of England in any way more distinctly than\nby giving attention to every fragment that has been left by that man.\nThe time will come when his full power and right place will be\nacknowledged; that time will not be for many a day yet: nevertheless,\nbe assured--as far as you are inclined to give the least faith to\nanything I may say to you, be assured--that you can act for the good of\nart in England in no better way than by using whatever influence any of\nyou have in any direction to urge the reverent study and yet more\nreverent preservation of the works of Turner. I do not say \"the\nexhibition\" of his works, for we are not altogether ripe for it: they\nare still too far above us; uniting, as I was telling you, too many\nqualities for us yet to feel fully their range and their influence;--\nbut let us only try to keep them safe from harm, and show thoroughly\nand conveniently what we show of them at all, and day by day their\ngreatness will dawn upon us more and more, and be the root of a school\nof art in England, which I do not doubt may be as bright, as just, and\nas refined as even that of Venice herself. The dominion of the sea\nseems to have been associated, in past time, with dominion in the arts\nalso: Athens had them together; Venice had them together; but by so\nmuch as our authority over the ocean is wider than theirs over the\n\u00c6gean or Adriatic, let us strive to make our art more widely beneficent\nthan theirs, though it cannot be more exalted; so working out the\nfulfilment, in their wakening as well as their warning sense, of those\ngreat words of the aged Tintoret:\n\n                    \"Sempre si fa il mare maggiore.\"\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE III.\n\nMODERN MANUFACTURE AND DESIGN.\n\n_A Lecture delivered at Bradford, March, 1859_.\n\n\nIt is with a deep sense of necessity for your indulgence that I venture\nto address you to-night, or that I venture at any time to address the\npupils of schools of design intended for the advancement of taste in\nspecial branches of manufacture. No person is able to give useful and\ndefinite help towards such special applications of art, unless he is\nentirely familiar with the conditions of labour and natures of material\ninvolved in the work; and indefinite help is little better than no help\nat all. Nay, the few remarks which I propose to lay before you this\nevening will, I fear, be rather suggestive of difficulties than helpful\nin conquering them: nevertheless, it may not be altogether\nunserviceable to define clearly for you (and this, at least, I am able\nto do) one or two of the more stern general obstacles which stand at\npresent in the way of our success in design; and to warn you against\nexertion of effort in any vain or wasteful way, till these main\nobstacles are removed.\n\nThe first of these is our not understanding the scope and dignity of\nDecorative design. With all our talk about it, the very meaning of the\nwords \"Decorative art\" remains confused and undecided. I want, if\npossible, to settle this question for you to-night, and to show you\nthat the principles on which you must work are likely to be false, in\nproportion as they are narrow; true, only as they are founded on a\nperception of the connection of all branches of art with each other.\n\nObserve, then, first--the only essential distinction between Decorative\nand other art is the being fitted for a fixed place; and in that place,\nrelated, either in subordination or command, to the effect of other\npieces of art. And all the greatest art which the world has produced is\nthus fitted for a place, and subordinated to a purpose. There is no\nexisting highest-order art but is decorative. The best sculpture yet\nproduced has been the decoration of a temple front--the best painting,\nthe decoration of a room. Raphael's best doing is merely the wall-\ncolouring of a suite of apartments in the Vatican, and his cartoons\nwere made for tapestries. Correggio's best doing is the decoration of\ntwo small church cupolas at Parma; Michael Angelo's of a ceiling in the\nPope's private chapel; Tintoret's, of a ceiling and side wall belonging\nto a charitable society at Venice; while Titian and Veronese threw out\ntheir noblest thoughts, not even on the inside, but on the outside of\nthe common brick and plaster walls of Venice.\n\nGet rid, then, at once of any idea of Decorative art being a degraded\nor a separate kind of art. Its nature or essence is simply its being\nfitted for a definite place; and, in that place, forming part of a\ngreat and harmonious whole, in companionship with other art; and so far\nfrom this being a degradation to it--so far from Decorative art being\ninferior to other art because it is fixed to a spot--on the whole it\nmay be considered as rather a piece of degradation that it should be\nportable. Portable art--independent of all place--is for the most part\nignoble art. Your little Dutch landscape, which you put over your\nsideboard to-day, and between the windows tomorrow, is a far more\ncontemptible piece of work than the extents of field and forest with\nwhich Benozzo has made green and beautiful the once melancholy arcade\nof the Campo Santo at Pisa; and the wild boar of silver which you use\nfor a seal, or lock into a velvet case, is little likely to be so noble\na beast as the bronze boar who foams forth the fountain from under his\ntusks in the market-place of Florence. It is, indeed, possible that the\nportable picture or image may be first-rate of its kind, but it is not\nfirst-rate because it is portable; nor are Titian's frescoes less than\nfirst-rate because they are fixed; nay, very frequently the highest\ncompliment you can pay to a cabinet picture is to say--\"It is as grand\nas a fresco.\"\n\nKeeping, then, this fact fixed in our minds,--that all art _may_\nbe decorative, and that the greatest art yet produced has been\ndecorative,--we may proceed to distinguish the orders and dignities of\ndecorative art, thus:--\n\nI. The first order of it is that which is meant for places where it\ncannot be disturbed or injured, and where it can be perfectly seen; and\nthen the main parts of it should be, and have always been made, by the\ngreat masters, as perfect, and as full of nature as possible.\n\nYou will every day hear it absurdly said that room decoration should be\nby flat patterns--by dead colours--by conventional monotonies, and I\nknow not what. Now, just be assured of this--nobody ever yet used\nconventional art to decorate with, when he could do anything better,\nand knew that what he did would be safe. Nay, a great painter will\nalways give you the natural art, safe or not. Correggio gets a\ncommission to paint a room on the ground floor of a palace at Parma:\nany of our people--bred on our fine modern principles--would have\ncovered it with a diaper, or with stripes or flourishes, or mosaic\npatterns. Not so Correggio: he paints a thick trellis of vine-leaves,\nwith oval openings, and lovely children leaping through them into the\nroom; and lovely children, depend upon it, are rather more desirable\ndecorations than diaper, if you can do them--but they are not quite so\neasily done. In like manner Tintoret has to paint the whole end of the\nCouncil Hall at Venice. An orthodox decorator would have set himself to\nmake the wall look like a wall--Tintoret thinks it would be rather\nbetter, if he can manage it, to make it look a little like Paradise;--\nstretches his canvas right over the wall, and his clouds right over his\ncanvas; brings the light through his clouds--all blue and clear--zodiac\nbeyond zodiac; rolls away the vaporous flood from under the feet of\nsaints, leaving them at last in infinitudes of light--unorthodox in the\nlast degree, but, on the whole, pleasant.\n\nAnd so in all other cases whatever, the greatest decorative art is\nwholly unconventional--downright, pure, good painting and sculpture,\nbut always fitted for its place; and subordinated to the purpose it has\nto serve in that place.\n\nII. But if art is to be placed where it is liable to injury--to wear\nand tear; or to alteration of its form; as, for instance, on domestic\nutensils, and armour, and weapons, and dress; in which either the\nornament will be worn out by the usage of the thing, or will be cast\ninto altered shape by the play of its folds; then it is wrong to put\nbeautiful and perfect art to such uses, and you want forms of inferior\nart, such as will be by their simplicity less liable to injury; or, by\nreason of their complexity and continuousness, may show to advantage,\nhowever distorted by the folds they are cast into.\n\nAnd thus arise the various forms of inferior decorative art, respecting\nwhich the general law is, that the lower the place and office of the\nthing, the less of natural or perfect form you should have in it; a\nzigzag or a chequer is thus a better, because a more consistent\nornament for a cup or platter than a landscape or portrait is: hence\nthe general definition of the true forms of conventional ornament is,\nthat they consist in the bestowal of as much beauty on the object as\nshall be consistent with its Material, its Place, and its Office.\n\nLet us consider these three modes of consistency a little.\n\n(A.) Conventionalism by cause of inefficiency of material.\n\nIf, for instance, we are required to represent a human figure with\nstone only, we cannot represent its colour; we reduce its colour to\nwhiteness. That is not elevating the human body, but degrading it; only\nit would be a much greater degradation to give its colour falsely.\nDiminish beauty as much as you will, but do not misrepresent it. So\nagain, when we are sculpturing a face, we can't carve its eyelashes.\nThe face is none the better for wanting its eyelashes--it is injured by\nthe want; but would be much more injured by a clumsy representation of\nthem.\n\nNeither can we carve the hair. We must be content with the\nconventionalism of vile solid knots and lumps of marble, instead of the\ngolden cloud that encompasses the fair human face with its waving\nmystery. The lumps of marble are not an elevated representation of\nhair--they are a degraded one; yet better than any attempt to imitate\nhair with the incapable material.\n\nIn all cases in which such imitation is attempted, instant degradation\nto a still lower level is the result. For the effort to imitate shows\nthat the workman has only a base and poor conception of the beauty of\nthe reality--else he would know his task to be hopeless, and give it up\nat once; so that all endeavours to avoid conventionalism, when the\nmaterial demands it, result from insensibility to truth, and are among\nthe worst forms of vulgarity. Hence, in the greatest Greek statues, the\nhair is very slightly indicated--not because the sculptor disdained\nhair, but because he knew what it was too well to touch it insolently.\nI do not doubt but that the Greek painters drew hair exactly as Titian\ndoes. Modern attempts to produce finished pictures on glass result from\nthe same base vulgarism. No man who knows what painting means, can\nendure a painted glass window which emulates painter's work. But he\nrejoices in a glowing mosaic of broken colour: for that is what the\nglass has the special gift and right of producing. [Footnote: See\nAppendix II., Sir Joshua Reynolds's disappointment.]\n\n(B.) Conventionalism by cause of inferiority of place.\n\nWhen work is to be seen at a great distance, or in dark places, or in\nsome other imperfect way, it constantly becomes necessary to treat it\ncoarsely or severely, in order to make it effective. The statues on\ncathedral fronts, in good times of design, are variously treated\naccording to their distances: no fine execution is put into the\nfeatures of the Madonna who rules the group of figures above the south\ntransept of Rouen at 150 feet above the ground; but in base modern\nwork, as Milan Cathedral, the sculpture is finished without any\nreference to distance; and the merit of every statue is supposed to\nconsist in the visitor's being obliged to ascend three hundred steps\nbefore he can see it.\n\n(C.) Conventionalism by cause of inferiority of office.\n\nWhen one piece of ornament is to be subordinated to another (as the\nmoulding is to the sculpture it encloses, or the fringe of a drapery to\nthe statue it veils), this inferior ornament needs to be degraded in\norder to mark its lower office; and this is best done by refusing, more\nor less, the introduction of natural form. The less of nature it\ncontains, the more degraded is the ornament, and the fitter for a\nhumble place; but, however far a great workman may go in refusing the\nhigher organisms of nature, he always takes care to retain the\nmagnificence of natural lines; that is to say, of the infinite curves,\nsuch as I have analyzed in the fourth volume of \"Modern Painters.\" His\ncopyists, fancying that they can follow him without nature, miss\nprecisely the essence of all the work; so that even the simplest piece\nof Greek conventional ornament loses the whole of its value in any\nmodern imitation of it, the finer curves being always missed. Perhaps\none of the dullest and least justifiable mistakes which have yet been\nmade about my writing, is the supposition that I have attacked or\ndespised Greek work. I have attacked Palladian work, and modern\nimitation of Greek work. Of Greek work itself I have never spoken but\nwith a reverence quite infinite: I name Phidias always in exactly the\nsame tone with which I speak of Michael Angelo, Titian, and Dante. My\nfirst statement of this faith, now thirteen years ago, was surely clear\nenough. \"We shall see by this light three colossal images standing up\nside by side, looming in their great rest of spirituality above the\nwhole world horizon. Phidias, Michael Angelo, and Dante,--from these we\nmay go down step by step among the mighty men of every age, securely\nand certainly observant of diminished lustre in every appearance of\nrestlessness and effort, until the last trace of inspiration vanishes\nin the tottering affectation or tortured insanities of modern times.\"\n(\"Modern Painters,\" vol. ii., p. 253.) This was surely plain speaking\nenough, and from that day to this my effort has been not less\ncontinually to make the heart of Greek work known than the heart of\nGothic: namely, the nobleness of conception of form derived from\nperpetual study of the figure; and my complaint of the modern architect\nhas been not that he followed the Greeks, but that he denied the first\nlaws of life in theirs as in all other art.\n\nThe fact is, that all good subordinate forms of ornamentation ever yet\nexistent in the world have been invented, and others as beautiful can\nonly be invented, by men primarily exercised in drawing or carving the\nhuman figure. I will not repeat here what I have already twice insisted\nupon, to the students of London and Manchester, respecting the\ndegradation of temper and intellect which follows the pursuit of art\nwithout reference to natural form, as among the Asiatics: here, I will\nonly trespass on your patience so far as to mark the inseparable\nconnection between figure-drawing and good ornamental work, in the\ngreat European schools, and all that are connected with them.\n\nTell me, then, first of all, what ornamental work is usually put before\nour students as the type of decorative perfection? Raphael's\narabesques; are they not? Well, Raphael knew a little about the figure,\nI suppose, before he drew them. I do not say that I like those\narabesques; but there are certain qualities in them which are\ninimitable by modern designers; and those qualities are just the fruit\nof the master's figure study. What is given the student as next to\nRaphael's work? Cinquecento ornament generally. Well, cinquecento\ngenerally, with its birds, and cherubs, and wreathed foliage, and\nclustered fruit, was the amusement of men who habitually and easily\ncarved the figure, or painted it. All the truly fine specimens of it\nhave figures or animals as main parts of the design.\n\n\"Nay, but,\" some anciently or medi\u00e6vally minded person will exclaim,\n\"we don't want to study cinquecento. We want severer, purer\nconventionalism.\" What will you have? Egyptian ornament? Why, the whole\nmass of it is made up of multitudinous human figures in every kind of\naction--and magnificent action; their kings drawing their bows in their\nchariots, their sheaves of arrows rattling at their shoulders; the\nslain falling under them as before a pestilence; their captors driven\nbefore them in astonied troops; and do you expect to imitate Egyptian\nornament without knowing how to draw the human figure? Nay, but you\nwill take Christian ornament--purest mediaeval Christian--thirteenth\ncentury! Yes: and do you suppose you will find the Christian less\nhuman? The least natural and most purely conventional ornament of the\nGothic schools is that of their painted glass; and do you suppose\npainted glass, in the fine times, was ever wrought without figures? We\nhave got into the way, among our other modern wretchednesses, of trying\nto make windows of leaf diapers, and of strips of twisted red and\nyellow bands, looking like the patterns of currant jelly on the top of\nChristmas cakes; but every casement of old glass contained a saint's\nhistory. The windows of Bourges, Chartres, or Rouen have ten, fifteen,\nor twenty medallions in each, and each medallion contains two figures\nat least, often six or seven, representing every event of interest in\nthe history of the saint whose life is in question. Nay, but, you say\nthose figures are rude and quaint, and ought not to be imitated. Why,\nso is the leafage rude and quaint, yet you imitate that. The coloured\nborder pattern of geranium or ivy leaf is not one whit better drawn, or\nmore like geraniums and ivy, than the figures are like figures; but you\ncall the geranium leaf idealized--why don't you call the figures so?\nThe fact is, neither are idealized, but both are conventionalized on\nthe same principles, and in the same way; and if you want to learn how\nto treat the leafage, the only way is to learn first how to treat the\nfigure. And you may soon test your powers in this respect. Those old\nworkmen were not afraid of the most familiar subjects. The windows of\nChartres were presented by the trades of the town, and at the bottom of\neach window is a representation of the proceedings of the tradesmen at\nthe business which enabled them to pay for the window. There are smiths\nat the forge, curriers at their hides, tanners looking into their pits,\nmercers selling goods over the counter--all made into beautiful\nmedallions. Therefore, whenever you want to know whether you have got\nany real power of composition or adaptation in ornament, don't be\ncontent with sticking leaves together by the ends,--anybody can do\nthat; but try to conventionalize a butcher's or a greengrocer's, with\nSaturday night customers buying cabbage and beef. That will tell you if\nyou can design or not.\n\nI can fancy your losing patience with me altogether just now. \"We asked\nthis fellow down to tell our workmen how to make shawls, and he is only\ntrying to teach them how to caricature.\" But have a little patience\nwith me, and examine, after I have done, a little for yourselves into\nthe history of ornamental art, and you will discover why I do this. You\nwill discover, I repeat, that all great ornamental art whatever is\nfounded on the effort of the workman to draw the figure, and, in the\nbest schools, to draw all that he saw about him in living nature. The\nbest art of pottery is acknowledged to be that of Greece, and all the\npower of design exhibited in it, down to the merest zigzag, arises\nprimarily from the workman having been forced to outline nymphs and\nknights; from those helmed and draped figures he holds his power. Of\nEgyptian ornament I have just spoken. You have everything given there\nthat the workman saw; people of his nation employed in hunting,\nfighting, fishing, visiting, making love, building, cooking--everything\nthey did is drawn, magnificently or familiarly, as was needed. In\nByzantine ornament, saints, or animals which are types of various\nspiritual power, are the main subjects; and from the church down to the\npiece of enamelled metal, figure,--figure,--figure, always principal.\nIn Norman and Gothic work you have, with all their quiet saints, also\nother much disquieted persons, hunting, feasting, fighting, and so on;\nor whole hordes of animals racing after each other. In the Bayeux\ntapestry, Queen Matilda gave, as well as she could,--in many respects\ngraphically enough,--the whole history of the conquest of England.\nThence, as you increase in power of art, you have more and more\nfinished figures, up to the solemn sculptures of Wells Cathedral, or\nthe cherubic enrichments of the Venetian Madonna dei Miracoli.\nTherefore, I will tell you fearlessly, for I know it is true, you must\nraise your workman up to life, or you will never get from him one line\nof well-imagined conventionalism. We have at present no good ornamental\ndesign. We can't have it yet, and we must be patient if we want to have\nit. Do not hope to feel the effect of your schools at once, but raise\nthe men as high as you can, and then let them stoop as low as you need;\nno great man ever minds stooping. Encourage the students, in sketching\naccurately and continually from nature anything that comes in their\nway--still life, flowers, animals; but, above all, figures; and so far\nas you allow of any difference between an artist's training and theirs,\nlet it be, not in what they draw, but in the degree of conventionalism\nyou require in the sketch.\n\nFor my own part, I should always endeavour to give thorough artistical\ntraining first; but I am not certain (the experiment being yet untried)\nwhat results may be obtained by a truly intelligent practice of\nconventional drawing, such as that of the Egyptians, Greeks, or\nthirteenth century French, which consists in the utmost possible\nrendering of natural form by the fewest possible lines. The animal and\nbird drawing of the Egyptians is, in their fine age, quite magnificent\nunder its conditions; magnificent in two ways--first, in keenest\nperception of the main forms and facts in the creature; and, secondly,\nin the grandeur of line by which their forms are abstracted and\ninsisted on, making every asp, ibis, and vulture a sublime spectre of\nasp or ibis or vulture power. The way for students to get some of this\ngift again (_some_ only, for I believe the fulness of the gift\nitself to be connected with vital superstition, and with resulting\nintensity of reverence; people were likely to know something about\nhawks and ibises, when to kill one was to be irrevocably judged to\ndeath) is never to pass a day without drawing some animal from the\nlife, allowing themselves the fewest possible lines and colours to do\nit with, but resolving that whatever is characteristic of the animal\nshall in some way or other be shown. [Footnote: Plate 75 in Vol. V. of\nWilkinson's \"Ancient Egypt\" will give the student an idea of how to set\nto work.] I repeat, it cannot yet be judged what results might be\nobtained by a nobly practised conventionalism of this kind; but,\nhowever that may be, the first fact,--the necessity of animal and\nfigure drawing, is absolutely certain, and no person who shrinks from\nit will ever become a great designer.\n\nOne great good arises even from the first step in figure drawing, that\nit gets the student quit at once of the notion of formal symmetry. If\nyou learn only to draw a leaf well, you are taught in some of our\nschools to turn it the other way, opposite to itself; and the two\nleaves set opposite ways are called \"a design:\" and thus it is supposed\npossible to produce ornamentation, though you have no more brains than\na looking-glass or a kaleidoscope has. But if you once learn to draw\nthe human figure, you will find that knocking two men's heads together\ndoes not necessarily constitute a good design; nay, that it makes a\nvery bad design, or no design at all; and you will see at once that to\narrange a group of two or more figures, you must, though perhaps it may\nbe desirable to balance, or oppose them, at the same time vary their\nattitudes, and make one, not the reverse of the other, but the\ncompanion of the other.\n\nI had a somewhat amusing discussion on this subject with a friend, only\nthe other day; and one of his retorts upon me was so neatly put, and\nexpresses so completely all that can either be said or shown on the\nopposite side, that it is well worth while giving it you exactly in the\nform it was sent to me. My friend had been maintaining that the essence\nof ornament consisted in three things:--contrast, series, and symmetry.\nI replied (by letter) that \"none of them, nor all of them together,\nwould produce ornament. Here\"--(making a ragged blot with the back of\nmy pen on the paper)--\"you have contrast; but it isn't ornament: here,\n1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6,\"--(writing the numerals)--\"You have series; but it\nisn't ornament: and here,\"--(sketching a rough but symmetrical \"stick-\nfigure\" sketch of a human body at the side)--\"you have symmetry; but it\nisn't ornament.\"\n\nMy friend replied:--\n\n\"Your materials were not ornament, because you did not apply them. I\nsend them to you back, made up into a choice sporting neckerchief:\"\n\n[Illustration: Sketch of a square of cloth decorated with a diagonal\ngrid pattern of stick-figure human forms, with repeated and reflected\nink-blot shapes at the corners and the digits 1 through 6 arranged into\nsimple symmetrical shapes and repeated around the border.]\n\n               Symmetrical figure         Unit of diaper.\n               Contrast                   Corner ornaments.\n               Series                     Border ornaments.\n\n\"Each figure is converted into a harmony by being revolved on its two\naxes, the whole opposed in contrasting series.\"\n\nMy answer was--or rather was to the effect (for I must expand it a\nlittle, here)--that his words, \"because you did not apply them,\"\ncontained the gist of the whole matter;--that the application of them,\nor any other things, was precisely the essence of design; the non-\napplication, or wrong application, the negation of design: that his use\nof the poor materials was in this case admirable; and that if he could\nexplain to me, in clear words, the principles on which he had so used\nthem, he would be doing a very great service to all students of art.\n\n\"Tell me, therefore (I asked), these main points:\n\n\"1. How did you determine the number of figures you would put into the\nneckerchief? Had there been more, it would have been mean and\nineffective,--a pepper-and-salt sprinkling of figures. Had there been\nfewer, it would have been monstrous. How did you fix the number?\n\n\"2. How did you determine the breadth of the border and relative size\nof the numerals?\n\n\"3. Why are there two lines outside of the border, and one only inside?\nWhy are there no more lines? Why not three and two, or three and five?\nWhy lines at all to separate the barbarous figures; and why, if lines\nat all, not double or treble instead of single?\n\n\"4. Why did you put the double blots at the corners? Why not at the\nangles of the chequers,--or in the middle of the border?\n\n\"It is precisely your knowing why _not_ to do these things, and\nwhy to do just what you have done, which constituted your power of\ndesign; and like all the people I have ever known who had that power,\nyou are entirely unconscious of the essential laws by which you work,\nand confuse other people by telling them that the design depends on\nsymmetry and series, when, in fact, it depends entirely on your own\nsense and judgment.\"\n\nThis was the substance of my last answer--to which (as I knew\nbeforehand would be the case) I got no reply; but it still remains to\nbe observed that with all the skill and taste (especially involving the\narchitect's great trust, harmony of proportion), which my friend could\nbring to bear on the materials given him, the result is still only--a\nsporting neckerchief--that is to say, the materials addressed, first,\nto recklessness, in the shape of a mere blot; then to computativeness\nin a series of figures; and then to absurdity and ignorance, in the\nshape of an ill-drawn caricature--such materials, however treated, can\nonly work up into what will please reckless, computative, and vulgar\npersons,--that is to say, into a sporting neckerchief. The difference\nbetween this piece of ornamentation and Correggio's painting at Parma\nlies simply and wholly in the additions (somewhat large ones), of truth\nand of tenderness: in the drawing being lovely as well as symmetrical--\nand representative of realities as well as agreeably disposed. And\ntruth, tenderness, and inventive application or disposition are indeed\nthe roots of ornament--not contrast, nor symmetry.\n\nIt ought yet farther to be observed, that _the nobler the materials,\nthe less their symmetry is endurable_. In the present case, the\nsense of fitness and order, produced by the repetition of the figures,\nneutralizes, in some degree, their reckless vulgarity; and is wholly,\ntherefore, beneficent to them. But draw the figures better, and their\nrepetition will become painful. You may harmlessly balance a mere\ngeometrical form, and oppose one quatrefoil or cusp by another exactly\nlike it. But put two Apollo Belvideres back to back, and you will not\nthink the symmetry improves them. _Whenever the materials of ornament\nare noble, they must be various_; and repetition of parts is either\nthe sign of utterly bad, hopeless, and base work; or of the intended\ndegradation of the parts in which such repetition is allowed, in order\nto foil others more noble.\n\nSuch, then, are a few of the great principles, by the enforcement of\nwhich you may hope to promote the success of the modern student of\ndesign; but remember, none of these principles will be useful at all,\nunless you understand them to be, in one profound and stern sense,\nuseless. [Footnote: I shall endeavour for the future to put my self-\ncontradictions in short sentences and direct terms, in order to save\nsagacious persons the trouble of looking for them.]\n\nThat is to say, unless you feel that neither you nor I, nor any one,\ncan, in the great ultimate sense, teach anybody how to make a good\ndesign.\n\nIf designing _could_ be taught, all the world would learn: as all\nthe world reads--or calculates. But designing is not to be spelled, nor\nsummed. My men continually come to me, in my drawing class in London,\nthinking I am to teach them what is instantly to enable them to gain\ntheir bread. \"Please, sir, show us how to design.\" \"Make designers of\nus.\" And you, I doubt not, partly expect me to tell you to-night how to\nmake designers of your Bradford youths. Alas! I could as soon tell you\nhow to make or manufacture an ear of wheat, as to make a good artist of\nany kind. I can analyze the wheat very learnedly for you--tell you\nthere is starch in it, and carbon, and silex. I can give you starch,\nand charcoal, and flint; but you are as far from your ear of wheat as\nyou were before. All that can possibly be done for any one who wants\nears of wheat is to show them where to find grains of wheat, and how to\nsow them, and then, with patience, in Heaven's time, the ears will\ncome--or will perhaps come--ground and weather permitting. So in this\nmatter of making artists--first you must find your artist in the grain;\nthen you must plant him; fence and weed the field about him; and with\npatience, ground and weather permitting, you may get an artist out of\nhim--not otherwise. And what I have to speak to you about, tonight, is\nmainly the ground and the weather, it being the first and quite most\nmaterial question in this matter, whether the ground and weather of\nBradford, or the ground and weather of England in general,--suit wheat.\n\nAnd observe in the outset, it is not so much what the present\ncircumstances of England are, as what we wish to make them, that we\nhave to consider. If you will tell me what you ultimately intend\nBradford to be, perhaps I can tell you what Bradford can ultimately\nproduce. But you must have your minds clearly made up, and be distinct\nin telling me what you do want. At present I don't know what you are\naiming at, and possibly on consideration you may feel some doubt\nwhether you know yourselves. As matters stand, all over England, as\nsoon as one mill is at work, occupying two hundred hands, we try, by\nmeans of it, to set another mill at work, occupying four hundred. That\nis all simple and comprehensive enough--but what is it to come to? How\nmany mills do we want? or do we indeed want no end of mills? Let us\nentirely understand each other on this point before we go any farther.\nLast week, I drove from Rochdale to Bolton Abbey; quietly, in order to\nsee the country, and certainly it was well worth while. I never went\nover a more interesting twenty miles than those between Rochdale and\nBurnley. Naturally, the valley has been one of the most beautiful in\nthe Lancashire hills; one of the far away solitudes, full of old\nshepherd ways of life. At this time there are not,--I speak\ndeliberately, and I believe quite literally,--there are not, I think,\nmore than a thousand yards of road to be traversed anywhere, without\npassing a furnace or mill.\n\nNow, is that the kind of thing you want to come to everywhere? Because,\nif it be, and you tell me so distinctly, I think I can make several\nsuggestions to-night, and could make more if you give me time, which\nwould materially advance your object. The extent of our operations at\npresent is more or less limited by the extent of coal and ironstone,\nbut we have not yet learned to make proper use of our clay. Over the\ngreater part of England, south of the manufacturing districts, there\nare magnificent beds of various kinds of useful clay; and I believe\nthat it would not be difficult to point out modes of employing it which\nmight enable us to turn nearly the whole of the south of England into a\nbrickfield, as we have already turned nearly the whole of the north\ninto a coal-pit. I say \"nearly\" the whole, because, as you are\ndoubtless aware, there are considerable districts in the south composed\nof chalk renowned up to the present time for their downs and mutton.\nBut, I think, by examining carefully into the conceivable uses of\nchalk, we might discover a quite feasible probability of turning all\nthe chalk districts into a limekiln, as we turn the clay districts into\na brickfield. There would then remain nothing but the mountain\ndistricts to be dealt with; but, as we have not yet ascertained all the\nuses of clay and chalk, still less have we ascertained those of stone;\nand I think, by draining the useless inlets of the Cumberland, Welsh,\nand Scotch lakes, and turning them, with their rivers, into navigable\nreservoirs and canals, there would be no difficulty in working the\nwhole of our mountain districts as a gigantic quarry of slate and\ngranite, from which all the rest of the world might be supplied with\nroofing and building stone.\n\nIs this, then, what you want? You are going straight at it at present;\nand I have only to ask under what limitations I am to conceive or\ndescribe your final success? Or shall there be no limitations? There\nare none to your powers; every day puts new machinery at your disposal,\nand increases, with your capital, the vastness of your undertakings.\nThe changes in the state of this country are now so rapid, that it\nwould be wholly absurd to endeavour to lay down laws of art education\nfor it under its present aspect and circumstances; and therefore I must\nnecessarily ask, how much of it do you seriously intend within the next\nfifty years to be coal-pit, brickfield, or quarry? For the sake of\ndistinctness of conclusion, I will suppose your success absolute: that\nfrom shore to shore the whole of the island is to be set as thick with\nchimneys as the masts stand in the docks of Liverpool: and there shall\nbe no meadows in it; no trees; no gardens; only a little corn grown\nupon the housetops, reaped and threshed by steam: that you do not leave\neven room for roads, but travel either over the roofs of your mills, on\nviaducts; or under their floors, in tunnels: that, the smoke having\nrendered the light of the sun unserviceable, you work always by the\nlight of your own gas: that no acre of English ground shall be without\nits shaft and its engine; and therefore, no spot of English ground\nleft, on which it shall be possible to stand, without a definite and\ncalculable chance of being blown off it, at any moment, into small\npieces.\n\nUnder these circumstances, (if this is to be the future of England,) no\ndesigning or any other development of beautiful art will be possible.\nDo not vex your minds, nor waste your money with any thought or effort\nin the matter. Beautiful art can only be produced by people who have\nbeautiful things about them, and leisure to look at them; and unless\nyou provide some elements of beauty for your workmen to be surrounded\nby, you will find that no elements of beauty can be invented by them.\n\nI was struck forcibly by the bearing of this great fact upon our modern\nefforts at ornamentation in an afternoon walk, last week, in the\nsuburbs of one of our large manufacturing towns. I was thinking of the\ndifference in the effect upon the designer's mind, between the scene\nwhich I then came upon, and the scene which would have presented itself\nto the eyes of any designer of the middle ages, when he left his\nworkshop. Just outside the town I came upon an old English cottage, or\nmansion, I hardly know which to call it, set close under the hill, and\nbeside the river, perhaps built somewhere in the Charles's time, with\nmullioned windows and a low arched porch; round which, in the little\ntriangular garden, one can imagine the family as they used to sit in\nold summer times, the ripple of the river heard faintly through the\nsweetbrier hedge, and the sheep on the far-off wolds shining in the\nevening sunlight. There, uninhabited for many and many a year, it had\nbeen left in unregarded havoc of ruin; the garden-gate still swung\nloose to its latch; the garden, blighted utterly into a field of ashes,\nnot even a weed taking root there; the roof torn into shapeless rents;\nthe shutters hanging about the windows in rags of rotten wood; before\nits gate, the stream which had gladdened it now soaking slowly by,\nblack as ebony, and thick with curdling scum; the bank above it trodden\ninto unctuous, sooty slime: far in front of it, between it and the old\nhills, the furnaces of the city foaming forth perpetual plague of\nsulphurous darkness; the volumes of their storm clouds coiling low over\na waste of grassless fields, fenced from each other, not by hedges, but\nby slabs of square stone, like gravestones, riveted together with iron.\n\nThat was your scene for the designer's contemplation in his afternoon\nwalk at Rochdale. Now fancy what was the scene which presented itself,\nin his afternoon walk, to a designer of the Gothic school of Pisa--Nino\nPisano, or any of his men.\n\nOn each side of a bright river he saw rise a line of brighter palaces,\narched and pillared, and inlaid with deep red porphyry, and with\nserpentine; along the quays before their gates were riding troops of\nknights, noble in face and form, dazzling in crest and shield; horse\nand man one labyrinth of quaint colour and gleaming light--the purple,\nand silver, and scarlet fringes flowing over the strong limbs and\nclashing mail, like sea-waves over rocks at sunset. Opening on each\nside from the river were gardens, courts, and cloisters; long\nsuccessions of white pillars among wreaths of vine; leaping of\nfountains through buds of pomegranate and orange: and still along the\ngarden-paths, and under and through the crimson of the pomegranate\nshadows, moving slowly, groups of the fairest women that Italy ever\nsaw--fairest, because purest and thoughtfullest; trained in all high\nknowledge, as in all courteous art--in dance, in song, in sweet wit, in\nlofty learning, in loftier courage, in loftiest love--able alike to\ncheer, to enchant, or save, the souls of men. Above all this scenery of\nperfect human life, rose dome and bell-tower, burning with white\nalabaster and gold; beyond dome and bell-tower the slopes of mighty\nhills, hoary with olive; far in the north, above a purple sea of peaks\nof solemn Apennine, the clear, sharp-cloven Carrara mountains sent up\ntheir steadfast flames of marble summit into amber sky; the great sea\nitself, scorching with expanse of light, stretching from their feet to\nthe Gorgonian isles; and over all these, ever present, near or far--\nseen through the leaves of vine, or imaged with all its march of clouds\nin the Arno's stream, or set with its depth of blue close against the\ngolden hair and burning cheek of lady and knight,--that untroubled and\nsacred sky, which was to all men, in those days of innocent faith,\nindeed the unquestioned abode of spirits, as the earth was of men; and\nwhich opened straight through its gates of cloud and veils of dew into\nthe awfulness of the eternal world;--a heaven in which every cloud that\npassed was literally the chariot of an angel, and every ray of its\nEvening and Morning streamed from the throne of God.\n\nWhat think you of that for a school of design?\n\nI do not bring this contrast before you as a ground of hopelessness in\nour task; neither do I look for any possible renovation of the Republic\nof Pisa, at Bradford, in the nineteenth century; but I put it before\nyou in order that you may be aware precisely of the kind of difficulty\nyou have to meet, and may then consider with yourselves how far you can\nmeet it. To men surrounded by the depressing and monotonous\ncircumstances of English manufacturing life, depend upon it, design is\nsimply impossible. This is the most distinct of all the experiences I\nhave had in dealing with the modern workman. He is intelligent and\ningenious in the highest degree--subtle in touch and keen in sight: but\nhe is, generally speaking, wholly destitute of designing power. And if\nyou want to give him the power, you must give him the materials, and\nput him in the circumstances for it. Design is not the offspring of\nidle fancy: it is the studied result of accumulative observation and\ndelightful habit. Without observation and experience, no design--\nwithout peace and pleasurableness in occupation, no design--and all the\nlecturings, and teachings, and prizes, and principles of art, in the\nworld, are of no use, so long as you don't surround your men with happy\ninfluences and beautiful things. It is impossible for them to have\nright ideas about colour, unless they see the lovely colours of nature\nunspoiled; impossible for them to supply beautiful incident and action\nin their ornament, unless they see beautiful incident and action in the\nworld about them. Inform their minds, refine their habits, and you form\nand refine their designs; but keep them illiterate, uncomfortable, and\nin the midst of unbeautiful things, and whatever they do will still be\nspurious, vulgar, and valueless.\n\nI repeat, that I do not ask you nor wish you to build a new Pisa for\nthem. We don't want either the life or the decorations of the\nthirteenth century back again; and the circumstances with which you\nmust surround your workmen are those simply of happy modern English\nlife, because the designs you have now to ask for from your workmen are\nsuch as will make modern English life beautiful. All that gorgeousness\nof the middle ages, beautiful as it sounds in description, noble as in\nmany respects it was in reality, had, nevertheless, for foundation and\nfor end, nothing but the pride of life--the pride of the so-called\nsuperior classes; a pride which supported itself by violence and\nrobbery, and led in the end to the destruction both of the arts\nthemselves and the States in which they nourished.\n\nThe great lesson of history is, that all the fine arts hitherto--having\nbeen supported by the selfish power of the noblesse, and never having\nextended their range to the comfort or the relief of the mass of the\npeople--the arts, I say, thus practised, and thus matured, have only\naccelerated the ruin of the States they adorned; and at the moment\nwhen, in any kingdom, you point to the triumphs of its greatest\nartists, you point also to the determined hour of the kingdom's\ndecline. The names of great painters are like passing bells: in the\nname of Velasquez, you hear sounded the fall of Spain; in the name of\nTitian, that of Venice; in the name of Leonardo, that of Milan; in the\nname of Raphael, that of Rome. And there is profound justice in this;\nfor in proportion to the nobleness of the power is the guilt of its use\nfor purposes vain or vile; and hitherto the greater the art, the more\nsurely has it been used, and used solely, for the decoration of pride,\n[Footnote:  Whether religious or profane pride,--chapel or banqueting\nroom,--is no matter.] or the provoking of sensuality. Another course\nlies open to us. We may abandon the hope--or if you like the words\nbetter--we may disdain the temptation, of the pomp and grace of Italy\nin her youth. For us there can be no more the throne of marble--for us\nno more the vault of gold--but for us there is the loftier and lovelier\nprivilege of bringing the power and charm of art within the reach of\nthe humble and the poor; and as the magnificence of past ages failed by\nits narrowness and its pride, ours may prevail and continue, by its\nuniversality and its lowliness.\n\nAnd thus, between the picture of too laborious England, which we\nimagined as future, and the picture of too luxurious Italy, which we\nremember in the past, there may exist--there will exist, if we do our\nduty--an intermediate condition, neither oppressed by labour nor wasted\nin vanity--the condition of a peaceful and thoughtful temperance in\naims, and acts, and arts.\n\nWe are about to enter upon a period of our world's history in which\ndomestic life, aided by the arts of peace, will slowly, but at last\nentirely, supersede public life and the arts of war. For our own\nEngland, she will not, I believe, be blasted throughout with furnaces;\nnor will she be encumbered with palaces. I trust she will keep her\ngreen fields, her cottages, and her homes of middle life; but these\nought to be, and I trust will be enriched with a useful, truthful,\nsubstantial form of art. We want now no more feasts of the gods, nor\nmartyrdoms of the saints; we have no need of sensuality, no place for\nsuperstition, or for costly insolence. Let us have learned and faithful\nhistorical painting--touching and thoughtful representations of human\nnature, in dramatic painting; poetical and familiar renderings of\nnatural objects and of landscape; and rational, deeply-felt\nrealizations of the events which are the subjects of our religious\nfaith. And let these things we want, as far as possible, be scattered\nabroad and made accessible to all men.\n\nSo also, in manufacture: we require work substantial rather than rich\nin make; and refined, rather than splendid in design. Your stuffs need\nnot be such as would catch the eye of a duchess; but they should be\nsuch as may at once serve the need, and refine the taste, of a\ncottager. The prevailing error in English dress, especially among the\nlower orders, is a tendency to flimsiness and gaudiness, arising mainly\nfrom the awkward imitation of their superiors. [Footnote: If their\nsuperiors would give them simplicity and economy to imitate, it would,\nin the issue, be well for themselves, as well as for those whom they\nguide. The typhoid fever of passion for dress, and all other display,\nwhich has struck the upper classes of Europe at this time, is one of\nthe most dangerous political elements we have to deal with. Its\nwickedness I have shown elsewhere (Polit. Economy of Art, p. 62, _et\nseq._); but its wickedness is, in the minds of most persons, a\nmatter of no importance. I wish I had time also to show them its\ndanger. I cannot enter here into political investigation; but this is a\ncertain fact, that the wasteful and vain expenses at present indulged\nin by the upper classes are hastening the advance of republicanism more\nthan any other element of modern change. No agitators, no clubs, no\nepidemical errors, ever were, or will be, fatal to social order in any\nnation. Nothing but the guilt of the upper classes, wanton,\naccumulated, reckless, and merciless, ever overthrows them Of such\nguilt they have now much to answer for--let them look to it in time.]\nIt should be one of the first objects of all manufacturers to produce\nstuffs not only beautiful and quaint in design, but also adapted for\nevery-day service, and decorous in humble and secluded life. And you\nmust remember always that your business, as manufacturers, is to form\nthe market, as much as to supply it. If, in shortsighted and reckless\neagerness for wealth, you catch at every humour of the populace as it\nshapes itself into momentary demand--if, in jealous rivalry with\nneighbouring States, or with other producers, you try to attract\nattention by singularities, novelties, and gaudinesses--to make every\ndesign an advertisement, and pilfer every idea of a successful\nneighbour's, that you may insidiously imitate it, or pompously eclipse\n--no good design will ever be possible to you, or perceived by you. You\nmay, by accident, snatch the market; or, by energy, command it; you may\nobtain the confidence of the public, and cause the ruin of opponent\nhouses; or you may, with equal justice of fortune, be ruined by them.\nBut whatever happens to you, this, at least, is certain, that the whole\nof your life will have been spent in corrupting public taste and\nencouraging public extravagance. Every preference you have won by\ngaudiness must have been based on the purchaser's vanity; every demand\nyou have created by novelty has fostered in the consumer a habit of\ndiscontent; and when you retire into inactive life, you may, as a\nsubject of consolation for your declining years, reflect that precisely\naccording to the extent of your past operations, your life has been\nsuccessful in retarding the arts,--tarnishing the virtues, and\nconfusing the manners of your country.\n\nBut, on the other hand, if you resolve from the first that, so far as\nyou can ascertain or discern what is best, you will produce what is\nbest, on an intelligent consideration of the probable tendencies and\npossible tastes of the people whom you supply, you may literally become\nmore influential for all kinds of good than many lecturers on art, or\nmany treatise-writers on morality. Considering the materials dealt\nwith, and the crude state of art knowledge at the time, I do not know\nthat any more wide or effective influence in public taste was ever\nexercised than that of the Staffordshire manufacture of pottery under\nWilliam Wedgwood, and it only rests with the manufacturer in every\nother business to determine whether he will, in like manner, make his\nwares educational instruments, or mere drugs of the market. You all\nshould, be, in a certain sense, authors: you must, indeed, first catch\nthe public eye, as an author must the public ear; but once gain your\naudience, or observance, and as it is in the writer's power\nthenceforward to publish what will educate as it amuses--so it is in\nyours to publish what will educate as it adorns. Nor is this surely a\nsubject of poor ambition. I hear it said continually that men are too\nambitious: alas! to me, it seems they are never enough ambitious. How\nmany are content to be merely the thriving merchants of a state, when\nthey might be its guides, counsellors, and rulers--wielding powers of\nsubtle but gigantic beneficence, in restraining its follies while they\nsupplied its wants. Let such duty, such ambition, be once accepted in\ntheir fulness, and the best glory of European art and of European\nmanufacture may yet be to come. The paintings of Raphael and of\nBuonaroti gave force to the falsehoods of superstition, and majesty to\nthe imaginations of sin; but the arts of England may have, for their\ntask, to inform the soul with truth, and touch the heart with\ncompassion. The steel of Toledo and the silk of Genoa did but give\nstrength to oppression and lustre to pride: let it be for the furnace\nand for the loom of England, as they have already richly earned, still\nmore abundantly to bestow, comfort on the indigent, civilization on the\nrude, and to dispense, through the peaceful homes of nations, the grace\nand the preciousness of simple adornment, and useful possession.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE IV.\n\nINFLUENCE OF IMAGINATION IN ARCHITECTURE\n\n_An Address Delivered to the Members of the Architectural\nAssociation, in Lyon's Inn Hall, 1857._\n\n\nIf we were to be asked abruptly, and required to answer briefly, what\nqualities chiefly distinguish great artists from feeble artists, we\nshould answer, I suppose, first, their sensibility and tenderness;\nsecondly, their imagination; and thirdly, their industry. Some of us\nmight, perhaps, doubt the justice of attaching so much importance to\nthis last character, because we have all known clever men who were\nindolent, and dull men who were industrious. But though you may have\nknown clever men who were indolent, you never knew a great man who was\nso; and, during such investigation as I have been able to give to the\nlives of the artists whose works are in all points noblest, no fact\never looms so large upon me--no law remains so steadfast in the\nuniversality of its application, as the fact and law that they are all\ngreat workers: nothing concerning them is matter of more astonishment\nthan the quantity they have accomplished in the given length of their\nlife; and when I hear a young man spoken of, as giving promise of high\ngenius, the first question I ask about him is always--\n\nDoes he work?\n\nBut though this quality of industry is essential to an artist, it does\nnot in anywise make an artist; many people are busy, whose doings are\nlittle worth. Neither does sensibility make an artist; since, as I\nhope, many can feel both strongly and nobly, who yet care nothing about\nart. But the gifts which distinctively mark the artist--_without_\nwhich he must be feeble in life, forgotten in death--_with_ which\nhe may become one of the shakers of the earth, and one of the signal\nlights in heaven--are those of sympathy and imagination. I will not\noccupy your time, nor incur the risk of your dissent, by endeavouring\nto give any close definition of this last word. We all have a general\nand sufficient idea of imagination, and of its work with our hands and\nin our hearts: we understand it, I suppose, as the imaging or picturing\nof new things in our thoughts; and we always show an involuntary\nrespect for this power, wherever we can recognize it, acknowledging it\nto be a greater power than manipulation, or calculation, or\nobservation, or any other human faculty. If we see an old woman\nspinning at the fireside, and distributing her thread dexterously from\nthe distaff, we respect her for her manipulation--if we ask her how\nmuch she expects to make in a year, and she answers quickly, we respect\nher for her calculation--if she is watching at the same time that none\nof her grandchildren fall into the fire, we respect her for her\nobservation--yet for all this she may still be a commonplace old woman\nenough. But if she is all the time telling her grandchildren a fairy\ntale out of her head, we praise her for her imagination, and say, she\nmust be a rather remarkable old woman. Precisely in like manner, if an\narchitect does his working-drawing well, we praise him for his\nmanipulation--if he keeps closely within his contract, we praise him\nfor his honest arithmetic--if he looks well to the laying of his beams,\nso that nobody shall drop through the floor, we praise him for his\nobservation. But he must, somehow, tell us a fairy tale out of his head\nbeside all this, else we cannot praise him for his imagination, nor\nspeak of him as we did of the old woman, as being in any wise out of\nthe common way, a rather remarkable architect. It seemed to me,\ntherefore, as if it might interest you to-night, if we were to consider\ntogether what fairy tales are, in and by architecture, to be told--what\nthere is for you to do in this severe art of yours \"out of your heads,\"\nas well as by your hands.\n\nPerhaps the first idea which a young architect is apt to be allured by,\nas a head-problem in these experimental days, is its being incumbent\nupon him to invent a \"new style\" worthy of modern civilization in\ngeneral, and of England in particular; a style worthy of our engines\nand telegraphs; as expansive as steam, and as sparkling as electricity.\n\nBut, if there are any of my hearers who have been impressed with this\nsense of inventive duty, may I ask them first, whether their plan is\nthat every inventive architect among us shall invent a new style for\nhimself, and have a county set aside for his conceptions, or a province\nfor his practice? Or, must every architect invent a little piece of the\nnew style, and all put it together at last like a dissected map? And if\nso, when the new style is invented, what is to be done next? I will\ngrant you this Eldorado of imagination--but can you have more than one\nColumbus? Or, if you sail in company, and divide the prize of your\ndiscovery and the honour thereof, who is to come after you clustered\nColumbuses? to what fortunate islands of style are your architectural\ndescendants to sail, avaricious of new lands? When our desired style is\ninvented, will not the best we can all do be simply--to build in it?--\nand cannot you now do that in styles that are known? Observe, I grant,\nfor the sake of your argument, what perhaps many of you know that I\nwould not grant otherwise--that a new style _can_ be invented. I\ngrant you not only this, but that it shall be wholly different from any\nthat was ever practised before. We will suppose that capitals are to be\nat the bottom of pillars instead of the top; and that buttresses shall\nbe on the tops of pinnacles instead of at the bottom; that you roof\nyour apertures with stones which shall neither be arched nor\nhorizontal; and that you compose your decoration of lines which shall\nneither be crooked nor straight. The furnace and the forge shall be at\nyour service: you shall draw out your plates of glass and beat out your\nbars of iron till you have encompassed us all,--if your style is of the\npractical kind,--with endless perspective of black skeleton and\nblinding square,--or if your style is to be of the ideal kind--you\nshall wreathe your streets with ductile leafage, and roof them with\nvariegated crystal--you shall put, if you will, all London under one\nblazing dome of many colours that shall light the clouds round it with\nits flashing, as far as to the sea. And still, I ask you, What after\nthis? Do you suppose those imaginations of yours will ever lie down\nthere asleep beneath the shade of your iron leafage, or within the\ncoloured light of your enchanted dome? Not so. Those souls, and\nfancies, and ambitions of yours, are wholly infinite; and, whatever may\nbe done by others, you will still want to do something for yourselves;\nif you cannot rest content with Palladio, neither will you with Paxton:\nall the metal and glass that ever were melted have not so much weight\nin them as will clog the wings of one human spirit's aspiration.\n\nIf you will think over this quietly by yourselves, and can get the\nnoise out of your ears of the perpetual, empty, idle, incomparably\nidiotic talk about the necessity of some novelty in architecture, you\nwill soon see that the very essence of a Style, properly so called, is\nthat it should be practised _for ages_, and applied to all\npurposes; and that so long as any given style is in practice, all that\nis left for individual imagination to accomplish must be within the\nscope of that style, not in the invention of a new one. If there are\nany here, therefore, who hope to obtain celebrity by the invention of\nsome strange way of building which must convince all Europe into its\nadoption, to them, for the moment, I must not be understood to address\nmyself, but only to those who would be content with that degree of\ncelebrity which an artist may enjoy who works in the manner of his\nforefathers;--which the builder of Salisbury Cathedral might enjoy in\nEngland, though he did not invent Gothic; and which Titian might enjoy\nat Venice, though he did not invent oil painting. Addressing myself\nthen to those humbler, but wiser, or rather, only wise students who are\ncontent to avail themselves of some system of building already\nunderstood, let us consider together what room for the exercise of the\nimagination may be left to us under such conditions. And, first, I\nsuppose it will be said, or thought, that the architect's principal\nfield for exercise of his invention must be in the disposition of\nlines, mouldings, and masses, in agreeable proportions. Indeed, if you\nadopt some styles of architecture, you cannot exercise invention in any\nother way. And I admit that it requires genius and special gift to do\nthis rightly. Not by rule, nor by study, can the gift of graceful\nproportionate design be obtained; only by the intuition of genius can\nso much as a single tier of fa\u00e7ade be beautifully arranged; and the man\nhas just cause for pride, as far as our gifts can ever be a cause for\npride, who finds himself able, in a design of his own, to rival even\nthe simplest arrangement of parts in one by Sanmicheli, Inigo Jones, or\nChristopher Wren.\n\nInvention, then, and genius being granted, as necessary to accomplish\nthis, let me ask you, What, after all, with this special gift and\ngenius, you _have_ accomplished, when you have arranged the lines\nof a building beautifully?\n\nIn the first place you will not, I think, tell me that the beauty there\nattained is of a touching or pathetic kind. A well-disposed group of\nnotes in music will make you sometimes weep and sometimes laugh. You\ncan express the depth of all affections by those dispositions of sound:\nyou can give courage to the soldier, language to the lover, consolation\nto the mourner, more joy to the joyful, more humility to the devout.\nCan you do as much by your group of lines? Do you suppose the front of\nWhitehall, a singularly beautiful one ever inspires the two Horse\nGuards, during the hour they sit opposite to it, with military ardour?\nDo you think that the lovers in our London walk down to the front of\nWhitehall for consolation when mistresses are unkind; or that any\nperson wavering in duty, or feeble in faith, was ever confirmed in\npurpose or in creed by the pathetic appeal of those harmonious\narchitraves? You will not say so. Then, if they cannot touch, or\ninspire, or comfort any one, can your architectural proportions amuse\nany one? Christmas is just over; you have doubtless been at many merry\nparties during the period. Can you remember any in which architectural\nproportions contributed to the entertainment of the evening?\nProportions of notes in music were, I am sure, essential to your\namusement; the setting of flowers in hair, and of ribands on dresses,\nwere also subjects of frequent admiration with you, not inessential to\nyour happiness. Among the juvenile members of your society the\nproportion of currants in cake, and of sugar in comfits, became\nsubjects of acute interest; and, when such proportions were harmonious,\nmotives also of gratitude to cook and to confectioner. But did you ever\nsee either young or old amused by the architrave of the door? Or\notherwise interested in the proportions of the room than as they\nadmitted more or fewer friendly faces? Nay, if all the amusement that\nthere is in the best proportioned architecture of London could be\nconcentrated into one evening, and you were to issue tickets for\nnothing to this great proportional entertainment;--how do you think it\nwould stand between you and the Drury pantomine?\n\nYou are, then, remember, granted to be people of genius--great and\nadmirable; and you devote your lives to your art, but you admit that\nyou cannot comfort anybody, you cannot encourage anybody, you cannot\nimprove anybody, and you cannot amuse anybody. I proceed then farther\nto ask, Can you inform anybody? Many sciences cannot be considered as\nhighly touching or emotional; nay, perhaps not specially amusing;\nscientific men may sometimes, in these respects, stand on the same\nground with you. As far as we can judge by the results of the late war,\nscience helps our soldiers about as much as the front of Whitehall; and\nat the Christmas parties, the children wanted no geologists to tell\nthem about the behaviour of bears and dragons in Queen Elizabeth's\ntime. Still, your man of science teaches you something; he may be dull\nat a party, or helpless in a battle, he is not always that; but he can\ngive you, at all events, knowledge of noble facts, and open to you the\nsecrets of the earth and air. Will your architectural proportions do as\nmuch? Your genius is granted, and your life is given, and what do you\nteach us?--Nothing, I believe, from one end of that life to the other,\nbut that two and two make four, and that one is to two as three is to\nsix.\n\nYou cannot, then, it is admitted, comfort any one, serve or amuse any\none, nor teach any one. Finally, I ask, Can you be of _Use_ to any\none? \"Yes,\" you reply; \"certainly we are of some use--we architects--in\na climate like this, where it always rains.\" You are of use certainly;\nbut, pardon me, only as builders--not as proportionalists. We are not\ntalking of building as a protection, but only of that special work\nwhich your genius is to do; not of building substantial and comfortable\nhouses like Mr. Cubitt, but of putting beautiful fa\u00e7ades on them like\nInigo Jones. And, again, I ask--Are you of use to any one? Will your\nproportions of the fa\u00e7ade heal the sick, or clothe the naked? Supposing\nyou devoted your lives to be merchants, you might reflect at the close\nof them, how many, fainting for want, you had brought corn to sustain;\nhow many, infected with disease, you had brought balms to heal; how\nwidely, among multitudes of far-away nations, you had scattered the\nfirst seeds of national power, and guided the first rays of sacred\nlight. Had you been, in fine, _anything_ else in the world\n_but_ architectural designers, you might have been of some use or\ngood to people. Content to be petty tradesmen, you would have saved the\ntime of mankind;--rough-handed daily labourers, you would have added to\ntheir stock of food or of clothing. But, being men of genius, and\ndevoting your lives to the exquisite exposition of this genius, on what\nachievements do you think the memories of your old age are to fasten?\nWhose gratitude will surround you with its glow, or on what\naccomplished good, of that greatest kind for which men show _no_\ngratitude, will your life rest the contentment of its close? Truly, I\nfear that the ghosts of proportionate lines will be thin phantoms at\nyour bedsides--very speechless to you; and that on all the emanations\nof your high genius you will look back with less delight than you might\nhave done on a cup of cold water given to him who was thirsty, or to a\nsingle moment when you had \"prevented with your bread him that fled.\"\n\nDo not answer, nor think to answer, that with your great works and\ngreat payments of workmen in them, you would do this; I know you would,\nand will, as Builders; but, I repeat, it is not your _building_\nthat I am talking about, but your _brains_; it is your invention\nand imagination of whose profit I am speaking. The good done through\nthe building, observe, is done by your employers, not by you--you share\nin the benefit of it. The good that _you_ personally must do is by\nyour designing; and I compare you with musicians who do good by their\npathetic composing, not as they do good by employing fiddlers in the\norchestra; for it is the public who in reality do that, not the\nmusicians. So clearly keeping to this one question, what good we\narchitects are to do by our genius; and having found that on our\nproportionate system we can do no good to others, will you tell me,\nlastly, what good we can do to _ourselves_?\n\nObserve, nearly every other liberal art or profession has some intense\npleasure connected with it, irrespective of any good to others. As\nlawyers, or physicians, or clergymen, you would have the pleasure of\ninvestigation, and of historical reading, as part of your work: as men\nof science you would be rejoicing in curiosity perpetually gratified\nrespecting the laws and facts of nature: as artists you would have\ndelight in watching the external forms of nature: as day labourers or\npetty tradesmen, supposing you to undertake such work with as much\nintellect as you are going to devote to your designing, you would find\ncontinued subjects of interest in the manufacture or the agriculture\nwhich you helped to improve; or in the problems of commerce which bore\non your business. But your architectural designing leads you into no\npleasant journeys,--into no seeing of lovely things,--no discerning of\njust laws,--no warmths of compassion, no humilities of veneration, no\nprogressive state of sight or soul. Our conclusion is--must be--that\nyou will not amuse, nor inform, nor help anybody; you will not amuse,\nnor better, nor inform yourselves; you will sink into a state in which\nyou can neither show, nor feel, nor see, anything, but that one is to\ntwo as three is to six. And in that state what should we call\nourselves? Men? I think not. The right name for us would be--numerators\nand denominators. Vulgar Fractions.\n\nShall we, then, abandon this theory of the soul of architecture being\nin proportional lines, and look whether we can find anything better to\nexert our fancies upon?\n\nMay we not, to begin with, accept this great principle--that, as our\nbodies, to be in health, must be _generally_ exercised, so our\nminds, to be in health, must be _generally_ cultivated? You would\nnot call a man healthy who had strong arms but was paralytic in his\nfeet; nor one who could walk well, but had no use of his hands; nor one\nwho could see well, if he could not hear. You would not voluntarily\nreduce your bodies to any such partially developed state. Much more,\nthen, you would not, if you could help it, reduce your minds to it.\nNow, your minds are endowed with a vast number of gifts of totally\ndifferent uses--limbs of mind as it were, which, if you don't exercise,\nyou cripple. One is curiosity; that is a gift, a capacity of pleasure\nin knowing; which if you destroy, you make yourselves cold and dull.\nAnother is sympathy; the power of sharing in the feelings of living\ncreatures, which if you destroy, you make yourselves hard and cruel.\nAnother of your limbs of mind is admiration; the power of enjoying\nbeauty or ingenuity, which, if you destroy, you make yourselves base\nand irreverent. Another is wit; or the power of playing with the lights\non the many sides of truth; which if you destroy, you make yourselves\ngloomy, and less useful and cheering to others than you might be. So\nthat in choosing your way of work it should be your aim, as far as\npossible, to bring out all these faculties, as far as they exist in\nyou; not one merely, nor another, but all of them. And the way to bring\nthem out, is simply to concern yourselves attentively with the subjects\nof each faculty. To cultivate sympathy you must be among living\ncreatures, and thinking about them; and to cultivate admiration, you\nmust be among beautiful things and looking at them.\n\nAll this sounds much like truism, at least I hope it does, for then you\nwill surely not refuse to act upon it; and to consider farther, how, as\narchitects, you are to keep yourselves in contemplation of living\ncreatures and lovely things.\n\nYou all probably know the beautiful photographs which have been\npublished within the last year or two of the porches of the Cathedral\nof Amiens. I hold one of these up to you, (merely that you may know\nwhat I am talking about, as of course you cannot see the detail at this\ndistance, but you will recognise the subject.) Have you ever considered\nhow much sympathy, and how much humour, are developed in filling this\nsingle doorway [Footnote: The tympanum of the south transcept door; it\nis to be found generally among all collections of architectural\nphotographs] with these sculptures of the history of St. Honor\u00e9 (and,\nby the way, considering how often we English are now driving up and\ndown the Rue St. Honor\u00e9, we may as well know as much of the saint as\nthe old architect cared to tell us). You know in all legends of saints\nwho ever were bishops, the first thing you are told of them is that\nthey didn't want to be bishops. So here is St. Honor\u00e9, who doesn't want\nto be a bishop, sitting sulkily in the corner; he hugs his book with\nboth hands, and won't get up to take his crosier; and here are all the\ncity aldermen of Amiens come to _poke_ him up; and all the monks\nin the town in a great puzzle what they shall do for a bishop if St.\nHonor\u00e9 won't be; and here's one of the monks in the opposite corner who\nis quite cool about it, and thinks they'll get on well enough without\nSt Honor\u00e9,--you see that in his face perfectly. At last St. Honor\u00e9\nconsents to be bishop, and here he sits in a throne, and has his book\nnow grandly on his desk instead of his knees, and he directs one of his\nvillage curates how to find relics in a wood; here is the wood, and\nhere is the village curate, and here are the tombs, with the bones of\nSt. Victorien and Gentien in them.\n\nAfter this, St. Honor\u00e9 performs grand mass, and the miracle occurs of\nthe appearance of a hand blessing the wafer, which occurrence\nafterwards was painted for the arms of the abbey. Then St. Honor\u00e9 dies;\nand here is his tomb with his statue on the top; and miracles are being\nperformed at it--a deaf man having his ear touched, and a blind man\ngroping his way up to the tomb with his dog. Then here is a great\nprocession in honour of the relics of St. Honor\u00e9; and under his coffin\nare some cripples being healed; and the coffin itself is put above the\nbar which separates the cross from the lower subjects, because the\ntradition is that the figure on the crucifix of the Church of St.\nFirmin bowed its head in token of acceptance, as the relics of St.\nHonor\u00e9 passed beneath.\n\nNow just consider the amount of sympathy with human nature, and\nobservance of it, shown in this one bas-relief; the sympathy with\ndisputing monks, with puzzled aldermen, with melancholy recluse, with\ntriumphant prelate, with palsy-stricken poverty, with ecclesiastical\nmagnificence, or miracle-working faith. Consider how much intellect was\nneeded in the architect, and how much observance of nature before he\ncould give the expression to these various figures--cast these\nmultitudinous draperies--design these rich and quaint fragments of\ntombs and altars--weave with perfect animation the entangled branches\nof the forest.\n\nBut you will answer me, all this is not architecture at all--it is\nsculpture. Will you then tell me precisely where the separation exists\nbetween one and the other? We will begin at the very beginning. I will\nshow you a piece of what you will certainly admit to be a piece of pure\narchitecture; [Footnote: See Appendix III., \"Classical Architecture.\"]\nit is drawn on the back of another photograph, another of these\nmarvellous tympana from Notre Dame, which you call, I suppose, impure.\nWell, look on this picture, and on this. Don't laugh; you must not\nlaugh, that's very improper of you, this is classical architecture. I\nhave taken it out of the essay on that subject in the \"Encyclop\u00e6dia\nBritannica.\"\n\nYet I suppose none of you would think yourselves particularly ingenious\narchitects if you had designed nothing more than this; nay, I will even\nlet you improve it into any grand proportion you choose, and add to it\nas many windows as you choose; the only thing I insist upon in our\nspecimen of pure architecture is, that there shall be no mouldings nor\nornaments upon it. And I suspect you don't quite like your architecture\nso \"pure\" as this. We want a few mouldings, you will say--just a few.\nThose who want mouldings, hold up their hands. We are unanimous, I\nthink. Will, you, then, design the profiles of these mouldings\nyourselves, or will you copy them? If you wish to copy them, and to\ncopy them always, of course I leave you at once to your authorities,\nand your imaginations to their repose. But if you wish to design them\nyourselves, how do you do it? You draw the profile according to your\ntaste, and you order your mason to cut it. Now, will you tell me the\nlogical difference between drawing the profile of a moulding and giving\n_that_ to be cut, and drawing the folds of the drapery of a statue\nand giving _those_ to be cut. The last is much more difficult to\ndo than the first; but degrees of difficulty constitute no specific\ndifference, and you will not accept it, surely, as a definition of the\ndifference between architecture and sculpture, that \"architecture is\ndoing anything that is easy, and sculpture anything that is difficult.\"\n\nIt is true, also, that the carved moulding represents nothing, and the\ncarved drapery represents something; but you will not, I should think,\naccept, as an explanation of the difference between architecture and\nsculpture, this any more than the other, that \"sculpture is art which\nhas meaning, and architecture art which has none.\"\n\nWhere, then, is your difference? In this, perhaps, you will say; that\nwhatever ornaments we can direct ourselves, and get accurately cut to\norder, we consider architectural. The ornaments that we are obliged to\nleave to the pleasure of the workman, or the superintendence of some\nother designer, we consider sculptural, especially if they are more or\nless extraneous and incrusted--not an essential part of the building.\n\nAccepting this definition, I am compelled to reply, that it is in\neffect nothing more than an amplification of my first one--that\nwhatever is easy you call architecture, whatever is difficult you call\nsculpture. For you cannot suppose the arrangement of the place in which\nthe sculpture is to be put is so difficult or so great a part of the\ndesign as the sculpture itself. For instance: you all know the pulpit\nof Niccolo Pisano, in the baptistry at Pisa. It is composed of seven\nrich _relievi_, surrounded by panel mouldings, and sustained on\nmarble shafts. Do you suppose Niccolo Pisano's reputation--such part of\nit at least as rests on this pulpit (and much does)--depends on the\npanel mouldings, or on the relievi? The panel mouldings are by his\nhand; he would have disdained to leave even them to a common workman;\nbut do you think he found any difficulty in them, or thought there was\nany credit in them? Having once done the sculpture, those enclosing\nlines were mere child's play to him; the determination of the diameter\nof shafts and height of capitals was an affair of minutes; his\n_work_ was in carving the Crucifixion and the Baptism.\n\nOr, again, do you recollect Orcagna's tabernacle in the church of San\nMichele, at Florence? That, also, consists of rich and multitudinous\nbas-reliefs, enclosed in panel mouldings, with shafts of mosaic, and\nfoliated arches sustaining the canopy. Do you think Orcagna, any more\nthan Pisano, if his spirit could rise in the midst of us at this\nmoment, would tell us that he had trusted his fame to the foliation, or\nhad put his soul's pride into the panelling? Not so; he would tell you\nthat his spirit was in the stooping figures that stand round the couch\nof the dying Virgin.\n\nOr, lastly, do you think the man who designed the procession on the\nportal of Amiens was the subordinate workman? that there was an\narchitect over _him_, restraining him within certain limits, and\nordering of him his bishops at so much a mitre, and his cripples at so\nmuch a crutch? Not so. _Here_, on this sculptured shield, rests\nthe Master's hand; _this_ is the centre of the Master's thought;\nfrom this, and in subordination to this, waved the arch and sprang the\npinnacle. Having done this, and being able to give human expression and\naction to the stone, all the rest--the rib, the niche, the foil, the\nshaft--were mere toys to his hand and accessories to his conception:\nand if once you also gain the gift of doing this, if once you can carve\none fronton such as you have here, I tell you, you would be able--so\nfar as it depended on your invention--to scatter cathedrals over\nEngland as fast as clouds rise from its streams after summer rain.\n\nNay, but perhaps you answer again, our sculptors at present do not\ndesign cathedrals, and could not. No, they could not; but that is\nmerely because we have made architecture so dull that they cannot take\nany interest in it, and, therefore, do not care to add to their higher\nknowledge the poor and common knowledge of principles of building. You\nhave thus separated building from sculpture, and you have taken away\nthe power of both; for the sculptor loses nearly as much by never\nhaving room for the development of a continuous work, as you do from\nhaving reduced your work to a continuity of mechanism. You are\nessentially, and should always be, the same body of men, admitting only\nsuch difference in operation as there is between the work of a painter\nat different times, who sometimes labours on a small picture, and\nsometimes on the frescoes of a palace gallery.\n\nThis conclusion, then, we arrive at, _must_ arrive at; the fact\nbeing irrevocably so:--that in order to give your imagination and the\nother powers of your souls full play, you must do as all the great\narchitects of old time did--you must yourselves be your sculptors.\nPhidias, Michael Angelo, Orcagna, Pisano, Giotto,--which of these men,\ndo you think, could not use his chisel? You say, \"It is difficult;\nquite out of your way.\" I know it is; nothing that is great is easy;\nand nothing that is great, so long as you study building without\nsculpture, can be _in_ your way. I want to put it in your way, and\nyou to find your way to it. But, on the other hand, do not shrink from\nthe task as if the refined art of perfect sculpture were always\nrequired from you. For, though architecture and sculpture are not\nseparate arts, there is an architectural _manner_ of sculpture;\nand it is, in the majority of its applications, a comparatively easy\none. Our great mistake at present, in dealing with stone at all, is\nrequiring to have all our work too refined; it is just the same mistake\nas if we were to require all our book illustrations to be as fine work\nas Raphael's. John Leech does not sketch so well as Leonardo da Vinci;\nbut do you think that the public could easily spare him; or that he is\nwrong in bringing out his talent in the way in which it is most\neffective? Would you advise him, if he asked your advice, to give up\nhis wood-blocks and take to canvas? I know you would not; neither would\nyou tell him, I believe, on the other hand, that because he could not\ndraw as well as Leonardo, therefore he ought to draw nothing but\nstraight lines with a ruler, and circles with compasses, and no figure-\nsubjects at all. That would be some loss to you; would it not? You\nwould all be vexed if next week's _Punch_ had nothing in it but\nproportionate lines. And yet, do not you see that you are doing\nprecisely the same thing with _your_ powers of sculptural design\nthat he would be doing with his powers of pictorial design, if he gave\nyou nothing but such lines. You feel that you cannot carve like\nPhidias; therefore you will not carve at all, but only draw mouldings;\nand thus all that intermediate power which is of especial value in\nmodern days,--that popular power of expression which is within the\nattainment of thousands,--and would address itself to tens of\nthousands,--is utterly lost to us in stone, though in ink and paper it\nhas become one of the most desired luxuries of modern civilization.\n\nHere, then, is one part of the subject to which I would especially\ninvite your attention, namely, the distinctive character which may be\nwisely permitted to belong to architectural sculpture, as distinguished\nfrom perfect sculpture on one side, and from mere geometrical\ndecoration on the other.\n\nAnd first, observe what an indulgence we have in the distance at which\nmost work is to be seen. Supposing we were able to carve eyes and lips\nwith the most exquisite precision, it would all be of no use as soon as\nthe work was put far above the eye; but, on the other hand, as beauties\ndisappear by being far withdrawn, so will faults; and the mystery and\nconfusion which are the natural consequence of distance, while they\nwould often render your best skill but vain, will as often render your\nworst errors of little consequence; nay, more than this, often a deep\ncut, or a rude angle, will produce in certain positions an effect of\nexpression both startling and true, which you never hoped for. Not that\nmere distance will give animation to the work, if it has none in\nitself; but if it has life at all, the distance will make that life\nmore perceptible and powerful by softening the defects of execution. So\nthat you are placed, as workmen, in this position of singular\nadvantage, that you may give your fancies free play, and strike hard\nfor the expression that you want, knowing that, if you miss it, no one\nwill detect you; if you at all touch it, nature herself will help you,\nand with every changing shadow and basking sunbeam bring forth new\nphases of your fancy.\n\nBut it is not merely this privilege of being imperfect which belongs to\narchitectural sculpture. It has a true privilege of imagination, far\nexcelling all that can be granted to the more finished work, which, for\nthe sake of distinction, I will call,--and I don't think we can have a\nmuch better term--\"furniture sculpture;\" sculpture, that is, which can\nbe moved from place to furnish rooms.\n\nFor observe, to that sculpture the spectator is usually brought in a\ntranquil or prosaic state of mind; he sees it associated rather with\nwhat is sumptuous than sublime, and under circumstances which address\nthemselves more to his comfort than his curiosity. The statue which is\nto be pathetic, seen between the flashes of footmen's livery round the\ndining-table, must have strong elements of pathos in itself; and the\nstatue which is to be awful, in the midst of the gossip of the drawing-\nroom, must have the elements of awe wholly in itself. But the spectator\nis brought to _your_ work already in an excited and imaginative\nmood. He has been impressed by the cathedral wall as it loomed over the\nlow streets, before he looks up to the carving of its porch--and his\nlove of mystery has been touched by the silence and the shadows of the\ncloister, before he can set himself to decipher the bosses on its\nvaulting. So that when once he begins to observe your doings, he will\nask nothing better from you, nothing kinder from you, than that you\nwould meet this imaginative temper of his half way;--that you would\nfarther touch the sense of terror, or satisfy the expectation of things\nstrange, which have been prompted by the mystery or the majesty of the\nsurrounding scene. And thus, your leaving forms more or less undefined,\nor carrying out your fancies, however extravagant, in grotesqueness of\nshadow or shape, will be for the most part in accordance with the\ntemper of the observer; and he is likely, therefore, much more\nwillingly to use his fancy to help your meanings, than his judgment to\ndetect your faults.\n\nAgain. Remember that when the imagination and feelings are strongly\nexcited, they will not only bear with strange things, but they will\n_look_ into _minute_ things with a delight quite unknown in\nhours of tranquillity. You surely must remember moments of your lives\nin which, under some strong excitement of feeling, all the details of\nvisible objects presented themselves with a strange intensity and\ninsistance, whether you would or no; urging themselves upon the mind,\nand thrust upon the eye, with a force of fascination which you could\nnot refuse. Now, to a certain extent, the senses get into this state\nwhenever the imagination is strongly excited. Things trivial at other\ntimes assume a dignity or significance which we cannot explain; but\nwhich is only the more attractive because inexplicable: and the powers\nof attention, quickened by the feverish excitement, fasten and feed\nupon the minutest circumstances of detail, and remotest traces of\nintention. So that what would at other times be felt as more or less\nmean or extraneous in a work of sculpture, and which would assuredly be\noffensive to the perfect taste in its moments of languor, or of\ncritical judgment, will be grateful, and even sublime, when it meets\nthis frightened inquisitiveness, this fascinated watchfulness, of the\nroused imagination. And this is all for your advantage; for, in the\nbeginnings of your sculpture, you will assuredly find it easier to\nimitate minute circumstances of costume or character, than to perfect\nthe anatomy of simple forms or the flow of noble masses; and it will be\nencouraging to remember that the grace you cannot perfect, and the\nsimplicity you cannot achieve, would be in great part vain, even if you\ncould achieve them, in their appeal to the hasty curiosity of\npassionate fancy; but that the sympathy which would be refused to your\nscience will be granted to your innocence: and that the mind of the\ngeneral observer, though wholly unaffected by the correctness of\nanatomy or propriety of gesture, will follow you with fond and pleased\nconcurrence, as you carve the knots of the hair, and the patterns of\nthe vesture.\n\nFarther yet. We are to remember that not only do the associated\nfeatures of the larger architecture tend to excite the strength of\nfancy, but the architectural laws to which you are obliged to submit\nyour decoration stimulate its _ingenuity_. Every crocket which you\nare to crest with sculpture,--every foliation which you have to fill,\npresents itself to the spectator's fancy, not only as a pretty thing,\nbut as a _problematic_ thing. It contained, he perceives\nimmediately, not only a beauty which you wished to display, but a\nnecessity which you were forced to meet; and the problem, how to occupy\nsuch and such a space with organic form in any probable way, or how to\nturn such a boss or ridge into a conceivable image of life, becomes at\nonce, to him as to you, a matter of amusement as much as of admiration.\nThe ordinary conditions of perfection in form, gesture, or feature, are\nwillingly dispensed with, when the ugly dwarf and ungainly goblin have\nonly to gather themselves into angles, or crouch to carry corbels; and\nthe want of skill which, in other kinds of work would have been\nrequired for the finishing of the parts, will at once be forgiven here,\nif you have only disposed ingeniously what you have executed roughly,\nand atoned for the rudeness of your hands by the quickness of your\nwits.\n\nHitherto, however, we have been considering only the circumstances in\narchitecture favourable to the development of the _powers_ of\nimagination. A yet more important point for us seems, to me, the place\nwhich it gives to all the _objects_ of imagination.\n\nFor, I suppose, you will not wish me to spend any time in proving, that\nimagination must be vigorous in proportion to the quantity of material\nwhich it has to handle; and that, just as we increase the range of what\nwe see, we increase the richness of what we can imagine. Granting this,\nconsider what a field is opened to your fancy merely in the subject\nmatter which architecture admits. Nearly every other art is severely\nlimited in its subjects--the landscape painter, for instance, gets\nlittle help from the aspects of beautiful humanity; the historical\npainter, less, perhaps, than he ought, from the accidents of wild\nnature; and the pure sculptor, still less, from the minor details of\ncommon life. But is there anything within range of sight, or\nconception, which may not be of use to _you_, or in which your\ninterest may not be excited with advantage to your art? From visions of\nangels, down to the least important gesture of a child at play,\nwhatever may be conceived of Divine, or beheld of Human, may be dared\nor adopted by you: throughout the kingdom of animal life, no creature\nis so vast, or so minute, that you cannot deal with it, or bring it\ninto service; the lion and the crocodile will couch about your shafts;\nthe moth and the bee will sun themselves upon your flowers; for you,\nthe fawn will leap; for you, the snail be slow; for you, the dove\nsmooth her bosom; and the hawk spread her wings toward the south. All\nthe wide world of vegetation blooms and bends for you; the leaves\ntremble that you may bid them be still under the marble snow; the thorn\nand the thistle, which the earth casts forth as evil, are to you the\nkindliest servants; no dying petal, nor drooping tendril, is so feeble\nas to have no more help for you; no robed pride of blossom so kingly,\nbut it will lay aside its purple to receive at your hands the pale\nimmortality. Is there anything in common life too mean,--in common too\ntrivial,--to be ennobled by your touch? As there is nothing in life, so\nthere is nothing in lifelessness which has not its lesson for you, or\nits gift; and when you are tired of watching the strength of the plume,\nand the tenderness of the leaf, you may walk down to your rough river\nshore, or into the thickest markets of your thoroughfares, and there is\nnot a piece of torn cable that will not twine into a perfect moulding;\nthere is not a fragment of cast-away matting, or shattered basket-work,\nthat will not work into a chequer or capital. Yes: and if you gather up\nthe very sand, and break the stone on which you tread, among its\nfragments of all but invisible shells you will find forms that will\ntake their place, and that proudly, among the starred traceries of your\nvaulting; and you, who can crown the mountain with its fortress, and\nthe city with its towers, are thus able also to give beauty to ashes,\nand worthiness to dust.\n\nNow, in that your art presents all this material to you, you have\nalready much to rejoice in. But you have more to rejoice in, because\nall this is submitted to you, not to be dissected or analyzed, but to\nbe sympathized with, and to bring out, therefore, what may be\naccurately called the moral part of imagination. We saw that, if we\nkept ourselves among lines only, we should have cause to envy the\nnaturalist, because he was conversant with facts; but you will have\nlittle to envy now, if you make yourselves conversant with the feelings\nthat arise out of his facts. For instance, the naturalist coming upon a\nblock of marble, has to begin considering immediately how far its\npurple is owing to iron, or its whiteness to magnesia; he breaks his\npiece of marble, and at the close of his day, has nothing but a little\nsand in his crucible and some data added to the theory of the elements.\nBut _you_ approach your marble to sympathize with it, and rejoice\nover its beauty. You cut it a little indeed; but only to bring out its\nveins more perfectly; and at the end of your day's work you leave your\nmarble shaft with joy and complacency in its perfectness, as marble.\nWhen you have to watch an animal instead of a stone, you differ from\nthe naturalist in the same way. He may, perhaps, if he be an amiable\nnaturalist, take delight in having living creatures round him;--still,\nthe major part of his work is, or has been, in counting feathers,\nseparating fibres, and analyzing structures. But _your_ work is\nalways with the living creature; the thing you have to get at in him is\nhis life, and ways of going about things. It does not matter to you how\nmany cells there are in his bones, or how many filaments in his\nfeathers; what you want is his moral character and way of behaving\nhimself; it is just that which your imagination, if healthy, will first\nseize--just that which your chisel, if vigorous, will first cut. You\nmust get the storm spirit into your eagles, and the lordliness into\nyour lions, and the tripping fear into your fawns; and in order to do\nthis, you must be in continual sympathy with every fawn of them; and be\nhand-in-glove with all the lions, and hand-in-claw with all the hawks.\nAnd don't fancy that you will lower yourselves by sympathy with the\nlower creatures; you cannot sympathize rightly with the higher, unless\nyou do with those: but you have to sympathize with the higher, too--\nwith queens, and kings, and martyrs, and angels. Yes, and above all,\nand more than all, with simple humanity in all its needs and ways, for\nthere is not one hurried face that passes you in the street that will\nnot be impressive, if you can only fathom it. All history is open to\nyou, all high thoughts and dreams that the past fortunes of men can\nsuggest, all fairy land is open to you--no vision that ever haunted\nforest, or gleamed over hill-side, but calls you to understand how it\ncame into men's hearts, and may still touch them; and all Paradise is\nopen to you--yes, and the work of Paradise; for in bringing all this,\nin perpetual and attractive truth, before the eyes of your fellow-men,\nyou have to join in the employment of the angels, as well as to imagine\ntheir companies.\n\nAnd observe, in this last respect, what a peculiar importance, and\nresponsibility, are attached to your work, when you consider its\npermanence, and the multitudes to whom it is addressed. We frequently\nare led, by wise people, to consider what responsibility may sometimes\nattach to words, which yet, the chance is, will be heard by few, and\nforgotten as soon as heard. But none of _your_ words will be heard\nby few, and none will be forgotten, for five or six hundred years, if\nyou build well. You will talk to all who pass by; and all those little\nsympathies, those freaks of fancy, those jests in stone, those\nworkings-out of problems in caprice, will occupy mind after mind of\nutterly countless multitudes, long after you are gone. You have not,\nlike authors, to plead for a hearing, or to fear oblivion. Do but build\nlarge enough, and carve boldly enough, and all the world will hear you;\nthey cannot choose but look.\n\nI do not mean to awe you by this thought; I do not mean that because\nyou will have so many witnesses and watchers, you are never to jest, or\ndo anything gaily or lightly; on the contrary, I have pleaded, from the\nbeginning, for this art of yours, especially because it has room for\nthe whole of your character--if jest is in you, let the jest be jested;\nif mathematical ingenuity is yours, let your problem be put, and your\nsolution worked out, as quaintly as you choose; above all, see that\nyour work is easily and happily done, else it will never make anybody\nelse happy; but while you thus give the rein to all your impulses, see\nthat those impulses be headed and centred by one noble impulse; and let\nthat be Love--triple love--for the art which you practise, the creation\nin which you move, and the creatures to whom you minister.\n\nI. I say, first, Love for the art which you practise. Be assured that\nif ever any other motive becomes a leading one in your mind, as the\nprincipal one for exertion, except your love of art, that moment it is\nall over with your art. I do not say you are to desire money, nor to\ndesire fame, nor to desire position; you cannot but desire all three;\nnay, you may--if you are willing that I should use the word Love in a\ndesecrated sense--love all three; that is, passionately covet them, yet\nyou must not covet or love them in the first place. Men of strong\npassions and imaginations must always care a great deal for anything\nthey care for at all; but the whole question is one of first or second.\nDoes your art lead you, or your gain lead you? You may like making\nmoney exceedingly; but if it come to a fair question, whether you are\nto make five hundred pounds less by this business, or to spoil your\nbuilding, and you choose to spoil your building, there's an end of you.\nSo you may be as thirsty for fame as a cricket is for cream; but, if it\ncome to a fair question, whether you are to please the mob, or do the\nthing as you know it ought to be done; and you can't do both, and\nchoose to please the mob, it's all over with you--there's no hope for\nyou; nothing that you can do will ever be worth a man's glance as he\npasses by. The test is absolute, inevitable--Is your art first with\nyou? Then you are artists; you may be, after you have made your money,\nmisers and usurers; you may be, after you have got your fame, jealous,\nand proud, and wretched, and base: but yet, _as long as you won't\nspoil your work_, you are artists. On the other hand--Is your money\nfirst with you, and your fame first with you? Then, you may be very\ncharitable with your money, and very magnificent with your money, and\nvery graceful in the way you wear your reputation, and very courteous\nto those beneath you, and very acceptable to those above you; but you\nare _not artists_. You are mechanics, and drudges.\n\nII. You must love the creation you work in the midst of. For, wholly in\nproportion to the intensity of feeling which you bring to the subject\nyou have chosen, will be the depth and justice of our perception of its\ncharacter. And this depth of feeling is not to be gained on the\ninstant, when you want to bring it to bear on this or that. It is the\nresult of the general habit of striving to feel rightly; and, among\nthousands of various means of doing this, perhaps the one I ought\nspecially to name to you, is the keeping yourselves clear of petty and\nmean cares. Whatever you do, don't be anxious, nor fill your heads with\nlittle chagrins and little desires. I have just said, that you may be\ngreat artists, and yet be miserly and jealous, and troubled about many\nthings. So you may be; but I said also that the miserliness or trouble\nmust not be in your hearts all day. It is possible that you may get a\nhabit of saving money; or it is possible, at a time of great trial, you\nmay yield to the temptation of speaking unjustly of a rival,--and you\nwill shorten your powers arid dim your sight even by this;--but the\nthing that you have to dread far more than any such unconscious habit,\nor--any such momentary fall--is the _constancy of small emotions_;--the\nanxiety whether Mr. So-and-so will like your work; whether such and such\na workman will do all that you want of him, and so on;--not wrong feelings\nor anxieties in themselves, but impertinent, and wholly incompatible with\nthe full exercise of your imagination.\n\nKeep yourselves, therefore, quiet, peaceful, with your eyes open. It\ndoesn't matter at all what Mr. So-and-so thinks of your work; but it\nmatters a great deal what that bird is doing up there in its nest, or\nhow that vagabond child at the street corner is managing his game of\nknuckle-down. And remember, you cannot turn aside from your own\ninterests, to the birds' and the children's interests, unless you have\nlong before got into the habit of loving and watching birds and\nchildren; so that it all comes at last to the forgetting yourselves,\nand the living out of yourselves, in the calm of the great world, or if\nyou will, in its agitation; but always in a calm of your own bringing.\nDo not think it wasted time to submit yourselves to any influence which\nmay bring upon you any noble feeling. Rise early, always watch the\nsunrise, and the way the clouds break from the dawn; you will cast your\nstatue-draperies in quite another than your common way, when the\nremembrance of that cloud motion is with you, and of the scarlet\nvesture of the morning. Live always in the springtime in the country;\nyou do not know what leaf-form means, unless you have seen the buds\nburst, and the young leaves breathing low in the sunshine, and\nwondering at the first shower of rain. But above all, accustom\nyourselves to look for, and to love, all nobleness of gesture and\nfeature in the human form; and remember that the highest nobleness is\nusually among the aged, the poor, and the infirm; you will find, in the\nend, that it is not the strong arm of the soldier, nor the laugh of the\nyoung beauty, that are the best studies for you. Look at them, and look\nat them reverently; but be assured that endurance is nobler than\nstrength, and patience than beauty; and that it is not in the high\nchurch pews, where the gay dresses are, but in the church free seats,\nwhere the widows' weeds are, that you may see the faces that will fit\nbest between the angels' wings, in the church porch.\n\nIII. And therefore, lastly, and chiefly, you must love the creatures to\nwhom you minister, your fellow-men; for, if you do not love them, not\nonly will you be little interested in the passing events of life, but\nin all your gazing at humanity, you will be apt to be struck only by\noutside form, and not by expression. It is only kindness and tenderness\nwhich will ever enable you to see what beauty there is in the dark eyes\nthat are sunk with weeping, and in the paleness of those fixed faces\nwhich the earth's adversity has compassed about, till they shine in\ntheir patience like dying watchfires through twilight. But it is not\nthis only which makes it needful for you, if you would be great, to be\nalso kind; there is a most important and all-essential reason in the\nvery nature of your own art. So soon as you desire to build largely,\nand with addition of noble sculpture, you will find that your work must\nbe associative. You cannot carve a whole cathedral yourself--you can\ncarve but few and simple parts of it. Either your own work must be\ndisgraced in the mass of the collateral inferiority, or you must raise\nyour fellow-designers to correspondence of power. If you have genius,\nyou will yourselves take the lead in the building you design; you will\ncarve its porch and direct its disposition. But for all subsequent\nadvancement of its detail, you must trust to the agency and the\ninvention of others; and it rests with you either to repress what\nfaculties your workmen have, into cunning subordination to your own; or\nto rejoice in discovering even the powers that may rival you, and\nleading forth mind after mind into fellowship with your fancy, and\nassociation with your fame.\n\nI need not tell you that if you do the first--if you endeavour to\ndepress or disguise the talents of your subordinates--you are lost; for\nnothing could imply more darkly and decisively than this, that your art\nand your work were not beloved by you; that it was your own prosperity\nthat you were seeking, and your own skill only that you cared to\ncontemplate. I do not say that you must not be jealous at all; it is\nrarely in human nature to be wholly without jealousy; and you may be\nforgiven for going some day sadly home, when you find some youth,\nunpractised and unapproved, giving the life-stroke to his work which\nyou, after years of training, perhaps, cannot reach; but your jealousy\nmust not conquer--your love of your building must conquer, helped by\nyour kindness of heart. See--I set no high or difficult standard before\nyou. I do not say that you are to surrender your pre-eminence in\n_mere_ unselfish generosity. But I do say that you must surrender\nyour pre-eminence in your love of your building helped by your\nkindness; and that whomsoever you find better able to do what will\nadorn it than you,--that person you are to give place to; and to\nconsole yourselves for the humiliation, first, by your joy in seeing\nthe edifice grow more beautiful under his chisel, and secondly, by your\nsense of having done kindly and justly. But if you are morally strong\nenough to make the kindness and justice the first motive, it will be\nbetter;--best of all, if you do not consider it as kindness at all, but\nbare and stern justice; for, truly, such help as we can give each other\nin this world is a _debt_ to each other; and the man who perceives\na superiority or a capacity in a subordinate, and neither confesses,\nnor assists it, is not merely the withholder of kindness, but the\ncommitter of injury. But be the motive what you will, only see that you\ndo the thing; and take the joy of the consciousness that, as your art\nembraces a wider field than all others--and addresses a vaster\nmultitude than all others--and is surer of audience than all others--so\nit is profounder and holier in Fellowship than all others. The artist,\nwhen his pupil is perfect, must see him leave his side that he may\ndeclare his distinct, perhaps opponent, skill. Man of science wrestles\nwith man of science for priority of discovery, and pursues in pangs of\njealous haste his solitary inquiry. You alone are called by kindness,--\nby necessity,--by equity, to fraternity of toil; and thus, in those\nmisty and massive piles which rise above the domestic roofs of our\nancient cities, there was--there may be again--a meaning more profound\nand true than any that fancy so commonly has attached to them. Men say\ntheir pinnacles point to heaven. Why, so does every tree that buds, and\nevery bird that rises as it sings. Men say their aisles are good for\nworship. Why, so is every mountain glen, and rough sea-shore. But this\nthey have of distinct and indisputable glory,--that their mighty walls\nwere never raised, and never shall be, but by men who love and aid each\nother in their weakness;--that all their interlacing strength of\nvaulted stone has its foundation upon the stronger arches of manly\nfellowship, and all their changing grace of depressed or lifted\npinnacle owes its cadence and completeness to sweeter symmetries of\nhuman soul.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE V.\n\nTHE WORK OP IRON, IN NATURE, ART, AND POLICY.\n\n_A Lecture Delivered at Tunbridge Wells, February, 1858._\n\n\nWhen first I heard that you wished me to address you this evening, it\nwas a matter of some doubt with me whether I could find any subject\nthat would possess any sufficient interest for you to justify my\nbringing you out of your comfortable houses on a winter's night. When I\nventure to speak about my own special business of art, it is almost\nalways before students of art, among whom I may sometimes permit myself\nto be dull, if I can feel that I am useful: but a mere talk about art,\nespecially without examples to refer to (and I have been unable to\nprepare any careful illustrations for this lecture), is seldom of much\ninterest to a general audience. As I was considering what you might\nbest bear with me in speaking about, there came naturally into my mind\na subject connected with the origin and present prosperity of the town\nyou live in; and, it seemed to me, in the out-branchings of it, capable\nof a very general interest. When, long ago (I am afraid to think how\nlong), Tunbridge Wells was my Switzerland, and I used to be brought\ndown here in the summer, a sufficiently active child, rejoicing in the\nhope of clambering sandstone cliffs of stupendous height above the\ncommon, there used sometimes, as, I suppose, there are in the lives of\nall children at the Wells, to be dark days in my life--days of\ncondemnation to the pantiles and band--under which calamities my only\nconsolation used to be in watching, at every turn in my walk, the\nwelling forth of the spring over the orange rim of its marble basin.\nThe memory of the clear water, sparkling over its saffron stain, came\nback to me as the strongest image connected with the place; and it\nstruck me that you might not be unwilling, to-night, to think a little\nover the full significance of that saffron stain, and of the power, in\nother ways and other functions, of the steelly element to which so many\nhere owe returning strength and life;--chief as it has been always, and\nis yet more and more markedly so day by day, among the precious gifts\nof the earth.\n\nThe subject is, of course, too wide to be more than suggestively\ntreated; and even my suggestions must be few, and drawn chiefly from my\nown fields of work; nevertheless, I think I shall have time to indicate\nsome courses of thought which you may afterwards follow out for\nyourselves if they interest you; and so I will not shrink from the full\nscope of the subject which I have announced to you--the functions of\nIron, in Nature, Art, and Policy.\n\nWithout more preface, I will take up the first head.\n\nI. IRON IN NATURE.--You all probably know that the ochreous stain,\nwhich, perhaps, is often thought to spoil the basin of your spring, is\niron in a state of rust: and when you see rusty iron in other places\nyou generally think, not only that it spoils the places it stains, but\nthat it is spoiled itself--that rusty iron is spoiled iron.\n\nFor most of our uses it generally is so; and because we cannot use a\nrusty knife or razor so well as a polished one, we suppose it to be a\ngreat defect in iron that it is subject to rust. But not at all. On the\ncontrary, the most perfect and useful state of it is that ochreous\nstain; and therefore it is endowed with so ready a disposition to get\nitself into that state. It is not a fault in the iron, but a virtue, to\nbe so fond of getting rusted, for in that condition it fulfils its most\nimportant functions in the universe, and most kindly duties to mankind.\nNay, in a certain sense, and almost a literal one, we may say that iron\nrusted is Living; but when pure or polished, Dead. You all probably\nknow that in the mixed air we breathe, the part of it essentially\nneedful to us is called oxygen; and that this substance is to all\nanimals, in the most accurate sense of the word, \"breath of life.\" The\nnervous power of life is a different thing; but the supporting element\nof the breath, without which the blood, and therefore the life, cannot\nbe nourished, is this oxygen. Now it is this very same air which the\niron breathes when it gets rusty. It takes the oxygen from the\natmosphere as eagerly as we do, though it uses it differently. The iron\nkeeps all that it gets; we, and other animals, part with it again; but\nthe metal absolutely keeps what it has once received of this aerial\ngift; and the ochreous dust which we so much despise is, in fact, just\nso much nobler than pure iron, in so far as it is _iron and the\nair._ Nobler, and more useful--for, indeed, as I shall be able to\nshow you presently--the main service of this metal, and of all other\nmetals, to us, is not in making knives, and scissors, and pokers, and\npans, but in making the ground we feed from, and nearly all the\nsubstances first needful to our existence. For these are all nothing\nbut metals and oxygen--metals with breath put into them. Sand, lime,\nclay, and the rest of the earths--potash and soda, and the rest of the\nalkalies--are all of them metals which have undergone this, so to\nspeak, vital change, and have been rendered fit for the service of man\nby permanent unity with the purest air which he himself breathes. There\nis only one metal which does not rust readily; and that, in its\ninfluence on Man hitherto, has caused Death rather than Life; it will\nnot be put to its right use till it is made a pavement of, and so\ntrodden under foot.\n\nIs there not something striking in this fact, considered largely as one\nof the types, or lessons, furnished by the inanimate creation? Here you\nhave your hard, bright, cold, lifeless metal--good enough for swords\nand scissors--but not for food. You think, perhaps, that your iron is\nwonderfully useful in a pure form, but how would you like the world, if\nall your meadows, instead of grass, grew nothing but iron wire--if all\nyour arable ground, instead of being made of sand and clay, were\nsuddenly turned into flat surfaces of steel--if the whole earth,\ninstead of its green and glowing sphere, rich with forest and flower,\nshowed nothing but the image of the vast furnace of a ghastly engine--a\nglobe of black, lifeless, excoriated metal? It would be that,--probably\nit was once that; but assuredly it would be, were it not that all the\nsubstance of which it is made sucks and breathes the brilliancy of the\natmosphere; and as it breathes, softening from its merciless hardness,\nit falls into fruitful and beneficent dust; gathering itself again into\nthe earths from which we feed, and the stones with which we build;--\ninto the rocks that frame the mountains, and the sands that bind the\nsea.\n\nHence, it is impossible for you to take up the most insignificant\npebble at your feet, without being able to read, if you like, this\ncurious lesson in it. You look upon it at first as if it were earth\nonly. Nay, it answers, \"I am not earth--I am earth and air in one; part\nof that blue heaven which you love, and long for, is already in me; it\nis all my life--without it I should be nothing, and able for nothing; I\ncould not minister to you, nor nourish you--I should be a cruel and\nhelpless thing; but, because there is, according to my need and place\nin creation, a kind of soul in me, I have become capable of good, and\nhelpful in the circles of vitality.\"\n\nThus far the same interest attaches to all the earths, and all the\nmetals of which they are made; but a deeper interest, and larger\nbeneficence belong to that ochreous earth of iron which stains the\nmarble of your springs. It stains much besides that marble. It stains\nthe great earth wheresoever you can see it, far and wide--it is the\ncolouring substance appointed to colour the globe for the sight, as\nwell as subdue it to the service of man. You have just seen your hills\ncovered with snow, and, perhaps, have enjoyed, at first, the contrast\nof their fair white with the dark blocks of pine woods; but have you\never considered how you would like them always white--not pure white,\nbut dirty white--the white of thaw, with all the chill of snow in it,\nbut none of its brightness? That is what the colour of the earth would\nbe without its iron; that would be its colour, not here or there only,\nbut in all places, and at all times. Follow out that idea till you get\nit in some detail. Think first of your pretty gravel walks in your\ngardens, yellow and fine, like plots of sunshine between the flower-\nbeds; fancy them all suddenly turned to the colour of ashes. That is\nwhat they would be without iron ochre. Think of your winding walks over\nthe common, as warm to the eye as they are dry to the foot, and imagine\nthem all laid down suddenly with gray cinders. Then pass beyond the\ncommon into the country, and pause at the first ploughed field that you\nsee sweeping up the hill sides in the sun, with its deep brown furrows,\nand wealth of ridges all a-glow, heaved aside by the ploughshare, like\ndeep folds of a mantle of russet velvet--fancy it all changed suddenly\ninto grisly furrows in a field of mud. That is what it would be without\niron. Pass on, in fancy, over hill and dale, till you reach the bending\nline of the sea shore; go down upon its breezy beach--watch the white\nfoam flashing among the amber of it, and all the blue sea embayed in\nbelts of gold: then fancy those circlets of far sweeping shore suddenly\nput into mounds of mourning--all those golden sands turned into gray\nslime, the fairies no more able to call to each other, \"Come unto these\nyellow sands;\" but, \"Come unto these drab sands.\" That is what they\nwould be, without iron.\n\nIron is in some sort, therefore, the sunshine and light of landscape,\nso far as that light depends on the ground; but it is a source of\nanother kind of sunshine, quite as important to us in the way we live\nat present--sunshine, not of landscape, but of dwelling-place.\n\nIn these days of swift locomotion I may doubtless assume that most of\nmy audience have been somewhere out of England--have been in Scotland,\nor France, or Switzerland. Whatever may have been their impression, on\nreturning to their own country, of its superiority or inferiority in\nother respects, they cannot but have felt one thing about it--the\ncomfortable look of its towns and villages. Foreign towns are often\nvery picturesque, very beautiful, but they never have quite that look\nof warm self-sufficiency and wholesome quiet, with which our villages\nnestle themselves down among the green fields. If you will take the\ntrouble to examine into the sources of this impression, you will find\nthat by far the greater part of that warm and satisfactory appearance\ndepends upon the rich scarlet colour of the bricks and tiles. It does\nnot belong to the neat building--very neat building has an\nuncomfortable rather than a comfortable look--but it depends on the\n_warm_ building; our villages are dressed in red tiles as our old\nwomen are in red cloaks; and it does not matter how worn the cloaks, or\nhow bent and bowed the roof may be, so long as there are no holes in\neither one or the other, and the sobered but unextinguishable colour\nstill glows in the shadow of the hood, and burns among the green mosses\nof the gable. And what do you suppose dyes your tiles of cottage roof?\nYou don't paint them. It is nature who puts all that lovely vermilion\ninto the clay for you; and all that lovely vermilion is this oxide of\niron. Think, therefore, what your streets of towns would become--ugly\nenough, indeed, already, some of them, but still comfortable-looking--\nif instead of that warm brick red, the houses became all pepper-and-\nsalt colour. Fancy your country villages changing from that homely\nscarlet of theirs which, in its sweet suggestion of laborious peace, is\nas honourable as the soldiers' scarlet of laborious battle--suppose all\nthose cottage roofs, I say, turned at once into the colour of unbaked\nclay, the colour of street gutters in rainy weather. That's what they\nwould be, without iron.\n\nThere is, however, yet another effect of colour in our English country\ntowns which, perhaps, you may not all yourselves have noticed, but for\nwhich you must take the word of a sketcher. They are not so often\nmerely warm scarlet as they are warm purple;--a more beautiful colour\nstill: and they owe this colour to a mingling with the vermilion of the\ndeep grayish or purple hue of our fine Welsh slates on the more\nrespectable roofs, made more blue still by the colour of intervening\natmosphere. If you examine one of these Welsh slates freshly broken,\nyou will find its purple colour clear and vivid; and although never\nstrikingly so after it has been long exposed to weather, it always\nretains enough of the tint to give rich harmonies of distant purple in\nopposition to the green of our woods and fields. Whatever brightness or\npower there is in the hue is entirely owing to the oxide of iron.\nWithout it the slates would either be pale stone colour, or cold gray,\nor black.\n\nThus far we have only been considering the use and pleasantness of iron\nin the common earth of clay. But there are three kinds of earth which\nin mixed mass and prevalent quantity, form the world. Those are, in\ncommon language, the earths of clay, of lime, and of flint. Many other\nelements are mingled with these in sparing quantities; but the great\nframe and substance of the earth is made of these three, so that\nwherever you stand on solid ground, in any country of the globe, the\nthing that is mainly under your feet will be either clay, limestone, or\nsome condition of the earth of flint, mingled with both.\n\nThese being what we have usually to deal with, Nature seems to have set\nherself to make these three substances as interesting to us, and as\nbeautiful for us, as she can. The clay, being a soft and changeable\nsubstance, she doesn't take much pains about, as we have seen, till it\nis baked; she brings the colour into it only when it receives a\npermanent form. But the limestone and flint she paints, in her own way,\nin their native state: and her object in painting them seems to be much\nthe same as in her painting of flowers; to draw us, careless and idle\nhuman creatures, to watch her a little, and see what she is about--that\nbeing on the whole good for us,--her children. For Nature is always\ncarrying on very strange work with this limestone and flint of hers:\nlaying down beds of them at the bottom of the sea; building islands out\nof the sea; filling chinks and veins in mountains with curious\ntreasures; petrifying mosses, and trees, and shells; in fact, carrying\non all sorts of business, subterranean or submarine, which it would be\nhighly desirable for us, who profit and live by it, to notice as it\ngoes on. And apparently to lead us to do this, she makes picture-books\nfor us of limestone and flint; and tempts us, like foolish children as\nwe are, to read her books by the pretty colours in them. The pretty\ncolours in her limestone-books form those variegated marbles which all\nmankind have taken delight to polish and build with from the beginning\nof time; and the pretty colours in her flint-books form those agates,\njaspers, cornelians, bloodstones, onyxes, cairngorms, chrysoprases,\nwhich men have in like manner taken delight to cut, and polish, and\nmake ornaments of, from the beginning of time; and yet, so much of\nbabies are they, and so fond of looking at the pictures instead of\nreading the book, that I question whether, after six thousand years of\ncutting and polishing, there are above two or three people out of any\ngiven hundred, who know, or care to know, how a bit of agate or a bit\nof marble was made, or painted.\n\nHow it was made, may not be always very easy to say; but with what it\nwas painted there is no manner of question. All those beautiful violet\nveinings and variegations of the marbles of Sicily and Spain, the\nglowing orange and amber colours of those of Siena, the deep russet of\nthe Rosso antico, and the blood-colour of all the precious jaspers that\nenrich the temples of Italy; and, finally, all the lovely transitions\nof tint in the pebbles of Scotland and the Rhine, which form, though\nnot the most precious, by far the most interesting portion of our\nmodern jewellers' work;--all these are painted by nature with this one\nmaterial only, variously proportioned and applied--the oxide of iron\nthat stains your Tunbridge springs.\n\nBut this is not all, nor the best part of the work of iron. Its service\nin producing these beautiful stones is only rendered to rich people,\nwho can afford to quarry and polish them. But Nature paints for all the\nworld, poor and rich together: and while, therefore, she thus adorns\nthe innermost rocks of her hills, to tempt your investigation, or\nindulge your luxury,--she paints, far more carefully, the outsides of\nthe hills, which are for the eyes of the shepherd and the ploughman. I\nspoke just now of the effect in the roofs of our villages of their\npurple slates: but if the slates are beautiful even in their flat and\nformal rows on house-roofs, much more are they beautiful on the rugged\ncrests and flanks of their native mountains. Have you ever considered,\nin speaking as we do so often of distant blue hills, what it is that\nmakes them blue? To a certain extent it is distance; but distance alone\nwill not do it. Many hills look white, however distant. That lovely\ndark purple colour of our Welsh and Highland hills is owing, not to\ntheir distance merely, but to their rocks. Some of their rocks are,\nindeed, too dark to be beautiful, being black or ashy gray; owing to\nimperfect and porous structure. But when you see this dark colour\ndashed with russet and blue, and coming out in masses among the green\nferns, so purple that you can hardly tell at first whether it is rock\nor heather, then you must thank your old Tunbridge friend, the oxide of\niron.\n\nBut this is not all. It is necessary for the beauty of hill scenery\nthat Nature should colour not only her soft rocks, but her hard ones;\nand she colours them with the same thing, only more beautifully.\nPerhaps you have wondered at my use of the word \"purple,\" so often of\nstones; but the Greeks, and still more the Romans, who had profound\nrespect for purple, used it of stone long ago. You have all heard of\n\"porphyry\" as among the most precious of the harder massive stones. The\ncolour which gave it that noble name, as well as that which gives the\nflush to all the rosy granite of Egypt--yes, and to the rosiest summits\nof the Alps themselves--is still owing to the same substance--your\nhumble oxide of iron.\n\nAnd last of all:\n\nA nobler colour than all these--the noblest colour ever seen on this\nearth--one which belongs to a strength greater than that of the\nEgyptian granite, and to a beauty greater than that of the sunset or\nthe rose--is still mysteriously connected with the presence of this\ndark iron. I believe it is not ascertained on what the crimson of blood\nactually depends; but the colour is connected, of course, with its\nvitality, and that vitality with the existence of iron as one of its\nsubstantial elements.\n\nIs it not strange to find this stern and strong metal mingled so\ndelicately in our human life, that we cannot even blush without its\nhelp? Think of it, my fair and gentle hearers; how terrible the\nalternative--sometimes you have actually no choice but to be brazen-\nfaced, or iron-faced!\n\nIn this slight review of some of the functions of the metal, you\nobserve that I confine myself strictly to its operations as a colouring\nelement. I should only confuse your conception of the facts, if I\nendeavoured to describe its uses as a substantial element, either in\nstrengthening rocks, or influencing vegetation by the decomposition of\nrocks. I have not, therefore, even glanced at any of the more serious\nuses of the metal in the economy of nature. But what I wish you to\ncarry clearly away with you is the remembrance that in all these uses\nthe metal would be nothing without the air. The pure metal has no\npower, and never occurs in nature at all except in meteoric stones,\nwhose fall no one can account for, and which are useless after they\nhave fallen: in the necessary work of the world, the iron is invariably\njoined with the oxygen, and would be capable of no service or beauty\nwhatever without it.\n\nII. IRON IN ART.--Passing, then, from the offices of the metal in the\noperations of nature to its uses in the hands of man, you must\nremember, in the outset, that the type which has been thus given you,\nby the lifeless metal, of the action of body and soul together, has\nnoble antitype in the operation of all human power. All art worthy the\nname is the energy--neither of the human body alone, nor of the human\nsoul alone, but of both united, one guiding the other: good\ncraftsmanship and work of the fingers, joined with good emotion and\nwork of the heart.\n\nThere is no good art, nor possible judgment of art, when these two are\nnot united; yet we are constantly trying to separate them. Our amateurs\ncannot be persuaded but that they may produce some kind of art by their\nfancy or sensibility, without going through the necessary manual toil.\nThat is entirely hopeless. Without a certain number, and that a very\ngreat number, of steady acts of hand--a practice as careful and\nconstant as would be necessary to learn any other manual business--no\ndrawing is possible. On the other side, the workman, and those who\nemploy him, are continually trying to produce art by trick or habit of\nfingers, without using their fancy or sensibility. That also is\nhopeless. Without mingling of heart-passion with hand-power, no art is\npossible. [Footnote: No fine art, that is. See the previous definition\nof fine art at p. 38.] The highest art unites both in their intensest\ndegrees: the action of the hand at its finest, with that of the heart\nat its fullest.\n\nHence it follows that the utmost power of art can only be given in a\nmaterial capable of receiving and retaining the influence of the\nsubtlest touch of the human hand. That hand is the most perfect agent\nof material power existing in the universe; and its full subtlety can\nonly be shown when the material it works on, or with, is entirely\nyielding. The chords of a perfect instrument will receive it, but not\nof an imperfect one; the softly bending point of the hair pencil, and\nsoft melting of colour, will receive it, but not even the chalk or pen\npoint, still less the steel point, chisel, or marble. The hand of a\nsculptor may, indeed, be as subtle as that of a painter, but all its\nsubtlety is not bestowable nor expressible: the touch of Titian,\nCorreggio, or Turner, [Footnote: See Appendix IV., \"Subtlety of Hand.\"]\nis a far more marvellous piece of nervous action than can be shown in\nanything but colour, or in the very highest conditions of executive\nexpression in music. In proportion as the material worked upon is less\ndelicate, the execution necessarily becomes lower, and the art with it.\nThis is one main principle of all work. Another is, that whatever the\nmaterial you choose to work with, your art is base if it does not bring\nout the distinctive qualities of that material.\n\nThe reason of this second law is, that if you don't want the qualities\nof the substance you use, you ought to use some other substance: it can\nbe only affectation, and desire to display your skill, that lead you to\nemploy a refractory substance, and therefore your art will all be base.\nGlass, for instance, is eminently, in its nature, transparent. If you\ndon't want transparency, let the glass alone. Do not try to make a\nwindow look like an opaque picture, but take an opaque ground to begin\nwith. Again, marble is eminently a solid and massive substance. Unless\nyou want mass and solidity, don't work in marble. If you wish for\nlightness, take wood; if for freedom, take stucco; if for ductility,\ntake glass. Don't try to carve leathers, or trees, or nets, or foam,\nout of marble. Carve white limbs and broad breasts only out of that.\n\nSo again, iron is eminently a ductile and tenacious substance--\ntenacious above all things, ductile more than most. When you want\ntenacity, therefore, and involved form, take iron. It is eminently made\nfor that. It is the material given to the sculptor as the companion of\nmarble, with a message, as plain as it can well be spoken, from the\nlips of the earth-mother, \"Here's for you to cut, and here's for you to\nhammer. Shape this, and twist that. What is solid and simple, carve\nout; what is thin and entangled, beat out. I give you all kinds of\nforms to be delighted in;--fluttering leaves as well as fair bodies;\ntwisted branches as well as open brows. The leaf and the branch you may\nbeat and drag into their imagery: the body and brow you shall\nreverently touch into their imagery. And if you choose rightly and work\nrightly, what you do shall be safe afterwards. Your slender leaves\nshall not break off in my tenacious iron, though they may be rusted a\nlittle with an iron autumn. Your broad surfaces shall not be unsmoothed\nin my pure crystalline marble--no decay shall touch them. But if you\ncarve in the marble what will break with a touch, or mould in the metal\nwhat a stain of rust or verdigris will spoil, it is your fault--not\nmine.\"\n\nThese are the main principles in this matter; which, like nearly all\nother right principles in art, we moderns delight in contradicting as\ndirectly and specially as may be. We continually look for, and praise,\nin our exhibitions the sculpture of veils, and lace, and thin leaves,\nand all kinds of impossible things pushed as far as possible in the\nfragile stone, for the sake of showing the sculptor's dexterity.\n[Footnote: I do not mean to attach any degree of blame to the effort to\nrepresent leafage in marble for certain expressive purposes. The later\nworks of Mr. Munro have depended for some of their most tender thoughts\non a delicate and skilful use of such accessories. And in general, leaf\nsculpture is good and admirable, if it renders, as in Gothic work, the\ngrace and lightness of the leaf by the arrangement of light and shadow\n--supporting the masses well by strength of stone below; but all carving\nis base which proposes to itself _slightness_ as an aim, and tries\nto imitate the absolute thinness of thin or slight things, as much\nmodern wood carving does, I saw in Italy, a year or two ago, a marble\nsculpture of birds' nests.] On the other hand, we _cast_ our iron\ninto bars--brittle, though an inch thick--sharpen them at the ends,\nand consider fences, and other work, made of such materials,\ndecorative! I do not believe it would be easy to calculate the amount\nof mischief done to our taste in England by that fence iron-work of\nours alone. If it were asked of us by a single characteristic, to\ndistinguish the dwellings of a country into two broad sections; and to\nset, on one side, the places where people were, for the most part,\nsimple, happy, benevolent, and honest; and, on the other side, the\nplaces where at least a great number of the people were sophisticated,\nunkind, uncomfortable, and unprincipled, there is, I think, one feature\nthat you could fix upon as a positive test: the uncomfortable and\nunprincipled parts of a country would be the parts where people lived\namong iron railings, and the comfortable and principled parts where\nthey had none. A broad generalization, you will say! Perhaps a little\ntoo broad; yet, in all sobriety, it will come truer than you think.\nConsider every other kind of fence or defence, and you will find some\nvirtue in it; but in the iron railing none. There is, first, your\ncastle rampart of stone--somewhat too grand to be considered here among\nour types of fencing; next, your garden or park wall of brick, which\nhas indeed often an unkind look on the outside, but there is more\nmodesty in it than unkindness. It generally means, not that the builder\nof it wants to shut you out from the view of his garden, but from the\nview of himself: it is a frank statement that as he needs a certain\nportion of time to himself, so he needs a certain portion of ground to\nhimself, and must not be stared at when he digs there in his shirt-\nsleeves, or plays at leapfrog with his boys from school, or talks over\nold times with his wife, walking up and down in the evening sunshine.\nBesides, the brick wall has good practical service in it, and shelters\nyou from the east wind, and ripens your peaches and nectarines, and\nglows in autumn like a sunny bank. And, moreover, your brick wall, if\nyou build it properly, so that it shall stand long enough, is a\nbeautiful thing when it is old, and has assumed its grave purple red,\ntouched with mossy green.\n\nNext to your lordly wall, in dignity of enclosure, comes your close-set\nwooden paling, which is more objectionable, because it commonly means\nenclosure on a larger scale than people want. Still it is significative\nof pleasant parks, and well-kept field walks, and herds of deer, and\nother such aristocratic pastoralisms, which have here and there their\nproper place in a country, and may be passed without any discredit.\n\nNext to your paling, comes your low stone dyke, your mountain fence,\nindicative at a glance either of wild hill country, or of beds of stone\nbeneath the soil; the hedge of the mountains--delightful in all its\nassociations, and yet more in the varied and craggy forms of the loose\nstones it is built of; and next to the low stone wall, your lowland\nhedge, either in trim line of massive green, suggested of the\npleasances of old Elizabethan houses, and smooth alleys for aged feet,\nand quaint labyrinths for young ones, or else in fair entanglement of\neglantine and virgin's bower, tossing its scented luxuriance along our\ncountry waysides;--how many such you have here among your pretty hills,\nfruitful with black clusters of the bramble for boys in autumn, and\ncrimson hawthorn berries for birds in winter. And then last, and most\ndifficult to class among fences, comes your handrail, expressive of all\nsorts of things; sometimes having a knowing and vicious look, which it\nlearns at race-courses; sometimes an innocent and tender look, which it\nlearns at rustic bridges over cressy brooks; and sometimes a prudent\nand protective look, which it learns on passes of the Alps, where it\nhas posts of granite and bars of pine, and guards the brows of cliffs\nand the banks of torrents. So that in all these kinds of defence there\nis some good, pleasant, or noble meaning. But what meaning has the iron\nrailing? Either, observe, that you are living in the midst of such bad\ncharacters that you must keep them out by main force of bar, or that\nyou are yourself of a character requiring to be kept inside in the same\nmanner. Your iron railing always means thieves outside, or Bedlam\ninside; it _can_ mean nothing else than that. If the people\noutside were good for anything, a hint in the way of fence would be\nenough for them; but because they are violent and at enmity with you,\nyou are forced to put the close bars and the spikes at the top.\n\nLast summer I was lodging for a little while in a cottage in the\ncountry, and in front of my low window there were, first some beds of\ndaisies, then a row of gooseberry and currant bushes, and then a low\nwall about three feet above the ground, covered with stone-cress.\nOutside, a corn-field, with its green ears glistening in the sun, and a\nfield path through it, just past the garden gate. From my window I\ncould see every peasant of the village who passed that way, with basket\non arm for market, or spade on shoulder for field. When I was inclined\nfor society, I could lean over my wall, and talk to anybody; when I was\ninclined for science, I could botanize all along the top of my wall--\nthere were four species of stone-cress alone growing on it; and when I\nwas inclined for exercise, I could jump over my wall, backwards and\nforwards. That's the sort of fence to have in a Christian country; not\na thing which you can't walk inside of without making yourself look\nlike a wild beast, nor look at out of your window in the morning\nwithout expecting to see somebody impaled upon it in the night.\n\nAnd yet farther, observe that the iron railing is a useless fence--it\ncan shelter nothing, and support nothing; you can't nail your peaches\nto it, nor protect your flowers with it, nor make anything whatever out\nof its costly tyranny; and besides being useless, it is an insolent\nfence;--it says plainly to everybody who passes--\"You may be an honest\nperson,--but, also, you may be a thief: honest or not, you shall not\nget in here, for I am a respectable person, and much above you; you\nshall only see what a grand place I have got to keep you out of--look\nhere, and depart in humiliation.\"\n\nThis, however, being in the present state of civilization a frequent\nmanner of discourse, and there being unfortunately many districts where\nthe iron railing is unavoidable, it yet remains a question whether you\nneed absolutely make it ugly, no less than significative of evil. You\nmust have railings round your squares in London, and at the sides of\nyour areas; but need you therefore have railings so ugly that the\nconstant sight of them is enough to neutralise the effect of all the\nschools of art in the kingdom? You need not. Far from such necessity,\nit is even in your power to turn all your police force of iron bars\nactually into drawing masters, and natural historians. Not, of course,\nwithout some trouble and some expense; you can do nothing much worth\ndoing, in this world, without trouble, you can get nothing much worth\nhaving without expense. The main question is only--what is worth doing\nand having:--Consider, therefore, if this be not. Here is your iron\nrailing, as yet, an uneducated monster; a sombre seneschal, incapable\nof any words, except his perpetual \"Keep out!\" and \"Away with you!\"\nWould it not be worth some trouble and cost to turn this ungainly\nruffian porter into a well-educated servant; who, while he was severe\nas ever in forbidding entrance to evilly-disposed people, should yet\nhave a kind word for well-disposed people, and a pleasant look, and a\nlittle useful information at his command, in case he should be asked a\nquestion by the passers-by?\n\nWe have not time to-night to look at many examples of ironwork; and\nthose I happen to have by me are not the best; ironwork is not one of\nmy special subjects of study; so that I only have memoranda of bits\nthat happened to come into picturesque subjects which I was drawing for\nother reasons. Besides, external ironwork is more difficult to find\ngood than any other sort of ancient art; for when it gets rusty and\nbroken, people are sure, if they can afford it, to send it to the old\niron shop, and get a fine new grating instead; and in the great cities\nof Italy, the old iron is thus nearly all gone: the best bits I\nremember in the open air were at Brescia;--fantastic sprays of laurel-\nlike foliage rising over the garden gates; and there are a few fine\nfragments at Verona, and some good trellis-work enclosing the Scala\ntombs; but on the whole, the most interesting pieces, though by no\nmeans the purest in style, are to be found in out-of-the-way provincial\ntowns, where people do not care, or are unable, to make polite\nalterations. The little town of Bellinzona, for instance, on the south\nof the Alps, and that of Sion on the north, have both of them complete\nschools of ironwork in their balconies and vineyard gates. That of\nBellinzona is the best, though not very old--I suppose most of it of\nthe seventeenth century; still it is very quaint and beautiful. Here,\nfor example, are two balconies, from two different houses; one has been\na cardinal's, and the hat is the principal ornament of the balcony; its\ntassels being wrought with delightful delicacy and freedom; and\ncatching the eye clearly even among the mass of rich wreathed leaves.\nThese tassels and strings are precisely the kind of subject fit for\nironwork--noble in ironwork, they would have been entirely ignoble in\nmarble, on the grounds above stated. The real plant of oleander\nstanding in the window enriches the whole group of lines very happily.\n\nThe other balcony, from a very ordinary-looking house in the same\nstreet, is much more interesting in its details. It is shown in the\nplate as it appeared last summer, with convolvulus twined about the\nbars, the arrow-shaped living leaves mingled among the leaves of iron;\nbut you may see in the centre of these real leaves a cluster of lighter\nones, which are those of the ironwork itself. This cluster is worth\ngiving a little larger to show its treatment. Fig. 2 (in Appendix V.)\nis the front view of it: Fig. 4, its profile. It is composed of a large\ntulip in the centre; then two turkscap lilies; then two pinks, a little\nconventionalized; then two narcissi; then two nondescripts, or, at\nleast, flowers I do not know; and then two dark buds, and a few leaves.\nI say, dark buds, for all these flowers have been coloured in their\noriginal state. The plan of the group is exceedingly simple: it is all\nenclosed in a pointed arch (Fig. 3, Appendix V.): the large mass of the\ntulip forming the apex; a six-foiled star on each side; then a jagged\nstar; then a five-foiled star; then an unjagged star or rose; finally a\nsmall bud, so as to establish relation and cadence through the whole\ngroup. The profile is very free and fine, and the upper bar of the\nbalcony exceedingly beautiful in effect;--none the less so on account\nof the marvellously simple means employed. A thin strip of iron is bent\nover a square rod; out of the edge of this strip are cut a series of\ntriangular openings--widest at top, leaving projecting teeth of iron\n(Appendix, Fig. 5); then each of these projecting pieces gets a little\nsharp tap with the hammer in front, which beaks its edge inwards,\ntearing it a little open at the same time, and the thing is done.\n\nThe common forms of Swiss ironwork are less naturalistic than these\nItalian balconies, depending more on beautiful arrangements of various\ncurve; nevertheless, there has been a rich naturalist school at\nFribourg, where a few bell-handles are still left, consisting of rods\nbranched into laurel and other leafage. At Geneva, modern improvements\nhave left nothing; but at Annecy, a little good work remains; the\nbalcony of its old h\u00f4tel de ville especially, with a trout of the lake\n--presumably the town arms--forming its central ornament.\n\nI might expatiate all night--if you would sit and hear me--on the\ntreatment of such required subject, or introduction of pleasant caprice\nby the old workmen; but we have no more time to spare, and I must quit\nthis part of our subject--the rather as I could not explain to you the\nintrinsic merit of such ironwork without going fully into the theory of\ncurvilinear design; only let me leave with you this one distinct\nassertion--that the quaint beauty and character of many natural\nobjects, such as intricate branches, grass, foliage (especially thorny\nbranches and prickly foliage), as well as that of many animals, plumed,\nspined, or bristled, is sculpturally expressible in iron only, and in\niron would be majestic and impressive in the highest degree; and that\nevery piece of metal work you use might be, rightly treated, not only a\nsuperb decoration, but a most valuable abstract of portions of natural\nforms, holding in dignity precisely the same relation to the painted\nrepresentation of plants, that a statue does to the painted form of\nman. It is difficult to give you an idea of the grace and interest\nwhich the simplest objects possess when their forms are thus abstracted\nfrom among the surrounding of rich circumstance which in nature\ndisturbs the feebleness of our attention. In Plate 2, a few blades of\ncommon green grass, and a wild leaf or two--just as they were thrown by\nnature,--are thus abstracted from the associated redundance of the\nforms about them, and shown on a dark ground: every cluster of herbage\nwould furnish fifty such groups, and every such group would work into\niron (fitting it, of course, rightly to its service) with perfect ease,\nand endless grandeur of result.\n\nIII. IRON in POLICY.--Having thus obtained some idea of the use of iron\nin art, as dependent on its ductility, I need not, certainly, say\nanything of its uses in manufacture and commerce; we all of us know\nenough,--perhaps a little too much--about _them_. So I pass lastly\nto consider its uses in policy; dependent chiefly upon its tenacity--\nthat is to say, on its power of bearing a pull, and receiving an edge.\nThese powers, which enable it to pierce, to bind, and to smite, render\nit fit for the three great instruments, by which its political action\nmay be simply typified; namely, the Plough, the Fetter, and the Sword.\n\nOn our understanding the right use of these three instruments, depend,\nof course, all our power as a nation, and all our happiness as\nindividuals.\n\nI. THE PLOUGH.--I say, first, on our understanding the right use of the\nplough, with which, in justice to the fairest of our labourers, we must\nalways associate that feminine plough--the needle. The first\nrequirement for the happiness of a nation is that it should understand\nthe function in this world of these two great instruments: a happy\nnation may be defined as one in which the husband's hand is on the\nplough, and the housewife's on the needle; so in due time reaping its\ngolden harvest, and shining in golden vesture: and an unhappy nation is\none which, acknowledging no use of plough nor needle, will assuredly at\nlast find its storehouse empty in the famine, and its breast naked to\nthe cold.\n\nPerhaps you think this is a mere truism, which I am wasting your time\nin repeating. I wish it were.\n\nBy far the greater part of the suffering and crime which exist at this\nmoment in civilized Europe, arises simply from people not understanding\nthis truism--not knowing that produce or wealth is eternally connected\nby the laws of heaven and earth with resolute labour; but hoping in\nsome way to cheat or abrogate this everlasting law of life, and to feed\nwhere they have not furrowed, and be warm where they have not woven.\n\nI repeat, nearly all our misery and crime result from this one\nmisapprehension. The law of nature is, that a certain quantity of work\nis necessary to produce a certain quantity of good, of any kind\nwhatever. If you want knowledge, you must toil for it: if food, you\nmust toil for it; and if pleasure, you must toil for it. But men do not\nacknowledge this law, or strive to evade it, hoping to get their\nknowledge, and food, and pleasure for nothing; and in this effort they\neither fail of getting them, and remain ignorant and miserable, or they\nobtain them by making other men work for their benefit; and then they\nare tyrants and robbers. Yes, and worse than robbers. I am not one who\nin the least doubts or disputes the progress of this century in many\nthings useful to mankind; but it seems to me a very dark sign\nrespecting us that we look with so much indifference upon dishonesty\nand cruelty in the pursuit of wealth. In the dream of Nebuchadnezzar it\nwas only the _feet_ that were part of iron and part of clay; but\nmany of us are now getting so cruel in our avarice, that it seems as\nif, in us, the _heart_ were part of iron, and part of clay.\n\nFrom what I have heard of the inhabitants of this town, I do not doubt\nbut that I may be permitted to do here what I have found it usually\nthought elsewhere highly improper and absurd to do, namely, trace a few\nBible sentences to their practical result.\n\nYou cannot but have noticed how often in those parts of the Bible which\nare likely to be oftenest opened when people look for guidance,\ncomfort, or help in the affairs of daily life, namely, the Psalms and\nProverbs, mention is made of the guilt attaching to the\n_Oppression_ of the poor. Observe: not the neglect of them, but\nthe _Oppression_ of them: the word is as frequent as it is\nstrange. You can hardly open either of those books, but somewhere in\ntheir pages you will find a description of the wicked man's attempts\nagainst the poor: such as--\"He doth ravish the poor when he getteth him\ninto his net.\"\n\n\"He sitteth in the lurking places of the villages; his eyes are privily\nset against the poor.\"\n\n\"In his pride he doth persecute the poor, and blesseth the covetous,\nwhom God abhorreth.\"\n\n\"His mouth is full of deceit and fraud; in the secret places doth he\nmurder the innocent. Have the workers of iniquity no knowledge, who eat\nup my people as they eat bread? They have drawn out the sword, and bent\nthe bow, to cast down the poor and needy.\"\n\n\"They are corrupt, and speak wickedly concerning oppression.\"\n\n\"Pride compasseth them about as a chain, and violence as a garment.\"\n\n\"Their poison is like the poison of a serpent. Ye weigh the violence of\nyour hands in the earth.\"\n\nYes: \"Ye weigh the violence of your hands:\"--weigh these words as well.\nThe last things we ever usually think of weighing are Bible words. We\nlike to dream and dispute over them; but to weigh them, and see what\ntheir true contents are--anything but that. Yet, weigh these; for I\nhave purposely taken all these verses, perhaps more striking to you\nread in this connection, than separately in their places, out of the\nPsalms, because, for all people belonging to the Established Church of\nthis country these Psalms are appointed lessons, portioned out to them\nby their clergy to be read once through every month. Presumably,\ntherefore, whatever portions of Scripture we may pass by or forget,\nthese at all events, must be brought continually to our observance as\nuseful for direction of daily life. Now, do we ever ask ourselves what\nthe real meaning of these passages may be, and who these wicked people\nare, who are \"murdering the innocent?\" You know it is rather singular\nlanguage this!--rather strong language, we might, perhaps, call it--\nhearing it for the first time. Murder! and murder of innocent people!--\nnay, even a sort of cannibalism. Eating people,--yes, and God's people,\ntoo--eating _My_ people as if they were bread! swords drawn, bows\nbent, poison of serpents mixed! violence of hands weighed, measured,\nand trafficked with as so much coin! where is all this going on? Do you\nsuppose it was only going on in the time of David, and that nobody but\nJews ever murder the poor? If so, it would surely be wiser not to\nmutter and mumble for our daily lessons what does not concern us; but\nif there be any chance that it may concern us, and if this description,\nin the Psalms, of human guilt is at all generally applicable, as the\ndescriptions in the Psalms of human sorrow are, may it not be advisable\nto know wherein this guilt is being committed round about us, or by\nourselves? and when we take the words of the Bible into our mouths in a\ncongregational way, to be sure whether we mean merely to chant a piece\nof melodious poetry relating to other people--(we know not exactly to\nwhom)--or to assert our belief in facts bearing somewhat stringently on\nourselves and our daily business. And if you make up your minds to do\nthis no longer, and take pains to examine into the matter, you will\nfind that these strange words, occurring as they do, not in a few\nplaces only, but almost in every alternate psalm and every alternate\nchapter of proverb, or prophecy, with tremendous reiteration, were not\nwritten for one nation or one time only; but for all nations and\nlanguages, for all places and all centuries; and it is as true of the\nwicked man now as ever it was of Nabal or Dives, that \"his eyes are set\nagainst the poor.\"\n\nSet _against_ the poor, mind you. Not merely set _away_ from\nthe poor, so as to neglect or lose sight of them, but set against, so\nas to afflict and destroy them. This is the main point I want to fix.\nyour attention upon. You will often hear sermons about neglect or\ncarelessness of the poor. But neglect and carelessness are not at all\nthe points. The Bible hardly ever talks about neglect of the poor. It\nalways talks of _oppression_ of the poor--a very different matter.\nIt does not merely speak of passing by on the other side, and binding\nup no wounds, but of drawing the sword and ourselves smiting the men\ndown. It does not charge us with being idle in the pest-house, and\ngiving no medicine, but with being busy in the pest-house, and giving\nmuch poison.\n\nMay we not advisedly look into this matter a little, even tonight, and\nask first, Who are these poor?\n\nNo country is, or ever will be, without them: that is to say, without\nthe class which cannot, on the average, do more by its labour than\nprovide for its subsistence, and which has no accumulations of property\nlaid by on any considerable scale. Now there are a certain number of\nthis class whom we cannot oppress with much severity. An able-bodied\nand intelligent workman--sober, honest, and industrious, will almost\nalways command a fair price for his work, and lay by enough in a few\nyears to enable him to hold his own in the labour market. But all men\nare not able-bodied, nor intelligent, nor industrious; and you cannot\nexpect them to be. Nothing appears to me at once more ludicrous and\nmore melancholy than the way the people of the present age usually talk\nabout the morals of labourers. You hardly ever address a labouring man\nupon his prospects in life, without quietly assuming that he is to\npossess, at starting, as a small moral capital to begin with, the\nvirtue of Socrates, the philosophy of Plato, and the heroism of\nEpaminondas. \"Be assured, my good man,\"--you say to him,--\"that if you\nwork steadily for ten hours a day all your life long, and if you drink\nnothing but water, or the very mildest beer, and live on very plain\nfood, and never lose your temper, and go to church every Sunday, and\nalways remain content in the position in which Providence has placed\nyou, and never grumble nor swear; and always keep your clothes decent,\nand rise early, and use every opportunity of improving yourself, you\nwill get on very well, and never come to the parish.\"\n\nAll this is exceedingly true; but before giving the advice so\nconfidently, it would be well if we sometimes tried it practically\nourselves, and spent a year or so at some hard manual labour, not of an\nentertaining kind--ploughing or digging, for instance, with a very\nmoderate allowance of beer; nothing hut bread and cheese for dinner; no\npapers nor muffins in the morning; no sofas nor magazines at night; one\nsmall room for parlour and kitchen; and a large family of children\nalways in the middle of the floor. If we think we could, under these\ncircumstances, enact Socrates or Epaminondas entirely to our own\nsatisfaction, we shall be somewhat justified in requiring the same\nbehaviour from our poorer neighbours; but if not, we should surely\nconsider a little whether among the various forms of the oppression of\nthe poor, we may not rank as one of the first and likeliest--the\noppression of expecting too much from them.\n\nBut let this pass; and let it be admitted that we can never be guilty\nof oppression towards the sober, industrious, intelligent, exemplary\nlabourer. There will always be in the world some who are not\naltogether, intelligent and exemplary; we shall, I believe, to the end\nof time find the majority somewhat unintelligent, a little inclined to\nbe idle, and occasionally, on Saturday night, drunk; we must even be\nprepared to hear of reprobates who like skittles on Sunday morning\nbetter than prayers; and of unnatural parents who send their children\nout to beg instead of to go to school.\n\nNow these are the kind of people whom you _can_ oppress, and whom\nyou do oppress, and that to purpose,--and with all the more cruelty and\nthe greater sting, because it is just their own fault that puts them\ninto your power. You know the words about wicked people are, \"He doth\nravish the poor when he getteth him _into his net_.\" This getting\ninto the net is constantly the fault or folly of the sufferer--his own\nheedlessness or his own indolence; but after he is once in the net, the\noppression of him, and making the most of his distress, are ours. The\nnets which we use against the poor are just those worldly\nembarrassments which either their ignorance or their improvidence are\nalmost certain at some time or other to bring them into: then, just at\nthe time when we ought to hasten to help them, and disentangle them,\nand teach them how to manage better in future, we rush forward to\n_pillage_ them, and force all we can out of them in their\nadversity. For, to take one instance only, remember this is literally\nand simply what we do, whenever we buy, or try to buy, cheap goods--\ngoods offered at a price which we know cannot be remunerative for the\nlabour involved in them. Whenever we buy such goods, remember we are\nstealing somebody's labour. Don't let us mince the matter. I say, in\nplain Saxon, STEALING--taking from him the proper reward of his work,\nand putting it into our own pocket. You know well enough that the thing\ncould not have been offered you at that price, unless distress of some\nkind had forced the producer to part with it. You take advantage of\nthis distress, and you force as much out of him as you can under the\ncircumstances. The old barons of the middle ages used, in general, the\nthumbscrew to extort property; we moderns use, in preference, hunger or\ndomestic affliction: but the fact of extortion remains precisely the\nsame. Whether we force the man's property from him by pinching his\nstomach, or pinching his fingers, makes some difference anatomically;--\nmorally, none whatsoever: we use a form of torture of some sort in\norder to make him give up his property; we use, indeed, the man's own\nanxieties, instead of the rack; and his immediate peril of starvation,\ninstead of the pistol at the head; but otherwise we differ from Front\nde B\u0153uf, or Dick Turpin, merely in being less dexterous, more cowardly,\nand more cruel. More cruel, I say, because the fierce baron and the\nredoubted highwayman are reported to have robbed, at least by\npreference, only the rich; _we_ steal habitually from the poor. We\nbuy our liveries, and gild our prayer-books, with pilfered pence out of\nchildren's and sick men's wages, and thus ingeniously dispose a given\nquantity of Theft, so that it may produce the largest possible measure\nof delicately distributed suffering.\n\nBut this is only one form of common oppression of the poor--only one\nway of taking our hands off the plough handle, and binding another's\nupon it. This first way of doing it is the economical way--the way\npreferred by prudent and virtuous people. The bolder way is the\nacquisitive way:--the way of speculation. You know we are considering\nat present the various modes in which a nation corrupts itself, by not\nacknowledging the eternal connection between its plough and its\npleasure;--by striving to get pleasure, without working for it. Well, I\nsay the first and commonest way of doing so is to try to get the\nproduct of other people's work, and enjoy it ourselves, by cheapening\ntheir labour in times of distress: then the second way is that grand\none of watching the chances of the market;--the way of speculation. Of\ncourse there are some speculations that are fair and honest--\nspeculations made with our own money, and which do not involve in their\nsuccess the loss, by others, of what we gain. But generally modern\nspeculation involves much risk to others, with chance of profit only to\nourselves: even in its best conditions it is merely one of the forms of\ngambling or treasure hunting; it is either leaving the steady plough\nand the steady pilgrimage of life, to look for silver mines beside the\nway; or else it is the full stop beside the dice-tables in Vanity Fair\n--investing all the thoughts and passions of the soul in the fall of the\ncards, and choosing rather the wild accidents of idle fortune than the\ncalm and accumulative rewards of toil. And this is destructive enough,\nat least to our peace and virtue. But is usually destructive of far\nmore than _our_ peace, or _our_ virtue. Have you ever deliberately set\nyourselves to imagine and measure the suffering, the guilt, and the\nmortality caused necessarily by the failure of any large-dealing merchant,\nor largely-branched bank? Take it at the lowest possible supposition-\ncount, at the fewest you choose, the families  whose means of support have\nbeen involved in the catastrophe. Then, on the morning after the intelli-\ngence of ruin, let us go forth amongst them in earnest thought; let us use\nthat imagination which we waste so often on fictitious sorrow, to measure\nthe stern facts of that multitudinous distress; strike open the private\ndoors of their chambers, and enter silently into the midst of the domestic\nmisery; look upon the old men, who had reserved for their failing strength\nsome remainder of rest in the evening-tide of life, cast helplessly back\ninto its trouble and tumult; look upon the active strength of middle\nage suddenly blasted into incapacity--its hopes crushed, and its hardly\nearned rewards snatched away in the same instant--at once the heart\nwithered, and the right arm snapped; look upon the piteous children,\ndelicately nurtured, whose soft eyes, now large with wonder at their\nparents' grief, must soon be set in the dimness of famine; and, far\nmore than all this, look forward to the length of sorrow beyond--to the\nhardest labour of life, now to be undergone either in all the severity\nof unexpected and inexperienced trial, or else, more bitter still, to\nbe begun again, and endured for the second time, amidst the ruins of\ncherished hopes and the feebleness of advancing years, embittered by\nthe continual sting and taunt of the inner feeling that it has all been\nbrought about, not by the fair course of appointed circumstance, but by\nmiserable chance and wanton treachery; and, last of all, look beyond\nthis--to the shattered destinies of those who have faltered under the\ntrial, and sunk past recovery to despair. And then consider whether the\nhand which has poured this poison into all the springs of life be one\nwhit less guiltily red with human blood than that which literally pours\nthe hemlock into the cup, or guides the dagger to the heart? We read\nwith horror of the crimes of a Borgia or a Tophana; but there never\nlived Borgias such as live now in the midst of us. The cruel lady of\nFerrara slew only in the strength of passion--she slew only a few,\nthose who thwarted her purposes or who vexed her soul; she slew sharply\nand suddenly, embittering the fate of her victims with no foretastes of\ndestruction, no prolongations of pain; and, finally and chiefly, she\nslew, not without remorse, nor without pity. But _we,_ in no storm\nof passion--in no blindness of wrath,--we, in calm and clear and\nuntempted selfishness, pour our poison--not for a few only, but for\nmultitudes;--not for those who have wronged us, or resisted,--but for\nthose who have trusted us and aided:--we, not with sudden gift of\nmerciful and unconscious death, but with slow waste of hunger and weary\nrack of disappointment and despair;--we, last and chiefly, do our\nmurdering, not with any pauses of pity or scorching of conscience, but\nin facile and forgetful calm of mind--and so, forsooth, read day by\nday, complacently, as if they meant any one else than ourselves, the\nwords that forever describe the wicked: \"The _poison of asps_ is\nunder their lips, and their _feet are swift to shed blood._\"\n\nYou may indeed, perhaps, think there is some excuse for many in this\nmatter, just because the sin is so unconscious; that the guilt is not\nso great when it is unapprehended, and that it is much more pardonable\nto slay heedlessly than purposefully. I believe no feeling can be more\nmistaken, and that in reality, and in the sight of heaven; the callous\nindifference which pursues its own interests at any cost of life,\nthough it does not definitely adopt the purpose of sin, is a state of\nmind at once more heinous and more hopeless than the wildest\naberrations of ungoverned passion. There may be, in the last case, some\nelements of good and of redemption still mingled in the character; but,\nin the other, few or none. There may be hope for the man who has slain\nhis enemy in anger; hope even for the man who has betrayed his friend\nin fear; but what hope for him who trades in unregarded blood, and\nbuilds his fortune on unrepented treason?\n\nBut, however this may be, and wherever you may think yourselves bound\nin justice to impute the greater sin, be assured that the question is\none of responsibilities only, not of facts. The definite result of all\nour modern haste to be rich is assuredly, and constantly, the murder of\na certain number of persons by our hands every year. I have not time to\ngo into the details of another--on the whole, the broadest and\nterriblest way in which we cause the destruction of the poor--namely,\nthe way of luxury and waste, destroying, in improvidence, what might\nhave been the support of thousands; [Footnote: The analysis of this\nerror will be found completely carried out in my lectures on the\npolitical economy of art. And it is an error worth analyzing; for until\nit is finally trodden under foot, no healthy political, economical, or\nmoral action is _possible_ in any state. I do not say this\nimpetuously or suddenly, for I have investigated this subject as\ndeeply; and as long, as my own special subject of art; and the\nprinciples of political economy which I have stated in those lectures\nare as sure as the principles of Euclid. Foolish readers doubted their\ncertainty, because I told them I had \"never read any books on Political\nEconomy\" Did they suppose I had got my knowledge of art by reading\nbooks?] but if you follow out the subject for yourselves at home--and\nwhat I have endeavoured to lay before you to-night will only be useful\nto you if you do--you will find that wherever and whenever men are\nendeavouring to _make money hastily_, and to avoid the labour\nwhich Providence has appointed to be tho only source of honourable\nprofit;--and also wherever and whenever they permit themselves to\n_spend it luxuriously_, without reflecting how far they are\nmisguiding the labour of others;--there and then, in either case, they\nare literally and infallibly causing, for their own benefit or their\nown pleasure, a certain annual number of human deaths; that, therefore,\nthe choice given to every man born into this world is, simply, whether\nhe will be a labourer, or an assassin; and that whosoever has not his\nhand on the Stilt of the plough, has it on the Hilt of the dagger.\n\nIt would also be quite vain for me to endeavour to follow out this\nevening the lines of thought which would be suggested by the other two\ngreat political uses of iron in the Fetter and the Sword: a few words\nonly I must permit myself respecting both.\n\n2. THE FETTER.--As the plough is the typical instrument of industry, so\nthe fetter is the typical instrument of the restraint or subjection\nnecessary in a nation--either literally, for its evil-doers, or\nfiguratively, in accepted laws, for its wise and good men. You have to\nchoose between this figurative and literal use; for depend upon it, the\nmore laws you accept, the fewer penalties you will have to endure, and\nthe fewer punishments to enforce. For wise laws and just restraints are\nto a noble nation not chains, but chain mail--strength and defence,\nthough something also of an incumbrance. And this necessity of\nrestraint, remember, is just as honourable to man as the necessity of\nlabour. You hear every day greater numbers of foolish people speaking\nabout liberty, as if it were such an honourable thing: so far from\nbeing that, it is, on the whole, and in the broadest sense,\ndishonourable, and an attribute of the lower creatures. No human being,\nhowever great or powerful, was ever so free as a fish. There is always\nsomething that he must, or must not do; while the fish may do whatever\nhe likes. All the kingdoms of the world put together are not half so\nlarge as the sea, and all the railroads and wheels that ever were, or\nwill be, invented are not so easy as fins. You will find, on fairly\nthinking of it, that it is his Restraint which is honourable to man,\nnot his Liberty; and, what is more, it is restraint which is honourable\neven in the lower animals. A butterfly is much more free than a bee;\nbut you honour the bee more, just because it is subject to certain laws\nwhich fit it for orderly function in bee society And throughout the\nworld, of the two abstract things, liberty and restraint, restraint is\nalways the more honourable. It is true, indeed, that in these and all\nother matters you never can reason finally from the abstraction, for\nboth liberty and restraint are good when they are nobly chosen, and\nboth are bad when they are basely chosen; but of the two, I repeat, it\nis restraint which characterizes the higher creature, and betters the\nlower creature: and, from the ministering of the archangel to the\nlabour of the insect,--from the poising of the planets to the\ngravitation of a grain of dust,--the power and glory of all creatures,\nand all matter, consist in their obedience, not in their freedom. The\nSun has no liberty--a dead leaf has much. The dust of which you are\nformed has no liberty. Its liberty will come--with its corruption.\n\nAnd, therefore, I say boldly, though it seems a strange thing to say in\nEngland, that as the first power of a nation consists in knowing how to\nguide the Plough, its second power consists in knowing how to wear the\nFetter:--\n\n3. THE SWORD.--And its third power, which perfects it as a nation,\nconsist in knowing how to wield the sword, so that the three talismans\nof national existence are expressed in these three short words--Labour,\nLaw, and Courage.\n\nThis last virtue we at least possess; and all that is to be alleged\nagainst us is that we do not honour it enough. I do not mean honour by\nacknowledgment of service, though sometimes we are slow in doing even\nthat. But we do not honour it enough in consistent regard to the lives\nand souls of our soldiers. How wantonly we have wasted their lives you\nhave seen lately in the reports of their mortality by disease, which a\nlittle care and science might have prevented; but we regard their souls\nless than their lives, by keeping them in ignorance and idleness, and\nregarding them merely as instruments of battle. The argument brought\nforward for the maintenance of a standing army usually refers only to\nexpediency in the case of unexpected war, whereas, one of the chief\nreasons for the maintenance of an army is the advantage of the military\nsystem as a method of education. The most fiery and headstrong, who are\noften also the most gifted and generous of your youths, have always a\ntendency both in the lower and upper classes to offer themselves for\nyour soldiers: others, weak and unserviceable in a civil capacity, are\ntempted or entrapped into the army in a fortunate hour for them: out of\nthis fiery or uncouth material, it is only a soldier's discipline which\ncan bring the full value and power. Even at present, by mere force of\norder and authority, the army is the salvation of myriads; and men who,\nunder other circumstances, would have sunk into lethargy or\ndissipation, are redeemed into noble life by a service which at once\nsummons and directs their energies. How much more than this military\neducation is capable of doing, you will find only when you make it\neducation indeed. We have no excuse for leaving our private soldiers at\ntheir present level of ignorance and want of refinement, for we shall\ninvariably find that, both among officers and men, the gentlest and\nbest informed are the bravest; still less have we excuse for\ndiminishing our army, either in the present state of political events,\nor, as I believe, in any other conjunction of them that for many a year\nwill be possible in this world.\n\nYou may, perhaps, be surprised at my saying this; perhaps surprised at\nmy implying that war itself can be right, or necessary, or noble at\nall. Nor do I speak of all war as necessary, nor of all war as noble.\nBoth peace and war are noble or ignoble according to their kind and\noccasion. No man has a profounder sense of the horror and guilt of\nignoble war than I have: I have personally seen its effects, upon\nnations, of unmitigated evil, on soul and body, with perhaps as much\npity, and as much bitterness of indignation, as any of those whom you\nwill hear continually declaiming in the cause of peace. But peace may\nbe sought in two ways. One way is as Gideon sought it, when he built\nhis altar in Ophrah, naming it, \"God send peace,\" yet sought this peace\nthat he loved, as he was ordered to seek it, and the peace was sent, in\nGod's way:--\"the country was in quietness forty years in the days of\nGideon.\" And the other way of seeking peace is as Menahem sought it\nwhen he gave the King of Assyria a thousand talents of silver, that\n\"his hand might be with him.\" That is, you may either win your peace,\nor buy it:--win it, by resistance to evil;--buy it, by compromise with\nevil. You may buy your peace, with silenced consciences;--you may buy\nit, with broken vows,--buy it, with lying words,--buy it, with base\nconnivances,--buy it, with the blood of the slain, and the cry of the\ncaptive, and the silence of lost souls--over hemispheres of the earth,\nwhile you sit smiling at your serene hearths, lisping comfortable\nprayers evening and morning, and counting your pretty Protestant beads\n(which are flat, and of gold, instead of round, and of ebony, as the\nmonks' ones were), and so mutter continually to yourselves, \"Peace,\npeace,\" when there is No peace; but only captivity and death, for you,\nas well as for those you leave unsaved;--and yours darker than theirs.\n\nI cannot utter to you what I would in this matter; we all see too\ndimly, as yet, what our great world-duties are, to allow any of us to\ntry to outline their enlarging shadows. But think over what I have\nsaid, and as you return to your quiet homes to-night, reflect that\ntheir peace was not won for you by your own hands; but by theirs who\nlong ago jeoparded their lives for you, their children; and remember\nthat neither this inherited peace, nor any other, can be kept, but\nthrough the same jeopardy. No peace was ever won from Fate by\nsubterfuge or agreement; no peace is ever in store for any of us, but\nthat which we shall win by victory over shame or sin;--victory over the\nsin that oppresses, as well as over that which corrupts. For many a\nyear to come, the sword of every righteous nation must be whetted to\nsave or subdue; nor will it be by patience of others' suffering, but by\nthe offering of your own, that you ever will draw nearer to the time\nwhen the great change shall pass upon the iron of the earth;--when men\nshall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into\npruning-hooks; neither shall they learn war any more.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDICES.\n\nAPPENDIX I.\n\nRIGHT AND WRONG.\n\n\nReaders who are using my _Elements of Drawing_ may be surprised by\nmy saying here that Tintoret may lead them wrong; while in the\n_Elements_ he is one of the six men named as being \"always right.\"\n\nI bring the apparent inconsistency forward at the beginning of this\nAppendix, because the illustration of it will be farther useful in\nshowing the real nature of the self-contradiction which is often\nalleged against me by careless readers.\n\nIt is not only possible, but a frequent condition of human action, to\n_do_ right and _be_ right--yet so as to mislead other people\nif they rashly imitate the thing done. For there are many rights which\nare not absolutely, but relatively right--right only for _that_\nperson to do under those circumstances,--not for _this_ person to\ndo under other circumstances.\n\nThus it stands between Titian and Tintoret. Titian is always absolutely\nRight. You may imitate him with entire security that you are doing the\nbest thing that can possibly be done for the purpose in hand. Tintoret\nis always relatively Right--relatively to his own aims and peculiar\npowers. But you must quite understand Tintoret before you can be sure\nwhat his aim was, and why he was then right in doing what would not be\nright always. If, however, you take the pains thus to understand him,\nhe becomes entirely instructive and exemplary, just as Titian is; and\ntherefore I have placed him among those are \"always right,\" and you can\nonly study him rightly with that reverence for him.\n\nThen the artists who are named as \"admitting question of right and\nwrong,\" are those who from some mischance of circumstance or short-\ncoming in their education, do not always do right, even with relation\nto their own aims and powers.\n\nTake for example the quality of imperfection in drawing form. There are\nmany pictures of Tintoret in which the trees are drawn with a few\ncurved flourishes of the brush instead of leaves. That is (absolutely)\nwrong. If you copied the tree as a model, you would be going very wrong\nindeed. But it is relatively, and for Tintoret's purposes, right. In\nthe nature of the superficial work you will find there must have been a\ncause for it. Somebody perhaps wanted the picture in a hurry to fill a\ndark corner. Tintoret good-naturedly did all he could--painted the\nfigures tolerably--had five minutes left only for the trees, when the\nservant came. \"Let him wait another five minutes.\" And this is the best\nfoliage we can do in the time. Entirely, admirably, unsurpassably\nright, under the conditions. Titian would not have worked under them,\nbut Tintoret was kinder and humbler; yet he may lead you wrong if you\ndon't understand him. Or, perhaps, another day, somebody came in while\nTintoret was at work, who tormented Tintoret. An ignoble person! Titian\nwould have been polite to him, and gone on steadily with his trees.\nTintoret cannot stand the ignobleness; it is unendurably repulsive and\ndiscomfiting to him. \"The Black Plague take him--and the trees, too!\nShall such a fellow see me paint!\" And the trees go all to pieces.\nThis, in you, would be mere ill-breeding and ill-temper. In Tintoret it\nwas one of the necessary conditions of his intense sensibility; had he\nbeen capable, then, of keeping his temper, he could never have done his\ngreatest works. Let the trees go to pieces, by all means; it is quite\nright they should; he is always right.\n\nBut in a background of Gainsborough you would find the trees\nunjustifiably gone to pieces. The carelessness of form there is\ndefinitely purposed by him;--adopted as an advisable thing; and\ntherefore it is both absolutely and relatively wrong;--it indicates his\nbeing imperfectly educated as a painter, and not having brought out all\nhis powers. It may still happen that the man whose work thus partially\nerroneous is greater far, than others who have fewer faults.\nGainsborough's and Reynolds' wrongs are more charming than almost\nanybody else's right. Still, they occasionally _are_ wrong--but\nthe Venetians and Velasquez, [Footnote: At least after his style was\nformed; early pictures, like the Adoration of the Magi in our Gallery,\nare of little value.] never.\n\nI ought, perhaps, to have added in that Manchester address (only one\ndoes not like to say things that shock people) some words of warning\nagainst painters likely to mislead the student. For indeed, though here\nand there something may be gained by looking at inferior men, there is\nalways more to be gained by looking at the best; and there is not time,\nwith all the looking of human life, to exhaust even one great painter's\ninstruction. How then shall we dare to waste our sight and thoughts on\ninferior ones, even if we could do so, which we rarely can, without\ndanger of being led astray? Nay, strictly speaking, what people call\ninferior painters are in general no painters. Artists are divided by an\nimpassable gulf into the men who can paint, and who cannot. The men who\ncan paint often fall short of what they should have done;--are\nrepressed, or defeated, or otherwise rendered inferior one to another:\nstill there is an everlasting barrier between them and the men who\ncannot paint--who can only in various popular ways pretend to paint.\nAnd if once you know the difference, there is always some good to be\ngot by looking at a real painter--seldom anything but mischief to be\ngot out of a false one; but do not suppose real painters are common. I\ndo not speak of living men; but among those who labour no more, in this\nEngland of ours, since it first had a school, we have had only five\nreal painters;--Reynolds, Gainsborough, Hogarth, Richard Wilson, and\nTurner.\n\nThe reader may, perhaps, think I have forgotten Wilkie. No. I once much\noverrated him as an expressional draughtsman, not having then studied\nthe figure long enough to be able to detect superficial sentiment. But\nhis colour I have never praised; it is entirely false and valueless.\nAnd it would tie unjust to English art if I did not here express my\nregret that the admiration of Constable, already harmful enough in\nEngland, is extending even into France. There was, perhaps, the making,\nin Constable, of a second or third-rate painter, if any careful\ndiscipline had developed in him the instincts which, though\nunparalleled for narrowness, were, as far as they went, true. But as it\nis, he is nothing more than an industrious and innocent amateur\nblundering his way to a superficial expression of one or two popular\naspects of common nature.\n\nAnd my readers may depend upon it, that all blame which I express in\nthis sweeping way is trustworthy. I have often had to repent of over-\npraise of inferior men; and continually to repent of insufficient\npraise of great men; but of broad condemnation, never. For I do not\nspeak it but after the most searching examination of the matter, and\nunder stern sense of need for it: so that whenever the reader is\nentirely shocked by what I say, he may be assured every word is\ntrue.[Footnote:  He must, however, be careful to distinguish blame--\nhowever strongly expressed, of some special fault or error in a true\npainter,--from these general statements of inferiority or\nworthlessness. Thus he will find me continually laughing at Wilson's\ntree-painting; not because Wilson could not paint, but because he had\nnever looked at a tree.] It is just because it so much offends him,\nthat it was necessary: and knowing that it must offend him, I should\nnot have ventured to say it, without certainty of its truth. I say\n\"certainty,\" for it is just as possible to be certain whether the\ndrawing of a tree or a stone is true or false, as whether the drawing\nof a triangle is; and what I mean primarily by saying that a picture is\nin all respects worthless, is that it is in all respects False: which\nis not a matter of opinion at all, but a matter of ascertainable fact,\nsuch as I never assert till I have ascertained. And the thing so\ncommonly said about my writings, that they are rather persuasive than\njust; and that though my \"language\" may be good, I am an unsafe guide\nin art criticism, is, like many other popular estimates in such\nmatters, not merely untrue, but precisely the reverse of the truth; it\nis truth, like reflections in water, distorted much by the shaking\nreceptive surface, and in every particular, upside down. For my\n\"language,\" until within the last six or seven years, was loose,\nobscure, and more or less feeble; and still, though I have tried hard\nto mend it, the best I can do is inferior to much contemporary work. No\ndescription that I have ever given of anything is worth four lines of\nTennyson; and in serious thought, my half-pages are generally only\nworth about as much as a single sentence either of his, or of\nCarlyle's. They are, I well trust, as true and necessary; but they are\nneither so concentrated nor so well put. But I am an entirely safe\nguide in art judgment: and that simply as the necessary result of my\nhaving given the labour of life to the determination of facts, rather\nthan to the following of feelings or theories. Not, indeed, that my\nwork is free from mistakes; it admits many, and always must admit many,\nfrom its scattered range; but, in the long run, it will be found to\nenter sternly and searchingly into the nature of what it deals with,\nand the kind of mistake it admits is never dangerous, consisting,\nusually, in pressing the truth too far. It is quite easy, for instance,\nto take an accidental irregularity in a piece of architecture, which\nless careful examination would never have detected at all, for an\nintentional irregularity; quite possible to misinterpret an obscure\npassage in a picture, which a less earnest observer would never have\ntried to interpret. But mistakes of this kind--honest, enthusiastic\nmistakes--are never harmful; because they are always made in a true\ndirection,--falls forward on the road, not into the ditch beside it;\nand they are sure to be corrected by the next comer. But the blunt and\ndead mistakes made by too many other writers on art--the mistakes of\nsheer inattention, and want of sympathy--are mortal. The entire purpose\nof a great thinker may be difficult to fathom, and we may be over and\nover again more or less mistaken in guessing at his meaning; but the\nreal, profound, nay, quite bottomless, and unredeemable mistake, is the\nfool's thought--that he had no meaning.\n\nI do not refer, in saying this, to any of my statements respecting\nsubjects which it has been my main work to study: as far as I am aware,\nI have never yet misinterpreted any picture of Turner's, though often\nremaining blind to the half of what he had intended: neither have I as\nyet found anything to correct in my statements respecting Venetian\narchitecture; [Footnote: The subtle portions of the Byzantine Palaces,\ngiven in precise measurements in the second volume of the \"Stones of\nVenice,\" were alleged by architects to be accidental irregularities.\nThey will be found, by every one who will take the pains to examine\nthem, most assuredly and indisputably intentional,--and not only so,\nbut one of the principal subjects of the designer's care.] but in\n_casual references_ to what has been quickly seen, it is\nimpossible to guard wholly against error, without losing much valuable\nobservation, true in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, and harmless\neven when erroneous.\n\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX II.\n\nREYNOLDS' DISAPPOINTMENT.\n\n\nIt is very fortunate that in the fragment of Mason's MSS., published\nlately by Mr. Cotton in his \"Sir Joshua Reynolds' Notes,\" [Footnote:\nSmith, Soho Square, 1859.] record is preserved of Sir Joshua's feelings\nrespecting the paintings in the window of New College, which might\notherwise have been supposed to give his full sanction to this mode of\npainting on glass. Nothing can possibly be more curious, to my mind,\nthan the great painter's expectations; or his having at all entertained\nthe idea that the qualities of colour which are peculiar to opaque\nbodies could be obtained in a transparent medium; but so it is: and\nwith the simplicity and humbleness of an entirely great man he hopes\nthat Mr. Jervas on glass is to excel Sir Joshua on canvas. Happily,\nMason tells us the result.\n\n\"With the copy Jervas made of this picture he was grievously\ndisappointed. 'I had frequently,' he said to me, 'pleased myself by\nreflecting, after I had produced what I thought a brilliant effect of\nlight and shadow on my canvas, how greatly that effect would be\nheightened by the transparency which the painting on glass would be\nsure to produce. It turned out quite the reverse.'\"\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX III.\n\nCLASSICAL ARCHITECTURE.\n\n\nThis passage in the lecture was illustrated by an enlargement of the\nwoodcut, Fig. 1; but I did not choose to disfigure the middle of this\nbook with it. It is copied from the 49th plate of the third edition of\nthe _Encyclop\u00e6dia Britannica_ (Edinburgh, 1797), and represents an\nEnglish farmhouse arranged on classical principles. If the reader cares\nto consult the work itself, he will find in the same plate another\ncomposition of similar propriety, and dignified by the addition of a\npediment, beneath the shadow of which \"a private gentleman who has a\nsmall family may find conveniency.\"\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX IV.\n\nSUBTLETY OF HAND.\n\n\nI had intended in one or other of these lectures to have spoken at some\nlength of the quality of refinement in Colour, but found the subject\nwould lead me too far. A few words are, however, necessary in order to\nexplain some expressions in the text.\n\n\"Refinement in colour\" is indeed a tautological expression, for colour,\nin the true sense of the word, does not exist until it _is_\nrefined. Dirt exists,--stains exist,--and pigments exist, easily enough\nin all places; and are laid on easily enough by all hands; but colour\nexists only where there is tenderness, and can be laid on only by a\nhand which has strong life in it. The law concerning colour is very\nstrange, very noble, in some sense almost awful. In every given touch\nlaid on canvas, if one grain of the colour is inoperative, and does not\ntake its full part in producing the hue, the hue will be imperfect. The\ngrain of colour which does not work is dead. It infects all about it\nwith its death. It must be got quit of, or the touch is spoiled. We\nacknowledge this instinctively in our use of the phrases \"dead colour,\"\n\"killed colour,\" \"foul colour.\" Those words are, in some sort,\nliterally true. If more colour is put on than is necessary, a heavy\ntouch when a light one would have been enough, the quantity of colour\nthat was not wanted, and is overlaid by the rest, is as dead, and it\npollutes the rest. There will be no good in the touch.\n\nThe art of painting, properly so called, consists in laying on the\nleast possible colour that will produce the required result, and this\nmeasurement, in all the ultimate, that is to say, the principal,\noperations of colouring, is so delicate that not one human hand in a\nmillion has the required lightness. The final touch of any painter\nproperly so named, of Correggio--Titian--Turner--or Reynolds--would be\nalways quite invisible to any one watching the progress of the work,\nthe films of hue being laid thinner than the depths of the grooves in\nmother-of-pearl. The work may be swift, apparently careless, nay, to\nthe painter himself almost unconscious. Great painters are so organized\nthat they do their best work without effort: but analyze the touches\nafterwards, and you will find the structure and depth of the colour\nlaid mathematically demonstrable to be of literally infinite fineness,\nthe last touches passing away at their edges by untraceable gradation.\nThe very essence of a master's work may thus be removed by a picture-\ncleaner in ten minutes.\n\nObserve, however, this thinness exists only in portions of the ultimate\ntouches, for which the preparation may often have been made with solid\ncolours, commonly, and literally, called \"dead colouring,\" but even\nthat is always subtle if a master lays it--subtle at least in drawing,\nif simple in hue; and farther, observe that the refinement of work\nconsists not in laying absolutely _little_ colour, but in always\nlaying precisely the right quantity. To lay on little needs indeed the\nrare lightness of hand; but to lay much,--yet not one atom _too_\nmuch, and obtain subtlety, not by withholding strength, but by\nprecision of pause,--that is the master's final sign-manual--power,\nknowledge, and tenderness all united. A great deal of colour may often\nbe wanted; perhaps quite a mass of it, such as shall project from the\ncanvas; but the real painter lays this mass of its required thickness\nand shape with as much precision as if it were a bud of a flower which\nhe had to touch into blossom; one of Turner's loaded fragments of white\ncloud is modelled and gradated in an instant, as if it alone were the\nsubject of the picture, when the same quantity of colour, under another\nhand, would be a lifeless lump.\n\nThe following extract from a letter in the _Literary Gazette_ of\n13th November, 1858, which I was obliged to write to defend a\nquestioned expression respecting Turner's subtlety of hand from a\ncharge of hyperbole, contains some interesting and conclusive evidence\non the point, though it refers to pencil and chalk drawing only:--\n\n\"I must ask you to allow me yet leave to reply to the objections you\nmake to two statements in my catalogue, as those objections would\notherwise diminish its usefulness. I have asserted that, in a given\ndrawing (named as one of the chief in the series), Turner's pencil did\nnot move over the thousandth of an inch without meaning; and you charge\nthis expression with extravagant hyperbole. On the contrary, it is much\nwithin the truth, being merely a mathematically accurate description of\nfairly good execution in either drawing or engraving. It is only\nnecessary to measure a piece of any ordinary good work to ascertain\nthis. Take, for instance, Finden's engraving at the 180th page of\nRogers' poems; in which the face of the figure, from the chin to the\ntop of the brow, occupies just a quarter of an inch, and the space\nbetween the upper lip and chin as nearly as possible one-seventeenth of\nan inch. The whole mouth occupies one-third of this space, say one-\nfiftieth of an inch, and within that space both the lips and the much\nmore difficult inner corner of the mouth are perfectly drawn and\nrounded, with quite successful and sufficiently subtle expression. Any\nartist will assure you that in order to draw a mouth as well as this,\nthere must be more than twenty gradations of shade in the touches; that\nis to say, in this case, gradations changing, with meaning, within less\nthan the thousandth of an inch.\n\n\"But this is mere child's play compared to the refinement of a first-\nrate mechanical work--much more of brush or pencil drawing by a\nmaster's hand. In order at once to furnish you with authoritative\nevidence on this point, I wrote to Mr. Kingsley, tutor of Sidney-Sussex\nCollege, a friend to whom I always have recourse when I want to be\nprecisely right in any matter; for his great knowledge both of\nmathematics and of natural science is joined, not only with singular\npowers of delicate experimental manipulation, but with a keen\nsensitiveness to beauty in art. His answer, in its final statement\nrespecting Turner's work, is amazing even to me, and will, I should\nthink, be more so to your readers. Observe the successions of measured\nand tested refinement: here is No. 1:--\n\n\"'The finest mechanical work that I know, which is not optical, is that\ndone by Nobert in the way of ruling lines. I have a series ruled by him\non glass, giving actual scales from .000024 and .000016 of an inch,\nperfectly correct to these places of decimals, and he has executed\nothers as fine as .000012, though I do not know how far he could repeat\nthese last with accuracy.'\n\n\"This is No. 1 of precision. Mr. Kingsley proceeds to No. 2:--\n\n\"'But this is rude work compared to the accuracy necessary for the\nconstruction of the object-glass of a microscope such as Rosse turns\nout.'\n\n\"I am sorry to omit the explanation which follows of the ten lenses\ncomposing such a glass, 'each of which must be exact in radius and in\nsurface, and all have their axes coincident:' but it would not be\nintelligible without the figure by which it is illustrated; so I pass\nto Mr. Kingsley's No. 3:--\n\n\"'I am tolerably familiar,' he proceeds, 'with the actual grinding and\npolishing of lenses and specula, and have produced by my own hand some\nby no means bad optical work, and I have copied no small amount of\nTurner's work, and _I still look with awe at the combined delicacy\nand precision of his hand_; IT BEATS OPTICAL WORK OUT OF SIGHT. In\noptical work, as in refined drawing, the hand goes beyond the eye, and\none has to depend upon the feel; and when one has once learned what a\ndelicate affair touch is, one gets a horror of all coarse work, and is\nready to forgive any amount of feebleness, sooner than that boldness\nwhich is akin to impudence. In optics the distinction is easily seen\nwhen the work is put to trial; but here too, as in drawing, it requires\nan educated eye to tell the difference when the work is only moderately\nbad; but with \"bold\" work, nothing can be seen but distortion and fog:\nand I heartily wish the same result would follow the same kind of\nhandling in drawing; but here, the boldness cheats the unlearned by\nlooking like the precision of the true man. It is very strange how much\nbetter our ears are than our eyes in this country: if an ignorant man\nwere to be \"bold\" with a violin, he would not get many admirers, though\nhis boldness was far below that of ninety-nine out of a hundred\ndrawings one sees.'\n\n\"The words which I have put in italics in the above extract are those\nwhich were surprising to me. I knew that Turner's was as refined as any\noptical work, but had no idea of its going beyond it. Mr. Kingsley's\nword 'awe' occurring just before, is, however, as I have often felt,\nprecisely the right one. When once we begin at all to understand the\nhandling of any truly great executor, such as that of any of the three\ngreat Venetians, of Correggio, or Turner, the awe of it is something\ngreater than can be felt from the most stupendous natural scenery. For\nthe creation of such a system as a high human intelligence, endowed\nwith its ineffably perfect instruments of eye and hand, is a far more\nappalling manifestation of Infinite Power, than the making either of\nseas or mountains.\n\n\"After this testimony to the completion of Turner's work, I need not at\nlength defend myself from the charge of hyperbole in the statement\nthat, 'as far as I know, the galleries of Europe may be challenged to\nproduce one sketch [footnote: A sketch, observe,--not a finished\ndrawing. Sketches are only proper subjects of comparison with each\nother when they contain about the same quantity of work: the test of\ntheir merit is the quantity of truth told with a given number of\ntouches. The assertion in the Catalogue which this letter was written\nto defend, was made respecting the sketch of Rome, No. 101.] that shall\nequal the chalk study No. 45, or the feeblest of the memoranda in the\n71st and following frames;' which memoranda, however, it should have\nbeen observed, are stated at the 44th page to be in some respects 'the\ngrandest work in grey that he did in his life.' For I believe that, as\nmanipulators, none but the four men whom I have just named (the three\nVenetians and Correggio) were equal to Turner; and, as far as I know,\nnone of those four ever put their full strength into sketches. But\nwhether they did or not, my statement in the catalogue is limited by my\nown knowledge: and, as far as I can trust that knowledge, it is not an\nenthusiastic statement, but an entirely calm and considered one. It may\nbe a mistake but it is not a hyperbole.\"\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX V.\n\n\nI can only give, to illustrate this balcony, fac-similes of rough\nmemoranda made on a single leaf of my note-book, with a tired hand; but\nit may be useful to young students to see them, in order that they may\nknow the difference between notes made to get at the gist and heart of\na thing, and notes made merely to look neat. Only it must be observed\nthat the best characters of free drawing are always lost even in the\nmost careful facsimile; and I should not show even these slight notes\nin woodcut imitation, unless the reader had it in his power, by a\nglance at the 21st or 35th plates in _Modern Painters_ (and yet\nbetter, by trying to copy a piece of either of them), to ascertain how\nfar I can draw or not. I refer to these plates, because, though I\ndistinctly stated in the preface that they, together with the 12th,\n20th, 34th, and 37th, were executed on the steel by my own hand, (the\nuse of the dry point in the foregrounds of the 12th and 21st plates\nbeing moreover wholly different from the common processes of etching) I\nfind it constantly assumed that they were engraved for me--as if direct\nlying in such matters were a thing of quite common usage.\n\nFig. 2 is the centre-piece of the balcony, but a leaf-spray is omitted\non the right-hand side, having been too much buried among the real\nleaves to be drawn.\n\nFig. 3 shows the intended general effect of its masses, the five-leaved\nand six-leaved flowers being clearly distinguishable at any distance.\n\nFig. 4 is its profile, rather carefully drawn at the top, to show the\ntulip and turkscap lily leaves. Underneath there is a plate of iron\nbeaten into broad thin leaves, which gives the centre of the balcony a\ngradual sweep outwards, like the side of a ship of war. The central\nprofile is of the greatest importance in ironwork, as the flow of it\naffects the curves of the whole design, not merely in surface, as in\nmarble carving, but in their intersections, when the side is seen\nthrough the front. The lighter leaves, _b b_, are real bindweed.\n\nFig. 5 shows two of the teeth of the border, illustrating their\nirregularity of form, which takes place quite to the extent indicated.\n\nFig. 6 is the border at the side of the balcony, showing the most\ninteresting circumstance in the treatment of the whole, namely, the\nenlargement and retraction of the teeth of the cornice, as it\napproaches the wall. This treatment of the whole cornice as a kind of\nwreath round the balcony, having its leaves flung loose at the back,\nand set close at the front, as a girl would throw a wreath of leaves\nround her hair, is precisely the most finished indication of a good\nworkman's mind to be found in the whole thing.\n\nFig. 7 shows the outline of the retracted leaves accurately. It was\nnoted in the text that the whole of this ironwork had been coloured.\nThe difficulty of colouring ironwork rightly, and the necessity of\ndoing it in some way or other, have been the principal reasons for my\nnever having entered heartily into this subject; for all the ironwork I\nhave ever seen look beautiful was rusty, and rusty iron will not answer\nmodern purposes. Nevertheless it may be painted, but it needs some one\nto do it who knows what painting means, and few of us do--certainly\nnone, as yet, of our restorers of decoration or writers on colour.\n\nIt is a marvellous thing to me that book after book should appear on\nthis last subject, without apparently the slightest consciousness on\nthe part of the writers that the first necessity of beauty in colour is\ngradation, as the first necessity of beauty in line is curvature,--or\nthat the second necessity in colour is mystery or subtlety, as the\nsecond necessity in line is softness. Colour ungradated is wholly\nvalueless; colour unmysterious is wholly barbarous. Unless it looses\nitself and melts away towards other colours, as a true line loses\nitself and melts away towards other lines, colour has no proper\nexistence, in the noble sense of the word. What a cube, or tetrahedron,\nis to organic form, ungradated and unconfused colour is to organic\ncolour; and a person who attempts to arrange colour harmonies without\ngradation of tint is in precisely the same category, as an artist who\nshould try to compose a beautiful picture out of an accumulation of\ncubes and parallelepipeds.\n\nThe value of hue in all illuminations on painted glass of fine periods\ndepends primarily on the expedients used to make the colours palpitate and\nfluctuate; _inequality_ of brilliancy being the _condition_ of brilliancy,\njust as inequality of accent is the condition of power and loveliness in\nsound. The skill with which the thirteenth century illuminators in books,\nand the Indians in shawls and carpets, use the minutest atoms of colour\nto gradate other colours, and confuse the eye, is the first secret in their\ngift of splendour: associated, however, with so many other artifices which\nare quite instinctive and unteachable, that it is of little use to dwell\nupon them. Delicacy of organization in the designer given, you will soon\nhave all, and without it, nothing. However, not to close my book with\ndesponding words, let me set down, as many of us like such things, five\nLaws to which there is no exception whatever, and which, if they can\nenable no one to produce good colour, are at least, as far as they\nreach, accurately condemnatory of bad colour.\n\n1. ALL GOOD COLOUR IS GRADATED. A blush rose (or, better still, a blush\nitself), is the type of rightness in arrangement of pure hue.\n\n2. ALL HARMONIES OF COLOUR DEPEND FOR THEIR VITALITY ON THE ACTION AND\nHELPFUL OPERATION OF EVERY PARTICLE OF COLOUR THEY CONTAIN.\n\n3. THE FINAL PARTICLES OF COLOUR NECESSARY TO THE COMPLETENESS OF A\nCOLOUR HARMONY ARE ALWAYS INFINITELY SMALL; either laid by immeasurably\nsubtle touches of the pencil, or produced by portions of the colouring\nsubstance, however distributed, which are so absolutely small as to\nbecome at the intended distance infinitely so to the eye.\n\n4. NO COLOUR HARMONY IS OF HIGH ORDER UNLESS IT INVOLVES INDESCRIBABLE\nTINTS. It is the best possible sign of a colour when nobody who sees it\nknows what to call it, or how to give an idea of it to any one else.\nEven among simple hues the most valuable are those which cannot be\ndefined; the most precious purples will look brown beside pure purple,\nand purple beside pure brown; and the most precious greens will be\ncalled blue if seen beside pure green, and green if seen beside pure\nblue.\n\n5. THE FINER THE EYE FOR COLOUR, THE LESS IT WILL REQUIRE TO GRATIFY IT\nINTENSELY. But that little must be supremely good and pure, as the\nfinest notes of a great singer, which are so near to silence. And a\ngreat colourist will make even the absence of colour lovely, as the\nfading of the perfect voice makes silence sacred.","title":"The Two Paths","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":55181}